A/N: I hope you enjoy your early Christmas present. It's a sad, angsty Sherlolly one-shot with a side-order of Character death. So, you know, full of Christmas cheer.

This is my first try at a stream-of-consciousness style of writing. I'm not sure if I nailed it, mainly because I wrote this story in about two hours and forced myself to post it quickly before I analyzed it into oblivion. Now that I've got this out of my head, and I can get working on finishing my other story, "Who Are You?"

What Child is This?

By Navigatio

On Christmas eve, Sherlock decides they should take a walk. It is past nine o'clock and already full-on dark and FREEZING outside, but the small white box is literally burning a hole in his pocket and he doesn't feel he can wait another minute. The plain gold band holds a single amethyst instead of a diamond, which John raised his eyebrows at, but it is Molly's birthstone, February, and if the baby comes on time, it will be his as well. Sherlock planned to wrap it up and put it under their little Christmas tree in the morning, but as the hours drag past, he impulsively changes his mind.

Of course Molly is delighted to take a walk in the snow, even though she can barely zip her coat over her bulging belly, and keeps saying happily, "Isn't it beautiful?" which Sherlock has to admit that indeed it is. Under a blanket of clean white, his London is transformed from its usual greys and browns into a scene of ethereal beauty.

His destination is Regent's Park, the little bridge next to the Secret Garden. He knows Molly loves it, and he thinks she'll be more inclined to say yes if the setting is romantic. Not that he gives a fig about being romantic, but it is handy to know that Molly cares about it and can be influenced by it.

They walk hand in hand—well, glove in glove because of the cold-and Sherlock thinks of what he will say and how he will say it. He hopes Molly doesn't mind him asking standing up, because he doesn't fancy getting down on one knee in the snow and getting his trousers dirty. He is also thinking randomly of her smile that's only for him, and how soon he'll have to clear out the extra bedroom, and if he can make a mobile from the plush stuffed microbes that Mary gave them, and he's not thinking about danger at all, because who thinks about danger on a night like tonight when the snow is sparkling underfoot and the stars are twinkling overhead and he's only just realizing that he's actually happy.

When he feels a hand on his shoulder he takes a step to the side thinking someone only wants to get past them on the walk, even though it's plenty wide and they're not taking up the whole walk by any means. The hand doesn't move so he half-turns just far enough to get a glimpse of a man built like an ox standing far too close. Suddenly there's a rat-faced man on the other side of Molly and a flash of silver and finally all the warning bells are going off in Sherlock's head but it's too late. By the time he pulls Molly behind him, the ox's fist is coming toward his face and he can't get his hands up to defend himself because they are too busy protecting Molly. There is an explosion of light, sparkling like the stars are raining down on him while he falls, and then more blows and pain and a hand in his pocket but he will not let them have the small white box with the ring. Then he hears Molly scream. Another flash of silver and the scream is suddenly cut off.

Scuffling feet and shouts are all but drowned out by a loud buzzing sound in his ears, like all the crickets of London are sounding off at once, or maybe there is an air raid, but why would there be an air raid? He climbs to his feet slowly while the ground wavers and wobbles and spins. It hurts to look around but he does so anyway because he has to find Molly.

The rat and the ox are gone and Molly is lying on her back on the ground with her hat askew and hair splayed out and a growing patch of red spreading on the white snow beneath her. She's not moving, why is she not moving it's all right they're gone so you can get up he thinks but she doesn't move. She shouldn't be lying on the snow like that. He goes to her and tries to lift her even though his ribs are on fire and there is a sharp pain shooting from his lower back down his leg.

More shouts and then they are surrounded by people, hands pulling at him, pulling him away from Molly, who is very pale and still and so beautiful he can't even believe it, like a marble statue, like she was carved from the very snow she lies on. Behind him someone, a woman's voice, is shouting down the phone for an ambulance which is good. Molly looks like she needs an ambulance. He tries to push the interfering people out of the way so he can get to her but the hands hold him back.

