A/N: Thank you all for the reviews, they mean the world to me and give me something awesome to look forward to J This chapter is a bit long, apologies! Hope you enjoy! I try to sprinkle in references to the original stories in every chapter (just like Moffat and Gatiss do.) Let me know if you've found any!

OOOOO

"Mrs. Dessler?" Mary called into the waiting room, smiling when a middle-aged woman rose to her feet. "Come with me, please." The woman followed her to an examination room where Mary went through medical background, took down the reason for coming in, and briefly checked Mrs. Dessler's vitals. "Right then. My husb—erm, Dr. Watson will be in to see you soon." She pulled the door shut behind her and headed to John's office. "Chronic back pain in room 2," she reported, handing her husband the patient file.

"Alright, I'll head down in a minute," John replied professionally, taking it from her. Before she could turn to go, he stopped her. "Wait…I, uh, can't find the Mason family's file from last week. They're bringing the girls in for a follow-up today and I'd really like to have it. Would you mind looking for it while I'm in with," he checked the name on the file in his hand, "Dessler."

Mary cocked an eyebrow, a suspicious look coming over her. "You want me to stay here and look for a file?" John nodded. "Isn't that what Lara is here for?" she posed, speaking of the intern the clinic had taken on for the summer.

"Lara's shadowing Dr. Malcolm right now."

"No, she isn't. I just saw her, she walked right past—" Mary straightened herself. "Are you trying to keep me away from patients?"

"What? No."

"Yes you are," Mary accused, folding her arms over her stomach.

John gave up trying to fib. "Please just do it Mary, I have a good reason."

"The only risk there is for me being around sick patients is contracting an infection. I'm not taking any patients with infections so there's no reason to worry. Sue understands and is handling anybody that I shouldn't be around."

"There's a kid in the waiting room with chicken pox," John asserted. "You told me you'd never had chicken pox. I assume that's still true."

"It is," she stubbornly allowed.

"Well then I'm not taking any chances. Getting an infection while you're pregnant can cause—"

"I know what it can cause!" She stopped him right there, much to his relief.

John sighed and his stern expression softened. "I'm not trying to get in your way or make life harder."

"Huh, really," she scoffed, looking down and away. "Fine, I'll stay in here a bit."

"Thank you." John picked his pen up from his desk and headed to room 2 where his patient was waiting for him. Oddly enough, despite the ongoing tension and the mostly silent household situation, their working relationship was going rather smoothly—all things considered. They went to the clinic, saw sick people, swapped files all day, and then left. It was one of the few places being around each other didn't feel so painfully awkward.

"So, that was your wife before?" Mrs. Dessler asked John while he pressed a cold stethoscope to her back once more.

"Uh, yes, how did you know?"John replied, not stopping his work.

The older woman smiled contently. "When she left she said her husband would be in to see me shortly. That's you." John was taken just slightly aback. She hadn't called him her husband in quite a while, at least not to him. Although, he supposed he couldn't blame her. He wasn't proud to admit it, but he hadn't been much of a husband. And, to be fair, he wasn't using the term 'wife' too much either. "How far along is she?"

John meagerly smiled at the woman's warmth. "Sixteen weeks."

"Your first?"

He chuckled lightly. "How could you tell?"

"A guess," Mrs. Dessler said. "Congratulations."

"Thank you." John stayed mostly quiet for the remainder of the examination, even though his patient had plenty to say on all topics related to child rearing. He prescribed Mrs. Dessler with a muscle relaxer to help with the back pain and several exercises to further alleviate any discomfort. He was on his way back to his office when Lara stopped him in the hallway.

"Oh, excuse me Dr. Watson…" the twenty-one year old greeted him.

"Yeah?"

"The chicken pox kid is being seen by Dr. O'Connor now. I know you wanted updates on that."

