Happy Holidays all! I know it's been a while since I last posted, so I made this chapter a bit longer. Hope it's not too long! Anyway enjoy :)

The Cheshire Cat Inn could only be described as a figurine-infested melting pot of every cheesy and cringe-worthy fairytale cliché to ever soil page and cinema. The walls were defaced with murals of pocket-watch-wearing rabbits and far too many prince charming's. Everything had a smell that would make any normal person recoil. And nearly every decoration, and there were many, looked as though it were being sentenced to a lifetime of children's curious fingers and adults dirty minds.

"Doesn't really seem like your kind of place," Mary teasingly remarked upon walking in.

"Can I help you?" beckoned the overly-friendly chime of the woman at the front desk. Her smile took up most of her face.

"Ah, yes," Sherlock said cheerfully, putting on his sweetest smile. "The Mrs. and I would like to check in, we're absolutely exhausted from traveling and, as you can see, the little one's really worn my wife out." He gave Mary's tummy a delicate rub, which came as a bit of a surprise to her—one she could not hide. "We'd love a room for the night."

"Oh, congratulations!" The overzealous clerk sang, her smile actually growing wider. "Let me just see which room we can put you in. And don't worry, darling," she said to Mary, "I'll make sure it's on the first floor." Mary gave Sherlock a look as the woman perused; it was as that point he remembered to take his hand off her stomach. "Here we go! Room 104," she said, handing them a key, which unsurprisingly had a Hansel and Gretel chain attached to it. "Just let me know when you'd like your bags brought in. I'll have one of our boys carry them in. And there's a pianist in the dining room right now taking requests, it's just past the double doors over there."

"Thank you." Sherlock put a hand on Mary's back and led her in that direction. "I think we'll go have a listen."

"You'll be up for a BAFTA soon," Mary whispered when they were far enough away.

"Don't question my methods, you sound just like John."

"What's the point of all this? Why are we here?"

"Because," Sherlock told her, as they entered the dining room where there was indeed a pianist serenading the audience of weekenders far too excited to be staying at this place. "I had to see the guest book. There's a man staying here called Jeffrey Garrideb, he's out on business right now, but he should be back here later today. He's a client."

Mary looked confused. "If he's a client why did you need to see where he's staying? Why not just ask him? Also, let's sit, my legs are giving up." She didn't wait for Sherlock to agree with the suggestion, she just plopped down into an open chair at an unset table.

Sherlock sat down with her and went on to tell her about the case he was investigating. As it turned out, Garrideb had a very peculiar situation. He had come to Sherlock roughly a week ago with a strange story that all circulated around his very odd last name. Following clue after clue, Sherlock had concluded that Garrideb was using the detective's abilities to expedite an elaborate scam targeting another man with the same odd last name. All Sherlock had to do now was confirm his suspicion.

"So if he's not here yet, why are we?" Mary fairly asked, setting her chin on an angled wrist.

"Groundwork." He sprang up from the table and excitedly grabbed the hand of the first man that walked by him, pretending to know the stranger. Mary guessed immediately that his choice, however, was not random.

Sherlock jabbered on and on with the man, whose wife joined them shortly after. Many of the pleasantries circulated around Garrideb, who Sherlock proposed was a mutual acquaintance between the two. From her slight distance away, Mary could see the detective's eye follow closely every word the company had to say about the client in question. As an added bonus, seeing Sherlock pretend to be a friendly, extroverted, socially-charged man was hilarious to her. Though the process was taking quite some time.

"Um, Sherlock…" Mary cut in impatiently.

"One moment dear," he said dismissively, still focusing on the man who was happily beginning to think he had actually known Sherlock from a previous function.

"Is this your wife?" the lady on the stranger's arm asked, looking at the woman who sat alone at the table about ten feet away.

"Yes, she is. Now, as I was saying, Garrideb—"

The lady cut him off. "Maybe you should go check on her, she looks uncomfortable."

Sherlock looked behind him at Mary, and felt his stomach jump into his throat when he saw her. She was keeled over with a hand tightly clutching her abdomen and a painful look smearing her face. "Oh, um, no she's fine," he said, mostly to himself, desperately hoping it was true.