The ambulance ride to University College Hospital is short. Sherlock wants to go to St. Bart's, as he informs the paramedics, but they remind him gently that Bart's has no A&E, which he knew but didn't remember and why didn't he remember that? The paramedics are all working on Molly and basically ignoring him which is right because she's the one with all the blood coming out and he's fine, just fine except it feels like his heart is being squeezed out of his chest and he can't quite get a breath. When they are doing chest compressions on Molly it feels like someone is doing them on him too, like maybe an elephant is giving him CPR.

When they get to the ambulance bay, they whisk Molly away and he follows as quickly as he can, just fast enough to keep track of them as they wheel her through double doors and around corners. A woman scurries alongside him for a while, asking him bothersome questions like what are their names and how old is Molly, at least he thinks that is what she is saying but the buzzing in his head keeps him from hearing her properly and the bright lights are hurting his eyes. Since his stride is longer he soon leaves her behind and chases the stretcher like his life depends on it, which maybe it does. He finally catches up to them as they swing into a small drab exam room where a phalanx of women in multicolored scrubs joins them but they aren't doing CPR on Molly anymore. They don't have any sort of monitors hooked up to her either. Does that mean she's all right?

He can't see much of her, just her feet in her black snowboots, and the top of her head, because his view is blocked by people's backs, several women in scrubs—pink, blue, green, lilac-and a tall woman in a white lab coat smeared with red. He sways on his feet while he tries to deduce what they might be doing.

He hears a thin mewling sound, like a kitten, but why would they allow a kitten in the hospital? It doesn't seem sanitary. The armada of women starts to move and he almost gets a glimpse of Molly's face before a curtain is hastily drawn between them. Suddenly he feels a hand on his shoulder and he is back on the street and the ox is back and it's happening all over again. He turns quickly and almost coldcocks the person in the face but just in time he sees lilac scrubs and a thin dark face and silky black ponytail and realizes it is a nurse. She's saying something to him, something about sitting down he thinks but the buzzing is too loud and he can't figure out how to respond. Her hands gently push him into a chair that wasn't there a minute ago so where did it come from? It's a wheelchair—why are they putting him in a wheelchair when he's fine and shouldn't they be working on Molly? He opens his mouth to tell her that but all that comes out is "Molly?"

She makes a shushing noise, then the curtain is pushed aside a little and a nurse comes through carrying a small bundle wrapped in a striped blanket. When she carefully places it in his arms he takes it automatically. What is it? He spots a dark curl at the top of the blanket—it is a baby. Why are they handing him a baby?

The nurse pulls the blanket down a little so he gets a peek at the face and suddenly everything goes still because the baby has Molly's turned-up nose and Sherlock's too-full lips. When the baby's eyes slowly open, Sherlock spots a very familiar Caribbean-blue. This is—this is his baby they've put in his arms, his and Molly's, here already even though he's not supposed to be born for another six weeks.

"Born at 12:03 am. You have a Christmas baby," the nurse says with a smile even though her eyes don't look happy.

"It's too early," he blinks. "He's not due until February." but they reassure him it's fine, the baby is fine, everything looks good and he's breathing just fine so the lungs are ok. But no one tells him WHY the baby is here so early.

He doesn't get a chance to ask because the lilac nurse is saying "Do you have any friends or family members we can call?" He is thinking they don't need to call anyone, just help Molly, but he must not have said it because she is asking him again, very gently, with her hand on his arm. "Mr. Holmes? Who can we call for you?"

The name "John" comes out of his mouth, he's not sure how because there are lots of other words in there that won't come out and he can barely breathe anyway because of the elephant on his chest.

"John? Do you know his phone number?" Does he know John's phone number? He used to, but the digits have gotten all mixed up in his brain, like his laptop after he spilled coffee on the keyboard. "Maybe it's in your phone?" she coaxes. Yes, oh, that's right, it's in his phone. He blinks at her and nods obediently.

The lilac nurse fumbles around in his coat pocket to find his phone because his hands are busy. He can tell when her hand closes around the small white box by accident, then she releases it and finds his mobile instead. Suddenly there are tears in the nurse's eyes but that doesn't make sense. Why would the box make her cry?

