"I'm pregnant, Sherlock." Irene repeated, her words echoing in Sherlock's mind palace.

Pregnant. Irene is pregnant.

How could he have missed it? He was the first to spot Mary's first signs, for crying out loud! He weighed down the circumstances: two weeks since he last saw Irene, they had sex twice since she came back and he... he released inside of her in both instances. According to her, she had never been with Godfrey Norton or with anyone else but him. If she slept with Godfrey, whether the child was his or Sherlock's, she wouldn't be against the marriage. She could just claim the child was Godfrey's until the point that they solve this case and nullify the wedding, but clearly, this was not the situation. It was evident, all of it and it was staring him right in the face.

The child is his.

But why now? Him? A father?

Irene said she never wanted children and clearly he wasn't ready, so what will they do? Would the actuality change everything? Was her statement merely a rhetoric? She didn't want to drink the champagne back in the party so it must mean she was being careful.

For the sake of the child? Probably.

"Sherlock! I need you to talk to me." Irene exclaimed, snapping him out of his trance.

His eyes met hers, panic and confusion stretched on his face. "You're pregnant... And the child..." he choked, a pit in his stomach hollowing. "...the child is mine?"

"Yes." Irene replied.

Sherlock studied her, his eyes moving from her face to her stomach. His gaze lingered, his hands trembling, his mind unable to determine what he exactly feels of the matter.

"The child..." Sherlock repeated once more, his vocabulary seemingly abandoning him. What else is there left to say? What must be said?

Albert Norton's knowing face flashed before his eyes, a devilish smile it carries. As if the time bomb in his mind been rattled, the timer started to tick faster. What is to be done? What? What?!

"Oh God, Sherlock!" Irene exclaimed, her hand landing a slap on his face. "What do we do?"

Sherlock rubbed the stinging pain on his cheek, mind still whirring continuously. "Have you checked?"

"I peed on a stick. Twice." Irene replied, her tone clipped. The tension between them grew stronger, both unable to hide the confusion and fear in their face.

"Do you want to keep... it?" Sherlock asked, his voice cracking.

"You're not suggesting that we... I... " Irene mused, trembling.

Sherlock shook his head. "I was just asking. You said you never wanted children."

"I also said I would never fall in love again with a man and yet here I am. I'm not exact an epitome for solid decision making." She replied flatly, turning away from him.

Sherlock walked over to her, his hand slightly outstretched, fingers reaching for her stomach, face buried in her hair. He hesitated at first, then planted his hand firmly on the surface, the beating of his heart loud enough to make him deaf. "This child... is truly ours?" he asked once more.

"For someone intelligent, you sound very idiotic right now." Irene replied, eyeing him narrowly.

Sherlock's hand rubbed Irene's stomach lightly, the heat of her skin seeping through the fabric. His fingers lingered gently, trying to match the sensation of trembling and the whirring of his head. "You shouldn't be here." he whispered.

"Are you referring to me or..." Irene mused as she faced him.

"You. It's late. You should be sleeping." Sherlock replied, his hand leaving her and proceeded to running it to his hair. He couldn't think clearly, his knees feel wobbly and tired.

"I... I need to know if we have a plan." Irene said, taking him by the arm.

Sherlock cussed silently, unable to meet her eyes. She was not the only one who's life was at stake now. Their... child...

"I'll think of something. You need to go. Rest. Don't... Don't do anything that could harm both of you." Sherlock breathed, his eyes still fixed on Irene's stomach.

"Are you okay?" Irene asked, her brows furrowed in worry.

"It's a lot to process." Sherlock simply replied and Irene knew it was her cue to leave.

As she headed for the door, Sherlock ran after her, his coat at hand. "Take this. It's quite cold. I have spares."

Irene searched his eyes for anything-fear, concern, love-but Sherlock's eyes were blank, lost. She walked away, her hand landing to where Sherlock's was resting earlier, thinking what this situation could do to what's to come.

Sherlock watched as Irene's outline disappear into the dim surroundings, a memory of their separation flickering in his eyes. He noticed that he was violently trembling, an uncontrollable coldness seeping through him.

Panic enveloped him, every sensation and pressure falling on his head like the strong current of a waterfall. When he reached his flat, he was gasping for air, his face pale and his heart heavy.

He was unsure whether the fear was for his own or for Irene... The idea of another player in the game, this time in the form of their child-a child innocent and still merely nothing but an organism made from his and Irene's DNA-was something both foreign and familiar.

He remembered when the threat came to John and Mary, his mind fearful for what will become of their child being caught in the midst of a dangerous conundrum. The weight was twice as hard, for the child was now his own, the distance and coldness of his ownership versus the inevitable sentimentality constricted him by the neck.

Caught between the dilemma he was in, Sherlock felt sunlight slowly glisten as it hit the windows of his flat. A new day begins and Albert Norton's time bomb ticked louder.

The countdown to the seventh day has begun.