Chapter 4: Impossible

'I'm bored. When will you be home? -SH'

'I'm off at 5–EH'

'Get off earlier. I want to be with you-SH'

'Come meet me when I'm off if you miss me that much-EH'

'That's still 3 hours away. What am I suppose to do until then? –SH'

'It's been 5 minutes. Why didn't you reply? –SH'

'My lunch is over. I have to get back to work-EH'

'Dull-SH'

'Your such a child sometimes-EH'

'I love you too-SH'

I chuckle at the last text and stuff my phone back into my desk drawer. Despite my boss' strongest suggestions (plus giving me the whole week off intentionally), I came in to the office today. I can't stay at the flat, wallowing in my thoughts about Moriarty. I will admit though, leaving Sherlock home alone with no case on hand was a bad idea. I don't understand why he didn't just go with John to watch the defense; I'm sure Moriarty had some elaborate scheme in that.

Everyone here at the museum has been keeping up the trial; the small TV in the break room is always turned to the news channel and I've been listening to the radio coverage on my phone during my lunch break. True, my honest source of information is Sherlock: he knows what Moriarty is up too and can understand that man's twisted thoughts better then anyone. Maybe that's why he didn't go with John today; maybe he's already figured out what Moriarty has in store for the prosecution.

Trying not to focus too much on the trial, I flip through the pages of my textbook and continue to type up my new lecture: Argentine governments…woo hoo. The clock ticks by and I'm completely involved in my work; my very own mind palace, one could say. Suddenly, there is a quick knock at my door:

"It's open," I say, typing up my last paragraph. The door creeks open and my boss, Janice, sticks her head in.

"Elfie," she says, her voice very serious. Caught a bit off guard by her tone, I lift my head from my work and look at her. She seems very stressed and worried; has something happened?

"Janice, what's up?" I ask, "Is there something wrong?"

"Come and look at the telly," she says with a heavy sigh, "I think you need to see this." Furrowing my brow in confusion, I rise from my desk and follow her to the break room. My coworkers are staring at the screen in shock as I enter the break room: some shaking their heads in disbelief, others mumbling things like 'This isn't right' and 'I don't understand it'. Janice looks at me then nudges her head toward the screen. I look and I can feel the color leave my face as I read the bold headline:

"Verdict in Old Bailey Trial: James Moriarty found NOT GUILTY"

Not guilty.

James Moriarty is not guilty.

I shake my head in disbelief and grab hold of the back of a chair to steady myself. This can't be right? How? How the hell did the jury not convict him? All the evidence was pointing to him and he was waiting at the crime scene for goodness sake. Are these people stupid? This can't be happening right now.

"Elfie," Janice says, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder, "if…if you need to go home, that is completely okay. I can get someone else to finish the Argentine lecture."

"I…I have to make a phone call." I stutter, quickly turning on my heel and heading back to my office. I have to call Sherlock; he must know what is going on. He must understand why the jury wouldn't convict Moriarty. I open my top desk drawer and take out my phone. To my surprise, there is a text message waiting for me:

'I know the verdict; John called and told me. Don't panic, I'm fine. Just stay at work–SH'

I read over the text again and again until I decide to just press the call button and tell him that I'm coming home whether he likes it or not. Before I think about what I'm going to say, Sherlock picks up much quicker than I expected:

"I said not to panic," he says in his monotone way.

"I'm not panicking, I'm just worried about you." I say, trying my best to sound calm, "What happened?"

"How should I know? I wasn't there." He replies, coldly, "If you want an eyewitness account, I suggest you call John."
"Sherlock, don't be harsh." I say, feeling a bit hurt, "Listen, Janice is letting me off early. I'll be home in about…"

"That won't be necessary," he quickly says, taking me by surprise, "You need to stay at work."

"Why? What if Moriarty comes for you?"

"Then I will handle it." He says with an icy sting to his voice, "As I told you when this whole thing began, I don't want you any where near Moriarty. If his intention is to find me right now, which I suppose it is, then let him. In fact, I welcome it. I'm through playing this game, I want it to be over with."

"So do I Sherlock, but right now, you're scaring me." I say, "I don't want you to get hurt or have Moriarty make some sort of threat. Tell me I'm over reacting, Sherlock, please. Tell me your going to be okay."

It's quiet on his end and I bite my lower lip; what's he thinking? Does he have a plan? He needs to just talk to me.

"Stay at work." He demands.

"But…"

"Please just do as I ask." He says, "Just…I'll see you later."

Before I can get in another word, Sherlock hangs up. I toss my phone back into the drawer and sigh heavily. I fall back into my office chair and run my hands through my hair: How? How could Moriarty be allowed to walk free? What the hell is going on? Sherlock must know something and he's just not telling me. He says he doesn't want to worry me, but I can't help but be worried. I don't want the love of my life to be harmed by that maniac.

