Another slight deviation from the meme - I hope you all like it! Little bit of background…I am doing my dissertation on midwives, so am kind of interested in the subject. To be honest, am missing it now the dissertation has finished…

Midwife

If it had been anyone else but Sherlock Holmes, they would have seen it coming. Alone in his newly acquired rented accommodation at 221B Baker Street, his landlady out with a friend, and his flatmate out for a walk, he had admitted his new client with hardly a glance or a remark to her condition. Of course, he saw it - he was after all, the foremost deductive mind of his generation - but her story and her case interested him to such a degree that for a moment, the lady's condition completely passed him by.

Ernestine Fenners was five-and-twenty, an attractive, pleasant featured woman, with a wedding ring upon her left hand. She had come to bring an affair which concerned her eldest brother, Jonathan, to the newly established detective in his rather more respectable rooms. And she was now eight and a half months pregnant.

For a while, they sat, discussing the case, when Mrs Fenners' hand went to her stomach. Holmes stopped talking, his eyes taking in the movement of her hand, the paleness of her face, the clenching of her jaw. "Mrs Fenners?", the young man asked, concerned.

The lady rose to her feet, but had to sit down again, the strain now evident in her countenance. "I think," she said, slowly, "I am going into labour."

Sherlock Holmes, usually so detached seemed to have nothing to say to this, so made do with a rather quiet and somewhat squeaky, "Oh."

He got to his feet, coming to the lady's side, and tried to get her to her feet, but she let out a cry of pain as he did so, meaning that the young man dropped her onto the seat and scurried backwards, like a scared cat.

For a moment, the woman and the detective stared at each other, the woman in some pain and wondering what on earth she was to do, the detective thinking on not dissimilar lines. He could not just leave the woman alone…not in her state, and it was rather a long way to the nearest doctor's surgery, even at a run. He would have to remain calm. "Er…" Holmes said timidly, "Would you like a cup of tea?"

The woman looked up at him, her face flushed with pain, and said through clenched teeth, "Not really, Mr Holmes." Then, she proceeded to lose control of her quite remarkable composure, and shouted out in pain. Holmes paled even more, if that were possible, and prayed for a miracle.

That miracle came in the shape of his flatmate's return. Holmes and Watson had lived together for nigh on five or so months now, and Holmes had not yet seen Dr Watson at work, and even, in his darkest moments, thought his new flatmate perhaps a little dim-witted. He heard the sound of hurrying (or at least as hurrying as Watson could do with a wounded leg) footsteps coming up the seventeen stairs, then looked up as Watson came through the door.

The doctor scanned the room as he entered, took in the labouring woman and obviously scared detective, then went to the woman's side, hustling Holmes out of the way, and speaking a couple of well-chosen, calming words to the lady, before standing, and motioning to Holmes to go to the other side of the room. "We cannot move her," he said, "This is one of the quickest labours I have ever seen. She is about an hour or so away from giving birth."

"But…But… I'm a detective, not a midwife."

"I know, Holmes," said Watson, his voice calming, "I just need you to get me some things." Then, in a lower whisper, he asked, "By the way, erm…this lady, is she…? I mean, is the child yours…?"

"Mine!" The shocked voice of Sherlock Holmes reverberated around the room, and Watson winced as the lady looked up, a little nervous.

"Well Holmes, a young, pregnant lady in the house… I thought she might be your wife…"

"I'm not married! Don't you think I might have told you something like that?"

"To be fair, you only told me your profession three days ago."

"Well, she isn't! Mine, I mean."

"Alright, Holmes. Now, I need towels, warm water…"

"But…she can't have it here!"

"Well, she is going to have to."

"But…from what I have heard childbirth is a somewhat trying business…"

Watson shot an ironic look at the lady, who was now close to tears, "You wish to go over to the young lady and tell her that childbirth is 'somewhat trying'?"

"I understand there will be screaming…"

"There usually is."

"And crying…"

"That too."

"Someone will think there is some kind of murder going on…that is hardly a good advert for a detective practice. People will be saying that I kill off my clients!"

"Holmes. For heavens sake man, pull yourself together. I cannot move a lady, and there is an end to it. Now, go and get what I need. GO!"

Two hours later, after much pain, crying and the like from Mrs Ernestine Fenners, and the arrival of Mr Fenners sometime after the delivery, Holmes and Watson sat on the floor of the living room, absolutely spent. Mr and Mrs Fenners as well as baby John had left about ten minutes ago, leaving behind them a trail of utter destruction.

"Well," said Watson, "That was an interesting afternoon. I didn't think my skills as a midwife would be put into practice so soon after my return to London. I have not done that in a while."

"You haven't?" asked Holmes, in surprise, "You looked quite skilled in the exercise."

"There is not much call for it as an army medic," said the doctor, dryly.

Both exchanged glances, then laughed, before Holmes said, "We shall have to get this carpet cleaned."

"Mrs Hudson will be pleased. And only a week after you spilled sulphuric acid over it as well."

"I tripped over one of your piles of books."

"They were only there because you commandeered all of my shelves for an 'experiment' with all that copper tubing."

Quickly, the detective changed the subject, "That experience has assured me that I will never marry."

"Oh, what a loss to women everywhere," muttered the doctor.

Holmes ignored him, "That was truly a most unnerving experience."

"Well, what did you think it would be like?"

"I did not think it would be so… disturbing…"

"But did you see the result?"

"I heard it. Screaming it's lungs out."

"Do you not think it was miraculous though? A real, living thing… I thought it quite beautiful."

Holmes looked at Watson, "I shall never understand doctors," but his eyes held new-found respect for the man sitting next to him. And he never found himself calling his flatmate dim-witted again. In fact, if anyone were to make such a comment, he would find himself on the receiving end of a right hook from Sherlock Holmes.