John stepped through the front door, closing it behind him with his foot. He jangled his keys in his hand as he jogged up the stairs, whistling to himself as he went. He walked down the landing and turned into the kitchen, glancing down at the table strewn with chemistry equipment as he walked to the fridge.

"Not going to find any human remains in here, am I?" he called out as he opened it.

The fridge was sparse. John looked over the shelves with a frown; there was a tray of labelled vials on the top shelf, a questionable Petri dish, a half-eaten punnet of grapes and a bottle of orange juice.

"No milk. Great. Right, I'll go down and see if Mrs Hudson minds making us some tea."

He closed the door and turned around, stopping when he saw a man standing in the middle of the living room.

"You're not Sherlock." His brow furrowed as he stepped closer. "Is... Sherlock, is he here?"

"I'm not sure, sir," said the man awkwardly. "I have a problem I was hoping Mr Holmes could help me with. Your landlady told me to just... come up."

John looked around for a moment. "So Sherlock, he hasn't- you haven't seen him yet?"

The man shook his head.

"Right, erm, have a seat," he gestured to the clients' chair between the two armchairs.

The man sat down as John took out his phone, wandering back into the kitchen as he made the call.

"Yes?" Sherlock answered.

"Yeah so I know your job isn't exactly conventional, but Friday is still classed a working day..."

"Mm, yes I'm aware of that but I'm busy."

"Doing what?"

"Well let's see; I've spent the majority of my morning battling with a pile of wood and an instruction manual."

John stifled a laugh. "Wait, you... you're attempting to build something?"

"The choices were between building the cot for the nursery or installing the car seat. Somehow I've ended up doing both because Margaux's decided to start having contractions."

"Wait, she's in labour!? Why aren't you panicking?"

"I did panic at first. But it's been two days and they're still mild and irregular so I got over it."

John rubbed his chin and turned back to the living room where the man sat waiting. "Right well, there's a client here. What shall I do?"

"You've been doing this long enough to take the reigns."

"What? You're suggesting I take the case alone?"

"Go for it," Sherlock replied nonchalantly. "'I trust you', 'you can do it', 'I believe in you' and whatever else people say..."

"Right," he paused. "Okay well keep me posted I suppose."

"Likewise."

John put his phone in his pocket and walked over to Sherlock's armchair. He sat down, giving an awkward, straight-lined smile.

"Shall I just... go?" asked the man.

"Er no, no, Mr Holmes has put me in charge of your case."

"Really? But aren't you just like... his blogger?"

John crossed one leg over the other, clearing his throat to hide his annoyance.

*

Sunlight poured through the window, casting a warmth through the kitchen and reflecting off the shiny marble counters. Margaux stood at the sink looking out into the back garden, at the spring flowers blooming, the tree shedding blossoms like snow across the grass.

"Mum can I play my game?" asked Vaughan as he sat at the island, pointing at the console just out of reach.

"Why don't you go outside?" she replied. "Look at that weather, you could play on the swing."

He looked at her and huffed, his round cheeks framing an unimpressed expression.

"Hey, do you have any idea how much I'd have loved this when I was your age? I didn't even have a back garden, let alone a full swing set, slide, playhouse-" she stopped for a moment, looking down at him with a raised eyebrow. "Did you just roll your eyes at me?"

"I played outside at school today. Three whole times," he said, holding up three fingers enthusiastically. "I just want to play my game."

Margaux sighed. She picked up the console and handed it to him. "You are definitely your father's son."

She watched him hop down off the stool, his eyes buried in the screen. She turned back to the sink and began washing the dishes, stopping for a moment when a pain began to radiate from her back to her stomach. She sucked in the air through her teeth, letting out a quiet 'ow' as she waited for it to pass.

"Is that the baby again?" asked Vaughan, his eyes remaining on his game.

"Mhm."

"Do you think you could keep her in there until Monday?"

The pain began to subside. She turned to face him with a confused look. "Why?"

"Because if the baby's born on Monday I win five pounds."

"Vaughan." She laughed. "Have you been making bets?"

He shrugged.

"Who with?"

"Mrs Hudson," he said plainly. "And uncle John."

She raised an eyebrow.

"And daddy."

"Mm." She rolled her eyes. "Go and play your game."

He wandered out of the kitchen, stepping aside as he passed Sherlock in the doorway.

He was sweating; collar unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up. She looked him up and down as he stood with his hands on his hips.

"Next time," he began. "We're getting someone to build everything for us."

