Hello! There's some smut on my profile for Faye/Sherlock if you're interested :)

~0~0~0~

Faye ended up staying at Mycroft's for five nights overall. She'd meandered around the house, as she was known to do, and had ended up in the room Sherlock and Mycroft had taken Irene Adler to. First she'd broken down, sobbing hysterically as she curled up on the sofa. Then, when Mycroft had come rushing in and forced her out, she'd be violently ill. She stopped eating completely, bringing up everything she ate was starting to burn her throat. Mycroft had wanted her to stay longer, but she just wanted her own bed. The moment she'd stepped into 221B, another wave of nausea washed over her and she pushed past John and dashed to the bathroom. John watched, deeply concerned as the door slammed shut behind her. He turned to Mycroft, who seemed to have been expecting that.

"Has she been like that for the entire week?" He asked and Mycroft shot him a patronising look.

"She had been 'like that' since Sherlock died." He retorted, "She had been unable to eat without being sick, rarely sleeps. The mood swings have been entirely too tiresome." He nodded at John, "You are the doctor, you obviously have your suspicions about what is going on."

"Yeah, but..." He glanced guiltily at the bathroom door, "How do I even bring it up? It'll devastate her."

"The longer you wait, the less time she'll have to decide on it." He bowed his head lightly, "Dr Watson." He gave as a departing note, leaving with his ever-present umbrella in hand. John turned at the sound of the door opening, Faye walking out and heading straight for the bedroom, slamming that door shut with what he would call typical 'Sherlock' fashion. He set off towards the bedroom, pausing in hesitation as he stepped into the kitchen. Deciding against it, he headed back into the front room, where he courage jumped back into him with a vengeance. He nodded to himself, heading back towards the bedroom where his resolve died as he reached the fridge.

"Oh, this is..." He trailed off with a growl of frustration. He had to talk to her about it. She deserved to know, but it would terrify her. It was terrifying him and it had very little to do with him. He shook his head. No, that was a lie. He wouldn't leave her on her own. He had to tell her, so he could tell her that. He would be there for her, always. They were all each other had, and he needed her to know. With that in mind, he raised his hand and knocked on the door three times.

"Yeah?" She called from the other side.

"Can I come in?" He asked nervously, the anxious feeling rising up in anticipation of what he was about to do.

"One second!" She called back, and after a little bit of shuffling he assumed was her getting dressed, she opened the door in her pyjamas; a pair of lounge pants and a purple shirt. His chest tightened unexpectedly, that was Sherlock's favourite, "What can I do for you, John?" She asked.

"I just..." He paused, not knowing how to even start, "I just wanted to see if you were okay." She nodded with a grimace.

"I guess Mycroft told you?" John nodded and she stepped out of the way, heading towards the bed, "I'm just stressed, that's all." She explained, sitting down and crossing her legs, "When I realised Sherlock wasn't coming to my 18th birthday, I had a similar reaction. This is just much more intense." John sat next to her, smiling sadly and shaking his head.

"I don't think it is." He told her honestly, "I think..." He took a deep breath, "I think you should consider that you may be pregnant." She shook her head and he reached out, taking her hand, "I know it's probably not something you want to think about..."

"John," She interrupted, "I'm not pregnant."

"I'm sure you were both really careful." He replied, "But accidents do happen, and with your symptoms it's a real possibility."

"No, I know I'm not pregnant." She told him, "I can promise you." She reached into the bedside table, pulling out one of the boxes of tests Sherlock had kept in there, "Sherlock, for whatever bonkers reason, had quite the stash of these. I did four, all negative. I'm not pregnant." John still looked and felt rather dubious.

"Maybe you should make an appointment with a doctor, just in case." She sighed, frustrated that he wasn't listening to her.

"You want to know why I've been throwing up?" She snapped, "It's because I've been so preoccupied with the death of the man I love, that I forgot to take my contraceptive pills quite a few times this last couple of months. I'm throwing up because my cramps are fucking terrible, and they're making me sick!" She snapped, "Now, will you bloody listen to me? I'm not pregnant, there is no little Sherlock growing inside of me. He's dead, he's not coming back and you're not placing your need to see him again into my uterus!" John's face hardened, hurt and angry, as she glared back at him just as readily, "Now, ring Mycroft, tell him I'm not up the duff and then leave me alone!" He stood up, nodding.

"You know what? Fine." He shouted back, "Then move out of my flat and back to your own!" He turned and stormed out.

"Fine!" She screamed after him, slamming the door shut behind him. By the time he'd reached the front room, most of his anger had dissipated and he looked back at the door, silently berating himself for pushing her. But he didn't go back, still hurt at what she said, mainly because she was right. He just wanted something, something of that brilliant man who had left them all behind. Instead, he pulled out his phone and waited for Mycroft to answer.

"Yes, Dr Watson?" Mycroft drawled.

"She's not pregnant." He told her, "She's done a load of tests, she says it's just her grief mixed with really bad cramps." He tried not to grimace, as a doctor it was entirely unprofessional. Although, he'd mainly dealt with men during his career...

