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

"She has not," John refuted, fully confident he would know if his wife was having a contraction. However, when he looked back to Mary for a reassuring nod, he found another expression canvassing her face, forcing a double-take. The realization didn't take more than a second. He sprang off the bed. "My God, is he right?! Brilliant, just brilliant. You know I never get tired of that," he burst, thrusting a finger aggressively at Sherlock.

"It's just Braxton Hicks again, John," Mary quickly answered. "I've been keeping track of them. It's the same ones I had earlier this week and at the inn last week."

"And were you going to tell me?" He couldn't help feeling a bit sucker-punched. Had he been so unbearably crazy that she couldn't even tell him when she was in pain?

"Honey, it's not a big deal. If they had really been bothering me, I would have told you."

"Jesus…" he murmured to himself, arms akimbo and eyes to the floor. After a few breaths, he looked back at Mary. "You're sure it's not the real thing?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

He nodded, seemingly calming down. "Hand me the bag, please." Mary willingly passed him Sherlock's brown-bagged gift, having had no intention of eating it anyway. John headed toward the door, sternly pointing his finger through it as a command to Sherlock, which the detective followed without incident. When they got to the living room, John looked back once to make sure Mary hadn't followed. "Alright, are you going to listen?"

"If you insist."

"There will be no more 'operation induce labor' from you or anyone else, is that understood? You can tell me I'm being a prick or I'm too uptight and nervous about the whole thing, you're bloody right I am! But that doesn't change the fact that this is my baby and my wife and if I don't want to take unnecessary risks with them, then that's it."

"It's just as much Mary's baby, and she wants to induce," Sherlock rebutted. "Actually, it's probably more hers since it's actually attached at the moment."

"Mary is nine months pregnant," John said incredulously. "Her hormones are driving her crazy. One minute she's thrilled, the next she's furious. Two nights ago, she was in tears because I killed a spider on the wall. She said she wanted me to move out. Five minutes later, she wanted to rip my clothes off. She's not any more objective than I am at this point." John sighed in completion. "Besides, if she hates me now for not wanting to induce she's going to hate me a hell of a lot more when she actually goes into labor."

Sherlock nodded in agreement. "It's probable. I read that women can break their husbands' hands during labor."

"Yeah, great, cheers," John sarcastically replied with a wrinkled brow.

There was a second or two where neither said a word, which Sherlock believed to be a long enough time. "Well, as long as we're done exhausting this topic, let's move on to something of more interest."

"Here we go." John lowered himself into the armchair, putting his chin into his palm. "Is this another diversionary case to distract me while you go give Mary a burrito?"

"No, and the case I was describing to you before was entirely real."

"Was it?"

"Yes, of course…I wrapped it up two years ago."

John scoffed, not at all surprised. "So what's the actual, real thing you want to talk about now?"

"I've an appointment with a client tomorrow at 9 am. I'd like you to come along."

"Come along where?"

"Slough."

"No."

"You haven't even heard it yet."

"Slough is thirty minutes away by the tube, that's too far."

"It's nothing."

"I'm not going farther than fifteen minutes away. If Mary needs me—"

"She can call you," Sherlock interjected.

John was still shaking his head finitely. "No."

The detective exhaled through his nose and regrouped. "Let me tell you about it first."

"Fine, but it won't change my mind."

"It might when I tell you who the client is." He had John's ear, now he just needed to figure out a way to reel him in. "Tuesday morning I received a phone call; man from Slough, late twenties, works at a paper company, thinks he has a stalker."

"Why's he think that?"

"The usual. Notes left around suggesting it, shadows following him at night, and of course, the tell-tale: these were sent to his house. They're photos of him through his bedroom window." Sherlock tossed the pictures onto the coffee table which sat between the two men and let himself onto the couch to sort through them. Based on the programs on telly that can be seen in the corner of several shots, they were taken all in row, yet on the back of each," Sherlock turned a couple over. "The alleged stalker has marked dates that are one week apart from each other, and the earliest date marked is tomorrow. The obvious inference is that the dates signify a timetable in which threats are to be carried out."

"So why doesn't the bloke phone the police?" John asked, gazing curiously at photos, even studying the dates on the back.

"He was going to, but he then he received a note in the mail. Five words."

