She went to the doctor on her own, because it was silly to worry anyone else, silly even to worry herself.

The whole trip was most likely unnecessary, because this was nothing to be concerned about, nothing to be bothered with, but she wanted to make sure. Just in case, really.

But it was nothing. Absolutely nothing. At worst, a touch of the flu. She'd had that several months ago, hadn't she? It had been unpleasant, but it had passed and then she'd been quite fine again. Or perhaps the cook had improperly prepared something. This was unlikely, but not impossible.

Or it was simply fatigue. She'd always been told she didn't sleep enough, even though she'd always given her body the rest it required. Was she at fault for not needing as much sleep as other people? Could fatigue cause this?

Yes. Of course. Undoubtedly.

Mycroft was always bringing home some children's ailment from school, as children were wont to do. She had most likely caught something from her son, which was not unexpected. These things happened to parents. He was six, after all. He was bound to pick things up and spread them around democratically. It was simply a reality when one had children.

When one had a child.

She waited patiently to see the doctor, telling herself she was not at all nervous, silently ordering her heart rate to slow, to remain steady. If it kept up the way it was, it would only exacerbate the symptoms she barely had and would cause the doctor to become alarmed and ascribe these complaints to something else.

They could be so easily explained away. Dizziness because she did not sleep enough, even though she never felt tired from lack of sleep. Nausea brought on by the dizziness. Quite elementary, really, and she felt foolish for being there. The knot in her stomach – the knot she told herself was in her stomach, not any lower – did not abate, however. She did her best to ignore it, but it was difficult. She thought perhaps if she could develop a fever, she'd feel much better, paradoxically, because then it would have to be a mild flu and nothing else.

Well, it wasn't anything else. She was quite firm about that.

On the way home, sitting silently and alone in the back of the car, Sibyl twisted her wedding ring on her finger over and over and over.

She ate with William and Mycroft as she normally did, because not to do so would cause alarm and questions, although she ate little. The knot that was not actually in her stomach hadn't settled. Nor would it. It was not really a knot. Food seemed unappealing, even though, of course, now she would have to eat on a more regular basis.

She stared at the glass of wine in front of her. William had been sipping his without worry, without regard to the fact that she had not touched hers.

Would it matter? she asked herself and then felt a sudden flare of anger. Of course it would matter. Because she would know. And when the worst happened, she would blame herself.

Not that she wouldn't anyway.

Sibyl took a deep breath, releasing it slowly, forcing herself to smile, to listen to her son. Mycroft, who was so bright in so many ways, his eyes, his smile, his mind, his laughter, his presence. Filling up all of the dark spaces that tried to edge forward even now – especially now – completely unaware of any problems. Of course, he remembered the last time, the last one, but what he remembered was Sibyl being in the hospital, not really anything else.

She wondered if the other two would have been as bright.

She forced herself to put her fork down gently when she found herself wondering if the other three would have been as bright.

It was terrible to think.

It was more terrible to hope.

She made herself eat, even though she did not want to.

"William."

He was sitting in one of the chairs by the window, which was open to admit the cool April evening breeze, bent over some journal article in concentration, holding a pen against his lips. She'd always loved the way he looked when deep in thought, features set, dark eyes focused, his light brown hair, the hair that Mycroft had inherited, catching the fading autumn sunlight.

"Yes, darling?" he asked, raising his head, smiling at her.

Despite what everyone thought, he never dismissed her, never ignored her.

Sibyl found herself unable to speak.

William frowned. The expression was enough to startle her – he was always so composed, so put together.

"Sibyl?" he asked. "Are you all right?"

"No," she said bluntly. "I'm pregnant."

He was up and holding her lightly before she knew it, hands wrapped around her upper arms right at the shoulders, towering above her, because he'd always been so tall. Sibyl felt dizzy then, again. Such a ridiculous symptom. Especially when it was only going to be so much worse later on.

"Sibyl. Are you certain."

It wasn't quite a question.

"Yes," she replied, her voice surprisingly even. "I went to the doctor."

He frowned again. Something flitted through his eyes quickly, but she knew him, knew him better than anyone, and hadn't missed it. Fear and uncertainty and concern and even anger. Anger? But not at her.

She was suddenly angry at herself, at her body, at this stupidity, at this pregnancy – she couldn't let herself think "child" because it made it too human, and she couldn't do that, not again. How dare this happen to her? How dare it?

"Oh my God, William," she whispered and buried her face in her hands.

He had her the moment her legs gave way, wrapping her in his strong arms, keeping her from sinking to the floor even though she wanted nothing more than to curl into a small ball, to will this all away now, just end it so that she could move on, and things could return to normal.

