The Roar of Silence

Summary: To some, silence is comforting. To Mary Watson, it's deafening.

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock

Warning: Mentions of possible miscarriage (but it does not happen!)

HUGE SHOUT OUT TO: previouslyonfanwars on Tumblr for sending me this magnificent prompt and breathing new life onto a Warstan story I had given up on.

Mary Watson was tired of silence. It was deafening and the lack of sound followed her around wherever she went. She spent most of her days sitting alone in her home, contemplating the choices she's made and the one's ahead of her. She quit her job, unable to go to work every day and see her husband—ex-husband?—and not be able to talk to him, touch him, hold him. She couldn't go there day in and day out, and see the pure rage, disappointment, and hurt shining in his eyes, all of it directed at her.

And now she was trapped in a waiting room, alone, and the only sound was her breathing and turning the pages of the parenting magazine a little roughly.

She couldn't escape the silence.

"Mary Watson?"

The sound of her name being called pulled Mary from her thoughts. She looked up to see a nurse standing in the doorway, her medical chart in her hands. "We're ready for you!"

Mary smiled and put the magazine down on the small table beside her before struggling to her feet. She paused just a moment to regain her balance and will the room to stop spinning, and then she crossed the room, following the nurse to the private rooms.

"First we're going to weigh you, and you know the drill! I'll be waiting for you by the scale!"

Mary nodded her head once, and stepped into the small examination room. A paper gown was already out and on the bed. Mary dropped her coat and purse on the bed and immediately began to strip.

Once she was in the paper gown and her socks, she opened the door and smiled at the nurse before stepping onto the scale that was kept in the hallway. She squeezed her eyes shut, not watching as the nurse adjusted the weight and wrote down her observations. "Hmm…You've lost a bit of weight since your last visit."

"I've been ill and just now recovering. My GP has been keeping an eye on me," Mary lied smoothly, as if she had been practicing this speech for days.

"Well, I'm glad you're feeling better!" the nurse said brightly, before helping Mary step off the scale. "Doctor Humphrey will be with you shortly."

"Alright. Thank you."

When she was alone again, Mary spent the few minutes she had breathing deeply and trying to stop the lump forming in her throat. John had been a very enthusiastic participant in her appointments before this whole situation started and it was difficult to wait in silence.

She managed to pull herself together when Doctor Humphrey knocked on her door. "Come in," she said, hastily wiping at her eyes.

The door opened, and a kind older gentleman stepped into the room. "Good morning Mrs. Watson. No Doctor Watson today?"

Mary wondered if they marked it in her medical chart that John had missed her last two appointments as well. "Umm…not today. He's working again." Her smile wavered and she cleared her throat. "He should be here next time."

"Shame," he said, sitting down in a rolling chair and opening her chart. "Michelle mentioned that you've lost some weight..." He paused for a moment, flipping through the papers. "Nine pounds?" He looked at Mary, his brow furrowed in concern. "Is everything okay at home, Mrs. Watson?"

She forced a smile even as she felt faint. Things were so far from fine at home, she wouldn't even know how to begin to explain it. "Everything is fine. I've been a bit sick."

"Did you visit your GP?"

"Yeah, and I'm starting to feel better."

"Great! That's wonderful. Well, we'll get the easy part of the appointment out of the way, and then we'll move you next door. Michelle is setting up the room as we speak."

"Would you like to know the sex of your baby?"

For the duration of the scan, Mary managed to tune out what was happening, hoping she was responding enthusiastically when it was required of her. But when the ultrasound technician asked her if she wanted to know the sex of the baby, she felt as if her feet were knocked out from beneath her. She gasped for breath and Michelle, the nurse who had been assisting her that morning, put a soothing hand on Mary's shoulder.

"Umm…no, no. I don't. Can you print the scan out? My husband is a doctor and—and he would like to—we would like to learn the sex together. He couldn't make it today." And he won't make it to the next appointment and I'm certain he'll be absent from the birth too. She stared straight up at the ceiling, refusing to look at the ultrasound machine.

"That's fine, Mrs. Watson. We were already planning on printing the scans out for you, so I'll just make sure that you can definitely tell the sex without too much trouble!" the technician said brightly.

Mary's hands were trembling and she could feel the blood rushing through her head. She kept telling herself that everything was fine and she needed to pull herself together and breathe.

