Sherlock and Joan spent the next hour sat side by side in her bedroom, leaning against one another as light flooded through the window and into the room. They spent most of the time quietly reflecting on their previous conversation, with unspoken words and questions floating through their minds, but never quite reaching the ears of the other. Time seemed to pass incredibly quickly that morning, and Sherlock found the bright red lights of Joan's alarm clock glaring at him, revealing that it was almost half-past seven.
"I will make us some tea" he announced in a low, gentle tone, turning to the side and placing a chaste kiss upon her forehead. His lips lingered on her head for a moment, as she turned slightly towards him.
"Sure" she whispered in response. "I'll be down in a minute". Sherlock watched her for a few moments, his curious eyes passing over her sad, weary expression. Before he left the room, he turned back towards her, placed his hand beneath her chin, and drew her face towards his. He kissed her sweetly upon the lips, stretching his fingers tenderly across her cheek as she returned his action. Joan's eyes opened as the kiss ended, and she watched as Sherlock slowly moved from her side and left the room.
Sherlock slowly closed the door behind him, before pausing on the landing for a few moments and running his hands tiredly across his face. He felt strange, confused, and almost detached from the current situation. He thought that opening up to Watson and discussing what would be best for the baby would make him feel relieved, more confident and more assured. But it had not. Instead, he left the room feeling more dejected and helpless than he had been when he entered it the night before. As he walked slowly down the steps towards the kitchen, he did not realise that behind the closed door of her bedroom, Joan Watson was feeling exactly the same. Sherlock reached the kitchen, selected Watson's favourite fruit tea, and began to boil the water on the stove, when a persistent ringing from his breast pocket drew him from his thoughts.
Ten minutes later a fully-dressed Joan walked cautiously into the kitchen, drawing her dark cardigan across her as she offered Sherlock a small, meek smile. He returned her glance, handing her a steaming hot cup of tea and indicating towards a pulled-out chair at the table, which she approached.
"I just received a call from Captain Gregson" Sherlock stated hesitantly, his words spilling out before Joan had even reached the chair. She turned instantly on the spot, holding the cup of tea between her cold hands, and watching him with an expectant expression. "Mrs Mathers is being interviewed in half an hour, and he would like us to watch the interview behind the glass, and see what we think of her legitimacy and her motivations for being so open."
"She explained it already, didn't she?" Joan asked, pausing to take a small sip of the sweet tea, and easing herself into the chair. "She told us at the station that she wanted to make a statement, as the information will come out during trial anyway. She is just hoping that by telling us her side, we will be able to limit the amount of information revealed during the trial, and prevent her husband from finding out about her affair."
"Yes" Sherlock replied, watching her from the other side of the room. "If you would prefer to stay at home, I can attend by myself." His eyes rose and he watched her nervously, her wide eyes rising to meet his.
"I'm fine" she replied, her voice light and reassuring. "Really. I think it would be good for us both to go out, get back into our routine" she continued, nodding in response, her expression betraying her uncertainty.
"Are you quite sure?" He asked, his voice kind and gentle, as Joan adjusted her grip on her hot tea.
"Yeah" she replied, offering him a small smile, before taking another sip of her tea. "Shall we go?" Sherlock watched her for a few moments as she put the cup on the table, rose from the chair, and tucked it under. Her movements were slow yet confident, but her body language betrayed her completely. She was not confident, calm and composed. As he watched her turn to face him, her wide eyes lowering themselves from his gaze, Sherlock could tell that Joan Watson was falling apart.
They arrived at the precinct fifteen minutes later, exchanged a few brief words with Gregson and Bell, and were then led through to the room adjourning the interview room. Sherlock and Joan stood next to each other behind the glass, and watched as Greta Mathers was led into the room and questioned. She spoke calmly and succinctly, in a manner that seemed unmistakably scripted. Her statement was along the lines of what the team had expected: she met Maria Lennard when she interviewed for a job at her firm. Shortly afterwards, she embarked on an affair with the young woman, whose silence she attempted to maintain. When she seemed to be "unreasonable" and "incapable of discretion", Ms Mathers fired her for "impropriety". She denied threatening Maria's career and her reputation, but the detectives did not believe her.
