This is just a little something I wrote after being inspired by a Sherlolly fic on tumblr. It's the first piece of fanfiction that I've ever finished, and I'm quite pleased with it, but do let me know what you think. Of course, I don't own any of the characters, I just like to write about them. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoy being able to say I actually completed it!
Molly Hooper woke up alone. Outside the window dawn was just breaking, and although the sight was glorious, she had seen this hour far too often over the previous week to properly appreciate it. Sherlock had grown increasingly distant over the past couple of months, especially since she gave birth to their son, Arthur Hamish Holmes (Arthur for her late father, and Hamish for the good doctor). Although he had stayed with her throughout the labour, allowing her to almost crush his hand and fire a variety of insults and curses in his general direction, he had refused to hold his son at the hospital, preferring instead to hover in the background whilst everyone else cooed over the new arrival. During the first week Molly had found Sherlock to be noticeably absent. She was grateful that Mrs Hudson had been on hand to help her get settled. In fact, Mrs Hudson had been positively ecstatic when Sherlock told her the news; she didn't have children of her own and Molly got the impression that she wanted to make up for it now. The older woman had been all too happy to accompany her on the numerous trips that were needed to acquire all of the baby-related paraphernalia, and seemed glad to watch Arthur when Molly was in danger of nodding off if she didn't get an hour's nap. Without her, Molly didn't think she would have coped with motherhood all that well, especially given the fact that, just over a week after Molly and Arthur came home from the hospital, Sherlock announced that he had been called away on a case and didn't know how long he would be gone.
He was gone for two weeks. Molly had hoped that the time away would allow him to get used to the idea of being a father with some degree of detachment, and that he would then become more involved with his son upon his return. If anything, the opposite was true. When he did finally return home Sherlock continued to be distant: spending most days away from the flat, and never saying much in the evenings. He seemed to have retreated into himself. Molly knew that Sherlock Holmes was not what anybody would call affectionate, it was just not in his nature, but he did usually made an effort, for her. That was before. Doors that Molly swore she had once been allowed through were now shut, and the key was most definitely not under the mat.
The past few times she had woken up like this, alone and at about five o'clock, Arthur had been quiet, and therefore Molly had refrained from investigating her husband's absence, preferring instead to grab a few more hours of much needed sleep. But this time had been the sixth in as many days, and she had had enough. She slipped out of bed and threw a dressing gown around her shoulders, before tiptoeing out into the dark flat. Molly had expected Sherlock to be in the sitting room, but there was no sign of him. The lights were off and all was still. If it weren't for his overcoat hanging on its customary hook by the door, Molly would have thought that he wasn't even in the flat. There was only one room that she hadn't checked: the nursery, but Sherlock had barely set foot in there in the last month. She pushed the door open gently; the last thing she wanted to do was to wake Arthur. Sherlock was sitting in the rocking chair, wearing his blue pyjama bottoms and an old grey t-shirt, his curly hair tousled by sleep. A crack in the curtains which hung over the window in the far wall allowed a pale shard of moonlight to illuminate his features, casting a perfect shadow of his profile onto the floor. He was watching Arthur who was asleep in his cot, wearing the sky blue baby grow that John and Mary had bought for him. Molly had rarely seen her husband this still when he wasn't working on a case; he hadn't even looked up when she opened the door, although Molly knew he knew she was there. Not wanting to disturb Arthur she tiptoed across the room and came to stand behind Sherlock, resting her hands on his shoulders.
"You're cold," she whispered.
Sherlock said nothing, but reached for her hands, guiding her round in front of him before pulling her down onto his lap. Molly turned to sit sideways with one leg bent so that her bare foot could rest on the arm of the chair. Her toenails were unpainted; she kept meaning to do it, maybe a pale shade of pink, but with Arthur taking up every spare minute of her day she hadn't yet found the time. Sherlock thought it was pointless, seeing as her toes were so often covered by shoes and socks, but Molly didn't care. She liked to know it was there, even if nobody else did. She pressed herself to him, her side against his chest, and rested her forehead in the crook of his neck. Sherlock wrapped his arms around his wife's waist and held her close; she felt safe here, surrounded by his embrace.