The rest of her appointment went by in a blur, and before Mary knew it, she was walking out with an envelope of pictures and pamphlets on how to increase her caloric intake during pregnancy. She managed to smile at the secretary while she was making her next appointment, but as she was walking out the door, her shoulders drooped and her gait slowed.

She wasn't she how she managed to drive home or get out of the car without assistance, but she did so without a problem. She shuffled up the pavement, unlocked the front door, and stepped inside. She closed and locked the door behind her and stood in the darkness of her home.

The roar of silence was deafening, and Mary's legs went out and she was on the floor, her papers from the appointment scattered around her. She caught herself before she collapsed on her belly and rolled to her side. The crippling feeling of loneliness swept through her and she began sobbing, a hand clasped against her mouth to muffle the noise.

John wasn't home. It had been that way for almost three months.

She was alone.

All alone.

Mary clasped both hands against her mouth as she sobbed uncontrollably. She thought her life as Mary Watson née Morstan meant that being alone was no longer an option; she had been alone most of her adult life and was content with that until she got a taste of what it was like to have friends and people who loved her. She hated living without it, the love and companionship, but after shooting Sherlock, she lost everything, and she was all alone again. This time, the solitude was more terrifying than any secret mission she had ever been on as an assassin.

She was expecting a baby in just a few months, and she was worried that by being alone; she would fail and fall apart spectacularly. She desperately wanted, no, needed John; he was her world and she loved him dearly, but she damaged their relationship by nearly killing his best friend (even though it wasn't her intention—not at all) and lying, lying so much to him.

She didn't have very many friends she could lean on for support once the baby arrived, if she and John haven't reconciled. Janine bought a cottage in Sussex and was busy remodeling. Sherlock had all but murdered David right before the wedding, and Mary knew the poor man was too scared to come into contact with her. And John or Sherlock must have told Lestrade and Molly because they hadn't tried to talk to her since John left, and she was just beginning to form a closer friendship with Molly!

The sound of a car door slamming stirred Mary from her stupor. She wasn't sure how long she had been on the floor, but eventually she maneuvered around until she was sitting up with her back against the door. She unzipped her bright orange coat and traced her swollen belly; the last time John had seen her, her stomach was nearly flat, only a slight hardness present.

"Maybe I should just go," she whispered out loud, blinking away the tears. "John doesn't want me anymore anyway. And I don't want any of this. I can just leave. Move to Canada and he can have the house. I have money." She bit her bottom lip as her vision blurred with more and more tears. "We can be on our own, baby," she choked. "I've been alone before. Nothing n-new."

She stayed on the floor, weeping until she had no energy left and her eyes were sore. She struggled back to her feet and stumbled towards the kitchen, rummaging in her nearly barren cupboards until she found bread. Putting a bit of butter and honey on her snack, she ate quickly and then downed a glass of water. That was enough to hold her over until she ordered takeaway.

Weeks later, Mary found herself with her largest suitcase open on her bed. In it, she tossed her pants and bras. A lot of her clothes were becoming ill fitting, so she made the decision to donate them; she could buy new clothes when she made it to Canada.

Five months along in her pregnancy, Mary was getting quite round around the middle. She rubbed her stomach soothingly as she turned to her bathroom and grabbed her necessary toiletries and returned to her bedroom. She dropped them into her bag, and stared at the meagre contents. With a sigh, she turned slowly and left the room.

She went to her kitchen, where she had photographs of all her scans except the first one. She assumed she left it at her former job, remembering that she had displayed it proudly at her work station. She opened the envelope of her scan from last month that had the sex of the baby. She still didn't know what it was, but she wanted John to know first.

She scooped the scans from September, October, and November, wrote the dates on the back and how far along she was in each scan, slipped them into a new envelope, and sealed it.

Her hands were shaking as she carried the envelope to the front door and slipped on her bright orange coat. It was cold outside, much colder than any December she could remember in London. With her car keys in hand, she stepped out of her home and locked the door behind her.

She was nearly packed and ready for the next new adventure. The thought of leaving London, for good, filled her with anxiety, but she needed to get out of the country before she broke down. Her next appointment with her OBGYN was in the following week, and she knew that she had lost even more weight since her last visit; she was certain she was down nearly fifteen pounds. She looked terribly ill, but over the past week or so, she had been trying her best to eat six meals a day. She noticed that her face was filling out a bit more, but she still looked terrible.

