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Thirty-five weeks.
They'd made it thirty-five amazing, terrifying weeks.
William sat on the edge of the exam table, leaning heavily onto Sherlock’s shoulder. Their fingers twined in his lap, Sherlock rubbing small circles into his partner's pale hand.
They'd made it through excitement and exhaustion, cravings and mood swings. Through William’s clothing crisis and the sadness of having to step back from teaching earlier than expected.
And now...
"Your body is working overtime," the doctor told them gently. "Given the severe lethargy and worsening iron levels, I'm recommending an early C-section.”
A wounded sound escaped William’s throat and Sherlock clutched his hand tighter.
“Are you sure we can't give her more time?” William asked. Sherlock could see his eyes growing wet.
The doctor sighed, “Giving her more time would put you at risk, but looking at your scan, Baby is progressing beautifully.” They smiled softly. “She's strong and healthy. No promises, but she might not even need a NICU stay.”
William still looked troubled, the dark smudges under his eyes deepening further.
“Liam, love.” Sherlock drew his attention, voice low. “You've done so much to get her here. But you can't bring her into the world if your body gives out.”
His partner deflated, wilting into his arms. He could feel the damp spot forming on his shirt from William’s tears. Sherlock held him there, nose pressed into blond hair that still smelled of citrus shampoo.
“I just—I want to give her the best chance.”
“Thirty-five weeks is already incredible, Liam.” He tightened his arms around William, kissing the man's temple. “Greeting her a little early means you’ll be healthy—you'll be there for her. She needs you, Liam…”
His words shook with his breath.
“I need you…”
William’s fingers curled further into his shirt before he pulled back, letting go and wiping the tears from his cheeks with trembling hands.
“Yes—yes, you're right, of course.” He said, taking a centering breath. “Apologies, I didn’t mean to lose my composure like that.”
“You're pregnant. It's allowed.”
William turned back to the doctor. “Alright. Let's do it.”
The delivery was scheduled for two days later.
Two more days of William struggling to stay awake.
Two more days of him walking around dazed and unfocused.
Two more days of Sherlock’s constant presence, trying to keep him safe and comfortable.
Sherlock would never say he regretted their daughter, but the way this pregnancy had stolen so much from the man he loved…
He was relieved when they finally left for the hospital.
Less so, when they started hooking William up to lines and cords, but he knew it was necessary.
William’s hand shook as he signed the paperwork. Sherlock wanted to hold it and never let go.
He followed as they wheeled William out of prep, gripping his cold hand until the nurses stopped him outside a set of double doors.
“Just a moment, sir. We need to place the spinal first.”
The doors swung closed behind them, leaving Sherlock alone in the hallway.
He paced.
Sat.
Stood again.
Every minute stretched thin and fragile, his eyes flicking constantly to the clock on the wall.
It felt like hours before a nurse finally stepped back through the doors.
“Mr. Holmes? You can come in now.”
The operating room was blindingly bright.
Sherlock blinked as he stepped inside, the overhead surgical lights glaring down in stark white circles. The sharp scent of antiseptic stung the back of his throat, clean and almost metallic.
Machines hummed softly around the room. A monitor gave a steady, rhythmic beeping, each sound somehow louder in the sterile quiet.
William lay on the operating table beneath a canopy of blue drapes, the rest of the surgical team already moving around him with calm efficiency.
Sherlock’s breath caught.
His Liam looked… small.
The hospital gown had been pulled aside and replaced with sterile coverings. A broad blue curtain stretched across William’s chest, shielding the lower half of his body from view. Clear tubing ran from the IV in his arm, disappearing into hanging bags of fluid.
Adhesive monitors dotted his skin, thin wires trailing toward the machines that sang their steady electronic rhythm.
William’s hair had been tucked beneath a soft surgical cap, though several strands of blond had escaped and stuck damply to his temples. His skin looked almost translucent beneath the bright lights, the faint shadows beneath his eyes darker than Sherlock had ever seen them.
But his eyes were open.
They found Sherlock immediately.
“Sherly.”
The nurse that had guided him in gave his arm a reassuring squeeze.
“Keep him comfy for us, okay?” she said with a small smile, gesturing toward the stool beside William’s head.
Sherlock nodded and moved to sit, the metal legs scraping softly against the floor.
“Hey,” he said quietly.
“Hi…” William breathed, his eyes slipping closed for a moment as if the effort of keeping them open was simply too much.
“How are you feeling?”
“Numb from the chest down.”
Sherlock huffed a small laugh, brushing a lock of hair away from his eyes. “I hear that's supposed to happen.”
A faint smile tugged at William’s lips. He lifted his hand weakly for Sherlock to take.
Sherlock threaded their fingers together immediately, careful of the IV taped to William’s wrist.
“Still numb?” The anesthesiologist asked.
