Molly keened, chin bowed against her chest. The contractions were slow in coming, and for two days she labored. Watson remained, as ever, calm and collected, but she knew he must have been fretting. Molly couldn't blame him; she was worried as well. Labors weren't meant to last this long, were they? She worried something was wrong, though Watson promised her the baby was in the correct position.

"Some babies take longer," he reassured her. "I once had a mother labor for nearly a week."

"Oh no please," Molly sobbed, the idea of being in such a predicament for three more days made her feel faint with exhaustion. "Please…"

"You're doing marvelously well," he soothed, and he pressed a kiss to her fevered brow. "Will you have any of the lunch that cook sent up? You need to keep up your strength."

"Just the broth, I can't fathom chewing, I'll bite my tongue," she breathed, contractions ebbing for a moment. He hastened the mug to her lips, helping her steady the cup in her trembling hand.

"I wish you'd have a sandwich," he fretted. "Beef broth is hardly enough."

"Bread and butter will suit," she admitted. "And any ice that can be spared, I am overheated."

"The room must be warm," he answered, and looked in the water glass to see if any ice chips remained. "And I'd rather you have cheese."

"Oh then cheese for heaven's sake!" she snapped. "And for heaven's sake I'm giving birth, not a hen being roasted for Sunday!"

He couldn't fault her annoyance. Mothers in her condition were generally overheated, and he was quite warm as well, but the room must be warm for baby, so the fire would have to be kept going.

"Warm is best," he reassured her. "I'll send for more ice-chips though."

"Don't let Rosie in, she'll be frightened!" Molly implored.

"I won't let anyone in you don't want to," Watson promised.

In a little while a tray was sent up with bread and cheese and a note promising more ice chips as soon as more could be procured.

"Here," Watson took the knife and cut her a little. "Looks like cook made a good sourdough for you. Something hearty,"

"Humph," she took it, ripping it in half to take a bite. She managed to finish two slices and a few bites of cheese before a fierce contraction took hold of her, and Watson dropped his sandwich, rushing to her side. Feeling along her belly and having a look below was all the answer he needed.

"You're nearly there!" he crowed.

"You've been saying that for two days!" she cried.

"I meant it then too, only this time I mean that baby is beginning to crown,"

"Is that what that is?" she growled out, positively monstrous as she dug her heels into the mattress.

"Nice steady breaths, push with the next contraction," Watson said. "Baby will be born in the next few minutes."

"Thank heaven," she breathed, bearing down.

~O~

Downstairs, servants milled about, trying to keep busy with their usual tasks. The cries from upstairs kept everyone running back to the foyer, to see if there was anyone at the railing calling for something. There had been such an awful wail from upstairs that they had all scurried in, expecting Doctor Watson to be holding a baby. They stood there, staring up at the stairway, waiting. They did not hear the door open, nor the suitcase being set down.

"Is there a meeting I was not aware of?"

The group turned with a start, surprised to see their master, then suddenly all looked fearfully at each other. It was the butler who stepped forward, taking Mycroft's coat, gesturing for the other two footmen to help the younger Holmes and Miss Morstan with their things.

"Welcome home, Sir, we were not aware you would be coming home so soon."

"I did say several weeks," Mycroft acquiesced. "But that does not explain why nearly all but the cook are upstairs."

"Mrs. Holmes has gone into labor, sir," Wiggins stepped forward now, Rosie hanging onto his hand, both glancing between the elder and younger Holmes. "Two days ago, as it were. We were wondering if the baby had come yet."

"You did not tell me Anthea was expecting," Sherlock said, somewhat accusatory to his brother. He felt rather insulted that Mycroft did not convey such happy tidings to him.

Mycroft looked at Sherlock quite steadily. "She's not."

It took him only a moment to understand what his brother meant. It took him another moment to take the stairs three at a time, nearly knocking down the poor maid who was stationed at the top of the stairs to relay messages.

Mind racing, Sherlock slid to a stop outside of what had to have been Molly's room. Of course it was, it was the only door that was shut, and, too, he could hear her crying. A different sort of cry than he had previous heard from her. Molly's tears were shed softly, though when she was genuinely upset, her quiet sobs could be heard. Her anguish made his chest hurt, usually because he felt as if he were somehow to blame. Now though, the awful screams that were ripped from her, (he undoubtedly was the cause, in this case) put such a fear in him that he stood, unmoving outside of the door, staring at the wood paneling.

