"What do you mean there's no way to show you're the father?" John asked, concern and mild annoyance in his tone. But annoyed at the Hospital or at him, Sherlock couldn't tell.

"I meant exactly what I said," Sherlock's voice was cold, colder than he expected it to be.

"What about a paternity test?" Mary supplied.

"Those take weeks," John said, his eyes glancing over to Molly. There was no mistaking the fear that small gesture revealed. If she didn't wake up in the next day or two, there was no knowing if she would wake up at all.

"But on Molly's prenatal forms – surely she wrote something about the father, something that points to you?" Mary asked.

Sherlock shook his head slowly from side to side. "All her forms say 'father unknown'."

John's attention turned back from Molly's frail form to Sherlock. His eyes steel, accusing.

"Why on earth would she do that?" John asked.

"Because I asked her to."

So worried was Sherlock about the dangers of the child being linked to him that he went to great lengths to keep Molly's pregnancy a secret – even from those he trusted the most.

At first, Sherlock had tried keeping John from Bart's, coming up with odd errands for him to run, or dead leads to trace whenever a case had them needing her assistance. But it only took a matter of months before even a master liar like him ran out of excuses. Resigned, he realised that trying to hide the growing evidence of Molly's pregnancy was soon going to become impossible. So one morning, when Molly was five months along, Sherlock gave in, but not before he and Molly had decided on a "cover story".

"He won't buy it," Molly had said the night before as she pulled back the duvet and slid into bed.

"Of course he will," said Sherlock as he did the same. "John is a great many things, but sceptical is not one of them."

Molly curled towards him, placing her head on his chest. Sherlock's arm curled protectively around her, enjoying the feel of her growing belly against his side. Contented, his breathing began to slow and he was almost asleep when Molly spoke again.

"Why don't we just tell him the truth?"

He could have given her a dozen reasons, all well-reasoned and logically presented. But instead he simply said, "We can't."

The hitch in her breath told him how disappointed she was, and he hated to disappoint her, but his need to keep her safe far outweighed his desire to keep her happy.

And so that's why Molly, when faced with a wide-eyed John in Bart's morgue that day had told him a simple lie, or more accurately a half-truth. Sherlock insisted when he came up with the line "the father's anonymous" - vague enough for John to erroneously fill in the gap and assume that Molly had utilised a sperm donor. Months later, that's exactly how Sherlock was to explain it to John when the truth eventually came out.

Lying to their friends was easy, in many ways, compared to the complications that arose when Molly lied to the physicians treating her. For one, it meant that as a single mother, she had to attend all prenatal screenings, checkups and counselling sessions alone.

Sherlock knew how sad it made her, how lonely she felt in the prenatal information session – surrounded by happy couples, each telling their increasingly benign stories for how their relationships began, how long they had been together, what plans they had to build a nursery, what their plans were for pain relief during labour-

All while Molly sat silently.

He knew it wore on her every time she went to the clinic and a new midwife would read her file. The raised eyebrow when they came to the line "father unknown", the judgement, the silent questioning, all which Molly took knowing full well that not only did she bloody-well did know who the father was, but she would be going back to his flat to tell him everything that had happened at the appointment, everything he had missed.

The sonagraph image of their child, presented in living colour for them for the first time – kicking, squirming, heart beating steadily, soundly, strongly.

And other details – weeks of gestation, measurements of fundal heights, and minor health issues – the doctors were keeping an eye on the platelet count in Molly's blood – for some reason, it kept falling, but neither they nor Molly seemed concerned.

Her only concern was how to hide from Sherlock how much it saddened her that he couldn't be with her at the screenings.

She never did tell him. But it never stopped him figuring it out – with nothing more than a small bit of help from John.

It was about a month ago. Molly had just entered into the final trimester, and even though she kept up her routine at Bart's, there was a clear discomfort in the way she walked, a slowing in her steps, a slight hitch in her breath every once in a while to indicate some sort of baby-related pain in her back or hips – that was where she was feeling it the most.

One morning, after delivering a file of blood analysis into the lab for Sherlock and John's latest case, Sherlock noticed John was watching Molly leave rather than paying attention to the file she had given them – a file that had the potential to crack their current case wide open.

