It was in October, when Emily was five months pregnant, that Sherlock got the call.
"We've been working on it around the clock. We got her," Jameson panted, out of breath. "Your name is cleared, Mycroft made sure of it. He even got you a posthumous pardon. Everyone knows the truth about Rich Brook and Moriarty. Everything is out in the open now, except, you know, everyone but me and Mycroft –Mycroft and I – think you're dead. But the important part is, you can come back now. No more hiding. Hell, tell your neighbors you're Sherlock Holmes, tell anybody that'll listen. I'll start working on getting you back to London."
Sherlock hung up the phone without saying a word. He looked over at his pregnant, sleeping wife, clad in a t-shirt three sizes too big. Her hands were curled around her bump protectively, as if she were already cradling their son in her arms.
Their baby was going to be a boy. He remembered how proud he was when he first found out, barely two weeks ago. He had silently beamed when he heard the doctor tell him and Emily the news. He had spent hours thinking of all the things he could do with his son, things his own father had never done with him. He had never even known that he wanted a child so badly until he had one. Truthfully, though he would never admit it, he had always loved children, their curiosity, their tenacity. Children always asked the questions adults should have been asking. And this baby – their baby – was going to be a genius, he was sure of it, but he hoped the child would resemble his Emily more in regards to her soft looks and sweet-natured mannerisms. She was always his baby, no matter if he said it or not.
Still, he was dying to get back to London, to see everyone again, but he couldn't move a pregnant woman to an entirely different country three months before she was to give birth. It wouldn't be fair to her or their child.
The next morning, a Saturday, they were both up rather early, Sherlock not sleeping at all after he got the call. When she found out, Emily had only one thing to say:
"We're going."
They packed their things, paid their last bills, sold their car, and gave Mr. Scott thirty days' notice.
On their last day at work, the whole staff threw a going away party/baby shower for the two, with Sherlock not even bothering to attend. He did make an appearance at the very end, helping to put the gifts in the waiting cab and then proposing a toast, something he never usually did, but this time, he chose to relish in the moment. After talking about moving and the baby and giving a made-up, sappy speech about how much he loved his job, he asked one more thing of his coworkers before he left.
"Please, get out your phones," he commanded, his hands resting delicately behind his back.
Everyone did as they were told, expecting that he would be giving them a new phone number or address or asking them to take a picture.
"Now, go to Google Images, please."
He waited quietly. Intelligence wasn't exactly a hallmark of this bunch.
"Now, type in this phrase exactly. Sherlock – S-H-E-R-L-O-C-K – Holmes – H-O-L-M-E-S."
He patiently waited as Emily stood there, unsure of how to act.
Then, it came. A few audible gasps, a couple of murmurs. No one was sure of what they were seeing.
After a few minutes, the crowd finally hushed, looking to Sherlock. He looked back at them calmly before grabbing Emily's hand and starting out the door. "Trust me, if you haven't heard of me, you will." He gave his signature wink and a "Laters!" before hopping in the cab to head to the airport with his wife.
When they arrived in London, they were greeted by stares and whispers. "Can't be him, can it?" they heard quite a few times.
The first stop was Mycroft's office. There, they met Jameson and got Sherlock's real driver's license and passport.
"People are talking," Mycroft warned. "I'm afraid you're going to find things have changed in London since you were last here."
"Can't be that different," Sherlock mused.
"You'd be surprised. People have learned to get on without Sherlock Holmes," Mycroft said as Emily and Sherlock ducked out the door.
The next stop was Molly's flat to take care of the paperwork concerning Sherlock's fake death. If he was going to come back, he needed there to be no obstacles in the way, especially legal ones.
"Can't Mycroft take care of this?" Emily asked.
"No, because not even Mycroft knows how I did it. As far as he is concerned, Molly wasn't involved. He can have his suspicions, but…"
"Alright," Emily conceded, silently noting that if anyone was to make a pass at her husband, she wouldn't hold back. Now that she was pregnant, she had an excuse.
When they reached Molly's flat, hand in hand, he knocked on the door quickly and firmly, knowing she would be home if her work schedule hadn't changed in the past two years.
They could hear a tiny squeal of excitement coming from the other side of the door when Molly looked through the peephole.
"Sherlock!" she exclaimed when she opened the door. "You're back!" She gave him a tight hug, not even noticing Emily. Sherlock patted her on the back, clearing his throat.
Molly looked up and found a rather small pregnant woman standing sort of behind Sherlock, waiting patiently.
"Who's this?" Molly asked, clearly embarrassed at her burst of emotion.
"My wife," Sherlock replied. "Molly, this is Emily." He turned around to give Molly a better view of his wife, but instead heard a large thud.
He sighed. "I really hope not too many people are going to pass out on me."
"I don't know. You are quite the ladies' man," Emily teased.
He rolled his eyes, stepping around Molly and inviting himself in.
"We can't just leave her on the floor," Emily reminded him.
"I'll get some cold water. She'll come to in a few minutes." Sherlock was already snooping through her cabinets, searching.
