They had spent their last Christmas in Baker Street, brought in the New Year on the doorstep of 221B. Mrs Hudson had cried as they said goodbye, her tears turning to a chuckle when Sherlock reminded her he'd be back that same afternoon to work. Then they arrived at their new home - big, empty, daunting.

After a few days, 13 Doyle Street smelled like fresh paint and new furniture. There were flowers on the kitchen windowsill, coats hanging in the hall. But still, their voices would echo and their footsteps sounded hollow as they moved around the house. They had never realised how small the flat had been until now, until they found themselves surrounded by more space than they would ever need.

Sherlock stood at the living room window with his hands clasped behind his back. He was looking out at the January snow freezing over in the driveway, observing the salt-gritted road and trying to get a look at the neighbours beyond it.

"Sherlock!" The scream echoed through the house, bouncing off the bare walls and rattling the doorframes.

He left the window quickly,  rushing out of the living room and taking two stairs at a time until he reached the landing.

"Margaux!?"

"In here."

He followed her voice into the master bedroom. "Is something wrong?" he asked, panicking as he hurried towards her.

"No, I'm fine." She was sitting at the end of their new bed, running her hands over the freshly made sheets. "What do think?" She asked.

"What do I think? I thought something was wrong! Why would you shout like that just to ask me a question!?"

"I wanted you to come quickly."

"There are other less-dramatic ways to get someone's attention."

"Oh, you mean like firing a gun in the street instead of calling 999?"

He stopped for a moment. "I didn't know John told you about that..."

Margaux smirked. "So... What do you think?"

"Yes, the bedding is very nice. I told you that in the shop when you picked it."

"Don't be dim, Sherlock." She patted the space beside her, beckoning him to join her.

"Darling, it's twelve in the afternoon."

She huffed. "And?"

"And... I have things downstairs that I need to do."

"So you'd rather sort through boxes than be intimate with your wife?"

He glanced down, just for a second, at the large, round bump beneath her t-shirt.

She frowned as she noticed his eyes flicker. "You don't fancy me anymore, do you."

"Oh don't be ridiculous."

"You were so eager to get me pregnant. But now that I actually am pregnant, it's like I repel you."

"You don't repel me." He cleared his throat. "Rejection of sexual advances does not necessarily mean there is a lack of sexual attraction. It simply means there is something outweighing one's need for intimacy, such as fatigue, distractedness, stress..."

"It's been months." She leaned back, propping herself up on her elbows.

"Well then clearly I've been fatigued, distracted and stressed... for months."

"I knew you'd be like this."

"Like what?"

"Repulsed."

"I'm not repulsed." He winced slightly, noticing the insincerity in his own voice, annoyed with himself for not hiding it better.

She rolled her eyes and struggled to her feet. "Mhm."

*

An icy wind brushed through the dewy grass of the graveyard. John stood at Mary's plot; hands in pockets, his face cold as January. He glanced around before stepping closer to the headstone.

"Rosie was three last week. Can you believe it? Three." He forced air out from his cheeks. "You'd be so proud of her, Mary. She definitely gets her attitude from you."

He looked over to the church, remembering when he first lost her, how he would see her standing there. He didn't see her so much anymore.

"Will I ever not feel guilty?" He looked back down at her name etched on the stone. "I know you'd want me to move on, but what if I never can?"

"When my brother told me you come here to talk with her, I must admit I found it rather odd.  She was cremated, was she not?"

John turned to see Mycroft standing beside him. He hadn't heard him coming, but he wasn't startled; he had learned to expect him everywhere.

"Yep, she was," he replied.

"So what are you talking to, exactly?"

"Can I help you, Mycroft?"

"How is Sherlock adjusting to the new environment?"

"You tracked me down in a graveyard just to ask me about Sherlock? Why didn't you ask him yourself- Actually never mind, that was a stupid question."

He placed his hand on Mary's headstone for a moment before making his way off the grass. Mycroft followed behind, his expensive shoes clicking along the path as they walked together.

"He seems detached, emotionless, unbothered by it all," John continued. "So in other words, he's his normal self."

Mycroft let out a small laugh. "I must admit, I find the entire thing rather fascinating. As children, our mother always insisted I look after him, now it seems he has outgrown me." 

"If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were scared of losing him."

They stopped near the gates of the cemetery. Mycroft squinted as he glanced up at the grey sky before looking down at John with a curt smile.

