Author's Note: I am not going to say much. Anything I would say would be major spoilers. NO SLASH, but some warnings include blood and slightly graphic injury. I will tell you that you will recognize the scene I will describe if you have seen the sixth season of Doctor Who. Oops, I might have said too much.

Because of news that the seventh season of Doctor Who will have Weeping Angels and BABY WEEPING ANGELS, I am on a slight hiatus with "The Affair of the Angels that Wept", so I am going through and editing my other stories until that episode airs, and I can be assured that my other fanfic will still be accurate with Steven Moffat (that might mean a completely different story than the one I was planning, but we'll see what happens).

I hope that this new and improved version is less confusing than the old one (Thank you, Lady Razorsharp, for expressing your concerns); I have a bit of an explanation at the end, and if you are still confused or have a comment, please leave me a review or a PM.

Disclaimers: I do not own Doctor Who or Sherlock Holmes; they belong to Steven Moffat and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, respectively. Enjoy, and I promise that the Silence will not stuff you in an astronaut suit if you leave a review. Thanks to all who have reviewed my stories so far; you've kept me going.

Sincerely,

TARDIS Blue Carbuncle

"I shall not mislead you; I would be lying if I told you that you shall be safe."

The words, though spoken softly and soothingly, echoed through the expanse of the small white room and rang painfully in the Dying Man's head. The shock of hearing his own voice, so strangled and so different from its customary tone, registered in his barely conscious brain and numbed the physical pain that threatened to undo him.

"There are things in this world that are bent to destroy us, and we are both prisoners of one of those dark forces."

The Dying Man lay on an old, dirty cot that his captors borrowed from an insane asylum. The thick black restraints bit into the bruise-ridden skin around his ankles, his wrists, and his pale, blood-dampened forehead. The Dying Man, attempting to move without arousing another wave of agony, slowly and gently turned his head away from his company and toward a far corner of the white room. There, standing with arms crossed and wearing a smile of silent gloating was Madame Kovarian.

The Dying Man, never one to rely upon his instincts without concrete data, had sensed the pure evil that radiated from her the first time she entered his prison cell. Ten months had passed since that encounter, and Madame Kavarian appeared then as she did now; thick, curly brunette hair piled atop her head, the skin on her face and hands wrinkled and tan. Her lips, smothered by a layer of red lipstick, curved into a smile that a predator would give its prey. Her left eye, dark blue in hue, met the Dying Man's grey eyes, but the right eye hid behind a black eye patch. The eye patch itself ended in two points that curved up toward the ear and down toward the nose. Although short of stature, Madame Kovarian's black leather suit and demeanor added to her sinister intentions.

The Dying Man turned away from that leering face, silently cursing his limited range of motion, and toward his companion. On his right, just short of the level of his cot sat a platform much like a mortuary slab, the same shade of white as the room. On top of this platform lay a metal, cylindrical canister that served as a crib, for inside that white canister lay a baby girl. Clean white cloths wrapped around the baby's tiny, month-old body, holding the baby's arms and legs straight and still. The cloth hid the tiny, dark-blonde hairs that adorned her head.

"For you, dear child, the horrors have merely begun. I fear, however, that mine are coming to an end."

The Dying Man's eyes darted to his own body, tall and thin, clothed by a white uniform of a long-sleeved shirt and pants, the type of uniform given to asylum patients. The white of his uniform, unlike the furniture and the walls of the room, was stained red with his own blood. Madame Kovarian ordered him strapped to the cot not because she feared his sanity or any possible danger he posed to anyone. Despite the torture sessions that would often end with loss of consciousness, the Dying Man's sanity was intact, and the occupants of the asteroid in the 52nd century knew this. Madame Kovarian ordered him strapped to the cot because it ensured his survival.

"Three broken vertebrae, six broken fingers, both legs broken in at least two places, my left arm broken in three places, a fracture in my skull, seven broken ribs, internal bleeding, and I am certain that at least one of those ribs has punctured my right lung. I am sorry to bring such a dire diagnosis, but I will not be long for this world."

The Dying Man gasped his next breath, feeling and hearing his lungs rattle from his exertion. For a moment, the Dying Man's eyes closed, and he focused what energy he possessed upon inhaling and exhaling. When his breathing returned to a regular pace, albeit very shallow and rapid, he opened his eyes again. Again, he gingerly turned his head toward the door, toward Madame Kovarian. The Dying Man met her gaze, held it there, and gave her his most withering stare. He was not certain, but he thought for a moment that Madame Kovarian suddenly became nervous of his lucidity.

