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To be exact, eleven days had passed since they arrived in Newcastle. While the mission wasn't complicated, it seemed that just when they were close to closing it, something new would come up and delay things, which irritated Sherlock to no end. Billy was the one trying to keep the team's spirits up.
If it had been up to him, he wouldn't have accepted the trip, but it seemed that Mycroft had taken the decision to participate in MI6 seriously, and no matter how many times he refused, the major found a way to fight back, finally leaving him with no other option but to make the effort to go.
The case itself wasn't difficult; dismantling a gang that had started infiltrating from Scotland didn't seem like anything out of the ordinary, nothing they hadn't done before. But in the middle of it all, they got caught up in a Romani family entanglement that certainly hit them like a ton of bricks. If it weren't so clearly related to their main case, they wouldn't be putting so much effort into it.
Sherlock seemed more impatient every day. Billy was sure that at any moment he would abandon all pretense of civility and tell them all to go to hell. Although, to be honest, he didn't blame him. The dark-haired man had more than enough valid reasons to want to return to London as soon as possible. According to the latest medical check-up performed by Dr. Watson, William was in his final weeks of pregnancy, which indicated that the birth was almost imminent.
Of course, the detective wanted to be there when that happened. He still wondered why Mycroft had forced him to undertake this mission from such a distance with such a momentous event just around the corner. If that child were born before he arrived… Ah, of course there would be bloodshed.
As night fell on another day with little progress, the community matriarch, who had been cooperative and kind throughout, shared a meal with them. She wanted to prevent her people from becoming involved with, or even associating with, the gang they were about to dismantle, so her help was welcome on a couple of occasions.
"If we're lucky, in a couple of days we can close this whole matter," declared the pink-haired man, sitting down on a log in front of the campfire they used to keep warm in the camp.
"If we're lucky," Sherlock repeated without much enthusiasm. "We should have closed this case four days ago."
"I didn't think this mission would end up dragging on this long."
"If I had known, I would have fought harder against participating." Billy couldn't help but laugh before starting to eat with noticeable appetite; luckily, at least the food they were offered every day was delicious. Beneath the silence of the crickets and the murmurs of the other people eating around him, Sherlock kept his gaze fixed on the crackling flames that burned the wood. His eyes flickered repeatedly when the sound of a cry pulled him from his reverie. Raising his head, he searched for the source of that shrill voice, finding him with his mother just a few feet away, in front of another campfire.
An unconscious smile graced his face.
To think that in a short time that sound would become part of his daily life. That a similar cry would most likely keep him awake for several nights. Of course, he was already mentally preparing for that; sleepless nights due to Liam's annoyances were already part of his routine, and he accepted it as something he would have to get used to for at least a few years, although he had to add the idea of incessant crying.
What would his cry be like?
Will it be intense and high-pitched?
Hoarse and monotonous?
He was eager to find out.
It was certain that if a few years ago someone had asked him about marriage and fatherhood, his answer would have been evasive, perhaps disgusted by the idea of settling down and having to fulfill the social responsibilities that everyone expected of a conventional marriage. It wasn't for him at all, especially if the couple's example included a "She."
Him with a woman? That was more likely to turn water into wine.
But when he met Liam… those ideas he had been reluctant to embrace ended up becoming a necessity. Did he want to get married? Of course. Be a father? Undoubtedly. Spend the rest of his life with “someone”? As long as that someone was Liam, the answer would be “Yes.”
That man seemed to simply appear in his life to override each and every one of the things he had rejected since reaching the ideal age to look for a partner.
The three years in New York were convenient for both of them. With Liam free from the pressure of a suicidal social mission that Sherlock thwarted without hesitation, they gave themselves the space and time to let the feelings they had barely accepted in London before the fall into the Thames blossom. For three years, it was simply the two of them, learning to love each other and share their lives every day.
They both returned to London engaged, marrying out of the public eye and in the company of their loved ones, the same ones who received the news of Liam's “interesting” condition a couple of months after their intimate wedding ceremony.
