A/N: Hi everyone, thanks for your continued support, I hope you are enjoying the story so far. I was intending on making it shorter, but have added the latest storyline re: JW, which means that the case will be seen through until the very end. There will be some twists, confrontations and threats, as well as the hospitalisation of one of the main characters. I apologise if this seems unnecessarily drawn out, but I had another idea which I felt could work well with the storyline. In this particular case, we will see the case unravel during the trial, and we will get to know some of the characters (including GM and ML) in much greater depth. This story will be no longer than 45 chapters long. If there are any issues/concerns/criticisms please do let me know. Thanks, HQ21
Joan stood in front of the sink for a couple of minutes, her hand pressed lightly upon her lower abdomen, as the water continued to run, causing small drops of it to splash onto her flushed skin. Other than the sound of the running water, the room was quiet, with the sound of Joan's deep, low breathing breaking the silence. She slowly removed her hand from her abdomen, placing it upon the edge of the sink, which she used to steady herself. Her mind was racing, and she found herself feeling flushed and overwhelmed, and struggling to acknowledge the possibility which had just occurred to her. Joan pursed her lips, and rose her slightly shaking hand from the side of the sink, before turning off the tap, and finding herself overwhelmed by the silence of the room.
Joan inhaled deeply, placing both of her hands on the edge of the cold sink, and clutching it tightly, as though it were her only support, the only thing which was physically preventing her from falling. She stared at the water in the sink, watching as it began to drain slowly down the sink, the small droplets trailing towards the gaping hole in the centre. She closed her eyes for a moment, and clutched the sink tighter, before feeling her grip weaken slightly, and her hands begin to shake. Now that she was standing in the dimly lit, silent room, she found that her thoughts seemed louder than ever. She tightened her grip on the sink for support as she once more considered her symptoms in her mind, remembering how tired and dizzy she had felt that morning, and how, for the past few days, she had experienced occasional feelings of nausea, which she had put down to overwork and under-eating. But now, as she stood in the silence of the room, she found herself wide-eyes and alert, and facing the startling possibility that her symptoms had a very different implication. She inhaled sharply, and ran her fingers lightly down the cold, damp edge of the sink, which temporarily soothed her flushed and burning skin. She had been feeling increasingly tired, light-headed and nauseous, and could not remember the last time she had her period. She narrowed her eyes in confusion, and could feel her breathing rate increase as she became frustrated at her inability to remember, which caused her to tighten her grip on the sink once more.
As she was struggling to remember the last date, she found herself thinking back, one week at a time, and yet being unable to confirm that she had had her period on any one of those dates. She had been so preoccupied with the case, and with her developing relationship with Sherlock, that she had not paid much attention to her body or to her routine. And now, as she stood alone and frightened in the dark kitchen, her inability to recall the date made her feel very afraid. As she cast her mind back one week, then two, then three, she was certain that she had not had her period. And, as she thought further back than this, she found herself stopping on the date a little over six weeks ago, when she and Sherlock slept together, in a room ten feet from where she was currently standing. Despite her feelings of overwhelming fear and uncertainty, Joan remembered the evening fondly and with perfect recollection, and found her whole body resonating with warmth at the thought of it. It had been perfect, wonderful. It had been spontaneous, unplanned. Although Joan was on the pill, she knew that it was not full-proof or the most reliable form of contraception, especially when used by itself. As she cast her mind back to the evening they spent with each other, embraced and entwined beside the burning fire, she found herself remembering that neither of them had taken any additional precautions. It happened after a time of extreme emotional distress, when they both needed to be close, to be more connected to and more loved by one another than they had been ever before. This did not mean that she viewed the experience, in hindsight, as a mistake. Far from it. Whatever the outcome, whatever would happen next, that night was not a mistake.
"And nor are you" Joan mumbled, almost inaudibly, into the darkness. She found her breath catch at her declaration, which she did not even realise she had formed into words, until they came echoing back to her. She found herself feeling slightly giddy and flushed, almost as though the moment was not real, that it was not happening. But the moment she evaluated her symptoms, and came to the startling and unexpected conclusion that she had done, she knew that it was right, and that it was very real. Although she would need confirmation, the last few minutes of thought and consideration had left very little doubt in her mind that she was carrying Sherlock's child. Her eyes widened as she considered this statement in her mind. Sherlock's child she thought, breathing in deeply as her hands held the edge of the sink with a strong grip. Our child.