"The one thing the Silence have not tried to break is my jaw, and I understand precisely why. The Silence keep me alive and in agony for information, child. Of course, this is an unoriginal concept, but a life-threatening one, nonetheless."

The Dying Man did not care to expand on his declaration to the baby, considering that the woman watching him supervised his torture and interrogations every day for the past ten months. The corner of his thin mouth turned up into a slight smile at the irony of his own statement, but that smile swiftly morphed into a frown. The Dying Man poured the hatred that had built up over those ten months into his stare, not because of the treatment he had received; he understood their intentions, and though he was suffering from their effort, he considered it fair. His hatred was due to another person that had no reason to bear the abuse at the hands of the Silence.

"Dear child, your mother gave up her fight a week ago."

The Dying Man twisted his head back to the baby, who lay awake but silent before him, as if engrossed in what he had to say. The Dying Man sighed as he completely fell back into the cot, noting that a bout of coughing miraculously did not follow his sigh. He forced himself to remember precisely what had happened…

"Hello? Can anyone hear me? Hello?"

The Dying Man slowly lifted his bruised and bloody head. Too weak to stand, he dragged himself to the wall in front of him, from which the painfully familiar voice came. He pushed himself up from the cold ground, pressed his battered back to the wall, and raised himself to a sitting position. His head felt light, his legs heavy, and his arms numb; what should have been a simple task had exhausted him. For a moment, in the silence when the voice died out, he wondered if he had lost his sanity at long last; he wondered if the interrogations had driven him to the madness from which he had run for so long.

Then, the soft, scared voice cried out louder. "Please, if you can hear me…"

Hesitantly, the Dying Man said, "I do not think you belong here."

Silence, which permeated the air between the torture sessions that seemed to last a moment and an eternity at the same time, fell as the owner of the voice absorbed his hoarse words. Then, almost too soft for the Dying Man to hear, the voice whispered, "What? This cannot be… You're dead…"

"I can assure you, Madame, that I am alive, if far from well," the Dying Man replied, his voice regaining the tone he used from his life before it transformed into a mere existence.

"Please, call me Mary. You have known me for far too long to be addressing me in such an impersonal manner." The voice paused for a moment, and then the Dying Man heard a shuffling noise on the other side of the wall, as if a body was shifting. "My husband thinks you are dead."

The Dying Man smirked, then slowly said, "As far as anyone is concerned, I am dead; the Silence will not release me until I either give them what they desire, or I perish. And I will be swift to assure you that I would rather die than endanger you or your husband."

Mary asked, "Who are the Silence, and what do they want?"

The Dying Man what he knew, all his information coming from deductions he made since he was captured from Reichenbach Falls two months prior. Then, he added, "The Silence, and Madame Kovarian in particular, also seem to be after something else, or rather, someone else. I am merely here as a pawn in their game for power, as a mere step to gaining what or whom they call 'The Weapon'. I have yet to discover what that connection is, but I shall discover it."

The lack of response on Mary's part did not shock the Dying Man, and he knew that Mary was taking her time in an attempt to understand the information he gave. Then, he heard a gasp. "I think I know… You are here because you possess information, correct?"

"Precisely," the Dying Man said as the realization struck him, "and you fear that you are the person whom the Silence seek?"

"Perhaps," Mary said, her voice becoming fearful and softer. Then, she spoke so quietly that the Dying Man had to press his torn ear to the wall to hear her next words: "Indirectly, I may be the one the Silence want, but they seek someone else, someone who has yet to be born. For I am pregnant; the Silence want my unborn child."

For seven months, the Dying Man and Mary kept company in this fashion; speaking to each other in the stillness when they were alone, unable to see the other. For the Dying Man, this was a small comfort. On the one hand, he had Mary to whom he could speak, to whom he could hold when his sanity and his will threaten to break. On the other hand, Mary did not have to witness the arcane tortures Madame Kovarian devised for him; the former did, however, have to listen to the questions the latter posed, the sounds of the torture equipment wreaking havoc on his body, and his screams when the pain grew to be too much for him to ignore. Yet, he never answered the questions save with a sneer, and never did he lose any opportunity to mock the Silence with silence of his own.

Mary endured poking and prodding by Madame Kovarian's doctors, and did her best to defend herself and her unborn child. To the relief of the Dying Man, Madame Kovarian otherwise left Mary alone.

Then, the baby was born.

Madame Kovarian attempted to persuade Mary to give her the baby, citing medical reasons. "The woman insists that my child is sick," Mary told the Dying Man after the birth, "but I was a governess once; I know what a sick child looks like, and my baby girl is hale."

