The Christening ceremony itself had gone off without a hitch. Little Claire Elizabeth Watson was now a member of the Church of England in good standing. Her mother had not dropped her into the baptismal font, and the church had not collapsed into rubble when her godfather, consulting detective Sherlock Holmes entered the building. Evidently, He really was an all-forgiving Deity.
Of course, there was a reception to follow at the Watson's home for family and friends. As it was a lovely day in mid-May, the affair had spread from the sitting room to the back garden. Molly Hooper was sitting on a bench with Mrs. Hudson, sipping a white wine and commiserating with the elderly childless woman.
"I always wanted kids, you know, Molly. But my Frank couldn't be bothered. Said it would ruin my figure. He couldn't see my being a dancer with stretch marks, he said. He was a wrong 'un, my Frank. But, oh, he was handsome…"
"Sorry for interrupting, Mrs. H," John Watson spoke nervously, "but I have to speak to Molly!" And with that he grabbed hold of her elbow and guided her toward a group of people with whom she wasn't acquainted. Well, except for one tall, dark-haired, loud one. "Do something about him, Molly, I'm begging you! He's driving me crazy!"
"He always drives you crazy, John. What, in particular, is the problem today?"
"He's stalking my daughter. Every time someone holds her, he rushes over to give pointers, and critiques. Then he grabs her and wipes her down with sterile wipes. He just keeps pulling them out of his pockets. Where does he get them all?"
Molly smiled as it occurred to her that she had solved the mystery of the shortages in her supply closet. "At least he's keeping her clean, John. It could be worse. He could be spraying everyone with disinfectant!"
"He ran out. Listen to him, Molly!" And Molly listened as Sherlock gave pointers on the proper way to hold a child, how to engage the interest of a three-month old, and what types of objects would hold her attention. As he spoke, he pulled a dummy out of his pocket and shoved it in her mouth. It promptly fell out as she giggled and waved her arms in his direction. "Do you know who that is, Molly?"John said, pointing to the woman currently holding his child, and the object of Sherlock's lecture.
"No. Should I?"
"No reason you should, I suppose. That's my Aunt Marge. She has eight kids of her own, and he's giving her advice!"
"Well, she seems to be taking it all in stride, John. I imagine she quite used to dealing with spoiled children, which should certainly put her at an advantage when dealing with Sherlock."
"Did I mention she also runs a creche, Molly. For infants and pre-schoolers. So, yeah, I suppose she can deal with the git!" John said with a smile. "I suppose I'm over reacting, anyway. He adores Claire. And he means well, I know," he said before drifting away to join his other guests. But Molly kept on observing the exchange. It all seemed to be going pleasantly, until the woman said something which seemed to take the detective aback. He looked down at her, holding his goddaughter, and gave her a smile. But not an entirely happy one. He looked a bit sad to Molly, and she could always read him quite well. He ruffled the infant's sparse curls one more time before leaving her in the arms of her great-aunt, and turned away, looking a bit too contemplative for Molly's comfort. The pathologist shrugged her shoulders in dismissal, and returned to her bench in the garden. No time for Sherlock's drama today!
Mrs. Hudson had vacated the bench, perhaps in search of some other childless woman with whom to commiserate, so Molly sat alone, observing the crowd. But not for long. Sherlock approached with two glasses of wine in hand. "You've been nursing that almost empty glass for ages now, Dr. Hooper. Afraid to take on the crowds around the bar?" He asked the question as he handed her the plastic wine glass full of white wine, and sat down next to her. "Enjoying yourself? I saw you speaking to Mrs. Hudson earlier. Is she still complaining about her childless state?"
"That almost cruel, Sherlock! She sounded rather sad."
"I'm sure she did, Molly. But raising a child while running a drug cartel would probably not have been a wise choice. Not to mention what the stretch marks would have done to her dancing career!" The detective smirked.
"Some day you must explain all these remarks, Sherlock."
"No need, Molly. Search youtube for 'Martha Hari and the dance of the almost seven veils.' You'll get quite an education."
Molly thought about this for a moment, almost reaching for her mobile to do a quick search, but thought better of it. She'd rather think of the older woman as a biscuit baking motherly type than anything more exotic. Her mind turned to other matters. "Sherlock, what did that woman say to you?"
"What woman, Molly. Any number of women have said things to me today, ranging from 'bugger off!', 'sod off!', and 'piss off!', to even more colorful terms indicating my company was no longer required."
"That one over there." Molly nodded in her general direction. "The one holding Claire."
