Title: Written in the Stars

Author: Rewrittengirl

Fandom: Sherlock (TV series)

Wordcount: 2,615 words.

Rating: T

Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, Inspector Lestrade, Jim Moriarty, a little Mycroft, and an OC.

Pairing(s): Johnlock

Genre: Romance, angst, mystery, drama, family, friendship, etc.

Warning(s): Kidnapping

Contains: In the entire fic, sex, mpreg, angst, adorable awkwardness, kidnapping, child rearing, secrecy, shootings, violence, some drug abuse by our favorite detective, alcohol, etc.

Notes: At least this wait wasn't NEARLY as long as the last, though it was still long, and I apologize. The next chapter of Come Home is going REALLY slowly, because I'm not sure how the plot should be set up for that particular chapter, though the beginning is complete. I would expect a chapter of Living Corpse before Come Home, and another chapter of this before Come Home as well. I hope you guys enjoy this chapter, as there are only a few left before the epilogue, and then I can start on the sequel, which is currently titled The Black Butterfly. The title is subject to change, however, but I felt I could at least share it with you for now. :3 Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes, nor any of the characters mentioned in this fic (apart from one introduced later). Sir Arthur Conan Doyle owns the characters, and the BBC, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss own the modernized version. If I owned the BBC version, Holmes would have kissed Watson in a dark alleyway in thanks for saving his life. Episode one. :3

Summary: What was once a forgotten (and drunken) one night stand turned into much more for Dr. John Watson. He doesn't remember meeting Holmes, nor that his little bundle of joy could also be Sherlock's little bundle of joy. He just thinks he's moving in with an unusal flatmate who he happens to feel deja vu around, and that they somehow met each other somewhere before. But he just can't place where.


John felt that the bottom of the van was far too cold to his liking, but he couldn't protest.

He didn't know where he was, or who had taken... No, he knew exactly who had taken him. What for, he couldn't imagine. He'll probably be killed, or perhaps tortured. The only thought in his mind was what was going to happen to Amelia.

He struggled against the bonds that had been swiftly tied to his wrists behind his back. They were beginning to chafe considerably, and he grunted as he tried to move his hands in any way. He had been blindfolded and gagged, unable to even sigh. He hadn't seen who had taken him, but it didn't really matter what they looked like, only what they were driving.

Sherlock had seen the vehicle. He had seen what was going on, he would surely find him!

… That was, if Sherlock still cared.

John heard talking all around him. There were men with distinct voices, and some not so clear. They were perhaps in the driver's and passenger's seats. Suddenly, he heard a loud beep, signaling a call. It sounded just like his own phone...

He felt a rough jerk of his head as one of the men grabbed his hair and pulled him up to rest on his knees. He screamed in pain from slamming hard into the metal, especially when his psychosomatic wound felt like it wanted to be real today.

The blindfold was taken off John's eyes, and he had to blink away tears, exhaustion, and fear before he could see what was before him. It was dark in the back of the van, but he could make out a few faces, namely the one of the man that was holding him. He had dark skin, but dyed, short blonde hair. There were a few tattoos on his face, but none that John could make out clearly.

The gag was removed as well, but the man placed a calloused, rough finger against John's lips, signifying that he was not allowed to speak. The phone was still beeping.

In a thick Welsh accent, the man told him quietly, "You're only to say hello. Act normal, or your body temperature won't be, understand?"

John nodded, swallowing and licking his very dry lips. He looked to the man's other hand, and realized the phone in it had been in his own pocket, and was ringing. He was going to let him answer his phone, when he had been kidnapped?

The man placed the phone next to John's ear and hit the talk button. With as much courage and normalcy as he could muster, he said in a very clear and calm voice, "Hello?"

"John? Oh John, thank God!"

John tilted his head. "Mrs. Hudson? What's the matter?" Why would the woman be calling him and not Sherlock in an emergency? Better yet, was Sherlock around to hear this call?

The woman began sobbing. "Mrs. Hudson, please, you have to tell me what's the matter!" He looked up to the man holding him and the phone, and he nodded at him. It would seem what he was saying was acceptable.

"It's... John, it's Amy!"

John's heart stopped. Then, like an a lightning bolt, it jolted into overdrive. "Amy?! What- what happened, what's wrong with Amy?!"

"She's gone, John! I just nipped out to the shop next door to fetch some tea, and when I came back to check on her she was gone!"

John's legs wanted to give out on him, but the man held him up firmly by the arm.

"I-I..." Mrs. Hudson sniffed. "I had thought she was still in the bed, but when I folded back the covers... There was a dead body under it. It was a baby, with its head chopped off and a cross carved on her chest! A little girl, John! How could anyone be so... so cruel?!"