"Watson" came an eager and overly-animated voice from behind her, which caused her to turn quickly on the spot, where she found herself staring at Sherlock, who was watching her with wide-eyes and a keen expression. Joan reacted instantly and automatically, her whole face relaxing slightly as she gave him a pleasant, encouraging glance, whilst maintaining her grip on the sink behind her. She felt that if she let go of the sink, she would certainly fall to the ground. "Are you alright?" he asked, his voice softening slightly, as his eyes ran over her body analytically, before resting upon her face. Joan did not respond immediately, but parted her lips slightly and stared at him for a moment, before glancing to the side, and then facing him directly. In this time, she was surprised to find that Sherlock had crossed the room, and was now standing before her. "Watson?" he asked gently, drumming his fingers on his thigh, as he stood just a few feet in front of her.
"You startled me" she explained, speaking in a calm and even manner, her voice almost normal. Almost. Sherlock watched her for a moment, his eyes falling from her eyes to her hands, which had now fallen to her sides, before staring back up at her, and meeting her alert gaze with concern.
"Are you alright?" he asked, taking a step towards her, and reaching for her hand. Joan inhaled deeply as she felt his hand clasp her own in a reassuring manner, her whole body warming at the contact. She did not allow her eyes to leave his own, and initially felt slightly more relaxed as a result of his action. However, her calmness only lasted for a moment, before she was once more awash with fear and concern. As she looked up at Sherlock, who was watching her with a mixture of concern and interest, she felt flushed and afraid once more.
"Yeah, I-" she began, adjusting her hand slightly in his, and attempting to regain her composure. "Sorry, I'm just so tired" she continued, offering him a small, weary smile, as she squeezed his hand lightly in return. "I didn't really sleep last night, and after spending the majority of the day reading and re-reading those files, and then interviewing Greta again-".
"It's hardly surprising that you're so tired" Sherlock responded, speaking in a low and curious tone. Joan watched him for a moment, trying to figure out what he was thinking. She was tired, exhausted, in fact. But she was also experiencing other symptoms which she knew she would not be able to conceal from him for long, despite how preoccupied they both were with the case. He was standing before her, and she could not tell if he believed her, or whether he was trying to analyse her, figure out what it was she was hiding. She felt guilty at this thought, and at her concealment. But she felt too tired and too confused to discuss the matter with him now. And, despite her own personal intuition and medical expertise, she could not be absolutely positive that she was pregnant. It was not something she felt was fair to raise with him until she was sure. And, despite the fact that she was trying to suppress the emotion, banish it from her thoughts and her reason, she was afraid. In the three or four minutes since she had had the realisation, she had never felt so frightened, vulnerable and completely overwhelmed. She didn't want him to feel that too.
"You must be exhausted, too" she stated after a few seconds of silence, in which she felt increasingly nervous. "You've been working longer hours than I have" she continued, tilting her head slightly as examined the tired look which was etched upon his features, and a glassiness in his eyes which she had not noticed before. "When was the last time you slept?" Sherlock did not respond immediately, but continued to watch her with his bright and alert eyes. She noticed that he seemed to have relaxed slightly, and was not looking at her as though she was about to break. He seemed satisfied with her explanation of her tiredness and current state, and she was grateful for it. After all, it was not completely untrue.
"I think your suggestion of a night-off was a wise one, Watson" he stated, drawing Joan from her thoughts. "Would you like to spend some time in the front room?"
"Sure" she responded mechanically. As she considered his words, she found herself remembering the last time they 'spent time' in that room. She remembered the gentle crackling of the fire, the feeling of his bare chest against her skin, and how safe and secure she felt as she wrapped her legs around him, and their bodies entwined. "The kettle's boiled, I'll bring the tea straight through." Sherlock nodded in response, before slowly removing his hand from hers, and turning towards the doorway.
"Are you hungry?" he asked, turning slightly on the spot to face her.
