The Extraordinary Peace of Violet Evelyn Holmes

by Stars Walk Backward

"Please." Sherlock was sure he had never heard the sound of his voice begging before. There it was again. Blasted sentiment. "It's an emergency... I need... to get to St Bart's Hospital... Maternity." Molly had begged him not to chase this last case. She had begged him, but he had not listened... Now he might be too late. Sherlolly. Parentlock. Stand alone sequel to Seldom Held.

A/N: THANK YOU SO MUCH for the kind words on the first half of this (Seldom Held, Always There) - It was my first Sherlock fanfic and I'm so glad you guys liked it... So... Here's the next product of my procrastination... A second half... Don't know yet if I'll keep writing more :)

I just love Sherlolly so much...

PLEASE LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK :)

Sorry for any errors if there are any. I do not own the characters, all rights go to Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC :)

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The Extraordinary Peace of Violet Evelyn Holmes

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His emotions were betraying him by simply manifesting themselves. His hands were trembling, cold and clammy as he wrung them in his lap. He scrambled into his pocket a moment later to grasp the all too familiar texture of a cigarette packet, his eyes clenched shut in sheer aggravation.

"Bloody drive faster!" he barked at the cabbie, who simply turned in his seat in mind bemusement at his passenger's tone.

"In a hurry to get somewhere, gov?"

Sherlock Holmes, whose grip on his very sanity was fraying, gripped the edge of the cab window in an attempt to control another outburst. "Considering the address I gave you not five minutes ago was to a prestigious hospital, I think it is safe by any level of intelligence that, yes, my need to reach my destination is rather urgent. Now, drive faster!"

"It's rush hour, sir. We ain't gunna' go nowhere in a hurry."

Sherlock, in a last desperate bid to calm himself, lit the cigarette between his teeth.

"Sir, it's illegal to smoke in cabs—"

Sherlock sighed aggressively, taking the nicotine deep into his lungs. "—Not illegal, just prohibited. Big difference."

He took another glorious drag, closing his eyes.

"Sir—" admonished the cabbie, only for Sherlock to lose the little nonexistent patience he barely possessed as it was.

"Christ in hell!" he barked, throwing himself out of the taxi as the vehicle sat in another traffic jam. He was hit by the cold air, but he barely noticed it. He span, once, twice, thrice, in desperate search of a solution. He needed to get to St. Bart's. He needed to be there now. Suddenly, the rumbling of a nearing motorcycle set his mind into action. Yes. A motorcycle. This was perfect.

Spinning on a heel, he halted the middle aged man, revealing Lestrade's Scotland Yade Metropolitan Police badge from within his Belstaff. He'd acquired it again while visiting the man's office, as it always appeared to come in useful when he least expected it. The man never even noticed it was missing for bordering on a ridiculous amount of time. However, one could expect such lacking in observation skills. He did work for Scotland Yard, after all.

Sherlock watched as the man screeched to a halt before him, about to hurl abuse, no doubt. In any other time in his life so far, Sherlock would have drawn upon the many, many faces and emotions he had witnessed in his life in order to portray the correct level and manner of distress required to sway a person into giving him their vehicle. However, this time, he was almost astounded to find he needed none of that. As before he could even lift the badge to eye level and state he was with the Police, he caught a look at the man and paused. Fifty-five, no, fifty-six years old. Not a typical biker type, no, but evidently loved the rush of adrenaline it gave him. He as in a rush home, no doubt for a special occasion, a positive occasion for sure. Father of two. Two daughters. A widower.

Sherlock gulped at the man before him, and watched in near disbelief as his eyes were no longer angry and disgruntled, but concerned. If this were not enough, a voice sounded between them in the busy road, sounding through all the noise of other protesting, raging motorists. In the brown eyes of this man he felt a strange inkling of familiarity with himself. The man had daughters. A dear wife he had lost. He...knew.

"Please." Sherlock was sure he had never heard the sound of his voice begging before. There it was again. Blasted sentiment. "It's an emergency... I need... I need to get to St Bart's Hospital..." He lifted the badge, his hands still trembling, his mind bouncing around, distracted. Focus. "I'm with the Police."

Time. You're running out of time.

"I recognise that look."

Sherlock balked, the fuse of his temper burning again as he hurried impatiently to take control of the bike. "What? What look?"

The man seemed to recognise Sherlock, and his distaste at being rumbled and found being worried and rattled. He simply stepped aside, passing Sherlock a card on which his contact details resided.

"Go to her," the man murmured, before stepping back onto the pavement. In a moment of weakness, Sherlock let his limbs lagging behind his mind, which was beyond erratic, chasing its tail in a final bit for order. The mention of 'Her' ebbed at Sherlock's barbed walls, shaking the foundation of his resolve.

Her. Her... Molly.

"Thank you," Sherlock murmured, a rare occurrence, he knew, but it was warranted. He had given her a route to Molly.

Molly.

As he weaved through the traffic, blood thumped in his ears, but somehow it didn't quite feel as his usual motorcycle escapades did. There was something else buried within him, coursing his stomach to curl and flip and his hands to grip the handlebars too tightly. Fear.

Molly had begged him not to chase this last case. She had begged him, but he had had such awful cabin fever that he had to get out. Stupid! Stupid!

Hold on, Molly, he urged, inwardly. I'm on my way.

—X—

"Sher... Where's Sherlock?" The whimper escaped Molly Hooper as she gripped the hands of two of her dearest friends, Mary and John Watson, attempting and failing to keep down yet another agonised cry. "Where is he, John?"

"He'll be here, Molly." He had repeated this almost continually, though he was beginning to doubt it to be true. But, no. Surely Sherlock, even Sherlock, would realise the magnitude of missing this moment. Molly would never forgive him, and John certainly wouldn't.

"You don't have to lie to me, John," she whispered, in an attempt to remain neutral of the tears that threatened to fall. "He's not coming."

Mary squeezed her hand, shaking her head stubbornly. "He's on his way, Molly."

She turned in frustration toward her friend. "So you say, but where is he? Sherlock is never anywhere he doesn't want to be, and so evidently he's found something else more worth his time. This is a man who falsified his own bloody suicide, after all—" Her words were cut short as another wave of pain robbed her of the breath in her lungs.

"Breathe, Molly," John breathed, the doctor in him taking front and centre. "In and out." Molly complied, though she no doubt knew the motions herself. Her hair was tied up above her head, and a few tendrils already stuck to her forehead. The process was only midway, but her pain was already physically palpable in her face. John checked down at his watch, counting the time in seconds of this latest contraction compared to the previous, humming frustratedly when he thought of Sherlock. "That...cock—"

"—Really, John. Your vocabulary at times of crisis really is abominable."

In he strode, Mr Sherlock Holmes, cool as a cucumber, as though he wasn't late for the beginning of the birth of his own child.

John was surprised to find Molly was quiet on his arrival, though she also didn't turn to even look at him; her hands tightening around the railings lining the hospital bed. She looked like she was holding all emotion in suddenly, like the old, timid Molly. This had come to be very unlike her.

"Sherlock, where were—" He was about to launch into a tirade when he felt the solid tug of his wife on his arm, pulling him away.

"—John, I think perhaps it's time for a spot of tea, don't you think?"

"Mary—" he began, only for another sharper tug at his jumper to follow. He prompted followed her, leaving the soon-to-be parents alone. Molly said nothing as Sherlock began speaking to no one in particular about his encounter with the "repugnant woman on reception," and she still did not look at him. She wasn't sure until he even noticed, until, "Where were you?"

The words slipped from her lips without consideration, as she had intended on the silent treatment, however, out they slipped. She could feel his icy blue gaze on her after that, deducing her discomfort and pain, and no doubt the exact number her uterus was currently dilated, too.

"That quick case, across town. I know you asked me not to go, but I was already in the area, and I texted you, before I left—"

Her eyes closed, indicating she didn't want to hear anymore. "Did you intentionally turn off your phone after John called you?" Oh, no. She could hear tears in her voice as it filled the sterile room, her labour induced emotions betraying her.

"No, Molly. No. My battery's flat... I promised I wouldn't ever turn away a call, not one, since this pregnancy. I swore to you. I gave you my word, Molly. You know I did. I know I shouldn't have gone, and I apologise. I rushed here as fast as I could..."

She attempted to diagnose whether she heard hurt in his voice at her assumption, but, as usual, she couldn't be sure.

"Molly," he prompted more softly, no doubt attempting to draw her out of her inner monologue. Reasoning for displays of emotion were, as ever, not his strong point. Especially in pregnant women.

"I was just so frightened, suddenly, and I know it's...silly, because I'm a doctor, and so is John, and there's Mary too, but... You weren't there, and, and, it started, woke me up and—"

Again, pain robbed her of her speech as another contraction hit, stronger, inevitably, than the last. She exclaimed before she could stop herself, a hand pressing to her bump, where the pressure resonated. She was clad in a hospital gown, and as she kicked the sheets away in a flush, she suddenly realised how exposed she could very easily be with a wrong movement.

She couldn't mask her surprise and immense pleasure as she felt Sherlock's cool hands coming to rest on either side of her, one folding around her hand that gripped the sheets under her, and the other smoothing over her bump.

"Breathe," he soothed into her ear, taking her weight on his forearm as her circled it around her lower back. Her forehead rested against his crisp shirt, humming though the pain, barely holding back various expletives. He pressed a palm to the underside of her bump, feeling the tremblings of the contraction there. "In and out."

"Ah, Sherlock, ah! Make it stop—" Molly choked against him almost pleadingly, and he couldn't help it, but he buried his face into her hair to hide the tight expression on his face. He could almost feel her pain, the way she trembled against him. He was thrown back to the many, many occasions he himself had been in pain similar to this, wracked with withdrawal symptoms. He knew of how suffocating such levels of agony could feel, and the desperate heights ones emotions could reach to try and escape it. He despised that Molly, his Molly, who was nothing but good, and strong, and kind, had to endure such agony, and all due to nothing but nature's calling... A natural calling that he induced her into, too.

Gradually, as the pain got worse and contractions nearer one another, all watched as Sherlock Holmes began to naturally coil like a spring, no doubt due to nerves and fear and anguish at not being able to do anything to help perhaps the only female besides his mother and Mrs Hudson that he had ever demonstrated affection for... Or as near to affection as Sherlock Holmes could get. As Molly fell back against the bed, gasping for breath and relief through the gas pipe, sweat gleaming off her skin, tears falling unchecked down her cheeks, it was clear to all her resolve had crumbled. The hospital was near to bursting; winter creating havoc in both the maternity department and A&E from simple falls on the ice, which meant that the consultant due to see Molly was slightly delayed. Sherlock Holmes, of course, was not having that.

"She's due a check up," he growled, frustratedly, causing John to sigh.

"Sherlock, it's a busy time. He'll only be a few minutes—"

"She's in pain, John," he defended solidly as he pressed a cool cloth against her neck.

John rolled his eyes. "She's in labour, Sherlock. It is expected."

"Boys," admonished Mary, in warning to them both.

He didn't look up in refinance this time, but kept his eyes trained on suffering Molly. "Not like this, John." His tone changed, to a low, pained whisper. Suddenly, it was clear who was in more distress. "Surely. Not as much as this."

"Sherlock, it's...only...natural..." Molly wheezed in a whisper, and John watched in awe as she squeezed the fretting detective's hand. Unbelievable! She was worrying about that git at a time like this... He really was lucky he was an extraordinary man, because any man would have to be the Dali Lama to deserve the selflessness and love of Molly Hooper.

