'Do you want me to stay?' Greg says an hour later, Mycroft having left once Sherlock finally texted John the words he'd been wanting to see for weeks:
It's finished. Will be home tomorrow night - SH
'No, I'll be … oh … fine in a bit,' John's on his feet, circling the kitchen and the living room, one hand tight to the small of his back, the other massaging the underside of his bump, 'they're just Braxton Hicks and … fairly weak ones. Really … annoying, nothing more.'
'I know what they are,' Greg says easily, 'and I also know Sherlock would prefer you not to be alone while you're like this.'
'I'm not alone,' John nods at his middle, 'I've got … H-Hamish for company.'
'Such wit,' Greg grabs his coat but doesn't put it on. 'Well he can't say I didn't try.'
'I'll be sure to ... tell him that,' John leans against the wall, panting tiredly, 'if he asks.'
'Are you sure you want to be on your own?' Greg searches John's face, eyes doubtful.
'I don't want to keep you up when you've got ... work tomorrow,' John grits his teeth, only partially stifling a moan. 'Besides, I always ... get like this at night now. Really, I'm … ugh … used to it. I'll be …'
'Don't say fine,' Greg shakes his head, 'it's not remotely believable.'
