Chapter 2 – Maury Povich

Monday morning arrived fierce and unforgiving to 221B Baker Street, whose tenant had overslept due to grossly missing his target bedtime. Granted, that "target" had a wide margin for error, but his mind had been far from settled when he finally collapsed on the sofa.

All day Sunday he'd fought an unseen fog that obscured his focus. Each time he felt on the verge of a breakthrough, a haze descended across his mind palace and blocked the gates.

After a fitful night's rest, Sherlock was determined to make some sort of progress that day. As much as he loathed setting his expectations low, the dull ache in his skull impelled him to select a menial task from his client pile. Then from the used clothing pile he selected a shirt that was passably clean and headed out into the dim, dreary morning toward St. Bart's.

He arrived only to bump his nose on the laboratory door, which was dark inside.

Sherlock frowned at his wristwatch. 7:50. Molly should have arrived not three minutes ago. What could be keeping her?

Slumping against the doorframe melodramatically, he toyed with the plastic vial in his pocket while he considered his options. Mostly boring, mundane projects waiting back home. Too rainy and wet outside to do a proper blood spatter analysis on pavement. Atmospheric humidity levels were too high for a spontaneous combustion study. There was one other experiment he might be able to muster enthusiasm for, but it required a C-PAP machine, and the discount home care supply store he preferred for that sort of thing was closed on Mondays.

Mondays were rubbish, always had been. Sherlock glared at his watch again – 7:56. Molly was now fully ten minutes behind schedule. It was becoming conspicuous.

He was seconds away from abandoning his post and going to search of her – hoping, yet not hoping, that foul play was involved – when at last she turned the corner, croissant breakfast sandwich in one hand and keys in the other.

"Oh, Sherlock! Good morning," she blinked, startled.

"How gracious of you to arrive to your assigned station," he replied sardonically.

Molly turned the key and glanced at him sideways. "What? I'm not late."

"Perhaps not by the time clock's standards, but by your own precedent."

She rolled her eyes, pushing the door open and flicking on the harsh fluorescents. "Heaven forbid I should reveal once in a while that I am, in fact, human."

"Is that your best excuse?"

"It is today," she tossed her shoulder bag on the counter. "You do realize, of course, that this conversation is even more a waste of time than waiting for me to arrive."

Sherlock's mouth snapped shut and his cheeks twitched. After staring at her impassively for three more seconds, he altered course.

"I have a sample that needs testing," he reached into one pocket and held forth a vial.

"I see," she squinted at it. "Cigarette stub?"

As it obviously was, Sherlock did not respond but held it forward for her to take.

"One of yours?" she joked.

"How very droll. Yes, I need to verify my own genetic identity," he deadpanned. "I need a standard DNA report, nothing more, nothing less."

Molly snapped on a pair of gloves and pursed her lips. "Rather boring. Slow week, I take it?"

"Slow month," he admitted, seating himself on a nearby stool. "My prospects have grown increasingly slim, Molly. All I'm left with are banalities such as testing DNA, like a dreadful episode of Maury Povich."

"Sorry to hear that. Things will pick up again soon, though. I'm sure of it."

Sherlock stared at her coldly. "Why, are you planning a heist in the near future?"

"No, I was just trying to… never mind. Forget I even tried," Molly shook her head, returning to the task at hand.

He watched her prepare the sample with half interest, craning and contorting his neck to crack the last morning stiffness away.

"It's the sort of name that really rolls off the tongue, Maury Povich," he remarked thoughtfully. "A phonetic gem. It matches the show's essence, somehow."

Molly huffed a laugh. "Just how many episodes have you seen, Sherlock?"

It was a trap. If he downplayed his viewing history, she'd discount his opinion. If he admitted the truth… well, the outcome would be even more unsavory.

"Only one, and it was quite enough, thank you," he haughtily replied.

Molly pressed her lips tightly to keep from grinning. The consulting business must really be slow lately, she thought with amusement. She set the timer for the DNA test and turned to Sherlock, arms casually crossed.

"So out of curiosity, what's the sample for?"

"It's for a high-profile client. I can't say."

"Oh come on, as if I'd have any reason to tell anyone!"

Inhaling slowly, he calculated he'd experience greater antagonism from Molly than from the client herself. These days, he much preferred less hassle to more.

"A celebrity – I shan't say who – suspects the father of the child she conceived through a sperm donor may, in fact, be one of her co-stars," Sherlock said in one breath. "I visited the alley behind his studio and collected the aftereffects of his nicotine addiction. It was depressingly easy."

"Well," Molly nodded, taking it in. "You've officially joined the tabloid circuit!"

"Like I said, all rather Maury Povich. No need to rub it in."

Glancing at the vial Sherlock had brought in, Molly saw it with new eyes. "It's amazing the lengths some people will go to just to have children."

Sherlock's jaw tensed. "It's a wonder anyone wants them at all, through artificial means or not."

Molly raised an eyebrow. That was the first she'd heard Sherlock state his opinion on the matter. Truth be told, she wasn't entirely surprised, although the distaste in his voice was somewhat stronger than she expected.

