The Right Time
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.
Warning: This story mentions a miscarriage. Please do not read if that bothers you.
Prompt: Family
"I'm p-pregnant!"
Sherlock looked up from his microscope to stare at his wife. For a few seconds they held their gazes, and then Molly's face crumbled, she was sobbing, and then she covered her face as she tried to take heaving breaths. It took no time for Sherlock to launch from his seat and gently gather Molly in his arms. He held her in the doorway of the kitchen until she calmed down. "A-after months of t-trying, we finally…" she trailed off, wiping at her eyes.
Sherlock leaned his forehead against hers, cupping her cheeks in his hands. Then he kissed her forehead, cheeks, any place on her face that he could reach. He didn't have the words to properly convey how happy he was, and he hoped he was showing her adequately.
"Molly is six weeks pregnant."
John Watson nearly bowled Sherlock over as he wrapped his arms around him and hugged him tightly, or as tightly as he could with his seven month hold son still in his arms. "Congratulations!" he exclaimed once he pulled away, grinning broadly at his best friend and former roommate. A grin rivaling his own spread across Sherlock's face, and John knew he had never seen the man so ecstatic in his life. "How long have you known?"
"Only a week. Molly had an appointment this morning and afterwards she gave me permission to tell a few people."
"This is really, really good news!" John said, tightening his grip on his son. "Isn't that right, Jonathan?" The baby just babbled and screeched happily, then sucked on his fist. Sherlock couldn't help but laugh at the child's enthusiastic response. "Is it alright if I tell Mary?"
Sherlock nodded his head. "But Molly insisted that you keep it off the blog, for now. Since we had difficulty conceiving, she doesn't want to—"
"I understand," John said, cutting off his friend. "Want a cuppa? I was about to put the kettle on once Jonathan had his bottle."
"I can feed him," Sherlock offered, immediately taking Jonathan from his friend and tucking him into his side. He went straight to the reclining chair and sat down. On the small table beside the chair was a bib and a warmed bottle. John left Sherlock to feed his son and went into the kitchen to boil water for tea.
John felt giddy as he periodically glanced at Sherlock as he shuffled around the kitchen, gathering biscuits and other little sweets to have with their tea. This was obviously a time for celebration and excitement over the prospect of finally having a close friend to talk to about fatherhood.
After the tea and treats, Sherlock reluctantly pulled himself away from John and his son so he could tell a few other people the good news. He couldn't help his grin though, as he hailed a cab and gave the address to New Scotland Yard. He knew Detective Inspector Lestrade was going to be very happy about it, and he kept trying not to imagine his reaction.
He wanted to see it in person and not pre-deduced before he even arrived. To stop himself from thinking, he texted Molly, 'I told John and I'm on my way to the yard to talk to Lestrade. Do you need anything?—SH'
Her response was almost instantaneous. 'You can come by Bart's. I'm going to be in the lab all day and I'm already bored. You can work on an experiment or something, right?'
Sherlock smiled to himself and responded with, 'I'll be there within an hour. If you have any toes to spare, I'm sure I could find a use for them.—SH'
It was raining hard in London, filling the streets with water, but the occupants of Baker Street hardly noticed.
"Molly, let me in, please."
"No. Just leave me alone. Please, just leave me alone. I can't—not right now. Sherlock."
Sherlock struggled with the locked bathroom door. Two glorious weeks of feeling like he was on cloud nine were torn away from him not even fifteen minutes ago when his wife came home and brokenly told him she miscarried. Then she promptly locked herself in the bathroom, and no amount of pleading on his behalf could get her to leave.
"I don't want to leave you alone."
He heard the door unlock and he took a step back. Molly opened the door wide enough so Sherlock could see her. "If I can have one hour to pull myself together, we can talk, alright?" She reached for his hand and gave it a squeeze before retreating back into the room and closing the door.
This time, she didn't lock it.
Not wanting to be in the flat anymore, Sherlock found himself running about, slipping on his shoes without socks and rushing down the stairs and out the door. He didn't bother to exchange his robe for his Belstaff, relishing in the cold rain pelting his skin.
His mind was running a mile a minute as he tried to deduce what exactly happened, and before he knew it, he was standing outside John and Mary's flat. He didn't know how long he stood there, but eventually the door opened.
"Sherlock?"
He blinked his eyes and focused on his friend, realizing that tears were pouring out of his eyes, obscuring his vision more than the rain. When did I start crying? And why is it so hard to breathe? The rain was pouring harder around him, but he didn't seem to care. He took a few steps forward and sank down on the steps.
At least in the rain, no one could tell that he was crying.
"It's raining, Sherlock, and you're in your pajamas. You're going to get sick." He felt a hand on his shoulder, but Sherlock shook it off.
