Molly had an awful habit of biting her finger nails.
She had always been nervous, tripping over words when it mattered most and never really exceling at social situations. In this regard, being a pathologist suited her – her patients were always quiet, never tried to make her navigate the mine field that is small talk, and didn't complain when she cut into their chest cavity to weigh their hearts.
The only problem was the latex taste the gloves would leave on her nails. It still didn't deter her.
Particularly, it didn't deter her today, as she sat at her desk, scanning over a blood report, mere moments after the bright, blazing words "MISS ME" came flashing across the small screen that they kept in the break room. While other Bart's employees had run to check it out, Molly made a quick exit back to her office, locked her door, and had been sitting in her office chair for the past fifteen minutes.
Suddenly, she was aware of how dangerous the world was.
He would know she had helped him fake his death, and he would come after her.
She was scared. She was shaking.
And according to the lab report she had just gotten back, she was pregnant.
She bit her nail and tasted blood.
The commute home was awful. The Tube had been shut down for fear of a spontaneous attack and all the cabs were too paranoid to pull over for anyone, even mousy 34-year-old women who were wearing pink sweaters with cherries on them. The whole city seemed to be pulling its hair out and running around like mad, and all Molly wanted to do was go home and sleep.
The walk from the hospital was about two miles, and she could see rain clouds forming overhead. With a huff she began walking briskly to her flat, mindful not to be to quick.
Of course time would be working against her on this.
Nothing was ever easy when it came to her and Sherlock Holmes.
It hadn't meant to be anything. Not really.
He had seemed odd when he stopped by to say goodbye before Christmas, acting like he would never see her again. She just assumed it was Sherlock being Sherlock, and hadn't thought anything of it. It was particularly embarrassing when he walked in on her, crying over some paper work like a child.
"What's wrong?" he asked, standing over her.
She quickly wiped her eyes and ran her fingers down her cheeks.
"It's nothing,"
"It's not nothing, you've been reading over reports from a fertility clinic. You've been crying for the past 15 minutes. Have you been informed that you're unable to conceive? I'd imagine that's good news now that you're single again," he immediately regretted saying everything the moment she looked up at him.
"For once, could you refrain from being such an enormous prick?" she choked out. She stood up and slammed the file shut.
He was quiet for a moment, and then turned to face her as she walked over to grab tissues from her bookshelf.
"I'm…sorry, Molly."
"No, I'm sorry." she said, blowing her nose out. "It's just…" she looked up, trying to keep her tears in. "Tom and I went by the fertility clinic when we still thought we were getting married. My mum had had issues conceiving me, so we wanted to make sure we could have children, or get started on the adoption process," she threw the tissue into the garbage and stared at the ground. "I just got my results back, not that it matters any more. It says I realistically have two years left of reproductive health." She took in a deep breath. "I've always wanted to be a mum, and now my chances are looking pretty bleak," she laughed in spite of herself, and straightened up.
"Sorry, you didn't come here to hear me complain," she looked up at him and tried the best to smile. "What did you need?"
Sherlock's face was impossible to read, like his brain was buffering. The air was stiff, and Molly had worried she had shared to much, and was about to apologize before he asked:
"What do you need?"
"Sorry, what?" she smiled. She must have missed something, like always.
"What do you need?"
What was he-
Oh.
She sat cross-legged on her couch, sipping water. She was done for tea for nine months. Coffee, too. She wondered how long it would take for anyone to notice she was showing, who she should tell first.
She didn't have any family left, besides her cousin in Canada who last she checked have just gotten married for the third time and was moving to Alaska. John and Mary, maybe, but she wasn't ready to explain what had happened, not yet. Now that Sherlock was running around in Eastern Europe somewhere, he was obviously out of the question. And she certainly wasn't going to tell the group of friends that had introduced her to Tom yet-
Her phone buzzed, causing her to jump, almost dropping her water. She reached out and grabbed it, opening up a new text.
