Days turned to weeks and weeks into nearly a month, all seemingly in the blink of an eye.

Part of it could definitely be attributed to the revisions made to Dr. Wilson's bed rest prescription. One wholly maddening week into it, she had given John another check-up which, blessedly, had ended optimistically. Though she still wanted him resting the majority of the time, she granted him permission to be up and about, provided he was very careful about exerting himself. It was still difficult to put up with, but it was an absolute godsend in comparison to the boredom hell that was complete bed rest.

But, John knew, the greatest thing that impacted how quickly time sped by was the fact that Sherlock was back on Baker Street – back in his life. Gone were the days where hours felt like centuries, dragged down and stretched out thanks to a nasty combination of grief and fear of further loss. Those wounds were still fresh, still a little too raw when John thought about them too hard, but they weren't festering anymore. He was even healing, although perhaps "feeling a bit better about the whole drama, thanks" was a better way of putting it, since "healing" made him feel like he was back with his psychiatrist.

In any case, a Sherlock-infused life was a busy life, especially since Sherlock had not been exaggerating in the slightest when he'd said that John was now involved in the dismantling of Moriarty's web. Granted, he obviously hadn't been able to go ducking and weaving through criminal underworlds with Sherlock, but he'd assisted in other ways.

He'd helped Sherlock brainstorm, intentionally or otherwise. Once when they'd been poring over a difficult cypher, he'd simply mentioned having a craving for something salted and Sherlock lit up as if struck by lightning. He'd scribbled madly at the cypher, shouted something in Italian, kissed John deeply with no warning whatsoever, and left the room, yelling in Italian again. Two days later, he returned with half a pound of expensive-looking prosciutto di Parma and the news that they didn't have to worry about any of Moriarty's Italian contacts anymore. He also reeked like he'd fallen into a vat of garlic.

John was still trying to make sense of any of it.

And even when Sherlock was out and about on such missions, he kept John updated. Perhaps a little too enthusiastically. The correspondence almost always devolved into something like this:

Arrived in Dublin. Flight was postponed 30 minutes, hence the delay of this text. – S

WASN'T CONCERNED, BUT OKAY.

And of course that's not including the actual flight-time, and the fascistic regulations they all have about using mobiles in the air. – S

I'VE ALREADY TRIED TO EXPLAIN HOW THAT CAN LITERALLY KILL YOU. NOT DOING IT AGAIN.

A breakdown in communication is far more likely to get me killed than a mere plane falling from the sky. – S

I am about to buy an outrageously overpriced coffee. Considering odds of price-gouging baristas being part of the web. Add it to our notes. – S

John? – S

Ten minutes have gone by without a response. Still in the airport; I can return. – S

FOR FUCK'S SAKE, SHERLOCK, I WAS IN THE LOO.

It's called a mobile for a reason. – S

NOPE. WORST RESPONSE. TURNING OFF PHONE.

And so on.

It didn't help that John's life was busy and stressful even discounting the continued campaign to wipe Moriarty's influence away and repair all the damaged records and reputations left in his wake. Simply put, he and Sherlock were woefully behind in practical baby preparation. The notion of baby-proofing the flat was so daunting, John wasn't sure if it was even possible. Nobody besides Sherlock Holmes – the textbook definition of a biased party – could possibly know what effect countless bizarre experiments had upon the very infrastructure of the flat, especially since said experiments tended to involve mold growth, putrefaction, or even just good old-fashioned acid exposure to disembodied human limbs. For all John knew, the floorboards might be sentient now.

Then there was the trouble of actually procuring things for the baby. With Sherlock still officially dead and John unable to leave the flat due to the risk to his physical safety and privacy, options were limited. Online shopping was an absolute godsend, but it had the drawback of feeling a little impersonal. Still, it wasn't like John had any valued traditional family baby heirlooms to pass on. Having come from a home where money was always a concern, a good portion of his toys and clothes had been Harry's androgynous leftovers, and he was fairly sure they'd all been donated to various jumble sales long ago.