She was going to leave London before her appointment. One of the first things on her list was find a new doctor in Canada, along with a home and new clothes.

But first, she had to deliver the scans to John. He deserved to at least know how his child was developing. And if he contacted her, wanting more photographs, she would send them to him.

The drive to Baker Street was uneventful, and Mary parked her car in front of 221B. She stared at the upstairs flat for a long time. The lights were on, but she couldn't see much movement from the windows. After sitting outside the flat for several minutes, she took a heaving breath and stepped out of the car. Once again, her hands were shaking as she stepped up to the door and rang the bell.

Mary was quickly regretting her decision to go to Baker Street. She was staring at the bell that she had just wrung in horror. Who was going to answer the door? She knew most of the time John did, and since it was late, Mrs. Hudson had already started her herbal soothers. What was she supposed to do if John answered the door? Why didn't I just put them in the post?

She took one step backwards, and then another, and another, until she turned and nearly ran back to her car. "Stupid idea," she whispered to herself.

"Mary?"

She froze, not having heard the sound of the door opening. The deep baritone that called for her made her shiver; the last time she had heard his voice, he was dying in his living room of internal bleeding. She felt a hand tug on her sleeve and she turned around slowly. She dared not look at Sherlock, instead staring down at her belly. They were silent for a few moments, and then he took two fingers and lifted her chin.

"C-can you give these to John? I imagine he'll want to see them."

Sherlock took the envelope from her, peeking inside. "You had a scan today?" Mary didn't answer, just stared at him. "I thought it was next week. I must've read your appointment card wrong…" His brow furrowed in confusion as he saw multiple scans covering several months.

"W-what?"

Sherlock placed a very gentle hand on her shoulder. "Mary, I've been breaking into your home on an almost nightly basis since John moved out. If you're sleeping, you sleep quite heavily and you've never woken up. At first I thought you were taking sleep aids, but after observing your weight loss and measurements, I deduced that you don't sleep because of stress, so when you do sleep, you really sleep."

"My weight loss and measurements…?" She felt incredibly slow for not picking up on what he was talking about.

"Someone has to make sure you're taking care of yourself." Mary stared at him wide eyed for a moment, and Sherlock leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. "I've tried talking him around. I am certain that—"

"It doesn't matter," Mary interrupted, wishing she could step away from Sherlock's comforting hand, but she had been without caring human contact for so long… "I'm leaving. It's what's best for me and the baby. You can tell him that he can have the house. He doesn't need to pay child maintenance and I won't be contacting the Child Support Agency. I'll send pictures of the baby if he wants them, but I think it would be best if things went back to what they were before…be-before—"

She refused to cry in front of Sherlock; she was stronger than this; she used to kill people for a living! She sniffled looked away from him. She could feel his steely gaze on her, and she wished he would just go back inside. "Come to my parent's house for Christmas," Sherlock demanded softly, wiping away her tears.

"N-no." She hadn't purchased her plane ticket yet, but she was determined to leave by the next afternoon.

"It's next week. They want to see you. Then you can go. I'll even arrange for a private jet to take you wherever you want to go, at no cost. That way you won't leave a paper trail. That's what assassins do, right?" he asked, a hint of a smile quirking his lips.

Mary snorted even as tears still fell from her eyes. "I'll think about it."

"You'll come. Please. So I can properly say goodbye."

It was odd to think that he would want to say goodbye to her after she nearly killed him. She opened her mouth to say so, but Sherlock silenced her with another kiss to the forehead. "I'll see you on Christmas."

With that, he turned around and went back into 221B Baker Street, leaving Mary to stare after him, tears still sliding down her cheeks. After nearly a minute, she turned around and went back inside her car.

"Who was that?" John asked, lifting his mug to his lips to take a sip of tea.

"Mary."

The liquid scalded his throat and spluttered, choking on his drink. After gasping for breath for a few moments, he wiped the tears from his eyes and glared at Sherlock, who plopped down into his seat across from him. "What did she want?"

"She wanted to give you this."

He tossed the envelope at him, and he caught it deftly. For a moment, he froze, staring at the envelope. "They're not divorce papers," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "They're her most recent scans."

"Her wh-what?" he asked, ripping the top of the envelope and digging his hands inside, pulling out the glossy black and white photographs he was quite familiar with. When he moved out of their home, he had taken her first scans and he often looked at them before he fell asleep.

