Sherlock sat typing on his phone as John interviewed their next potential client. In the time it took the man to introduce himself, Sherlock had solved three mysteries via email.

The client sat in his chair, twiddling his thumbs and talking with a nervous stammer. The bags under his eyes were deep and blue, and he was trying his best not to cry as he talked about the mysterious death of his father. Begging the duo to help him.

"I- I know it seems pretty… pretty obvious. B-but I just know something's not right, Dr Watson."

John nodded sympathetically.

"Of course something's not right," said Sherlock, his eyes never leaving his phone. "Your father was murdered by a jellyfish."

III

Margaux sat in the waiting room, anxiously rolling a dainty bronze ring on her middle finger. She had never testified as an expert witness before, feeling sick at the thought of taking the stand, and her head was throbbing with a headache that had taken root behind her eyes. She tried to focus on the case, going over facts and trying to prepare her answers. But something else was invading her mind – a constant interruption compelling her to double check the date. She obliged, hoping that checking again would calm her down. She opened the calendar on her phone and began to count back the days when suddenly the door swung open.

"You've been called to the stand," said the bailiff.

She sighed, giving him a polite smile and following him out of the room.

She stepped up to the stand, tucking her hair behind her ears and adjusting her jacket.

The bailiff stood in front of her. "Would you please state your name for the court."

She cleared her throat and leaned into the microphone. "Margaux Cave."

"Would you like to affirm, or swear on a holy book?"

"I would like to affirm."

She raised her hand, hoping no one could see it shaking. She felt terrible; ill and tired. Surely it was just nerves. She hoped so. She had never hoped more to be nothing but nervous.

"Do you solemnly, sincerely and truly declare and affirm that the evidence you shall give shall be the truth the whole truth and nothing but the truth?"

"I do."

"Please be seated."

She sat down as the judge invited the prosecutor to take the floor. A slender, middle-aged woman stood up and stepped forward. Her hair was a blend of blonde and grey, pulled back into a sleek bun and secured in place with a gold slide. She smiled at Margaux kindly.

"Dr Cave, you work for Scotland Yard, yes?"

"I do."

"Can you tell the court what you do there?"

"Yes, I work for the Scientific Intelligence Unit as a behavioural analyst."

"And you attended the scene of Mr Walton's murder."

"I did."

"Can you tell us how you ended up at the scene?"

"I attended the scene with DCI Greg Lestrade shortly after the report came in. Due to a confession made by Mrs Walton, we attended under the impression that this was a solicited murder. However, after assessing the scene, it was clear that Mr Walton had not been killed by a hit man."

"Can you please explain to the court what brought you to this conclusion?"

"Yes, er." Margaux turned to the screen beside her which lit up with a photograph of the body. The bright light made her headache worse, she squinted slightly as she continued. "As you can see, there was an attempt to conceal Mr Walton's body. This displays a fear of being caught – something a hit man wouldn't worry about. Mr Walton sustained both superficial and fatal injuries, none of which were consistent with a murder-for-hire. He was beaten, hair had been pulled out of his head, he had bite marks on his face and neck, and an excessive amount of stab wounds. It is in my expert opinion that the assailant purposefully prolonged the attack as a means of gaining sexual gratification from inflicting pain. This was later confirmed, as the autopsy revealed evidence of sexual assault on the victim."

"Would you say it is impossible that this could have been the work of a hit man?"

"Nothing is impossible. But it is extremely improbable. I am confident after assessing the scene that this was not the work of a professional killer."

The prosecutor nodded in agreement as she folded her arms across her chest. "Dr Cave, did you put together a profile of the killer based on what you saw at the scene?"

"I did." Margaux's written statement from the investigation flashed on screen. "I determined that the killer was a gay, white male in his late twenties to early thirties. He was someone who had probably been in trouble with the law in the past for more minor offenses – drugs, disorderly behaviour. He very likely still lived at home with a parent or parental figure, and had a history of abuse from said parental figure. I also stated that this parental figure getting ill or dying could have been a trigger for the assailant escalating to murder."

Margaux's eyes flitted to the suspect as he sat beside his defence attorney. He matched her profile perfectly.

