Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Molly Hooper had been married for almost seven months, and the detective was finding it surprisingly easy becoming accustomed to having someone at his beck and call almost twenty-four hours a day. Molly was much more accommodating than John Watson had ever been, he had decided. She regularly provided meals without being badgered, she tended to keep the errant body parts, required for his experiments, in order, although she had insisted that they purchase a second fridge for this purpose, and she kept the place tidy, even exceeding Mrs. Hudson's, in Sherlock's view, exacting standards. And the sex was a distinct added bonus.
It wasn't that the relationship was entirely one sided, either. Sherlock had always done his best to provide his Molly with whatever she required. Most of his experiments were now conducted in the basement flat which Mrs. Hudson had rented to them at a good rate, having not been able to acquire any other tenants due to the rising damp. He refrained from picking fights with Toby, her cat, or experimenting on him, for that matter. Molly had not been very unhappy when he had dyed him green that one time, but it was, indeed, a harmless vegetable dye, and eventually wore off. The cat could have been returned to its natural color in much less time, of course, had it been more amenable to baths, but after one try at the kitchen sink, Molly had agreed with her husband that a green tabby was, indeed, an interesting conversation piece.
In other words, the couple were very happy. And made even happier by Molly's growing belly. Her due date was still two weeks off, but Mrs. Sherlock Holmes was growing exceedingly more anxious. There really was no reason for this, as her pregnancy had progressed a a quite normal pace, with only small bouts of morning sickness very early on. Now she was consuming chocolate ice cream and chinese food in surprising quantities, with her husband often taking great pains to provide her these items at any hour she demanded. This often involved using his homeless network, and, on one occasion, the Metropolitan police, with DI Greg Lestrade's assistance. He was not looking forward to repaying that debt!
Molly had continued to work in her lab at St. Bart's Hospital, wishing to save all her maternity leave, as well as her considerable accumulated vacation time, for after the birth of her son. So, every evening when she arrived home, she would sit on the couch, put her feet in Sherlock's lap, and demand a foot rub, which he would usually provide without argument, very often trying to escalate this into a full body massage. Sherlock loved her newly lush curves, and often expressed this admiration in physical ways. Early in the pregnancy, he had learned which words to use to describe his wife's body, and which to avoid. "Lush" was definitely preferable to "lumpy", "round" was slightly better than "rotund", and "bulky", "chunky", or "corpulent" were to be avoided at all costs. And, of course, the word "fat" was never to be used in the household, even when referring to the animal or vegetable variety commonly found in the kitchen!
But when Molly arrived home this evening, she did not head straight for the couch and her customary foot massage, instead heading right into their bedroom, causing Sherlock to follow her with some concern. Sherlock had been a rock during this entire experience, the personification of reason and calm in the face of her ever-increasing anxiety. He kept her calm, serene, assuring her that if cats did it in closets, and donkeys in unheated stables and rabbits in burrows, etc, she could certainly manage to reproduce in a modern hospital with an attending physician, and modern science on her side. Piece of cake!
"Molly, love, no foot massage tonight, then?"
"Sherlock, I think I might be in the early stages of labor."
"Impossible. You're two weeks away from delivery…"
"These things do happen, Sherlock. I've been feeling rather peculiar for the past couple of hours. I was experiencing what felt like mild cramps, but they've become more and more regular…"
The rock was beginning to splinter into tiny shards and pebbles. "Impossible. The Holmes family is always incredibly punctual, Molly. I refuse to believe…"
"Well, the Hooper family have always been a bit on the anxious side, Sherlock, and this baby seems to be taking after his maternal line." Molly took a deep breath. "There's plenty of time, yet. But perhaps I'd better call my doctor?"
"As you wish." The detective had gone a bit pale, and retreated to the sitting room. Perhaps he's gone to retrieve my overnight bag from the closet, Molly mused as she punched the number into her mobile, and leaned back on the bed.
A few moments later, Molly made her way out of the bedroom. "Dr. Wilcox says there is no cause for concern, but that it does, indeed, sound like labor had started. We should leave for the hospital…" But as she approached her husband, she found him sitting in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin, lost in thought. Not the bloody mind palace, she screamed in her mind. Not now!