So it was interesting, to say the least, when sentiment snuck into 221B wearing the impeccably practical mask of Mycroft Holmes.

He'd brought a bassinet. Or, specifically, he'd strolled in and gave directions while 'Anthea' carried it in. One only needed to glimpse it to realize it was antique. It was shaped out of dark wrought-iron, clearly the work of a master craftsman. A curled iron hook extended up from the head of the bassinet's base, and an ivory-tinted gauzy material hung from it, draped delicately over the bed portion. Although it was likely there for aesthetics, John couldn't help remembering the times he'd slept under mosquito netting while in the Army. He was also surprised to find that the bed was designed to rock from side to side, and that when he tested it, it did so smoothly. No rusted creaks or stuttering stickiness in the joints; it had been well taken care of over the years.

"Its first occupant died in 1930, at the ripe age of 71," Mycroft explained while John inspected the bassinet. "Our great-great-grandfather. I think the rest of the family resigned themselves to the notion that Sherlock would be the last of us to use it, but here we are. If any of them see that it's gone from storage before any proper announcements can be made, I'm sure there will be quite a bit of gossip."

John tried to thank Mycroft, but it was a bit difficult to hear with Sherlock speaking over him. "Oh, just spit out what you want, Mycroft," Sherlock growled from the sofa, where he had flopped on his side to sulk.

"Sherlock!" John chastised. "Can't something just be a nice gesture?"

"Not when it comes from him."

John rolled his eyes and started to apologize to Mycroft, but the older Alpha held up a hand to stop him. "In this particular case, my brother is correct." Sherlock scoffed. "I'm not just here to propagate family tradition."

"Like I said, 'spit it out'," Sherlock muttered.

Mycroft set his jaw and gave Sherlock a look that promised no room for complaint. "I think it's time you come forward and show the world you're alive."

"Are you mad?" Sherlock exclaimed, sitting up in a scramble. "There's still work to be done!"

"Only Sebastian Moran is left, Sherlock. You know that."

"Oh only Sebastian Moran! Of course!" He grabbed his arm dramatically and continued, "It appears I've been bitten by a snake! No worries, though, it's only a black mamba. I can just walk it off!" He glared viciously at Mycroft and continued, "I look forward to your new pest control service, wherein you remove the tails from all the rats you catch, give them fertility medication, and let them loose in the house again."

"Oh, multiple metaphors," John murmured, rubbing his back as he made for a place to sit. On his way, he lifted his laptop from the table and, upon sitting down, balanced it precariously on what remained of his lap. "He is angry."

Mycroft soldiered on. "While it is true that Colonel Sebastian Moran cannot be underestimated, he has been completely off the radar for well over a year. There's been no sign of him whatsoever, Sherlock, well before this whole affair even began."

"Biding time," Sherlock grumbled. "Waiting for an ideal time to strike."

"Perhaps. But the fact remains that he vanished well before you ever aired any public suspicions about Moriarty's network. You made that accusation at the trial. The last activity anyone can attribute to Moran was a sniping assassination almost half a year before that. Something has driven him to inactivity and he has stayed there with absolute resolution."

While Sherlock irritably rambled out the many, many different ways that could be a trap, John tried to think about what could send Moran into such inactivity. Although John had never personally met Moran face-to-face (though he suspected he'd been the subject of his laser sights at least once), he found himself running through what facts he knew of Moriarty's right-hand man. Like himself, Moran was an Army man, skilled with weaponry, and gladly in the orbit of a brilliant sociopathic weirdo. At least John's weirdo was self-(and, John believed utterly, mis-)diagnosed as a sociopath; Moran's was infinitely more clear-cut.

With so many superficial similarities in their backgrounds, John felt weirdly qualified to wonder about Moran's motivations. He idly rubbed his stomach as he considered it. What's more important than doing what he really loves, which in this case is murdering people from very far away? If it were me, what would drive me into hiding?

His hand stilled. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck raise up in shocked realization.

Not would. What has driven me into hiding.

