Molly Hooper knew. Even before the tests, the doctor's visit, before the proof, she knew. Something-someone--was growing inside her.
And she knew who it was, too. A tiny organism, a minuscule creature not yet bigger than her hand, a ball of unknown potential that hadn't even decided who it would be yet. A baby, still weaving itself into being with her genes and those of Sherlock Holmes.
That night stood out in Molly's memory like an old favorite song stands out from radio static. It had not happened on purpose; Sherlock had simply come over to her flat to pick up some samples she'd gotten for him from the morgue. Then he had stayed for a cuppa. Molly would never have thought she had it in her to be so bold; it was while he was sitting there at the counter, complaining about John's going away on holiday, that she felt that longing well up, that familiar feeling of need. And then she'd kissed him without prelude-she, Molly Hooper, had got the steel in her to snog Sherlock Holmes!
And that, of course, had just been the beginning of a long night, a short night, a night of darkness and light, of confusion and revelation. Then she'd woken up in the morning and found herself alone, and she'd wondered if maybe it had all been a dream, another dream of her and Sherlock. But as she'd eaten breakfast she'd suspected that something was different. It had taken a few breakfasts, a couple dinners too, but after a few days, Molly decided that she was definitely not the same anymore, and she would never be the same again.
It had been a mistake. It had been a mistake, but not one Molly regretted. Especially now.
John's face twisted in sympathetic pain. "D'you want to come in and sit down?"
Molly nodded numbly, and John led her into the sitting room. She dropped herself into the armchair, the one that Sherlock always sat in while playing his violin, when he was in one of his thoughtful moods. She gently put a hand to her stomach-all she had left now.
"Well...Do you know where he went?" Molly asked.
John shook his head. Then he checked himself. "I mean, I do know...but I'm not allowed to say."
"This is Mycroft, isn't it?" she asked in a small voice. "He dropped hints whenever I saw him. I wondered what was up. He was awfully not subtle."
John nodded. "Mycroft does love to be dramatic."
Molly rubbed the upholstery with her thumb. "Will he ever be back? Or is that classified too?"
John rubbed his eyes. "Well, I actually haven't been told anything, but I don't think he'll ever be back."
Molly looked at John for a while. She tried to force a smile. "You're going with him soon, aren't you? You're not as broken up about this as I'd expect you to be."
The doctor gave a weary smile. "Yes, I expect to go the same way as him. Mostly because I don't think Sherlock will do anything for them; he'll insist on my company."
Molly wondered who "they" were, but she didn't press. She felt a pang in her chest-not of jealousy, maybe, but definitely sadness, disappointment. Of course Sherlock would ask for John. That's the way it had always been, and now there was no time to change things. Molly twisted the hem of her shirt in her hand. Sometimes she thought her clothes felt tighter, but she knew she was imagining things; she wasn't far enough along to be showing.
John was looking at his hands. After a moment of quiet, he said, "Molly, I don't mean to pry, but...what did you need to see Sherlock for?"
Here it was, the moment she had to explain. While she was disappointed she'd never be able to tell Sherlock herself, at least it was easier to tell John Watson. At least John's reaction would be somewhat predictable. Sherlock, on the other hand...Would he have been angry? Excited? Scared? Would he have even cared?
"John, I...I'm pregnant."
John smiled. "Well, congratulations, Molly!"
"You don't understand," Molly said, shaking her head. "I'm pregnant with..." She made a vague gesture with her hand around the room.
John's eyes widened. "Oh. Oh! Uh...er..." He coughed and twisted his lips around a bit. "You're...you're sure it's...Sherlock?"
Molly nodded meekly.
John nodded as well. What was in his eyes, besides shock? Disbelief? Shame? Hurt? "God, you're...you're serious? That's...I mean, it's..."
"I don't know what it is," Molly said, suddenly tearing up. "It was an accident, but...I mean, now that he's gone, I'm not sorry. But...now what do I do? Sherlock's gone, and I'm going to have a baby, and..." Tears began to flow down her cheeks. She held her hand to her mouth to keep from sobbing.
"Well, have you...I mean, have you considered all the...er, options? Adoption, um, abortion...?" John suggested lamely. Molly gave him a look. They both knew she'd never do any such thing.
"Does...Does Sherlock know?" John asked after an awkward silence. He puffed out his cheeks and looked at Molly.
"No," she said, shaking her head. "At least, I don't think so. I haven't seen him since, um, since that night. I mean..." She sighed shakily. "I don't know. He might."
John nodded. "This is Sherlock we're talking about."
"Yeah..." Molly wiped the tears from her cheeks. "I just...wanted to tell him." She tried to smile. "I wonder how he would've, you know, reacted."
"Probably said something insensitive before you even got the chance to tell him," John said. He straightened his back and put on an imperious expression-a good imitation of Sherlock. "'Molly, I see by the turn-ups on your jeans that you are pregnant.'"
Molly giggled gratefully. Then she signed and looked down at her hands. "I guess we'll never know."
John laid a hand on Molly's. "I'll tell him," he said gently. "That is, if you want me to."
Molly gave him a weak smile. "That'd be, um...lovely."
John sat back and nodded. "Even if you never get to see his reaction, he should still know."
Molly nodded. "Yes," she assented, her voice so soft that it was scarcely more than an exhalation. She cupped her face in her hand and cried silently, letting the tears pool in her palm.
John let her cry unmolested, moving about in the kitchen so she could be alone. He made a kettle of tea and then brought some out to Molly. She let him get her into conversations about the mundane-cricket and football, things on the telly, the royal family, books. She was grateful for the distraction.
Finally Molly rose to go. John walked her to the door. She looked at him.
"How much longer will you be..." She glanced round the flat. "When will you be leaving...here?"
John looked wistful. "Not much longer, I expect. They'll probably come for me any day; probably sooner than later. Sherlock can be very persuasive."
"Um, who...who's 'they'?" Molly asked, unable to help herself. "You can't tell me anything, I suppose."
John sighed. "Well...it has nothing to do with eugenics. And no connection with Baskerville." He winked when Molly gave him a blank star. Molly smiled.
"Oh. Right. Nothing to do with them at all." She chuckled a bit. She could feel that her smile did not reach her eyes. And suddenly she knew that she would never see John Watson again.
"I don't know what it'll be," she said hurriedly. "I mean, boy or girl. But I'm...I'll make Holmes part of the name." She looked at her feet. "It's just...I mean, Sherlock might, you know, want to know..."
John smiled and nodded. "Of course. I'll be sure and tell him." They said their goodbyes and Molly stepped outside. She crossed the street and looked back at 221B. John was standing at the window, holding Sherlock's pet skull in his hand and staring up at the rooftops.
The next day Molly returned to Baker Street, just to make sure. Mrs. Hudson answered the door, and her distressed expression confirmed Molly's intuitive feeling: John was gone. He'd been taken away, he and Sherlock, and they would most likely never be back. And so she was alone. Almost.