His eyes roved over the pictures; starting with the September scan and moving forward. He felt joy well up inside of him at the sight of the outline of the baby. He could see its head, body, arms and legs, and it was developing just as he hoped it would. The baby resembled a miniature human being instead of the little bean of the scan that he had tucked away in his bedroom.

In just a few months it would be in the world, a little baby that he could hold and cherish in his hands. It would without a doubt have blonde hair, probably blue eyes, and it would be the epitome of perfection.

He finally reached the most recent scan from November, and his jaw dropped at the picture of the baby's legs with a white arrow pointing between them. Without reading the tiny font, he knew that Mary was pregnant with a girl.

He gasped for breath and hastily wiped at his eyes. A girl! He was having a baby girl!

"She's leaving, just to let you know."

The joy of finding out that he was having a beautiful, healthy, absolutely magnificent little girl was dashed away as soon as Sherlock spoke. He dropped the scans into his lap and stared at Sherlock. "What?" he whispered.

"She's leaving, next week. I deduced she'll be going to America, probably Canada. They have better healthcare."

John suddenly jumped to his feet. "She can't leave! She can't leave without talking to me! I'm the baby's father!" he roared in outrage. He ignored the scans that scattered to the floor.

"Oh yes, you're perfect father of the year material, John Watson!" Sherlock was on his feet too, glaring at his best friend and newly reinstated flatmate. "When was the last time you've spoke to Mary? Hmm? Attended an appointment? Checked to make sure she was eating and taking care of herself? John, do you know? Let me inform you, because I do. The last time you spoke to Mary was the day she quit her job, in September. The last time you went to an appointment with her was also in September. It's nearly Christmas, John. Do you think your defense will hold up in court? Who in their right mind would give you rights to a child you hardly care about?"

John pounced on Sherlock before he could stop himself, roughly shoving him up against the bookshelves that lined the wall. He was breathing heavily from his nose, his fists tight around the collar of Sherlock's crisp white shirt. "Don't you dare talk about the baby like you understand how I feel!" he growled.

"I understand perfectly, John," Sherlock said, his eyes narrowing, "Which is why I offered Mary a free jet to take her wherever she wants to go."

"What?" John spluttered in alarm. His hands loosened but didn't let go of his shirt.

"You haven't seen her, John! Why does it matter?"

"And you have?" he shoved him harder into the shelves.

"Almost every night since you moved out, as a matter of fact," he retorted, shoving John away from him. He stumbled backwards, but made no attempts to close the distance between them again. "I take her measurements, keep track of her weight, and look through the materials she brings home after appointments. She doesn't sleep most nights, and she's lost fifteen pounds. As a doctor, you know how detrimental unhealthy weight loss is during pregnancy."

"What am I supposed to do?"

"Set aside your pride!" John flinched at Sherlock's shout. "I know you haven't looked at that flash drive she gave you because you want to believe that Mary is still your Mary—which she is! She hasn't been the assassin in five years! Every moment you've spent with Mary was genuine. She was only lying to protect you. Can't you see that, John? Can't you see that she was doing everything in her power to keep you safe? Shooting me may have been a rash decision, but she did it because at the moment, she thought it was her only option!" Sherlock was yelling now, pacing the floor, his eyes narrowed on John. "What you know about Mary Watson is all you need to know."

John gaped at Sherlock for several long seconds before he dropped down to his seat. Sherlock stopped his pacing and glared at him. "I invited her to Christmas. You have about a week to decide what you're going to say to her, and you better hope it's enough to keep her here."

Christmas with the Holmes family was supposed to be a homey affair, but John Watson hardly cared about all that.

He just held Mary tightly, smiling softly and eternally grateful that she was willing to keep the name of Mary Watson, that they could fix this and move on. He murmured in her ear about Sherlock's obvious plan about bringing them back together at his parent's home, that he had probably been planning it for weeks, the manipulating bastard.

Then Mary collapsed in his arms.

And John was flooded with panic.

For two, maybe three seconds, he was terrified that something was wrong with Mary. It was the longest three seconds of his life, as he dragged her to the chair and helped her sit down. He tried to rouse her, calling her name, tilting her head, checking her breathing. His eyes darted to her stomach and he felt ill.

