Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

He was really putting all his effort into staying awake, but for some reason he couldn't explain, his strength suddenly abandoned him, and his eyelids threatened to close at any moment. The only thing he could hear now, albeit in the distance, was Mary asking him to give one last push so she could hold his baby in her hands. So, as his last act of will, he did just that, a push that his muscles forced amid painful tremors that caused him to let out a barely audible groan of pain because of the dryness of his vocal cords.

His body was completely drained; the sharp abdominal pain that had suddenly overwhelmed him clouded his senses. The sounds began to fade, and the room grew dark. The last thing he heard was the woman's gasp of joy, as she had apparently successfully delivered his baby.

“William, congratulations… It’s a…”

Silence, darkness, and even peace.

His eyes yielded to the inevitable, his arms fell limply onto the mattress and his head rested to the side on the pillows; more of a faint than a nap, which alerted those present in the room.

"Liam?" Sherlock was the first to speak, and standing beside him, he took his hand and looked at his tired, sweaty, and even somewhat pale face; something was not right.

Mary quickly made way for John as the umbilical cord connecting the newborn was meticulously cut. The doctor approached the new father to check his pulse and blood pressure. His heartbeat was beginning to increase, but his breathing was too shallow. His gaze scanned his body briefly, and finally, he lifted the towel covering his patient's private parts to see what remained after the delivery. His hand trembled for a second, as did his lips.

“Mary” He called out in alarm. The woman placed the little boy on the prepared Moses basket, and, in keeping with his good health, he began to cry.

Alarm bells rang in her head when she saw the growing trail of blood covering the white sheets beneath William. Such a quantity was far from normal. Like lightning, the woman went to find more towels to absorb the blood and try to pinpoint the source of the problem. The moment she placed them between the blond man's legs, the reddish color flooded them with alarming speed.

“He hasn’t expelled the placenta yet,” the blonde warned with a hint of anguish in her voice, which made John’s jaw tense.

“John, what's wrong?” The father asked his friend uncertainty, who could only give him a look of stupor “John, tell me what's happening” He insisted, having no other answer than that expression that offered him little peace.

“Sherlock, I'm going to ask you to leave” He requested, taking his wife's place so he could remove the towels that could no longer absorb any more of that scarlet liquid and replace them with clean cloths whose threads were soon becoming stained.

Sherlock's face paled the instant he saw that bundle of cloth, now the color of death, being placed in the basin of used water, replacing it with clean cloth; that quantity was undoubtedly dangerous. As he tried to stand, his legs gave way, leaving him lying on the bed as weakness began to creep down his spine.

“Liam” He called tremulously, turning to his partner who, without giving any sign, remained unconscious on the bed “Liam.”

“Sherlock” John warned again, signaling that he should get out of there as soon as possible.

A buzzing filled his ears, and without wanting to separate from the blond man, his hands went to his shoulders to gently and fearfully take hold of him, fear of the possibility of encountering the familiar coldness of someone slowly losing their life. "Liam, open your eyes, Liam." Receiving no response, his heart leaped and his breathing became labored in desperation.

"Y-You have to do something... John, you have to help him," he stammered, turning to the doctor who was still between the unconscious man's legs trying to stop the bleeding.

"Sherlock, you must leave," Mary said as politely as possible despite her own worries.

Sherlock refused; he wasn't going to leave, he wasn't going to leave his husband and son alone. Mary turned quickly to the bassinet when she heard the newborn's cry.intensified, echoing off the walls.

"Sherlock, please," she insisted again, returning to the blue-haired man to approach him with the intention of taking his arm and guiding him to stand up.

The dark-haired man refused the woman's touch, observing behind her the crib where his son lay stirring uncomfortably amid desperate crying; his own hands trembled as he imagined the child needed his father.

“Liam, wake up, honey, he needs you” He whispered, his voice breaking as the words left his lips.

Mary went back to the baby to wrap him in the blankets they had prepared, lifting him to cradle him against her chest, trying to soothe him. Tension was rising in the room, and John's pressure to find the problem was making him increasingly nervous. What had happened? What had he missed? Had Mary done something wrong? No, it wasn't that. Everything seemed normal, nothing out of the ordinary, just like the two previous times. Why was he bleeding so much?

Noticing John's hardened expression, Mary quickly went to the bedroom door to open it with the baby in her arms. Outside, Mycroft and Albert were now waiting impatiently, having already heard the newborn's cries. The blonde woman's anxious frown offered them no reassurance; her hands trembled slightly as she clutched the small bundle wrapped in swaddling clothes, still whimpering against her chest.

“I need Sherlock out of here…”

“Mrs. Watson, what is it—”

“Please” she interrupted, unwilling to answer the obvious question “They must get him out of here.”

The couple looked at each other before stepping into the bedroom, Mycroft addressing his brother and Albert inevitably taking in a quick survey of the situation, questions stuck in his throat as he saw the jumble of blood and towels that began to pile up at one side of the bed, John between his brother's legs and the latter unconscious with a noticeably agitated Sherlock at his side who refused to let go.

“Sherlock, we have to get out of here, let Dr. Watson do his work” Mycroft said, wanting to be understanding with the other blue-haired man, noticing in broad strokes what was happening.

“No, I'm not going to leave, I'm not going to leave him here alone” Taking his hand off, he had to let go of his partner to try to separate himself from the older man's grip who had taken his arms.

Mycroft didn't say a word. Clinging to his arms, he lifted him from the bed in one swift motion, forcing him to take a few steps back to avoid falling. Dazed by his brother's persistence, he tried to break free so he could return to his place with his partner.

"Let me go, Mycroft!" The elder Holmes said nothing; arguing there when John was practically on edge and Mary was trying to calm the crying baby again wasn't the best option for anyone.

Albert, having to summon all his willpower to move his feet again, approached Sherlock in order to help Mycroft get him out of the room. Being left with that image was not pleasant and evoked unpleasant memories, But panicking wasn't going to help at that moment.

Seeing that they were serious, Sherlock stubbornly tried to plant himself on the floor. "Let me go! I'm not leaving!" he complained, his voice a mixture of annoyance and anguish, wanting to push his brother and brother-in-law away so they would release him. Mycroft held him by the chest, one arm slipping beneath his own to pull him back. Albert, on the other hand, held his free arm from behind, dragging him along with his partner. Though he tried to dig his heels into the wood and repeatedly denied it, fear sapped much of his strength. His eyes could only fix on his husband, who showed no sign of waking.

"Mycroft! Let me go! I must—I must be with him!" he insisted, struggling against the firm grip of the other two men who were pulling him away from his beloved.

His labored breathing caused terrible pressure in his chest, and his heart felt as if it might burst out of his ribcage at any moment, given the force with which it beat at an accelerated rhythm. Once he crawled across the threshold, his strength completely deserted him, and his legs gave way to gravity, causing him to collapse into their arms. His skin began to sweat with nerves, and his body was trembling, making his stomach churn. He tried in vain to reach for the doorknob of the now-closed door, but his hand fell limply. Swallowing hard, his vocal cords trembled, forcing him to speak again.