Sibyl leaned against him, pressing her face and hands into his chest, forcing the tears to stay at bay, unable to stop her shoulders from shaking. On top of all of it, she felt guilty. Guilty that this had happened, and guilty that she wasn't glad at the news like she should be. What kind of mother was she, that she was angry at being told she was pregnant, even though she wanted another child, had always wanted two children?

William held her hard, fast, the only thing that promised any security at the moment.

"It will be all right, Sibyl," he said, and she heard the lie in his voice, because they both knew how the last two times had turned out and that the doctors had told her not to try again.

Well, she hadn't tried, had she?

She screwed her eyes shut, hanging on for dear life, to her husband and to the words he'd just spoken.

Two weeks later, Mycroft found her in bed and crawled in beside her, snuggling down, burrowing under one arm.

"Mummy, are you sick?" he asked, looking up at her with those grey eyes, the same eyes that stared back at her when she looked in a mirror, the same eyes her father and sister had.

Sibyl kissed the top of his head, then smoothed his light hair under her hand.

"Yes, darling," she sighed.

"Will you feel better soon?" Mycroft asked.

She waited a moment before answering, then made herself nod.

"Yes, I believe I will." At six, he hadn't yet figured out when she was lying.

"Of course I'll come. For as long as you need."

And then Adele was there. Sibyl had felt some of the tension drain away when her sister arrived, not even knowing she'd been carrying it. She was gaining some weight, imperceptible to most, not to herself. She could feel the differences. It made her angry.

Adele didn't say what she was thinking, what Sibyl had thought, what William had thought. That she could do something about this. It had been ten years since that had been made legal. But how could she? Given what had happened the last two times, how could she?

The doctors wanted her on bed rest.

She hated it. She didn't want to defy it, but felt it was wrong, that her body, which never wanted that much rest anyway, did not need so much more now. She didn't lie about all day because she couldn't, not for months more of this, if it even came to that. But she sat with her feet up, or on the window bench, or straight backed in a chair, violin held between her chin and shoulder, one of the only things that made her feel better, feel herself, feel some tentative optimism.

Adele stayed, despite having three of her own children. They were not so far away that she couldn't go visit, and the twins were already in school anyhow, home only on the weekends. Dorian was Mycroft's age and came with her, the two boys more than entertaining each other, not at all worried about the change in living situations. Sibyl was glad for the distraction for Mycroft. She did not want him to know, not yet, although it wouldn't be hidden for long.

He was excited when he found out. Both boys were, but Mycroft had been wanting a sibling since he'd been old enough to ask for one.

"It is a boy?" he demanded.

"We don't know, sweetheart," Sibyl said, keeping her tone light. She was alone with Mycroft and Dorian. Adele had offered to be there, but Sibyl had refused. She needed to do this on her own.

"I hope it's a boy!" Mycroft said. "I don't want a sister! Dorian says that girls smell!"

Sibyl turned her grey eyes to meet her nephew's gaze. He had the same eyes, but blond hair, from his father.

"Do Victoria and Elizabeth smell, Dorian?" she asked.

"Yes!" he exclaimed and he and Mycroft collapsed into giggles. For a moment, she didn't feel so bad, watching them encouraging each other and laughing uncontrollably.

"When will he get here, Mummy?" Mycroft demanded a minute later.

"Early January, sweetheart," Sibyl replied.

Mycroft made a face.

"That's so far away!" he complained. "I don't want to wait that long!"

It was only June.

Yes, Sibyl thought. It is far.

She did not want to have to wait, either.

She was jarred awake in the middle of the night, sitting up before she was fully awake, and William was awake instantly as well, rolling over, his movements only angles and shadows in the darkness.

"Sibyl?" he demanded, voice cold, hard.

She ignored him.

Her stomach was turning butterflies.

No, not her stomach.

"Sibyl!" William snapped.

She grabbed his hand unceremoniously, not caring about startling him, not caring about anything. She pressed it over her stomach and held it there, turning to face him in the darkness, trying to see him without any light.

"It's kicking," she said.

As though in response, it – the baby – kicked again. God, it felt like it was doing somersaults or dancing or practicing some sort of martial art. She winced when an impossibly tiny foot caught her in the ribs and gave a startled gasp.

She'd felt the other two moving as well, and this one, but not like this. Small flutters only.

For the first time, she let herself think that it might work out. Just for a moment, then she shut down the thought hard, holding it back, burying it, because it was easier, just so much easier, should the worst happen.

Mycroft loved to press his face against her belly when the baby kicked, then dissolved into laughter when he was hit. Seeing his grin was both heart warming and heart breaking. This one, he'd always remember. No matter what happened.

She didn't let herself think of it often.

They hadn't picked names.

Well, she told herself, that was practical. They wouldn't know if it was a boy or a girl until it was born. And it may be irrelevant anyway.

Adele told her to stop thinking that way.

Sibyl said it was easier.

Adele told her it sounded like it was hell.

Privately, Sibyl agreed.