"When you arrived at the scene of the second murder, the murder of Leon Green–"

"Objection!" the defence attorney rose from his seat. "My client is here on charges relating to Mr Walton only."

The judge leaned into his microphone. "Sustained. Please keep your questions relevant to the charges."

The prosecutor glared at the defence attorney before continuing. "Fine. Dr Cave, after the defendant was caught and detained, am I correct in saying that you interrogated him?"

"I interviewed him after his interrogation with detectives."

"And what was the purpose of this interview?"

"To assess whether mental illness was present, to determine whether he was of sound mind when he committed the murders, and to see if he felt any remorse for what he had done."

"What were your findings?"

"Although I am not in a position to formally diagnose, I do believe there is mental illness present in the defendant. Most likely a psychotic disorder resulting in delusions. However, it's important to note that the presence of a psychotic disorder does not make a person a psychopath. I believe the defendant was lucid and completely aware that what he was doing was wrong." She took a breath. "And no, he did not show remorse."

"Thank you, Dr Cave. No further questions."

The prosecutor sat down with a smile. Margaux glanced over at Lestrade as he sat in the spectators' area. He gave her a subtle thumb's up.

"Would the defence like to cross examine?" asked the judged.

"Yes, we would," he said, rising from his chair.

Margaux's stomach turned.

III

Mary sat in front of the TV. She was bored, wishing she could be working on cases with the boys instead of cooped up in the house. She looked out of the window as the sky melted into a sheet of deep blues and black. She lifted the remote and began flicking through channels before stumbling across a documentary about bones.

"Ooh," she said, turning up the volume and immersing herself in the show.

After a few moments, she realised what she was doing and rolled her eyes. She had spent way too much time with Sherlock.

A dull cramp radiated across Mary's stomach. She had been feeling pains all day, resigning herself to the idea that she was probably going to spend days in early labour. She changed positions; curling her legs up underneath herself. But the pain wouldn't go away. She decided to make a cup of tea, standing up and making her way to the kitchen when suddenly a small gush of water soaked through her pyjama bottoms.

"Great," she said calmly.

III

The defence attorney was a tall, stocky man with a thick Scottish accent. He stood up and cleared his throat, pushing his hands into the pockets of his trousers as he began pacing the floor of the courtroom.

"Dr Cave," he began, his voice bellowing. "You're part of Scotland Yard's Scientific Intelligence Unit, correct?"

"Correct."

"Essentially, you're a profiler."

"Behavioural Analyst. Yes."

"And how long have you been doing that?"

She inhaled and exhaled slowly. She knew what he was trying to do.

"I've been with the Unit for just over a month."

"Just a month?" He turned to the jury.

"You make it sound like I woke up a month ago and just decided to chance my arm at behavioural analysis." She narrowed her eyes. "I got my doctorate in forensic psychology when I was twenty-five. I've worked in several areas within this field for the past seven years…"

"Alright," he nodded, moving on quickly. "It's my understanding that members of the SIU are only called in to analyse cases after the initial enquiry is opened."

Margaux nodded. She felt light-headed, taking a sip of water as he continued.

"It's rather unorthodox, wouldn't you say, for a profiler to be among the first responders to a crime scene," he finished.

"People in my position usually assist later in the investigation after the detectives have requested our help, yes. But I was on hand when the call came in so I offered to go with DCI Lestrade to the scene."

The attorney smirked towards the jury. "And you say that at the scene of Mr Walton's murder, you put together a profile of the killer," he turned to her. "Based on what you observed."

"Well I mean, that is the literal definition of my job."

Lestrade covered his mouth to hide a snigger as he watched on.

The judge leaned into his microphone. "Counsellor, get to the point or move on."

The attorney nodded. "So, your analysis was done then and there at the crime scene?"

"Yes it was." Margaux felt sick, her hands shaking as she clutched them together in her lap.

"Well I have reason to believe that this analysis is unreliable. Tell me, is it common practice to bring a young child to the scene of a murder?"

Margaux's eyes widened and flitted across the courtroom to Lestrade. He was staring back, mouth agape.

