"You're not feeling well."
Cold and measured was just the way his tone always was and had been and it had never really bothered her any. What did strain her nerves, though, was his utter uselessness in such moments.
She was about to fire back with something snarky and pissy, but felt the urge to throw up again and wisely chose not to do it talking. The day was starting superbly!
Ever practical, Sherlock stepped over and carefully gathered her hair back and out of the way while she retched her dinner into the bowl. Molly was at least grateful for that attention.
He helped her up once she'd finished and wet a flannel to clean Molly's face and mouth with.
"What's wrong?" he asked. "What have you eaten?"
"Nothing, but I do have a full belly."
His brows furrowed and he tilted his head, slightly disconcerted and not quite understanding.
"Sherlock, please tell me you haven't forgotten about sex ed in middle school?" she sighed as she washed her hands.
Instead of a hint, it proved to be an added confusion.
"I'm sorry, I… er, which?"
Sherlock was being a genial moron and it made Molly angry. With a loud huff, she poked at her own belly.
"You put a baby in here, you fucking pillock!"
He gave her nothing but an empty stare and for the next minute, didn't say a word.
When the silence began to feel eerie, she swiped a hand slowly across the empty space in front of his face.
"Sherlock?"
Sherlock was unresponsive; his eyes remained blank and his lips slightly ajar. Evidently, he needed a bit of time to put the news through the convoluted workings of his strange mind, and so Molly headed for the kitchen to let him buffer in peace.
She picked her favorite mug - bearing a black and white photo of Molly's idol Florence Nightingale, underlined by a hardly witty "Go with the Flo" - and rummaged around the cupboard in search of some tea. The first she could find was a box of ginger tea bags, not usually to her taste but perfect for the nausea. She popped the kettle on the range and patiently waited for the water to boil.
Meanwhile, Molly leant back against the worktop and thought back to her and Sherlock's first night together.
A good while after the three magical words had been spoken over the phone, Sherlock had begun to take her along on more and more cases; he had use for her sharp mind as much as her ability to keep quiet when asked, and if their relationship wasn't exactly what she hoped it to be, at least she could spend time around him and enjoy herself all at once.
The romantic entanglement itself was a rather unexpected development to her mistakenly elbowing his face in the dark as he was walking into her flat unannounced; his bruise was nothing major ("You hit like a girl," he insisted. "A blind one."), and yet after a few minutes of holding ice over Sherlock's mouth, all she could think of was how gorgeous his poor lips looked. Bright and beestung; so erotic when they were usually slim and barely colored.
Too much tension between them needed relieving and too many things had never been said that should have been.
She wanted a kiss.
The situation was propitious to it, as they sat in her darkened kitchen without a word to fill the few inches between their faces.
On the spur of the moment, Molly leant in before he could stop her and stole a peck, then put the ice back to his face as if nothing had happened. She expected to be rebuffed in some way, or at best, not to be acknowledged, but certainly not pulled into his arms and snogged the breath out of. No questions asked, she kissed back, letting the ice pack drop, as Sherlock half-pushed and half-carried Molly to the bedroom. She was lowered gently onto the mattress and he hovered above her face, stroking her cheek and trying to relish a special moment.
To her, it didn't feel real. In all likelihood, she was about to make love to Sherlock Holmes.
"Sherlock…"
"What is it?"
"I can't quite believe it's you in bed with me."
"Believe, Molly, believe, for you aren't the luckier of us two."
Saying which, he pressed his lips to her throat and she groaned softly for him not to stop.
"You don't know how long I've fantasized about you," he whispered against her skin.
"You have fantasies?" she asked with a half-smile.
"I have one."
Molly carded her fingers through his black curls, holding his head close, and moaned some important words as Sherlock's hand slipped under her waistband..
"Are you sure about doing this?"
"Not at all," he said, "but it might be the start of something good."
"Something serious?"
"All up to you… might be a good omen we didn't cut straight to the sex."
They both breathed a sigh of relief and took the time to share a slower and more collected buss. With a better view of where each of them stood, Molly cradled his face and asked.
"Promise you'll still be here in the morning?"
He smiled and nodded, and they went to sleep wrapped in the other's nude form that night and every other for two months to follow, after which they came out to friends and family as "together and with projects" with no more fuss than spilled tea (John's) and tears of joys (mummy Holmes').
Two more, and Molly moved in with Sherlock; the place she rented was larger but neither could part for good with Baker street.
Eight months or so into it, they were in a very good place. There were lots of sex, plenty of cuddling and unmistakeable feelings in his looks, though a tad less in his words - it was Sherlock, she didn't expect any stellar verbal skills. About then and without ever talking about it proper, they left the condom out for just one night.
A month after that, Molly took a test - five tests, all positive - and rather than break out the news outright, she decided to wait for him to notice. But he didn't.
A long, continuous whistle cut her reverie short. She pulled the boiling kettle off the burner, turned it off and went to fill her mug with steaming water.
Teabag, sugar, off to the couch to think about what would happen from then on.
What bothered her first and foremost was that Sherlock hadn't even noticed. He'd found out in no time when Mary had been pregnant, but not his own woman. Perhaps had his detective's edge been dulled by all the romantic attentions he constantly craved and she more than willingly lavished upon his gorgeous body - or was Molly only flattering herself?