“Let me stay in there, please! Please! I can't leave him alone!” He demanded of his brother like he never thought he would, searching for him with a distraught gaze, and ended up hanging from the edges of his coat in a desperate attempt to get up from the ground.

His pitiful expression suggested that tears might start flowing at any moment. would open Mycroft felt his heart clench at the sight of his little brother trembling and desperately begging for mercy to let him go.

“Sherlock, no, you can't be there” Albert spoke gently, his tone of voice bearing traces of distress that mirrored his brother-in-law's feelings.

“Please, Mycroft, I beg you… Let me be with him, I can't leave them alone…” He groaned in defeat as a last hope.

The elder Holmes' lips pressed together in a line of sorrow. Seeing his younger brother in such a state was unusual, and of course, if it were up to him, he would grant any of his requests, but not this one, not this time. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, but no." He denied him, the weight of the world on his shoulders.

The defeated blue-haired man finally fell at his brother's feet, adjusting his grip on his fine clothes now bruised by his palms, his forehead wrinkled in pain resting on his abdomen and a gasp of fear escaped his lips, he couldn't get the image of the blood out of his head, it was too much and it didn't seem to stop.

“Mycroft, he… God…”

“I know, Sherly, I know” He murmured, separating himself for just a moment so he could kneel down to the same height as him, taking him in his arms almost paternally to cradle his head on his shoulder.

Sherlock did not hesitate to accept that contact, clinging to his clothes from behind, his eyes closed tightly and his shoulders trembled violently before he began to cry, a cry that was initially soft but gradually became invaded by the feeling of fear.

"I can't... Mycroft... I can't lose him..." He gasped through tears, tightening his fingers around his brother's jacket.

“Don't say that, it's going to be okay, everything is going to be alright” He tried to comfort him in vain in a whisper that let his own worry filter through, which he tried to hide by taking a deep breath, both of them remained on the floor of that corridor with the sound of the newborn's muffled cry.

Albert could only see them embracing, while fleeting images of what had been inside the room flashed through his mind. He tried to convince himself that everything would be alright, but the memory of his pallor, his almost nonexistent breathing, and the bleeding that had left Dr. Watson with a troubled expression weighed heavily on his chest. He lost his balance in an instant and leaned against the wall.

"Albert?" Mycroft called, noticing the chestnut tree stumble.

"I'm fine, I'm fine..." He quickly reassured him, bringing a hand to his face and sliding down the wall until his lower body touched the floor, his knees drawn up to his chest. "Good God..." he whispered, trembling as anguish gripped him. The elder Holmes pressed his lips together in concern, watching both his partner and his brother. His embrace tightened around the latter, and his eyes closed for a moment as he tried to maintain his composure.

The three men simply remained there, waiting to receive some kind of news that would bring two of them back to life.

At least an hour or two passed. Or perhaps more? Less? It wasn't known exactly, for their minds they wandered poisoned by terrible thoughts that only brought him down, Sherlock, once he had calmed down enough, had separated from Mycroft to simply sit on the floor beside him, his gaze fixed on that wooden door waiting for it to open and John to come out with good news; the waiting was choking him and this could be seen in his exhausted and dull expression.

When Albert had regained some strength in his legs and stomach, he went downstairs to ask Louis to take the children out somewhere, anywhere, but to come back late. The younger Moriarty, as much as he wanted to ask what was happening, couldn't with Melody and Matthew's curious eyes and ears watching him, so he obeyed his older brother's request. After bundling both children up, he left with them, heading off in an unknown direction, his throat filled with a thousand questions.

Sherlock was never a man of faith. He could recite Bible verses almost from memory, but a believer? No, it wasn't his thing. Nor did he usually criticize those who chose to dedicate their lives to it. But now there, within those four wooden walls that resembled a coffin, his arms resting on his knees, his hands clasped together, his head bowed like a poor devil, his lips filled with whatever prayers he remembered his grandmother uttering. To whoever was up there, he only asked that they not take him away, that it wasn't fair. He asked that if necessary, they take him instead, though he didn't want to go either, not when another of his children had just taken his first breath, and he believed he still had so much more to live for with his husband and children. Whatever the case, if he had to give his life in exchange, then so be it, as long as Liam opened his eyes and was alright. He asked for nothing more.

A squeeze on his shoulder from the other blue-eyed man pulled him from his thoughts for a moment. His right hand rested on top of the other's in a gesture of gratitude for the silent support he was receiving. Closing his eyes for a moment, he rested his head on the older man's shoulder, letting out a heavy sigh. Then Mycroft rested his cheek against him, his gaze fixed on the door they were anxiously waiting to open. Sherlock gripped one of the edges of his coat tightly, almost as if his life depended on it, keeping him grounded in reality. They didn't need to say anything; in fact, he needed them to say nothing. At that moment, he wasn't in the mood to hear any more words of encouragement, no matter how sincere, and Mycroft, of course, understood. He simply stayed by his side, offering his physical presence so Sherlock could lean against him. He would endure anything for his brother.

The sound of rusty hinges opening alerted all three of them. Sherlock raised his head with almost superhuman speed, and the first sight he saw was that of his dear friend John, wiping his hands with a damp towel that collected the last traces of blood from his skin. His shirt, however, remained as living proof of what had transpired in that room; that white was no longer white, which made Sherlock's stomach feel empty, hollow, for a fleeting moment. The doctor, although he had a complicated look, his expression told him that he did not bring news that would tear his life apart in an instant.

“We were able to stabilize it and remove the placenta, but he lost too much blood…” Taking a deep breath, he let out a heavy sigh “It's up to him now.”

<<It depends on him,>> his muscles shuddered. He remembered that phrase from several years ago, that time on a ship bound for America. Swallowing hard, he used his hands and Mycroft to help him stand up with difficulty.

“What happened…?”

"Sometimes it just happens, even if the delivery was successful... I'm sorry, Sherlock," he apologized, genuinely embarrassed by the situation, as they both observed the scarlet smear on his sleeves and abdomen.

The blue-haired man’s lips pressed together, and he took a deep breath, trying to stay calm. The important thing now was that he was stable; if there was one thing he was sure of, it was that Liam would do his best, he wouldn't give up. Soon he felt his brother's grip on his shoulder again, practically indicating that her composure would not falter.

“We will be monitoring him for several more hours to ensure he doesn't experience another hemorrhage and remains as he is; we don't know when he might regain consciousness.”

“And the child? How is he?”

"Good," he smiled, a hint of sadness in his voice. "He's perfectly healthy, though a little uncomfortable. He'll want to eat soon. Perhaps I'll prepare a bottle..."

“Or a wet nurse” Suggested Albert, who had remained on the sidelines until that moment.

“A wet nurse? I mean… a woman who…breastfeeding?” Asked Sherlock, certainly stunned by the idea.

"He's a newborn, Sherly, ideally it would be breast milk," Mycroft assured.

Sherlock remained silent for a long time. Was it necessary? Was it the right thing to do? Observing John as if seeking his confirmation, the doctor nodded, which made him swallow hard.