John kicked himself for being drawn in, but went ahead and asked anyway. "Which were…?" Sherlock didn't say anything; he just passed him a paper which John guessed to be the note. John read aloud: "Not being clever this time." He looked back up at Sherlock, thinking his friend would be smirking the way he does when he knows he's sparked John's interest with a case, but that wasn't his disposition at all. He looked…grave. If it were at all possible. "Why did this stop him going to the police?"

Sherlock nodded at the logical question. "He told his uncle about the situation, the whole chain of events. And his uncle instructed him not to go to the police, but to come to me instead." John waited for more, but that appeared to be all Sherlock had to say.

"I'm not making a connection, who's the client?"

Sherlock inhaled deeply, never breaking eye contact. "His last name is Sholto."

OOOOO

"I don't understand, the photographer from our wedding…the one who tried to kill James Sholto…he escaped from prison?"

"Looks that way," John said soberly. His body rested hard against the headboard as he stared straight ahead at the darkened wall in the bedroom. Mary was sitting up next to him with her hands dedicatedly on her belly. She looked nearly as distraught as John was, though more for John's sake. She knew how hard the news must have struck him.

"Why wasn't it in the papers?" she asked, disbelievingly.

"It was," he answered. "But it happened two months ago. We missed it because we had other things on our minds, and Sherlock wouldn't have seen it."

She put a comforting hand on his shoulder, "Darling, I'm so sorry."

John looked to her and tried a small smile. "Well, Sherlock is heading there tomorrow. Hopefully he can do what he does and put the bastard away. Permanently this time."

"John," she remarked in an obvious tone. "You've got to go with him."

He was quick to shake his head, even though he truly did want to go and get the arsehole. "No, Mary, I'm not leaving you. It's a half hour away, I'd have to take the tube back, and if anything got delayed or there were any accidents…I'm not taking the chance."

"Honey, I know how you feel about it all," she tried in a softer voice. "The two men who have saved your life on more than one occasion could find themselves in a dangerous situation tomorrow. I would feel incredibly guilty if I didn't demand that you go."

"And if anything happened to you while I was gone, I would feel incredibly guilty." He breathed out and closed his eyes. "I want to go, but…"

"You can." He looked back at her, wishing her statement was founded. "I will be fine. Even if anything were to happen, I can handle it. And there are plenty of people I could call." Still, he needed more convincing. "If it'll put your mind at ease, then tomorrow I will go and spend the morning at Baker Street with Mrs. Hudson. And if you aren't back yet, then I'll go out with Molly in the afternoon."

It took another ten minutes of persuading, but eventually, John did decide to accompany Sherlock the next day. Mary was right; the two men it was now in his interest to help and protect had saved his life far more than once. "And you promise that you will call me even if anything remotely out of the ordinary happens?"

"I swear I will." She gave his hand a reaffirming squeeze and her lips pressed themselves into a modest smile. "Besides, you'll go nutty if you sit here while Sherlock's out having all the fun."

He smiled back at her and mumbled an "uh-huh," trying not to let her be too smug about getting the best of him.

"Ooh," she suddenly gasped, feeling her stomach tighten.

"That another one?"John immediately asked, laying a hand against her belly.

"Yeah, it's alright," she said with a nod. "No worse than the last one."

She had been having Braxton Hicks contractions on and off all night, but insisted they were just that. "Mary, you can't downplay the pain, you need to tell me if it's getting worse."

"I wish it were," she admitted sadly. "But no, and they're getting more spread out, not closer together. It's just practice. And that one's already done with."

John uneasily rubbed her stomach, hoping it was at least a bit helpful. "What the hell am I doing, I can't go tomorrow."

"You're going!" she insisted. "Look at the clock, see…that one was shorter than the last one and farther apart."

"Yeah, but—"

"And Dr. Marshall said last time that the baby isn't low enough yet. And I can feel it, too. She isn't low enough. Please, just trust me. I'll be right here when you get back, and I will, without the slightest doubt, still be carrying your child."

John turned to the blue digital letters glowing on the nightstand. It was 1:15 a.m., nearly two hours after the first faux contraction had woken Mary up. Regrettably, he knew there was no way he could feel good about any decision he made tomorrow, so he resolved to trust his wife. She probably did know her body better than he could, even if she was extremely pregnant right now.

The next morning, John was up earlier than Mary. Although the appointment with Sholto's nephew was not until nine, the detective insisted on getting to his house no later than eight. The client had told Sherlock over the phone that he would be out of the house until quarter to nine for unspecified reasons, and naturally Sherlock Holmes was not about to pass up the opportunity to learn what he could about the client before their scheduled meeting.

