A/N: Just so everyone knows, I very much appreciate the REAL reviews I've received for this story. I published the nasty one that I received just to show the person who left it that I'm not afraid of bullies and know that they just want others to be as miserable as they are. The rest of you folks, thank you. Thank you for reading, following and reviewing. I appreciate it all.
Sherlock awakens the next morning after the first full night's sleep he's had since Molly was taken. There's no confusion in his mind at the feel of another body against his; his memories of the day before are as clear and sharp as if they'd just happened.
He smiles, his first real smile since the day of his exile. He knows the happiness (yes, dammit, he'll call it that) will evaporate like the morning mist at dawn, but for now he simply allows himself to feel, his ever-humming mind temporarily at rest. And all because of the petite form lying curled next to his. Molly is back, she's safe, and the world has reformed itself into a shape he can recognize after months of being flat and colorless.
The duvet has slipped down below the mound of her stomach, and he reaches to cover her back up. She's still sleeping, her breaths slow and even, but her eyelids twitch and her lips curve into a smile at the same moment he sees a small ripple of movement across her abdomen.
The baby - babies - are moving. One of them is, anyway. He watches, entranced, as the movement is repeated. Impulsively he puts his hand on her stomach; she tenses and her eyes fly open, but her expression becomes one of relief as she focuses on him. "I didn't mean to wake you," he says, chagrined. "And I shouldn't have…"
She shushes him with a smile and shake of the head, resting her hand over his and keeping it in place when he would have pulled it back. "It's nice. I like it," she says simply, and he feels his heart give a little skip. All this domesticity should send him running, but he finds that all he wants to do is spend the rest of the day curled around Molly, protecting her and the two lives growing within her.
Unfortunately the domestic peace is shattered by the insistent buzz of his mobile; Molly hands it to him since she's lying on that side of the bed. "Mycroft," he says briefly after glancing at the screen. "No doubt he has a tedious day of medical exams and debriefing lined up for you. Unless you'd rather I put him off?" His eyes light up at the thought of foiling his brother's intentions, but Molly shakes her head.
"No. I want to get it over with," she says flatly, then pushes herself to a sitting position. Sherlock hovers over her, not sure if he should offer to help or let her do things on her own. They still haven't talked about what her life was like while she was away, aside from the information she'd given John and Mary, and for the first time ever he's hesitant to push someone into telling everything they know. She might hold a vital clue to capturing (killing, dismembering, boiling in oil) Jim Moriarty, but for some reason he can't bring himself to start asking the questions he knows he needs to ask.
As Molly shuffles over to the bathroom and closes the door behind her, he has a flash of understanding: he's empathizing with her. It's such a rare occurrence it's no wonder he couldn't figure it out. He doesn't want to hurt her, to make her detail everything that happened to her, to make her remember the place she was kept or the people who held her there (because Moriarty clearly wasn't hiding himself away in the Scottish countryside this whole time).
But he will. He will do all those things and more. He and his brother will put her through a great deal of pain in order to discover the tiniest hidden clue in her memory.
But not just yet. Not until after they've both showered and eaten and had coffee (decaf for her even though she loathes the stuff). Not until after she's suffered through whatever multitude of medical tests John and Mary (and yes, the very best obstetrical specialists) deem necessary to determine the full state of her health, and that of the twins she's carrying.
Sherlock jumps out of bed. Not because he wants to, but because his sudden attack of empathy makes him feel as if he ought to be doing something while Molly's washing up instead of simply lounging in bed. So he heads for the kitchen and starts the kettle (in case she wants tea rather than coffee) and then he switches it back off because he HAS no decaf. Mrs. Hudson might, so he heads down the stairs after snagging his camel-colored dressing-gown and shrugging into it. He leaves the door to the flat open, hastens down the stairs and is soon pounding on his landlady's door.
She opens it almost immediately, an alarmed expression on her face. "What's wrong, Sherlock? Is Molly all right? Has something happened?"
"Tea," he says, brushing past her and making his way to her kitchen. "You have decaf, yes? Or coffee? You've had it before, do you have it…" He falls silent as he sees the breakfast tray sitting on the counter next to her coffee maker. There are two cups and two plates, the former containing tea, by the aroma, and the latter heaped with two proper English breakfasts.
"I was just going to bring it up," Mrs. Hudson says as she follows him. She's fully dressed for the day even though it's just gone eight o'clock. "Are you sure Molly's all right? She's not got morning sickness, poor thing, has she? Oh, that's one thing I never regretted missing out on, I'll tell you that! My sister went through quite an ordeal…"
"Yes, thank you Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock replies, barely hearing her as he lifts the tray and turns carefully. He gives her a smile, knowing it's not his most sincere but his mind is already back upstairs. "Molly's fine as far as I can tell, she's just washing up so I'm sure she'll be glad to see this." Then he heads out of the flat while Mrs. Hudson follows, admonishing him to give Molly her love. He promises to do so, kicks her door shut behind him, climbs the stairs far more slowly than he descended them, and reenters his flat. Casting about for a good spot to lay the tray, he ends up clearing a portion of the kitchen table with his elbow before setting his burden down.
Molly emerges from the bathroom a few minutes later, her hair still damp but neatly braided. It's nearly five centimeters longer than it was when she was taken, and her nails, generally kept short and neat, are also noticeably longer. Stronger-looking as well, with a bit of gloss to them that's entirely natural. Her skin is healthy beneath the pallor brought about by stress, and he predicts that she will soon have the glow that pregnancy gave Mary Watson once her own stressors (read: John's discovery of her secret past and temporary rejection of her) had been eliminated.