Sherlock had entered his mind palace with the clear intention of calming his roiling psyche, seeking solace in its quiet halls. But he was finding no peace. Instead he found a half-finished nursery, his beloved Molly screaming in agony and threatening to castrate him, and his Mummy telling him that this was all his fault. If he had been a better son, she wouldn't have had to mutter the words, "When you grow up, William, I hope you have a child as wilful and stubborn as you are!" Oh, my god, he was doomed! His logical mind was losing all control. He couldn't be a father! Perhaps it was all a mistake? Maybe it was a gigantic tumor? God, what an awful thing to think! He was going mad! He slipped into a quiet closet, found a warm blanket, which had magically appeared, and wrapped himself in it. He was tempted to suck his thumb, but considered how idiotic that would look. On second thought, what the hell, he muttered, as he slid the digit between his lips, and slipped into an almost catatonic state.
Molly was kneeling on the floor in front of her husband, trying, and failing, to get his attention. "Sherlock, you bloody git, don't do this to me now!" She snapped her fingers in front of his face. No reaction, except, perhaps, a small moan. Deciding to call in the reserves, she reached for her mobile.
"Molly, to what do I owe the pleasure?" Her brother-in-law, Mycroft Holmes, had picked up immediately.
"Mycroft, the doctor seems to think I am in the early stages of labor…"
"I shall meet you at the hospital right away, Molly…"
"No, Mycroft! Evidently I need a lift."
"Is Sherlock not with you?"
"Well, yes and no, Mycroft. He was taking everything so well until I told him it was time to go…"
"Let me deduce your situation, Molly. Mr. Rock-of-Gibraltar has retreated to his mind palace, possibly looking for a hospital wing."
"Mycroft, I've never seen him like this! He's practically catatonic. I can't rouse him!"
"Not to worry, Molly. I've seen this before. He'll come out of it soon enough. Do you have enough time for wait for me? I shall be there within minutes!"
"Yes, Mycroft, my doctor assures me there is still time. The pains are regular, but not too severe. We'll wait for you. And thank you."
Sherlock, back in his mind palace, was still hiding in his closet, when the door of same was rocked by violent knocking. "Sherlock Holmes, open this door, and get your arse out here!" Evidently Mind Palace Molly had discovered his location and had come to take him in hand. He was just reaching for the door when it was pulled from its hinges by a petite woman with a massively swollen belly. "What the bloody hell do you think you're doing, you prat?"
"Molly, love, I think we should rethink this whole parenthood idea…"
"A little late for that, isn't it?"
"I don't know, love. Modern medicine can work miracles, can't it?"
"That would be well beyond the scope of modern medicine, Sherlock. And more like a miracle brought on by prayer, and we all know how you feel about that…"
"I am completely prepared to reconsider my religious beliefs, or lack thereof, if that could provide a solution…" But the words were stopped in his throat when he saw the beginnings of tears in his Mind Palace Molly's eyes. He immediately stood up to his full height, took his rotund (he could use that word in here!) little helpmate into his arms, and dried her tears with his blanket. "Don't cry, please. Its appears my little breakdown has come to an end. Best be on my way back to the real world!"
"Sherlock," Mind Palace Molly spoke some advice, in a soft voice, "when you get back out there, try smiling like a little boy, and giving her some puppy dog eyes. I never could resist that. Else you're likely to get a pinch in the nose!"
"Molly wouldn't punch me, Molly!" The conversation was rapidly becoming confusing.
"No, but Mycroft might, and he just arrived!"
"Bloody hell, she's called in the reserves. Time to go!" He kissed the avatar of his beloved wife on her forehead, and blinked back into his sitting room, trying to remember the little boy smile and the puppy dog eyes as he did so.
"Mycroft, nice of you to lend a hand, but I assure you I can handle things from here on!"
