Jo bit her nails all the way to Bart's, until they were worn right down to the quick and one of them actually cracked. She didn't know what she was going to say to this man, hadn't received a reply in her email, didn't know if he even remembered her. What if they hated each other?

The moment she and Mike edged into the lab her heart was in her throat. Sherlock Holmes was just as devastatingly handsome as he had been at the nightclub, though he'd put on a bit of much-needed weight as well and his hair was shorter. He was staring intent down through the eyepieces of a microscope, completely oblivious of his company. They settled against the far wall while she tried to muster the courage to say something, but Sherlock broke the silence first. "Mike, can I borrow your phone?"

Jo stiffened at the sound of his voice; it was just as deep as before but much steadier. Mike patted his pockets. "Sorry, it's in my coat upstairs," he said. He looked to Jo, silently prompting her to make her move.

"Here, you can use mine," she offered, mobile aloft.

Sherlock looked right at her but looked right through her, vaguely surprised as he reached for the mobile. "Oh. Thank you." His neutral expression became one of consternation when Jo wouldn't let go.

"I'm sorry, but do you remember me?" she asked. "We met at the Vesuvius Club nearly eight weeks ago."

His brow furrowed very briefly. "I'm afraid I don't recall."

"Well, I do, but we were both a little screwed up," she allowed. "Your pupils were about the size of Jupiter."

"Size of what?"

She momentarily gaped, then shook it off. "Listen, I know we met that night. Your name is Sherlock Holmes-"

"-which is also on my website-"

"-and I'm Joanna. The man I spoke to before you, he tried to drug me, you were chasing after him," she continued firmly. "And now I'm pregnant," she added.

His eyes flickered up to hers but quickly went back down to the phone. "I'm afraid you must be mistaken," he said, but he sounded uncertain. Once he'd finished with the text he handed it back. "Iraq or-?" The microscope went clattering onto its side as realization seemed to hit him.

She sighed and spread her hands. They both said: "Afghanistan," and she followed with, "And the penny drops." Sherlock's mouth gaped like that of a fish on dry land as he went over their conversation from moments ago - mostly Jo saying she was pregnant - and went white as a sheet. Slowly he reached out blindly for a chair and yanked it under himself as his legs very likely gave way, pressing a hand to his mouth. "I'm not here to trap you or bully you," she said after allowing him a moment, with only a small sense of satisfaction at seeing him as terrified as she had felt upon getting the news. "I just needed to tell you. I'd like to sit down and talk with you about our options as well, if you're up for it." His mouth twisted as though he were going to be ill. "We need to discuss our next course of action," she prodded gently. "It's already been nearly eight weeks, so we're on a bit of a timer."

He made a sound that could only be described as smashing one's entire upper body against a keyboard before stopping himself and taking a quick breath. "Yesofcourse, we have a lot to discuss," he said very quickly, swallowed thickly while checking his watch, and carried on at a slower pace. "I - I have to go." Biting his lower lip, he looked up at her very briefly before snapping his gaze elsewhere. "I'm sorry, I have go back to the morgue and fetch something and - and then help make an arrest, or - or-"

"It's fine," she insisted, though her stomach rolled nervously. "We can meet tomorrow somewhere."

"Tomorrow?" repeated Sherlock, sounding faint.

Jo nodded. "Like I said, eight weeks," she said tightly.

One of Sherlock's hands seemed to rise of its own accord and fist itself in his curly hair, scratching almost frantically at his scalp. "Yes, of course. We can meet at my new flat and discuss arrangements and medical expenses and, ah..." he trailed off, trying to haphazardly shove notes into his shoulder bag with trembling hands. He looked up at her briefly again. "I'm sorry, I really must-"

"Go," she told him firmly, trying to fight a smile. It was almost unavoidable, watching him flounder for purchase. There was something endearing to it that made her want to pull him in and remind him things were going to be alright. With a grateful nod he hefted the bag over his shoulder, swung on his coat and scarf, and rushed out past the mousy woman in the corridor, who quickly retreated after him.

She met Mike's eye and was about to say something when footsteps echoed in the corridor, and Sherlock came rushing back. "The address! It's 221B Baker Street. I'll be there at seven." He said to Mike: "Afternoon," and to Jo, "Er...take care," before dashing out again.

After a moment of silence she and Mike both sagged slightly. That brief conversation had been exhausting. "I know this is serious," said Mike, fighting a fit of laughter, "but I have never seen him like that before."

"He was running around like a chicken with his head cut off," she dazedly said, sinking into Sherlock's recently vacated chair. "He's not always that frantic?"