"Are you?" she responded, her mind still flooded with thoughts relating to the matter which was preoccupying her. In truth, she did not know if she was hungry. She was experiencing a strange sensation, the feeling you get when you are both nervous and excited, and it makes your stomach feel unsettled and empty. Even if she was hungry, she doubted whether she would be able to eat a thing. But maybe I have to she reasoned, considering the potential consequences of undernourishment during the early stages of pregnancy. Pregnancy. The word seemed unfamiliar to her, unknown. And yet it caused her to experience a multitude of emotions, some which she could not yet identify, all at once. "I could eat" she stated amiably, crossing her arms across her chest. Sherlock observed the motion, watching her warmly as he began to speak.
"Then we shall" he stated in his usual genial and animated fashion. "I'll find the menus. Do you have a preference?"
"No" she returned, opening the cupboard behind her and selecting two mugs. "Not at all" she continued, speaking to him over her shoulder.
Sherlock nodded, watching her as she prepared the tea and poured the water. Something was not quite right, but he could not identify it. She certainly was tired, and had barely eaten in the past few days. He suspected that these factors, combined with their heavy workload, were having an affect upon her. He also considered the possibility that their most recent interview with Mrs Mathers had brought back unpleasant memories relating to her attack at the apartment, which would certainly explain her nervousness and agitation. Knowing Watson, she was probably attempting to suppress her concerns, brush them aside as though they were unimportant, subordinate to the case. They were not. Sherlock was acutely aware of the affect of denying trauma, of not acknowledging the pain and fear caused by physical or emotional attacks. The fact that she had not actually discussed what happened in that room with him (in any great detail, at least), was certainly a strong indicator that it was something she was trying to suppress. He hoped that she would disclose her fears with him, that she would know she was able to talk about them openly, and that he was more than willing to listen. But in order to facilitate this, she needed to be comfortable, relaxed. She needed to know that there were people who cared about her, and who wanted to help her. She also needed to know that admitting you are struggling is not a weakness, nor should it be ignored. Sherlock nodded once more, lowering his head slightly and drumming his fingers lightly on his thigh as he considered his thoughts. The best thing he could do for Watson was to create a comfortable and calm environment which would help her to relax. She was clearly exhausted, and he was certain that she had been neglecting her nutritional needs. These were the first things he needed to take care of. After that, he needed to make sure that she knew that she was safe here, and surrounded by support and care. She needed to feel safe, to know that she could open up to him again, as she had begun to. As he had begun to. Yes, he thought with conviction, this is how I can help Joan Watson.
"Of course" he responded, nodding and offering her a warm smile. "I'll locate the menus" he stated as he left the room, in a bright and animated fashion, which made Joan smile slightly, and find herself temporarily calmed by the serenity of her partner, and the relaxing nature of the evening. As Joan poured the tea, she found that her breathing was returning to normal, despite the familiar feeling of fear which was rising in her. It didn't feel quite real, somehow. Any of it. And yet, despite this, despite how she was struggling to maintain a firm grasp on the possibility, it felt very, very real. So real, in fact, that it felt almost like an empirical certainty. As Joan filled the second cup with the boiling water, she placed her hands upon the handles, rising them slightly in the air, before finding herself stopping suddenly due to sounds from the room next door. Music.
Joan paused for a moment, her hands holding the heated mugs in mid-air, as she listened to the familiar sound of the soothing and enchanting music from the next room. She closed her eyes, and felt her whole body relax for a moment, as though the gentle notes of the piano music were massaging her nerves and muscles, allowing her to surrender her fears completely. But only for a moment. Joan opened her eyes, lifted the mugs, and carried them through to the next room. She felt as though she was gliding through the doors, the music was so relaxing and so calming. As she passed through the doorway, she saw the familiar figure of Sherlock bent over his gramophone, adjusting it slightly, as the melody continued to play.
"That's beautiful" Joan stated, her voice low and warm, causing Sherlock to turn on the spot. He gave her a warm smile, before crossing the room and taking the mugs from her, and placing them on a table which he had put in front of the red couch. She watched him with interest as he did so, before he returned to her and handed her a sheaf of familiar papers.
