Mary lay back on the examination bed, letting out a small, slow exhale to calm her nerves. She turned her head to John who sat in a chair beside her. They exchanged an awkward smile; the kind of smile that happened between strangers passing in the street, not husband and wife as they waited in the ultrasound room.

The technician entered the room. She was fair skinned with pale lavender hair pulled back into a ponytail.

"Good morning! Have I got Mary Watson here?" she asked as she looked down at a folder in her hand.

"You do indeed," Mary replied chirpily.

"Brill. And is this the father?"

"Yes, this is my husband John."

John gave a polite wave.

"Lovely, okay, let's get started," said the technician as she pulled on her gloves.

Veins of silver and purple snaked up Mary's stomach like tree branches. Her bump was expanding rapidly and it was clear she had grown uncomfortably large. She flinched as the cold gel hit her skin, relaxing again as the transducer pressed into her stomach.

"So, everything was fine at the last scan?"

"Yes, everything was perfect. I just haven't felt any movement in a couple of days. They picked up a heartbeat but the midwife suggested an ultrasound too, just to make sure."

The room settled into silence as the warped thud of a heartbeat played through the monitor followed by the shadowed image of their baby.

"Okay so today's date: 8th October, you're 26 weeks, measurements are fine, strong heartbeat…" said the technician as she clicked away on the keyboard, recording every detail. "And oh, look at that, baby Watson just rolled over."

"Yep, I definitely felt that!" said Mary as she turned to John with relief.

He reached over and clasped her hand in his own. Was this progress? Mary wondered. She hoped so.

John's phone began to beep loudly.

"Sorry," he said as he pulled it from his pocket.

'Emergency. 17 Marylebone High Street. Come immediately. S.'

John shifted in his seat. "Erm…"

"Sherlock?"

"Yeah. I think he needs me. He said it's an emergency. But I can–"

"Go," she said with a genuine smile. "It's fine, honestly. You should go."

III

John rushed across the busy road with his hands in the pockets of his jacket. He hurried along the high street, following the numbers of each building until he reached 17. His brow furrowed as observed the name above the door before stepping inside and walking towards the back of the shop.

"What's the emergency?" he asked.

"Ah, John, excellent," replied Sherlock. "I need you to help me pick out a birthday card for Margaux."

John's concern turned to confusion, which quickly evolved into anger.

"You…" he gritted his teeth. "I left my pregnant wife in the middle of an ultrasound… to help you choose a birthday card?"

Sherlock looked down at John with a vacant expression. "Well it's rather overwhelming," he gestured to the rack of cards and began to read them. "'To an awesome person', 'To a great girl', 'my favourite colleague', 'for a wonderful friend', 'good friend', 'best friend', 'girlfriend', 'incredible girlfriend', 'beautiful girlfriend', 'one I love', 'fiancée', 'partner', 'wife'… It's quite ridiculous."

John sighed and began to speak before stopping himself. He knew Sherlock better than most people. He knew that something as simple as buying a greetings card, something most people did without thinking, was enough to make Sherlock's brain combust. So, instead of scolding him, he decided to help.

"Well, first of all I think she'd actually hurt you if you gave her a card with 'colleague' on it."

III

Sherlock slipped the small bag containing the cards into the inside breast pocket of his coat. He flicked up his collar and hailed a cab.

"Why you've left this until the day of her birthday, I will never know," said John as he climbed in the cab behind him.

"I had other things to be doing."

"Like what?"

"Like meeting with clients, working on Mary's case, ignoring my brother. My schedule has been rather hectic, John."

John rolled his eyes. "At least tell me you've called her to wish her a happy birthday…"

"Why would I do that? I'll see her later."

"Sherlock. You have to– You know what, get your phone out you're going to text her now."

He pulled out his phone and typed quickly.

'Happy Birthday. S' he showed John the message.

"You can't send that. You need to make it more personal."

'Happy Birthday, Margaux. S' he showed him again.

"Oh, give it here, will you," said John, snatching the phone from his hand.

'Happy Birthday, Margaux. Have a wonderful day and I will see you soon. All my love, S. x'

Sherlock took the phone back and scoffed. "She's very intelligent, John, you expect her to believe this was from me? Even Vaughan would know this wasn't me and he can't read." He typed for a moment.

'Happy Birthday, Margaux. I look forward to seeing you. S'

"Will this do?"

John nodded.

The cab pulled up outside a large department store. They climbed out and made their way inside.

III

Margaux rushed to her front door, opening it to a warm smile.

"Happy Birthday!" said Mary as she stood in the hall holding a purple glittery gift bag.

