Chapter Text
“FUCK!” She looks at the stick and looks at the box and back at the stick… “Fuck, Fuck, Fuckity, Fuck, Fuck, Fuck!”
She chucks the stick in the bin by her sink and pulls out another test kit she bought from the pharmacy, “Fuck it all to hell!” she says three minutes later when she’s confronted by yet another angry red plus sign. --
Looking back on, she had to admit that there had been signs. But pregnancy had been the last thing on her mind. It was so far removed from her mind that it hadn’t occurred to her for weeks. It was embarrassing, really. She’s never pretended to be Sherlock Holmes but she’d worked damn hard to get to get where she is and she’s a bloody damn good copper. She knew all about reading clues and not misinterpreting them.
It wasn’t entirely unreasonable that she hadn’t thought of it. Skipping a month or two didn’t seem unreasonable, not at her age, not with her stress level, not with her weird hours and weirder diet. In fact, it had sort of been a relief. She’d seen the movies. She’d read the books. She knew that loads of women had some sort of crisis as they passed into menopause. She just wasn’t one of them. Periods were irritating and inconvenient and she quite frankly would be happy to be done with the bother!
The Met wasn’t quite as much of an all boys club as it had been when she joined, but still she had to work harder, longer, and better than the men in her same position. Anything that reminded them of her femininity was frowned upon. She’d worked hard and had a good reputation over her 20 year career. She got higher profile cases than Dimmok, but he’d gotten his promotion so much younger than she had been. And truthfully she was doing the job of DCI at the pay rank of a DI, at least sometimes.
Higher ups thought women coppers were weaker, and physically she couldn’t really argue. She couldn’t out run the fastest cop at the yard, not on her very best day, at her physical prime. But she could outrun, to this day, the slower ones.
She worked hard, trained hard, took on extra classes at CID, worked with any consultant who could better help her close her cases. She hated the publicity that came with the high profile cases, but if she wasn't out there in the public eye, she'd be overlooked.
So when she didn’t get her period in February, she didn’t worry. Hell, she barely noticed. She had a serial killer on the loose, a stack of paperwork backed up, and that wasn't counting having to oversee the new DIs work, just until he got the hang of things. They never asked Dimmock to do that crap.
So she wrote off many of what must have been the earliest signs. She’d felt tired, drained, beat with a stick.
“You seem tired, boss,” Sally had mentioned quietly as they stood at a crime scene watching Sherlock put on his little show. it was true enough. But it didn’t faze her. Why would it? She worked too hard, slept too little and ate complete crap 95 percent of the time. It was some wonder she hadn’t collapsed years ago.
A week later the entire team, each and every one of them, came down with some sort of 72 hour flu bug. Lestrade wondered privately if Sherlock contaminated them for some sort of science experiment.
As violent and as terrible as those first three days were everybody seemed to get over it quickly enough. Hers lingered. But it wasn’t like she ever did her stomach any favors. Lamb vindaloo 4 meals a day for the past ten days. She knew she needed to stop, to take care of herself. But the new place that just opened around the corner, had the most amazing curry. She dreamt about it. And if it stopped her stomach bug from quite healing… well… it was worth it. The food in the place was amazing. The beer tasted like piss. She’d complained. They’d shrugged. She’d switched to Lassi. She’d been pretty bloated ever since. Lactose intolerance? She'd worry about it when she didn't have a body waiting. She always had a body waiting.
The current body, like three before it, was starkers except for his socks, next to a fountain in a London park.
God, she needed to pee.
“You alright, boss?” Sally asked.
“Fine,” she answered through clenched teeth.
“Again?” Anderson looked up, “You pee more than my wife and she’s in her second month.”
Sally gulped.
Lestrade tried to ignore her Sargent’s reaction. She didn’t approve of members of her team carrying on, it was bound to come to no good But any response on her part would go into Sally’s file and she’d rather not have a fellow officer tarnished by a temporary mistake, so long as it was temporary. “It’s the running water.”
“My sister used to torture me talking about water on long trips,” John grimaced at the memory.
“The next person to mention the word water is going to be arrested,” Lestrade warned.
“Waterboarding, followed by….” Sherlock continued his explanation of the crime.
“Arrested!” Lestrade yelled. “Are you done? Can somebody turn off the fountain?”
Sherlock ignored her.
“It’s not the fountain, though. Tuesday at the theater….”
“You and Sally went to a show?” John interrupted.
“Crime scene,” Lestrade grimaced.
“In row F. You climbed those stairs a couple of times on the way to the ladies.”
“Are you counting?” Lestrade asked, surprised.
“And at the press conference….”
"Can we spend more time obsessing about the victim than my bodily functions, please." Surely, it hadn’t been that bad. Except it had been. It had been worse. She’d been up three times the night before. And then it all came together, the tiredness, the dodgy stomach, the weight fluctuation, the constant need for the loo.
“We need to find the poker!” And with that Sherlock was ran off towards the trees in the distance.
John started to follow.
Lestrade called him back, “I have no idea what he’s on about. I’ll text you when I catch up with him.”
“No, not that.” Lestrade shook her head. “I think I might be…” She noticed Anderson and Donovan standing a little too close, “Work.”
“Right boss,” Anderson said as he resumed collecting samples from the area around the body.
“Diabetic.” Lestrade said after he was sure his team was otherwise occupied.
“Diabetic? The urination? Could be a change in how much you are drinking, a new fitness regime.”
Lestrade motioned to her body, “do I look like I’ve taken up fitness.”
“Weight gain?”
“Loss, actually. Most places. Not that it is any of your business."
“If you want a diagnosis,” John sighed.
“Bloating, I think. I’ve had an excess of wind, but my diet’s complete crap, so…”
“And your last?” He looked at Anderson and back at Lestrade before whispering, “cycle?”
“The cycle is ongoing, John. That's why it is called a cycle. The last period, well..." Lestrade realized her voice had risen to a considerable volume. “I've not been that regular ever, less so recently.”
John’s brow furrowed, slightly. “And the last?”
“January middle of the month, about?”
“You should get one of those tests from the chemist.”
“A blood sugar test? You can get those without a prescription?” She watched John’s expression… “No!”
“Pop round to your local surgery, then, but you need to take a test…”
“I’m not some 20 year old waif, John.”
“Take the test.”
He was full of it. She knew he was. But, she’d be able to tell the doctors at the surgery that she was, in fact, sure she was not pregnant. She bought one test. It was wrong. She ran out and bought several others, one of every brand she could find and took them all one after another hoping each time for a different outcome, but no.
She stood in the bathroom for more than a few minutes staring at the line of tests like they were suspects in a police line up. Number six please step forward. But it wouldn’t matter which test she picked, plus sign, two blue lines, a digital readout that read pregnant. They all agreed. She was the one who’d been caught.