Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steve Moffat, Mark Gatiss own Sherlock and his realm. I just own my computer, my version of Openoffice, and my sick fantasies. English is not my native language, and this story is un-betaed, so please forgive the mistakes and the typos.

I can't believe that we have finished another chapter! Anyway, sorry for the angst (G.R.R. Martin is my spirit animal, sorry U.U) but I swear that there will be an happy ending! I swear!

I can't sleep tonight

Everybody's saying everything is alright

Still I can't close my eyes

I'm seeing a tunnel at the end of all of these lights

Sunny days, where have you gone?

I get the strangest feeling you belong

Why does it always rain on me?

Is it because I lied when I was seventeen?

Why does it always rain on me?

Even when the sun is shinning I can't avoid the lightning

"Why does it always rain on me?"- Travis

"No, no, no, it can't be.. not now... what would we do? What can I do?".

She stared at the test for almost an hour. She was in one of the hospital bathroom, far from the morgue section, when she had discovered the most terrifying news of her life: she was pregnant. She threw away the test and left the cubicle, and then she began to walk up and down the room, hands in her hair. She stopped in front of the mirrors, her hands now gripping the sink with an unsuspected force. She lifted her face up to look at her reflection: she had just turned 35, there were some new wrinkles around her mouth and eyes but, despite this, she still looked more younger than her age. She opened the water and washed her face, took a deep breath and tried to put herself together.

She returned to her morgue, for once glad that Sherlock was away for a few more days with John, working on an extortion case for Mycroft in Cardiff. She needed some time alone, to properly process what was happening, and what would happen in the future. The ghost of her past pregnancy, the fear that another miscarriage could occur, loomed over every gesture, over every thought that day; she finally decide to make up an excuse and asked Mike Stamford if she could go out earlier.

On her way home, she debated with herself if it were too early to fix an appointment with her gynaecologist; she decided to wait another few days, just to give herself some more time to think about it.

A mother running behind a toddler almost collided with her just a few steps away from Baker Street; in less than a few years, that could be her. A man trailed behind the woman, calmly carrying a stroller; he smiled when what Molly deduced was his wife finally caught the little devil. Would Sherlock do the same? Despite what he had written and said to her, there was no way to predict how he would behave when an impatient, tiny human being would disrupt his concentration, demanding to be taken care of.

She opened the door, and without even greeting Mrs Hudson, she reached the flat she shared with Sherlock since that night when they made love after his rehab. She quickly undressed and let herself fall down on the bed, exhausted, hoping for a sleep without dreams.

She was awoken some hours later by an intense purring near her tummy: her old cat Toby was cuddling beside her. She caressed his head smiling, her cat could always understand when there was something wrong. "Well Toby... It seems that I'm at the starting point, again..." She turned on her back and stared at the ceiling, in her mind there were again the same questions: "Could I be a good mother? And Sherlock a good father? I am a socially awkward pathologist, and he is a cosulting detective, an ex-drug addict, a self proclaimed sociopath who likes to conduct experiment with dead bodies... What kind of parents we can be for this child?".

She sat down and leaned back against the headboard, in front of her there was their wardrobe, one of the doors was half open and she could see his shirts neatly lined mixed with her dresses. Her eyes drifted to a small fracture on the wardrobe door, another little reminder of their latest fight: she had been so exasperated by Sherlock that she had to kick the wardrobe to avoid slapping the life out of him another time. He could be a really man-child sometimes: so stubborn, so proud and eager to always show the rest of the world that he had all the truths in his hands, that sometimes she really had the desire to slap him! Could he be a good father? Could she be a good mother? She had no answers, only an endless list of unresolved doubts.

Three days later

She was alone in the hallway of the hospital with her analysis in her hand; she didn't tell anyone about her appointment to the gynaecologist because there still was a part of her that was hoping that there might have been a mistake, but it wasn't: she was pregnant, four weeks pregnant.

Sherlock had called her the night before, apologising because the case was particularly arduous to solve; she had detected in his voice that peculiar tone he always used when he was so intrigued by something to almost forget everything else. It made her feel uneasy: would he be able to leave all behind, when their child would need him to be present? Or the thrill he felt everytime he found a new puzzle to entertain his rentless mind would be more important to him than the needs of his family? She had feigned an impassible answer to his questions about her, instead recommending him to not forget to rest and have a bite to eat every now and then; she had murmured a tired "I love you", anxious to end the call sooner as possible. She knew that having an arch-sleuth as her significant other meant that she had to weigh every word she pronunced,in order to not raise any suspect. Thankfully, being a consultant detective's partner had its perks: for example, she knew how to book a train ticket without leaving any trace.

She raised from her sit in the gynaecologist's waiting room, and put the results in her small hand luggage; she took out the ticket for the train and looked at her wrist-watch. She had a bit more than an hour to reach King's Cross station and catch her train. She had to meet someone really important, and she didn't want to be late.

So, Molly is on the run...but where is she going? And to meet whom? Who knows? Well, obviously we know,being the writers and all, but if you like to have a guess, or deduce it, feel free to leave a review and tell us! Thanks again for your support, and Happy New Year, dear readers!

Irene