Margaux let out a laugh as she leaned back against the counter. "Talking about a 'next time' when I'm in the midst of contractions is not very appealing."

He walked towards the french doors, looking out through the glass at the back garden. She watched as he ran his fingers through his damp hair, brushing it back out of his face. He blew out a breath and undid an extra button on his shirt in an attempt to cool down.

She found herself staring. "Maybe I could be swayed..." she said absentmindedly.

He didn't seem to notice her ogling as he turned to look at her, his eyes falling to her large, round stomach. "Are they getting any closer?"

"Nope. Still coming and going as and when they please."

"This is a lot less dramatic than they make it seem."

"Sorry. I know you can't resist a bit of drama."

*

Saturday morning brought an end to the mild spring heatwave. John climbed out of the taxi into a windy, grey rainfall, shielding himself with his coat as he walked down the street. He pulled a crumpled note from his pocket, trying to read it as rain speckled the paper and the ink began to run.He looked up as he reached the address on the note, his eyes narrowing as he read the sign above the door. He stepped inside the shop, the bell jingling as the door opened and closed.

"Hello?" he called out.

No one answered. He looked around nervously before beginning to browse the shelves. Magic sets, fancy dress costumes, joke gifts. It was like a joke shop from an old movie.

"Can I help you?" a voice startled him.

He turned to see a woman appear behind the counter. He cleared his throat as he approached her.

"Y-yes erm, I'm working on a case for Mr Milligan..."

"I'm sorry, Mr Milligan's dead."

"Oh, no, Mr Milligan Junior. David."

"Oh," she giggled to herself as she picked up a set of keys from beneath the counter. "You must be Sherlock Holmes. Funny, I expected you to be..."

"Taller?"

She nodded.

"I'm not Sherlock Holmes," he laughed gently. "I'm Dr John Watson, his... colleague."

"Oh right." She walked towards the back of the shop, gesturing for him to follow her. "Is Mr Holmes busy?"

"Er yes, actually, his wife is expecting. Could be any day now."

"Oh," she sighed with a smile. "How lovely."

"It is indeed. So, Mr Milligan told me about his father..."

"Oh yes, absolutely dreadful. I was beside myself."

He watched as she unlocked the door, leading him through to the stock room.

"Were you the one that found him, er...?"

"Nina."

"Nina."

"I was the one that opened the shop that day, but it was the police that knocked the door down and found him. Simon was always so cheerful, I mean, he dedicated his life to running a joke shop! He was the last person you'd ever expect to kill himself."

John looked around the stock room, inspecting the shelves and the piles of boxes, the faint stain on the concrete floor.

"I told them it was too soon to reopen the shop," Nina continued. "I know they don't want to lose business, but there's something eerie knowing there was a dead body in here just a couple of days ago."

"You said he was a cheerful man. But is it possible he could've had enemies? Any secrets, anyone he'd wronged?"

"You think he was murdered too? Dr Watson, he shot himself in the head. They found him with the gun in his hand. The door was locked from the inside and there was no one else in here."

John looked around. There were no windows. He ran his hand along the brick wall at the back of the room. "His son seems adamant he didn't do it to himself," he said.

"Well David's in shock. It's understandable, he lost his dad. I'm sorry I just think he's in denial."

John pointed to a picture on the back of the door. "Is this him."

"Yep that's him."

He stepped up to the picture, his nose almost touching the glass. His eyes trailed the image of Simon Milligan; a thin, tall, grey-haired man standing in front of his shop. John looked at his smile, then down to his hands, bent and curled into painful fists.

He tapped the picture with his finger. "Was he always like this?"

"Oh, mm," she nodded. "He had awful arthritis in his hands and his knees. The last few years he couldn't even use the till - his hands wouldn't open up for him to press the buttons."

"Right." John pressed his mouth into a straight line. "So... if he couldn't even uncurl his fists, how do you suppose he locked a door, picked up a gun and pulled the trigger?"

Nina's mouth opened slightly, as if the realisation had ran down her spine like a chill. She looked down at the ground where Mr Milligan's body had been found, then back to John.

"But how?"

Hours had passed. John had remained in the room for the entire morning, searching every inch of space from the ceiling to the individually packaged stock. He was determined to figure it out; partly because he wanted to help catch a murderer, but mostly because he wanted to rub it in Sherlock Holmes' face.

He assessed every possibility. A trick gun, tampered door hinges, a hiding spot where the killer could have waited until the police broke into the room. Nothing.

Finally, he swallowed his pride and took out his phone.

