"Sherlock…"
"Sherlock…"
"Five minutes, Granger."
"I'm pregnant, Sherlock."
There was a loud crash as Sherlock dropped a petri dish full of coagulating hemoglobin. "You're pregnant?"
Hermione nodded, face very white as she stood, immobilized in the bathroom doorway.
"Would you have been any less pregnant in five minutes?"
Hermione broke down into hysterical giggles at Sherlock's put-upon expression and slowly sank to the floor.
…
"Of course it's yours you fucking idiot! I haven't been with anyone else."
"But we used protection!"
"Obviously it failed."
"You have to get rid of it. There's still a few weeks, right? I'll drive you to the clinic this Saturday."
"Lyle… I'm not getting rid of it."
"Don't you think I should have some say in this? I don't want to be a father, Hermione!"
"You don't have to be. Fucking hell, I'm not going to ask you marry me or for money or whatever. I just thought you should know."
…
"Have you given any more thought to the idea of abortion?"
"No, and I'm not going to."
"I'm really not comfortable with this, Hermione."
"Well I'm really not comfortable with you."
"Do you want me to go?"
Hermione was silent for a long moment. "Yeah. Yes, actually. Lyle, I don't think things are working out for us. They haven't been for a long time. Fuck, I don't even like you anymore. Yes. You should go. And you shouldn't come back. I'll send someone from my solicitor's office with a parental rights waiver for you to sign. Just… leave me alone."
"Fine then, I guess we're done!"
Lyle slammed the door on the way out, and Hermione didn't bother to get up and lock it after him.
Sherlock returned several hours later to find her asleep on the couch, smiling for the first time in the weeks since she had told him she was pregnant. He draped a blanket over her and she opened her eyes.
"I broke things off with Lyle."
"Good. I never liked him. Lestrade has a new case for me! A locked room, a missing will, it's all very murder-mystery-theater, except there's no butler to have done it."
"Oh, and who did, then?" She sat up, rubbing her eyes.
"The mistress, but the trick will be in proving it…"
There was something incredibly reassuring about Sherlock's complete disinterest in the fact that she was alone and pregnant, unemployed, and had no idea what she was going to do with her life. It was like intangible, but undeniable proof that the world was not coming to an end. Life went on. Stupid people killed other stupid people. Questions were asked, mysteries were solved, and the world kept turning.