Giving in to his amusement, Mike shook his head. "Never. Never ever is he that spastic. Usually made of stone, that man! Oh, God, you would be the one to destroy his composure, wouldn't you?" He couldn't stop giggling until they were back at the hospital's front entrance. "Call me and let me know how things turn out, won't you? And try to be patient with Sherlock; he can be a bit of a berk, but usually when he says or does something stupid he thinks he's being nice and helpful." She agreed quietly and managed to get onto the next bus stopping near the bedsit.

Rather than going out again when she was hungry, Jo had an apple, toast, and a glass of orange juice (vile and full of pulp, just as she hated it) before laying listlessly on her bed. Doctor Thompson had emailed her that afternoon, encouraging her to keep up with her blog, but Jo wasn't in the mood for much of anything. She was nervous about meeting Sherlock the next evening, about what they would talk about. A part of her knew that she wouldn't be able to support herself if she decided to have the baby without some sort of financial help from Sherlock, whether he wanted to be involved or not, but that was only the tip of the iceberg if he really did want to be.

Where would they live? Would they live together, or in separate flats? Would Sherlock be involved during the pregnancy itself, or only after the baby came - and if that were the case, would they have an alternate-weekend arrangement or something more casual? Oh, god, would they need to get lawyers involved to establish fair shared custody? And if that were the case, then she would need to either find one who would work pro-bono or get two jobs rather than one to pay the fees. Then there were doctor's bills, and vitamins, and if she had a relapse while pregnant - malaria was tricky like that - then she could be in enormous trouble.

Thoughts swirled like angry bees through her mind as she lay in bed, both hands lying contemplatively over her stomach. Though she knew it was medically impossible for how far along she was, every once in a while Jo imagined she felt a nudge or stirring, until finally she fell asleep at two in the morning.

Seeing as she had nothing to do until she met with Sherlock later in the evening, Jo slept without setting an alarm, rising at noon still groggy. Mike wasn't kidding around when he said she would need plenty of sleep. She briefly considered going shopping but dismissed it almost immediately; there was enough food in the flat to take care of herself for the time being. Once she sorted things out with Sherlock she would go shopping. Then at least she could know whether or not to get vitamins as well as bread.

At half-two she pulled out her charity-shop laptop and logged onto her blog for the first time since she'd made the thing, watching the cursor blink for a while before typing It's been an odd few days. I've been ill, which is why I haven't posted (happy, Ella?), but I ran into my old friend Mike Stamford at the clinic. I might also- And there she stopped, uncertain if she should release the news to her therapist just yet. I'm meeting someone tonight. Could be good news or bad, I'm not sure yet.

Only because she knew she ought to get out of bed Jo fetched the paper from a nearby stand, and ate up a few hours reading and doing the crossword while nibbling on dry toast when eating occurred to her. Dry toast and the occasional apple were all she could hold down with morning sickness and her recent bout of flu conspiring against her.

For a while after that she went on Sherlock's website to see if he'd posted anything new once he'd come back. At first it was easy to miss, but she found a thread on the forum entitled In need of advice. A smile stretched the corners of her mouth as she read Sherlock's post explaining their situation and elegantly begging for advice from the few users who participated in the forums. He was rather good at sounding indifferent while panicking about an accidental pregnancy. At long last the day wore down to where she could leave and not feel as though it were too early. Her leg was hurting again but she couldn't afford a cab, so she took her cane with her. The day was damp and warmer than the norm for late January, so the walk almost felt like a treat.

Just as she was stepping up to the door of 221B a cab pulled up in the street behind her and out stepped Sherlock, looking much calmer and more composed since his brief episode the day before. She smiled and tucked her hands into her pockets while he pulled back the corners of his mouth, in the perfect imitation of a polite smile, and bounded nearer. "Joanna," he said in way of greeting, offering one hand. She barely had time to shake it before he was continuing. "So this is, obviously, the building. It's in a decent spot in regards to crime rates and schools, but I have a special deal with the landlady, Mrs. Hudson - I took a case from her a few years back, you know how it is - so it's really quite affordable."

He knocked on the door and a few moments later an older woman in a purple dress answered, beaming at Sherlock. "You've forgot your key again, haven't you?" she twittered as he pecked her on the cheek.

"Mrs. Hudson, this is Joanna," he quickly introduced them before rushing up the stairs.

The old lady smiled warmly at her. "Now don't you worry about a thing, dear. Sherlock's already told me all about you; he was so nervous about you coming by I thought he might wee himself!" she fondly said, only for Sherlock to shout at her to shut it from upstairs. Jo fought a nervous laugh and followed him up, hindered only slightly by her limp and more by nerves.

