Rating: Probably M/15+
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, and am making no profit from their use (this applies to all chapters).
Warnings: Very medical discussions of pregnancy, also violence and implied sex.

Gravid

Part One

Joan was never entirely sure how she got back to the hotel. She ran back to the cliff and found Sherlock's coat and scarf abandoned on the rocks with the note (dear god, the note). After scraping her throat raw shouting his name (because he couldn't be dead, he just couldn't and why wasn't he answering her?), it eventually occurred to her that she needed some kind of search party. Sherlock could be lying injured somewhere, and she couldn't scour Reichenbach Falls and the surrounding mountains all by herself.

The search was called off after a week. An achingly long week in which Joan never truly believed they wouldn't find Sherlock, in which she was convinced he was still alive and at any moment, he'd step out from behind this tree or that rock and ask what they were all so worried about.

When the sun began to set seven days after Joan had stumbled onto the waterfall path to find it deserted, the policeman in charge of the search gently broke the news that they wouldn't search any longer. That they thought it likely both Sherlock and Moriarty had gone over the edge and been swept away by the current.

Joan had nodded, thanked him politely, and limped back to the hotel she and Sherlock had chosen a week ago.

At first, she was angry. Why did Sherlock have to be a self-sacrificing idiot and wave her off on what he must have known was a fool's errand? If he'd known Moriarty was on their trail, why hadn't he kept her with him? Why hadn't he left the very dangerous area alongside a staggering drop? Why hadn't he at least taken her gun?

But then she saw the coat and the scarf tossed haphazardly over the bed where she'd left them, the coat and scarf he'd never wear again, and in the next moment she was crying miserably on the mattress.

One week ago, she'd drifted off to sleep in this very bed, turning on her side to avoid the glow of the laptop screen that was resting on Sherlock's knees. Apparently falling asleep after sex was for ordinary mortals – Sherlock never seemed drowsy afterwards, only strangely energised.

Usually, he'd leave the bed to potter around downstairs and allow Joan to get her rest, but in the last two months – when they'd been hopping around Europe to escape Moriarty – he'd remained with her. Not that Sherlock had fallen asleep with her or anything like that, but he'd taken to sitting up in bed with his laptop, typing one-handed as the other stroked slowly through her short hair or smoothed over her back.

Joan wondered if Sherlock had seen this coming. If he'd been so overtly affectionate because he'd known the end was near.

She sniffled loudly, and buried her face in the coat, breathing deeply. After a week, the scent had faded, but Joan imagined she could still smell him. She remembered the last time she'd pressed her cheek against this soft fabric – they'd taken a late train from Paris, and while Sherlock might have been capable of staying awake for days at a time, Joan certainly wasn't. She'd yawned widely and Sherlock had pulled her in against his shoulder, and Joan had slept all the way to Brussels.

Joan squeezed her eyes shut, and for a moment, just a moment, she could have sworn she felt a hand in the short, scrubby hairs at her temple, stroking carefully and gently to banish the tension, the way Sherlock did when she had trouble sleeping.

But when she opened her eyes, she was alone.

xx

The funeral was...difficult. Not bad, but not good either. Joan sat ramrod straight in the front row and felt pathetically grateful no one had asked her to give the eulogy. That duty had fallen to Mycroft, and after the service was over Joan pressed herself into a corner at the wake and tried to blend in with the wallpaper.

Wakes were usually an opportunity for people to remember the good times, to reflect fondly on the life of the deceased, but Joan couldn't do it. She couldn't drink tea and eat biscuits and make empty chatter while an empty coffin with Sherlock's name inscribed on the wood was lowered into the ground.

They hadn't even found his body...

"Dr. Watson?" came a deep voice from her right.

Mycroft had found her.

For a moment they simply stared at each other – Joan was trying to suppress the urge to burst into an embarrassing stream of apologies for leaving his brother to face Moriarty alone, and assumed Mycroft was processing the fact that he'd never see Sherlock at her side again.

He didn't seem to be grieving, but Joan assumed Mycroft had much more practice at hiding his emotions – he worked with politicians, after all.

"Is there anything I can do?" he eventually asked, sounding awkward and deeply uncomfortable.

Joan just looked at him.

"I suppose that was a stupid question," Mycroft allowed. "But it had to be asked."

That prompted a weak chuckle that sounded forced even to Joan herself. "Suppose so. And if you hear of some cheap accommodation-"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Cheap accommodation," Joan repeated. "I can't afford the rent in Baker Street on my own."

It was true Mrs. Hudson had offered to let her stay at a drastically reduced rate (Joan had a feeling it was mainly out of pity and mutual grief), but that would hardly be fair. Mrs. Hudson had charged Sherlock and herself rock-bottom prices already, and Joan couldn't in good conscience take advantage of the woman's good nature like that.

"Actually, I think you'll find you can," Mycroft told her. "My brother and I received a substantial inheritance from our parents, and Sherlock's will is quite clear – everything he had passes to you."

Joan blinked. Of course the money might not be enough, but she considered Baker Street her home. The thought of leaving it so soon after Sherlock's death had been heartbreaking.

Even if she wasn't quite sure if she wanted to be the one to decide what to do with Sherlock's violin, with his lab notebook, with his experiments...

Joan sniffed hard in an effort to erase the sudden threat of tears. Mycroft politely pretended not to notice.

"Distribution of the estate usually takes ages..." she began hesitantly.