SUPPOSE YOU'VE HEARD THE NEWS. AM BACK IN ENGLAND. ARE YOU SOMEWHERE SAFE? –SH
Her fingers flew onto the keys.
YES. IN MY FLAT. DO YOU THINK HE KNOWS I HELPED YOU? –MH
Seconds later she got a response.
HE'D BE A FOOL NOT TOO. TAKE A CAB TO BAKER STREET. –SH
Molly bit her nail again. She looked at Toby, staring out the window with his big green eyes. She wished they could switch places right now; her sit on the window ledge and watch the world fall apart and he could go to Baker Street and tell the world's most brilliant man that he was going to be a father.
Reluctantly, she pulled her coat off the rack and went out the door.
She had never seen Sherlock's apartment so alive. The minute she got out of the cab she was ushered into the flat by two men she assumed worked for Mycroft. They hustled her up the stairs and immediately began patting her down, being much more rough that necessary.
"Be careful, she's a friend, not one of your call girls," Sherlock appeared in front of her, pulling the man off of her.
"Excuse me?" the man said.
"Haven't checked your phone since we've left the airport, obviously not making sure your wife or girlfriend is fine. Well thumbed card with a Carmike Motel's phone number, faint trace of body glitter on your neck and," he leaned in and sniffed. "cheap body spray from Boots still lingering on your skin. Come sit down, Molly."
Molly passed the dumbstruck henchman and was seated on the couch next to Mary as John paced in front of them. Mycroft stood by the mantle, with Lestrade peppering Sherlock with questions.
"Thought you said he blew a hole in his head, how the hell is he still alive?"
"I thought I did see him blow a hole in his head, just like you thought you saw my corpse. Moriarty is smart, he easily could have tricked me the way I tricked everyone in this room," he stole a glance at Molly. "Well, not everyone," he turned back "Besides, it could be one of his apprentices taking over his criminal ring and using his face as a front to cause mass terror."
"So what do we do? Wait for…Crazy jr. to rear his head?" John balked.
"Obviously not," Sherlock quipped, sitting down in his chair.
"Well what are we going to do, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked. "My phone has been blowing up for the past two hours asking me for orders!"
"Can everyone please shut up? If you'll remember I've only just returned from a ten minute exile!"
"What we can do," Mycroft spoke up. "Is make sure security get the appropriate boost,"
"Yes, especially for these three," Sherlock spoke up, lifting his head from his hands.
"Not to be rude to Dr. Hooper," Mycroft said. "But why do you feel she is at as great of a risk as the Watsons?"
"Because," Sherlock breathed.
Oh god, he knows. Of course he knows, he can tell what I had for breakfast two days ago by how I'm wearing my hair-
"if you forget, she helped me fake my death. Moriarty isn't used to being outsmarted, and doesn't like making mistakes. He'll try to correct himself, and make her pay for helping me."
Molly breathed out. At least he hadn't told everyone.
"Very well," Mycroft said. "I'll see what I can do about adding extra security to her flat. In the mean time, I think it'd be best to take the Watsons to their new flat." Mycroft gave his hand to Mary, who gave Molly's hand a quick squeeze before getting up and waddling out. John looked back to Sherlock.
"You should receive a new phone, which only Mycroft and I will have the number." Sherlock assured him. "I'll be in touch,"
John nodded. "Let me know as soon as you hear anything,"
Sherlock nodded, and watched and John left the flat.
"I best be heading back to the station, figure this bloody mess out," Lestrade groaned.
"Careful on the streets, Gavin," Sherlock called.
"GREG."
Sherlock looked down to make sure the door closed, before turning back to Molly.
"So-"
"I'm pregnant." She blurted out.
Sherlock paused, considering her.
"Yes, I-"
"I wanted to say it before you got to. It may be the only time I'm able to break the news to the…" she waved in his direction. "and I wanted to say it out loud first."
He pursed his lips.
"Well," he said, walking towards the window. "Things certainly are more complicated now,"
Molly's nails flew to her lips.
"What are we going to do?"