Molly Hooper had not been feeling particularly well. Nothing terrible, just some low grade nausea, a bit of fatigue, headache, and a runny nose. All of these could be attributable to her time of month, the chill damp of the London winter, or maybe even some tainted takeaway. But Molly, usually such an optimist, had a sneaking feeling that something else was at work here.

So now she sat on the edge of her bathtub, staring down at a plastic stick which would change her life. She was pregnant! This was not what she expected. She felt like the poster child for a birth control campaign, urging teenagers to forego unprotected sex. Yet, here she was, at the age of thirty-six, finding herself with child after a passionate night of unprotected sex. A one night stand, no less!

Even looking down at the stick in her hand, she could not find it in herself to regret that night. She had needed the release, almost as much as he had. And she had enjoyed it, she was sure, even more than he had. After all, she had so much more invested in the act than he had. His body may have felt the impact, and the pleasure, of their night together, but her heart and soul were involved so much more than his, she assumed. It had been magic, better than anything, or anyone, she had ever experienced before. And then, in the morning, she had awakened to an empty bed and an empty feeling.

She hadn't seen him for a few days, making do with texts informing her that he had been called out of town for a case. When he finally did show up in her lab, looking so stricken, she knew she couldn't bare to hear the words that would put such a chasm between them. Not coming from his lips, at least. So she said them herself.

"Sherlock, no reason to look so downtrodden. It's not a big deal, after all. We're both adults. We both enjoyed that night." She tried to smile a bit. "Look, I know you don't do this kind of thing, so I think it's for the best if we just forget it happened. It was good, we enjoyed it, but it shouldn't happen again. I don't want to lose what we have over a single night of sex. So, can we just go on from here?"

"Are you sure, Molly? You're not angry with me? You have every right to be. I should have stayed. I should have talked to you, not just left like that, but I didn't know what to do, or say. I still don't know what to say. Or do…"

"Just say you're sorry for leaving me without any explanation, Sherlock."

"I am truly sorry for my behavior, Molly, and I…"

The pathologist had waved a small hand at him dismissively. "Apology accepted, you git. Now, what do you need?"

He felt himself thinking, "You!", but refrained from speaking his thought aloud as she had made her position perfectly clear. "A report on the corpse brought in last night, please, if it's ready."

After this confrontation, their lives had almost settled back into their normal routine, but the stick in her hand was about to wreak havoc on that routine all over again. Molly had to think this through. It was very early days yet, having been just under a month since the night that would change her life had happened. Her menses had been due almost two weeks ago, but she had often been irregular in the past, and had chalked up her missing period to the fact that she was obviously coming down with something, never thinking that all her symptoms were due to another cause entirely. She splayed her fingers over her flat belly. Much too early to be showing, and her yoga trained muscles would almost certainly maintain their tone for quite a while longer. She found herself grateful that it was Friday evening, and that she was off for the next two days. Maybe she would just spend the next forty-eight hours in her flat, wallowing in self pity and chocolate ice cream. She would have prefered red wine, but that was not an optimal choice now.

A million thoughts were going through her mind. How would she tell her mother? Her mother, who thought she was perfect. And here she was pregnant by a one night stand. No husband, no partner, no boyfriend! Maybe she could tell the woman she had opted for artificial insemination. Mum would understand that, knowing how Molly had always wanted children. And she was certainly in a position to raise a child on her own. She had a career she loved, a good income, a comfortable flat. She could certainly do it on her own. But her mum would want to help. She would want her daughter to move back home, or she would even give up that very home to move to London to be of assistance. And her mum would surely, eventually, find out the truth, that Sherlock Holmes, the unrequited love of her daughter's life, was the father of her grandchild, and that was the day the detective would have to take to wearing armor plated boxers, as Mrs. Hooper was not a woman to take such a thing lightly.