Sherlock was waiting in the cluttered sitting room with a cornered look on his face. "I know it's a mess, but I've only just moved in a few days ago," he announced. "Obviously things can be tidied, but in any case, there's a spare room upstairs that's small but airy and could be used as a nursery." As he mentioned it one long arm swept up with rehearsed casuality to gesture toward the stairs. "There's space enough for a cot, a toy chest, a bureau, and a rocking chair by the window, if we get creative with the room's arrangement. Now there's only one bedroom downstairs, but I'm always more comfortable on a sofa anyway, I prefer cramped spaces to sleep in, so you're welcome to it, though I would only ask to share closet space.

"I'm a hobby chemist and perform case-related experiments that sometimes require using cadavers parts, though I of course would be considerate of your condition if any of the fumes would be offensive. If it becomes necessary I can either purchase a second fridge or work solely at the morgue in St. Bart's. I keep odd hours and have an odd group of associates that tend to come at odd hours, and if it's really a bother I can raise the fee for my detective services and move my business to the basement flat within three months, give or take a few weeks depending on cases coming in."

It felt rather like someone had boxed Jo in both ears at the same time, there was even a faint humming in her head, in the wake of that impressive tidal-wave of speech that had all been thrown at her in less than thirty seconds. She was well aware of her own gaping, but found herself unable to stop. Both hands clasped behind his back, Sherlock looked like a schoolboy at his first piano recital waiting for praise from his parents and friends. When she realized that he was, in fact, waiting for her to reply, she swallowed thickly. "You've really thought everything through, haven't you?" she asked faintly.

He blinked, embarrassment showing in the barest flicker in the corner of his mouth. "I didn't sleep last night," he replied. "I figured I...might as well." Suddenly his eyes widened. "You have a limp and you walked here rather than taking the bus due to the improved weather. You must be tired; you ought to sit down." She honestly hadn't even noticed her leg hurting or being tired, but sat down in the older chair with the Union Jack cushion anyway because he looked so endearingly concerned. "I could make-"

A knock on the flat's door interrupted him, and Mrs. Hudson came in with a tea tray. "Yoohoo. I thought you two might be busy talking, so brought up some tea and nibbles," she offered, putting the tray on the coffee table. She patted Jo's hand. "You look a bit peaky, love, are you feeling alright?"

Instantly Sherlock was on the alert - were he a dog his ears would be perking up - and Jo felt herself flush. "I'm fine, this is just how my face looks all the time," she dismissed quickly.

"Well, there are ginger biscuits there anyway; they work wonders, I swear-"

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said in a clear signal to the landlady, and she made a hasty exit. "I apologize if she embarrasses you; I'm afraid it's my fault. Mrs. Hudson was the only person I thought to speak with about our situation. I've never really done this before."

She smiled quickly, thinking of his website. He probably didn't think it had occurred to her to check that. "Well, thank God for that; I'd be really concerned if you had," she joked, and Sherlock relaxed marginally. "Listen, could you maybe sit down as well?" Almost instantly Sherlock was sitting opposite her in the sleek modern-looking leather armchair, leaning forward on his knees. "I'm really relieved that you've been thinking about things like nurseries, and that you didn't just run the moment you realized who I am. However..." She trailed off, biting her lip as a sudden wave of dizziness made her lose her train of thought. Sherlock furrowed his brow, apparently thinking that she simply was uncomfortable with what she wanted to say.

"Oh," he said softly, like an epiphany, as he leaned back. "I understand. If it's what you want, I can provide money for an abortion."

Jo coughed on the bite of ginger biscuit she'd been stupid enough to try for while she was thinking. "No! No, oh, god, that's not what I meant!" she hurriedly amended, seeing how crestfallen he looked at the notion. It was quickly dawning on Jo that Sherlock was more invested in the pregnancy after one night than she had been for as long as she had known about it. "I just lost my train of thought! Oh, sorry!"

"It's fine," he said with a quick shake of the head. "I've been thinking about this from every angle except that one, and jumped to the wrong conclusion."

Brushing back fringe from her eyes, Jo decisively put her biscuit back on the tray. "Well, I mean I've kept the option open," she corrected herself yet again. "Just in case you weren't...amenable, I guess? Because as much as I would like to have a kid and all, I wouldn't be able to on my own, not right now. It's not even about finances, it's..." She shook her head wearily. "Listen, you ought to know anyway. I've just come back from a war zone with a hole in my shoulder and a psychosomatic limp; on my own, I'm not an appropriate support system for a small child. Social Services would be all over me at the slightest incident. So, I suppose what I'm trying to say is that if I'm going to have this baby I need to know that you'll be there. You're not just offering for us to live here because you feel obligated or guilty; I want you to, I guess, want us here."

