Sherlock Holmes- A Study in Blood

Chapter 15

Pipe.  He needed his pipe.

Not knowing what was going on with Irene was driving him to the brink of insanity.  Closer than he usually trod, at any rate.  With shaking hands, he lit the tobacco, drawing in and releasing a stream of white smoke.  It did little to soothe his nerves.  Terrible thoughts plagued his sharp mind.  Each time he closed his eyes he saw Irene's beautiful face twisted in pain.  A strangled cry came from his bedchambers.  The sudden, sharp sting of unbidden tears burned his eyes, and he began to pace.  What if something happened to her?  He couldn't lose her.  Not again.  This time, it would surely kill him.

He continued to pace, furiously puffing on his pipe.  A chill began to seep into his bones and he knelt to start a fire, if only to have something to do.  Once the warmth began to fill the room, Holmes resumed pacing.  He'd likely wear a hole in the rug.  He was desperate to be with his wife.  Although, he reminded himself that even if he were, there was little he could do to help her, which was not much of a consolation at the moment.  He simply had to trust Watson.  Which he did.  With his, and more importantly, Irene's life.

Holmes spun round on his heel when Watson finally emerged from the bedroom, his face very grave indeed.  Holmes swallowed convulsively, placing his pipe on the mantle.  "Well?"

The doctor met his friend's gaze and nodded solemnly, as if the weight of the world were on his shoulders.  "She'll be alright."

Relief crashed over Holmes, nearly bringing him to his knees with the force of it.  He briefly closed his eyes, breathing deeply and allowing himself a moment to revel in the joyous knowledge that he would not be facing a long and lonely life without Irene by his side.  However, upon opening his eyes once again, and realizing Watson's expression was no less grave, he frowned.  "There's something else you're not telling me."

Both men stood in agonizing silence, and Watson was scarcely able to meet his gaze.

"John?"

It was with a deep sigh that Watson spoke, "Holmes, she was...  Irene was with child."

The detective raised a questioning eyebrow, "Was?"

"I'm afraid so," Watson endeavored to explain as gently as possible.  "Her body was too weak.  Too ravaged by her battle with tuberculosis.   I'm sorry, Holmes.  I'm afraid Irene will never be able to bear children."

Trembling hands clenched into fists, Holmes' nails bit into the calloused flesh of his palms.  His chest heaved as anger, hot and all consuming, coursed through his veins.  A terrible, heartbreaking shout ripped from his throat as he overturned a low table, it's contents scattering across the floor.  The shout became a tortured sob as Holmes sank down into his chair, burying his face in his hands.

Mary's cry echoed throughout the flat, and though he was loathe to leave his friend, Watson quickly went to tend to his daughter.

When he returned from coaxing the little girl back to sleep, Holmes was still seated in his chair, his head still cradled in his hands.  "It's his fault.  He nearly killed her and now..." he broke off, choking back another sob.

Watson sat down heavily in his own chair across from Holmes, nodding in patient understanding.  After examining Irene, there was no doubt in his mind it was Moriarty's poison that caused her frail state and robbed her forever of the joys of motherhood.

"I never wanted children, John," Holmes admitted in a rare moment of sincerity, "not until dear little Mary entered our lives.  And now to have my own child snatched so cruelly from me... all prospects of fatherhood gone..."

"I am sorry, Sherlock.  Truly.  You would have made an excellent father.  After all, you were the only father Mary knew for the first few months of her life.  Lord knows what would've happened to her, or to me, if not for you.  I know your pain, old friend.  Perhaps not exactly, for while I was fortunate enough to keep my precious daughter, I did lose my wife.   In a way, I share your grief.  It is never easy to lose something that means so much to you."

Hands steepled just beneath his nose, Holmes appeared to be lost in thought, until at last he said, "I once thought I'd lost Irene.  To have her with me now as my wife... that alone is far more than I deserve."

Reaching out to his friend, Watson placed his hand on Holmes' shoulder, giving it a comforting squeeze.  "Go to her.  She'll need you now."

"No, dearest Watson.  It is I who need her."

~*~*~

Holmes eased open the bedroom door and closed it softly behind him.  Irene was once again lying on her side, her ocean colored eyes staring listlessly out the window.  His stocking clad feet padded across the wooden floor and he climbed into bed beside her.  Holmes wrapped his arms around his wife, pulling her close so her back was pressed flush against his chest.

"He told you?"

Resting his head in the delicate curve of her neck, he nodded.  "Yes."

"I'm sorry, Sherlock."

"Oh, my dearest darling," he sighed, pressing a kiss to her shoulder, "there is no need to apologize."  His hand found hers, lightly tracing his fingers over her wedding ring.  "You have already given me everything I could ever ask for."  Irene rolled over in his arms so she was facing him.  Holmes brushed a few tears from her eyes and placed a tender kiss to his lips.  "I love you with all that I am."

A small smile alighted her breathtaking features.  "And I love you."

He kissed her again.  They were quiet for a moment, wrapped in each others arms and their own thoughts when Irene suddenly said, "He deserves a name.  He wasn't here long, but he was ours."

"It was a boy?"

Irene nodded, giving him a small smile.

Holmes sighed and leaned his forehead against hers.  "I could not agree with you more, my darling," he whispered, a sadness creeping into his heart he knew he would carry with him for the rest of his days.  But his wife was right.  Giving their child a name would help ease the pain.  "What is his name then?"

"Hamish," she said, her tears glistening like diamonds in the moonlight.  "Hamish Mycroft Holmes."

"A most appropriate, distinguished name for our boy."

Tightening his arms around her, Holmes tucked her head beneath his chin.  She buried her face against his chest, and he felt a few hot tears soak through his nightshirt.  He placed a kiss to the top of her head and began to stroke her hair until she finally drifted off to sleep.

~*~*~

Watson sat up in the parlor, knowing he'd not be able to sleep tonight.  Puffing on his pipe, his thoughts drifted to his own daughter, all tucked in nice and warm in the next room.  Though he missed his wife dearly, what Holmes had said was true.  To have his daughter with him now was far more than he deserved.

It was then he felt something wet on his upper lip.  Setting his pipe down, he pulled his hand away to see blood on his fingers.   A nose bleed then.  The second one of the day.  Brilliant.  Pressing a handkerchief to his nose, he leaned back in his chair, settling in for what he anticipated would be a long night.