Is that so much to ask?

Five o'clock finally arrives and I run out to the steps of the museum faster then the speed of light. I catch a cab and am quickly on my back home to Baker Street. When I reach 221b, I run upstairs in hopes that Sherlock is in the living room thinking or experimenting or anything really. I just want to see him.

"Sherlock," I call as I reach the top step, "Sherlock, honey, are you in?"

"He's in the bedroom."

I quickly turn my head to see John, sitting in his chair reading the paper. "Is he alright?" I ask but John just shrugs.

"I'm not sure," he says, "When I got home, all he told me was that Moriarty had been here and that…"

"Moriarty was here?" I exclaim, "At the flat? Oh my God, this can't be real. What did he say? Did he threaten Sherlock? Did something happen?"

"Fee, calm down and breathe," John says, setting down his paper, "Sherlock is fine; he and Moriarty, apparently, just talked."

"Talked? About what?"

"I don't know, but Sherlock said that he's handling it. I think, Fee we should just take his word for it and move on."

"Move on? John, Moriarty is crazy. God only knows what he's going to do next! He could very well harm Sherlock and I…I don't want that to happen."

I give off a heavy sigh and plop down in the chair opposite John, resting my elbows on my knees and hiding my face in my hands. Carefully, John leans forward and places a firm hand on my shoulder; "I don't either," he says in his comforting way, "but I trust him. I think, this time, we should just let him do his own thing and not get too involved. Moriarty has always been Sherlock's biggest problem; Let him solve it and it will all be over before we know it."

I raise my head to look at John and I give him a small smile. He's right; he's always right. "What happened at the trial, John?" I ask, running my hands through my hair, "I…I need to know."

"There was no defense," he explains with a heavy sigh, "Moriarty just stood there and the jury only took 8 minutes to decide."

"He rigged it, the bastard." I say under my breath, "Then what happened?"

"The press had a field day, Moriarty walk out a free man," John sighs, "I called Sherlock right away, but he just hung up on me."

"At least he was blunt with you," I say with a scoff, "When I called him, he was…well, to be honest, he was being a dick."

"Whoa there," John says with a chuckle, "That was unexpected. I mean, he told me you would be upset with him, but wow. I don't think I've ever heard you call him anything other than 'love' or 'honey' before. Dick is a bit of a change." I look at John and we both laugh.

"I'm sorry, it's been a stressful day." I say, running my fingers through my hair. John just nods and gives me a brotherly smile. He truly is the best friend anyone could ask for; He will listen to you moan and groan about your troubles and he'll always have the perfect thing to say. Not everyone in the world has a John Watson, and I'm beyond grateful for mine.

"You should go see Sherlock," John says, nudging his head toward the hall, "He won't say it, of course, but…He needs some comfort right now."

I nod and give John a warm hug: "Thanks for letting me scream."

"Anytime." He replies with a chuckle.

I then rise from the chair and head toward the bedroom. I can see the light shining from under the door, but there's no noise coming from inside. Cautiously, I knock. "It's your bedroom too, there's no need to knock." Comes the deep reply from within and I roll my eyes: He sounds like himself so he must be okay.

I slowly turn the knob and enter the dimly lit bedroom. Sherlock is lying on his back, on top of the bed sheets, dressed in only his pajama bottoms, reading a book. I close the door behind me and cautiously take a seat next to his legs.

"I'm not a bomb," he says with a hint of annoyance in his voice, "you don't have to tiptoe around me."

"Sorry," I say, removing my shoes, "I…I thought you'd still be upset and I didn't want to set you off."

"What would give you that impression?" he asks, slowly turning a page.

"Your reading fiction," I say, "You hate fiction. You only read it when you're frustrated with the world. Simple deduction, really."

Sherlock sets the book down on his chest and looks at me with a proud smirk: "I've taught you well." He says and I can't help but smile. He smiles back but then returns his attention to his book: "Oh, by the way, your cup is on the side table; your tea is getting cold. We're out of milk, so you'll have to drink it straight."

"My what?" I ask, a bit confused

Sherlock nudges his head to the right and I notice a cup of tea waiting on a saucer on the bedside table. I look back at my husband and then back at the tea; this is odd. He never makes tea, not even when it's just him and John.

"So, Mr. Holmes, tell me," I inquire, picking up the cup and taking a sip, "Are you trying to butter me up for something?"

"Is that what I'm suppose to do after a fight," he asks, "'butter you up'?"

The mood suddenly shifts toward the negative and its silent between us. 'How do I reply to that?' I think, 'True, I understand his harshness, but the argument still stings.'

"Would you call it a fight?" I ask, setting the cup down again.