"I… I-I'm sorry?" She forced the words out through numb lips.

"I'm sure most people here today are familiar with the amateur sleuth Sherlock Holmes. You know the one; tall, dark, mysterious… silly hat," he walked in a small circle, addressing the room. "Is it true, Dr Cave, that you have a child with him?"

The prosecutor rose from her seat. "Objection! Relevance? Dr Cave is here to provide her expert opinion, not answer personal questions."

The judge glanced to the defence who smiled arrogantly.

"The point I'm about to make is in reference to the credibility of the witness and her statement," he said in his loud, obnoxious voice.

"I'll allow it," said the judge.

He grinned smugly before continuing. "I have evidence that Mr Holmes attended the scene of Mr Walton's death with their child. This was during the time Dr Cave is claiming to have 'expertly' analysed the scene. Proving that she was distracted and extremely unprofessional in her conduct, and therefore her testimony surrounding the profile of the killer is unreliable."

She wanted to curl up under the stand and pretend she had disappeared. Sherlock. Stupid, bloody can't-help-but-intrude Sherlock. She took another sip of water, gulping it down past the nauseous lump that had formed in her throat.

The judge allowed him to continue.

"With this in mind, how can we trust anything this woman has to say? I think her entire statement should be thrown out of this trial. What kind of woman would bring her partner and child along to a murder investigation–"

Margaux sat upright in her chair, her jaw clenched tightly as she interrupted. "Excuse me, I am not the one on trial here. And honestly, resorting to attacking the character of an expert witness does nothing but display the flaws in your own defence case. I am not a straw to be grasped at in a feeble attempt to instil confusion and reasonable doubt in their minds," she pointed to the jury. "Yes, Mr Holmes attended briefly with our son. He was turned away immediately and did not affect the integrity of the scene or the rest of the investigation. Oh and also," she turned to address the jury. "My son didn't see anything, I'm not an idiot. Though the same can't always be said for his father–"

"Order, Dr Cave," the judge interrupted.

"Sorry, your honour." She turned back to the defence attorney. "Do you have any questions regarding my findings of this case? Or are you just really interested in my relationship with Sherlock Holmes?" Her hands were freezing cold but her body felt flustered and clammy. She stared straight into his eyes, glaring at him with an almost frightening intensity.

"No further questions," he finally said.

Margaux made her way out of the courthouse, hurrying past the journalists and reporters gathered at the door, no one taking notice of her as she slipped through the crowd. She stood around the side of the building, shivering in the bitter wind and rummaging through her bag. She pulled out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter, lifting one to her lips before stopping for a moment. The same sick feeling washed over her again. She sighed and put it back in the box.

"You handled yourself well," said Lestrade as he made his way over to her.

"That was humiliating! If the defence win with a diminished responsibility plea because of me and my stupid bloody Sherlock..."

"Your stupid bloody Sherlock?"

She looked up at him, observing the slight smile beginning to tug at the corners of his mouth. "Yes, my stupid bloody Sherlock – someone has to take responsibility for him. John's married so I guess he's mine now."

Lestrade laughed, leaning against the wall and letting out a sigh. "Don't worry about today, Margaux, honestly. You held your own in there." He pointed to the cigarette packet in her hand. "You got one to spare?"

She handed them over. "Have them," she said as she began to walk away. "I think I'll be quitting soon."

III

Sherlock followed John up the stairs to 221B. He was glued to his phone, solving more cases.

"A jellyfish!" John laughed.

"I know," he replied, still typing on his phone.

"You can't arrest a jellyfish."

"You could try."

"We did try." John's phone pinged in his pocket. "Oh god," he said, looking down at the screen.

"Mary?"

"Fifty-nine missed calls."

"We're in a lot of trouble," said Sherlock before hurrying back down the stairs.

John continued to look down at his phone for a moment before a wave of panic washed over him. He turned and followed Sherlock quickly.

"I should have brought the car!" John shouted as he dialled Mary's number.

Sherlock hurried down the street in long strides as he tried to hail a cab. "Well it would have definitely helped," he said.

John glared at him before Mary's incoherent screams began to sound down the phone.

"Mary!? Mary, are you alright?"