"I don't think so…" the man said, now looking over at Mary.

Sherlock swallowed hard, and abandoned the couple without another word. "Mary," he said nervously, kneeling down in front of her. "What's going on, why are you doing that?"

She breathed deeply and winced at another pain before meeting his eyes. "It feels like a contraction…" A smile crept to her lips, even through the pain. "I think this is it…"

"Now?!"

She nodded and gave her friend a reassuring pat on the arm. "Call John."

"Right, of course, John." Sherlock fumbled getting his phone out, clearly ill-prepared for this. Mary couldn't help, but chuckle—which was much easier to do when the contraction had subsided. "Come on, come on…" he frenziedly repeated in muffled mutters. "John's not answering. What the hell could he possibly be doing?"

"Just relax," Mary eased, motioning for Sherlock to come back over to her. "Try again, but help me up first."

"Where are you going?"

"Well, I'm not having the baby in this dining room, am I? Let's go." Sherlock agreed and took her out, keeping a hand behind her…because it seemed like the right thing to do.

"Right, Mrs. Cassini, just see the nurse on your way out and we can schedule a follow-up in three weeks to have a look at that knee." John waved to his smiling patient as she left the examination room, and then snapped off his latex gloves, tossing them into the bin. "Lara, was that the last one?"

The intern looked up from her place in the corner of the room where she had been observing throughout the check-up. "Yep, you're 1 o'clock was cancelled."

"Thank God," he breathed, closing up his patient folder. "I can't believe I haven't heard from Sherlock yet," he kept on, digging into his pocket for his phone. "I was sure he'd be bored out of his—" John's face froze when he saw '6 missed calls' staring him in the face upon unlocking his screen. "Oh God," he exhaled. Hustling out of the room toward his office, he immediately dialed the detective. "Pick up you prick!" he demanded into the phone on the third ring, as he flung open his office door, dropping the files and searching for his car keys. Finally, the call was answered. "Sherlock, what's going on!"

"Okay, stay calm," Sherlock began, though he felt pretty damn anxious himself. "Mary's in labor."

"What?!" The words could have knocked him over, but he did his best to regain his composure. "Why didn't you call me earlier?!"

"I tried, you didn't answer! Keep your phone on silent when your pregnant wife is with me, great idea."

"Well, how's she doing, let me talk to her."

Sherlock dutifully passed the phone to Mary who sat beside him on the bed they had recently acquired as faux husband and wife. "John?"

"Mary, what's happening…I mean, is it really—"

"I think so," she said nodding, even though he couldn't see her. "Poor Sherlock's a bit off color over here." She soothingly patted his arm with a sympathetic smile.

"I don't care how he's doing, are you alright?" John finally found his keys and didn't waste any time in fleeing the clinic.

"Yes, I'm alright…the pain isn't too bad," she answered, glancing again at a very pale Sherlock.

"When was the first contraction and how long do they last?"

"Um, about thirty minutes ago I guess, and they're pretty spread out now." She took a deep breath, knowing her husband was about to be very angry very quickly. "Listen, I would have met you at the hospital, but we haven't been able to get a cab…see, this place is a ways away from the city."

John had just made it through the double-doors and outside when she said this. It was then he came to a screeching halt, praying he hadn't heard her correctly. "This place? You aren't at Baker Street…"

"No, we're at the Cheshire Cat Inn, it wasn't supposed to—"

"Put Sherlock on the phone please," John requested, in a frighteningly even tone.

"Hello," Sherlock carefully approached when Mary handed him the phone.

"Sherlock," John addressed, still scarily even-toned. That was about to end. "Did you take my nine months pregnant wife on a fucking case?!"

"John, just listen…" he tried.

"I'm going to kill you. If my daughter is born in the back of a cab, I am going to kill you!"

Mary snatched the phone back. "Don't yell at him, I tricked him into going for a walk."

"You didn't trick me," Sherlock objected. Mary just gave him a 'yeah right' look.

"Mary, just tell me how you're feeling, and don't worry about the cab. I'm coming to get you; I'm getting in the car now."

"Oh no, you don't have to. Sherlock took care of it. And honey, I'm fine, really." She hadn't even finished the word when another contraction hit her. "Ahh, that's another one."

