A/N: This story does contain the topic of child loss, if this is triggering for you in any way please refrain from reading. Thank you.
They had been married a little over a year now, living in Molly's flat painted in bright colors and decorated with watercolors of flowers and landscapes with the occasional cat thrown in there. A dark, hardwood desk sat near the window, the masculine piece of furniture stuck out against the soft greys and whites of the rest of the living room furniture. It was Lestrade's desk, littered with files and pieces of notebook paper. Molly smiled as she walked into the room and went over to straighten the desk up. He had been working on a particularly puzzling case this week, but together with Sherlock, they were hot on the trail of the murderer. He promised her he would be home in time for dinner tonight, seeing that he had come home well past midnight the last few nights, always falling into bed still in his work clothes. Molly would wake up and take his shoes and tie off and lovingly place a kiss on his forehead, smoothing his greying hair back and laughing at his soft snores.
She really did hope he made it home for dinner tonight, she missed him terribly during weeks like these. She missed having his dark, kind eyes look at her and smiling that easy, sweet smile he had. Tonight though, she had a surprise for him. The long, white box sat at his place, waiting to be opened. She had been feeling ill for the last couple days and her ever punctual period hadn't come on time. Why she was surprised when two blue lines appeared on the test, she didn't know. It's not like they hadn't been trying. She just didn't expect it this soon. She had heard him coming to the bathroom, so she had quickly hid the test in the drawer, praying that he wouldn't look. Thankfully, he didn't and she tucked the test in an old necklace box. She placed her hand on her belly and smiled to herself, tossing the pasta into the boiling water.
"Molly, love, I'm home! Is dinner nearly done, it smells great!" Lestrade said as he came in the door and shut it behind him, hanging his coat on the wall rack.
"Yes, it's nearly done. Chicken alfredo, is that alright?" Molly shouted back as she stirred the sauce into the pasta and chicken.
"Sounds wonderful as always, love," he said as he came into the kitchen, all smiles as he put his arms around her waist and kissed her cheek. "We got him and he confessed, makes my job a hell of a lot easier," Lestrade laughed.
"Oh, I'm so happy!" Molly said, kissing him back, "go on and get changed it'll be done by then."
"Your wish is my command," Lestrade said with a smile, bowing grandly before going back to the bedroom. Molly laughed to herself, shaking her head as she went back to stirring.
They sat down to dinner soon after, Lestrade not noticing the box until he had piled his plate with pasta.
"What's this, Molly?" He mumbled, his mouth still half full.
"Oh, just a little gift from me, go ahead and open it," Molly said.
Lestrade looked at his wife, her cheeks pink and a soft smile beginning on her face. He furrowed his brows; he really had no idea what this could be. Slowly he shook the top from the box, catching the bottom with his other hand. He looked inside.
Oh.
Oh God.
The two blue lines were blinding against the white backdrop.
Molly's pregnant.
With his baby.
Molly began to shift in her seat, the creaking of the chair breaking the silence in the room. She began to worry, what if he didn't want this baby? I mean, they had discussed it…Her thoughts were interrupted by a warm, tight embrace, her nose buried in the warm, spicy scent of her husband.
"A baby! Molly…" she could hear the hitch in his voice and tears began to form in her own eyes. He let go of her a bit and looked at her, his eyes filled with tears.
"Molly, we're having a baby," Molly nodded and that easy smile she so loved broke into the widest grin she had ever seen on the worn DI's face. He pulled her to him again and lifted her out of their chair, spinning her around as he laughed and cried with joy. He set her down and took her hand, laughing the whole way as he pulled her to the window. He opened it and shouted to the street, "We're having a baby!" A few bystanders looked up and clapped. Molly laughed as she hung onto Lestrade's side. He shut the window and turned to Molly, kissing her as deeply as he could, nearly knocking her off her feet.
"How far along?" He asked excitedly, his brown eyes sparkling.
"I haven't been to the clinic yet, but I'm guessing about 6 weeks or so," Molly giggled.
Lestrade laughed and put his hands on her still flat belly, "A baby, Molly, our baby."
She looked at him, eyes shining, cheeks nearly cracking with that wide smile, and she fell in love with him all over again. She put her petite hands over his tanned, rough hands and smiled.