Tears began forming in John's eyes, but he would not let them fall. The first rule of being kidnapped was not to show any kind of weakness. "Mrs. Hudson, call 999 first, and then call Sherlock. I'll... I'll be there as soon as I-"

"Oh! Sherlock dear! Oh Lord, something horrible has happened!"

John heard Sherlock's voice. Why hadn't he...?

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson, John's been kidnapped, I know." So nonchalant, the bloody bastard.

He could practically see Mrs. Hudson's already wide eyes widening even more. "What?! But, but Sherlock, I have John on the phone right now!"

"... What did you say? What?! JOHN! Give me that phone!"

"SHERLOCK!" John cried to let him know he was alright.

The device was ripped from his hands by the man who was holding him. He crushed it in his palm and let the pieces drop to the floor. There was hardly anything left.

John shook and gulped as he was thrown back to the ground, staring at the pieces of his mobile in fear. Without blinking, before John could even react, the man raised his hand and slammed his fist into John's face. He hit the metal of the van and fell unconscious.

There hadn't even been time to trace the call.


Almost immediately after awakening from his violence-induced mini-coma, John heard a ringing in his ears and felt a wetness coating his forehead. Whether it was blood, sweat, or a mixture of both he didn't know. He couldn't touch it, because he could feel his hands still tied behind his back.

John didn't know how long he'd been out. He was slumped up against something like glass, because he could feel the coolness of it pressed against his cheek. He wasn't gagged, nor was he blindfolded, but he refrained from opening his eyes until he was sure of his surroundings using his other senses. Valuable information could be gained without using your eyesight... someone had told him once.

His eyes flickered open without his approval at the mere thought of Sherlock. He realized all too soon that he shouldn't move his head, lest his brains spill out from beneath his blood-soaked skull. He groaned, closing his eyes again and seeing red beneath the lids. This wasn't the first time he'd woken up from being hit in the back of the head, but the experience didn't get better with age. Usually there was someone there to keep his focus acute, but he didn't sense anyone around him.

Slowly, but surely, he opened his eyes again. The room was dim, but bright enough for him to see everything, including himself in the mirror. It was a four walled room, each wall a looking glass. It was as if he was staring at a thousand images of himself...

And his daughter.

His head whipped to the side. BAD IDEA. Bit not good, that. He cried out in pain, wishing he could hold his head, but the only thing he was thinking of was how his daughter was on the other side of the room, just as slumped and unconscious as he was.

"Amy..." he muttered desperately, his breathing ragged from the pain. "Amy, sweetheart."

He began slowly crawling toward her, as best he could without the use of his arms. As he moved closer he examined her for any injuries. He wanted to look away when he saw the bruises coating her arms and legs... What had they done to her?

He didn't see any blood, thank God, but that didn't mean there wasn't serious damage.

"Amy!" he half sobbed, half yelled. Finally, she began to stir as he reached her. Opening her eyes, she immediately saw John hovering over her. "Dad!" she cried, and made a move to embrace him, but then realized ropes tied her hands behind her back. She struggled with them, but he did his best to calm her.

"It's best not to move, sweetheart. It'll only make it worse..." he said, and looked at her sadly. "I am so sorry for all of this... Those men... They hurt you didn't they?"

Amy looked to the ground and sniffled a little. "I... I couldn't get back to sleep after that dream. I just sat in bed and read the book you and Uncle Sherlock bought me. I figured the butterflies would help me sleep, like they always do. They didn't help, so then I sang our song a little. That didn't help either. I still had a bad feeling. And then, a few minutes after that... I... I...!"

The girl began to sob and collapse onto John's lap. He wanted to hold her in his arms badly, but he settled for whispering to her. "Shhh, it's alright love. I promise you no one is going to hurt you anymore."

"Are you so sure about that, Johnny boy?"

Watson looked up and turned. No one was in the room. The voice... A thick Irish accent, high pitched and whiny. He moved closer to Amy to protect her, somewhat. "Who's there?"

The voice ignored his question. "I think little bitty Do-Re-Mi over there has been hurting for a long time, don't you agree?"

Amy lifted her head, and John looked down at her. "Dad... who is that man?"

"Awwwwuh, isn't she precious? I could just take her and squeeze her and eat her-"

"SHUT UP!" John snapped, his head turned to the other mirror. All he saw was his furious expression.

"Oooh, tut tut tut! Where are your manners, Johnny boy? Surely you don't want your very special little girl to learn such language?"

John turned to Amy and nudged her to sit up. "Amy, just stay right here, alright?"

The girl nodded, wiping her eyes with her shoulder and moving into a curled position.