“Mhm.”
“Good. Let us know if you feel any sharp pain.”
Sherlock squeezed his hand, watching his eyelids flutter shut once more. “Don't fall asleep, Liam—you have to be awake to greet her.”
“Mm…” William hummed softly. “Trying…”
“Are we ready?” called the lead surgeon from behind the drape.
An echo of Readys followed from around the room.
A nurse glanced down at the chart in her hands.
“Patient William J. Moriarty,” she read off, “thirty-five week cesarean delivery.”
The surgeon’s voice came again, calm and steady. “Alright. Let’s meet your daughter.”
Sherlock could see none of it from behind the curtain, only the steady rise and fall of William’s shoulders beneath the hospital blanket.
Metal instruments clinked softly somewhere beyond the barrier. The air smelled faintly sterile—sharp antiseptic and warm plastic.
“Pressure starting,” the anesthesiologist warned gently.
William’s brow furrowed.
“Just pressure,” they reminded him. “No pain.”
Sherlock leaned closer immediately.
“I’m right here,” he murmured.
William nodded faintly, eyes half-lidded from exhaustion.
The room filled with quiet, efficient movement. Time seemed to compress, and everything progressed rapidly.
“Suction.”
“Retractor.”
“Almost there.”
Sherlock felt William’s fingers tighten weakly around his.
William let out a noise of discomfort.
“You're doing great, Liam,” he whispered softly, close to William's ear.
“There she is.”
A wet gasp broke through, a cry following—loud and furious.
The surgeon lifted her over the curtain and Sherlock’s breath caught.
There she was, skin rosy—a head full of dark hair, mouth open wide as she continued to scream.
“Look, Liam.”
Tears trickled sluggishly down William’s temples as he squinted his eyes open, seeing their daughter in the flesh.
“She's here…”
“Clamp. Watch BP.” The surgeon set back to work, their baby going back behind the barrier.
Sherlock squeezed William’s hand. “You did it. She's finally here…”
“Delivering the placenta.”
William managed a weak squeeze to Sherlock’s fingers before his grip started to slacken. Sherlock looked down at him—lashes fluttering, head slowly tilting.
“More suction,” the surgeon called sharply.
“Liam—hey, look at me, love.”
“BP dropping—ninety over sixty.”
Sherlock could hear their baby girl wailing somewhere on the other side of the room, fierce cries that punctuated the sudden change of tone.
But his Liam…
“Pressure seventy.”
“Stay with me, love—I need you here with me.” He gripped William’s hand tighter.
“Sh-Sherly…”
“Uterine atony.”
“Another unit of blood.”
William’s face was ashen, lips paling as his head lolled to the side.
His eyes fell shut.
“Push ephedrine.”
Sherlock’s free hand found William’s cheek, clammy from the sweat starting to bead there.
“Liam—Liam, you have to wake up, love.”
A nurse came up behind him, setting a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Sir, I need you to step back.”
He shook his head. “No—but Liam—”
“We’re doing everything we can,” she told him firmly, “but we need the space to work.”
She pulled him gently to the side, William’s cool fingers slipping from his grasp.
“Massage the uterus.”
The anesthesiologist rattled off more numbers, their voice calm but serious as they moved around William. The surgeon’s head was lowered in concentration, only coming up to switch tools.
Another nurse made their way over, a small wrapped bundle crying quietly in their arms, but Sherlock couldn't tear his eyes from his Liam.
Their baby was safe and healthy.
Liam was not.
“Go ahead and take her to the warmer,” the nurse at his side told the other.
It was all wrong.
“Fifty-five.”
None of this was supposed to happen.
“Still bleeding.”
“Suction.”
The pace picked up, everyone moving just a little faster.
Sherlock stepped forward, unbidden, fists clenched at his sides. He needed to be there—to hold him.
His head was spinning.
The nurse grabbed his arm. “Let's get you out of here.”
No.
“Liam—”
“—Will need you steady. Come.”
He let himself be guided out of the operating theater, the sharp voices of the medical team still sounding off behind him. The sight of William—pale and fragile laying on that table—burned into his memory.
Later, when he looks back on this moment, Sherlock won't remember the gentle nurse that sat him down onto the squeaky pleather cushion of a waiting room chair—nor will he remember the paper cup of water pressed into his shaking hand as his vision went dark around the edges.
No, there was only one coherent thought running desperate circles in his head.
Liam.
Sherlock collapsed forward, his elbows landing on his knees. His breathing was quick—too quick. The sounds around him started to become muffled, barely registering.
A splash of cool liquid over his fingers startled him from his panic. The paper cup the nurse had given him was crushed in his fist. Water dripped to the floor.
“Breathe, hon.” A hand dropped to his shoulder, squeezing just hard enough to gain his attention. “Deep breath for me now.”
