Just as Mary promised, everyone stood beside her. Most surprising of all, was Sherlock. He'd been the first outside of Anthea and Mary to congratulate her. Indeed, he'd come banging up to her flat (as he'd done before), only this time he apologized to her for causing such a racket.

"I didn't hurt the baby did I?" he blurted out as soon as she'd opened the door.

Molly blinked, mouth slack then she quickly shook her head. She shouldn't be surprised that he knew. For just a moment, she hoped Mary had told him everything, but of course Mary wouldn't, not if she'd expressly asked Mary keep her secret.

"No, Sherlock, you didn't hurt the baby, just startled Toby." The cat hissed from atop the bookcase, clearly ruffled.

"Hm." Sherlock narrowed his gaze at Molly, studying her. For the first time in a long while, she appeared uncomfortable under his studious gaze. She tugged at the hem of her sweater, unable to bring herself to look directly at him.

"Stop that." Her voice was soft, pleading.

He blinked, straightening. "I'm…sorry…I didn't realize-"

"I know," she nodded, turning away. You can do this, Hooper. Chin up buttercup and muscle through! Quoting her father had always worked before, but somehow it made it worse, and as she turned to the kitchen she began to cry.

"Molly," Sherlock rounded the kitchen island, this time coming to stand directly before her. "Molly what is it? Are you in pain? What's wrong?"

"Oh everything, nothing," she managed to choke out between tears.

Surprisingly, she felt herself gathered up in Sherlock's arms, and he gently guided her to lean against him.

"It's going to be all right," he promised, gently swaying back and forth. He kissed her cheek with a little more tenderness than he'd initially meant, though she didn't seem to mind. "I'm not going to leave, I'll find out who the father is-"

"No!" She struggled in his arms, trying to move away from him. "No! No, Sherlock,"

"What's wrong?" he frowned. "Don't you-"

"I know who the father is…it'd…it'd spoil everything. He's…he wouldn't want to know, trust me," she smiled through her tears. "Please, Sherlock, please do this for me, don't try and find out."

Sherlock frowned at her pleading, but slowly nodded. "Very well," he put on a smile then, shrugging. "If you like, I shan't. Just as well. You don't need his sort anyway!" he pressed a kiss to her forehead, thumbing away her tears. "Go sit down, you shouldn't be standing anyway. You'll get swollen ankles. I'll fix your tea."

He missed her bittersweet smile as he turned away. She watched him a moment longer, considering lecturing him that swollen ankles wouldn't be a side-affect until much later. Instead she decided to leave it be as he attended the kettle and tray before sitting down on the couch.

"I'll bring a proper basket around tomorrow," he declared from the kitchen.

"A what?" Molly asked, confused.

"A basket," he repeated. "People bring them when there's good news…a baby is good news, isn't it?"

Molly looked at Sherlock, seeing in him a tenderness she'd only seen in him briefly, when she caught him snuggling with Rosie. She took a breath, realizing having a baby, having his baby, even if he didn't know it, was a grand thing! She made a decision, albeit silently, that from now on, she'd be keeping her head up, focusing on the good things.

"It is," she said at last, and smiled with meaning.

"Good!" he set the tray down with a small clatter, he threw himself onto the overstuffed chair opposite the couch. "You needn't worry, I'll see to everything, would you prefer a doula or to give birth in the hospital? Oh! Or a water birth? At home water birth?"

"What?" she barely suppressed her laughter at his eagerness.

"Well, these are things you ought to know sooner rather than later, if you want an at-home birth we'll have to find a suitable midwife. And a proper air conditioning system for your flat, being pregnant in the summer will do you no favors whatsoever, especially in our city, knowing the humidity."

"I- I hadn't given that much thought," Molly confessed. Of course she'd need air-conditioning. By the time her due-date rolled around it would be mid-August and stiflingly hot. She'd never put it in simply because she was so often at work, and by the time she reached home, she didn't mind sleeping with a cool rag or a bucket of ice in front of a fan. The idea of being nine months pregnant and melting in the London humidity made her re-think what she'd need as far as remodeling her flat.

"Have you thought about which room the nursery will be? The spare room is rather sparse, but it could be set up nicely, could knock the window out and make it bigger, you do own this flat, so it wouldn't be any trouble. Or there is the finished attic. I know you wanted it as a craft room, but it's much brighter there, it would no trouble at all to get it fixed up properly, or would that be too far from the baby for you?"

Molly shut her eyes a moment, somewhat reeling from Sherlock's stream of suggestions.

"Well…uh...the spare room is nearer, so…that could be the nursery, and the attic could be the new spare room," Molly said after a moment. "Can't have my flat without a spare room for the World's Only Consulting Detective."

"If you recall I never used your spare room, needed the space."

"So you crammed into my bed," Molly answered, laughingly teasing.

"I don't recall you complaining," he quipped, rather smug.

Just as soon as the smile in her eyes had appeared it was gone, and Sherlock noticed. She made no comment, lost in thought.

"Molly?" he ventured.

"No, you're quite right," she smiled, brighter, trying to move the conversation along. "I always insist on my fair share of my things, but I'll always share them with you." With that she got to her feet, kissing his cheek quickly as she passed him. "I'll do an at-home birth, I think."

"You will?" he looked mildly alarmed.

She turned, hearing the worry in his voice. "Why not? You just suggested it."

"Yes I know, but…well, what if something goes wrong or-"

"Well I'll have a midwife there, they're trained for that sort of thing. But I don't want any crack-pot who doesn't use scalpels or surgical scissors. I don't need some madwoman telling me a tear heals faster than a cut."

Sherlock nodded, not quite understanding, but knowing Molly knew what she was talking about. "You'll be attending Lamaze classes, I presume."

Molly nodded, and Sherlock noted the flush of anticipation creeping up in her cheeks. "Are you volunteering to come with me?"

"If you would permit," he said, then paused. "Or would you rather have Mary-"

"No I-I'd like for you to come along," Molly interrupted. "You're my friend too, after all."

His smile was suddenly bittersweet, and there was a quiet sorrow in his eyes as he regarded her. "Yes, yes we are good friends now, aren't we?" Somewhere, in the back of his mind there was a quiet, niggling thought that they could've been so much more. But that wasn't what Molly wanted, was it? He didn't dare hold onto such a hope, not so openly. He would not ruin the good, cherished friendship between himself and Molly. They were so happy now, so at ease in each other's company. There was lovely give-and-take in their friendship, a kind of comfortable happiness Sherlock could not put his finger on. Yes, he could be happy just as he was with Molly. He was resolved to be so. He would be anything for her, so long as she would allow him.