Chapter Text
Sherlock didn't lift his eyes from the book he was reading (Practical Beekeeping) when Joan came downstairs that morning. He paused; there was something wrong in the way she shuffled across the sitting room. The tone in her usual "Morning, Sherlock," was dull and weary and not at all like Joan.
His eyes flicked up to take in the visual data. She was still in her dressing gown, making tea in the kitchen, and she stared back at him warily as his eyes swept over her from head to toe.
The book lowered in his hands and he leaned back in his chair.
"You're menstruating," he observed.
"Brilliant," she snapped. She pulled two mugs from the cupboard and set them on the counter-top with much more force than necessary. "Really brilliant deduction, Sherlock."
"You're frustrated."
"In top form today, I see," she said bitterly.
"Joan," he said. "This is only the third month you've attempted to conceive. Human fertility isn't a straightforward endeavour, it will take time."
She crossed her arms over her chest. "I know," she sighed irritably. "I'm just – angry. At myself. For waiting so long. I made it so much harder on myself than it could have been and if I've really missed my opportunity... I don't know." She ran a hand through her short hair.
"Well," said Sherlock. "So far, you've only tried to conceive naturally... as naturally as the circumstances allow, that is," he corrected himself. "There are plenty of resources available to assist fertility, or improve the efficiency of the artificial insemination process itself. But surely this is all familiar to you?"
Joan rolled her eyes. "Family medicine might not have been my concentration, but I have done a bit of research on the subject, thank you..."
"It would be premature to write off your own fertility after only following a single method of insemination for so brief a time period."
"I know." She turned off the kettle and poured steaming water over the tea leaves in their mugs. She picked up one in each hand and shuffled over to join Sherlock in their armchairs.
"But?" he prompted.
She shook her head. "But nothing. You're right. I ought to be talking to Sarah at the surgery - maybe get myself referred to a fertility clinic." She drummed her fingers on the edge of the chair. "Inevitable, I guess."
Sherlock closed the book on his lap and folded his fingers in front of his lips. Joan took great offence to this; her fertility was more than a simple puzzle for Sherlock to figure out. She resented the piercing sweep of his eyes.
"You're still frustrated," he observed.
She groaned and rubbed her temple. "Brilliant, Sherlock."
"I don't understand."
"It's nothing," she said dully. "I guess I'm – afraid to seek help, afraid that it won't work, that I'll be told that I just can't have children."
"Wouldn't it be more efficient to know sooner?" He appeared genuinely confused. "I don't understand the logic of your fears, Joan."
She sighed. "It's not logical. It's just – one of those weird human things, like sentiment. I'm afraid to be... disappointed."
"Frankly, Joan, I'm disappointed in you."
"What?" Her head jerked up. "Why?" she demanded, her eyes flashing.
"Because a child is at stake, and you would rather give into fears and insecurities over your own fertility than explore better options of bringing them into the world. It's entirely unlike you, Joan, and I'm quite disappointed."
For a few moments she just stared at him, her mouth slightly open. He was unperturbed by her scrutiny and merely sipped his tea, waiting for her to collect herself.
Finally she closed her mouth and leaned back in her chair. "It is a bit stupid of me, isn't it," she said quietly.
"Yes. I'd expect more from you, of all people," he said.
Joan sighed.
"Get that referral," said Sherlock, picking up his book again. "Make an appointment with a fertility expert. We'll go speak with them and see what can be done."
A smile pulled at the corner of her lips. "'We'? Are you planning to come with me, then?"
"Obviously." He was already involved again in his reading and did not look up.
Joan smiled, despite herself. Sherlock was right, as always. There was more to be done, and they owed it to the child to try their hardest.
**
Joan emerged from the loo, thermometer and small plastic strip in hand. Sherlock was waiting just outside the door. "Okay," she said, showing him the little grey happy face on the display. "Definitely ovulating. So... ah..." she grimaced. "It's on you, then."
Sherlock let out a long-suffering sigh.
**
Sherlock had been conducting endless research (thankfully no experiments) on conception, pregnancy, and childbirth, and nearly drove Joan out of her mind with his constant monitoring and questioning of her diet, her heart rate, and her activities – interspersed with the occasional factoid that she either already knew or didn't want to know.
"Have you been regularly checking the consistency of your cervical mucous?" he asked her one morning over breakfast. "As you approach ovulation, it should become less viscous and acquire--"
"Jesus, Sherlock!" she cried. "Not now, all right? Not ever ."
"I'm trying to help," he said defensively.
"All right, well, for the future, enquiring after the state of your flatmate's cervical mucous is a bit not good . Especially while said flatmate is eating ."