"If you want my advice," the Dying Man said, his voice slurred and slow, his hand staunching the blood flow from a deep wound in his side, "do not allow Madame Kovarian within an arm's reach of your child. Do not let the baby out of your sight."

And Madame Kovarian made Mary pay for her obstinacy.

"Allow me to revise my statement. The Silence murdered your mother."

The Dying Man tried to intervene as the Order of the Headless Monks advanced upon Mary. The woman did what she could to defend herself, and managed to knock down two Monks. The Dying Man escaped from his own bonds; ignoring his multiple injuries, he engaged two others. Despite the efforts of Mary and the Dying Man, the fifth Headless Monk broke through the latter's defense, knocking him aside like a limp rag doll; the Monk lifted his sword and ran the woman through. The Dying Man examined her wound, deemed it mortal, cradled her, and listened as she spoke one more time: "Take… take care of my child..."

The Dying Man nodded and whispered, "I shall." Try as the Dying Man wished, he could not save Mary, and though he mourned her loss, no tears would come forth as the woman gave her last breath.

Without turning to Madame Kovarian, the Dying Man requested, his voice a mere whisper, "Undo my right arm. I want to touch her. Please."

The Dying Man heard the door of the room hiss, and two soldiers entered the room, clad in green camouflage, black vests, and each sporting a black, flat cloth cap. Madame Kovarian motioned to the two soldiers that joined her side, and as one soldier pointed the end of his gun at the Dying Man, the other soldier released the bond. That soldier retreated to Madame Kovarian's side, while the first soldier kept his gun trained on the Dying Man. The Dying Man brushed aside the black hair that clung to his forehead and covered his eyes, and his hand came back covered with blood. The Dying Man slowly and painfully reached out to stroke the baby's soft cheek with his thin, bony hand. The baby cooed with delight, which made the Dying Man smile.

"The Silence intend to break me. The Silence intend to use us, to use you, to further their reign of terror. I shall not allow this to happen. We must be courageous, my child, we must be strong. The Silence lack something that we can wield for our defense: Hope. I have no doubt that your father is searching for us as I speak. Your father, child, is the best and wisest man I have ever known, and all those years he spent by my side, he has given me his complete trust, loyalty, friendship, and service. His life has been one hardship after another, yet he gave the world his service as a Doctor, and he never expected anything in return. Tonight, tomorrow, and through the days until he liberates us, I shall repay him, and prove to him that the universe owes him a great debt… and no one more so than I."

The Dying Man, exhausted from the effort, lowered his weary arm. The baby girl shook loose the cloth that bound her, and extended one tiny hand toward the limp, older one. The baby wrapped her tiny fingers around his index finger, and squeezed. The Dying Man grinned, and whispered so softly that he was certain that the soldier next to him could not hear, "I am the only obstacle protecting you from the Silence. So long as I am alive, no harm may come to you. I shall not give up. I swear to you that I shall not die until I rest my eyes upon your father's face, and you are lying safe in his arms."

The Dying Man could hear Madame Kovarian clear her throat and the soldier near him lowered his gun, grasped the Dying Man's arm, and wrenched it out of the baby's grasp. The soldier refastened the bond, and withdrew.

The baby, though not pleased at having entertainment ripped from her, did not cry. The Dying Man showed no external sign of emotion, but he was inwardly relieved; a baby's wail would not have boded well for a man in his condition.

"Your resemblance to your father is rather… uncanny. I do hope that your demeanor is likewise. Your father, my Doctor, is the most important man in the universe, but no one ever pays much heed. The people that pass by him do not observe the warrior beneath. He is older than his years declare, and wiser than those that call themselves learned. My Doctor's sole purpose in life is to assist those in need, and he performs his duty with a smile on his face. He had witnessed the death of many, but the number of lives he has saved is ten times greater. He is the last of his kith and kin. Your father, dearest child, is Doctor John Hamish Watson."

Five days later, and Demon's Run was under attack. Madame Kovarian organized her troops, and pleaded for the Headless Monks to grant her one last favor, and that was for victory.

Colonel Manton, a tall, clean-shaven African, gathered his troops in the Main Hangar and rallied them, delivering an eloquent speech about the necessity of the defeat of the Oncoming Storm. The Headless Monks revealed their true nature to the startled soldiers, showing them that one can still lose one's head and still be alive. Above the group of soldiers was a window, a large window that led to the white room in which the Dying Man and the baby were imprisoned. At the horror of the truth of the Headless Monks, the soldiers armed themselves and prepared to fire at the Monks. Respectively, the Monks unsheathed their swords, which sparked and sizzled with red lightning.