“Let me… Let me think about it, Liam might wake up and—”

“Sherlock” John interrupted, shaking his head heavily “No, not today…”

Unwilling to give in to exasperation, he simply nodded and gently patted his friend's shoulder, made his way into the room, leaving a worried John, Mycroft, and Albert in the hallway. "If only I could find a wet nurse, Mr. Holmes..." "I'll take care of it," they both said their farewells for the moment, and the older man left with the chestnut-haired man so that Dr. Watson could return inside the room.

Sherlock could only manage to sit on the edge of the bed, trying not to disturb his partner, who seemed fast asleep. The sheets were immaculate and the floor clean, a clear sign that before showing up, John and Mary had taken care to leave everything in order, including changing William. His gaze traveled to one of the basins where the towels were soaking in water, dripping with the blood and fluids typical of childbirth. He drew a breath and returned his eyes to the blond man, gently stroking his cheek with the back of his fingers. His brow furrowed in pain.

“Sherlock…” Mary interrupted sweetly as she cautiously approached with her little one in her arms.

Looking up at the woman, he smiled sadly, understanding her intentions. His hands reached out to her, and in silence, the newborn, already dressed in diapers and seemingly calm, was handed to him. Another small child, with a sliver of dark hair on his head, whom he couldn't help but smile at despite his mood—so small, so defenseless.

"He's a beautiful boy, Liam," He whispered, arranging it on his arms so he could look at him closely and stroke his small chin.

The doctor and midwife gathered up everything that was now dirty and unusable to withdraw for a moment and give themselves some time alone.

In the silence of their shared breathing and his baby's small nasal sounds, he leaned heavily back against the headboard, closing his eyes for a moment and sighing, letting his chest decompress and his tense muscles could rest for a moment. His mind was blank at that moment, no thought or idea crossed his head, he was simply defeated.

The unexpected sound of a small whimper pulled him from his reverie; the child was stirring in his arms, and loosening his grip a little, he let him get comfortable between them.

“I know, little one, but we have to let Dad rest a little longer” He murmured affectionately, giving him a soft smile that disappeared after a few seconds.

What would he say to his other two children? Matthew might not fully understand, but Melody? Knowing how attached she was to William, he'd have to think carefully about what to say if he didn't want to scare or worry her. Turning to William, a pleading expression filled his eyes. "Please, darling..." he begged silently, beginning to realize that this could last for several days.

Several more hours passed, and night fell earlier than usual due to the season—winter, tedious for some and a joy for others. For him, it was all the same, but he wouldn't lie if he said he preferred milder weather. The Watsons retired when they felt William was stable enough to leave without medical supervision until the following day. Sherlock took an extra blanket and covered his husband, who wasn't regulating his temperature perfectly. The fireplace in the room, already lit, would soon warm the space. The baby's bassinet rested near the heat so the child could sleep in the warmth of their clothes.

In the silence of uncertainty, accompanied by the crackling of the flames, his body sank into a nearby armchair that adorned the room. His gaze darted back and forth between the wooden crib and the double bed. Although his mind wasn't open to many thoughts, his energy had been completely drained. Between the anguish and the struggle with his brother, his muscles begged only for rest, but he refused. His conscience wouldn't rest, believing that if he closed his eyelids for even three seconds, something might happen, and the mere thought terrified him. It would be a long night, without a doubt. Taking a deep breath, he ran both hands over his face, leaning back against the cushioned seat where at least he could give his being some respite. After a few more minutes, two familiar knocks on the door pulled him from his chaotic thoughts.

“Sherlock” Mycroft called from the doorway of the alcove; the door was open.

Responding to the call, he left the room to find himself in the hallway with a third person he did not know, a woman.

"What's going on?" he asked initially, not wanting to get straight to the point, but of course his brother knew what his real questions were, so skipping over the parts they wanted to ignore, he went straight to what interested him. 

“This is Mrs. Sarah Bailey, my housekeeper's daughter” He introduced her, and the woman greeted him politely “She had a child a couple of months ago.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, containing his patience, knowing what he meant and the reason why he had brought her to the house. He really wanted to reject the idea, not because he was a bad, selfish father (that last point is perhaps debatable), but in his mind, these "matters" should only be between Liam and his baby, with no one else involved. It was only right, after all. Why should a stranger be breastfeeding him? Where did that intimacy between parent and child fit in? Would Liam even agree?

But he couldn't deny his son what was vital either; hours had passed since his birth and he still hadn't eaten anything. How much longer could he endure it? The night had barely begun, and if there was one thing he was sure of, it was that it would be long and tedious.

“Well…” Returning inside the bedroom, he took the child from his crib and left again, closing the door behind him “Please, come with me.”

At least it would give her some privacy. Followed by both of them, they arrived at a room that served as a guest bedroom. Once inside, he offered the brunette woman one of the individual armchairs there to take a seat.

"Do you need anything else?" He asked calmly as he carefully handed him the baby, who had inevitably woken up at the movement.

“No, Mr. Holmes, thank you” Receiving the newborn with clear experience in her arms, she gave the creature a small smile before beginning to maneuver with her free arm to free one of her breasts from between her clothes.

Sherlock and Mycroft averted their gaze when they noticed the mother's intentions. It wasn't that they weren't used to breastfeeding, but they were still gentlemen, and Sarah was a woman, after all. She didn't seem uncomfortable, though, as she was well aware of their preferences; in they eyes, she was simply another person of the opposite sex.

"May I know this little one's name?" she asked when adapting it to her breast and, making sure he was well latched on, the child eagerly began to suckle and feed.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows as he remembered the matter of the name; until that moment he hadn't even mentioned it aloud.

“Brian, his name is Brian” He announced, turning to the brunette and his son, feeling his chest tighten at the sight.

“It's a beautiful name,” Sarah praised, stroking the little boy's cheek with her finger. “You must eat well, Brian, so you can see your dad strong and healthy again” She whispered, giving him a smile.

Despite the whole situation, the younger blue-haired man managed a faint smile and, turning to his brother, thanked him with a look. His brother nodded knowingly. He was truly grateful; he wouldn't have had the willpower to even consider doing it. Not when he was still processing everything else in his head.

“Sarah agreed to come at least four or five times a day to feed him until William wakes up; a private carriage will take her there and back whenever she needs it.”

Both adults attended, one in agreement and the other confirming that this was the arrangement. Five times a day might seem excessive, but knowing what a newborn typically eats, it was necessary. Sarah owed the eldest Holmes a great deal, as her mother had always been able to provide them with every comfort thanks to her generous wages for working on the estate. If she could help him in any way, she would be delighted.

After about half an hour, during which Brian had eaten all he needed, Sarah reminded his father how to burp him after his meal so he would sleep. He would probably wake up during the night, and the only thing she could suggest was giving him his finger so he would at least have the sensation of suckling. She would be there first thing in the morning to breastfeed him properly.

With a resigned heart, Sherlock yielded to one of Liam's exclusive privileges regarding his children. Sarah wasn't a bad person; on the contrary, she was clearly kind and gentle with the children, being a mother after all. But of course, as a father, he would have preferred different circumstances.