"Ah, very astute woman, there. She correctly deduced that I had no children of my own, and then advised me to get on with it, as I wasn't getting any younger!" Sherlock took a sip, or two, of his wine, and slumped his shoulders a bit "She said I'd make a good father. She said she could tell."
"Perhaps she can. That's John's aunt. She has eight children of her own, and runs a creche. So I assume she has quite a bit of interaction with parents, and is capable of making an educated judgement on who would make a good father. But why did that make you sad. You looked sad! You thought no one was looking, so you looked sad."
"You saw me, though. You always see me, Molly. Maybe I knew you would." He took another swig of his drink before continuing. "Mrs. Hudson was right, you know."
Molly's mind swirled in confusion. What was the landlady correct about? The one theory that she had had no compunction about repeating to all and sundry was that Sherlock and John were a couple. John had always denied this, stating emphatically that he was not gay, and his dating record did, indeed, support his claim. But Sherlock had never either confirmed his landlady's statements.
"Right about what, Sherlock?" Molly asked with trepidation.
"About John and I," the detective said with a resigned air. Molly's heart sank. She had been in love with the man sitting next to her for years, and although she knew it was completely unrequited, there had always been just a glimmer of hope. Hope that one day he would look around, realize how good they were for each other, and build something more than a friendship. His relationship with Janine, while breaking her heart, had seemed to confirm heterosexual leanings, despite Mrs. Hudson's declarations. And he had identified that dominatrix from, well, not her face, after all. But now, she was imagining…
"Sherlock, do you love John?"
"I suppose I do. He's my best friend. I have just come to terms with the fact that I miss him in the flat. Mrs. H said everything changes when friends get married. He's got his own life. A wife and child. And, although he hasn't announced it yet, Mycroft has informed me that he, too, is getting married. And Graham is married, still, as of this week, at least."
"Well, Sherlock, people change, they evolve…"
"Don't talk to me about evolving, Molly. Evolution! That's the excuse Mycroft used for getting married! If the best and the brightest don't reproduce, he says, what will become of our species. Mycroft intends to spawn, for god's sake! He's probably swimming up river even as we speak!" Sherlock shuddered, and turned to look at the small woman next to him. "Aren't you at all curious as to with whom he intends to breed, Molly?"
"Anthea, I would assume!"
"Why would you assume that? He does know other women, you know?"
"Because he is in love with Anthea, Sherlock."
"How would you notice that, and not I?"
Molly shook her head in slight exasperation. "Maybe because you don't look for sign of things like that, Sherlock. Maybe you wouldn't even recognize the signs."
"Perhaps you're right, Dr. Hooper. I should look into the matter further. In any case, evolution has done in my brother!"
"Back to evolution? Why?"
"Nature is plotting against us, Molly. The act of procreating is, itself, so pleasurable, that people tend to perform it even when there is no chance of procreation. The birth control industry is worth billions of dollars a year, Molly. Simply so we can go on doing what nature intended us to do, without the consequences which nature intended. And babies are so appealing, with their big eyes, their overlarge heads, and that smell! Oh, god, Molly, that baby smell should be illegal. Do you know that, despite the fact that science has yet to figure out where that smell actually comes from, studies have proven that it affects the same receptors in our brains as cocaine does! That's right, babies can be addictive! Don't laugh at me! I caught you smelling Claire at the church."
"Sherlock, stop ranting! People are beginning to notice," Molly said evenly, hoping to calm the waters. Taking a deep breath, the woman continued. "So, what's the problem? I said you looked sad. Are you lonely? Jealous?"
"Perhaps," the detective admitted, uncharacteristically.
"Which?" Molly pressed on. "Lonely or jealous?"
"Both, I suppose."
"Well, I can see you being lonely. You got used to having John around. I suppose you thought when you returned home after those two years away, John would be waiting for you, just as he was before."
"He wasn't the only one I hoped would be waiting for me. But the flat did seem rather empty with him gone."
"And I guess I can understand your being jealous of Mary. He did choose her over you. But now they have a family, Sherlock. You have to get over it!"
"Molly, I have no idea what you're talking about. I'm not jealous of Mary. I like Mary! I'm jealous of John! And Mycroft! And even Grant! They've all got partners. And kids. They've all grown up! And here I am, closing in on forty, and nothing to show for it! You know what I mean, don't you? Don't you want a family, Molly? Children?"
"I've never made any secret of my desire for kids, Sherlock, but this is all rather unexpected coming from you. Are you sure you haven't become addicted to the baby smell? Do they even have rehab for that sort of thing?"
"Really, Dr. Hooper, I'm happy to see that you can find some humor in my state of mind. And if they did have rehab for that sort of thing it would probably be populated by middle-aged women deafened by the sound of the loud ticking of their biological clocks."
