"So, how's the living arrangement working out?" Sherlock inquired sipping hospital orange juice through a pink straw that just barely reached his lips.

"Do you need the bed adjusted?" Mary lightly deflected, taking note of his struggle and reaching for the juice.

"No, I'm not really drinking it," he answered quietly. "Mrs. Hudson brought it insisting I hydrate. I told her I don't need to; I've got more monitors on me than Mycroft's lunch dates. If something goes even slightly wrong, we'll know."

"You do need to, young man," Mrs. Hudson reprimanded, emerging from her magazine on the opposite side of the room.

"My body is 60% water, skipping the orange juice will not be detrimental to my health."

"Well, it'll be detrimental to my patience." She flipped to a new page after a finite nod and her eyes lit up. "Mary, what about this one?"

Mary peered over from her place at the foot of the bed to see a picture of a pram Mrs. Hudson's finger eagerly lay upon. "Oh, we won't have to buy the big things for a while."

"She's only ten weeks," Sherlock put in.

The blonde's head whipped back around to him. "I didn't tell you that."

"Yes you did. Just not verbally."

"Don't tell me you were at the conception," she joked, getting a bit nervous when he didn't immediately deny it.

Sherlock shook his head. "I knew you were pregnant at your wedding, is it really so hard to believe I could have deduced how far along you were?"

"Someone told you."

"It was a simple matter of observing your moods, physical appearance, and—"

"Fibbing, Sherlock," she cut him off.

"A quick examination of the calendar in your phone—"

"You went to see my doctor, didn't you," she finally guessed, giving him a scolding look.

A sulking frown contorted Sherlock's lips. "You really should find a more discreet doctor." Mary smirked and shook her head at him, touched by his curiosity. "And while we're on the subject of discretion, you never answered my question. How are the living arrangements? It's been two weeks, I would have expected a report by now. "

Mary looked down into her hands, searching for a way to describe the experience. "It's been…odd."

When she didn't continue, Sherlock studied her and then turned to Mrs. Hudson who was obliviously 'oohing' and 'ahhing' over something in the baby catalogue; no doubt reveling in the eventual arrival of what would be the closest thing to a grandchild she would ever have. "Mrs. Hudson," he said, returning his gaze to a shifting Mary. "Give us a minute, would you."

"Oh, of course," she shuffled to her feet, tucking the catalogue under her arm. "I'll run down to the cafeteria. Mary," she touched the other woman's shoulder gently on her way by. "Do you want me to pick up something for you?"

"Oh no, I'm fine." She smiled at the sweetness of the older lady, who had also somehow forgiven her for what happened. 'Life is complicated' was all Mrs. Hudson had said when she heard the whole of it all.

Mrs. Hudson patted her arm. "I'll be back with another juice for you, Sherlock. Finish the other while I'm gone."

When she had disappeared, Mary breathed a heavy sigh. "He's there, but he isn't," she began. "We see each other at work, of course, but I try to stay out of his way. And then he usually comes home a few hours after I do with nothing to say. We'll go days without a word and then he'll just out of the blue ask me if I'm feeling okay or he'll cook dinner and hand me a plate. Or last week, he checked my blood pressure. I have no idea what's going to happen, Sherlock, but I suppose him being there is better than him not being there."

Sherlock nodded. "Well, you know John, always a bit of a drama queen that one. Remember when he thought I was dead. God, I had to stage another near-death experience to get him to forgive me."

"Sometimes I wonder whether or not he would even consider staying married to me if I wasn't pregnant," she said sadly, unconsciously moving a hand to her stomach.

"He would."

"Yes, and of course you're the expert on relationships," she sarcastically returned, and rubbed at the headache forming over her eye. With a heavy sigh, Mary pushed herself off of the bed. "I think I'd better go, not feeling great."

"Makes sense," Sherlock said with a suspicious sniff. "Hospitals are basically Petri dishes of illnesses and ailments all congealing together."

She leaned over and kissed him lightly on the cheek. "Drink your orange juice. And don't let Mrs. Hudson send out for any prams just yet."

"I'll do my best."

