It takes her a single glance to assess that John has finally read the contents of the pen drive, and fear coils in the pit of her stomach. "I'm going out," he announces, and it's much later when he finally comes back – blind drunk, and she struggles to ignore the traces of lipstick staining the collar of his shirt.
(It's Janine's shade of lipstick, as well as it's Janine's perfume she can smell about her husband. A wave of nausea hits her as her mind comes up with unwanted images of John wrapped around the woman's body, panting and sweating and desperately trying to forget his lying wife.)
She doesn't say a word when he starts packing his things, doesn't stay to see him leave. The cab driver has to ask her twice before she gives him the Baker Street address – she knows this is a bad idea, but she has nowhere else to go right now.
Sherlock doesn't question her reasons, just makes her tea and tells her she can take his room.
(He knows she wouldn't want to sleep in John's old room, the wound is too fresh and the memories too painful. It's only when she starts crying that he awkwardly lies down beside her and curls up around her back.)
After that they sleep in the same bed every night, his arm wrapped around her waist and his hand resting over the curve of her belly. She feels so lonely, and angry, her body aching to feel – but she can't, not with Sherlock so close to her, so she clamps her legs tightly together and begs for sleep to come at last.
She's not prepared for the tentative fingers that sweep across her belly, then inch lower agonizingly slowly. Her breath hitches in her throat, and she bites at her lower lip in order to stay silent.
(This feels so good, please, don't you dare to stop. And he doesn't.)
John is staying at Janine's place now, and they're having lots of comfort sex; she can read it in the lines of his face, and she wants to die. That night she pins Sherlock against the wall, kisses him desperately – his eyes wide and unfocused – and she wants, she needs, she's not going to stop.
"We can't," he mutters in a hoarse voice, his head resting in the crook of her neck. "John."
"It's over," she says, and it sounds like a sob in the stillness of the flat. "He won't have me back, not even for the child's sake."
(And she's panting, sweating, clinging onto him as if he can keep her from drowning. John, John, John, forgive me – like that, Sherlock, please – I love you, love you both, there has to be a way out of this mess.)
When Magnussen carries out his threat, she almost welcomes her impending death. Her last thought is for her unborn daughter, then she raises her arms in surrender and lets the shadows of her past catch up with her.
(Sherlock has promised to save her – he's going to save her. But it's too late now, and she closes her eyes in defeat; she's too tired to be afraid, it'll be over soon.)
She wakes up in a hospital room, and oh dear, she had forgotten how much she hated them. Two indistinct figures are looming over her, but she can't make out their faces in the half light – and then she remembers, silent tears trickling down her cheeks.
"The baby is safe," a familiar voice whispers softly, and she wishes she could believe what he's saying. "You're both safe now."
Then another hand reaches for her own, the touch firm and gentle at the same time. "Don't do this to me ever again," John sobs, and she cries, and Sherlock watches over them like he always does.
(And she knows it won't be easy, but they will work it out someday – all three of them together, because that's where they belong.)