During her questioning, Sherlock split his attention from the woman behind the glass to the one by his side. He found his eyes drifting over to Watson, scanning her face and her body language briefly, before satisfying himself that she was not unduly distressed. On occasion, he noticed how, despite the warmness of the room, Joan would draw her jacket across herself and cross her arms across her abdomen, in a secure and almost comforting gesture. He wondered whether she was aware that she was doing it, and whether she had considered its significance. As the interview ended after two hours and Greta was led from the room, Sherlock turned towards Joan, finding that her arms were now resting stiffly by her sides. They discussed the interview itself with Gregson and Bell for an hour or so, comparing her statement to Maria Lennard's, and considering which seemed the most reliable. As Joan closed the file and pushed it towards Gregson, the latter thanked the consultants for attending and urged them to spend some time reviewing all of the evidence before the first hearing, which was scheduled for just five days' time. They assured him that they would, before rising from the table and slowly walking from the precinct.
As Joan walked through the doors of the precinct and onto the street, she felt the cold air sweep her hair across her shoulders and cool the burning sensation she felt upon her cheeks. She felt very strange, in a manner she struggled to describe or define. She felt as though she were exposed, vulnerable and almost panicked. She was hot, shaken and feeling extremely nauseous, which she did not believe was directly related to the pregnancy. It was more a type of panic and fear-induced feeling of sickness that made her want to shut herself in a room, close the curtains and sleep for an eternity, away from everything going on around her, away from her own reality. It was a feeling she had not experienced since first discovering that her biological father was schizophrenic and homeless. She spent three weeks searching the city for him when she first found out, one winter when the temperatures were cold and his situation seemingly perilous. Her inability to locate and help him frustrated her greatly. Her med-school grades fell, she lost weight and became more reclusive. The fear and uncertainty she felt at that time almost twenty years ago came close to how she was feeling now, but it was not exactly the same. She was experiencing all of the aforementioned feelings, fears and sensations, but with one extra burden that made her feel even more overwhelmed than she felt possible: guilt.
"Would you care to go to lunch, Watson?" came the calm and familiar voice of Sherlock Holmes, whose kind tone drew her from her thoughts. "You haven't eaten in a while, you must be feeling quite hungry" he continued gently, his words hesitant and cautious.
Joan turned towards him, her weary and uncertain expression reflecting his own as she considered his words. She wasn't hungry. She felt so nauseous, frightened and guilt-ridden that she was certain she would not be able to eat a single bite. But after the past couple of days, the idea of sitting in an environment with happy, normal people going about their every day lives appealed to her greatly. Perhaps it would provide a short distraction from the fear and guilt she was experiencing from how she was handling her current condition. She blamed herself entirely, for the pain she was causing herself, the confusion and sadness she had inflicted upon Sherlock, and her overwhelming guilt-ridden certainty that she had let her baby down so utterly and completely, before she had even entered her second trimester.
"Sure" she responded, trying to lift her voice to sound more positive, almost normal. She didn't. "Where did you have in mind?"
"There's an Italian restaurant you like a few blocks away" Sherlock responded, removing his hands from his pockets as he took a few steps towards Joan and stood by her side. "Shall we?" Joan looked up at him, nodded briefly, and walked the short distance to the restaurant by his side.
The place in question was a small, homely family-run restaurant, with walls of deep reds and browns, authentic dark tiles and sixteenth-century wooden features. The staff were kind, friendly and extremely attentive, and the food was delicious. Despite her current emotional and physical state, as soon as Joan walked into the restaurant and inhaled the tantalising scent of the freshly cooked tomatoes, breads and pasta dishes, she found herself feeling almost dizzy with hunger, with her feelings of sickness abating almost instantly. As she and Sherlock were led to a small table by the window, Joan found her eyes drifting across the neighbouring tables, her eyes widening slightly with anticipation as she saw the food. It wasn't until she found herself sat opposite Sherlock, with a kind and attentive expression upon his face, that her feelings of guilt returned and her appetite threatened to desert her as quickly as it had been recovered.
"I know that eating is probably not the highest on your list of priorities" Sherlock began gently, handing Joan a menu before pouring her a glass of water. "But you have not eaten in over thirty-six hours, and your body has been through quite an ordeal. Do you think you could manage to eat?"
Joan glanced around the tables near them, her attention resting upon a family of four, whose two children were picking up their complementary crayons and action figures and skipping down the aisles between the tables. The youngest boy was only about three, but he wore a bright and contagious smile on her face, causing Joan to feel her eyes soften and her lips break into a small, relaxed smile as she watched him play.