"Bye Sherlock." Mary gave a small smile and left the room. Her visits with Sherlock were one of the few things keeping her sane these days. One of the few things giving her hope that she and John could somehow work it out. Somehow.

OOOOO

Three in the morning was rarely kind to John who, on this particular occasion, and much to his own embarrassment, was spending the time running through the events of the night Sherlock had been shot. He'd done it countless times since it happened, and tonight the mental topic of discussion was what he could have done differently.

'Skip tending to Janine,' he thought. 'She was fine, breathing and that. In no real danger.'

He took a swig from the nearly empty water bottle on the nightstand next to his bed—the spare bed in the spare bedroom. The room that was supposed to eventually be the nursery.

'Go upstairs before Sherlock and find Mary first,' he reasoned next. 'She wouldn't have shot me.'

For a moment his brain had the audacity to question that, but he knew the notion was a ridiculous one. She shot Sherlock to keep John from finding out about her. But she would never pull the trigger on her husband. He knew that. Despite every other doubt in his mind tonight, he knew that.

He was going to continue on with the hypothetical and fixed version of the fateful night, but was brought out of it by a muffled 'clang' coming from the kitchen. He waited a moment and heard slow footsteps move across the tile. He jumped out of bed faster than he ever had and grabbed gun out of the nightstand drawer. Sneaking carefully out of the bedroom, he made his way toward the kitchen and upon hearing another clang sprang unafraid from his place behind the wall with his gun firmly pointed at the noisemaker. "Hey!"

Mary turned, saw the gun and let out a stunned but quick scream. "John!" The name was cut off by the shattering of glass on the kitchen floor, apparently from the glass she had been holding. "Oh God," she gasped, grabbing her chest and bending down to collect the smashed bits of the cup. Sure she was a trained assassin and knew how to keep her composure in the face of shock, but she hadn't exactly been around gun pointing for a few years now, and especially was not accustomed to seeing her husband on the other end of the barrel.

John immediately dropped the weapon on the counter and breathed his own relieved breath. "Jeez Mary, I thought you were…I heard a noise, I didn't realize it was you in here." He joined her in picking up the broken pieces on the tile. "I got this," he said, pulling her to her feet while he resumed the cleanup.

"What were you doing?" Mary's voice was still a bit shaky.

"I thought someone had broken in," he answered, going to the closet to grab the vacuum. The rest of the glass was sucked up in no time and after a brief check to make sure no shards were still stuck to their socks, Mary and John found themselves sitting at the kitchen table. Silently.

"What are you doing up so late?" Mary asked, twirling a spoon through a bowl of what looked to be chocolate ice cream and hot fudge—the reason for her 3 a.m. trip to the kitchen.

"Couldn't sleep," he replied shortly. "You?"

She motioned toward the bowl with a shy but unsmiling look. "Craving." John mouthed an 'oh' and wondered how often she did this. And how he had missed it all the other times.

"Do you…uh," he stammered, feeling like a fool. Obviously he wanted to know how her pregnancy was going, but didn't know how to ask without showing that he missed her. He brought his chin close to his neck and cleared his throat. "Have you had a lot of cravings?"

Surprised by the attempt at conversation, Mary stammered a bit herself. "Um, nothing too crazy yet. No pickles in pie or anything like that. Just been hungrier than usual, and at some strange times."

"Oh…alright." More silence.

Mary watched John's eyes avoid hers as he searched for something else to say. "John…"

"Hm?" he responded, feeling more awkward than he should.

"Maybe we can have this rule," she started, dropping the spoon into the bowl and resting her hands in her lap.

"What rule?"

"Well, not a rule exactly…but an understanding." John wasn't quite catching on. "I know you are nowhere close to forgiving me or for being able to move on from all of this. But the baby is…well, both of ours. And you are a doctor and you are…you, and I know you worry. So, if you want—and this is only if you want to—you should feel like you can ask about the pregnancy…and the baby. There's not much to report now, but still."

Something warm fluttered in John's stomach when he heard that; it was a feeling he had not had in weeks. He couldn't smile outwardly, but something did on the inside. "Okay."