Sherlock shook his head persistently, smoothing a hand down the side of her face. John pretended not to notice. "Molly. There are drugs. Pethidine, diamorphine—you know there are. An epidural—"

"No, Sherlock. I've told you. I don't want...drugs...in my bloodstream."

Sherlock scowled in sheer confusion. "You would not be able to feel half of this pain—"

She silenced him was a weak touch of her palm to his lips, her head lolly toward him against the pillows. "But I want to." Molly felt Mary's proud squeeze of her other hand from the other side of the bed. "Sherlock, I want to feel this. Every...moment of it." Again, their friends seemed to sense a private moment that the Consulting Detective in particular would not wish to be witnessed, and so they stepped out to find Mrs Hudson who was somewhere in the waiting room. Sherlock opened his mouth to deduce her, as he always did, but Molly silenced him again, this time with one tiny kiss the the corner of his mouth. He lingered against her, the words he was about to cast away, lost and deemed unimportant the moment her lips touched him.

"We're having a child, Sherlock," she whispered, her hand smoothing over her bump, encouraging his to meet it there.

"Yes, Molly," he replied, "I think that fact is clear," with an air of impatience that made her smile. It was suddenly a watery smile, as her chin began to wobble.

"A baby... I just... I want to remember every moment... I never... I never thought..."

He frowned at her displays of such emotion, at a lost as to the best way to proceed in regards to his reaction. Molly, as with most other adult females, gave and so was delighted to receive, physical displays of affection, though which display was correct at this particular moment, he was not sure. Mostly though, he was intrigued to how her sentence was going to end, as, though he had formulated many possibilities, he was not at all sure what had meant to say that made her so tearful.

"Thought, what, Molly?"

A contraction hit, and her entire body tensed, blood vessels straining and teeth grinding, muscles cramping as she held her breath against the pain. A groan, long and low, escaped her, followed by a short, breathless, laugh a second later.

"I never...thought I'd...be having a child, never mind have a child...by such an brilliant...brilliant man... And I am humbled...and honoured...and awestruck by it."

Sherlock shook his head slightly, suddenly her inclination clear to him as he perched on the bed, moving to massage Molly's lower back and stretched, swollen abdomen. His fingers were strong, supple and practiced, and cool to the touch, causing Molly to practically wilt under his touch at the pleasure of it.

"You still wonder why I chose you." This was not a question, but a statement. A deduction, and a correct one too, unquestionably. Molly ducked his head self consciously at his correct assessment, only to lift her gaze to his as his long fingers guided her chin upward. "Molly, you saved my life, almost, if not as many times, as John Watson has. You've kept me right, kept me clean. Scolded me when I have been wrong. Got apologies out of me—and sincere ones at that...and you have always loved me." He paused to continue his earlier gentle massaging of her tired muscles, though his cool eyes trained her gaze to never stray. "I could lie, and state that it was previous to you almost being blown to bits that I recognised just how invaluable you are to me, and perhaps it would be true, considering how you saved me that day of The Fall... But truly, when I was faced with losing you, faced with life without your dedication...your bright smile...your constant care for me, even when I least deserve it...and your coffee making skills," at this, she managed a giggle, a reminder of the usual, brighter Molly he was...fond of. "It was then I realised that, well... I could not."

Molly's tears were tracking salting pathways down her face and into her hospital gown, and he slowly, as though trying to move so slowly that they may not witness him doing it, wiped them away with the back of his hand. She, unashamed, nuzzled his hand as it remained at her cheek.

"So, in fact, upon reflection, Miss Hooper," he swept the time hairs from her forehead that stuck there, with a look in his eyes that resembled the depth that had been there during his Best Man speech at John and Mary's wedding. "It should in fact be I who is extremely and indefinitely humbled, honoured and awestruck, that the mother of my child is none other than a woman of the highest caliber... Not that I ever envisaged on our first night together that I would be, we would be, having children, becoming parents... But, well, you must see what I mean."

She adored it when Sherlock rambled. He was so human in such moments, and she wished she had the energy to kiss him silly. "Sherlock."

"Yes, Molly?" he replied, instantly.

She wanted to say she loved him, but she didn't want to have to face him not saying it back. She knew he may never say such words, and that was okay... Though, it didn't mean it didn't hurt. Instead, she simply picked up his hand and kissed it gently, sniffing and swallowing down more tears.

"And I you, Molly," he whispered suddenly against her hair, and for a moment she was terribly confused... Until... No. Could he be saying—?

"—Yes," he said, boldly, again managing to read her thoughts. He leant down and pressed his lips to her forehead, a gesture that almost send her into cardiac arrest. "Yes, I do, Molly... Hold you very dear, that is."

As another contraction hit thick and fast, Sherlock was snapped back into action, instantly placing himself in prime position so she could crush both of his hands through the pain.

"Shit, shit, shit," she swore with a sob repeatedly against the pain, taking deep breaths of the pentonox gas relief, with Sherlock trying, and failing miserably, to contain a sudden smirk of amusement at her cussing.

"What are you grinning at?!" she snapped at him, pulling her hands from his as the contraction subsided. "After all, you did this to me. Impregnating me like a common caveman! I blame you, Sherlock Holmes! You hear me?!"

Sherlock rose his eyebrows, realising the "rage" stage John spoke of during Mary's labour had begun to occur in Molly. His friend had warned him that the father usually bore the brunt of it... Though, Sherlock did usually ask for hostility.

"Common caveman?" he echoed, his mirth palpable, only for it dissolve quickly with the telltale signs of another contraction. Sherlock steeled himself, desperate to hold himself together through this experience. If not for his pride, then for Molly.

Anything for Molly.

—X—

"Sherlock, get back in there!" John yelled as he barrelled out the hospital fire door and onto the roof, where his friend was deeply enamoured with his third cigarette. At a single glance, this situation did not appear unlike any other, as the consulting detective, aka not-so-reformed addict, always turned to nicotine in times of stress and/or crisis. (A poor substitute for other substances at that)... And, being the all controlled, all deducing, all sociopathic Sherlock Holmes, what other situation could the man find more stressful, than the natural birth of his child? And by a women he held in the highest of affections that he was capable, too...

John understood all reasoning, of course he did, however, this did not heed his anger at his friend walking out on a woman in agony.

"Sherlock!"

"Not now, John!" He fired back hotly, grey smoke floating in clouds around him as he spoke.

John grappled to remain in control of himself, rubbing his hands over his face before gesturing madly. "Yes, Sherlock. Yes, now! A baby is being born! A living, breathing child! You do not hand a say in where or when! That's not how it works!"

"I know how it works, John!"

"Do you?!" He shook his head in near disbelief. "I'm not so sure you do, because Sherlock, mate, you certainly aren't meant to walk out on the poor woman when she's in agony! That's certainly not how it works!"

"I just... I just.. I can't..." It was unusual for Sherlock to struggle with words, and after a second John felt a cold sweat settle in as he had a sudden flashback of That fateful day, when Sherlock had choked over his words, stood on this very roof. It was with this thought that he also realised his friend's hands were shaking violently. "I can't think. I can't think in there. Not with her...her pain... The noise..."

John felt his anger recede and empathy replace it. He could identify, having experienced the horrors and joys of childbirth with Mary and their daughter Emily over two years before. He considered how he had had it easy, being a doctor there was little that surprised him about the process. Sherlock, however, though fully aware biologically of the transformation of childbirth, could be completely socially inept at times, and could not comprehend a situation in which he was not in control, or in which he was surrounded by general public or excess noise. Childbirth, as it happened, embodied all such criteria, and John felt for him. He was practically imploding.

"Mate, I know it's tough, but the noise doesn't last forever—"

Sherlock held up a hand to silence him as he finished his cigarette, stubbing it out under his polished leather shoe. "—It's not the noise... I know pain, John. You yourself know pain, also, but our pain... I always thought that pain was all in the mind, like your psychodynamic limp when we first met, or the withdrawal symptoms I have experienced many a time in my life that manifest themselves in a very real, physical way, but that I know all had a mental origin... But...after...that...was nothing but physical, purely, dreadfully physical... I had to get out. To think. I just can't see her in...such palpable, physical, agony—"

"Sherlock, it doesn't last forever, and afterward, with the baby, it'll all be worth it. Nature has a way of making it so the mother doesn't even remember how the pain felt—"

Sherlock shook his head gently, dark bags under his eyes. "—What it must be to be of such an average mind, John," he remarked, dryly. "You forget, for me, it will last forever. The sights I have seen... I cannot stop seeing... I never forget...my mind, stores, even that that I wish it not to...and it's Molly... Molly..."

"Hey, hey, Sherlock mate, calm down, calm down," he urged, placing a supportive hand to his friends shoulder, halting his pacing. "You can delete it if it bothers you that much, I know you can... But I have a feeling you won't want to... Sherlock, this is going to be one of, if not the most, treasured moment of your entire life." He scoffed pessimistically, but John knew it was all for show. "You'll see." Suddenly, he couldn't contain his chuckles, as he shuffled, the cold really setting into his bones.

"What?" Sherlock questioned of his mirth, following him back into the warmth.

"You think what you've seen so far is bad? You've seen nothin' yet."

Sherlock appeared pale, even for himself, as they made their way back to Molly's hospital room hurriedly. John turned back to him, giving him a small, empathetic smile. "You'll be okay, mate. All three of you. You'll see."

—X—

He wasn't sure how much longer he could cope. Every 72.5 seconds on average, Moly begged him to make the pain stop. She had now been in labour almost eighteen hours, and Sherlock was beginning to question his sanity. It wasn't that the natural process of childbirth didn't intrigue him to some degree, but simply that it seemed to drag itself out. After his bolt to the roof, Molly hadn't been angry with him as he had expected, but instead kissed him in front of both John and Mary, and whispering that she too was afraid, but that was okay.

"Molly... I'm not afraid."

She simply smiled at him, through her teary gaze, rolling her eyes. "Fibbing, Sherlock."

He hadn't replied, which was reply enough, as he didn't deny his fear. The truth being, he was afraid, though of what specifically, he wasn't sure. Fatherhood. Responsibility. Sacrificing his lifestyle. Sacrificing Molly.

God, shut up, shut up. Too many thoughts.

Now, as the consultant sat between Molly's parted legs, Sherlock bit back every cutting deduction that almost bubbled out his mouth. There was something about a man, any man other than himself, seeing Molly so exposed... He shuddered, tightening his grip on her hand reflexively. He tried not focus on how strangely familiar such public displays had become.

"Nine centimetres, Miss Hooper. Not at all long now."

Sherlock closed his eyes against his frustration, focussing instead on letting Molly's delicate hand lift from his into his curls. As though sensing his hackles rising, she gently scratched her nails into his scalp as he lowered his head to her bump in a brief moment of near bliss. "Patience," she whispered to him, at which he gently smoothed a hand over her bump with a sigh and one of his rare, small smiles.

"She really is trying mine, yes." It made Molly's heart flutter on the rare occasions he spoke of their child directly in this way, as a 'she'. "I honestly just wish she would hurry and deliver now."

Molly grinned, unable to help herself, despite her exhaustion, her eyes closed against the pillows. "She's preparing her grand entrance to the world. Honestly, Sherlock, she's your child, remember—the child of a great detective who faked his own death only to resurrect himself. Of course she going to insist on a dramatic entrance."

