GUYS.
GUYS PLEASE HELP I DON'T KNOW WHAT'S HAPPENING TO ME BUT I'M ACTUALLY KEEPING MY PROMISE AND UPDATING LIKE CRAZY AND I'M SORRY IF I'M ANNOYING YOU BUT IT'S LIKE I CAN'T STOP AND I HOPE I NEVER DO BECAUSE THIS IS THE MOST I'VE WRITTEN IN AGES.
*deep breath*
Okay. Phew. But seriously, y'all. WHAT THE HECK?! When did I suddenly catch writing fever? I hope it sticks around lol. ;P
This is part two to the previous chapter...in a way. It's another part about Molly's pregnancy. I just don't see Sherlock being majorly ecstatic about all the traditions that come with babies and the like. There might be another chapter or two about this first pregnancy, (most obviously the birth of the child) and then I'll move on to other things. Some will be about Sherlock and Molly before children and some will have their children with them.
Anyway, thanks for all the love so far! You guys are absolutely lovely :)
XOXO,
OceansAria
"What's all this?"
The entire circumference of 221B Baker Street's living room was decorated in blues and pinks and frilly white lace doilies; worn fold-out chairs were aligned in a half circle in front of the mantle, both his chair and Molly's shoved aside for more room. A card table was set up in the middle of the whole shebang, a checked tablecloth and two presents already stacked there. Balloons glided around the air, bobbing about with the dust motes, all white with the words Congratulations! emblazoned upon each. The smell of brewing coffee and cooling cake layers hit his senses like a suckerpunch.
Sherlock batted aside a bothersome balloon and repeated himself, seeming as the two women hard at work finishing the decorating hadn't noticed his entrance.
Mrs. Hudson clutched at her chest, giggling at his inquiry. "Why, a baby shower of course, Sherlock!"
The detective crinkled in his nose. "A baby shower? What on earth for?"
"To celebrate your baby's arrival, silly," Mary chided. Her arms were full of discarded bits of ribbon and lace. Sherlock could smell the vanilla buttercream icing remnants on her fingers.
"Yes, I know," Sherlock replied hastily. "But why must we have a shower? The child isn't even here yet to celebrate."
"Technically, the baby is here. Just tucked away for a little while longer until he—or she—gets tired of playing hide and go seek."
Molly joined them from the master bedroom, wearing a floral baby doll dress and a fuzzy sweater with lavender tights and ballet flats. Sherlock couldn't help but think she looked lovely with her glowing cheeks and bright eyes, happiness shining through each and every pore.
She kneaded her palms over her belly; a new fidget of hers. "Thank you so much, you two, for all of this. Really. You didn't have to."
"Shouldn't have," Sherlock mumbled.
Mary shot him a vicious glower as Mrs. Hudson took Molly by the elbow, tittering over how lovely she looked, and led her into the kitchen to finish setting up a few last things for the party.
The minute they weren't looking, Mary slapped his arm again.
Sherlock grabbed at his sore bicep. "Would you please stop smacking me?"
"What the hell is wrong with you, Sherlock?!" Mary hissed, pulling him closer to be able to whisper. "We're throwing a baby shower for your first child and you're acting a belligerent, neglected brat! Why can't you just be happy for your wife, for your unborn baby? John and I never got to have a baby shower. You two never even had a proper wedding! The way I see it, Molly deserves everything normal and good in the world after all she's done for us, don't you think?"
"Yes, yes, she does." He ran a hand over his face. "But I'm neither. Gatherings aren't really my thing, as you know. I just feel that if you all insist upon experiencing this event . . . it would be better if I weren't present."
Mary's look only got dirtier. "You're her husband! The baby's father! You have to be here!"
"I'm on a case, Mary. Molly will understand." His phone dinged as a reminder of this, and he dug into his coat pocket. It was a text from Lestrade. Need you at scene. "She always does."
"Maybe not today."
She'd entered again without making much noise; her waddle of a walk prevented her from doing so. She carried a platter of cucumber finger sandwiches that rested on her womb. Her eyes were wide and her lips were wobbly—she'd been overly emotional at even the slightest thing since the second trimester began—and her expression read that she was either going to sob or break the platter over her husband's head.
Guilt pierced him straight through the chest. Mary muttered something incoherent and left the couple to rush downstairs. As much of a selfish ass he was, he despised himself for wounding his wife's feelings, especially when she was in such a tender state. He licked his lips. Only she could make him fidget so.
"Molly, my dear, please try to see . . . This case is very important, and —"
"Stop." Molly shook her head curtly, setting aside the platter on the card table. She reached out and threaded her callused stubby fingers with his elegant, long numbers. "I don't want to hear about the importance of case. Just stop and look at me and tell me you don't find some dead man's mystery more important than your family. Because if you think for one damn second that I'll understand your leaving then you're wrong, Sherlock Holmes."
The detective remained eerily silent. His feline aquamarine eyes withheld from meeting his wife's, locked on the glint of her wedding band instead. Her hands were so swollen the skin of her finger puckered upwards around the gold, but she had refused to remove the ring. So what if I look like the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man? she'd said when he'd questioned it. I'm keeping this ring on because I'm your wife, and I want them to remember that even when I'm plump as a hog.
"Sherlock." She was crying now—huge, swollen, pregnancy hormones-induced tears. "Don't leave. Please, don't."
He bestowed her with a grim smile. "I don't belong at a party, dear. I've been told I'm quite the downer."
"Yes, you do! Didn't you hear me? We're your family." As she had done many times throughout this ordeal so far, she guided his palms to rest on her abdomen. "Mary, John, Lily, Mrs. Hudson . . . you belong with us, darling."
She hadn't even finished talking when he leaned into her and brushed a kiss over her hair, sliding his hands free all in a flash of motion. The self-condemnation had forced him into his decision. Sherlock knew if he stayed, he would do nothing but ruin the event for them all by voicing his deductions and doing other 'not good' or socially unacceptable things. Either way, he would be hurting his wife. He figured the most logical concept would be to remove himself from the equation entirely, then she could at least forget about him and enjoy the company of her superfluous acquaintances.
"I'll be back late. Don't bother to wait up for me. You need your rest."
Mrs. Hudson found Molly still standing there, mouth agape, when the first guest arrived fifteen minutes later. It was Ella Griffon, an old high school mate who had married twice and had three children. She was skinny as a rail from all her bad habits; her ragged fingernails dug into Molly's arms as she shook her.
"Hey, Moll!" Ella's cigarette breath was nothing like the comforting scent of smoke and ash Sherlock's skin carried. "You okay? You were just standing there staring like you'd seen a ghost!"
Molly could feel Mrs. Hudson and Mary's combined concern scorching her backside. Forcing the brightest smile possible, she pulled Ella in for a squeeze.
"I'm fine! Good to see you, Ella."
"You too, dear." Ella gave her another yellowed grin when they separated. "Say, where's that cunning bloke of a husband you got?"
Her smile could have cracked her complexion. From below, she heard the door and momentarily dared to hope it was her Sherlock. When it turned out to be the next guest arriving, Molly answered Ella's question with the most cheery tone she could muster.
"Oh, you know Sherlock," the lie was as bitter as mercury to her tongue. "The game is always on. I'm sure he'll drop by later."