"Mary…" John whispered, gently nudging his wife who looked so peaceful between the soft cushion of her pillow and their duvet.

"You're leaving already?" Mary groggily asked as she woke, staring up at John through squinted eyes. "We didn't get to sleep until 2 last night."

"That's why I didn't get you up. You can sleep. I've got to go meet Sherlock." John bent down and kissed his wife. "Make sure you call me if anything happens."

"I will," she promised. "And you call me if anything happens."

He smiled at her, but gave an obeying nod. "But let's not plan for anything though, either of us."

"Deal," she said through a tired smile.

OOOOO

"You do know constantly checking your phone won't change whether or not there's something there to see," Sherlock posed, eyeing John sideways as the two vibrated against the seats in their car which was filled with people checking watches, praying they would get to work on time.

"I just want to make sure I don't lose the signal," John defended, checking his phone one more time. "You know what, I don't have to explain myself to you. You have no idea what's it's like to have a pregnant wife at home. And rather than be with her, I'm off gallivanting with you. I'm an idiot."

"You didn't have to come, you know," Sherlock said coolly.

"Oh, a load of shit that is, you knew I would come."

"And you knew you'd be a nervous wreck if you did," the detective stolidly responded. "We're even." John just put his head back and tried to will the train faster, unsuccessfully, as it actually ended up getting to Slough five minutes late.

Back in London, Mary had finally woken up; this time, ready to start her day. She threw on a loose fitting sweater and got in her morning workout of trying to pull on a pair of maternity jeans, which was no easy task these days. She couldn't help thinking to herself that for the past few weeks, all she had wanted was some time by herself, just like this, with John not anxiously rushing to her side every time she made a noise. And now she missed him. She mentally scoffed at herself, and her screwy hormones.

As she sat alone at the kitchen counter, tea cup between her hands, she debated whether or not to text her husband, just to see how his trip was going. It was now past 9:30, surely they must have met with the client by now. Luckily enough, John beat her to it.

Picking it up, she read succinctly: So far, so good. Sholto's nephew is safe for the moment. Have you gone to Baker Street yet?

Not yet, heading there soon, she responded, sipping the last of her tea.

She was just about to waddle back into the bedroom before leaving the flat, when she was hit with yet another practice contraction, the third one of the morning. This one stilled her for a second. With a wince, she rubbed at the spot on her tummy and chuckled affectionately, "You know, the real thing would be just lovely, little girl."

The walk from the kitchen to the bedroom was enough to wipe her out, so much so that she decided to postpone her original plan to go directly to Baker Street after breakfast. She was almost certain Mrs. Hudson would have plenty to say and could barely muster up the energy to put her shoes on, let alone answer a million questions from the persistent, though well-meaning, landlady. Cuddling up by herself in bed, she stared down at her phone, wondering how the early stages of the Slough investigation were going. 'Why not,' she thought, and hit 1 to call John.

It only took a couple of rings, "Hey," he said eagerly, as if he'd been wanting a call.

"Hi there," Mary replied, lying back against John's pillow. "How's it going?"

"The case, you mean?" John glanced behind him at Sherlock who was crouched on the ground with his portable magnifying glass buried in a potentially useful footprint. "It's alright. Sherlock's got a few ideas as to where the stalker may have taken the pictures."

"Not ideas, John, hypotheses!" Sherlock yelled to him, never moving his eyes away from the dirt.

"He sounds excited," Mary mused.

"It's like Christmas and New Year's all rolled into one," John replied in agreement. He took a few steps away from the crime scene and lowered his voice. "So, you're doing okay?"

"Yeah, I've had a few more Braxton Hicks, but other than that, nothing to report." She tried to think of anything noteworthy. "I feel fatter today, but that's not news."

John smiled sympathetically. "You're not fat, you're pregnant."

"And disco isn't dead; it's 'passed on.'" Just then, another contraction hit, drawing something of a wince on her face. As she grasped her tummy, waiting for it to be over, she allowed John's voice going over a few details about the investigation to soothe her.

"…But besides that, no other leads." Conveniently, he finished recounting the facts at the same time the twinge in her muscles relaxed.

"John, take a look at this!" Sherlock could be heard yelling in the background of the call.

"Oop, I guess you're needed," Mary sighed.

"Yeah, he just wants me to look at something, tell him what I see, and then long-windedly tell me how wrong I am."