"Yes, because I shouted at you and I didn't mean it." He says, still not looking at me, "I was just…thinking."

"You're always thinking," I say, rubbing my hand up and down his leg, "what difference does it make if you snapped at me today?"

"As you just stated, I was being a…dick." Sherlock replies. I sheepishly look down at my feet: Of course he overheard John and I just now, he's Sherlock.

Sherlock sets the book down again and sits up, wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling me in close; "I didn't mean to upset you," he goes on, gently turning my head so that we are eye to eye, "I just didn't want to put you in any danger. I thought that if you had come home while Moriarty was here, he would bring some sort of harm to you. You must understand that I was protecting you."

"I do," I say, stroking Sherlock's cheek, "But…what did he say to you? What on Earth did you talk about?"

Sherlock becomes very stern as he cups my face in his hands: "Elfie, you must listen to me," he says, sounding very concerned, " I don't know when, nor do I know how, but things are going to drastically change. Moriarty has made it clear to me that he will stop at nothing to see me fall and I-For the first time in my life, Elfie, I don't know what's going to happen. I can't predict his movements or where he's going to be next. But this is one thing Im absolutely sure of: I can't loose you. I don't' care what happens to me, just as long as I keep you safe. But you're going to have to trust me."

"Sherlock, honey, I trust you with my life, you know that." I say, nuzzling my forehead against his, "I'm here for you and I'm always going to be. Nothing is going to separate us. You said it yourself, we're an 'us': Whatever Moriarty has planed, no matter how difficult, I'm going to be by your side. I promise you that."

Sherlock sighs heavily and wraps his arms around me in a tight embrace. "I love you, Elfie Marie Holmes." He whispers into my ear, "So very much."

"I love you too, Sherlock." I reply, holding him in return, "And I'm glad that this stupid trial is over."

"As am I, my darling girl, as am I."

*Two Months Later*

I grip onto the porcelain sink for dear life and squeeze my eyes shut. My whole world is spinning, causing me to feel dizzy and exhausted. Another wave of nausea hits me and I heave into the sink. Luckily nothing comes out, but that does no good for my gnawing headache. I slowly lift my head and look at myself in the mirror; my face is pale and my eyes look tired.

Being sick is absolute hell.

I splash some water onto my face and take in slow deep breaths. Finding some balance, I let go of the sink and head out of the bathroom. I feel warm, but not in the sense of a fever. It's more like an uncomfortable heat, annoyance as oppose to a symptom. Readjusting my pajama shorts and tank top, I throw on Sherlock's blue dressing gown and, taking my very sweet time, manage to walk down the hall to the living room. I'll feel cooler out there, surely.

Sherlock is seated at his desk, typing away about some new experiment of his. Smiling meekly, I shuffle over to him and place a kiss on the top of his messy mop of curls.

"Oh, hello," he says, turning is head to see me over his shoulder, "I thought you'd still be in bed."

"It was lonely in there...and warm." I reply with a groan.

"Not much I can do about the weather, love," he says, returning to his typing, "But go lay on the couch, I'll keep you company."

"Your working."

"So?"

"That's not keeping my company. That's just being in the same room as me."

"Isn't that the definition of company?" Sherlock looks at me with a half mouth smirk and opens his arms to me: "Come here." He coos and I gladly cuddle up into his lap.

"I don't want to get you sick," I mumble, fiddling with his shirt collar.

"I don't care," He replies, kissing the top of my head. I smile and rest my head on his shoulder. Just as I get comfortable, Sherlock's phone goes off.

"Who is it?" I yawn, "Lestrade?"

"Yes. He's probably going to drag me off to some crime scene," He says, digging out his phone from his jacket pocket, "If that's the case then, darling, I suggest you go back to sleep or at least lie down until John gets home. One of the benefits of living with a doctor, he's always on call."

I let out a small chuckle but quickly grab my stomach. I sprint to the kitchen and reach the bin just as I vomit. The dizziness returns, accompanied by my aching joints. God, this is awful. I never get sick so what is this? Another hit of nausea rears its head and I latch onto the sides of the bin. Fortunately, Sherlock comes up behind me and holds my hair back away from my face.

"Alright, come on then," Sherlock says, rubbing my back, "back to bed with you, Mrs. Holmes."

"I'm fine," I say, my head still in the bin, "Really. Just give me…Oh, Christ." I heave again and let out an agitated moan. The next thing I know, Sherlock lifts me up into his arms: one hooked under my knees and the other latched around my back. Feeling too much like crap to protest, I wrap my arms around his neck and rest my head on his shoulder.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock shouts, "Can you come up a minute?" I close my eyes and nuzzle my head under his chin. I hear Mrs. Hudson's heels against the hardwood floor, but I don't look up to see her. Right now, I'm perfectly fine cuddled up in Sherlock's arms.