"Are you not?" he asked.

"Am I not what? Scared of losing him?"

"You lose a man when he marries, John."

"Sherlock didn't lose me when I got married..."

"Perhaps he would have, if you hadn't spent the first year of marriage using him as a way to actively avoid your wife. Unfortunately for you, Dr Watson, Sherlock is quite fond of his."

John laughed, pressing his tongue into his cheek. "You can't half be an arsehole sometimes, Mycroft."

"Funny, that's exactly what my mother said to me earlier this morning."

A sleek black car pulled up on the road beyond the cemetery gates. Mycroft gave a signal, telling it to wait.

"Right, well..." John checked his watch and began to walk away.

"Dr Watson."

He stopped and turned around.

"Though I may appear dispassionate about my brother's decision to play house, I must stress that his safety and the safety of his family is paramount to me."

He walked back towards him. "Sounds like you're saying they're in trouble..."

"Not at all. Because I categorically will not allow them to be."

John stared up at him, at his sharp nose and pursed lips, at the stormy blue in his eyes. "You know something."

"On the contrary, I know everything," he gave a sarcastic smile. "But in regards to the case you have been working on, no I don't. Not yet. I have people working on it as we speak."

"How does Sherlock feel about that?"

"He doesn't know, and I'd like to keep it that way. So I want your word. That you will keep my brother busy; humour him, entertain his theories and deductions, anything to keep him from meddling in what is now my investigation. But if you feel he's getting close to something, you will inform me."

"In the years I've known you, how many times have I agreed to spy on him for you?"

Mycroft bowed his head and smiled. "Always a pleasure, Dr Watson."

*

Margaux sat at her desk working on her computer, her earphones blocked out the hum of the bullpen as it bustled with police officers and detectives. Yet even with music playing in her ears, she still sensed a change in the air around her. She looked up from the screen, her brow furrowing as she noticed everyone's eyes on her. She turned in her chair to see William walking towards her.

"Hi," he said.

"H-Hi..."

He pulled up a chair and sat down beside her. She switched off her music and pulled out her earphones.

"It's been a while," she said awkwardly.

"Three months off for 'emotional distress'. That's more than I got when he strangled me." He gave a subtle smirk.

She laughed, relaxing slightly as the busyness returned around them. "How are you?"

"I'm okay. Kind of on edge, looking over my shoulder more than I used to..."

"I'm so sorry, Will."

He shook his head. "Don't be. Honestly, I just want to get back to it. Maybe even help solve this thing."

She smiled. "Well unfortunately, you couldn't have chosen a more boring day to come back. I'm writing a report."

"Anything I can help with?"

"Sure, erm..." She began sifting through piles of crisp, handwritten notes on her desk. "You can take these and-" she gasped.

Will looked at her with worry as she dropped the notes and grabbed him by the wrist, yanking his hand forward and placing it on her bump.

"Do you feel that?" she asked.

"Whoa."

They sat for a while. Quiet. In awe of the strong, fluid kicks moving across her stomach.

Margaux looked up at him. She had been dying for the chance to talk to him since the incident. Longing to ask questions and hungry for answers. This was her chance.

"Will... They wouldn't show me the statement you made. They wouldn't tell me anything, really, because I'm his wife and it's a conflict of interest. But I need to know. How did they... get you?"

He inhaled slowly and shook his head, his hand still on her stomach as he spoke. "Honestly, I left work that day and that's the last thing I remember before waking up on the floor of that house wearing an earpiece. I'm guessing I was drugged, maybe tranquillised? I don't know."

"What was his voice like?"

"It wasn't unique." He shrugged. "He could speak right now and you probably wouldn't take notice."

"I'm sorry you got dragged into it."

"It's fine, really."

They looked down at his hand still laid over her stomach.

He pulled away, laughing nervously. "That was... I've never felt a baby kick before."

"Weird, isn't it." She giggled as she collected the notes and straightened them into a pile.

"Margaux..."

"Yeah?"

"Have you ever been in danger because of him before?"

She looked at him and sighed before shuffling closer and pulling down the neck of her jumper, revealing the thick scars on her neck and collarbone.

Will's mouth dropped open. "How?"

"The east wind."

His brow furrowed in confusion. But after a moment, his face calmed. "Is that what the place setting was for at the wedding? The empty seat with the 'E'; the 'East Wind'?"