"Oh, no, my brother's will was quite...indisputable," Mycroft said, with the kind of smile that suggested Mycroft had made it indisputable. ""Everything should be transferred to your name within a week."

Joan honestly didn't know what to say. She was grateful, yet 'thank you' seemed somehow inappropriate.

"I...if you ever need to talk..." she offered, feeling awkward – she'd never been good at emotional displays.

Mycroft's face twisted into an expression Joan had never seen before. There was pity and compassion there, but also something that looked quite close to guilt.

"...thank you," Mycroft said eventually, not meeting her eyes.

Joan tried to smile (though she thought it came out as more of a grimace), and made to move away, hoping she could slip out the back door and go home, but Mycroft's hand on her arm stopped her.

Joan was surprised – Mycroft rarely grabbed hold of people, preferring to use his words to pull them to a halt. Her surprise only increased when he drew her close, almost conspiratorially.

Standing this close, Joan suddenly realised he smelled a little like Sherlock, and swallowed hard against the sudden blockage in her throat. She blinked rapidly, hoping the heat behind her eyes wouldn't translate to tears.

"Joan," Mycroft began, his voice low and intent. "I've told you a myriad of things about Sherlock, some of them facts, some of them mere opinions...but if you believe only one thing I've ever told you, believe me on this – my brother loved you. More than anything. And that is why did what he did."

Joan tensed, feeling a sudden, visceral desire to punch Mycroft in the face. He'd said that as though Sherlock's love for her justified what he'd done, somehow made it all right that he'd left her to run back to the hotel, convinced someone was gravely injured, while he faced Moriarty alone. Perhaps all her presence would have done was provide one more body plummeting over the waterfall...but it had still been her decision to make.

At least it should have been her decision – Sherlock had denied her that choice.

But Joan wasn't about to flatten Sherlock's brother during his funeral, so she settled for pulling her wrist from Mycroft's grip and leaving, hoping it looked like a composed departure and not a furious, misery-filled retreat.

xx

Joan didn't know if she was 'doing well' as people put it, and she couldn't seem to care. The money did indeed come through, as Mycroft had promised, and for the first time Joan understood why Sherlock had never seemed to care about getting paid for the work he did.

Which had raised the question of why he'd even needed a flatmate in the first place, but Joan was trying not to think about that. She was trying very hard not to think about anything to do with Sherlock.

She'd packed the skull, the violin and all the experimental equipment away into what had been Sherlock's room, which had become a storage area about a month or so after they'd begun sharing a bed. Joan knew she'd have to deal with it eventually, either sell them or give them away, but not now. Maybe one day she'd wake up and the thought of Sherlock wouldn't make her want to cry...but she just couldn't deal with it now.

So Joan went through the motions. She woke up, ate breakfast, went to work, came home, ate dinner, and went to bed. Sometimes she went out for dinner with Sarah (who was awfully understanding for an ex-girlfriend), and sometimes it was Harry (Joan couldn't even be bothered to comment on her drinking any more), and sometimes it was Lestrade (when he could get a break from work). She even met Donovan and Anderson (who she liked much better when she learned he and his wife had an open relationship) and the rest for drinks now and then, the officials drinking cocktails while Joan religiously stuck to lemon-lime and bitters.

One thing she wasn't doing any time soon was touching a drop of alcohol. Harry's downward spiral had in part been triggered by their parents' deaths, and some part of Joan was scared to even sip at a beer when she was this disinterested in life – it would be far too easy to just drink herself into lethal alcohol poisoning.

And then her period was late.

At first, Joan told herself it was just stress, that the grief had put a strain on her body...

Except no grief she'd ever heard of made your breasts grow bigger, and after her period failed to make an appearance for the second month in a row, Joan bought herself one of the more reliable over-the-counter tests.

When it was positive, Joan bought six more tests all from different brands, just in case the result was false.

It wasn't.

Joan sat on the bathroom floor, wondering nonsensically how this could have happened. She'd left her pills behind when they'd run off for Europe; they'd only had six minutes to pack, and birth control wasn't high on the list of things you took when you were running for your life. Joan had grabbed her clothes and her gun and that was it – they'd even had to buy toiletries along the way!

And apparently, they shouldn't have bought the cheap condoms, because now Joan was pregnant to a dead man.

"Oh my god," Joan said aloud to the empty bathroom, suddenly realising. "I'm the tragic heroine. That's how it always goes – the hero dies defeating the villain, and she's left pregnant."

And now that her life had officially become the cheap adventure novel it had always threatened to turn into, there was only one thing to say.

"Fuck!"

Joan wondered if she should get an abortion. Aside from the medical complications that came with having your first baby at thirty-seven, she had a feeling an adrenaline junkie with an illegal gun wasn't the best person to raise a child. There was also a small, bitter part of her that didn't want to play the role of the tragic heroine, that wanted to reject this and everything it stood for and just get on with her life.

Except...

She was already having a lot of trouble getting on with her life. Would having a baby or not having a baby really change that either way? And god help her, but just the fact that it was Sherlock's child was making something in her chest go soft and gooey, like chocolate left out in the sun.

Damn her sentimental, romantic side to the deepest level of hell!

So, judging by the instinctive, visceral rejection she felt, abortion was out unless she developed some serious medical complications. Joan toyed with the idea of adoption, but that was just so complicated. Not to mention that they suspected some aspects of intelligence to be genetic, and for a moment Joan had a nightmare vision of a miniature Sherlock unleashed on some unsuspecting foster family.

