The Art Of Corruption ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book III}

Chapter 68- Empty Spaces, New Faces

Millie's POV

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"John," hisses Mary, her jaw clenched and teeth gritted. "John, hand. Now."

John leans over the hospital bed, fingers outstretched and expression concerned - only to have his palm seized and crushed by Mary, who, at this point, is struggling as if against invisible restraints, the sheets knotted beneath her and oxygen mask pressed to her mouth.

"Don't look at me like that," she snaps, when John's eyes widen in unprecedented pain. "You did this to me."

"No, the baby was conceived as a result of the mutual decision to engage in amorous, unprotected activities," says Sherlock, seriously. "Approximately fourteen days prior to the wedding. That would make the date of fertilisation-"

I elbow Sherlock's side, and gesture harshly for silence. He frowns in agitated confusion, but has the sagacity to close his mouth and say no more on the topic.

The ward has been decorated in an appropriately festive manner; tinsel has been pinned to the walls in metallic clusters, baubles line drip stands and door frames, and there is a small, sedentary Christmas tree in the corner of the room, decked in drooping lights and mismatching decorations. Countless cups of abandoned coffee cover every available surface, and Mary's clothes and bag lie discarded in the alcove beneath the window, the contents - consisting namely of miniature, pastel jumpers and overalls - scattered across the floor.

We were sat in the Baker Street living room, engaged in a heated discussion concerning the importance of Christmas, with Sherlock highlighting the trivialities of tradition and John cursing quietly in the background, when the contractions began. Initially, Mary remained subdued, taking hourly pain medication and sipping her tea through strained lips. However it soon became clear that the sharp abdominal cramps were no pre-birth pains, and, after Mary realised that she could no longer move freely for the discomfort, she conceded to John's demands, and we left for the Accident and Emergency department.

Once at the hospital, her situation went from bad to worse, and from worse to full-blown labour. With her waters broken, Mary's internal system commenced its intrinsic annihilation of all things comfortable; breathing regulation techniques, meditative thoughts, alleviating movement - it all became irrelevant, as the nightmarish tales of the birthing affair developed into Mary's new reality.

"Your pulse has dropped," says Sherlock. "I suggest we call a doctor."

Sherlock is being absolutely insufferable. He interrupts sentences with medical knowledge that does nothing to relieve the stress of the current circumstances, drops grim maternal survival statistics into conversation, and, at one point, stopped the midwife in her physical examination of Mary and told her precisely what she was doing incorrectly, much to John's horror and the midwife's indignant irritation. I try to stay uninvolved, and let him go through his compulsive, infuriating motions. John, however, is starting to lose his temper, which serves only to provoke further bouts of interjectory intelligence.

Mary's breathing becomes suddenly rapid, and I look down at the bed, watching in panicked consternation as she removes her oxygen mask to groan; a deep, guttural noise that is pulled from the very pit of her chest. She arches her back, eyes closed and muscles tense, and John cries out in pain as the fingers around his hand constrict to the brink of bruising.

Sherlock turns around in a full circle, scanning the room, evidently discomfited. "Where is she? The midwife? The child could be suffocating-"

"Sherlock," I warn, as Mary's inhalations become shallower in alarm. "Not now."