"Molly…" he gasped, feeling a clench around his heart. There was a beat of silence above him, and then,
"Did you two get in a fight?"
He couldn't help it, he snorted. If only it were a fight that dragged him out in the middle of a storm. "She lost the baby."
It was barely three seconds before Sherlock heard a door close and then John joined him on the steps, clad in his own sleepwear and robe. "I am so sorry." He wrapped his arm around his shoulders and Sherlock wept openly.
Time passed uneventfully in the Holmes household. Molly and Sherlock, after grieving together, decided that after some time they would try again. Summer slowly moved to autumn, bringing along more cases, experiments, and work for Sherlock. He kept himself busy, as did Molly.
The amount of work the married couple was doing was nearly unhealthy, but everyone was too afraid to broach the subject with them.
It wasn't until after Jonathan's first birthday party in November that Sherlock and Molly discussed trying again.
And they tried.
And they tried.
And they tried.
After John and Mary quietly announced their second pregnancy at the beginning of December, after countless pregnancy tests, let downs, and after four months of trying, Molly was ready to give up. Not only was she emotionally drained, but she was physically exhausted too. Trying to conceive was like a full time job, and she already had one of those. The strain on her relationship with Sherlock and even her friends was putting additional weight on her shoulders, and she was struggling to cope.
"What are you thinking?"
Molly shook her head, hoping to clear her thoughts. She looked at Sherlock; he was on the couch, his limbs askew as if he threw himself on the furniture and didn't bother to adjust. "Nothing. I'm just tired."
There was silence for a few moments, and then Sherlock turned his head so he could see her more clearly. "You are smart enough to know that I can tell when you're lying to me, Molly."
"Excuse me?"
Sherlock sat up abruptly, and Molly could see he was tense and ready for a fight. "You are tired, that's obvious. But you weren't thinking about nothing."
"It's not important."
"Everything is important."
"I'm just tired, Sherlock!" she shrieked, her voice hitting an octave she was sure Sherlock had never heard from her before. She curled up tighter in the chair, wrapping her arms around her knees. She lowered her voice so Mrs. Hudson wouldn't hear them from downstairs. "Can't I be tired? Can't I be tired of going to the doctors? Can't I be tired of having sex with you when it's not fun anymore? Everything about this relationship is work. All of it. I don't want to do it anymore. I'm tired of it all. I'm just tired!"
"You don't think I'm tired?"
"I don't know what you bloody well think because you're a machine!"
It was so silent in Baker Street you could hear a pin drop. If Molly had ever regretted anything in her life, it was that last statement; she knew the history of that insult with Sherlock, and she how wrong it was to throw those words back at him after the amount of time he's spent proving to not just her but all their friends that he wasn't a machine, that he was human, that he felt just as much if not more than his friends. She opened her mouth but nothing came out, as if nothing she could offer up as an apology would be enough.
"I'm not a machine," Sherlock whispered, his voice shaking. Molly couldn't even bring herself to look him in the eyes.
"I—I know—I—"
"And I've tried telling you how I feel but you don't listen."
"I listen!"
"No you don't. If you listened, you would know that I don't like going to John and Mary's without you when they invite us over for dinner because they just stare at me with pitying looks and—"
"You can't blame me for not going over there. You can't think I actually enjoy seeing their little growing family? That Mary is all expecting and glowing and happy, while I'm just a—an empty broken woman?" Molly snapped, glaring at Sherlock. "How can you expect me to eat with them when they've managed to conceive two children in the year and a half I've tried to have one?"
"You?" he snarled, leaping to his feet. "This isn't all about you, Molly Hooper!" His jaw clenched and Molly could easily see what he wasn't saying.
She didn't even bother to correct him for using her maiden name as she moved to stand. "There is nothing wrong with me!" Sherlock opened his mouth to counter, but Molly quickly cut him off, saying, "None of this is my fault. If anything—" She stopped herself, slapping a hand over her mouth, startled by what she was going to say.
"If anything what, Molly?" Sherlock growled. "That this is my fault? That the dangerous lifestyle I had prior to marrying you is the reason that we have been unable to start a family?" He couldn't hide the pain from his eyes even if he wanted to. "You don't have to even say anything, I can deduce—"
"Just shut up!" Molly roared, her tiny frame shaking as she closed the distance between them. "I don't care about your deductions! I don't care about anything—"
"You don't care that we've been unable to have children?"
Sherlock didn't even see it coming. Molly's hand flew through the air and she smacked him with as much force as she was able. "How dare you even say that?" she growled. "Not a day has gone by since I've miscarried where I haven't thought about our fertility problems. And if you think I was capable of being so disconnected to reality, then you don't know me at all, Sherlock Holmes."