"Yes, I do, thank you. Just let me know when he and his family are out of here." Feeling relieved to know Mary could soon return to where she wanted to be, he walked a little faster to his office at the end of the hallway. "Mary, I just talked to—" He halted when he saw his wife sound asleep at his desk. She had found the file he'd requested, and from the looks of it decided to use it as a pillow until he returned. Being that she was now entering her second trimester, he expected her to be more tired than usual, but didn't expect her to knock out at work. "Mary," he said softly, gently shaking her shoulder.

Her eyes slowly opened and it took her just half a second to realize what had happened. "Oh God… I was only supposed to close my eyes for a minute."

"If you're tired, go home and sleep," John tried, hoping her exhaustion would be enough to persuade.

"No, no, I want to be here," she lifted herself off the chair quickly and was immediately hit by a wave of dizziness that sent her back down holding her head. John reacted quickly enough that he could stop her from hitting the desk chair too hard.

"Oi, what happened?"

"Just a little dizzy, that's all. Stood up too fast."

"Did you eat lunch today?"

"No, I didn't get a chance. Sherlock needed my help with something this morning; I didn't have time to pack anything."

"Sherlock needs to be more independent," John grumbled protectively.

"John."

"I know, I know." He shook his head free of that minor issue and returned his attention to Mary. "But really, you need to go home. Eat something here and then take the rest of the day."

"No, I've only been here since ten this morning, my shift ends in an hour, I'm not stopping now."

"You're exhausted."

"Because I'm pregnant," Mary said, stating the obvious. "It comes with the territory."

"You don't need to be here," John persisted. "We have plenty of nurses here and on call. And it's been slow today anyway."

"John, don't baby me!" Mary snapped, making John's eyes widen in surprise. "It's so hypocritical! And I'm pregnant, I'm not an invalid. I'm not leaving until my shift is over and that's the end of it." And with that, she stormed off. John hung his head back and slumped into his chair. He should have known, sooner or later, she was going to call him out on the hypocrisy of his concern. Of course, it didn't feel like hypocrisy to him. To John, it seemed perfectly justified to be incredibly angry and bitter toward his wife while also worrying about her more than anything and wanting her to be okay. Although, that was just to John.

OOOOO

"Oh hello John," Mrs. Hudson said sweetly as she passed him on the Baker Street stairs. She was coming down, he was going up. "Did you just get here?"

"Yeah, thought I'd come by and see Sherlock."

"Oh, well," she lowered her voice to a hushed tone, "I wouldn't go up there now. He's in one of his moods."

"I'll take my chances," John replied with a smile. "Living with a pregnant woman has given me a lot of practice in dealing with moods."

"How is Mary? Nearly five and a half months along now, isn't she?"

"About that, yeah."

"You two work it out yet?" the older woman bluntly, but innocently, inquired with nothing but the most genuine concern contorting her brows.

"Uh, no. Not really."

Mrs. Hudson's expression somehow became even more full of pity. "That's a shame; I hope it gets cleared up soon." John nodded uncomfortably. "It'll be better that way."

"I think I'll just go on up then," John deflected, uselessly pointing to the door atop the flight of stairs. Mrs. Hudson made no effort to stop him and instead flitted away humming something about stubbornness. "Sherlock?" he called, letting himself into the flat.

"What do you want John, I'm very busy." It took John a second or two to see where that voice came from before noticing the detective lying flat on the floor by the kitchen with his eyes fixed ferociously on the ceiling.

"You look it," John quipped, taking a seat on top of Sherlock's cluttered desk.

Sherlock breathed in sharply through his nose and closed his eyes. "I'm working on a case for two very important clients. Can't afford any distractions."

"Important clients?" John repeated, puzzled. "Since when do you regard any client as important?"

Sherlock glanced at him, feigning offense. "I'm insulted. Of course my clients are important to me."

"They're mysteries are important to you, they are not," John responded dully. "They might as well be unsolved Rubik's Cubes that you play with once and then toss when they're finished."

"Is that not what it means to be important to someone?" Sherlock questioned.

"Not for normal people."

