Stupid, stupid, stupid! What was he thinking? He wasn't thinking, that was the problem, or at least not with his brain. How many times had he berated John Watson for thinking with his dick, and here he was doing the exact same thing? Just because he could bring up every memory of that night in excruciating detail; just because Molly was turning out to be more than simply a long-ago one-night stand and the mother of his child, didn't mean that he should want anything more from her than that. Certainly not sex; he'd given up on that aspect of his life at the same time he'd given up drugs, when he'd barely graduated college because of such distractions.

Of course, it would hardly be more of a distraction than sudden fatherhood, would it, if he were to ask Molly out on a…to have chips with him sometime? There was that chip shop, the one where he'd helped the owner put up some shelves (literally, no 'wink, wink, nudge, nudge' about it!) a few years back and who, in gratitude, always gave Sherlock extra portions. Or Angelo; he'd be beside himself if Sherlock brought someone round for dinner at his restaurant. He'd been devastated when he learned that Sherlock and John were just friends and flatmates, although he'd gotten over it cheerfully enough once John started bringing his own dates there for dinner (if the relationship lasted more than a few weeks, of course, which so few of them did). Like that nurse he was seeing now, Mary something-or-other, the blonde with the sharp sense of humor. Seeing how well she and John got on, being reminded this very night by his parents of how long-lasting and satisfying a marriage could be, made him wonder…

"No!"

Sherlock realized that everyone was staring at him – his parents, Mycroft (with a sneer on his lips, which had only been absent during his half-hearted apology to Molly for his earlier rudeness), Wills…Molly. He'd stood up and practically shouted the word aloud, so lost in his thoughts that he'd forgotten he wasn't back at Baker Street, with only John to disturb. Blinking rapidly, he slunk back into his seat. "Sorry," he muttered. "Just going over a case in my mind, got distracted, realized I'd been chasing after a cold lead."

He darted a glance at Molly, whose expression had turned neutral, then to Wills, who was – grinning? Yes, definitely grinning, nearly a smirk as he turned to his mother and said, "See? I'm not the only one, Mum! Dad does it too, just kind of blurts things out when he's thinking too hard!"

'Dad.' He'd called him Dad again, this time in front of his parents and Mycroft. His father cleared his throat in a suspicious manner, and was blinking as rapidly as Sherlock had just done, and his mother was openly sniffling and Mycroft wasn't scowling – he'd damned well better not be! – but his smile was pained, at best. Sherlock was so caught up in the whirlwind emotions of being called 'Dad' so unselfconsciously by Wills that he nearly missed what his son was actually saying. But when he did, he smiled and straightened back up in his chair; another point of commonality between them, another personality trait he'd somehow passed on in spite of the ten years they'd spent apart.

Although Molly gave him a few odd looks after that, the rest of the meal passed in relative peace. Sherlock remained sunk in his thoughts for most of it, making sure not to delve too deeply into his mind palace to miss anything Wills said – or Molly. Mycroft he did his best to ignore, not difficult since he said hardly two words through the meal, mostly along the lines of "please pass the butter". He'd apparently taken his mother's scolding to heart, and was finally practicing the 'if you can't say anything nice, say nothing' creed she was so dedicated to.

Teas and coffees were drunk in the sitting room, more family stories were exchanged, Mycroft kept surreptitiously glancing at his mobile as if desperate for some international crisis to spare him further domesticity – and Sherlock realized with a start that he hadn't so much as looked at his own watch, not even once. A break from habit his parents refrained from commenting on, but was sure to be obliquely mentioned to him by his brother at some future point. No doubt as commentary on how inappropriate and distracting his interest in Molly Hooper was.

Ah well, maybe one day Mycroft would finally understand that other people weren't actually goldfish, and that some relationships were worth pursuing.

He froze again, thankfully while everyone else was distracted by Wills' enthusiastic reenactment of some football moves he'd seen on the telly. Why did his mind insist on viewing Molly as someone other than the mother of his child? What was wrong with him? Was it perhaps some primitive association, deep in the reptile part of his brain, instinct attempting to override intellect?

Or, a voice in his mind that sound like a peevish John Watson pointed out, was it simply that the great Sherlock Holmes actually liked her and wanted to get to know her better?

Points to ponder, but not now. Not when Wills was laughing and his mother was rolling her eyes but grinning; not when his parents were obviously as much in love with his son as he was. Even Mycroft had a grudging look of interest on his face as Wills showed off his deductive reasoning by explaining how he'd analyzed the players' moves and predicted (correctly, Molly confirmed) the outcome of the match less than ten minutes into the first…match? half? Whatever. Unimportant; only the parts that pertained to his son mattered (although Sherlock suspected that he would have to start retaining football information since his son was clearly so passionate about it; he made a mental note to quiz John on the subject when he got home).

Around nine o'clock Molly made noises about getting back to London, much to Wills (very vocal) disappointment. She shushed him with a pointed look; he fell silent but jutted his lower lip out in a pout that Sherlock knew looked very much like his own expression when in a strop. He cleared his throat, catching everyone's attention, and before he could talk himself out of it, said, "If you don't mind, Molly, could I catch a ride back with you? I was going to spend the night since my father was so kind as to drive me here, but I've just remembered that I'm supposed to go over a case with Lestrade first thing in the morning and I'd rather not roust my parents out of bed at the crack of dawn if I don't have to."

He ignored Mycroft's smirk and raised eyebrow, just fixed his gaze on Molly and…hoped. A very un-Sherlockian reaction, John would joke, but true. It wasn't planned, but he was reluctant to let the evening end so soon. A ride home would give him a chance to spend more time with his son…and, of course, his son's mother.

After a quick glance at Wills' hopeful face, Molly smiled and nodded. "Of course, it's no trouble at all."

Ten minutes later they were in the car and headed Londonward, with Wills in the backseat chattering excitedly, Molly driving, and Sherlock wondering what the hell he should do next.