"No, I'm not bloody alright! I'm in labour and my husband is nowhere to be found!" She began to scream again.

"I'm sorry, so so sorry. We're on our way now," John reassured as he watched a cab pull up next to them.

They climbed in the back and Sherlock gave the driver the address.

"We? We're on our way?" asked Mary.

"Yeah, me and Sherlock."

"Hi, Mary!" Sherlock shouted while typing away on his phone.

John pulled the phone away from his ear as Mary began to scream again.

They hurried out of the taxi.

"Right, I'm going to pull the car 'round. You go in, get Mary and bring her out," said John as he rushed off.

"Right…"

Sherlock turned to the front door, grimacing at the thought of having to deal with Mary as she… contracted. He eventually knocked on the door. "Mary, it's me. Come on."

She opened the door, clutching her stomach and glaring at him. Her face was red, her forehead moist with sweat.

"Bags," was all she managed to say as she struggled out of the front door and halfway down the path before another contraction overcame her.

She crouched down, growling in pain as Sherlock gathered the bags and closed the door behind them. John pulled up in the car, climbing out quickly to help his wife into the back seat. Sherlock threw the bags in the boot and made his way to the front passenger door.

"Er, no!" Mary shouted from the backseat. "I need you back here with me!"

"Is that necessary?"

"Sherlock. Get in the back. Now," John asserted.

The car sped through London, weaving in and out of traffic and almost hitting a few pedestrians. John watched in the rear-view mirror as Mary writhed around in pain, Sherlock sitting beside her engrossed in his phone.

"Oh my god. Oh my god!" Mary shouted.

"Relax," John began. "You've got two syllables–"

"I'm a nurse, darling, I think I know what to do!"

"Come on then, come on, relax."

"Oh, just drive! Please, god, just drive!"

"Sherlock!" John shouted. "Mary."

Sherlock peeled his eyes away from his phone for just a moment. "That's it, Mary, breathe." He began to take in deep, exaggerated breaths.

"Oh, don't you start!"

"Relax–"

She pushed his face up against the window as she began to panic. "John. John, I think you need to pull over."

"Mary–"

"Pull. Over!"

John slammed his foot on the brake and pulled the car to the side of the road with a screech. He jumped out and opened Mary's door, his eyes widening.

"Sherlock," he began, trying his best to stay calm. "Can you call us an ambulance?"

"Hm? Oh, yes, okay."

III

Margaux paced back and forth in the hospital corridor as she sipped a coffee. She checked her phone, still no word. The sick feeling in her stomach had shifted to pangs of worry. She bit the rim of the coffee cup as she waited, patting the back pocket of her trousers every few minutes to make sure she hadn't lost anything.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were a nervous dad-to-be," a calm, gentle voice giggled.

She turned around, startled to see a woman sitting on the bench beside her. She had appeared out of nowhere, smiling kindly, with long blonde hair cascading down from under a bobble hat.

"Oh, I know." Margaux laughed politely. "I need to calm down." She sat down beside her.

The woman turned to look her in the eye. Her gaze was so intense that Margaux could see the delicate outline of her contact lenses.

"I'm sure everything will be alright. Whoever you're waiting here for, I'm sure they're going to be just fine," the woman reassured.

"Oh, I know, I know. I'm just not feeling great at the minute; my mind's a little bit preoccupied." She tried to smile.

The woman looked her up and down. "You look like you need someone to talk to."

"Oh, I…"

"Might be good to get it out of your system. Friendly stranger, swear I won't judge."

Margaux sat quietly for a moment, taking in a long, deep breath and letting it out with a sigh.

"I…" Was she really doing this? "My period's late." Yes, she was. "And that almost never happens."

"Ah."

"I just feel so stupid. I've been so preoccupied with everything going on lately that I didn't even realise I was late. How irresponsible can someone be."

The woman placed a sympathetic hand on Margaux's thigh. "I bet sitting outside a maternity ward isn't helping."

"Definitely not." She laughed. "I've been worrying so much that I bought a pregnancy test from the chemist on my way here. I just… I can't take it. Not now."

"What are you scared of?"

