Chapter Text
I’m going to tear. I am going to fucking bloody well tear right down the middle, spilling blood and guts and everything onto the floor!
The words wouldn’t get out of his mouth, which was probably just as well. What was coming out of his mouth was bad enough; wails and screams between gasps and pants as he pushed, waited, and tried to cope between pushes. It felt as though it’d been going on for hours. How long it had actually been, however, he had no bloody idea.
Mrs. Hudson looked as calm as anything, though, despite him also screaming at her and him being torn in half.
“You’re fine, John, you’re not splitting in half,” she said, proving that he must’ve been saying some of it out loud, anyway. Or she just knew her business. “You’re just delivering the head.”
“Doesn’t feel like a head.” That sentence alone took him quite a while to get out between everything else and so he didn’t voice the rest of the sentence. Feels like a many-tined fork slicing through all my internals walls.
Nobody seemed to listen to him. Perhaps that wasn’t too surprising because on the last contraction, the head popped out. He couldn’t see it, but he could most certainly feel it. For one, the shear burning agony lessened somewhat.
Sherlock didn’t say anything, but he pressed a lovingly long, soft kiss to his partner’s sweat-soaked hair.
“That’s it, John, you are doing fine. Just keep on…and there are the shoulders, I can see them. Doing so well. Come on, now, just keep pushing…a little bit more, that is it.”
Surprisingly, it wasn’t Mrs. Hudson speaking; Demelza had been handling the entire thing rather calmly, her skill and subsequent confidence having grown continuously ever since John had met her, at least when it came to midwifery. The rest of the time, she was still unsure of herself, but it gave the doctor a bit of hope for her future. If she could grow confident in her abilities, she could extend that to herself in general.
Sherlock shifted his body again, so as to try to give John the best support while also giving more room to deliver.
In hindsight, it might’ve been rather a redundant move; as the shoulders moved out, relatively unproblematically after the difficulty and agony of the head that had likely left something of a looseness, the pressure eased. He still had to push, obviously, but comparatively, it was a significantly easier and less painful than it had been so far.
Inside, beneath every other half-formed thought thronging his mind, the abject fear of what had nearly happened to Sherlock at his birth was churning and storming around like a train going pell-mell. Even the obvious, the indisputable fact that everything was progressing well, one might even say exceedingly so, wasn’t enough to disperse it.
Things could change in a moment. He knew that better than most.
Perhaps the fear would only abate when he held his little passenger in his arms and it was breathing properly and regularly.
Perhaps it never would, ever.
Once the shoulders passed fully through, it wasn’t just the feeling of pressure that eased. The rest of the delivery seemed to pass in a blur. Maybe that was merely because the first part had taken so very long, or maybe he had just lost all sense of time.
Whatever the case, it seemed to take mere moments before he felt the rest of the body leave him. There was no wail, scream or any noise to indicate the baby was drawing breath, however, and his heart and mind froze.
Sherlock was peppering his cheek with kisses, whispering in between them. Only then did John realize that he was hyperventilating and making the oddest of keening noises while his mate tried to soothe him. He felt another contracting pain but he barely paid attention to it, even as something soft slid out of his entrance, so focused was he on the baby that wasn’t drawing breath.
“Shush, John, it’s alright, it’s alright. Shush now.” he kept whispering.
“It’s not,” John replied, his voice wheezing through a sob. “It’s not. How can you say it’s alright? Why isn’t it breathing? Why can’t I hear it? Why – “
He was stopped by the sight of Demelza rising onto her feet from her seated position between his legs, her head turned downwards as she moved ever so carefully. What her mood was, he couldn’t see, however, as the mass of copper curls that was her hair hid her face quite effectively.
He watched, his breath frozen along with his infant, as she lifted her head. She was smiling ever so softly yet warmly.
She held out the tiny bundle in her arms and John took it without thinking, automatically adjusting his arms to hold it as securely as possible.
The little creature, its face not nearly as scrunched up as he would have expected it to be. It sneezed once, twice.
It then opened its mouth, drew a breath and let out…a noise. That was about the only way he could describe it. It wasn’t a wail, it wasn’t a scream. It wasn’t even a hiccup. It was…not dissimilar to the kind of noise the forest residents used that was as much felt as it was heard.
“There’s your ‘scream’,” Sherlock said from behind.
“You mean it – he waited all that time to breathe? How can he do that – and I swear, if you just say ‘magic’, I’m going to punch your lights out, do you read me?”
“Not every baby cries at birth, John. I thought you were a doctor.”
“Every baby needs to breathe, idiot, and he wasn’t breathing.”
“Just waited a bit to be reunited, that’s all.”
John wanted to argue further, because that was absolute horse crap if ever he heard it, but at that moment, their little one opened his eyes and looked at them. Speech was, for the moment, a forgotten memory as he took in the wonder of those pale eyes.
If he thought he’d loved his child before, it paled in comparison with the utter besotted adoration and love he felt for it as he held it as gently as possible.
“He’s got your eyes,” Sherlock murmured, his chin resting on John’s shoulder as he, too, looked down at their child, who stared back at them with that unwavering stare that only babies could produce.
“He’s got yours, you mean. Look at how pale they are.”
“They’re blue, though, so they’re yours.”
“Alright, fine. The ears are indisputably yours, though.”
“Mmh. Compliments the snub nose, your snub nose rather well, I think.”
“Hey!”
“Calm down, John, I like your snub nose, it’s rather endearing, especially when wobbles just slightly when you’re excited.”
“It does not!” John protested. He wasn’t upset, though, and turned his attention back to the baby in his arms. “He’s a lot more human-looking than I expected…I think, at least. Now that I think about it, I’m not really sure what I was picturing, to be honest.”
Sherlock merely hummed in reply and snuggled even closer
There was another small noise from the baby, who looked more nonplussed than anything else as it looked back at its parents. The small hands opened and closed, as though seeking something.
“Hello, there, little one,” John said softly, vaguely noticing both women moving away to give them a bit of time on their own, “welcome to the world. You caused a few worries on your way, didn’t you?”
