After they got back from their honeymoon, everything continued, business as usual. When they had gone back to work wearing matching wedding rings, their coworkers weren't surprised. They never were anymore with those two.
Three months after their wedding, Sherlock decided to go on a business trip. The An Garda Sícohána had a lead that led to Kilkenny, and Mr. Scott had wanted to keep it to see if he could get his name in the paper again.
Sherlock was Mr. Scott's best investigator, so, naturally, he was asked to go. Sherlock couldn't resist a good case, so he immediately starting packing.
"Don't get hurt," Emily warned as she gave him a kiss on the cheek goodbye. It was hot and muggy outside, and she could tell the days were going to be long without Sherlock there.
"I'll miss you," he said, a statement he said rarely, even to his own wife.
"I'll miss you, too," she replied, giving him a tight hug.
"Call me sometime!" she called as he went to head out the door
"I'll text," he answered, giving a wink as he walked out the door coolly.
Boredom got the best of Emily after a few hours, and not having heard from him, she decided to have a little fun.
Twenty minutes later, just as he had sat down for a long, tedious dinner with his coworkers, he checked his phone. When he saw a text from Emily, he thought there must be something wrong. They never texted when they knew the other was busy, and Emily had never been the clingy, jealous type.
When he opened his texts, he almost dropped his phone into the bowl of soup laid out before him. Clearing his throat, he headed off to the bathroom so no one could see what his wife had just sent him.
It was very subtle, but he had to admit that it got his attention. She had sent him a picture of her reading, but they both knew it was not the book he would pay attention to. The book was propped against her lap as she laid back, probably leaning against the headboard of their bed, her knees bent. The rest of her was clad in lingerie, a plentiful amount of skin showing in some of Sherlock's favorite places. The caption read "What do you think of this book? Haven't ever read it."
He honestly hadn't even noticed the title of the book. Lolita. He searched his mind, trying to remember what that one was about, then it hit him. "Oh."
That photo was going to prove to be a distraction for the rest of the night, he was sure. The great Sherlock Holmes wouldn't even be able to think straight now, all because of a certain woman: his wife. Who looked rather good in red, he noticed.
He tried to remain detached, business-y. After all, there was a case to solve. So he simply texted back, "I'm busy."
He closed his phone, heading back to the table, trying to get his mind off of her.
A few minutes later, his phone buzzed again. A sad face. "But I miss you."
He sighed. He should not be doing this, he thought. "I miss you, too," he replied. "But I'm still busy."
She didn't text back again, not until he had gotten back to his hotel room, intent to go ahead and work on the case so he could get home sooner.
This time, it was another picture. He was glad he was alone when he opened it because in this one, she had sent a picture of her breasts, completely uncovered. "Still busy?"
He took a deep breath. "Mind over matter, Sherlock. It's just sex." But the more he looked at the photo, the more he got distracted. He imagined his hands and mouth exploring the very places she had sent him pictures of.
"You're distracting me," he texted back.
"Well, that was rather the point," she reminded him.
"You know, if I hadn't married such a stunning woman, this would not be a problem." He figured he had a little time to flirt.
"If I hadn't married such a gorgeous man, I might not be as lonely when he goes away."
"It's only for a few days."
"Promise me you won't flirt with the all the beautiful women in Kilkenny?" she asked.
"I would never. Promise you won't leave me for the postman? I don't like the way he looks at you, Mrs. Holmes."
"I don't know…if you don't come back soon…well, anything could happen," she joked.
"I'm on it."
He stayed up all night, trying to crack the case. By the next afternoon, the case was solved and he was on his way home.
At 19:00, he burst in the door, setting his bags down in the living room calmly then immediately kissing Emily, who was sitting on the couch going over one of their joint cases.
"I've missed you," he murmured in her ear as he started taking her clothes off, not even bothering to go to their bedroom.
"I thought you'd forgotten about me," she teased as he kissed down her neck.
"Never," he whispered into her collarbone, his hands going for her breasts.
They ended up on the couch, the coffee table, and then, finally, in their bedroom.
As they lay there quietly, Sherlock lovingly tracing patterns on her back with his index finger, his phone rang loudly on the bedside table. He groaned when he saw who it was, practically slamming his finger down on the answer button before putting the receiver against his ear.
"Yes, Jameson?" he sighed.
"Are you alone?"
"Yes."
"How's the wife?" Jameson asked, a hint of sarcasm to his tone.
"She's rather good at the moment," Sherlock replied, a smug, self-satisfied smile forming on his face.
"She's right next to you, isn't she?"
"Anything you have to say to me, you can say in front of her."
"God, I miss it when you were all cold and detached."
"I don't have all night," Sherlock said, growing more and more impatient.
"Well, I have good news and bad news. We found the last of Moriarty's assassins. She's somewhere in the U.S. The bad news is, we just don't know where. Me and Mycroft are both on it."