"Oh. Well then you're quite right." He sprung from the floor and strolled into the kitchen to grab what John saw to be a letter, already stamped and sealed. "Pen," he monosyllabically requested.

John tossed him one from the desk. "So, what's the case?"

"Possible blackmail."

John made his way toward the kitchen. "And who's the client?"

Sherlock looked up at John, contemplating whether or not he should answer. He decided there was no harm. "Two highly-ranked people of great and indirect importance to the British government. I can't give names though. I told Mycroft I wouldn't, in return he's agreed to pull some members of the team he's had watching me."

"You've taken a case for your brother?" John was a little more than surprised.

"I'm thinking I can get him to agree to pull the lot of them if I actually do keep the names hush hush." He scribbled something John couldn't read on the front of the envelope and then dispensed the letter into his breast pocket.

"Fancy a trip to the post office?"

"What are we doing here?" John asked, shuffling into the post office behind Sherlock who was quickly making his way toward the counter at the very back.

"How do you catch a blackmailer?"

John hated when Sherlock answered questions with more questions. Show-off. "I'd love to know."

"Threaten the security of the thing they need most," Sherlock replied, still two paces ahead of John.

"Meaning?"

Sherlock finally reached the desk in question and smiled at the young woman behind it. "Hello Kate, do you remember your instructions?"

Kate grinned in a way that seemed to be meant more for security cameras than for Sherlock's eyes. "Yes, will that be all Mr. Holmes?" she said as she took the letter, still using a professional and uninterested voice to mask something slightly more deliberate in her eyes.

"It will." And with that, he turned on his heel and started for the door the two men had just come in. "More than anything," Sherlock began to quietly explain to John, "a blackmailer needs to know their information will be useful. But, they have a very fine line to walk. Two things can sabotage blackmail. The first being the victim deciding that keeping whatever incriminating thing the blackmailer is holding over their head secret is not worth the pain of being controlled by another person. And the second is that the person being blackmailed has run out of money to give and thus has nothing left to offer and even less to lose."

John followed along attentively as the two men pushed through the doors and back into the midday breeze. "Which would also push them more toward the first scenario."

"Exactly. So, how do you catch a blackmailer?" Sherlock posed to John again, who just shrugged and offered no answer. "You start blackmailing their victim too. Taxi!"

John stared bewildered at his friend who, with his arm in the air hailing a cab, clearly did not think anything of what he had just divulged. "So that letter…that was you blackmailing someone?!"

"Keep your voice down, I'm not trying to go to prison."

"Sherlock, you are going to blackmail a higher-up in the British government! That's insane. You are insane."

The taxi pulled up to the curb and both hopped in. "I have a time table for the case, a deadline. This is the fastest way to smoke out the blackmailer. If the victims start being blackmailed by two parties they will run out of money faster and be more desperate to come clean with whatever secret is holding them hostage. That's bad news for the real blackmailer."

"And what if you get caught?"

"I've ensured that won't happen," Sherlock said coolly, staring out the window.

"How?"

"Kate…she's a member of my homeless network. I pulled some strings and got her a job at the post office last week. A few years back, I prevented the manager's father from being arrested on Christmas Day. He owed me. In return for the job, Kate is doing me one final favor and disguising the letter." He was indubitably proud of his precision. "Some essence of every person who comes into the post office with something to mail will be absorbed into that envelope. It will be virtually untraceable by the time it gets to its intended recipient. Kate is making sure of it. I also used four different types of handwriting on the front. One that is clearly male, one undoubtedly female, one specific to Dutch shoemakers over the age of 70, and one meant to look like a novice forgery."

John just stared with a small, scolding smile at his lips. "This is stupid."

"Nope, it's brilliant." When they reached Baker Street, Sherlock evacuated the cab and quickly headed to the door. Leaving an irritated John to pay, as usual.

"Sherlock," John called, after shuffling out of the taxi and trying to catch up with his friend who was bounding up the stairs to his flat. "What happened to you not taking any dangerous cases for a while?"