"Yes" Sherlock stated, "I felt it would help to create a peaceful and calming atmosphere which is conductive to rest."
"I think you're right" Joan responded absent-mindedly, as she flicked through the menus and selected one. "How does Cantonese sound?"
"Unfamiliar" Sherlock stated, narrowing his eyes as he stared at the menu. "It must be an entire four days since we last sampled the cuisine."
"We'd better order quickly then" Joan returned, handing him the menu. Sherlock accepted it, and watched her with a look of warmth and adoration, which instantly soothed her. But, again, only for a moment.
"Would you like the usual?" he asked, typing the number into his cell phone, and holding it to his ear.
"Sure" she stated, giving him a small, tired smile, before walking past him and sitting down on the red couch. Despite how comforting the material was, and how calm she always felt when leaning into it, she found herself unable to relax. She perched on the edge whilst Sherlock made the phone call, and found herself staring at the fireplace, as the memories of their night together flooded her memory. She stared at the empty fireplace with tired, unblinking eyes, as she considered the possible consequence of their night of passion. She felt herself feeling flushed and unsteady once more, and crossed her arms again, before adjusting herself on the couch.
"Are you cold, Watson?" Sherlock asked, causing her eyes to turn to him instantly. She realised that her sitting position and crossed arms implied that she was trying to increase her body temperature. As she processed his words, she glanced around the room, and nodded slowly. She was quite cold, but had not been aware of it before he asked her.
"Yeah, actually" she began, but before she could continue, Sherlock had crossed the room and began to work on the fire, which was soon crackling pleasantly, giving the room a more relaxing and homelier feeling. Joan was also happy as it provided some background noise, which was much favourable to an uncomfortable silence which she was afraid of. Although, with Sherlock, there were rarely silences. And when they were, they were not uncomfortable. Worrying, certainly, but never uncomfortable. But then again, they had never been faced with something like this. "Thank you." Sherlock stood from his crouching position, walked to the couch, and handed Joan her mug, before sitting beside her.
"Not at all" he responded, as he drank cautiously from the mug. Joan wrapped her hands around her mug and copied the action, finding that her nausea and feelings of general unease were soothed by the warm and revitalising liquid. She continued to sip it gently, and was relieved to find that her nausea had abated.
Sherlock and Joan sat beside each other for several minutes, sipping their tea and listening to the relaxing music. They had no need for words, their close proximity providing them both with all the words of assurance and compassion they could need. As Joan sipped the last of her tea, she leaned across to place the mug back on the table, and found her leg brushing against Sherlock's, which filled her with familiar waves of excitement and longing, but something else too. Fear. She breathed in, attempting to control herself, as she battled this feeling. In the past fifteen minutes, she had experienced moments of calmness and tranquillity, even when considering the likelihood of her pregnancy. But then, all of a sudden, her whole body would be flooded with feelings of fear and inadequacy, of uncertainty and of self-doubt. It was after this that she experienced guilt. Guilt at the fact that she had not yet disclosed her concerns to Sherlock. But before she discussed it with him, she had resolved to find out whether there was anything to discuss, and also, to allow herself a little time to consider the information if it was true. She wanted to be able to spent a short amount of time alone, where she could process the information, and establish exactly how she felt about it, and what her concerns were, before she revealed her secret to another person. Although Joan felt that this was a sound, logical and justified approach, she was still overwhelmed with guilt and fear, which was swimming in her tired head.
"Watson" Sherlock called gently, drawing her from her thoughts. "Would you care to dance?"
Joan did not respond immediately, the remnants of her thoughts still lingering in her mind. And yet, as soon as he asked the question, familiar feelings of excitement and anticipation flooded through her, and she found herself smiling slightly at the nervousness of his request.
"Sure" she answered, taking his hand in hers, as he stood up, and drew her to the centre of the room.
"You know" Sherlock began, as he placed one hand on her lower waist, and held her free hand with the other. "This particular piece was the first I learned to play in boarding school" he continued, as he moved slowly across the room with Joan, holding her gently to him.
"Do you like it?" she asked, as she drew herself closer to him. Sherlock complied, guiding her forward with the hand he had resting on her lower back, until she was pressed gently against his chest.