He jumped when Mary squeezed his arm. He had not realized she'd followed him up. "She needs you, Sherlock, more than ever,"

"I...am…I am afraid," he murmured softly.

"Of what?"

Another wail broke through the silence, and he shut his eyes, pained. "What if-"

"Don't worry about any of that right now. Go see her, she needs you, no matter what doctors say about husbands in the birthing room." With that she opened the door and bustled him in, following close behind. She rolled up her sleeves. "Is this water clean for hands?" she asked.

"Yes," Watson answered over his shoulder. "Soap cake in the saucer by the- Mary!" he started, then beamed at her. "You're a sight for sore eyes,"

"I thought you'd need a nurse," she smiled brightly, quickly washing up.

Molly only had eyes for the man whom Mary had pushed in. She had expected Mycroft. "Sherlock!" Molly gasped, strained, disbelieving and relieved all at once.

It was then John Watson realized that someone else had come in with Mary, that they lingered in the doorway. He stared, unable to form a coherent thought, much less speak at the man who had supposedly been dead. For a the barest of seconds, no one spoke, no one could move.

"I ought to thrash you," Watson ground out. "You-"

Another wail from Molly and he turned immediately back to her.

"Molly no you oughtn't-" he began, but lost his words, quite overcome at the sight of Molly catching her own baby, the child slipping out of her and into the world, her mother having a firm grasp on her. The child let out a cry, fists curled over.

She was laughing and crying, sheer joy shining on her face as she gazed at the child in her hands, then to Sherlock who was still standing at the end of the bed, just as awe-struck.

Only Mary seemed capable of movement at this point, true enough, she'd seen women catch their own babies plenty of times. While it was almost the norm for her by now, it was no less marvelous as when she'd first seen it done.

"I'm sure he'll let you hit him when this is all sorted," Mary promised. "But for now, let's focus on what's important."

Sherlock divested himself of his jacket, rolling up his sleeves, he took the cake of soap from Mary's outstretched hand. "Where can I be of use?"

"Outside!" John barked.

"No!" Molly cried, cradling the baby. "No please, I almost lost him once." There was truth in that, indeed, over the past nine months, she had nearly lost him many times, but Sherlock would not say. In that moment too, he decided it was best not to let Watson know of Molly's involvement.

"Lean back, Molly, rest for now, there's still the afterbirth, Sherlock get a blanket," Mary instructed, and he went about finding something suitable in the room. She took a clean linen, gently wiping down the child as Molly wept over it. She soothed her friend, smiling at the baby in her arms, murmuring words of encouragement and praise.

Having found a soft blanket, Sherlock approached the bed, handing it to Mary, now stopped to fully take in the sight of Molly. "Is there another basin of clean water?" Sherlock asked softly, quite enraptured by his wife.

His wife. Firstly, that she was still such, second, that such a marvelous woman was so, thirdly, that he had not only witnessed the birth of their first child, but that he had seen this serene, brilliant woman pull the child from her. He had never been more proud, more thrilled. He was so pleased he could not speak anymore, he felt as if he might burst.

"Holmes!"

He turned with a start, seeing Watson standing beside him, the baby wrapped up now, cleaned off, still crying. "I said would you like to hold your daughter?" Watson did not wait for him to respond, he placed the girl in his friend's arms and stepped back, turning to see if Mary needed help.

"Bring her here," Molly's soft voice called him, and slowly, he came and sat on the side of the bed, angling to face her.

"Firstly," Sherlock said, and kissed Molly, not as he had wanted their first kiss upon his return to be, but a very welcome, very tender embrace that was fitting. "My sweetest-" he blinked, beaming again. "I have no words," he confessed.

"That is a first," Molly laughed, leaning her head against him. "The Great Sherlock Holmes was rendered speechless by a baby."

"Our baby," he corrected. He carefully passed her back to Molly's waiting arms.

"I'm glad you're not upset," she said softly.

"Why should I be upset?"

"Well…that I didn't tell you or-" she stopped then, looking at him properly. "Why on earth did you grow a beard?"

"Oh," he scratched his chin and jaw. "There never seemed to be time for shaving, I did try and keep it neat though."

"I hope you'll shave it off," Molly laughed and leaned towards him, kissing him again.

"At once," he promised. "For you, Molly Hooper Holmes, for the foreseeable future, I'll do whatever you like, and happily."

"Stay," she murmured, teary-eyed. She looked down at the baby in her arms then back up at him. "Just stay with us."