Late into the night, with Sarah back home, Louis, along with Bonde, whom he had asked to accompany him from Universal Exports, arrived at the house with the children of the couples already asleep. Sherlock inwardly appreciated this, as it spared him the trouble of giving his children complicated explanations about why they couldn't see their father for the time being. There, the two blond men learned what had happened and William's condition. Louis was clearly the most affected and asked to see him, at least for a moment, a request Sherlock readily granted. The younger Moriarty was genuinely distressed about his older brother, who still wasn't looking his best. Albert had to comfort him and reassure him that he would be alright, that he simply needed rest.

When the bells rang, signaling that it was midnight, there was no other option but to say their goodbyes for the night, everyone offering their help for anything the dark-haired man might need. Albert and Mycroft said they would return the next day for breakfast and to keep him company.

The night passed without incident, with Liam unconscious but stable, and Brian, content, waking only occasionally—something his father was already used to. Thanks to this little boy, bad thoughts couldn't torment him for long during the night. As a new day dawned, a sleepless Sherlock, besides introducing they new baby brother, had to explain to Melody and Matthew that Daddy would be asleep for a few days because the birth had left him exhausted. Of course, the little boy didn't understand much; he was only three years old. And Melody, well, she's Melody, so the questions came pouring in: How long will he sleep? Can we go wake him up? Why is he sleeping now and didn't when Matthew was born? And so on, which he barely answered with three or four words before the little girl became engrossed in something else.  For example, who was the woman who, arriving early at the house with her uncles and cousin, was now breastfeeding her brother? Mycroft explained to the curious girl that Sarah would be feeding the baby for a few days since her father was too exhausted to do it. "And can't he get up to breastfeed and then go to sleep?" Ah, she really is the very image of the nosy and curious Holmeses.

William remained in the same condition, much to the relief of his partner and brother. John had warned them that there was a possibility the bleeding would recur, but luckily it didn't, which was a good sign for his recovery. Even so, he showed no signs of waking up anytime soon.

For the first two days, both children were shy but intrigued by the new female presence in the house. Melody barely approached the room she occupied, and Matthew, being somewhat more curious, would only enter silently to observe them for a moment before running off like a little thief to tell his sister what he had seen. The following days, after seeing her come and go simply to feed their little brother, they became emboldened to speak to her, thanks to Sherlock's encouragement. He noticed their characteristic childlike curiosity. First, they asked her name, and with that information, they moved on to the typical questions, some of which could even be considered awkward. Sherlock apologized as many times as necessary to the young woman, who seemed amused by the nosy personalities of both the older sister and the younger boy, who followed her everywhere.

"Why is your chest bigger than Daddy's? Is it because you have more milk?"

"Melody!" the dark-haired man exclaimed from across the room, putting the toys his children had been playing with into a trunk. "Stop asking such impertinent questions."

"What's impertinent?"

"That they're not polite." Turning back to his daughter, he picked her up and placed her over his shoulder. "Let's leave Mrs. Bailey alone, shall we? Your brother's already asleep. When are you going to sleep too?"

"I don't want to take a nap. I'm not tired," she protested, crossing her arms in boredom and shifting her feet on her father's stomach.

With a sigh, he apologized once more to Sarah before leaving the room, which had now apparently become a playroom, taking with him his gossipy daughter who did nothing but expose the permissive upbringing under his roof.

“Can I take a nap in your room?”

“No, you can't.” Reaching the younger girl's bedroom, he opened the door to enter with her.

"Why not?" she hummed sadly. "Dad, if he'll let me sleep with him."

Carefully placing the little girl on the bed, he knelt in front of her, resting his arms on the mattress. A smile, masking his sadness, formed on his face.

“I know, my darling, but Dad needs to rest well right now, we don't want to bother him” Raising one of her hands, he brought it to his daughter's cheek to caress it gently.

"Why does he sleep so much? Is he very tired?" Closing his eyes, he let himself be enveloped in his father's caress.

“That's right, maybe I need a few more days” Melody pouted and frowned slightly.

“Will Sarah take Brian with her?”

The dark-haired man's lips closed unexpectedly, his face contorting in confusion.

"What? No, of course not. Did she tell you that?" he asked in a conspiratorial whisper, undoubtedly perplexed by the insinuation.

“No, but… why does she always come to breastfeed him then? Dad did it with Matthew” She murmured in a sort of stammering, somewhat doubtful tone.

Sighing with relief, he let his head fall for a moment before looking at her again with a somewhat forced smile.

"Because can't Dad do it right now. Sometimes it's normal for other mothers to breastfeed babies when their other fathers can't," he said simply, without dwelling on the matter too much. Thinking of a more ingenious excuse was pointless when his daughter would surely ask all the necessary questions to discredit it.

“But wouldn't Brian think she's his mother?”

“He's too young to know, he's practically unaware.”

Standing up, he took off the girl's shoes and thus guided her to bed when he lifted the sheets. Resigned, the little blue-haired girl took her place, letting her father tuck her in.

“So she's not going to be our new mom?"

"Do you want a mom?" he retorted quickly.

Melody hesitated for a moment, considering that possibility, before finally making a face and shaking her head.

"No, Charlotte has a mom, and it doesn't seem nice. I don't like her."

"Charlotte's mom? Isn't that girl your friend from the park?" he inquired curiously, remembering that name that occasionally slipped out of his daughter's mouth.

"Yes, she goes to the park with her mom, and sometimes that woman seems mean, always telling Char she can't run, jump, or play on the grass. I don't want that," she concluded calmly.

<<Well, it must be because you always end up getting her dirty,>> Sherlock thought, shaking his head and covering the girl well with the blankets. Watching her for a moment, he decided to take a place beside her, carefully moving her far enough to have room for himself on the bed.

“Are you going to sleep too?”

"I'm only going to stay with you for a moment, until Brian finishes eating," he whispered, hugging her and cuddling her on his chest “Sleep, Mel.”

After playing hard to get for a moment, she finally gave in and buried her face in her father's chest, feeling that familiar scent. She closed her eyes, trying to fall asleep just as he had asked her to.

Although Sarah was in charge of breastfeeding Brian, the reality is that she only did that; Sherlock was the one who took on the rest of the responsibilities such as changing his diapers, dressing him, spending time with him and stimulating him enough according to his age. The woman was respectful in this regard and did not interfere beyond what was requested of her.

As the days passed, Sherlock suggested they move to the living room, where the warm winter sun was more prevalent, so she wouldn't feel overwhelmed by the children running around in such a small space. Keeping the two young Holmeses occupied was a real challenge for their father; he had to keep them as busy and distracted as possible from their dad to prevent them from ending up in the master bedroom. Contrary to what he had expected, Melody seemed to be playing her part of pretending not to notice very well. Matthew, however, had asked to sleep with him a couple of times, as was his custom, which Sherlock somehow managed to avoid by putting him to sleep in his arms and then carrying him to his room.

