Violet Holmes, matriarch of the peculiarly gifted Holmes family, had let it be known, in no uncertain terms, that she wanted grandchildren, NOW! Her two sons, Sherlock "the bloody git" Holmes and Mycroft "the British government" Holmes, ever the competitors, were now attempting to provide her with same. So began the affair known as The Great Holmes Baby Derby.
Sherlock, having been rather manipulated by his mother into a relationship with his longtime, if rather unadmitted, love, Dr. Molly Hooper seemed to have the upper hand. He was currently working on the project to the best of his ability, which delighted Molly no end. However, Mrs. Holmes was having a small problem with the object of her elder son's affections, Anthea. Anthea had been a presence in Mycroft's life for years, it seems. Mrs. Holmes was one of the few people who knew that she was also a presence in his bed, and his heart. She was beautiful, cold, efficient, and totally unreadable. But Violet had caught fleeting smiles which would crack her veneer of icy disinterest when she glanced surreptitiously at her son, and the look of concern when Mycroft seemed to be troubled. She knew that Anthea meant far more to Mycroft than he admitted, and vice versa. But neither of them were getting any younger, and she knew if her dreams of progeny were to come true, an intervention was required.
Fortunately, Mycroft proved to be a lot less difficult than Sherlock. He was always amenable to the logic of the situation. Violet simply invited Mycroft and his "personal assistant" to tea. In the middle of the occasion, Violet started a brief dialog,
"Mycroft, you love Anthea." It was not a question.
"Mummy…"
"Anthea, you love my son." This, too, was not a question. "And, although I know it may be impolite to mention this, your biological clock is ticking! I cannot think of two people more suited to each other. For god's sakes, get on with it!" And with this she left them to get on with it. So the baby race was on!
Mycroft being Mycroft, and of a far more conservation disposition, immediately proposed. Sherlock, not be outdone, did the same. Molly Hooper would have been a bit more concerned about the nature of this proposal if she did not know that Sherlock Holmes never did anything that he did not want to do. She didn't question for a moment his love for her, and swiftly agreed to a short engagement.
"We'll beat Mycroft and the Ice Queen to the altar," Sherlock grabbed her hand and practically pulled her off to the nearest registry office. They married as soon as was legally possible, fourteen days later. It was a small ceremony, attended only by family and close friends. John Watson was, of course, best man, and his wife Mary was Molly's matron of honor. Greg Lestrade smiled broadly, although somewhat disbelievingly, and Mrs. Hudson cried, as was expected. Standing beside the newly married couple, Mr. and Mrs Holmes senior beamed with joy. Siger Holmes bent to kiss his wife affectionately on the cheek, saying, "I don't know how you did it, but you're a bloody genius, Vi!"
Mycroft Holmes, accompanied by the lovely Anthea, approached his younger brother to offer his congratulations.
"Mycroft, brother dear, I've heard about your engagement to Anthea. May I offer you my heartfelt best wishes!", so far, so good. "But I must point out that I beat you to the altar!" Sherlock beamed in triumph.
"You forget, little brother, that some people refer to me as the British government. Do you seriously believe that such things as waiting periods and paperwork apply to me? Anthea and I were married yesterday." The was a smirk the size of Wales on the face of Mycroft Holmes.
Sherlock had the good grace to shrug it off, seemingly nonchalantly, and offer his further congratulations. Anthea caught Molly's eye, and rolled her eyes upward. Molly returned the overture with a look of patient forbearance for the two rival brothers.
Sherlock, still clutching his brother's hand, looked him right in the eyes and said, "There is still the matter of grandchildren, Mycroft." Thus began round two.
Both Holmes brothers redoubled their efforts at reproduction. Anthea was removed from her position as Mycroft's personal assistant to become something far more personal. Because Mycroft had allowed her final say in the selection of her replacement, he was now saddled with a middle-aged, red faced, humorless former accountant from Hounslow. Male, naturally. He was, of course, very efficient, but far less decorative. Molly refused to give up her position at St. Bart's. She would take maternity leave when and if her health required it, when and if she were to become pregnant. And the way things were going at home, it certainly seemed to be a matter of when, not if!
It was only a matter of weeks, when Molly received a call from her sister-in-law. The two women had become close, commiserating about being married to the Holmes brothers, while really enjoying every minute of it. They had started having lunches together, often joined by Mary Watson. Anthea was a lot more pleasant when she wasn't constantly texting on her mobile, scurrying to fulfil Mycroft's every demand. The three women found that they shared the same raucous sense of humor, and each certainly had an appreciation of the bizarre (as witnessed by the men they had married!).
"I'm so happy, but I'm not sure how you, and especially Sherlock, are going to take the news. I'm pregnant!"
Molly was truly happy for her, but she did feel some trepidation about breaking the news to her husband. She knew that both Holmes brothers were about to become even more unbearable. One a sore loser, and one a sore winner.
