TRIGGER WARNING: contains references to pregnancy complications, distress of that nature, and implied suicidal ideation. Be advised.

It was the first week of John's third trimester, and even though he was the lucky recipient of a shifting sense of gravity and a new shortness of breath that had him panting like he'd raced through London after simply ascending the stairs, he was keeping himself busy.

Very early on in the pregnancy, he had started fussing about the apartment. He'd move things from one spot to another, stare at them in a calculating squint, and nine times out of ten move it right back before starting the whole process over again. That had never gone away, but it was now reaching a point where even John felt a bit silly listening to his own instincts' OCD. It hit him right around the point he realized the skull had occupied every square inch of the living room at one point or another. The realization didn't especially keep him from doing it, though.

He'd also been doing a lot of reading, mostly articles and journals written by Dr. Wilson and her associates passed along to him during check-ups. This, too, was not technically a new thing, but like the fidgety nesting, the time spent on it had trended up dramatically over the past few weeks.

It was all this reading that had lead John to the activity he was now engaged in.

"Um," he said, drawing out the sound. He laughed a little awkwardly and continued, "Where to start, right? So, according to some stuff I've been reading, I suppose you can hear me now? Or are starting to, I mean. That's really amazing, even if it means I should probably start watching my language. With my luck, your first word would be a four-letter one."

He tried to tell himself that it wasn't like talking to the skull. At least the thing he was speaking to had ears, even if they were surrounded by fluid and covered by layers of muscle and skin. And may or may not have even finished forming. The skull's ear-having days were long in the past, in contrast. No points of similarity whatsoever, clearly.

"I realize I probably sound like some kind of awful water demon or something to you right now, being all boom-y voiced and indistinct, but – God, did I just say that?" John winced and rubbed a hand over his face. His child was going to born thinking its parent was a ridiculous weirdo. He thought he'd have at least a couple of years – maybe even a full childhood before the onslaught of teenage hormones, if he were lucky – of unconditional adoration before it came to that conclusion, but no. He was doomed.

"Forget I said that. Let's start over. I suppose I can describe the flat to you. With any luck, you'll be growing up here, after all." John cleared his throat and began slowly walking around, running his hands over things, sometimes wistfully, sometimes clearly wondering if it could be rearranged in a better way.

"So, there's a skull," he said, smiling at it. His grin grew wider as he continued, "No, you cannot play with it, young man or lady. Absolutely no using it for teething, either. I don't know where it's been or… or even who it's been, but if you knew your…"

The rest of the sentence withered on his lips, and he had to take a deep breath and try to distance himself from the emotions coursing through him. "Anyway, skull's off limits," he finished huskily.

He glanced over to the patterned wallpaper and cleared his throat. "There's a big yellow smiley-face on one of the walls, and there are holes in it. Don't ask, I'll tell you when you're older. Also, it is not an invitation to start coloring on whatever you want. I'll make you an offer: if you stick to paper, I'll put whatever you draw on the fridge, okay? Even if we can barely tell there's a fridge under there anymore, since it'll be covered in all your masterpieces. Deal?"

"What else… oh, I've been describing the place, and not even the people who will be in your life. Well, there's me. Hi. I'm not just your living room. I know, shocker. There's your sweet grandmum, Mrs. Hudson. She may not be related to us by blood, but she is by everything that actually matters. You'll love her, and she already adores you. And there's your Uncle Mycroft. He's… something. You'll know what I mean. He might seem like a bit of a prat and, well, he is, kind of a big one actually, but he's not all bad. I don't think he's the type to do the regular uncle things with you, but if he ever tells you to pull his finger, don't you do it. It's probably rigged to an explosive in some odd corner of the world instead of the regular thing."

He shut his eyes and tilted his head back.

"And there's someone else."

He stood in place for a long while, a small frown on his face and a hand on his stomach. "He might not be here physically, but he's inescapable. And I'll tell you all about him, about our mad adventures and his brilliant ways and his decidedly less brilliant ways. He's carved himself into this flat and the people you'll see in it: me and your grandmum and your uncle. And maybe every time you look in the mirror, you'll see some of him looking back."

He made his way back to his chair, which he practically collapsed in. He tried desperately not to think too much, but it was hard to stave off such bone-deep restlessness and the gnawing dread that all of his hope was hanging over oblivion by a thin thread.

Two weeks ago, the last of Sherlock's scent had faded away.

"John, John, oh dear."