The colonel calmed the crowd with ease. He unloaded his weapon, demonstrating to his soldiers and to the Monks, showing the example that he was no fool. With the cry of "We are not fools," the soldiers unloaded their weapons, one by one. Then, Colonel Manton reached for the hood of the last Headless Monk. To his consternation and horror, this Headless Monk was anything but. A brown-haired, green-eyed, smiling face stared back at him, the face of the Doctor.

The chamber erupted into chaos. Silurians and Sontarans poured into the hangar, and several of the Doctor's debtors fought beside them. Races from all across the universe and Time itself gathered to fight against the enemy. Spitfires rained bullets into the communications systems, sending showers of sparks everywhere. Leading the Doctor's army, wearing an old, tan-colored Afghan uniform, brandishing his Webley revolver and his cane, was Dr. Watson.

With no usable weapons and completely cut off, Colonel Manton surrendered.

This turn of events hardly affected Madame Kovarian. All she wanted was the child; the armies and weapons were expendable, but the child was truly unique. With two guards, she calmly walked away from the battle, away from the chaos, and toward the room with a view for the defeat.

Without pause, Madame Kovarian entered the code for the room, and stepped through the threshold with her bodyguards. Moving at a brisk pace, she crossed the room, completely devoid of furniture other than the slab and the medical equipment lining the wall, to the crib lying on the slab. She leaned in toward the canister, and what she saw sent a dull feeling of fear through her. The canister was empty.

"I have her," a voice called from the direction of the window. Madame Kovarian crossed to the window, where a stretcher sat, tilted in the direction away from her. Madame Kovarian maneuvered to the side to see the Dying Man. What she saw surprised her, and made her more determined.

"Mr. Holmes, you are proving to be an impossible man," she hissed.

Sherlock Holmes lay on the stretcher, tilted so that he was close to upright, but the restraints were gone, ripped off the stretcher by the man. His black hair hung around his grey eyes, matted to his face and colored a dull red with blood. His eyes were bright with fever, his face pale and discolored with purple from bruises, and his cheekbones were more pronounced than they were before his capture ten months previous. In his arms, one of them held gingerly due to an unhealed break, lay the baby girl.

Holmes smirked, and whispered, "I developed an unnaturally high pain tolerance many years ago, Madame Kovarian, and the bonds are merely cloth. Loosing* them was only a matter of time and opportunity." Holmes' eyes wandered back to the window, and watched with clinical detachment as the Doctor's army led the enemy forces away. For a moment, the only sound in the room was that of Holmes' rapid, laborious, shallow breathing. In a louder, steadier voice belonging to a man of ten months prior, Holmes commented, "I must say that the events of today were not devoid of some interesting developments. The tables have turned, and I am the victor. The question remains, however. Did you come here intending to carry out your endeavors, even in the face of utter defeat?"

Madame Kovarian did nothing for a moment. Then, she reached for the sleeping bundle and attempted to remove the baby from Holmes' arms. However, Holmes adjusted his position and hissed, "No."

Madame Kovarian insisted, "Give me the child," the impatience seeping into her voice. She attempted to take the child from his grasp again, this time more forcefully.

"No," Holmes repeated, but his answer was followed by an involuntary gasp. Stabbing, screaming pain shot up his body, and for a moment, he feared he would lose consciousness. The wave of vertigo passed, though, and Holmes regained control.

That gasp did not escape the attention of Madame Kovarian. She grinned at him, giving him the evil grin that haunted his restless sleep every night. "Are you in pain?" she sarcastically asked. "That gasp was all I needed."

Madame Kovarian roughly grasped Holmes' broken left arm, and squeezed the unhealed break until she wrested a groan from the consulting detective. "You are weak. You know as much as I do that you cannot hold on much longer. You're time is running out, Mr. Holmes. The clock keeps ticking, and ticking…"

"Listen to me," Holmes breathed as he wrenched his arm from the other's grasp; he held the baby to his chest, and ignored the burning that he felt in his left arm. "Whatever you say, Madame Kovarian, whatever you shall do will not persuade me to—"

"Tick, tock, goes the clock, the good old poem said," Madame Kovarian chanted, "Tick, tock, goes the clock, and Sherlock Holmes is dead. Tick, tock, goes the clock, oh, such a pretty line. Tick, tock, goes the clock…"

Holmes detected slight movement from Madame Kovarian, and deduced—

"…And now the child is MINE!"

