Sherlock had always known that Molly had liked him. It couldn't have been much more obvious; the clammy palms, the dithering and the way she spoke around him. It had all added up within days of the two meeting. He knew, like he knew everything, how she felt. What he didn't know was how far she'd go to win him over. That was one of those things no normal human being could predict, not even an extraordinary one such as Sherlock Holmes. He'd always trusted her, whole-heartedly. She mattered to him in many ways, but this had smashed that trusted into the floor like one of his mother's old ornaments.
"A donor." It wasn't a question, but she nodded regardless, arms pulling into her chest as if to protect the small bundle from harm. His face remained the blank page of emotion it had been since he'd arrived, but the cogs of his mind whirred against one another. She'd done this all by herself. She'd taken his specimen from the sperm bank. She had friends who worked there, helping her out. Harriet, if he remembered correctly. She'd taken that specimen and impregnated herself. And now, here she was.
"And it's mine." Again, she nodded. It infuriated him, made him want to scream at her. Her eyes hadn't left her arms since he'd said that word. That horrible, wretched word. He gulped, blinking at the swathed bundle in her arms. It couldn't have been much bigger than a bag of sugar or a loaf of bread, and all he could see was the white of the blanket.
For the first time, Sherlock took the time to look around Molly's living room. It was painted white, the walls clinically bright, and the furniture was cream leather. Not real, he could tell straight away. She'd never allow that, she had ethics after all. There was a lingering smell of bleach and polish, as if all she'd done for the past week was sterilise her home.
"Have you thought of any names?" he asked, peering around the room. She nodded again, and he raised an eyebrow, urging her on. "I like Violet." He frowned. Violet. It was a colour, not a name. "I suppose…" She smiled brightly. "Violet it is then." He rolled his eyes as she spoke.
"Violet."
He could see it now. A little girl with his hair and her eyes dressed in vile purple clothing. She'd be "Vile Violet". He could hear the taunting voices of the perfect little girls while Violet wore the pinafores her mother dressed her in. He wouldn't allow that to happen. He'd been bullied enough as a child to know what that did to a person.
"Fine. But she'll be Holmes, not Hooper." He knew she'd been thinking "Hooper-Holmes". It was so obvious in the way her eyes had dulled when he'd said it. It made him smile a little, very weakly, and he showed himself out of her flat.
And that was the day that Sherlock Holmes became a father.