"Good Morning brother dear," Mycroft's manicured voice delivered, strolling into Sherlock's hospital room.

The younger Holmes, who was standing by the window buttoning the cuffs on his shirt, preparing for his departure, turned around slowly. "What are you doing here?"

"I just came to see you on the big day."

"It's hardly momentous." Sherlock finished with the cuffs and went to the closet for his suit jacket.

"Yes, I'm sure. Though it is refreshing to see you in actual clothes. Two months now we've all had to endure the sight of you in polka-dotted hospital gowns."

"Two and a half months…" Sherlock corrected, and then threw his brother a sarcastic glare. "Sorry it was so rough on you." The detective reached one arm into the jacket, but winced when he tried to put the other in, feeling an unpleasant pull on the scar tissue of his still healing bullet wound. He decided to forgo the coat altogether.

Mycroft twirled his cane around once and carried on with logistics. "Well, first things first. We need to find you a place to stay."

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, you can't stay at Baker Street," he calmly revealed.

"Actually, I think I can."

"No, you can't," Mycroft reiterated. "Mrs. Hudson has gone on holiday with that gentleman she's been seeing. They aren't expected back for another three weeks."

"Three week vacation with a man she's only just met? That's a rather large sum of money to put into an uncertain relationship." Sherlock straightened his collar a bit.

"They've been dating almost as long as you've been in hospital," Mycroft reasoned. "And it's no secret he's a wealthy man. Real estate magnate."

"Media mogul," the younger brother quickly shot back.

"Going by what?"

"Last week Mrs. Hudson mentioned she'd started watching a new show on a network she was completely unaware of until about two months ago. Clearly the man is a higher-up for that network and got her to check it out."

"The new show is a documentary style series on evolving architecture outside the city. Have you ever known Mrs. Hudson to be interested in architecture or anything outside the city?" Mycroft returned, sending the metaphorical deduction ball back to Sherlock.

"She's wearing a new scent these days. It's extremely strong and honestly terrible. A man whose paycheck relies on client satisfaction would never risk smelling so overpowering. A media tycoon, on the other hand, wants to be noticed and overpowering. Wants people to know there is someone making him smell faintly of women's perfume." Sherlock smugly smirked at his elder brother. "Your turn."

Mycroft's face also held a smug smile. "The man she's dating is sixty-five, or so I estimate based on the meals ordered during last few dinner dates she's relentlessly been mentioning to me."

"So?"

"How many sixty-five year old men do you know in the media business who don't get pushed out by younger, handsomer faces?"

Sherlock jutted his lower jaw forward, not appearing to have an answer. "There could be some."

"Balance of probability, Sherlock."

Sherlock inwardly cursed his brother and went on collecting his things to prepare for his at-long-last departure from the hospital. "It doesn't matter; I'm going back to my flat. Mrs. Hudson being away will make it more peaceful anyhow."

"Mrs. Hudson being away will make it nearly impossible for you to get back on your feet."

"Back on my feet? What do you think I've been doing for the past two and a half months? Look, I'm on my feet right now."

"Even if you could take care of yourself for the next few weeks it wouldn't matter, 221B Baker Street is being fumigated."

"What?" Sherlock said through clenched teeth.

"There were roaches found," Mycroft smoothly informed, in his lazy tone. "So inconvenient. Not to worry though, I was assured nothing but the deadliest legal chemicals available would be used to eradicate the pests. Unfortunately that means no one can go into the flat for the time being."

"Mycroft, I swear…"

"All your things were moved out first, of course. They've been brought to John and Mary's flat."

Just then, John entered the room. "All packed up then?"

"Did you know about this?!" Sherlock demanded.

"Know about what? What are you two bickering about now?"

"I was just telling Sherlock that he'll be staying with you and Mary. He's taking it as I expected; like a child being told he has to finish his dinner before having dessert."

"Well, course you're staying with us," John said simply, thinking that was fairly obvious. "You've been in the hospital, Mate. You're not just going home alone."

"Yes, I am," Sherlock challenged, growing more annoyed by the second. "I have been rotting away in this stodgy rat hole for weeks. I'm recovered, I'm pissed off, and I'm perfectly free to make my own decisions. Good morning Mycroft, don't let any highly contagious patients hit you on the way out."

OOOOO

"This is ridiculous," Sherlock droned, stepping into John and Mary's flat. His bag hit the floor with a thud.

"Too bad," John replied. "We've put your things in the guest room. Skull included."

"Is Mary here?"