A sigh escaped the dark-haired man's lips as he remembered his partner in London. His belly barely allowed him to walk, and his sleep was longer than usual due to exhaustion, but that didn't stop him from looking simply radiant. The pregnancy had given him a particular glow he couldn't explain; he felt fortunate to be able to appreciate it every day.
"You have someone waiting at home, don't you?" The familiar voice of the matriarch, a woman of about seventy, brought him back to the camp.
The woman sat down beside him with the help of her cane. Sherlock moved aside slightly to give her space.
"Yes, I was thinking we should finish this as soon as possible," he replied, looking at his container of half-cooled food.
"She must be thinking the same thing." "She," the blue-eyed man couldn't help but grimace.
"No, um... it's not 'she,'" he corrected calmly without turning to look at the woman.
—I see, so it's a "he"—she said again, offering an almost maternal smile "How far along is he"
"Excuse me?"
"He's expecting, isn't he?" She alluded subtly to the fact that he was pregnant. Sherlock raised his eyebrows in surprise at the unexpected question. He was certain he hadn't mentioned the situation in front of the others at any point.
"How come—"
"You reacted almost instantly when you heard the little one crying over there. You even looked around for him. Your shoulders didn't rest until you saw him with his mother." The woman laughed softly, and Sherlock could only scratch the back of his neck, somewhat embarrassed by his own notoriety.
"he's in his final weeks, hence the rush. Don't think we're not interested in this whole situation, but…" The gray-haired woman raised her hand to stop him from paraphrasing and shook her head gently, understanding where he was going with this.
"It's normal, young man, firstborn I imagine." The dark-haired man nodded. "For anyone, family is the most important thing."
With a hint of relief on his face, Sherlock turned his gaze back to the campfire, setting the bowl of food down on the ground.
"I tried to refuse, but it seems I'm the most suitable for this."
"I'm sure he understands." The blue-eyed man nodded, convinced that this was true.
"But if I'm not there when it happens, I don't think I'll ever forgive myself." He murmured, bringing his hands to his forehead to take a deep breath and banish the thought that Liam could give birth without him present.
The woman beside him simply nodded at his words and feelings; her years of experience had led her to understand the dark-haired man perfectly. The birth of a firstborn was no small matter, especially for someone who truly longed for it. Wanting to offer the troubled young man some comfort, she raised her head to the sky, searching among the stars for the only source of natural light that night. Finding it hidden among the treetops, she stood with the help of her cane to see it more clearly.
Her wrinkled, narrowed eyes opened wide, revealing orbs almost clouded by age. A smile graced her face before she turned to Sherlock.
"You're from London, aren't you, lad?" Sherlock turned to the older woman before confirming that it was correct. "It's hours' journey from here. You must return home tonight."
"Tonight? Why?"
"The moon, lad. Tomorrow will be a full moon. I've lived too long to be certain of one thing: most births happen on nights of a full moon."
Sherlock's expression changed to one of surprise. Although a reasonable part of him believed that such a statement was impossible, his heart decided to believe in that possibility, however trite it might be. He really needed an excuse to leave, and right now the full moon and the belief of an old Romani woman were his salvation. Jumping to his feet almost in a bound, he looked around for his companion, who had disappeared from his sight at some point when he wasn't paying attention. He had to tell him that he had to leave, that he should continue the mission without him.
"Go, take one of the horses to get to the station. I'll tell your companion that you had to leave," added the old woman as if she had read his mind. Contrary to what many would believe, this woman could be very perceptive. Urging him on with her cane, which she used to gently tap his calves, she nodded for him to take one of the horses, ready with its saddle for any emergency that might require them. Sherlock, oblivious to his usual demeanor, politely thanked the woman who was now practically forcing him to leave. He had everything he needed in his coat pockets: his watch, a few pounds to pay for his ticket, and a box of mints that would certainly help with his anxiety during the journey.
If luck was on his side, he would catch the last train of the day, which would take him to London in the morning.
London, that same day, before nightfall.
All day he had been in the company of his older brother, who had offered to stay at the residence with him until Sherlock's return. He certainly wasn't going to refuse; having someone to turn to lately had become indispensable. His routine consisted of walking, reading, drinking tea, and sleeping. Occasionally, he chatted about trivial things with Albert to at least kill time.