Hearing his wife moan through the contraction visibly tore him up as he sat useless in the car outside the hospital. "It's alright, deep breaths," he helplessly coached, biting into his lip and laying his head back as he waited for Mary to tell him when it ended. It felt like an eternity, even though John's stopwatch, which he had started keeping in the car a month ago, only read thirty-seven seconds. "Was that one longer than the last?

"Um, no…Sherlock's been timing them."

Just then, John heard Sherlock's robotic voice mutter 'he's here' in the background. "Who's there?"

"I'm not sure, but we're leaving now. I'll meet you at the hospital. John, please don't worry, it's okay."

"I want to stay on the phone."

"Honey, no, it just makes it harder…especially for you. We'll be there soon, I promise." She and Sherlock were just making it back into the lobby which was thankfully very close to their room when Mary saw what ride Sherlock had arranged. "We'll be there very soon. I love you, bye." She hung up before John could make any other objections, knowing that he'd probably worry himself into a heart attack if she stayed on the phone.

"So, you take your best friend's wife on a case and send her into labor, there's a fine headline for Sherlock Holmes," Lestrade said, stepping out of the cruiser to meet the two. "I got here as fast as I could. You said you didn't need the ambulance."

"No, we don't," Mary said with a smile, nearly blinded by the flashing blue lights. "Thanks for coming."

Lestrade nodded a 'you're welcome.' "Let's get you to the hospital then."

Sherlock had previously doubted Lestrade's high-speed chase capabilities, based on outside observation and first-hand passenger experience, but his mind was slowly changing watching the detective-inspector weave in and out of London's noontime traffic. He didn't forget to pay attention to Mary though; by now he knew when she was having contractions based on her pupils, breathing, stomach, and visible pulse. There was something else though, he had been asking her repeatedly if she was okay, and physically she seemed to be doing alright, but her spirit certainly wasn't as high as it was before.

"Mary," he said quietly, after her contraction ended. "What's the matter?"

She looked up at him sadly and tried to smile, but it fell. She shook her head at herself. "I'm alright, it's just…I don't think this is it."

"What?"

She sighed a frustrated sigh. "I felt the first contraction over an hour ago, and they haven't gotten any worse. They aren't getting closer together, and they haven't been happening at regular intervals."

"So, what are you saying?" Clearly Sherlock's pregnancy studies had not made it this far yet.

"I think it's Braxton Hicks," Mary said, and fell disheartened back into the seat. "I'm not in labor."

"What?"

"What!" Lestrade echoed in the front seat.

"Are you sure?" Sherlock asked.

"Pretty sure." Sherlock could see her eyes beginning to water, but didn't mention it.

"I left a crime scene to do this," Lestrade mumbled in the front seat.

"Oh like it matters, Garret," Sherlock retorted.

Mary apologized to her driver anyway. "I'm sorry."

The cop shrugged. "It's alright, probably best you see a doctor anyway."

"Let's start with this one." Sherlock lifted his head toward the man jogging toward the entrance of the hospital car park as they pulled up to it.

"Afternoon John," Lestrade said with a friendly wave that went ignored.

John didn't even hear him; he just came over to Mary's side and yanked open the door to help her out. "Hey, how you doing, love, still alright? Sherlock, when was the last contraction?" That's when he saw the tears in her eyes and felt his heart suddenly sink. "Why are you crying? What happened?"

She quickly wiped her eyes and shook her head to reassure him. "No, nothing happened. It's not the real thing, John. I thought it was, but it's not. I'm just being emotional."

He was confused, but only for a moment before a look of realization spread through his face. "Braxton?" he asked, and Mary nodded feeling silly. John wrapped a secure and comforting arm around her, grateful to have his wife with him, and looked to Sherlock for an explanation. "Did you time them?"

"Yes, and wrote them down. Mary told me to." Sherlock handed him a small piece of paper with his scrawling on it.

When John reviewed it, he came to the same conclusion Mary had in the car. He couldn't decide between feeling relieved or disappointed. He gave Mary's arm a rub, knowing full well what her feelings were. "Well, we're going to have you looked at anyway." Mary nodded, expecting he would. "Thanks for driving, Greg."

