On their way back to the bedsit Sherlock texted Jo four times.

Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. SH

If inconvenient, come anyway. SH

However, could be dangerous. SH

Maybe don't come after all. SH

With a half snarl on her face Jo pecked back I can take care of myself and seethed until they got to the bedsit. She told Anthea to wait, then ran upstairs and grabbed her gun. If Sherlock bloody Holmes thought that she was completely useless just because she was pregnant, he had another thing coming.

Sherlock was sprawled across the sofa in 221B when Jo got there, eyes closed and one hand pressed to the crook of his elbow. "What are you doing?" she asked warily.

He snapped his eyes open and steepled his hands under his chin, briefly baring one arm to her with three flesh-toned circles there. "Nicotine patches," he dryly informed her. She could practically hear him rolling his eyes even as she hurried to the window to watch the car drive away. "What are you doing?"

"You left," she muttered from the window. "You abandoned me out there. That's really not on, Sherlock." Her voice was steady, but inside she was shaking.

Sitting abruptly up, Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "I didn't abandon you; I told you not to come back here tonight."

"After leaving me in bloody Brixton!" she exploded, turning away from the window. "Listen, I understand your work is important, and I've already told you that I can take care of myself, but there's a really big difference between letting me take care of myself and leaving me in bloody Brixton only to be kidnapped by your bloody arch enemy!"

As soon as the last two words slipped from her mouth Sherlock was on his feet. "My what?"

"Arch enemy, he said," repeated Jo with a small huff.

Within moments all of her personal space had been invaded by a lanky detective as he touched bits of her jaw and peered at her oddly. "Did he touch you? At all? Are you hurt?" he asked with concern bleeding from every syllable. When she shook her head he sagged with relief, and made a move that Jo thought was to kiss her forehead but he arrested midway. Instead he turned away and coughed quietly. "Um. Good. I apologize if you were frightened."

She said, "I wasn't frightened," and he turned back to face her. "You weren't?" and she replied with a shake of her head. "I was a soldier, Sherlock. It takes a lot to frighten me." A sudden thought occurred to her. "Oh, by the way, do you have HIV?"

"What?" yelped Sherlock, a surprised flush rising up his face that made Jo want to laugh. "No! Why would you-?"

"I just wanted to be certain!" insisted Jo, holding up her hands and laughing. She sat in the same chair as before, settling her cane to the side and stretching out her leg, which was feeling stiff after so much walking. "Anyway, you said to come, at least before you said not to and I ignored you. What's up?"

Scratching idly at his nicotine patches, Sherlock had turned to the fireplace but turned back to her at the inquiry. "Oh, yes, right. Can you send a text for me? There's always a chance my number will be recognized, as it's on my website." When she raised her eyebrows incredulously, peeved that she'd come all this way just for a text, he added, "I did say you didn't have to come."

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, but I thought you were just being a prat. Fine, okay, what's the number?"

Sherlock smiled, looking pleasantly surprised, and started rummaging in the space behind his chair. Jo wondered not for the first time that night what made him so taken aback by simple courtesies like compliments or favors. He was a surprising man, both in his behavior and in the way Jo reacted to him. They hardly knew one another aside from the one-night stand that had ultimately stuck them together for good, and by all means and conventions things should be unspeakably awkward between them, but Jo felt oddly at ease with the detective around. She didn't have to pretend to be someone she wasn't to get his approval. For some reason, Sherlock seemed to like her for who she was. Unless of course he was only pretending to be interested because of the baby.

After what was only really a moment Sherlock came back with a pink overnight case in hand, and started reading off a number from the address tag. Jo typed it quickly into her mobile. "Send 'What happened in Lauriston Gardens? I must have passed out. 22 Northumberland-'"

"You passed out?" Jo asked, distracted from her typing as her inner doctor sniffed the air.

He looked up from the tag with a scowl. "What? No! Come on, 22 Northumberland Street and send it!" With a flick of the wrist he sent the case careening back to its place. "Have you sent it?"

"Yeah, hang on!" she snapped back, hitting the 'SEND' button just then. Still sticking her tongue out in concentration, she looked up and composed herself. "Alright, care to explain?"

"There wasn't a mobile in Jennifer Wilson's case," he said, sinking into the chair opposite. "We've already established that she had a string of lovers, and therefore would need a secure way to communicate with them all without her husband knowing. The killer had to get rid of her lurid pink case, and she didn't have her mobile on her at the crime scene, so...?"