He was smiling as he spoke and held a finger out. It was almost immediately grabbed by the tiny fingers in a grip that was far more sure and stronger than he would’ve expected, even for Sherlock’s child. However you sliced it, and however unexpectedly unproblematic the labour itself had gone, the fact still remained that their little one had decided to arrive a month early. He wasn’t small for being born that month, admittedly, but comparatively, he would still be smaller and weaker than he ‘ought’ to be.
“He was worth it in the end, though,” Sherlock said quietly, “wasn’t he?”
He sounded as though he wanted, no, needed reassurance on that score. Given how the child had been conceived, that could hardly be considered an unreasonable need.
“He was,” John said, turning his head so he could plant an awkwardly-angled kiss on a sharp cheekbone. “More than worth it. Don’t even mind what else came with it, either. Too much, anyway.”
The ghost of a smile played across cupid bow lips as Sherlock leaned into the kiss. “We never got around to discussing a name.”
“We did. You just turned every single suggestion I’ve come up with. Quite emphatically. Rather rudely, in fact, as I recall.”
“Seems rather pointless to discuss before we knew the gender, in any case.”
“You were the one who brought it up in the first...” He trailed off.
Sherlock looked at him, frowning. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Even at the awkward angle, John could see the disbelief. “Just…aching nipples.”
Instead of saying anything, Sherlock managed somehow to push at the doctor’s arms, guiding their son closer to John’s upper body. As soon as it was close enough, instinct guided it and it latched on to one puckered nipple.
John started slightly at that. Not because he was disgusted, though the whole idea of a male breastfeeding still seemed somewhat absurd, but because the actual experience of having someone suckle at his nipple was…nothing like he’d have imagined. Truth to tell, he wouldn’t be able to say what he had imagined, only that this wasn’t it.
Some part of it felt distinctly good, though, even with the decidedly odd sensation of liquid flowing from his chest, and as he gazed at the look of contentment on the baby’s face as it nursed, he couldn’t find it in him to complain.
The nursing went on for some time, both parents content to just watch their new-born. When he detached, he looked at them and gave what might have been a smile but was more likely merely a grimace. Then he yawned and closed his eyes.
They stayed like that for what seemed like a very long time, basking in the quiet and the shared joy and love. John cooed at him while he gently rocked him, and Sherlock watched and ran bony fingers reverentially across every inch of the small body that he could find, including the small but undeniable set of antlers sprouting from the soft skull.
They were there, all three of them. Safe and sound and whole.
A family at last.
Eventually, though, Sherlock stirred. “We need to get up and go outside.”
“What? Why?”
“Because they need to see him.”
John opened his mouth, though whether to voice disbelief, disagreement or both, he didn’t know.
Sherlock pressed another kiss to his face. “It’s part of the magic. They need to see him to connect with him, and he needs to be connected to them.”
“They’ve all had plenty of time to do that while I was carrying him.”
If he sounded grumpy and defensive about it, what of it? He’d just been through a severely tiring ordeal, to put it extremely mildly, and all he wanted right now was to spend some time with his soon-to-be-husband and his son, before he would likely collapse into sleep for a few hours. Was that too much to ask?
Sherlock paused, once upright. “I can take him on my own,” he offered.
“Like bugger you can.” It was with some considerable difficulty that he did it, but the blond managed to somehow get to his feet on his own, without jostling the bundle in his arms to any great degree. “If he’s going before the whole congregation, then we’re both going to show him off. Together.” He put emphasis on the last word.
He glared at Sherlock when he tried to step forward to help him. Then, realizing, he grimaced then gave the best apologetic smile that he could. It seemed to be understood, another testament to how far they’d come.
Once upright, too, he nodded towards the heap of his clothes. “You could perhaps find something to wrap around my shoulders. It’s going to be rather nippy out there, and that’s putting it mildly.”
“Oh, please. You haven’t been bothered by the temperature for over a month, at least.”
“I’m bothered by it now, and…oh, just at least give me a blanket for him.”
“He doesn’t need it.” Despite those words, Sherlock moved. Not towards the pile of clothes but towards the furs that comprised their bed. There he picked up one of the small, well-worn skins and walked back with it.
John frowned at him.
“Smells of both of us,” Sherlock offered by way of explanation as he wrapped it around the baby, John loosening his hold enough to make it possible.
“Don’t tell me he can’t smell us as it is. God knows I stink after all this.”
“Think of it as his baby blanket, then. Nothing wrong with that, is there?”
“I suppose not.” He took a moment to look down at himself. “Bloody hell, I look like crap.”
“You don’t.”
“Cheers, that’s ever so reassuring. Could you at least clean me up a bit before we face the masses?”
“They won’t care.”
“Not the point, you arse. I care.”
John took a breath. He stood…not quite at the lip of the cave, because he would be visible to the outside world there, and he wasn’t quite ready for it.
Would he ever be?
That was the question, wasn’t it? Because it most definitely didn’t feel as though it was merely showing their new-born to the denizens of the forest. It felt as if he was to go out there, on the balcony, to wave and smile at his husband’s subjects, to be accepted by them.
Well, you are royal now, for all intents and purposes. You’ve not quite got the style of old Lizzie, but then again, you haven’t got the look, either, thankfully. And before you start with all this self-doubt and other bull, it’s a bit late to be worrying about whether you’re ready to assume that title and consequent role, mate. You signed onto that a long time ago.
But he’d been thrown into that, that was hardly the same –
Oh, get a grip. You were thrown into a war zone, that didn’t bother you. Are you really going to tell me Captain John H. Watson is brave enough to face battle but not one measly group of people who all want the best for you?
“Piss off,” he muttered.
Sherlock, standing beside him, looked at him oddly but didn’t comment.
“Ready?” was what he asked instead, eyes warm.
John smiled a half-smile. “You tell me. You always seem to know better than I do.” He took another deep breath. “Yeah, okay. I’m ready.”
He was about to step out there when the baritone voice stopped him.
“John?”
He looked up. “Yeah?”
“I love you.”
