"So, what is it, then?" Sherlock asked and Molly handed him the picture from the sonogram, smiling. "Ah, a girl. Congratulations to you and John. I expect you'll be planning the nursery accordingly. I'll see if Mycroft knows anyone."
"Thank you," Molly said and meant it.
"Pink I expect, for the walls," he paused then, thinking and Molly didn't know why. What was wrong with pink? "No, yellow, yes, that's much better." He hurried away, madly texting on his phone. Molly gave a small sigh of relief. Maybe it was a good thing Sherlock was having someone decorate the nursery, she'd probably come up with something terrible.
"Told Mrs. Hudson yet?" John asked and Molly turned and smiled at her husband, accepting a kiss from him.
"She's ecstatic, already wants to know what to get for the baby shower," she fidgeted her hands for a moment, and John frowned.
"You okay?" he asked.
"Yeah," she smiled at him. "I'm fine,"
"Nerves of the day?"
"I expect so."
"Why don't you go lie down for a while? In fact I think I'll join you, I could do with a rest."
John fell asleep in a few minutes; Molly lay awake, taking comfort in the weight of John's arm slung over her waist and belly. Nerves. That's what it was. It seemed as if she couldn't make up her mind whether to be excited or not. She'd always wanted to be a mother, but now that she was pregnant, she couldn't help but feel apprehensive.
The next day, Greg presented Molly with a baby-carrier.
"It's top of the line," he said proudly. "All the safety features you'll possibly want and ask for, I did my research."
"Oh it's wonderful!" Molly pressed his cheek.
"No, I'll set it down, don't you dare," he said, holding the box away from her with a laugh. "John would have my head!"
"Just put it there, by the table, I'll have it brought up to the nursery after they're finished painting."
"Who's they?"
"Workers Mycroft hired, Sherlock insisted that his brother's PA hire some designer to decorate the nursery."
"Excited to be a mummy?"
John had just come up the stairs when he heard voices in 221b. One was Molly, the other he recognized as Greg, asking her how she felt about being a mother.
"It's all a bit mad, I mean, I've wanted to have a baby for so long, I'm lucky, really lucky, having John for a husband, I thought I better not wish for more," she shrugged, thoughtful. "But now I'm pregnant and it's a girl, I mean, I'm still wrapping my head around it." John entered then, and he noticed Molly put on a bright smile for him and it made him pause.
"See what Greg gave us?" she asked and John nodded.
"And you were worried we'd never find a proper car seat," he chuckled. "Oh, that reminds me, Sherlock says Anthea will go with you to look at baby clothes, you know, rompers and stuff."
"Oh!" Molly brightened at that. "That'll be fun!"
Over the next week, John watched Molly carefully. She seemed caught between absolutely thrilled and completely petrified, and she seemed most of all to keep him from seeing the latter feeling about her. She grew fretful, more so than simply pregnancy hormones, and he was concerned for her. He wanted her to be happy, and he was sure deep down she was, but she was worried about something, and it was worrying her terribly. She seemed almost depressed at times, and John worried how it might affect the baby, and too her joy of being a new mother.
"You know you're not too old to have a baby," he said to her one night and she looked up from her computer at him on the other end of the sofa. "You seem worried lately, you'd said early on, you were worried about your being in your thirties, you're healthy and so is the baby," he assured her. For a moment, Molly wanted to cry, first of all because she did feel sometimes that she was too old and they were mad for having one, but that too John was trying to reassure her. He noticed she was upset. She didn't know if she was relieved or not that he hadn't guessed the proper reason she was depressed.
"Thank you," she said, trying to smile. She turned back to her computer, not noticing John get to his feet, still watching her. Slowly, he pushed her laptop lid down and she looked up at him,
"Molly," he knelt down, moving her laptop to the end table. She automatically curled her legs under her, folding her arms over her belly. "Don't shut me out, please," he begged gently. "Tell me what's wrong; are you worried about the baby? Living in London? My work?"
"No, no, you're wonderful, London is wonderful, I- I know the baby is fine, will be fine but-" she stopped short there, darting a glance around the room as she felt tears burn in her eyes.
"What?" He inched closer, easing her hands into his, soothing circles on them.
"You won't understand," tears dripped down her face.
"I'd like to try, if you'd let me."
