No one knows.

They didn't tell anyone. They couldn't. Wouldn't?

Every day she's a little farther gone, and every day he wracks his mind for answers.

He's never had to take care of anyone before, and now there's this woman - this wonderful, interesting woman who has been damaged beyond repair by something he, Sherlock, did. Of course he didn't want to do it, of course remembering is terrifying for him too, of course he still wakes up in a cold sweat some nights with the ghosts of red lasers on his skin.

When the dust hovered in the air, when Moriarty had gone, the lasers remained, swiveling like spotlights, visible from where they sought the signals from Joanna and Sherlock's mobiles all the way to where the device had been planted in the corner. Like scarlet chords tying them together, tangling and weaving between their half-clothed shaken bodies to make sure they can never be disconnected.

Any other day, any other situation, Sherlock would have been glad for something to tie him to Joanna forever. Anything but that, anything but being forced to close his hands around her hips and enter without preparation, without permission, without the tedious and necessary feelings so attached.

They didn't tell anyone - shouldn't, wouldn't, couldn't - and Joanna is pregnant.

She doesn't know, doesn't want to know, doesn't want to see...but Sherlock sees everything. He sees the way she tries to hold back her gag reflex at the smell of beer, and fish, and sometimes her favorite curry; he sees how tired she is all the time; he sees her swollen ankles and hands; he sees it all like someone put up a signpost and hates himself for it every day.

Warfare is what she sees now. She sees the battlefield, and it never turns off anymore. More than once Sherlock has found her gun tucked away under her pillow, like a security blanket for a child who claims to have outgrown such things. She takes it to crime scenes; Lestrade pretends not to notice as an act of charity. He knows something terrible has happened to them, but of course they did not tell.

At the Yard, they act normal, or as normal as they used to be back when they met. People have started to notice Joanna's yo-yo weight. Sherlock glares daggers at anyone who looks close to saying a word about it. He hits Anderson - only once - because he managed to get a word in edgewise anyway.

"I should start dieting," she says contemplatively, conversationally, in the cab home that day.

Sherlock closes a hand around her wrist - loosely enough to allow for pulling away - and she remains still. A small victory. "No, you shouldn't," he replies, voice hard with implications.

She looks away, out the window, as though she didn't hear.

He tries to tell her in ways that won't upset her, leaving those insipid hospital-issued "Gee Whizz, Could I Really be Pregnant?" leaflets lying around the flat. She tosses them out in the bin when cleaning without sparing them a second glance, assuming they're for an experiment or study.

Even if she wants an abortion, or to give the child away, or to leave it in a fucking dumpster, Sherlock would be happy. At least then she would be aware of what was happening to her body. At least then he would know what she wanted.

After one attempt with an American television program called "I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant" he gives up on that approach, as she has a PTSD attack when he so much as suggests some crap telly.

Still, despite how uncomfortable it makes him, he knows that if Joanna doesn't come to terms soon, it will be even worse for her. He consults therapists, Mrs. Hudson, even bloody Mycroft, but because they didn't tell anyone - shouldn't, wouldn't, couldn't - it's impossible to make them see the gravity of the situation. He tries to remain hypothetical, but both Mrs. Hudson and bloody Mycroft are too clever for their own good and start putting forth their congratulations.

Joanna doesn't understand their levity, or their well-wishes., doesn't see, doesn't want to see, living in her own rabbit-hole of a dreamworld. Sherlock wants to hide her away from the rest of the world, maybe inside his pocket, and show her how everything was going to change as gently as possible. He was the one who got them into this mess - he engaged Moriarty, played his game, mocked and laughed at Joanna's pleas for humanity, drove her to leave and see Spencer that night she was kidnapped and strapped to a bomb vest, arranged to meet Moriarty at the pool, gave in to the the madman's demands. Fuck the pretty girl, Sherlock. Stick your prick in her cunt and listen to her screaming and know it's all your fault.

He knows it's his fault. Of course he does. That doesn't mean he knows how to make it right.

It's child's play for him to know when the baby starts moving the exact same moment she does. He sees the way she stiffens in her chair, grabs her abdomen, and turns green before bolting for the bathroom. There's something he was doing before he looked up at his flatmate, but now his mind is chaotically blank. Surely now she'll face the truth?

But she doesn't. She blames it, of all the obvious cliches under the sun, on something she ate.

That is the moment Sherlock gives up, gives himself to the fire, the anger, the frustration he's had to wrestle with on his own for five bloody months. He practically dives from his chair into his bedroom, slamming the door and very nearly suffocating himself with his own pillow in an attempt not to scream at Joanna.

He has no idea why he is fighting every instinct he has. Even since his childhood he has always relied on his own mind, never taking a moment to spare consideration to the consequences or feelings of others. Why should he? He was brilliant and they were not - therefore, he was better than them, and deserved to be happy before they could be. That was his philosophy. And yet with Joanna, he wants to protect her. He wants to curl himself around her and simultaneously kill Jim Moriarty with his bare hands. He wants her to be his and no one else's, forever.