She takes the phone and goes out into the corridor to make the call. While she is gone, the tall doctor in the white lab coat smeared with red comes out of the curtained-off area and he is hoping she will say he can see Molly now, but instead she says "We need to examine the baby in another room. You just sit still and we'll take you both down the hall and get you checked out." He doesn't understand what she is talking about, the nurses said the baby was fine and he's fine so why are they worrying about him instead of Molly?

He feels the wheelchair start to move but he doesn't want to leave, they can't leave Molly here all alone! The words "No no no no no" claw their way past the elephant and out of his raw throat. He tries to stand up, but their gentle hands push him back down and they take him out anyway because he can't fight them properly with a baby in his arms which is not fair but there's nothing he can do about it.

In another exam room down the hall the doctor takes the baby from his arms and puts him on a small table. When she unwraps the blanket the baby starts to wail and the doctor says something about him having nice, strong lungs. Sherlock thinks maybe she is hurting him because he is crying, but the lilac nurse smiles at him and says it's all right, babies like to be wrapped up and he's only mad because we took him away from Daddy.

Daddy? Who's that?

Oh. Right.

While the doctor is examining the baby, the lilac nurse asks if he has a name for the baby but he says they haven't decided yet, he is letting Molly make the final decision so he needs to ask her. They thought they had plenty of time to decide because they didn't expect him to come so soon.

The lilac nurse has tears in her eyes again and he wants to ask her why but she turns away from him and starts gathering supplies. "Let's get you cleaned up," she says. He looks down at himself and discovers dried brown blood on his coat and shirt. How did that get there? Is it Molly's? There's an awful lot of it and he hopes it didn't all come from Molly. The nurse takes his coat and shirt off him and he just sits and lets her do it, moving his arms compliantly when she tells him to and letting her thread them through the sleeves of a hospital gown.

The doctor finishes examining the baby and pronounces him in perfect health. She wraps him up tightly—too tightly it seems to Sherlock—and puts him back in Sherlock's arms. While they are getting settled, the door opens and John comes in at a run. When he sees Sherlock and the baby he skids to a stop, crouches down beside them. "Sherlock," he breathes. "Oh, God. . ." John reaches out a hand and brushes his thumb against Sherlock's cheek, where the ox hit him. He hadn't even remembered it until this moment, but now he can feel it throbbing and he supposes it must look awful.

Sherlock holds the baby up a little. "Look, John," he says in a voice that's much too small and wavers precariously, "He came early. I don't know his name yet. I have to ask Molly what she wants to name him." He hopes John isn't upset the baby came early. John's second, a girl, is due just a week after Sherlock and Molly's. They were meant to be like twins, and Molly and Mary have been joking for months about sharing grandchildren someday, but now they won't be like twins, which will make Molly feel disappointed.

John's eyes go up to the lilac nurse, briefly. She doesn't say anything, but Sherlock knows they must have some sort of communication because John blinks rapidly and then there are tears in his eyes too. What are they communicating about? His brain is not working properly. Something is going on that they are not telling him; he should be able to deduce it but somehow he can't, probably because of the buzzing and the bright lights that are giving him a headache. There are blood-spattered puzzle pieces all over the floor and he is trying but he can't make them fit together.

Whatever it is, it's something bad because it made the lilac nurse cry and now it's making John cry. When he tries to figure it out the elephant steps from his chest to his stomach. "John," he whispers, "I think I'm going to be sick." but he can't hear John's response because the buzzing overwhelms him and the lights turn his entire field of vision to white. The last thing he is aware of is the lilac nurse gently taking the baby from his grasp, and then John's strong arms catch him as he falls into oblivion.

He wakes up on a hard narrow bed to a rhythmic beeping sound but at least the buzzing is gone and someone has turned the lights down. Before he opens his eyes he realizes he is covered with a scratchy hospital blanket and he hates those blankets. What happened? Something must have—Oh, God, Molly. The baby. Oh.

