~~"John! Mary!" It was Sherlock. "Open the door, it's urgent!"~~
John hurried to answer, but upon yanking open the door found his friend standing perfectly collected on the other side.
"Hello." The taller man let himself in with a nod and smile.
"Are you alright?" Mary asked immediately, coming over to him to make sure.
"Of course I am; why wouldn't I be?"
"You were banging like a mad man," John replied incredulous. "What's so urgent?"
"Oh that," Sherlock said, remembering saying those words. "Nothing, I just wanted you to open the door. One of your neighbors was trying to start up a conversation."
"Oh, well god forbid," Mary quipped, slowly going over to the couch. Sherlock rolled his eyes at her comment, but helped her onto the seat anyway, noticing the extra effort her stomach was beginning to require.
"Why are you here, Sherlock?" John had finally shut the door and approached his friend, who, although known for oddly-timed visits, didn't appear to have a reason behind the drop-by.
"Ah yes, I needed to get out of Baker Street for an hour or so. I have reason to believe someone is going to ransack the place tonight and I figured there'd be less of a mess if I wasn't around." John and Mary hardly looked surprised. "Also, I left the desired object on the table by the door so the thief would have to be a complete idiot not to see it. Though regular people never cease to amaze me, so we'll see what happens…"
"This is for a case?" Mary clarified, just to be sure.
"Obviously. Just the groundwork, though."
"What case is this?" John automatically questioned, clearly feeling he'd not been told about this one.
"Oh, it's just a tiny thing. Domestic drama between sisters. One says the other is cheating with the boyfriend. I stole what some would call 'damning evidence' from their shared flat today in hopes that the cheating sister would come looking for it and try to take it back."
"If you knew she'd do that, why steal it in the first place?" Mary asked, looking up at him from the couch.
"Because," Sherlock sat down on the arm chair across from her, "I was able to put a small tracking device on the jewelry box—that's the thing I stole by the way, it's got an engraving from the cheating boyfriend to the cheating sister, mushy hearts and that—so when she takes it back I'll know where she hides it and be able tell the other sister. They won't speak for two to five years, she'll break it off with the boyfriend, it's all very—"
"Where'd you get the tracking device?" Mary seemed interested in the matter, much more than John. Although, it could have been her way of pushing the moment that had preceded Sherlock's entrance out of her mind.
"Borrowed it from my brother's desk. He's got a whole drawer full of things like that. They're like paper clips to him."
Mary nodded, showing some slight amusement, but John just narrowed his eyes under furrowed brows. This didn't make a lot of sense to him. "Why are you taking all these meaningless cases?"
"Meaningless?"
"All your cases, lately. They're small things, easily solved. You never took cases like that before. Why now?"
"You told me not to take dangerous cases. The both of you did." He answered in the same way a defensive child would after being caught doing something wrong and trying to flip it around to the parents.
"And you listened," John quickly replied. "There's another layer of strange. Are all these little ones somehow tied into the big one?"
"Big one?"
"The blackmail one…" he paused and groaned inwardly as realization spread across his face, "…which I'm now assuming is also tied into the boat one."
"Blackmail?" Mary cautiously expelled with surprise.
"Don't worry, your husband's just being paranoid," he murmured to her with a discreet shake of his head.
"I'm not being paranoid!"
"You're yelling."
"I'm speaking loudly!"
"I can hear you just fine."
"Apparently not, because I told you to stay away from dangerous cases and now you're wrapped up in some big, mysterious one that's got people breaking into your flat and homeless people working in the post office and government officials getting pissed off."
"You're just mad because I didn't include you," Sherlock nonchalantly deduced, though that particular deduction didn't take a sleuth. He turned his attention to Mary instead. "Are you alright?"
"What? I'm fine…" she told him, shying away from his dissecting stare.
"You just changed your breathing pattern to longer, slow breaths and the muscles in your leg tensed…" he stared a bit more intently, taking note of a tiny amount of redness in her eye and a slight cracking in the gloss she had on her lips indicating a recent smile she had tried to conceal. "And you're sneaking your hand to the lower right quadrant of your abdomen."
"No, I'm not."
He smiled anyway, ignoring her lie. "You felt it, didn't you?"
