Chapter Three

John, John, how to get rid of John. Not so long ago he couldn't have cared less about how he did it as long as he got the right result – but now Sherlock felt that perhaps he should try not to hurt his friend's feelings. Particularly as John, he knew, was going to be useful when the baby arrived and, god help him, he was sure to need – he shuddered at the mere word – 'advice'.

He was starting to formulate a plan in his head when he threw open the door to the flat to find that he had a visitor.

"Good afternoon, brother mine."

"Christ!"

"No. Guess again."

Among other things, his brother was a very efficient douse of cold water on his libido. When Sherlock had sufficiently recovered, he saw something else in his peripheral vision. John was at the kitchen table, feeding Rosie in her highchair.

"Why didn't you warn me he was here?" Sherlock demanded.

"Firstly, could you please not swear quite so openly in front of my impressionable daughter?" John replied, his hand poised with a spoonful of something orange and disgusting-looking. "And secondly, he told me you were expecting him."

Sherlock turned back to glare at Mycroft, who smiled back at him, beatifically. While sitting in Sherlock's chair.

"That hardly seems very plausible now, John, does it?" Sherlock asked, not removing his eyes from his brother.

"Don't blame me," John muttered. "I came back with the milk and found him here."

"So you didn't work out I was here?" Mycroft said, rising from the chair. "Losing your touch, little brother. Or perhaps you were…a little distracted?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the looks John was throwing at him.

"What do you want, Mycroft?"

"I like what you've done with the place," his brother continued, ignoring him, ambling across the room until he was standing beside a particular piece of furniture. "This is an interesting piece. Yellow not really your colour, though, is it Sherlock?"

Now he got it.

Sherlock turned on his heels and flung open the door.

"Change of plan, Molly!" he called. "We're going to your place!"

As he clattered down the stairs, there was a knock at the front door. He froze. He sensed his brother above him, framed in the doorway to the flat.

"Perhaps you should get that, Sherlock," Mycroft smiled. "I rather think it might be our parents."

Sherlock looked up at his brother, then down at the front door. It was a trap, the very worst kind of trap that Mycroft could have devised. A thousand competing thoughts reeled through his brain, but all of them were bad and none of them were rescuing him from this hell.

Defeat settling heavily on his shoulders, Sherlock swung open the front door.

"Sherlock!"

His parents indeed.

Wanda Holmes launched herself at her younger son, engulfing him in a hug. As always, Sherlock remained stiff-armed, bravely bracing himself until it was all over. Well, over until his father decided to get in on the act, too. So much bloody hugging.

Sherlock was all set to bustle them both back out of the front door to – well, to anywhere, really – when the door to Mrs Hudson's flat opened.

"Sherlock, what's going on?"

It was Molly, with Mrs Hudson standing at her shoulder.

He immediately felt all articulacy leave him, as he saw Molly's eyes flick between him and his parents, and his mother look from him to his now-quite-obviously-pregnant pathologist. God, Mycroft had him by the balls here.

"Mummy, Daddy," said Mycroft, now standing only a few steps above Sherlock. "How lovely you could come. Sherlock has some wonderful news for you both."

A few minutes later, Sherlock was in the middle of the most hideous scenario he had faced in his adult life. Mind Palace John was telling him not to be a drama queen, but this was painful. His mother sat in John's chair, his father in his own; John was keeping well out of things by hovering at the boundary of the kitchen with Rosie, and Mycroft was hovering in his faux-sinister way over by the desk. Molly, poor Molly, was sitting in her chair, and he could barely look her in the eye. Thank god Mrs Hudson had a hair appointment she had to go to – although Sherlock had sensed she was very keen to cancel that last-minute.

Sherlock threw a glower in Mycroft's direction, but before he had the chance to take control of the situation, his mother spoke again.

"I'm sorry, dear," Wanda said, addressing Molly. "I didn't catch your name in all the confusion."

"Molly. Molly Hooper."

"Sherlock's pathologist," Mycroft put in.

This seemed to register something with his parents.

"Ah! You helped William out when he was in a spot of trouble a couple of years back," Timothy Holmes said. "Something about a corpse, and faking some paperwork."

Sherlock looked at Molly, who smiled uneasily. Trust his father to refer to Moriarty as a 'spot of trouble', as if Molly had got him off a parking charge or something. And trust him to use his real first name, too.

"Is…" his mother began, her gaze bouncing between him and Molly. "Is this what it looks like?"

She was smiling, looking fit to burst. Mycroft had to be loving this.

Sherlock sighed, locking his hands behind his back.

"Yes, Mother, Molly is expecting a baby, and yes, that baby is mine. Any questions? None. Wonderful. Now you can all be on your way," he said, quickly, adding. "Not you Molly, obviously. And John, you and Rosie can stay, too. Basically, anyone here who is related to me needs to leave."

"Well, there's one person related to you who can't leave," Mycroft said, haughtily.