"It's not dangerous, it's fun!"

John shook his head and pulled off his coat heading to the kitchen for some tea. He tried four cabinets and found them all empty. "Where's the tea?"

"Out."

"Course." He huffed and made his way to exit the flat.

"Where are you going?"

"To get some from Mrs. Hudson," John answered, jogging down the stairs. "Mrs. Hudson," he alerted as he pushed open the door to her flat. "Do you have any—" He got quite a surprise when he entered. Mary was sitting at the table with Mrs. Hudson; both women looked up, just as surprised. "Oh, hi…I didn't know you were here."

Mrs. Hudson shifted her eyes back and forth between the estranged couple and finally broke the silence. "Well, there's no point in the three us just staring at each other not saying anything is there?" she blatantly commented, rising from the table. "John, would you like a biscuit?" She reached for the tray that sat between her and Mary, with noticeably fewer biscuits on Mary's side.

John held up his hand and shook his head 'no;' Mrs. Hudson sadly set the tray back down. "No thank you. I just came down for some tea. Sherlock's out."

"In the cabinet by the fridge, just like always. But you'll have to make it down here. Sherlock broke his fancy induction kettle last week when he tried cooking a hand on it. Wanted to test something for a case I 'spose."

"A hand?" Mary incredulously repeated. "Where did he get a hand?"

"Molly, I think," Mrs. Hudson answered, sitting back down at the table. "She had an extra one in the morgue."

"Sounds like him," John said, and went to work on his tea, fully prepared to pretend like he wasn't even there.

"So, now where were we?" Mrs. Hudson sympathetically turned her attention back to Mary, realizing this was awkward for the couple. "How did your last appointment go?"

John couldn't help but listen to his wife recount the details of their last trip to the doctors. After all, he couldn't just turn his ears off. Mary kept it straight-forward and unemotional, logistics mainly. John wondered how she might have spoken about it if he weren't standing five feet away. Would she tell Mrs. Hudson the reason she chose not to find out the sex of the baby? Hell, John wondered, would she tell him the reason? Probably not. Maybe if he asked…

Mrs. Hudson's voice pulled him away from his private thoughts and back into the room. "Have you felt the baby kick yet?" the older woman nearly squealed, excitedly bringing praying hands to her chin.

Mary uncertainly looked down into her tea cup and then subtly at John's back. "Um, no…not yet." John's ears perked and his eyes immediately shot up, but he didn't dare turn around.

"What?" Mrs. Hudson's breathy surprise induced a reiterative head shake from Mary. "No movement at all?"

"No." John, mouth still slightly agape at the news that had come as a shock to him, could hear the anxious despair, subtle as it was, masked behind the 'oh well' tone in her voice.

"Well, I'm sure you will. Soon too." Mrs. Hudson leaned back with a comforting smile and a thoughtful chuckle. "After all, with you two for parents I'm sure that baby will be restless as anything."

John turned around to sneak a glance, but Mary caught his eyes before they could dart away. They exchanged pensive looks, much to the landlady's oblivion, and then returned their eyes to their respective tea mugs. "I think I should start heading home," Mary delicately injected into the quiet of the kitchen, standing up from the table. "It's getting late and we," she gave her stomach a loving rub, "haven't eaten dinner yet."

"Oh, of course dear," the older lady concurred, rising from the table as well. "Take some of these biscuits with you. I don't care for them and Sherlock doesn't eat much when he's on a case. John, will you be going home with Mary?"

John turned around grasping an empty mug in his hands; clearly he had still not had his tea. "Oh, I uh…"

"You're helping Sherlock with the case, aren't you?" Mary provided, as her husband seemed at a loss for words.

"No, he isn't," a voice previously not a part of the conversation chimed in. Sherlock whisked into the kitchen, grabbing the tea cup from John and pouring some for himself.

