A/N: I don't know what I've come up with. All I know is I had a lot of feels, put on the right music and boom, this one-shot was born. I hope you'll be able to sieve through its haphazardness and find at least one little thing to enjoy. Thanks for coming to read this hot mess haha xx

Mistakes

Molly knew she should never have allowed it, but it had happened anyway. It seemed strange that Sherlock's gradual understanding of affection had created quite the opposite response in her. She loved him, she always would, but things were so different now. What things? she would stop to ask herself. There had been Jim Moriarty, there had been the fall, there had been faking the fall, there had been so much going on it felt right out of a movie. Yet, this had been their reality. Every dramatic twist and turn had been their reality.

Every time it had happened, when they would find themselves lost and tangled in a mess of sentiment, lust and confusion, she had said to herself, no more, Molly, no fucking more. She would then break into chuckles, thinking, it should be 'no more fucking', really. Her mental notes, therefore, were simply that - mere notes that slipped out of her mind as soon as she had made them. Her mental notes ended up being just false promises to herself. On and off, whilst they met, talked, dined and made love, it never seemed to stay properly off.

However, tiny alarm bells began to sound in Molly's mind. It started with her appetite and its rather drastic changes. Then came the unusual soreness she felt in specific parts of her body. When she finally woke up one morning, gagging from the smell of her neighbour's breakfast fry-up, Molly wished she had done more than make mental notes. It did not take long for her to confirm it. A quick trip to the chemist's and a dash for the toilet served as verification. Molly was pregnant, and she was pregnant with Sherlock Holmes' child.

Everything became a blur from that moment. Molly found herself ringing her supervisor up, asking for an emergency leave of absence, making up some excuse about a sick aunt out in the country. After a hasty packing of bags and a few phone calls here and there, her flat was locked up and as good as abandoned before she hopped onto a train bound for the countryside. Molly did not know why she had escaped. She only knew she had to.

It had been five days since he had last seen Molly at her flat. Sherlock Holmes marched up to the comforting sight of Molly's front door and was about to turn the key when he noticed something amiss. She's gone, he deduced within a minute of standing there. He quickly turned the key and pushed the door open, only to verify his deduction had been right.

"Molly?" he called out, knowing full well he was only going to hear the faint echo of his own voice in response.

Slowly, with contemplative footsteps, the detective surveyed the flat. He walked in and out of rooms, carefully taking in everything in his sight. The last stop was her bedroom and he smirked at how neatly it had been made. Gently, as though not to crease the sheets, Sherlock sat down on her side of the bed, resting his hands on its edge, feeling the fabric beneath his fingertips. He began to do a small bit of arithmetic, recalling that their little discussion on antibodies had taken place five days ago. Sherlock looked down at the sheets beneath his fingers and smiled to himself. It did not take him long to recall when they had last been together, twisted among these very sheets. He exhaled quietly to himself as he stared out of her bedroom window. The questions of where she had gone, and why, danced about in the his head.

His thoughts kept drawing him back to their last encounter in her bedroom. Perhaps it was due to the fact that his fingers now subconsciously fiddled with the sheets. For a moment, Sherlock disabled all the shields that segregated his memories, memories that he deemed fatuous, and allowed the information overload to come through. With great precision, he began to run through every detail and every moment of their last encounter in that very room. On occasion, a soft smile would appear on his face. There were specific moments that had certainly warranted that. When he had run through everything, his eyes brightened with realisation.

"Oh," he breathed.

Gathering his thoughts, as well as his strewn gloves and scarf, Sherlock bolted out of Molly's flat, and went to look for his brother.

The inn she had been staying at was an absolute delight. It had afforded her peace, distance and, most importantly, time to think. The lady who ran it was a joy as well, and always made sure Molly was always comfortable and had everything she needed. Molly had been there for a while now and did not feel any urge to leave. She even considered setting up shop here and restarting life away from London. Molly had ample savings to tide her through whilst she searched for a job, perhaps with the local clinic. She could find her own place, a place for her and her baby. This could work, and seemed a most logical move.

It was about ten o'clock at night as Molly lay down to bed with her thoughts swirling about her. Every day that she was at the inn, she grew more and more accustomed to the idea that she would leave London for good. It had not seemed a bad idea at the start and now, she seemed even more at peace with her decision. No bump was visible yet, but Molly still rested a protective hand over her abdomen, smiling gently to herself at the little life that was growing. It had taken longer for her to come to peace that this was Sherlock's baby as well. Now, it amused her more than it troubled her.

"I hope you'll be as smart as he is," she would say privately to her child, only to laugh at herself after.

Nevertheless, after the little laugh, Molly somehow could never picture Sherlock in the lives of her and the baby. She was mentally at peace with it, but she could not physically do anything about it.

Molly did not know when she had drifted off to sleep, but she was awoken suddenly by the phone at her bedside ringing.