Sherlock hummed a chuckle of amusement, a considerate, gentle hand smoothing affectionately back and forth over the swell of her bump as he otherwise lay still. "Indeed. I hadn't quite considered it like that... Excellent, Molly." He laughed again, a low rumbling sound that seemed hot-wired directly to Molly's heart, as it leapt at the sound.

A contraction hit, then, that was unlike any before, and it knocked all oxygen from her lungs. Sherlock practically leapt upright as her hand fell from his hair, twitching at her side. Her body seemed to tense and jerk in such an inhuman way that it sickened Sherlock to witness. A gurgling sound, an automatic and unconsidered protest, rose from deep within her throat as Sherlock took her hand in both of his and squeezed deathly hard. Her head was jerked back in a silent scream, tears rushed one after another from her eyes, leaving her gasping more. Sherlock held the pentonox gas out for her to breath, though watched helplessly as she simply panted through the agony. This contraction lasted almost a minute, by which time, Sherlock himself felt like all air had left his lungs, as the sounds Molly was making were, for lack of a better phrase, tearing him in two. She was whimpering, even after it ended, and Sherlock recognised the telltale twitching on her foot indicating cramp, so he hurried to press in up toward the ceiling to relieve her. The sounds she made post this contraction he could only relate to sounds of torture victims during his time enduring beatings himself in Eastern Europe after his 'death'... He shuddered. It hadn't bothered him so much then; he had simply slipped into his mind palace, but now... It was like there was a brick wall between himself and his sanctuary. Molly began to groan and cry, twisting to hold herself up on her hands and knees on the bed, her head against the pillow. It appeared her pain had reached the delirium stage.

"Molly..." He kept his voice low and gentle, the tone he knew usually set her pulse racing. However, upon delivery, his speech sounded somewhat gravelled, slightly revealing his level of distress at feeling helpless.

"P-please, Sherlock... It hurts, it hurts, please!" Her wails were quiet, but almost unintelligible. He leant over her and began to massage her back and bump from over the sheet that covered her. He kissed her head from behind, humming a gentle tune, one of his many compositions, against her head. She sighed, her whimpers subsiding slightly as she leant into his touch, her tears wetting her pillow. At her continuing distress, he pressed his lips against her hair again and again, knowing this would please her, which, judging by contented sigh that escaped her lips, it did. She deliriously slurred a thank you, but he shushed her, telling her to rest herself.

Then, the finally consultant returned and examined a breathless, sweating, trembling, broken Molly Hooper once more, and confirmed that it was time for delivery. Sherlock had rid himself of the confines of his suit jacket and Belstaff long ago, and yet he still found himself to be sweating slightly, his upper lip tingling.

"Alright, Miss Hooper, time to get this show on the road." Sherlock bit back on comment on his choice of cliché. "Alright. I'd like you to breath deeply for ten seconds and then push, as though you're pushing down into your seat through your behind, do you understand, Molly?"

Molly's pulse was leaping from her neck, and Sherlock could recognise the wildfire of panic in her eyes. His eyes shot to Mary opposite him, who Molly had asked to stay with her, and found a unfamiliar sense of comfort in her smiling face. Mary Watson was a tough one, after all.

"Sherlock, I'm scared," she blurted shakily, her hand tightening impossibly around his fingers.

"Fear is but a mental construct, Molly," he murmured, gripping her hand right back. "You can do this. You know you can."

"But, Sherlock, I'm so tired..." She sobbed, and for a moment Sherlock was well and truly stumped, as they say; a feeling he had never had the displeasure of experiencing much before. However, Mary Watson had other ideas, it seemed.

"We know you are, Mols, but think of it this way. Why don't we start with one big push, okay? Set the ball rolling. After all, we all want to meet this miracle Holmes baby, do we not?"

Molly sniffed, determination returning to her body language. "Yes, yes we do, don't we?" She turned to Sherlock, and he deduced she was worrying again that he didn't want this, that she would be alone.

"We do. Indefinitely,"' he assured with a deep breath, letting his own anxiety take a back seat. He had to be alert and able for Molly.

The consultant told her to take a gulp of the gas as the next contraction began, then try pushing after ten seconds. She did so, however, the push was followed by more groaning and yelling. This process was repeated and repeated, until Molly was a shade of scarlet Sherlock was sure he had never seen.

"Help me," she croaked, tearfully, then mouthed the same words over and over. Sherlock lowered his head to Molly's with a sorrowful expression, as he shot a look at Mary, who was grimacing sympathetically. As Molly cried, he kissed her, initiating intimate contact for the first time since his arrival, ignoring all others in the room.

"Forgive me, Molly," he whispered, guiltily, suddenly very aware of exactly who impregnated her, and so put her in this position eight months on. "Forgive me."

She shook her head instantly, but before she could reply, there was another contraction. Her face scrunched up and she exclaimed, arching back as she pushed as the consultant requested.

"You're going to have to push, harder, Molly. She's crowning, but she's not moving."

With a whimper, Molly strained and pushed with all she had, a loud, continuous growl of exertion escaping simultaneously. This continued for some time.

"It's. Not. Working," Sherlock growled at the grey-haired Doctor, whose name he hadn't bothered to learn.

"Sherlock," warned Mary, smoothing a hand and a cool cloth over Molly's forehead, reminding him that they were there for Molly.

"I can't do this... I can't." Her body lay limp on the bed, twitching every few seconds as though she had been tasered, her voice gravelled and hoarse. The tears slid slowly from her eyes as she stared, almost without seeing, at Sherlock.

"Molly—" he began, breathlessly, only for Mary to charge to his rescue, again.

"Molly Hooper. You have carried this, sometimes insufferable, man's child for almost nine whole months, having gotten him into the sack against all odds. Now, are you bloody well going to finish the job or what? Fight through the pain! Come on, us women have a high pain tolerance compared to these wussy men! We can do anything! So, push. Push through the pain, so we can finally meet this half beauty, half alien being, please!"

Somehow, despite her condition, Molly managed to laugh...and Sherlock may have even smiled, too.

"Half high-functioning sociopath," Sherlock corrected in good humour, pressing a kiss to Molly's temple with a thankful wink at Mary. "How many times do I have to assure you I am not an extra-terrestrial?"

"Many more," Molly replied, leaning to up push again with renewed determination.

"That's it, Molly," came the doctor's encouragement. "Keep pushing. That's it! This is good, Molly."

"See!" Sherlock boasted, his lips against her head. "All in the mind."

"Quit blithering and go down there!" Molly yelled, breathlessly, causing him to draw back in confusion. "Go on. This is an biological observation you may not get again, Sherlock. Go on! Tell me what you see."

Mary felt strangely mushy and suppressed a coo at the two of them, even managing to incorporate their shared love of science into this strange mish-mash of a life event. They really were, unbelievably, well suited for one another...if you overlooked some of the massive personality irregularities.

Sherlock, slightly tentative compared to his usual self, edged to the end of the bed, taking in the view that the Consultant had of the delivery. A crowning pink skull was clearly visible as the child slowly began to emerge from within Molly, and while he understood why the minds of ordinary, non-medical men could not bare or comprehend such a sight, his own practical, science-hungry mind began cataloguing every detail. He had known, inevitably, the science of the childbirth process, but never had bothered to observe it, in film or otherwise. It suddenly fascinated him, as it had throughout Molly's pregnancy, that her body could transition and transform this way, accommodating a completely separate living human while also maintain the body's own balances. On the day the swell of her abdomen began to emerge, Sherlock had been laying beside her as she dozed, near sleep while he was wide awake, and he had suddenly found himself slipping his hands under her t-shirt to mentally map and store the measurements of her body's transformation. Then, this began to happen also as they lay on the sofa, both reading—he a journal on the varying levels of decomposition in the Sahara—and she a mushy women's love novel of nondescript nature. He had slipped a hand underneath, and when she had not pushed him away, but instead slipped a hand into his curls, he had dropped his reading material and lowered his head to her abdomen, letting her massage his scalp as he softly examined and reexamined the effects of their baby on her skin and muscles. It had almost become as much of a ritual for Sherlock as daily visits to his mind palace, as he began to grasp the construct John had blithered on about when Mary had been pregnant of how a pregnant women possessed a certain "glow," and the way their bodies changed only made them more physically attractive to men. He had made a cynically, but truly correct, comment at the time that this was in fact a simply evolutionary mating call, in order to inform all that a man has managed it impregnate his women, but this had simply earned him a whack from Molly.

However, during his measurement rituals, Sherlock finally began to change such cynical opinions, as he did indeed feel heightened arousal and affection with every passing millimetre of Molly's expanding waistline, suggesting a strong correlation between the two did indeed exist.

Molly had been indeed very appealing in pregnancy...

It was now, as he watched the birth itself unfold that he instantly came to a much more real understanding of another aspect entirely, and this was why Molly had been begging for relief from a divinity, or from Sherlock, as he watched the way the child—his child's—skull, stretched her as it forced its exit from her body. As the skull began to be visible, Molly screeched through the pain what it was he could see.

"She indeed has a face. As red as yours right now, too... And my hair layout, in would appear."

The smile on Molly's face was the most sincere he had seen in at least twelve hours, and this only spurred him on.

"Really?! What else?"

"Keep pushing, Molly."

"What else, Sherlock? Please!" He watched as the newborn's shoulders were exposed, followed by a chest and a rounded stomach. A minute or so later, he found himself grinning. Actually grinning.

"I told you she would be a girl. Am I not always right?" As the child's buttocks became visible, it became clear that Sherlock had been right in his adamant prediction their baby would be female, ad there was not a penis in sight.

"A girl," Molly breathed, exhaustedly, as the legs of their child finally slipped from her body, leaving nothing but the placenta to deliver. It was from this moment, though, that Sherlock sensed something was wrong. After he cut the umbilical cord as offered, and their baby was whisked instantly for clean up and weigh-in, she was crying, indicated health with her ability to make noise. However, Molly Hooper was silent and limp, her face tight with pain, despite the birth being over. Her heart monitor began displaying a dramatic drop in blood pressure, and as Mary shook her, there was no response. A moment later, deep red leaked at a frightening pace out from her, causing Sherlock's blood to run cold. Instantly the team swarmed around her, to the point where Sherlock and Mary were forced out completely. Sherlock had forgotten how to breathe, with only two words circling his brain, his vision, and even his mind palace, accompanying the sight of blood sleeping from her body and soaking the hospital sheets. Not Molly. Not Molly.

"Molly!" Her name escaped his lips, the sound harsh, almost like a bark as they wheeled her hurriedly from the room. Mary was beside him, a pale hue to her skin, the whites of her eyes clearly visible. Sherlock darted to the door, finding his lungs would barely inflate enough for one single breath. "Where are you taking her?! What's going on? Why is she bleeding like that?"

"Your daughter was delivered with abnormal presentation, and this does carry a risk, and as a result, there seems to be a haemorrhage in Doctor Hopper's uterus somewhere. We're taking her to theatre."

Sherlock had read of such abnormal presentations. Celphalic posterior, in which the newborn is facing the mother's abdomen instead of her back. This was known as "back labour," and could cause lengthy, extensively agonising childbirth and tearing of the birthing canal...which has evidently resulted in an extensive bleed, as the placenta had not even yet been delivered.

Sherlock gasped for breath, racing down corridor after corridor after her. At the entrance to the operating room, they halted him.

"Sir, you can't go in there."