The doctor stood there for a moment, just assessing the situation and the words. “You know, I think that’s the very first time you actually said it out loud,” he commented, quite calmly.
Sherlock gave him a look that was equal parts hopeful, loving, and fearful. He didn’t say anything, though.
John grinned. “Give over, idiot. I’ve known you do for months now. I might not be the king of deductions like you are, but I’m not that thick, either. I can get the hint without being told, you know. That said, thank you for voicing it.” He paused, reaching out with his free hand to grab hold of a bony hand to squeeze. “Love you, too.”
He took a deep breath. “Right. Shall we get to it, then?”
“John, they’re not going to hurt you. If anything, they’re far keener on you than they’ve – “
“If you finish that sentence, I’ll have confirmation all your intelligence is just for show. You are adored by all of them. Yeah, so they fear you a bit, too, that’s normal. Bloody hell, if it comes to that, the queen used to scare me as a kid.”
“I don’t believe that.”
John just smiled and winked at that. He gave the hand another loving squeeze. “Okay, I’m ready. Let’s do it.”
Once they did step outside, still hand in hand, he was quite unprepared for just how many people had not only been informed he’d given birth but had decided they wanted to come and see the child for themselves. They’d also managed to arrive in quite a short amount of time, too, but that he could probably brush of as another quirk of folklore creatures.
As he, quite frankly, stared at the gathered…well, multitude, really, he was reminded of the royal family gong onto the balcony, but it was mixed in with vague memories of having watched Bambi at some point as a child.
Well, that’s not all that far off, is it? Just be grateful there’s no annoying owl or rabbit sitting somewhere.
For some reason, however, when he stood there, they didn’t seem frightening. Not as individuals and not as a group, either, even though there were so very many of them. That puzzled him momentarily.
Then realization dawned; he knew them all. Some more closely than others, obviously, but in the months that he’d spent in the forest, both before and after, he’d become acquainted to some extent with most of the denizens of the forest when he’d served as their doctor.
The move to become part of their ruler’s family, in a more solid and official way than he had before didn’t seem too much of a stretch, or at least not a stretch that was insurmountable.
In a strange way, it’d probably be harder to go and face Harry.
Oh, gods…he’d have to, wouldn’t he? It was probably the thing he least wanted to do but he owed her, in a way. If not for the way she had treated Clara – the thought of her alone sent a sliver of ice down his spine – he wouldn’t have been down in Cornwall on Midsummer Eve in the first place. Not that that in any way excused what she had done, and neither was he ready to forgive her. To be honest, he was dead certain that he’d never be.
But she was all the family he had left.
He was nudged in the side, gently but pointedly. “Hm?” he said, trying to mask that he’d been spacing out, thinking about his sister.
“I think they’d rather like to…actually see him,” Sherlock said lowly without looking at him, just loud enough for only John to hear him. “Right now, all they can see is the top of his antlers, you’ve got him wrapped up so well.”
Indeed, people did seem to be craning and stretching in persistent efforts get a better look. Nobody was yet saying anything, but it was quite evident that they were slightly
“What, lift him up in the air like some sort of lion cub, you mean?”
Sherlock looked at him, nonplussed. “What?”
“Never mind.” He shook his hand to shift his bundle, gently rocking it until his little boy stopped the tiny, unhappy noises he was making. “I’m not sure he’ll have too much energy, at least not before he goes cranky, so perhaps you should do some sort of introduction or whatever else is required or expected in these events.”
“It’s not as much for their benefit as it is for his.”
“Still.” He got no argument against it, which was a bit surprising.
While Sherlock did just that, John took a moment to look at his little boy as he rocked him, the eyes unusually open and alert, studying him in a way that was eerily reminiscent of his father, even if it didn’t have the same sharp edge, instead being merely curious. He shouldn’t be quite this alert, though, John felt sure.
Was that due to the magic, too? After all, there’d been no question that the magic had been a factor when he’d been in the womb. That was what the miniature version of the tree had been there for, so it wasn’t that big a leap.
A small hand grasped at air slowly but determinedly and he reached a finger down that was immediately grasped.
It was still frankly mindboggling to think that the tiny creature in his arms, antlers, too-bright eyes, soft ears and all, was his. That he had come from inside John’s stomach, had grown there and was now in his arms, a living, breathing, perfect impossibility.
I love you. I’ve just met you and I love you so very much already. More than you will ever know. More than I think my heart can bear. But by god, I wouldn’t be without you for the world.
Right now, all he wanted was to be with his little boy, if he was being honest. Just have some time, on his own, getting to know him a bit better without anyone else there, and that didn’t just include the multitude in front of him.
There were still so many questions that he had yet to get any real answer to and even more that he just wanted to check up for himself. Chief among them were the ones pertaining to their little son. Mrs. Hudson had been most unhelpful in that regard, and Sherlock hadn’t been much better.
He got another nudge.
“Are you ready, love?” he whispered and got a stare for his trouble. Then again, what else had he expected?
Sherlock, acting quickly, got the makeshift blanket out of the way so John could turn the baby while still managing somehow to keep the best possible grip on him. Then, after checking that he was alright so far, he held him up, carefully.
There wasn’t a cheer when he did so. Nevertheless, something akin to a whoosh swept through the gathered people. Every eye seemed trained on what had to be a little, pinkish blob with some branches attached to his head, who looked back at them unfazed, but it seemed to be in interest rather than suspicion.
The silence was still somewhat disconcerting, however, but Sherlock wasn’t saying anything to explain or rectify it, so John resolved to stand his ground and see what’d happen.
An answer to that came relatively quickly; the whoosh that he’d heard go through the crowd came again. This time, though, it wasn’t heard as it evidently went through them and towards him. It couldn’t even really be said to be felt, at least not physically. It was more accurate to say that it was felt inside, in the parts of him tied to the magic.
In fact, it swept through him, touching on all those areas inside, so hard that it would’ve bowled him over if it hadn’t at the same time grounded him as solidly as if he’d sprouted roots himself right then and there.