"Is he an Omega?" John asked in a rush, catching his laptop before his excitement could topple it over. In unison, Sherlock and Mycroft turned to look at him. John would have to tease Sherlock about their identical bemused expressions later. "Sebastian Moran. Is he an Omega?"

"We don't know. All of his records – educational, medical, Army – have been highly censored. Not even our best men have been able to recover most of his information," Mycroft said. "His reproductive abilities included."

"It's possible," Sherlock said. His eyes flicked about for a second as calculations ran in his head. "Unlikely, however. He was a Colonel, after all."

"Honestly, Sherlock, you are aware you got a Captain up the duff," John barked. "Omegas have been allowed in the Army for nearly thirty years."

"And how many other Omega Captains did you know? Lieutenants?" Sherlock asked. When John's only response was a puzzled frown, Sherlock continued, "I thought so. While Omegas are allowed in the Army, there are still definite promotion biases in favor of Betas and especially Alphas. I recall you complaining about such things at length."

"Yes, fine, that's true," John said. "But you said it yourself, it's possible for Moran to be an Omega. And that could explain his absence. He might not be biding his time for a perfect strike. And he might not be lying low just to save his own skin."

Sherlock stared at John, unblinking. "You think he's had a child."

"Maybe."

"Moriarty's."

"That'd be our luck."

Sherlock leapt from the sofa and began to pace. "Too many variables. Can't rule that idea out, but can't rule out an elaborate trap, either." He growled, fisting his hands in his thick hair. "I need more information!"

"So we force his hand," Mycroft said calmly. "You can't allow Moran to define how you will live the rest of your life. For you see, if you insist on leaving it to Moran to make the first move in this little Cold War, you are looking at a lifelong stalemate."

"He has a point," John said. He thought he heard Sherlock mutter something about said point being atop Mycroft's head, but he ignored it. "I've known a lot of snipers. They'll wait forever if they have to, Sherlock. Trying to out-wait a sniper is like trying to win a staring contest against a statue."

Sherlock grimaced, crossing his arms. He continued to pace for a few long moments, lost in an internal game of chess between himself and a hypothetical Sebastian Moran.

"Also, I just updated the blog with an entry that just says 'Big news coming soon'. And I know people are still checking the page out, since I've been getting dozens of messages a day about people believing in you recently. So. Y'know. You'd better do it," John said.

Sherlock turned to him, slack-jawed. "You didn't."

"Oh, I think I did."

"He did," 'Anthea' confirmed from the kitchen, where she'd been lurking while messing about on her phone.

"They'll think it's a hacker being clever."

"'Edit: definitely not a hack, I swear,'" John said slowly as he typed the words out with his index fingers. He clicked the track pad purposefully. "And sent."

"Conspiracy! Traitor!" Sherlock moaned. "Delete it."

"Nope. Already got a response." He closed the laptop and fixed Sherlock with a resolute stare. "Now, listen to me. I'm feeling cooped-up, physically drained, and I've had this awful nagging backache all day. Normally all that irritating pregnancy stuff is mitigated by being able to share the good bits with family and friends, but that's been really damned difficult thanks to our circumstances. Our circumstances which, though not 100% resolved, are at least a bit better for us now that people are willing to believe in you. So you are going to announce that you're alive, present all the evidence you've collected about Moriarty's web, and politely answer the questions you get asked. And then a week or two later, if things have calmed down a little, I can reveal why I won't be with you when you reveal all this. We outnumber Moran, and we can deal with him when and if it becomes necessary. Got it?"

Sherlock stared at him, wide-eyed.

"Mycroft, when can you make the arrangements for Sherlock to rise from the grave?" John asked, though his scrutiny was still fixed on Sherlock.

"Full preparations can be made within three hours. This includes everything from alerting all desired audiences to making a thorough sweep of the perimeter in the admittedly unlikely event Moran does somehow know what is happening and chooses to act."

"Good," John said with a nod. "Go on, then."