For the moment, at least, it looked like she was keeping it, and in the meantime she should at least get off the bathroom floor.

Joan went into the kitchen and got herself a glass of milk, because she'd been strangely desperate for one since she got up and at least now she knew why. Still, a glass of milk wasn't the weirdest craving she'd ever heard of – there was this one woman in med school who'd been desperate for pickled eggs and salt and vinegar crisps.

Joan drank her milk, and tried to sort out how she felt about this. She didn't dislike babies, per se, she'd just filed them under 'things unlikely to happen to me', along with being struck by lightning and winning the lottery. Babies and the consideration thereof had just never really been a part of her life.

So...what now?

xx

Joan had allowed herself the rest of the day to sulk and weep and rant and fear, but the next day, she told herself it was time to pull herself up by her bootstraps and start being proactive. The first thing to do was work out what she needed, so Joan wrote up a shopping list while she was eating breakfast:

Bread

Milk

Pineapple

Prenatal vitamins

Bigger bras

And, of course, given the way Joan's luck had been going, that was when Mycroft turned up.

She'd dismissed the knock on the door and the sound of Mrs. Hudson's greeting, believing it was Mrs. Turner stopping over for a visit. So when Mycroft was escorted in, Joan was sitting at the kitchen table in her pyjamas, peering at her list and chewing on a mouthful of cereal.

Mycroft smiled politely as Joan frantically tried to swallow and offer some kind of greeting.

"Good morning, Dr. Watson," he said, sounding very formal.

"Morning," Joan choked out before she took a large gulp of orange juice to chase down the bits of cereal stuck in her throat.

"Oh, weren't you able to work the coffee machine, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked. "I'll just get it on for you..."

Mrs. Hudson was convinced that the only way to get through grief was with consistent mothering, and Joan had never had the heart to send her away. Largely because she suspected focusing on her was how Mrs. Hudson dealt with her own sorrow, but also because it was...nice...to be fussed over now and again.

"No, that's fine," Joan said quickly. "I just...didn't feel like coffee today."

She'd tried, but just the smell of it had made her nauseous. 'Typical,' she thought ruefully. 'Was nothing sacred?'

Joan wasn't quite sure why she was reluctant to tell them the real reason, but the pregnancy still didn't seem quite real to her, and she felt uncomfortable at the prospect of telling someone else about it. Like she was telling them to believe in magical pink unicorns or something.

But Mycroft's eyes flickered to her orange juice, her cereal...and then the list sitting right there on the table. Joan could have kicked herself for leaving it out, and thanked god that she wasn't a spy of some sort – she wouldn't have lasted five minutes.

Under other circumstances, the way Mycroft's eyes widened would have been comical. "You're pregnant."

"Oh, well done," Joan sniped, snatching the list away.

"You're pregnant?" Mrs. Hudson repeated, coffee abandoned. "Is it Sherlock's, then?"

"Of course it's Sherlock's!" Joan snapped, feeling slightly offended. She'd never been the type to date more than one person at a time, and her one attempt at a relationship before Sherlock had been with Sarah.

"Well, you can't assume these days," Mrs. Hudson said innocently. "What with all these open relationships and swingers and I don't know what else..."

Joan groaned.

"And why didn't you tell me? I might not have any firsthand experience, but I can't tell you how many of my friends have had babies over the years...unless, of course, you're not keeping it."

"She's written down prenatal vitamins on her shopping list," Mycroft pointed out. "That suggests she plans to carry the pregnancy to term."

Joan groaned again, but with a lot more frustration this time around. "Yes, I'm pregnant, yes, it's Sherlock's, yes, I'm 'carrying it to term', and I didn't tell anyone because I only found out yesterday!"

She rose from her chair, attempting to look dignified in her threadbare pyjamas with teddy bears all over them (a joke gift from Harry).

"Now, I'm going upstairs, getting dressed, and then I'm going shopping."

She'd planned for a dramatic, sweeping exit (Sherlock might have been more of an influence than she'd thought), but Mycroft forestalled her by plucking the list from her fingers.

"I'm sure I can get someone else to take care of this," he said, glancing over it once more.

"I'm sure you can, but you won't!" Joan snapped, snatching it back. "If you've got someone who can get me bras in the right size, I don't want to know about it! At least give me the illusion of personal privacy."

Mycroft quirked his lips in a way that reminded her of Sherlock when he was amused, and Joan hoped the sudden tightness in her chest hadn't made her breath hitch audibly.

"Uh...why did you come over?" she asked, hoping for a line of conversation that would distract her from the comparison.

"Oh, just to check up on you," Mycroft smiled, though a disconcerted expression flickered across his eyes as he glanced down at her (still relatively flat) belly.

"Okay, well you've checked up, bravo, though why you couldn't just get your surveillance people to do it for you..."

"Some things require a more personal touch," was all Mycroft said, though he was still staring at her abdomen in a way Joan found rather unsettling.

She didn't even think about it. All Joan knew was that she didn't like the expression on Mycroft's face – something between calculation and sympathy with a touch of horror – and it was only when Mrs. Hudson had tittered behind her hand that Joan realised her right hand had curved protectively around her waist.

Joan flushed, dropping her arm and wondering why she'd done that – it wasn't as though Mycroft's stare was going to hurt the little lump of dividing tissue.