"Well, every duo's got to have their gimmick," she offered teasingly. "I'll let you go."

"Alright, I'm hoping we can get back on the train soon, but I don't know what his plans are." John glanced back at Sherlock who stood impatiently with his arms out when he saw his friend still on the phone. "Call me if you need me."

"I will…I love you…bye." Mary had no sooner ended the call before her phone began buzzing again. She sighed heavily, truly wanting to just take a nap for the time being. "Hello," she answered, trying to sound cheery.

"Mary, hi, how are you doing," Mrs. Hudson's voice kindly came through.

"I'm fine," the blonde replied. "I was just about too head over there."

"Yes, that's why I'm calling," Mrs. Hudson relayed, in her regrettable tone. "I've got to run out quickly. Bit of an emergency."

"Oh no, I hope everything's alright."

"It's fine, dear. But my sister just called, she fell and thinks she may have broken her arm. She'll be fine, but there's no one to bring her to the hospital. So—"

"No, don't worry about it. Go take care of your sister. I'd quite like a nap anyhow." Mary felt sorry for Mrs. Hudson's sister, but relieved that she could stay at her own flat. She sort of resented the idea that John always tried to get someone to babysit her when he was gone. "And don't worry, however long it takes, that's alright."

"Thank you, Mary," the older lady gratefully responded. "Molly's off today, why don't you give her a call You two can have a girls day out…won't get many of those after the baby comes."

"It'll depend how I'm feeling," she politely said. "Bit worn out now."

"And why shouldn't you be!" Mrs. Hudson thanked Mary for understanding a couple more times and then hurried off the phone to go tend to her sister.

Mary switched her phone to silent and laid back down, struggling only for a minute or so to find a comfortable position. She fell asleep in no time and slept soundly for about fifteen minutes. That's when she was woken up by another contraction. She tried to fall back asleep, but twenty minutes later the same thing occurred. "Ugh," she groaned, rising from the sheets and rubbing her abdomen. "You don't want to give mummy a break, do you?" It bothered her just a bit that she desperately wanted to give birth, but her body insisted on teasing her like this. They were a bit more than they had been previously, but she figured that made sense enough. Indeed, her body was practicing for labor, and so it was only logical that the practice should become more similar to the real thing as she got closer.

She decided a short walk around the block would help. Every time during the past week that she had had a lot of Braxton contractions, she and John had gone for a short walk which usually made them subside.

OOOOO

In Slough, the investigation was taking a lot longer than John had anticipated, but only because they were uncovering more and more with every sweep of the property and inquiry of the victim. "He had to have been here last night," Sherlock orated with John and the client, called Tom, following at his heels. "There's footprints in the dirt by the driveway that aren't powdery, they're perfectly formed, solidified even. Clearly the hardened mud from last night's rain made them that way. So, he was here sometime between eleven o'clock and there in the morning. But why? Nothing was broken into; no pictures for further threats were taken. So why come when it could only be a risk with no benefit?"

"Maybe he was getting in the zone," Tom suggested.

Both Sherlock and John turned around giving him a dumb look. "Getting in the zone?" Sherlock questioningly repeated.

"Yeah, criminals do that, don't they? Stalkers especially? The night before they commit a crime they scope out the place, get a feel for the area, you know, it's like a pre-game morale thing…"

"Probably stop talking now," John suggested.

Sherlock went ahead and lambasted him anyway. "Issue number with your theory: you watch too many movies; real-world criminals don't do little symbolic warm-ups before they commit their crime. They just get in, do it, and get out. Issue number two: are you that forgetful is it just your ego; this person is not interested in you, he's not stalking you. He's using you as a tool to get to your uncle, Major James Sholto. So, he has no reason to stand outside and stare at you longingly through the window. And number three: If he was here last night, and had opportunity WHY wouldn't he take it?"

Tom hung his head and resolved no to make any more suggestions while Sherlock continued to aggressively mull over what they already knew. When he looked back up, he saw Sherlock appeared to be having a fit, grunting and groaning, pulling imaginary things from the air. It was slightly jarring. "Um, what's he doing?" he whispered discreetly to John.

"Mind Palace," John answered, getting the look he usually got from clients when he said those words. "You just have to wait for it to be over."

The look of concern did not leave Tom's face though. "Sorry, is he going to be alright?"

"Got it!" Sherlock suddenly yelled, emerging from his thoughts. He hastened over to Tom and grabbed him by the shoulders. "Did you stay here last night?"

