Sherlock Holmes was just settling in for yet another boring night on his own at 221B Baker Street, so it was with some relief that he heard a firm knock at the front door, followed by familiar footsteps on the stairs leading to his flat. The fact that they were his brother's footsteps may have diminished his relief to some extent, but on such an evening as this even Mycroft's company was preferable to solitude. Truth be told, he had been more amenable to his brother's companionship since he had returned from his rather long death, and his rather short exile. They were brothers, after all. They understood each other, spoke with the shorthand of a long and intimate acquaintance, supported each other when necessary, and cared for each other in a deep, yet hardly obvious, way.

Mycroft made his way to John's old chair, stopping along the way to retrieve the bottle of good scotch and two clean glasses from the kitchen, knowing his brother well enough to not rely on his hospitality. He sat down, almost daintily, in the chair and poured some amber liquid into each glass. And waited for his younger brother to speak.

"Mycroft, how lovely of you to drop in." The detective's voice was dripping with sarcasm, but he spoke with a bit of a smile.

"Thought you might appreciate a bit of company, brother mine. You seemed to have grown quite accustomed to companionship of one kind or another. You spend many a day dandling your godchild on your knee, and most evenings, it seems, at your pathologist's flat."

"I find both of the females in questions rather companionable. More so than you, if I need to be more obvious."

"Well, I suppose they appeal to needs other than those of our fraternal bonds, eh, little brother?"

"I will, for the moment, ignore the fact that you believe I have such needs, Mycroft."

"Sherlock, although you may believe you are somehow not prone to such basic human needs, you cannot deny that interacting with the infant appeals to some dormant paternal instinct, and that Molly Hooper appeals in other ways far less paternal…"

"Mycroft, may I remind you yet again that Molly and I are friends, nothing more. This is a decision we have made, and, I believe, it is for the best. Instinct, libido, and needs aside, we are two intelligent, adult individuals who are settled in our lives, and feel no need to…"

"Then, perhaps you are not as privy to Dr. Hooper's needs as you believe, Sherlock. Did you know, for instance, that she has visited two different establishments which specialize in assisting women in becoming pregnant by other than the normal methods?"

Sherlock heard his words, and tried, not entirely successfully, to keep the surprise of the statement from showing on his features. But this was Mycroft Holmes, after all, who he was attempting to deceive.

"I see that you were unaware of this fact, Sherlock. You always do miss something, as you are wont to say." His expression was smug, and superior, as he continued. "It would seem that Molly is not so satisfied with her life as she would have you believe, brother. But the situation is not without benefits, is it?"

"What benefit would that be, brother mine?"

"Mother wants a grandchild. Molly wants a child. You are in a unique position to satisfy both desires, as it were. Kill two birds with one stone, as they say."

"Mycroft, are you suggesting that I enter into a sexual relationship with Dr. Hooper simply for the purpose of giving her a child?"

"Of course not! That would be rather cruel, wouldn't it? And, despite the fact that you advertise yourself as a sociopath, we both know that that is not true. You are not a cruel man, brother. Except, perhaps, to yourself. I would never suggest that you embark on any endeavor that would hurt Molly Hooper. I am quite fond of the woman, and consider her a true friend. I would prefer that any relationship you enter into be one of mutual affection and attraction. I believe that affection and attraction already exists, but you have chosen to ignore it on your part. But, as Molly has recently been investigating, there are certainly other ways to father a child. All it requires is a willing donor. How the donation is made is entirely up to you. And Molly."

Having said his piece, Mycroft Holmes drained his glass and rose to leave. His brother had made no response to his remarks, and was currently sitting bolt upright, staring into space. As the older, and some would say, wiser, man made his way to the door, he unleashed his parting shot. "Sherlock, can you imagine Dr. Hooper carrying another man's child?" He smiled just a bit as his younger brother winced, and left without further comment.

Sherlock sat in his chair, untouched drink still in his hand, contemplating his brother's remarks. The fact that Molly Hooper wanted a child was certainly no surprise. She had made no secret of the fact. But she had also made no secret of the fact that she wanted that child as part of a conventional relationship. She wanted to be part of a family unit. Molly may have an unusual level of intelligence and an unconventional career, but she craved "normal" when it came to her ideas of love and family. She was raised by loving parents in a comfortable environment, and she yearned to duplicate that in her adult life. That she had not managed to do that was, to some extent, the fault of the world's only consulting detective. Oh, he couldn't help the fact that she had fallen in love with him, practically at first sight. He never could understand that, as he was not a very lovable man. But he could have done more to distance himself. He could have encouraged her various romances with assorted suitors instead of sabotaging them, lying to himself all the while that it was for her own good. But, if he was totally honest, he would have to admit, that it was not her good he had in mind. By the time he had finally admitted this fact to himself, he believed his opportunity had passed him by. They had settled into a real friendship. She no longer stammered when she spoke to him, nor blushed when he touched her. The kisses on the cheek had become more regular, but no longer elicited the reaction he craved. And now, if Mycroft was correct, and Mycroft was always correct, she wanted to have a child. Without him. With a heavy sigh, he entered his mind palace and started to formulate a plan.