"Of it being positive. Of having to go through all of this again." She groaned, rubbing her eyes. "Things with me and my son's father are… beyond complicated."

"You're worried he'll be upset?"

"Actually no. I'm almost certain he'd be thrilled. But that's kind of the problem. He's proven everyone wrong by actually being a really great dad. Well, for the most part." She thought back to Sherlock covering Vaughan's eyes at the crime scene. "But that's as far as he's willing to go. I just don't think I can go through having another baby with someone who insists on keeping me at arm's length. I'm not strong enough."

"Forgive me, but you can't conceive a baby at arm's length," the woman laughed.

"I mentioned it was complicated, right?" she chuckled. "He has these moments where the walls come down. Like he's terrified of pushing me away, but he just can't help it."

"Have you spoken to him about this?"

"More times than enough. He always says 'one day I'll be ready' or 'I wish I could give myself to you' blah blah…"

The woman giggled. "If you want my honest opinion, it sounds like he loves you. He just doesn't want to admit it."

"Sometimes I think so too. Then other times he looks right through me like I'm made of glass, and I realise I was stupid for even thinking it…" She turned to the woman who was listening intently. "I'm sorry, I'm really oversharing."

"Don't be sorry." She patted her leg reassuringly before taking in a sharp breath. "Go take your test. Go on, you need to put yourself out of this misery. There's a toilet just there. Go take it, I'll watch your coat and your bag."

Margaux took a deep breath and nodded. She stood up and placed her hand over her back pocket, feeling the outline of the test box. She walked to the toilet and opened the door, turning back to see the woman smiling and holding her thumbs up wishing her luck. She went inside and locked the door.

III

"Sherlock! Give me your coat," said John as he knelt on the pavement.

Mary's cries were low and guttural as she lay on the back seat with her legs hanging out of the car.

Sherlock looked up from his phone, a deep line crinkled across the bridge of his nose. "My coat?"

"Yes! Your coat," John shouted. "If the ambulance doesn't get here soon, there's a chance I'll be delivering this baby myself. I need something to wrap her in."

"So use your own coat!"

John pressed his lips together in contempt.

"Anyway, there'll be no need. If my deductions are correct, the ambulance will be here in exactly 90 seconds."

Mary let out a loud scream that startled passers-by. A blaring siren and blue lights emerged from around the corner.

"See," said Sherlock. "Told you."

III

Margaux sat on the lid of the toilet seat with one leg crossed over the other, biting her lip raw as she waited. The smell of disinfectant clung to her nostrils – the unmistakable scent of hospitals that had always made her feel uneasy. She checked her watch, it was time to look. But instead she sat still, looking straight ahead at the poster of information stuck to the back of the door. She had never felt more irresponsible; first the murder trial, now this. Part of her felt like she deserved her bad luck. Like she had been swept up into Sherlock's world and embraced it no matter the consequences.

Get a grip, Margaux, she thought to herself. You're a big girl – woman-up and look at it. She closed her eyes for a moment before reaching over and lifting the test off the sink. She held it with a shaking hand and opened her eyes. One line. She blinked, bringing it closer to her eyes. Definitely one line. Negative. She felt the knot in her stomach unravel with relief, throwing her head back and exhaling slowly.

She threw the test in the waste bin and washed her hands before unlocking the door and stepping out into the corridor.

"Sherlock? What are you…"

He was standing next to the bench where her bag and coat sat alone. She glanced up and down the corridor – the woman was gone.

"I saw your things but you weren't there," he said distractedly, his nose buried in his phone.

She walked up to him. "Yeah, I was just… I needed the toilet. How's Mary?"

Suddenly, John came bounding through the doors of the maternity ward.

"She's here! She's here and she's absolutely perfect!" he said breathlessly – his smile wide, his eyes glossy.

Margaux embraced him, hugging him tight and whispering congratulations into his shoulder. Sherlock looked at them. Pride radiated from his friend like the glow from a paper lantern. He thought of his son, how he had missed this moment. He wondered if he would have glowed like that when he saw him for the first time.

Sherlock locked his phone and slipped it into his pocket, extending his arm to shake John's hand.