She shrugged and took a sip of the tea, hoping she could keep it down. She thought of herself as a decent lover, or at least a considerate one - and it helped that Sherlock seemed to belong on a marble pedestal with a spear in his hand. At any rate, as long as he thought she was good enough for him, Molly was happy.
Sherlock wanted the child, that much was for certain, but it wasn't to say he'd know how to deal with one by any means. Molly had seen him at work with little Rosie and his performance had fallen quite short of splendid. She'd need to show him what was what. But did she know, herself? Well, a bit. Some more would come over the forty weeks of worry, emotion, discomfort and making Sherlock's life a miserable experience; and then they'd have plenty of time to practice hands-on, hopefully before the child would start to form proper memories.
The brew was quite nice, she drank some more of it - a longer gulp than previously.
They'd have a lovely cherub. An adorable brat who'd grow up as handsome as his father or a stunning little princess with some morbid fascinations. Was it at all possible that she was carrying both? The thought brought such a shake to the hand she was holding her cup with she set it down not to spill. There was no way their infant union was ready for two children to raise.
No. That wasn't the proper way of seeing things. If they had more than one child, they should be the happier for it. They'd work through the hardships; they'd enlist the lovely people they were fortunate enough to have for friends and their knowledge and just make it work the best way they could.
John and his wife would stop at nothing for Sherlock's sake and Mrs. Hudson, the dear old lady, would most likely provide her precious help (and not allow the least hint of polite refusal) before even being asked for it. Molly couldn't begin to imagine how elated mummy Holmes could be at the prospect of grandchildren and her husband could only join in her happiness for sure. And even if Mycroft pretended otherwise to preserve his stiff-collared reputation, he was ready to kill for his brother and most likely had by the past - so what was a bit of babysitting to ask?
After some long minutes of thought, things looked a good deal better for them and what progeny they might have than moments before. The tears that had started to gather behind Molly's lids were thankfully stopped in time.
She was happy again.
Had the moodswings started already?
"Molly?"
She swiveled around with a start and found him just behind the settee. He leant down and pressed his cold lips slowly to her crown, before walking around to sit by her side.
"Twins are one in a hundred, you shouldn't trouble yourself with thoughts of that."
She didn't even ask when he'd come out of his daze and caught onto her thoughts, but leant against him and felt his arm wrap firmly around her shoulder.
"My mum was a twin," she said against his.
"Then it's slightly more likely. All it means is that there might be two cakes at every birthday, and that should make uncle Mycroft happy."
It brought a pleasant smile to her lips and Sherlock kissed her hair again.
"... as should you be, Molly. You're going to be a mummy, this is what we wanted, isn't it?"
She lifted her head off Sherlock's chest to buss his cheek, fiddling with the neck of his t-shirt.
"It is, Sher… I am happy, of course. But this changes quite a lot and it's messing with my head. I'm only being moody and dramatic and… rude. The way I talked to you, you won't hold that against me, will you?"
"Molly…" he breathed, holding her to himself. "Molly, Molly, Molly."
Her name was said with a most earnest expression of fondness on his face - on anyone else's, it would have verged on indifference, but she knew how to read him, and what sentiment she read then was so true and protective it nearly pulled tears out of her.
"Molly, you're not expected to apologize for anything. Not for a good few months."
Stroking her cheek with a tender finger, he brought his lips to hers for a round of kissing loud with love and small moans, during which they shifted without noticing until Molly was on her back and Sherlock covered her small body with his own.
"What say you we make sure you really are pregnant?"
She nodded underneath him, already shimmying out of her bottoms.
"As many times as you want, love."
The best part of any of Sherlock's days was dawn. It was four hundred and fifteen days since Molly had given birth, and rising bright and early to watch them all sleep was still as new and gratifying as on the very first.
Molly's face had settled as always into a perfectly peaceful expression brightened by a soft and easy smile. Tucked against her breast was little Florence, thumb in mouth, looking the prettiest with a pink bow in her curly hair. Two beautiful slumbering angels, and a third between Sherlock's own arms.
A first ray of sunlight streamed through the blinds and onto Oliver's face and made him stir against his father's chest. He gave a lazy yawn, threatening to wake up, but Sherlock pressed a gentle, reassuring kiss to his jet black mop of hair. Flo's twin resumed his nap as before and Sherlock was relieved.
The boy was a devil in his waking hours, no higher and healthier sort of fun for him than breaking things and hiding his sister's headbands. But Sherlock, in true manchild fashion, took away Oliver's loupe - his favorite object, for some obscure reason - in turn until his little princess' tiara was restored.
Sherlock reached across both motionless little bodies and rested his palm on Molly's arm. Molly, who had given him Oliver and Florence and all the joy they brought along into his life.
"Molly…" he whispered.
She didn't budge.
"I love you, Molly," he breathed again. "I love all of you."
And he closed his eyes again, intending to revel in the marvelous warmth he felt for a few more moments before going back to sleep.
A playful little murmur reached his ear from Molly's side of the bed.
"Heard that."
Sherlock's fingers gave her shoulder a fond squeeze and they smiled at one another across their progeny over how lovely life was.