The baby boy stretched out all its little limbs at once. Then he let out a noise not dissimilar to the first one he’d ever used and yet…it felt as though that had been a trickle of water to create a stream, whereas this was a flood to conjure a tidal wave.
To John, it was overwhelming, disconcerting, breath-taking, and all-encompassing all at once.
And the gathered throng responded to it as one, not through words or action, but simply through themselves, somehow, impossible to explain sufficiently.
Quite frankly, how he didn’t drop to his knees or keel over, he had no idea.
An arm slid around his still bloated waistline, squeezing reassuringly as it steadied him, for which he was very grateful.
John glanced upwards. He thought he’d heard another ‘voice’ join the rest and, once he’d looked up, he got confirmation that Sherlock had indeed opened his mouth to join in, adding his harmony to that of all the others.
A part of the doctor felt somewhat isolated by not knowing how to join in, too, or even if he could; the knowledge that for all his interactions and growing closer, in this, something so unequivocally important in his little boy’s life and for that of everyone else, he was still a stranger hurt more than he wanted to admit.
Another part was simply awed by the experience, by the fact that this was possible, first of all, and secondly, that he was allowed to witness it. It felt more special, and much more intimate, than even the solstice dances.
Eventually, the ‘sound’ faded to a residual non-auditory hum. It sang in his bones like the merest echo of what he’d felt the times he’d gone to visit the oak tree.
The little boy twitched then let out a proper, regular sort of noise. It was a sneezing hiccup and John brought him back down to nestle, protected, in his arms. The pale blue eyes looked back at him, content and sleepy. He yawned as his eyes began to droop.
Sherlock pulled him in closer, even though their sides were already practically flush. He dropped a kiss unto the top of the blond’s head and it occurred to John that he’d struggle to recall Sherlock being quite this openly affectionate when they were out in public.
The crowd had fallen silent again, all looking at them. This time, though, they weren’t looking at the bundle in his arms. Rather, they were looking, somehow expectantly, at him.
He glanced up at Sherlock again for answers, daft though that sounded.
However, the brunet did deign to explain himself this time. Somewhat, at least.
“They know you can’t be part of what has just happened, not properly,” he offered by way of explanation. “But they want you to be part, regardless.”
“But how?” He didn’t know.
Annoyingly, though not entirely unexpectedly, Sherlock didn’t provide any sort of answer.
Right, pull yourself together, Watson. It’s not the first time you’ve been in front of a lot of people, expected to speak, and this time, there ain’t any risk of you accidentally cutting off anything that should stay on.
He unconsciously squared his shoulders and straightened his spine. Parade rest was only avoided by virtue of his arms being full.
He smiled. “Thank you,” he started, raising his voice to be more certain of being heard. Not that audibility was too difficult in the almost complete quietness around them. Then he paused.
“I don’t really know what to say here, or what to do, which is hardly new or surprising, really, but I want to say thank you to you all, at least. For coming and for helping my, no, our little son through this part as well, helping to give him the best possible start in life.”
He paused again, to gather his thoughts and be sure of what he wanted to say. “You’ve all been brilliant while I’ve been here, actually, both before and after, so absolutely brilliant to me. I am very grateful for being welcomed, for feeling welcome through it all.”
“You’re stuck with us now, Watson!” someone shouted, the person hidden in the middle of the crowd. The voice sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place it, at least not enough to be confidently shout a name back.
As if I’m not perfectly aware!” he shouted back. “Wouldn’t have it any other way, though!”
He stole a glance up at Sherlock at that and was surprised to see him looking straight back. He felt his heart skip a beat at the expression he saw there.
The gathered throng seemed to expect something else from him, something more. He had no idea what that was, however. Or perhaps…
Closing his eyes, he tried to turn his attention inwards, to the magic that seemed to simmer below, ebbing and flowing but always just out of reach for him to touch himself, despite the many times he’d attempted to in the months he’d been back, been connected to the tree.
This time, though, maybe he could. Even if it was merely a tendril. Just something that might be enough to communicate with, enough to convey –
There!
He could feel it, tenuous as a gossamer thread but tangible enough to grasp with his mind, somehow. As he did, he tried to sling it out, completely unaware of how he did it.
It didn’t feel strong at all and it would likely have failed…if not for the fact that it was grabbed by not only Sherlock, standing so close beside him, but the entirety of the gathered folklore people, throwing their own threads out anchor his.
They were connecting with him, just like they had with Sherlock and their son earlier. Well, maybe not just like but something connected, still. He let it wash over him and become part of him.
Afterwards, they all went quiet. There was still a faint hum in his bones, though, which didn’t seem to fade away. That only contrasted the silence more starkly.
At the back of his mind, he half-expected a cricket to chirp.
Someone, at the back of the crowd, started to clap. Someone else joined in almost immediately, though, and then another and another. Soon, the entire assembly was clapping, loudly and enthusiastically, people smiling and grinning.
John and Sherlock smiled back.
“Why did they wait so long for that?” John asked, the cacophony enough to ensure that only Sherlock heard him.
“For what?”
“Clapping.”
“Waiting to see what else you might do? I don’t know and frankly, right now, I don’t care much.”
“Sherlock – “
The arm around him tightened momentarily. “You’re about to collapse, John, whether you want to admit it or not. Now that things have been…sorted, for lack of a better word, you need to get some rest.”
“I’m fine, really.”
“Of course. That’s why you’ve locked your knees to keep upright.”
“That’s just soldier’s stance.”
“Right.” A momentary pause. “Who exactly do you think you’re fooling here, John?” The tone of voice was hard to identify but that was perhaps merely due to the noise level.
John sighed. Like it or not, Sherlock had a point, and he was refuting it merely for the sake of being obstinate. He’d been in labour, had delivered his very first baby, had then had to present himself, not just to some well-wishing relatives but an entire community. On top of that, he’d managed to control, however briefly and however much he’d been helped, some of the magic interlacing his very core. To be honest, he should probably have collapsed long before this point.
“Myself, mainly – and even then, I’m doing a frankly pitiful job of it.”
He got another slight squeeze for that. Affection or acknowledgement? Both? Did it matter, really?