She crossed the room and grabbed her coat and half slipped on her trainers.
"Molly, wait." Sherlock followed her to the stairs, his hand still clutching his cheek. She bounded down the stairs quickly, not turning back. "Molly!"
He was met with the door downstairs slamming loudly. The entire flat shook with the force of it. Then Sherlock saw Mrs. Hudson peek her head out from her door. "Is everything alright, dearie?"
Sherlock slammed his door in response. He wandered over to the window to see where Molly was headed off to, but he couldn't see her anywhere. Reluctantly, he pulled himself away from the window and threw himself on the couch. Molly wasn't known for storming out during arguments and he assumed that she would be back within the hour so they could resolve any issues that were between them.
He worked hard to ignore the clenching around his heart and the nausea that swept through his stomach and the feeling that the world had dropped out from beneath his feet. He and Molly had their fair share of arguments, but nothing like this, and never had she laid a finger on him in an act of violence.
When two and a half hours passed and the entire flat was cloaked in darkness, Sherlock began to worry a tad bit. 'Where are you?—SH' He sent the text and waited impatiently for a few minutes before sending another text. 'It's late. You need to return home.—SH'
Two more hours passed and it was nearing one in the morning. Sherlock paced around the flat, a dozen text messages sent with no response. He thought about calling John or Mary, but he knew the likelihood of her being there was slim, especially given her reasoning during their argument. He did one final lap around the living room before he made up his mind and went to his bedroom to change out of his pajamas so he could start searching London for her. He put on what he was wearing earlier, ignoring the fact that the clothing was wrinkled. He put on fresh socks, slipped on his shoes, and left his room.
He stopped when he saw Lestrade standing in the entryway to the flat. The aching feeling in his chest and nausea increased as he stared at the tired looking Detective Inspector. "What?" Sherlock croaked, unable to deduce whether or not he was there to tell him bad news.
Lestrade crossed the room quickly, only pausing to turn on a lamp before he wrapped his arms around the consulting detective. Sherlock stiffened, keeping his arms tightly at his sides. "She's safe, fast asleep in my bed at my flat."
"What are you doing?"
"Just wrap your fucking arms around me!" Lestrade snapped.
"Why?" Sherlock did so unwillingly.
"Because your arse of a brother is doing a shit job being there for you and your mother is just about incapable of seeing that you and your wife are hurting and are desperately in need of comfort! Now shut the hell up and hold me."
Sherlock huffed softly, but soon he found his arms tightening around Lestrade and his face buried in his neck, burning hot tears escaping his eyes. Then his knees buckled, and Lestrade half dragged him to the couch, still clutching him tightly.
Molly woke up and her brain was pounding. She opened her eyes, only to squeeze them shut again. With her eyes closed, she tried to get her bearings. Everything was wrong; the smell of her flat, the feeling of the pillows, even the temperature of the room was off.
Her eyes snapped open when she realized she wasn't in her flat at all, but Lestrade's flat instead. She turned her head to see if there was a clock nearby and jumped when she saw Sherlock curled up on the floor, his scarf being used as a pillow and his coat as a blanket.
When she stood up from the bed, his eyes snapped open and he sat up quickly. They eyed each other warily for a moment, and then Sherlock made a small hand motion for Molly to join him. She wasted no time in crossing the room and sitting down in his lap, curling around him. He wrapped his arms around her, and they stayed that way for a few minutes.
"I'm sorry," Sherlock finally whispered, his voice gravelly and hoarse.
"I'm sorry too."
"We're not okay."
Molly pressed her forehead against his chest. "No we're not." She squeezed her eyes shut and took a shuddering breath. "But we're not shattered pieces of glass. We can fix this."
Sherlock hummed in ascent, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "We haven't been on a vacation since our honeymoon," he began, running a hand up and down her spine. "I think it would be a brilliant idea if we went away for a week or two."
Molly was quiet for a moment, and then she slowly pulled away from his chest, looking at him tiredly. "You already took care of everything."
He nodded his head, even though it wasn't a question. "Mike Stamford has allotted you three weeks of vacation time. Mrs. Hudson will watch Toby. Mycroft will purchase our plane tickets to whatever destination you choose."
Molly resumed her position with her head pressed against him. "I hear New Zealand is nice this time of year. Isn't March the beginning of autumn?"
Sherlock tightened his hold on her. "It will be very nice."
"And maybe afterwards, we can see a fertility specialist?"
Sherlock pressed another kiss to the top of her head. "That appears to be the best step in the right direction."
Molly exhaled slowly, feeling the weight she had been carrying on her shoulders for nearly a year lighten.
BB/N: This prompt turned into a mini ficlet. I'm hoping to finish it soon!
