"Why do they do that?" Sherlock wondered aloud as he gazed down at Baker Street through a thin opening where his fingers parted the curtain.

"Who?" John responded, not looking up from his blog.

"Them. The clients." He dropped the drape and plopped down on the couch. "They get a sandwich next door before they come here, as if to make it seem like they weren't actually in need of a detective, rather just 'in the neighborhood.' It's annoying."

"It's human nature."

"Hardly a good excuse."

John sighed and pulled his eyes away from his computer screen. "People don't want other people knowing they need help. It's a primal instinct. Hide weaknesses, no matter how small."

Sherlock's head snapped in John's direction. "Interesting."

"What is?"

"Your explanation."

"No," the other man said, already knowing what was coming. "It just makes sense."

"You're transposing your situation onto other people so you won't feel insecure." Sherlock paused for a second and then shook his head. "On second thought, it's really not that interesting."

John grumbled and closed the laptop. "I'm not insecure."

"Really?"

"Really."

"So, it's not at all bothering you that your wife sent you over here because your obsessive worrying was driving her nuts?"

"She didn't send me over here, I chose to come over. And you asked me to," he added enthusiastically, glad he remembered that bit.

"I asked you to last week."

"Well, I couldn't come last week."

"No, you're suggesting that Mary, being who she is, sees needing help as a weakness. So, when you constantly try to help her do things, it aggravates her. Applying this logic, it makes perfect sense that the reason you're here and not there with your pregnant wife who could pop any day now is not through any fault of your own, i.e, being annoying, but through Mary's primal instinct to hide weakness. Am I wrong?"

"Yes, you are. And don't refer to my wife as 'popping.'"

"Insecure," Sherlock repeated, ignoring John's objections.

"Why don't you go back to watching people eat outside," John offered with an annoyed roll of his eyes as he returned to his laptop.

"I'll do one better." Sherlock briskly vaulted off the sofa and threw on his jacket. "I'll solve their case. Based on the disposition and excessive appetite, it's nothing major… I bet I can do it in seven minutes. Time me."

Before John could say 'no,' Sherlock had evacuated the flat. The doctor huffed and leaned back in his chair, pondering over something his friend had said somewhere in all his narcissistic nonsense. The corner of his mouth turned up in reluctant uncertainty the way it did when he bit against his cheek. John cursed himself for doing it, but pulled out the phone anyway.

"Hi hun," Mary answered after a few rings. "How's your day with Sherlock going?"

"Fine, I guess. He's bored." John got up to look out the window, finding Sherlock down below. "He actually went out to a client."

"You're kidding," Mary lightly gasped, leaning up against their kitchen counter when standing became too exhausting.

"Only down the stairs," John added, watching Sherlock and the would-be client outside. "Still."

"Well, find him a case, would you?" she gently requested, resting the hand not grasping the phone on her stomach. "Because who knows how many they'll be time for when the baby comes…for Sherlock too. If he thinks he's getting out of changing nappies and washing—"

"Yeah, he knows," John said with a smile, but then paused, his uncertainty from before reappearing on his face. "So, is that the only reason you wanted me to spend the day over here?"

"What?" She sounded caught off guard, and she was.

"I mean, to run him a bit. Like you did before the wedding. You know, show him that our baby will not be the end of his detective career…or mine, I guess." John wasn't worried about what having a baby would mean for their days of crime-fighting, he knew they would still get to go on their ridiculous adventures. Besides, having his baby girl to come home to gave him a much more profound reason to rid the streets of as many baddies as possible—and this was easier to explain than was his abnormal addiction to danger. "I'm only asking because, well…"

"John?" Mary said into the phone when the silence hung for an extra long time on the other line.

He exhaled sharply, feeling sufficiently stupid. "Am I bugging you?"

She raised a guilty brow and bit her lip. "Bugging me?"

"Yeah, you're two weeks away from your due date and maybe that's made me extra doctor-y…" Mary could tell his nerves were getting to him by how fast he was talking. "So Sherlock says you just had me come over here to get me out of the house where I can't bug you. If that's true, just tell me and I'll try to knock it off. If it's not, tell me so I can call him a cock."

"Well that was boring," Sherlock announced, suddenly appearing in the doorway with blood gushing from his nose all over his shirt.

"What the…"

"What happened?" Mary asked, having heard Sherlock's voice.

"He's gotten himself punched in the face, what else is new," John reported with a scolding look at his friend.

"I think I heard a crack when he hit me," Sherlock muddled, twitching his nose to check. "Doesn't feel broken…"

"You better have a look at it," Mary suggested, taking a container of grapes out of the fridge. "Could be a break."

"Fine." John knew he would have to anyway. "I'll be home soon, depending on how much Sherlock pissed this guy off."