"Yes" she responded, turning back towards Sherlock, who was watching her with curiosity and concern. "I haven't had their carbonara in a while, and it's delicious". Sherlock nodded briefly, relieved that her appetite was returning, as was the colour to her cheeks. Her eyes seemed wider and more alert, and the fearful and impassive look which she had worn for the majority of the day had dissipated, and was replaced by look of calm serenity.
Despite the serious subject which hung in the air between them, Sherlock and Joan allowed themselves an hour of reprieve from their fears and guilt. They spent the duration of their impromptu lunch date discussing the case, the brownstone, a new art gallery opening in the Bronx, and some of their mutual friends. Anything, really, apart from the one thing that they both desperately wished to talk about, the greatest puzzle which they hoped to solve.
Although their conversation was fairly light and relaxed, neither Sherlock or Joan found themselves able to eat much of the food they ordered. Joan drew her fork slowly through the pasta, occasionally drawing a few pieces of pasta to her lips, eating one but surrendering the rest back into the bowl. Sherlock too found himself unable to eat, and occupied himself instead with separating his salad leaves into size and place of origin. Joan watched him curiously as he did so, her eyes scanning his plate curiously as he did so whilst speaking to her. Before she could respond, she felt something brush her leg and knock into the table, causing the table to shake and her glass of water to topple over and spill onto the table cloth. Joan picked up the glass and placed some napkins over it, allowing Sherlock to continue with the clean up as she turned to the side to see what had just happened.
It was the older of the two young boys she had noticed earlier, who was pulling his brother gently by the arm past the tables.
"Sorry miss" he mumbled nervously, his big brown eyes staring apologetically towards her as he spoke.
"That's alright" she smiled, her face glowing and bright with kindness. "Just be careful, okay? I don't want you guys to hurt yourselves" she continued, turning her attention to the younger boy, who hid slightly behind his brother. The little boy peeked out from behind his brother at the sound of Joan's gentle and enticing voice, his eyes rising to meet hers as she spoke.
"Sorry" the youngest boy mumbled sheepishly, stepping out from behind his brother's back, and walking slowly towards Joan.
"Don't be" she reassured, giving him a sweet smile, moving the glass back as she spoke. She watched the two boys standing side by side, and admired the protective stance the older brother was taking with his sibling. She felt certain it was the younger boy who had fallen into the tale and knocked over the glass, but it was no matter. She stared analytically at both children for a few moments, to assure herself that they were alright after coming into contact with the table. The older boy seemed fine, but the younger was harder to medically assess. "Did you hurt yourself?" she asked gently. His eye grew large and slightly fearful, causing Joan's warm and kind expression to soften. She reached a hand out to him and placed it lightly on the top of his arm. "It's alright, sweetheart" she soothed, pausing for a few moments to allow her words to sink in. "I used to be a doctor. Can you tell me where it hurts?"
The little boy nodded hesitantly, before lowering his gaze to his upper left arm. "Alright. Can I see?" she asked gently, her warm eyes resting upon the little boy's own. He nodded instantly, taking a few steps closer to her, and extending his arm. Joan placed one hand beneath his arm and gently rose it, as she examined the small cut and purpling bruise which was forming. "Okay" she said brightly, as she reached for a cloth napkin, which she laid out on the table. She then picked up several of the ice cubes which had fallen onto the tablecloth as the glass toppled over, placed them in the centre of the napkin, and folded the corners together. She removed a hair band from around her wrist and secured the package, before turning back towards the little boy. "You're fine, but I'm guessing your arm is a little sore, right?" she probed tentatively, resulting in a small nod from the little boy, who clearly expected to be more harshly chided. "Alright. Just hold this gently to your arm, okay? It'll make you feel better" she said, pressing the make-shift cooling pad to his arm, and placing his own hand on top of it. She smiled warmly at the little boy, before turning back towards his older brother. "Please tell your mom and dad what happened, alright? I'm sure you won't be in trouble." The older boy nodded immediately, thanking Joan nervously but sincerely, before guiding his brother back towards their parents' table. Joan watched to make sure they reached their table, before picking up some more napkins and turning towards Sherlock, who was watching her with an indescribable expression which she did not recognise. "What?" she asked, her eyes narrowing in confusion, as she continued to dry up some of the spilled water that Sherlock had missed.