"Hello?" she said, clearing her throat as she sat up from bed.
"Molly, love, someone's called and asked to speak with you," said the kind innkeeper.
"Oh, did they say who they were?" she asked, stifling a yawn.
"He said he was Michael, and that he was your accountant and he had some urgent news for you,"
"Michael eh?" Molly repeated, "Thanks, Mrs Murray, I'll take the call."

There was a pause, a few beeps, then a click that signified he was on the line.

"Hello Mycroft," she said, unable to resist a smile,
"You're quick," Mycroft replied, "I can see why he likes you,"
"And you're very humorous," she smirked in reply.
"Believe me, Molly, I'm the least humorous person you'll ever find."

Molly paused to chuckled at his words, and whilst she did not see it, the older brother of her on-and-off again lover was smiling on his end of the line as well.

"So, what've you called about?" she asked, fiddling with the coils of the telephone.
"To ask if you'd come back to London," replied Mycroft.
"That's…very straightforward."
"I have no time for meandering,"
"And yet you've found time to make this phone call—"
"My brother knows, Molly." he interrupted.
"Knows what?" she asked, frowning.
"Are you really going to run in circles about this?"

Molly was quiet. Of course, he would know. He probably knew the exact date and time this baby had been conceived. He could probably deduce the baby's gender without needing an ultrasound. Sighing, she shut her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose.

"He cares for you, Molly," Mycroft remarked gently, "Despite my repeated advice against it."
"Why would you advice against it?"
"Because it isn't an advantage to care. Personal motto."
"Then why are we having this conversation? Seems a rather care-saturated phone call, if you ask me."
"You have proven the exception,"
"Have I?" said Molly with a smirk.
"Besides, while Sherlock and I both agree it isn't an advantage, caring for you, and your baby, is a privilege. And it's a privilege we would be honoured to have."
"He can't possibly have said that…"
"No, well, not quite."
"Then why are you the one telling me this? Why are you the one to ask me home?" asked Molly.

This time, she heard a soft laugh on the other end. It was so rare to hear Mycroft laugh that it made her shake her head, smiling.

"Well, he's dead, for starters." he answered simply, "And besides, dear Molly, only I can mobilise the helicopters,"

It was ridiculous that she had been taken home in a helicopter when a train ride or a drive back would have sufficed. Still, she appreciated the lack of traffic and not having to worry about lugging her bags about. All Molly had to do was unlock the front door whilst her bags were being managed by two members of Mycroft's security team. After thanking them, she shut the door and headed straight for her bedroom. When she saw the freshly-showered and comfortably dressed Sherlock Holmes sitting on her side of the bed, aimlessly flipping through television channels, she wondered why he had bothered to lock the flat back in the first place.

"That's Mycroft for you," said Sherlock, turning the television off and turning to face her, "Always fast and efficient."

Molly said nothing and only smirked as she peeled her jumper off and undid her hair.

"Come here," said Sherlock, gesturing for her.
"No," Molly answered, frowning, "Why should I?"

Sighing, Sherlock stood up, adjusting his t-shirt as he walked over to Molly. She eyed him warily as he approached, and it made him want to laugh, but he managed to keep it at bay.

"Then I'll come over," he said, reaching to hold her as he wrapped his arms tightly around her.
"What are you doing?" Molly asked, her voice muffled against his chest.
"Letting you know," he answered.
"What's there for me to know?" asked Molly.

Sherlock removed his arms from around her and stepped back, sitting back down on the bed whilst facing her.

"While we had never intended to create this baby inside you now, I have every intention of being the baby's father," he said calmly.
"But you know, all of this, how it all began, it's all been just one terrible mistake after another." said Molly.
"I don't know what gave you that idea, but you've never been a mistake to me," said Sherlock quietly.
"Then perhaps you're the mistake," she said, surprised those words even came out.

Sherlock lowered his gaze and smiled bitterly, nodding as he absorbed the impact of her words.

"If I am the mistake, then why come back?" he asked, looking earnestly at her.

They took a moment, wordless and contemplative, and looked hard at each other.

"Why have you come back?" he asked quietly again.
"What Mycroft said about you…is it true?" she asked in return.
"It depends. If it was about '82 and the apple pie when Mummy wasn't home—"
"Sherlock—"
"Why wouldn't it be true?" he asked, looking at her almost indignantly, "Am I really so monstrous to you?"
"That isn't what I meant—," Molly argued.
"I want to be our baby's father," he said, standing up. "What sort of monster does that?"

His words were heated, and they pierced through Molly.

"If you really were a monster to me," she said, taking a step toward him, "I would never have agreed to save you."

Slowly, she reached for his hand, gently touching their fingertips together before fully clasping his hand in hers.

"I just…didn't think it would matter to you, this…" she said, gesturing to her abdomen.
"This…is our baby, Molly," he said, moving to kiss her on the forehead.
"Yes," Molly answered, shutting her eyes and leaning into his kiss.

Smiling to himself, Sherlock carefully drew her to him once more and kissed her hair.

"Caring may not always be an advantage, but caring for you—both of you," he said quietly, "...is a privilege. And will never be a mistake."

END