And then there were John and Mary Watson. They were such close friends, she knew they wouldn't buy the artificial insemination story. They may buy the one night stand version, knowing how lacking in male companionship she had been for such a long time. But they wouldn't buy it for long. Sooner or later they would figure out who the father was if she didn't tell them outright, and they wouldn't take it well, figuring that the detective had once again taken advantage of his pathologist, but this time in a far different way. The dynamics of the relationship between the four people would be altered irrevocably. So, this was another conversation she was not looking forward to having.

As for Greg Lestrade, Mike Stamford, Sally Donovan, and the myriad of other friends and acquaintances, well, they would be curious, indeed, as her belly started to expand, with no significant other in sight. She was not looking forward to the sense of pity she would be exposed to when it became known that Sherlock Holmes was the father. It had been obvious to many people, for a long time now, that she was in love with the man. And now it would seem that he had used and discarded her.

Mrs. Hudson would possibly be the last one aware of the situation, as she still harbored the notion that Sherlock was gay, and possibly pining away for John. She would probably chalk the whole situation up to the consulting detective's sense of curiosity and experimentation gone a bit too far, but she would dote on the baby, acting like a supplemental grandmother. And what about the Holmes family? Molly had the sense that they were an old family, descended from country gentry. How would they take to a bastard grandchild? Oh, my god! Just the thought of that term being applied to her own kid sent chills down her spine! She had met Mr. and Mrs. Holmes on many occasions and found them to be lovely people. Warm and friendly, they were nothing like the sons they had raised. Mrs. Holmes had made no secret of her desire for grandchildren, but Molly was sure that the woman would not find this the ideal situation. She had spent some time with the couple, mostly in the company of Mycroft Holmes, while Sherlock had been away for those two years ridding the world of Moriarty's remaining minions. She had found comfort in their presence, as they had been the only other people aware that the detective was still among the living. She had liked them a great deal, and had no reason to believe that they did not feel the same way about her. But that was just as a friend, not as the incubator of future generations of Holmeses.

And this, finally, brought her to Mycroft Holmes. "The British government", as his brother referred to him. Contrary to the perception of others, Molly found Mycroft to be a rather kindly man, overly protective, perhaps, of his baby brother, and a bit high-handed in his dealings with him, but kindly and caring, nonetheless. She had grown close to the man over the long hiatus in Sherlock's London life, and had come to appreciate his finer qualities. If he was the big brother Sherlock wished he didn't have, he was the one Molly wished she did have! She decided that he would be the first one she would tell about the situation, but only when the matter, and her belly, became too big to ignore. Maybe he could advise her about how to tell Sherlock.

And then there was Sherlock himself. How could she break the news to him? He had never expressed any desire to have children in general, and certainly not with her in particular. Sure, he adored his godchild, John and Mary's little daughter, but that did not necessarily translate into an inclination, or a talent, for fatherhood. She dreaded the look on his face when she broke the news, but not knowing which expression she feared most. The arrogant sneer of distaste, the falsely sincere look of sympathy, or the self-sacrificing look of a man willing to "do the right thing." But most of all, perhaps, she dreaded that look of detachment she had seen on his face on many previous occasions, not aimed at herself, perhaps, but at so many others. The look that said that he really didn't care one way or the other. It was a look not meant to be cruel, but was cruel nevertheless, as it expressed his complete disregard. If she saw that look, it would kill her, she knew. But she also knew she had to face him sooner or later. And, feeling rather cowardly at the moment, she opted for ice cream now and confrontation later. Much, much later.

The following morning Molly Hooper awoke much as she had for the past week or two, headachy and nauseated. She opened her eyes to the dim light of morning, and glanced at her bedside clock to find that it was just after nine. She really should get out of bed, she thought, but given her decision to spend the weekend in seclusion with her ice cream and problems, she opted to roll over, pulling the covers over her head. Unfortunately, that was just the point when her mobile signalled an incoming text.

NEED YOU TO COME WITH ME TO THE COUNTRY - SHERLOCK

NO - MOLLY

IMPORTANT - SHERLOCK

STILL NO - MOLLY

I NEED YOU - SHERLOCK

ASK JOHN - MOLLY

JOHN IS BUSY - SHERLOCK

SO AM I - MOLLY

NO YOU'RE NOT. YOU'RE IN BED FEELING SORRY FOR YOURSELF - SHERLOCK

WHY DO YOU NEED ME? - MOLLY (Molly sent that text, wondering how the man could possibly know how she was feeling, and knowing she would never get the answer she wanted, or needed.)

