This Is Real

Chapter Sixteen

Mycroft had been sat at their dining table when she came downstairs that morning, sifting through paperwork and clicking at his laptop keys. Eve had simply raised an eyebrow and shuffled over to flick the kettle on. "My brother insisted I sit with you. He's at New Scotland Yard with Dr. Watson and Gregory, shouldn't be absent for long, but I agreed to keep an eye. He took the children to nursery as he left."

She frowned. "Matthew doesn't go on a Wednesday."

"Sherlock thought it wise to send him in regardless. Allow you to relax."

"'Relax'," Evelyn rolled her eyes. "So," she shook a cup at him, offering tea, but he declined. "You're essentially babysitting me."

"He's concerned. How long have you been feeling under the weather now?"

"Comes and goes, but about a week. I'm fine, really, Sherlock's worrying too much."

Mycroft shrugged. "He loves you, of course he's worrying too much. Would you like me to do anything while I'm here?"

Evelyn moved over to the sofa, setting down her mug on the coffee table and snuggling into the corner, arms wrapped around her belly comfortingly. "No, honestly, I'm just going to be curled up all day watching TV no doubt. If I move around too much it can make me nauseous."

"Are you certain I shouldn't send for a doctor?"

She laughed softly. "You're as bad as my husband."

He continued to stare at her, his lips pressed thinly as he thought his potential options through. "I find myself worrying about you, also. If you need anything at all, please do not hesitate to ask me."

Eve smiled. "Thank you, Mycroft. You're very sweet, I appreciate it."

They spent the next few hours alternating between comfortable silence while he worked and discussing the 'absurdity' of the series she'd decided to watch. A Discovery of Witches apparently wasn't his thing. She wasn't going to point out she enjoyed this particular show because the male protagonist reminded her of Sherlock, or that she definitely caught Mycroft occasionally watching the screen rather than reading his newspaper.

Despite the programme holding her captive, Eve had the sudden realisation she hadn't felt the baby kick for a while. Had she actually felt anything since she got up? She couldn't remember if...

Mycroft's head shot up from the paper. "Everything alright?"

She'd sat herself forward, rubbing hard circles on the side of her stomach. That usually worked to get the little gymnast doing a somersault. "I haven't felt her move in a while... I–I'm sure it's nothing, I'll just walk around a bit."

Her pathetic attempt to settle her brother-in-law's nerves did about as much good as a paddle boat made out of lead. "Perhaps now would be the time to call Sherlock–"

"No! No," she paced the hard wood floor in front of the wall where the TV was mounted. "He'll panic and– and he's on a case, leave him," she frowned down at her bump, poking it. "I could have a bit of coffee, caffeine can help get baby moving."

"I was told caffeine isn't good for pregnancy–"

"Did you get an MD and not tell me about it? Or did your big brain just happen to come up with a better idea?" She snapped.

Mycroft pursed his lip.

"Sorry," Eve sighed. "Sorry. I didn't mean to get snippy. The pacing is making me feel a bit... you know. Queasy."

He folded his paper onto the table, clasping and unclasping his hands over it anxiously. "You look quite pale and uncomfortable, Evelyn, maybe you should sit back down."