Sherlock did not respond immediately, but simply continued to stare at her with a sombre yet devoted expression, his wide-eyes glistening as he watched her. "You're very good with children" he said simply, which caught Joan off guard slightly. She turned her face towards him and watched him with a confused and slightly bewildered expression, as he attempted to continue to speak. "I did not doubt that you were, of course. Your personality, disposition and former profession demonstrate that you embody all the qualities required to be an excellent care giver" he continued, speaking in a low and reflective manner.
"Apparently not" Joan returned sadly, drying her hands on the napkin, before dropping it over the still-warm plate of her half-eaten food. Sherlock watched with a mixture of curiosity and sadness as the glow and animation which had just lit up Joan's features departed entirely, and was replaced with a sad, weary and reflective expression. As he watched her, Sherlock considered how it was not just himself and Joan who would be missing out if they carried out their intentions regarding the adoption of the child: the baby would be too. Joan was a good, kind and incredibly empathetic individual, whose maternal nature and instincts were reflected in every job she had ever taken, and each act she had ever performed. As she lifted her clasped hands and placed them on the table, before lifting her eyes to meet his, Sherlock found himself truly questioning their decision once more, as his mind whirred with possibilities. "I'm just going to the bathroom, excuse me" she said quietly, before quickly rising from the table and making her way towards the back of the building.
Sherlock turned to speak but found that she was half way across the floor, and walking confidently towards the bathroom. Not only would the baby lose out on having such an incredible woman as a mother, but Joan would be losing out on adoring, nurturing and raising their child, who would be blessed to be a patron of her influence and her love. Sherlock turned his head back towards the place where Joan had been sitting, and stared at the empty space before him for several moments, before removing his phone from his breast pocket and sending a hastily-written text to an associate in London. Sherlock placed the phone back into his pocket and took a few sips of water, before calling a waiter over and requesting the bill. By the time the young man returned with the card machine, Joan returned to the table, removed the coat from her chair and pulled it on gently. Sherlock took care of the bill, before rising from his seat and picking up his own coat.
"Excuse me ma'am" came a voice from in front of him, causing him to look up. A good-looking woman dressed in an expensive suit was standing next to Joan, and looking at her with a curious expression. Sherlock stood up straight, before moving slowly around the table and towards the women.
"Yes?" responded Joan, removing her hands from the second button of her coat.
"Theresa Janes" the woman continued, her face breaking into a small, apologetic smile. "I came to apologise for my sons. I understand they caused you some bother during your meal."
"Oh, no, not at all" Joan responded genially, turning towards the older woman and offering her a friendly smile. "They were having fun, and got a little carried away. Your youngest son bumped his arm on the table, I hope they told you-"
"Oh, they did" she responded, her eyes widening slightly. "Henry came straight up to me, showed me his arm and the icepack you made him, and told me how the 'nice lady' made his arm feel better" the woman smiled, her eyes warming slightly as she watched Joan. "I just wanted to thank you for your kindness. The boys had to wait outside my office for a while during a business meeting, and I bought them here as an apology. I know they can be boisterous but I didn't expect them to disturb anyone else, and certainly not to the extent that they required first aid" she smiled. Joan laughed slightly, a small smile lighting up her features. Sherlock watched this remarkable exchange take place, and found himself in awe of how such a brief encounter with two young children could so completely alter Joan's countenance and her happiness.
"It was nothing, really. He had a small scratch and a bruise forming from bumping into the table. The ice pack was probably an overreaction, it was hardly necessary" Joan stated gently.
"Nevertheless, it was very kind of you" the mother returned, giving Joan a pleasant smile. "Most people would have been incensed by having their lunch interrupted. And they certainly wouldn't have checked on the well-being of the boys. So, thank you" she continued. Before Joan could reply, the familiar faces of the two young boys appeared in front of her, and were smiling sheepishly up at her. "Boys, please thank Miss... I'm sorry, what's your name?"
"Joan" she replied, her expression regaining the same warm glow it had born during her last encounter with the boys.
"Henry, George, please thank Joan for her help, and apologise for being a nuisance" she urged, her voice taking on a gently-chiding tone. The boys complied with her request, and Joan nodded kindly at them. She exchanged a few words with the mother, before watching the well-dressed woman and her energetic sons walk from the restaurant.