The tiny creature that had been making his daily life so difficult was barely moving anymore; however, the contractions were becoming more intense and sometimes frequent. Watson, who wasn't exactly a specialist in the field but had a good amount of knowledge, told him it was normal, as the baby was getting into position for birth.
It was impossible to lie and say he wasn't anxious about it. Throughout the pregnancy, he hadn't really thought about the delivery, because his concern was more about getting some sleep or satisfying his unconventional cravings, but now that it was so close, countless thoughts raced through his head every day. He'd been given the choice between a natural birth or a cesarean, but knowing the current risks, a natural birth was his safest option.
If his body was capable of carrying a child, he wanted to believe it would also be capable of giving birth.
"Is everything alright, Will?" Albert's voice pulled him from his thoughts for a moment. The book he was holding fell to his stomach, and he nodded.
"Yes, I was just thinking..." He rested his elbow on the armrest, his chin on his hand and his scarlet eyes searching the view outside the window. "Sherlock should be back by now, don't you think?" Albert smiled warmly at the tender sight of his younger brother enjoying the sunset.
“Louis told me it apparently took longer than expected due to some family matters involving those involved.” William sighed wearily.
“I shouldn’t have gone.”
“Mycroft asked him to go personally.”
"Mycroft knew I was going to give birth soon," he replied exasperatedly, then closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
"We haven't had any indication that it's going to happen anytime soon, Will, trust me." He tried to calm his brother gently, putting aside his teacup to stand up and approach him.
“What if he doesn’t arrive? What if the mission keeps getting extended? I don’t think I can keep this child inside me any longer.” Albert couldn’t help but chuckle as he sat down beside him, almost on the edge of the sofa. It was amusing to see and hear William so capricious; for others it might have been tiring or annoying, but for him, who had never seen his brother act this way when they were children, it was simply charming. Bringing his hand to his hair, he gently stroked the soft golden strands.
"Think positive, Will. Remember, someone else is listening."
"He knows I'm not serious," he muttered, pouting slightly.
Remaining in that position for a moment longer, the blond-haired boy finally rested his head on the armrest of the sofa, letting his brother stroke his hair.
...
Night fell on the modest residence located somewhere in London, close to amenities and also to Universal Exports. After a pleasant dinner and a hot bath, William was ready to take his place in the double bed, which was now only warm on one side. As he finished arranging the pillows, the familiar sensation of a contraction reached his lower abdomen, thankfully mild, but noticeable to him.
A sigh escaped his lips; he feared it would be another sleepless night, like the ones he was already used to. Wanting to ignore it, he lay down on his side, propping himself up with a pillow under his stomach, and settled down to sleep.
At the end of the corridor, Albert stayed awake for a couple more hours, catching up on some files Mycroft had given him to keep him informed about the cases MI6 had handled since his leave. The candle illuminating part of the desk flickered gently with each movement of the papers he set aside.
The silence of the room, barely filled with his breathing and the barking of dogs roaming the neighborhood, was broken by the familiar sound of his brother's raspy voice, complaining of what sounded like an ailment.
Setting the folder aside, he left the room and peeked into the hallway, where the murmurs were a bit louder. Clearly, the noises and groans were coming from William's room—perhaps another night of contractions, he thought.
Taking a deep breath, he approached and knocked softly before silently opening the door.
"Will?" he called out, finding him covered by the sheets, his brow furrowed. The blond man was really trying to stay asleep, but his uterus, repeatedly tightening and relaxing with varying intensity, was making it very difficult. Finally, his eyes opened, and a gasp escaped his throat. He wanted to cry from helplessness, but the pain simply wouldn't let him.
Albert approached cautiously, taking the box of matches from the nightstand to light the half-burned candle.
"Are they continuous?" he asked gently, referring to the contractions.
"Not really, just annoying," he replied as soon as he had a moment of calm.
