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"You're awake."
Sherlock felt Natasha's small body shift towards him on the bed and her full lips brush against his ear. He was awake. Barely. He breathed in and felt her fingers curl into the sleeve of his shirt.
"What happened?" He scrubbed a hand over his face. "What time is it? Where's John?"
"Went home about an hour ago." Her breath was warm on his skin. "He said you OD'd on the plane. Mary wanted to take you to the hospital, but you insisted you wanted to come here first. You collapsed on the stairs."
Sherlock dropped his hand on his chest and opened his eyes. His bedside lamp lit up the ceiling. "You're angry with me."
"A little." Natasha tugged on his sleeve again and lifted her head, hinting she wanted to use his arm for a pillow. Sherlock wasn't even a little bit high anymore. He was hung-over. Slow.
He stole a peek at her and gathered her close to his chest, tucking her head beneath his chin. "It was a slip," he spoke against her hair.
"It's always a slip." Her voice was muffled against his chest. "How many have there been so far? How many does John know about?"
Sherlock hesitated. "One or two."
"You need to stop." Natasha lifted her head and crawled up to meet his eyes, red hair falling over her shoulder in shiny waves. He breathed in the familiar scent of her shampoo. Red roses. Her voice lowered to a whisper. "Please," she pleaded. "Stop."
"I've got it under control," he insisted stubbornly. "I slipped. This time. It won't happen again. I've figured out the proper dosage, it's—"
Natasha pulled away and swung her bare legs off the side of the bed before he had a chance to finish. Sherlock lifted himself up on an elbow to follow her with his eyes. She'd changed into pajama shorts and a cozy sweater while he'd been passed out. The sweater was too big on her. She tucked her hands inside the sleeves so that only her fingertips showed and tiptoed her way across the cold floor of his bedroom. Her bag swung idly from a hook behind his door and she retrieved a paper from inside.
Sherlock sat up further to take it from her hand. Snatch it, really. He was already feeling a little defensive. Anxious. He wanted another fix. Natasha slid back into bed with him and burrowed beneath the covers. He shifted away to give her room but he was still close enough to feel her shiver.
He scanned the paper in his hand. "Impossible."
"I thought so too." Natasha sounded almost subdued. "So I had him run the test again. And again. And again. Those results are accurate."
Sherlock scanned the paper a second time. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting. Mycroft sent him to a rehab facility once. He escaped within the hour. This wasn't a printout for a rehab facility. This was a pregnancy test—or the results of a pregnancy test.
"But it's impossible," he pressed. "You said—"
"And what I said was true. I was sterilized." Her voice broke on the last syllable and he turned towards her on the bed. She wasn't crying yet but she looked alarmingly close to tears. Her nose was red and her eyes were just a little shinier than they should've been. Red rimmed. She fiddled with the sleeves of her sweater without meeting his eyes. "I have a theory," she offered shakily.
"Don't you always? It's why I love you." He set the results aside and lowered himself beside her, propped up on an elbow. Natasha looked up at him and he tucked her hair behind her ear, smiling faintly. "You thought I'd stop loving you because you're pregnant? Give me at least a little credit. I'd like to think I'm not that much of an arse."
Natasha choked on a laugh and nodded once. "I got a text about what happened with Magnussen before I had a chance to investigate," she continued. "I still don't know how it happened."
"We'll investigate together," Sherlock said. "I am a consulting detective, after all."
Natasha sniffled and wiped away a few stray tears with the sleeve of her sweater. "The Case of the Pregnant Spy?"
"That's horrible. Leave the titles to John." Sherlock's smile grew just a little.
"You need to stop," she said again. "Using, I mean. You need to stop."
"I need to stop." Sherlock's expression turned solemn. "We're going to be rubbish parents."
"Probably," Natasha agreed. "But we're going to try, and I'm pretty sure that's all anyone can do. Babies don't come with instruction manuals."
"It'd be easier if they did." He laid back down on the bed beside her and fixed clear blue eyes on the ceiling.
"Are you in shock?"
"Probably."
"Because I expected more of a freak-out."
Sherlock turned his head on the pillow and found Natasha's pale green eyes wide, and staring right back. He should've been freaking out, but he wasn't. He was too tired. "It's been a long day," he said softly.
Natasha moved closer and he lifted his arm so that she could tuck herself underneath. Her eyes were still on his face. "Tell me everything's going to be okay."
"It's going to be okay," he repeated without stopping to consider whether or not the statement was truthful. "We are going to be okay."
"You have to stop," Natasha said again, and her eyes were closed this time.
Sherlock pressed his lips to the top of her head. "I have to stop."