His to Hold chapter 4
Joan had hoped, prayed even, that maybe Gigi wouldn’t realise where they were.
That maybe, if she stayed in her sling against Sherlock’s chest, drowsy and warm, she’d get through the handoff with less panic. Maybe she’d let herself be passed off with only mild confusion, not heartbreak.
But Gigi knew.
The second they stepped into the precinct, her tiny body stiffened. Her eyes scanned the room, then widened. The familiarity struck like a blow. She remembered this place. She remembered the cold air. The bright lights. The echo of strangers’ voices.
And then she started to cry.
It wasn’t fussing. It wasn’t tired or hungry or overstimulated.
It was panic.
Grief.
Terror.
“No, no, shhh,” Sherlock whispered, adjusting his hold. “I’ve got you. You’re all right, Gigi. You’re all right.”
But as Sherlock was taking her off the sling, she was already reaching, clutching the front of his shirt with tiny fists, curling into him as if she could disappear into his chest. The wails got louder. Desperate.
The child services worker approached, blazer pressed, hair pulled tight, tablet in one hand. Her expression was neutral. Professional.
Joan tried to intercept her. “She’s scared,” she said. “Please, give them a second.”
The woman barely blinked. “We have another pickup in twenty minutes. This won’t take long.”
Sherlock tried to soothe Gigi, murmuring soft, familiar promises in her ear. But the worker reached forward and touched the baby’s back.
Gigi screamed louder, her whole face red and twisted with fear, her voice hoarse now. She clung harder, fingers gripping with the last of her strength.
“I’m sorry,” the worker said, and without hesitation, she reached for the baby and began to pull her away.
“No! Wait—” Sherlock’s voice cracked.
But it was happening too fast. She pried Gigi’s fingers from his shirt, one by one. Efficient. Practised.
Gigi screamed — high and hoarse — thrashing in her arms. Her face red. Her body arched. Her arms stretched desperately for Sherlock.
Sherlock reached instinctively—but froze, caught between his heart and the reality of what he was legally allowed to do.
The elevator doors opened.
The woman stepped in.
Gigi shrieked again, reaching toward him one last time.
The doors closed.
And then the silence came.
It hit like a wall. Cruel, sudden, absolute.
His knees buckled. Just slightly.
Enough that Joan stepped forward, then stopped.
He didn’t fall. He didn’t move.
Just stood, arms still half-outstretched, breathing like he’d taken a blow to the chest.
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