A/N: New Chapter! I'm realising how much this story is a slow-burn. Sorry! But there will be drama to come (in Chapter 5). Thanks for all who have read, favourited and reviewed. It's so wonderful to have encouragement on all of my fics!
Years later, in an idle moment while washing the dishes, Molly would find herself remembering one particular afternoon in vivid detail. As she submerged her hands in the slightly-too-hot water, she wondered if there was anything she could have done that day to change how things turned out. As she stood there, reflecting back on that pivotal day, the suds of the dishwashing detergent were transformed into the antibacterial wash in the lab at Bart's. She closed her eyes and could see Mike's face as he carried the printout of her blood test. His kindly smile told her the truth before he said a single word.
She didn't cry, but Mike could tell she wasn't entirely happy about the news.
"So I'm guessing it wasn't planned?"
Molly laughed the kind of laugh she often found herself making when she was on the edge of tears.
She shook her head. "No."
Mike gave her the rest of the afternoon off.
Molly stood outside Bart's with no idea about where to go and what to do. And it was this moment that years later she would revisit and wonder if she made the right choice that day.
She could have called Meena. Like Molly, Meena had recently found herself with an unplanned pregnancy. Unlike Molly, Meena had no idea who the father was - nor did she care to find out. In two months' time, Meena was going to meet her baby girl and begin the journey of parenthood alone.
Molly had already been amazed at how calm Meena had been since finding out her anonymous one-night-stand had turned into a life-altering event. But just that afternoon, Molly truly appreciated just how amazing Meena had been - especially now she found herself nearly hyperventilating at the thought of the child now growing inside of her.
She couldn't go to Meena's. Her anxiety would be magnified in the face of her friend's calm.
She could have gone straight home, surrounding herself with her favourite blanket, changing into her favourite yoga pants and consuming unseemly amounts of peanut butter choc chip ice cream.
Yes, home was a definite possibility. But there was a chance that Sherlock might be there. She had sent him the text to stay away from Bart's. What if he decided to come and find her? It wouldn't take much of his deductive powers to work out where she was.
As much as home was a place of comfort, what she did know was that she couldn't risk seeing Sherlock. Not yet. She wasn't ready.
Molly walked, not paying attention to where she was going. There was so much for her to process that all thoughts of her physical presence were lost to her until she realised that she'd only walked as far as Duke's Garden – just a few minutes' walk from Bart's.
Molly would often take her lunchbreaks there on a sunny day. She knew that it was often filled visited by mothers and babies after their postnatal check-ups at the hospital. Knowing now that motherhood was in her near future, Molly decided for once to pay attention to the contents of the prams as she passed. With no cousins and an unmarried older brother, Molly had never had much experience with babies. Of course, she had seen Joanna Watson grow over the last eighteen months, but she had never even asked Mary if she could so much as hold her.
Molly wasn't sure why.
As a child she was never the kind of girl who played with dolls. Her friends would dote on their plastic and fabric motherhood-training-devices, while Molly would always cast herself in the role of the doctor. She would gladly spend hours mending pretend scrapes to the knee, treating made-up illnesses, and performing pantomime surgeries.
The only Barbie doll she ever owned was one which came with two clothing options: glamourous evening gown or doctor's coat (worn over an impractical slip dress, accompanied by ridiculous high heels). She could even remember the commercial – caring doctor by day, ready for a date with Ken that night.
Molly's Barbie doll never went on dates. Somewhat prophetic, perhaps.
But Molly wasn't alone anymore. Somehow she was in a functioning relationship with a man who claimed to be a high-functioning sociopath.
Molly remembered clearly the panic she felt after that first morning together - after he'd invited himself to her house under the pretence of her cooking him breakfast and he pinned her against the cupboard, making it clear that food wasn't his desire at all. She woke up in the early afternoon, still naked and with the pleasant ache that could only come from multiple consecutive bouts of lovemaking. Three, or three and a half, she remembered with a smirk. Sherlock was still asleep, covered with more than his fair share of blankets, she noted. For a man who hadn't shared his bed in over a decade – except for a few chaste nights with Janine – there was a lot he would need to learn about co-sleeping etiquette, Molly thought.
He lay on his back, one arm stretched above his head, while the other reached out towards her, a subconscious gesture, she presumed. She had seen him asleep before. Sherlock had spent more than a few nights on her lounge when he had decided that it was easier to crash at her flat than take a cab back to Baker Street. But this was different. Here, in her bed, Sherlock was at his most unguarded. His face wore none of the intensity he carried with him at all times when he was awake. Looking at him asleep, could almost convince herself that he was just like any other man she'd ever taken to bed –
– but she knew that when he awoke there'd be no hiding the fact that he was Sherlock Holmes and for some reason he had decided that morning to break a decade of celibacy with her.