"You mean in my house?"

"Yes! Of course in your house, were you here last night?!"

"Yeah I was here." Tom was getting progressively wary of the detective's methods. "Why?"

"And you don't go out much at night?"

"Hardly ever, don't much like the crowds and the—"

"Don't care," Sherlock quickly cut off. "You said you're girlfriend lives here with you, that right?"

"Yeah, but she wasn't here last night."

"No?" John questioned.

"No, she's a nurse. So, she usually works nights and then she's home all day."

"Where is she now?"

"Well, she's on a plane to Paris. She's heading out there for a bachelorette party for one of her uni friends. That's why I couldn't meet you until nine this morning. I had to bring her to the airport. Is that important?"

"Is it important…" Sherlock mockingly mused, hurrying back to the house. "It's everything! John we've been thinking about this all wrong."

John and Tom chased after him, nearly running into each other when he stopped short at the front door. "You want to fill me in?" John asked, catching his breath from the haul.

"Our original theory was that the stalker was going to use Tom as leverage to pull Sholto out of his secure and secluded lifestyle. But he's not. He said he wasn't trying clever this time, so what's simpler than a ransom situation?"

John just shrugged. "I don't know, if he wanted to be simple he could just find James Sholto and not bother with Tom."

"Exactly." Sherlock gripped the door knob, ready to push it open. "He wasn't stalking Tom; he was waiting for him to leave. He's going to get Sholto's contact information straight from one of the few people who'd know it, his nephew."

"So, why was he talking pictures of me and sending them?" Tom asked, quite rightly.

"The pictures were to collect data, such as schedule and that, and then he sent them to you to chase you off. Get you feeling scared, maybe you'd leave. That's what he was checking last night, and probably most nights before that. If he got you out of the house, then he could get into the house and search for Sholto's information. His problem was there was always someone home. So what could possibly make two people evacuate? Threats of a stalker, obviously. When you and your girlfriend both left this morning with bags packed and airport tags on them, he saw his chance."

"Does this mean he's already got James' address and all that?" John anxiously asked.

Sherlock didn't answer right away though. He instead turned to Tom again. "What time did you leave for the airport?"

" 'Bout seven," the younger man responded.

"And we got here just past eight…" Sherlock gazed down at the door handle still warm in his grasp. "I'm guessing you don't keep your uncle's contact information in an easily accessible place."

"No sir, I know what his life has been like since…you know."

Sherlock looked to both of them and tried to hide the smile forming on his lips. "He's still here."

"What?! In my house?"

Sherlock nodded. "John, take out your gun he might be armed."

John let out a frustrated sigh, but pulled it out of his belt anyway. "You've got to stop assuming I carry this wherever I go."

"Oh, it's not an assumption…ready?" John nodded as always, and Sherlock swiftly pushed the door open.

OOOOO

Mary's walk didn't last long, and had done nothing to ease the pain she was in, nor did the freezing air outside. Coming back into the flat, she leaned her back up against the door, waiting for the cramping in her stomach to stop. It did, clocking in at 98 seconds. She closed her eyes, relaxing into a deep exhale and then rummaged through the bulk of her winter jacket for her phone. "Hello, Dr. Marshall, it's Mary Watson….yeah, I've been having Braxton contractions all morning and…" she tried to conceal the excited nervousness shaking her voice. "They seem to be getting more regular…"

"Are they getting more painful or closer together?" The doctor asked on the other line.

"Um, bit more painful, not closer together. They go between ten and fifteen minutes apart. I tried walking, but it didn't help."

"Alright, well, have John keep track of them," Dr. Marshall said nonchalantly, but comfortingly. "You're past your due date so it could be the start of labor, but if they aren't getting closer together even though you've had them all morning then it's probably just more Braxton. But do call me if anything changes, yeah?"

"Yeah, okay." Mary said her thanks and goodbyes and ended the call. Sadly, she slumped over to the couch and flicked on the television. With her head hung back, barely paying attention to the program, she wrapped herself up in a blanket and tried to take her mind off of it. No doubt that constantly thinking about when she was going into labor could easily make her feel symptoms that just weren't there—as she had last time.

OOOOO

Thank you for reading! As always, reviews really let me know what's working and what isn't.

Also, on an unrelated note, seeing the special has made me absolutely desperate for John/Mary fanfics so if you can suggest any or have written any PLEASE pm me the links! Thanks!