BIT OF A MYSTERY IN SUSSEX. I'VE HIRED A CAR. BE READY IN 30 MINUTES - SHERLOCK

WILL YOU PROVIDE ICE CREAM, PREFERABLY CHOCOLATE? - MOLLY

ANYTHING YOU WANT IF IT WILL GET YOUR BUM OUT OF BED - SHERLOCK

OKAY - MOLLY

Molly then heaved a heavy sigh and proceeded to climb out of bed. She had a bad feeling about this, but she just couldn't say "No" to the man. Which was what got her into her predicament in the first place. She ran a hand over her still flat tummy, and heaved another sigh. She was still not showing, of course, but she knew she would feel that everybody knew, and that they were looking at her. Some in judgement, and some with pity, others, even with love. Just not the right one. She made her way to the bathroom in search of paracetamol for her headache, and then to the kitchen in search of some bland crackers to ease her nausea. Finally, she jumped in the shower, dressed, and prepared to face the world. She was ready to hurry down to the car when the detective texted her his arrival.

"Nice car," she said as she slid into the front passenger seat of the black jaguar.

"I thought you'd like it. It's quite comfortable. Feel free to nap while I drive. It will take us almost two hours to get where we're going, and you do look a bit tired. I'll wake you when I need to," Sherlock said, showing rather uncharacteristic concern. "I know the way, so I won't need you to navigate."

"I'm fine," Molly replied, making a lie of her own statement by yawning quite vigorously.

"Sleep, Molly. You look like you need it."

"What I need is chocolate ice cream. Don't forget you promised!" Molly had visions of the detective handing her a cone as the bad guys made a dash for freedom. She didn't care. With this in mind, she closed her eyes, for just a second, she thought, and promptly fell fast asleep. The consulting detective glanced at her slightly open mouth and smiled at her gentle snores. The ride continued on, out of the city on one of the motorways, then onto country roads, Sherlock sure of his route. Molly finally awoke about ninety minutes later in the rolling green hills of the Sussex countryside.

"Sorry about that, Sherlock. Where are we?" she asked, sitting up straight in her seat and looking around with curiosity.

"We're in Sussex, Molly. I'm afraid you slept completely through Surrey, but you didn't miss much. We won't be driving for much longer now. We're almost to Rye."

"This is beginning to look familiar, Sherlock. And isn't Rye where your parents live?"

"Not in Rye proper, but just outside. Close by Romney Marsh, and the sea. If you roll down the window, you may be able to smell the salt air."

Molly did as he suggested, hoping the fresh salty air would ease her nausea and clear her head. "Sherlock, are we going to your parents' house?"

"And you think you're not good at deducing things, Molly!" he said with a chuckle and a bit of a wink, as he pulled onto a gravel road which she recognized as the one leading to the lovely cottage in the country which she had visited on previous occasions, at the invitation of his parents and usually accompanied by his brother. He followed the road through the trees, until a large clearing appeared, with the familiar cottage in the middle. As he brought the car to a gentle stop, she turned to ask him, "Sherlock, what the bloody hell are we doing here? Are they expecting us? You might have told me where we were going, you bloody prat!"

"Relax, Molly. And no, they are not expecting us, but, as I am their spoiled and beloved son returning to the family estate, we will be more than welcomed."

"But why are we here? What's the 'mystery' you have to solve involving your parents? And why do I need to be here?"

"You need to be here because you're part of the mystery, the mystery being which one of us is going to tell them?"

"Tell them what, Sherlock?" she asked, although she already knew of what he spoke. The poor woman was becoming more and more agitated by the minute. "And how the bloody hell do you know?" She could feel her panic rising.