"Ah, she does have terrible menstrualtendencies." Mycroft agreed, "Very well, thank you Dr Watson." And he hung up. John sighed, looking at his phone in exasperation.

"You're welcome." He grumbled, sitting down and turning the television on with a very firm press on the remote.

~0~0~0~

That night, as John tossed and turned restlessly in his bed, the door creaked open. His immediate reaction was to reach towards his bedside table, where he still kept his standard issue from his army days, but his aim wavered at the sound of sobbing.

"John?" Faye begged into the darkness and he sat up to see her in the doorway, playing with the hem of Sherlock's shirt as she shook horrifically, "I'm sorry, I'm really sorry." She sobbed and he shot her a smile he was sure she couldn't see, and held out his hand.

"Don't be." He replied and she rushed over as he chucked his duvet out of the way. She climbed under and he held her as she wept, feeling helpless and achingly devastated, but hopefully slightly less alone.

~0~0~0~

Faye gently headed down the stairs the following morning. Or afternoon, she had absolutely no idea what time it was. John hadn't been there when she'd woken, but she knew he'd had trouble sleeping these days and so she didn't expect him to be by her side. They'd never talk about the argument again, they never did. Both knew it was just the anguish of their loss coming out in spurts of pure rage at each other, guilt that they were still alive and blame that it wasn't the other one who was dead. Neither of them meant it, of course, but grief made you think horrific thoughts during the dark times it took over. It was probably a good sign of their own friendship that they could shout at each other, then comfort each other without holding grudges.

"Well, can't say I'm surprised." Someone pointed out teasingly and she blinked at the sight of Lestrade on the sofa, a knowing look on his face and she rolled her eyes at him goodnaturedly.

"Oh ha ha, Lestrade." She replied, knowing he was just trying to wind her up as John appeared with two cups, "You still in the doghouse?" She asked, sitting on the other side of the sofa and pulling her legs up under her. He nodded with a reluctant sigh.

"Don't know why." He explained, "She's the one who had the affair, she should be bloody grateful I'm taking her back. Cheers." He took the cup off John.

"I don't know why you did." Faye admitted, "You deserve better than her, you know that." He nodded sadly.

"I don't know why either." He stared at his mug for a moment, vulnerable.

"But I'm guessing you're not here to talk about your wife." Faye offered, taking the conversation away from the cow he lived with and he nodded gratefully.

"Yeah, well, I thought you should..." He looked between the two, suddenly looking stern, "And you're not to tell anyone about this, I'm only hanging onto my job by a thread as it is." Intrigued, both she and John promised not to tell a soul, "We've just finally busted this Russian crime consortium that's been operating here in the South and South East for a good few decades. Normal stuff, drugs, human trafficking. All horrific, don't get me wrong, but still, standard stuff, you know?"

"Right." John replied with a nod, "But why are you telling us this?" Faye shared his confused look, something Lestrade could appreciate.

"Well, I don't really speak Russian, I'm not exactly well-versed in foreign languages. This guy, Ivanov, doesn't really care. He's babbling on in Russian, probably trying to threaten us, or get himself off the charges, I didn't really care. Until he said something I understood. 'Moriarty'." Faye's head snapped to the side, staring at John in shock, which he mirrored.

"Are you sure?" John asked lowly and Lestrade nodded.

"We caught a few of them, maybe half a dozen. All with the exact same story. A power struggle, starting with the death of Moriarty." He took a sip of his tea, "I'm not promising anything, but I think this might be the start of being able to prove that Moriarty was a real person. That Sherlock wasn't lying, and that he wasn't a fraud." Faye leant back, dazed as John rubbed a hand over his mouth, "So, what you need to do is find anything at all that you can, anything Sherlock had on the man. Keep it to yourself, but the more you have when we come calling will work more in your favour." He then shared a look with them, "But you didn't hear it from me, right?"

~0~0~0~

Faye didn't know how she ended up there, really. Her head was swirling with a million different thoughts, not all of them on Moriarty. She couldn't believe it, she'd rang Mycroft the moment Lestrade had left, who obviously had known about it all along. Still, she was now going over every encounter she had with Richard Brook, even though she couldn't think of anything out of the ordinary she still was trying to file everything away that she could. She didn't have a 'mind palace', or even a 'mind garage', her memory wasn't bad but it was nothing compared to Sherlock. Still, every little counts, right?

She looked up at double doors, shaking slightly as she stared at it warily. She'd promised John she wouldn't go back to St Bart's without him, but she wasn't on the roof so it wasn't too bad. She pushed the door open, stepping into the morgue where Molly was sorting through some files. She jumped in surprise.

"Oh, you startled me." She exclaimed before frowning at the sight of Faye looking terribly distressed, "What's wrong?" She placed her papers down and stepped closer.

"I... I lied, to John, to Mycroft. I don't know what to do." She whimpered, "Help me, please."

"Tell me what you need." She replied firmly, echoing the same words she said to another part of the couple two months ago.

"I'm pregnant." Faye gulped, finally admitting it out loud, "And I don't know what to do."