"Watson" Sherlock called gently, causing Joan to turn instantly to face him, as she continued to do up her buttons. "Are you alright?"
"Of course" she returned, her warm, soft eyes glistening slightly as she spoke. "Are you ready? We should head home and review the files again, as Gregson suggested" she continued, her tone lowering slightly as her expression began to lose its glow once more. Sherlock watched this transformation with sadness, nodding towards her slowly as he walked to her side, and they left the restaurant together.
Sherlock and Joan arrived at the brownstone half an hour later, the heavy door closing securely behind them. Sherlock remained perfectly still behind Joan as she hung up her coat, watching her slow and hesitant movements. It was clear that she was preoccupied, and had been since her encounter with the young children at the restaurant. What had surprised her was not so much her natural, instinctive reaction, but her reaction to her reaction. She was trying to push it from her mind, force herself not to focus on something she knew was both futile and harmless, when the familiar sensation of Sherlock's hand on her shoulder drew her from her thoughts.
"Thanks for lunch" she said kindly, attempting to offer him a pleasant smile. Before he could reply, she shrugged off her coat and placed it on the rack, before addressing him once more. "I'm gonna have a quick shower, shall we meet down here and go over the case together?" she asked, her eyes rising hesitantly to meet his own. Sherlock nodded, before leaning down and kissing her chastely upon the cheek. She closed her eyes and rose her hand, placing it on the top of his arm as she found herself revelling at the sweetness of the gesture. "I won't be long" she smiled, before adding "would you please clean up the honey and glass? Before it becomes a permanent fixture in the living room?"
"Of course" he responded immediately, pressing his lips together in a small smile, as he nodded animatedly. Joan smiled back at him, before turning on the spot and quickly ascending the stairs.
Sherlock watched as she did so, and as he heard the gentle click of her door shutting, he withdrew his phone from his pocket and looked down at the screen. His associate had already replied, and he read the message with eagerness and interest, smiling slightly as he nodded to himself. Sherlock then walked through the foyer and into the living area, staring down at the pool of honey and broken glass, which he tactfully stepped over, before taking up his usual seat in his armchair. Sherlock felt the coldness of the seat send a chill across his body, as he plucked his phone deftly from his pocket once more, and rested his fingertips hesitantly over the top of the screen. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, exhaling a long breath through his nose, before opening his eyes once more and staring down at the keypad. Sherlock found his mind racing with possibilities, as every reason he should continue with his planned actions rushed to the forefront of his mind, and he found his fingers typing out the familiar number and pressing the dial key. The phone rang twice before it was answered, with the same deep, dull tone that Sherlock had expected to hear. "Father?" he asked, his voice low and hesitant. "I have something I wish to discuss with you."
Fifteen minutes later Joan had just emerged from the shower, and was sitting on her bed with a large white towel wrapped across her body. Her hair was wet and cold, and rested across her left shoulder, as she crossed her legs and tugged the towel closer to her. She stared ahead of her at the closed door, her eyes wide and shining, before taking in a deep breath. Joan uncrossed her arms and lowered her head, so that her wet tresses swung across her neck. She gently tucked some of her hair behind her ear, before raising her right hand slightly, and resting it gently upon her abdomen. She slowly extended her fingers across the towel, before applying slightly more pressure, so that she could feel her skin beneath the thin material of the towel. Joan's eyes remained wide and sombre, but she felt herself feel warm and shaken as she continued to run her hand across her abdomen. Her lip trembled slightly as she placed her second hand onto her stomach beside the first, before crossing her arms across her stomach and leaning forward. As she leaned down and closed her eyes, a sudden rapping at the door drew her attention away from her thoughts. Joan sprung from the bed and stood tall before it, adjusting her towel and holding it closely to her.
"Yes?" she called, staring at the door expectantly. Within moments the handle moved and the door opened, revealing the figure of Sherlock Holmes.