On tiptoe, John and Mary slipped out of the room.

"I ought to stay, she may need something," John said as Mary shut the door behind them.

"At this point, there's little else to do," Mary said. "The bedsheets are changed; the afterbirth is delivered and baby is washed up. I imagine if she gets hungry, Molly will feed her. Let's leave them be a while."

Together they brought the dirty bedsheets and the basin containing the afterbirth downstairs. Having deposited the items in their respected places, John sank down into one of the chairs by the kitchen door.

Quietly, Mary approached him. "Are you all right?" she asked.

"I suppose I must be," he said with a sigh. "Yes of course I am. I am quite mad, if I'm honest," he looked up at her. "And I ought to be furious with you. You seem to know a good deal more than you ever let on."

"You've every right," she answered quietly. "There's a good many things I have not told you, John Watson, things that I will explain, if you'll let me."

"Will you tell me first," he said, pausing to lick his dry lips. "Will you tell me if you came to Baker Street, were you sent there to...distract me?"

"No!" she took the seat beside him, turning his head in her hands so she could look directly at him. "John Watson don't ever believe for a moment that my feelings for you are a farce, that they were ever a pretense. My love for you came about quite unexpectedly, and I don't regret for one moment anything between us."

"I don't know what to think anymore," he confessed. He smoothed her hand, and after a long while, he bent, kissing her knuckles. "If you will please explain to me, this once, what's happened, what you know, I will leave it be, and we'll go on as before."

She stood, smoothing down her dress. "It's a long story, we'll need a pot of tea." Tugging him by the hand, she guided him back inside, through to the kitchen. Even as John followed her through, there was clarity in his foggy thoughts. He was certain that he still loved her, and was sure she loved him. He was hurt that she knew of Sherlock's being alive, but if he knew Mary, he knew there was a terribly good reason for it. He would give her that chance to explain, because she'd offered the information willingly, as soon as she was able. It was simply another facet of her that he would come to admire.

Upstairs

"She is perfect," Mycroft declared, holding his niece in his arms. Molly had sent Sherlock to fetch Mycroft and Anthea as soon as they'd had a moment alone. Sherlock, while less than pleased, was soon placated, more than happy to show off his daughter.

"As lovely as her mother," Anthea said, standing beside him. "I'm just so upset that I missed the whole thing, and I promised to be here!"

"Don't fret, you couldn't have known your meeting would go on for so long this morning," Molly said. "Anyway, she was taking such a long time, the world won't stop because she got shy!"

At this Anthea laughed and kissed her cheek. "You're a darling, and I'm so happy for you, for both of you."

"I'll send up a tray for you both," Mycroft said, placing the baby back in Molly's waiting arms, he paused then, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. "Well done, you." His finger traced the smooth unbroken skin of the child before he withdrew his hand. He fell silent a moment, lost in his thoughts as he admired the innocent child once more, almost envious, even. He took Anthea's arm, and together they left Sherlock and Molly alone again.

"You're very quiet," she said, once the door was shut.

"If I am, it is only because I can't think of anything to say," Sherlock answered honestly. "I am more happy than I can say, to finally be home, to be here at such a time, and with such a welcome surprise." He bent then, reverently kissing her, then smoothed the top of their daughter's head.

"You never got my letter?" she asked. "I told you so in my letter to you."

He frowned. "No I never did."

"I sent it with Mycroft."

"He never went into his suitcase," Sherlock answered. "And events had happened quite fast, we did not stop for breath until we reached the Channel."

"Then I shall forgive him," Molly decided. "I am too happy to be upset with him anyway."

"We must think of names," he murmured.

"I rather like Ottillie," Molly said. "It's rather popular-"

"Oh surely not," Sherlock blanched.

"Good heavens, what a snob you are," she laughed. "Very well, what do you want?"

"I haven't given it much thought, considering I only just found out as you were pulling her from your nethers," Sherlock said, earning him a pinch from Molly. "But I like Charlotte."

"Charlotte Pearl Holmes, then," Molly said.

"'Pearl'?" he parroted back to her.

"Yes, 'Pearl' because I say so, and I like it. And yes I got it from a novel, so you'll just have to lump it."

Sherlock said nothing, only kissed her once more. "I believe the correct response is 'yes, darling'," he grinned. "Oh! I'm sending a cable to Mrs. Hudson tomorrow, your things will be moved to my room as soon as possible."

