HAPPY NEW YEAR!
Chapter 7 – An Offer that can't be Refused
"For the sake of all humanity, I must ask you to consider procreating with me!"
It sounded like the punchline of a joke, and so Molly reacted as one might expect: with hysterical laughter. She folded in half, gasping for air, leaning against the doorframe for support. Each time she seemed ready to recover, along came the tremors and she was lost again.
Throughout it all, Sherlock was impassive as stone. Eventually this would pass.
"Oh… Sherlock, that was… that's got to be the funniest thing I've heard in years!" gasped Molly, finally catching her breath.
Still he waited, saying nothing. Not a muscle in his body moved.
Inhaling deeply, Molly straightened herself. "And they say Sherlock Holmes doesn't have a sense of humor! Well, I think we both know the truth, and…"
She glanced up and caught his expression.
"… you're… not… joking."
His jaw clenched and unclenched several times while the two of them stared at each other, unblinking. It was a twisted game of chicken, waiting to see who would break the awkward tension first. As far as Sherlock was concerned, it was Molly's turn. He'd pitched the ball and now she needed to return it.
The flush in her cheeks was slowly draining with each passing second. Her mouth opened partway, then closed. Her eyes widened, then focused on unseen terrors in the distance.
"I sincerely hope you're willing to explain yourself," she said in a dry whisper.
"Now you understand why it took 'half a lifetime' to build up to this," Sherlock replied haughtily. "An apology would be considered good form, but in this context it just seems trite."
Did he want her apology or not? Either way, she was too shaken to do much but listen at this point.
"Won't you sit back down?"
"I'll stand, thanks."
"Molly…" he was about to launch into something but then stopped. "You'll need to cancel your dinner plans for tonight."
She stared dumbly at him.
"Right now," Sherlock clarified.
With leaden fingers she fumbled through her purse, suddenly forgetting her phone's passcode. Her brain denied ever having knowledge of those four digits.
"Two two one two," Sherlock took pity on her.
Too grateful to demand how he knew the code, Molly hastily entered it and raced to open her contact list. It sounded like someone else speaking when she told "Joe" she felt unwell and needed to reschedule. A trembling hand ended the call and lowered the phone from her ear.
"Who's Joe?"
"That is none of your…" Molly almost laughed again. "You're not allowed to ask any more questions until I get some serious answers!"
"He didn't seem terribly disappointed at being blown off."
"And you're definitely not allowed to keep stalling! We're so far beyond that, it isn't funny!"
Tapping his fingers on the table, Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. "Where would you like to begin? Since you summarily dismissed my research – which was, for the record, a time-consuming venture that involved soiled diapers and obstetric diagrams that cannot be unseen –that leaves us with socio-ethical factors. Are you willing to hear those, or would that too waste your precious time?"
Time was something Molly had suddenly stopped budgeting.
She shook her head. "No… that's fine."
"Excellent. Now, as I stated earlier, the shortage of consulting work has given me time to examine certain scenarios." Sherlock laced his hands together. It felt good to regain the upper hand; he picked up the script midway and ran with it.
"Tell me Molly, do you know of anyone who, by reproducing, might seriously endanger the world at large?"
She thought a moment. "There was a girl in high school who was the meanest, nastiest witch. I heard she got married last year, and I dread the day she has children."
"Of that I have no doubt. But let's try to focus on mutual acquaintances, shall we?"
"I don't understand."
"Think, Molly. Who do we both know possesses egomaniacal traits that, if replicated, would end up devastating the entire planet?"
Molly didn't have to think long. There was only one person whom Sherlock ever used such potent language to describe, but…
"But he's in prison!" she exclaimed.
"You know perfectly well that's only temporary."
"But didn't Mycroft take care of it?" Molly insisted, her voice rising an octave.
"Molly, I realize this topic may cause you consternation due to your personal dalliance with Moriarty, but that's no excuse to forego reason," Sherlock tried to be patient. "And given Moriarty's slippery track record, we have every reason to believe it's only a matter of time before he tires of prison life and goes looking for fun in all the wrong places."