It was the nurse from earlier, looking down at him with kind, concerned eyes.
He tried. Tried to suck more air in his lungs, but it was as if he'd left that ability in the operating theater.
With William.
“You've got this,” she told him. “In for four.”
His whole body shook as he forced his breathing to slow, taking a deep, shuddering breath.
“Good, now hold.”
Hold. He needed to hold William.
“And exhale slowly.”
He blew a long breath through pursed lips.
The nurse gently pried the crushed paper cup from his fist. “One more time, okay? I'm going to get you more water to drink.”
She stepped away, leaving Sherlock to gather himself alone.
He inhaled slowly again, running his fingers through his dark hair.
God, he was a mess. He needed to get a grip. Being an utter wreck wouldn't help William. He needed Sherlock to be steady—not falling apart.
He exhaled shakily, vision clearing and the sounds of the hospital creeping back in.
Footsteps echoing in the halls, doors swinging open. A voice over an intercom. The soft cries of an infant.
His baby…
Footsteps approached—the nurse, carrying another cup of water.
“How are we doing?” she asked.
Sherlock didn’t answer right away, his gaze shifting around her to peer at the doors of the OR.
“Ah.” The nurse nodded in understanding, holding out the cup for him to take. “I know this is hard. You want to protect him, but this isn't something you're able to fight.”
He took the water and downed half of it in one go.
“Will he be okay…?” His voice sounded small, wrecked even to his own ears.
She hummed softly, mouth turning down in a thoughtful frown. “We can't ever be certain in this field.” She paused to look him in the eye. “But our doctors have successfully dealt with similar situations a hundred times over. So please have hope.”
He leaned back in the chair, chin tilting up toward the ceiling. He was thankful when the nurse didn't comment on his wet cheeks.
The rumble of wheels on tile drew his attention.
“Oh, look who's here,” the nurse said.
Another staff member approached, pushing a hospital issue bassinet.
“Here we are, Dad. Very strong for being a few weeks early.”
Sherlock’s mouth went dry and he took another sip of water.
The nurse at his side smiled. “Do you want help holding her?”
“I—” he cleared his throat and tried again. “I can't right now…”
She nodded and squeezed his arm in reassurance. “Don't give up that hope.”
They left him alone with his little girl.
Sherlock glanced into the bassinet.
There she was—so small. She'd been swaddled in a soft cream blanket, a tiny purple hat covering the dark hair he'd seen before. She was sleeping soundly. He could hear her soft puffs of breath.
He looked closely at her face. The shape of her nose, her little mouth, the upturn of her eyes he could only just see with them closed.
She looked so much like Liam…
The OR doors swung open, his gaze snapping over to them.
A nurse walked out with a clipboard in her hands.
His fingers curled around the edge of the bassinet as she walked past him and down the hall.
Not for him.
Sherlock’s grip on the bassinet tightened. Slowly—as if the strength had left him all at once—he bowed forward, pressing his forehead to the edge of it, eyes closing.
“Come on…” he whispered hoarsely. “I can't do this alone.”
The baby let out a soft noise, something between a sigh and a hiccup.
Sherlock bit his lip, a tear slipping free and falling silently to the floor.
“Damn it…”
“Mr. Holmes?”
He jolted to his feet in an instant, the bassinet rocking as he stood.
It was one of the medical team that was with William.
“How is he?”
“William experienced a postpartum hemorrhage caused by uterine atony. It’s a complication we sometimes see after delivery,” the doctor explained. “We were able to stop the bleeding and he’s responding to treatment.”
Sherlock nearly sagged where he stood.
“He’s stable, but we’re keeping a close eye on him while he recovers from the blood loss.”
“Thank you.”
The doctor smiled warmly.
“You’ll be able to see him soon. We’re moving him to recovery now.”
He thanked the doctor once more before they walked away.
His knees still felt unsteady, but his heart was soaring.
He turned back to his baby girl, her eyes squinted open from the commotion.
Blue eyes.
His coloring—William's beauty.
“Oh, did you hear that, my love?” He bent down and carefully gathered her to his chest, supporting her head and neck. “He's going to be alright…”
Her tiny mouth stretched open in a yawn.
Sherlock sat beside the hospital bed, shirt pulled open, their daughter tucked against his bare chest beneath a soft blanket.
Her tiny breaths warmed his skin.
One of his hands supported her small back.
The other remained wrapped tightly around William’s fingers.
His skin had warmed slightly, though he was still pale. A small bit of pink had started to stain his cheeks again.
The baby cooed softly, her little arms wriggling under the blanket.
Sherlock couldn’t help melting into the quiet connection. He dropped his nose into her downy hair, taking in the clean, faintly sweet scent before pressing a kiss to her forehead.
She let out another sound in response—tiny, adorable.