"My things are already in your room- our room, I moved them after you went away," Molly said, adjusting the blanket around Charlotte. "Anyway, you ought to see Mrs. Hudson face-to-face, the poor woman is under the assumption you're dead."

He hummed in agreement, then paused to study her. "You moved your things back?"

"Of course I did," she said. Glancing up from tugging down her nightgown to feed Charlotte. "I knew you would come back eventually, and when you did, we certainly weren't going back to the way things were before you left."

He sighed, relieved. "I should hope not."

"I had thought you'd learned to live without me," she said after a long while, stroking Charlotte's soft hair and ears. "It wasn't until last year, when the bomb across from Baker Street went off that I'd begun to hope again, that perhaps you might've felt something."

"I've always felt so," he said.

She gave him a look.

"Very well," he nodded. "Not…at first, those first awful years, I don't think I felt much of anything."

"There were some good moments," Molly objected. "Some…rare, happy times."

"Very rare," he said. "How on earth did you put up with me?"

"Because I hadn't anywhere else to go, and I knew you were better than what you claimed to be," Molly answered without missing a beat. "I knew that given time, you'd become the man sitting beside me now."

"I don't know whatever I have done to deserve you, certainly nothing to deserve her," he admired Charlotte, marveled at how Molly had so quickly slipped into the role of mother, feeding their child, their child, good heavens. It was still so new and wonderful, Sherlock found himself blinking back tears.

"Dear man," Molly reached up, caressing his cheek. "You've done everything to deserve us."

"You must forgive me if I don't believe you," he answered hoarsely. "But I shall endeavor to be worthy of you, both of you."

"I'll hold you to it." With that they closed the distance, careful not to jostle Charlotte, embracing sweetly.

Down the hall

Anthea watched her husband from her vanity mirror.

"You're very pensive," she said at last. "What happened over there?"

He looked up from the wingback chair, then to the half-drunk glass of whisky in his hands. "I expect the papers have printed it by now, that the Crown Prince Rudolf was found dead."

"Yes, and his mistress. Is that what called you away so suddenly?"

"Funnily enough, no," Mycroft shook his head. "Sherlock suspected foul play, and cabled me. We arrived and found them, not long after the incident."

"What! You saw the crown prince, dead!"

"Yes, and I'll thank you to keep that under wraps," Mycroft said, hushed.

"Of course, but…oh Mycroft whatever does it mean? Was it murder?"

"I don't know," he confessed. "I have exhausted nearly all possibilities, and I cannot say. We did not linger, and we did not like to touch anything, lest we leave fingerprints."

"No of course not, you did right, of course you did. But…if it was-"

"If, if, if," Mycroft sighed, looking heavenward. "Every day there are a thousand 'ifs'." He was so weary sounding, not simply from the trip that Anthea crossed the room, seating herself on the arm of the chair, curling her arms around him and resting her head against his.

"Tell me what is wrong, love."

"I don't want to think of anything else tonight, except that I am an uncle, that, at last, Molly is on her way to being content as she deserves, and Sherlock is safe. Most importantly that you will be beside me tonight." He said. "The world will allow me that, this once. I don't want to think of the dirty politics and factories and the business of war or of the world outside. I'll face it all again in the morning. Just…let me have peace tonight."

"Then you shall have just that," Anthea said, and sank down onto his lap. She did not understand all of what plagued her husband, and his mention of war, of how the crown prince's death may affect them sent a chill up her spine. Clearly, he anticipated something she did not, and it worried her. She could not be his personal secretary and help him carry the burden of his work, but she could give him what he needed now: a quiet evening, a peaceful night in her arms, and she would do so a thousand times more, knowing that even the brilliant men of the world get weary.

He quite suddenly stood, and lifted her in his arms, carrying her to bed.

"What happens tomorrow?" she could not help but ask.

"I would imagine we all sleep in, given the past week we've had," Mycroft said, putting out the lamps at the bedside. "I suggest beyond that, we remain as innocent as our niece is of the world outside this house."

Anthea drew him close, smiling at him in the dark. "I couldn't agree more."

The world would go on spinning, and Mycroft knew in the back of his mind that war was inevitable, a great war that would change the world as they knew it, certainly not for the better, either. But it had not happened yet, and for once, he happily decided to revel in the moment, rather than worry for the cares of tomorrow. Life, after all, at this time, was very good. He was home and safe with his wife. Down the hall, Sherlock and Molly were at last reunited, as they should be. Yes, for the moment, all was right with the world.

The End