Emma Swan finally found her fairytale (lostfairytale) wrote in wariscoming, @ 2012-07-16 19:52:00 |
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Entry tags: | emma swan |
Who: Emma Swan
What: Suspicion leads to discovery
When: Early this morning
Where: The Moriarty home
Warnings: None, actually...I, too, am surprised
She couldn't ignore the signs any longer. All those things, all those tiny details she'd written off as stress. And really, not many people in Lawrence were more stressed than Emma Swan was at that exact moment. The man she loved, the only man she'd ever loved, was a serial killer on the warpath, and didn't really care who got in his way. The object of his affection wasn't, at that moment, her. Until Sherlock Holmes was dead, there was nothing she could do. And then...then what? As so many had told her, it wasn't as if things were going to be easy for her if the detective did die. The city wanted Jim served up on a platter as it was. If he killed the only one who could end this, then what? They'd go after him, of course, and they wouldn't rest until they found him. Despite the reassurances of the few people she could consider friends, the odds were against her coming out of that safely.
And if Sherlock lived? Then that meant Jim would be dead. And she truly didn't know how to handle that. From day one, she'd known it was possible. That didn't mean she liked the idea. That ache in her chest, that emptiness, the loneliness... It hadn't existed anymore once she'd met him. And now it would return, and with a vengeance.
So the little hints, the symptoms, they made sense, really, and were easy to ignore. A constant nausea she couldn't fight off and the occasional vomiting? Easily related to guilt and pressure of her boyfriend's current life. The fact that she was always exhausted, and yet somehow couldn't sleep? Also possible. And yes, even the missed periods were occasionally stress related, which she knew from her line of work.
But it had been almost three months. And that... It wasn't right. It didn't feel right. She knew her body well enough to know something was wrong. In the beginning she'd convinced herself that if it was still going on once all of this was said and done, she'd see a doctor. But then it had hit her. As she stopped for her coffee that morning and had to pull over to be sick, she remembered the last time she'd felt this terrible.
When she'd been pregnant with Henry.
It had been eleven years. Maybe it was different. Her body was older, she'd changed, the symptoms couldn't possibly be the exact same. But Emma knew she was only going to feel worse until she knew for sure. Being unsure certainly wouldn't stop the stress.
She'd gone to the next town over to get the test. Oh, she knew she was being followed. She always was. And if it got back to him, she'd have to be honest. But she couldn't do it there in Lawrence. There were too many people who already suspected her. If they thought Moriarty was reproducing, who knew what kind of uproar it would cause.
And now she sat on the edge of the bathtub, feeling absolutely terrified and all of seventeen again. How the hell had this happened? She'd been careful. She'd been careful for the last ten years, not wanting a repeat of her last mistake which had landed her tiny baby boy in the arms of a woman who had ruined her life. She'd been so very careful.
Maybe she was worried over nothing. It was possible. She really had been overly stressed, and it only promised to get worse. She couldn't be pregnant. She couldn't allow that little girl to come into this world. Beautiful and clever, too much like her father. That gleam in her eyes when she was up to no good, the way she so easily lied to Emma, apparently not knowing her mom's little gift. How the hell was she supposed to raise that? If she brought that baby into this world, if she let that baby be raised by Jim, then what? And how could she possibly keep her safe? That was the reason their future selves had sent her to boarding school, guarded by undercover operatives the entire time. Emma knew things. She'd listened while she was there, once she understood what was going on, and once she quit freaking out over being there at all.
That future couldn't happen. And if she was pregnant... God, she didn't even know. She couldn't give her up. She couldn't risk losing her like she'd lost Henry. But could she really allow that little girl to grow up to become the woman she had the potential to be? The tiny dark-haired replica of her boyfriend with too much of her father in her to ever be considered safe?
"Please be pink," she murmured, almost glaring at the stick in her hand. She knew sitting and staring wouldn't help her any. It might actually make the waiting worse. But she didn't know what else to do with herself except cry and that wasn't allowed. Emma Swan didn't cry. She'd been so good at not doing so over the last twenty-eight years. Her hardened heart hadn't allowed it.
So she sat and she glared and she waited.
And the little square turned blue.