A/N: Probably not the most Victorian thing you'll ever read. But the idea of John not being a cheating man really stuck with me. Hence! This drabble was born.

Word Count: 497

Disclaimer: These characters are ALL Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.


"I couldn't agree with you more," Holmes' voice sounds cold. I almost start at his intrusion, but it wouldn't be the first time he's broken in upon my thoughts. I won't let him know I want to know how he knew what I was thinking. I'm not new to his methods of deduction, having lived with him for several years before I married. Mary. Oh, God, Mary. He's agreeing to end this, this, buggery. Still, I am relieved that I don't have to be the one to end it. His ability to remark on my thoughts has never been as vital as it is now. We pass a few more moments in silence before he begins again.

"You need to think about your soon-to-be-born child, my dear Watson." This time I do start. How could he possibly know? Besides the ever-present curiosity, I am filled with anger. How long has he known about the unborn child? How could he still go through with this knowing? Still- still!- in the beat through my veins I can tell that, although this will be the last time, the impression upon my mind this instance has left will never go away. No matter how much I want it to. Lost in my train of thought, I hardly recognize my own voice calling out to him, "Honestly, Holmes. It's too-" He puts up a hand to stop me. He won't give me an explanation?

"I won't," explains he, "rationalize my deductions for you." I suppose it's a kindness he's trying to extend to me. Still, his gesture feels heartless, as so many of them tend to. I watch him very closely, his eyes shift to an area of the house neither of us can see at the moment.

"Ah, I'd nearly forgotten. I brought toys and the like for the child. That's what it is, isn't it? How you knew?" His smile let me know I was right. I felt lighter for that. But then the reality of the situation hit me hard. I'm married, I'm about to father a child, there will be no time for future deductions or for crime-solving. I clear my throat and remark that I should be getting dressed. I quickly gather my scattered cloth and dress.

I walk over to the side of his bed, "This is good-bye, Holmes." I offer him my hand as a farewell gesture, but after a few moments I let it drop, as it's obvious he isn't going to take it. I look at him and all I can feel is disdain. He's forced me to commit this terrible act, to be traitorous to my future family. If we're caught, we could both go to prison. Then his eyes traveled to his bed-side table. That must be where he's keeping his cocaine. It's too cluttered for me to make out any definite shapes on it though. When it's clear his attention won't drift back to me, I leave. For good.