The brunette pressed his lips together, taking in his condition. The birth was probably near, but the truth was that neither he nor perhaps Will knew for sure. Watson had told them about the signs of imminent delivery, but theory wasn't always the same as practice. Will had recently experienced intense contractions due to the baby's descent into the birth canal. Could this be something similar? He wasn't experiencing it himself, so he couldn't confirm it.
"Would you like something to drink? Should we go to the living room?" William simply shook his head.
"If you could get me some tea, that would be fine." The older man left the room for a moment, leaving William alone with his contractions, which came on and off. It was going to be a long night.
…
When the sun's first rays peeked through the window, a sleepless blond man cursed under his breath. He hadn't slept a wink all night and regretted that Albert hadn't either, because of him. The contractions hadn't stopped, and the discomfort of not even being able to lie down was putting him in a bad mood. Grabbing his pajamas, he lazily took the time to change.
"Albert!" he exclaimed, rushing out of the room, his pajama bottoms clutched in his hands.
The green-eyed man practically ran to his brother when he heard him call his name, leaping two steps at a time to the second floor. Reaching the hallway, he stopped against a wall, catching his breath, scanning him for any sign of trouble.
"What's wrong?"
Completely embarrassed and nervous, he showed him the fabric stained with a pinkish-red discharge; it looked like blood. Albert instinctively became alarmed by it; although he didn't know what it was, the fact that it looked like blood did not bring him any peace.
"I'll go find Watson and his wife," he announced before turning back with the speed of a former soldier of the Crown. William, meanwhile, returned to his room with the unfortunate garment. It was obvious where the flow had come from, but what did it mean? He hoped it wasn't anything serious.
In less than forty minutes, Albert returned to the house with John and his wife, the latter carrying a bag with some things she might need during the delivery. According to what the older man told them, the birth was almost certainly closer than they imagined.
The blond man was in the living room, pacing back and forth as fast as his legs would carry him, his thumb to his lips, muttering nonsense and the occasional curse word whenever another sudden uterine hardening struck unexpectedly. He would sit down and then stand up again, the mixture of nerves and anxiety churning his stomach. The entire morning unfolded in the same way. Albert offered breakfast to his guests and to William, who had barely managed to have a little more tea and a sweet biscuit.
"How long is this going to last?" Will asked the invited couple, trying to maintain as much cordiality as possible.
"You're in labor. This can take hours, especially since it's your first time. Try to stay calm." John replied calmly, which made the blond-haired man groan.
"Hours," he thought before sitting down on his sofa, using his arms for support. His fingers moved impatiently on the velvet.
"Do we know anything about Sherlock?" he asked his brother. He knew the answer; after all, no postman had shown up, nor had Louis, who usually brought news. Albert could only shake his head cautiously.
"We have no new news."
Now thumping the sofa seat, his eyes squeezed shut as another contraction made him writhe.
"Please tell Mycroft to bring Sherlock back," he pleaded through gritted teeth before taking a deep breath to let go of the pain.
"Will, I don't think—"
"Albert! I want my husband here," he declared firmly, placing his free hand on his lower abdomen. If he was going to be the only one enduring this hellish pain, he could be as capricious as he pleased.
Albert remained quietly calm. He had no intention of confronting his brother in this state, nor of contradicting him. Before he could stand, Watson spoke first.
"I'll go to Universal Exports myself and ask them to send an urgent telegram. I'll also inform Louis of the possible event," he told the brunette kindly before giving his wife a reassuring look.
And so John hurried away, hoping to hear from Sherlock.
Newcastle
With his bad luck against him, the last train to London left before he arrived. The next one the following day didn't depart until eight in the morning, and considering the journey was approximately four hours, if luck was on his side again, he would arrive by midday. He had no choice but to spend the rest of the night in a nearby inn.
At twenty to eight, he was almost certain he was the first person to board a carriage after paying for his ticket and practically running towards a train that wouldn't be going anywhere for another twenty minutes, as if their haste also hurried everyone else.
With barely concealed anxiety, his fingers rattled the wooden window frame, watching people come and go. In less than ten minutes, the station began to fill up. And at eight o'clock sharp, the sound of the train's horn signaling its departure brought him some peace of mind. He was on his way home.
But perhaps fate was deliberately placing him in the worst possible situations.
