The biggest thanks to my new fantastic betas katzedecimal and Grizi, and my ongoing love to GoSherlocked.
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Here we go!
(Facts calm me down. Like this one: Holloway Prison is located at Parkhurst Road. Opened in 1852, mixed prison. All female since about 1902. Completely rebuilt from 1971 to 1985. Capacity of 501.)
Mycroft's men lead Mary to a car that has mysteriously appeared in front of 221b. John and I follow them, but Mary spits venom at us, so we have to retreat into another car.
(Eighteen minutes from 221b Baker Street via Albert Road, nineteen minutes via Marylebone Street. Heavy road work on Marylebone, Albert Road should be preferred.)
Inside the car, John grabs my hand wordlessly.
(In England, there are 63.6 live births per 1,000 women of childbearing age. Around 4,000 stillbirths every year in the UK. 1 in every 200 births ends in a still-)
(Stop.)
(Try again.)
(The process of normal childbirth is categorised in three stages of labour: )
(better)
Entering the prison is easy. We are expected, apparently ... and well-known. We are ushered into a hallway. Mary is taken into the delivery ward. John instinctively follows, but the curses Mary shouts at him make it abundantly clear that he is not wanted.
(The shortening and dilation of the cervix, descent and birth of the infant, and the placenta being expelled. There are six phases of a typical vertex delivery: First, engagement of the fetal …)
John squeezes my hand. I snap out of my (frantic) mind for more than a second this time and find myself placed next to John on a plastic chair in the waiting room. Have been waiting for a while. How long? Check with clock at the wall. (Ikea, model Pugg, 12 pounds, less than three months old.) About one hour.
"The active phase of childbirth takes an average of eight hours in the UK," I tell John, who grins at me like a maniac. Why is he grinning? There is a child about to be born. (Well, sometime within the next seven hours or so, but still). Our baby (more or less).
How can he grin when I am at the edge of panic? He might be a natural talent when it comes to grinning.
(You use forty-three muscles to grin.)
I receive a text. Mycroft. Benjamin Jesterton admitted that he was the one who tried to pretend Moriarty was still alive. Motive: unrequited love.
(Love is still the most common motive for murder in the UK.)
Now that I solved that riddle, I'll be allowed to stay in London, a free man. Free to live at Baker Street with John and the baby. My grinning might match John's now.
We wait for one hour and thirty-eight minutes before I go and acquire us two coffees.
(Asda's Extra Special Fairtrade Colombian Roast & Ground Coffee. Unfortunately gone stale after being stored the wrong way for more than three weeks.)
We drink the coffee, John goes to the bathroom, and then we continue to wait for another forty-six minutes.
(The waiting room was redecorated four weeks ago. Wilko Matt Emulsion Soft Cream. Blood stains on the wall not completely covered. Caused by self-inflicted wound on a left-handers right wrist with a knife that could have been sharper.)
Then I receive a text from Janine, telling me that she convinced Jesterton to confess.
(Can't help but feel fond of her, even though I am sure that I better not ask how she convinced him.)
My nervous stomach doesn't agree with the stale coffee. "You should store coffee in a dark sealed box" I tell John who starts grinning again almost instantly. Leans over and kisses my cheek.
"You will be a wonderful father," he says and we continue to wait.
(father, noun. Old English fæder "father, male ancestor," from Proto-Germanic *fader (cognates: Old Saxon fadar, Old Frisian feder, Dutch vader, Old Norse faðir, Old High German fater, German vater), from PIE *pəter (cognates: Sanskrit pitar-, Greek pater, Latin pater, Old Persian pita, Old Irish athir "father"), presumably from baby-speak sound like pa.)
(A father (or dad) is a male parent who has raised a child, supplied the sperm through sexual intercourse or sperm donation which grew into a child, and/or donated a body cell which resulted in a clone. Traditionally, fathers act in a protective, supportive and responsible way towards their children. )
I will be someone's father.
Who the hell thought that would be a good idea?