"I do" he returned, speaking in a low, soft voice. "There's something rather... attractive about it" he stated, as Joan removed her hand from his, and placed her hands across his back, hugging him to her, as she rested her cheek on his shoulder. Sherlock placed one arm across her back, and a hand by her shoulder blade, holding her close to him as they continued to move with the music. They were not travelling around the room any more, but remaining almost stationary, just holding each other tightly. The comfort and reassurance Joan experienced at this action was beyond description. He strength in Sherlock's arms, and the way he was holding her, made her feel both protected and loved. Although she had never actively sought the protection of a man, priding herself in her independence and ability to look after herself, she found herself both grateful and willing to accept Sherlock's protection and his love. She closed her eyes, nuzzling into his neck as she held him close to her.
Sherlock sensed a shift in her movement, and noted how she seemed to apply slightly more pressure to his back, as though she were trying to pull him closer to her. He complied with her request, and moved one hand slowly up her back, before resting it on the back of her head, where he stroked her hair. She sighed, her warm breath drifting across his cheek, causing his eyes to close contently as his heart began to race. They remained like this for several minutes, lightly swaying to the soft piano music, as they indulged in the highest level of intimacy which they felt able to share at that particular time. They were only drawn from their reveries when, ten minutes later, the doorbell rang, announcing the arrival of their food. They removed themselves, sadly and reluctantly, from the dance, as Sherlock walked to the front door and Joan made her way to the kitchen, each gathering the necessary items, before reconvening in the front room.
Sherlock and Joan ate at the table in the front room, brushing aside the various files, laptops and hand-written notes which littered the space before them. As soon as the food was placed before her, and the familiar scents swam in the air, Joan found that she was hungrier than she realised. When everything was unwrapped, she fought the urge to gather as much of it as she could and consume it as quickly as possible. Instead, she selected a few dishes which she enjoyed, and nibbled on them cautiously. She avoided anything overly spicy, sticking to the plainer foods, fearful that her nausea would return. Although she ate slowly and carefully, she consumed more that night than she had in the past two days, which relieved Sherlock greatly. After they had eaten, Joan cleared away the plates, before joining Sherlock once more in the front room, where he was sitting on the red couch, and watching her with care.
Joan perched herself on the edge of the sofa, and clasped her hands together, before edging slightly closer to him. The feeling of his leg against hers filled her with a slight degree of comfort and reassurance, which disappeared when she realised that he had turned his head slightly to face her. Instead of talking to him about her suspicion, of discussing her concern, she simply tilted her head to the left, and leaned into him, just like she did when they were dancing. Sherlock reacted instantly, his whole body relaxing as he wrapped one arm across Joan, who buried her head in his jacket. He drew her closer to him, as she wrapped her arm across his chest, and pulled her legs onto the sofa, before closing her eyes and attempting to relax into him. Sherlock welcomed this movement, and used his free arm to draw her closer to him, before holding her securely. Joan sighed contently, closing her eyes as she leaned further into him, and found herself more soothed and comforted than she felt herself able to be at this particular moment. She felt her breathing pattern become more regular, and her heavy eyes felt lighter, as she slowly drifted off to sleep.
Sherlock remained perfectly still for several minutes, until Joan's position and breathing revealed that she was truly asleep. He smiled slightly, as he considered her sleeping position with his own tired eyes. Their case was clearly having an effect on her, but the fact that she had leaned into him, had eaten, and was now asleep, reassured him greatly. He only hoped that, when she felt ready, she would talk to him about the exact incident that was troubling her.
"Sleep well, Watson" he mumbled, pressing a chaste kiss upon her forehead. This caused her to shift slightly in her position, splaying her hand across his chest, so that it rested over his heart. Sherlock had one arm wrapped across her upper back, but used his free hand to pick up a blanket from the back of the couch, which he drew over her sleeping figure. She sighed contently at the motion, leaning closer to him, as she remained asleep. Sherlock continued to watch the scene with interest, and found himself in awe of her sleeping figure. Joan had rarely appeared so tired, so in need of looking after, and he was certain that it was not something she found easy to accept or to do. But he was grateful that, at this time, and in his presence, she made an exception.