"You solve it in the last three minutes?" John queried, narrowing his eyes at the man sipping the tea he just made.

"Nope, but I don't need you right now." Sherlock sat back on the counter behind him. "Go home with your wife."

Mary was ready with a dismissal. "Sherlock, you don't have to—"

"Nonsense, Mary," the detective cajoled. "John will be more useful at your flat than mine."

"Useful?" John's hands went to his hips, mildly offended.

"John," Mrs. Hudson said, putting a delicate hand on his arm. "Go home with Mary."

It was obvious John and Mary were going to be cornered no matter what, and they knew this. Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson were equally dedicated in their efforts to get the estranged spouses back together or at least on speaking terms, and this was not the first time they had ganged up on them. "It's because they care, that's all. They aren't trying to be difficult," Mary said to John who stood closer to the street waving for a taxi.

"I know." A cab driver saw the hand in the air and pulled over for the couple. No words were spoken on the ride back to their flat, even though Mary was positive John had something to say about the information she had divulged to Mrs. Hudson. Just as the last months had been, she now got to endure a waiting game. Just standing by until John let whatever was on his mind surface.

By the time they got home it was dark out, and even darker inside their flat. Mary flicked on a lamp and shrugged off her jacket on the way in. John followed close behind, but when Mary veered off to the bedroom, John proceeded to the couch. He all but collapsed into it and tried his best to relax his muscles as the cushions beneath him deflated under the weight of his body. His fingers rubbed at the headache forming in between his eyes until he heard a loud gasp from Mary cut through the flat.

"Oh my God! John!" she yelled, sounding quite frantic.

The terror immediately transferred and John jumped off of the couch and dashed to her. When he got to the bedroom he found Mary by the window with a hand covering her mouth and fear pooling in her eyes. "What's going on?" Before she could respond, he saw the answer staring him in the face.

"Jesus," he breathed, eyes taking in the shattered bedroom window. There was glass all over the place.

"The lock's broken too," Mary added, pointing to a now mangled lock.

"Stay here, don't move," John commanded, pushing her against the wall. He went to his desk drawer and took out his gun. Cocking it, he first checked the bedroom for any unwelcome guests. There were only a handful of places a person could hide—the wardrobe, under the bed, in the adjoining bathroom, and behind the door. After the brief sweep, he moved through the entire flat twice checking every possible place an intruder could be, until he was absolutely certain it was clear. He came back to Mary who, much to his surprise, had listened to him and not moved. "There's no one here," he assured her, setting down his gun.

"You're sure?" she audited, not even realizing her hands were protectively over her bump.

John nodded affirmatively. "I'm sure. And it doesn't look like anything's been messed with."

"Why would someone break in?" she wondered out loud, although there was a frightening answer in the back of her mind that she knew was as good an explanation as any.

"I don't know, is there anything in here someone would want to take?"

Mary shook her head at first, and then her eyes grew wide. "The flash drive, John. The one I gave you. Where do you keep it?"

That flash drive had not even been mentioned since the night she put it down in front of John and Sherlock for the first time. The utterance of it stabbed John just a bit, but for the sake of the situation he got over it. He reached deep into his breast pocket and pulled out the small drive, the letters A.G.R.A. staring both of them in the face. "I have it."

Mary breathed a slow sigh of relief and John replaced the memory stick back into his pocket. "I'll look around to see if anything was taken…"

"I'll get this cleaned up," John replied, motioning to the broken glass at their feet.

When Mary finally returned to the bedroom after going through the whole flat and finding nothing missing or out of place, John had the glass taken care of and was almost done boarding up the window. "Where did you find that?" Mary asked, pointing to the slab of wood he was nailing to the window frame; this seemed like a better reaction than her first internal one which was 'why are you ruining our window frame?'

"I took a shelf out of the kitchen cupboard. It's only temporary. I'll get another window in here tomorrow." He hammered in the last nail and stepped back to assess the work. "There, that ought to hold."

