A/N: This is an idea I've had for a while now. It's different and yet strikingly similar to some of my previous works, and I felt an overwhelming need to write it. I know it may not be for everyone, especially due to how I feel it would (realistically, if it had happened) end. But it will just be a few chapters long, so please feel free to read and forget. I promise you won't be inflicted with any updates on this particular story after the third chapter!

Thanks,

HQ21

Joan considered her conversation with both Sherlock and Kitty as she walked across the road towards her car, the familiar sound of the brownstone door slamming shut in the distance causing her to blink herself from her thoughts. As she walked the final few steps she found Sherlock's words echoing in her mind, his statements about belonging and about their partnership. His return to New York had been a surprise, but one she quickly found herself recovering from. This was Sherlock Holmes, after all. He had a habit of making decisions which she could not foresee or immediately understand. But it never took her long. And this time it was not his decisions she had to focus on. She had one rather big one to make herself.

Joan reached her car and unlocked it, easing herself gently into the slightly reclined driver's seat and placing the keys in the ignition. As the soft metal clicking sound of the key sliding into place broke the silence within the vehicle Joan found herself recalling a conversation she had with Sherlock recently, when she went to the brownstone after suspecting his return. She had made him aware of how much his short letter and eight months of silence had hurt her, and had vehemently assured him that she did not need him. But as she sat in silence, the darkness creeping across the city once more and marking one less day that she had to make her decision, she found herself wishing that he could help her. But more than that, she wished that she felt able to let him. Joan's thoughts on this particular subject were halted by a sharp pain which shot through her abdomen, causing her to inhale quickly and dig her nails into the steering wheel as she released several short, staggered breaths. The pain passed as quickly as it had appeared, and Joan found herself leaning forward in the driver's seat, one hand on the wheel and the other on her stomach, as she waited in stillness and silence, hoping that no similar pains came. She had felt a similar, though much milder pain a few minutes before when she had been talking with Sherlock. It had been one of the many reasons she had tried to get out of the brownstone as quickly as possible, leaving many things remaining unsaid and unaddressed. Although she had ascribed the pain to a psychological fear of what he may deduce about her condition, and how he would react to it, she could not help but worry slightly. But as she had spoken to Kitty outside the pain had disappeared completely, which seemed to confirm her original diagnosis. Even now, as she sat motionless and contemplative in her car, she found herself adhering to this diagnosis. She had been thinking about him in the car which had caused her to experience further pain. Pain which, now she was relaxing and considering it in a more analytical manner, had disappeared.

After a couple of minutes of relative comfort and painlessness Joan slowly retracted her nails from the steering wheel and cautiously leaned back, the coolness of the leather seats soothing her panicked body. Since Sherlock's return a few days ago she had barely slept or eaten, less so than usual. It was unsurprising that the stress was getting to her. Joan swallowed and lowered her gaze from the row of cars ahead, her dark eyes drifting down to her abdomen, where one hand still rested. Joan's hand was open and her fingers splayed tightly and protectively across her curved abdomen, which was concealed by the dark floating material of her dress. Joan placed her right hand tentatively on the other side of her stomach, feeling warmth from the light pressure she applied to her rounded stomach, which was now more prominent than it had been due to the positioning of her hands, which were unintentionally pulling the material across her stomach to reveal her size. Despite her modest size, she did not have long left. Less than a month. Joan felt the familiar burning feeling of pain and uncertainty begin to creep up from the pit of her stomach and seep throughout her body as she considered what she was going to do. What she had to do. It's the only way, she had tried to convince herself over the past few months. It's the safest way. It's the best way, she thought, repeating the words to herself in her mind, like an internal mantra. And I don't have a choice. Joan swallowed hard and released a final shaken breath as she rose her gaze from her abdomen and removed her hands from her stomach, which she found to be more emotionally difficult than she had anticipated. Joan blinked herself from these thoughts and clicked her seatbelt into place before turning the key in the ignition and driving back to her apartment.

Sherlock sat in his armchair by the fire, one hand pressed to his lips as the fingers on his other hand drummed an open case file on his lap. Like Watson, he too found his mind forcing him to recall and relive the conversation they had shared just minutes before. He had picked up one of the case files the Captain had reluctantly given him following some badgering and prying. He had hoped that reading through the case file and analysing the data would provide an ample distraction from his conversation with his former partner, and the feelings of guilt and regret he found searing through his body at the recollection of her replies, her expressions, her eyes. Mostly her eyes. There was a deep sense of sadness and betrayal that he read in her countenance, but especially her eyes. The first time she had seen him since he had returned, when he had lifted the helmet and engaged her in conversation, when they had walked to another room and she had stared him in the eyes and told him of how she didn't need him, he saw anger, betrayal, hurt and accusation upon her features and in her eyes. Whilst she had seemed calmer and less angry during their most recent conversation, her features were drawn and tired, and her expression was one of surrender rather than forgiveness. Not that he felt she owed him forgiveness, of course. He doubted very much whether he actually deserved it. The memory of the immense intensity of the sadness in her eyes convinced him that he did not.