"I'll be going now," she muttered awkwardly.

"Come back for lunch won't you?" Mrs. Hudson called as Joan made her way upstairs. "I made far too much pea and ham soup last night..."

Joan was tempted to ask 'so are you my housekeeper now?', but knew that was just misplaced frustration. It wasn't Mrs. Hudson's fault she was in this mess.

She sighed, and spared a moment to pray that the flat would be empty when she descended to go shopping.

xx

"Pregnant?" Sarah repeated, sounding disbelieving.

"Pregnant," Joan nodded. "I'll still be working for a few months yet, but I figured I should give you the heads-up."

Joan had decided she was keeping the baby. Really, she suspected her decision had been made the moment she'd wrapped her arm around her belly – that inherently protective gesture had sealed her fate.

Though occasionally she still envisaged Sherlock's...Sherlock-ness, combining with her addiction to danger and producing the craziest kid ever born.

As a part-time worker, Joan didn't qualify for maternity leave and frankly, with the money she'd inherited from Sherlock, she didn't need it. Practically overnight, Joan had become wealthy enough to take several years off work, and planned to do just that – she'd look for a job again when her baby was in school.

Sometimes, thinking that far ahead, thinking of having a kid running around and going to school, made Joan feel a sort of sickening terror not unlike the vertigo you felt when looking down from a very high balcony. The idea of raising a child, of having a helpless living creature entirely dependent on her was...well, frightening.

"So...how are you coping?" Sarah asked hesitantly. "With...with everything."

"It's getting better," Joan evaded.

She didn't want to admit she'd cried on the sofa for almost half an hour just that morning after discovering a small sheaf of paper tucked between the cushions. It had been crumpled and smudged and obviously the worse for wear, and it had taken several seconds to realise the apparently random sketches on it were actually Sherlock's attempts to replicate the exact shape of the scar tissue on her shoulder.

While some people might have found that creepy, Joan had instead remembered the night Sherlock had seemed to be making an honest attempt to map the scar with his tongue (three days before he died), and had bawled herself silly (and blamed the hormones later, of course).

But she was getting better. In the beginning, she'd felt like crying every time she woke up at a decent time, reminded that she'd never again be roused ridiculously early by the sound of a violin in the living room or a miniature explosion in the kitchen or Sherlock shaking her awake for a case. Everything around the flat had reminded her of him, and for a week or so Joan had honestly considered moving out altogether.

She wasn't over it – somehow, Joan doubted she'd ever be completely over it – but she no longer felt like she was one misplaced beaker away from bursting into tears. There were still little things that would catch her up – the flat would creak in the night and she'd swear she heard a footstep, a sudden brush of wind would remind her of the way Sherlock's fingers used to absently card through her stubby hair when he was distracted...but even they weren't as heartbreaking as they used to be. Just the other day, Molly had tried to joke that her job was much more boring now that no one came in asking to flog corpses and Joan had found herself smiling rather than sniffing back tears.

She was still a little depressed about the prospect of raising the child without a father, though. Uncle Mycroft would have to be the male role model, though she might try to rope Lestrade into it as well, for a less megalomaniacal influence.

"Well, if you need any help – suggestions, babysitting..." Sarah shrugged. "My brother's got three children, so I've got an idea of the basics."

"So you're the person I call hysterically in the middle of the night when the baby's crying and I have no idea what it wants?"

"Well, I wouldn't go that far..."

Joan chuckled for a few moments, the laughter sounding somehow unnatural, as though it had rusted from lack of use.

Sarah looked as though she was trying to find a way to diplomatically ask an un-diplomatic question. "Were you...trying for it?"

"No," Joan said bluntly. "We bought overly-cheap condoms while we were hopping around Europe. And Sherlock was very...attentive."

Almost as though he'd known what was coming, and had been trying to make as many good memories as possible...

And dammit, how effective were condoms meant to be, anyway? Ninety-eight percent or something like that, Joan was sure. It just figured she'd wind up in the other two percent.

xx

Telling Harry had gone about as well as expected. Joan had agreed to go out for a friendly drink (which never ended well, but it was pretty much the only way she could see her sister these days), and Harry had scoffed at her when she'd religiously stuck to water.

"You must be over the grieving period by now," she urged. "I'll even buy you one of those fancy martinis you usually only indulge in on special occasions."

Joan shook her head. "Sorry, Harry, but it's strictly soft drinks and water for me tonight."

"Come on, Jo – what are you, pregnant?"

"Yes, actually."

Joan had never been good at breaking news tactfully.

Harry's eyes had bugged out like tennis balls, and then she'd suddenly seemed furious. "Are you telling me that arsehole knocked you up and then had the gall to die on you?"

In spite of herself, Joan was amused. "You say that like it was his choice."

"Shit, what's your kid going to be like?" Harry muttered, her thoughts obviously diving off on another tangent altogether. "It's going to shoot like a sniper and have that same freaky intellect...oh god, your baby's going to be some sign of the apocalypse, isn't it?"

"Not that I'm aware of," Joan said, trying and failing to hide her grin.

She probably shouldn't be so amused, but Harry just looked so horrified at the prospect of Sherlock's genes combining with Joan's, as though she was expecting Joan to give birth to some sort of super-villain.

Automatically, her hand dropped to her belly, rubbing it slowly even though she knew it was impossible to feel the baby at this stage. It might be Joan's imagination, but she did think her abdomen felt...firmer than usual, the walls of her uterus thickening to support and protect the tiny lump of cells that, at this point, wouldn't even be bigger than a peanut.