"How am I supposed to behave in a protective, supportive and responsible way?" I ask.
That makes John stop grinning for a moment. He looks at me seriously, and I can see several thoughts crossing his mind, but not one of them makes it all the way to his lips. He does this endearing thing with his upper lip and his forehead, and then finally says, "Will you love her?"
Stupid question. Of course I will. I already do. She will be half John, that alone makes her adorable. The thought of something going wrong, now that we are so close to having her, makes my mind quote silly facts from Wikipedia. I picture baby toys in the kitchen instead of chemicals and don't mind. I did research on sleeping patterns, and there is a new room in my mind palace filled with pictures of baby stool so I will be able to judge if her digestion is all right or not. How can John even ask if I love her?
I tell him that, and he nods. Tries to say something extremely emotional but fails. Kisses me roughly instead. Knows that I know that he wanted to tell me that GraceNotEmilia will have two fathers who love her. Two more than John had. Knows that I know that he thinks this alone will make us fantastic dads.
I refuse to let go of his (left) hand when he breaks the kiss, and we continue to wait.
And wait.
And wait.
Finally, a woman (doctor, will cheat on her husband tonight, loves her job) comes into the waiting room. John, who has been calm and grinning all the time, jumps up so fast he nearly knocks over his chair.
"Everything all right?" he asks (still holding my hand. Painfully so. Might get bruises tomorrow. Still feels wonderful).
The doctor gives us a half-hearted smile. "Your wife and daughter are both all right, Dr. Watson," she says (and wilfully ignores us holding hands). "The mid-wife will bring the baby to you as soon as she is cleaned."
"And as soon as the mother will have been forced to say goodbye to her" is what she does not say, but thinks so loud it is impossible for me to ignore. For once I am glad that John does not read people the way I do.
But there is no time to think about it, because the midwife (twenty-eight, still touched by the wonders of birth, drummer in a punk band) comes out, in her arm a little (innocent, helpless, fragile) bundle.
"Jesus," John breathes, and steps towards her. Recklessly stretches out his hands and takes his (our) daughter into his arms. Cradles her a little. Can't take her eyes off of her while the midwife tells him details about the birth.
I get dizzy and realize that I am holding my breath.
A few seconds later, John turns around and holds the baby right under my nose. "Look at her," he whispers, and I do. The shape of her (little) head tells me that she has been pressed against Mary's pubis for about one hour before finding the right way out. The colour of her skin tells me that she has been a bit reluctant to breathe at first. The wrinkles on her face tell me that she has been inside the birth canal for at least ninety minutes.
I am completely taken aback by how much I can deduce about this tiny bundle of life.
"Your wife said her name is Evelyn," the midwife says after some time, and John's face hardens instantly.
"No, it is not," he states, and without looking at me he adds, "it's Emilia."
"Grace" I correct him instantly, and he smiles, broader than I have ever seen him smile.
"Emilia Grace Watson" he informs the midwife, and I am completely taken aback by how much I love both of them.
Her eyes are wide open, blue like all baby's eyes, and she has lots of short black hair, and her nose and chin look strangely like John's. But she is so small and helpless and her fingers are insanely thin. I am endlessly grateful for the fact that John holds her, because I would surely drop her or squash her.
"Sir," one of the prison guards says, "we will bring your wife to her room in the internist's ward now. There she will be officially imprisoned. If you want to talk to her before, you need to see her now."
John nods, subconsciously brings his body into full soldier mode -
and presses Emilia Grace into my arms before marching away.
Oh my God.
I stare at the baby.
She stares back.
I expect her to start wailing any second, but she doesn't. Instead she sighs and snuggles deeper into my arms. When I carefully move my index finger towards her, she snatches it and refuses to let go.
Before I fully understand what is happening, I am telling Emilia Grace all the deductions I have made since entering this room several hours ago. I talk to her about her dad and her aunt Harry. I inform her on the pros and cons of bottle feeding and how I intend to help her finding a regular sleeping pattern.