“What do I do, then?” he said, almost under his breath, as the applause was dying down. “I don’t imagine I can just turn around and go back inside, can I? Do I wave? Bow? Curtsy?” If the last suggestion was slightly snippy, then what of it?
“Given the state of your legs, never mind you holding our son, I hardly think the last two options wise.”
That was…somewhat more civil an answer than John would’ve expected. Was Sherlock worried?
“A wave will do,” he continued. “For anything else, I will explain to them.”
“Okay.” A momentary pause. “Thank you.”
Once back inside the quiet, the mental safety of their cave, he could admit to himself that Sherlock was right and probably righter than he thought.
He managed to get himself over to their normal sleep space before he sank down, grateful that he’d had the presence of mind to get himself away somewhat from there at some point while in labour. What might have gotten on there anyway had been cleared away by the two women.
His baby boy let out an unhappy sound and John peered down to see what the problem might be.
A few moments later, he had tiny lips locked around his nipple, suckling hungrily yet at the same time, drowsily. The eyes looked alert still, but that, he suspected, was more out of obstinance than anything.
Oh, good lord. If he’s inherited just half Sherlock’s stubbornness, we’re in for a hard time.
He conveniently forgot to lump his own stubbornness, arguably worse than his partner’s, in there.
“A bit overwhelming, wasn’t it?” he said softly, doing his best to focus on the warmth the knowledge that he was able to provide for his child rather than the utter peculiarity of…not so much someone suckling on his nipple as the feeling of liquid coming out of it. “Yeah, I know. It was for me, too. But you seemed to be a hit out there, at any rate.”
The baby didn’t seem to give a damn, which was fair enough, really, considering.
When he eventually pulled off, he didn’t burp. Instead he let out what might be described as the squeak a kitten makes in lieu of a meow. Satisfied and tired, the eyes finally started to slip shut.
John was, quite frankly, a little thrown by the sound. “Wonder if you’ll ever give me a human noise,” he mused.
He felt his own eyes start to slide but fought it. He couldn’t fall asleep. Not yet. He had a responsibility now, one which he could only relinquish once Sherlock was there to take over and even then…
No, there’s no ‘even then’. He’s proven his dedication, and you’re nothing but a nagging berk of an utter arse-wipe if you continue to disbelieve him.
That was true. But that still meant he needed to wait, to…
When Sherlock walked back in, a good while later – he had to go through quite a lot of well-wishing – it was to find his blond doctor leaning against the wall of the cave, legs akimbo and head lolling to the side as he snored. Despite the otherwise completely relaxed posture, the grip he had on their sleeping child was firm and secure.
Sherlock stopped, whatever rant he’d had on his lips withering to specks of ash on them at the sight of his little family, sleeping soundly, trustingly, in his cave.
Careful not to make a noise, lest he wake them, he came the rest of the way into the cave and sat himself down, so he could look without disturbing them. He sat with his hands steepled under his chins, his elbows resting on the knees of his crossed legs, content to stay there and watch.
A sense of serenity descended upon the mostly enclosed space.
When their little one began to make noise around two hours later, he got up as quietly as possible and managed to lift him out of John’s secure grip. The blond wasn’t keen on letting go, though, not even in sleep.
“Shush, John, it’s alright. I’ve got him. It’s okay.”
Once he got him safely in his own arms, he paused, taken by the vividness of the blue eyes. The boy wasn’t done being unhappy, though, and, after checking that he wasn’t hungry, Sherlock rocked him as he moved away to a little side-passage in the cave, so that his partner wouldn’t be disturbed in his well-earned sleep.
It might also, just a tiny bit, have something to do with wanting a bit of alone time with his son, as well.
Surprisingly, it didn’t take too long for him to calm the child down, and soon they were just looking at each other, one with a look of sleepy curiosity, as though attempting to suss the mass above him, the other with one of unadulterated, besotted love.
Sherlock bent down to plant the softest, most loving, lingering kiss on the soft forehead. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice earnest. “I don’t think your…your dad would have ever come back to me if not for you, and even then…just the thought of not having you, either of you here…” The thought alone made his throat constrict tightly, his heart stutter.
Not that he meant he purely loved his child because it had given him John or vice versa. Such a notion was nothing short of ludicrous, whatever it seemed John had believed once. It was merely an added layer; the knowledge that this impossibility, this absolutely wondrous thing that hadn’t happened in living memory in this forest, which was saying quite a lot, all things considered, had indeed occurred and to him filled him with a sense of astonishment and gratefulness as well as love.
He had what he’d never thought he’d want, and he would struggle to remember feeling as…fulfilled as of this moment.
“Sherlock?” John’s voice sounded insistent, as though he’d called more than once, and slightly worried. Had quite a lot of time passed? Possibly.
“Hm?” He didn’t lift his gaze.
“You’re dripping on him, love,” the blond said, laying a hand on the crook of his partner’s arm.
“It’s not exactly the heat of summer.”
“That’s…not really what I meant.” The hand moved to run a finger over a cheek then held it right in front of pale eyes.
It was more than a little wet.
An arm slid around the slim waist of the taller man, pulling him close, carefully. John then rested his chin on a shoulder, with his cheek pressing lightly against the long neck. Sherlock hummed and
“Why do you insist on doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“Trying to manage your emotions on your own.”
“I don’t.”
“You do more times than you need to.” He got no argument this time and fell quiet for a moment. “That said, I’m glad you got a bit of time with him, on your own.”
“I’ll get plenty of time for later, too.” The implications were hardly subtle.
“Very true,” John agreed, a contented smile spreading over his face.
Another pause. “You know, we do need to agree on a name for him.”
“He won’t care for at least some time yet.”
“Not the point, you twit. I’m not going to call him ‘baby’, ‘son’ or ‘child’ for half a year or whatever time period you think it won’t matter.”
“Naming ceremonies – “
“Hold significance, yeah, I kinda figured that, ta. Everything has meaning to you lot.”
“You are part of ‘my lot’ now, too,” Sherlock pointed out, turning his head.