Just one of many changes to come. At ten weeks pregnant, her belly was starting to curve just slightly, layers of fat being put down in preparation to sustain the baby's rapid growth in the final trimester. Her breasts had grown two cup sizes as glands expanded in readiness to produce breast milk.

Joan was a doctor; she'd read the textbooks, seen the anatomical specimens, consulted at hospitals and even observed births – pregnancy was no mystery to her. And yet, she couldn't help but be strangely fascinated by the way her body was changing. She'd always just nodded and smiled politely at the women who'd described it as wondrous but, god help her, it kind of was.

"Still, I am wickedly envious of your bust size now," Harry offered. "Just saying. And here I thought you'd got surgery or something..."

Joan laughed, and drank her lemonade.

xx

Fourteen weeks along, and Joan was starting to consider maternity clothes. There was a definite thickness at her waist now – not enough to prevent her wearing her favourite pair of jeans, but certainly enough to make her think about what it would be like in a few weeks time. She'd have to pick up a cot and a changing table at some point as well; preferably now, as she didn't want to be assembling it when she couldn't see her feet.

She'd waited to tell Lestrade and the others until the first trimester was over and the high-risk miscarriage period had passed. The first twelve weeks or so was the period in which the building blocks were being laid, so to speak, and the most likely time for something to go wrong and result in a miscarriage, especially as this was Joan's first pregnancy. But now that was over and done with, her chances of carrying this baby to term rose significantly.

There was a sort of informal get-together about once a month, in which Joan, Molly, and people who'd had to work with Sherlock in an official capacity went down to the pub and drank and talked and (on occasion) reminisced. It had started after the funeral and had continued by a sort of silent consensus – Joan thought they were really just worried that they'd lose touch with each other, and figured knowing Sherlock bonded people in the same way a life-threatening experience would have.

But before she made her announcement, she was going to listen to Lestrade's and Dimmock's loud debate over whose first day with Sherlock was the worst.

"You can't win at this," Lestrade was telling the other inspector. "You just can't. Because when you met Sherlock, he already knew Joan. And before Joan came along, Sherlock was an absolute nightmare."

Donovan snickered. "Yeah, the Inspector here used to wait until the last minute to call him in, and usually only because he made such a bloody nuisance of himself. When she came along," Donovan nodded at Joan, "We started calling him in at the beginning of cases, rather than as a last resort."

"Still, he was a monumental prick during that case," Joan reflected. "Although, looking back on it, it might have had something to do with the fact that I was dating Sarah at the time."

"Well, that explains it," Dimmock mused. "I knew he was smitten-"

"You did?" Joan blurted. Because really, that was news to her.

"We all knew," Anderson shrugged. "He was less boastful when you weren't around. Not by much, of course, but it was there. And when you were around..."

"He'd show off like mad," Molly finished with a sad smile.

Lestrade nodded. "He'd strut 'round like a cock in a hen yard."

"Oh," Joan said quietly. She'd never noticed any difference in Sherlock's behaviour with her...but then, that was the point – they said he'd been like that whenever she was with him.

The thought that Sherlock had been showing off for her like a little boy with his first crush made her throat tight and her eyes itch, just a little.

Joan cleared her throat roughly. "Everyone? I have something to say...or, well, I guess it's sort of an announcement..."

Molly's eyes widened. "You're pregnant, aren't you?"

Anderson choked on his drink, Dimmock groaned, Lestrade goggled at her, and Donovan scrubbed a hand over her face.

"I'm pregnant," Joan confirmed. "How did you know?"

"This is our fourth get-together, and I've never seen you drink anything but soft drink and mocktails," Molly explained. "And I suspected something when you came over to Bart's and gave the teratogens a wide berth."

Joan nodded, remembering. A teratogen was the nickname given to any substance that could cause abnormalities in developing embryos and foetuses – she'd ensured she stayed well away from them.

"And I'm sure everyone's noticed you've been getting...well..." Molly gestured to small bulge that could be seen beneath Joan's clothes.

"I'd noticed," Lestrade admitted. "But if I've learned only one thing in all my life, it's that you never mention a woman's weight or age."

He sighed. "Well, congratulations, Joan."

"Thanks," Joan grinned. "Though it still feels a bit strange to think that I'm pregnant – it's not like we were planning it or anything."

It was only Dimmock's semi-incredulous gaze that made her realise her hand had wrapped around her belly again, rubbing gently back and forth as though she was subconsciously trying to soothe the baby developing beneath her skin.

"How far along are you?" Donovan asked. "Do you know the sex yet? Or are you planning to leave it be a surprise?"

"Only fourteen weeks, so I don't know yet," Joan said. "I'll probably find out in at my next appointment."

And she wanted to know, if only so she could assign a pronoun in her head and stop calling the baby 'it' all the time.

"Are you having problems with morning sickness?" Molly wondered. "You never seemed to be eating bland food, which is why I wasn't too sure if you were pregnant or not..."

"Actually, I seem to have dodged that bullet for the most part," Joan admitted. "The smell of some things made me want to puke, but as long as I started out the day with some fairly bland food, I was all right."

"Oh god," Anderson whimpered. "You know what this means, don't you? In twenty years time there'll be another one."

Lestrade snorted. "I plan to be retired by then."

