Mary shifts uncomfortably in the plastic chair. It seems to have shrunk from the last time that she was here. She looks at the door. She had texted John the time and date of the doctor's appointment, but there had been no reply. She had got no acknowledgement of any of her texts to John. She supposes that if the phone had been canceled then she would receive a message saying so. She waits.

She reaches into her bag and pulls out a book to read. The bag is large and soft with a pattern of purple irises. It is a gift from the girls at the surgery. They threw her a baby shower over the weekend after her last day of work.

.

They had knocked on the door and barged in with balloons, gift bags and tooting horns. She had done her best to make things seem normal at home. When they'd asked where John was, she lied, giving some feeble excuse. She didn't know why she kept up the facade that everything between them was still happy. Perhaps because they would ask why, and it would be awkward to admit the truth. She shouldn't care about public opinion, but for some reason she can't admit that her marriage of only a few months might, already, be over.

Then someone asked how John's was getting along in his new job. "Fine," she'd said hiding her shock before rushing to the kitchen to check on 'something she'd left cooking'. She had cried then. Hormones. She used the sound of the microwave to cover her sobs.

That Monday, she dropped by the clinic to look for a scarf she'd left behind. At least that's what she said. She actually spent her time looking through John's personnel file. She found his letter of resignation and a request for reference from a clinic near Baker Street. She'd thought then, "John isn't coming back."

.

Mary looks up at the sound of the door being pushed open. John enters looking handsome, if a little haggard. His face is freshly shaved. His hair pushed back away from his forehead. She notices a bandage on his hand. His knuckles are bruised as if he's been punching through walls, or perhaps a mirror. He sees her, his dark blue eyes shifting to the floor a moment later. She finds herself breathing heavily, her eyes glancing demurely at her hands as he passes close by her sitting down with one seat between them.

She looks at him, but he is staring forward, avoiding her gaze. Oh. He hasn't forgiven me. She wants to talk to him, to ask him about his new job, about his hand; about whether he ever plans to come home, but the empty seat between them is like a chasm. She can't cross it. It is as if Sherlock is sitting there, his damaged, bleeding body keeping them apart. She turns away.

"Mrs Watson!" the nurse calls, and they both rise, following as she is led through a weighing and then a check-up in a small pastel-colored room. She does as instructed. He stands at her side. They both know the routine. The doctor comes in some time later. He chats, smiles, and makes jokes. Mary smiles back for both of them.

She lays on the couch and lifts up her shirt to show a swollen abdomen. The ultrasound jelly is cold against her skin. It warms quickly though, and soon she is staring at a black and white screen, a whooshing sound filling the small examination room. An arc of white static on the screen slowly resolves into a beating heart.

They hear the baby's heartbeat. They can see it now, four chambers stretching and squeezing. John leans forward, captivated. Mary as well. She knew the baby was there, that it was real, but she didn't let herself think about it much. As he moves the paddle around showing fingers and toes, lungs and heart, she realizes that the thing inside her is a little person, a new human, a life that they have made together.

"It's a girl," he says changing the image to show her face. A girl!

Mary looks at John and sees wonder on his face as he stares at the screen. That is the face of his daughter. His eyes are wide, his cheeks raised up in a smile. He turns to her grinning widely. Amazement visible in every line, then his eyes turn dark and his cheeks lower. His mouth straightens into a thin line and suddenly all joy is gone from his face.

"She's perfectly healthy and right on track. The two of you must be so very happy."

"Oh yes," Mary says, "We're overjoyed. Thank you, Doctor."

He turns off the machine handing each of them a little paper printout of their daughter's face. John shoves it into his pocket without looking at it. Mary fights to keep a pleasant look on her face. She slowly unzips her bag, and slips the paper inside.

They pass out of the room and down the hall. She opens the door to reception and trips on the threshold, falling forward. She braces herself, but instead of pain and a hard floor, she feels warm hands holding on to her. She turns her head to find that John has caught her. He pulls her back onto her feet. She looks up into his face and sees the concern in his eyes.

John, my John.

They continue walking slowly through the room and out of the office. All of the time his hands remain on her, steadying her, one on her shoulder and one on her waist. The contact is warm and human. She slows her steps, and he stays with her. She doesn't want to say or do anything that will make him take those hands away. This is the first time that he's touched her since that night in the empty houses.

They stand in the hallway outside of the office, unmoving. Mary stares at the teal carpet, hoping that if she doesn't move, neither will he, but he does. He steps away from her, and the skin that was once beneath his hands goes immediately cold. She looks up, but he's already walking away. She watches his back as he strides down the hall. He turns pushing open a door to enter the stairwell.

"John!" she calls, but the only reply she gets is the sound of the door slamming shut behind him.