Her father, with as much strength as he could muster, got up and stood in the middle of the room, looking up. The ceiling was black, as was the floor. He couldn't see an intercom system anywhere.

"Look, I don't know who you are, but just leave my daughter and I alone! Your business is with Sherlock, and we have nothing more to do with him!"

The voice let out screeching laughter. He looked down to Amy, who began to cry.

"I think you have everything to do with him, don't you Johnny boy? Ohh... I'm so tired of teasing Sherlock, really I am. He won't tease me back! So now I'm going to torture him. I'm sure he'll gladly return the favour, and then the games can begin!"

"Games, what games? What are you going to do with him?!"

"Now doesn't that sound like the tone of a man who has nothing to do with the detective... You're very convincing, mutt."

John's brow furrowed. "That's not... You're twisting my words, I just meant-"

"We all know what you meant, Johnny."

"Stop calling me that!" Behind his back John's hands clenched and he seethed, his nostrils emitting heat with each angry breath he took.

"Dad..." He looked down and saw Amy's sad, sad eyes.

The voice spoke again, this time with more malice than before. "I'll give you five minutes, Johnny boy, to say goodbye to your precious little lives, and then..."

"And then what? You'll kill us?! Just like that?!" John snapped. He could hear Amy's crying escalate, and realized his words weren't helping any. "For God's sakes, she's a child!"

"Not just any child! It would be a shame take her life, considering her... parentage. But I'm afraid it must be done!"

John's breath caught in his throat. Yes he knew, of course he knew. Moriarty had known for years... And now they were both going to die because of it? John didn't know what to do. "You would take her life just to get to him?! He doesn't even know!"

'Or care,' John thought silently with disappointment. 'If only he would care...'

"Does she know? Don't you think she ought to? Time is ticking. You've wasted two minutes. Three left, and so much to say!"

He couldn't argue with him. Amy's father had always been within her reach, and yet he kept her from the truth. She always asked who her mother was, but he never had the courage to tell her.

"Tick tock, Johnny!"

"Dad... Dad, I don't want to die..." Amy cried, her sobs echoing off the mirrors of the room. John kneeled beside her, resting his head against hers in the absence of his arms. "I don't want to die! I don't want you to die! What about Uncle Sherlock... And mummy's out there! Mummy'll never know!"

Just another stab to John's guilty heart. He let out a soft sob himself, knowing he'd have to tell her. He wouldn't be able to die peacefully, knowing she didn't know. He couldn't care less if Sherlock knew... But he didn't want to lie anymore. No more lies! No more taunting from the man about to kill them! No more dancing around the truth like it was the last he would ever dance...

"Amy..." he swallowed. He glanced up to the ceiling, as if that was where the voice was watching them. "Amy, I have something to tell you... Listen to me good and well, alright?"

She nodded, her eyes red with fear and exhaustion. He sighed, his nose and brow wrinkling in disgust at what was happening to his daughter. And truly... it was all his fault.

"You... You don't have a mummy, sweetheart. You never have... It's hard to explain, and I know that the books say everyone has a mummy, but you... I..." Confusion was spreading over her face. Two more minutes.

"...Four years ago, I met someone... A glorious someone, who I barely knew, but he knew everything about me just by looking at me. And... I..." He closed his eyes, unready, but unable to deny the truth any longer. "I fell in love with him almost instantly. After that night, I didn't see him again for another year or so... I didn't know it was him, though by all rights I should have. Because... You look just like him."

Amy's eyebrows furrowed, just like her father's. John shook his head. "I know this is a lot to take in, but you're so brilliant, just like him you know. Well... Anyway, in the meantime I had you. I... If we were to get technical, I suppose I'd be your mummy. I don't know how it happened, but I gave birth to you."

The girl sniffed, and she shook her head. "But if you're my mummy, then who's my daddy?"

Less than minute. John couldn't breathe. He didn't know if he could do this... but he had to. She had to know.

A deep breath.

"Sherlock Holmes."

Almost as soon as Amy's eyes widened with realization, the room flooded with light. John whipped his head around. Bad idea. Head trauma still present.

Slowly he lifted his head again and gazed at the mirror-wall to his left. He gasped.

Two-way mirror. Sherlock Holmes.

He stood in the very middle of the room on the opposite side of the mirror. His expression... it made John want to crawl into a hole and throw up. Then maybe die of embarrassment.

If he could have his hand would have flown to his mouth. Not just from the shock of seeing Sherlock standing there, presumably having heard every word he said. Not just from the words "GOOD LUCK!" etched onto the opposite side of the glass in angry, bold letters.

No, it was mostly the fact that his hand might have prevented him from inhaling the gas that was steadily streaming through the room. Dangerous, definitely. Lethal, yes. Slow killing? They'd have to wait and see.