She felt her back tense, her palms clamming up as she lay them flat on her desk. "It was for his sister. But she couldn't be there."

"Why?"

She cleared her throat but it still felt tight. "It's... It's not really my place to say anything more."

"You're right. I'm sorry for prying. Can't help myself sometimes."

She smiled and handed him the notes before slipping her earphones back in and turning up the music.

*

Sherlock sat cross-legged on top of the desk in the study, the box containing the chair still sat unopened beside it. John folded his arms as he looked around the room.

"Didn't you say this was going to be Margaux's study? Since you have an entire flat to yourself for work..."

"I can't get to Baker Street right now. I just needed somewhere to think."

"Right. And how's that going?"

"It would be easier if you weren't jabbering on at me."

John rolled his eyes and turned around, opening the large double doors and stepping into the living room. He threw himself down on the couch, patting around for the TV remote before noticing it on the other side of the room. He let out a sigh.

The door opened.

"Daddy," said Rosie as she walked over to him. "Can I stay here tonight at auntie Marg and Uncle Sherlock's?"

"Oh, love I don't-"

"Vaughan said I can." She looked over her shoulder as the little boy joined them.

"Well it's not up to him, I'm afraid."

"She can stay," Sherlock shouted from the study.

Rosie and Vaughan bounced around excitedly.

John sat forward on the couch. "Are you sure?"

"I've said she can spend the night, it's not like I've offered to adopt her," he replied dryly as he walked into the room and kicked the doors closed behind him. "Besides, it's always good for a Holmes to have a Watson around."

A smile tugged at the corners of John's mouth.

Vaughan tapped him on the knee. "I'm getting a sister soon," he said.

"I know, isn't that exciting," he replied.

"Not really. I said I didn't need a sister because I already have Rosie, but they didn't listen."

Sherlock snapped his fingers and pointed at his son. "Say that again."

"I don't remember what I said," Vaughan replied.

"You said 'they didn't listen'. They didn't listen..." he continued to repeat it, over and over again as he paced back and forth.

Vaughan turned to Rosie. "My daddy's gone silly again."

John watched as the children left the room, listening as they climbed the stairs together before turning his attention back to Sherlock.

"What is it?"

"I've wronged this person, John."

"What?"

"Somewhere at some point, this person has tried to reach out to me, and I didn't listen."

"W- Are you sure?"

Sherlock hurried back into the study and reappeared with a large cardboard box. He dumped it on the floor with a thud before going back into the room and returning with another.

"Almost certain," he said. "Think about it; copying cases to get my attention, the message on the wall in the alley: 'interested yet?'."

John watched as he tore the tape off the boxes and tipped them upside down. Heaps of envelopes fell onto the floor like an avalanche, some still unopened, all of them with the same address on the front. Sherlock Holmes - 221B Baker Street. London.

"Is this... Are these letters?"

"It would be impossible to help every person that writes to me. Also, I tend not to accept boring cases."

"You shouldn't call them 'boring'."

"But they are," he replied bluntly as he dug around the mountains of letters. "Well, are you going to help me?"

John thought back to his conversation with Mycroft. 'Keep him busy', he had said, 'humour him'. He shrugged, stood up and sat himself down beside him.

"So what are we looking for?"

"First, we must differentiate the cases I accepted from the ones I didn't."

"Right, okay. Any beers in the fridge?"

"Why?"

"Because clearly it's going to be a long night."

...

Margaux closed the front door behind her, slipped off her coat and hung it on the rack beside the stairs. A warm light seeped into the hall from beneath the living room door. She took off her scarf and hung it with her coat before pushing the door open and peering into the room.

"If I wasn't absolutely knackered, I'd be livid," she said as she looked down at the two men sitting amongst a sea of paper. "My nice new living room. My lovely, tidy living room. Do I dare ask why?"

"Sherlock had the sudden urge to sort through ten years' worth of post," said John, taking a swig of beer.

"Ah," she nodded, stepping over the mess of letters until she reached her husband. She leant over and kissed the side of his head. "Are you going to tell me why?"

"No," said Sherlock.

"Thank god." She threw herself down on the couch with a tired sigh.

John laughed, returning to pile of envelopes in his hands. "Fed up yet, Marg?"

"Mm, my back hurts and I just got out of breath walking from my car to the front door. But besides that, I'm not too bad."

"You know massage can help with the back pain, you could get Sherlock to-"

"I don't think so." She laughed. "See, that would require him to actually touch me." 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I have no qualms about touching her. She's being dramatic because I declined her proposition for sex yesterday."