What if she was miscarrying right at that moment? He had wasted all of that time being angry from September to Christmas, stressing his pregnant wife and their unborn child, and now he was losing her? Possibly both of them? How could he have been so selfish? Stupid, even?

But then Sherlock burst into the room, warned him not to drink Mary's tea, and then suddenly they were rushing off to Appledore with Mycroft's computer and then Sherlock killed Magnussen.

It had all happened so quickly.

By the time John left the authorities, he had been gone for over 24 hours. He wanted to worry about Sherlock; he wanted to know what they were going to do to him for murdering "in cold blood", because he wouldn't last in prison, that's for sure, but really, his mind was on Mary. Mycroft informed him that she had a reaction to whatever Billy had given her, and she was in the hospital.

He arrived at the hospital, and after running to her room, he saw his wife sleeping. Her skin was covered in horrendous splotches, hives nearly covering every inch of her skin. But she looked peaceful, her face relaxed.

He stepped further into the room and dropped into the empty seat beside her bed. He didn't dare pick up her hand, knowing the hives were probably painful and itchy, and he didn't want to disturb her. He looked at the machines that she was hooked up to, pleased with the results from her heart monitor. He checked her IV and then moved around to the chart attached to the end of her bed.

He was alarmed at her weight, and he stared at her for a long moment, guilt filling his gut. She was underweight, and he could imagine that if he would have just dealt with his anger sooner, she wouldn't be in this situation. Then he flipped through the papers until he was satisfied that he learned as much as he could.

The baby was fine.

Mary was fine, other than the obvious underweight issue.

And she should be released from the hospital by the end of the day.

"John?"

John hastily put her chart back and returned to his seat. His hands hovered over hers for a moment before he dropped them uselessly in his lap. "Hi, Mary."

"Sherlock?" she asked, turning her head to look around the room.

"He's still detained. I'm not sure what's going to happen to him."

He watched as her face crumpled and turned redder. Tears soon followed suit and she turned her head away from him. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Shh, shh," John soothed, carefully cupping her cheek. "It's alright. Better that he's dead instead of doing whatever God awful things he does, weeing in fireplaces and whatnot. Everything will be fine. Sherlock can handle himself."

She sniffled and blinked her eyes tiredly. "I'm so tired. And hormonal."

John cracked a small smile, his thumb tenderly stroking her cheek. "I know. They've given you a lot of antihistamines and steroids to counteract the allergic reaction from whatever Billy drugged you with." He continued to stroke her cheek soothingly, and he couldn't help but chuckle at her grimace at the mention of his name. "Go back to sleep. I'm going to go home and get things ready for your return."

"Our home?"

"Our home." He pressed a gentle kiss to her lips and didn't leave her side again until she was fast asleep.

John was torn to see the home that he and Mary lived in to be mostly packed away. The cupboards and refrigerator were bare, some of their wedding photographs were taken down, and every room was clean and tidy. He spent the majority of the morning unpacking what Mary had packed away, returning everything to its rightful place.

Then he ran out to the shops, purchasing enough food to last several weeks. Once he returned and began putting away his purchases, Mary called him. Their conversation was brief, she still sounded exhausted over the phone, but she informed John that she was ready for release, and that one of Mycroft's men would escort her home.

John was expecting her in an hour and a half, which was enough time to prepare a simple and light dinner of roast chicken breasts and salad.

Their home was filled with the aroma of roasting chicken, and John threw open a window to help freshen up.

He was antsy by the time a black car pulled up in front of their house. John, who had been waiting at the door, wrenched it open and jogged down the steps, meeting Mary before she could step away from the car. "I've made dinner," he said, taking the bags that she was carrying and leading the way back inside.

"I'm not very hungry…"

"Oh." John paused in the kitchen, bags still in his hands. "Well, I can put it in the fridge. We can eat it tomorrow for lunch. Or breakfast. Or dinner. Whatever. It'll keep, which is all that matters!" He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, unsure of what he was supposed to do. He hadn't spoken to Mary in months because he was so angry, and now he wasn't sure if everything was back to normal, or what their idea of normal was.

"I just want to rest for a bit."

Mary made a move towards the stairs which led to their bedroom.

"I can draw you a bath?" John said, and Mary paused, turning around. "I'll add oatmeal to the water. It'll help with the hives."

