A/N: As you may have noticed, the title of the story has changed. Thank you Barus, for your French expertise. Just for fun, I ran both titles through a translator (probably not the most reliable source, but c'est la vie) and as it turns out, the original title wasn't what I had intended. So, thank you again, Barus!

Just as a matter of interest, how many people are reading this story either in English, which is their non-native language or translated from English to their native language? (If that makes sense. Basically, what languages are people reading this in?) It's always fascinating to me how small the world actually is and how wide-spread these things get.


The practicing went well. They became a very good team, though the term 'team' really wasn't an accurate term for what they were. Regardless, they began what could only be described as a relationship, though they would never actually acknowledge the terms in public.

For the next two months, Sherlock became a fixture of Irene's household (it was just her and her gorgeous Irish Setter, Madeleine). They discussed everything and anything, sometimes staying up far too late for Irene's work schedule. Sherlock decided that he was going to wait to go back to London; pushing back the date that he had anticipated that he would return by a week for every week he was with Irene.

It was a week into the third month when Irene started acting differently. Sherlock was already sensitive to her habits and health, so when the slight change in her sleeping habits and her appearance came about, he knew something was up. His suspicions were validated when she returned home from work one evening with a bag from a local pharmacy. She resorted to the bathroom and was in there for some time.

As soon as she emerged from the bathroom, Sherlock was standing there, looking at her expectantly. "So?"

"What?"

"Oh, don't be so coy… I know what you had in the bag."

"Oh."

He raised his eyebrows at her, prompting her to explain the situation. She picked up the test and held it up. "Fifty-five seconds before we know," she explained.

"Right then," Sherlock replied as he leaned against the doorjamb and folded his arms across his chest.

Irene started wringing her hands nervously. Sherlock eyed her warily. "You're nervous."

"Aren't you?"

"No."

"Why not?" she asked him.

"I think my suspicions will be confirmed."

"What are your suspicions?"

"We'll see in about twenty seconds."

"Great, you're counting down?"

"Fifteen now."

"Sherlock."

"Thirteen now."

"Sherlock Holmes… don't do this."

"Nine."

"Oh you're horrible."

"Six."

"Sherlock!"

"Four."

"Why are you doing this? It's already stressful enough."

He smirked at her and leaned over her shoulder. "Let's see it."

She smacked her hand down onto the counter, blindly feeling around for the test. "I don't want you to see it before I do. What if it's negative?"

"Then it's negative."

"Will you be upset if it's negative?"

"I don't know."

"Why not?"

"It would make sense that you wouldn't get pregnant so soon after going off of your birth control. I mean, I know we have superior genes, but it would be surprising if…"

His voice faltered as Irene held up the test to show him the result. Sherlock blinked a few times before he took the test from Irene's hand. "Oh," he answered plaintively.

"So?"

"Suspicions confirmed."

"How?" Irene laughed. "I didn't even figure it out until this morning."

"You've been paler lately."

"I've been paler?"

He shrugged. "But this is good."

She smiled at him. "Is it?"

"Yes."

Irene began to giggle and fell against Sherlock's chest, wrapping her arms around him and continuing to laugh. He started chuckling and followed suit, placing a gentle kiss on her head. "So, now that it's been confirmed that you're now crafting what will certainly be an evil genius, dinner will be ready in a few minutes."

She nodded against him, letting out a little sob. Sherlock glanced down at her in concern. "I'm fine," she assured him. "This is good, I promise."

Reassured, he stepped away from the bathroom and left the bedroom to go make the final preparations for the meal. Irene was left in the bedroom, holding the positive pregnancy test, finishing her tears of happiness. Of course, she was terrified of what the future meant, but in this moment, she was thrilled. In the last few months, she had become accustomed to having Sherlock around, and even though a baby didn't necessarily mean that he would automatically stay with her, she knew that she still have the opportunity to share at least a small part of her life with him.

She knew that he would eventually go back to London, but for now, this was her focus. She knew that this would be his focus too. And that was a reassuring thought.

From that point forward, they fell into a nice pattern of domesticity, though the gender roles were strangely reversed. Irene would go to work and be out all day while Sherlock stayed back at the house and did the tasks that if they had lived even six decades earlier, would have been stereotypically feminine. He didn't mind doing this; Irene had agreed to let him stay with her while he was waiting to go back to London, he enjoyed Madeleine (she was a very smart dog and he had managed to train her to do a few tricks during his time at Irene's home), and for the first time in three years, he could clear his mind and work on reestablishing his deduction skills.

