A/N: I've been looking over some of my older fanfic pieces, and this came to light. Now it's not a redo of a previously written chapter, so this one was little more complicated to write. Granted, it's from Russell's perspective, so at least I have King's books to show me the way. I don't know if you all will think they are out of character, but I think it fits very well for the circumstances. This, unfortunately has not happened yet, although I'm still waiting for it. *shrug* Either way, I felt like this type of scene needed to come to light, so I wrote it. Hope you all enjoy!

I drove up the driveway and parked the car in front of the Sussex cottage that was my home. It had been my home officially for only four years now, but I had, in my heart, considered it home for much longer. I sat there, looking at it for a few more minutes, recalling memories that I had stored up in my heart.

My reverie was broken when the front door opened and the very reason why I considered this place home stepped out. Holmes, my mentor, my friend, my partner, my husband. And soon to be something more, my heart said. I opened the door of my car and got out. I walked slowly towards the house, never taking my eyes off the man standing there.

I had just come from a week-long stint in Oxford, it was Mrs. Hudson's day off, and I had missed my husband. I walked right up to him, and my undemonstrative husband and I embraced, hard. "It's good to see you again, Holmes," was all I managed to say as we stood there, my face pressing into is shoulder, his into my now short blond hair. We parted just long enough to enter the house and shut the door behind us.

Once the door was shut and locked, we once again embraced, only this time our lips found each other as well. We clung to one another, and before I could stop them, the tears that had threatened started to trickle down my cheeks. We reluctantly parted, Holmes drawing me with him into the large front room. He pulled me down onto the sofa in front of the fireplace, took my face in his hands, looked me in the eye, and said, "Tell me."

I gazed at him, my eyes still dripping moisture, only now it was wetting his long, sensitive fingers, where they were placed softly, yet firmly on my cheeks. I shook my head, and broke free from his grasp. I walked over to the large window that looked out over the Downs. I stood there, hugging myself, wrapping my arms unconsciously around my middle, as though my body would protect the secret that lay within. I felt him come up behind me; I could almost see the expression on his face, could almost tell him what he was thinking.

"No, no one's died. No, I'm not hurt. No, I'm not sick, though I have seen a doctor," I said this with my back still to him and my face towards the slopping Downs where we had first met now more than ten years ago.

"You've been to a doctor?" came his quiet response.

"Yes, this morning," was my soft answer.

"Why did you go see the doctor, Russ?" he asked, still at my back.

"I wanted to know..., I wanted to make sure...," was all I got out before his hand touched my shoulder. It was as though just that small touch, that feather light touch from my husband, the man I loved, broke the wall I had, all unknowingly, been trying to build. "I'm pregnant," was the quiet answer to the question that had been in that touch. I heard a quick intake of breath, as though someone had punched him. The next thing I knew, he had turned me around, grasped my face once again in his hands, and forced my eyes to look into his. I had thought I knew what I would see in those eyes, but I was wrong. I had expected his quick denial of fathering the child. After all, he was in his sixties. Children had never been one of those things we had discussed, not really, anyway. The subject had come up a few times, but it had never seemed necessary. We had been married for four years and no children, therefore we had both assumed, or at least I had, that children were rather out of the question.

This, however, was not the look that met my red eyes. They were surprised and happy. Indeed, he looked amazed, which was not a common expression for Sherlock Holmes. One of his hands left my face and came to rest on my stomach, still flat, though the doctor had told me it wouldn't be long before my clothes would become too tight around the middle. "You're pregnant?" he asked, in a soft voice, a voice I had never recalled hearing him use before. It was almost a whisper and yet not quite. Some might have called it reverent. "I'm going to be a father?" was his next question, still in that same tone of voice.

I couldn't resist making sure of what I was seeing. "You're happy?" I asked in a voice that would rival his for reverence.

His eyes had drifted down to where his hand rested against my stomach, but at this quiet question they came back up to my face. "Yes. This doesn't disappoint you, does it?" he asked, mistaking the look on my face for unhappiness.

"Me?" I asked, "I thought this would trouble you!"

"No," he murmured, drawing me close, and kissing my swollen eyelids. "Is that what all those tears were over? You thought that your having my child would make me unhappy? I had wished to be younger so that you might; I never imagined that I would be lucky enough to see my child in your arms."

He held me as I cried, not in fear of what he might say, but in the joy of knowing his mind. We were going to have a child, a little boy or girl that was going to run us ragged, for which we would love it all the more. It would cry when we went away, and greet us when we returned. We would teach it and love it and it would be ours. "Holmes," I said drawing back as the full realization sank in, "we're going to have a baby."

"Yes, Russell," he chuckled, "we're expecting." And with that, our reunion went into its normal pattern, which included food, hot water, and bed. And as we lay in each others arms that night, with the moon shining in through the windows, bathing both of us in silver light, I heard, as I was drawn into sleep, the words he had said earlier, echo softly in my ear, "Yes, Russell, we're expecting." I smiled, feeling my husband's hand over our child, and slept as he kissed my forehead, whispering reverently to himself, "A baby, Russ, a baby."