Every single day was hell. She slept more now, because she was tired, but also because it was easier than being awake, than thinking. She made herself eat, made herself take short walks, to move about a bit. It was either that or have it kicking all the time. The movement rocked it, of course. Mycroft had been the same way – all babies were – but he'd been less vigorous than this one.

Is it a girl? she wondered once. She'd always imagined she'd have a daughter. Then she stopped all thoughts about it and forced herself to read a book.

Adele was knitting a baby blanket, but was making sure not to let Sibyl or William see it. Sibyl had found it one day looking for something of Dorian's in their guest suite. She'd held the half finished blanket, staring at it, wondering if it would stay half finished, along with the child.

William kept watch on her in a way that was unnerving, unlike anything she'd ever felt from him before. It felt almost like suspicion and she began to chafe under it, feeling resentful toward the entire situation, trying desperately not to. Her doctor was always admonishing her about stress – "It's bad for the baby."

What about bad for her? Why did no one comment on that?

But her husband settled pillows around her at night, trying to keep her comfortable under the weight, and rubbed her lower back or her neck when it got too sore. And, one day, he sat down beside her, took one of her hands, and said:

"It's the tenth of December."

Sibyl hadn't understood a moment, then it had hit her and she may have doubled up if she'd been able to, except for the space that it – the baby, yes, now it was the baby – was taking up.

Eight months.

Her doctors had told her that she was essentially in the clear. The baby could be born anytime now and survive. There was still a risk of complications, lung development was especially important during the last several weeks, but it would survive.

It would live.

She tried, but it took awhile before she could stop crying.

On the fifth of January, she got William and Adele and the overnight bag and kissed Mycroft good-bye, promising to be back soon with the new baby. Mycroft and Dorian stayed with the staff, probably eating all sorts of sweets and staying up later than six and seven year old boys should, but it scarcely mattered.

They didn't let William in, of course, nor would he have wanted to, nor would she really have wanted him, but Adele came with her. It was terrifying all over again, and she remembered Mycroft's birth and how long it had been and it suddenly seemed too daunting, until she met her sister's grey eyes. Adele, who had born twin girls and then a boy. Adele had done this three times, twice at once. Sibyl could do it again, too.

But it lasted hours, until the next day, and she was exhausted and she wondered if William was all right, only for a passing moment. She was given an epidural and prayed against surgery, because she did not want the scars or the complications or the pain. She prayed with every ounce of strength she had that wasn't reserved for the contractions and the pushing when it came to that, despite the fact that was not certain she believed in any god. At the moment, she'd believe in anything, as long as it got her through.

As long as the baby was born.

"You can do this," Adele said quietly in her ear, holding her hand, voice calm, expression confident, utterly unflappable, even now.

Sibyl nodded, trying to keep her breathing even.

"Push!" the doctor snapped at her.

There was a moment of encompassing pain and then a sudden gasp of air and another, and a startled and angry cry. Sibyl snapped her eyes open, shocked, because it was there. Alive.

Screaming for all it was worth.

"It's a boy," the doctor said, and Sibyl was stunned, certain for a moment that they must have been mistaken, but then realizing they were right – it had felt familiar the entire time, like Mycroft, but she'd never let herself admit to it.

"Give him to me," she ordered.

"We just need to clean–"

"Give me my son. Now." She put the weight of generations of aristocracy in her voice, all command, all certainty that she would be obeyed, and she was. The doctor hesitated only a moment, long enough to cut and bind the umbilical cord, and the messy and squalling infant was placed in her arms. Sibyl took him, not caring that he wasn't clean, not caring that the doctors and nurses were fussing, not caring that Adele had left to tell William.

She looked at the impossibly tiny figure in her arms and smoothed a hand over his thick hair. Curly and dark, like hers. When she touched one of his hands, the baby opened his fist, curling his fingers immediately and instinctively around hers.

Sibyl felt her heart miss a beat, then felt everything inside of her settle and relax.

He was alive. He was there.

He stopped bawling when she touched his face lightly, still half believing he'd vanish like some dream. The angry and affronted expression cleared and he opened his eyes, pale, pale grey eyes that would not change colour, wouldn't darken the way so many babies' eyes did.

He stared up at her, not really seeing her, of course, because he could not focus, not yet, but it made no difference.

She placed a kiss on his forehead, feeling the warmth of the skin on her lips, feeling the grip of his tiny fingers, so strong for someone so small, someone only a few minutes old.

Sibyl stroked his hair again, wondering if it would stay this thick and dark, this curly. She counted his fingers and toes, shifting her grip slightly to touch his feet. He twitched, then stuck his tongue between his lips, as though tasting the air. His eyes stayed on her face, so she felt he was looking at her with that clear, grey-eyed gaze.

She knew his name, then, the same name her father bore.

"Hello, Sherlock," she whispered.