"Watson, I... oh, I-" he began, shifting on the spot and turning to the side, so that he was staring towards the wall behind her bed. "Forgive me, I-"
"It's alright" she responded immediately, uncertain of what it was that he felt the need to apologise for. "Come in" she encouraged, picking up a white robe from the bed and pulling it over her body, turning from Sherlock as she allowed the towel to fall from her. She did up the robe and turned to face him, brushing some hair behind her ear, before taking a few steps towards him. She felt certain that they had passed the embarrassment stage of their relationship, even in spite of recent events. Sherlock nodded in agitation, before taking a step towards her and handing her an item, and taking a careful step back. It was his tablet. She looked down upon the screen, and found that it was the profile of one of Sherlock's online banking accounts, which declared that the account in question had a current balance of $150,000. "What's this?" she asked, holding it up to him.
"It's an online statement from one of my current accounts-"
"Yeah, I know that" she began, staring once more at the screen and recounting the zeros, before turning her head back up to face him. "But what is it?" she repeated.
"Your second option" he stated simply, his sombre eyes watching her with intensity. Joan was silent for several moments, her heart clenching, as she looked from the screen to his face.
"I don't understand" she replied, her voice low and hesitant. Sherlock took a step towards hers and looked down upon her with kind, compassionate eyes.
"Please" he said, extending an arm and indicating towards the bed. Without allowing her eyes to leave his, Joan took a couple of steps back, before sitting down upon the bed, where she was instantly joined by Sherlock.
"Sherlock, what's going on?" she asked, resting the tablet on her lap as she turned towards her partner, who seemed to be concealing his agitation beneath a calm and reserved exterior.
"I emailed a contact of mine earlier this afternoon, an associate in London, who specialises in forging various forms of documentation" Sherlock began, his eyes meeting Joan's frowning and confused ones. "I asked him to email me a list of the items he was capable of producing to a... well, a standard so high that governments within Europe, America and Asia have all been fooled" he continued, his voice low and professional. "I received his reply less than thirty minutes ago. He informed me that, within his repertoire, he is quite able of producing high-quality forgeries of birth certificates, passports and other forms of official documentation from many governments, although he specialises in British, American and central-European ones" Sherlock continued, watching Joan carefully as he spoke.
"Why are you telling me this?" she began gently, her voice low and slightly choked. "And what does it have to do with this?" she continued, raising the tablet.
"That" he began "is a result of a second line of enquiry I pursued today" he continued, accepting the tablet from her and resting it on his lap. "After I received the reply from my contact, I called my father. I explained that... circumstances meant that I required full access to my trust fund" Sherlock began, running his finger down the edge of the tablet. "He probed me, of course. Questioned me as though I were one of his inept assistants who messed up his morning coffee order or something. But he did, after a time, consent to allowing me what I had requested. He is having his lawyers draw up the necessary paperwork over the weekend, but in the meantime, he wired me an advance. I did not tell him what the money was for." Joan had listened attentively and remained quiet whilst Sherlock had spoken, despite finding her heart and mind racing in equal measure as she processed his words.
"And what is it for?" she asked, although she felt she had already guessed the answer.
"My dear Watson" Sherlock replied, placing the tablet on the bed by his side, before turning to face her, their bodies just inches apart. "It is for you." The room was silent for several moments, until Joan shifted on the bed, blinked herself out of her confusion, and began to address Sherlock.
"What?" she asked in a confused and slightly choked voice.
"When we were talking this morning, I understood what you were saying. I believed in the argument, the logic behind it, and the principle of what we were doing. You are right in stating that our actions must be motivated by the purest and noblest of intentions: the well-being of our child" Sherlock began, lowering his voice and speaking in a kindly, gentle manner. "But after giving the issue some thought and further consideration, I came to understand something that I had realised all along."
"What's that?" she asked, her eyes wide and alight with interest.
"You" he said simply, punctuating his statement with a small smile. "From the way you speak, act and... and from how you have been struggling" he began, placing his hand on top of hers as her eyes became wide and glassy, "it is clear that the last thing you want is to surrender this child to someone else." Joan swallowed hard, before turning her head up slightly, and facing him directly.
"This isn't about me" she smiled sadly.
"I disagree" he stated gently, squeezing her hand reassuringly. "Your happiness and well-being matter to me greatly, infinitely. As do those of our child. But I believe that we have been working under the misapprehension that the two are mutually exclusive."
"What do you mean?" Joan asked, her voice faltering slightly. Sherlock offered her a compassionate smile, before placing one hand on her arm and gently guiding him towards her.
"Watson" he began gently. "The best thing for the baby is, as you have said, to be raised by someone who can protect them, love them, and who has their best interests at heart."