While in York, the train ended up stopping longer than expected. The reason? It seemed that in Doncaster, the next stop, some damned fool had the bright idea of taking hostages and barricading themselves at the train station. Knowing the police's less-than-efficient skills, the whole affair was sure to take a couple of hours to sort out; he hoped not a whole day.
What could he do?
Nothing, just massage his temples, hoping time wouldn't fly by.
London
With the clock striking three in the afternoon, it had been approximately eight hours since William's labor pains began. He was dressed only in his shirt and robe, as his water had broken about fifty minutes earlier, creating a real mess in the room and on his trousers.
In the solitude of his room, his hands rested on his lower back, now walking slowly and whimpering with each new contraction. Mrs. Watson, after examining him, informed him that he wasn't yet dilated enough to begin the second stage of labor. He could only walk, lean on the bed, or sit when his back didn't hurt. Swearing was also a good option; he never thought cursing so loudly could be so liberating, although he would have to apologize to his neighbors later. The hours dragged on excruciatingly; he simply couldn't wait to push and hold his son in his arms. (Clearly, he didn't get to the worst part.)
On the other hand, the one who received most of his insults was Sherlock. For starters, he wasn't even there to support him. Adding to that the fact that, objectively speaking, this whole situation was his fault. It was true they both agreed to have a family, and he would be the pregnant, but that wasn't an excuse to simply leave. To hell with it if it was for work or not; his husband should be here.
"Damn you, Sherlock..." he muttered under his breath as he felt another contraction, a little more intense than the previous ones.
There was no more room for affectionate nicknames; soon he would end up calling him by his surname. All the Holmes would be cursed for putting him through such pain, and his husband would be the first among them.
Downstairs in the living room, Albert had received his younger brother, Louis, who decided to simply drop everything as soon as John informed him of the possible events at the Holmes residence. Not even the country ablaze would be more important than the birth of his nephew or niece; the world could wait.
"Has he been like this all this time?"
"Since last night, although now the contractions seem more painful," Albert reported, placing another fresh teapot full of tea.
"How much longer will he have to endure it?" he asked, turning to the Watsons.
"We have to wait until he's dilated enough before encouraging him to push. This could take a few more hours," John sighed, taking a biscuit from the tray on the coffee table. "It's going well, we just need him to dilate a little longer, so we have to be patient."
"I understand..." Feeling somewhat calmer with that information, he poured himself some tea.
"Haven't you heard anything from Sherlock?"
"Billy sent a telegram earlier today. Sherlock is on his way to London; he should arrive any minute."
Everyone in the room sighed with relief. They definitely needed that man present; otherwise, William would be impossible for anyone to deal with.
"Aagh! Shit!" A dull thud followed by that shout silenced the rest. Louis, who seemed the most worried, looked around for his brother, wondering whether he should go upstairs or not. Albert simply shook his head.
"Relax, it's just him dropping something on the floor. We already checked."
"I see..."
...
"Where the hell is Sherlock?!" he shouted hoarsely, gripping the sheets beneath him as tightly as he could.
"He's on his way, Will. He should be here any minute."
"On his way?! It's been six damn hours already!" Yes, since they'd told him. Actually, it was longer, but no one was going to dare tell him the truth.
"Take a deep breath and let it out calmly," Mrs. Watson asked gently. She understood better than anyone; it wasn't the first birth she'd attended, and as a woman, she could completely empathize. William did as the blonde woman said. He took a deep breath as best he could and let it out as much as possible before another contraction hit him, making his teeth grind.
Lying with his legs spread and towels beneath him, a blanket covered his privates, which mattered little to him at this point. Mrs. Watson knew him quite well from all the times she'd checked his dilation. He'd think about how to face her later, when his senses returned.
"William, we have to start pushing. We can't delay any longer for the baby's sake," Mary advised gently, holding one of his knees softly. William could only see her with his sweaty face and teary eyes. He didn't want to do it, he couldn't do it without Sherlock by his side; he truly needed him. He shook his head repeatedly, and a sob escaped his lips as another sharp pain of his hardening womb hit his.