"Uh, no. She's at work. Will be until tonight." Sherlock gave a nod of acknowledgement. "Am I not good enough company for you?"

"No, you're fine. Just haven't talked to her in a few days," he responded, taking his bag to the guest room. "I figured you two finally had the big blow out, maybe thought you told her not to come see me."

"Who she sees and talks to is her business," John answered crossly. "And we didn't have the 'big blow out' you're talking about. Actually we did…the night you went back into the hospital after running away to Leinster Gardens. No, things have been pretty quiet."

"Silent, I'm sure," the detective quipped, rejoining John in the living room.

"You know, I don't get you." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Mary shot you, you. And you're perfectly fine with it. You just want us to kiss and makeup. Forget anything ever happened."

"Please, John. You aren't angry with Mary because she shot me," Sherlock asserted, using his deep, all-knowing voice for effect. "You know why she shot me, she had no choice. She was protecting her child and her husband. People talk about protective mothers in the animal kingdom; trust me, human mothers, much more frightening. They can actually run through the consequences of their action beforehand, but do it anyway. That is true ferocity. No, you're angry with Mary because she lied to you. Because when you found out about her, for a moment, you felt like the woman you fell in love with didn't exist."

"You're understanding people a lot better these days," John sneered.

"I've been surrounded by nurses morning, noon, and night for the past two and a half months. It was a crash course in how to read emotional baggage."

"Still, why are you so okay with it?!" John begged, genuinely stumped at this. "She lied to you too."

"She didn't lie, she omitted the truth."

"Right, right… and you're not crazy, you're omitting sanity."

Sherlock smirked. "Everything about Mary was right in front of me and I missed it," he said and took a seat on the couch. "Mary did not lie to me."

John pursed his lips the way he did when he wanted to hit Sherlock, and breathed out through his nose. "Well, she lied to me."

OOOOO

"Mary," Sherlock called from the kitchen, staring confusedly between the two boxes he held in his hands. "One of these of these cake mixes contains nearly twice the amount of monocalcium phosphate, which one have you been eating?"

"I haven't been eating cake, Sherlock," Mary called back from her bathroom.

He set the cake mixes down and picked up two of the cans he had also extracted from the cabinets. "Have you been eating any canned corn or vegetables? They all have to go. Your pantry is a danger zone." He waited for her response, but heard none. "Mary?" He called again, and decided to head toward the bedroom-bathroom when there was still no answer. "Any levels of BPA in food can be harmful to a fetus, I recommend you immediately get rid of—" He stopped when he saw Mary. "What are you doing?"

She was standing sideways in the mirror, shirt lifted above her abdomen, with a small, sad smile on her lips. She turned to him a bit flustered. "Oh, hi Sherlock…" She rolled her shirt back down. "I was just…having a look."

"At what?" He was perplexed.

"At this," she shrugged with a smile, bringing both hands to her middle. Sherlock, at last, saw what she was going on about. She had a small baby bump. For the last few weeks she had been wearing loose-fitting clothing making it difficult for him to gauge her weight gain. But now he saw. "I guess things have been so strange around here I hadn't noticed how much the baby had grown." When she pulled the shirt tighter he could really see it.

He stared a moment longer and then brought his eyes back up to hers. "At three months the fetus is roughly the size of a kiwi. So most of that weight is you."

Mary shook her head with a smile. "Oh great, thanks."

"Anytime."

"So," she said with a ponderous look as she exited her bedroom and headed toward the living room. "How does a man who doesn't even know the Earth goes around the sun know so much about pregnancy all of a sudden?"

Sherlock groaned and followed her out. "That information is completely irrelevant to life on Earth. The sun will never turn up asking me to solve—"

"No seriously, I'm curious."

He thought a moment. "I recently had a case where a husband suspected his child was not his; I proved this theory correct by precisely mapping out the gestational—"

"Try again, Sherlock," Mary hindered, calling his fib.

Sherlock sighed, not even bothering to go ahead with a second lie. "You were napping earlier; I had nothing to do so I read one of those books by the mantle."

Mary knowingly glanced at the spot on the mantle he pointed to, touched at his investment. "The pregnancy books?"

"Well yes, of course the pregnancy books. Why does a doctor and nurse even have those books? Shouldn't you just know everything already?"

"John's an army doctor," Mary said. "He didn't exactly have to deal with many pregnancies on the front lines."

"And you?"

"Only been practicing five years, remember? Plus, when you're actually the one having the baby, you want to be thorough. More in-depth."