The D.I. nodded once more, got back into his car, and left the scene, leaving a very quiet Sherlock behind. "So," the trench-coated man began, "I'll probably just head back to Baker Street."

"You aren't going anywhere," John warned, using his soldier voice. "What the hell were you thinking?"

"John, please, not now," Mary pleaded, with a hand on his chest. "I just want to be seen and then go home."

With a tightened jaw, John looked between the two of them several times, already knowing Sherlock was going to get away with this. "Fine," he surrendered. "Go wherever you want to go, but don't think I won't—"

"John," Mary protested again. "Let's just go in."John obliged and Sherlock mouthed a silent 'thank you' before heading off somewhere safer. "Don't be mad at him," Mary said as the Watsons made their way slowly to the hospital entrance. "He was great, really…scared to death, but that was kind of funny. He even offered to hold my hand because he said he's seen it in a film. I told him the pain wasn't bad enough for that."

John grasped his wife's hand and kept a guiding arm behind her back as they moved through the crosswalk. "Almost there…" he said, knowing she was probably exhausted already. "Are you alright?"

"I told you, I'm—"

"No, I mean about it only being Braxton Hicks."

Her mouth turned sadly upside down. "I was so excited when I felt the first contraction, nervous of course, and I wanted you to be there, but still more excited than anything else. I just want her to come out already! I want to know that she's healthy and nothing went…wrong."

"Nothing is going to go wrong." John pulled her closer and kissed her head. "Trust me, I'm a doctor."

She laughed and rubbed her stomach. "You're also an expectant father, there's a conflict of interest there." They reached the double-glass doors and John pulled them open for his wife, who didn't seem particularly game to go in. "Do I really need to get checked out? We both know it's only Braxton Hicks."

"Yes, you do. I'm not about to drive all the way back home only to have your water break."

Reluctantly, Mary waddled in with John following close behind her. "For the record, Sherlock carries rubber gloves around with him in case I go into labor and we can't get to a hospital. He pulled them out at the inn."

"Yeah, I'm definitely going to kill him."

OOOOO

The blue glow of the TV flickered on the bedroom wall as John dozed off to the 11 o'clock news. Next to him, Mary was perusing through a baby names book under the yellow lamplight coming from the nightstand. "Ooh," she uttered, feeling a jolt inside her belly. "John," she said softly, nudging his shoulder.

"Mm," John inaudibly grunted, not opening his eyes.

"She's kicking, give me your hand." Mary took John's left hand out from under the covers and placed it on the spot she felt the baby, just below her navel.

John smiled and his eyes fluttered open when he felt the movements under his hand. He came closer and kissed Mary's bump. "Are you trying to keep mummy up again?"

"Just giving us practice for when she's out I guess," Mary reasoned with a chuckle. "Although, what's really keeping me up is the smell of that pie in the kitchen. Think I'll have some."

"No, no," John said, stopping her getting out of bed. "I'll get it for you, just stay here."

Mary smirked contently. "Alright." John was back in no time with a plate of warm pie and a spoon that Mary eagerly grabbed when it was close enough. "Thanks hun," she said, already taking the first bite. She moaned when the taste melted in her mouth. "This is perfect."

"I can tell," John affirmed, stifling a chuckle. He sunk back down under the covers and closed his eyes, letting himself nod off again.

Mary set the plate down on her belly, which was a truly perfect height for food, and continued eating as she flipped through the pages. "How can we not have a name yet?!" she suddenly ejected, startling John.

"We have names…" he said groggily, closing his eyes again.

"Not enough," she responded desperately, and shoved another piece of pie into her mouth. "What if we see her and decide that none of the names we've picked out fit? Or what if we choose something and then realize later we should have chosen something else?"

"That's not going to happen."

"It could."

"Mary, don't get all worked up about something this silly now…please. Anxiety is not going to help at this point." John had opened his eyes long enough to notice something in the corner of his line of sight. "And don't put your arm above your head like that."

Mary rolled her eyes at the irony of John's 'stress' plea, but took her arm down anyway. "Why don't you go to sleep, you're exhausted."

"No, I'm not."

"Really? You can barely keep your eyes open." She returned her focus to the book.