"And I won't assume anything or make it difficult for you to know things. And like I said, this is if you want to be involved—not that you need to be involved, but if you want to hear about—"

"Mary," he interrupted. "I do want to know about those things. I want to be able to ask about it."

"Oh, okay," she exhaled, relief evident. "Well good."

"And I want to go to the doctor's appointments," he forced out before his mind could tell him not to.

"You do?" Utter surprise.

"Yes, I want to know that the doctors taking care of my child are doing what they need to do." He brought his hands together atop the table. "Besides, this," he said motioning between them. "It's not its fault. The baby I mean."

"No," she felt an all-too-familiar tickle in her nose bring what she felt was a pathetic tear to her eye. "It isn't." She blinked away the tear and sniffed before it could get any worse. "Sorry." They sat a bit longer, neither knowing what else could be said and too tired to rack their brain trying to think of something. "The next appointment is Wednesday," Mary at last stated, rising from the table and taking her bowl with her.

"Next Wednesday?"

"Mmhm," she murmured. "At 11:30."

"Still Dr. Marshall?" Mary gave another affirming nod. "I'll meet you there."

"Okay," she wanted to at least say 'goodnight' before she disappeared back into the bedroom they used to share, but the tension between them didn't really welcome the sentiment. So, she just turned and went.

John couldn't bring himself to go back into the spare bedroom. If Mary had been getting up during the nights to eat and he had only heard her this one time then clearly he would be no use to anyone breaking in to the flat, especially if they were trying to remain undetected. He reclaimed his gun from the kitchen counter and moseyed over to the couch. "As good as a bed I suppose," he mumbled to himself, rearranging the pillows a bit. He settled down into it and tucked the weapon underneath the sofa, right by where his hand would hang. Oddly enough, sleep came more easily to him here and he was out before his mind could start up again with the hypothetical replays of what could have happened the night at Magnusson's office.

OOOOO

"Where is it?" Molly demanded, searching the hospital room. She checked under magazines, under the mattress, in the loo, even the overnight bag from when he was first brought in and couldn't find what she was looking for anywhere.

"You won't find it because it's not here," Sherlock enunciated. "John, make her leave."

"Nope," his friend shortly replied. "We know it's here and you, you bloody addict, are going to tell us where it is. You're supposed to be here getting better, that means relaxing."

"What's going on in here?" the high breathy voice of Mrs. Hudson asked, interrupting Molly's search. She had just returned from the gift shop with a box of chocolates for herself.

"He's been solving cases!" Molly tattled. "He's got a phone in here somewhere connecting him to clients and he won't tell us where it is."

"I gave you one big clue," Sherlock grumbled and they all turned to him. "It's NOT here."

"You're lying," John said with zero doubt inflecting the words.

"Fine, keep looking. Go nuts. You won't find anything."

Molly narrowed her eyes and stared at him hard. "Let's see…if I were Sherlock Holmes, where would I hide a phone." Sherlock stared right back at her. "It'd have to get to you some way."

John's eyes scanned the room, finally shifting to a teddy bear that sat on his bedside table holding a 'Get Well Soon' sign. "Probably in plain sight."

"What?" Sherlock turned to John.

"That's where you'd hide it, in plain sight," John repeated, making his way over to the teddy bear. Sherlock sighed and hung his head, realizing he'd been busted and powerless to stop it. John reached into his back pocket for his Swiss army knife and with one quick switch of the blade, grabbed the bear and opened the back of it. "Really, Mate?" he exhaustedly chided, holding up the phone for Molly and Mrs. Hudson to see. "In the bear?"

"I've been here two months, I'm going mad with boredom!" the detective shouted defensively.

"Tough," John asserted. "You can't be working cases while you're in the hospital."

"Why not?!"

"Because you're supposed to be recovering," John shot back. "And if you do happen to stumble onto something that's dangerous—and we all know that is a very real possibility" he emphatically motioned his arms toward the hospital bed to illustrate the point, "then whoever your case-cracking winds up busting will know exactly where to find you. And you aren't exactly ready to go head-to-head with any criminals."

"Who got you the phone?" Molly demanded.

"Who got you the new earrings?"

"My mum," she rushed. "Tell us!"

