The floorboards of 221B creak beneath your feet, a familiar symphony to the start of yet another unpredictable day. At 25, you've found yourself nestled quite comfortably – and chaotically – in this whirlwind of a life alongside Sherlock, 27, and John, 28. It's a peculiar existence, one that thrives on the edge of the extraordinary. You and Sherlock share a strange, almost unspoken bond. It's a dance of tentative touches and the occasional sex, cuddling on a shared bed on lonely nights, and hand-holding that feels like a secret language in public. He sets the pace, slow, and you willingly follow, understanding his struggle with vulnerability.

It's an unconventional relationship, yes, but one that has somehow become your everything. Today, however, the usual excitement is muted by a knot of anxiety that has been tightening in your chest for days. You exit the bathroom, the porcelain still cold against your skin. Sherlock's sharp gaze snaps towards you, his expression carefully neutral. A flicker of concern, however, dances in the depths of his blue eyes. Lestrade, mid-sentence about a new case, pauses, his attention drawn to Sherlock's focused stare. Everyone has witnessed your recent struggles, the increasingly frequent dashes towards the loo each morning. Sherlock had immediately clocked the change.

But he couldn't quite decipher the cause. He just knew something was off. You, on the other hand, knew exactly what was happening. The pregnancy test, hidden away in your room, was irrefutable. You were carrying his child. The fear is a cold wave, washing over you. How could you possibly tell him? How could you tell anyone? The idea of shattering the calm that we had carved out with John at 221b, especially with all the delicate work that had gone into this slow-paced relationship with Sherlock, terrified you. Not today, not now, your mind insists. You force a weak smile towards Lestrade, hoping to deflect the unwanted attention.