"Our baby, Greg, our very own little miracle."
They went for their first appointment soon after and found out their baby was due September 15th. Greg had gathered all of the baby and parenting books he could find and set to work on the nursery, painting the walls white and adding blue accents when they learned they were having a little boy. He pampered her like she was the Queen, giving her daily foot massages and sending officers to check on her when he couldn't do it himself, having them bring her little gifts from him. Even Sherlock had softened around her these days, never saying a biting remark or commenting on how unbelievably round she was getting. He and John came to the flat a few times, sitting with her, even helping her set up some of the nursery furniture. Well, John helped with the furniture at least.
"Have you thought about names?" John had asked her during one of these visits. She was 32 weeks at this point, uncomfortably pregnant during the hottest week London had seen in several years.
"We have a few in mind, I like Greyson Michael, he likes Carter James," she said, rubbing her stomach.
"May I suggest William?" Sherlock suddenly spoke up, "it's a good name for any boy, particularly good-looking and intelligent ones."
"Sherlock, they are not naming their baby after you," John said, rolling his eyes.
"If it makes you feel better, Sherlock, I did like William until I mentioned it to Greg. He quickly nixed that one. I didn't know why until now," Molly said, the corner of her mouth upturning.
Sherlock harrumphed and went back to his paper, leaving Molly and John laughing. Molly stopped and grabbed her stomach as she felt a sharp twinge.
"Ow," she said, her face twisting in pain.
"What's wrong, Molly?" John asked worriedly.
"Braxton-Hicks, I've been having them the last couple days. It's alright."
She looked up to find both men staring at her, worry apparent on their faces.
"Really, guys, don't worry. He's been kicking and moving like he always does," she said, the pain passing and a smile returning to her face.
John nodded and smiled and they set back to work on the changing table.
Over the next few weeks, the contractions stopped, leaving Molly relieved. She was 35 weeks now and just wanted to enjoy these last couple weeks with Greg. The last days they would be a little family of two. They had decided on a name, Molly's pick, Greyson Michael. She had gotten little blankets embroidered with his name, little onesies and shirts too.
Lestrade walked over to his wife sitting on the couch, handing her a glass of water and laying with his head on her lap. He kissed her belly and put his hand on it. Molly ran her hand through his hair.
"How're you doing in there, mister? Nearly time to meet Mummy and Daddy." He felt a light tap against his hand and laughed, "there's my boy, my good strong lad. We can't wait to meet you."
That night, Molly woke up suddenly, sweat running down her back, her heart racing. She had no idea what woke her up, she couldn't remember a nightmare. She checked her phone. 4 AM…
4 AM?
She hadn't slept this long in the last few weeks, the baby would wake her up at least every 3 hours with his kicks. She began to panic, why wasn't he kicking like he usually did? She turned and shook Greg.
"Greg, wake up!" She began to say.
"Mm…I'm up, I'm up!" He said, groggy with sleep, "what's wrong, Molly?" He said more alert, realizing how scared her face was.
"Greyson, he's not…he's not kicking like he usually does, usually I'm up twice by now, but I slept until now. Something's not right!" Molly finally finished, tears rolling down her cheeks.
"Alright, love, it's alright, let's get to hospital, everything will be alright," He said, kissing her before quickly getting up and grabbing their bags.
The outline of Greyson's head was on the screen, perfect in every way, his tiny hand outlined as well. They cried silently as the little spot in his chest stayed still, not moving as it had in every ultrasound before. That wonderful, amazing heart that no longer was beating. The room was silent.
Terribly,
utterly,
Silent.
She delivered him the next afternoon, listening desperately for the cry that would never come. He was perfect. Light brown downy hair on his head, long eyelashes that could have only come from her. His Daddy's nose and mouth. He was dressed in a light blue outfit and swaddled in one of his embroidered blankets. They held him as long as they could, whispering to him about the little giraffe mobile hanging above his crib, how Mummy was going to teach him how to knit, how Daddy wanted to take him fishing in that creek by his grandparents' house when he got a bit older. They told him everything they had dreamed and planned for him. But most importantly, they told him how much he was loved.
