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Consulting Wife >> Greg Lestrade X Reader

Title: Consulting Wife

Paring: Greg Lestrade X Reader

Warnings: none

Spoilers: yes, for season three Sherlock

Author's Note: this is a requested sequel to Consulting Girlfriend and is just a short closure chapter. 

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Slowly, you turn over in the bed. It's been a rough week, and after the night you've just managed through, your head throbs. Beside you, Greg stirs, and turns in his sleep. He doesn't react to the light of your mobile phone bathing your face in unholy white light. It has only been half a minute since you have woken from the vibration, and a second since you realise what the text says.

"Greg! Wake up!" you drop the phone, and shove your husband. "It's happening!"

He frowns, and in the very early morning gloaming, you see his eyes widen in confusion. "England is under attack?" he mumbles, wiping sleep from his eyes. He had as much of it as you did, actually. "Call - call Donovan. She'll fix it."

You sigh. "It's baby Watson, Greg!"

At inches the both of you are up, struggling into yesterday's clothes tossed all over the floor and grabbing the keys. You thank whatever higher power that watches the pair of you, for the pure luck of being near Mary Watson's designated hospital for your honeymoon.

"How fast is a baby delivery, anyway?" Greg mumbles as he jumps into his pants. "Five more minutes can't hurt -,"

You snap. "Greg! This is Mary's time of need! If you want to go back to bed, go! Come in the morning! I'll go and -,"

Greg's face turns into one of mirth. "I know, I'm coming. I've been at my sister in law's birth. Not pretty."

Twenty minutes and a taxi ride later, the pair of you stumble into the hospital, directed around by the front desk (a downwards-looking woman, with a kind smile) to the correct sector. Outside the door, Mycroft Holmes stands guard, wearing the same suit he wore four days ago, with a purple pocket square. Before you can really wonder if he has his clothes on a rota, you spot Sherlock, and the younger Holmes brother cracks a smile.

"Glad you made it. I don't know what I would have done if I was one minute longer with him." Sherlock pointed to his elder brother. "He's been whinging all night."

Mycroft sighed. "We've been here for nigh an hour, Sherlock, don't exaggerate."

Greg chuckled. "Long night?" he asked the politician. Soon, the pair of them were seated in the waiting chairs by the door, and you gravitated your way toward Sherlock.

"While John's baby is coming...I have a proposal," Sherlock whispers to you.

In the months since the last incident, you haven't told Greg, but you and Sherlock would sneak out and about, using sick days and "weekends with family" to solve cases and dig into crime rings. Whilst you were still the receptionist at the 'Yard, you were now someone much different, as of three days ago: a wife to a loving husband.

"I...I don't know, Sherlock. I said I had enough with the last case, you remember that," you breathe. From the corner of your eye, you see Greg explaining what problems they've got at Scotland Yard to Mycroft, illustrating his point with wild hand gestures. "I'm married now, you know. I don't -,"

The taller of the two of you nudged your side. "Don't worry, I was only testing."

There's a shout from the room, and the door opens to reveal John Watson, wearing a pale hairnet hat like a deli worker in downtown London. "It's a girl," he whispers. "I have a - a daughter!" 

He's soon followed by a doctor, dressed in a white gown-coat. "You're the family?" She asks. "We've cleaned the baby up, and the mother's ready for visitors." Her eyes gravitate; to Sherlock, poised tall and proud, you, in your lopsided-buttoned cardigan and sleep-mussed hair, Greg's wild bed hair and jeans and unlaced sneakers, and Mycroft, without a hair out of place. What a sight we were. 

"Are you sure?" you ask John. He can't seem to wipe the euphoria from his face. 

John nods. "Of course, ______. You're Godmother, after all."

Your heart stops and starts all at once. "Re-really? Me? Why me?"

His face contorts into a kind smile. "You're already part of the family, you know, what, being Sherlock's tamer -,"

"Hey!" Sherlock frowns.

"-and being there for Mary and I whenever you could. It's time to make it official."

Mycroft rises from his perch, leaving his umbrella in the seat, just as Greg laughs. "Wow. And Godfather?" he wonders, a twinkle in his tired eye. 

John shakes his head. "Two Godmothers, actually. Harry wanted to be it as well, and...I can't blame her, she's come around. So! Come and see her, everyone - she's so beautiful!"

In the crib, at the side of the bed, sleeps baby Watson. Her parents have not yet decided upon her name, for in their chests they feel such a twang at how they had made something so delicate come to life. She is small, and has strands of hair in similar orange to her Aunt Harry. And her eyes - the same grey-green as her father. Talking around the bedside are her uncles - Uncle Mycroft, watching austere from the corner, Uncle Sherlock, observing Mary's words with a sort of reverence, or maybe dull interest. There's Uncle Greg, who can't take his eyes from little Watson, and her small fists as she rolls around in her blanket.

And then there is her Aunt, and Godmother: ______. One hand on the side of the plastic cot, the other in Mary's hand. Her face is bright, like she has seen God or a planetary system arise into existence, holding on to the two people she values above life as if for her own dear life. 

The hospital is still. It is quiet. All is good.