It was Mrs. Hudson's voice. John opened his eyes, rubbing at them blearily. He had gone up for a nap, and once he started to actually wake up, the reasonably accurate internal clock he'd developed in the army informed him that a couple of hours had gone by. Mrs. Hudson was standing by the bed, rubbing her hands together and looking at him with worry.

"Mrs. Hudson? What's wrong – is everything alright?"

"Oh, John," she said. "It's that policewoman. She's downstairs. She says she won't leave unless she speaks with you."

To others, Mrs. Hudson's words may have been frustratingly general, but John knew exactly who she was talking about. It was as if someone replaced all the blood in John's veins with ice water. The chill ran through him violently, raising goose flesh down the back of his neck and up his arms. He collected himself to the best of his ability, and said hoarsely, "Right. Right. Tell her- tell her I'll be down in just a moment."

"You're sure? Should I contact Mycroft? I'm sure he could do something…"

"I'm sure Mycroft could have Sergeant Donovan put on the moon if he wanted to," John said. "But the longer I stall and if I let Mycroft handle everything in his way, the more time and ammunition she has for damaging explanations. Your idea was good, though, so please do contact him."

Mrs. Hudson nodded nervously, leaving John to finish steeling himself.

Be brave. Stay focused. Don't flinch. You know yourself.

Sally Donovan's mouth was pressed into a thin line as John came down the stairs and stood before her. Her arms were folded over her chest. "Just what I thought," she said, staring at John's middle. "Soon as I stepped in, I knew it, even with my Beta nose. I knew that freak had knocked you up."

John took in a deep breath and released it slowly. "Why are you here, Sergeant?"

"A bunch of us hit the pubs last night to celebrate one of the lads finding out his partner is pregnant. The Beta Female-Beta Male extended hormone treatments followed by months of guessing games kind of pregnant, mind. The kind where you actually have to work for it instead of just slipping up. I was helping Lestrade be sick in some bushes after, and he mentioned how disappointed he was that we wouldn't be able to do the same for Sherlock, as it would've been – and I quote – 'funny as hell to get him pissed and try and make him change nappies on a baby doll. Put that on Youtube.' Some slurring cut out, of course."

John frowned at the discovery that it had been Lestrade who let things slip. Months ago, when he'd stumbled across John's predicament, the Detective Inspector had sworn up and down to keep it quiet after he understood the magnitude of the situation. To John's knowledge, he hadn't told anyone else. True, Mycroft had shown up later in the same day, but that was Mycroft.

Donovan seemed to pick up on John's displeasure. "If it means anything, he went on and on saying that it was just a bad joke, that it was just that you two were practically joined at the hip and that it would've been a matter of time, and so on. I probably wouldn't have thought twice about it if he hadn't denied it so much and seemed to shaken."

"That's how you got here, Sergeant," John said. "Not why."

"Had to be sure," she answered. "But sometimes it's terrible being right." Her eyes held John's for a long moment, and he was surprised to see pity there. She shook her head in disgust and continued, "God, I knew he was an awful man, but I didn't think he'd stoop so low."

"What are you talking about?"

"It's obvious, isn't it?" she said. "He slipped you something to bring your heat on faster. The bastard knew he was caught, and he wanted one more round of hormone-induced jollies for old times' sake. It's all chemicals – addiction. He made it so you couldn't consent in your right mind."

Whatever chill remained in John's system left in a flash. Fury burned hot in him, and he found his grasp on his control wavering. "He did no such thing," he hissed. "It was brought on by stress. He was even more surprised by it than I was."

"Acting!" Donovan exclaimed. "It is a proven fact that he was a liar! Outside of poor, dead Richard Brook, you're his biggest victim, so why can't you just accept that he was a monster?"

John heard Mrs. Hudson gasp from where she was watching in the kitchen, followed by her worried voice warning him about keeping calm for the baby's sake. But it wasn't registering, not really. The fury was still building inside of him. His breathing was starting to come fast and ragged, and his palms itched with the pent-up need to do something – anything – to stop the accusations from coming. His control was cracking, but it was still there. "I am no one's victim!" John roared.

"You need to come to terms with it," Donovan insisted. "You're so deep in denial and too blinded by love that your kid will grow up with Sherlock bloody Holmes on a pedestal of greatness, and what happens when the truth comes out?" Something awful seemed to dawn on Donovan, and she continued with her expression aghast. "God, and that's assuming the kid's normal, that it won't inherit whatever was wrong with him! With a father like that, any sensible person would have got rid-"

She cut herself off abruptly. For one long, tense moment, a sergeant and a doctor stared at each other, unblinking. Waiting to see who would make the next move. As it happened, it was both of them at the same time.

