Molly felt like a time-lapse camera taking pictures. Every time she opened her eyes, the light had changed and right then, dawn crept across the ceiling. She had not slept a wink the entire night and would swear if asked she'd counted approximately 4800 breaths from Sherlock over the course of the night. Yet still, somehow he managed to sneak out of the bed undetected.

She looked over to the void he had left and past it to the alarm clock which displayed the time at 7 am. In a way, she was relieved she did not have to look him in the eyes straight away. There was something too intimate about those first few moments of consciousness in the morning. Although, she would love to study him in his sleep if she was ever given the chance. She sighed and lumbered out of bed. She rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand.

"Ugh," she mumbled.

She had sweat buckets. Lying next to Sherlock was like sharing the bed with a 200 watt light bulb. Of course, it didn't help in her nervousness that she'd worn a long sleeved tee and flannel pajama bottoms as well as socks. She trudged towards the bathroom. Toby bounded up to her in the hall and greeted her with a head bump and a cry for attention. She leaned down and scooped him up.

"Morning, Mr. Toby, how's my guy?"

"Mrrrlll, ruuurrr."

"Oh, you like this place, do you? Mm, well, don't get too attached."

Besides Toby's purring, the flat was dead silent. She surmised Sherlock had probably gone off somewhere. She set about her morning routine, brushed the funk from her teeth, hopped in the shower and ran it colder than usual. She was still so hot, literally hot, and bothered by Sherlock's behavior the previous night. She needed to change something because otherwise this was going to prove unbearable. She couldn't have another night like the last night. She'd start by going out and buying something cooler in which to sleep.

Then a thought struck her and she felt the biggest smile spread across her face. She rubbed her hands together under the streaming water. She felt positively wicked.

Sherlock Holmes wanted a girlfriend, did he? Well, he was going to get one.


"I would say you look well, Mary, but I would be lying."

Mary glowered at Sherlock. "I would tell you to shut it, Sherlock, but that would defeat the purpose of your visit."

Sherlock whipped off hit coat and settled into the chair opposite Mary. "Let's call it even then, shall we?"

Mary nodded and hauled her feet up one by one onto the ottoman. Her legs and feet were incredibly swollen from the late stages of pregnancy. She felt as if every one of her toes were going to pop off.

"How are you enjoying pregnancy?" Sherlock asked.

She raised a brow. "Seriously, you really want to know?"

He pressed his fingers into a triangle and propped his chin up. "It is a curious state."

Mary grunted. "It's godawful. Who are these women who glow, anyways? I want to punch them in the face. I hate every minute of this. I'm fat, I'm swollen, I have to wee every half hour, every disc in my back feels as if it's being compressed and the baby has dropped down and is so heavy now I feel like I'm trying to hold a bowling ball in with my cooch."

Sherlock's face went pale and he cleared his throat. "Ahem, indeed . . ."

"Ah, sorry, Sherlock, a lack of decorum seems to be another byproduct of this delightful state. I suppose I've gotten to the point where so many people have inspected my nether regions that I've lost all modesty."

He pressed his lips together a moment. His eyes enlarged briefly and he sat back and crossed his legs.

"Yes, well, let's change the subject, shall we?"

Mary took a breath and then another. "I suppose you've figured out why I've asked you here."

Sherlock dipped his head. "I have determined it is something to do with your past, otherwise John would be here but his absence means you don't want him to know. You have been sent something, a token that reminds you of someone or something but you are not entirely sure of its meaning or who sent it as they did it anonymously. You fear you've been discovered."

Mary reached to the side of the couch and retrieved a small courier envelope. "I forget how good you are sometimes."

His eyes hardened around the edges. "You shouldn't, I never fail to remember your capabilities. Nor underestimate them. For all your complaints, you've probably got this place booby trapped and have sorted out some method of killing an intruder that involves smothering them with your enlarged . . ."

Mary smiled tightly and held up her hand. "I'd stop right there, Sherlock. Unless you want to test that theory out?"

He clapped his mouth shut.

She pulled a small velvet bag from the envelope, loosened the ties and turned it over in her hand. Three pearl-like gems dropped into her palm. She poked at them individually and then handed them one by one to Sherlock.

"What meaning do these have for you?" He asked as he studied them.

Each pearl was very different from the next. One was a tear drop shape in an iridescent, blue-green color that shimmered like petrol fanning out over water. Another was just a slightly irregular round shape and pink with faint white streaks that looked more like a shiny pebble than a true lustrous pearl. The third was a deep, reddish-purple oval with a crystalline structure that made it appear as if it were a bit of polished granite.

"What do you know about these?" Sherlock asked. "They are not your typical pearls."

She felt a pang of overwhelming sadness. She rubbed a tear from the corner of her eye.

"M-my father was a jeweler. He specialized in rare gems. I have done a bit of sleuthing already. The blue one there is from an abalone, the pink a conch, and the mauve a scallop. I'd wager each of these are natural and while unusual, not necessarily priceless. Perhaps a few hundred to a thousand quid each."

He juggled them in his hand absentmindedly. "Still, a rather generous gift from an anonymous source."

Mary felt a frown pull at the corners of her lips. She wrung her hands.

"I do not consider them gifts. My father is dead and has been for some time. He died well before I ever became Mary Morstan."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he thought about her revelations. "How did he die?"

"He contracted yellow fever on a trip to Colombia for some emeralds when I was about 18. His death hit me hard. I was adrift for quite some time. That's how they ensnared me, Sherlock, and led me down the path towards hell and now I fear, someone wants to ensure I return to it. I cannot help thinking that this is a message."

He thumbed the pearls. "When did you receive these?"

"Yesterday."

Mary watched as Sherlock's features strained. She tensed as fear caused icy rivulets to trickle down her spine and her hands flew to her belly. Even at times she had faced death, nothing felt quite so terrifying as worrying about her baby and whether it would have a mother. She could wretch.

"If it's not from my former associates, do you think this has anything to do with that Moriarty character? John tends to sound overly histrionic when he describes the man. Is he very dangerous, Sherlock?"

He shifted in his seat. His eyes dropped back to the gems.

"He's dead, Mary."

She did not like the look on his face. Even he did not seem convinced by his words.

"You don't appear so certain. Is he?"

Sherlock's lips parted. His brow flinched.

"I thought I was. Now, I-I do not know."