"Thank you!" she replied, showing her inside.

Mary walked into the living room, throwing herself down on the couch as gracefully as she could manage. Vaughan ran over to her excitedly.

"Careful, love, remember you've got to be gentle with aunty Mary," said Margaux.

"Baby," said Vaughan as he pointed to her swollen belly.

"That's right," Mary replied with a giggle.

Margaux sat on the couch and opened the gift bag, gasping as she pulled out a small box. She opened the box and slid out a lipstick, beautifully packed inside a heavy gold tube. She recognised it immediately; it was the one she had mentioned months ago as they wandered around the designer makeup counters.

"Oh, Mary! You shouldn't have done this."

"Do you like it?"

"Of course I do. But I can't accept this, it's just too expens–"

"But you like it, and you wanted it, and I had to convince John that you would prefer this to the 'Grandma' mug he picked out for you. So, Happy Birthday and shut up," Mary grinned.

"Well thank you," she said before leaning in for a hug. "So how was the scan? Everything okay?"

"Everything's fine. Hadn't felt the baby move in days and then it rolls over the second she starts the scan. Typical."

Margaux laughed. "When I was pregnant with Vaughan, if he ever stopped moving for too long I'd drink a glass of orange juice and within minutes he'd practically start dancing."

"I'll remember that," Mary chuckled.

Margaux's phone buzzed on the coffee table. "Sorry," she said as she picked it up.

Mary noticed her expression as she looked down at the phone. "Everything okay?"

"Happy Birthday, Margaux. I look forward to seeing you. S," she read aloud.

They looked at each other for a moment before sharing a laugh.

"Coming from Sherlock that's practically a declaration of love," said Mary.

"Either that or he's been forced into it by John."

Mary giggled before struggling to her feet. "Well I'll let you get on and we'll see you at Baker street later. I just wanted to stop by on my way home. See you later, Vee!"

They walked to the door. Margaux couldn't help but thank her again for the gift before she left. She didn't like to burden people with stories of her past, of the birthdays that would get 'forgotten', or the gifts that would be presented, only to be taken away or hidden from her soon after. She grasped the lipstick in her hand; it was truly the nicest gift she had ever gotten.

III

"This is impossible," said Sherlock as he stood in the middle of the department store.

He was out of place – a dark, cloaked figure amid a sea of bright, happy people. He stood tall and rigid amongst the bustling crowds and pale marble floors, his dark hair windswept and curlier than usual, his heavy brow almost scowling as he looked around, unable to hide his disdain for the overwhelming floral scent wafting from the fragrance counters.

"What did you have in mind?" said John as he leaned forward to examine a silk nightdress hanging on a rack, confused by the see-through lace cut-outs on the breasts. "Well that's not going to cover anything."

"I didn't have anything in mind."

John gestured to the revealing nightdress.

"No," said Sherlock sternly.

"Just a thought. Here, maybe ask a shop assistant for some advice?"

"Alright, very well." He looked around before gliding over to a young girl in a formal shirt and nametag. "Excuse me, I'm purchasing a birthday present and require some advice."

She looked up at him wide eyed. He knew the look; she recognised him.

"Sure…" she finally said.

"What would you suggest is an appropriate gift for a woman with whom you share a child and occasionally engage in sexual intercourse with?"

John bit his lip, trying hard to stop a smirk breaking through. He still enjoyed watching people interact with Sherlock for the first time.

"Erm… I…" she looked around awkwardly. "Maybe… Maybe a nice perfume? They're over there."

Sherlock nodded and the two men began to walk away.

"Perfume's not a bad idea," said John.

"No."

"Why?"

"Because Margaux wears the same perfume every day, she has done for years."

"So?"

"I like the way she smells; like honey and old books. I could pick her out of a crowd with my eyes closed, I don't want her to change it."

"Aww."

"What?"

III

The walls of 221B were strewn with fairy lights, cream and brown bunting hung from ceiling and music played gently from the radio. Mrs Hudson set out a tray of drinks and glasses, and next to it sat a homemade birthday cake.

Molly arrived first, clutching a gift bag in her hands. She blushed as Sherlock stepped forward, handing her a glass of champagne. John and Mary arrived soon after.

"Ooh you're getting so big," said Mrs Hudson as she cooed over Mary's bump.

"I know, and I feel even bigger," she replied.

John joined Sherlock in the kitchen. He was standing with his arms behind his back.

"Got her present ready?" asked John as he lifted a bottle of beer from the fridge.

"Hm? Oh, yes it's in my drawer."