Mary broke into a smile and nodded, remembering that she had no reason to hide it. This was a reason to be happy, after all. "Only right before you got here! It was incredible."
He was perfectly content congratulating her, but that type of emotional attachment to a physical action of a fetus was beyond his reach and simply did not compute with the detective. So he smiled again and issued a modest "congratulations." The smile left his face instantly and his head whipped back to John. "Now then, back to business, I shouldn't need to stay past 10. I'm sure the burglary will be finished by then; I made it quite clear I was going out. So just bear with me until then. And after I leave, you two can go back to doing whatever it is you do at night… although that's probably not too many things considering you still aren't speaking," he snidely added under his breath, turning his gaze away from both of them. John's jaw hardened defensively as he brought his chin closer to his neck. Mary just folded her arms on top of her stomach and looked down.
"I'm going to have a shower," John blurted after a long silence and left the room without a second glance.
Mary and Sherlock were left sitting alone. "So, how's the other case going?" she asked him knowingly as she brought a hand to her belly.
"Hmm?" He played dumb terribly. "What other case?"
She breathed out and rolled her eyes. "Ours… I know John has you looking into who broke our window. And why they did it…"
He abandoned the charade—mainly for lack of energy. "Yeah, you're right, he does."
"I know I'm right. I'm asking you how it's going."
"No leads yet," he disappointedly delivered.
A sad but accepting nod was Mary's only reply before her attention was once again caught by her child. "Ah, there it goes again…" she said quietly, and brought both hands to the movement site. Though she wasn't being overly emotive, the true amazement in her eyes could not be concealed. Sherlock looked on, not really sure of what to do so he directed his gaze straight ahead. In doing so, he didn't see the smile on Mary's face fade into a fallen expression of hopelessness. "Do you think he'll ever come 'round?" she asked quietly, feeling thoroughly insecure for even letting the words pass her lips. "I mean, is this how it will to be?"
Sherlock turned back to her, amazed at how quickly joy could come and go. He would have liked to dismiss the sudden change as something to do with pregnancy or the hormones John was always talking about, but the pain on Mary's face was real. And to be truthful, the question was fair. Sherlock swallowed and did his best. "I meant what I said at the wedding…John is the best man I have ever known."
"I know," she nodded understandingly. "Me too."
"And he would never turn away from the people he loves."
The fear Mary had battled with for months brought a hitch to her throat, and she could barely get her next words out in anything more than a whisper. "What if he doesn't love me anymore?" It wasn't as much a question as it was an expulsion of the nauseatingly constant anxiety that taunted her every day she and John went on like this.
"He loves you." There was no doubt in Sherlock's mind and he made sure his tone reflected that.
"How can you know? I mean really know." She blinked away a tear that was threatening to fall. "There isn't a deduction for that one."
"Mary," he said quietly, but firmly, "he loves you. You're going to have to trust me on that."
She wanted to believe it. "I'll try," she said with a weak smile, and pushed herself up from the chair. "But for now, I'm going to turn in. Goodnight, Sherlock."
"Night."
As promised, Sherlock started back to Baker Street after an hour had passed. John had offered several times to go back with him, just to be sure that the would-be burglar wasn't still hanging around, but naturally Sherlock refused. "You do realize that prior to meeting you I had managed to keep myself alive," the detective told him, turning up his collar as he prepared to head off.
"Always racking my brains about that one," John quipped, opening the front door for him. "At least text me whether or not the girl actually took the jewelry box, or whatever ridiculous thing all this was about."
Sherlock muttered something inaudible and then he was gone. John accepted that he probably wouldn't be receiving any texts. He shut the door behind him, leaning against it, and stared at the emptiness of the flat. He looked to the bedroom door for a moment where Mary was sleeping, but decided against going to bed just yet. He had notes from old cases he could draft, patient paperwork he could get done, and a stack of dirty dishes in the sink. None of these tasks were at all pressing or desirable, but the restlessness he was feeling on this particular night was not going to allow him to go lie still in a bed.
Over the next three hours, he finished all his paperwork, drafted four cases to go onto the blog, and the kitchen was spotless. He split each chore with one of the many pregnancy books accumulating on the bookshelf and coffee table in the living room, figuring he should at least be familiar with whatever information Mary and Sherlock were getting from the books. He couldn't even remember where they had all come from—mostly likely Mrs. Hudson and Mrs. Holmes when they each found out Mary was expecting.