William remained in the same condition every morning. John always checked on him at the same time to make sure he was at least breathing, which thankfully he still was. Sherlock once again took on the task of looking after him as he had done long ago, checking on him throughout the day at least every two hours; it brought back memories that were perhaps not so pleasant but nostalgic nonetheless.

While he didn't let Melody and Matthew see him for too long to prevent them from innocently trying to wake him, the one person he did want to keep close was Brian, who didn't yet know him properly. Sometimes he let him sleep beside him, allowing him to feel his warmth, his breathing, and even his heartbeat. Part of him wanted to believe that at least in this way they could feel each other, and that Liam would finally have the will to wake up. They were approaching the seventh day, and he was certainly growing anxious because, although he wasn't getting worse, he also wasn't showing any signs of opening his eyes. Watson remained optimistic, however, since his color had returned, and he simply looked like a man resting peacefully.

“So Melody and Matthew aren't here?” Albert asked, taking a sip of the tea he had prepared himself upon arriving with his partner.

“Bond and Louis offered to take them for a walk this afternoon, so hopefully they'll be tired by tonight” The tired father sighed with relief as he massaged his temples; he hadn't had a good night with the child crying. “What about Nyle?” He asked about his nephew who hadn't come with them.

“Same situation, it seems Louis had plans with them.”

“I see, it doesn't surprise me” Leaning back on the sofa, he closed his eyes for a moment.

"A bad night?" Mycroft added.

:Something like that, he's hardly been able to sleep so neither have I.”

“Perhaps it was some colic” Sarah advised calmly from her place in the armchair by the window “And also a bit of hunger, he's eating more than usual.”

Sherlock agreed, acknowledging that it could be true. His first cup of coffee that morning had been practically swallowed, and he was now halfway through his second. Somehow, he had to stay awake for the rest of the day. To avoid drowsiness, he had told them about the first week with Mrs. Bailey and William's general condition. By now, they had settled into the routine, and the children saw the woman as a frequent visitor to whom they were not welcome; they were bothering occasionally with their questions.

The woman always maintained a gentle smile and answered the questions, which were all generally coherent, without any problem. Sherlock I was grateful. The atmosphere, despite its strangeness, was pleasant, even though he himself was still reluctant to accept the whole situation. Having a woman under his roof, coming and going from the privacy of his home, wasn't exactly ideal, but certainly the discomfort wasn't as palpable as it had been in the first few days.

“So what did Dr. Watson tell you?”

“Everything remains the same, but things look good. He could wake up at any moment, or he might not. We just have to wait.”

“I understand, let's hope it's soon.”

"I'm waiting for it too..." he murmured, running his hand over his face.

Upstairs, in the master bedroom that received the daylight the winter weather allowed, the still-burning fire in the fireplace provided the warmth any adult body would need to survive, even with the finest linens. It was clear the room was rarely used, as everything was practically spotless, even the sheets on the left side of the bed where the sleeping beauty lay. He carefully combed hair and clean clothes were evidence of her husband's diligent care. Sherlock made it his business to clean the bedroom from top to bottom every day, and every other day he changed his clothes to prevent them from developing that musty, dusty smell.

For the first time in many days, the light bothered his eyelids, causing him to close them a little tighter to avoid the glare interrupting his rest. Then the discomfort of feeling his body stiff; the blankets that reached his chest felt heavy, even suffocating. Taking a deep breath through his nose, he ended up sighing heavily. The air seemed stagnant, and the aroma of burnt wood flooded his nostrils.

After seven days, his pale eyelashes strained to lift along with his eyelids. That reddish orb, staring into space and growing accustomed to its surroundings, seemed to stand out against the room's austere furnishings. Licking his slightly chapped lips, he tried to moisten his throat with the little saliva he could muster. It felt like having sand on his tongue.

When he realized he still had the ability to move his numb limbs, his hands reached into the air, trying to move his fingers as if he were gracefully playing the piano. It felt good to have that freedom of movement that he had somehow, for some reason, missed. His eyes closed again for a moment to let out a sigh. In the darkness of his vision, a fleeting memory crossed his mind, and the weight of his palms suddenly fell upon his abdomen—flat, it shouldn't be flat, he was, he was…

His heart raced suddenly; this wasn't right. Lifting his head, he felt a sharp pain that he ignored at the time. He felt his abdomen with both hands, searching for any sign of his condition. His shirt was jolted up, and there he found that familiar postpartum bump. A wave of calm washed over him; it meant it wasn't a dream, it had actually happened.

But where was he? Why wasn't he with him?

He wanted to speak, to shout a particular name, but his vocal cords remained numb, and forcing them made his throat burn. Somehow, drawing strength from somewhere deep within, and with the help of his trembling arms, he got out of that bed that felt as if it were suffocating him beneath its blankets. His legs barely supported him, and his arms sought to brace themselves against the nightstand, then the dresser, and finally the wall as his feet were feeling each other out the wood of its floor, advancing in cautious steps.

After a quick glance around, he was surprised by how calm everything seemed and how untouched the atmosphere felt. Beside the fireplace rested the familiar Moses basket they used to lay their babies in, and next to it, the velvet armchair with a blanket and a small cushion on top. It seemed to be someone's makeshift bed, but beyond that, everything else felt as if time had stopped. He would have thought so if it weren't for the dancing, crackling flames. Was he alone? No, it didn't make sense.

The creaking of the hinge echoed in the silent hallway, desolate as he could rarely remember it being since the first child had arrived in their lives. Taking a deep breath, he reached across the wall and let himself fall, feeling his knees ache from the effort. "Damn," he thought. It had been a long time since he'd felt such physical helplessness, and that really bothered him. Not even being able to stand on his own two feet like a complete idiot was driving him crazy. Swallowing hard, he mustered the willpower to continue on his way.

As he stood just steps from the stairs, in the silence of his already ragged breathing, he began to hear the echo of other voices, and among them was the cry of a baby that he knew in his heart was his own. He had to get to it no matter what; his body demanded it. His hands trembled against the wall, and for a moment he had to lean back to rest and catch his breath. The crying, though intense just moments before,silencedIn less than a second, it couldn't be possible that his mind was playing tricks on him, anything but going mad. What he was sure of was that Sherlock's voice could be heard clearly, fading into the walls but still present.

Closing his eyes tightly, he grabbed the railings at the bottom of the stairs for support; his knees buckled and hit the floor with a thud.

And again that crying, only now clearer and even more intense, was desperate, and the fact that he ran out of air in the middle of it caused his anguish that weighed heavily on his chest. What were they doing to his baby? Why was he crying so heartbreakingly? Parting his lips so that the necessary amount of oxygen could enter his lungs, he swallowed again with difficulty.

“Shh, shh. What's wrong, little one?” Whispered the woman cradling the child in her arms, breastfeeding him again to calm him down, which seemed to work intermittently.

"Could it be his diaper?" Sarah shook her head after a quick check. It was clear the little boy was hungry, but for some reason he only drank intermittently, interrupting himself to continue his persistent crying.