There was a very long stretch of silence as Sherlock stared at his knees, lips pursed quietly. Jo tried to be patient, but suddenly she urgently had to pee and was feeling dizzy again. "I'm sorry, can I use the bathroom?" she asked, trying not to distract him from his own train of thought. He pointed her in the right direction and she dove in gratefully, leaning against the sink the same way she had at Mike's. The floor wasn't moving, though, so she figured the dizziness wasn't anything serious. She was feeling queasy again, though, and splashed cold water on her face to try and get her wits together again.

As she was drying her face, Jo heard a heavy set of footsteps come up the stairs to the flat, and a man's voice joined Sherlock's in the sitting room. "There's been another," he said.

"I'm busy," Sherlock dismissed instantly, voice just as cold and hard as it had been at Bart's before she had told him she was pregnant. Did he speak more kindly to her, or was his coldness special treatment for something the second man and Mike had done?

"You're not even interested?"

"No."

"Sherlock, we really could use your input on this one."

"And I really could not care."

With a flood of heat through her body that made her shake, Jo staggered to the toilet just in time to gag up her toast and the ginger biscuit, overly aware of the loudly obscene choking noises that were coming from her throat. The second man asked, "Are you entertaining?" just before the bathroom door swung open. She quickly straightened from where she'd hunched over the toilet and wiped the spit off of her cheek.

Sherlock was watching her from the open door with a look on his face that seemed confused between concerned and annoyed. "Are you alright?" he asked, back to his nervous, gentler voice. A man with salt-and-pepper hair and brown eyes was in the sitting room a way behind him, watching with unguarded interest and urgency.

"I'm fine," she insisted, filling a paper cup with water to rinse her mouth out. "Is everything okay?" She nodded toward the older man, and he waved awkwardly before politely turning his back.

"What, him?" scoffed Sherlock, looking back at the man. "Irrelevant. Just a crime scene, but it's not worth my time right now."

Once she'd spat in the sink, Jo wiped her mouth and straightened to look up at Sherlock. Lord, but he was taller close up. "What, because I'm here? No, if you're needed you ought to go." The other man sighed with relief that she was apparently agreeing with him.

"We're talking, we're talking about something important," Sherlock argued. "If Lestrade is as competent as he always claims to be then he can fare without me." The validity of his argument was instantly contradicted when he bit his lower lip anxiously. Jo felt a smile creep up her face; he wanted to go but felt like he had to stay for her.

To save him from having to feel like he was running out on her, Jo edged past Sherlock out of the bathroom and addressed the man he called Lestrade. "What's going on with the crime scene?" she asked briskly.

Taken aback, Lestrade replied, "Uh, this one left a note."

"A note?"

"It's one of the serial suicides," provided Sherlock, still leaning in the door to the bathroom. "Though you mentioned you've been ill and there's a mark from a hospital bracelet around your wrist - you either only just got out of the hospital or forgot to take it off until recently - so either way you probably missed the press conference. Are you alright, by the way? I feel I ought to ask, considering."

"Considering what?" asked Lestrade.

She and Sherlock simultaneously said, "Nothing," and she continued with, "I'm fine, I had the flu."

"You had the flu? But you're-"

"Yes, I know, I'm fine."

"You're sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure, I'm a doctor."

"You're a-?"

"You knew that, Sherlock."

"Oh, yes, that's right. And you're sure you don't mind?"

"Not at all, go ahead."

"Brilliant." Sherlock turned back to Lestrade, whose head had been swiveling between them like a man at a tennis match. "Go on, I'll follow behind in a cab."

Lestrade heaved with a relieved sigh. "Thank you." Nodding once more at Jo, he took his leave.

For approximately three seconds Sherlock was still and silent. Then he jumped in the air - actually jumped - and pumped his fists. "Yes! Four serial suicides and now a note; oh, it's Christmas! Thank you, Joanna, for your understanding, I've been following this case for weeks and have been dying to dig my fingers into this serial killer."

He darted for his coat, and Jo felt a small pang of jealousy in her chest. "Could I...I mean, is there anything I can do to help?" she called after him.

Appearing around the corner, Sherlock replied, "You want to come to the crime scene? You're pregnant."

"I am," she shrugged. "Doesn't mean I'm an invalid."

He seemed to appraise her for a long moment, scanning over her with his eyes. "You are an army doctor," he allowed. She nodded. "Seen a lot of violent deaths, some action."

"Yes," she replied. "You'd think it would be enough for a lifetime, but..." She shrugged again.

"You want to see some more?"

"God, yes."

Sharing wicked grins, they left the flat together. Jo had the feeling things would work out between them.