Comprehension dawned just as Jo's phone started ringing and her heart rate increased. "The killer has the phone," she said numbly. "Did I just text a serial killer? Oh, good, well now what, shall I answer it?" Yes, there was a bit of sarcasm in the last question, but Jo felt it was justified.

"No," ordered Sherlock. "No, don't answer. We've got him scared now. He thinks he's made a mistake." He sighed and looked down. "Joanna, I really am sorry about earlier. Let me make it up to you; are you hungry? I know an excellent place nearby."

"But I've just sat-!"

"I insist!" boomed Sherlock, pulling her easily from her chair, placing her cane in hand as though she were a doll. "Do you like Italian?"

Before Jo knew what was going on she had been ushered back out the door and into a cab that smelled faintly of cabbage. The ride only lasted about five minutes before they were clambering out, Sherlock looking sheepish as she gave him an inquiring look; he'd noticed she was tired and hadn't wanted to make her walk. He asked for his usual table from the boy at the door, and exchanged pleasantries with the owner while Jo blushed and stammered that they weren't actually on a date - even as he was retreating to fetch a candle and make the table "more romantic." For some reason that made Jo want to apologize, even if it wasn't her fault; Sherlock was gorgeous and she was unutterably plain.

Almost as soon as they had their waters (and their candle) Sherlock was twisting round in his chair to watch the building across the street. If Jo had to take a stab, she'd guess 22 Northumberland. With one spidery pale hand he pushed his menu aside and told her to order whatever she wanted.

"You aren't eating?" she asked.

"What day is it?"

"Wednesday."

He shook his head. "I'll be fine for a few days yet."

"Sherlock!" she laughed incredulously. "You need to eat!"

"I never eat on cases, it slows me down; I just wrapped up one case yesterday and Mrs. Hudson made risotto - I'm fine," insisted Sherlock before turning back to the window.

Jo shrugged, taking a sip of water before muttering, "I mean, if I were to stop eating just because I was busy..."

"That's completely different, you're pregnant, you're supposed to be eating for two or some rubbish," argued Sherlock without tearing his eyes away from the window, but there was a shadow of alarm on his face.

"Human beings need to eat whether they're pregnant or not. Honestly, does no one look after you?"

"I don't need a keeper," Sherlock snapped, keeping his voice low. Jo's face burned but she didn't change her expression, murmuring an apology to which he nodded. Then he sighed slightly. "But Mrs. Hudson does like to hover, I suppose; for some reason she's taken a liking to me. And, well..." He shifted slightly, looking uncomfortably vulnerable for a split-second. "I suppose if you decide to move in, we'll be looking after each other. Though I completely understand if you've changed your mind and would rather abort after the fiasco earlier," he added hurriedly, staring determinedly out the window still as traffic passed.

Jo shook her head, fighting the urge to touch his hand, offer comfort, to the point of her whole arm twitching slightly. "I told you, it takes a lot to scare me off," she assured him. He relaxed fractionally, glancing back at her, and she smiled. "Sherlock, I like you, God help me. I'd like to live with you if we're going to go through with this whole mess together. But you still haven't actually said if you want me around or just feel obligated, and even if you keep being perfectly nice I'd like to hear it directly." She took another sip of water to cover for her steady hand.

Sherlock shifted again, brow furrowed with thought. "Joanna, I -" he began, only to be cut off when Angelo came sidling up to take their order. Jo stared pointedly at Sherlock until he blindly picked something off the menu (Angelo looked shocked and pleased) and she asked for plain noodles and garlic bread.

"Pregnancy's tricky, and I've just spent a week laid-up with the flu," she explained in response to the detective's bemused look. "I don't want to get something that will set my stomach off in a public place, thanks." The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched almost fondly, and he turned to the window once more, their previous conversation forgotten. She leaned in toward him, hoping to keep the conversation going a bit longer. "I think it's going to be a boy, though it's hard to say at this stage."

That surprisingly did it; she could practically see the gears in Sherlock's head turning. "It's a fifty percent chance," he pointed out.

"Then I'll bet you fifty pence I'm right."

"Just fifty pence?"

"Well, I don't want to risk my chances," she grinned. "I'll explain my reasoning, shall I? When pregnant with a boy the mother tends to burn 2,000 more calories a day, eating and sleeping almost twice as much as with a girl. Now, I was only having symptoms for about a week or so before getting sick, so I know it's not exactly easy to tell with my health compromised, but..." She shrugged, smiling.