Sherlock's frown of worry turned into a scowl, as he attempted to shove past. "Let me by!"

"Sir!"

"Sherlock!" came the call of John from down the hall, along with the sound of echoing footsteps hurrying closer.

"Average blood loss following a delivery is approximately 500 cc," be began, following the only train of thought that came to him, and that was one of the medical journals he had read throughout Molly's pregnancy. "Molly has lost much more than that judging purely by the blood I just witnessed. Most cases of post partum haemorrhage are caused by the uterus not contracting firmly after delivery, though Molly did manage to deliver—" he rambled, cupping his mouth and pacing up and down before the nurse who was barring him entry, with John standing before him anxiously.

"Sherlock, you can't go in there—"

"By what right?!" He roared, though John barely flinched. He was used to such outbursts from Sherlock, who was infamous for his childish sulkings, however, it was new for such tantrums originating for the sake of anyone but himself."John. Post-partum haemorrhage is the single most common cause of perinatal maternal death in the developed world and is a major cause of maternal morbidity worldwide! Statistically—"

"—Sherlock!" John noted with increasing concern how fragmented his friends outward monologue was becoming, in comparison to his usual.

"That women in there is my wife," he exclaimed suddenly, spinning on his heel back to the nurse. This was a lie, of course, not that she would know. (He had already strategically hidden his left hand in his pocket.) He and Molly had not married, and had no plans to, but, of course, having preference toward marital partners as all hospitals did, he knew it would work in his favour. He employed his soft, wounded voice he often adopted when getting information from the hysterical or bereaved during a case, though, deep down, he knew he didn't have to act today. "Please, let me in theatre with my wife."

John smirked, noting how the nurse looked incredibly doubtful of this. Typical Sherlock. He looked for all reasonings, both the classic and sometimes the completely implausible, through his deductions of people, and yet he failed to notice a rather blinding obvious detail: he, Sherlock Holmes, the world's only Consulting Detective, wasn't exactly unknown to the world now, and so of course she would most likely know, if she knew of his existence, that he was most definitely not married. The copious press coverage had assured a solid 'celebrity' status that Sherlock despised. As a result, photographs of Molly, as it surfaced she and Sherlock were involved, had become as well circulated as those of Sherlock in that hat. This, also, was a subject that made Sherlock's blood boil. He seemed to be despise the prospect of photographs being taken of Molly even more than that of photographs of himself. That, in itself, spoke volumes of his deep level of respect and adoration for His Pathologist.

"Sir, she's in surgery. They think they've found the bleed, but they can't have the place crowded. She's unconscious, so won't even know if you're there. I would recommend you go back and spend some time with your newborn child. We'll inform you if anything changes."

"Come on, Sherlock," John murmured, sympathetically, guiding a flustered, frustrated Sherlock away and back toward the labour suite.

"John, I..." Sherlock stopped in his tracks, stumbling toward the men's toilets, his eyes trained down on the nylon flooring. "I need a moment." John watched worriedly as his best friend wobbled away, his usual definite stature completely eroded.

Sherlock found himself staring at his reflection in the mirror at the sink, taking in the dark circles under his eyes, the sheen of sweat to his skin, his shaking hands. Anxiety. Decline in cognitive ordering of thoughts. Increased heart rate. Sweating palms. Shallow breathing. He growled in annoyance in at his mind's own impotence at this vital moment in time. Molly may be losing her grip on her very mortality, and he—Sherlock Holmes—was having a bloody anxiety attack. Grasping the sides of the sink, he hung his head, desperately trying to draw oxygen into his lungs. His began to feel the telltale dizziness, and, as he panted, the gentle tang of sodium passed his lips. It was only then that he realised he was weeping. Streaming, soundless tears cascading down his face, the salt resulting in a stinging sensation resounding on his cheeks. What was this? Why was he crying? He never cried, with the exception of involuntarily when in agonising pain...and perhaps too when he had thought he might die on the roof of this very building.

What use was this for his situation? For Molly? Stop! his internal voice screamed in anguish. This is utterly redundant! However, no matter how much he willed himself to stand straight, to wipe his eyes and swallow it all down, he seemed incapable of doing so, for Molly had always been the voice of reason that continually saved him, if not from drugs, then within his mind palace when he was dying on the floor of Maggnesons office... Molly always saved him, so what was he to do without her? What would he do if she did fall parr to becoming another childbirth mortality statistic? He suddenly began to panic that his mental constructs and memories of Molly Hooper in his mind palace would not be in depth and intricate enough for the full delight of Molly Hooper to remain with him if she were to...pass on.

He threw himself into his mind palace, racing toward the room on the top floor, where all his most precious memories resided. It was there that the bright room, the walls a bright daffodil yellow to match that dress she wore at John's wedding, which he protected with the most sincerity, could be found. This was Molly's room. He was very particular over when and where he admitted new memories to this room, as he had worried he would taint them; something he had never worried of before this relationship. However, in that moment, he threw open the door to this room, squinting at the bright sunshine that shone in his eyes. Upon crossing this threshold, he was bombarded with the thousands of both minimal and grand details surrounding every second of every interaction he had ever had with the kind brunette Pathologist from Saint Bart's. Her ability to work in silence throughout the night in the lab, falling in sync beside him without consideration. The spark in her eye every time he used to enter a room in the hope of impressing him. The shade of deep red lipstick she used to leave the room to apply for the same reason, and then the way she would remove it every time he was, unforgivably, awfully rude to her. The way she felt she didn't count. The way she was so dreadfully shy the first time he ever saw her with her hair down. The way she flushed, her body language indicating great bashfullness, the first time he kissed her. The way she blossomed to him, her body indicating all typical signs of arousal, the first night that they become physically intimate...and how she was not bashful once that night, and she had indeed taught him a thing or two. The way she scratched his scalp and threaded her fingers through his hair to calm him. The way she never once questioned his tender examinations of the swell of her pregnant stomach, even letting him to read to their unborn child once or twice... The way she had cried and cried the day she found out she was pregnant, for worry he would run from her...which he may have, if it had not been for the fact they lived together at Baker Street by then, which meant that every tie of his life well and truly began and ended with Molly Hooper already, and indefinitely.

He choked for breath, leaning his head aggressively against the cool mirror. He shook, throwing a hand down hard against the basin, barely even processing the pain that shot through his knuckles, as two words echoed and screeched through his cluttered, claustrophobic mind, dripping in the blood and sweat and tears, the grit, of the last twenty four hours.

Not Molly. Please, not Molly.

...

When John found him, he was curled on the floor of the men's loo, trembling like a leaf. He leapt up when John walked in looking for him, as though he had been caught committing the worlds most shameful act. John had simply patted his shoulder and shot him a grave look.

"She'll be okay," he assured, though he knew the worlds were void. He knew nothing of Molly's condition, however, he knew of the statistics. Her chances weren't great, but, being a fighter as she was, he was sure she'd make it through.

He prayed she would, if not for her own sake, then for that of his best friend. His lonely, lost best friend who had finally found his peace with sentiment, and all thanks to Molly.

Sherlock had stoodawkwardly, after taking a few more minutes to level his breathing back to a more regular rhythm, and followed John out the loo and back towards the delivery ward of the maternity wing, without one single word. His eyes remained on the floor ahead of him until he came face to face with a large midwife, who appeared to be waiting for him, stood beside a brave-faced Mary Watson.

"Would you like to hold your baby, Mr Holmes?" She asked, indicating towards the incubated plastic crib in the corner of the room. Instantly, Sherlock felt guilt crash over him. He had left his child there and run after Molly... If she knew, she'd have well and truly whacked him.

Sherlock heaved, stumbling disjointedly toward the incubator. He sensed the Watsons' behind him, hovering, concerned. Everyone was so damn concerned. Always concerned.

Stopping a foot short of the incubator, he was still not able to view the infant within it, as he was almost...afraid of what he may find; what he may feel upon viewing this new human being that was of his flesh. How absurd was that? Being afraid of a defenceless infant of his own flesh and blood... He really need to get a grip.

"John," he called, and, on cue, his friend stepped into line beside him, looking up at him expectantly. He swallowed his pride in that moment, stuttering, "I... I don't know how."

John sighed gently, taking a step and easing Sherlock with him nearer to the crib. He held his breath and observed as Sherlock viewed his baby for the first time. She was so small, and pink in colour, dozing peacefully, oblivious to the anguish around her. Perhaps the greatest indicator of her genetic heritages was the shock of dark curls already visible on her head. Sherlock's eyes shined with an affection John had never witnessed, perhaps with the exception of Molly, though as his friend's eyes began to glass over, he looked away.

Sherlock wasn't sure he could trust his senses. This child, he and Molly's child, was so small and delicate. Her skin was a light pink, and peachy in texture; tiny, tiny hairs covering such tiny intricate expanses of her skin; her cheeks; the curves of tiny ears. Her minuet fingernails and curled fingers brought a strangle lump to his throat, which became more painful as he observed the obvious reincarnation of his, almost infamous, curls that were clear on her head. She was...simply marvellous.

"Oh," he huffed in shock, struggling to speak through his emotion. He sniffed, attempting to appear discreet of his tears, as the midwife stood beside him and scooped up the newborn in her arms.

"Alright, daddy. Cradle your arms." Sherlock, feeling foolish, flushed but did as she instructed. He held his breath as he and Molly's creation was gently lowered into his waiting arms. The weight was not much at all, six pounds, six ounces at a deduction, but this tiny infant was instantly of invaluable worth to him. "A natural," complimented the midwife gently, earning a rare smile and sincere thank you from the detective.

For an indefinite amount of time, Sherlock gazed down at the child in his arms, feeling an undeniable bond instantly anchoring him to her for eternity, cataloguing as much as he possibly could in his memory. She nuzzled her tiny face against his chest, instantly placing all her trust in him, as no one but Molly Hooper had before.

He didn't realise he was crying until Mary came up to his other side and smooth her hand over his cheeks, capturing the tears in their tracks before they fell onto the infant. "Oh, Sherlock," she cooed, much like she had at her wedding, only this time. She was also in tears. She kissed his cheek affectionately, not caring whether or not he approved. "She's beautiful."

"Yeah, mate," John agreed, his lower lip trembling as he cleared his throat. "Really well done."

Sherlock lowered his face to her small, taking in the button nose and minuscule dark lashes, and the perfect curve to the bow of her lips. Almost as though he was afraid of breaking her, he dropped a featherlight kiss to her forehead, marvelling at the velvet texture of her skin against his lips. The musky 'baby scent' wafted into his nostrils and took root deep within his nostrils, his endorphin levels skyrocketing.

"Indeed..." He breathed, still mesmerised by the infants presence...until he began to think of Molly, and how much he could be here to experience such divinity, such brilliance, and all in a being that was no heavier than six pounds, six ounces. "I never... I never knew I wanted this..." His words escaped him, and he fell silent as another tear rolled from his eye. He felt John's hand on his shoulder, acting as silent support. "But, without Molly..."

"Molly will be okay very soon, Sherlock," Mary whispered, as all couldn't take their eyes from the new addition to the world as she slept, oblivious, under the protection of her father, the worlds only Consulting Detective. "You'll see."

He had heard those two words many times in the last eighteen hours, and perhaps it was simply the enchantment he was under upon setting eyes on his daughter, but for the first time, he truly prayed they were true.