The remainder of the afternoon mainly consisted of Sherlock cleaning out the pantry and every cupboard in the flat of anything that could be harmful to the baby. Despite Mary's protests that she had been extremely careful and had not been eating anything she thought to be dangerous, Sherlock went on cleaning anyway until there was almost nothing left. When finished, he felt very satisfied while Mary was left exhausted and starving.

By the time John returned home from the clinic he found both of them on the couch with three takeaway containers cluttering the coffee table. Upon closer look, he saw that Mary had fallen asleep on Sherlock's rigid shoulder. He suppressed a smile and headed to the kitchen for something to snack on. "Well," he said, gazing into the barren fridge. "You've been busy then?" Sherlock didn't respond.

"Sherlock," John said shutting the door and coming over to his friend.

"Mary's sleeping," the detective, so awkwardly positioned, whispered.

"Yeah I can see that."

"Then shut up."

John rolled his eyes. "She's fine, you can't wake her up once she's on the nod."

Sherlock suspiciously eyed his friend and then, with the greatest caution and tact, lowered Mary from his shoulder down to a pillow on the couch. He waited a moment following the maneuver to be sure she didn't stir. She didn't. "Right then," he said, still speaking in a hushed tone. "How was your afternoon?"

"Tiring, irritating, full of sick people…the usual."

"Sorry to hear that."

"Yeah, well I was just going to grab something to snack on and I noticed my kitchen is nearly empty," John recapped to the person he imagined was responsible for the shortage. "What did you do?"

"Your kitchen was full of harmful products and chemicals. Perhaps not harmful for me or you, but for a baby this size of a walnut quite a different story."

John's mouth hung slightly agape under wrinkled brows. "You're serious? Sherlock, I'm a doctor. I know whether or not something is safe to eat. Why on Earth would I keep things in the house if I knew they could hurt my baby?"

"Same as always John. My eye is keener than yours. Don't be embarrassed, it's keener than everyone's." Sherlock straightened his jacket collar and made his way toward the coffee table to clear the boxes.

"You got a takeaway I see."

"Yes, Mary was craving Chinese food…and pizza. Chinese food on pizza actually." Sherlock stacked the containers and the empty pizza box on the countertop, and the savory aromas immediately enveloped John.

"God, that smells great," he hummed, reaching into the first box, but disappointment soon wiped the smile off his face. "These are all empty…"

"Yep."

"You ordered three," John tried, but then hung his head back and breathed calmingly. "Why on earth would I assume one was mine…" He hustled to the cupboard where he found nothing. Moved right on to the next one.

"Two were for Mary, one was for me. If you wanted us to order you one you should have said so." He watched his friend go from cabinet to cabinet, getting more frustrated each time. "Though there was no guaranteeing it'd be here by the time you got home. Your wife was not at all shy of finishing what I left of mine."

"Sherlock, you can't let her eat like that!" John uttered in a whispered yell so as not to wake the woman sleeping on the couch.

"I tried to stop her, she got angry with me," Sherlock defended, it was the truth anyhow.

"She's going to be sick tonight."

"She's always sick at night…and in the morning…and the occasional afternoon."

"No, if you, Mr. King-of-Deductions-I-Notice-Everything, had been paying attention you would see that she hasn't been getting sick as often lately. That the morning sickness is finally winding down. Except when she eats like crap. Then she gets sick!" John placed both hands sternly on his hips and hung his head exhaustedly.

Sherlock stood quietly, seemingly just as annoyed with John. "What time is it?" he suddenly asked.

John narrowed his brows, but checked his watch anyway. "Just past four."

"Got to go." He vanished into the spare bedroom, hoping John wouldn't follow.

John did. "Where are you going?"

"Out."

"You can't go out."

"Have to. Have to meet someone."

A look of realization spread over John's face. "Oh, bloody no you don't. You are NOT going on a case."

"It's not a case, it's a meeting," Sherlock retorted, throwing his trench coat over his shoulders in an intentionally ostentatious manner. "I won't be long."

"Mycroft is going to—"

"Get his knickers in a twist, I know. C'este la vie. Besides, I'll be back before he's informed."

"Oh, I'm not going to inform him," John said. "He's your problem."

"I know you won't, but the people he has watching your flat will."

"Pretty sure he just said that to scare you, Sherlock."

