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To the outside observer, it would have appeared as if Sherlock had spent several hours in a catatonic state after deducing that Molly was pregnant.

He sat unmoving in John's chair. Sherlock had chosen it only because it was the closest, not because of any link between his friend's paternal achievements and his own impending fatherhood. At least, not consciously.

Sherlock sat still and turned to his mind-palace.

In the depths of his mind, far away from the chaos which plagued his every conscious thought, was a space he would retreat to when he needed peace. It was the perfect recreation of his favourite place as a child. It was in corner of the back garden, hidden by overgrown shrubbery, and only discovered because he'd thrown a ball for Redbeard too far and it had rolled behind some bushes. When Sherlock went to retrieve it, he pushed the branches aside to find a garden bench what had been made out of an old railway sleeper and a couple of piles of rocks. Sherlock never worked out if the rocks had been placed by hand or by some natural occurrence. It didn't matter. Sitting there, hidden by the bushes, the ten-year-old Sherlock and his precious dog Redbeard were alone in the world. At peace.

As he recreated the space in his mind palace twenty five years later, Sherlock felt Redbeard's fur beneath his fingers.

He sat and thought.

He thought of the day Redbeard came into his life. He had skipped out early from school, which was nothing out of the ordinary for him. In fact, he probably did it at least once a week. Even at the age of ten, he was a keen enough observer to note which teachers would compare their class rolls with the school's official record.

There was Mrs Fisher, the art teacher, who abused pain medication to "inspire" her work (and to numb the pain of her recent divorce). It was enough for her to remember what she should be teaching – there was slim-to-no chance that she would observe who it was she was teaching it to. Ms. Burke, the athletics instructor, was so busy flirting with Johnson, the recently employed greens-keeper, that she didn't care if her students came back from their cross-country runs or not. Then there was Mr Barnes, a man so old and infirm that every day the man turned up to school alive was a day more than his life-expectancy (or so Sherlock thought. It later turned out that Barnes had another fifteen years of teaching in him, to the surprise of everyone, including himself).

All Sherlock needed to do was word up Victor Trevor, his only friend and confidant, to cover for him and the various failures of those three teachers would take care of the rest.

And so, on the day he met Redbeard, Sherlock was walking home at Midday, taking quiet lanes and cutting through back gardens to avoid being seen. He was on his way through the McKenzie's property when he heard it. Coming from the back shed was an unmistakable sound: the small, almost pitiful yelp of a small animal. Driven by curiosity and uncaring of trespass laws, Sherlock opened the shed and peered inside. Curled up in the corner was an impossibly small creature with flame-coloured fur and ears almost bigger than the rest of him.

The puppy continued whimpering as Sherlock walked over to him. As Sherlock got closer, the tiny head shot up in curiosity rather than fear. Sherlock reached out to comfort the small animal, and was met with the fervent licks of a small yet slobbery tongue.

Sherlock laughed at the tickling sensation. Sherlock never laughed.

He didn't know how long he'd been sitting by the puppy's bed when he heard his neighbour's voice.

"His mother died last night," Mrs McKenzie informed him.

"Oh – um…" Caught red-handed skipping school and trespassing, Sherlock didn't know what to say to the grey-haired old woman.

"He likes you." She said, gesturing to the puppy.

"Does he have a name?" Sherlock asked.

"If he were yours, what would you call him?"

Sherlock had recently been practicing his French by reading a series of Belgian pirate comics he found in the attic, left over from when his father was a boy. The pirate's beard was the same colour as the puppy's fur.

"Redbeard."

The old lady smiled. "Redbeard?" She tested. "Sounds good." She picked up the puppy and handed him to Sherlock. Sherlock held the animal with unpractised hands, afraid that he might break it.

"He's yours." She said. And left.

When Sherlock walked through the door holding his new best friend, his mother said nothing, merely cocking an eyebrow. Later that night, his father gave him a few tips on puppy-raising and informed him that the rest was up to him.

The only member of the Holmes household who had any complaints about their newest addition was Mycroft.

"What on earth were you thinking, little brother?"

"I didn't mean to."

"Yes you did. You must have gotten attached. There's no way Mrs McKenzie would give the dog away to any small boy."

"He was lonely."

"And I suppose you sensed a kindred spirit?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"What have I told you, little brother? Loneliness is a choice. Look at me, I'm not lonely."

"How would you know?"