"That was out of line, and I apologize." Genuine contrition.

"What did you say?" Quiet, hissed through quivering lips.

Donovan raised her hands in a placating gesture. "I know I can say things rough when I'm worked up, but for God's sake, it's for good reason. Your devotion to… to a psychopath conman is so unhealthy, especially with a baby thrown in..."

At long last, John felt his control snap. All the anger that had been coiling inside him, building and building to a fever pitch burst forth. "You can't even begin to imagine how full of shit you sound right now!" He was screaming, certainly louder than he'd ever been outside of combat. But then again, he was in a warzone in its own right. "You have no idea, none whatsoever, you-"

Pain. A horrible, blinding pain raced through his abdomen. John froze at first, holding his breath and praying that it was something – anything – else than what he thought it was. A second pain tore through him, and he gasped, clutching at his middle, "Mrs. Hudson – my phone – Dr. Wilson…"

John only vaguely recognized the things that started happening around him at that point. He felt Mrs. Hudson at his side in seconds, guiding him to a chair, even though a shocked numbness had spread through his body and made her thin hand on his back feel alien. He heard her make a couple of desperate calls, though her voice was muffled through the rushing in his ears. He saw a look of panicked surprise on Donovan's face even through eyes that seemed to struggle to focus.

No, no, God no.

Donovan must have attempted to leave, as even through his muddled senses, he heard Mrs. Hudson exclaim, "Young lady, you've already helped me lose one of the most important people in my life. If I lose another, God forbid, so help me, I won't be held accountable for what I will do!"

Please, it's too early, stop it.

He clenched his eyes tight.

Please, God, let it live.

Mycroft had arrived moments after Dr. Wilson and some of her assistants, but only because the way he'd redirected traffic to allow her to get to 221B Baker Street as quickly as possible slowed his own route down slightly. He'd stayed out of the way as she checked John incredibly thoroughly, confirming that the labor was false and that the baby was still alive, if somewhat distressed.

After all, Mycroft had his own matters to attend to at the same time. He found Sally Donovan a difficult person – the self-righteous ones always were – but he felt that they'd reached a solid understanding by the time he allowed her to leave. She wouldn't tell a soul about John's condition or ever come within a mile of the flat again, and she wouldn't suddenly find herself on several government watch lists. Everybody was a winner.

When he finished, he discussed options with Dr. Wilson. In an ideal situation, she would have liked to take John to a hospital for full monitoring. However, the need for privacy was too great, and if any gossip-monger sniffed out John's identity and spread the word to the media, she was certain it would end John's pregnancy sooner rather than later. Although a fetus in less stressful conditions had a decent chance of surviving if it were born at this stage, in this case, it would be a certain death sentence.

The only option for John was full bed rest until it was safer to deliver.

Although John had always used the upstairs bedroom and Sherlock had eventually joined him there once they became intimate, the doctor and her assistants relocated John to the lower-level bedroom for convenience and practicality. Once he was settled into the new room, Dr. Wilson and her assistants were in there with him for several hours. Mycroft assumed it was to check and double-check John's condition, as well as to inform him on what to do to prevent that false labor from coming back with a terrible authenticity.

The whole time John was shut up in the room with the doctor and her associates, Mrs. Hudson fretted at Mycroft. He'd never been good when it came to comforting, so he let her ramble without interruption. As Mycroft knew, if incendiary words made up the majority of your rhetoric, sometimes refusing to say a thing was comfort in its own way.

When Dr. Wilson finally left John's room in preparation to leave, Mrs. Hudson pulled her aside for questioning. Mycroft took this as his opportunity. He rapped on the bedroom door quietly, but didn't bother for assent before he entered.

John was sitting propped up against the headboard by a large pile of pillows. He had an ashen pallor and the slump of his shoulders and contours of his face revealed intense physical and emotional exhaustion. A hand was on his stomach, moving in small, protective circles. His tired eyes flicked up to meet Mycroft's at the door frame.

"John," Mycroft greeted.

"Mycroft," John replied. He added, "'m fine."

"Of course."

"Donovan?"

"Dealt with," Mycroft said as he entered. There was a chair at the bedside, and he settled himself in it. He had a briefcase with him, which he unlocked. He pulled out several newspapers and offered them to John. "A little light reading. I'm certain it will be of interest."