Dear John, sweet and gentle, fiercely passionate about the ones he loved, brave and understanding. Molly knew he would be a wonderful father. But John had had a father and mother during his childhood, Molly couldn't remember her mother, just a faded photograph her father had kept at his bedside. The smiling woman was pretty, had a kind face, and Molly knew she must have been a good woman, but her father never talked about her, and her father could only do his best to raise her and her brother. Molly grew up around boys, not that she minded, she learned to hold her own, and she was never without someone to play with. But growing up, she proved too tomboyish for the girls in school, and no matter what, she was still a girl and couldn't hang out with the boys all the time. As an adult, things were much the same. She didn't quite know how to talk to the other women, just the fact that they were all, god-bloody-sophisticated, with their nails and their fancy salon-done hairstyles. Molly did try sometimes, but it was just easier to pull her hair into a ponytail and head to work rather than fuss and fuss at something she wasn't good at. What was she supposed to tell their daughter when she wanted to use make-up? "Oh, sorry dear, I don't know how to use that stuff, why not ask Uncle Sherlock?" Molly could already see it, her and John's daughter coming home from school sobbing that her clothes were all wrong because her frumpy mother who can't use a blow-dryer did the school shopping.
"Molls?" John gave her hands a gentle squeeze and she looked at him, sighing.
"I didn't grow up with a mum, John, you know that I'm just…" another sigh, heavier this time, and she sniffed, her mouth pulling into a frown the way it did when she was about to cry. "Look at me John," She burst finally. "How can I be a good mother? I never had a mother, I don't- I can't do my make-up and I'm not fashionable. I'm supposed to teach her how to be herself and-and be ladylike and look at me! How can I be a mother when I'm just a frump?"
John's heart sank, seeing Molly so upset. He understood her fears, somewhat, but he was also a little baffled. No, Molly's wardrobe was nothing out of a fashion plate, but she had a style all her own, and it made her happy. As for make-up, he couldn't ever tell when she wore it or not, he just didn't notice. It wasn't important to him. The fact though that she felt she couldn't be a good mother because she herself didn't have one, made him pause. He wanted her to understand that she didn't need a mother to be a fantastic one. He got up, bringing her to his chair and drawing her onto his lap, arms about her waist and over her legs. She curled against him, sighing heavily.
"I'm sorry," she murmured.
"I wish you'd told me sooner," he said. "I'll have to have that "World's Best Mum" mug taken back and have it changed for "World's Worst". His smile was teasing, and despite the fact that she pinched him good and hard (he supposed he deserved it), there was a slight twinkle in her eyes. "You," he paused then, licking his lips, and he finally turned to meet her gaze, his eyes shining at her. "Will be an amazing mother, and I know this because of who you are, Molly Elizabeth Hooper Watson. Because of your naturally compassionate nature, you love to take care of people; I see the way you look at your baby niece, the way you hold her. You have so much love to give, and that's what's needed most in a mother. Our daughter will grow up knowing she's loved, that she's taken care of, and when she's a teenager," he grinned. "We'll send her to live with Sherlock." Molly laughed then, forehead against John's. "Besides," he chuckled, continuing. "Look at how well you take care of Sherlock, who is, without a doubt, the world's biggest, poopiest baby."
"I am not!" they both turned to see Sherlock on the landing, still in his pyjamas and dressing gown, blow-torch and gloves in hand.
"Yes you are," John answered. Sherlock huffed, setting his things down on the table.
"I hope you aren't keeping anything dangerous in the flat when the baby comes," Molly said, eyeing the blowtorch.
"Not to worry," Sherlock replied. "I'll baby-proof the flat myself, speaking of, Molly, why didn't you tell me roasted eyeballs release toxic fumes when exposed to open air?! I might have caused serious damage to the fetus!" Molly gave a helpless shrug.
"I did say, you were too busy torching a tray of them in the oven like meatballs."
"Well," Sherlock sniffed. "Anyway I've disposed of them now, if I have any future ocular experiments, I'll be sure to perform them outside of Baker Street."
"You better," Molly huffed. John gave her a light squeeze, kissing her shoulder.
"There you see? Nobody but you could tell off Sherlock like you, and get him to listen to boot. If you can mother him, you can be a mother for our baby." He rested his chin on her shoulder, smiling up at her. "Okay?" She gave a sigh, one of relief, and she put on a smile, pressing her forehead to his.
"Okay." She was still nervous, but knowing John understood now allayed her fears somewhat. Of course she could be a good mother. She had John Watson at her side, and probably the world's best (or worst) babysitter/consulting detective. Besides which, Molly had been told herself she was a rather spiffy sort and accomplished in many things. Yes. She could and would be a good mother, the best she could possibly manage.