"Hm, nope. Try again."

"Sherlock, don't be a cock," John helped, to no avail.

"She's just on edge because her semi-steady boyfriend hasn't called in a week. Suspected cheating going on."

"Oh, shut up!" Molly yelled. "Stop trying to get out of trouble."

"You bought yourself new earrings, painted your nails and are wearing mascara. You're meeting him for lunch today and want him to think you're also seeing someone else. You also want him to want to have sex with you."

"Sherlock, manners!" Mrs. Hudson gasped.

"Perfume on the chest. Excites mating instincts and forces the attention of multiple senses to the breasts. Word of advice, break it off. He hasn't been cheating, he's a wanted man. Avoiding you in order to avoid going out in public where he may be identified." They all stared at him in the usual annoyed and dumbfounded way. "Solved that case two days ago."

Molly let out a low growl through clenched teeth and stormed out of the room, taking her purse with her. "Oh, Molly…" Mrs. Hudson cooed, going after her.

"Well, you haven't lost a step when it comes to pissing her off," John scathed, feeling sorry for Molly. "You need to know when to turn it off."

"If I did you probably wouldn't even know you're going to be a father yet." Sherlock exhaled sharply from all the excitement. "Besides, she'll be back. She just needs to cool off."

"Um, I'm pretty sure I would know about the baby by now, and I mean it. Molly was just trying to help." He sat down on the edge of the bed. "You can't be solving cases while you're laid up like this. It's stupid and you know it."

"Mary's only fourteen weeks pregnant, you probably wouldn't have known for at least a couple more weeks."

"The fact that she's vomiting every morning might have tipped us off. And stop trying to change the subject." John folded his arms across his chest and realized something. "You said fourteen weeks?"

"Yes."

"You're keeping track of her pregnancy?" He let a tiny smile show, having caught Sherlock Holmes in what seemed like dedicated affection.

"Got nothing else to do."

"Except solve cases against the wishes of your friends."

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. "I haven't taken anything dangerous. Little petty things, that's all. A banker who quit his job because he could make more money begging, didn't tell his girlfriend. A wife with a secret child who awkwardly happened to move into the flat next door. A ginger whose apprentice took him to town—remind me to tell you about that one by the way, the whole thing was assembled around hair."

"Wiggins brought you the bear with the phone sewn in, didn't he?" John questioned accusingly, ignoring the recap of unauthorized cases.

Sherlock hesitated at first, but soon gave in knowing it wouldn't make a difference. "Yes."

"Didn't you tell me Mary brought you that teddy bear?"

"Yes. I lied."

"Why'd you lie?"

"Because if you knew Wiggins brought the bear you would have been suspicious. If you thought Mary brought the bear then you probably wouldn't have looked at it much, and if you did look at it you'd be too busy thinking about everything there is to think about in that department to wonder why in the world I would keep a 'Get Well Soon' bear in my room."

It made perfect sense. John probably should have given the bear more thought. "So, you get cases on your phone and then…what? You sew it back up and set it down on the nightstand? How?"

"Needle and thread's stuffed in the pillow case. The nurses here are incredibly slow."

"And you're incredibly thick-headed," John finished for him, getting off the bed and making his way toward the window. "You can't be solving new cases while you recover from the last one."

"If you recall, I haven't solved the last one yet," Sherlock objected. "Magnusson is still out there."

John tensed up at that name, a slew of horrible possibilities involving his wife and the man in question assembling in his mind. "Give it time. Wait until you're out of here."

"Fine," Sherlock pushed out, teeth tight against his lip.

"When's that going to be by the way?" He was sure he had heard a mention of it, but couldn't remember.

"Hopefully by the end of the month."

John immediately turned away from the window and came back to Sherlock's bedside. "That soon?"

"Hopefully."

"I heard you talking on the phone to your parents the other day, you said you wouldn't be out until late autumn."

"So?" Sherlock shrugged. "And if you thought you knew why did you ask?"

"I wasn't sure; I've had a lot of things on my mind." Obviously.