The following, a Saturday, Sherlock made his way, as usual, to Molly's flat, takeaway Chinese in hand, and procreation on his mind. It was their habit to spend a number of evenings together each week, and these evenings always included Saturday and Sunday, as Sherlock so loved to watch, and criticize, the competitors on "Strictly Come Dancing". The previous week, he had eviscerated all the competitors' attempts at performing a Viennese Waltz, including the professionals. Molly had quite enjoyed it when he swept her around the limited space in her sitting room, demonstrating the proper technique. Dr. Hooper actually believed that the detective looked forward to the day when he would become famous enough to be invited to compete himself. She couldn't help but laugh at the thought of the posh man getting down to a lively charleston, but the picture of him performing a tango inspired different, and far more earthy, thoughts.

By the time he arrived at the flat, Molly had everything prepared. The telly was on, and the coffee table was prepared with plates and utensils for the takeaway meal. Sherlock knocked, but entered immediately, not waiting for Molly to answer, as he knew he was expected. "Hello, Sherlock," the pathologist called from her kitchen. "Just put the food on the table. Everything is ready."

"Fine, Molly. I have to use the bathroom, though. I'll join you in a moment."

A few moments passed before Sherlock made his reappearance in the sitting room, but not unencumbered. Molly glanced in his directions as he made his way over to join her on the couch. Her face flamed red as she noticed what he carried in his hands.

Sherlock looked her over and smiled. Ah, the return of the blush he had missed so much! "So, Molly, I found some interesting items in your medicine cabinet. I brought out two of the more interesting ones." One hand held a "ClearBlue Ovulation Test Kit", the other a "Super Deluxe Fertility Kit." "Been doing a little shopping, have we?"

Molly made a grab for the boxes. "Th-th-that's real-ll-ly none of your bu-bu-business, Sherlock!" The detective merely smiled at the return of the stammer as well as the blush. He still had it!

"Molly, one does not have to be a brilliant detective to deduce that these items, in conjunction with some other things found in the cabinet, indicate that you are considering reproductive alternatives. As you are currently without an appropriate suitor, and have been for quite some time, I can only assume that you plan on seeking the assistance of a sperm donor. That also explains your recent visits to two establishments…"

"How the bloody hell did you know about that?" the pathologist sputtered.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes. I investigate, I observe, I calculate, I deduce…"

"Mycroft told you, didn't he?"

"Perhaps…"

"How did he know? And don't give me any of that 'investigate, observe, calculate, deduce' crap!"

"Your security team, of course."

"Bloody hell, have I no privacy?"

"Welcome to the world of being 'important' to Mycroft Holmes! He has assured me that there are no cameras in the bedrooms, or the baths. That concession was made after Mummy threatened to publish his chubby adolescent pictures in the London Times." Molly was sputtering incoherently as Sherlock tried to calm her. "I exaggerate, Molly. There are no cameras in here anymore. Not since we solved the whole fake Moriarty fiasco. I hope the same can be said for my flat, but I am never entirely convinced." Molly did start to breathe more evenly after that, but her anger had hardly dissipated.

Sherlock held on to her shoulders, probably to keep her from flailing her arms at him. "Calm down, Molly. I am merely curious. I thought we were friends, good friends. Why would you embark on such an undertaking without informing me? Have you told anyone else about your plans?"

Molly calmed down a bit, but her blush had barely subsided. "I may have mentioned it to Mary," she said hesitantly.

"Mary? Why Mary?"

"I wanted a woman's perspective. I'm getting a bit older, Sherlock. My biological clock is ticking. And Mary has a couple of years on me! I wanted to know how she felt about being a mother, how she managed it. You know!"

"Mary's situation is hardly similar to your own, Molly. She is married. She has a partner in the undertaking. Have you considered that?"

"Of course I have, you git. But I want a family, a child. Time is running out for me. I don't want to be an old age pensioner when my kid goes off to uni!"

"But why consult Mary, and not me? I, certainly, am better equipped to deal with your problem than Mary Watson!"

