BBC Sherlock Imagines

Sherlock: All I Want For Christmas Is Labor

You people seem to like the fatherly Sherlock ones... Merry Christmas Eve

~

Can I get you anything?"

"You can get this baby out of me."

"I meant anything I could actually do."

"I just want her out of me Sherlock," you said for the hundredth time. Sherlock came to sit by you on the couch. He pulled your legs onto his lap, and made slow circles with his fingertips. You flipped aimlessly through the channels, trying to find something to take your mind off of how uncomfortable you felt. You had passed your due date by a couple days now, and you were becoming impatient. Only a couple contractions had come, but they were too far apart to mean anything. As much as you wanted to meet your new baby girl, and you promised yourself that was the main reason you wanted to give birth, you missed not being pregnant. Strangely, you longed to be able to see your toes when standing, you wanted to fit into your old clothes again, and you wanted nothing more than to drink some coffee, and hell, even nurse some whiskey. You groaned in frustration as you realized you couldn't have either of those for another couple months, as you had to breastfeed your baby.

"What's wrong?" asked Sherlock, responding to your audible frustration.

"I can't have whiskey," you cried, tears suddenly coming to the surface of your eyes. Sherlock looked at you obviously confused, then suddenly was set into daddy mode as he recalled the book he read months ago on the effects of pregnancy. He immediately came and sat next to you, and moved robotically as he put an arm around you and forcefully placed your head on his shoulder (this was about the 50th time he'd done it, but he never got any smoother).

"(Y/n)," he said slowly, "I think here lies a deeper problem than just the whiskey."

"Oh really? Do you think it could possibly be this basketball sized stomach I have underneath my shirt? Or do you think it's the fact that I have been craving coffee grounds drowned in syrup and hot sauce with a shot of whiskey on the side for the past 4 days? Or maybe it's that my feet are swollen, or that my back has had the same pain for 4 months, or that-"

"I can make you whiskey flavored water that won't harm the baby," offered Sherlock, now methodically rubbing your head in a soothing motion.

"I feel like that might be worse for her," you joked. Sherlock chuckled deeply, and you couldn't help but grin at his sincere smile.

"I know you want to meet her already, and that's what's bothering you the most."

"Yeah," you agreed glumly. Waiting 9 months was difficult. You just wanted to hold her, wanted to bring her home to 221B and show her around, wanted to see her already.

"Maybe she'll surprise us for Christmas tomorrow," he offered.

"Strangely, I hope I wake up on Christmas mornings with contractions."

"It would truly be a Christmas miracle," he mocked in a snide voice. "Okay off to the bed, the book says you should get at least 7 hours of sleep each night, and by the time you get ready for bed, that'll only give you 30 minutes to complain to me about whatever is wrong, then get comfortable, and actually fall asleep."

"Sherlock how many times did you read that book?" you asked, slightly impressed, also slightly annoyed by his methodical ways.

"Just once. Skimmed really. Took me about 20 minutes total." You shook your head in disbelief as you attempted to get up from the couch, but failed.

"We're behind schedule now, I forgot to count the minutes to get you to the bedroom," panicked Sherlock, coming to help you out of the couch. As soon as you were up and walking he checked his watch. "28 minutes!" he announced, hurrying you along to the bedroom.

~

Red hot pain shot through you, like somebody was twisting your insides with an ax. You were sure you felt blood pouring out of you, but you were still half unconscious from sleep and couldn't form a thought. The pain stopped, and you finally sucked in air.

"(Y/n), (y/n)! Wake up! My water broke - no I water broke - SOMEBODY'S WATER BROKE!"

"I hope it wasn't yours, or you have some explaining to do," you joked. You were finally doing it - going into labor. You could not have been happier, despite having liquid all over you and a weird feeling down south. Your husband on the other hand, well he was a mess.

"We need to go to the hospital NOW. I have an emergency labor backpack underneath the bed with everything we need, and the car seat is already installed. And, oh great," he moaned, running his fingers through his curls, "there's going to be so much traffic because of Christmas."

"Well you know how many people travel at 2am on Christmas," you joked sarcastically. You gasped as another shot of pain hit you, and you clenched your eyes, squeezing your pillow with all your might. This one was shorter though, and you were back to reality within a couple seconds. You opened your eyes, realizing it wasn't a pillow you were squeezing, but a foam hand. You yelped and tossed it across the room.

"Why did you throw the hand?" asked Sherlock. He was frantically checking he had everything whilst you were attempting to sit up and get dressed.

"It gave me a fright," you argued.

"Well take it. It's in place of my hand. The book says-"

"Sherlock," you sighed, "did the book not tell you that when I go into labor we are supposed to hurry and go to the hospital, not take our sweet time. There is a baby that's going to come out of me whether we are there or not." He nodded and snapped back into father mode, grabbing everything you needed, then led you through the flat.

~

The hospital was decorated for the holidays, but you took no notice as you were wheeled and another contraction shot through you. You clenched onto the foam hand and prayed for the pain to stop. You were quickly checked into your room. A doctor and nurse came in, doing the general tests, and told you it wouldn't be long. Well in fact, it wasn't long at all. About 20 minutes actually and you were huffing and pushing and screaming.

"Just two more pushes and you're there," coaxed the doctor. Tears streamed down your face, or was it sweat? Sherlock sat beside you, giving you encouragements and rubbing your head calmly. The pain was unbearable, like someone had split you open and were taking out your organs one by one with a pliers.

"One more," said the doctor. You pushed with all your might, and yelled all your pain out. A crying broke your yell and you broke into tears because she was here. She was finally here.

"Father, would you like to do the honors?" asked the doctor, holding out a pair of scissors to Sherlock. Sherlock took them eagerly, going over to his newborn baby.

"You cut he-"

"I know, I read the book," interrupted Sherlock, glancing up at you swiftly and giving you a wink. He cut the umbilical cord, then let the doctor wrap your daughter up. Sherlock came and sat by you. The nurse had been cleaning you up during this bit, and now she came and handed you your beautiful baby girl. She was fussing slightly, so you rocked her slightly. She was so innocent, and pure, and beautiful. Your heart felt fulfilled, like it had finally filled it's craving. You looked up at Sherlock, and he was smiling down at her. He noticed your eyes on him.

"Happy Christmas (y/n)," he said, kissing you lightly on your temple.

A/N

Merry Christmas Eve!
Have fun today. Be happy. Eat a lot. Enjoy yourselves!

(This is only part of your guys' present)

(7 days till the special)