"And the time before that, and the time before that..."

John raised his hands in surrender. "Guys, really don't need to hear about your sex life." 

"Actually, speaking of sex lives..." she folded her arms. "I was on the phone to Rose earlier."

"Oh? How, er, how is she?"

"Apparently you had quite a nice time together the other night."

John straightened his back, broadening his shoulders and clenching his jaw. "Yes. Actually, we did. What's the problem?"

Sherlock grimaced.

"Don't look at me like that! You put that in there." He pointed to Margaux's stomach. "You don't get to act disgusted by sex anymore."

"Did it mean anything?" she asked.

"Why? Does it have to?"

She raised an eyebrow.

"Look, I don't know. We understand each other because we're in the same boat as single parents. It's nice being there for each other."

"John, Mary was the love of your life who tragically died and left you a widower. Rose's ex is a dick head who left her for another woman and hasn't seen his kids in years. You're not in the same boat, you're not even in the same sea."

"Does it matter how we got here? We're both on our own."

"What Margaux is trying to so delicately say, is that Rose's ex walked away; their relationship ended and she has moved on. Mary was taken from you; if she hadn't been killed you would still be in love and married to her now. Somewhere down the line, Rose may want a relationship with you that transcends physical connection, and you may not be ready or willing to do that. Therefore you - my best friend - will break Rose - my wife's best friend's - heart. Which will inevitably make dinner parties extremely awkward..."

Margaux and John stared at him in silence.

He turned to her. "Am I correct?"

"Indeed you are."

John sighed. "I hadn't had sex in a really long time. Did you really have to go and ruin it?"

*

Sherlock stood at the bedroom window, looking out onto the dark residential street. The freezing winter's night had made the road a slick black, the streetlights glittering in the frost that lay over every still surface.

Margaux walked into the bedroom holding a lightbulb in her hand like an apple.

"How are the children?" He asked, keeping his eyes on the window.

"Fast asleep. They're holding hands, it's adorable."

She grabbed the lamp on her bedside table and began screwing it in when she felt him come up behind her, wrapping his arms around her and resting his cheek on her head.

"Oh you're touching me now?" she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

He turned her around to face him. "You understand you're being ridiculous, don't you?"

"Am I?"

"You know I love you. I made a promise to myself to say it every day."

"I know you do." She said as she slid her arms around his waist. "Honestly, it's not even really about sex. I just... I want to feel closer to you. When I was pregnant with Vaughan, I thought you were dead; clearly it affected me more than I realised."

He held her by the shoulders, his nose wrinkling slightly as he looked down at her smile, then up to her teary eyes.

"I'm... sorry, if I'm not acting appropriately," he said. "I may already be a father, but I've never done this part before."

She sighed, closing her eyes and lowering her forehead onto his chest. He stood quietly, holding her as she rested against him.

"I..." he began quietly. "I'm still learning how to be everything you need me to be. I spent my entire life building a wall around myself. I forget that a wall works both ways; sometimes I find myself stuck inside of it."

"I managed to fall in love with you from the other side of that wall," she said. "It's okay for you to stay inside of it. It'd just be nice if you could let me in too."

"I let you in," he said. "I just hadn't properly prepared myself for the little guest."

She laughed, tightening her fists into the back of his shirt. He took her face in his hands and kissed her tenderly, raising his eyebrows as he felt something nudge his stomach.

"Did you feel that?" she whispered against his lips.

"Was that her?"

She nodded.

He bent down on one knee in front of her, raising his hands and placing them on her bump. "I've never been able to feel it before. Not like this."

"It just started happening today." She looked down at him, watching as he stared at her bump in awe. "You can talk to her if you want to."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because babies recognise their parents' voices."

He leaned closer. "Hello... baby. This is Sherlock- I mean, your father." He frowned. "You know, Margaux, it is extremely likely that I'm just speaking to your digestive system." He stopped suddenly, his eyes widening as he felt it again.

"She knows your voice."

He felt Margaux's fingers running through his hair, a wave of calm washing over him as he kept his hands on her stomach. He thought about what she had said, about how she had been alone the last time. How every moment of happiness was clouded by grief. How the bigger she got, the more alone she felt.

He looked up to see her smiling down at him and imagined how it must have felt, to feel a kick, to turn and smile, but no one being there.