"Mycroft and I decided it would be best to wait to tell the parents. Last time we spoke, Mum mentioned something about getting the family together when I got home and being thankful for something or another." He shook his head at the thought. "In any case, neither of us can spare the time for that sort of thing now so we're pushing it back."

"You're going to let your parents think you're still in the hospital when you're not?" John should have been more surprised than he was.

"Makes life easier."

"Not for them."

"So," Sherlock said, ready to change the subject. "How was the appointment?"

"Sorry, what appointment?"

"Your doctor's appointment. You went with Mary last Wednesday, didn't you? I was sure you'd mention it by now, but seeing that you haven't—"

"Do you two talk every day?" John incredulously cut in, making Sherlock wonder if he had crossed some socially conventional line.

"Who, me and Mary?"

"You and—yes, of course you and Mary!"

"More like every other day."

"Well jeez, when's the wedding? Are you going to ask me to be your best man as well? I'd have quite the speech," John taunted. Of course he didn't mean it, but he couldn't help giving a bit of sass. He knew he was sensitive to any mentions of Mary, but that didn't mean he was going to be mature about it.

"Well, she needs to talk to someone, John," Sherlock stated firmly. "She's a pregnant, ex-intelligence agent being blackmailed by the most dangerous and remorseless man in the country, and her husband still can't talk to her about anything because she—regrettably—shot his best friend. Bearing all this in mind, one can conclude that she might have quite a bit to say."

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm just…"

"I know." The two men let the silence hang in the air a bit. "She's not angry with you. She actually is pretty amazed you didn't move back into Baker Street. A little fuzzy on why you've been sleeping on the couch, though."

"It's in the middle of the flat. I can hear things better when I'm in there."

"I assumed."

John breathed out a long, exasperated sigh. "The appointment went well; the baby's growing like it should. We haven't found out the sex yet. The doctor said Mary's blood pressure is a little high which I knew because I've been monitoring it when I can. And uh," John paused, taking a seat in the chair by Sherlock's bed. A small, nearly undetectable smile crept on his face as he stared at a stitch in his jeans. "We got to hear the heartbeat." The smile grew just a little when he looked back up at his friend. "It was amazing. I've done ultrasounds for patients before; I've seen the way they get. But I have never heard something so incredible in my life. It was just…the most beautiful sound. Mary cried. I knew she would. She's been pretty emotional lately, what with the hormones. I, heh, I didn't have that excuse," a light chuckle escaped his lips. "My hormones are fine. And when we left, I excused myself. Said I had to take a call. And…" he stopped and dropped his head. "I know, this makes no sense to you. You don't get this stuff."

Sherlock's expression had softened a great deal from its usual composed and stern state. "Don't underestimate the power of observation."

John looked up and smiled a real smile this time. "It really was amazing."

"I believe you." Sherlock returned the smile with his own and gazed toward the teddy bear. The 'Get Well Soon' sign was stupid and probably Wiggins' idea of humor. What John had just told him was much more motivational as far as how soon Sherlock would need to get well. After all, he made a vow.

John noticed his friend glancing at the bear. "Uh-uh." He rose to his feet and confiscated it. "This is coming with me."

OOOOO

John didn't have to go into work the next morning. He'd taken the day off. However, around the time his alarm would normally go off, he was awoken by another sound. A very unpleasant sound. Opening his eyes to investigate, he was immediately blinded by the glare coming through the living room window (as he'd apparently forgotten to draw the blinds last night.) He rose from the couch, the usual aches and cramps nudging at his sore muscles, and heard the sound repeated. It was Mary heaving in the bathroom. This had happened every morning this week and every morning he sat on the couch and listened, but didn't dare go into the bathroom. He wouldn't know what to do. How could he comfort someone with whom he was still so angry? So he sat.

He stared at the open door into the bedroom and finally saw Mary cross from the bathroom back into bed. He let go of a relieved sigh he hadn't realized he was holding in. However, two brief seconds later he saw Mary rush back into the bathroom and heard the vomiting resume.

"Why does John get up while you're throwing up if he isn't going to help you?" Sherlock had asked Mary last time they spoke of this.

"He worries," she had told him, fully aware of the ritual John had when she was enduring morning sickness. "He wants to help, but he can't. He isn't ready to forgive me."