Why?
What had happened in that mysterious mind of his to make him aware not only of his desire for her, but to act on it?
Was it a one-time thing? Would he wake up and act like nothing had happened? And if it was, how did she feel about that?
"I can hear you thinking," Sherlock said, giving no indication of how long he'd been awake for. His voice was hoarse from rest and he hadn't opened his eyes.
"Sorry." Molly didn't know what else to say. Suddenly, her nakedness felt all too-naked, and she moved to stand and grab a t-shirt.
Sherlock grabbed her by the wrist.
"Where are you going?"
"I, um, clothes," she gestured to her dresser drawers, "and maybe food? I could make you breakfast. Or maybe that should be lunch? Or an early dinner? Or we could order in? There's a really good Indian-"
Sherlock silenced her with his lips on hers. "Stop talking Molly." He said, then continued kissing her, rolling her back onto the bed and manoeuvring himself she was trapped between his body above and the mattress below.
Part of her wanted to ask him all of the questions that had been troubling her since she woke up. Part of her wanted him to tell her what he was thinking. Part of her wanted to treat him like any other man she'd slept with more than three times and have "the talk".
But part of her didn't want those things at all, didn't care what the answers were, especially while Sherlock lay on top of her and made it clear that he was by no means spent from their morning activities.
They never did have "the talk", at no point did Sherlock declare that he was Molly's boyfriend, nor did Molly ever feel compelled to ask if she was his girlfriend.
She did, however, find out what Sherlock had been thinking that morning in her kitchen when he kissed her. The admission came at the most improbable of times – as they were walking through in the cleaning aisle at Tesco while on the hunt for a midnight snack after a long day at Bart's.
Sherlock paused in front of the brightly-coloured boxes of laundry detergent. It took Molly a moment to realise that he wasn't by her side. When she turned back to him, she saw he had picked up one and was studying the label intensely.
"Good read is it?" She asked.
"…for tough stains, pre-soak with a stain removal product…" he mumbled to himself.
"That's garbage. They're just trying to sell useless add-ons."
"Oh?"
"Definitely. The only thing you need to get blood out of clothing is a splash of white vinegar – or Coca-Cola will do if there's no vinegar handy."
"How do you-" he stopped. They both shared a look, and a moment's painful memory of the day on Bart's roof when Moriarty had returned.
Sherlock returned the washing powder to the shelf. Molly thought he needed a moment away from the concern written on her face. "I could have lost you," he said.
Molly reached out for his hand, holding it between both of hers. "You didn't."
He pulled her into his embrace. "I'll do anything to protect you," he said with lips pressed on the top of her head. He pulled away, leaning down to place a chaste kiss on her cheek, an echo of kisses from their life past. "You make me whole, Molly Hooper." He said, and she couldn't stop the lone tear from revealing to him how much his words mattered.
As she sat in Duke's garden, paralysed from the revelation of the day and the news of the life that had begun inside of her, Molly wondered: if she had made him whole, was he complete? Or would their child complete the impossible puzzle that was Sherlock Holmes?
There were two people in the world who knew Sherlock as well as Molly did – often better, when she reflected on the insights John had revealed about Sherlock in his blog. Molly decided that if she needed advice, she'd have to go and see the Watsons.
Mary greeted Molly warmly, as she always did, ushered her inside and put on the kettle for tea.
Molly sat at the kitchen bench and felt relaxed for the first time since Mike gave her the pathology results. She was glad to have a friend she could rely on not only in the midst of any of the insane situations she had found herself in over the last few years, but someone who also had a high tolerance of Sherlock.
The kettle boiled and tea was served. Molly wrapped her hands around the teacup, the warmth soothing her as the scent of the peppermint tea floated up with the steam. She hoped Mary wouldn't notice the tremor in her fingers as she lifted the teacup to her lips.
She had no idea where to start – but the words formed themselves on her lips. "Mary, how did you tell John you were pregnant?"
Mary smiled widely. "Haven't we ever told you the story?"
"No."
"Well," Mary began, "I didn't tell John. Sherlock told us both. He deduced it on our wedding day."
Molly's face fell. She had hoped for a happy conversation, a way to ease herself into telling Mary the news. It wasn't to be.
A keen observer of people, Mary knew something was up straight away. "What is it?" She asked.
"It's just - Sherlock - I have no idea how to tell him." Molly didn't have to explain. She could see on her face that Mary knew exactly what she meant.
"Oh honey." Mary pulled her on to a hug.
"Mary," Molly said between sobs, "How on earth am I going to tell Sherlock Holmes that he's going to be a father?"
What Molly didn't know was that John was standing behind her, his mouth now agape.
"Sherlock's going to be what?"