"Please… Just, just a little more…" he pleaded, his voice choked with emotion.
"Will, please, you can't put your child's health at risk," John said, his tone now somewhat harsher. It wasn't that they didn't want to comply with his request, but they couldn't delay any longer.
Closing his eyes, he brought his palms to his face in pain and, gasping with sadness, finally nodded. It was true. What kind of father would he be if he ended up harming his baby because of his whims?
With his cooperation, Mary again lifted the blanket covering his groin to check on him. Nodding with determination, she placed both hands on his knees to get a better look.
"Okay, let's synchronize. On the count of three, I want you to start pushing." Without resisting, he listened to Mary's instructions, and after counting to three, he began the most complicated part of the delivery.
…
Practically leaping from the carriage he was in, which had stopped mid-journey because one of the horses had bolted, he left the necessary money on the seats before taking off along the familiar road home. If he had to tell anyone about his ordeal that day, they surely wouldn't believe his. Luck had truly not been on his side.
He prayed that he could at least get home before labor even began (he already considered it a given). His gaze occasionally darted up to the sky, noticing how the colors were darkening and the stars were beginning to appear like tiny fireflies.
"Shit, and more shit," he thought, urging himself to run faster.
At least fifteen minutes passed before he reached the block where he lived. Whoever was up there knew how he managed to stay so still. He quickly located his home among all the others in the neighborhood. The lights in the room they shared were on, which he considered a good sign.
Taking the keys from his inside pocket, he opened the door after a couple of clumsy attempts to unlock it. As soon as he stepped into the hallway, a muffled scream reached his ears. A chill ran down his spine, and anxiety gripped him. Without even taking off his jacket, he made a final effort to run to the stairs and take them two at a time. Once upstairs, he found two familiar faces: Albert and Louis. He paused for a moment to catch his breath, which he realized he had lost.
"Where... Where's Liam?" he asked in a whisper.
But before Albert could answer, another cry of pain pierced the closed bedroom door. Sherlock trembled and, without waiting for a response, reached for the doorknob and opened it in complete silence.
The first thing his eyes fell upon was his partner, lying on the bed they shared in a state he could only describe as deplorable: sweaty, in pain, and with his lips swollen from undoubtedly biting them to stifle a scream. At his feet, Mary and John were performing the noble task of bringing their son into the world.
"Sherlock, for God's sake, you're finally here," his friend interrupted his thoughts, which made Mary and William turn their gaze to the door.
William's face seemed to light up despite his condition; an exhausted smile formed on his face, and one of his hands reached out toward him almost pleadingly.
“Sherly…”
As if it were an order, Sherlock approached him and firmly took his hand, sitting down beside him with all the care he could muster so as not to make his husband uncomfortable. His free arm crossed behind his head so he could bring it closer to his abdomen.
"Damn you, Sherly… Where were you?"
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I should have arrived sooner," he apologized, postponing his truly understandable explanations.
William could only give his a loving look and gently shake his head.
"Okay, William, it won't be long now. I'm going to ask you to give it your all, please," Mary had to interrupt before counting again so William could push once more.
And another scream filled the room, a scream of pain that didn't compare to the sensation of being practically ripped in two. His vocal cords were already scraping and aching; he would definitely be hoarse for a couple of days after this. He no longer tried to hold back the tears; they simply escaped from his tear ducts.
As much as he wished it were just a matter of pushing and being done with it, reality slapped him in the face, keeping him in labor for approximately two more hours, even though he'd already been in it for two hours before Sherlock arrived. Exhaustion made his legs tremble, and he could barely regulate his breathing. At a certain point, he hardly screamed anymore; he only groaned softly, letting out gasps, cursing occasionally, and clinging to his partner's hand, who was trying hard to hide his expressions of pain.
And then Mary called out, "One last time, just one more," and for the first time that entire day, he felt something akin to relief in his chest. Nodding to let him know he understood perfectly, he readjusted his grip on Sherlock's hand, who reciprocated. He felt the dark-haired man tremble and clutch his shoulder with his free hand.