Other than the periodic bouts of morning sickness that afflicted Irene, the pregnancy progressed without any problems. At the first appointment, it was confirmed that she was about six weeks along, which meant that it had only taken a few days for Irene to get pregnant after she was off of her birth control. At the second appointment, they were able to hear the heartbeat for the first time. It was also at this appointment that Sherlock began to question whether or not he should return to London. (He and Irene discussed this matter after the appointment, deciding that he would return to London when she was through the risky area when she could miscarry during the first trimester.)

He decided that he was going to stay until the summer, putting Irene at five or six months along. He still had to make the appropriate arrangements with Molly, to inform her that he was not dead and that he was returning to London. Of course, he had ulterior motives by contacting Molly; he was trying to gauge the situation with John to make sure that the return would be as painless as possible for all persons involved.

One night, about five months in, Irene woke up to a weird feeling on her abdomen. It felt like tickling, but unlike tickling she had experienced before. "Sherlock… stop tickling me…" she groaned into the darkness.

"I'm not touching you," he replied.

Irene's eyes flew open as soon as she realized what was happening. It was the most bizarre feeling in the world. "Oh!" she cried. "Oh my goodness… I think I just felt the baby move then!"

"It's probably gas," Sherlock muttered as he turned over onto his side.

She glared at him through the black of the room, but sat diligently, with her hand firmly affixed to the spot where she had felt the movement before. She even went as far to start prodding around, trying to feel something. It wasn't another half an hour before she felt something, at which point, she started batting at Sherlock excitedly. "Ow! I can report you for abuse for that," he grumbled sleepily.

"It's the baby. Give me your hand. Quick!"

She ripped his hand over from his side and smacked it down on her bump. "Do you feel that?"

"No."

"Oh, come on… you have to be able to feel that! The baby is moving around like crazy!"

"Irene… I can't feel anything."

"Press your hand down a little bit. Don't be too rough… only a little pressure should do."

Sherlock rolled over so that he was facing her and adjusted his hand so that he could try and see what Irene was talking about. His entire hand could cover the small bump, so there was a better chance that he would be able to feel any movement if there was any movement to feel. He started to move his hand around, gently prodding and shifting his hand around to gain a better perspective on the schematics of Irene's internal organs. "Anything?" she asked him.

He didn't answer right away. "The top of your uterus is about here," he said, poking to a spot about three inches below her belly button.

"That's not helpful."

"It might be."

"Do you feel anything other than the top of my uterus?"

"Other innards."

"Sherlock…"

"I don't feel the baby moving. It's probably still too early for me to feel anything, and you're perceiving that you're feeling movement with your hand because you are associating the movement you're feeling from the inside with the movement that doesn't actually exist, but what you feel on the outside."

"Wow… yet again, you've ruined a special moment," Irene sighed.

"I didn't ruin anything! There's nothing for me to feel yet!"

"Whatever," she muttered as she rolled over on her side, turning her back to Sherlock.

"I'm not discrediting what you're saying. I'm now starting to think that it's not gas," he explained.

She didn't respond. Sherlock rolled his eyes and rolled onto his back. "Oh, okay. You're going to lie there, pretending that you're asleep, but you're not going to be asleep. You're going to plot out some way to get back at me. That's very productive."

"Why do you have to ruin everything?" she asked him.

"I'm not ruining anything."

"You think the movement of our child is air passing through my intestines!"

"It's a very valid possibility."

"You do realize there's a human in here, right?"

"Irene."

"Sherlock."

"I'm perfectly aware of what is in there. I heard the heartbeat with you."

"Right. So, why are you adamant that it's not the baby or that you can't feel anything?"

"Because I don't feel anything," he sighed. "Really, it's nothing personal."

She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. "I know it's not. I just wish that you could experience this too," she explained softly.

"Um… no… I'm good. You're doing a fine job with… this. With being pregnant, I mean."

She snorted. "Right. Just for the record, I will use this as leverage for any and all future arguments."

"This particular situation or the pregnancy in general?"

"The pregnancy in general. Though, this particular situation might make an excellent weapon."

"See, you make it so magical," he mused.

Three days later, Irene came running into the bathroom while Sherlock was taking a shower. She ripped open the shower curtain and threw her top off and onto the ground. Before he could squawk with displeasure, Irene had his sudsy hand on her bump. "There. Do you feel that?" she asked him excitedly.