"Girl," Sherlock corrected, his head raised in the air to slow the bleeding.

"What?"

"It was a woman."

"I think you have your hands full. I'll see you later. Bye honey," Mary said with a chuckle.

"Bye." John hung up and turned back around to Sherlock, beginning to assess the damage. "Two minutes, by the way."

"What?"

"That's how long it took you to go outside, speak to someone, and have her punch you in the face." John smugly told him.

"Ughhhh," Mary groaned loudly and out of nowhere…for the third time that morning.

John, who was sitting up in bed with his arms innocently folded and legs outstretched , just looked up to the ceiling in a desperate attempt to not make eye contact with his wife—just in case there was anything about his gaze that could be construed (to a nine months pregnant woman) as combative. "It was supposed to happen already!" Mary yelled from the bathroom. "Yesterday, it was supposed to happen yesterday!"

Taking his life in his hands, he sheepishly craned his neck to look into the bathroom and offered Mary some comforting words. "You know, it's very common for first-time pregnancies to be overdue."

All the rummaging and huffing and puffing in the adjoining bathroom stopped immediately and Mary appeared in the doorway. "Seriously?"

'Oh no,' John internally panicked.

"Is that supposed to be consoling?"

"Mary, I'm just—"

"I know! You're just trying to help, but telling me that feeling this way shouldn't be so bad because lots of other women have felt this way before isn't helpful!" Her angry expression held for a moment or two and then seemed to melt right off her face as mood swing number two stepped up to the plate. "John, I'm sorry," she apologized in a whimper, coming over to the bed and to sit down by his feet. "It's not fair!"

He got up and managed to wrap an arm around her without causing too much of a stir. "It's alright. You're pregnant; you're allowed to be a bit barmy. And it's my baby in there, so if most of that craziness is directed toward me, then I guess I deserve it."

She moaned into her hands and hung her head in exhaustion. "I'm so sick of being pregnant."

"Well, I'm also a little sick of you being pregnant," he half-joked, hoping to get a chuckle out of her.

"I've peed ten times this morning. It's not even 9 o'clock! I can't remember what my ankles looked like before they were the size of bricks, or what it felt like to actually be able to see them without having to lean over this giant watermelon stomach. I want to give birth!"

"You will," John reassured her, putting a gentle hand on her belly. "But it'll happen when she's ready."

Mary just hung her head and groaned again. Then, an idea snapped it back up. "Let's have sex."

"What?" John blurted with a laugh, taken aback.

"Sex is the best way to induce labor," she replied, despite knowing John was already aware of this.

As tempting as that was, John shook his head. "Mary no, it'll happen when it happens." He stood up and kissed her forehead. "You have to relax."

"Not possible."

"I'll go put some tea on, alright." He smiled at her, hoping she would too, but she didn't. John knew how anxious and frustrated she was, but inducing labor was not something he was ready to do. He hated to admit it, but as excited as he was to be a father, he was a nervous wreck. He needed more time, and luckily his daughter seemed to be on his side.

While the kettle bubbled, John sifted through some mail cluttering up the counter. One envelope in particular caught his eye, well the return address did. It was from Harry. Surprised, but pleased to read to see what his sister had sent him, he tore it open. It was a postcard with a palm tree in on it and "Florida" jotted across it in brush script font. Maybe her traveling meant she was finding new, less destructive ways to fill the void in her life. "Harry sent me a postcard," he yelled to Mary who was still in the bedroom searching for something to wear that actually still fit. "She's in Florida."

"Well good for her," Mary yelled back with sarcasm drenching every syllable. "Maybe if I jump for joy this baby will come out of me!"

Mentally kicking himself for walking right into that one, John tossed the postcard back down and got Mary's favorite tea cup out of the cabinet. "Here you g—" When he came back into the bedroom holding the two mugs in his hand, his wife was nowhere to be found. "Mary?"

"In here!" she yelled from the toilet. "Peeing again, big surprise there."

Thankfully the door was mostly closed, so Mary couldn't see just how apprehensive her husband became with every passing mood swing. Walking on eggshells was not something that got easier over time. John set both mugs down on the night stand and grabbed his phone off the bureau. Please tell me you aren't doing anything today, he frantically texted Sherlock.

Why? he received back almost immediately.

'Thank god,' the doctor cheered in his head. Sherlock was not busy. He dialed the familiar number and waiting for his friend to pick up, which he did eventually. "Sherlock, I need a favor," he explained instantly, forgoing any useless pleasantries.

Sherlock furrowed his brows and continued throwing darts at the couch. "What?"

"Mary is going mad over here, and I have to be at the clinic at eleven. I don't want to leave her alone. Could you hang out with her for a little while?"