Fear was the feeling that filled Sherlock's being. Seeing Liam practically disintegrate beside him, unable to do anything about it, was undoubtedly desperate and terrifying. He didn't care about the pain of his hand being squeezed so tightly it turned red, nor how loud his husband's cries might be. He wasn't experiencing it firsthand, so why would he complain? Clearly, he had no right to. All he wanted was for this to end for Liam as soon as possible.
Taking one last breath, he prepared himself once more, gathering the last of his strength in his tired and aching body. “One, two, three,” he counted mentally with the woman before pushing.
“NnnAAAHG!” That last cry felt different from the others at the end; his breath caught in his throat as he realized an unexpected relief had reached his lower abdomen and, of course, his backside.
Falling back onto the pillows behind him, he closed his eyes and breathed heavily.
“You did excellently, Liam,” Sherlock whispered, placing his lips on the crown of his head to kiss him gently.
A broken smile adorned his noticeably exhausted face, and suddenly it wasn't his screams that echoed in the room, but a sharper, more energetic cry, undoubtedly melodious to the new parents' ears. Sherlock raised his head, searching for the little one whose cries were reverberating off the walls. Mary asked John to get her some towels while she quickly assessed the tiny individual she held in her arms: five fingers on each hand, five on each foot, a healthy cry, and…
"A girl! Congratulations to you both, she's a beautiful little one!" the blonde exclaimed before wrapping the baby in towels after John analytically cut the umbilical cord. Once she was covered, she handed her to William, who was still recovering uncomfortably. William smiled with emotion, carefully extending his arms to receive the lively bundle and gently lay it against his chest—a baby girl, a little princess, their daughter. With one hand, he uncovered her face so he could admire her properly. She was still a little wrinkled and rosy, but to the new father, she was the most beautiful being his eyes had ever seen.
"Oh, Sherly… look at her," he whispered with the gentleness of someone who didn't want to break a single glass, unlike how he had been just moments before.
Without waiting for a response from the dark-haired man, his eyes felt the sting of tears welling up again, now not from pain, but from the happiness and emotion of finally holding in his arms the little creature he had dreamed of night and day. She was even more perfect than he could have imagined.
"She's beautiful," Sherlock whispered, inches from his partner's face, gently kissing his temple. "Thank you, Liam... for giving me this moment." John and Mary could only remain on the sidelines of the small family gathering, cleaning up as needed but not yet clearing the space, as the final stage of labor was still to come: the expulsion of the placenta, which might or might not be more uncomfortable than the birth itself. The newborn baby was handed to Sherlock, who somewhat clumsily received her in his arms, which were positioned like a cradle. John couldn't help but laugh at the sight of his friend not knowing how to hold his child properly.
"Wait, let me adjust you," He said before approaching to help him. "Keep this arm like this so he can rest his head. Your other hand should be supporting her lower body; don't be afraid to hold it against your chest, it's best." The soft nasal whimpers she made as I adjusted her position alerted him enough to make him stay still, almost holding his breath.
"She's uncomfortable."
"No, Sherlock," John chuckled. "She's fine, it's normal, just baby sounds." He reported it as if it were nothing.
"Breathe, come on," his friend ordered before he relaxed just a little, remaining alert enough to anything. The little girl let out only a few more soft whimpers before stirring in his arms. He admired her as if he held the very embodiment of the sun in his palms.
Although, contrary to what John told him, for the detective this was definitely not "nothing," it was simply everything. Every sound, babble, or movement was a discovery that, unlike the many mysteries he had solved throughout his life, generated an indescribable emotion, a warm and genuine feeling that made him want to cry. Beside him, the sound of Liam letting out another groan pulled him from his reverie. Mary was now withdrawing from between his legs again, carrying what appeared to be the recently expelled placenta.
"Everything seems to be in order," she told both the couple and his husband, who nodded calmly. Now, they both set about tidying up and cleaning everything necessary. The towels that had been under the blond-haired man were replaced with clean ones, knowing that he would probably continue to have some bleeding for a while longer. Meanwhile, the new parents couldn't stop looking at and studying what they had practically created. Sherlock took the time to hold her little hands, look at them, caress them, and etch the pleasant sensation of his delicate skin into his memory.