Her hands, extended like claws, lunged for Holmes and the bundle at his breast. With speed that none would have ever thought possible of a broken man, Holmes twisted out of the way, leaving her to crash to the floor. Though he had a momentary window of opportunity, the sudden influx of pain prevented Holmes from taking it. His broken legs screamed at him for mercy, burning with a fire that even Holmes could not ignore. He fell to the floor with a moan, absorbing the impact to prevent harm to the baby. In the split second Holmes had before Madame Kovarian could recover, he realized that he was unable to carry the child to the canister, or crawl, for that matter. His battered, brilliant mind rose to the occasion, and gave him one option.

Holmes pulled the baby underneath his body, and shielded her with the only protection she had since the day she was born: himself.

Madame Kovarian stood and, with a storm of fury unmatched by anyone in the entire universe, rained blows onto Holmes. Each hit was harder than the last, some of them hitting broken bones that never healed, and tripled the pain of each attack. Some blows drew blood. Holmes felt every one of them, but he refused to give in, to lie down, to die. Below him, safe in his cocoon, the baby remained unscathed.

The envoy of the Silence resorted to more violent methods, and still Holmes refused to give in. To be precise, he was relishing in her frustration, and felt strengthened by the fact that he, a man that could die any minute, was still stronger than an enraged female. Madame Kovarian, flustered and her appearance in disarray, stood and stumbled away from Holmes; the man's spirits lifted at his small victory. Then, he heard Madame Kovarian screech, and his heart stopped a full beat.

"Shoot him! Just shoot him!"

Dr. Watson panted with exertion as he and the Doctor hurled themselves down corridor after corridor, following the signal from the Doctor's sonic screwdriver. The long, cylindrical bar of metal pulsed with a green light, and the pulse moved faster as the pair drew closer to their objective. Dr. Watson did his best to keep up despite his old Maiwand wound, but as the minutes ticked by, he found himself further and further behind the tweed-coated form of the Doctor.

The Doctor assured Watson that they would find Sherlock Holmes and Mary alive, but as he surveyed the damage caused by the Silence, Watson suspected that the chances of finding his best friend and his wife were slim to none.

His leg had become too much to bear, and Watson forced himself to rest by a door. The Doctor continued running for a few seconds before he noticed Watson's absence, and then ran to the human's side. "Come along, John!" the Doctor insisted, tugging at Watson's sleeve, "Keep up! Holmes and Mary could be just around the corner."

"Doctor," Watson sighed, "You must continue without me. My leg has taken enough. I shall follow you in a few minutes."

"Sh!" The Doctor held his finger to his lips.

Watson furrowed his brows, confused and a bit annoyed at being told to be quiet like he was a schoolboy. "Doctor—"

"SHSHSHSH!" The Doctor waved his hand in Watson's face to get him quiet. The Doctor crouched to his knees, shuffled to the door, and pressed his ear to it. Watson copied the Doctor, and heard voices.

"You are the *muffled speech* I should have *muffled speech* give her to me!"

The Doctor peered through the mat of hair that fell over his right eye at Watson, and mouthed, I think this is it. Wait for my signal. Got it?

What shall your signal be? Watson mouthed back.

You'll know, the Doctor mouthed in reply, and both men placed their ears on the door. Watson strained to hear what was occurring.

"…Centuries of planning and decades of work! I, the envoy *muffled speech* will not have our plans ruined by an ancient dead man!" And then, Watson heard orders, orders familiar to him, and it forced him into action. "Shoot him! Just shoot him!"

Watson and the Doctor rushed headlong into the room. The whiteness of the walls and furniture would have disorientated Watson had he not been paying attention to the occupants. In the blink of an eye Watson had to act, he saw two uniformed men, with their guns trained on a white mass on the floor, and a woman, her hair slightly disheveled and her hand pointing toward the white mass. In that moment, all three of them turned toward him.

The first shot from his Webley hit the hand of one soldier, and he dropped his weapon. The second raised his for a shot at Watson. The Doctor activated his sonic screwdriver, and when that soldier pulled the trigger… nothing happened.

Watson held his pistol at the ready, while the Doctor moved toward the woman. "Madame Kovarian! Sorry about the mess downstairs, but I couldn't help but notice that you were building an army down there. A massive, dangerous… bad… army. Against who, and why?"

Madame Kovarian straightened herself, her anger seething all the more, and with her lip turning up in an animalistic growl, she hissed, "Against you, Doctor."

"Why?"

Madame Kovarian smiled maliciously, but did not give an answer.

All of a sudden, from a different part of the room, a strained, pain-filled voice answered, "The Silence intended to use the ultimate weapon." Madame Kovarian's head jerked toward that voice, and her face paled. Watson turned toward the white mass, and noticed that it was alive. A head, black-haired and covered with blood, slowly rose toward him, and grey eyes peered out. The all-too-familiar face smiled and added, "Doctor, I would have thought that you should have deduced as much."