"Amen," Dimmock muttered, taking another swig of his drink.

xx

Joan liked her doctor – Dr. Harris was a red-headed woman in her early fifties, a practical kind of woman who didn't take any nonsense. She'd never condescended to Joan, either; once she'd learned that Joan was in the medical profession herself, she didn't bother dumbing down her language and explained everything to her as one doctor to another.

She was currently sixteen weeks along, and definitely starting to round out. There was a solid curve to the skin that Dr. Harris was slathering with the ultrasound gel – this was the appointment where Joan got to learn whether she was having a girl or a boy.

Having an ultrasound was always kind of strange. Every time she saw the shadow of the baby on the screen, Joan found it slightly unbelievable that a tiny life was forming inside her. Strangely, that cliché about pregnancy was true – it was sort of...magical.

"There we go," Dr. Harris said, sounding satisfied, while Joan was still caught up in watching her baby flex its hands. "You're having a girl."

"Oh," Joan whispered faintly, still staring at the screen.

That was her baby. In twenty-six weeks or so, she'd give birth to a daughter.

"You'll probably start to feel her moving soon," Dr. Harris went on. "It won't be much at first, just a little flutter now and then."

Joan nodded. She knew the baby would have to get bigger before she really started to feel it kick.

She wondered if she should start thinking about names.

xx

The cot and change table were being taken care of, courtesy of Mycroft. He wouldn't hear of her paying for anything, and really, Joan didn't argue too hard – if she was going to take a few years off work, penny-pinching had to come in somewhere, even with the ridiculous amount of money Sherlock had left to her.

"You do realise that for your niece or nephew to think you're the best uncle ever you have to spoil them after they come out," she couldn't help pointing out as his assistant (whose name wasn't Anthea today, but Tatiana) took down Joan's specifications for a cot.

Which, really, weren't much aside from 'something that can fit in my room and isn't too gaudy'.

Mycroft came around at least once a fortnight, sometimes twice. He had a weird habit of looking almost guilty whenever he glanced at the slight curve of her belly, and – bizarrely – almost panicked, as though he didn't quite know what to do. She was tempted to ask if anyone had been pregnant around him before, because she was pretty sure he'd been seven years old when Sherlock was born...but she didn't mention it.

In a weird way, it was nice to have Mycroft over. He always brought delicious food that seemed to come from restaurants she knew didn't do takeaway, and she got to tease him by asking him if he was ready to be an uncle.

It was only in jest, though – she suspected Mycroft would be a wonderful uncle, even if he was a little prone to trying to control every facet of the world around him. Actually, that wouldn't have been so bad; it was the fact that he'd more or less succeeded that made it so unnerving.

"Oh, by the way, do you have any suggestions as to names?" Joan asked, because Mycroft was there, and she figured she might as well get the uncle's input since the father's...would not be forthcoming.

"Male or female?" Mycroft inquired.

"You know very well the baby's a girl – you probably knew not ten minutes after I did."

"...I was trying to abide by your request," Mycroft admitted. "You asked for the illusion of privacy, did you not?"

"Ha, ha," Joan said, her voice loaded with sarcasm. "So, any suggestions? Family members you were fond of?"

"What about your family?"

"I'm not to call my daughter after any family member that's still alive, so Harriet is out," Joan said firmly. "And I'm not calling her after my mother – I'm sure Ivonne was a perfectly lovely name in its time, but that time has passed."

"Our mother's name was Camila," Mycroft offered, and Joan made an indecisive humming sound.

"Our maternal grandmother was Adriana," he continued. "And our paternal grandmother was Amelia."

"I like the sound of them more than Camila," Joan admitted. "Maybe Amelia? Though Adriana sounds nice as well...maybe for a middle name?"

She chewed on the end of her pen and surveyed the list in front of her of prospective names. Thus far she had:

Claire

Michelle

Jennifer

Stephanie

Lauren

Grace

Melissa

She scribbled Amelia and Adriana on the bottom of the list and wet her lips before asking, hesitantly, "Was there anyone in your family Sherlock was particularly close to?"

Even if he was dead, it seemed somehow important to have a name he would have approved of – Joan wasn't about to name their baby after someone he'd hated.

Mycroft paused, then said gently, "I believe he was particularly fond of the name 'Joan'."

Something thrummed painfully in Joan's chest, like a violin string plucked too hard.

"It's...pretty old-fashioned these days," she managed.

"Perhaps a more modern equivalent? May I suggest Joanne or Joanna for a middle name?"

"...that sounds nice."

xx

Twenty-one weeks in, Joan was lying down on the sofa with a piece of paper, still torn between four names: Adriana, Amelia, Grace, and Lauren. Her 'baby bump' wasn't just a slight swelling at her waist anymore; her body was bulging from sternum to pubic bone, and she'd propped her feet up against the arm of the sofa – she was putting her feet up whenever she could, as from this point onwards she'd be prone to varicose veins.

She said the names aloud one by one, in the hope that something would appeal to her.

"Adriana Joanne Watson."

"Amelia Joanne Watson."

"Grace Joanne Watson."

"Lauren Joanne Watson."

Joan huffed to herself – she still couldn't decide. Except she might be ruling 'Lauren' out, on the basis that with it, every name ended with an 'n' sound. Maybe 'Laura' as an alternative?