"You require my help," Sherlock's familiar, deep voice sounded through the phone.

"How did you know?"

"I looked over the details of the case last night. I assumed you'd call eventually."

John huffed. "Can you come?"

There was a pause.

"Text me the address," Sherlock finally replied.

*

Vaughan lay on his stomach on the plush carpet of the landing. Margaux peered out of the bedroom to check on him, smiling as she watched him engrossed in his game, talking to himself as he played.

She returned inside, lifting a large bag out of the wardrobe and placing it on the bed. She unzipped it and began going through everything inside, checking and double checking that everything was there; baby clothes, blankets, toiletries. She bit the inside of her cheek as the feeling that she was forgetting something overwhelmed her. She looked over the bed at her nightstand, noticing the small pot of lip balm on the side, and began making her way around the bed to get it.

She stopped suddenly as she felt another contraction. It was an intense, searing pain that knocked the air from her lungs. She leaned forward, holding onto the bed as she tried to breathe, closing her eyes until it passed. And as quick as it came, it had disappeared again. She stood up and continued, walking up to her nightstand before another contraction overcame her. She sat on the edge of the bed, inhaling deeply as the pain travelled from her stomach down her thighs.

"Oh dear," she said calmly before grabbing her phone.

*

John took a step back, shielding his eyes as Sherlock swung a large, heavy sledgehammer at the brick wall.

"You better be right about this," said John as the brick began to crumble.

"It's the only explanation," he replied. "A man is murdered in a locked room with no way out. So if the killer couldn't escape..."

"Then they must still be here."

"Look at the markings on the ground, John. The room has been made smaller."

Sherlock raised the sledgehammer again, but before he could bring it down on the wall, his phone began to ring. He sighed and handed the hammer to John, swapping places with him as he answered the call.

"I think it's time," Margaux's voice was shaky.

"What?" Sherlock replied, straining to listen over the sound of John demolishing the wall behind him.

"The contractions are getting stronger," she replied. "And they're coming quickly. You need to come home. Now."

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed.

"Are you seriously deliberating about whether to come home or not?" said Margaux.

He turned around to see the wall fall apart. Bricks clattered onto the floor, a cloud of dust surrounding them. "Of course not. I'm on my way," he replied coolly as he stared down at the dead body of Mr Milligan's killer hidden behind the rubble.

*

Mycroft closed his umbrella, shaking off the rain and folding it down neatly. He gave a supercilious smile as the door opened, the smile fading as he laid eyes on Margaux. She let him inside, leaning back against the door and breathing heavily, until the contraction passed and she was able to speak again.

"Vaughan!" she called. "Uncle Mycroft's here, get your things and come downstairs."

"I don't intend to make a habit of this babysitting thing," said Mycroft.

"You'll be fine. He loves spending time with you, god knows why."

Mycroft allowed a slight grin. "I see labour hasn't affected your sarcasm."

Vaughan hopped down the stairs. His favourite teddy in his arms, his backpack on his shoulders. "Hi Mycroft," he said said excitedly.

"Hello, little one. Come on, let's go."

"Wait, where are you going?" asked Margaux.

"To my home... Where I have agreed to house your son until further notice..."

"You can't just leave me here by myself-" She stopped, wincing as the pain began to fade back in.

Mycroft watched her for a moment before turning to his nephew. "Why don't you go and play upstairs until it's time to go?"

Vaughan looked at his mother, his brow furrowed with worry.

"I'm okay, Vaughan. I promise. Just go upstairs, okay?" she forced a smile.

Mycroft watched as he returned upstairs, waiting until he was gone before turning his attention to Margaux.

"Perhaps I should take you to the hospital," he said, following her into the living room.

"No. Sherlock's on his way. I'm waiting here."

"Are you sure that's wise?"

"I'm sorry, do you have a uterus?"

He rolled his eyes.

"Ah!" She closed her eyes and keeled over.

Mycroft reached out, catching her by the arms, unable to hide the discomfort on his face.

"Margaux, it's clear you need to go to the hospital."

"I'm not going anywhere until Sherlock gets here."

Mycroft sighed, holding her full weight in his arms. "It's not about whether he's going to come or not. It's-"

"No, it is about that. Because last time, he didn't come. No one did." She looked up at him. "You didn't come. I called your office, I told you I was in labour and you didn't come. I stood in labour on the side of the road and hailed a taxi to the hospital. My friend came but she kept having to leave because her kids were at home. Where were you?"

"I... I paid for you to have a private room."