Sherlock closed his eyes in frustration at this thought, and drawing his fingertips over the smooth paper within the case file. He opened his eyes tiredly and stared down at the documentation beneath his fingertips, and as he did so, Watson's words echoed to him once more. But not her condemnation or anguish, or the forgiveness and open-heart that she had shown him just minutes before. This time, what Sherlock Holmes recalled was her offer to assist him should he require it. As Sherlock ran his finger across the thick file in his lap, he found himself hoping that her assistance would be required. Perhaps finding a reason to talk to her in a professional capacity would lead to improvements in their personal relationship. But this thought was forced aside shortly after its emergence. Watson needed space and time to adjust to his return and their conversations. He would not intrude upon that. However, the case would prove to be a useful distraction. Sherlock was drawn from his thoughts by the sound of the brownstone door slamming shut and his new apprentice walking towards him. She lingered in the doorway for a moment, standing confidently in the darkened spot and watching him expectantly, in a way which was not dissimilar to how Watson herself often looked at him. How she used to, at least.

"I will be perusing the materials relating to a new case for a while, Kitty" he stated, his voice normal and his eyes alight. "Would you be so kind as to return to the basement and continue your attempts of escaping from the locked chair? Your current record is three-minutes forty for the dozen locks. See if you can make it three" he stated, watching as she crossed her arms across her chest. He was half expecting her to tell her what she had said to Watson, and what Watson's responses had been. She did not. Instead, she nodded politely towards him and headed towards the basement. As the sound of her descending footsteps mingled with the gentle crackling of the fire, he found his eyes drifting down to the file once more. The thin, veiled and highly complex document which offered him the opportunity of a distraction. A most needed and certainly longed for distraction. Sherlock nodded once, before sitting up in his seat and beginning to flick through the file.

Joan entered her apartment and closed the door tiredly behind her. She walked slowly towards the kitchen, the soft tapping of her shoes creating background noise for her endless thoughts, as she placed her bag, keys and phone on the breakfast bar. She ran her hand across her cheek and towards her eyes, leaning down slightly and exhaling as she did so. She was exhausted. Physically and emotionally, the day had been challenging to say the least. Her pre-existing fears about her condition being discerned by her colleagues, clients or, worst case scenario, Le Milieu, terrified her. If they found out that she was eight months pregnant eight months after the disappearance of Mycroft, whose death Le Milieu may question, she would be a target. But worse than that, her baby would be. Even if they felt certain Mycroft was dead, there was no guarantee that they would not come after his child. Her child. And she would not allow that to happen, which had led to her making a difficult and heart-breaking decision. A decision which was now jeopardised by the return of Sherlock Holmes who, after spending some time with her, would certainly deduce her condition. The more people who knew about her pregnancy, the higher the chances of Le Milieu discovering it. She had been careful over the past few months, wearing light and floating fabrics which highlighted her legs and covered her growing abdomen. But she was reaching the final stages of her pregnancy, and the bump she had worked so hard to conceal was becoming harder to dress covertly.

Joan placed a hand on her stomach and ran her fingers lightly across herself, before pausing as she felt the baby begin to move beneath her hand. As she focused herself on the mesmerising movements of her child, she found herself what Sherlock's reaction would be to his or her very existence. Would he chide her for the error with her birth control? Would he blame his brother entirely, accuse him of taking advantage of Joan? It would not surprise her at all if he were to track down his brother, drag him back to the States and force him to deal with 'the issue at hand', as she could picture him describing her pregnancy. Reaching out to Mycroft would be a natural and very logical idea, but it was one she discarded quickly after learning of her pregnancy. She had no doubt that there would be a way she could contact him, and she was even willing to get in touch with Sherlock in London to do so. But telling Mycroft that she was carrying his child would almost certainly lead to him blowing his cover, revealing himself to be alive, and endangering himself as well as their child. The risk of him or their baby suffering the consequences of Mycroft's association with Le Milieu was unthinkable, and Joan knew that she had to protect them both. Concealing her condition from Mycroft, Sherlock and the rest of the world was the only way she saw fit to do that. And it was tearing her apart.