Sherlock stood to one side with a face that showed more concern than anything else, pacing back and forth, unable to take his eyes off his son who now at least could be seen filling his cheeks with his little eyes flooded with tears.

Sarah smiled as she noticed him now calmer, gently caressing his cheek with two fingers. When she looked up to meet the gaze of those present, unexpectedly, the gaze of a fourth man who seemed dejected in the doorway of the room filled her field of vision. A gasp of surprise escaped her lips, and Sherlock, perplexed, turned to see what had caused such an impression, ending up forming the same expression as the brunette.

—¿Liam…?

Upon hearing the name, Albert and Mycroft both turned around; the sight of Liam left them speechless. They didn't even hear his footsteps because they were so focused on the child who was uncomfortably squirming in his nurse's arms.

William, however, could barely hold on to the wooden pillar that scraped his hands; his ragged breathing was evidence of the effort it took to reach them. His condition was simply deplorable, but his eyes, that eye that still retained its color and vibrancy, were at that moment the most vivid red that could ever be seen, and he did not take his eyes off the one who was his baby in someone else's arms.

“Will…” Albert whispered, wanting to approach him, but stopping before he could even try when he noticed his brother's gaze.

“Let it go…”

“Liam, good heavens.” Sherlock felt that for the first time in days his soul returned to his body and his legs quickly carried him to meet his partner.

But his attempt to take him in his arms was thwarted by a swipe of the blond man's hand, weaker than strong, but the intent was what truly mattered to Sherlock, who at that moment didn't understand his beloved's actions. William's lips trembled with growing anger, and with a heavy heart, he tried to pull away from his support and extend his arm.

"Why...?" he gasped. "Why her...?"

Before he could even finish speaking, his legs gave way again, and the floor once more bore witness to the scrapes on his knees, which began to burn beneath his clothes. Sherlock called his name and soon found himself helping him to his feet again, but he cared little for his attention at that moment. It felt completely absorbed in the scene before him, why was that woman holding his baby? Why was she caressing its cheek so tenderly? Why…? Why was she…breastfeeding him?

"Let it go... It's not—it's not yours." He forced his throat with dryness to utter those words again, the order that heannoyedthat it is not being carried out.

She stared at him, dumbfounded, as if she were seeing a ghost. "Damn indecent woman," he thought, beside himself. How could he look at her like that? When she was the one holding in her arms and at her breast a newborn that wasn't hers. Anger coursed through his veins, and clenching his hands into fists, he tried to roughly wriggle free from Sherlock's grip.

"Let him go! I told you to let him go!" His voice broke as a last resort in his demand.

Why was no one doing anything? Why were they acting as if it were normal? Why wasn't Sherlock doing anything? Why was Sherlock allowing this? Searching with his eyes for the support he thought he deserved, he could only find expressions contorted with concern.

"Liam..." Sherlock tried again, this time to calm him down. This wasn't right, this reaction wasn't right, this situation wasn't right. But he had to stay calm, not let the situation get out of hand.

Taking him gently by the shoulder, his arms carefully lifted him to hold him between them and carry him; his lightness was palpable, as easy to carry as if he were a pillow.

"No, no, no!" He quickly denied it when he noticed Sherlock trying to drag him out of the room, grabbing his shoulders to push him with what little strength he could muster from his dormant muscles and bones. "Let me go, Sherlock! What is this? What did you do? Tell me! Sherlock, tell me!"

Despite his feeble attempts to push him away and his broken demands, the dark-haired man's grip tightened around his legs and back, pulling him back into the room. He had to explain everything and avoid prying eyes.

"Why won't you tell me? Who is she? What is she doing with our baby, Sherlock? Answer me!" he demanded again, anguish rising in his chest to his throat.

Sherlock understood his distress, of course he did, and he knew that this was one of the consequences of having agreed to something that a part of his reason told him not to do, but it wasn't about him and it wasn't just about Liam either.

Back in the room, which had lost some of its warmth through the open door, he finished sitting him down. He carefully lowered him to the bed, gently holding his shoulders, mindful of his weakness, and his eyes sought to anchor themselves firmly to him.

“I'm sorry, we had to do it.”

"What are you talking about? Having Sherlock? Having a stranger breastfeed our baby? Why?" he asked alternately holding his shoulders equally to look at him sadly.

“Liam, do you know how long you've been unconscious?”

"It doesn't matter, you could have, you could have put him on my breast, I could have breastfed him, Sherlock, I must do i-”

"You almost died, Liam," he interrupted harshly, tightening his grip in terror.

The blond man's eyes widened, giving way to a feeling of fear. Die? How? When? Remaining in disbelief, he observed his partner, who maintained his expression of pain.

"No... It's not true..." Biting his lower lip, Sherlock rested his forehead against his chest, letting out a gasp of sadness. "It's not true..."

“I was scared, Liam, I was scared you wouldn't wake up” He murmured, hurt.

The silence settled heavier in that room, her pale hands loosened their grip and fell onto his thighs, his gaze was lost somewhere in space and in the endless thoughts that crossed his mind, the first tear fell down his cheek when those terrible possibilities took hold, and then another and another until his face was wet with fearful and confused feelings.

“I didn't want to, I really didn't want to… But I needed it, our little one needed it” His tone of voice was more of an apology than an explanation, he was the one who felt most guilty after all “If something were to happen to him because of my selfishness, I… I'm sorry, forgive me, Liam.”

A jumble of sensations accumulated in his head, in his chest, in his stomach; he knew that Sherlock couldn't do anything to hurt him, of course he knew that more than well, but even so, it hurt; the horrifying sensation of pain and betrayal that occupied his senses left him stunned.

Betrayal.

That was the right word, the one that best captured his outrage. Betrayal on the part of Sherlock, his brother, his brother-in-law, his baby…

No. 

How could a creature not even aware of its own existence have the capacity to betray him?

Get a grip, William Holmes, you can't even think about that. Are you crazy?

His fingers gripped the fabric of his trousers, and hunching against his trembling shoulders, a groan of anguish gave way to more tears, tears he hadn't been able to hold since giving birth they released now he was in a mix of emotions. He should be happy; his baby seemed healthy, and that cry he had heard meant it was full of life. Yet a bitter feeling of annoyance and discomfort weighed heavily on his heart.

Sherlock clung to him and hiding it in his chest cradled his head gently beneath his palm, letting him unburden himself of all that troubled him; he would bear it and share the burden with him.

The minutes passed and little by little that stifled cry turned into simple sobs and gasps; he still felt the heaviness of his body and now the pain caused by his sudden movements when he was barely recovering from who knows how many days unconscious.

"It's a boy," Sherlock whispered above his head, "Brian Holmes, just as we discussed."

“Brian” he murmured in his mind, a faint smile forming on his lips. It seemed that Melody would still be the princess of the house.

"And Mel and Matthew?" he asked, raising his head to meet his partner's blue gaze.

With a slight smile, the dark-haired man took his cheeks in his hands and dried his eyes with both thumbs.