"So you found some wrapping paper then?"

Sherlock looked at John with a puzzled look. "No. Why would I wrap something on the same day it's due to be opened? Seems rather pointless."

"Right of course, how stupid of me… Beer?"

He shook his head and began making his way to the living room as a familiar voice sounded from the front door. He stepped in to see her standing there; she was smiling, her eyes glittering with the reflection of the fairy lights as she looked around in awe of Mrs Hudson's quick decorations. She was wearing a cream lace blouse tucked into slim, check trousers and a pair of heeled loafers. He noticed her shifting her weight from side to side – regretting her choice of footwear. Beside her stood Vaughan, still wrapped in his coat. It was past his bedtime and his rosy face twisted in a disgruntled frown.

He approached them, his movements stiff, as if all too aware of the collection of eyes watching him.

"Margaux," he nodded.

She placed her hand gently on his arm, like instinct. "Hey," she said with a smile.

He looked at her for a moment before turning his attention to Vaughan. "What's his problem?"

"He's tired. Do you mind if I take him through and put him to bed?"

"Oh, don't be silly," Mrs Hudson interjected. "You're the birthday girl, get yourself a drink, I'll see to him."

"Or his father could do it…" John added as he stood in the archway of the kitchen sipping his beer.

Sherlock turned around, "Or perhaps uncle John could do it. Considering he could use the practice," he countered with a glare.

"Oh, I'm quite alright, thanks. But maybe you should–"

"Boys, she's already taken him…" Margaux interrupted.

They looked around, now noticing that Mrs Hudson and Vaughan were gone. John gave a shrug and walked away to sit down.

Sherlock turned back. "Where's your friend, lady-what's-her-face-woman?"

Margaux blinked at him. "Rose? My best friend who you've met on several occasions?"

"Rose! That's it. I knew it was some sort of flower."

"She couldn't get a babysitter."

"Ah."

She looked around the flat for a moment. "Where's Greg?"

"Who?"

"Greg Lestrade…"

"I didn't think you'd want him here."

"Why not?"

"Because you think he's annoying."

"No, Sherlock, you think he's annoying."

"Oh, yes."

"What about your parents?"

"Not in the country, but I'm sure you'll receive their card in the post."

"And Mycroft?"

"Declined the offer."

She rolled her eyes.

III

Flames roared in the fireplace, yet the hum of conversation was the warmth that filled the flat. Mrs Hudson had spent her evening begging Sherlock to play his violin. Do it as a gift to Margaux, she had said, as if she had forgotten who she was trying to guilt trip.

There was a gentle tap against the door.

"Hi, sorry, the door downstairs was open and there was a note saying–"

"Oliver!" Margaux jumped from her seat and rushed to him.

"Oh, thank god she knows him, I thought we were being burgled," said Mrs Hudson.

"Robbed. You mean robbed," said Sherlock sharply. "A burglary occurs when the victim is not present. A robbery occurs when the victim is present."

"Everyone, this is Oliver," said Margaux with her hand on his arm.

Oliver greeted everyone with a smile, recognising Molly from the hospital and giving her a small wave. He took a beer from John before joining Margaux on the couch and handing her a birthday card. She smiled and thanked him with a hug.

"That pissed you off?" asked John quietly as he stood next to Sherlock.

"Why would it?"

"We all warned you she'd move on if you didn't do something."

The night continued with more drinks and laughter. Oliver was charming, soon falling into flowing conversation as if he had known them all forever. He told funny anecdotes, stories of his weirdest patients and showered Margaux with attention and praise. The women swooned as they got to know him. Sherlock could have sworn he saw John swoon too.

Molly helped Mrs Hudson light the candles on the cake. It was a lopsided sponge covered in swirls of buttercream and a shakily drawn '32'. But to Margaux, it was perfect. They sang Happy Birthday and she blew out the candles. Everyone gave a tipsy cheer and Mary raised her glass of lemonade with a smile. Oliver leaned in to Margaux's ear.

"Happy Birthday, beautiful," he said quietly.

She felt her cheeks heat up as she turned to look at him. He was gazing into her eyes, as if completely enamoured by her. She leaned forward tentatively, their lips meeting for just a moment in a quick kiss. It didn't feel right. She shook away the feeling.