It was near 2 a.m. when he finally got into bed. Mary had been asleep for hours, and, as always, before settling down himself he checked her breathing and pulse. It was normal, so he could rest easy. He leaned back against the head board and blew out a quiet breath, glancing down at his wife. She looked peaceful. It was nice to see her that way for a change.
His eyes slowly journeyed from her face to her stomach, which by now looked like she was concealing a rugby ball under her t-shirt. Unconsciously, he started picturing his baby growing inside; wondering about little things like whose eyes it would have, what color hair, how much it would weigh.
John bit down on his bottom lip and lowered himself to Mary. The bend of his elbow rested in his pillow while his hand held up his head. He didn't know why he was suddenly so nervous, but he could feel an increasing pounding in his chest and a heat spread through his face. Delicately, he lifted the blanket off of Mary's belly and pulled it down just enough, checking to make sure she hadn't stirred. He took a deep breath, hovering his free hand just above her stomach. He checked back one more time to make sure she really was fast asleep, and then placed his hand against her. He hoped it was in the right spot. "Come on, baby…" he whispered sweetly to it, "kick for your daddy."
He waited but nothing happened. He knew a couple ways to encourage babies still in the womb to kick, but none that he could be sure wouldn't wake Mary. He moved his hand to another spot. "Are you sleeping?" he asked the air, with a small smile. He had heard Mary talking to the baby once or twice—obviously she hadn't known he was around. Now he understood why she enjoyed it so much. "Just give a little kick, just to say hi…" he pleaded again. He kept his hand on her belly for another thirty minutes, periodically moving it around. And right when he was about to give up…
The lightest thump came up beneath his hand, and his face instantly broke into a cheek-stretching grin, and then an even bigger one when he felt the little one again. "Hi there!" he said in an ecstatic whisper. A bit too loudly though. Mary began to shift and her own hand came instinctively to her middle. John moved his away just in time. When he was sure she was still asleep, he rolled over on his other side to face the window—his reason for even being in the bed. The smile that had spread so widely into his cheeks wasn't totally gone, but much smaller now. Months ago he had thought hearing the baby's heartbeat was amazing…this was better.
OOOOO
John sat comfortably in his chair at Baker Street, thumbing through the newspaper, not particularly intrigued by any of the stories. Meanwhile, Sherlock sat at the desk on his laptop, hands fixed in a steeple and eyes unmoving. "Tea, boys…" Mrs. Hudson sang, letting herself into the flat. She took note of the stagnant men and shook her head. "Well, aren't you two fun…"
"Fun is boring."
The landlady tisked at Sherlock and set the tea down on the end table by John. "You know I could tell you stories about what being stuck inside on beautiful days like can do to a person."
"Just the tea will be fine," Sherlock responded, earning a flick in the arm from the older woman.
"I'm serious, you work too much. Doesn't he, John?"
John looked up from the paper at the two, each awaiting his alliance. "Wouldn't you rather settle this in an arm wrestling match?"
Mrs. Hudson chuckled and came over to him instead, plopping down into the opposite chair. "So, how's Mary feeling? I haven't seen her in ages."
"She's alright," he replied, keeping the paper in his hands as a way of subtly saying he didn't wish to talk about it.
"And the baby?"
John smiled politely. "Also good. Kicking up a storm." That got Sherlock's attention.
Mrs. Hudson didn't notice though, just kept on asking questions. "When's she due then?"
"January. The 16th."
"Ah, almost two more months away!" She clasped her hands together excitedly. "Oh, it'll be so nice to have a baby around."
"Eleven weeks to be exact, if she goes full term."
Sherlock finally turned around. "That puts her at 28 weeks, correct?"
"…Yeah." John lowered his brows suspiciously. "Suddenly you don't know? You've been watching her pregnancy like a hawk." John had actually been shocked that at no point during the last seven months had Sherlock accidentally 'deleted' it from his mind palace.
The detective turned back around slowly. "Interesting."
"Sorry, what is?" John asked quickly, on guard now. He knew when Sherlock was about to deduce something.