"Bloody hell, Anthea, don't worry about Sherlock! I'm getting so sick of peeing on a stick for him, maybe this will end this stupid contest, and things will go back to normal. You and Mycroft will be great parents. I only hope Sherlock and I will be half a good as you will be. I'll bet Mycroft is really happy!"
"I haven't told him yet. To tell you the truth, I'm not looking forward to his ego getting so far out of hand. And I did sorta like the trying part, if you know what I mean." Anthea giggled a bit, surprising coming from the Ice Queen!
"Are we still on for lunch?"
"Yes, I'll see you and Mary tomorrow, as usual. Bye!"
Sherlock arrived home shortly thereafter, with yet another pregnancy test in his pocket. Molly took one look at it, and gave him a stern stare.
"Molly, please," he wrapped his arms around her waist, and started nibbling her ear. "Or we could go into the bedroom now, and work on our project?" Left with a choice of peeing on a stick, or "working on our project", Molly knew immediately what she preferred. She took her husband's hand, and pulled him down the short hallway.
Later that night, as Sherlock slept the sound sleep of the totally sated, Molly crept out of bed to use the bathroom. The pregnancy test was on the sink. "What the hell," she muttered, "Might as well kill two birds with one stone." And then she peed on what seemed the millionth stick this month. Her eyes widened as she read the positive result. Evidently, the race was still on!
The three women met at Angelo's for lunch the following day, and, of course, pregnancy, past, present, and future was the topic of conversation. Mary was thrilled that one of her friends, at least, was now in a position to appreciate the trials and tribulations suffered during her pregnancy. Anthea announced that she had not, as yet, told Mycroft.
"You might want to hold off on that awhile," Molly spoke. "At least until we decide how we're going to deal with this!"
The other women looked at her questioningly.
"I'm pregnant. The fat lady has sung. Elvis has left the building, The rabbit has died. The stick I peed on at three o'clock this morning told the tale. So did the next three or four I tried before I left the flat."
Anthea left loose a string of expletives that would have embarrassed a merchant sailor and his truck driving brother. And they were all delivered in a perfect London East End accent! She soon regained her composure, and continued in her usual posh tones, "Oh, I'm so sorry! Please forgive me! I'm really happy for you, really. But I was just hoping this stupid sibling rivalry would end! I can't take it anymore."
Molly was completely understanding. She, too, was hoping for an end to this testosterone driven competition.
Mary, on the other hand, was completely enthralled, by Anthea's rather indelicate use of the English language. "Where did you learn to talk like that?"
"You'd be better to ask where I learned to talk like this," Anthea spoke in exaggerated posh tones. "I was born and raised in the East End. Mum says my first words were swear words!"
"Does Mycroft know?"
"Course he does, luv," Anthea continued with a wink. "He likes his bit of rough, does my Mikey."
Mary was laughing out loud, "Come on, Molly. Any tales to tell on Sherlock?"
Molly blushed a bit before admitting, "Well, he's very ticklish. I mean VERY ticklish. And sometimes I like to take advantage of this at what he would consider very inopportune times. VERY inopportune times!"
Mary was seeing in her mind images of the Holmes boys she had never considered, and she was enjoying it. She couldn't wait to tell John!
Anthea heaved a heavy sigh. "We have to tell them sooner or later, so it might as well be sooner. Maybe they'll recover some of their common sense."
"Easy for you to say. I've never seen any evidence that Sherlock has any common sense."
'You think you have problems now? Wait till your ankles swell up and you can't see your feet,"
Mary felt compelled to add to their concerns.
The rest of the luncheon passed with a combination of elation and trepidation.
Despite the women's concerns, their respective husbands, both being intelligent men, gained control of themselves long enough to see their wives uneventfully through the pregnancies. There were some small considerations made. During the last trimester, Sherlock refused to leave the flat for any case less than an eight. This was strange in itself, because Molly was still working at St. Bart's through her eighth month! Mycroft did become slightly distracted during the latter part of his wife's confinement, inadvertently cutting off foreign aid to a small sheikdom in the Middle East. This worked out for the best, as a small bloodless coup then overthrew the despotic monarch, and a modern democracy was established. The prime minister took credit, the UK gained prestige throughout the world, and the queen smiled. It wasn't until the ladies' thirty-ninth week that things took a turn for the worse.
"Did you realize that eighty percent of first time pregnancies last well past their due date, Sherlock informed his egg-shaped wife. She groaned. "Isn't your due date very close to Anthea's?"
Molly could tell where this was heading, and she didn't like it one bit. It seems like the spirit of competition was once again rearing its ugly head.
When the women met for their weekly lunch, only two and three days from their respective due dates, the strange things going on in their household were the main topic of conversation.
Anthea arrived slightly late, and eased her considerable bulk into a seat. "I have just had the worst ride! The driver seemed to hit every pothole and traffic bump in central London. Not to mention the extraordinary detour. I tried to give him directions, but he insisted he was following Mycroft's orders!"