Something quivered inside her, and for a moment Joan thought her stomach was about to rumble or a burp was coming on. But nothing happened, and it didn't feel like some gastrointestinal upset...strangely, it felt almost like a goldfish was swimming around in her guts.

It took her a few seconds to realise she was feeling her daughter moving.

Stunned, Joan pressed a hand to her belly, and there it was – a tiny flutter against her hand, like she'd somehow swallowed a live bird.

The sensation startled a laugh out of her, but on its heels came an intense pang of regret that Sherlock wasn't here to feel this with her. Because aside from being the baby's father and her lover, he'd been her best friend. She missed being able to talk to him, missed his often-sarcastic comments on whatever problems she was facing, some of which seemed to have been designed purely to make her laugh...she just missed him being around, period.

Even five months on, it still hurt. Not the way it used to – there was no sharp, knife-edge of grief that stopped her throat and twisted in her chest. Now there was the dull ache of a scar stretching, of a wound scabbed but still tender in places. Maybe one day she'd be able to think of Sherlock without pain, but only with the fondness you felt for an old, very good memory.

She didn't see that day coming any time soon, though.

xx

"Whoa," Donovan muttered when Joan squeezed into the booth as she arrived at their get-together. "Baby's popping out a bit, isn't she?"

"Just a bit," Joan groaned, shifting to try to find a comfortable position. At twenty-nine weeks along, her lower back tended to ache if she sat in the wrong position or stood for too long.

"Have you felt it kick yet?" Molly asked, obviously curious.

"Yes." Joan couldn't back a grin at the thought. "You want to feel it?"

Molly nodded eagerly.

"I'll give you a shout if she's starting up, yeah?"

"Settled on a name, yet?" Lestrade asked.

"Not so much," Joan admitted. "Right now I'm torn between Amelia or Adriana."

"Adriana sounds more like something Sherlock's daughter should be called," Molly offered. "But Amelia's a lovely name, too."

Joan sighed. "Then you see my dilemma – it's difficult to pick between them."

"Go with Amelia," Donovan said bluntly. "It's a nice, nondescript name."

"Come on, Donovan," Lestrade cajoled. "There'll probably be half a dozen 'Amelia's at whatever school she goes to – give the girl a little flavour."

Joan giggled, then caught sight of Dimmock and Anderson, pointedly not commenting and staring into their drinks.

"You two are pretty quiet."

"I don't want to think about Sherlock having a kid," Anderson muttered. "It seems somehow unnatural. I mean, I thought he was only aware of sex as an abstract concept!"

Joan couldn't resist. "Oh, sex with Sherlock was far from 'abstract'..."

For good measure, she added a salacious purr at the end.

Almost everyone around the table cringed. Except for Molly, who just looked intrigued.

"I'm envisioning the sort of nightmares the kid is going to give you if she's even half as smart as her father," Dimmock admitted. "I know I'm probably going to seem like a bastard for saying this, but...you are never to call me for babysitting duties, do you hear me? Never!"

Joan laughed. Someone else might have been offended, but just found it rather amusing that so many people seemed to assume her daughter would be some sort universal terror.

xx

Joan was beginning to see why people complained about being pregnant. She was thirty-six weeks along, and had long-ceased working at the clinic. She tired so easily these days, it just wasn't feasible to try to knock out a nine-to-five day, even if it was only three times a week. And the exhaustion was just one dot point on her laundry list of complaints.

She needed to go to the bathroom every ten minutes (or at least, that was what it felt like). She had trouble eating a full meal in one sitting because the baby was taking up so much room in her body. She wasn't feeling so out of breath nowadays as the developing child settled lower in her pelvis, but it came at the price of difficulty walking, and an unsettling feeling of pressure between her legs.

Joan also had to deal with Braxton-Hick's contractions at irregular intervals. She knew the false contractions were her body's ways of preparing for true labour, but they were damn irritating!

Still, at least she'd decided on a name. When her daughter came into the world, she was coming in as Adriana Joanne Watson.

Perhaps there was an over-abundance of 'a's in that name, but a surplus of vowels never hurt anyone.

There was a sharp knock at the door, and Joan made to get up from where she was sprawled on the sofa.

"You stay right where you are!" Mrs. Hudson called up. "I'll get the door – you just rest yourself, dear."

Joan smiled fondly. Since the first day Mrs. Hudson had known Joan was pregnant, she'd treated it like the arrival of the grandchild she'd never had. Joan was never at risk of going hungry, as Mrs. Hudson had been cooking for her ever since she'd got so enormous it had become a real chore to struggle out of bed.

"I brought lemonade," Sarah said as she entered the flat. "And I rented Thelma and Louise."

Joan grinned. Just last week, she'd confessed to never having seen the movie, which Sarah had declared as a crime against classical films everywhere. So they were having a movie night.

"How's things at the clinic?" Joan asked as Sarah made herself at home, grabbing glasses and a large packet of crisps.

"The usual – all sniffles and hypochondriacs," Sarah joked.

Joan shifted upwards on the sofa to make room for her friend, and started as she felt the distinctive stirring inside her that signalled Adriana's movements.

"She's kicking!" Joan exclaimed.

Then, as Sarah glanced at the enormous protrusion of her belly, "Want to feel?"

Sarah nodded, and Joan guided her palms to press against the place where her skin was actually jumping out from the force of her baby's kicks.

Sarah's face lit with the combination of wonder and fascination that passed across everyone's face when Joan invited them to feel Adriana moving. She sometimes pondered why people were so enchanted by it; maybe because even from a purely medical perspective it was pretty amazing – she was growing a whole other person beneath her skin!

