I Am Offering This Scarf

Chapter 1- Sherlock Jr.

Okay! Quick author's note! Please tell me of any errors that I might have made! Please give feedback! (Ps: the first part's sad. It'll get better later on) I'm working on getting these to be longer so throughout the book the chapters will be varying lengths! Laters!

-M

Excruciating.

That's the only word I could find to properly describe the pain I was feeling. Yes I could give you words like pain, sorrow, or even just sadness, but they wouldn't describe it accurately at all. I can't fathom the complete and utter madness mixed with anguish that was coursing through my veins. I wanted revenge. Cold blooded murder flashed through my mind. But I didn't want to think about that quite yet.

No.

I had more important things. Yes, all I could think about was the fact that she was lying on the concrete d-......no I can't say it.

"Mary?!" Fuck all, please let her be alive. I hit my knees by her side and start to look her over. It looks like she got hit in the stomach.

There's so much blood, and even as I watch, it stains the grey caulking and follows the cracks in the floor. There's too much. I'm a doctor, I should know.

I didn't want to face the signs. I didn't want to accept that the love of my life was lifeless. Who would? There's no one there to help me stop the bleeding so I do the best I can. No nurses to lend me their scarves. I pull my beige sweater over my head quickly and push it into her stomach, leaving me shivering in the dark building.

"Jesus Christ, no..." I swear. One of my hands comes up to cover my mouth. I taste her blood in between the creases of my fingers but I can't look away from where the wound is being concealed by my shirt.

The weapon pierced her stomach. The same place where our child is.

My head swirls and a migraine ignites behind my forehead. No no no no no. This can't be happening. I never thought Moriarty would be this cold-hearted. Of course he's killed, but not like this. Not this....evilly. This is cold-blooded.

I can't loose both of them.

I reach down into my faded jeans, now stained heavily on the knees, and pull out my cell. I hit the number one and it takes me automatically to him on speed-dial. The ring echoes faintly in the dimly lit warehouse. The walls are layered with mirrors and I can see our reflections a hundred times more than I would like to. Lights in the ceiling flicker a deep yellow making the scene a whole lot more mysterious and disturbing than it is. Jim could be hiding over in the shadows and I wouldn't have a clue.

He finally picks up with an exasperated sigh. "What is it John? I'm talking to Lestrade, this had better be an eight..." He mumbles, annoyed, into the phone.

His tone angers me even more and pours metaphorical fuel onto my worry. "Jesus Fucking Christ Sherlock! On a scale of one to ten this is a fucking twenty-three! Get your arse over here now! Mary's hurt and I dunno if she or the baby are going to make it. I need your help..." My voice breaks on the word 'help' and a loud, obnoxious sob breaks through before I can trap it.

I can almost hear Sherlock's eyes widen, "Leatrade, shit...I've gotta go..." I hear him say through the line. Loud shuffling is heard from the other side and I know he's already placed the phone in his jacket pocket without hanging up.

I snap my phone shut, knowing that he'll be able to track it. I toss the device to my right and continue pressing on her wound. She was supposed to have the child within the next month. Maybe she's okay? Mary'd kept the secret from me until a few weeks before Sherlock was going to leave; it was a girl.

'You're starting to say 'was' already.' My conscience whispers.

"John! Shut it!" I scold myself aloud, "She's alive! The baby's alive! They both have to be! Jeez, Mary. Please be alive. I need you. Oh god. Where are you Sherlock?!" I lift my arm and rub my nose along my bare wrist. My reflections show several red faced John Watsons.

Why did it have to be her? It could have been me. I could have died. She would have stayed with Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson, and the baby. They could have been happy. Maybe even Sherlock and her could have been together? They could take care of the child like it was their own. They could tell it stories about the awesome adventures her father and step-father went on.

Oh god, the child. It's terribly hard to think about the child.

A new round of hot, itching tears start to stream down the lines of my face. They soak into the crevices of my cheeks and neck. My hand withdrawals from the sweater. I can't do it anymore. I have to face the fact that she's not there. I grasp the sides of my head and stand, walking over to a bleached white pillar in the building. I slide down the side of it, the rough stone scraping my bare back and the microscopic glass-like rocks ripping and slicing at my skin.

I barely feel it.

My world is spinning and crashing down before my eyes. They swim with tears and I completely succumb to them, collapsing with my head on my knees and my arms wrapped around my legs. Through the tears I can see my blood-stained shoes, the places my feet stepped when I came over to this pillar. Her blood. My pants steadily get soaked while I wait for Sherlock to come.

Why did I even call him? This is technically his fau- no. I can't start blaming people. Especially not him. Why did I call him? Because he always comes to the rescue?

Or maybe because he has something in his head that'll save her and the child. Even if he can save only one of them... The baby, maybe if I tell him her middle name? He might be able to save her...

The baby. The child. My child. Our baby.

Her middle name is Sherlock.