Of course, John wasn't aware Mary knew he woke up every day she was sick. He remained on the couch with elbows digging into his knees and his head in his hands waiting for the vomiting to stop. Part of him wished she would call him over so he wouldn't have to make the decision to go himself. But what would he do? How would he even help?

Finally, the heaves stopped. He looked up to see Mary coming out of the bedroom looking pale and miserable. She didn't even notice him on the couch. She just went to the sink and poured herself a glass of water. Holding herself up with one hand on the counter, she sipped slowly, closing her eyes after every swig. "Can I get you anything?" he asked, jolting her just a tad.

She shook her head. "No, no, I'm fine."

He fumbled around with a string hanging off his t-shirt. "Don't sound it."

"It's just morning sickness," she brushed off, placing the empty glass in the sink and bracing herself for a second before turning back around to face him. "I'm going to sleep it off."

She returned to the bedroom and crawled back under the comforter, desperately hoping the nausea would subside. She felt terrible, absolutely awful, and didn't see how there could be anything left in her stomach to purge. Falling back asleep proved to be impossible, though, despite the fact that she was exhausted from puking for nearly an hour now. Under the sheets her hand gently rubbed her stomach. "You're not mad at me too, are you?"

A light knock came at the open bedroom door. "Mary," John greeted her softly. "I, uh, brought you some toast and tea." He came over to her side of the bed with the plate and set it down next to her. "It'll help your stomach."

Mary looked down at the plate and then back up at him, incredibly touched by her husband's gesture. She felt her lips tighten and begin to quiver, and she immediately kicked herself for allowing the hormones to take over once again. Overcome with emotion and unable to dam it, she let the first tears fall. "God," she berated herself, shaking her head against the outburst and desperately trying to wipe away the tears. "I'm sorry John."

"No, Mary…it's okay." Now he felt terrible too, he hadn't meant to upset her. He may have still been angry with her, but he didn't want his already sick wife to feel worse. "Oi…" He sat down on the edge of the bed and put a hand on her arm. It was the first warm touch between them since the incident.

She wanted to stop crying, but she just couldn't. "It isn't fair. I was horrible to you. I lied to you. And now I'm sick and puking my guts out and you don't want to be here and don't have to be here, but you stay anyway. You sit up every morning while I'm throwing up…And you bring me toast and tea and try to make me feel better…"

"Mary, please don't cry." His grip on her arm tightened just a bit. "I didn't bring this to you to make you feel guilty. You're sick. I want to help if I can."

"Ughh," she groaned at herself. "I swear I don't mean to be this crazy and emotional!"

"Shhh, you can't get all worked up," John reminded her. "You have to keep your blood pressure down remember." The thought of harming the baby in any way was enough to make her calm down and a few slow breaths later, she had gotten the tears to let up. Embarrassed, she wiped the remnants from her cheeks with the sleeve of her pajamas. "There you go."

After a couple more suppressed whimpers and sniffs, she looked into her husband's eyes. "Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"This. Trying to help…you usually just sit in the living room and wait for me to be done being sick."

"It's morning sickness," he said. "And as the person that got you pregnant, I do feel a little responsible for you constantly vomiting when you wake up or any time you smell something."

"The perfume on that older lady patient yesterday did me in after a minute and a half," Mary admitted. "Couldn't even take her temperature. I threw up in the waste bin right in front of her."

"I know…she filed a complaint."

"Did she?" John nodded. "Old brute."

John adjusted himself so that he was more on the bed, catching the picture on the night stand in the process. It was from the wedding. It was Sherlock, Mary, and him at the reception after the arrest of the photographer. "Mary, I may be very angry with you still…and most days I really can't bring myself to talk to you because there isn't much to keep me from exploding and saying things that I know I shouldn't." He met her eyes again. "But I don't want to see you in pain and I don't want you to be miserable."

"I know," she said quickly and truthfully. "It's just not easy."

John nodded in agreement at the obvious fact, but then quickly got up and began rummaging through the top drawer of the dresser. "I'm going to check your blood pressure now."

A/N: Please let me know what you think, and thank you for reading!