Sherlock slammed the file shut.

"Problem?" John asked.

"I was going to ask you the same thing," he said, tilting his head towards the door out of which Molly had just taken her leave.

"It's just," John paused, collecting his thoughts, "I'm worried about her."

"Worried? What's there to worry about?"

"She seems so tired already, and this is just the beginning. There's late night feeds and days on end with a crying, unsettled, unhappy newborn."

Sherlock scoffed, "Not every child is as difficult as Isabelle was," Sherlock could downplay it now John and Mary's baby was almost one, and very nearly turning into a small human. But he did remember the dark rings under his friend's eyes, the garbled half-complete sentences from a brain deprived of sleep.

"No." John admitted, then added something that Sherlock had never considered, "Some are worse."

"Oh," was all he could muster.

"It nearly broke Mary – especially those early weeks when she said she felt like a glorified feeding machine – and she wasn't alone."

Sherlock knew that Molly wouldn't be alone either, but honestly, he'd never before that moment considered how difficult it would be if she were.

"Parenting's a team sport," John added, then took the file off Sherlock and began to read its contents.

Parenting was a team sport, and Sherlock hadn't yet put on his team's colours.

The conversation with John had played in his mind for weeks. He really hadn't thought much beyond keeping Molly and the child safe in the short-term. Hadn't considered the long-term consequences. What would happen when the child was born? Would they continue their ruse? Would the child be a Hooper and not a Holmes? And what about when it learned to speak? Would it call him Sherlock – or Daddy?

Two weeks of rumination later, Sherlock had made a decision, took a short trip to the Cotswolds, and was ready. He was just waiting for the right moment – the day the baby was born – that's when he was going to ask her.

As it turns out, he did ask her on the day their baby was born – just not in the way he had planned.

And 8 weeks earlier than anyone had ever expected the baby to arrive.

Sherlock got the call at 8am – an unrecognisable number, but from the area code and digits, he knew it originated at Bart's Hospital.

"Mr Holmes?"

"Yes"

"I'm calling on behalf of Molly Hooper, she has been admitted to the emergency ward and ask that we inform you that-"

Time slowed, although Sherlock heard the words, their meaning and the full gravity of the situation crashed down upon him with the utterance of every syllable from the voice at the other end of the line.

Molly was in the middle of an autopsy when the junior lab tech on duty – Stephen? Or was it Sean – head the clanging of her medical tray as she gripped it too hard for balance, followed by the jangle of scalpels, scapulae, and bone saws falling to the floor. As they called for a gurney to come down from the E.R., Molly's face turned deathly pale and she struggled to breathe. As they lifted her into the gurney they saw the reason for Molly's sallow-face.

Blood. A lot of it.

A kindly-faced nurse loomed into her view. In soft tones, she promised Molly that everything would be ok, and asked if there was anyone she would like them to call.

For Molly, there would only ever be one person.

"-pre-ecclemsia," The voice on the line continued as Sherlock returned to full consciousness "and a suspected placental abruption. Her platelet condition will complicate matters, of course."

"Of course," Sherlock parroted back, although he didn't understand. From all Molly had mentioned, the platelet issue was a minor inconvenience that meant she couldn't have an epidural, not a complicated matter at all. "Is she – I mean are they – is the baby, and is Molly-"

His voice caught in his throat, for once the ordinarily prolix Detective was unable to express a coherent thought.

"They're stable at the moment, though they are considering a delivery this afternoon."

It took Sherlock a moment to catch on, "A delivery, of what?"

The nurse's bemused silence told him everything he'd missed.

A delivery. Today. 8 weeks early.

Sherlock had already catagorised all the risk factors for premature birth, facts gathered from all the reading he had done since the day he and Molly found out about the life growing inside of her. And while he was tempted to open to vault, to review all the statistics and survival rates, the sheer panic and fear from what he'd find left that part of his mind palace sealed shut – for now.

There was only one thing he could do.

"I'll be right there." Sherlock ended the call and rushed downstairs to grab the first cab.

On the way, he called John. All he could manage was, "Bart's. Now."

When John protested about something to do with Mary and work, Sherlock added, "It's Molly." He knew that was all John would need to know.