Mary nodded her head, and John rummaged through the kitchen for oatmeal and a cup. Then he scurried past Mary, giving her shoulder a brief squeeze before going to their ensuite.

Mary hesitated downstairs for a few moments, and then she removed her coat and hung it up before following slowly after her husband.

She stepped into their bedroom and realized that the suitcase that had been packed and waiting at the door had been put away. The idea that John really wanted her to stay and that he was beginning to forgive her caused her breathing to hitch. Tears burned at her eyes again and she took several deep breaths before carefully toeing off her boots and socks. Then she carefully took off her red and green dress and long sleeved dress from Christmas, relieved to be out of those clothes. After a moment of hesitation, she removed her pants and bra before shielding herself in a dressing gown.

She groaned softly when she leaned over to pick up her clothes and deposited them in their proper hamper, and then she moved to the closed bathroom door. She knocked on it, and John called, "Come in!"

She opened the door to a darkened bathroom, candlelight flickering about the room. John stood off to the side, near the sink, in just his vest and pants. "Candles?" she asked, her voice coming out a bit scratchy.

John shrugged his shoulders and crossed the room in a few short strides. He stood in front of Mary and very gently unknotted the belt for her dressing gown. He didn't bother to withhold his gasp as he pushed the fabric apart and allowed the silk to pool at her feet as he got his first real look at his wife in months. Ignoring the slowly fading hives that blemished her skin, his eyes were riveted on her swollen abdomen; she had hardly been showing the last time he looked at her, and now…

"Can I…?" he asked, his hands hovering over her belly.

"Of course! Yes!"

And Mary found herself crying harder than she did on Christmas. John wrapped his arms around her and pulled her closer. She tucked her head into the crook of his neck, gasping apologies as she clutched him tightly. John murmured softly in her ear, telling her it was all right, they were fine, he would get over this.

And then he was apologizing over and over, sorry for leaving her alone, sorry for missing the appointments, sorry for missing the scan and finding out it was a girl.

Mary pulled away abruptly, wiping at her eyes. "It's a girl?"

"You didn't know?"

She shook her head and he pressed his forehead against hers, wiping away her tears. "It's a girl, Mary; a healthy baby girl."

Eventually, John stepped away from Mary and blew out the numerous candles scattered around the bathroom. He waved his hand dismissively at the tub full of cool water and oatmeal. "I'll clean it up in the morning." He grabbed her hand and led her to their bed. He watched as Mary crawled beneath the blankets, adjusting pillows until she was comfortable. Then he stripped out of his pants and vest, leaving them on the floor. He flicked on the small lamp on the bedside table and then tugged the blankets off of Mary.

"I just want to look," he whispered, dropping a kiss to her shoulder. She adjusted accordingly, sitting up a bit in bed. John carefully cradled her hands in his. "Do they itch?" he asked, indicating the hives that still adorned her skin.

"Burn and sting more than itch."

He frowned and kissed the worst of the hives on her hands. Then he moved to her abdomen, pressing kisses carefully across her stretched skin. He caressed her belly lovingly. "Does she kick a lot?"

"Sometimes. The medicine has made both of us drowsy, though." Mary reached over and ran her fingers through John's hair, scratching his scalp. She smiled when he arched beneath her touch. "She's pretty active when I'm sleeping most nights, though."

"Hmm…" John hummed, turning away from Mary and switching off the light. He tugged the duvet up and the two snuggled together, John carefully avoiding the worst of her hives. When they were settled in bed, the both of them laying on their sides, looking at each other, John peppered her face with kisses. "When your hives are gone…" he began, cradling her face gently in his hands.

"I can't wait," Mary whispered.

John's grin grew and he kissed her soundly. When he pulled away, he whispered, "I love you."

Mary smiled in return. "I love you too." She closed her eyes and sighed softly as John gently began caressing her body, stroking her pregnant belly, tracing her collarbones, breasts, whatever he could reach, as if he was memorizing her body all over again. Then he once again began leaving butterfly kisses on her skin, ducking beneath the duvet. He shimmied down the bed until he was even with her belly. She felt his lips brushing against her stomach as he whispered to their daughter. Mary slid her fingers into his hair, anchoring him there, relishing in the feeling of his soft words ghosting over her skin.

Her eyes drifted shut. For the first time in months, she fell asleep easily, the roar of silence quelled as John spoke to the baby.

Fin.

A/N: Thank you for reading! :)