A/N Hey guys, guess what I'm actually not dead. I'm sorry about the delay but once again, school got in the way. Grduation is only a few weeks away so after that I'm hoping my chapters will be more frequent. But as always, hope you enjoy :)

Sherlock sucked in a shallow breath, still frozen to the spot. His mind was working overtime, trying to make a decision. Realistically, there was nothing he could do for John, and there were already nurses and doctors rushing past the detective to the room. Logically, he should be there for Mary in place of his friend. See her through the labour. Logic told him to hurry up and get to the delivery ward, and wait for her. Without another thought, Sherlock turned and hurried back to John's room.

He wasn't of course, allowed inside with the flurry of nurses and doctors currently in there, and instead, he spent the next ten minutes, pacing in front of the door, mentally cursing the stupid doctors and the stupid machines and his stupid self for not preventing this. But finally, the reassuring, steady beep of a heart monitor could be heard, and the doctors began filling out. He was finally allowed back in.

Sherlock stepped into the room, looking rather helplessly at the form of his best friend, whom he'd once again nearly lost. And that's when the emotions finally began bubbling up, in a flurry of uncontrollable force. He opened his mouth, and much to even his own surprise, he shouted at John. Yelled at him, cursed him for trying to leave him and yelled at him to wake up. He kept yelling, even as he felt the tears finally beginning to fall, unchecked down his face. He cursed and he yelled, upset, and beyond angry that John would do this to him. And that he would be so noble as to take the bullet for Sherlock, when he would've much preferred taking it himself.

And that was when it hit Sherlock. Mid shout, mouth hanging open, that this was how John had felt. He finally understood the anger, and sorrow in John's eyes when he had seen Sherlock alive again. He understood, how someone could be so hurt by another person's actions, regardless of the intentions or motivations behind them, that the hurt would turn into anger. A kind of blind furry that tore you apart from the inside, and made you want the rest of the world to feel the same agony you did.

The realisation hit him hard. So much so that the wind was knocked from his lungs and he was left, mid shout, staring blankly at John as the tears continued to fall. But just as he thought everything inside him would crumble, that he'd finally been broken and his walls destroyed, there was a strong grip pulling him from the room, and warm arms enveloping him, pressing him against a body wearing a pristine suit, that was both completely familiar and yet somehow entirely foreign to him. He melted, not even trying to pull away, his tears wetting and his face crumpling the suit, the owner of which, for once, not seeming to care. He simply kept his arms wrapped around his little brother, not saying a word, because when it came down to it, for all their flash and sharpness, they weren't needed. They both understood.

Then the moment passed and as always Sherlock was the first to pull away, severing the contact and swiping at his eyes, furious at himself for letting the moment of weakness happen. Mycroft looked down at Sherlock, saying only;

"Go help Mary"

It was all Sherlock needed, and he turned on his heel to flee the scene of what he saw as a crime, hurrying away, refocusing his mind on getting to Mary and doing what he could to help her.

When he got there, it was somewhat of a chaotic scene. There were two nurses and a doctor in there, all rushing around the room to get things set up, and amongst them a rather distressed looking Mary.

Ignoring the rest in the room, Sherlock made his way over to her side, taking her hand and offering her a reassuring smile.

"How are you feeling" he asked, using almost everything he'd learnt from John to sound like he cared. Not that he didn't, of course, but his methods were often misconstrued and got him kicked out of places.

"Like crap" She told him honestly, and it was all over her face. She was clearly in pain. He took her hand, unsure what else to do and almost immediately she clamped down on it, face screwing up with another contraction.

But by now the doctors were far more urgent, talking to each other rapidly and Sherlock managed to catch a few words with his attention still on mary.

"Cesarean"

"In distress"

"Could be risky"

He felt his stomach drop a little and glanced over at the blonde woman in the bed, who seemed to remain blissfully ignorant of what they were saying, too caught up in her wn situation. As the conversation ended one of the nurses approached Mary and smiled, that sickly sweet one that screamed out fake.

"Alright honey we're going to have to prep you for a C-section. There seem to be some complications and at this point a natural birth would be too risky for you and the baby" She explained.

Mary of course, was almost as skilled at hiding her emotions as Sherlock was, but of course the detective didn't miss the flicker of panic in her eyes.

"It will be alright" Sherlock told her, and much to his chagrin he was ushered out of the room as they started to prep her.

Sherlock knew, in emergency situations the procedure could be over in no more than five minutes. And so the longer he waited the more agitated he got. Fifteen minutes, he started tapping his foot. 30 minutes, he would get up, start walking then sit back down, before repeating. By the time and hour rolled around he was pacing rather intensely, much to the annoyance of the rest of the people in the waiting room.

By the time the doctor the doctor finally called his name, he whirled around, looking at the man expectantly and he knew.

His face, the amount of blood on his scrubs, far more than the procedure would have produced, his stance.

"The baby's fine' The doctor told him gently, and in those three words held so much more. The baby may be fine,

But Mary wasn't