Molly had taken several deep breaths before she went up to the flat. She hadn't seen him more than once since he'd shown up a the morgue drunk nearly 3 months ago. The pathologist had spent at least half of that time in denial,only recently accepting the truth.

"An experiment." He had slurred in explanation. Since Johns stag party, he'd tried to learn his limits with alcohol better, wanting to increase his tolerance level. That evening had been amazing… well, it'd been very nice. Her hip and inner thigh had had bruises from the 'incident', she'd taken to refer to it as. Now, it had unfortunately turned into a 'situation' … which she wasn't prepared to discuss with him in front of the group of people that had gathered at his residence for Christmas. Would he deduce it? She wondered and desperately hoped against hope that he wouldn't.

Almost immediately, she felt herself actually getting angry. Sherlock was completely ignoring her. Completely and obviously ignoring her. After mentally cursing at him for about an hour or two, she cornered him in the kitchen, sliding the glass pocket doors closed behind her.

"Hey, Sherlock." She sounded more indecisive and nervous than she meant to, now standing in front of him

"Molly." He smiled, but didn't turn around, he was pouring himself a drink. "Did you want to discuss something?' His long fingers gesturing to the closed doors. Before she meant to, it flew from her mouth.

"I'm pregnant." She blurted out.

"Congratulations?" His eyes darted back and forth, unsure of what to make of her announcement. "I hope the father is at least tolerable to you." He brought his glass to his lips.

"The father—" Anger overtook her again and she found herself shouting. "Do you frequently have sex and delete it?" The tall, sharply dressed man paused, drink still pressed to his mouth. She knew the living room had heard her, a hush fell over them, but she was possessed, grabbing a random skillet from the counter and swinging at him.

"You prat!" It hit him with a loud clang and his glass shattered. "You git!" He brought up his arm, defensively, but the skillet making contact was enough for her. "You absolute piece of —"

The door slid open and John grabbed the skillet from her hand and received a smack for his efforts. "Tolerable." She muttered, looking down at the detective on the floor, nursing a bloody nose, lip and chin. At first, she was panicked, I got him in the face! But, then she remembered why she had taken up a weapon, and she affirmed herself. Good! "No, he's not tolerable, Sherlock Holmes, he's an absolute arsehole." She gave him a kick and walked towards the door. Leaving him stunned and bleeding.

—

Nearly two weeks later, an uncharacteristically nervous Sherlock Holmes paced outside of the morgue at Barts. He had absolutely no idea what to say to her, he hadn't deleted the… 'occurrence', he'd taken to calling it…. but he hadn't remembered it. At least not clearly enough. Now, thats not to say he hadn't guessed that's probably what happened… he had woken up, still fully clothed, a bit hung over and sore in the places usually associated with having been involved in that type of activity. Or at least he had assumed thats where you'd be sore.

Sex was never his area. Sure, he'd received and given oral while high to people of both genders, but penetrative sex… that was something he'd never indulged in. So, he was very disappointed he didn't clearly remember it. Little flashes, what he hoped were the best bits, had streamed through when she told him they had had intercourse, but he couldn't be sure and may never be completely certain.

Instead of drawing it out any longer, he stopped his pacing and went straight to her office. Head high and shoulders back. But, when he met her eyes and saw the small bump she was developing, his head went down and his shoulders slumped forward.

"I'm very sorry, Molly Hooper." There was nothing but the ruffle of her paperwork for a few moments, she hadn't torn herself from her work and continued to write as she responded.

"For what?" Oh god, he realized, he was going to have to say it.

"I'm sorry for forgetting."

"You mean deleting." Her tone was cold, he'd never heard her so icy.

"No, I would never delete that, Molly. I just… forgot." Finally, her eyes met his.

"How do I know that's not a lie?" She spoke more carefully than before.

"I would never lie about this."

"So, you're choosing to blame the alcohol for this?" Molly gestured to the unborn child.

"I didn't exactly do that alone."

"Oh, so, now its my fault?" Eyebrows raised, he felt backed into a corner.

"You were well aware I was intoxicated when you allowed me to —" Sherlock hadn't expected to sound so angry, but when he asserted some control over his tone, he just found himself trailing off. He closed his eyes. "I just want to fix this."

"You can't fix this, Sherlock, its just happening." She shook her head, absentmindedly rubbing at her stomach.

"I know that, Molly, I meant us."

"Is there an us?" Rising from her seat, she immediately crossed her arms.

"I'd like there to be."

"I don't want to be burden, Sherlock. I'm perfectly capable of handling this on my own."

"I know you are, but you wouldn't be a burden. You've never been." Letting go of a breath he didn't realize he was holding he continued. "I wouldn't have… done that if… I didn't already harbor those feelings for you."

"You have a long history of only coming to me when you need me."

"And you've always been there for me. Unconditionally forgiving and accepting. You've been a rock for me…more than that, really…. and now, I'd like to be everything you are for me… for you… or, at the very least,try." Cautiously stepping forward, his face soft. "Believe me, Molly, thats an unimaginable task."

"And you mean that?"

"Every word."

"Because I need you completely in or completely out. Theres no gray area here, Sherlock." As carefully as he could, he took one of her arms, uncrossing them, and brought her to him.

"I want in. Completely in." Molly threw her arms around his neck and held as tight as she could.