"Molly, you should know me better than that by now. Making observations and deductions is my life, and I am particularly observant of those I care about. I don't miss much, and my observations over the past couple of weeks have led me to only one conclusion. Am I wrong?"

"No. But how could you be so sure? The signs were so subtle, I almost missed them myself."

"Molly, tell me something. You are one of the few people who can really see me. You know what I need, when I need it, often before I do. You know what I'm feeling, even when I deny having feelings at all. How do you do that? Tell me, and be honest."

Molly was beginning to feel a bit shy, which was ridiculous, given the situation she was in. But she found the courage to look him in the eye and tell him what she had wanted to tell him for, lo, these many years. "I suppose it's because I love you so much, Sherlock."

The man sitting beside her moved his hand to gently caress her face, moving his thumb over her cheek to wipe away a tear. "So, why should it surprise you so much that I can see you, Molly, in just the same way?" A low "Oh!" escapes her lips just before his own descended upon them. When he pulled away, he continue to interrogate her, however gently. "But why didn't you tell me as soon as you suspected you may be pregnant, Molly?"

She lowered her eyes, not really wanting to answer, but, as he insisted she did, finally saying, "I suppose I was afraid, Sherlock…"

"Afraid? Of me?" He practically shouted, and the smaller woman looked up to examine the look on his face. It was hurt, even pain. "Molly, this has got to be my fault! How could I ever make you feel afraid of me? I'm an arsehole, I know, but I would never hurt you. At least not deliberately. You must know that!" He was beginning to sound desperate.

"I wasn't afraid of you, Sherlock. I was afraid to lose what we had. I was afraid that you'd be disappointed, that you'd feel trapped. You never expressed any interest in children, aside from little Claire."

"I have an interest in Claire because she is my godchild, daughter of my best friend. I would surely have an even greater interest in my own children, or, more importantly, our own children."

"Children, Sherlock? Plural?"

"Of course. We can use this first one as a practice run. Then we can be guaranteed a perfect result with our subsequent spawn. Just look at Mycroft and me."

By the time he got out this statement, Molly had collapsed into a bout of happy laughter, and thrown her arms around his neck, clinging to him as he nuzzled her neck. "We still haven't decided who gets to tell them, love."

"Why don't we play it by ear? See how it goes, and wait for the right moment. But you're definitely telling your own mother, Molly. Preferably when I'm away for some time!"

They spent the next few moments snogging in the car like a couple of teenagers, before disengaging to head into the house, hand in hand. They were met just inside the front door by the elderly couple. Mrs. Holmes enveloped Molly in such an enthusiastic hug that the pathologist had some small trouble breathing, while Mr. Holmes continually patted his younger son on the back while he pumped his hand vigorously. Then the couples exchanged partners, and Mr. Holmes gave up the hand pumping for a giant bear hug. Sherlock managed to squeak out a few words as he struggled for breath, trying to escape his mother's embrace. "Looks like the mystery is solved, Molly. I would venture a guess that Mycroft has informed them of their incipient grandparenthood!"

"How…" Molly gasped before Siger Holmes renewed his grip on her ribcage.

"It would seem that observing and deducing runs in the family, my love. Parenting our children is going to be rather interesting, I would say!"

The two couples, one of long standing and one just freshly minted, then made their way into the cozy kitchen of the cottage, where Violet Holmes intended to fatten up her son, his "baby mama" (a term she hated, and quickly decided she would have to do something about, if her son had not done so already), and her poppy seed sized grandchild. Siger Holmes, perhaps knowing his wife's thoughts, went to retrieve something from the family safe. A piece of heirloom jewelry, in particular, a suitable engagement ring, which he kept on hand for just such an occasion. Stealing a glance at his son, and the way his eyes drank in the lovely woman carrying his child, he know immediately that this course of action was not a mistake. He was humming happily as he left the kitchen, winking at his son as he passed him. One down, one to go. And, just as his boys had two grandmothers, there were two rings waiting in the Holmes family safe. Sherlock could take his pick. Given his elder son's fondness for the diminutive doctor, Siger was sure Mycroft would not object.