"Project Lazarus is go. Swiftest timetable. Make the calls," Mycroft called toward the kitchen. 'Anthea' sauntered out, dialing away.

John continued, "Sherlock, you've got three hours. You're not going out there in your boxers and dressing robe, so have a shower and get dressed. And then Mycroft probably has the best things for you to say written up already, so you're going to suck it up and go over them with him."

Sherlock continued to stare at John as if the rules of physics no longer applied around him. He opened his mouth a few times, clearly trying to formulate something to say, but nothing came.

"Did I stutter? March!" John ordered.

And, impressively, Sherlock did just that.

"Well done," Mycroft said once the bathroom door slammed shut. "You'll be a truly exceptional parent."

"Yeah, well," John mumbled, waving the compliment off. "Maybe it's a good thing I'm getting all this experience dealing with sulky, pig-headed types. Probably won't be thrown for a loop once the kid's a teenager." He glanced at Mycroft and frowned in confusion at the appraising look the older Alpha was giving him. "What is it?"

"Merely thinking that if you weren't already mated to my brother, I might not object to snagging you myself. Perhaps I should have tried harder to win you to my side when you first met Sherlock." Mycroft shrugged. "Idle thoughts."

Now it was John's turn to gape openly. After a moment, he cleared his throat and said, "Right. Well. Huh. Let's never get anywhere remotely near this topic again, shall we?"

"I'm afraid I have no idea what topic you may be referring to."

"Good. Um. Wise words." John set his laptop down and began the struggle to stand up. He groaned and rubbed at his back again once he was standing. "I am not going to miss what an ordeal it's become just to get out of chairs. I'm going to lie down for a bit; Dr. Wilson's disobedient patient sense is probably tingling like anything with me being out of bed so much today. Oh, and Mycroft?"

"Hm."

"If he makes a scene, feel free to kick him for me."

"I'll put my top men on it."

Three and a half hours later, John was lying in bed with a cool, slightly damp rag over his eyes and a hot water bottle under the small of his back. Mrs. Hudson had fetched them for him earlier, hoping they might ease the aches he'd been experiencing all day, but they'd had little impact.

He winced when he felt an especially powerful twinge, much stronger than the dull, low-level pain he'd been putting up with for hours. And then the water bottle ruptured, soaking his upper thighs. Irritated, he pulled the full, undamaged bottle out and...

It wasn't the water bottle.

It wasn't a backache.

And for a moment, the only thing that ran through John's head was, Oh.

Without bothering to think things further, he grabbed his phone from the bedside table and immediately called Sherlock.

The announcement had started off calmly enough. Officials standing behind a podium in front of a very dignified curtain, showing how all of the different pockets of criminals were related. Proving that Jim Moriarty was that common thread. Presenting the evidence which had been trickling in that Richard Brook was an elaborate fraud: forged credentials, extravagant bribes, signs of file-tampering. A few of the journalists had contrite faces, but the majority displayed righteous indignation. Of course they hadn't run with the story, heavens no; shame on their weaker, more easily-duped brethren for doing so.

Such short memories.

And then came the declaration that in order to fully expose the breadth of this deception, someone had to go further than any living man or woman could. The only perfect cover was death.

It took fifteen minutes for the crowd to quiet down once Sherlock stepped out from behind the curtain and walked up to the podium, pausing just long enough to have one of the government officials clip a microphone to his coat lapel.

Of course there were questions before the official Q&A period could begin. People confronted with such shocking news are rarely known for being reserved when it comes to shouting out what's on their minds.

Naturally, the first questions were variations on a theme: How did you do it? – How long did it take? – How many, exactly, were there?

The response to those was easy: "That will be explained in full detail once you all get these gut-reaction questions out of your collective systems. The proper Q&A will be much less muddied by such basic factual inquiries as a result."

Why? required a bit more personal flair. "As the officials explained before my reappearance, I could not allow Moriarty to get away with conning the world. And then there was the fact that the most important people in my life were under mortal threat if I did not choose the course of action I did."