“Didn’t grow up here, though. I didn’t say anything about a naming ceremony, which is probably something permanent and meaningful. That reminds me, I looked your name up when browsing through names…fair haired? Of all things?”
Sherlock made a face at that. “Yes, well…I wasn’t quite this dark-haired when I was small.”
“Oh? Blond, were you?”
The answer took just a fraction too long to arrive. “Well…strawberry.”
“You mean…oh, dear lord, you were ginger, weren’t you? Proper ginger and all.” John couldn’t help it, even though he knew he ought to be quiet; he started laughing, his mental image of Sherlock as a child suddenly getting even cuter.
“That’s not funny!”
“It is!” He sobered a bit at his mate’s expression. “Sorry, Sherlock, but it is. More importantly, it’s adorable. How did it get brown, then?”
Sherlock shrugged. “I grew up.”
John didn’t believe that for a second, and not just because Sherlock was entirely too nonchalant about it for it to be remotely plausible. Why would he try and dismiss it like that, though? Probably to underplay or dismiss the underlying, real reason. But there would be really no reason to do either of those, surely? Unless…
His sudden grin seemed to nonplus the taller man, and possibly alarm him, jut the tiniest bit. “What?”
“You had it changed! On purpose, you used something to change it permanently.”
“I didn’t!”
“You did!” John was giggling lightly now. “You did it – because Mycroft’s ginger, too!”
He wasn’t quite prepared for the slightly crumbled look in the pale eyes behind the calm, unaffected façade, however.
Oh. It was because of Mycroft but not because…oh…
Gods, I’m such an enormous wanker sometimes!
He swallowed, then leaned up to plant a kiss on Sherlock’s cheek. “I’m so sorry, love, I didn’t realise. I should have, I know, but – “
“Why should you?” Sherlock asked, interrupting.
“Because I know your brother is about the only one you’ve had a directly harsh word for on a consistent basis. Oh, you’ve called plenty of people idiots, but none are you that dismissive or brutal in your comments towards. Why would that be? Unless you’ve got some particular reason to –
“I have reason to because he’s a world class berk.”
“Who left you when you weren’t ready for him to,” John countered as he held the gaze.
He got no answer to that, which somewhat confirmed his suspicion. How much older were Mycroft?” he asked, voice gentle.
“Time works different for – “
“How much older?”
“A lot. He was grown by the time I was…and Mummy wanted him to…”
“Take up his duties?” A nod, short, terse. The Adam’s apple bobbed in the long throat. “Oh, love. No wonder you…” He trailed off.
Sherlock wouldn’t appreciate being ‘analysed’ like that, and especially not by John, who couldn’t claim to have much knowledge of psychology, at least not academically, outside of what had featured in his studies. What he knew, really knew, he’d picked up along the way through real life. It wasn’t enough to categorically say one thing or another, it was probably fare more complicated and tangled than that, most family business was, and in any case, it wasn’t for him to say.
So, instead he just smiled, hoping his expression would convey things better than his words could.
It seemed to do the trick. Sherlock smiled back, a little quirk of the lips more than anything but definitely there.
“He’ll want to see him,” he said.
“Probably, yes.” In fact, hadn’t Mycroft written exactly that to John in the letter he’d sent along with the tree? Something to that effect, certainly. “That’s not really the issue, though. The question is whether or not you want your brother to see him.”
“You don’t want your sister to.”
John did his best not to bridle at that unexpected comment. It was rather a fair question, after all, all things considered, and though unexpected, it really oughtn’t have been, given that they’d been discussing Sherlock’s sibling.
“No…I don’t,” he admitted after pausing for possibly a little too long. “Those are hardly the same things. Your brother may be a pompous arse who likes to nose in on everything that isn’t any of his business, I’ll grant you that willingly. However, what he is not is an alcoholic wife-beater who’s been given far too many chances by just everyone they’ve ever known.”
He felt the bile and anger rise inside of him as he uttered the last sentence. Harry had burned so many bridges all around her, again and again. In a way, she was a sorry figure, more to be pitied than hated, with what she had brought her life to. But the thing was, it wasn’t just her own life she’d made such an effort to drag everybody down with her as she tumbled down into her very own hell.
“John…”
The anger grew even stronger. She had attempted to ruin so much of his life already, why should she be allowed anywhere near his new family? She wouldn’t understand but she would take another opportunity to belittle and demean him, and seeing him with a man on his arm, never mind the antlers, that would just about put the tin lid on the –
“John!”
“What?” he said, a snap in his voice. No, more than a snap, he realized.
Sherlock looked at him, meaningfully. More specifically, he looked into his eyes.
“She can’t hurt you now.”
“I know that!” Again, his voice was a snap, but this time, there was no mistaking the crackle. “Oh, bugger. Sorry. Sorry.”
Sherlock managed to get a hand free to cup the side of John’s neck. “Don’t ever apologize for what your sister did. Not to me. You are not to blame. Do you understand?”
John chuckled, not much humour in it. “That’s a bit rich, all things considered, don’t you think?”
"Doesn’t make it less true.”
The doctor had to concede the point. “We’re a right pair, aren’t we?”
A smile ghosted across cupid bow lips. “We are but we’re hardly foolish.”
“I don’t know about that – and don’t say anything along the lines of ‘at least I’m not’ or something similar, you hear?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Sherlock paused as he handed over their little son to his mate. “Rowan.”
“You what? What has a tree got to do with anything all of a sudden?”
“His name. You wanted a name for him. Rowan. Perfectly regular name, but also a symbol of balance, power and healing. Perfect, really, wouldn’t you say?” He had the cheek to look slightly smug.
“Why not some of the other Celtic symbolism trees, then? Going by date of birth, he ought to be named Ash. Rowan was only until the seventh.”
The brunet blinked. “You’ve studied it.”
“Yeah, of course I have. You’re not the only one who likes knowing things, you know. So, why not Ash? That’s associated with healing, too, and thought to be the guardian of children, among other things – and it’s a normal boy’s name, too. Seems just as perfect as Rowan, at any rate.”