Five minutes later, Molly awoke, hoping that what she had just experienced had all just been a silly dream. Sherlock Holmes had said countless times that he would never get married, work was enough for him. When Molly looked up, however, she saw the figurehead of Sherlock's now false statements; it had to all be for a case, right? But upon close inspection, Molly remembered the part that had shocked her the most: the woman's pregnant stomach, barely showing but just enough to be semi-noticeable.
She said nothing, studying them for several seconds, making her own deductions. All of this was quite disconcerting, indeed, and any notion that it was still all just for a case was destroyed when she saw Sherlock put his arm around the woman he had called his wife. He was looking at her in the same way Molly thought she must have looked at Sherlock all these years. He was clearly in love. If he was faking it, he would've been embarrassed at the thought of people thinking he was enamored with anyone. Sherlock associating with any woman would have been enough to convince everyone that he had changed, that he was now someone who loved and was loved in return. But the glances he gave his wife, the way he looked at her with silent smiles of adoration, there was no faking that. That was the problem with being in love, she thought. Everybody could tell.
"Molly," Sherlock spoke up, "I got what I needed." He held a file up. "Thank you," he said genuinely but still wanting to leave.
Molly nodded slowly. "Sorry, I'm still just a bit lightheaded."
Sherlock nodded as well, wanting to end the seeming awkwardness. "Well, we'll be going now."
Molly showed them out, her head still spinning.
"Nice to meet you," Emily called as she and Sherlock left. "I hope you're okay after that fall," she said, smiling warmly so Molly could see.
"Nice to meet you, too," Molly mumbled, going inside to have a drink.
Lestrade and Sally Donovan had initially aimed their guns at him, but after the initial shock, Lestrade greeted Sherlock warmly, inviting him into his office to talk and to apologize for the events leading up to Sherlock's fall.
After Sally caught her breath, she tried to continue business as usual. When she saw a pregnant woman sitting in the corner of the waiting room, she stopped to help.
"Has anyone helped you, dear?"
"I'm just waiting on my husband," Emily explained. "This whole pregnancy thing is exhausting," she laughed.
"Is it a boy or a girl?" Sally asked.
"A boy," Emily answered, beaming.
"Well, good luck to you."
"Here's my husband now." Emily rose, walking over towards Sherlock.
"Who's this?" Lestrade wondered, curious and a tad bit surprised.
"Lestrade, this is my wife, Emily." Sherlock gestured towards her as she extended her hand.
"A wife," Lestrade repeated, a little shocked. "A pregnant wife – I didn't think you had it in you," he said, laughing jovially as he shook Emily's hand.
Before anyone could say anything else, Sally overcame her speechlessness and spoke directly to Emily, ignoring the fact that Sherlock was standing right there.
"You…married this…freak?" she asked, her voice becoming hysterical. "Do yourself a favor: get a divorce, put the kid up for adoption – Lord only knows how messed up his kid'll be. Then, change your name and forget all about him, 'cause this can only end badly for you. Just ask John Watson."
The next thing Sally could remember was falling to the ground, bleeding.
"I think you broke her nose!" Lestrade exclaimed to Emily.
Sherlock couldn't help but smirk a bit.
Ten minutes later, Emily sat in Lestrade's office, sobbing. "I…I…I'm just so sorry. I've been so hormonal lately and the baby has been keeping me up at night and it all just happened so fast. I'm so sorry." She threw herself on Sherlock's shoulder, crying dramatically.
"I'll try to convince her not to press charges. I think it's only a fracture," Lestrade shrugged.
"Oh, thank you. You're such a nice man," Emily blurted out between sobs.
"My wife is pregnant at the moment too, so I know how it is," he replied empathetically. "Sherlock, take her home and make sure she gets rest."
After an even more dramatic exit in which a bawling Emily had to be practically carried out by Sherlock, they hailed a cab. As soon as they got a few blocks over, Emily immediately stopped crying and pretended like nothing had happened.
"That'll teach her to talk about my husband and son," she mumbled, then looked over to an impressed Sherlock, shrugging. "I took drama for two years at university."
"God, I love you," was all he could say.
"I know," she replied with a smile. "Where are we going anyway?"
"221B Baker Street. Read about a great little flat there. If you don't mind, can you go check it out and talk to the landlady while I go talk to John? Mycroft has arranged a meeting between us."
"I have a feeling that only one party knows what this meeting is truly for."
"That would be absolutely correct," Sherlock conceded, right as the cab stopped in front of 221B Baker Street.
Sherlock helped Emily out of the cab, kissing her goodbye on the check.
"Good luck," she called after him.
She stood in front of the flat, examining every detail.
"Looks great," she whispered to her bump excitedly.
She knocked on the door and was greeted by a nice older woman. After telling her she was there to look at the flat, the woman invited Emily in.
"I'm Mrs. Hudson," she introduced herself. For some reason, Emily thought that name sounded familiar.
On the other side of town, Sherlock walked into a restaurant, very posh, with all the doors being swung open for him. At a table, he saw that same wonted face, only older, more mature. Mustachioed. When Sherlock arrived at the table, the man was intently looking at his menu, not even bothering to look up. Sherlock needed to get his attention. All he had to do was say one word in his old, recognizable baritone.
"John."