He opens his eyes to find John slumped sideways in a chair next to the bed, chin propped on his fist, asleep, still in the same rumpled clothes he was wearing when he showed up at the hospital. Beside John there is a small basinette with plastic sides. Through the plexiglass Sherlock can see a striped blanket and a tiny fist waving around. The baby—his son—is here, and if the baby is here, instead of with Molly, then that means that Molly is. . .The blood-spattered puzzle pieces fall together with an almost-audible click.

When the awareness comes to him, the elephant returns with it, sitting on his chest, stealing his breath away and sending acid up into his mouth. He is aware that he is making a keening sort of noise in his throat even though he is trying to be quiet because John is sleeping and he looks so exhausted.

John wakes up and the next second he is sitting on the side of Sherlock's bed with his arms around Sherlock's shoulders, which are shaking hard. Sherlock can't control it, can't control the shaking, can't control the keening noise coming from his throat, can't control the hot tears that flow down his face and soak John's jumper.

John has Mary, and Mrs. Hudson has her baker, and Lestrade is back together with his wife, and even Mycroft has some little harpy in south London, but Molly is gone and Sherlock has no one. He spent most of his life alone and now that he has gotten a taste of being part of a couple, being we instead of just me, he can't do it anymore. He can't go back to being alone.

An indignant wail rises from the basinette. John eases out from under Sherlock's weight and fetches the baby. He doesn't even ask—he just puts the baby into Sherlock's arms like it is the most natural thing in the world.

The baby had been an accident, sort of, and Sherlock didn't even want a baby, wasn't even sure he wanted Molly at first, but the idea kind of grew on him and he thought he could possibly do this fatherhood thing as long as Molly was there with him taking care of the baby and him. But now Molly is gone and he is alone and he can't raise a baby alone, can he? When Sherlock looks down at the baby through a haze of tears he can see that he has stopped wailing now and is just watching him silently with those eyes that are the shape of Molly's but the color of Sherlock's.

The door opens and a nurse dressed in pink breezes in with a tiny bottle in her hand. She says things like "It's good to see you awake," and "I'm Claudia," and "Would you like me to show you how to feed the baby?" in an overly bright, enthusiastic voice that brings Sherlock's headache roaring back, but John takes the bottle from her hand and says he can show Sherlock how to do it, thank you very much, and glares at her until she leaves. John throws her an annoyed sort of look as she scoots out the door but Sherlock doesn't know why. When he asks, John rubs the back of his neck and cuts his eyes to the side.

"Well, you're sort of—you're in the maternity ward, you see, because they're set up to deal with the baby. But you'd think they'd never seen a man before. They kept coming in all night just to stare at you. Kept waking me up."

The only words that Sherlock latches onto are "all night" which means it's Christmas morning and John is here, in the hospital with him instead of at home with his wife and son. He tries to apologize for that but John waves him off and assures him that Mary isn't mad at him either so he shouldn't worry about it.

John shows him how to brush the baby's lip with the bottle and when he does, the baby opens his mouth very wide so he stuffs the nipple in and the baby starts to suck on it greedily. The whole process is much easier and at the same time more intimidating than Sherlock expected.

While the baby eats, Sherlock comes to a decision. He will name the baby what Molly wanted because his initial objections seem pointless now. "I'm going to name him Connor, after Molly's dad," he says, just to make it real even though his mother will turn up her nose and say it's dreadfully chav. "Connor John."

"That's good," John says quietly while his hand rubs Sherlock's back, rhythmically back and forth side to side, and his palm is warm through the thin hospital gown.

The baby's tiny hand pops free from the blanket and wraps itself tightly around Sherlock's finger, which takes him by surprise. Those ocean-blue eyes are locked on Sherlock's in a gaze that Sherlock doesn't feel physically capable of breaking, and suddenly he is overwhelmed with a wave of love for this child—his child, Molly's child, a little bit of her that lives on even though she is gone. Maybe he's not completely alone after all.

Thanks for reading! Reviews=love