Mrs. Hudson always giggled like a schoolgirl whenever she felt the baby kicking, while Mycroft tended to fuss a little and ask questions like 'is she supposed to be kicking that hard?' and 'are you sure that doesn't hurt?'. Like Sarah, Molly had more of a medical perspective on the whole thing, and liked to press and pod at Joan's abdomen to see if she could determine Adriana's position, and what was a tiny hand and what was a miniature foot. Lestrade and Anderson always went a bit gooey when they were touching her belly, and even Dimmock and Donovan hadn't been immune to it – Dimmock had grinned a little stupidly when one kick had landed solidly against his palm, and even as reserved as she usually was, Donovan had been smiling when she drew away.

And it was probably weird that she still called them by their last names, but Joan just couldn't help it. That was how they'd been introduced, and that was how she thought of them.

"How long to go again?" Sarah asked when Adriana had settled down.

"About six weeks," Joan said.

"Any solid plans?"

"Get through the birth, raise her, hope I don't screw it up," Joan said succinctly.

Everything was set up and ready – largely courtesy of Uncle Mycroft. There were disposable nappies tucked into a corner of a bathroom, and a cot upstairs in her bedroom. Joan had briefly entertained the idea of clearing Sherlock's room out for the baby, but had swiftly decided that if she was going to be feeling anywhere close to the exhaustion she felt now, she wanted Adriana's cot right next to her own bed.

"Anyway, enough about this," Joan declared, switching the television on. "Show me why Thelma and Louise is not to be missed."

xx

Eight days off her due date, and Joan was sick and tired or having to drag herself down to Dr. Harris' offices every week.

"I know it's not the due date for at least a week, but still...could you hurry up?" she muttered to her swollen midsection as she climbed aboard the bus.

She'd always scoffed at mothers who talked to their babies in the uterus as though they could hear and understand them, but it was actually surprisingly soothing. This was probably why so many people talked to their pets.

Joan slumped down into one of the seats reserved for the elderly and expectant mothers, and in the process knocked a stack of books out of the hands of the man next to her.

"I'm so sorry," she said, twisting awkwardly to the side and down in an effort to pick up the books that had scattered into the aisle.

She held them out to him, smiling apologetically, but the man was staring fixedly at her rounded belly. The baggiest top and stretchiest jumper in her wardrobe covered it neatly, but there was still no doubt she was either pregnant, or had gained a lot of weight in a very unusual manner.

"You're pregnant," the man said quietly, sounding shell-shocked.

"Yes," Joan said brightly. "I'm due in about a week – I'm off to my doctor's for a check-up."

Usually she didn't go around giving out information like that, but she was feeling more and more cheerful as her due date approached. An end to the backaches and constant peeing was something to celebrate.

She knew most mothers were more worried about the actual delivery than the pregnancy, but for Joan, it had been the other way around. So many things could go wrong during gestation that you were far more likely to lose the baby to a miscarriage than problems during the birth. But she was over the hump, and even if she started going into labour tomorrow, odds were that the baby would be fine.

She expected that to be it – that the elderly man would just nod and turn back to the books in his arms. But instead, he continued, sounding almost hesitant.

"I take it the father is...unavailable?"

A dull ache throbbed briefly through her chest, and Joan wondered when this would ever not hurt.

"He's dead," she said quietly, looking down and away.

"...I'm sorry..."

It might have been Joan's imagination, but the tone seemed laden with a lot more emotion than just a stranger apologising for his ignorance of her circumstances. She wondered if someone close to him had died recently.

"You didn't know," she said, looking up again and trying to smile.

Something thumped against the underside of her ribs – not hard, but enough to make her gasp and clutch at her belly.

"Are you all right?" the man asked, sounding much more concerned than she'd expect from someone she'd met just a few moments ago.

"I'm fine," Joan wheezed. "She just got me a good one in the ribs."

"She?" her new acquaintance echoed, staring at bulge beneath her jumper in awe and wonder and something that looked suspiciously like sorrow and regret.

Had he lost a child at some point in his life?

Joan wasn't sure what drove her to make the offer – it seemed ludicrous, but something prompted her to say, "If you want to feel her moving, you can."

Hesitantly, almost as though he was afraid she'd shatter beneath his fingers, the man stretched his hand out to curve around Joan's belly. Adriana was still kicking and squirming (thankfully avoiding Joan's ribs and other important organs), and he honestly seemed to be marvelling at the sensation, though it was mingled with something that looked very much like bewilderment.

The bus began to slow, and Joan suddenly realised it was approaching the street the clinic was on.

"Oh!" she declared, rising as swiftly as she could and dislodging the man's hand. "This is my stop!"

She thought the man was calling out to her, and actually seemed to be getting up as though he intended to follow her, but with a parting wave, she was off the bus and walking down the street.

Apparently her body was objecting to how quickly she'd moved, because Joan had barely got three steps before she felt a dull, cramping pain in her pelvis. More Braxton-Hick's contractions – she could tell because true contractions were felt in the lower back and tended to wrap around to the abdomen, while false ones tended to be concentrated in the lower pelvic region alone.

She'd have to keep herself aware of them, as false contractions sometimes turned into true labour, but they'd probably just go away, as they'd always done before.

So Joan sighed to herself, grit her teeth, and kept on walking.