"Knock, knock," came another familiar voice from the doorway.
"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked his brother, not bothering to look up.
"Do I need a reason?" the manicured voice dismissed, twisting his cane in circles as he came into the room.
"No, you need several very profound ones," Sherlock replied, tearing his eyes away from his laptop and looking up at Mycroft. "So what is it this time? Iranian government giving you hell again?"
"Ugh, always," Mycroft groaned. "But no, that's not why I'm here."
"Then why are you here? Make it fast, I'm extremely busy."
"You're playing Pac-Man," Mycroft smugly returned. "Fingers on the arrow keys and the 'P' in case you have to pause the game, eyes traversing in perpendicular patterns that only match the map of one game." John and Mrs. Hudson exchanged humored looks with each other. Watching the Holmes brothers interact was never a bore. "The reason I came," Mycroft began, going toward the window, "is because I got a call from Mummy this morning." Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. "If you recall, we told them you'd be out of hospital in late autumn. It's now late autumn."
"Oh no," Sherlock moaned.
"They want to come visit; see how you're doing."
"Well did you tell them not to?"
Mycroft furrowed his brow. "No."
"Great choice," Sherlock sardonically muttered.
"I told them I would be away until early December. Naturally they've decided to wait until then to visit."
Sherlock showed a hint of a smile, not a sincere one, but a smile nonetheless. "Good then, that's taken care of."
A guilty smirk lifted the corners of Mycroft's lips. "They are planning to stay until Christmas."
"What?!"
"Oh, you boys! So unpleasant the way you avoid your parents." Mrs. Hudson finally blurted, rising from the chair. "Not everyone's so lucky to have parents they can see on Christmas. Think about that." She gave each a scolding glare and shake of the head, before making her exit.
"She's right you know," John said, jerking a thumb in the direction to which Mrs. Hudson had just fled.
"Remind me again when you last saw your sister?" Sherlock quipped back.
"As a matter of fact, I saw her last week," he replied, perhaps more triumphantly than he should have. "She's in a 12-step program and has sworn off the sauce."
"Nope," Sherlock said, popping the 'p' at the end.
"Quit the 12-step program at least a month ago," Mycroft contributed.
John sunk back into his chair with an irritated frown pursing his lips. Sherlock looked back up at his brother. "What is the likelihood of getting out of Christmas at the parents' house?"
"Impossible." Mycroft had already calculated all the likely scenarios on his way over here. "It would take a nuclear crisis to change her mind and I've checked my calendar…none in the foreseeable future."
"Damn."
"It'll be one day. It's manageable."
"One day in which everyone insists on being holly jolly and assumes, for whatever reason, they are somehow happier and healthier on December 25th than they are the rest of the year when they don't stop complaining about how miserable and sick they feel."
"Mm, ghastly," Mycroft agreed.
"Oh, stop whining! The both of you," John groaned from the couch, slapping his newspaper down on the arm of the chair and coming over to them with a look even more scolding than the one Mrs. Hudson had given them a minute ago. "You're not busy, you're playing a computer game for Christ sakes, go see your parents on Christmas. They did raise you."
"Highly debatable." Sherlock responded.
"That's quite a sudden outburst of command, Captain Watson. Missing the front lines again?" Mycroft insinuated coolly.
"Wrong per usual, brother mine," Sherlock said condescendingly, finally closing the laptop. "He's practicing."
"Practicing?"
"To be 'Daddy.'" He smirked in John's direction, to which his friend rolled his eyes, leaving for the kitchen. "And apparently he's already feeling the parental sympathy associated with the title."
John suddenly came back into the room. "Wait a minute, you're playing Pac-Man? If you have time to waste during whatever giant case you've been hiding, you could be working on finding the person who broke into my flat!"
Sherlock didn't say anything, but a look of mild surprise came over Mycroft's face. "You mean you haven't figured that one out yet?"
"What?" John's head whipped to the elder Holmes brother.
"You must be kidding… It's transparent."
"What are you talking about? What's he talking about?" John demanded from Sherlock.
Sherlock discreetly glared at his older brother. "He's not talking about anything."
"When did that happen John? Nearly two months ago, wasn't it?"
"'Bout that, yeah," John suspiciously answered, eyeing the both of them.