"Nope, I'm wide awake…alert…ready for anything."

"Right."

It was only three full minutes before the hushed voices on telly were drowned out by John's soft snoring. Mary, still very much awake, smiled to herself and turned the TV off. She knew she would be exhausted tomorrow and probably spend a good portion of it asleep, but somehow that wasn't enough to persuade her now. She couldn't try to sleep if she wanted to.

She set the book down on the nightstand and finished the last bits of pie, wrapping John's hand in hers and smiling as her baby danced under the balancing plate.

John woke up to an empty bed the next morning, which, after the second or two it took to realize it, jolted him up in search of his wife. "Mary?" he called out hoarsely, rubbing his hands over his face.

"Kitchen!" she yelled back.

John breathed a sigh of relief and swung his legs over the side of the bed, feet abruptly meeting the cold floor. He sauntered into the living room and then the kitchen, but couldn't find his wife. He could hear her labored breaths though. "Um, Mary?"

"Over here." Out of sight, she was crouched down on the floor behind the island counter.

"What the—?" John was about to ask her what she was doing, but when she became visible, he didn't have to. There, with all fours on the tile, she was vehemently scrubbing the floor. He knew he probably couldn't stop her, but he tried anyway. He tried four times. Each time, her response became more rabid.

He really wished she'd stop for a moment to take a rest, or really do anything besides intensely scrub the floor, but he figured she would soon enough tire herself out. So, he waited.

It was just past ten, and Mary had moved onto the windows. Not a single spot was acceptable to her; they had to be completely clean. "Mary, please, you're going to pass out…you need to eat something."

She clenched her teeth, quite fed up with his constant worrying. She was tired of sitting around all the time like a lump. Today was the first time in ages she'd not felt like her lungs were being squeezed up by her uterus and she was not going to waste it. "For the millionth time, John, I am fine. I know my body. I know my limits. Why don't you go see what Sherlock is up to?"

"Oh no," he decreed, in something akin to a scoff. "I am not leaving you alone." Before Mary could shoot back, the doorbell rang and John popped up to get it. "Tread carefully," he said, when he saw it was Sherlock on the other side.

"What?"

"You'll see…"

"Oh, hi Sherlock," Mary chimed happily from across the flat, turning briefly from the window to see who the visitor was. "I didn't know you were coming over."

"Just thought I'd drop by," he responded, staring quizzically at the way Mary vigorously scrubbed the windows. "Why is she doing that?" he whispered to John, who watched his friend's look with amusement.

"Nesting instinct," the doctor simply replied.

"You're making that up."

"Nope. Women tend to do things like this before they go into labor. Clean out closets, wash everything, make space, whatever they feel needs to be done. She's done this at least eight times in the last two weeks."

"Does she know she's doing it?"

"Your guess is as good as mine; besides, good luck trying to get her to admit it." John took a slow sip of his tea and moseyed into the kitchen to grab the morning paper he had not yet had a chance to read.

Sherlock, with some degree of stealth, made his way over to Mary. "Ooh! You snuck up on me," Mary lightly exclaimed when he suddenly showed up at her side. For the first time, she noticed the brown paper bag in his hand. "What's that?"

With tact, Sherlock glanced back at John to make sure he was still preoccupied by the newspaper. He was. "It's the spiciest dish I could find in the city. It's for you."

"Sorry?"

"Yesterday, you were telling me how you're sick of being pregnant and want the baby out and a slew of other complaints I didn't really hear…well, according to John and my own research, eating spicy things can help induce labor. So…here." He pushed the bag discreetly toward her. "Eat it and get this thing going. There's ghost pepper powder on the side, if that doesn't kick things off I have Naga Viper extract in my pocket."

"What?" Mary whispered in disbelief.

"More potent than the ghost pepper, but no one ever gives it any credit."

"Have you gone mad?" Mary looked down at the bag and then discreetly to her husband. "John is going to have a fit. He's been adamant about not trying anything to induce unless it becomes necessary. And you want me to eat the world's hottest peppers?"

"Why does he drag his heels so much? You can't be pregnant forever. Right?"