"Don't be ridiculous. He doesn't scare me. And he didn't say that." Sherlock grabbed a couple things off his dresser and quickly shoved them into his pockets. "The flat next door's been empty six months; suddenly someone's bothered to straighten 'welcome' mat in front of it. Who would do that? The person who's moved in, yet online the flat is still listed as vacant. There's a new hotdog stand across the street that gets two, maybe three customers a day. Probably because the hot dogs are rubbish or maybe because you live in the suburbs with virtually no foot traffic. Why wouldn't the stand, equipped with very convenient wheels, move to a busier location? Mrs. Bell in the unit over has hired a grounds keeping team, all of whom have rather obviously taken much more of an interest in looking after this flat than looking after her landscape. They all take shifts, and always wear the same clothes to work. Always. As if they were in costume."

"So what? You're being paranoid," John suggested. "No one is watching the flat."

"Mrs. Bell's husband divorced her last year for a younger woman and she had to declare bankruptcy in April. Do you really think she has the self-esteem or the funds available to her right now to care about how her lawn looks? The woman doesn't do her hair when she goes out, she would never bother hiring landscapers, especially not every hour of everyday. So, she's likely the one being paid to let them work. It's a win for her. She doesn't ask any questions and gets a nice check in the mail."

John was starting to (reluctantly) trust Sherlock's instinct. "Fine, that's weird, but what if it isn't Mycroft's men? What if they're people who want to hurt you instead? That does happen, you know?"

"They aren't."

"How do you know?"

"In order to test my theory, I've been making myself appear vulnerable to attack twice a day. When you and Mary are out, of course. Engaging in conversation with the neighbors about my weakened state, feigning sleep very close to open windows, the other day I sat outside for an hour well within range of any potential sniper posts. I've concluded I'm safe. These are Mycroft's men. Bye now." Before John could prevent him, Sherlock slipped out the door and was gone. The doctor grumbled inwardly and returned to the kitchen, desperate to find something edible.

That night, as John suspected, Mary ran to the bathroom at 3 a.m., violently emptying the contents of her stomach. From his post on the couch he could hear his wife's esophageal struggle coming from one bedroom door and Sherlock's obtrusive snores from the other. With a groan, he rose from his makeshift couch-bed and stumbled to the bathroom where he found Mary kneeling on the floor next to the toilet. After one final push from her digestive system, she wiped her mouth with a nearby hand towel and leaned back against the wall.

"You alright?" he asked. She nodded, but couldn't say a word. She just remained on the floor, arms protectively around her stomach. He leaned onto the door frame, tugging the sash of his robe a little tighter. "I can get you a glass of water if it'll help."

"Nothing helps," she rasped out.

"Maybe not eating two tubs of Chinese food on pizza would have," he pitched, not to be mean, just to lighten the mood.

"Craving."

He stared at her a moment, feeling awkward and unsure of what to say. "You think that was the last of it? Ready to go back to bed?"

She took a deep breath, contemplating how much nausea she felt tugging at her throat. "For the time being, I suppose."

"Good." John reached down and slowly pulled his wife to her feet, unexpectedly pleased she was drained enough to accept his help as they made their way back to her bed. "You really should keep—"

"Ah," Mary gasped, abruptly stopping her walk and grabbed her stomach.

John instantly turned to see her body curled over. "What happened, what's wrong?"

She seemed fine, but the panic in her eyes could not be missed. "I felt a…a cramp, a quick one," she stuttered, and straightened herself out as if to see whether the pain would return.

"Where did you feel it?" John asked urgently. "Was it a sharp pain like a knife or a dull jab…"

"It was here," she rubbed the spot where her hand was clutching. "And it was sharp, but not too painful. Just surprising."

"Okay," John breathed. "Well, get over on the bed. Come on…"

Mary did as he said and upon sitting down felt the stab again. This time she gasped louder "Ah, it happened again, same spot."

"Oh God," John whispered, terror settling into his own eyes. He began to feel sick himself. "Alright, get dressed. I'm taking you in."

"John, wait…it didn't hurt. I think it was just a cramp."

"I'm not taking the chance, Mary!" Mary recoiled back a bit. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to yell." He kneeled down next to her. "I've been worried something like this could happen because of the stress you've been under and the blood pressure thing; please just let me take you to the hospital."

"The hospital is fifteen minutes away, and they take forever to see emergencies…" Tears were beginning to form in her eyes, and the real reason for her hesitance came through. "What if we get there and it's too late?"

John swallowed to push away the lump he felt collecting in his throat. He had to think quickly. "Lie down."

"What?"

"Just do it, I'll examine you myself." He dug into the dresser drawers for the stethoscope and sphygmomanometer he kept in the house.