“I don’t like the name,” Sherlock said simply, dismissively, as if there was nothing more that needed to be said about it. That wasn’t going to fly, which was plainly evident on the doctor’s unamused face. “I…it’s associated with the connection between the earth and the sky.”
“So? That’s a good thing, I would think.”
Sherlock levelled a must-you-be-this-stupid look at him. “The earth does not purely encompass what’s on its surface, John, keep up.”
It took only a moment for it to click. “Oh…oh, right, I see.”
He had to close his eyes against the images that conjured up, though he managed to banish them again. “No, okay, that…no. Definitely not Ash, then. What about any of the other names we discussed? Or rather, the ones I suggested, and you turned down. You can’t just pick a name out of the blue and make it sound like it’s already been decided. Which, I’ll tell you right now, it’s not.”
“I don’t see what’s wrong with Rowan.”
“I don’t see what’s wrong with any of the other names that you refused point black, either.”
I just explained why.”
John snorted. “No, you didn’t. You gave me a bunch of things associated with the name, that’s not the same thing.”
“It…isn’t far off. I told you, names have meaning, and they go beyond just the one that has carried over for humans. Tree names in particular, as you know, has significance to us.”
Then why didn’t you suggest it earlier? We’ve argued about it often enough, and none of the names I recall you picking was remotely topiary.”
“I only just thought of it.”
“Why do I not even remotely believe that?”
“You have a suspicious mind, John. How you ever worked as a doctor is beyond me.”
“Oi, ta for that. I’m a good doctor and you’ve had use of my skills plenty of times.”
He took a moment to concentrate on rocking a mewling baby back to slumber. “Rowan? Really?” A nod. “Hm. Could be worse, I suppose. I seem to recall ‘Finian’ and ‘Kavon’ among your suggestions. What’s the meaning that’s carried over to regular humans?”
He didn’t even want to bother with the argument. They were regular humans to him as well, now, really.
“Little red one.”
“Makes sense, given the berry and all…oh. You think he’s going to turn out ginger, too?”
Sherlock didn’t answer that. Then again, did he have to?
The thought of that, an antlered toddler with a shock of hair even redder than Demelza’s, sent a pang of something through the blond and he began to smile, quite involuntarily.
John turned his gaze back to the sleeping child. “How about it, hey? Rowan? Ro? Yeah, that’s not bad, I suppose.”
“There are always the options of using either the Gaelic version, Caorann, or the old Celtic one, Kair, if you prefer.”
“Caorann…” John said, considering it. “Fits in better with your name, at any rate.”
A sudden spark twinkled in his blue eyes. “Alright. We can call him Rowan or Caorann or whatever. On one condition.”
“Condition?” Sherlock echoed, unconsciously drawing himself up a bit. One would’ve thought he’d gotten used to being challenged a bit. “And what condition would that be, exactly?”
“That he gets a second name. It’s not like he’s getting a surname or anything, so it won’t matter much. I’m thinking Shaun sounds good, how about you?”
“But…Shaun is just another variant of John.”
“I know it is.”
The taller man looked at him as though he’d just declared something incomprehensible. “You’re not that self-centred.”
“No, I’m not. What, are you saying you can’t work it out?”
It was possibly a bit low, goading like that. But it was mainly just a harmless bit of payback and when it seemed to work, he wasn’t about to complain.
“I don’t know the meaning of every name in the world, John.”
“You knew that Shaun was a variant and what, you don’t know the meaning of my name?” He waited a moment, a slightly cheeky smile on his face. “Fine. I’ll tell you. It’s ‘god has been gracious’. Seems fitting, considering who and what you are. What your parents are.” A pause, for emphasis on the last part, the most important part. “What he will be.”
The implications sank in, blooming slowly like a drop of milk unfurling in a cup of black tea.
“John.” That single word, his name, conveying so very much.
The smile changed from cheeky to loving. “It’s true, though, innit?” he asked, though it wasn’t really a question. He got an answering smile.
How about you join Ro and me for some cuddling under the blankets? You can bring the violin, if you like.”
Before he could move away, though, John felt a hand grab his elbow. He turned back and waited for Sherlock to explain.
It took a few moments before he said anything. “No regrets?” was what he finally asked, his voice ever so quiet.
“None,” John answered, with feeling. “Ever.”
He grabbed the hand at his elbow. “There’s nowhere else I would rather be than with my family. The family I chose and the one I love.”
Sherlock followed willingly when John tugged at his hand. He also managed to grab the violin on the way and settled it under his chin, ready for play, as the doctor settled with their boy.
He really needed to insist that someone went and got some proper baby supplies. Like a cot instead of the nest of who-only-knew-what that’d been gathered. Nappies was another one. Lots of things, really, that still needed sorting.
For now, though, things were just perfect, and he was going to enjoy the moment. He closed his eyes.
“Next time, I hope we have a girl. Or two, maybe.”
Epilogue
They made a chair for John. Traditionally, it was made for use only at the major celebrations, but an exception was made, agreed upon by everyone without anyone consulting John, which he couldn’t even claim surprise at, in hindsight.
It arrived not long after John had felt…not so much strong enough to venture out as not too busy to do so, what with looking after a baby who was quite determined to spend as little time as possible sleeping.
Sherlock helped, of course, quite a bit, but for the first few weeks, the blond didn’t see much of the outside world, apart from who and what decided to ‘pop in’ to see him. He now had a much better understanding of why his mother had always looked so tired at that expression.
One day, though, just after he’d managed to get little Ro to sleep after two hours of trying, there was a shout, unintelligible, outside the cave.
Annoyed at whoever had the nerve to make unnecessary noise when he had finally gotten his boy to kip, John had made his way to the entrance.
As he got there, he unconsciously crossed his arms over his chest, placing them so that he didn’t touch his sore nipples. “What’s the big…idea…”
He trailed off as he took in what was in front of him.
“Like the look of it, do you?” said a familiar voice. Out from behind the chair stepped an equally familiar person.
“I thought you people only worked in metal.”
Sindre grinned. “Only what we’re most famous for. Not the same thing. Besides, you never heard of Snow White?”