“They're fine, a little anxious to see you awake” The blond pressed his lips together in concern, and Sherlock kissed his forehead to offer him some reassurance “They'll be back later, Louis took them for a walk.”

He simply nodded, understanding that it was likely more than just a day or two had passed. What exactly had happened? Now that he was certainly calmer, the aches and discomforts began to resurface, especially in his lower back, although it was a familiar discomfort that usually lasted a few weeks and worsened slightly when he sat down. His legs also felt numb and heavy, not to mention his knees, which burned under the friction of the fabric.

But it was okay; feeling pain and discomfort was a good sign. It meant his body was "awake.”

“Please… I want to carry it” He asked quietly when he thought he was more mentally grounded, although still with a feeling of discomfort in his body.

Sherlock nodded quickly and, carefully separating from his partner, got out of bed to leave the room.

In the room, the three present, who had been dismayed by what had happened a while ago, automatically stood up when they saw Sherlock enter again alone. "He wants to hold Brian," he announced, and Sarah, without delaying for a second, approached the father to carefully hand over his certainly asleep son. After murmuring "I'm sorry" to the young woman, with the permission of her brother and brother-in-law, he left again at a moderate speed, considering who he had in his arms.

The three of them could only look at each other and sigh deeply; they would remain waiting a while longer in case they needed anything.

Back in the bedroom, Sherlock watched Liam, who was clearly anxious, raising his head to get a good look at the creature he held in his arms, his fists recharging the pressure on her thighs loosened as the blue-haired man approached and sat beside her. His single eye, still able to see, meticulously scrutinized every detail of his little one: rosy cheeks, dark hair, a small nose he had already been fortunate enough to see on his other two children, and the peaceful expression of someone content and sound asleep. Swallowing hard, his hands slowly rose to receive him, and soon...cuddle him up, his chest fluttering anxiously.

The soft warmth filled his arms, and lifting him slightly closer to bring his face near hers, he let the familiar baby scent, tinged with Sherlock's cologne, reach his nostrils, sending a tingling sensation through his belly. His nose and lips pressed against his forehead, closing his eyes to savor the still-untainted fragrance of external scents for a moment longer. A gentle kiss was placed on his delicate skin, and the soft whimpering sound that escaped his nose made him smile sweetly.

“Hello my little one… I'm Daddy.”

He whispered so gently that it touched Sherlock's heart at the tender sight, giving them the necessary space and then standing up to go back to the door. "I'll go and say goodbye to Mycroft and your brother," he said, avoiding mentioning Sarah.

Once they were alone together, he took the time to caress his face, his hair, and his little hands, which closed tightly around his finger, generating a feeling of complete relief and dispelling the bad thoughts he had had a moment before they invaded his being. Leaning back against the headboard in the silence of the intimate bed of father and son, he hugged him somewhat tightly against him; his warmth and touch certainly felt familiar, he was sure he had felt it at some point perhaps in distant dreams or in his memories of the birth of Melody or Matthew. I was grateful that at least that wouldn't have been lost, otherwise his heart would be broken.

"He's calmer now, but he still needs to recover," he informed the couple, especially Albert, who seemed more concerned about obvious issues.

"Keep a close eye on him, Sherly. That fall he had wasn't pretty." Sherlock nodded in agreement.

“And Mrs. Bailey, I apologize again, we didn't expect this.”

Sarah gave a gentle smile and shook her head, absolving them of the blame.

“I understand, Call him Maternal instinct, if you prefer, but I don't blame you at all; I know it can't be a pleasant feeling. I'm available if you need anything else in the future.”

Sherlock nodded, relieved that the woman hadn't been offended. After bidding them farewell, he accompanied them to the exit, but not before reminding them that they should let him know without delay if they needed anything.

Left alone in him home, now finally with his husband fully conscious, he tidied everything downstairs before returning to his bedroom. Liam, having settled into bed with some difficulty, had Brian lying awake on his chest, his still-gray eyes wide open, observing his father with what seemed to be curiosity. The blond man spoke to him softly about various nonsensical things; the traces of weariness on his face, now calmer, were even more pronounced. Sherlock's worry hadn't entirely dissipated; the postpartum period wasn't over, and adding to that the recovery from nearly a week of unconsciousness could leave Liam in a complicated emotional state.

“You should rest for a while longer.”

“A little longer? How long was I lying here, Sherly?”

“A whole week” Liam whispered a genuinely surprised “wow.”

"I'm sorry for worrying you," the dark-haired man frowned and, turning back to the bed, sat down beside him.

"It's not your fault, no one could have foreseen it, unfortunately it just happened..." Bringing the back of his hand to his cheek, he gently caressed it. "I want you to rest a little longer so you can regain your energy, you can barely carry him." He observed, noticing the slight trembling of her arms when he carried Brian.

“You don't need to point it out to me, I already know…” He muttered, annoyed, looking at him out of the corner of his eye. Sherlock stammered an "I'm sorry" as he realized he had touched a nerve.

Taking a deep breath, he glanced at his free hand for a moment before placing it back on Brian's back, which was beginning to stir uncomfortably. He couldn't deny that Sherlock was right about that; it was taking some effort to hold him in his arms, which was why he'd opted to lay him on his chest. But acknowledging and accepting it was another matter entirely; it was impossible not to feel a certain annoyance.

“Could you bring me some water? My throat still feels dry.” He asked calmly after a moment of silence.

Without a word, Sherlock stood up and in three strides was already on his way to the kitchen to fetch what he'd asked for. William couldn't help but let out a small laugh before the whimper of a possible cry brought the little boy back to his chest.

"What's wrong, sweetheart?" he whispered, softening his voice as he gently patted his bottom, trying to soothe him. But far from calming down, the child began to sob, his cries turning into something similar to what he'd heard a little while ago. It could be a few things: his diaper, sleepiness, or hunger. But he doubted it was the latter, since the woman had him clinging to her breast.

His lips pressed together as he remembered the scene once more.

Wasn't it enough? Well, the truth is that he didn't really know if he had fed enough or not since he didn't know the timing. Given that his diaper was still clean and sleep could be achieved by breastfeeding, his solution to the increasing crying was clearly to breastfeed him.

Using his right hand to unbutton his shirt with all the patience in the world, once his chest was free he positioned it on one of them to bring it closer with remarkable practice to his right nipple; it was simple once you got the hang of it and clearly this little one no longer needed the guidance of touch to be able to latch on, as for his lips they grazed him he took it with remarkable appetite and soon began to suckle.

And although everything seemed fine on that side, a strange sensation ran through his body, something he should be feeling but wasn't at that moment, and that unease was confirmed when, after a short while, Brian pulled away to continue crying. Unwilling to accept it, he switched the baby to his other breast, but the result was the same. His face contorted with confusion, he examined himself closely for a moment. No, he couldn't be without milk; on the contrary, after a week, they should be overflowing and even sore. Using his free hand to feel himself, he applied pressure with his fingers, hoping something would come out, but nothing, not a single drop.

It was dry.