It doesn't occur to him until the latter thought, that he has never loved anyone in the way he loves Joanna Watson. It takes much less time to realize just to what lengths he would go in order to get her back.

That's not to say that things haven't been somewhat on the mend since Moriarty and the pool. Yes, the memories are horrible and will never fade completely away, but conditions have improved. Though many nights are interrupted by sweat-soaked nightmares, it's no longer happening every night. Though Joanna sometimes feels pain in her leg, she doesn't limp like she did in the weeks after, and that present pain could be entirely to do with the cold weather. On some days, they go to crime scenes and worship the miracle of death, and they go home and she laughs and Sherlock feels like everything is right again.

There is a hesitant knock on his bedroom door. "Sherlock?" Joanna calls softly. "Sherlock, I think we need to talk."

He sits up, instantly alert. It couldn't possibly have hit her in the fifteen minutes he'd been in his room, and yet she sounds very grave. Fighting his eagerness for a breakthrough, he shuffles out into the sitting room and drops onto the sofa. "What is it?" he asks, trying to keep things normal and his voice nonchalant.

Biting her lip, she sits across from him and rubs her hands together bracingly. "Sherlock, I...well, I'm worried about you," she tells him. "You've been acting odd lately."

Well, that's unexpected. He blinks at her, and she continues in a rushed voice. "It's just, well, I know things have been a bit wobbly since what happened last March -" She has to stop and close her eyes for the barest moment before plowing on. "You've not been eating as much, and that's saying something since you hardly ever eat to begin with. You've been quieter. That I've noticed a lot. You haven't told me how wrong I am or how much of an idiot I am in months. I'm...I'm worried about you. I already said that."

Sherlock doesn't know what to say. He is literally baffled. "Joanna, I -"

Her smile, strained and unhappy, interrupts him mid-sentence. "I know I've not been myself either, Sherlock. I've been neglecting myself, because I suppose I've been so wrapped up in worrying about you." As if for emphasis, she reaches out and takes his hand, not shying away from the contact any longer.

It's a different sort of breakthrough than he'd been hoping for, but a breakthrough nonetheless. He shifts in his seat, never relinquishing his hold around her fingers, and prepares himself. "It seems we've been doing the same thing, then," he says cautiously, and she smiles sadly. "Joanna, I've been trying to figure out how to fix this, to make things go back to normal."

"I know you have." She give his fingers a squeeze and warmth floods his chest. "We can't stop dancing around one another and ignoring what we really need. We need to talk about this."

Slowly he nods, carding his free hand through already-unruly hair. "You're right. You're right, I need help. We need to help each other."

"Tell me how to help you, Sherlock," Joanna pleads, and then there are tears in her eyes and the sight makes Sherlock want to jump off of a bridge and die.

But he doesn't die. He doesn't keel over or give up, because he's Sherlock Holmes, and for him to surrender would disappoint Joanna quite a lot. "I need you," he says. She's instantly up and on the arm of his chair, wrapping her arms around him, and he relishes the warmth for as long as possible. "I need you to start thinking like a doctor again, and see what you refuse to see."

There is a furrow in her brow as she pulls away; she doesn't understand. Not for the first time, he wonders just how deep denial can effect the psyche.

"Joanna, listen to me," he says slowly and firmly, clasping her hand ever more tightly. "You are pregnant."

Her hand is yanked free with a most distressing shout of laughter. "God, Sherlock, would you just drop that? Christ, it's not funny anymore!"

"It was never funny; do you think this is a joke?" he replies sharply.

Joanna shakes her head with disbelief. "Sherlock," she begins patiently, as though speaking to a small child, "there is no possible way that I could be pregnant."

He can't help it; he jumps to his feet and shouts. "You've felt it move! I know you have! What makes it so impossible for you to be pregnant?"

Moments behind and marginally slower because of her uneven weight, she leaps up as well. "Because we've never had se-!" With a gasp, Joanna claps a hand to her mouth, looking horrified by the truth being laid bare.

"You've really convinced yourself of it, haven't you?" Sherlock asks, all the heat gone from his voice in an instant of cold sadness. "We've gone about this all wrong; pretending it never happened has only made it worse." Shaking slightly, Joanna nods and brushes his hand with hers, seeking comfort from the shock. "We need to tell someone."

She lets out a tiny humorless laugh. "Who would we tell? Mrs. Hudson?"

"No, of course not, knowing that would break her heart," he dismisses immediately. "Your sister?"

Instead of answering, she groans. "Mycroft."

"Ridiculous, of course not."

"Well, we've run out of people who would care," she shrugs, sinking down onto the sofa with only a small amount of difficulty. He notices that, since they've passed the five-month mark, it's been more awkward for her to get up and down.

He sits beside her, taking another rare moment to simply look at this woman who has changed his life so profoundly. This woman who is, whether she acknowledges it or not, carrying his baby. She must be carrying higher than average, he concludes after a few moments' scrutiny, because for someone not looking it would be very difficult to tell Joanna was pregnant at all. He wonders somewhat curiously if he would be able to feel the child move from touch yet, but doesn't dare ask.