She shook her head. "I think he's still nervous. Not to mention, he's not the one that actually has to be pregnant." She went back to her window. "Why do you care so much?"

"About what?"

"Me going into labor, why are you trying to rush it?"

"You're a week past your due date; I wouldn't call that rushing."

"Sherlock…" she warned.

He rolled his eyes, and realized the answer was apparently not as obvious as he thought it was. "Mrs. Hudson won't stop squealing and clapping her hands together any time your name or John's is mentioned; John is a constant nervous wreck and it's annoying; your mood swings have gotten so bad it's a miracle you haven't driven yourself mad; Molly has been trying to teach me to change a diaper which has been, at best, horrendous; and Mycroft and I have a bet that I need to win." Sherlock folded his hands behind his back. "Should I list more or is that enough for now?"

"You made a bet with your brother about me?!" she yelled in appall.

"Several. What else are we supposed to talk about?"

"I'm sure you two could come up with something." She grumbled and went back to work.

"You can't imagine the struggle…"

"I'm sure I can," she retorted.

"You really can't." Sherlock looked at the pane and admired the job Mary had done on the window. Although just by looking at the glass, he could see her arm was tiring out, and that she hadn't had the same enthusiasm she did when she started this task ten—no, fifteen—minutes ago. "In any case, I'll just leave this here," Sherlock whispered, setting the bag down in front of her where John couldn't see. "I know you're sick of being pregnant, so accept this as my peace offering for using your gestation to make money off my brother."

The detective moseyed away from her and joined John in the kitchen. "I need your medical opinion on something; a man's alibi depends on it," he started.

John took a sip from his mug and stared up at his friend. "Go on then."

"You're familiar with entomotoxicology, yes?"

"Sure," John answered with a shrug.

The boys went on to chat about Sherlock's recent observations at a crime scene so much so that neither noticed when Mary had exited the living room and headed into the bedroom. It was only when John casually glanced, mid-sentence, toward the window she had previously been occupying that he realized she had vacated the area. "Where's Mary?"

Sherlock attempted at once to pull him back into the conversation. "In the flat, I'm assuming. Now about the maggots…if the victim was on cocaine—"

"Mary!" John called in the direction of the bedroom, ignoring Sherlock now.

"Yes, John…" she responded, in an apparently irate tone.

John went to her, despite Sherlock's second try at keeping him in the kitchen. "Hey, what are you doing in here?" he asked sweetly.

Mary was lying on the bed, looking just a bit guilty, though John didn't seem to detect it. "Just got tired all of a sudden. I'll be back out in a little while. I just needed to lie down for a bit."

"Alright, as long as you're—" He stopped and sniffed the air. "What's that smell?"

"I think it's coming from the kitchen," Sherlock immediately answered.

"No…" John followed his nose over to the side of the bed where Mary was stretched out. When he found the source of the scent, he stopped on a dime and his shoulders suddenly became those of a soldier. "Are you kidding me?"

"What?" Sherlock asked, poorly playing dumb.

John lifted the brown bag up from the floor, the spicy smell encasing the room even more strongly, and moved his eyes back and forth between his wife and his friend. "Did you bring her this?"

"No."

"Sherlock," Mary scolded, sitting up a bit.

"Oh, like you weren't going to eat it," the detective immaturely retorted.

"Does he bring you something to induce labor every time he comes here?" John sarcastically asked the woman staring up at him. He turned back to Sherlock with more chagrin. "What was it yesterday? Castor oil? Day before that, a dirty magazine to encourage…actually, I don't know what you were thinking with that one."

"Me neither," Mary agreed, remembering.

"You aren't off the hook either," he retorted back to his wife.

"I didn't eat the food, John," she replied. "I knew you would freak out…the way you do with most things I do." She added that last part in a whisper, but certainly loud enough for John to hear.

"I do not freak out!"

"You're doing it right now."

"She's right," Sherlock contributed, earning a glare from John.

"Does anyone here give even the tiniest of cares that I am a doctor, and might, just might, know a bit about when it is healthiest for my wife to go into labor?"

"Honey, no one is saying you don't know better," Mary said comfortingly, rubbing his forearm since it was within reach.

"Although there may be a conflict of interest…" Sherlock put in, which did not please the pregnant lady.