"Can you really be objective right now?

"I'll have to be."

Just then, Sherlock uncoordinatedly shuffled into the room. "You two are being impossibly loud in here, any chance you could—"

"Either shut up or get out!" John commanded, wrapping the sphygmomanometer around his wife's arm to take her blood pressure. Sherlock immediately recognized the gravity of the situation and kneeled down by Mary's side where his friend was. "Just relax, Mary," John said soothingly as he slid the stethoscope under the arm band.

"Can I help?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"Sit on the bed with her; try to be good at comforting someone for once."

John performed every test he deemed necessary along with some that probably weren't, Mary got through all of them relatively calm and without any further pains, and Sherlock learned, for the first time in his life, how to hold another person's hand without making them feel uneasy and trapped. However, thanks to the utter terror that hung in the air over the gravity of the situation, by the time John had finished examining his wife, none of them had any idea how much time has passed.

"So, I took your blood pressure, listened to the baby's heartbeat…" Mary and Sherlock listened intently as John listed some other medically relevant details from his examination, wiping some sweat off his tired eyes. "And I think what you felt before may have just been gas. You haven't felt any pain since the first two?" Mary shook her head no, hands protectively covering her tiny baby bump. "And there's no blood or uterine contractions, the baby's heartbeat wasn't elevated at any point, neither was your blood pressure." He breathed out heavily. "Looks like this was just a scare."

Sherlock gave Mary's arm a gentle, relieved squeeze to which she returned a small smile, though there was still a bit of residual nervousness from thoughts of what could have happened. "You're sure?" she asked John, instinctively.

"Yes," he replied without a second's hesitation. "The baby is fine." He collected the medical instruments he had brought out during the examination—rather, the instruments Nurse Holmes had been instructed to bring out during the examination—and put them back into the drawers and closet bins they had previously occupied. "Sherlock, hand me the ophthalmoscope."

Sherlock walked the tool over to the closet on the far side of the room where John stood with his hand out. But upon placing the device in the doctor's hand, he found his own was grabbed tightly instead. "John, you've got my hand."

John pulled him close and stared at him with what Sherlock later decided were the most serious eyes he had ever beheld. In a low and tenacious whisper, cautiously out of Mary's earshot, John said to him, "Don't ever let her have Chinese food on pizza ever again. I don't care if she has you at gunpoint again."

"It was just gas John, she's fine," the taller man rationalized, calling out the fallacy in John's fear.

"Sherlock, if anything like this happens again where I have even the tiniest, most unfounded reason to believe that I could lose my baby," he stopped and looked down to swallow what Sherlock guessed was some sort of emotional leak. "No Chinese food on pizza."

Sherlock nodded and looked back at Mary who was far too busy staring at the floor, caressing her small middle to notice them. "I won't."

"Alright." John finished putting the rest of his things away and gave his friend a genuinely appreciative pat on the back. "You can go back to bed now, sorry to have woken you."

Sherlock tiredly headed back to his room, looking back only once at John and Mary silently recuperating from the episode in the master bedroom. Mary still sat on the bed, John stood over her; neither looked ready to retire just yet.

"You should get to sleep," John said when the faint sound of Sherlock's door closing disrupted his mild trance.

"I know, I'll try. Won't be easy."

"Well, give it a go." He groaned slightly as he lowered his body into the armchair in the corner. "It's the best thing as far as helping you relax."

Mary eyed him curiously. "What are you doing?"

He gave a shrug and a quick turn of the wrists. "Nothing."

"You're sitting in the chair," she pointed and John actually looked at the chair upon which he was seated. "You're not going back to the couch then?"

"I'm just going to stay for a bit."

"But you said everything is fine…"

"Yes, everything is fine, but I'm going to stay for a bit," he repeated, drawing out those last three words. Mary opened her mouth to speak again, but John spoke first. "Just go to sleep. I'm just having a breather."

Mary eventually complied, getting back under her sheets. Reaching for the comforter, she looked over at him. "John—"

"You won't even know I'm here."

That was not what she was going to comment on, but she decided what she did want to say was better left unsaid at this point. Sadly, she lay down into the bed and tried to focus on what a gift it had been that nothing was wrong. Maybe it was because she had been so scared a short while ago and then so relieved afterward, maybe it was because the man she loved was sitting in a chair as far away from her as possible in order to keep an eye on her; it didn't really matter. Mary felt the first tear slide over the curve of her cheek bone and pool into the pillow. The first of many silent tears that night.