The elder brother rolled his eyes and smirked, "Of course you can, brother mine. It was only my anxiety which brought me here. Now, shall we be on our way? I have already informed the Watsons of the circumstances, and they expect to be kept informed as the labor progresses. Mummy and Papa are meeting us at the hospital." He held up his hand as Sherlock made to comment. "And no, Sherlock, despite your instructions to the contrary, I did give them the name of the correct hospital."
Molly Holmes was quickly bundled between the two tall men, and almost carried down the stairs. Mrs. Hudson, hearing the commotion, came out of her flat to investigate, and discerning the circumstances, proceeded to give everyone a hug, including a reluctant Mycroft.
"Why are you embracing me, woman? I had nothing to do with this!"
"Oh, but you're about to become an uncle! Congratulations! Perhaps they'll name him after you?"
"Fat chance!" Sherlock muttered, as Molly smiled weakly. And then they were out the door, into the waiting car, and on their way.
Molly's labor proceeded rather more quickly than anyone had expected. Being a physician herself, Molly Holmes had a healthy respect for the efficacy of pain relieving drugs, and had taken advantage of everything on offer. Sherlock, on the other hand, had a long history of an unhealthy respect for the same drugs, and tended to become tense in their presence. But he could have used some that evening, as Molly's grip on his hand became vise-like. His Mummy would later brag to her friends about how proud she was of her son, who never left his wife's side during the entire ordeal. Little did she know that, on the rare occasions when she let go of her husband's hand, the tiny woman laboring to bring forth an even tinier human, had threatened her husband with the fact that she would grab onto a far more delicate portion of his anatomy if he so much as thought of leaving her side! Ever the soul of romance and marital devotion, Sherlock had smiled wanly, and clutched her hand once again.
When he was finally allowed, or actually, forced, to retire to a different position in order to see his son make his way into the world, Sherlock was overcome with awe. His logical mind was telling him that something that size could not possibly come out from where it was coming out from. No wonder Molly had broken two of his knuckles! Or, at least, it felt like she had.
The doctor then handed him a pair of surgical scissors. "What the bloody hell are these for?" he asked, truly puzzled.
"So you can cut the cord, Mr. Holmes," the doctor calmly replied, as if explaining to a child.
Sherlock straightened himself, looked at the scissors, and the doctor, with great disdain, and said, "What, the National Health Service not paying you to do that?"
Mycroft chuckled, his Mummy muttered, "That's my boy!", and Molly just gazed at him with unbridled affection. "Sherlock, just do as the doctor asks. You've performed much more
gruesome tasks in your kitchen, for god's sake!"
So the detective smiled at his wife, cut through the slippery rope-like structure where the doctor indicated, and for the first time, took his newborn son into his arms. "Well done, Mrs. Holmes," he said as he kissed his wife on her cheek. "I told you it would be easy!" Molly just rolled her eyes and shook her head. Evidently all memory of his mini meltdown had been forgotten in the joy of the moment.
A short time later, the infant was formally introduced to the awaiting friends and family who had gathered in the waiting room, and were now allowed to join the new parents. "Who does he look like, Sherlock?" his Mummy asked.
"He looks something like a slimy monkey, Mummy. But I am sure he will improve with age!" The new father laughed, as his wife sent him a warning look. "Everybody does, after all. Except perhaps Mycroft." But he smiled at his elder brother with affection, as he showed off the boy to his family and friends.
"Have you decided on a name, Molly?" Papa Holmes finally managed to get a word in.
"We're thinking of calling him John Mycroft Holmes, after his two uncles, one is spirit, one in flesh."
Both men puffed out their chests with pride, and fought to be the next to hold the child, Mycroft winning. "He does seem to have your hair, brother. Let's hope he has your wife' s temperament. The world cannot do with another you in it!"
"The world will have to adjust, brother. Molly and I plan on having several more. Balance of probability suggests that at least one, or more, would take after their father!"
"Well, I suppose forewarned is forearmed, Sherlock. I will have the government take immediate precautions."
The happy chatter continued on for some time, and no one really noticed that Molly had dozed off, except Sherlock, who sat by the foot of her bed and gently massaged her feet.