"Caring is not an advantage. If you care for anyone or anything, you're only hurting yourself. All lives end. All hearts are broken."

"You're wrong."

But of course, Mycroft was right – and Sherlock hated him for it.

For years, Sherlock and Redbeard were almost inseparable. Even when Sherlock went to school Redbeard would wait at the front gate, watching out for his return every afternoon.

But one afternoon, he wasn't there.

That night, while Sherlock cried for what would be the last time for almost two decades, Mycroft stood at the door to his bedroom. He couldn't hide the smugness from his voice when he said, "I told you, brother mine. All lives end."

Sherlock stood, walked over to the door, stared calmly in his brother's smug face, and slammed the door on it.

Caring for Redbeard had cost him, deeply. In fact, with Mycroft's words ringing in his ears, Sherlock avoided all human relationships for the next sixteen years.

Until he met John.

And now it was the memory of the pain he felt when he lost Redbeard that woke him up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, haunted by the shadow of forgotten dreams. Dreams of violence and blood. Dreams where he would scream but his voice would fail him. Dreams where Molly was hurt – or taken – or somehow just out of his reach.

Losing Redbeard nearly destroyed him. He had no idea what would happen if he lost Molly.

He'd already come too close to finding out. He'll never forget the white-hot panic he felt in the hours after Moriarty's broadcast. Disembarking the plain, Sherlock's first words to his brother weren't of thanks, or of a plan to peruse Moriarty, or even an expression of shock about how he did it. His first words were about her.

"Do you have her?" He asked, receiving a raised hand in response as Mycroft listened to the voice on the other end of the line.

Exasperated, Sherlock turned to John and Mary. All thoughts of their final farewell only minutes ago were forgotten. "John, does Mycroft have her?"

In his inimitable calming tone, John gave Sherlock the facts. "Mycroft's people have Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. They're safe."

"And Molly?"

"We seem to have lost her," came Mycroft's ominous voice as he hung up the phone.

"How could you lose her? I thought you had her under 24-hour surveillance?"

"I do – just as I do for all of your assets."

"Then where is she, brother?"

Hours later, after searching Molly's house, office and Bart's lab for clues Sherlock received a text.

Come and play. You know where.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the sheer laziness of Moriary's repetition. It would be almost the same scene as they'd shared four years ago – except the snipers were Sherlock's. Mary and John were camped out on the two different roofs, their sights trained on Moriarty. Also different, Molly wouldn't be there to catch him if he fell – she was the one poised for a fall herself.

Moriarty sat next to her on the roof's edge, the very same edge Sherlock had jumped off years earlier. Moriarty's arm was around her, he leaned in to her. Anyone watching could mistake them for lovers.

But they were lovers – once.

Sherlock couldn't hear what Moriarty was saying, but the look of disgust on Molly's face was all he needed to know it wasn't sweet nothings.

Moriarty didn't look up as Sherlock approached. Eyes still peering into Molly's, he said to Sherlock, "Did you like my message?"

Sherlock rounded on them, trying to calculate the best position should it come to a fight between himself and the diminutive Irishman. He kept his voice calm as he spoke, "A bit too cute for my liking."

Moriarty smiled. "Tell him," he said to Molly. She hesitated. "Tell him," he repeated, yelling this time.

"Jim – he used to ask me that. When he would – when we were –"

"When I was fucking her to get to you." Moriarty finished, exasperated. Sherlock tried not to blanch. He failed. Moriarty continued, "'Did you miss me' was something I used to say to her when I was Jim from IT. Remember Jim?" He asked Molly, "He was so lovable and cute and would go down on you until you screamed." Moriarty's hold on Molly's neck tightened. "She's a screamer, you know, Sherlock?"

Moriarty moved to kiss her. Molly spat in his face. While he was distracted wiping his face, Molly reached into her bra, removed a hidden scalpel, and slashed Moriarty's neck.

Moriarty's eyes drew wide, his hand reaching for the deep gash. Knowing he had mere moments, Sherlock rushed to Molly, knocking her sidewards before John and Mary's bullets hit Moriarty in the head and chest.

After few moments there was silence.

Molly didn't look at Sherlock. Her eyes remained trained on Moriarty as if willing him to move, to cheat death again.

"I'll do the autopsy," she said in the cold, emotionless tone of someone unaware of the shock they were experiencing.

"Molly, I don't think that's a good idea."

Molly's eyes met his, full of determination. "I'll do the autopsy." She repeated, in a tone that made it clear there was no way to change her mind.