Molly's throat was suddenly parched. Staring dumbly at the glass of water she'd left on the table, she walked toward it like a moth to a flame and sat down again. Sherlock was pleased to see her yielding to logic despite her obvious discomfort with the topic.
"So you see, Moriarty is the impetus for my recent line of thinking. If he were to unfairly shift the balance of power by producing offspring – or, indeed, if he has already done so – my efforts may prove inadequate." He locked his gaze with Molly's. "That scenario is unacceptable, due to its catastrophic nature and the fact that is foreseeable."
Sherlock stared harder, forcing her to meet his eyes.
"Molly," he lowered his voice, "Never have I allowed a foreseeable threat to proceed unchallenged."
She glanced down at her water, earnestly wishing it was alcoholic. But then, would that really help? Discussing the fate of humanity – and her role within that fate – was probably best done with lucid brain cells, not intoxicated ones.
Swallowing the water in a single gulp, Molly pinched her eyes shut, willing herself to focus.
"Can't you just… I don't know what the politically correct term is, but while he's still in prison, you know… sterilize him…?"
"Government-mandated sterilizations are performed in barbaric third-world countries, not Britain," Sherlock sounded mildly repulsed. "Besides, it may already be too late. Those oats could have been sown anytime before his incarceration."
A delightful thought. Molly squirmed in her seat.
"I know what you're going to ask next," he continued. "Have I considered the legal adoption process? Of course I have. But I am not a middle-aged couple seeking a child for sentimental reasons, nor to ensure I don't end up in some wretched retirement home when I'm eighty. I have much more at stake – far too much to rely on environment alone."
"Yes, far too much," mumbled Molly, who was staring intently at a water spot on the table.
"Then there's the surrogate option to consider, but that's a rather time-consuming ordeal, and time is not something we can assume we have much of."
"No, not much at all…" Molly murmured to herself.
"Especially considering the odds of finding a woman whose intellectual profile meets my standards. It could take years, possibly decades."
"Decades…"
"Even if I did somehow find a compatible woman, her tolerance for my personality and mannerisms would not be guaranteed."
"She'd have to be a saint… a MENSA saint…"
"So I face the unique challenge of finding a sufficiently intelligent woman who won't offset my genes too much…"
"Heaven forbid…"
"…and with whom I have an established, civil rapport. I have calculated those combined odds at 10.5 billion to one."
"Good luck with that…"
"Molly."
She broke from her trance, startled.
"Aside from your lapse in judgment with dating Moriarty, you have demonstrated sufficient intelligence to qualify."
"Me."
"Yes."
Molly looked as though she were trying to determine whether or not he was human. But then, if she were honest, this wasn't the first time she'd ever wondered that.
He'd started with the punch line, recited the joke, and then delivered the punch line again. Yet for all his logic, Sherlock may as well have been a pink elephant walking down the middle of Baker Street. Or better yet, a dinosaur. A T-Rex with feathers, two heads, and Amelia Earhart riding on its back.
Sherlock Holmes wanted a child.
With her.
To save the world.
Was that all? She'd just pencil it into next week's schedule, right in-between a haircut and having afternoon tea with her mother.
"The courtesy of your reply would be appreciated," Sherlock shifted in his seat.
"My reply? As if all I have to do is check Yes or No on an RSVP card and mail it back?"
He shrugged. "Those are the choices."
"Really. What happens if I say no?"
The faintest smirk tugged on Sherlock's mouth. "I am confident, given your intelligence, moral compass, and how you acted at Mary Watson's baby shower, that you will not."
"What do mean, how I acted?"
"Nothing," he deferred. "This isn't about the shower. It's about whether or not you will be my accomplice in securing the world's long-term safety."
Only Sherlock Holmes could describe procreation in such austere terms. It was a talent, really. He was right – he knew Molly's moral fiber too well to think she'd reject his proposition. On moral grounds, anyway. Interpersonal and emotional grounds, on the other hand…
"You hate children," Molly countered.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Hate is such an overused word these days."
"Fine, you detest them, cringe around them, barely tolerate them. Is that better?"
