Chapter Two
It had gone well, all things considered. Sherlock had reigned in his compulsion to be a smart-arse to medical professionals, with only a couple of raised eyebrows and puzzled expressions from the staff on the antenatal wing. Molly looked across at him now in the cab; he was on his phone as always, but his other hand held hers on the seat between them, his thumb idly stroking the back of her hand. She smiled to herself. They seemed to have adapted to the changed nature of their relationship almost seamlessly – although Molly knew that there things about Sherlock, things she was discovering, that he would never want to be shared more publically. His tactility was one of them; from the first night they spent together, it seemed he couldn't get enough of touching her – not that Molly was ever likely to complain, given how many years they'd deprived each other of this particular sensory thrill.
Molly flipped through the flimsy print-outs they'd been given by the hospital. To be honest, the 12-week shots were arguably clearer, and nothing could match that rush of emotion at seeing their child for the first time – but now their baby almost filled the screen, and that brought home the imminence of parenthood all the more. She'd stolen a look at Sherlock, and for once – for a second - he looked like a man who wasn't certain about the world around him.
The midwife had carried out the measurements on the screen, telling them with a smile that the baby had "long arms and legs, like daddy". Sherlock had clearly been doing his best not to give any reaction to this, but Molly saw the corners of his mouth curl upwards, almost imperceptibly, as soon as the midwife turned back to her monitor. The baby was also incredibly restless like daddy, and seemed to take advantage of her every resting moment to start working up a beat on her insides.
"Kicking again," she announced idly.
Immediately, Sherlock reached across the gap between them, his hand going to her stomach. She guided it around to the spot where the baby seemed most active.
"That's a fist," he replied, confidently. "A pugilist, like his father. Although his mother does a pretty mean open-handed slap, too."
He slid her a sly smile.
That day in the lab, following John and Mary's wedding, seemed like it belonged to a different lifetime. Saying that, there'd been a day a couple of weeks ago when, flushed with hormones, she'd been overcome by a dread that the drugs would someday return. It seemed to take Sherlock a while to understand her fear – to him, it seemed obvious that the drugs (and his need to get high, whatever it took) were behind him. He had apologised, reminded her that he was still working on empathy (though he didn't expect to extend it to a very wide circle) and told her, deadpan, that he was "high on love instead." Molly hadn't been able to help it – she'd collapsed, half-laughing, half-sobbing into his chest, while Sherlock tried to figure out what on earth was going on. She did feel slightly sorry for him – he'd picked a difficult time to start getting in touch with his emotions.
"You sure you don't mind going back to Baker Street for a while?" he said, his fingers sliding back from her stomach to hold her hand again.
"No," she replied. "As long as I'm allowed to sit in your chair and watch crap telly."
"My chair? I bought you your own chair, especially."
Molly loved her yellow chair, almost as much as the thought that Sherlock bought it for her before they were even together – it reassured her that, despite the fact that their relationship turned on a dime one night six months ago, he had been thinking about making her a more permanent presence in his life.
"Your chair's big enough for two," she reminded him.
"Oh, well if that's what you've got in mind," he said, arching an eyebrow. "I'm going to have to send John out for more than just milk."
"I'm talking about the two of us," she told him, patting her stomach and suppressing a smile. "Anyway, I think we need to be on our best behaviour after last week. I'm still not sure whether I can look John in the eye."
"Nothing he hasn't seen before," Sherlock shrugged.
Molly laughed.
"I can assure you that he hasn't seen it before, Sherlock."
"Oh. Well, yes, obviously not. Good. But female nudity in general. Not that you were…completely."
"Put it this way, Sherlock - John and I are friends, and I have no interest in seeing him without his clothes on."
Sherlock snorted.
"Yes, as the man who has shared a flat with him on and off for nearly eight years, I wouldn't recommend it."
Molly smiled, and Sherlock returned to his phone. Mention of the flat at Baker Street started Molly off down one of her recent, regular trains of thought; neither of them had spoken yet about living arrangements once the baby arrived. She felt she had to work on the basis that her house would be home, at least for her and the baby – after all, Sherlock had given her no indication that they would move in together or, if they did, where that would be. He loved 221B and she would never ask him to leave it, but it wasn't exactly a family home – she shuddered when she thought about Rosie's easy access to a full spectrum of lab chemicals and bacterial cultures. But, however much Sherlock might try to feign nonchalance to those around them, Molly had seen him sneaking glances on his phone at the photo from the 12-week scan – he wouldn't want to be living apart from his child.
The cab pulled up in Baker Street and Sherlock paid the driver. He came around to Molly's side of the car and took her hand to help her out. She still wondered whether had John had drilled these gestures into him, or whether this chivalry was coming naturally – whichever way, he took her hand for the few paces leading to the front door.
"I'll come up in a minute," Molly said, once they were in the hallway. "I said I'd pop in and see Mrs Hudson when we got back."
"Please do not take up her inevitable offer of further relationship advice, Molly," Sherlock replied. He had a slightly pained look on his face, and she knew he hated his landlady knowing that he had a softer side.
"Oh, I don't know," Molly replied, smiling. "She was right the last time, wasn't she? Something about things getting back on track during the second trimester…"
She saw the recognition register immediately on Sherlock's face, quickly followed by another look with which she was now very familiar.
"Okay, now you definitely need to be quick," he said, his pupils visibly dilating. "I'll get rid of John – he should probably take Rosie for some fresh air, as that's apparently a thing for babies – and put Lestrade off till this later – it only looked like a 5 anyway, 6 at best – and then I'll wait for you. I'm not good at waiting, though, so probably best if you don't keep me waiting long."
Molly laughed, feeling the blush rise in her cheeks; she wondered how long this 'honeymoon' phase in their relationship would last, and how Sherlock would feel when he had to compete with a baby for her attentions. She arched onto tiptoe and pressed a kiss to his lips, which he returned with a dramatic flourish before turning to the stairs – and tripping halfway up them in his haste.
"Whatever you may think you saw, you didn't," he mumbled, as Molly giggled and watch him go.