Joan felt her eyes stinging with tears and her heart pounding heavily against her chest once more as the arguments she had been battling for the past seven months continued to fight her and wear her down. She had no choice, she was trapped, and yet she was still being tormented by her own mind. Joan sighed in frustration and tiredness as she leaned forward slightly and placed her hand on her lower back. She was feeling tired and uncomfortable, and her back was becoming sore and aching intensely. And it wasn't even seven o'clock in the evening. She was exhausted, emotionally and physically, after everything that had transpired over the past few days. She needed to rest. Her baby needed her to rest. Joan considered this for a few moments, with snapshots of memories from the past few days since her reunion with Sherlock swam in her mind. She knew she needed to rest, she needed to switch off from everything and everyone, just for one night. Joan removed her hand from her lower back and turned towards the breakfast bar. She reached for her phone and turned it off, the first time she had done so since she could remember. But after watching the screen go dark she found herself feeling stronger, more confident, empowered. She stared at the lifeless phone on the counter top and turned on the spot, placing her hand back on her lower back as she made her way towards her bedroom, closing the door behind her and changing into a white nightdress which skimmed lightly over her abdomen. Despite the worries and upheaval in her life, Joan Watson fell asleep moments after her head touched the pillow. She remained in a deep and comfortable sleep for almost four hours, until a sharp aching pain spread across her stomach with such intensity that it roused her from her sleep, causing her to sit upright in bed, one hand on her stomach and the other reaching towards her bedside lamp. She knew something had happened before she had even turned on the light, and she pulled the covers from her body as the room filled with artificial white light, revealing a pool of clear liquid which had saturated her sheets and covered her legs. Joan let out several shaken and uncertain breaths as she stared at the bed in disbelief, before another pain shot through her abdomen, more intense and more painful than the one before.

Sherlock spent several hours going over the case, his attentions diverted only to assist his apprentice and respond to the texts, calls and emails which were coming through on his phone. At eleven o'clock that night, his phone began to light up and buzz once more. Sherlock turned sharply to the right and read the caller identification, accepting the call and placing the phone to his ear.

"Captain" he greeted, surprised by the tiredness present in his own voice.

"Holmes. Thanks for pickin' up. Sorry it's so late" Gregson began, the tone of his voice attracting Sherlock's attention. The apologetic manner of his speech made it seem like not only did the Captain feel that calling his newly re-appointed consultant was an imposition, but that the reason he was calling was trivial or unnecessary. Neither of which were statements that Sherlock believed to be true.

"Not at all, Captain" he returned, leaning forward expectantly in his armchair. "How may I be of assistance?"

"Have you seen Miss Watson this evening?" Gregson asked after a moment. Sherlock blinked, the question surprising him somewhat, and causing him to panic slightly.

"She left the brownstone just before seven o'clock" he answered directly, his voice adopting a lower and more serious tone. "Why do you ask?"

"She hasn't been pickin' up her phone, and when I have tried to call her it's gone straight to voicemail, which is unusual" he stated. After a moment's silence from Sherlock Gregson sighed and muttered a few words of apology. "I shouldn't have called, she probably just forgot to charge her cell or something." Sherlock considered this for a moment, and found himself recalling a time when her battery had dropped below forty per-cent and she had produced a charger from her small clutch bag and proceeded to charge her phone in a small café. Watson disliked having a low battery, a dead one was unheard of. When she lived with him in the brownstone, he recalled her having at least three chargers in different rooms on different floors, just in case. Whatever the reason for Gregson's calls going to voicemail, it was not that Watson's phone had died. The only time he had ever encountered his calls being directed straight to voicemail was when she had been kidnapped. The memory of this caused Sherlock's stomach to clench.

"Is she expecting a call from you?" Sherlock asked calmly.

"No" Gregson returned instantly, a guilty sigh following the words. "We had a little conversation earlier and she seemed… I dunno" he sighed. "I just wanted to check she's alright." Sherlock considered these words, and remembered Watson mentioning a recent conversation with Gregson in which she expressed her contentment with her former partner being able to assist the NYPD once more. It was likely that this was the conversation Gregson was referring to.

"I will make sure that she is, of that I can assure you" Sherlock returned with conviction.

"Thanks, Holmes. I'm sure everythin' is fine, but…"

"I know" Sherlock returned, his voice low and even. "Thank you for calling Captain. I'll attend to the matter at once" he stated, hanging up the phone before Gregson could respond.

Sherlock scrolled through his contacts list and found Joan's details, and called the familiar number once more. The phone had barely reached his ear when Joan's recorded voice informed him that she was not currently available. Sherlock closed his eyes and hung up, wrapping his fingers around the phone and considering his options. Watson was probably absolutely fine, curled up on her couch looking over some case files, much like he was doing himself. And yet, the fact that her phone was switched off unsettled him. It was uncharacteristic, highly unlike her. And something about it filled him with a very unsettling feeling. After a few moments of consideration Sherlock sprung from his chair and took a few steps towards the basement door.

"Kitty!" he called down, leaning slightly towards the open door as he awaited a response.

"Yes?" came the tired and clearly unimpressed voice of his apprentice.

"I am going out for a short while. Call me if necessary" he answered, turning on the spot and heading towards the front door of the brownstone before he could listen to her protests.

Sherlock quickly descended the stone steps of the brownstone and held an arm up towards an approaching taxi, which parked by his side. Sherlock leaned down and gave Watson's address to the elderly driver, who drove him through the artificially lit city that he had so missed, and towards his former partner's new apartment.