—X—

Waking up in hospital, Molly, for a few brief moments, thought she was waking up after Sherlock had saving her from being blown to bits, over a year and a half ago. It was only on feeling the discomfort down below her waistline, and the oxygen tube in her nose that she realised where exactly she was. She had been admitted to hospital in the maternity wing, in labour...with Sherlock Holmes' baby... Oh, god, the baby. Why was she just coming round and where was her baby?! She heard a beeping increased sharply in her ear as she struggled to breathe. No, no. Not her baby...

"Molly?!" Mary's voice broke through her terror. "Molly, you're okay. Everything's fine."

She desperately attempted to open her eyes, but the stark fluorescent lights hurt her head. "The...the...baby..."

Mary seemed to sigh with relief. "The baby's fine too, Mols. It was you we were all worried over. Sherlock's been—" She stopped, causing Molly to desperately try to sit up and open her eyes again.

"What? Sherlock's been, what?"

"Desperately overrun with anxiety as to the health of the mother of his child," came a reply in that voice. It was so deep and rich it melted her anxiety like butter, as she finally managed to open her eyes enough to take him in—his ebony curls and pale skin, somber expression. God, she had missed that face.

"Why were you—?" Her question was cut short as she suddenly took notice of the tiny person being cradled in Sherlock's arms. "Is that—?"

"Molly Hooper, meet your daughter," he husked lowly, as he came to perch on the edge of her bed, Mary raising it enough for her to sit up without effort.

"Oh, my," she gasped, tearfully, taking the child with great care from him, with the shaky nerves expected of first time parents. "Our daughter," she admonished, jokingly. She took one look at the child's fine dark hair and began to laugh. "Oh, Sherlock, she has your curls."

Sherlock simply smiled; the kind of shy smile that Molly adored, before perching so near to her that he had to slide an arm behind her back. For a moment, there was blissful quiet.

"She's beautiful," Molly whispered, in awe of the tiny creature.

"She's exquisite," he agreed, pressing his lips to Molly's forehead impulsively, not considering the affectionate nature before acting on it. "Very much takes after her mother in that regard."

His voice was almost a whisper, and to Molly, it was like a lullaby. Suddenly, she lifted her head. "She hasn't been crying, has she? Where have I been?—"

Sherlock silenced her with yet another kiss to her head, and she felt well and truly spoilt. "You had a tear to your birth canal, as our daughter here was of an... 'abnormal presentation,' and it bled pretty badly. They managed to stitch you up quickly, but it will be very uncomfortable while it heals, meaning—"

"—No sex," she predicted with a soft smile. At that moment, she didn't care. She was simply grateful to be well and with her two favourite people in the world—albeit one being a very new addition. A soft grizzling could be heard from her arms, and she watched as her daughter began to nuzzle at her chest, her eyes blinking open.

Sherlock hummed against her temple, and she watched as his pale fingers swept over their daughters tiny hand, back and forth like clockwork.

"She's been taking the formula that the hospital have for such instances as this where the mother is unable to nurse... Well, I say taking it, by which I mean, barely. It didn't appear to taste adequate by the way she cried."

Molly had to blink twice, still not quite adjusted to Sherlock Holmes speaking about babies, watching worriedly as their daughter attempted to find her source of food at her breast. "She's hungry, Sherlock, but I don't know—"

"Molly Hooper?" The midwife knocked before entering the room, cutting off Molly's worries. "Good to see you're awake. How do you feel?"

"Wonderful, now," she sighed, dreamily, not caring if she sounded silly and girly in front of Sherlock, leaning over to kiss his shoulder, which secretly pleased him. "But I think our baby's hungry."

"Well, Dr Jones has said it should be safe to try nursing now. Are you up for it?"

Molly nodded vigorously despite the exhaustion still clear in her eyes, letting the nurse lay a nurse cloth over her shoulder as she untied Molly's gown. The room wasn't overly warm, and she flushed as her perked pink nipples became exposed, hardened by the sudden temperature change. Quickly and efficiently, the Nurse covered all but one breast, guiding Molly as to how to hold her child. Sherlock watched with ever-increasing interest as nature unfurled before him, as his daughter sought out and latched into the nipple with little to no assistance, despite being hours old. Molly's face pinched with slight discomfort at the sensation, but a moment later, as her milk began to flow, she let out a shocked gasp.

"Peculiar?" he questioned, and she nodded.

"Very..." After a moment, she sighed, her head lolling onto Sherlock's shoulder, causing him to smirk knowingly.

"I see nature's euphoria doesn't take long to kick in." He had read of the chemical euphoria that occurred in women when breastfeeding their newborn, occurring in an evolutionary context in order to strengthen the bond between the two, not that he expected Molly would need it. He identified, having been an addict for a great proportion of his adult life, with the addictive nature of such euphoric sensations and rushes of endorphins, though all Molly was currently enjoying were one hundred per cent natural, knowing it was going to be virtually impossible to ever part the two again.

"Not long at all," she breathed, closing her eyes blissfully.

Sherlock watched unfocused as their daughter, who still had no name, suckled energetically, her tiny mouth only just accommodating Molly's pink nipple. Molly's breasts had filled out with pregnancy, now being what Sherlock understood to be above average size, and were particularly appetising, and not only to their newborn, Sherlock thought guiltily. He halted his thoughts, dragging his mind from the gutter before he lost himself.

"Molly. Our daughter still needs a name."

The words felt so foreign coming from his lips, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to mind it.

"I have one...but I'm not sure you'll approve..."

He sighed, continually smoothing a thumb over his daughter's tiny little fisted hand where it rested against her breast. "Just tell me, Molly. You know you'll be the first to know if I do not approve."

There was a second and a half of quiet, the only sound being the tiny sounds of their newborn gulping down breast milk between them. Then, "Violet Evelyn."

Sherlock rose his eyebrows, inwardly testing the name. "Violet... Hm. A colour. Why?"

"It's pretty. Soft. Not easily abbreviated to ridiculous nicknames... I don't know, I just thought—"

"—Okay." Sherlock turned and, shyly, pushed strands of hair from her eyes. "We both know it would be considerably more flattering than anything I could come up with."

Molly smiled, the happiness shining in her eyes making it all worth it, even if this whole process had meant he hadn't had a chance to organise his mind palace in over twenty four hours. After all these new experiences and sights and feelings, it was a cluttered mess.

"Welcome to the world, sweet, beautiful Violet Evelyn Holmes," she husked as she switched breasts, Sherlock helping her to which the modesty sheet to the other side. "Thank you for finally making your entrance. It was grand. You are most certainly a Holmes."

Sherlock frowned slightly in thought. She was a Holmes, of his blood. Half himself, half Molly Hooper. Thirteen chromosomes from each...and she was a marvel.

For the first time, Sherlock knew what it meant to feeling a sense of belonging to family. This was his family.

He leant over and, uncharacteristically, pressed kiss after kiss to Molly's slightly clammy cheek, cradling her head in his hands.

"Gosh, Sherlock—" she began, about to joke with him over this action, but he cut her off with an overpowering, single kiss to her slightly chapped lips. He wiped away her falling tears, caressing the soft, velvet newborn head between them.

"I...adore you, love you, am in awe of you, Molly Hooper. After all we have been through together over the years, you still surprise and beguile me at every turn, you still love and believe in me, and you continuously make me work to be better, a better man..." He took a shaky breath, while Molly herself had stopped breathing all together. His gaze became glassy as his throat tightened with emotion that he had to hold back with all his might. "Thank you...for this... For showing me what I could have so easily have discounted from my entire life as unnecessary... For our daughter... Sweet, exquisite Violet, who has made me feel more human than I had thought possible." He leant down and dropped a kiss the the infants head, minute fingers and chubbier forearm, dropping one to Molly's exposed sternum on the journey back to facing her. His tearfulness was nearly contained as he clear his throat twice, pursing his lips and looking away from her, not able to maintain eye contact. "Simply... Thank you. Thank you...for coming back to me."

Molly had tears streaming, unashamed, sobbing silently. Sherlock had never in their relationship declared his affection for her so explicitly before, due to his clear old habits of discounting all situations entangled with sentiment. What had changed, she wasn't sure, but it made her very excited for the future.

"Oh, thank you, Sherlock. Thank you!"

—X—

"You realise we're going to have to get a car," Molly murmured, hushed, as they sat, a few days later, simply gazing down on their offspring. Sherlock had been back to Bakers Street for a change of clothes and a wash bag for Molly after she had woken, as well as having a shower himself, before remaining with her in a temporary bed beside her for every following night. The two, mother and daughter, were being discharged today, and as they waited and packed Molly's things, they became sidetracked by simply staring down at their newborn.

"Ah, yes, we will, won't we?" He spoke back equally softly, protectively cradling their daughter in to his Belstaff clad body. "That's a drag."

Molly smirked at him, nudging his shoulder playfully with her nose. "A lot about having children is a drag, Sherlock, as I'm sure your own mother would reiterate. It's in the job description."

Sherlock hummed faux irritation, before cracking a small smile, letting a deep chuckle rumble from his chest, causing Molly's pulse to skip erratically.

"You two set?" came the voice of John Watson from the doorway, preparing to push Molly's wheelchair, holding the baby carrier out, indicating Sherlock could place Violet down into it.

"I can carry her," Sherlock brushed off, quickly, drawing his daughter even closer into him, if that were possible.

"Sherlock, mate... You'll have to put her down, sometime," John teased, but he fell silent as he and Molly shared a knowing, content look as they made their way out of the hospital and to John's car. (It was parked in the protection of the staff car park to avoid the photographers that Sherlock seemed to attract everywhere he went). As they left the ward, Sherlock threw a thankful smile to the midwife who assisted them, that she returned instantly.

"Congratulations, Mr Holmes. I do hope Doctor Hooper recovers quickly. She's lovely... You're very lucky, if I may say so, Sir," she remarked, and Sherlock simply nodded, his gaze barely straying from the newborn in his arms. He didn't believe in the existence of luck, but boy, if he did...

"Sherlock... Violet has to go in the car seat now."

"Yes, yes, don't patronise me, John, please." John rose his eyebrows, realising that the period allowed for teasing the dazed new father in Sherlock Holmes was over. Sherlock went to sit in the back on the opposite seat, strapping his daughter in after an attempt or two, grumbling about the level of safety statistics of such back-facing car seats for infants. Molly stifled a giggle from the passenger car door, as she ever-so-slowly transferred herself from the hospital wheelchair to the seat of the car with John's assistance. Sherlock walked around to, not-so-subtly, check Molly was correctly belted in, and as he went to shut her door and sit down in the backseat, she was unable to resist the temptation to press an adoring kiss to his cheek, a messy one at that. She expected him to grumble, and he did, for a millisecond, but there was that small, lopsided smile on his face again.

"Happy, Dr Hooper?" he questioned, almost teasingly as he settled into the backseat beside his daughter. Molly simply beamed at him the the rear view mirror, only to gasp a little as she shifted in her seat, slight discomfort ebbing through her at the movement due to her stitches. They had stitched her internal bleed using dissolvable sutures, having given her a blood transduction to replace the substantial amount of blood she had lost during her haemorrhage, and though they were usually fully heal after around a month, these, in combination with the usual post-natal bruising, could be rather uncomfortable. She had suffered some small amounts of vaginal lacerations, which she already felt self conscious over, however, these would also mend quickly. She swallowed, thankful anyone has noticed her wince, only to feel Sherlock's fingers curl around her wrist as they slipped through the gap between the seat of the car and the car door from behind her. This gesture was shy, seaming deliberately subtle of reassurance, while simultaneous asking for reassurance also. It remained simply between to the two of them, and it melted Molly's heart further. She ran her fingers over his before he withdrew them, sitting back in his seat, laying a relaxed hand over Violet's car seat.