John, Sherlock, and Mrs. Hudson had come to see him soon after he was born. They all gathered around her, Mrs. Hudson holding her hand. All of them were crying, even Sherlock, who stoically stood at the foot of the bed, his blue eyes shining with tears.
"He's beautiful, Molly, a lovely little boy," Mrs. Hudson had said through her tears. All Molly could do was nod and grasp onto her hand tighter. She looked down at Greyson, her beautiful boy, and a new flood of tears began to flow down her face. Lestrade was laying on the bed beside her. He hugged her as his own tears dripped onto her hair.
They stayed for a few hours, leaving as the nurses came to take the baby. Letting him go was the worst moment of their lives, Molly and Lestrade silently kissing him goodbye as they gave him to the nurses. They gently placed him in the bassinet and took him out of the room, the door shutting behind them.
A scream tore through the room. "Greg, bring him back, please you have to go bring him back to us," Molly cried out. Lestrade's heart shattered hearing her scream, begging and pleading with him to bring their son back to her.
All he could do was pull her closer to him, letting her scream and cry. They eventually fell asleep like that, both of them moving restlessly in their sleep, a continuation of the nightmare they found themselves in.
They buried him in a simple ceremony, Lestrade carrying the small white coffin from the hearse to the burial site. It was a sunny Tuesday, exactly a month before he was due. Lestrade insisted on burying him, gently placing each shovelful of dirt. When was finished, he looked at Molly.
"There, tucked in safe and sound," he said, bursting into wracking sobs. She wrapped her arms around him as he wept, the hot August sun beating down on them.
Several weeks later, the tests had come back, nothing was genetically wrong, they couldn't find why he had died. It was simply a fluke, a horrible accident. The doctor had reassured them they could try again and that it would likely result in a healthy baby. It was meant to reassure her, Molly knew, but all she wanted was her son.
Greyson's due date came and went. Lestrade found her sitting cross-legged on the blue and white striped rug in the still set up nursery, still waiting for the baby that would never come.
"Hey Molls," he said gently, "dinner's ready."
"I'm not hungry, I had a bit to eat earlier," she replied, a deep sadness still resonating through.
He walked into the room and sat beside her, grabbing her hand and rubbing the back of it.
"Come on, love, you haven't had a proper meal in weeks," he said, a note of pleading in his voice.
He was worried about her, the dark circles were deepening around her eyes and her already petite frame had lost some weight. He had returned to work a couple weeks ago and often took her to Mrs. Hudson's, afraid to leave her all alone.
"I just don't feel like eating, Greg," she said, pulling her hand away.
Something stirred inside Lestrade. He was losing her. They hadn't talked much about Greyson since his death, the weight of his loss crushing both of them.
"He had your eyes, love," he whispered. A ghost of a smile appeared on her lovely face. He continued, "My nose and mouth, the chubbiest cheeks, God, Molls, he was the loveliest boy."
"Our little miracle, our angel," Molly whispered next to him.
He took her hand in his again, this time she didn't pull away.
"I know nothing will ever bring Greyson back, love, and only time will heal this horrible, gaping hole in our hearts. But we need to take care of ourselves, I can't…" he stops, his words catching in his throat, "I can't lose you, Molls."
She looked at those dark, kind eyes that she loved, forever marred by a haunting look that only the deepest loss could bring. She leaned against his shoulder as he wrapped his arm around her.
Light from the setting sun shone through the window, reflecting off the white crib that would someday hold the sweetest babies, on the rocking chair that Molly and Lestrade would spend sleepless nights with their newborns, on the hardwood floor that would see their children's first steps. Lestrade would eventually paint over the blue stripe on the wall and make it pink for their youngest child, a daughter they would name Isabella Anne, while they moved their two sons, Oliver John, and Hudson William, into the other bedroom.
And as their apartment became filled with the laughter of children and the bickering of siblings, Molly and Lestrade would go to sleep every night, a small shadow box with tiny footprints and the corner of a baby blue blanket embroidered with the name of their eldest hanging on the wall above them. Time had healed their wounds but had not made them forget the loveliest little baby with downy brown hair and long eyelashes, with his father's nose and mouth, their little miracle, their angel.