"You want me to babysit your wife? She's a trained special agent…and a grown woman. You realize that? And why are you whispering?"

John rolled his eyes and leaned his forehead tiredly up against the wall. "No, I don't need you to babysit her. I just think she'd like to get out of the house. She's going stir-crazy. Not to mention she's nine months pregnant, it would be nice if someone was with her just in case something happens."

"Wait a minute." Something had just occurred to him for the first time. "Her due date was yesterday."

"Yeah, I know." John whispered back as he checked the bathroom door to make sure it was still closed.

"So why aren't you parents yet?"

"She's late. It's common. Can you do it?"

"Well what's the point of a due date if it doesn't mean anything?"

"Sherlock, focus!" John interjected, getting him back on track. "Can Mary stay at Baker Street with you? I'll only be at the clinic for a couple of hours. I wasn't supposed to work at all, but there was an emergency with one of the guys I—"

"Don't care," Sherlock briskly cut him off. "And yes, of course Mary can stay here."

"Good, I really wasn't asking," John appreciatively conceded. Just then, he heard the bathroom door open and his wife emerge. "We'll be by soon. Bye."

"Are you talking to yourself?" Mary asked, waddling toward her husband, who handed her the tea off the nightstand.

"Uh, no, that was Sherlock…"

"Oh, what did he want?"

Truth? No, definitely not. She too would assume she was being babysat. Bad road. "He actually wanted to know if we wanted to go over there."

Mary gave him a suspicious look. "Sherlock wants us to visit…for what?"

"Uh, well, not really Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson wants to make lunch for all of us since she's not seen us in a while."

"Aw, that's sweet," Mary smiled, clutching her stomach as she lowered herself onto the bed, careful not to spill the tea. "But don't you have to go to the clinic this morning?"

"Yeah, Mrs. Gellar scheduled an appointment."

"She's the one that won't see anyone but you?" Mary checked, and John nodded. "Huh, should I be jealous?"

"Of a seventy-five year old lady? Probably."

"Well, I bet she's not the size of a house."

"No, no she's not," John agreed. "But I have always had a thing for women with their own teeth, so she's out of the running. There is, however, a seventy-two year old…" Mary finally gave into a little laugh which seemed to calm all her visibly tense muscles at least for the moment. "You go on to Baker Street, and I'll come by after. Should be done around one."

"Alright," Mary said with a smile, setting down her tea. "I'm going to have a snack before we go. Do we still have the leftover spaghetti in the fridge?"

"Mmhm." An unknowing person would probably comment that Mary was just about to go eat lunch, so a bowl of spaghetti wasn't really a "snack," but John didn't dare. His will to live was still very much intact.

"Hello Mary!" Mrs. Hudson gleefully greeted when the parents-to-be arrived at 221B. "Hi John, come in, both of you, it's chilly out."

The warmth of the flat welcomed them when the landlady shut the door with a strong push. "Sorry we're a bit late," Mary apologized, taking off her scarf and hanging it up on the coat rack. "Our elevators out again, and it takes a while for me to go down the stairs."

"That's alright, dear." Mrs. Hudson put Mary's coat in the closet and then took a moment to beam at her. "Oh, you are glowing… isn't she John?"

John just smiled and discreetly rubbed his hand against Mary's back, where he knew there was pain. She smiled and then quickly excused herself to use the bathroom. When she was out of ear shot, John came closer to his old landlady and whispered, "Thanks for doing this, I know you weren't planning on cooking for three today. Actually four, considering how Mary's been eating."

"It's alright, John. I don't blame her for needing to get out of the house, especially since she was so alone for most of the pregnancy." Oblivious to the look of restrained disbelief John was giving her, Mrs. Hudson broke into a wide smile. "And I like the company. I can't wait until it's the little one you'll be bringing over!"

John smiled and gave a small nod. "Right, well, I should be off." He tightened the scarf around his neck and glanced up the stairs. "Please make sure Sherlock doesn't run off on any cases."

"I'll do my best." She gave him a parting smile, and John headed out.

Lunch was served, eaten, and cleaned up in less than an hour. The table talk most likely consisted of Mrs. Hudson coming up with names for the baby and discussing what kind of toys make babies smarter. Sherlock showed no interest in any of the topics, he was obviously wrapped up in something else—what that something was, of course, was anyone's guess.

It was just past noon when Mary laid herself down on the couch upstairs, exhausted from the trek to the second floor. "Sherlock," she asked the man whose eyes were studying a map of London that had several spots marked on it, "why is there a dart in the cushion?" She pulled it out for him to see.

"Oh that," he said, glancing briefly at the item in her hand. "I was bored."

She shook her head with a smile and tried to get comfortable. She tossed one way, then the other, she tried propping herself up, lying on her side with a pillow under her tummy. Nothing worked. "Ughhh," she groaned to herself.