Mycroft gave a wry smile. "Do you really think that in two months, my brother couldn't put together who broke your window? It's rudimentary crime-solving."
John pensively looked over to his friend with his lips pursed into his trademark duck face as he began to see what Mycroft was getting at. "You knew…this whole time you knew who did it… and you didn't say a word?!" he yelled at the detective, anger reddening his neck.
"Nice one, Mycroft," Sherlock said, still glowering at the redhead.
"And you knew too?!" John turned and boomed to the elder Holmes.
"Obviously…I'm genuinely surprised you didn't, John."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"If Sherlock was dragging his feet on the matter, why didn't you look into it yourself?"
"I did," John quickly answered, still a little heated. "I looked for all those stupid little deduction things he does…fabric caught in the shingles, footprints in the dirt, figured out the bastard was right-handed by the way the glass broke, but that was nothing to go off of." He came back over to Sherlock who sat stoically at the desk. "That's why I believed you truly didn't know, because whoever did it was good and knew what you would look for and made sure he didn't leave a trace."
"Mycroft, unless you have any other positivity to spread, I suggest you go tend to whatever matters of national security are taking up space on your desk."
"So, who was it then?" John charged. "Tell me."
"You weren't in danger, you had no reason to know," Sherlock tried, although he knew John was not letting up without an answer.
"Cut the crap, and tell me," he repeated, more calmly but not at all less determined. "Was it Magnusson?"
"John, think," Mycroft instructed, cutting into their stare down. "You've already collected the information; now make something out of it."
"No, I'm not playing games here," John warned.
Mycroft dismissed the request. "The window is on the second story, that means the person who broke the window would have no way of erasing traces of their presence once they were back on the ground. What can we gather from that?"
John sighed aggravated by both Holmes brothers now. "You really don't know when to quit. And I already told you, there was nothing to go off of. That person didn't leave anything behind."
"Oh, that's where you're wrong," Mycroft smoothly corrected. "They left everything behind. The dirt left on the roof and the ladder, from which the intruder's starting point can be determined. The broken glass would have had bits of fabric in it used to encase the instrument that broke the window—whoever did it had to muffle the sound somehow. The neighbors would have heard something; surely you thought to ask them."
"I did, they heard nothing." John's deadpanned glare shifted back and forth between Mycroft and Sherlock. "Now I'm getting real tired of being jerked around."
"They heard nothing?" Mycroft reiterated, feigning intrigue. "Huh. Curious."
"Mycroft," Sherlock warned through gritted teeth.
But Mycroft didn't seem to hear him. "Doesn't your neighbor have a dog?"
John squinted in confusion at the ground and out of annoyance. "Yeah, but the dog didn't bark when it happened, I asked Mrs.—" He stopped and realization crept up his face. "The dog didn't bark…"
"You said yourself that whoever did this was good," Mycroft said. "And knew exactly what Sherlock Holmes would look for. And knew how to guarantee that he wouldn't find anything, no clues whatsoever."
John slowly turned his head to Sherlock who sat silently at the desk, still glaring at his older brother. "You cock," he said in disbelief. "You utter ball bag!"
"John, understand—"
"You dick! It was you! You broke the window!"
"Yes, it was me," Sherlock granted, after a moment's pause. "But the reason—"
"Oh I can't wait to hear this!"
"The reason I did it was very much necessary."
"Necessary?" John remarked, not even close to believing his friend.
"Yes, it was," Sherlock threw back, slightly offended.
"And why was it necessary that you break into my flat and shatter my window? Which, by the way, was just a little bit stressful for my pregnant wife whose blood pressure I've been trying to keep down!"
"Stop being hysterical, it's annoying," Sherlock blandly requested. John emphatically crossed his arms over his chest, firmly awaiting an explanation. "On several occasions I noticed a man walking past your flat late at night, almost always around quarter to one."
"Should I even bother asking why you were there to see it at quarter to one in the morning?"
"No." John just rolled his eyes and Sherlock continued on. "The passerby always, and I mean always, looked up to your bedroom window. Then, one afternoon, I noticed he was strolling by during the day. This happened three times. People don't just break habits like that, especially not such bizarre ones at that. So, I did some digging. Apparently he's connected with Magnusson."
