An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Hi friends! I’m back! I took a looong time away from tumblr and writing, but I’m back and publishing my new fic again. It’s a post-HLV establishing Johnlock. Full of angst, healing, and eventually romance.
I'm really rather proud of this fic. It's been in the works for six months and I think it's a big improvement in my writing from the Never Once Failed series. I wanted John and Sherlock to have to deal with normal, human problems - for too long they've been dealing with nothing but psychopaths and murderers. Real life has to catch up with them at some point, and it's time they dealt with it.
Three million thanks to the amazing Shirley Carlton @prettyrealisticjohnlockfanart for betaing this work and all your wonderful advice. You're a star-and-a-half.
Please check it out! Hope you’re all really well!
Chapter One: Tobacco and Melancholia
"The birth clinic have said they want to induce labour, as she's a week over. Going in to hospital now. I'll let you know when you can come visit. Mary said her mother took sixteen hours with her - don't worry if you don't hear from me for a while. J"
Sherlock, for once, didn't know how to reply. He lowered the phone from in front of his face and frowned at John's armchair opposite him, as though a suitable response might reveal itself if he stared at the plaid pattern for long enough. However, the armchair remained silent and offered no ideas.
Ought he wish them luck? Ugh. Feeble. Predictable. He scorned himself for even considering it. So, what ought he say? 'Have fun'? Well, that seemed unlikely, if the numerous birth documentaries he had been watching recently were anything to go by. 'Call if you need me'? Offering support was infinitely preferable to a generic 'Good luck'. He typed that one out, but deleted it almost immediately.
That thought stung, as always. He cursed himself. Mycroft had been right. Don't get involved.
He was far, far too involved. Christmas had been a disaster, and one that had nearly cost him everything. You always were so stupid. That's your weakness, you always want things to be clever. He had gone after a dragon far larger than he could tackle, to protect Mary. To protect John. He had almost been glad to get on that plane, and almost resentful of the hacker that had caused it to be turned around. Almost glad. Almost resentful. Because he couldn't bear to say goodbye.
Once they had tracked the hacker down (and it had turned out not only not to be Moriarty (somewhat disappointing), but not a criminal of any great threat (very disappointing)), Mycroft had convinced the powers-on-high that had originally sentenced him for Magnussen's murder to revoke his punishment. 'Service to Queen and country at great personal risk' and 'honourable character in a national time of need' and all that drivel.
So now, here he was. Alone in the flat with too many armchairs.
Thirty-two hours and two packs of cigarettes later, Sherlock was jolted back to reality by the realisation that he really ought to have received a text from John by now. Thirty-two hours was a very long time to be giving birth. Had John forgotten to text him? Had he been offended at Sherlock's lack of well-wishes? Unlikely; it took more than a lack of a reply to offend John Watson. He checked John's blog. No announcement. He sent John a text asking if all was well, but after twenty minutes he had received no reply. Eventually deciding to summon Mrs Hudson, he yelled her name in the direction of 221A. Eight seconds passed before he heard the click-clack of kitten heels on the staircase.
"Sherlock, dear, you could just-" When she was hit by the thin haze permeating the room, she coughed and tried to fan it out with her hands. "Sherlock Holmes, what have I said about smoking in this flat? Have you even moved from that chair since I came to see you yesterday?" Her glare was uncharacteristically stern.
"Have you heard from John in the last day?"
The stern expression slipped from her face in an instant, replaced by one of excitement.
"Oh, no I haven't, have they had the baby?"
Something turned in Sherlock's stomach. A small inkling of concern. John surely wouldn't neglect to text Mrs Hudson if the child had been born by now.
Ignoring Mrs Hudson's questions, he stood, scattering the babywear catalogues he had been perusing for Mary, and made for his bedroom to find a set of clothes untainted by the smell of burning tobacco and melancholia.
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