"Mycroft and I," Sherlock corrected.
"You get the point."
"Yes, I do. Now, goodnight." Sherlock hung up, not even waiting for a reply.
"Is everything alright?" Emily wondered, turning over to face him.
"It's fine." He kissed her forehead gently to reassure her.
"Good," she replied, wrapping her arms around his waist. "You know, I'm still not tired…" she said suggestively, her hands moving starting to creep down lower on his body.
Wordlessly, Sherlock turned the light out, getting back to his preoccupation.
It was two months later when Emily didn't come home.
Sherlock had gotten off work at 17:00, and Emily had gotten off at 14:00. When he got home, she was nowhere to be found. No note, no phone call, nothing. She was never usually late, and when she was, she always called.
He paced around their flat for hours, wondering where she could be. He called work twice to make sure she hadn't come back in. Soon, he started checking local police reports, looking for traffic accidents, anything.
"This is not like her," he said aloud. Even though Sherlock always went off to solve cases, he always let her know he would be gone.
At 21:00, he called Jameson, in a panic. "No one has hurt your wife," Jameson reassured. "She'll turn up."
Next was Mycroft. "No, sorry," Anthea told him.
He paced around some more, about to rip his hair out. "I put her in danger by even talking to her. What if someone hurt her?" he scolded himself. He didn't want to think about the other option.
At 22:00, she walked through the door as if nothing had ever happened. She sat down some shopping bags on their kitchen table, looking preoccupied.
Sherlock had followed her into their kitchen, silently waiting for an explanation.
"I just lost track of the time," she mumbled, trying to step past him.
"You lost track of the time?" he exclaimed. "For 8 hours?"
"You're my husband, not my keeper," she reminded him, heading towards the fridge.
"A phone call wouldn't have killed you. Even I tell you when I'm going to be away."
"It's not a big deal," she muttered, grabbing an apple.
He suddenly thought about something that had never even crossed his mind. All the signs were there. He was so stupid for not noticing. "You're having an affair," he said quietly, looking dejected.
"No, I'm not," she replied, angry that he could even think such.
He suddenly grabbed her hands, studying them. He removed her wedding ring before she even had time to respond, holding it up to the light to inspect it. The outside of the plain silver band was clean, but the inside was sparkling as well from where she had seemingly shimmied it off her finger.
"God," he said, sitting down in a kitchen chair. "Who…is it?" he asked, swallowing hard and avoiding any eye contact.
"I'm not having an affair," she reiterated once more.
"Obviously you are," he argued.
"I promise, I'm not."
"Then, please explain to me what I'm missing," he implored.
She thought for a moment, deciding that it was best to just get it over with quickly, like ripping off a bandage. "I'm pregnant," she blurted out, then winced, waiting for his reaction.
"Are you sure?" He studied her carefully, looking for the signs.
"Yes, I'm sure. The doctor told me today."
"How far along?" he asked slowly.
"Two months."
"How?"
"I missed a couple of pills...and then, you got home from your trip not too long after…" she explained, leaving the rest to his imagination. "I've been out for hours trying to figure out a way to tell you," she continued. "I went to the doctor because my back has been sore lately, and then he tells me I'm pregnant," she halfway smiled. "I've only been taking my ring off because my fingers were swelling and it hurt to wear it sometimes…I thought I'd just gained a few pounds," she shrugged. "What do you think?" she asked, knowing his answer wouldn't really change anything. "Are you…mad?"
"No," he answered quickly. "What's done is done."
She let him sit there, taking it all in as she had been for the past few hours. They had never even discussed this possibility. Sherlock thought Emily having an affair was far more likely than this.
"I found an obstetrician," she told him after a minute.
"Good." He nodded slowly, not quite sure how to take it all in.
"Our baby should be born around Valentine's Day, our first anniversary," she reported, watching his facial expressions. She noticed a small twitch of his lips when she said "our baby."
He reached his hand out towards her stomach, hesitant. "May I?"
"Of course."
He touched her stomach, knowing he wouldn't be able to feel anything yet, but nonetheless being intrigued by it all. He smiled slightly as he thought of the biological processes occurring inside of her at that very moment. Their child was growing constantly, changing every minute.
"I have something for you…" she said, turning around and reaching into her bag. She produced a typical looking sonogram, all black and white and grey and lines, with a tiny cluster of cells in the center, relaxing away.
"That's ours," she stated proudly. "The doctor showed me – you can sort of make out the face there, the beginning of some very small arms and legs," she pointed out.
"And it's healthy?" he questioned.
"Very. What do you think?" she asked again.
"Do you have copies of that sonogram?"
She nodded and handed him one. "I think our baby is beautiful," she declared.
He seemed to agree, staring at the sonogram for a few moments before finally folding it and putting it into his pocket.
The next day, when she went into the break room for a snack, she found their baby's sonogram hanging up on the refrigerator for all to see.