John seems to take his time and that makes my heart do strange unpleasant things, so I tell Emilia about Jennifer Wilson and about H.O.U.N.D and about the rooftop of St. Bart's. Afterwards, John is still with Mary, so I tell Emilia about Janine and her brother who has gone insane, and about Benjamin Jesterton and how I found out that he was lying and …
about …
how Janine reacted to that …
and …
Wait.
But before I can continue that thought, John storms into the waiting room again, and drops dead at the sight of Emilia and me. He comes closer slowly, places his hand on my shoulder and pretends very hard not to be moved to tears.
I love him, so I pretend not to notice.
"Let's take her home," he says, and I can only nod.
That is exactly when my mobile chimes again. John fishes it out of my pocket and shows it to me. Mycroft once more. Sent a picture of John's old room, miraculously turned into a crib.
"Home," John repeats, and we leave Holloway prison for good.
###
One week (forty-one bottles of baby formula, forty-six nappie changes and six sleepless nights) later I find the opportunity to see Janine again. She comes over, squeals at Emilia who gracefully ignores her, and lingers on when John packs our daughter (our! daughter!) into the hated jacket and takes her for a walk.
"So," Janine said, "thank you for helping me with Jesterton."
What an interesting choice of words, I think. I used the last six sleepless nights to contemplate the whole thing and finally understood yesterday that I have been used. For my own good, I have to admit, but still.
"Thank YOU" I reply, "for preventing my death trip to Serbia."
She looks at me, only mildly surprised, and grins. "You are welcome, Sherlock Holmes."
We share a moment in silent understanding, and I wonder if I can let the whole thing go uncommented. Well, no, of course not.
"So," I continue instead, "you faked your brother's fake return. I am flattered, but keeping me in England was not the only purpose, was it?"
"Of course not." She smiles, but then sobers before continuing, "Jesterton is a mean little vermin. Likes to humiliate women he is with. Hurt several prostitutes and always got away with it. No proof, you know."
"Did he hurt you as well?" I know the answer already, but somehow it feels right to ask. The politeness John emanates seems to be rubbing off on me.
Janine seems to have found the most interesting spot on the carpet and stares at it. Then she nods. "Like Magnussen," she explains, quietly. "He liked to flick my face, you know?"
I know. Remember him doing that to John. Wonder if he might still be alive if he hadn't.
"You did the world a favour when you shot him, Sherlock. And I did the world a favour by having Jesterton arrested, no matter on what charges."
"How did you make him confess?"
At that, Janine grins once more. "I am a Moriarty, after all," she quips, and then moves closer. Kisses the tip of my nose and says, "Yasmin would be more than pleased if you and your little family came over for some tea one day."
We share another smile, and then I lean forward and press a chaste little kiss on her cheek. "Thank you, Janine."
When she is on her way out, she turns around one last time. "Watch out for your family, Sherlock," she says seriously. "Mary is really, really angry. Please don't underestimate the resentment of a woman."
I won't. When Janine is gone, I start rinsing the baby bottles, and then stop to contemplate the fact that I have become a man who rinses baby bottles. Can't help but grin at it. I swiftly carry on rinsing, and then prepare some food for John, who will be back from his predictable walk in exactly twelve minutes, and prepare the next bottle for Emilia who will be hungry in about thirty minutes.
I still marvel at how happy that makes me.
End of part 1
Notes
Now, this is a fluffy ending, isn't it? If you prefer it that way, you can stop reading now, and John, Sherlock and the baby will live happily ever after. That was my plan when I started writing, and I can understand everyone who wants this to be the end, too.
Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how much you like angst and hurt and inner demons and more angst) I have decided to continue, and let me just say that there are rough times ahead for the boys. I have already added a few new tags and warnings for part 2. Please take a look at them to avoid triggers.
No other fic of mine has ever had that many subscriptions and comments. Lots of love to you, dear subscribers, followers and new readers. You make me immensely happy.