"Oh, poor dear. She still doesn't feel any better?" I hear her say as she sets a comforting hand on my shoulder.

"Unfortunately, no." Sherlock replies, "Mrs. Hudson, would you be so kind as to allow Elfie to rest down at your flat? Lestrade is on his way and it's much cooler on your couch. She was complaining about feeling warm."

"Of course, of course, go right ahead." She says. The next thing I know, Sherlock is carrying me down the stairs and into Mrs. Hudson's flat; he's right, it is much cooler in here. He sets me down on the couch and sets a hand on my forehead.

"No fever, that's good," he whispers, running his fingers through my hair, "Probably the flu, mild case of course. Give it 24 hours and this should pass."

"God I hope so," I groan, "I have to get back to work soon." Sherlock smiles at me and kisses my cheek.

"Rest now, love," he whispers, "I'll be back shortly." I nod and allow myself to fall in a comforting sleep. I don't know how long I was out, but I was vaguely aware of Sherlock coming back, kissing me on the forehead, whispering 'be back shortly' and then dashing off at one point. When I do fully wake up, Mrs. Hudson is entering her living room with a tray of tea.

"You look better already, Elfie," she says, setting the tray down on the coffee table, "maybe all you needed was a good rest."

Coming to my senses, I run my hands through my oily strands of hair and sit up: "Where did Sherlock go?" I ask with a yawn.

"On a case, dear," she replies, "him and John left with the police about an hour ago. They went to some boarding school or something, I'm not sure which one. Sherlock wanted to move you back upstairs but I said that it was perfectly fine if you stayed down here; no need for him to carry you all the way back up."

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson," I grumble, "I didn't mean to just crash on your couch like that."

"Oh no, no, no, it's perfectly fine." She says in her motherly way, "You know, your husband use to do the same thing when he was sick. When I first met him, he was always ill. He would always make such a fuss, saying that he was perfectly fine when he could even walk, and I'd make sure he'd sleep on my sofa until he sobered up. Sherlock would plop right down and sleep for ages."

"Goodness, he must have been a wreck," I say, carefully pouring myself a cup of tea, "I've never known him to just fall asleep like that."

"Well, you know, he lead a different life then." Mrs. Hudson says, sitting down beside me, "but enough about that. How are you feeling?"
"Um, better I guess," I say, "I'm not as nauseous or dizzy, but that's what happened yesterday."

"Yesterday?" she asks, "Sherlock said that you had just become sick."

"It wasn't as bad as it was today, I was able to hide it. Well, John figured out that I wasn't feeling well but I told him it was nothing." I explain, sipping my tea, "To be honest, this has been going on for about a week now." The tea suddenly has a bitter taste in my mouth and I squish up my lips. I've never had tea like this before; must be whatever brand Mrs. Hudson has. Politely, I set my cup back down on its saucer.

"And was it like this?" Mrs. Hudson inquires, sounding more like a concerned mother now, "The sickness; did it just come and go?"

"Yes," I say, "I have a constant feeling of exhaustion and the body aches, then comes the throwing up. And…" I suddenly become a tad embarrassed. There is one thing that I haven't told Sherlock or John about, "Can I be honest with you, Mrs. Hudson?" I ask in a whisper

"Of course, dear." She says, taking my hand into hers, "Anything."

"I'm…I'm late." I meekly admit, "You know, for my…you know. I feel foolish for saying it, Mrs. Hudson, but…well…I don't know how else to feel about it"

Mrs. Hudson nods and gently taps my hand: "My dear," she says, with a smile, "this sickness and everything must be connected, you know."

"Well, yes, I thought about that. But how?" I ask,

"There is one thing I can think of, dear." She says with a smile, "And putting the pieces together, I can see no other reason for why you're feeling this way." I open my mouth to speak but then quickly realize what she's really saying. The nausea, the dizziness, the aches, and the distaste, all of it: It makes sense now. I'm not sick, I'm…no. No I can't be. I mean, it is perfectly possible, but…No. No way. I look at Mrs. Hudson with a mixture of confusion and disbelief.

She's right; she has to be.

It's the only logical explanation.

Oh God.

"Mrs. Hudson," I say in a whisper, "Am I…I mean, I think I'm…Oh my god."

"Oh, Elfie," she says, setting a comforting hand on my cheek, "you're going to have a baby."

Hello, hello, hello!

So…plot twist much?

I have plans for how I'm going to incorporate the pregnancy into the original Reichenbach plot, but I don't want to flip the episode entirely. I feel like that is unfair to the writers. I have read similar story arcs, but rest assured I have my own plot brewing.

Thanks as always for all the follow, favorites and reviews. They really do help me keep going with the writing process.

I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.

Much love and many thanks.