"It's more complex than that. I detest their glorified status-symbol position within society. I cringe when their parents permit egregious behavior. I barely tolerate their tantrums and irrational requests. But do you see the silver lining of it all, Molly?"
"I'm afraid not," she laughed dryly.
"Challenge. Adversarial engagement. Seemingly unsolvable situations!" his eyes twinkled slightly. "Think of it, the daily opportunity to mold a future mastermind while simultaneously honing my own skills! I daresay I'd never be bored again, at least not for eighteen years."
Only Sherlock Holmes could have a gleam in his eye while explaining how his child would be a pseudo-opponent.
"You appear unconvinced," he noted reprovingly.
Molly let out a winded, exasperated laugh. The room was starting to spin – and it was becoming difficult to look at him with a straight face – so she lowered her head into her hands and focused on breathing in… and out…
She was more level-headed than this. She spent each day dissecting corpses and weighing organs without flinching, for goodness' sake. She had nerves of steel. Yet those same nerves were bailing on her now. And to be honest, it wasn't the first time. She seemed to recall it happening on a handful of other occasions, all of which coincidentally involved the man sitting across from her.
Denying it after all this time seemed childish and pointless. She was, after all, in love with him, hopelessly and unrequitedly. But she'd learned to sublimate those feelings long ago. Her heart may be foolish, but her head certainly wasn't. She was much too sensible to pine over anything she never stood a chance of obtaining.
Or did she?
Molly pressed her eyelids shut as tightly as she could. In order to see things objectively, she had to think of this as a postmortem examination. Study the facts, analyze the evidence, and arrive at a conclusion.
Fact one: she was convinced that Sherlock's request was genuine and not intended as some cruel, demented joke. Well, mostly convinced, anyway. One could never fully assess Sherlock with total confidence – it only worked the other way around.
Fact two: the prospect of Moriarty procreating was no less chilling to her than it was to Sherlock.
Fact three: she'd be lying if she said she never dreamed about exacting revenge on him somehow. They say the best revenge is living well, but perhaps it was joining forces – euphemistically speaking – with the arch-rival of your arch-rival.
Fact four: he'd chosen her. Out of all the women in the world, her. What woman in her right mind would consider rejecting him? Sure, some might not be keen on raising a high-functioning sociopath's children who would likely exhibit traits of Asperger's. But that was their loss. Sherlock Holmes had chosen her, and despite his astonishing directness and lack of romance, this was an honor she'd do well not to dismiss.
Fact five: and this fact would never, ever, as long as she lived, be spoken aloud: she'd fantasized about this day. Not a dingy café that was in violation of public health codes, no, but this conversation – this vulnerable plea issued by the world's most stolid figure.
Molly knew she was infusing far more romantic sensibility into this than Sherlock. She knew he'd basically chosen her out of convenience, though not in so many words. She knew she was essentially a vessel for propagating his DNA as well as his ego.
But she also knew him. And so she knew that, in all honesty, this was the best she could ever hope – or expect – from him. Others might scoff at Sherlock's calculated approach, with each element carefully measured as if into graduated cylinders at the lab. He was, in essence, presenting a thesis, positing his argument and citing the bibliography. Academically thorough and professional through and through.
Exactly as it should be, given the source. Anything else would have been sacrilege.
There were, of course, some finer details that required discussion. After all, what was a thesis defense without fielding a few challenges from the audience?
Time enough for that later, she supposed. Right now all Sherlock needed was a simple yes or no, a red or green light before proceeding to the next module. Well, maybe not a green light… more like a yellow one. A cautious "yes."
He'd been more than patient waiting for her to lift her weary, spinning head and speak. There he sat, piercing blue eyes watching her like God himself. She met his gaze with bemusement.
"I have one question."
"Indeed?"
"How did you know my phone's passcode?"
He sighed, relenting. "221 plus the number 2, for the letter B, second letter of the alphabet."
Nodding, Molly planted an elbow casually on the table and rested her chin. "Then you already know my answer, Mr. Holmes."
Those not already familiar with my work should, by now (hopefully), be adjusting to my love of cliffhangers. If not, give it time. Give it time. :)