"We've talked about this" she responded gently. "That cannot be with us."
"Possibly not" Sherlock said, doubt clear in his tone. "But it can be with you." There was a long silence which hung between them for several moments, and Joan felt certain that neither of them released or took in a single breath in the entire duration.
"What are you saying?" she asked, attempting to regain her composure. Sherlock watched her for a moment, squeezing her hand reassuringly, before meeting her eyes with his own.
"My contact can forge the appropriate paperwork for you and the baby, and my trust fund can provide you both with ample funds to forge a life for yourselves somewhere. Somewhere you won't be known, or recognised. Somewhere you won't be found" he continued gently, holding her tighter as he felt her tremble beneath his grasp. "You can be with the baby, Watson. You can have a life together. If that is what you want."
Joan looked up at him with wide and frightened eyes, which threatened to become tearful once more. But she shook this feeling aside, resolving that she would not cry. Sherlock's plan was well thought out, logical and completely selfless. She was not surprised at his having come up with it, nor was she surprised at the sacrifices he seemed so ready and prepared to make. What surprised her, more than anything in the world, was how the possibility itself raised more questions for her than she had anticipated.
"Sherlock" she began gently, placing her hand on top of his own and squeezing it gently. "We can't."
"You can" he stated, his voice gentle yet firm with resolution. "Watson I assure you, the plan is sound, the documents will be beyond question, and I can ensure that you have enough money to lead a comfortable life. Both of you."
"We wouldn't be comfortable" she stated gently, watching with sorrow as Sherlock's eyes darted curiously across her face. "Sherlock, what you have said, what you have tried to do, is the most wonderful, selfless and brave gesture I could possibly imagine" she began, her warm eyes smiling upon him. "But if... if we went forward with it, we'd be constantly looking over our shoulders, forever living in the shadow of uncertainty, not knowing whether we would run into a member of Le Milieu who recognised me, or by a politician or diplomat we worked for, or a member of some underground syndicate we helped to bring down. The risk is too great" she said sadly, "the baby would not be safe with me."
"I disagree" Sherlock stated. "Le Milieu are acquainted with us both, yes. But there are countless countries and cities that they have not infiltrated. And even in ones where their organisation is present, the members will not know of us in any great depth. Certainly not enough to recognise us directly."
"Is that really something we can risk?" Joan asked, her wide eyes glazing over with tears.
"The baby would be safe with you" Sherlock stated, his voice calm and level. "But more than that, the baby would be loved. Cherished, nurtured, taught. You consider me to be the teacher, the patron, and you to be my pupil. But I assure you, Watson, it is quite the opposite" he began, watching her with a concerned expression. "You are the greatest mentor anyone could find themselves with. You are brave, intelligent, fearless and selfless. You help people, you understand people, and you have single-handedly helped to change people's lives. In the time we have known each other, just a few short years, you helped to facilitate the most incredible changes, making me realise and understand things that I felt I both loathed and did not require. Your influence changed me for the better, and has allowed me to assist others, by continuing my work, with you" he continued, holding her hand tightly as he spoke. "Imagine just how you could benefit the life of a child. Of your child."
"Our child" Joan corrected, her voice low and slightly choked. "By doing as you have suggested, I would be taking both your child and your partner from you. And placing the baby in the most dangerous and tenuous of circumstances."
"No, Watson" Sherlock countered gently. "You would not be taking anything. You would be giving the most wonderful opportunity to a child we both created" he began, watching Joan's face as she stared confusedly at his face. "Your love" he continued, causing her eyes to close as he spoke. "I for one can attest for the power of its influence, its potential for good, for growth and for happiness."
"The baby would never have a normal life" Joan stated simply, her voice clearer and more confident.
"What is a normal life?" Sherlock asked gently.
"Not one where his or her mother is constantly looking over their shoulder for individuals who may wish to use them as a pawn in their own sick game. As a tool for revenge, or an opportunity to gain something" she began, turning to Sherlock as she spoke. "Think about Irene, what they did to her daughter, what they put her through. They kidnapped that little girl and slaughtered her father, all to get something that she had knowledge of. If the truth of our child's parentage was discovered, they would face the same, if not worse."