He lay his head back against the headrest and sighed, taking no time at all to fall asleep with a pointer finger in the tight grasp of Violet Evelyn's tiny fist, who had also fallen into an easy slumber before they even set off. John frowned, bemused, watching as Molly also slowly fell asleep in the passenger seat beside him. The car was blissfully quiet, and John smiled to himself at the image of a slumbering Sherlock in his mirror, (because Sherlock never slept if he could help it)—evidently all were exhausted from the stress of the last few days, and rightly so. John knew from experience that it was going to get much more tough for these very new parents before it got better.

However, despite this, it seemed that William Sherlock Scott Holmes was finally extraordinarily at peace.

And about time, too, John thought.

—X—

"She really is something, Sherlock," Mrs Hudson sighed, cradling Violet carefully while sat on Sherlock's sofa that night. "I'm so glad you two decided to have physical relations."

Sherlock hummed in acknowledgement, preoccupied with typing away on his laptop. Molly was napping in their bedroom, and John had gone home to Mary for the night. Considering they had just had a new addition to the flat, this scene felt strangely familiar, causing Sherlock to experience a warm feeling in his chest. Yes. This would do nicely.

"Violet is such a beautiful name, too," his landlady continued, talking as much to herself as to Sherlock, her voice hushed as to not wake the sleeping newborn, who had fallen asleep mid-feed, as had Molly. Sherlock had gently woken her, reminded her of the midwife's advise to sleep whenever the baby slept, before passing Violet reluctantly to an eager Mrs Hudson and slowly helping Molly to their room. He had wordlessly helped her rid herself of her trousers and underwear, as the doctor had informed her to make sure her vaginal wounds were exposed to the air when she had the opportunity, before slipping her into one of his grey t-shirts he owned purely for her use. Her breasts still leaked milk, a standard reaction to the hormones released whenever a mother was around her newborn, and he gently wiped it away, placing new pads into her nursing bra to absorb any further excess milk. She smiled at him affectionately, though he sensed she was still half-asleep, otherwise she would have scolded him long before for doting on her, before slowly lowering herself to the bed. He had laid the covers over her gently, pressing a soft kiss to her head, taking a moment to watch her sleep, curled up, much like an infant herself. She's safe, thankfully. "Sleep well, dearest Molly," he whispered, throwing his distaste for sentiment out the metaphorical window. She deserved nothing short of sentiment from him, after all she had done.

Now, as she slept, Sherlock himself began feeling weary, and so took a rare seat beside Mrs Hudson, gazing down at Violet. "Does she need changing?"

Mrs Hudson regarded him patiently. "Even if she does, you should never wake a sleeping baby, Sherlock." She suddenly held back a laugh. "It would also help if you had even changed a nappy yet."

Sherlock frowned, disgruntled. "They were only discharged today, Mrs. Hudson. I haven't had chance."

"Oh, well then," she laughed, gently. "You're a very bright boy. It won't take you long to learn the technique."

Sherlock hummed, touching his daughter's sleeping face for a moment, before standing and moving back to his laptop, wordlessly googling how to change a nappy, tilting his screen out of his landlady's view. YouTube continued to be his secret friend in such matters—not that the others would know that, of course.

—X—

A rasping, gutteral newborn cry broke through the silence of 221B Bakers Street in the early hours of the next morning. Sherlock, however, was not asleep. He wasn't on a case, obviously, though he was still reluctant, after the impromptu power nap he had had on the journey back from the hospital, to sleep through an entire night. There were far more useful things he could be doing, such as researching the exact ingredients and so-called 'benefits' of milk formula, as well as symptoms of post-natal disorders such as post-partum depression, just to be on the safe side.

As a result of this, when his daughter began to cry, only three and a half hours after she had fallen asleep, Sherlock walked briskly from the living room into he and Molly's bedroom, and picked her up in the dark. He was still somewhat awkward and unsure in his handling with Violet, but with every moment, he felt his confidence grow, which pleased him. He did not like feeling like an amateur.

He carried her, gently bobbing her in his arms as he had seen John do with his own daughter, to a barely conscious Molly.

"Hey, hey, now," he cooed in a whisper, somewhat awkwardly. "Must you cry this way? You'll get your food any moment now." Molly was about to struggle out of bed when she saw her raven-haired companion at her side, holding their crying baby. She sighed and mouthed a thank you, knowing that at the distance they were, even in the dark of the room, he would be able to see her. She had been advised by Mary to demonstrate as little interaction as possible during these night feeds, so that the baby knows that it is not fun, 'let's-wake-up-and-see-mummy' time, but simply routine. She was surprised, she had to admit, at Sherlock's initiative and kindness in going to retrieve Violet from the foot of their bed without being asked or prompted. He really was learning.

She took Violet tentatively, still worried her clumsiness may result in an unfortunate accident of some kind, having made quick work of ridding herself of the grey t-shirt of Sherlock's she wore. Now naked from the waist up, she realised that not too long ago at all how embarrassed this would have made her. Being naked in Sherlock's presence, despite their physical relationship, still caused her to feel like a school-girl losing her virginity. Not due to self-consciousness at her appearance—though on their very first few times, it had been: small breasts and whatnot—but more because she knew how Sherlock was, and knew he catalogued every tiny detail, noticed everything. Forgot nothing. It was hard not to be slightly put out in the presence of such brilliance...even if he had seen you naked over three hundred times. (She had kept a tally, strange as that was, but had lost count quite a while back. Sherlock, no doubt, knew the exact figure.)

She felt his eyes on her as she guided Violet's little head to her breast, before feeling her latch on and a rush of glorious endorphins flood her tired system. He had circled the bed, and was removing his watch at his side, placing it in the dish along with his cuff-links, before also removing his shirt. It was dark in their room, as neither had turned on a light, but light from the single lamp in the living room seeped under the door, and she could therefore make out the shadows of his movements. Then, the bed dipped beside her, and a second later, a soft pair of lips touched her naked shoulder in a single kiss.

"My, there must be something glorious in that milk of yours," he whispered through the darkness, speaking with a gentleness, and even greater depth in tone to his voice than usual, in order to avoid disturbing their daughters meal. "She's instantly enraptured by you."

Molly smiled, looking down at the soft lines of her daughter's face in the dark. "She's just hungry. You would be too if you were used to a constant supply via umbilical cord." Molly paused, thinking back over Sherlock's words and his tone, realising he most likely was hinting at a whole different subject subconsciously, and she smiled a little at the modesty of it. He was worried Violet would not want him, need him, the way she currently needed Molly. It suddenly occurred to her that as he sat watching her feed their newborn the vital nutrients she required for survival from her own body, Sherlock Holmes felt vulnerable, because he felt redundant; something she was sure he was very inexperienced in feeling. Most ordinary people were used to having their area of expertise and then there being a wealth of information and knowledge and subject areas that they knew nothing of and left to others. Not Sherlock, of course. Though, he was far from ordinary.

"She'll be enraptured by you, soon enough, Sherlock, as we all are." She watched his pale fingers touch Violet's cheek, light as a feather. "She'll be brilliant, just like you. I would bet she'll be helping you solve cases before her sixth birthday."

Sherlock smiled into the darkness, liking this image the began formulating in his mind. Yes, of course Violet would need him. He was her father, after all, and he endeavoured to be a good one...or at least considerably better than his own had been in his early life.

"I hope so," he replied simply, watching as Violet's eyes became solidly closed, hiding her light blue irises, and her breathing evened. Molly's nipple remained in her mouth, but it was clear she was no longer suckling.

"I've got her," he whispered before Molly could move to stand, voluntarily taking Violet himself, burping her over his shoulder, then placing her, with the greatest care, down into her crib, tucking her into her sock blanket with precision. He shyly leant down to kiss her head, before crawling back into bed beside Molly, who hadn't, as of yet, bothered to pull his shirt back on. She lay on her side under the duvet, her gaze sleepy and unfocused.

"You're leaking," he whispered, leaning forward to wipe some breast milk from her skin before it wet the sheets. Once he had done this, his hand almost froze, as though he worried she would not approve. This made Molly frown.

"Am I different to you, now?" she questioned in a small whisper, not looking at him. He slid further into the bed, until they were very close under the covers, and she could make out a grave expression his face. Though, she couldn't work out if it was one of confusion or...hurt.

"Only a complete arse of a man would think such a thing after a pregnancy." She felt his long fingers touch a tendril of her hair that had fallen from her messy bun. "You are no different to me, Molly. You are different in your own eyes, but not in mine."

Molly swallowed, a tear escaping from her eye unexpectedly, wetting the pillow beneath her. "I just thought, with the stretch marks, and the lacerations—"

Sherlock silenced her with a tender kiss to her forehead, letting his lips linger there. "—No, Molly. I will always treasure you—despite such changes, which you need not worry over. They are material and superficial in the grand scale of things."

Molly frowned, attempting, gently, not wanting to disturb her stitches, to turn from him, slightly upset by his implication she was silly for worrying, even though she was. "They're not to me. They're ugly—"

"—Molly." He slid a hand to cup her hip to prevent her from rolling away from him, his lips grazing her cheek gently as he whispered against her. "Such changes gave us our daughter. Do not focus on social connotations that mean so little, but instead on what they signify. They demonstrate a grand, grand milestone in your life—our lives—Molly Hooper, and so I for one will never hold them in any distaste. Besides, your mind means more to me than any physical attribute, as you well know, though you do have many to be proud of."

Molly sniffed, wordlessly pressing her face into the crook of his neck, letting her tears fall. He had read that the hormones brought on by pregnancy and birth could easily run on for a time afterward, and he believed his was mostly responsible for the emotion was she displaying currently. He simply ran his hand up and down her bare back, from the base of her spine right up to the base of her skull, calming her, as her bare breasts pressed against his bare chest, warm and comforting.

It was only in this moment that Molly observed Sherlock was nude. This was no surprise, as John revealed to her long before she ever slept with Sherlock that he had a habit of doing so, wondering round in nothing but his bed sheet in the morning, plus she had slept beside him any a time where he chose to wear nothing. She had never asked him why, though.

Now, her cheeks began to flush as a sudden jolt of desire shot through her, and threw off her train of thought; the feeling of him completely nude against her, as she wore nothing but a pair of pyjama bottoms, suddenly inducing many a flashback of their last sexual encounter, though that was well over a month ago.

Sherlock noted her breathing pattern change to one of quicker, shallower breaths, recognising this and the way she shifted slightly as they were skin to skin as clear, usual signs that Molly Hooper was sexually aroused. He turned his head to kiss her brow, then lower, as she unfolded herself from the crook of his neck, instantly opening to him. Then, she sighed dejectedly.

"Sherlock, we can't." Her protests were near silent and breathless. "The doctors said no sex." He kissed her lips then, taking her lower lip between his teeth slowly, like he knew she loved. "The sutures, Sherlock."

He pulled back enough only to give her that crooked the near-darkness, smoothing a hand over her cheek, cupping her neck. "Who said anything about intercourse?" He gently kissed her sternum, resulting a very low level of oxygen making it into her lungs on her next breath. "I know not to hurt you, Molly...and I won't..."