"Yes and I lay in that room alone, in agony, for twelve hours. When they'd come in to check on me and see me crying, they assumed it was because I was in pain. But it wasn't. It was because he was gone."

He didn't know what to say.

She stood upright and composed herself before resting her hands on the arm of the couch and leaning forward.  "I'm not going anywhere without him. I'm staying here until he gets back, so the least you can do, Mycroft, is come here and rub my bloody back."

He stepped forward reluctantly, placing the palm of his hand on her lower back. It was as if he was afraid to touch her, as if his skin would ignite like a match under the friction.

"Harder, please," she said. Her voice ragged as she groaned in pain.

He grimaced, increasing his pressure as he stood behind her.

She let out a cry.

"Margaux..."

"I'm fine," she snapped. "It's-"

"What? It's what?"

"Oh... I think my water broke."

He recoiled, looking her up and down. She turned to face him, recognising the panic in his face that he was desperately trying to hide. She took a breath and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Help me upstairs," she said.

"Why?"

"So I can get some dry clothes."

He nodded, taking her hand and leading her out of the room. "I draw the line at helping you get changed," he said.

*

Sherlock burst through the front door, blinking rapidly as he saw his son sitting on the bottom step of the stairs. He was wearing his backpack, his eyes focused on the game in his hands. Vaughan glanced up at his father before pointing behind himself. Sherlock nodded and hurried up the stairs.

Mycroft stood on the landing, arms folded as he leaned against the wall. Sherlock looked around, a crease forming on his forehead.

"She's in there," said Mycroft, pointing to the bathroom.

The door opened. Margaux stepped out wearing a pair of leggings and a t-shirt, her old, wet clothes in her arms. She looked at Sherlock, noticing his eyes falling to the bundle in her arms.

"My water broke," she said plainly.

Mycroft stepped towards his brother, fixing his tie and looking at his watch. "Four minutes apart, fifty seconds long. Now, if you don't mind..." he began to walk down the stairs.

"Mycroft," Sherlock turned to him. "Thank you. For not leaving her."

"Believe me, I tried to."

Margaux gave a gentle laugh before grasping her stomach and crouching to the floor.

"Come on, little one," said Mycroft as he reached the bottom of the stairs.

Sherlock listened as the front door closed. He turned to Margaux and lifted her to her feet. She gestured to the bedroom. He nodded and rushed in, collecting her bag and hoisting it onto his shoulder.

He helped her downstairs, walking her out of the house and opening the passenger door of her car. She climbed inside, letting her head fall back against the headrest, and closed her eyes. She heard the front door shut, followed by the slamming of the boot, then finally, the car door opened and Sherlock slipped in behind the wheel.

The car sped out of the driveway onto the street. Margaux turned to Sherlock, her eyes trailing from his face, down his arms to his hands gripping the steering wheel.

"When was the last time you drove a car?" she asked, her voice laced with concern.

"Erm," he thought for a moment. "Years ago, before I faked my death, John and I went on a case to Dartmoor - mutant hound turned out to be a hallucinogenic chemical. Anyway, we rented a Land Rover."

She looked at him with a raised eyebrow, noticing the smile as he spoke.

"It's a very scenic place," he continued. "I quite enjoyed driving around and-"

"Okay, we'll have plenty of time to reminisce about your romantic getaway with John after the baby's born," said Margaux.

He glanced down at her, watching as she writhed in pain. "Sorry."

"It's okay. I just realised I've never seen you drive before."

He looked at her again.

"What?" she asked.

"You're not as loud and screamy as Mary was."

She laughed. "Give it time."

He turned onto a busy road, the car rolling to a halt in the midst of traffic.

"Oh god," she cried.

It had only been ten minutes, but to Margaux, it felt like hours. She had curled onto her side, resting her sweating forehead against the cold window as she hummed and swore under her breath.

Sherlock was talking. More than he had ever talked before. She was sure he was nervous, though he'd never admit it. She looked over her shoulder at him as he continued to speak.

"So the killer shot Simon Milligan, then took an overdose and bricked himself up behind a fake wall. Genius!" he looked at her. "Don't you think?"

"Mhm."

"Oh, sorry, is it finished?"

"Yep."

He checked his watch. "That was sixty seconds. Still four minutes apart."

The traffic began to disperse. Margaux felt the car moving forward and let out a relieved sigh. Sherlock reached out, placing a hand on her thigh.

"Almost there," he said. His voice was deep and smooth, wrapping around her like a safety blanket.