"I am not concerned with your 'equipment', Sherlock!" Molly once again blushed furiously as she gave words to the lie.

"Forgive me. It was a poor choice of words. I merely meant to say that I could provide you with certain material to accomplish you goal. Mary certainly can't." Here Sherlock paused to study her. "Unless, of course, you were considering her as a sort of go-between for you and John…"

"Oh god, no - don't even go there, Sherlock. Judging by little Claire, John makes beautiful children, but I wouldn't even entertain the thought of having my child grow up with an unacknowledged sibling…"

"Could be better than acknowledged ones!" Sherlock attempted a bit of humor, referring to his brother. He then turned serious, and looked at the small woman carefully. "Why not me, Molly? You've always liked my looks, I know. I could make beautiful children, we could make beautiful children. And smart ones, too!"

"Sherlock, are you offering to father my child?"

"Of course!"

"Thank you, but no thanks!"

"WHAT!?"

"No thank you. It's a very kind offer, but I can't take you up on it."

"Whyever not, Dr. Hooper?"

"Sherlock, you must admit that I know you quite well. And there are two ways that this could end. First, you would quickly grow bored with the idea, resentful of the child taking up my time, and this would drive a wedge between us. This could happen even with another father, but your added second-guessing the situation, and the recriminations, would make it even worse. Secondly, you would treat our child as a toy, or an experiment. You would look over my shoulder, passing judgement on every decision I make, criticizing and interfering at every opportunity until our friendship is left in tatters. You are too important to me for me to allow that to happen."

"Molly, you have me at a distinct disadvantage. I am not good at these things, and it would appear that my attempt at seduction had gone drastically awry. We seem to be talking at cross purposes. I'm talking about sex, and you're talking about turkey basters! Perhaps we should start over? Would you allow me to present my case in a concise and logical manner?"

Molly Hooper, completely taken aback by his reference to sex as opposed to turkey baster, merely nodded.

"Good. First, you say that I am far too important to you to risk our friendship by having my child. Let me point out that you are far too important to me for me too allow you to carry another man's child without raising objections. I have told you that you are the most important person to me, but, you either misinterpret my meaning, or I am not making myself clear. I love my parents, I even love my brother, John Watson, and now his wife, are my best friends, and I am completely enraptured with my godchild. But you are the first and foremost most important person in my life. I hope that's clear enough." He held her by her upper arms and looked into her eyes for some kind of acknowledgement, taking her quickening breath and dilating eyes as definite encouragement.

"Next, I would like to posit a third alternative to your rather dismal predictions of the results of our procreating. We could succeed at raising a perfectly acceptable family. I realize that you have always craved a 'normal' family life, but face it, Molly, we are not normal people! I am an egotistical, arrogant, preternaturally intelligent being with anti-social tendencies. You are a superbly intelligent woman with a morbid sense of humor, and a highly unusual occupation involving cutting up corpses, which you love. But we were both raised in loving two-parent households, so we have excellent models to emulate. And even if we screw up the first kid, we are certainly intelligent enough to adapt our techniques to ensure that the subsequent ones will turn out perfectly. It worked for my parents, after all." The detective smiled a bit at yet another dig at his elder brother. And then he waited for her response.

"Sherlock, I love you."

"I am aware of that, Molly, although I had been doubting it a bit of late." He heaved a sigh of relief.

"Aren't you going to say something, Sherlock?"

"If I must. Would it make you happy?"

"Yes, very."

"I love you, Molly Hooper. I had thought that I had made myself clear, but if you need to hear it, I will say it. I love you more than anything or anyone in this world. I want to spend my life with you. And with our children. Hopefully right here in London, as the countryside does not appeal to me." He pulled her closer, and kissed her, properly, for the first time. Before the kiss could progress to its' rather natural conclusion, he pulled away. "I know we can never be 'normal', my love, but I will concede to the construction of a white picket fence at Baker Street, if you want, if you will allow me to keep a laboratory in the basement flat." He took her slight giggle as acquiescence to any number of things, as she did not raise a single objection when his hands moved under her tee shirt to caress the bare skin of her back, and then other, more interesting places. When her small hands made their way to the button of his trousers, he suggested that they move to her bed.

"Are you sure about this, Sherlock? It's not really the right time of month to conceive."

"Haven't you ever heard the expression 'practice makes perfect', Molly?" he said, practically dragging her across the room. "You know what a perfectionist I am!" But as far as Molly Hooper was concerned, the point was moot. Nothing could be more perfect than her life at this very moment.

Thirty seconds later, Sherlock ran from the room to hit the record button on the remote control of the telly. Tonight they were doing a paso doble!