"I'm just glad we're at Angelo's," Molly put in. "I'm dying for some Italian food. I think Sherlock is the one having cravings. Every day for the past week we've had Chinese food. Dinner is one thing, but lo mein for breakfast is not to be tolerated. And he seems to be adding his own spices to the meals. Basil on chow mein! Oregano sprinkled on springrolls."
"Mycroft has been plying me with bananas. It seems almost phallic! And eggplant. I hate eggplant! But the idiot has decided it's the most nutritious food for an expectant mother. Did I mention I hate eggplant!"
"Yes!"
"Well, it's worth repeating!"
Mary was looking from one friend to another, light slowly dawning on her. "May I ask how the sex is?"
The two women looked at her in surprise. This was not the kind of question they expected from Mary, especially at their late stage of fatness. But something made Molly ask, cautiously, "Why?"
"Because when I had Claire, I went two weeks beyond my due date. I was getting desperate, so I looked up some supposedly natural ways of bringing on labor. Bumpy car rides, bananas, eggplant," she looked at Anthea, "Chinese food, oregano, basil", now looking at Molly, "Are all supposed to induce labor!"
"Why ask about sex?" Anthea said cautiously.
"Orgasms are supposed to help," Mary explained. Anthea blushed. Mary continued, "And nipple stimulation is also beneficial, although it must last for at least an hour."
Molly, now blushing, said, "That explains Sherlock's falling asleep in a very peculiar position last night!"
All three were now laughing uproariously. Suddenly, Anthea went a little pale, and clutched her large baby bump. "I think my water just broke!"
"It's a good thing Angelo owes Sherlock his freedom, or we wouldn't hear the end of this"
Anthea was already on her mobile to Mycroft. The last thing the women heard her say was, "No more bumpy roads, Mycroft. I'm warning you!"
Anthea's car arrived immediately, and the three women were all rushed to St. Bart's, soon to be joined by Mycroft, surprisingly with his brother in tow. The group settled in for a long afternoon of waiting. Mary called her husband, who was just finishing up a day at the clinic, and he joined them, bringing fresh supplies of coffee and crisps. Molly then announced that she had to go to the ladies. Unfortunately, there was a handwritten sign on the door, advising people to use the one on the floor below, due to plumbing problems. Sherlock immediately offered to accompany his misshapen significant other down the stairs.
"Why can't we use the elevator?"
"The stairs are much closer. And you don't want to be trapped in a crowded elevator in your condition, do you?" Exaggerated concern was written all over his face.
"The bloody git never gives up!" Mary said to herself when she remembered that walking up and down steps was also considered a way to induce labor. "I wonder how many miles he's made her travel on the stairs at Baker Street?"
Molly never made it back up the stairs. The next time they saw her she was being wheeled into a birthing room next to Anthea, with a rather pale but triumphant Sherlock at her side.
Hours passed very slowly. Mary and John were allowed to join Molly and Sherlock in Molly's room. Mycroft and Sherlock kept running from room to room, passing on the latest progress reports as if they were discussing a sporting event.
"Seven centimeters dilated!"
"Ha! We're up to eight!"
"I can see a head!"
"I can too, but mine has hair!"
Phone calls began and ended, reports made to the senior Holmeses. Loud female voices came from each room, Molly vowing never to let Sherlock touch her again unless he SAT DOWN AND SHUT UP! Anthea's East End voice let loose a string of expletives that singed the ruff of hair around Mycrofts's ears. Finally, seemingly within seconds of each other, the screaming from each room stopped and cheers and applause ensued. Moments later the new fathers nearly crashed into each other in the hallway, each holding a newborn. "Boy," said Sherlock simply, looking down at his son, "Mine, too," Mycroft replied, then questioned his brother, "Time of delivery?"
"Seven fifty-nine," Sherlock replied questioningly.
"Eight o'clock on the dot. Congratulations, little brother."
"We'd like to name him John Mycroft, if you approve?"
Mycroft smiled a genuine smile of affection and approval, "We were thinking Siger Sherlock."
" S.S. Holmes. Sounds like a ship, brother."
"Can it be any worse than growing up Mycroft and Sherlock?" Both brothers chuckled.
"I suppose not." And the brothers then entered each other's room to show off their new sons to their aunts.
Mycroft sat in a rocking chair next to his wife's bed, gently rocking his son. "I suppose we should start thinking about the Christening. Who do you have in mind for godparents? Sherlock, of course, but how about a godmother? I am considered, in some quarters to be the British government, after all. Maybe we could persuade the Duchess of Cambridge? We couldn't do better than to have the future Queen as godmother!"
Anthea smiled warmly, and told him to shut the hell up in not quite so polite terms.
Next door, roughly the same conversation was going on.
"The Duchess of Cambridge, Sherlock, really?"
"I think she'd get along well with John. And, ahem, I have saved the government on more than one occasion. I've even turned down a knighthood. Don't you think they owe me, eh?"
"Sherlock, shut up and let me sleep!"
"I think we should invite her husband too, what's his name?"
But Molly was now fast asleep, leaving her husband to mutter to himself, "The game is afoot!"