"They're really not all bad," she offered, albeit weakly.

"What would you know about it?" he spat.

"I've never met a mom who hasn't said she wouldn't trade her kids for anything."

Sherlock looked like someone was squeezing his face together at the temples. "Never met… hasn't said… wouldn't… for God's sake Molly, a triple negative?! Can't you speak more precisely than that?"

"You get the point!"

"As far as I'm concerned, women are culturally indoctrinated to believe that motherhood is their ultimate vocation – even if their other skills include, say, possessing the biochemical knowledge to cure cancer. And for those who don't emotionally embrace motherhood to the perceived degree they should, publicly stating their devotion to children suffices to prove their feminine valor."

Molly's brow creased. "Are you saying all mothers are disingenuous with affection toward their children?"

"Not so much disingenuous as psychologically groomed."

She processed this another minute. "So, no pun intended, it's better for women to throw the baby out with the bathwater and avoid having children altogether, rather than consciously aiming to reshape society's expectations?"

"I - I didn't say that –"

"No need to defend yourself, Sherlock," Molly turned to check on the timer, feigning indifference. "You're entitled to your opinion the same as any other. Just be careful what you say around John and Mary," she winked.

Sherlock stared through her, locking his limbs to conceal the disturbance of being mentally undercut. It must be lack of practice… he reasoned. Curse this mental drought. Find me here on a good week, a frenzied week, and see her outwit me then!

"Besides," Molly added, "your cynicism didn't keep you from giving an excellent baby gift."

His stare intensified, one eyebrow rising skeptically. "You thought it was excellent."

Molly nodded, eyes twinkling. "Very. Not a typical baby gift, true, but it was just exactly what you ought to have given. Those are the best gifts, the ones that come straight from the heart."

Once again, with seemingly little effort, she'd caught him off-balance. Hadn't she joined in the raucous laughter when John opened that chemistry set? Yes, but apparently that didn't mean she saw it as strictly comic relief. Molly's perspective, he was gradually learning over time, contained more depth and color than one might initially guess.

"Thank you," he replied stiffly. "Though, to declare it heartfelt would be inaccurate. I chose it based on various practical factors, such as John's proclivity to involve himself in criminal investigations, my potential influence on the child's overall interests, not to mention –"

"Sherlock..."

"What?"

"When a compliment is offered, just try to accept it graciously," Molly smiled.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Is that sample finished yet?"

She checked the timer. "Nearly there, just another minute."

Out of the corner of her eye, Molly swore she caught Sherlock fidgeting uncomfortably. A faint bouncing of one knee. Yet by the time she turned toward him, the movement had stopped. Leaning casually against the counter, she rolled the timer back and forth between her hands, a thoughtful daydream filling her eyes.

"I can see it now - little baby Watson, age ten months, sitting on a playmat wearing safety goggles while Uncle Sherlock demonstrates what happens when Mentos and Coke mix!"

"Hardly a worthwhile endeavor," huffed Sherlock. "An overdone party trick, nothing more."

"Sure, but…" Molly paused, a thought striking her that hadn't before. She continued in an uncertain tone. "If John or Mary asked, would you?"

Evidently, Sherlock hadn't considered this prospect either. Being requested to perform certain novelties of empty educational value… it wasn't something he'd anticipated doing, much less asked by John to do. Surely John had more sense than that? Then again, he'd taken John to be more sensible than procreating in the first place, so nothing could be taken for granted these days.

When it came to baby Watson, Sherlock had invested all his mental energy into bracing for John's lack of consulting involvement. Not once had he stopped to ponder his own interaction with the child. If he were honest, he'd envisioned some strange sort of evolved utopia where the baby telepathically absorbed Sherlock's genius simply through his association with John, therefore never requiring direct or extended contact with each other.

The prospect of arriving at the Watson residence for the explicit purpose of fraternizing with their offspring was… foreign, to say the least. Yet Molly raised a valid point. Sherlock would likely be expected to make appearances for the child's sake. Rightly so, for whose brilliant influence could be greater? Still, the practicalities of imparting his vast wisdom could prove somewhat difficult.

"John would never ask such a thing," he dodged.

"All right, what about something else… a game of pat-a-cake?"

Sherlock crinkled his nose. "Pat-a-cake? What the devil is that?"

Molly looked somewhat horrified. Before she could compose herself, the timer interrupted with its insistent beeping – the DNA test was complete.

"Here we are," she drew a breath, taking the sample to process its readings. She carried on half-distractedly while she worked, "I think spending time with baby Watson will do you good, Sherlock."

"You may believe it to be good, but I believe less exposure to infants to be better - and fewer infants overall to be best."

He could sense his words stung. Molly flinched almost imperceptibly, but somehow rallied to surprise him once more.

"I'll agree there are far too many parents who don't deserve their children," she granted. "What the world needs isn't fewer children, but more people like John and Mary to have them."

She then handed him a printed copy of the DNA results, wearing a polite smile. After a moment of silence, he muttered his thanks for the report and left – even more awkwardly than usual – without another word.