"Let the medics check you first."

Molly acquiesced. All that she needed was a small butterfly bandage over the cut in her temple, sustained when Sherlock nocked her to the ground. Within thirty minutes, Molly was in her morgue, looking the model of composure and control as she cut into the deceased body of Jim Moriarty.

She found two bullets, centre mass, right near the solar plexus and one bullet in the right temple – that was the one that killed him.

With the autopsy completed, Sherlock and Molly were certain that Jim Moriarty was dead.

The ordeal on Bart's roof was one which Molly not only survived, but amazingly, was even stronger for it. It made Sherlock certain that Molly Hooper was tough enough survive almost anything.

But it wasn't just Molly anymore, Sherlock reminded himself as he entered the room Molly occupied in his mind palace.

The room was infused with light, with walls clad with oddly un-matching wallpaper prints. A homage to her colourful clothing. It was the opposite of his Baker-Street bunker, but he loved it. Sometimes when he visited her there, she would simply smile, sit on his couch and play with his hair as he rested his head in her lap. Sometimes, especially when he had been working too hard or her shifts had been incomparable with his cases, she would re-enact, in exquisite detail, any one of a number of memories he held of their most intimate moments.

And, of course, there was the time when he needed her to break out of the confines of the box he'd locked her in and take over not only his mind, but his body as well – his memories of her saving him from the certain death of Mary's bullet.

Today, the Molly in his mind palace was altogether different. Her hair was much longer than he had ever seen it, cascading down her back like rivulets of pure silk. As she turned towards him, he could see what had caused her hair to grow so fast and glow so radiantly. There was no mistaking the swell of her belly beneath the empire-waist of her pink and white floral sundress.

That moment, he knew would never see anything more beautiful than Molly pregnant with his child. He ached to see it in reality, not in the construction of his imagination – which he knew would only ever be a poor facsimile.

Mycroft was right, caring was not an advantage. Loving Molly and having a child with her was likely to be the most dangerous thing he had ever done.

But he couldn't wait.

Sherlock had been in his mind palace for hours, ignoring the sounds of London life outside his loungeroom window. He'd also been unaware of any goings on inside his flat.

As he stood up, he saw a nondescript envelope lying near the door. Delivered, he suspected, while he was too lost in thought to observe anything. He hadn't heard anyone approach, or open the main door, or walk up the stairs. He hadn't heard the sound of the envelope as it slid in the gap under his door.

As he held the envelope in his hands, he had no way of knowing that what was inside had the power destroy any of the plans he had just that morning begun to make for his life with Molly, and the life of their unborn child.

His first guess was that it was from Mycroft, delivered by one of his minions – Anthea perhaps. Information about some kind of government coup in some backwater nation Mycroft would like him to stop – or ensure. But the envelope was too cheap for his brother. Mycroft only used the best quality stationery – this was standard, probably purchased at Tesco.

The first thing he saw when he opened the envelope was her face staring out of a black and white photograph of her. It had been taken from some distance with what he suspected was a very high-powered telephoto lens. She was wearing the same clothes she had on when she left the flat that morning, although her face was lined with telling concern. He knew what had caused those creases in her brow. He had the same ones himself.

She knew she was pregnant.

There was another photo. Molly entering Boots.

And another. Molly holding a pregnancy test packet.

And another. Molly intently reading the instructions.

And finally. Molly carrying the test back to Bart's.

The envelope contained more than just photos. Sherlock pulled out a small plastic bag and emptied its contents on the table.

A positive pregnancy test.

Sherlock felt sick – not only had someone been following Molly, but they had been close enough to her to know not only where she took the test, but where and when she discarded it.

The last thing Sherlock removed from the envelope was a pathology report. As if there was still any doubt, Mike Stamford had stated in the notes that the level of the pregnancy hormone HCG in Molly's blood was consistent with a pregnancy of 6-7 weeks gestation.

Molly was definitely pregnant. She knew it. Now he knew it.

But whoever sent Sherlock the package knew it as well.

"Who the fuck are you?" Sherlock asked into the chilling silence of his loungeroom.

As if by way of answering, the text alert on Sherlock's phone chimed. He read it.

Tate Modern. 5pm.

Sherlock had no idea who had sent the package, how they knew to follow Molly, or what they planned to do with the information. He hated not knowing.

Grabbing his Belstaff and scarf, Sherlock left Baker Street, hoping for answers – fast.

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