Sherlock stood across the room, his eyes glued to them. He couldn't help but feel like something was off with this man. Or maybe he just wished there was. He scanned Oliver as he stood with his arm around Margaux's waist:

His hair was lightened in parts, bleached by the sun. There were bags under his eyes – sleep deprivation, or perhaps overworked. No, the bags mixed with his slight delay in reaction and processing time meant he was definitely sleep deprived. He was a non-smoker, occasional drinker, kept his phone in the breast pocket of his jacket, his keys and wallets in his trousers, and… Sherlock gritted his teeth as he observed the outline of a condom packet in his back pocket. He shook the anger away and continued. No tan line or indent on his ring finger – not married. No tattoos, polished shoes, modestly priced clothing. Then Sherlock noticed it. A damp, discoloured patch on the shoulder of his jacket, as if something had been cleaned away with a wet sponge. And on the other shoulder, a long blonde hair. That was when everything clicked into place.

"So you met at the hospital?" asked Mary.

"Yeah! I'd seen her around for a long time and always had a massive crush on her. So, I finally managed to ask her on a date but things got in the way…"

"Then when I asked him on the date, he was seeing someone," Margaux finished.

Everyone chucked, except Sherlock.

"Fast forward three years and we just so happened to bump into each other again, so I asked her if we could finally go on that date."

"That's so sweet," said Molly.

"So, I'm gathering by the sub context of that absolutely thrilling story, that you are in fact now single?" Sherlock interjected.

"Well yeah," Oliver replied with an awkward laugh.

Margaux's eyes shot across the room to Sherlock, exchanging one of their silent conversations, asking him what the hell he was doing.

He continued anyway. "Funny. Why would I bet my life on that not being true?"

"I'm sorry, what–"

"You hugged your girlfriend before you left, hence the blonde hair on your shoulder and the smudge of makeup – too dark to be Margaux's – on your collar. As well as hugging your girlfriend, you also burped your new born baby. I know because there's a patch on your jacket from where the infant was sick on your shoulder. The stain is a milky-colour and its position corresponds to the manner in which you would hold a baby while patting its back after feeding it. Tell me, Oliver, is it a boy or a girl? Ah, don't bother speaking, your face just told me it's a girl. Congratulations."

Margaux turned to Oliver, her heart thudding in her chest.

"Sherlock, that's enough," said Mary.

"You have dark circles under your eyes," Sherlock continued.

"He's a bloody doctor, of course he does," said John.

"Not consistent with stress or overexertion, but that of sleep deprivation. Also understandable with a new baby. You have a picture of your girlfriend and daughter as your phone wallpaper, which is why you keep your phone in an inside pocket – lowers the risk of anyone seeing it. I'd also wager a guess that you have Margaux's number saved under a different name to avoid suspicion."

"Do you want to give it a rest?" said Oliver angrily.

"You recently spent time abroad, somewhere hot. Spain–"

"Sherlock," said Margaux.

"Which is where you cheated for the first time and realised how easy it was. But you felt guilty, swore you'd never do it again. But then…" he gestured to Margaux. "Who could blame an eye for wandering when it's wandering after her, right?" his voice oozed with sarcasm, as if he were performing a skit.

"Sherlock!" she shouted again. "That is enough!"

The room fell into silence.

She drew a shaking breath and turned to Oliver. "You said you were single. You said you didn't have any kids…"

Oliver scoffed, his eyes darting between Sherlock and Margaux. "You don't actually believe him, do you?"

"Show me the wallpaper on your phone," she said.

"Wh… Why should I? This is ridiculous, Margaux. You're telling me he got all that from a stain on my jacket? Who are you going to believe here, him or me?"

"I believe him," she said matter-of-factly.

Everyone in the room held their breath as they watched on.

"You… believe him?" he replied.

"Yes, I do. But of course if I'm wrong, you could just show me your phone."

"I…" he looked around at all the eyes watching him. The suffocating quiet. "No."

"Okay well goodbye," said Margaux as she walked to the door, opening it wide and gesturing for him to leave. "And congratulations on the baby."

He walked out swiftly, his eyes never leaving the floor. She shut the door behind him and turned around to see everyone staring at her, even Sherlock. She took a deep breath and approached him slowly.

"I'm going to overlook the fact that you just almost ruined my birthday, but only because I almost went home with that creep."

III

The cold, autumn night nipped at Margaux's cheeks as she sat on the bottom step outside Baker Street. She lit a cigarette and folded her arms, sighing out the smoke and closing her eyes. The door creaked open behind her, followed by footsteps and the feeling of an arm brushing against her own. She turned to see John taking a seat next to her on the step, resting his forearms on his knees.

"Just came to see if you were okay," he said.

She nodded. "I'm fine. Honestly. The champagne is probably helping soften the blow."

He laughed, taking a moment before speaking again. "You were so quick to believe him. What if he was wrong?"