"Sherlock Holmes!" the Doctor shouted, hands extended toward Holmes in greeting, "Good to see you!"

"Pleasure is mine, Doctor," Holmes responded. "And I notice, much to my consternation, that you are still wearing that ridiculous bowtie."

"Holmes!" Watson cried as he rushed toward his friend, ignoring the Doctor's protest toward the verbal attack on his red bowtie. Watson knelt by his friend and wrapped his arms around Holmes' torso, attempting to roll him onto his back to assess his condition.

He only moved him an inch, however, before Holmes grunted, "Watson, stop! I can't—" And then he cried out against the broken rib that flared up inside him.

The Doctor came over, and took Holmes' feet. "On the count of three," he said, "we flip him. Onetwothree!" The two men lay Holmes onto his back gently, and Holmes bit his lip against the screams that threatened to pour out.

Watson's eyes glanced over Holmes' bruised and broken body, trying to determine by sight how much damage had been done, and he allowed the Doctor to scan Holmes for internal injuries. Watson's hopes fell further and further as he continued his hasty examination, noticing every bone that bent at a sudden angle, hearing Holmes' breathing, and seeing the blood that stained the uniform and Holmes' lips.

Holmes, though, was occupied with something far more dangerous. Behind Watson, Holmes noticed Madame Kovarian take up one of the soldier's guns, test it in her hands, take aim for the back of Watson's head—

All the Doctor heard was a gunshot. He whipped his head around, and saw Madame Kovarian sink to the floor, a crimson flood staining the front of her suit. He saw Watson turn, saw him register what had happened, and both men turned to Holmes. In his left hand, despite the breaks, he held Watson's pistol steady and true. Watson saw the fire burn in his friend's eyes, and he knew that Holmes was not truly broken. The pistol slid from Holmes' hand, and the arm dropped to the floor.

It was then that Watson noticed the bundle of cloth that Holmes clutched tightly to his chest, a bundle of white cloth that remained clean against otherwise red-streaked uniform Holmes wore, and he asked, "Holmes, what is that?"

Holmes smiled, a trickle of blood running from the corner of his mouth. He gasped, "Watson…"

"Is that the secret weapon?" the Doctor asked from Holmes' feet. He then continued to stare at his sonic screwdriver and mutter to himself, "Oh, Holmes, this is bad, this is not good, not good…"

"Yes," Holmes whispered, "this is what the Silence were after. But this bundle is something far more valuable and far more important to Watson." Holmes attempted to sit up, but found neither the energy nor the skeletal structure to allow him to do so. Watson slipped one arm under the thin form of his friend and sat him up. With his good arm, Holmes brought back the cloth, and revealed the baby girl to her father.

"Watson," Holmes whispered, his grey eyes shining with delight behind his matted, black hair. "Meet your daughter."

For a single moment, Watson hung suspended in elation and astonishment, lost in the brown eyes of his daughter, the dark-blonde hair that matched his own, and the innocent smile that graced her face.

And then Watson remembered. With a feeling of horror slowly creeping into his soul, Watson asked, "Holmes, where is Mary?"

Holmes said nothing. He swallowed and croaked, "I'm sorry. The Headless Monks murdered your wife. I tried…" Holmes' eyelids slid closed.

Watson checked his neck for a pulse. Finding one, he moved his hands to Holmes' face, and ordered, "Holmes, you must stay awake. Do you hear me? You must remain conscious."

Holmes obeyed, forcing the wave of vertigo away, keeping the darkness at bay, forcing his lids open. Watson's face remained a blur, but he fought harder, and it came into focus. Watson again cradled Holmes' body while Holmes cradled the child. "Mary never… named her…" Holmes said, "I pray you do not consider me presumptuous for choosing a name for her."

Watson shook his head, and said, "I— what is her name?"

Holmes gazed at the baby settled happily in his arms. He smiled, glanced back up at his friend, and whispered, "Hope."

Watson nodded, and said with a voice cracking with emotion, "Holmes, that— that is perfect. Hope… Agatha. Hope Agatha Watson."

Holmes shifted, and immediately regretted that decision when a stab of searing pain shot up his back. Watson saw the furrow of his brows, and the agony etched on Holmes' typically stoic face. Holmes then gently thrust Hope into Watson's arms, gasping, "Take her."

Watson turned around to face the Doctor and asked, "Is there nothing you can do? I require a diagnosis; will Holmes be fine?"

The Doctor stared back at him, the sympathy and sorrow reflected in his eyes and on his face, and he stated matter-of-factly, "Holmes should have died at least a month ago. He's not fine; he's dying."