"Shut up, Mycroft!"

Their parents seemed to be ignoring them both, because the next thing Sherlock knew his mother and father were trying to hug Molly. How did they both suddenly move so fast? His father had had two knee replacements, for god's sake, and his mother was forever complaining about her back.

"I think they're offering Dr Hooper their sympathy," Mycroft shot at Sherlock.

"Shut up, Mycroft!" – this time, it was from John. And Mycroft actually looked slightly rebuked by this.

Molly seemed to be coping well with his parents' overbearing attentions – in fact, her smile looked genuine. He heard snatches of questions about her health, how many weeks, how she was managing. Should he rescue her? Did she need rescuing?

"Such a shame that Sherlock didn't think mention before about the, ah, changed nature of his relationship with Dr Hooper," Mycroft said. His brother was on a mission. "I'm sure we would all have been delighted to share in their happiness."

"Be quiet, Mycroft!" Mrs Holmes snapped.

Sherlock inwardly cheered, but his joy was short-lived.

"But he has a point, Sherlock," she continued. "Molly tells me she's twenty weeks pregnant, so even your father could work out that this, this…change in your life…didn't happen yesterday. I know it's customary to wait a little while before letting people know, but we're your family – we didn't even know you were in a relationship, for goodness sake!"

"Mycroft is sleeping with Lady Alicia Smallwood!" Sherlock blurted.

Hang on, where did that come from? He felt the eyes of everyone in the room on him, but he wasn't seeing the reactions he expected – at least not from his parents and Mycroft. John appeared shocked and mildly disgusted, while Molly just looked confused.

"Yes, we know," Wanda Holmes replied simply. "She came up to ours for tea last weekend."

Sherlock looked to his brother, who narrowed his eyes and smiled innocently. Damn! That had been his trump card; he'd been holding onto it as leverage for a much more serious situation than this one.

"Frankly, that was a bit of a shock as well," Mr Holmes put in. "We didn't see that one coming on any level. I wish you boys would think of my heart before you spring these things on us."

"I didn't spring this on you, Father" Sherlock responded, through gritted teeth. "Mycroft did. You need to have words with your eldest son about his surveillance activities – I think they might be veering into voyeurism."

"Hardly!" Mycroft scoffed. "It was a playground-level deduction. And you can't blame me for taking an avuncular interest."

"Avuncular!"

"In the literal sense of the word, Sherlock – as in 'relating to an uncle'."

Sherlock squared up to his brother, but Mycroft didn't flinch. Then, without him even noticing, Molly was standing between them.

"You need to stop this," she said, firmly. He recognised that look, and the shame it wrought almost made his knees buckle. A silence fell over the room.

"I love you very much, and I don't mind saying that in front of everyone in this room," Molly continued. "But this isn't what I want for my child."

Sherlock felt as though he had a heavy blockage in his windpipe.

"Mycroft," Molly said, turning to his brother. "The extra surveillance is a kind touch – I know somewhere deep down you mean well - but tracking when and where and how often your brother gets lucky is just weird. And if you've been monitoring my doctor's appointments, I'm politely asking you to stop it."

Sherlock didn't need to look at Mycroft to know that he was admonished. He heard his brother's intake of breath, about to speak, but Molly hadn't finished.

"And I know that you and Sherlock are stuck in a permanent, childish game of one-upmanship, but this is not a game and ambushing him like this today was just really horrible and really unfair."

Despite the utter shame he felt, Sherlock felt the pace of his heart quicken, reminding him that this was one of the myriad reasons that he had fallen in love with Molly Hooper – her strength, her clarity, her willingness to fight for him.

"Wanda, Timothy," Molly continued. "You seem like very nice people, and I'm looking forward to getting to know you better, but – and please believe me that I don't say this to offend you - I think you need to sort out your relationship with your own children before you get involved with ours."

He was desperate to see the look on his mother and father's faces, but didn't dare. Instead, all he saw was Molly; her deep brown eyes came to fix on him again and he yet again felt like the appalling, craven creature who several months ago concocted a scheme to get her pregnant. She didn't look angry with him, just tired, spent, and he felt a sharp pain in his chest.

He heard John clear his throat.

"Molly, would you like to come for a walk with Rosie and me?" he said.

She met Sherlock's glance again briefly before her eyes flicked to the floor, then across to John. She gave a quick nod and, without another word, allowed John to shepherd her out of the room, her hand resting gently on the swell of her belly as she walked.

Before John closed the door to the flat behind him, Sherlock saw him mouth the words "Fix this!"

With a wave of nausea, Sherlock turned back to the three other people left in the room. His parents both looked shell-shocked; Mycroft had the look of a man who had just had his high-horse whipped out from underneath him. So now he had the rest of the afternoon to correct the warped family dynamic that they had all lived with for the past thirty-five years.

Hope it's going okay so far. More to come…