Sherlock watched Joan carefully as she spoke, and found himself feeling hot and agitated at the thought of their child being used in such a way. Just as with her logic and reasoning before, he could see that what she was saying was valid. It was a possibility. But still, he could not shake other considerations, and pursue other options, which would ensure that Watson was not robbed of her child. Their child.
"If we were careful, if we planned this-" Sherlock began, his eyes widening as he met her own. "It is a possibility, Watson. Even if it is not the possibility, it is a choice. It is a few of those puzzle pieces that we were searching for, we just need to find the others."
"The baby's safety and well-being-"
"No one would protect, guide and love our child more than you. Watson, you are the child's mother-"
"Stop" she pleaded, rising from the bed and walking towards her dresser. "Please, Sherlock-" Sherlock rose from the bed and walked across the room to her side, placing one hand on her lower back and the other upon her shoulder, turning her gently towards him.
"It's alright" he consoled, running his hand soothingly down her back. "I'm sorry, Watson, I did not mean to distress you, I assure you. That is that last thing I would want."
"I'm sorry" Joan whispered, rubbing her face with her hand as Sherlock held her. He watched her for several moments as she composed herself, before taking a step closer to her and posing a question.
"If none of this was real, our work, the dangers associated with it. If we were just two normal, average, every-day people" Sherlock began, as Joan slowly raised her head so that their eyes met. "Would you want to keep our child? Be it's mother?" he asked in as gentle and tentative a manner as he could manage.
"Yes" she replied instantly, the word escaping her before she had a chance to form a more detailed response. "Yes" she replied, her voice a low whisper. Sherlock watched her for a moment, before nodding slowly, and drawing her close to him.
"Will you let us explore other avenues, Watson? Before resigning ourselves to the option that is troubling us both, and destroying you." Joan closed her eyes tightly as Sherlock spoke, rising her hand up his back and placing it behind his shoulder, as he held her tightly to his chest. He held her for a few minutes, before she slowly disentangled herself from him, and lifted her head to face him. "There's something else, isn't there? What is it, Watson?" he asked gently.
"I just..." she began, breathing in deeply and composing herself. "It feels so inevitable. That... that we will have to give up this baby, to keep it safe. It just seems as though the only way we can ensure that he or she has a safe and free life is to be separated from us."
"But what if that isn't the only way?" Sherlock asked kindly. "What is it that you are so frightened of?" he asked gently. Joan was silent for a moment, her small frame attempting to stand tall and confident before Sherlock as she poised herself to speak.
"For the first couple of weeks after I found out I was pregnant, I thought about several possible ways that we could keep the baby. But each time I came close to figuring something out, I was faced with this... impassable stone-wall of logic that was telling me how much I was putting the baby at risk, that made me aware of how unsafe or selfish my plan was" she began, as Sherlock watched her with curiosity and compassion. "And every time one of those plans felt through, it felt as though something was tearing out a piece of me, like I had lost the baby already. And each time I found a flaw in the new plan, it felt as though I was losing the baby again, and again, and again. And coming to the conclusion that the only choice I had, that we had, was to give the baby away. And I didn't want you to have to go through the feelings of hopelessness, loss and failure that I did every time I realised that a plan or an avenue or an option was not viable." Joan's voice was choked and filled with emotion as she spoke, but she did not cry. Her face bore a frightened, impassive expression, and her eyes were wide and glassy, but she did not cry. As she finished speaking, Sherlock found his mind clearing with the knowledge that he now understood exactly what it was that Joan had been wrestling with, struggling with. He took a step towards her, reached out his arms, and pulled her to him. He held her in his arms in a stronger, more loving and more secure embrace than either of them thought was possible to experience.
"You aren't alone" he whispered against her hair. "You were never alone, Watson. I know it felt like you were, and that your reticence to discuss it with me was because you felt the situation was hopeless and that telling me could only inflict as much pain upon me as you were experiencing yourself" he continued, pausing to allow her to absorb his words. Sherlock rose his head from hers and gently drew her attention to his face. Hey stared at each other with wide eyes alight with ideas and possibilities, as he began to speak once more. "We have time, Watson. We have the means, the methods and the capabilities of finding a solution, together. I assure you, Watson, there is a way" he consoled, staring at her with adoration and conviction. "And we will find it. We will find it, if that is what you want."
"Yes" she whispered, nodding as she gazed upon him with wide, uncertain eyes. "Yes."