John glanced over the article titles, reading them aloud with increasing awe. "'More Moriarty Mobsters Made Known', 'Media Madness: Did Overzealous Reporting Drive an Innocent Man to Suicide?', 'Over Fifty Members of Vast Criminal Web Caught, Confess', 'Storyteller DVDs Revealed to Be Scam', 'I Believe in Sherlock Holmes' Web Campaign Gains Momentum'. " He looked up at Mycroft in surprise.

"The tides are turning," Mycroft stated.

"Good," John said, his voice thick. "That's – that's good." He was quiet for a long moment, reading the articles intently. When he finished, he closed his eyes tightly and released a long breath. "Why now?"

"Why not?"

"Why would Moriarty's henchmen come forward at all?"

"Ah, I forgot how incredibly loyal hardened criminals are. Certainly not cutthroat in the slightest," Mycroft said. "You're right, it's horribly out of character; they're normally such saints."

"You know what I mean."

Mycroft shrugged. "Guilty conscience? A guardian angel, or karma-devouring demon? Vengeful spirits? Your guess is as good as mine."

"You don't guess."

"Oh my, no. Never."

John was quiet a moment, pressing his lips in a firm line. Eventually he cleared his throat and said, "There's something I'd like you to have too."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow in interest. "Oh?"

"They're in the old bedroom, on the desk. Two envelopes. If you could bring them here, please."

It didn't take Mycroft long to find the large manila envelopes, and he held them up when he returned to John's new room. "These?"

"That's right," John said. "I put them together last week, after the last of the scent faded away. The one with the eyelet contains how I want things done if something happens to me – how I want the child raised if it's still young and so on. I'd like to make you its legal guardian since I don't feel comfortable trusting Harry with it. You might not be the family type, but I'll take coldness over impending cirrhosis of the liver."

"And the sealed one?"

John turned his head, refusing to meet Mycroft's eyes. "Worst case scenario."

Something in Mycroft's jaw twitched, but that was the only movement in his face. "And what is this 'worst case scenario'?" he finally asked.

The small, joyless laugh from John told him everything. "Don't play a fool, Mycroft. You know."

It was true. He did.

"Just in case," John added.

Mycroft placed the envelopes in his briefcase and left without another word.

Comforts weren't his specialty, after all. Not for others or himself.

Mycroft sat at his large, ornate desk with the envelopes laid out in front of him. His suit jacket was off, hung on the back of the well-carved chair he was sitting in. His chin rested on his laced-together fingers as he stared down at what were essentially two variations of John's will. One terrible, and the other far, far worse.

The odds on his various scenarios were changing.

He'd come up with the scenarios when he decided to help Sherlock with his scheme to take down Moriarty's web. He'd had to scrap all the original ones once he'd discovered that Sherlock had left a little spanner in the works behind in the form of John's pregnancy. But he had come up with more.

Scenario One: Sherlock takes as long as needed to completely wipe out Moriarty's stragglers, and returns to a cleared name and relative safety. John has a safe pregnancy and delivers a healthy baby. After a tremendous amount of counseling, a family is reunited.
Outcome: Best scenario.
Odds: Dwindling rapidly.

Scenario Two: Sherlock takes as long as needed to completely wipe out Moriarty's stragglers, and returns to a cleared name and relative safety. John loses the baby but is prevented from following through with his own 'worst case scenario'. When the two are reunited, John is unable to bear the idea that the child could have lived if Sherlock had returned sooner and severs ties.
Outcome: Heartbreak all around, incredibly high odds of cataclysmic relapse on Sherlock's part. A series of Danger Nights to end all Danger Nights.
Odds: High and holding steady.

Scenario Three: Sherlock takes as long as needed to completely wipe out Moriarty's stragglers, and returns to a cleared name and relative safety. John loses the baby and follows through with his own 'worst case scenario'. Reunion occurs when Sherlock discovers a headstone reading 'JOHN WATSON & CHILD' next to his fake tombstone.
Outcome: Too nightmarish to even contemplate.
Odds: Increasing exponentially.

Mycroft sighed heavily. He hadn't wanted to interrupt his brother's mission for anything, but the cost of keeping silent was starting to become too high to pay. As ruinous results quickly became the most likely outcome for this whole ordeal, Mycroft was forced to contemplate what precisely defined a failed mission.

He picked up his phone, sent a text, and resumed his thinking position.

Situation with John. Life or death.
Mycroft

Thirty seconds later, he received a response.

Next flight from Zurich to Heathrow full. Kick someone off immediately. – SH

And so Mycroft did.