She relaxed slightly, bracing herself for the next contraction.

*

Neither of them liked hospitals. From the clinical atmosphere to the distinctive scent that hung in the air; hospitals reminded them of pain, loss, fear.

Sherlock sat in a chair in the corner of the delivery room, watching his wife as she leant forward, resting her hands on the bed. She was groaning in pain, sucking on gas and air, her t-shirt rolled up and a monitor strapped to her stomach. The faint thumping of a heartbeat echoing from a monitor nearby.

"I feel like I should be doing something," he said.

"Can you tie my hair back?"

He rummaged through her bag and pulled out a small elastic loop, examining it for a moment before deciding it was, in fact, a hair tie. He made his way over to her, scooping her dark, wavy hair into his hands and tying it gently into a ponytail.

"Will that do?" he asked, waiting for a moment. "Margaux?"

"I need the drugs," she said.

"I'm not sure I have the authority to administer-"

"Sherlock. Get the bloody midwife."

He pressed a button on the wall and within minutes, a midwife knocked on the door and walked into the room. She helped Margaux onto the bed and examined her, shaking her head sympathetically as she looked at her.

"You're too far along," she said. "We can't give you anything now."

Margaux burst into tears. "That's what they said the last time," she cried.

The midwife laughed gently and patted her on the leg. "You're almost there."

"They said that too and I was in labour for twelve hours."

Sherlock watched as the soft-spoken woman left the room, and suddenly he was alone again, with no idea what to do. He had researched everything, but nothing had prepared him for the feeling of utter helplessness as he had no choice but to sit and watch his wife writhe in pain.

"I don't know what to do," he said quietly.

...

"Okay, Margaux, it's time to start pushing."

The words made Sherlock's body go cold. He stood beside the bed, his eyes glossy, his face still like marble. One of the midwives glanced at him, a clear look of concern on her face.

"Don't mind him, it's his first time," said Margaux, breathing heavily as she lay on the bed.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she turned to Sherlock. "I didn't realise you were a first time dad."

He looked down at her and forced a smile.

"Oh he's not," said Margaux. "We have a son. But he couldn't make it to the birth because he faked his own death-"

Sherlock patted her on the head. "Alright, Margaux darling, why don't we stop talking and focus on your breathing..."

They helped Margaux into position - on her back, knees bent. Sherlock stood by her side and took her hand, his heart thudding as he looked down at her. She was exhausted, in pain, her cheeks flushed, lips cracked. She met his gaze with teary eyes, a mix of fear and agony painted across her face.

"On your next contraction, I want you to give a big push okay?" said the midwife.

Sherlock watched as they talked her though it. The room dipping into quiet as she pushed and rising into chaos as she gasped for breath and cried in pain. He had spent his whole life in control; solving problems, finding answers. But this, he couldn't control. There was no solution he could give, no way of fixing it. All he could do was stand by and watch, like a spectator, as Margaux pushed over and over and over.

"I can't do it anymore!" Margaux shouted, throwing her head back in exhaustion.

"Why don't we try a different position," said the midwife calmly.

They helped her up onto her knees, turning her around so she could lean her elbows on the headboard. Sherlock walked around the back of the bed, bringing them face to face. He brushed the loose strands of hair out of her face and took her hands.

"You can do this," he said quietly, falling into the part of him that was only for her.

She began to groan as another contraction ripped through her, looking up at him with teary eyes. "This is your fault. Twice you've done this to me and never again."

He laughed, his eyes creasing in the corners. "That's fine," he said.

"Push, Margaux!" the midwife shouted.

She clamped her eyes shut, gritting her teeth as she pushed. Sherlock winced as she squeezed his hands, feeling his bones crushing in her grasp.

"Keep going!"

She continued to push until there was nothing left. She dropped her head and caught her breath before letting out a whimper. "I'm sorry," she cried softly. "Your hands..."

"It's fine." He shook his head. "Squeeze as hard as you need to."

She took a deep breath and continued pushing. Sherlock watched her in awe, ignoring the throbbing in his hands.

Margaux let out a scream.

The midwife peered over excitedly. "Baby's head is coming, would dad like to come and see?"

"Absolutely not," Sherlock replied bluntly.

Margaux reached out and clutched at his shirt, pulling him closer as she cried out in pain.

"That's it!" the midwife continued. "Keep going, keep going, keep going."

Suddenly, he felt her grip on him loosen. She dropped her head and began to pant. It was as if the room became completely silent and Sherlock couldn't hear anything except the blood pumping in his ears. He looked down at her with wide eyes, until a sound broke through the quiet. A high pitched gargling cry.