Just as soon as they have the answer to the most important question, the one that will not allow her to truly relax until she knows the truth: who is the father of her twins?
oOo
Like so many things in life, the answer to that question turns out to be far more complicated than anyone could have anticipated.
Molly endures both the medical examinations and the cross-examinations with equal stoicism. No, she has no idea why Moriarty decided to release her. No, she has no idea what additional mayhem he might be planning. No, she has no thoughts on where he might be hiding.
The cottage where she was being held is easy enough to find, and is predictably abandoned when they do find it. Sherlock and John accompany Mycroft's MI-6 agents on the raid even though both Holmes brothers know there is no point to it. However, Sherlock needs to see it for himself, the place where Molly was forced to endure her captivity, and it is much as she described it: small, comfortable, homey even if you disregard the cameras set up in every room. Including, to his disgust, the bathroom. The people hired to watch her are long gone, and the place has been scrubbed clean and any personal belongings removed - with the exception of the clothes in the bedroom with the barred window. Maternity clothes, all high end and nothing like what Molly would have picked out for herself. Sherlock gladly gives them over to the SOCO team to be bagged and placed into evidence.
While he and John are out wasting their time in the Scottish countryside, Molly stays at Baker Street. There are agents keeping watch on the building at all times, some of them Mycroft's, some belonging to the police, as well as more than one member of Sherlock's Homeless Network. There's also a guard stationed inside the front door, with whom Mrs. Hudson has been flirting and Molly has been doing her best to ignore. Sherlock sees her tension and understands that it's because she feels like a prisoner again, but when he offers to have the man removed - forcibly if necessary - she smiles sadly and shakes her head. "No, it's all right, Sherlock. Your brother's just making sure I'm safe, and I appreciate it, I really do."
When he returns from Scotland Molly is waiting for him. He's been careful to stay in touch with her the entire time, even though it's only been two days. He doesn't even need John to remind him to message or call her, which surprises John but not Mycroft, who only gives him a sly smile when John comments on it.
The expression on Molly's face, the increased tension in her body, and the envelope sat in the precise center of his otherwise uncluttered coffee table tell him all he needs to know. Wordlessly he removes his coat and scarf, hangs them up, and walks over to her. "We'll open it together, if you like," he tells her as he sits next to her on the sofa.
She nods jerkily, but allows him to settle her close to his side before reaching down to pick up the white rectangle holding the test results she's been both anticipating and dreading.
Sherlock is easy in his own mind, having long since decided that it doesn't matter what the document tells them. But as she reads the results out loud, his eyebrows climb up his forehead even as her voice falters and her hand drops to her lap. Automatically he puts his arm around her shoulder, but his eyes are unfocused as he searches his mind palace for the pertinent information.
"Heteropaternal superfecundation," he murmurs. It's the technical term for the situation he and Molly currently face (Molly much more than him of course): twins with different fathers.
He gives her as much time as she needs to process the unexpected information, waiting patiently until she finally lifts the piece of paper up and reads it again, silently this time. Then she drops it on the coffee table and rests her head on Sherlock's chest. "Of course this is how it would turn out," she says, her voice muffled but the weary resignation more than obvious. "Things are never simple where you two are concerned, why should this be any different?"
"If it helps, it doesn't change what I told you after you were returned to us," he says, somewhat hesitant about his choice of words. Does he sound comforting or merely selfish? Is he making this about him, will she be upset with him? Still, he has to continue, because he wants to make sure she knows how he feels. "They're your babies, Molly, both of them. And I will love them…" A small hitch in his breath causes him to fall briefly silent; how inconvenient and annoying and human of him. Mycroft would disapprove. "I will love them," he says, keeping his voice as steady as he can, "as much as I love you."
There. He's said it. The three words he whispered to her before he left for his four-minute exile. He wills her to believe him.
She looks up at him and smiles softly. "I know, and you have no idea how much that means to me, Sherlock," she says. Her lips tremble a bit as she adds, "And of course you know I, I love you, too."
He tries valiantly to resist the urge to kiss her. They've been sharing a flat, sleeping in the same bed, unselfconsciously holding hands or embracing one another for a week now, but the only kisses they've traded have been chaste pecks on the cheek. He doesn't want to risk traumatizing her after her ordeal, but he aches to show her that he still feels exactly the same for her that he did before she was taken. To put his money, as the saying goes, where his mouth is.
Molly takes the decision out of his hands, for which he will be eternally grateful. She tilts her head back just the smallest bit, wets her lips with the tip of her tongue, then guides his face down until their mouths meet. The kiss is far from chaste, although it certainly isn't a prelude to passion, not this time. It's tender and sweet and so full of emotion that a tiny part of Sherlock wants to panic and run away somewhere quiet to just process it all. Or possibly jam it away into a corner of his Mind Palace, where all his other unacknowledged emotions used to be hidden.
Used to be being the operative phrase, of course. First it was a tiny wedge, when a certain Detective Inspector saw potential in a strung-out junkie and convinced him to find another way to still the endless whirling of his mind. Then another crack appeared when he helped put Mrs. Hudson's husband in prison and made sure he got the death penalty. John Watson's entrance into his life was the catalyst that allowed him to finally admit he wasn't nearly as much of a sociopath as he'd liked to believe.
All of that has inexorably led to this moment in time, when William Sherlock Scott Holmes can acknowledge that sentiment isn't always a fault, the love isn't only a tool or a weapon or even a weakness.
Jim Moriarty is still loose in the world; Sherlock still has a price to pay for his murder of Charles Augustus Magnussen, but as long as he is with the woman he loves, nothing else matters.