Mary nodded and looked down at her belly. "I'm sorry, John…"

"For what?"

"For this," she remarked obviously. "Clearly someone came in here looking for m—"

"Stop," John firmly interrupted. "We don't know why someone broke in here and didn't touch anything. They could have been after you or they could have been after me. I traipse around with the world's most ostentatious detective and am probably on a lot of people's shit list because of it. So we don't know. So we aren't going to go there."

"Alright." Mary sat down on the bed, shifting a bit to accommodate her growing abdomen. "I ordered us a takeaway. Chinese. It should be here in about fifteen minutes."

John nodded and tossed his hammer down on the floor by the window. "Thanks."

They ate together at the kitchen counter, just like Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson had wanted, but no words were shared. Little did they know they were both working out the same conclusion in their heads about the broken window.

'Nothing was touched,' Mary mused, twirling a noodle around her fork.

'Nothing taken,' John thought across the island, stabbing a piece of orange chicken.

'The window was shattered and the lock was broken,' Mary mulled. 'Why smash the window if the lock was broken?'

'Why break both?' John reflected. 'If the lock's taken care of, no need to break the window. If the window's smashed no need to break the lock.'

'Were there footprints in the carpet? I can't remember.' Mary scooped up some fried rice.

'There weren't any footprints in the carpet, just broken glass.' John dipped another piece of chicken into the sauce pooling on his plate.

'John's gun was still here, they didn't take it.' Mary's chews slowed at the thought. 'What if he had been home?'

'We weren't home…that was obvious.' John's eyes squinted at nothing, but soon widened and he kicked himself for not realizing this before.

'The flat was in complete darkness, why—" It hit her all at once.

"John." "Mary." They both said at the same time, each feeling they had reached a logical explanation.

"You go first," John offered.

"I think the window was a message, a threat."

"They didn't come inside," John added, agreeing with her statement. "And they wanted to make it clear this wasn't a burglary."

"It's a scare tactic; show someone that you're after them."

"Shit."

The thrill of figuring out what had happened and being on the same page for the first time in a long time lasted all of two seconds when the danger of the realization set in and they both saw that they now had many more questions than answers. Questions they couldn't answer. The silence returned.

They spent remainder or the night in the living room, feeling much more comfortable knowing where the other was. Mary was thumbing through a child birthing book that Janine had given her and John was drafting a new blog post. Occasionally, Mary would look up and watch John sort through some notes he had made about the cases, and when she resumed her reading John would gaze at her as she wrinkled her nose at some of the cold hard facts of giving birth. Sometimes he would see her hand rub her stomach and he wondered if she was feeling anything, although he knew she probably wasn't. Around 10 p.m. her yawns became more frequent, making John's eyes droop just a little more as well.

She tucked the book under the coffee table where the other pregnancy books and magazines were and pushed herself up out of the chair. John looked up at her light moan. "Going to bed?"

"Mmhm." Mary grabbed the empty bowl which had previously been filled with a trail mix of sweets and after dumping it in the kitchen, headed to her room.

John stayed where he was, but did not go back to blogging. He stared down his keyboard, as if trying to coax his fingers into typing, but seconds later looked back up at the bedroom door. His eyes shifted to the living room window and then to the locked front door and then back to the computer. Pouting his lips the way he always did when in contemplation, his knuckles tapped against the laptop. Finally he sighed against himself and closed his computer, walking in a beeline to the bedroom.

Mary was pulling her comforter up over her legs when he entered the room. She glanced up at the man who now looked as if he had suddenly forgotten his reason for coming in. "Hi John," she said, an insinuation of confusion behind the greeting.

"Hi," he returned, still in the doorway. He took another step into the room and planted his feet more firmly. "I'm, uh, going to stay in here tonight."

"What? No, that's not necessary."

"That slab of wood may be nailed in, but that doesn't exactly make it a safe replacement for a locked window. Someone could kick it off or cut through it or something. After what happened tonight, I'm staying in here."