"Isn't there a murder you could be solving somewhere?" John fired back. Obviously, stress was beginning to get the best of him again.

"Sherlock," Mary eased, "could you give us a second?" The detective nodded and left the bedroom, deciding to go check on the nursery again, just to make sure it was safe and suitable for the baby, whom he guessed would be sleeping in it any day now.

"He's got a lot of nerve, you know that," John mumbled, sitting down onto the bed when Mary pulled him closer. "This isn't his baby. It's mine. And yours."

"I know, I know."

"And we put it in there, so we decide when it comes out."

"Nicely put," Mary said, with a slight grimace at the word choice. She shook it off and took his hand. "But he's only trying to help. And you know he's nervous about the baby and how it will change things…he's just trying to get it all going so he doesn't have to deal with the anticipation anymore."

"He's a twat."

Mary ignored the statement and kept on going with hers. "You, on the other hand, are doing the exact opposite. You're nervous, so you're putting it all off. It's like you never want me to go into labor!"

"Oh, Mary, no," John sincerely and apologetically pleaded, realizing how it could come off that way. He put both hands lovingly on her tummy. "I can't wait to meet her, and hold her. Genuinely. I know it's probably going to be the most amazing thing I ever get to do."

"Then why don't you want to speed things up?" she asked desperately, throwing both hands up. "John, you really can't understand what's it's like to be pregnant this long. I'm almost two weeks over due! And I just get bigger every day and I'm always hungry, nothing feels good, there are no comfortable positions, and I'm pretty sure breathing will never be the same again."

"Trust me, I know it's not been fun for you…and I sincerely thank you for being the one who has to do it, but it will happen. And the healthiest way is to let it happen on its own."

"People induce their own labor all the time and things go fine. You need to stop worrying so much." She leaned her back against the headboard and sighed. "You worry when I have enough energy to clean, you worry when I don't have any energy to do anything, you worry when I feel her kick, or when I try to walk anywhere. When I sit, when I stand, when I laugh, when I cry. I love you, but it's driving me mad."

"I'm sorry…" He dropped his gaze down and rubbed her leg. After a long and calming sigh, his eyes met hers again. "I will try to stop being mental over all this."

"Thank you."

"I'm not saying I'll do it successfully."

"I know," she said with a nod, appreciating the offer all the same.

"I'll probably fail miserably…"

"John," she sternly warned. "Don't ruin it."

"Right, sorry."

"And maybe you should…" she jerked her head in the direction of the other room.

"Do panto?"

"Apologize to Sherlock…you shouted at him."

"Oh, come on," John whined. "If you're worried about his ego, I'm sure it's still very much intact."

"Look, here he comes, apologize," she said softly when the detective appeared in the doorway.

Sherlock didn't hesitate to share what he had found. "There are four possible ways an intruder could get into the nursery; seriously, are normal people just willingly blind?" John and Mary shared a look, and then returned their attention to the suit-clad man in their bedroom. "I've managed to eliminate two of them, but the other two are going to require more extensive reconstruction."

Mary nudged at John's arm, to which her husband lowly sighed. "Sherlock," he began from his seat on the bed. "I'm sorry I yelled at you about the spicy food."

Sherlock's brows angled downward. "You're making him apologize," he said to Mary.

"No, he means it…he knows he's been acting crazy," she responded confidently.

"Good, I'll go get you extra hot sauce for the food I brought you." He turned to go, but was stopped immediately by John.

"No, wait, Sherlock, that's not happening. We're not trying to induce."

The detective's eyes rolled ostentatiously. "Why not? I thought you were done being crazy."

"It's not a good idea. We're going to wait until the baby is ready or until Dr. Marshall gives us the green light. And that's the end of it."

"Hmm, perfectly easy for you to do, I'm sure Mary's got another opinion." He looked to her for support, but she didn't respond. Either she was gratifying John's wishes or she didn't want to get in between them. "Oh come on, John, she's in pain. Let her go get this over with."

"The birth of my child is not something I'm trying to 'get over with,' Sherlock," Mary spoke up. "And I'm not in pain."

"Please," Sherlock complacently replied. "You've had three contractions since I've been here."