Watson turned back to his prone friend, attempting to deny everything. Holmes again pushed Hope toward Watson, this time whispering, "I promised your daughter that I shall not leave her or die until I saw her lying safe in her father's arms. I…" Holmes swallowed, and blinked away the blood and the darkness that crept at the edges of his vision and his mind, "intend to fulfill that promise. Take her."

Numbly, Watson obeyed Holmes, just as he had complied every time in their partnership Holmes gave him an order. Gently, he lay his friend down and took up Hope in his arms. As Watson straightened, Holmes grasped Watson's free hand with his good one. Watson squeezed Holmes' hand, firmly but carefully, and muttered, "Mary and I knew she was pregnant before she vanished… she and I intended to ask you to be the baby's godfather."

Holmes tried to laugh, but his breath hitched and he coughed, he tried to breathe, but each breath became harder than the last. He closed his eyes, inhaled twice, and sighed, "Then I have done my duty… carried it… to the highest possible degree."

With the strength he possessed he pulled Watson close, and breathed into his ear, "I did nothing… to deserve your friendship, my dear Watson. The debt… I owe you… has been paid."

"I did not require anything of you to give you my trust," Watson whispered back, trying to wipe the blood from his friend's eyes, away from his face. "You are the best and wisest man I have ever known, Holmes."

Holmes smirked, "My dear Watson… even now, you see… but do not observe. The best… and wisest man… the universe with… its vast wonders and mysteries… has ever come to create… is in this room… but… I am not he." Watson, alarmed at the change in speed of Holmes' speech, watched as Holmes' chest rose and fell, rapidly and shallowly, his breathing audible, the death rattle seeping into every breath. Holmes asked, "Do you not understand?"

"Holmes," Watson laughed, attempting for levity, "your tendency for the dramatic has never left you."

"You," Holmes whispered. "And I… have the honor… and the privilege… to call you my friend."

The Doctor ceased trying to forestall the inevitable; he stood, stepped away from the other two and looked on, knowing that it was not his place to say anything. He allowed Watson this moment of privacy, to have Holmes to himself for the latter's final moments. His façade of the childish madman in a blue box fell away from him; he did not, however, assume his role as a powerful and potentially dangerous Lord of Time. Instead, he became the ancient, weary wanderer who was tired of being the last face a suffering man, woman, or child saw.

Watson did not waste his time. He said, "I shall tell Hope of you. I shall tell her of the man that saved her life, and what he has done for the good of England. Then, I shall tell her of what he did to save the universe."

Holmes' eyes unfocused, and Watson feared the worst. However, the detective rallied one last time, and sighed, "My will is between the pages of index H. You should find it if you search for my name. I… Watson… John Watson… believe me… to be… very sincerely yours. Give my regards to Hope. Goodbye, my dearest friend…"

The date was May 4th in the 52nd century, and Sherlock Holmes leaned his head against the breast of Doctor John Watson. He closed his eyes, the grey eyes that saw more than mere men could imagine, and from his lips escaped his last breath.

The TARDIS itself seemed to mourn the death of Sherlock Holmes. Engines wailing a lament, the TARDIS swiftly flew through the Time Vortex, destination being Reichenbach Falls, Switzerland, Earth of May 4th, 1891.

"I want you at the funeral," Watson muttered to the Doctor. The Doctor stood at the controls of the TARDIS, watching the human Doctor gently rock his baby girl to sleep in an ancient, wooden crib. The cradle's sides bore Gallifreyan symbols, and stars and planets hung above the top, entrancing Hope Agatha Watson.

The Doctor dared not to break the silence that befell him and Watson; the human doctor was occupied with Hope, and the Doctor was occupied with his thoughts. No matter how much he tried to distract himself, his guilty conscience returned to one, inevitable thought; it was a fact of which his enemies continuously accuse him.

Sherlock Holmes had died in the Doctor's name, and there was nothing the Time Lord could have done to save him.

Watson stared at the cradle and his sleeping daughter, then shifted his eyes to the Doctor, and said, "Thank you, Doctor."

"No problem," the Doctor said, shrugging, "That cradle hasn't been used since my granddaughter Susan was—"

"I do not mean for the cradle, though I appreciate your gift. Thank you for… everything. For replying to my plea, for lending me your ear, for offering your time and your machine to assist me in my search for Holmes, and I would be deprived of everything if you had not come. I owe you for… everything." Watson choked out the last word, and swallowed the lump that sat in his throat.