"We'll have to wait and see," agreed Sherlock with a stronger hint of a smile around the corners of his eyes. They shook on it, just to be funny, before Sherlock's attention was again stolen by the window. This time Jo let it rest, idly playing with her silverware until Angelo brought their food and started telling a story about way back when he was a waiter and his parents owned the restaurant; Sherlock's parents liked to frequent there with their boys, so Angelo had known Sherlock since he was just a wee baby. "Looked like a potato sausage, he did!"

"Yes, thank you Angelo," scowled Sherlock into his water glass. Jo snorted. The man left them in peace once satisfied he'd sufficiently embarrassed Sherlock in front of his "date" to the fullest extent. Sherlock took all of three bites of his meal before looking out the window again, staring down a cab sitting at the kerb.

Jo leaned across the table to try to see what he was looking at. "What's up?"

"Cab."

"What about it?"

"No idea, something clever. Is it clever? Why's it clever?"

"Oh, alright then."

"Don't stare."

"Why not? You're staring."

"Well we can't both stare."

She huffed and sat back, petulantly tearing off a bit of bread with her teeth. "You aren't secretly married or something, are you?" she asked blithely after a few moments.

"I consider myself married to my work," he replied absentmindedly.

"Yeah, that's no secret," she teased, watching him watch the cab. It was hard not to feel her heart drop a bit behind the humor, though, knowing that lack of anything past a friendly relationship would make it infinitely easier to drift apart over a pregnancy, even if they both were invested from the start.

Suddenly Sherlock stiffened in his seat. "He just looked back at me," he breathed, and leapt to his feet. "This is it, this is my chance, and I've got to take it. Don't worry about the ticket, it's taken care of. We can meet again after oh I'm doing it again, aren't I?" he derailed, staring down at Jo with his coat half-on.

"You bet," she nodded succinctly, then jumped up after him.

They careened into the street, Sherlock nearly getting himself hit by a car, just as the cab drove off. Sherlock cursed, thought for a few moments with hands pressed to his temples, then looked down at her. "You'll be alright with a bit of running?"

"Oh, get on with it!"

And so they did. Sherlock seemed to have the entire schematic map of London stored in his massive brain, shouting directions over his shoulder at her because, like it or not, Jo couldn't seem to keep up. She personally blamed her shorter legs and lack of training since being invalided home rather than the pregnancy, though was certain that Sherlock would have his own opinion on the matter. Once the frantic chase had been proved fruitless by the Californian, however, the jog home was all too easy in way of keeping up with the lanky man.

The need for oxygen was the only thing that kept them from cracking up until they were safely in the foyer of 221B. Then Jo started laughing at the incredulity of the situation and couldn't stop. "That was - the most ridiculous - thing - I've ever done," she gasped, nearly dizzy with the endorphin rush.

Sherlock looked at her with eyebrows raised and a quiver in his smile. "Really?" he replied with a pointed look to her abdomen. They both practically doubled over as they burst out laughing at that.

"That-that wasn't just me, I hope you remember."

"Oh, I remember."

There was something in his voice that made Jo look up, and next she knew her back was pressed against the wall and Sherlock pressed against her. They were both still breathless, huffing small puffs of silent laughter against one another's cheeks as he brushed two fingers whisper-light over her jaw, leaning down close to rub the tip of his nose along the length of hers before kissing her gently. The curl of his pretty lips against her thin ones, gently catching her lower lip between them and sucking as softly as an afterthought, was the polar opposite of the fuck-like-the-world-was-ending they'd had eight weeks before. It took her breath away, and she reached up to cup the back of his neck even as he was drawing back. She mewled softly in protest and he sighed a laugh against her lips.

"Don't want to be caught doing something indecent in the front hall with the man at the door," he murmured in apology, pressing his forehead to hers with eyes shut tight as she caught her breath from even the brief kiss.

"Man at the-?"

Knock-knock-knock.

She chuckled in disbelief as Sherlock somewhat miraculously disentangled their entwined legs, then ushered her over to answer the door. "Sherlock!" she laughed like a teenager, running her hands through her hair even though he hadn't touched it before opening the door to- "Angelo?"

The older man beamed and held out her cane. "Sherlock texted me, said you left this at your table."

Shock resounded so thoroughly through Jo she thought she might fall over as she took the cane in hand with numb fingers. She hadn't even noticed that the entire time they were running, her leg had been fine. More than fine, it was perfect. There was no pain, no stiffness...nothing. "I, ah...thanks," she stammered. "Thank you." Then she laughed again, and Angelo left with a grin on his face and a spring in his step. "Sherlock," she called over her shoulder, turning back down the corridor to where they'd landed in a heap.