The hand in his tightened minutely. Sherlock’s attention shifted at once.
William’s eyes were open.
Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat.
He almost rushed forward before remembering the precious cargo tucked against him.
“Liam.” He leaned closer carefully, holding their daughter against his chest without releasing William’s hand.
“Sherly…” William trailed, voice hoarse. “You look a mess…”
Sherlock exhaled, the sound bordering on a hysterical laugh.
“Sherly.”
Before he could reply, the baby let out a snuffling sound. Sherlock could feel her mouth searching him, her little gums finding his collarbone.
“Oh—” William looked more alert now, though still groggy, eyes glued to the small form Sherlock was holding. “How is she?”
“Perfect,” the word escaped him without thought. “Hungry.”
William hummed, wincing as he moved to sit up.
“Let me help you,” Sherlock said, rising quickly to his feet and setting their daughter back in her bassinet.
Her face screwed up in protest.
“Just a moment, my dear,” he murmured.
Sherlock turned back to him quickly, one hand already reaching for the controls at the side of the bed.
“Easy,” he said softly as the mattress began to rise.
William let out a quiet breath through his nose, bracing a hand against the sheets as he pushed himself upright. The motion made him pause, eyes closing briefly.
Sherlock was there immediately, an arm sliding behind his shoulders to steady him.
“I've got you.”
William leaned into him more than he normally would, still pale, still recovering, but determined.
And the moment Sherlock felt his full weight there—warm, alive, breathing—something inside him finally gave way.
His arms tightened instinctively, pulling William closer as if he needed the proof—needed to feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing.
William’s hand lifted weakly, fingers brushing Sherlock’s sleeve.
“Sherly?”
“I thought I lost you…”
William’s brow creased faintly.
“It was that bad…?”
Sherlock hesitated a moment before replying, “You hemorrhaged. They made me leave you.”
William went very still.
The color drained from his face even further, his expression crumpling in a way Sherlock had rarely seen on him.
“I’m sorry…” The words came out rough and small. “If I had just been stronger—”
“No.” Sherlock’s voice came out harsher than he meant it to.
He shook his head, pressing closer as if he could force the thought out of William entirely.
“You're not allowed to apologize for that. It was a complication,” he said, quieter now. “One they knew how to treat.”
His lips met William’s temple.
“You didn’t do anything wrong, Liam. None of it was your fault.”
William’s fingers tightened faintly in his sleeve, as if holding onto the words, though the tension didn’t fully leave his face.
Then a soft, insistent sound broke through it.
Both of them stilled.
The baby shifted in the bassinet, a small whine building into something more purposeful.
“It seems we are being summoned.” Sherlock gave him one more squeeze before pulling away to retrieve their daughter.
“Welcome to parenthood,” William said dryly.
“Do you want me to call for a nurse?” Sherlock asked.
William answered with a small scowl twisting his lips. “No. I can get it myself.”
He carefully untied his gown, wincing only slightly at the movement, before holding his arms out for their daughter.
“Time to put these things to the only use they're good for,” he grumbled lightly.
“Oh, I don't know. I've grown quite attached to them.”
“Sherly.”
“A joke. I'm only joking,” Sherlock said quickly before lifting an eyebrow. “Unless—”
“Sherlock.”
“Yes, yes. Here you are.” He settled the baby gently into William’s arms.
William paused as she wiggled softly in the cradle of his arms, unable to take his eyes off her.
“Hello, Emma,” he said softly.
Sherlock smiled.
The baby gave a small snuffle in response, her face turning instinctively toward him.
“Impatient—just like your dad, aren't you?”
He lifted Emma into position. Sherlock watched her search, nuzzling blindly against William's chest.
Sherlock remembered when the tissue there had started to grow—how William had been distressed, not by the change itself, but what it might imply. He had never wanted to be seen as something he wasn’t.
There really wasn't much there, just enough to fulfill their purpose. William had been grateful for the small mercy.
Sherlock loved every version of him.
“You can do it, darling,” William coaxed.
It was only another moment before she found her target.
William sucked in a quiet breath, his shoulders tensing. Sherlock could see his legs shift under the hospital blanket.
“Ah—” he exhaled softly, more startled than anything, his brow knitting for just a moment.
“Painful?” Sherlock asked, settling heavily on the edge of the bed beside them.
“No, just… different.”
The tension eased from his shoulders by degrees, his hand loosening, his thumb coming up to brush lightly over the small curve of Emma’s back as if to steady them both.
Emma gave a few small, insistent squeaks, her movements stilling as they turned rhythmic—content, focused.
Sherlock watched the two of them, resting his hand lightly over Emma’s small head. Something quiet and steady took root in his chest where panic had lived not long ago.
Nothing had gone the way it was supposed to.
But William was here.
Their daughter was here.
And that?
That was enough for Sherlock.