He watched as if everything was moving in slow-motion - the midwife passing the baby between Margaux's legs and tucking her beneath her T-shirt, Margaux cradling the baby against her chest as she stayed kneeling on the bed, looking up at Sherlock with an exhausted, relieved, awestruck expression. He felt her curve a hand around the back of his neck. She was shaking, looking back and forth between him and the baby as if she couldn't believe it was real. He leaned in, looking down into her T-shirt and saw his daughters face for the first time. Scrunched up, swollen. He took Margaux's face in his hand and kissed her.

"I love you," she whispered with shaking breath.

"I love you," he replied.

"This doesn't feel real."

A midwife helped Margaux lie down on her back before turning to Sherlock. "Would you like to cut the cord?"

He looked reluctant, yet agreed when Margaux gave a gentle nod. Then he watched as they took the baby, holding her up so he could see her properly for the first time. She was tiny, round and puffy with a tuft of dark hair.

"Let's see how much this little one weighs..."

"Seven pounds," Sherlock responded.

They put her on the scales before turning and raising an eyebrow. "Correct. What is that? Like a party trick?"

He shrugged, too awestruck to think of a comeback. Instead he stood there, never letting his daughter out of his sight.

*

John and Mr and Mrs Holmes sat waiting outside the labour ward. They were chatting quietly, their hands wrapped around styrofoam cups of coffee. Mrs Holmes noticed him first, her crystal blue eyes glittering as he stepped through the double doors. She stood up, waiting.

"Is she here?" she asked.

Sherlock nodded, swallowing past the lump in his throat.

She threw her arms around him, holding him tight as his arms remained by his sides. Mr Holmes joined the hug, patting his son firmly on the back. They released him, moving back as John stepped forward. They looked at each other for a moment before John began to smile.

"I recognise that look," he said. "That's the look of a man who just realised his wife is the strongest woman he's ever met."

"I can't believe I left her to do that alone the first time," Sherlock replied.

"You're here now."

John pat him on the back, assessing him for a moment before pulling him into a hug.

"Am I glowing?" Sherlock asked as they hugged.

John's face twisted in confusion. "What?"

"When you came out to tell us Rosie was here, you had a... glow."

John smiled and pulled back, inspecting him for a moment. "Yeah I can see a glow."

*

London glittered beneath the night sky. Peaceful and distant from the hospital window. Margaux lay in bed with the baby in her arms, watching Sherlock as he gazed out at the view. He stood with his hands behind his back and turned to look at her.

"I'm guessing this private room is courtesy of Mycroft Holmes?" she asked, her voice was nothing more than a croak.

"I could go and tell them you'd rather stay on the ward," he replied as he walked over to the bed. "Then of course I'd have to go home..."

she giggled and shuffled over, gesturing for him to sit beside her. He sat down with his back up against the headboard. He put his arm around her as she rested her head on his chest, the baby nestled in her arms.

"How long does it take for it to sink in?" he asked.

"When she starts screaming, that'll do it."

He stroked his finger across the baby's cheek, kissed Margaux on the side of the head and let his head fall back,  letting sleep steal him away.

...

He woke in the pitch black room to the sound of the baby fussing. He looked down to see Margaux fast asleep and shifted gently, careful not to wake her. He took the baby gently, holding her in his hands like a precious ornament before cradling her close to his chest. He stood up and began rocking her gently, shushing softly as he walked around the room.

"Hello Flora," he whispered. "I'm your daddy."

The baby continued to fuss, wriggling in his arms.

"What's the matter? What is it?" he picked up a bottle from the bedside table, looking at it for a moment before struggling to open it with one hand. "I know," he continued to whisper as she began to make noises. "I've never done this before. Sorry."

He sat down in an armchair beside the bed and lifted the bottle to her mouth, waiting anxiously for her to take it. He smiled gently as she began to suckle.

"Well look at that, we're doing it."

She drank for a while before falling back to sleep. He wiped her mouth with his thumb and lifted her up, laying her on his chest stroking the back of her head.

He had asked how long it would take for it to sink in. But as he sat in the room, his wife sleeping in bed, his daughter sleeping on his chest, he realised that none of it had ever truly sank in. Sherlock Holmes, the high-functioning sociopath who thought emotion was futile, had fallen in love and become a father, a husband, a friend. He had convinced himself for so long that he worked best alone, yet suddenly, he felt like he was exactly where he was always meant to be.