The Doctor stepped toward Watson and sat down on the floor next to him. "It's what I do," the Doctor said, "And it's all I've ever done for the longest time. I save the Human Race, and I never stop to accept anything; not even a thank-you. And after nine hundred years of saving you lot, you Humans continue to surprise me. You think you have nothing to give, but I never hear you stop saying thank-you… and I think that is the best thing I could have." The Doctor sat in thought, and then added, "Sherlock, too, thanked me. I met him, oh, a long time ago. And before I left, he stared me in the eye, and said, 'Thank you, Doctor. If I can ever be of service to you, do not hesitate to ask.'" The Doctor looked Watson in the eye, and ground his jaw before quickly saying, "John, I'm sorry, I wish—"

"You did the best you could, Doctor," Watson protested, "I understand. I endured your very emotions repeatedly on the battlefields in Afghanistan. Every man I failed to save, I wished I were faster, that I had more supplies, that I could have had more time. I learned out there, under that hellish sun, that there is only so much one man can do. At least we were in time to see Holmes one last time." Both men kept their eyes averted from a door on the far side of the TARDIS, where Holmes' body lay.

Watson sighed, "Doctor, the Silence may have lost this battle, but it not the end of the war. Am I correct?"

The Doctor nodded, his green eyes staring at Watson without wavering. Watson continued, "Holmes could not have been the only prisoner they captured and tortured. The Silence remain a threat to the universe, and, more importantly, to you. My daughter may be safe for the moment, but if the Silence aim to use Hope as a weapon against you, then I shall not withdraw. The Silence have attacked us; we must reciprocate and protect the universe from an evil that has haunted us far too long."

The Doctor opened his mouth to protest, but Watson shook his head. "Doctor, you intend to say that I am only in danger so long as I am near you. You are wrong; my daughter and I are in danger no matter where we turn. I was a soldier. I experienced war and all its trials, and I understand what must be done."

"I will not have anything to do with revenge—"

"I do not condone revenge, either, Doctor. I do not wish to fight to avenge the death of Holmes. I fight because my daughter shall sleep soundly every day that the Silence are defeated, and to protect those I know." Watson stood, and added, "You, sir, were a friend of Holmes', and you are a friend of mine. I shall not stand back and watch you suffer at their hands, or any innocent man that they torture to further their regime. I have fought before, and I shall fight now, but for a greater purpose." Watson paused, allowing the information to seep into the Doctor's brain before concluding, "Where is the safest place in the universe?"

The Doctor looked Watson in the eye, and calmly stated, "The TARDIS."

"Then Hope shall remain in the TARDIS. Can you ensure her further safety in the occurrence that the TARDIS is in danger, or we are dead?"

"Yes," the Doctor answered, the realization in his voice and eyes. "You Humans are so fascinating! You fight each other over the silliest of things, and yet you fight hardest for those whom you love."

Watson nodded. "The dead must be buried. I shall arrange the funerals of Mary and Holmes, deal with his belongings as he saw fit… then I shall disappear. The TARDIS should be sufficient to protect my daughter, and until the threat has passed, she and I shall remain here. The Silence had declared war; it is time we have answered."

The Doctor and Doctor John Hamish Watson shook hands; Hope watched them, not old enough to realize that two good men have gone to war.

Demons run when a good man goes to war.

Night will fall and drown the sun,

When a good man goes to war.

Friendship dies and true love lies,

Night will fall and the dark will rise,

When a good man goes to war.

Demons run, but count the cost.

The battle's won but a brother's lost

-River Song, "A Good Man Goes to War"

Oh, my God! I cannot believe that I just killed off Sherlock Holmes!

For those who did not recognize this, I rewrote the Doctor Who episode, "A Good Man Goes to War". Also, the Dying Man (Sherlock Holmes) spoke those disconnected sentences in the first part (which I underlined for your convenience; after that, I figure you can figure out who is speaking to whom), and he was speaking solely to Hope. The italicized part was a flashback with Mary Watson and Holmes, and what happened before and right after Hope's birth. The poem at the end is as it is in the episode except for the bolded words, and I changed those two words because I thought it a bit more fitting; otherwise, the rest of the poem belongs to Moffat. Thank you, Gollum Slayer 576 for editing this piece and for Blue TARDIS Everdeen for checking it over. Thanks to all who have reviewed, and I promise that my next story will not be so tragic.

*Yes, I did spell that right. That is 'loosing', as in 'to loosen, to make loose' rather than the word meaning 'to lose, to become lost'. I hate those fanfics where the author spells the word 'lose' as 'loose', and it annoys me because I have to read further to figure out what the heck the author is trying to say.

Again, if you have questions, please leave a review or PM me; I will be happy to answer any questions or address any of your concerns.