Their eyes were locked, only just visible to one enough through the darkness, but enough to engage them so they could not look away. Their mouths rested against each other, nosing touching, as their breathing mingled with one another, both becoming laboured, purely by their level of arousal. They were nose to nose, side by side, as he slid her bottoms down her legs with one hand, before simply stoking two gentle fingers against her, intimately. She made no sound, other than a breathless whimper that he himself could barely hear, though her body went rigid with unshed tension, her fingers tightening around his curls as a hand slid into his hair, keeping them eye to eye. He gently stroked again, with the same reaction, then again, and again; the movements so intentionally minuscule to avoid hurting her, and somehow the slow tenderness of them made her ache even more. She poured herself in a kiss to his lips as they leant against her own, panting his name almost silently, as the adrenaline and endorphins flooding her body triggered her heavy breasts to begin to leak between them. The fire in her veins stoked only more when Sherlock leant down to tenderly suck such escaped milk from her. His tempo against her clitoris only increasing by a fraction, knowing it would be enough. Both of them were tired and fraught with tension brought on by the later stages of pregnancy, and then of a trying childbirth, not to mention they had not been intimate since around two weeks before Molly went into labour, as Sherlock deemed it too risky.

"Oh, Sherlock, yes," she gasped in a whisper, her hand in his hair tugging painfully, but he didn't mind. He flicked his fingers one last time, before pressing them down hard on the bundle of hyper-sensitive nerves, sending Molly into overdrive. She orgasmed quickly, her thighs tightly coming together reflexively, trapping his hand in its current position, only prolonging the hot, pleasure pain that spiked through her nervous system. Sherlock smiled as he watched her twitching and shuddering, much like he imagined he once had when shooting up heroine. It pleased him that such a reaction could be instilled in one and soft and quiet as Molly, and all at his hand.

As her internal muscles contracted with pleasure, she gasped, knowing the sudden discomfort she felt was the movement of her stitches. It wasn't massively painful, but it was certainly a discomfort. Gently, she relaxed her thighs, loosening her hand on Sherlock's curls and kissing him soundly, closing her eyes, feeling completely content. He hummed in satisfaction against her mouth, the sound so deep it almost sent her over the edge all over again. As she pulled back, she noted his hand still rested between her thighs, though no longer applied pressure. Her gaze shifted to his erection, that she could make out straining against his taught pale abdomen, and she swallowed with desire. However, as she shifted to appease him, he held her in place.

"No, Molly. You needn't. You're tired. It's alright." She went to protest, but he kiss her quiet. "Really, Molly. I won't have you performing sexual favours on me purely out of a feeling on obligation. You were in no state to receive an orgasm at this moment, medically speaking, never mind performing acts yourself. It's really alright." His voice was so deep and brought her such calm, she reluctantly relaxed against his hold, letting him slipping lie on his back beside her as she lay on her side, her head on his shoulder.

She was disgruntled and felt awful that he was left with such arousal while she had been relieved...only to be struck with an idea. Sherlock Holmes had once informed her, upon getting rather drunk at John's latest birthday party (at John's request, as this was John's requested gift), that she had become an overwhelming presence and voice of reason in his mind palace, even saving his life that day when Mary shot him... She realised, as this miraculous mind with the mentally contracted version of herself within it lay present next to her, that perhaps she could take advantage of this fact.

Slowly, attempting to be seductive, she leant into his side, her lips grazing his ear as she whispered, "What I would pay to be in that mind of yours, Sherlock."

Sherlock, who had his eyes closed as he attempted to tidy his mind to distract himself from his current physical predicament, took a deep breath before speaking, his fingertips massaging the crown of her head. "You are, Molly. You're everywhere in here. My mind palace has been under siege ever since I first kissed you that day...no, in fact, since that day you slapped me... You have great significance, more than anyone ever has."

Gently, she kissed his ear, smiling. He didn't know her game yet.

"Well, if I am as...powerful as you say, and you never forget a detail you don't wish to...then, why not just...think of me...to solve your problem."

Sherlock didn't respond for a second, before whispering in return. "Are you suggesting I throw my mind intentionally 'into the gutter,' as the saying goes, with you here watching me?"

Molly hummed into his ear, moving to suck the skin behind his ear, feeling his soft curls against her face, smirking as she felt his pulse increasing. "Yes, you are indeed correct, Mr Holmes..." He was rigid, as though in deliberation with himself, but Molly was not having that. "Let go, Sherlock," she whispered. "Think of me... How I'm always ready for you... The hot, frenzied first night we ever had together, in which you finally discovered every hidden sight of my body, and I of yours... Think, Sherlock."

And he did. He found his mind wondering, as he lazily began fishing through the drawers in Molly's room of his mind palace, where he kept that night. It was deliberately hidden away toward the back, as to not distract him when he needed his mind palace for practicalities during cases... But now, he freely allowed himself to drown in it. The way he came to Molly's then flat, wondering why she had been avoiding him, only to find her lying across her sofa, barely clothed, and breathing hard. It took him longer than usual to deduce that she was high, the shock of such a fact meaning it took longer to process. He had been suddenly very alarmed. Molly Hooper, on drugs? Surely not. There was no way... He had called her name, nearing the sofa, shocked to find her...touching her own breasts from through the shirt she wore, his shirt that she had acquired from Bakers Street. He sat up suddenly, her eyes opening to meet his own. It was then that he finally deducted successfully. Dilated pupils. Rampant behaviour. Taut nipples. Slight trembling to the hands... He smirked, incredulously, his mind, as they say, was blown.

Molly Hooper on Viagra. Who would have thought?

She had gasped his name upon seeing him, but he stepped out of reach, cautiously. "Molly..." He spoke as thought he was communicating with a caged tiger. "Why have you taken arousal stimulants?"

Molly began to giggle, arching her back against the sofa, her hands still wondering over her own body. "Oh, Sherlock, you've finally come to me."

He frowned at the way her voice sounded—hoarse and not at all Molly. She did this to get him here? "You did this for my attention?"

Molly sighed, rolling off the sofa and into the floor in front of him. "Well, it worked, didn't it?" She went to stand, slowly nearing him as he backed away, until she had cornered him against her door. Who was this woman? "You kissed me, then left for a whole month. I thought we were passed this. I am so sick of...being your reserve... So, here I am. I have lain myself out for you, and if you still do not want me, even when I am of like mind as you prefer to me—high as a kite—then I know there will never be a future for us."

It was then that she kissed him, with such passion and force that he could do nothing but kiss her back with equal vigour... This was the first if many times afterward when he broke his rules for Molly. This was the turning point, when it became concrete and clear that he was her eternal exception.

"Molly," he had gasped as they separated, her hands fisted into his Belstaff. "I feel I am...at a disadvantage..." Her lips attached themselves to his throat, having thrown off his scarf, and he suddenly found it impossible to focus on his words. "If we are to...carry on...I will not...last as long as you...with your current chemical assistance..."

The next time she kissed him, he found a pill in his mouth. He knew by its shape that it, too, was the American stimulant, and so there was no danger of addiction...or, at least, not from the Viagra... Addiction to Doctor Hooper, on the other hand, was yet to be investigated.

The drug had taken the usual optimum time to take effect, and he remembered how suddenly he could not rid himself of his clothes fast enough. It became an almost wrestling match between the two, in a collision of lips and nashing teeth and furious tongue, hands gripping hips and shoulders with nails, pulling hair harshly and all... It was a haze, but he remembered everything. The way the two of them, equally frenzied, orgasmed again and again, despite the fact Sherlock had never had sex before in his life, the chemical high of which he could only compare to heroine, in the way he wanted more and more with every high that robbed him of breath and wracked through his body, making him loose all control of it. How, he had wondered, had he intentionally abstained from such pleasure for so long? If he had known...that this was how it could feel... well, perhaps his brother would not have had such an issue with a errant drug addict little brother...but rather a errant, sex addict little brother.

He remembered feeling grateful for the the drug in his system, as it meant he didn't need experience, as the entire night was chaotic and disordered, much like being on narcotics. It had only been the next day, early afternoon, when they had both resurfaced, sore and disorientated, that Molly had had to guide him. They had engaged in sex again, though, in the clear light of the afternoon, it was as though they hadn't before... Such experiences, though he felt vulnerable when in them, were some of his most treasured, and as he pictured Molly under him, chemically combusting all due to his movements within her, him himself combusted, breathlessly spilling semen onto his own stomach.

He opened his eyes, and he was back in the present, beside Molly in their bedroom at Baker Street, over a year later, with their newborn daughter Violet obliviously slumbering at the foot of the bed. He huffed as quietly as possible, thankful for the dark to hide his flushed cheeks. Molly kissed his face repeatedly, offering him a cloth beside the bed before cleaning him up herself. She whispered she loved him, before laying back down beside him to sleep. He sighed, as though exasperated, but she knew he was just being a drama queen, as he replied, "I love you, too, Molly Hooper, despite the temptress you are. Now, rest, before one of us seriously disrupts your stitches."

Molly could barely contain her grin as she fell asleep that morning, and as the sun began to leak through the curtains, it appeared Sherlock Holmes could not, either.

—X—

"...and here is where we sat, trying to capture the Mayfly Man," Sherlock informed softly to a wide-eyed Violet, who could now hold the weight of her own head, as it bobbed against his shoulder, taking in all the sights of a warm, summery London. They were opposite the barracks they had visit during Bainbridge's almost murder, simply as there plenty of sights to preoccupy Violet while they waited for Molly to finish work. "Now, Daddy didn't solve that case until Uncle John's wedding, however, you need not know that. As far you know, I solve them all, alright?" Violet regarded her father with wide eyes, her dark hair contrasting with her baby blue eyes, and Sherlock smiled in spite of himself. She had well and truly melted any resolve he had built over the years, and was not even a year old yet. He carried her in his arms, feeling no need ever for the ghastly buggy thing that Molly bought. He liked to feel his baby's body against him, warm and so present, relying on him as much as he had grown to rely on her. He cooed at her as they carried on walking, taking scenic back routes in order to avoid photographers. (He may or may not have assaulted a photographer when they got a little too close to Molly and Violet one of their first walks in the park together... Not that Molly knew that.)

"Do you see Mummy, Violet?" he whispered as he watched Molly exit the Saint Bart's morgue, walking towards him, smiling. A happy squeal emitted from Violet a moment later, as she bounced and wriggled in his arms, reaching for Molly eagerly. Sherlock reluctantly handed her over, watching Molly pepper kisses all over their daughter's face, cooing how much she missed her.

"And you didn't miss me?" he questioned, teasingly, leaning down to kiss Molly's head gently.

"I always miss you, Daddy," she murmured, still in the higher, cooing voice she used whenever she spoke to their daughter. Taking Molly's other arm, Sherlock walked her back towards Baker Street, enjoying the warmth of the summer air. Violet cooed and spluttered, chatting in her usual infant nonsense to herself, and Sherlock leant to kiss her chubby cheek as Molly spoke of what her work had entailed for her today, with a particularly interesting corpse coming through, loving how Violet's smile widened into a toothless grin every time he did so, as a tiny giggle escaped.

"She's got you around her little finger," Molly observed softly, brushing back a stray curl from his forehead that almost felt in his eyes as they walked slowly. "I'm almost jealous."

He knew from her smile there was no real upset in her words, simply a observation, which, for the most part, was true. He flashed her a tight smile, dragging himself from his thoughts. "You have as much sway over me, Molly."