His brow furrowed, and sitting up in bed, he reached under his baby to his other breast to do the same, but there was nothing there either. “But why…?” was his closest thought before the newborn burst into another shrill cry that made him squint, arranging it on his shoulder began to cradle him and pat his back, trying to calm him that way. Could it be because of the lack of food and water?

Could it be because he didn't have it with him when he was born?

Remaining in a deep silence of heavy breathing, his eyes fell on the sheets that didn't really have anything interesting about them but were smooth enough to let his mind go blank wandered swallowing some saliva, his body trembled as he felt the dizzying sensation of crying on his left side. It's annoying. 

“Shh, shh, there, little one…” He pleaded, carefully standing up torocking it as he walked at a leisurely pace.

But it was no use, the crying wouldn't stop and even seemed to intensify with each passing second. What would he do? If he couldn't breastfeed him, what could he do? He was clearly hungry, and for some damned reason, he couldn't satiate it pressing his lips together, he continued pacing the room, retracing his steps.

“Brian, please, sweetheart…” He whispered, bringing his hand to his little head to cuddle him in his shoulder and with his free arm hold his lower part.

“¿Liam?” 

The unexpected mention behind him and the sound of the glass on the nightstand made him jump, inevitably loosening his grip for a tiny instant, just enough for him to feign a movement as if he were about to release the baby from his hands. "Liam!" Sherlock exclaimed, rushing towards them both, using one hand to support his hold on the little one and his other arm to keep the blond man from falling and loosening his grip. It all happened in practically a second, causing both parents' hearts to race desperately and Brian to burst into tears again.

“Sherly… I…” He stammered, his voice breaking with fear.

"Are you okay? Is he okay?" He interrupted, quickly checking on both of them. Seeing that they were fine and that Liam had started trembling, he gently took the baby from his arms. "Go to bed, Liam, you need to rest."

Hurt at being separated from his son like that, lamenting the emptiness in his arms, he stared at him with disbelief and sorrow before slowly walking back to the bed, where he climbed in with a look of utter defeat. His hands were still trembling from the shock and fright that had left a bad taste in his mouth. What if Sherlock hadn't managed to catch him? Would he have loosened his grip completely?

What if it had fallen?

Breathing deeply through trembling, his hands gripped the sheets with a firmness that sought to keep him calm, shaking his head to get rid of those thoughts and he sighed, closing his eyes. "Nothing happened, calm down," he told himself.

And before he could finish settling in, silence reigned in the room. The blond man turned in surprise towards his partner, who, with the child in his arms, had offered him his finger so that he could experience the sensation of breastfeeding, which worked with remarkable success.

“He must still be a little hungry” Turning to William, he noticed his open shirt, a sign that he had already tried to breastfeed him “Couldn't he latch on?” He asked calmly.

“Ah…” Coming to his senses, he also saw his exposed chest. Pressing his lips together, he took both sides of his shirt to close it “No, it's just… I don't have any milk.”

Sherlock frowned in doubt, then looked at his son for a moment before turning back to him.

“Are you sure? Maybe it didn't light properly—”

“I have no milk, Sherlock. I’m pretty sure my breasts are dry,” he interrupted irritably, raising his voice indignantly as he realized there was a hint of doubt in the dark-haired man’s words.

Clutching the sheets tightly, he lay back on the bed, his dignity wounded. Sherlock decided not to say anything more, given the blond man's sensitive mood. He didn't blame him; he was probably a bundle of emotions at that very moment, and the fact that he couldn't calm the little boy down only added to his burden.

After several minutes of rocking him and pacing the room, Sherlock managed to get the little one to fall asleep. A sigh of relief escaped his lips, and returning to the double bed, he took the other free side to sit and watch his partner, who kept his face hidden.

“Don't worry, honey, you don't have to push yourself, you just woke up” He whispered to Liam reassuringly, noticing the silent tears that moisten the pillow.

Bringing the baby closer to the center of the bed, as he sometimes did, he carefully placed him beside him.

"Every day I left him sleeping next to you, he's used to feeling you," he warned him, encouraging him tonarrow, taking his place on the other side “Come here Liam.”

The blond man raised his sorrowful gaze, looking at his partner with a trace of uncertainty. This didn't stop Sherlock from offering him a gentle smile and another nod. He hesitated for a moment before shifting just slightly to close the distance between them. Seeing him sleep so peacefully felt like a thorn in his side, for it wasn't he who had managed to calm him. One of his hands ended up on his chest, gripping his shirt firmly, and he let his emotions overwhelm him once more.

"I don't have any milk, Sherly... I-I can't breastfeed him," he complained, his voice breaking, silent tears escaping once more. "What am I going to do? I couldn't even... calm him down..."

Sherlock frowned in concern, bringing one of his hands to his face, brushing aside a lock of his golden hair so he could see his face flushed from crying.

“Give him time Liam, you're still recovering, there's no need to push yourself” Caressing his cheek with his thumb, he carefully dried his tears.

“And what if it doesn't happen? What if my breasts remain dry? What if he… What if he doesn't see me as his father?”

"How could he not feel like you're his father, Liam?" Moving closer to him, bringing the little one closer between them without exceeding his comfort zone, he took his partner's face in his hand to lift his gaze and look him in the eyes. "You carried him in your womb, you spoke to him, you sang to him, he responded to your every touch. How could he not recognize you? He must still be confused because he hasn't heard from you since he was born."

It certainly made some sense; it had happened with the other two little ones. He remembered how just talking to them could calm them down even in their most desperate crying. But this creature here hadn't heard from him since he came into this world. Maybe what Sherlock said wasn't so trite after all.

It wasn't as if they really knew how the mind of a newborn child worked; all that was left was to trust and heed past experiences.

Pressing his lips together, he loosened his shirt and looked at the little boy asleep beside him, so angelic and calm, it truly filled his chest with tenderness.

“He calmed down so quickly with you…”

“Well, he's only been here a few days and the poor guy has had to put up with me day and night, I think he had no choice but to surrender to my presence.”

William chuckled softly and, stretching out his arm, carefully wrapped it around Brian, pulling him just a little closer to his chest. In the dim light of the room, he observed Brian's small lips and barely perceptible eyelashes, the shallow breathing in his deep sleep, and how silky his fine hair seemed. He truly was perfect in every way.

"He looks a lot like you," he whispered in conclusion after a long silence of observation.

Sherlock couldn't help but let out a slight laugh at the unexpected nature of the statement.

"Do you believe it?" William nodded, convinced.

“Definitely.”

“Mycroft said the same thing, that it was like seeing me as a baby. A true Holmes or something.”

“Another little one with your personality then” He scoffed under his breath, then smiled, eliciting another genuine laugh from his partner.

“I hope it brings out your personality; I couldn't deal with another mini-me at this age.”

Finally moving a little closer to his partner and son, Sherlock put his free arm around them both and settled himself on the bed. He encouraged the blond man to sleep a little longer until his children arrived, who he was sure would be happy to see their father up and about.

And despite the anxiety that ran through his chest due to the multiple sensations that invaded him in less than a few hours, heeded his husband's request and, holding the little one in his arms, snuggled his forehead against his head so he could sleep.