"The whole night?" Mary was in slight disbelief.

"Yes," John nodded with absolute certainty. "I'll stay up tonight and keep watch and take the day off tomorrow. Where's the armchair that was in here?"

"John, you can't stay up all night. It's silly. If someone tries to break through the wood you'll hear it."

"That doesn't mean I'd get here in time." Mary tried to protest again, but John spoke first. "I've already made up my mind. And you know how useless it is to try and change it now."

Mary stared back at him. If she didn't have their baby growing inside her, she probably would have been offended that John didn't think she was capable of defending herself against an attack. However, it was no surprise to see John's protective fatherly instincts kicking in, so she indulged him. And she definitely wouldn't mind him being here.

"So, where's the chair?" he asked a second time.

"It's not here anymore. Inspector Lestrade has it."

"What? When?"

"He separated from his wife again and his new apartment doesn't have any furniture. He mentioned it to Sherlock one day when I was around. I offered him the chair since we don't use it."

"Please don't say you were at a crime scene with Sherlock."

"I wasn't, Sherlock went with me to shop for maternity clothes one day and got a call from Lestrade during the outing."

John raised unbelieving brows at the image of Sherlock Holmes shopping, for maternity clothes no less! But, he decided to put that on the back burner for the moment, making a mental note to mock him for it later. "So, we don't have the chair anymore?" Mary nodded. "That's fine, floor works," John decided.

"John," Mary stopped him before he could sit down on the floor. "Why don't you just come on the bed?" He looked at her with obvious incredulity. "Just to sit. I'll be way over here, you can take the side closer to the window. It doesn't mean anything, but you'll be more comfortable and this way if anything does happen you won't be so close to the window that you're within range of flying wood or…something."

John thought for a long time about the proposition. He had stopped sleeping with his wife quite some time ago. In fact, they had only shared a bed as husband and wife for about a month before everything went to hell in a hand basket.

Mary saw he still needed some convincing. "We don't have to talk or anything. And you can keep your gun on the nightstand…"

After further consideration, John finally agreed. "Alright."

Mary gave a light smile and watched him retrieve his gun from the place he had stored it a few hours ago. She made sure to give him enough space as he lifted his legs onto the bed, leaning his back against the headboard. When he seemed content, she lowered herself down under the blankets. Internally, she debated whether or not to say goodnight. It was such a simple, normal phrase…but not between them. She ultimately decided not to say anything. John was sitting up on the bed she had lay alone in for the past five months for the sake of the baby, not because he was ready to share the bed again. She had to remind herself of that.

Thankfully, exhaustion crept upon her rather quickly and after ten minutes of lying quietly in the dark, she felt sleep finally taking over. To her surprise though, it was almost instantly disturbed by John saying something that sounded like it was directed to her.

"What did you say?" she groggily responded, rolling over to face his silhouette.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he repeated for her.

"Tell you what?"

"That you hadn't felt the baby move yet?" He sounded more hurt than mad.

She propped her head up on her elbow and an unfortunate expression crossed her face. "I didn't think you would want to know."

"Of course I want to know," John whispered. "Are you…worried that you haven't?"

She desperately wished she could see his face though the darkness to get a read on whether he was mad or sad or something else, but she couldn't. "I, um…I didn't want to say anything about it…Maybe I have been a little worried. The doctor said everything is going well though, and I'm sure she knows better than I do."

John nodded, not wanting to admit that learning that made him a little nervous as well. "Most women, in their first pregnancy, don't feel the baby move until they're between sixteen and twenty-five weeks."

"I'm already twenty weeks," Mary uselessly replied, playing with the tips of her fingers.

"Then it'll probably happen soon," he realized the mistake that may have been to say. "Or not. It could be later."

"Okay…"

"Just, try not to stress about it."

She stared up at his outline and bit the corner of her lip. "Do you…want to know? I mean when it does happen."

John took a deep breath in that was just barely audible. "Yes."