"Another point in your favor, Sherlock. You don't have such a clock. You can have kids practically up to the day you die, for god's sake. Why the pressure now?"
"Blame it on the evolutionary imperative! Mycroft did! And it's not my clock I'm worried about, Molly." As he said this he turned the full force of his lovely eyes on the woman next to him, and smiled seductively, just as he did in all her dreams.
"Sherlock, what are you getting at? Are you suggesting that I give you a child? Now look here, I've given you plenty of body parts, organs, and the like in the years I've known you, but I may have to draw the line at a fully assembled miniature human. Am I supposed to carry this child, or are you talking in vitro fertilization, and a surrogate? And who gets custody?" The pathologist was laughing now, trying to convince herself of the humor of the situation. "I don't know if I would trust you with my own flesh and blood in that abattoir you pass off as a flat? And, if I have physical custody, will I be nothing more than a glorified nanny, following orders from the consulting parent at Baker Street?"
"Molly, I assure you that I intend to be a hands-on parent at every stage of the child's development, beginning with conception. I mean that metaphorically, of course, as conception will, no doubt, involve other organs rather than hands. Molly, please breath. You're making me nervous."
Molly exhaled slowly, thinking about the implications of "other organs". Sherlock Holmes took her hands in his, and continued. "Shall we talk about custody now. I would insist on joint custody. As Baker Street is larger than your place, I would suggest there for a start, but I have no objection to relocating to larger quarters, or remodeling, as our brood increases…"
"Our brood? How many did you have in mind, Sherlock?"
"At least one more than Mycroft!"
"How many does Mycroft plan to have?"
"I have no idea, but you know how competitive he can be!" Sure, Molly thought, Mycroft is the competitive one!
"Listen, Sherlock, just one thing. Why me?"
The detective heard the slight tremor in her voice, and knew the anxiety which caused it. He studied her face, and saw her try to smile, to make light of the situation, but not really succeeding. And he knew he loved her. She mattered the most to him. More than anybody or anything. He would give his life for hers a hundred times over. And the burden of that knowledge, instead of weighing him down, made his heart light. So light that he started to laugh, perhaps not the most romantic of gestures, but it seemed to lighten her mood as well. "Who else, Molly Hooper? It's always been you. You matter the most, and you always will. I'll probably break your heart a few more times, inadvertently, but I promise I'll always be there to mend it. And change nappies, if necessary. What do you say?"
"Say to what?"
"Moving to Baker Street and proving Mrs. Hudson wrong with all the rather erotic noises coming from the flat above her head!"
"Sherlock!"
"And, if you're amenable, I think we should marry before the birth of our first child, at least. I'll understand if you want to take me on approval until then, but I would like a no refunds, no returns policy after the kids start coming. Is that acceptable?"
Molly tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come out, so she merely nodded her acquiescence. She had barely recovered herself when he brought his lips down on her, kissing her passionately, and once again, driving all coherent thought from her head. They sat on the bench for the longest time, ignoring the company of people around them, holding hands and leaning into one another. Finally, the crowd began to thin, people taking their leave as the evening grew dark. John's Aunt Marge made her way over to their bench as she was leaving, taking in the sight of the couple in the twilight. She looked at Molly, smiling. "I don't believe we've met, my dear. I'm Marge Watson, John's aunt. Your young man here is quite impatient. He needs a little one of his own to fuss over. Maybe then he won't expect everyone to fuss over him so much. In my experience, the best way to get over being spoiled is to spoil someone else. See to it he spoils you a bit, luv. It'll make him happy!" She then smiled at them as she made her way into the house.
Molly went in search of Mrs. Hudson to offer her a ride home in the cab with Sherlock and herself, only to find that the landlady had left already, squired by a retired colonel of John's acquaintance. Sherlock found her quickly, and practically dragged her out the door, shouting farewells to John and Mary, but not before giving one last sniff at Claire's head.
Mary Watson joined her husband at the door as he waved goodbye to the quickly departing couple, who were practically running toward the high street in search of a cab. "They seem to be in quite a hurry, John. What's up?"
"Something about being in a race with Mycroft. Sherlock said he'd explain later, but he was sure to win. He said that Mycroft may have had a head start, but that he was better at sprinting to the finish line, whatever that means. And Aunt Marge said something cryptic as well. About him sniffing Claire's head too much, and being an addict."
"I have no idea what she's talking about, John." Mary spoke while sniffing unconsciously at her daughter's sleeping head. "John, have you thought of having another one? Soon, I mean?"
"All the time, my love. All the time," the good doctor said as he put his arm around his girls and guided them back inside.