"What's wrong?"

"It's impossible to lay down when you've got a tiny human growing inside you."

He shrugged. "One would think."

Finally, when she realized it was a lost cause, Mary swung her legs over the side of the couch and brought herself up. There was a touch of dizziness as her head returned to being above her body, but she recovered quickly. "I can't lie down, and I can't sit here. I need to go do something… will you go for a walk with me?"

"No," he answered officially and without consideration.

"Why not?"

"I have strict orders not to let you do anything strenuous or labor-inducing. Going for a walk is on the list." He held up a sheet a notebook paper with scribbling on it.

Mary snatched it from him and puzzlingly perused through the bullet points. "Did John give you this?"

"Yes. He mentioned you might suggest different things to try to induce labor. Going for a walk, eating spicy foods, stretching, exercise—he mentioned sex also helps induce labor, though I don't see that coming into play." Mary rolled her eyes. "I am under instruction not to let you do any of that."

"You've got to be kidding."

"Nope."

Mary thought hard, seeing that there was no way around this. She desperately needed to do something, and she was well-aware of John's intentions behind suggesting lunch at 221B Baker Street. It was a nice thought, but whether she was at home or at Sherlock's flat she was going to go mad. Every minute was a waiting game. After enough time had gone by, she pushed herself off the couch and motioned coolly over to Sherlock. "So, have you had any new cases?" she asked innocently, sneaking a peek at some notes on his desk.

"A couple," he answered cautiously, giving her a sideways look.

"But nothing interesting?" she followed up.

"Some…why so curious?"

"Oh, I'm not…" she responded. "I just assumed. Since you were, you know, throwing darts at the sofa."

"I've been bored before," Sherlock evaded. "It's not an unusual occurrence. If you really want to make John happy do what he does and start checking the place for cigarettes."

"Yeah, I know…you get bored a lot…" Sherlock turned and gave her a suspicious look; she was playing it extremely cool. He wasn't sure why yet. "It's just, you've not often been bored when there's a map in front of you with markings, post-its with notes scribbled all over them cluttering up your desk, and a scarf on the 'client chair' that I know doesn't belong to you or John, and was obviously important enough for you to keep it rather than throwing it out the window like you usually do…"

Sherlock stared stoically. She was good. "What's the end goal here?"

"Alright, you have a case and clearly my being here is keeping you from it since John is making you watch me…like I'm some sort of puppy." She muttered that last part under her breath. "All I want is to go outside and get some air, to not be stuck on a couch, just walk around a bit. And maybe, while we're out...well, I'm just saying I couldn't stop you if you were to stumble onto one of these places," she nonchalantly pointed to the map spread in front of him. "After all, this point right here…well, that's right near Williamson's park, isn't it. Huh."

OOOOO

"Sixty-thousand," Sherlock said finitely, helping Mary out of the taxi cab when the two of them arrived at the park.

"What?"

"That's how many ways John will want to kill me when he finds out I brought you here. Sixty-thousand."

"Oh, Sherlock," she giggled, taking him by the arm. "John will be fine. And he may be a doctor, but that doesn't make him my boss."

"Though, as a nurse, you do work under him," the detective said snarkily.

"Yeah, it was 'working' under him that got me this way…" Mary quipped back, resting a hand on her stomach.

"What?"

"Come on." It was January, but there air wasn't too cold. Still, they were wrapped up, so much so that Mary's hand couldn't even feel the baby moving through her layers. She could certainly feel it inside, though. She led him to a path that circled around some barren trees and the remnants of what had been gardens in the spring and summer. They went along slowly, since it was the only speed available to the blonde, but that was alright with Sherlock. It gave him time to take in the area—collect data.

"Um, Sherlock," Mary said after a while. "Friend of yours?"

Sherlock looked back seeing to whom Mary was referring. It was a short, skinny fellow in an oversized coat. The coat was old and worn, and he didn't seem to have much on underneath it, save for a raggedy white t-shirt and a pair of torn sweatpants. "Right on time," Sherlock said, sounding satisfied.

"Here you go, it's the address you asked for," the man said, he couldn't have been much older than thirty. Sherlock exchanged the folded up piece of paper for a fifty pound note in one swift handshake, and then the man was off.

"He's so young," Mary sadly remarked, watching his figure disappear into the trees that lined the footpath. Sherlock didn't hear her though, he was studying his new information. "What's that?"

"An address."

She rolled her eyes at him. "I can see that. What's it for?"

"You pulled your jacket tighter," he sidestepped, looking at her a bit more intensely. "Why?"

"Just getting a bit nippy out here."

He looked back down at the note in his hands, and then to Mary again. "Want to go somewhere warmer?"