John's stomach leapt into his throat. "Are you sure?"
"Yes, but don't worry, he's been taken care of."
"How?"
"It's…classified," Mycroft chimed, with a don't-ask-any-further-questions gaze in John's direction.
John obliged. "So, are there any others?" he asked, dreading the answer.
"No, but the fact is, your bedroom window is street-facing and above a stoop that I've proven, and you too that one time a few months ago, is very easy to scale. Both of these things make it an easy target for a break-in. For Mary's safety, it made sense to give you a reason to stay in the bedroom with your gun."
John was still visibly annoyed, but seemed to understand. "Why didn't you just say that? Why stage a phony break-in?"
"Breaking in doubled as a message to whoever had been keeping an eye on your flat. If they think someone else is on the prowl, then they can waste their time chasing that ghost and any end goals they have will be delayed."
John just stood, taking it all in. "Be honest with me, Sherlock…is Mary in any immediate danger where we are?"
"No." Sherlock answered truthfully. "If you recall, Mycroft's men are still posing as landscapers for the surrounding houses. Imagine them as your own private defense."
'So that's why they hung around even after Sherlock went back to Baker Street,' John thought to himself. He mulled over what Sherlock had just told him, and finally, after arduous mental review, decided he would trust his friend's judgment and accept that Mary was safe, at least for now. He had one more question though. "You don't think Magnusson would…do anything to—"
"That's not his MO. Mary is only valuable to him if she is alive and well. You can relax."
John let go of a breath he hadn't realized he was holding in and nodded his head. "Alright, fine." He rubbed a hand over his forehead before looking down at his watch. "I've got to run; got clinic in half an hour." Following an automated 'goodbye,' he left the flat, still going over what Sherlock had just told him in his head.
Upon hearing the front door shut, Mycroft turned on his heel to face his brother. "There was no stalker."
"Whatever do you mean?"
"No one was walking by John and May's flat late at night, and the fact that their bedroom window faces the street makes it incredibly safe. What kind of burglar breaks into a house through a window that's in plain sight?" His scoffing expression soon changed to a smug smile. "Oh I see…well, who would have thought Sherlock Holmes a matchmaker."
The younger brother sneered and walked into the kitchen where he pulled two frozen ears out of the freezer and slapped them down onto a tray already at the table. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"You lied to John; there was never any reason for them to feel unsafe. And yet you broke their window anyway." Mycroft spun his cane between his fingers. "Explain that."
"I don't have to explain anything to you."
"Truer words were never spoken," Mycroft quipped, provoking a glare from Sherlock who was getting to work on the ears. "Anyway, I've got to be off too. Do remember to clear your schedule Christmas Day."
"I can hardly wait to pencil it into the calendar."
"Good afternoon," Mycroft said, departing for the door. "And, Sherlock, if you're going to make it a habit to succumb to bursts of emotion and marital meddling, try not to vandalize property in the process. It's getting harder and harder to convince government agents that they are somehow preserving the safety of the country by posing as landscapers in one of the lowest crime rate neighborhoods in London." And with that last comment, he was gone.
That night, John got home nearly two hours after expected thanks to the nurses being short-staffed in the A& E wing. He was exhausted and cranky from the day he had had, and wanted nothing more than to go to sleep.
He slumped through the darkened flat and found Mary already asleep in bed. Quietly, so as not to disturb her, he groped through the darkness for one of his t-shirts and a pair of shorts he had left on the dresser. When he was ready for bed, John found himself standing in the doorway connecting the bedroom with the living room. Now that he knew it had been Sherlock all along who had broken the window, he had no reason to keep watch.
He looked toward the couch and then toward Mary, and then to the couch and then back to Mary. He pulled in a deep breath and bit the corner of his mouth. He had no reason to keep watch…
No reason whatsoever.
The bed creaked just a bit when he slid into it, but not enough to wake Mary. Pulling the blankets over him, he stared at his wife—the way he always did when he came to bed at night. And just like every night, he reached out his hand and gently rested it on her pregnant belly. "Hi, baby…" he whispered with a smile. "It's daddy again."
A/N: Thank you for reading everyone! Feel free to leave your own speculations about Sherlock's secret ops ;)