The detective was watching her with a half-smile resting confidently on his face, hands tucked into pockets; she tossed the cane aside and pulled his smug face down to kiss him again, not afraid to get inventive with this one, running a deft tongue over his lower lip to get him to open up for her. He tasted like tangy-sweet sweat and very faintly of cigarette smoke, like the home of someone who had quit the nasty habit years ago but the smell still lingered in the sofa cushions. He hunched over to meet her, both hands framing her face, until finally grumbling about "So - bloody - short," while grabbing her arse in both hands, hauling her up, turning in place and pressing her back against the wall with both legs around his waist.

They started snogging like teenagers with him squeezing her bum and her licking and biting along his dangerously long neck. The only thing that prevented them outright rutting against one another through their trousers was when they heard a loud thump on the floor above them. Breaking apart and gasping, they both looked up and Jo slid to the floor, heart pounding painfully in her ears and between her legs. "Mrs. Hudson, are you upstairs?" called Sherlock, and the landlady came shuffling out of her own flat sniffling back tears. "Mrs. Hudson?"

Without waiting for her to answer Sherlock and Jo vaulted up the stairs to 221B, all thoughts of sex and frivolity forgotten when they opened the door and found a swarm of police officers rummaging through the flat without regard. Even as they stepped in with their mouths gaping open with shock and anger an officer accidentally knocked over a stack of books. In the center of it all DI Lestrade was dramatically lounged back in Sherlock's chair. "Welcome home," he smiled cheekily.

"What the hell is this?" demanded Sherlock. "You've broken into my flat?"

"Don't worry yourself about it," Lestrade smoothly said. "You think I didn't know you'd withhold evidence to prove you're clever?"

Even as he spoke anderson strode into the main room with a smug look and Jennifer Wilson's case. "Well, look what we have here," he sneered. "Seems we've found our evidence in the hands of our favorite psychopath."

"I'm not a psychopath, you insufferable twat, I'm a high-functioning sociopath; do your research," Sherlock snapped back just as Donovan came in with a disgusted look on her face. "Put those back in the microwave, Donovan, they're an experiment!" Then he turned back to Lestrade. "What the hell makes you think you can just break into my flat like this?"

The DI shrugged his shoulders casually and glanced around. "This isn't breaking in, we've got all the paperwork - it's a drugs bust."

Jo felt like she'd been slapped in the face as the flurry of activity continued around her, undisturbed. "What?" she asked faintly. But she didn't really need to ask to realize how stupid she'd been; it was all so glaringly obvious. The night she and Sherlock met at the Vesuvius Club, hadn't he been high as a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide? Pale, clammy, stammering, pupils blown wide, she'd assumed he'd been on a one-night bender like her, but for the next six weeks his website had been shut down while "my brother has locked me up (again)."

(again).

Horror and anger intermingled with one another as she looked up at Sherlock, who was sputtering wordlessly with rage at Lestrade. "You're a junkie," she exclaimed.

Sherlock turned to her with eyes wide. "I'm clean," he said numbly, turning back to Lestrade. "Dammit, I've told you I'm clean! Joanna..." He grasped her arm and pulled her to the side where they could speak in relative privacy. "Joanna, I swear -"

"I mean, Jesus, you could have said something," she spat at him. "Maybe around the time I asked if you had HIV or were married, you could have said something? Then I wouldn't have wasted my time running through hoops halfway across the city for you!"

He leaned in closer, breathing fast. "Joanna, I may have been a junkie, but I'm clean now! Lestrade is just doing this to be a bully - I promise that I am never going near any of that again."

(again).

"Is that what you said to your brother the last time he locked you up in rehab?" she shot back, and he quieted. That was all she needed to shake her head and head for the door.

"Joanna, this is just a farce!"

Lestrade called imperiously from his chair, "It stops being a farce when we find something, you know."

She turned on her heel at the bottom of the stairs when she heard Sherlock's footsteps thundering down after her. "Don't follow me," she snarled, and he stopped. "I mean it, Sherlock, don't you dare follow me. I am going home, and if you feel like being honest with me in the next two weeks then you can just use your big fat genius head to find me!" After a moment's hesitation Sherlock seemed to deflate; he nodded somberly and let her go. Her whole body was trembling with barely-contained anger. God, she'd been so stupid!

Mrs. Hudson stopped her at the door. "Joanna, dear, could you pop back up and tell Sherlock his cab's here?"

"He didn't call for a cab, Mrs. Hudson," sighed Jo, "but don't worry; I'll take it instead."