Molly went into labour very early. Two weeks early, to be precise. So...unexpected. Some people say they can remember the most infinitesimal, yet imperative things about days like this, like what cereal they were eating or what thought was spinning through their head at the precise moment in time. Sherlock remembers the red numbers distinctly blinking ten o' nine on his alarm clock when Molly woke up next to Sherlock sobbing and cringing in bed, wetness soaking through their sheets. Sherlock, no doubt surprised, automatically realized she was having contractions. He immediately hired a cab to St. Bart's Hispital, however Sherlock could tell from the look on her mousy face, the short, shallow gasps she was inhaling, she was trying to suppress groans of pain. For his sake, he guessed. Sherlock knew she disliked the fact of him being afraid or anxious. She was fighting the pain for him. Sherlock knew little John was on his way quicker then they both had expected. He called the hospital as the cab sped along the cluttered roads of London, forewarning them about their arrival, demanding a stretcher be positioned outside the front door for Molly would be to weak to walk. As soon as he ended the call, Molly whipped her head to the side, gasping his name.
"Sherlock..."
Her voice airy, light. Her eyebrows knitted together in concern. She was anxious, her act of courage clearly not holding through. He clicks off his seat belt and slides over to his wife, hesitantly reaching an arm over her slumped back shoulders and, with his opposite arm, grips her hand reassuringly. She returned the grasp with a tight squeeze which she refused to loosen. The grasp sent a flood of emotion trough Sherlocks insides, anxiousness, longing, and just a hint of fear.
The world seemed to move in slow motion, time ticking away to the rhythm of a lethargic lullaby and he desperately wished for the cab to speed up. By the time they had reached the hospital Molly was hysterical. The gasps she had tried to conceal were all but quiet, she was nearly shrieking. Sherlock had never seen her so succumbed to pain. It frightened him to watch the woman he unconditionally love be tormented by the thing inside her stomach. Sherlock took a quick glance out the window and spotted the stretcher rolling its way over to the cab. He helped Molly sit up, which was painstakingly difficult for the both of them, and he opened up the cab door. Medics came to her aid, gently hauling her up and out, laying her back down on the stretcher and wheeling her away just as quickly. Sherlock jumped out of the cab and followed quickly beside them not daring to leave Molly's side.
They sped down the long stretching corridor past the bright white walls, the smell of something sharp and sterile lingering in the air, threatening to spill Molly's stomach onto the floor. By this time words and shouts and even her own groans of pain had merged into one giant blob of sound. The pain had blinded and numbed her senses, her eyes dressed in tears smeared the objects around her like a swirl of paint on a canvas board. A hand squeezes hers reassuringly and a familiar deep voice whispers unidentifiable words in her ear. Even though she cannot understand what he is saying, even though his long gentle fingers disconnect from hers and suddenly the moving has stopped and people are ordering her to push, despite the pain, Molly Holmes is overwhelmed with exuberance. Even the pain that leaves her screaming and weeping and contorting her muscles in every which way cannot suppress the excitement that boils in her stomach. She searches for Sherlock, her eyes darting across the small room until they finally land on his tall lean figure stooping beside her. It's as if his eyes can speak, telling her to calm down, focus on him. She grips the fabric if his coat sleeve while the doctors command her to push.
"That's it, Molly,"
Sherlock doesn't break eye contact.
"Just look at me. You are doing fine. You are doing great. You are perfect, Molly, you are so clever and perfect and beautiful."
She squeezes her eyes shut, screaming and crying while her muscles flex tightly. Sherlock hides his true emotion, anxiousness, behind his usual veil of an emotive-less stare.
"Her cervix is only dilated three centimeters,"
A nurse tells Sherlock. He remains intently staring at Molly while she howls in pain.
"Then why is she having contractions?"
"Some woman can undergo early stages of labor before the process grinds to a halt. It hasn't been very long but if she gets too exhausted we may have to give her a caesarean delivery."
Sherlock's eyes flicker from Molly, to the nurse in a split second. He swallows, trying his best to not display any sign of hesitance, nor fear. He doesn't say anything. Instead he keeps a stone cold expression fixed on his face and squeezes Molly's hand tightly.
The hours move along slowly, each one agonizingly painful for the both of them. When Molly's cry's of affliction become a conventional occurrence, when it seems like she's been laboring for days, when the blood soaks everything, the sheets, her clothes, bare hands, and still no sign if their child, that's when one of her nurses immediately steps back, turning to face Sherlock with a discouraged look on her face.
"Her conditions worsening. She needs to be taken into Intensive Care,"
She says hurrying briskly away past Sherlock. He gazes at her, concerned, a thousand questions resting on his lips.
"What..."
His wife's stretcher is being wheeled away. His last glimpse at her and he can barely tell if she's still conscious. Her complexion pale and hollow, eyes fluttering shut. He begins to start after her when a nurse, a nurse he hadn't noticed before, steps in front of him, purposely obscuring his view and blocking his way. Sherlock looks down at the man.
"Let me through,"
He growls. And the nurse he...he smirks, at Sherlock. Lifting an eyebrow as if to tisk at him. Sherlock furrows his eyebrows, he could've sworn he'd seen those eyes, that sly smile before. And just before he can question him he whispers,
"Oh your not aloud in their Sherlock dear. Staff only,"
And Moriarty darts down the hall towards the exit, the opposite direction of where Molly was taken, to quick for Sherlock to even probe the encounter
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Hehe I'm evil...jk...well, hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! Feedback is greatly appreciated! Thanks for putting in the time to read and review this, your comments are so wonderful and leave me positively giddy.
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Broken Child
Fanfiction(AU) With Sherlock Holmes's attentive and meticulous demeanor, one might think nothing passes by him unnoticed or disregarded. But when his wife, Molly, staggers him with unprecedented news that changes his life, and very being, Sherlock's often sec...