His brow furrowed for a moment before his eyes widened and he glanced up to Irene's face. "Was that it?" he asked, uncharacteristically quiet and awestruck.

She nodded. "There. That's that. I win."

"That was three days ago, Irene. The baby has probably shifted and has grown since then, making it possible for others to feel the movement."

"So?"

"You don't win."

"You're just jealous," she sniffed as she closed the curtain and started to walk out of the bathroom before pausing. "Just so you know, you have a mole in the shape of a heart on your bum. I find it rather endearing."

"Thank you for that bit of trivia," he answered.

"Glad to be of service!" she chirped.

Before she was completely out of the room, Sherlock felt compelled to have the final word. "But it could still be gas!"

Three days later, Sherlock was on a plane for London. He and Irene had made arrangements for him to be back in Seattle for the final month of the pregnancy, in case she went into labor early. It was not going to be an easy transition, but great effort went into making sure that things went as smoothly as possible.

Two days later, Sherlock arrived at 221B Baker Street, anticipating that John would not be warm or welcoming.

With a deep breath, Sherlock rang the doorbell and waited for someone to answer the door. Much to his delight, it was John who answered the door. "John."

John blinked a few times, shook his head, blinked again, and then proceeded to stare at Sherlock with his mouth agape. "But you're dead…"

"Clearly, that's not true."

"You were dead! I had your ashes!"

"Oh come on, John… you should know better than that. Were they human ashes?"

John's face fell. "I never looked. We just buried them."

"I know."

"You bastard!"

"John, you should have known something was up. You never saw the body, did you?"

"I saw you, on the ground, bloody and dead."

"You looked but you did not see. It wasn't my body on the ground. I drugged your coffee again."

"Oh bloody hell…" John groaned.

Sherlock knew that something was going to happen based on John's glare. He was taking this extremely well, which made Sherlock suspect that John didn't actually believe that Sherlock was alive.

"You're taking this too well. Molly told you, didn't she?"

John nodded. "She told me three weeks ago. I didn't believe her."

"Are you going to punch me?"

"I'm really considering it."

"Well, when you do, give me some warning."

"Why would I give you warning?"

"I don't know… courtesy?"

"You're a bastard, you know that? Who fakes their death?" John cried rhetorically.

Sherlock resisted the urge to smirk. "Well, since we're on this topic of dead people who aren't really dead, as a word of warning, I should inform you that Irene's alive. She's alive and doing well. We have dinner on a regular basis. We've decided that we have sort of a club composed of people who are supposed to be dead but aren't."

"Oh good. So, when I punch you in the nose, she'll be disappointed?" John snapped.

"Probably. I think she worships my face."

John stared at Sherlock, who smirked at him. "How is the marriage?" he asked.

John cocked his head. "I don't wear a ring. How could you possibly know about Mary?"

"All of your clothing is recently ironed. You're wearing cologne. Plus, it was in the papers. Oh John, your mind has gotten slower since we last saw each other."

"Honestly, will Irene be disappointed if I punch you in the nose?"

He shrugged. "Sympathy dinner would be interesting to try."

"And you're not talking about a dinner with food, are you?"

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "What makes you think food isn't involved?" he asked innocently.

John let out a frustrated cry. "You're still the same annoying dick that you were before, except now you've gone and become sexually active. Either she's an absolute saint or you're a god in the bedroom, because you're rather insufferable."

"Both," Sherlock answered.

"What?"

"She is an absolute saint, and as I have been reliably informed, I am not quite god-like in the bedroom, but I certainly don't disappoint."

"I didn't need to know that," John groaned.

Sherlock started to chuckle as he saw John's face turn several shades of red. He was now starting to see why Irene liked teasing people. It was fun to see them become uncomfortable.

Fortunately, John was obliging with letting Sherlock stay at the flat (on the couch, of course) after making Sherlock give a detailed account of his time away from London. Sherlock was fine with disclosing the details of his work, knowing that this was a good way of integrating himself into John's life again. Sherlock doubted that they would ever be the same as they were before Sherlock jumped, but he knew that they were headed in the right direction.

As Sherlock curled up on the couch (not his old couch, but one that was presumably Mary's couch), his phone buzzed with a text from Irene.

The baby moved. Mrs. McMillan from next-door felt the baby move. I.

He laughed and replied with: Not convinced. Mrs. McMillan is senile. Have a good day. S.

She instantly shot back with: You ass. :P Good night. I.