Four Months Later
"Sherlock..." Irene called, wondering. "Mrs. Hudson just handed me pie. She said it's for your parents."
Sherlock remained still, his hands folded under his chin. "That'll do." he replied, voice in a monotone.
Irene placed the pie on the kitchen table, her eyebrows arched at Sherlock. "Are your parents coming over?"
Sherlock looked over Irene, the pitch of her voice catching his attention. She stood with her hands on her hips, a small bump visible underneath the oversized t-shirt she was wearing. "Yes."
To the detective's surprise, Irene hit him on the shoulder, a stern look on her face. "What do you mean 'yes'? When?"
Sherlock checked the clock on the opposite wall. "In three hours."
At that, Irene gasped. "And you didn't tell me? You are unbelievable!"
She stomped her feet and headed for the bedroom. Sherlock, surprised with Irene's reaction, followed and saw her trying to put on a dress that could be stretched to fit her frame.
"Going somewhere?" Sherlock asked, studying the exasperated look on Irene's face.
Irene blew a loose strand away from her eyes and stared angrily at Sherlock. "I'm going to the market and buy some food." she huffed, struggling with the dress that seems to be snug around her baby bump. "And some new clothes."
Sherlock was puzzled. What was she on about? Just the mention of his paren-ah! It clicked in. He watched the slight twitch of the nerve under her eye, something that pulses whenever she's in distress, the way her body leans slightly to the right, the tremble of her lips: she was worried.
"Don't use your deduction skills on me, Sherlock Holmes!" Irene snapped as she noticed Sherlock's prying eyes.
Sherlock smiled and held her by the shoulders. "You've met them before."
"But back then, I was leaving. Never to return again. Plus, I didn't have this bump, which is their grandchild by the way, the first time 'round." Irene replied. "We didn't even clean the place. I hate you!" she continued, hitting Sherlock on the chest.
Sherlock looked at Irene, that determined look in her eyes that makes his pulse go quick evident. He never understood why she was pumped up, considering this was a trivial matter. She was composed back when they were dealing with criminal masterminds that the situation at hand should seem so insignificant.
"Everything's as it should be." Sherlock murmured, holding Irene in place. "This scares you? Out of all the things, my parents scares you?"
"I'm not scared. I'm just... I've never been in this situation before." Irene breathed.
Sherlock gave her a questioning glance. "How about the Nortons?"
"Fake. Doesn't count." Irene replied quickly. "I never imagined I'd do this! And then you just go off and tell me I only have three hours to think things through. You are... You are just impossible."
Unable to help himself, Sherlock kissed Irene on the forehead. It was a soft and yet lingering kiss that sent a warm feeling inside both of them. It was different-not like the kisses they shared on their lips. It was reassuring, comforting, and for a moment the world stood still.
"You are also impossible. How could they hate the perfect woman?" Sherlock whispered, his lips still brushing Irene's forehead.
Irene looked up, a devious smile on her lips. "Is that sentiment I hear, Mr. Holmes?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "And now you're back to being a pain in the arse."
Irene wrapped her arms around him, her head on his chest. "I'm your pain in the arse."
"I know." Sherlock replied, brushing her hair.
"Are we really not gonna prepare anything for your parents' arrival?" Irene asked.
Sherlock sighed. "I want them to see what we're both like together. Nothing fake or fancy."
At that, Irene smiled, tiptoeing to plant a kiss on Sherlock's chin. "Noted."
"How about Chinese take-away?" Sherlock suggested.
Irene rolled her eyes. "How predictable could you get?"
/
"Oh Sherlock! I told you to call us after that dreadful case of yours..." exclaimed Violet Holmes, pinching her son's arm as she entered the flat. Sigir Holmes followed, smiling meekly as Sherlock huffed over his mother's greeting.
"I believe you remember Irene." Sherlock said, his hand reaching for Irene, who was busy getting rid of Sherlock's chemistry set on the kitchen table.
At the sight of Sherlock holding Irene's hand, Violet's eyes lit up. "Oh how could I forget! Hello dear!"
Irene smiled, eyebrows arched as Violet hugged her. "I had dreamt of this day."
"You're crushing her stomach, Mum." Sherlock hissed.
"Oh. Sorry..." Violet said. Irene gave her a smile and replied, "You can touch it if you like."
Sigir chuckled, eyeing the expression on his son's face. Sherlock saw his father and he unconsciously felt a small smile surface. His father tapped him on the back, asking him to give Violet and Irene a moment.
"She likes her." Sigir whispered.
Sherlock nodded. "Fairly obvious deduction, dad."
"They're both alike, you know. Brilliant and beautiful...making us Holmes men look plain as day." Sigir said, nudging his son.
Sherlock was about to open his mouth to snap a retort but he smiled instead. It was true. Irene was indeed brilliant, making him malfunction from time to time.
"Are you gonna marry her?" Sigir asked, watching as Violet fawn over Irene's baby bump.
"Marriage is another social construct made to commercialise a decision of two individuals to live together and start a life." Sherlock replied.
To his surprise, his father reached up and ruffled his hair. "At least we get to see you in domestic bliss. Never did expect the same thing for Mycroft."
Sherlock's eyes trailed from his father to his mother then to Irene, his eyes softening. "Dad... Can I ask you something?"
"Of course son. What is it?" Sigir asked.
"When did you know that Mum was... Mum was... 'the woman' for you?" Sherlock breathed, his choice of words almost making him laugh.
Realising his son's question, Sigir gave his son a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. "The moment she made my thoughts and my words scatter to the point that I realised I wasn't the smartest person in the room."
Sherlock smiled at his father's reply, remembering that fateful day in Belgravia.