"Mrs. Watson," Liam called, adjusting himself with the help of his arms, now more focused on his thoughts. The woman responded with a smile, approaching to hear his request. "Regarding feeding..."
"Oh, I'll ask Louis to prepare a bottle so I can give it to her and show you how she should be fed." William smiled and shook his head gently.
"No, no, I'm sorry, I didn't explain myself. I meant breastfeeding."
Mary raised her eyebrows and clasped her hands together in excitement. Although male pregnancy was becoming more common, childbirth and breastfeeding were still taboo in society. Being able to participate in and witness one of these experiences was truly a privilege.
Without any embarrassment, she closed the distance to take the baby in her arms with Sherlock's permission. John also showed his how to position his arms to hold her safely so that feeding wouldn't be uncomfortable for either him or his daughter. As if by pure instinct, when he freed one of his moderately swollen breasts and brought the baby to his nipple, it took almost no time to latch on. The sensation was a little strange at first, but after a few moments, during which they checked that the baby was feeding properly, it got used to it; it was natural, after all.
Releasing the hand that wasn't supporting the baby's weight, he brought it to her face to caress her cheek with the back of his fingers. It was so soft and warm, like a delicate flower opening its petals in spring. Her hair was a dark shade, and her skin was still pink. He fleetingly thought that she resembled Sherlock, although they wouldn't really know until she was a little older. Her tiny nose and those barely perceptible eyelashes filled him with tenderness and pride—pride because, after all, he had carried such a wonderful being.
"What are we going to name her?" he asked in the intimacy of a whisper to his partner, who didn't take his eyes off their little one.
Sherlock looked up at William, an expression of doubt, then the memory of the first cry and what he'd thought the moment he heard it.
"The sweet melody of life." He wasn't the most poetic man alive, of that he was sure, but the words came to him on their own as soon as he heard her. Never had a baby's cry seemed so harmonious to him; perhaps it was because she was his daughter, and now, as a father, anything that came from her was going to be the most beautiful thing his eyes had ever seen or his ears had ever heard. Although, if that were the case, he didn't mind getting sentimental.
"What do you think, Melody?" he replied, as if answering a riddle. A glimmer crossed William's eyes.
"Melody," he spelled, getting used to it—simple, pleasant, and sweet. Perfect for someone like her—that seems appropriate.
"Just appropriate? We can keep thinking about it if—"
"No, no, perfect, it's perfect, Sherly," he interrupted with a laugh, quickly kissing his cheek.
That's how they decided on the newborn's name. After feeding her, Mary showed her how to burp her if she had swallowed any air. Then she was ready to go to sleep if they preferred.
It was already past ten o'clock at night when it could finally be said that William had finished giving birth. Sherlock went to close the windows tightly as the breeze began to cool. Taking a moment to observe the sky, he saw the moon, full, of course. In the end, that old woman was right, he thought, smiling smugly as he ignored logic for the first time to cling to a "mystical" belief.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the door of the room that had witnessed the blond man's insults and shouts, stood two impatient brothers who had barely regained their composure when the cry of a baby replaced the complaints of the man giving birth. The Watson couple opened the door, revealing themselves with smiles of relief and happiness, which they shared with Louis and Albert.
"Everything went well. William said you can go in and meet her."
"Meet her…" Louis murmured with a smile, confirming that it was indeed a girl.
Glancing at each other briefly, they nodded before entering the room. They were greeted by the sight of their beloved brother, his back curled up among the pillows and sheets, now pulled up to his waist. In his arms, clutched to his chest, was a bundle of cotton fabric that barely revealed a pair of tiny hands and a wisp of dark hair. Louis was the first to break down at the tender sight, bringing his forearm to his eyes to take a deep breath and let out a gasp. Albert simply smiled and stroked his younger brother's back in comfort. William, on the other hand, wore a paternal expression, extending an arm to beckon them closer. He revealed his daughter's face, whose features he could now confirm were more defined than when she had been born just minutes before. The image of a little angel on earth.
"I present to you Melody, Melody Holmes.”