That was like catnip for the gossip-mongers. Where is Doctor Watson, anyway? – Trouble in paradise? – There are rumors that he's mated with a minor government official: confirm or deny?

"Due to personal, private reasons, John is unable to attend today. But he sends his regards." A smirk. "Quite the opposite." A scowl. "Denied. Vehemently."

Finally, they seemed to be calming down. "Now, if you could hold your-" He managed to stop himself from saying 'inane'. John would be so proud of him. "Various questions until after I detail the process, we can get through this much more efficiently."

He was about halfway through his description on the size and global spread of Moriarty's web when he felt the vibration of his phone as it received a call. Because he had no shame in multitasking, he continued his explanation as he checked the call I.D.

John.

The rest of his sentence withered in his throat. "I have to take this call," he said. Still staring at the phone, he gestured vaguely to one of the government officials nearby. "Mr. Name I Didn't Bother Learning will be a fine substitute; listen to him until I'm done. It shouldn't take long. Ideally."

With that, he stepped away from the podium and turned his back to the crowd as he accepted the call.

He also completely neglected to remove or turn off his microphone.

Sherlock's voice was a hushed rush. "It's an emergency. You know where I am and what is happening – you practically masterminded it, after all – and now you've call me during it? Emergency. Clearly. What is happening and are you safe?"

The microphone picked up a slight murmur, but that was all. The crowd completely ignored Mr. Name Sherlock Didn't Bother Learning in favor of speculation.

Sherlock's voice was now slightly incredulous. "Your waters have broken?"

The crowd went deathly silent. Had Sherlock not had his back to the crowd, he would have seen every eye in the audience stare at him in shock and every mouth hang open in disbelief.

"Have Mrs. Hudson clean the glass and the spill up. What were you doing with multiple glasses of water, anyway, and how does this constitute an emergency call?" There was a brief pause. Another murmur. "What do you mean 'not that kind of water'? What kind, then?"

He was silent for another moment, and the murmur was insistent. Sherlock's back straightened noticeably, muscles going tight and his fingers clenching firmer around his phone. "That isn't possible," he said. His words were clipped. "It's supposed to go for forty weeks. Forty. You're only at thirty-three. That's seven less – seven! So- so clearly, it's something else and - they can be born early?"

He went quiet again. "Yes, I'll be there soon." At that, he finally turned back to the crowd and took in their expressions of shock. He glanced down at his lapel. Realization dawned on his face.

"Ah, one last thing before I hang up and proceed in your direction," Sherlock said. "I may have neglected to remove the microphone during this conversation."

As he lowered the phone past the microphone, it picked up John Watson's indignant voice. "You WHAT? Sherlock – !" That was all before the call ended.

In the moment of shocked silence that followed, Sherlock saw a black car pull up at the kerb on the street opposite. Definitely one of Mycroft's. He scanned the crowd and noted the best possible trajectory to take to get him from where he was standing to that car.

And then he lit the powder keg.

"Well. My blogger has just informed me that we shall be parents within the next few hours. Therefore, rain check."

The crowd roared into action with flashing cameras and shouted questions, all while Sherlock Holmes ran like he'd never run before, dodging and weaving through the din. Things didn't die down even after Sherlock hopped into the car and sped away. A few of the clever ones who made it to their own vehicles tried to follow, only to meet with malfunctioning traffic lights that only seemed to break down after the getaway car passed by smoothly.

If Sherlock were in a less stressful position, he might turned back to watch as the last of the following cars were left in the dust. He might have even made a note to ask Mycroft if he'd lost a two or three ounces of weight. That was the closest he was going to get to a thank you for such a feat, after all.

As it was, he pressed his forehead against the tinted window and stared out, trying to calculate if he was being taken to Baker Street or to whichever hospital Dr. Wilson would have John taken to. Cataloging street signs, evaluating turns, and deducing meaning from different speeds should have been enough of a cool, logical filter to keep his less rational thoughts – how is John how is the baby is it too soon it's too soon too soon too damn soon – from overwhelming him.

Should have been.

It wasn't.