12AGRA floated in the infinite mist. Soft blankets of silence surrounding her.
Far away she was aware of distress; clawing pain and confusion. But out here in the mist everything was still.
AGRA saw the brightness shift forever from light to dark and back again.
Somewhere she thought someone was screaming. The sadness rained down in her as she knew that it was her fault. Someone she had hurt. Someone she had killed. She knew what she had done, and what she was, and that was why she belonged here in the mist and raindrops.
John wasn't with her; he couldn't be. And the ache hung heavily in her soul. The ache of what she couldn't have, and the ache of being alone.
Far away Mary Watson was having her baby. She knew Mary and John and the baby would be happy together. That they deserved to be happy together. But AGRA was just dust and light and so she was here. And here she could bear it, because there was no real pain.
AGRA felt the searing sadness of separation. Like a force prising something out of her that had been embedded in her soul. The sadness eternally filling her like a teardrop on the brink of falling forever. She knew she had to let John go. And she would have to let her baby go. Like so many people from her old life that she would never see again. All the fleeting faces. People she loved that were now dead to her. Everybody vanished and gone.
She had taken life. And she must forfeit the tiny being that had grown inside her. She must release that being into the mist of tears. The little life she didn't deserve. And the baby would be safe now with John and Mary. The baby would be loved. But AGRA would not be loved.
The mist twisted and threw her head backwards and then forwards in waves, she thought she saw someone's face. Then an image of the midwife. She was hazily aware of the stork picture on the ceiling and the monitor around her.
The series of still images tumbled back together into a continuum and the sound rushed back in. Voices shouting at her, urging her. The midwife was looking stressed. John was here.
John was here.
….
Mary felt a fleeting moment of surprise that she was still there, and that it was actually her that was giving birth. How long had she been here? The clock suggested only about 30 minutes. It felt like hours.
She realised the gas and air had been taken away from her and, with some relief that she must be on the home stretch.
"You've been using up all your energy on screaming. You need to focus". The midwife sounded anxious as she reviewed the output from the monitor.
"Come on. Baby's getting tired now. We need you to concentrate on pushing".
The midwife was strongly urging her to push and there was no fibre of her being that was going to argue with that. Bloody hell, she was going to get this baby out if it broke her. She had gone beyond pain into something else and the animal in her had taken over.
Mary groaned fiercely with everything she had in her.
"Just one more push", encouraged the midwife.
Mary waited for the wave to come and then cried out with every last reserve of her energy.
"Alright, now stop… OK never mind", she heard she midwife say, with a smile.
Mary heard her own roar violently increase in pitch as the baby tumbled out all at once. And then she sunk back exhausted onto the pillows, John's hand in hers, as the flood of elation came.
...
Mary looked down at the baby lying on her chest. John smiled down at them both, his face a picture of joy and pride.
The little girl had been delivered in perfect health.
Mary realised that Sherlock was there; loitering awkwardly in the background. She vaguely wondered if that shouldn't feel a bit weirder than it actually did. It didn't matter though.
The midwife collared Sherlock, "Now I need you to find some clothes for baby, while mum has a rest", the midwife instructed him. "Hat, vest and babygro, please". She rushed off to get the tea and toast.
Mary watched over John's shoulder and smiled as Sherlock struggled to relate any of the words the midwife had just said with the assortment of tiny garments he was pulling out of the hospital bag.
The baby lay scrunched up; tiny, pink and perfect. The only other person in Mary's world that was her own biological flesh and blood. Someone to whom she could belong, and who would belong to her.
Mary looked up at John's slightly troubled face. She noticed now that he was soaked to the skin and muddy, and looked almost as exhausted as she was; except that wasn't possible.
"Mary. I'm so sorry. I tried to get to you. They've closed all the roads. Everything's flooded. But… you've done it. You've done it. She's amazing." He laughed gently, looking down at his daughter.
Mary smiled and bit her lip.
"Well at least Sherlock was looking after me", she said, teasing. John glanced over at Sherlock, looking moderately dubious.
Mary couldn't stop looking at the tiny little life asleep on her chest.
"I can keep her, can't I?" Mary asked sleepily, half to herself.
"Um…yes", John's reply came, slightly puzzled but smiling.
"And I can keep you?"
"I'm not going anywhere," he replied softly.
...
A/N: Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.