It's Not Real

Chapter Twenty Nine

"Are you ready?"

Sherlock tried to suppress his smile at the sound of her voice. He had absolutely no idea what Evelyn was so desperate to show him, but when he got home and she'd encouraged him to stay in the sitting room, bouncing on her feet telling him she had a surprise, he couldn't not indulge her.

"Yes, ready." He heard the bedroom door open. "What on earth is so important–" He stopped, his mouth quirking up.

She was grinning like a mad woman, arms spread in a gesture of tahdah! and her eyes were gleaming orbs of icy blue. "Good, huh?" She twirled and stopped side on, smoothing her hands over the bump theatrically.

"You look–"

"Be nice!"

"Adorable." To his surprise, he didn't even cringe when the word left his mouth.

If it was possible, her grin widened. "New word for you. I'll take it though." She pat her belly. "Plenty of room for peanut in these bad boys."

Sherlock chortled, climbing to his feet. He reached out to fiddle with the straps on each shoulder. "Mary took you maternity shopping."

"Mm." She pressed up to kiss him chastely. "I was using a shoelace to hold my jeans up, was getting a bit annoying every time I had to pee. Do you like these? I hoped you would."

"I do indeed, missed seeing you swan around the flat in a pair of dungarees." Sherlock tugged on them carefully. "Definitely room to grow."

"They're great. I got a blue pair, too." She glanced down herself. "Tempted to go back and get the green ones as well. These were my favourite, though."

The print was variations of small mauve, brown, and terracotta coloured flower illustrations. It was the most Evelyn item of clothing he'd ever seen. "Your obsession with dressing like an art teacher is delightful to me."

She wrinkled her nose. "An art teacher?"

Sherlock got the impression he was on rocky ground, best to tread carefully. "I mean... Sweet," it sounded more like a question. "You know, all earthy and stripes and... maybe a bit vintage? The cardigans with collars and– I don't– I feel like I'm digging myself a deeper hole."

"Do you– erm, like how I dress or...?"

"What? Yes, your general clothing choices are very you, they show off your personality ninety percent of the time, and your ability to wear whatever you like and somehow always pull it off is extremely admirable." Sherlock touched a fingertip to the lettuce trim of her white short sleeve. "You always look lovely. And you know how I feel about the dungarees." He offered her a devilish grin, tugging her forward by the bib.

Eve giggled, wrapping her arms around his neck, pressing herself as close as her expanding middle would allow. "I must admit, when we go out I sometimes feel a bit out of place next to you. You're all tall, dark, and mysterious. Sexy and sophisticated in your expensive tailored suits. When we're walking down the street, and you're holding my hand, people must think we're a weird combination."

"You've never told me this before."

"I don't really care that much, it's not important, I know we're compatible. The clothes we wear mean nothing." She tilted her head. "No, sorry, I know it does mean something to you, what I meant is it has no impact on our relationship."

He blinked a few times before finding the power to respond. "You think my clothes mean something important to me?"

Her eyes softened. "I know they do. No one spends almost £400 on a shirt if they didn't give a toss, but I also understand the reason it's important."