"He wasn't wrong."

"How can you be so sure?"

She took another drag of her cigarette. "Sherlock is good at reading people; making deductions based on observations. I'm good at reading Sherlock. I know his intentions. Do you think I'd have stuck around this long if I didn't?" She gave a gentle, knowing smile.

In that smile, John saw patience. He saw resilience and confidence. He knew Sherlock well. But it was clear that she knew him differently.

III

"Right, I'm quite pregnant and I want to go home to bed. But I'm also nosey and want to see what everyone got you, so can you open your presents now?" asked Mary as she gulped down the last of her lemonade.

"Ooh yes!" said Mrs Hudson excitedly before jumping up and collecting the small pile of gifts and cards.

"You know I didn't expect a single thing from any of you…" said Margaux.

"We know," said Molly with a smile.

She opened each present with care. A beautiful knitted jumper from Molly, a bath set from Mrs Hudson and a mug with 'Grandma' printed on it from John – she exchanged a smirk with Mary. She read each card closely, thanking each person as she went, even surprised to see one signed from Mycroft amongst them. She began to giggle as she looked at the pile of cards beside her.

"What's funny?" asked Molly.

"I didn't get my first birthday card until I was 7," she said as she continued to giggle, her throat warm with alcohol. "It was from my best friend in school and I hid it in my room so my mother didn't take it away from me."

The room fell silent. Her eyes widened as she realised how uncomfortable she had made everyone.

"Not an appropriate story for a birthday party," she said to herself.

"Sorry, hang on, you didn't get your first birthday card until you were 7?" asked Mary.

"Oh, did I not mention my mother was a terrible person?"

Mary leaned in towards her. "You know I'm a trained assassin, right?"

John cleared his throat. "When I turned 18, I got so drunk that I vomited into my pint glass and got kicked out the club, I tried to do a cartwheel in the street and my arms gave way underneath me, and I woke up the next morning with a permanent marker Clockwork Orange eye that took three days to fade…"

Everyone began to laugh, turning their attention away from Margaux. She looked across to John, mouthing 'thanks' as she relaxed into her seat.

III

The quiet after a party was like smoke that rose from a husked-out fire. it was warm and calm, settling amongst the half-drank glasses of champagne, the torn up wrapping paper and cut up birthday cake. Sherlock stood in the middle of the empty living room looking around at the mess everyone had left. Margaux joined him at his side and let out a sigh.

"It's not as messy as it could be," she said.

"Eh, Mrs Hudson will no doubt come up in the morning and tidy it."

"You're the worst."

"I suppose that means you don't want your gift?"

"You got me a present!?"

"is that so hard to believe?"

"Yes."

He turned and made his way to the bedroom, leaning over the bed to check on Vaughan who was sleeping soundly in the middle of the double bed. She followed in after him, sitting on the edge of the bed as she watched him slide open the drawer of his dresser. He handed her two envelopes. She opened the first one, swallowing against the lump that formed in her throat.

"To the Best Mummy, on your Birthday," she said quietly.

"What? Don't you like it?" He asked, noticing the quiver in her voice.

"No, no I love it. This is so thoughtful, Sherlock, thank you." She wiped a tear away before it had the chance to escape and opened the next envelope.

She didn't know what she had expected, but when she looked down at the impersonal plain white card, she couldn't help but feel a twinge of disappointment. She opened it slowly, and suddenly, the disappointment was replaced with another feeling entirely.

'They had cards for every title, but none could accurately do justice to your importance to me.'

She looked up at him, her eyes glassy and her mouth gaping open. "Sherlock…" she breathed.

He handed her a small, brown leather-bound journal. Its cover was delicately engraved with vines and autumn leaves. She ran her hands over its ridges, admiring the beautiful patterns, before opening it and letting out a giggle. On the first page, in Sherlock's unmistakeable inky scrawling, it said 'Merry Christmas for Narcissists'.

"It's nothing much," he said quietly. "Were you aware that you're incredibly difficult to buy for?"

She stood up, lifted herself onto her tip toes and wrapped her arms around his neck, hugging him tight and without hesitation.

"Thank you," she whispered into the crook of his neck.

He slowly began to reciprocate the hug, placing the palm of his hand on the back of her head, his other arm wrapping around her shoulders. He tried to speak but the words wouldn't surface; he wanted to tell her he was sorry about Oliver, he was sorry that it took 7 years for someone to acknowledge her birthday, he was sorry he couldn't give her more than what he was already giving her – he wasn't ready. Though he so desperately wanted to be.