"Yes, that's what reminded me, in fact," he remarked. "I was just reading last week that the cervical mucous should take on the consistency of egg whites during ovulation."
Joan looked down at the fried eggs on her plate. "...Great."
**
After Joan and Sherlock had both received positive results on their fertility tests from the clinic, the mood in 221B lifted tremendously.
There was thirty quid pinned to the mantelpiece with a knife, a prize for the first of the pair to correctly identify the first confirmed symptoms of Joan's pregnancy. Sherlock had contributed ten and Joan consented to put down twenty when Sherlock complained that she had an unfair advantage, being able to feel slight changes in her body that were unobservable to Sherlock.
"Sherlock, this is ridiculous," she insisted. "I'm a doctor, not to mention the one of us who is actually getting pregnant. You can't possibly expect to win."
"Oh, Joan," he sighed, adopting his 'you-poor-mortals' tone. "It will hardly be difficult. It is a matter of observation, after all. And you know what I always say--"
"That I see but don't observe, yes," she cut him off. "But there's nothing to see . It's inside me."
He smiled and folded his hands under his chin. "We will see."
"About it being inside me? I really hope not."
They both laughed. Well, Joan laughed; Sherlock smiled, and that was close enough.
**
At 2am, Joan was curled up against Sherlock on the couch, crying.
"I'm too old," she choked, wiping her cheeks with her arm. "I'll never have kids."
Sherlock was holding her awkwardly. "You will," he said. "It's... statistically probable that it will happen eventually. We are both confirmed fertile adults."
She wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder, sobbing something that he couldn't understand through the muffling effect of his skin. He patted her shoulder uncertainly.
"It will be all right," he assured her. She cried and tightened her grip on him.
He squeezed her tighter in return. That was the thing to do, wasn't it, to comfort someone who was crying?
**
"Are you still standing by your diagnosis, Doctor Holmes?" Joan drawled.
"I maintain that you have been more exhausted in the last week than normal," said Sherlock, his arms folded across his chest. "And your calorie consumption has increased, even if you insist you haven't noticed it."
"I've been taking more hours at the clinic this week," she pointed out. "So yes, I'm more tired and I eat more because I'm more active during the day. And I can't use coffee to keep myself awake anymore."
"No, this time, I'm quite sure."
They were standing together in the tiny bathroom of their flat. On the counter beside the sink, lying face down, were two pregnancy tests. Different brands, because Sherlock insisted on nothing but scientific rigour (she'd talked him down from four the previous month and six the one before that; it was getting pricey). Both of them were pointedly ignoring the offending bits of plastic.
Joan rolled her eyes. "You can't pull this every month, Sherlock. You insist that you observed some vague symptom like 'you seem tired' or 'you ate an extra piece of toast yesterday' or 'you threw a fit over something inane'. We ought to impose some kind of penalty – lose two quid of my twenty for every bad guess."
"I swear, this time, I'm sure," he insisted. "If you're not convinced, let's make it more interesting ." He paused to think. "If I get it wrong this time, you can choose the name of our child," he said finally. "But if I'm right, I get naming rights."
Joan snorted. "I had no idea you would care about that, Sherlock!"
"I have some ideas."
"Frankly, I'm a little terrified at what you might come up with. Elements of the periodic table? Criminal masterminds you admire from history? Famous chemists?"
"None of the above, although now that you mention it..."
Sherlock's phone began to beep and buzz against the bathroom counter. Both of them audibly drew in their breaths.
"Well?" said Sherlock, picking up the phone. He looked at Joan, who was still frozen in place. "Do we have a deal?"
She started. "What? What deal?"
"The names, Joan. Do we have a deal?"
Her fingers were twitching with the urge to turn over the tests right then. "Is this actually important to you?" she pressed. "Because if you're going to treat naming our child as some big joke, you can forget it."
He looked almost hurt. "I wouldn't joke about that."
Her eyes darted between his face and the pregnancy tests lying face-down on the counter.
"I'll agree," she said. "But only if I retain the right to veto. And I get to choose the middle name."
"Fine, fine." He waved his hands impatiently. "Come on, let's do this. I need to know."
She nodded – more a jerk of her head – and reached with trembling fingers for a test on the counter. Sherlock reached for the other. Joan's fingers stopped mere centimetres from the plastic. "Call it?" she joked weakly.
"Positive, obviously," he said impatiently. He was leaning forward. "Come on!"
She took a deep breath. "All right, so... un, deux, trois ..."
They flipped the tests simultaneously.
Sherlock smirked.