They sat in silence. This wasn't a problem for Molly; despite improving since entering into a relationship with her, Sherlock could still go for the longest time without uttering a single word. Molly knew that sometimes he just needed to get away from everything and go to a place deep inside his head where even she wasn't allowed, so she didn't push him. Eventually she heard a low voice in her ear:
"I'm sorry."
"What for?" she asked, not moving, and therefore unable to see Sherlock's face.
"Not being here," he said simply, his voice barely above a whisper. Molly didn't reply; she wasn't going to say that it was fine, because it wasn't. The silence returned. It felt to Molly as if, in the whole wide world, it was just the two of them sitting together in the night, watching their baby sleep peacefully. It didn't happen often, what with the nature of their jobs, the attachment to their friends and now the new arrival, but Molly loved the moments that they could spend alone, not saying anything, not doing anything, just being. She nuzzled Sherlock's neck gently.
"He has your looks, you know," she said quietly. Immediately she felt him tense. Molly was used to saying the wrong thing, and usually she knew straight away when she had, but this time was different. She laid a hand on Sherlock's chest, feeling his heart beat beneath her fingers and he brought up a hand to cover hers.
"What's wrong?" she whispered. There was a long pause. At first Molly thought that he wasn't going to respond at all; she wanted to look up, to see his face, but feared that moving would disturb him and he would brush the question off. So she waited: her hand over his heart, his hand over her hand. Eventually he spoke.
"I never thought I'd have children. I never even thought of myself as someone who wanted children." Molly stiffened instinctively, but Sherlock continued. "It just wasn't an option. But I look at that little boy, and I feel… I feel proud." Molly felt herself smile; it wasn't often that Sherlock spoke with such warmth in his voice. "He's one month old, a blank canvass. He has the chance to grow up, to be his own person, to live his own life. But he still has half of my genes."
The smile fell from Molly's face - not that Sherlock could have seen, as she was still afraid to move. She wasn't quite sure where this line of thought was going, or how it would end. He paused. The silence grew. Then just at the point where it had grown so long that Molly feared that he had shut down and wouldn't continue Sherlock spoke. His almost inaudible, little more than a rumble in his chest, and Molly was surprised to hear it shake slightly.
"I don't want him to be like me."
For a second Molly froze; the last and only other time she had heard him sound so vulnerable was just before the fall. But she didn't want to think about that, so she sat up and turned to look at him for the first time. His face was difficult to read - to the untrained eye he might have seemed indifferent - but Molly could see that there was an uncharacteristic touch of uncertainty in his eyes.
"Is this why you've been keeping away?" she asked softly. Sherlock nodded, and in that moment he looked at such a loss that it made Molly's heart ache. She brought her small hands up and placed them on either side of his face.
"Sherlock, look at me."
He shut his eyes, hiding himself from her. Molly sighed, resting her forehead against his, and closed her own eyes. There they sat: heads together and eyes shut tight, her hands cupping his face and his arms encircling her waist. Molly could find no words to convey the comfort she wanted to give him. Although he now had a solid group of friends, she knew that he still felt like an outsider. Most of the time he liked to play on this, and often seemed to enjoy occupying a superior plane to those around him. Molly was aware that she was hardly blessed with social graces - something she knew was a source of eternal disappointment for her mother – but she sometimes caught Sherlock watching her or John conversing with others, especially in groups, with a sadness in his eyes, like he was looking in on a scene that he could not enter. That was the curse of his genius; he was revered, placed high on a pedestal, but try as he might he couldn't climb down to meet with the people at the bottom, and they were the people by whom he was admired. Others shunned him completely, labelled him a freak, cast him out. Over the years he had built up a wall to protect himself, but although doors in it had begun to open it still all too often served to isolate him from those who cared for him. He wanted the best for Arthur, she had no doubts about that, but Molly couldn't let him rebuild the wall and lock himself away.
She circled her arms about his neck, her fingers curling tightly in his dark hair, and pressed a long, hard kiss to his lips. Although hesitant at first, Sherlock eventually responded, but when she pulled back, he refused to meet her gaze. Carefully Molly clambered off his lap and stood before him. Taking his hand with its long musician's fingers in hers she whispered:
"Come with me."
With one last fond look back at their sleeping son, she led the consulting detective back to bed to bring down the wall, piece by piece, and show him exactly how much he was loved.