“I thought I wasn’t to give any credence to such fairy tales,” John shot back, raising an eyebrow, “though I can’t really say I remember the part of the story where they carve her a chair.”
“Not a chair, a bed. But we all agreed that this was better, in the circumstances.”
“That’s…is that an Eisteddfod chair?” John asked. He could vaguely recall Sherlock sitting in a high-backed chair at the summer solstice and he thought he’d mentally classified it as such.
This looked very much like it, and yet…
The chair was made of what looked like oak, its feet resembling the base of trees, roots and all. Its back was unusually high but broad enough to support the blond’s back and more, topped with the crown of a tree and knobs that resembled acorns, while the armrests curled with the foliage that covered them.
Though that wasn’t the end of the carvings, it was where the tree motifs stopped. It wasn’t overly embroidered as some tourist bric-a-brac from the Black Forest, however, thankfully. Instead it was confined to the back where a stag’s face, complete with antlers, with a single flower and catkin on them, stared back at him, the strands of its throat fur transitioning into a gun and what looked like an asklepian.
There were bare areas left under and around these things. They left the impression that they were not bare by accident but had been deliberately left so to fill in at a later time.
John was only aware that he had moved right up to it when he registered the smooth ridges of the carved wood sliding under his fingers. The wood thrummed in response to his touch.
“You like it, then?”
“I…yes. I do. Very much. It’s quite…” He trailed off as his fingers trailed over the carved asklepian.
“Personal? Oh, yes. That’s the idea, really. Each is made to the specific person that gets it.”
“I haven’t exactly won any poetry competition, though.”
“No, and this isn’t Ireland.”
“But it is the king sitting under oak leaves. Well, sort of.”
“Queen, anyway,” Sindre agreed, which made John do a bit of a doubletake. “What? You’re married, even if you’re still holding out on a proper ceremony. You can hardly be the prince, as that’s the boy sleeping in there, and you cannot have two kings ruling together.”
“Why not?”
“A point.”
There was a pause. Then the blond sighed, heavily. “You’re all referring to me as ‘queen’ already, aren’t you?”
“Most of the time, yes.” The dwarf had the decency to be upfront and honest about it. “If it’s any consolation, it comes with a few privileges and is meant as a badge of honour.”
“It’s not, really, but thank you.” Another pause. “Why bring this chair now, though? We’re past spring equinox, so I can’t see the rush for you to present it to me now rather than at the next celebration.”
The beard parted to indicate Sindre was grinning. “A privilege.”
“You mean – I get to use it whenever I feel like it?” God, that would do wonders for his back.
“Custom and tradition would say you have to be visible, but yes.”
John was about to complain but then he took time to think. So, instead he smiled, a spark lighting in his eyes. “If I’m indeed ‘queen’, then I have the right to alter customs, don’t I?”
He got an answering twinkle from the dwarf. “Oh, aye, lad. Among other things.”
The following Midsummer Eve found the denizens of the forest once again dancing around the most enormous bonfire, though this time, without any human participants.
Neither of their rulers were taking part, either. Sherlock hadn’t deigned to give an explanation and John felt he could justly be excused from participating.
Not that little Ro probably couldn’t have been looked after by someone, possibly Mrs. Hudson. The notion that he could sleep that long was ludicrous.
But John wanted to be there himself, and more importantly, he wanted his son to be there. This solstice in particular was special, to him at least, for several reasons, and so he had brought him, settling them both into his Eisteddfod chair that had swiftly become his favourite piece of furniture, apart from the carved cot another dwarf had brought the same day.
From his cocoon nestled in the doctor’s arms, the blue eyes were watching the proceedings with rapt attention that ought to be a little disconcerting in such a young child, but which John had come to terms with as just being his little boy very quickly.
Sherlock leaned over from where he was more or less sprawled across his own chair. “I can take him for a bit, if you want to join them,” he said with a nod towards the dancers.
“Hm? Oh. No, that’s alright.” He realized what he’d said and felt like kicking himself. “You’re always free to take him, Sherlock, you know, regardless of…I don’t hold exclusive rights on him.”
“No, if he’s comfortable – “
John grumbled and, deftly, rose halfway up to carefully slide the baby boy over in long arms, which cradled the child instinctively.
“There,” he said, sitting back. “Have some quality time with your son. Take advantage of the time he’s the only you’re going to have to worry about.”
As he settled back, his hand found his abdomen, rubbing absently. “I can’t believe you…I said we had to wait.”
“How was I to know?” Sherlock said, his head bent as he played with their son, who made pleased little mews in reply. That shielded his expression from John, but he sounded far too innocent to be believed.
“Oh, piss off. You knew perfectly well, you twat. I’ve half a mind to keep you away from me afterwards, just to get a bit of rest.”
Sherlock’s head snapped up sharply at that and though he tried to hide his expression, John could discern it perfectly well, even in the shadows.
“I was kidding, Sherlock. I wouldn’t. You know that. It’s just…managing one’s going to be tricky enough as it is.”
“We’ve done well so far, though, haven’t we?”
“That we have, love.”
The brunet shifted to have an arm free. He then reached for John’s by this point proud set of antlers, where a few blossoms had sprouted. He plucked one and then brought it down for the blond to see.
“What, again?” John exclaimed with a frown. “First a willow catkin, now actual ruddy flowers? Why do they do that? You never did explain.”
“Surge of magic, indication of the bloom of life.”
“Why wasn’t I flowering all throughout my pregnancy, then?”
“Particularly strong surge of magic, John. What time of year is it?”
“Alright, fair point.” The magic really was overwhelming tonight. No wonder that he’d been bowled over the last time. Both metaphorically and somewhat more literally.
Oh. Right.
John grabbed the hand holding the flower and interlaced their fingers. He smiled at the puzzled reaction he got. Rather than say anything straight away, he stretched and captured the cupid bow lips in a soft, loving kiss.
Once they parted, he looked at his partner, eyes shining, with love and sudden moisture.
“Happy anniversary, Sherlock.”
There was no hesitation whatsoever. “Happy anniversary, John.”
THE END