"I have one more idea," he announces.

It is infinitely more difficult than Sherlock ever would have anticipated, to tell the story all at once. Joanna had recapped how she'd been kidnapped the night of the explosion at the pool with limited trouble, and yet Sherlock finds himself taking long yawning pauses in the middle of sentences. Only the touch of Joanna's hand on his arm could bring him back to the present. He retells the entire conversation with Moriarty until he comes to the point where the consulting criminal had said, "Now take off her trousers, Sherlock. Fuck your pretty little pet, right here, or I'll blow her up." Then his throat locks up for five full minutes.

As usual, Joanna saves him. "He said he would let us go if we had sex. But then he didn't." It's so frank with hurt and fear that Sherlock has to get up from the sofa and pace one frantic circuit of the flat before sitting down again. She sums it up so neatly, with only a minor thickness to her voice, that Sherlock is again put in awe of her. It is a quiet strength she carries, one that is sometimes easily overlooked, but when it comes to things like this, emotional things and frightening things and things that make Sherlock's skin crawl, she's rather like his guardian angel, if he ever believed in them.

"Shit," swears Lestrade quietly from the chair they'd sat across from the sofa, only taking his hand away from his mouth long enough to do so. "I mean, you two...you...shit. I just...why didn't you say any- no, never mind, I shouldn't be asking you that." The three of them sit in silence for another several long minutes before Lestrade speaks again. "How could I not have seen? Dammit, I'm supposed to be good at my job, and for five months..."

"Lestrade, don't," Joanna interrupts softly. "We've wasted enough time pointing fingers at ourselves; you don't need to make our mistakes too."

The DI nods carefully, beginning to put the pieces of "evidence" from the past five months together in his mind. For several minutes there is quiet, in which Sherlock has never felt closer to Joanna or to Lestrade, but it has to be broken sooner rather than later.

"There's another thing," he begins, ignoring Joanna's hand closing like a vice on his arm.

"Sherlock, don't-"

"Joanna's pregnant."

Her eyes close as Lestrade sinks backwards in his chair, utterly gobsmacked. Sherlock stares at his hands when she storms out of the flat. "I'm so sorry you went through that, Sherlock," says Lestrade to break the silence.

He shakes his head. His hands are shaking. "Don't apologize. Tell me how to make it right again."

Despite his rather dependent plea for help, he is startled by the warm grasp of the Detective Inspector's hand on his shoulder. "You're trying, Sherlock. You. Showing you care about someone else. That's a pretty damn good start. Just give it time, I think. And don't be too proud to ask for help. Come find me if you ever, ever want to talk, alright?"

He doesn't know what to say, so he nods stiffly and stares at the coffee table until Lestrade is gone.

It's three days before Joanna will speak to him again, but he isn't as worried as he would have been the immediate days or weeks after the night at the pool. As long as she's there with him, blessedly, blessedly alive, then that's all that matters.

What triggers her to start speaking to him again is even better than her being alive. He spends the afternoon at Bart's, doing an experiment that he doesn't even remember the details of the moment his phone start humming in his pocket. Come home is all it says. He yanks his bag over his shoulder, abandoning his experiment for Molly to clean up as he runs outside, shouting for a taxi before he's even at the street.

Joanna looks pale but calm when he practically leaps up the stairs to the flat and bursts in, breathless. "What is it?" he asks. "What's wrong? Are you alright?" He drops his things just inside the door when she doesn't reply, practically collapsing on the sofa beside her.

"I started having Braxton Hicks contractions," she explains, staring down at her hands intently.

The moment he hears the word "contractions" Sherlock goes white. "What? Why didn't you call for an ambulance? Why aren't you at the hospital?" he demands, pulling out his mobile to do it himself before Joanna's hands close around his.

There are tears of shock and fear in her eyes as she shakes her head, but a smile on her lips as well. "No, you big idiot, I'm fine!" she laughs coarsely. "It's just my body getting ready to...to have a baby." Her smile is abruptly replaced by blank shock, and she has to take several deep breaths with Sherlock's arm around her before she can sit upright on her own. "Sorry. Just...I hadn't actually said it out loud, and now I just keep thinking how we haven't done anything to prepare for this, and I've been going to crime scenes and letting you do experiments and chasing criminals and not been taking vitamins or eating properly or-or-"

"We'll take care of it," he assures her, resting his hand between her shoulder blades.

A sudden thought occurs to him. "Joanna, if you don't wish to keep it, I completely-"

Her hand closes over his, warm and secure. When she speaks her voice is high and shaky, but also determined. "I can't think of a better way to show Moriarty that what he did, it didn't destroy us, than by taking this mess and being happy with it." Joanna pulls his hand across the small space between them and rests it on her belly. "It's kicking; can you feel it?"

He nods slowly, not daring to believe the joy of thousands erupting inside of his one feeble body, and she brings her head down to rest on his shoulder. He pulls her into him, heart thrumming tightly in a chest that feels too small. This is terrifying, difficult and daunting, but doable as long as they're together.