She looked over at him, and saw how he stiffened, indicating the presence of photographers as they stepped onto a main road pavement, nearing the W1 area. She gripped his arm while increasing her grip on their daughter, ducking her head, and soon enough, Sherlock Belstaff was sheltering both Molly and Violet protectively from the flash of photographers. By the right they reached Baker Street, Molly stormed ahead, and deduced instantly that she was angry and frustrated. On entrance to 221B, she cooed, soothing a distressed Violet, who had begun to cry the minute the photographers had swarmed. After a baby's biscuit and placing her down in her play ring, she was happy again, chewing and suckling on every plastic toy in sight. Molly, on the other, spoke no more words. Ah, so she was angry with him...

"Molly—"

"—How hard is it, Sherlock?" she exploded in the most controlled way, displaying anger through her face, but not her voice, in order as to not upset Violet. "How hard is it to do as I ask and take the bloody buggy—or at least the carrier! Every time you don't, and, every time, a damn photographer nearly always knocks her out of my arms. Why won't you just listen to me, for once?"

Sherlock frowned at her, intrigued and bemused. "You're this angry, over the fact I choose not to use that god-awful pushchair?" He smirked in that arrogant way that made her want to slap his beautiful face. "Ah. Except, that's not really why you're angry, is it?"Molly's jaw set as her fingers twitched, and she had to turn from him. She could no longer look at that confidence in his face, as she really would punch him. "You're not angry at all... Violet is turning six months old next week... You're anxious about me going back out on cases."

"Don't!" She warned, busying herself with cleaning up some pots in the kitchen. "Stop with that, Sherlock! You don't know everything!" This was a feeble attempt at a counter argument, Molly knew, and it was for the sake of her pride only, but she knew if she admitted it, she would break down.

"Except when I do..." He sat down in his chair and began reading the newspaper. "I'm right."

"Oh, Christ, of course you are. Sherlock bloody Holmes always bloody right—I, you know what? Never mind. You already know everything so I don't been know why you bother with me at all. Just bloody forget I said anything."

Sherlock didn't flinch at the sound of their bedroom slamming, though behind his paper, his face was much less neutral. He left her for a while, trying to ignore the pangs of guilt that hit him as he could hear the faint sounds of her crying behind the closed door. It soon became too much, and he found himself scooping up a grizzling Violet and walking to their bedroom, knocking lightly on the wood.

"Molly?" He heard her sniff profusely, before she answered with a simple, "Go away, Sherlock." He gently nudged the door open, taking in the sight of a red, swollen eyed Molly, before swallowing hard. In his arms, Violet cooed loudly at seeing her mother, as though it had been a lifetime since she had last laid eyes on her, and, despite her wobbling chin, she smiled, cooing a greeting back. Sherlock slowly walked to the bed and sat down beside Molly, letting their baby have her way as she boyishly attempted to transfer herself to Molly. Once into Molly's hold, Violet nuzzled her face forcefully into the crook of Molly's neck, face-planting her skin forcefully, taking in her scent, and seemingly portraying her affection for her mother while grizzling and humming her baby nonsense. Molly kissed her head repeatedly, unable to hold her tears back. Sherlock looked down at his lap, feeling...ashamed.

"Shame on you, using your own daughter to get me to forgive you," she scolded without malice, her voice sounding tired and croaky. She said nothing more, smoothing a hand over Violet's fine dark hair, her eyes never straying toward him.

Sherlock took a deep breath, husking lowly, "Since I have known you, I have made you cry too many times, Molly Hooper." He couldn't help thinking back to that Christmas, and winced out loud. "I am a selfish, arrogant man. I do not deserve all you have given me."

Molly turned to him, surprised by his self-abhorrence. She knew he did have occasional moments of remorse, and ever increasing displays of affection and sentiment, but she was sure she had never heard this tone since That Day in the lab, just before the Fall. Sniffing, she swallowed hard, feeling the familiar sensation of intense sympathy and love for Sherlock Holmes, who, really, was just the lost, bright little boy. "Yes, you do," she countered, equally softly. "It is not you that made me cry at this moment. Not really... You were right. I was spooked by the photographers because it's reminded me of how, as per our agreement, you will be going back to more than on case a week next week... Which means more media attention and, no doubt, enemy attention, which makes me worry for much for Violet, yes, but mostly I worry for you, Sherlock. If anything were to happen—" She choked on her next words. "Violet would lose her father before she's even known him, and how bloody brilliant he is, and I don't know—don't know what, I'd...do." Sherlock's eyes remained solidly ahead of him as he processed her emotional admission. "I don't know what I'd do if you really left us, Sherlock."

He sighed, leaning to kiss her shoulder through her shirt. "I won't, Molly."

She scrunched her eyes shut. "You don't know that though, Sherlock..." Her breathing increases a fraction. "God, and when I think...of all the times you, John, Mrs Hudson have been at gunpoint, I just..." Her train of thought jumped statically as she switched sentences. "And I'm not suggesting that, you know, stop your detective work, or anything—It's not selfish-h to love your job, um, I would never ask—I just—"

"Molly." His voice was a whisper, as his fingertip traced her cheekbone, his face near neutral, but there was hidden anguish in his eyes. "I am so sorry." He kissed her, desperately trying to convey what he didn't know how to put into words: that he knew there would always be danger, and for that he was irrevocably sorry. He was a selfish man, and while he would never, could never give up his job; the thrill of the chase...he could never, ever give up this family, she or Violet, either. Not by any stretch of the imagination. Not ever.

Between them, their daughter suddenly emitted a loud, squeal like sound a of conversational nature, causing the tension in the room to break, along with their almost sorrowful kiss, as neither Molly nor Sherlock could resist laughter. Violet appeared reluctant to give up any of the attention she felt she required, as she looked up at the two of them, a fist in her mouth, innocently, as though she had not just interrupted them.

"Cheeky Monster," Sherlock grumbled, affectionately, kissing Violet and a giggling Molly in turn, only to feel a tugging at his shirt as Violet's fist pulling there suggested she wanted his attention again. "Why, hello, Violet. Are you turning into your father, or what? Demanding so much attention," he teased at his own expense, surprised when his daughter reached for him from Molly's arms. "John always said I could nag like a child. Am I really that bad?" Molly laughed wholeheartedly, agreeing with him, before letting Sherlock take her, as Violet's face came to align with his own as he held her. A moment later, he felt wet slobber on his cheek, just on his eye and just off centre of his lips, and realised his daughter was attempting to kiss him. (Albeit with an open mouth and wet tongue. Evidently, she was only just as inexperienced at kissing as he himself had been not a year ago.)

Beside him, Molly cooed and laughed, and Sherlock found himself flopping onto his back on the bed, his knees still bent at the edge, bemused but feeling also...honoured by this undivided affection from his daughter, letting Violet nuzzle and rub her entire face into his neck and over his cheek as she had done with Molly, as she jabbered to him as though he understood. Chuckles rumbled from his stomach as he closed his eyes, swimming in contentment.

"You two," Molly murmured, and as he opened his eyes to look at her, he knew she had taken a picture of him. "Quite a sight to behold." She knelt down on the bed to kiss them both, before standing up and informing him they would have to get reach soon. It was Mrs Hudson's birthday, and so they, among others, were all going to pay a visit next door for drinks and food. Sherlock rolled his eyes overtly to Violet, as though she were able to agree with him, before laying her back against his neck and embracing her some more. You're cu-dd-ling, came the smug correction of John Watson in his head suddenly, which caused him to again rolled his eyes, though closed this time.

So what if he were? he thought. John was always going on at him to take a day off, after all.

He must have dozed off, and Violet, too, as he was suddenly aware of Molly softly stroking his cheek, waking him. He was still in the same position laying on he and Molly's bed, with a sleeping infant on his chest, his arms around her protectively, even in his sleep. As he stirred, so did she, as she began to grizzle and threatening to cry. Rubbing his eyes, Sherlock gently sat up, curling Violet closer to him with one arm.

"Shhh, shh," he quieted, he himself feeling strangely lethargic as he passed her to Molly for a feed.

"Will you run her a bath before you change?" Molly requested, and Sherlock hummed in agreement before wondering sleepily into the bathroom to do just that. Not long later, Molly carried in Violet, who was wrapped in a soft towel gown and nothing else, and smiled gratefully at Sherlock as he tested the bath water temperature with his elbow. He smiled back, moving out the way, but didn't leave the room. As a Molly went to lay Violet in the shallow water, she turned to him.

"Would you like to bathe her?"

Sherlock had not faintest inkling as to why, but he did, very much, every time Molly asked him, no doubt expecting him to decline. He knelt down beside Molly, securing his already rolled sleeves, and grinned down unconsciously at Violet, who cooed and stretched out her arms to her parents above her, before kicking and slashing water with her jerking limbs, trying to put her own foot her mouth. Molly giggled, gently lifting her to a sitting position in the water in order to cup wart over Violet's hair. "God knows how long it's been since I was that flexible."

She made such a comment before remembering who she was talking to. Sherlock, however, raised his eyebrows, and teasingly gave her a once-over. She had to remind herself she was in the middle of an important task in order to prevent herself from leaping on him; his expression suddenly dark and seductive, though she wasn't sure he was aware of this. He simply murmured, "Indeed," before turning his attention back to Violet.

Then, "My, Miss Violet, your mother really is a temptress."

Molly gasped, hitting his arm. "Sherlock! Not in front of the baby!" Sherlock gulped, fearful he had awoken the beast again.

A moment later though, all in the room creased with laughter, including Violet, followed by more incessant splashing, but none minded much at all.

—X—

That night, after all had eaten dinner, thankfully while Violet happened to be sleeping, the core group who usually congregated at Bakers Street remaining. While Greg was explaining a recent case of his to Mary, John found himself preoccupied watching an, almost worryingly, paternal Sherlock, rocking a grizzling Violet Holmes back to sleep. He felt a presence beside him, only for a tearful Mrs Hudson to sit beside him, a glass of sherry in her hand.

"Did you ever think you'd see the day?" she asked, and John smiled almost wistfully, suddenly reminded of how, not far from two years before, he had said much the same thing to Sherlock when it became clear he had finally initiated a romantic relationship with Molly.

"I honestly can say I did not, no... Although, the minute Sherlock saw Molly holding Emily two Christmases ago, I remember thinking I saw something in his eyes that indicated he was tempted..."

"I'm so glad," she sighed, and John nodded. A moment later, Sherlock's gaze rose to him and he smiled as though they shared a private joke. Making his way over to his friend, John perched, feeling the telltale signs of alcohol in his bloodstream, as he regarded the detective next to him. As Sherlock gently rocked Violet, he looked up at his friend.

"Honestly, John. I've told you. You really shouldn't drink sherry. It don't agree with your digestive track."

John couldn't resist it, he had to laugh. Sherlock began to laugh, too, only to hush him as he did so, for fear of waking Violet.

"You really did great, Sherlock," simply watching Violet breath in and out, peacefully. Sherlock gazed down too, as though hypnotised by her. Then, quiet but definite, Sherlock spoke, somehow combining an air of his infamous arrogance, and a sense of humility unbeknown to the worlds only Consulting Detective before fatherhood took hold of him.

"I know."

...

It seemed that William Sherlock Scott Holmes was, finally, extraordinarily at peace, and all thanks to a strong, clever Pathologist with unquestionable love, and a tiny infant who shared his curls and fifty-per cent of his DNA.

And about time, too, John thought. Thank you, Violet Evelyn Holmes. You have no idea what you have done.