"WHY, Sherlock? Why would you go to an ultrasound appointment with my wife?" John is furious. Sherlock notes the flare of his nostrils and the tautness in his neck muscles.
"Because you weren't there, John," he answers, his log fingers closing around a beaker and taking it off the Bunsen burner on the kitchen table.
"Mary can take care of herself," Watson sputters.
"Obviously," says Sherlock. "I'm not doing it for her."
"Then why in the world are you doing it?" John asks.
"Because when you're no longer angry, you'll wish someone had been there." Sherlock takes off his goggles and picks up his tea mug, watching as his flatmate—returned to Baker Street for the time being—shakes his head and stomps off in a huff.
Month One
The specialist is white-haired and kindly, the maternity expert recommended by Mary's GP. Sherlock's eyes appraise him, but she can't see what he thinks, and he's polite enough to stay silent through the discussion of her first ultrasound results, which are perfectly normal. Dr. Clarke assumes Sherlock is the father. Mary doesn't correct him, afraid they won't let him stay if they find out.
She's never minded being alone. She doesn't want to be alone now.
When the nurse comes in, things get tense. Sherlock doesn't agree with his recommendations for prenatal vitamins. Mary doesn't get involved, but she makes a mental note to follow Sherlock's advice instead.
On the way home, the detective stops at Tesco. She doesn't know how, but somehow he knows she's out of milk and running low on bread. He buys both and brings them to her before taking her home.
"Thank you, Sherlock," she says.
"You're welcome," he answers.
Those five words are all they've said to each other.
Month Two
"You're dehydrated," Sherlock says by way of greeting.
"I'm having morning sickness," Mary answers. "I can't keep anything down."
"I see," he answers, sliding into the driver's side of her car. She didn't even know he could drive.
It's just a checkup. Dr. Clarke says everything looks fine, and he prescribes a pill for the nausea. Sherlock drives to the pharmacy to pick it up.
Mary wonders why so hard her head nearly explodes. Why is the man she nearly shot dead treating her like a brother would a sister? She's too scared to ask, too afraid he'll never come back.
Month Three
"Has John asked about me?" Mary can't help wondering aloud to the tall man in the seat next to her. They've been waiting an hour. Dr. Clarke had to deliver a baby, and now his patients have to wait far longer than normal to see him. She's trying to keep Sherlock distracted.
"Every day," he answers.
Mary sits back in her seat, a little bit of warmth inching its way into her sadness.
Month Four
Mary is crying. She can't help it. John should be here, here to see the ultrasound of his growing child. He should be here to see arms and legs forming, to watch a head become a face, to see the life inside her.
Instead, Sherlock sits by the gurney, his face confused. He doesn't know what to do. He's not good with these things. She's never been good at them either. That's why they both have John.
"Hold my hand," she says softly, through sobs. The detective does, his long fingers surprisingly warm and solid.
"Thank you."
Month Five
"You've gained eight pounds since I saw you," says Sherlock.
"You've gained too," she says. "You've gotten back the weight you lost when you were injured." It's the first time either of them has directly broached the subject of the shooting.
"I don't mind," he says.
"What?" Mary asks.
"John is angry, Mary. I'm not. I've never been angry. I understand."
"I know," she answers, realizing that she always has.
When they arrive at the hospital, they walk to Dr. Clarke's office in their usual silence, but this time it has a companionable quality.
Month Six
"He's coming around," says Sherlock.
Mary is standing behind him at the Tesco's checkout. This time he's buying olives and peanut butter, not one to question the cravings of a heavily pregnant woman.
"Who?" she asks, since they haven't been taking about anyone.
"John," he answers. "If you come to Christmas, he'll move back in."
"How do you know?" she asks.
"I'll talk him round," he answers.
Mary can't help smiling at his use of the words she once said to him.
Month Seven
Two fists knock on the door of 221b Baker Street. John and Mary are so excited they both bang at the entrance until Sherlock lets them in, perturbed at their eagerness.
"Look!" says John, handing him an ultrasound printout.
"Nearly grown," Sherlock comments. "Won't be long now."
Mary laughs. You can't expect Sherlock Holmes to lie and say the ultrasound of an unborn baby is beautiful, but she's glad they showed him all the same.
Later on in the evening, when John goes outside to take a call from a patient, she sits next to Sherlock and watches reality television, enjoying his commentary more than what's on the screen. During a commercial break, she turns to him, her hand on her huge belly.
"Why, Sherlock. Why did you do it all?"
"For him, of course," he answers, inclining his head toward John's chair.
Mary kisses his cheek, and he doesn't even seem to mind.