Life After Death - A Post-Reichenbach Trilogy

Part Three – Unfinished Business

Chapter Three

Molly spent the next two days in utter torment. She heard nothing from Sherlock or Mycroft, so could neither confirm nor deny that she had handled the whole disclosure thing very badly in deed. She went over the encounter again and again in her head, trying to see where she went wrong, trying to discern the point at which she blew it. Every time she thought about it – which was all the time - waves of nausea washed over her. It was like being pregnant again.

On the Friday evening, with William asleep in his bed, Molly lay on the sofa in her sitting room, nursing a glass of red wine, wishing the phone would ring but dreading what news it might bring. In answer to her prayer, her mobile rang. It was the 'Spitfire Prelude and Fugue', the signature tune ring tone she had allotted to Mycroft. She pressed 'Answer' and held the phone to her ear.

'Ok, Mycroft, break it to me gently. How much does he hate me?' she blurted out. There was a long pause then a voice that was definitely not Mycroft's said,

'Why would I hate you?'

'Oh, God, Sherlock, it's you.'

She couldn't think what else to say so there was another long silence. He broke it again.

'Molly, please, may I come and see you?'

'Of course,' she said. 'When?'

'Now. I'm just round the corner.' He shut off the connection.

Molly was instantly thrown into a panic. She jumped up, nearly spilling her wine, and looked round in alarm, unsure exactly what she was looking for. Then the entry phone buzzed. She rushed to her front door, saw Sherlock's face on the security screen and gave a squeak of alarm. She pressed the lock release on the outer door and opened the internal door to let him in. He walked straight through to the sitting room and stood in the archway, looking round.

'Bit more up-market than your last place,' he quipped. Molly looked at the floor.

'Mycroft has been very kind,' she replied, feeling deeply embarrassed, recalling – ironically – her mother's comments about girls getting pregnant and expecting flats and money. She had not made that connection until that moment and it stung.

Sherlock was oblivious, as ever, to the effect of his words. He removed his coat and she took it from him and hung it in the hall, using the time to remind herself that he did not mean to be hurtful. Returning to the sitting room, she asked him if he would like a drink. He picked up her wine glass, from the coffee table, swirled it around, inhaling the bouquet and replied that one of those would be fine. Molly invited him to sit down, and went to pour him a drink.

This felt so awkward. Her self-confidence had vanished at a stroke.

They settled in their seats, Molly in the arm chair, sipped at her wine, placed her glass on the coffee table and waited for him to open the batting. He warmed his wine between his hands, staring into space, organising his thoughts. Then he began.

'Molly, I have never given any considered the idea of being a father. It just hasn't registered on my radar which is why when you told me about the baby, I couldn't even process the information. I apologise for my reaction. I understand it must have hurt you a great deal.'

She looked at her hands and tried not to give even a hint of how true this was.

He went on.

'I really have no idea what sort of a father I would make,' he said, opening his hands in supplication. 'I don't have any appropriate role models to even begin to make a comparison. If truth be told, I'm not really father material. And you have done such a brilliant job, so far, of bringing up our son' (she almost wept on hearing him say those words) 'that I am really not sure what useful contribution I could even bring to the table.'

His gaze was averted, studiously avoiding eye contact.

'I'm selfish, arrogant, demanding, obsessive and perseverant, none of which are traits one would generally look for in a parent. I'm not a nice person, not good to be around. When I'm on a case, you know what I'm like, I get completely OCD and everything else goes out of the window.'

Molly registered that all too familiar tightening of the band around her chest as she anticipated the rejection that his next words would deliver. She felt the tears begin to sting her eyes and a sob start to rise from her diaphragm. She fought to control herself, to suppress these feelings before they overcame her. He was talking again.

'But, Molly, I do want to try.'

He looked over at her and she saw the uncertainty in his eyes and could contain herself no longer. The tears overflowed, the sob erupted and Molly sat and shook for the longest time. Sherlock was paralysed by his own sense of inadequacy so was slow in responding but eventually moved closer and took her hand.

'You are the bravest person I know, Molly Hooper. I owe you so much that I can never repay.'

She gripped his hand tight and scrubbed the tears from her face, taking some deep breaths.

'You don't owe me anything, Sherlock. You've given me the most precious thing I could ever have. You gave me William.'

She managed a feeble smile, released his hand and picked up her wine, taking a big gulp.

'Would you like to see him?' she said.

Fear and trepidation gripped him again but he swallowed and nodded his head. Molly stood up and gestured for him to follow, leading him down the corridor off the sitting room and stopping at the third door. She turned to him and held a finger to her lips then gently pushed open the door.

The light from the corridor cast a weak illumination on the small mound in the single bed. Sherlock stepped through the doorway, into the room and stopped by the side of the bed, looking down at the sleeping child. His hands went up to his face as he stood, transfixed. Molly had followed him in but stood to one side so as not to intrude on his moment. After an age of standing and staring, he turned to her and whispered,

'Can I touch him?'

Molly nodded, but stepped forward, in case William awoke and was startled by this unexpected visitor. Sherlock went down on one knee and reached out, tentatively, lightly touching his son's cheek with the very tips of his fingers. He pushed a thick curl of dark hair off William's forehead and stroked the child's head.

William stirred. He turned his head toward his father's hand, stretching his arms and legs, and his eyes flickered open. Sherlock froze, feeling suddenly exposed, as if he'd been caught in the act of some nefarious deed, but William just rolled over, away from the light and settled back into his dream. Sherlock breathed again. He stood up, leaned over and dropped a gentle kiss on the top of his child's head, then turned and slipped out of the room. Molly followed, closing the door behind them.

ooOoo

Back in the sitting room, Sherlock was feeling shaky. He had just confronted his own immortality, his own posterity. He coped with this in the only way he knew. He demanded data.

Sherlock and Molly drank wine and talked long into the night. He wanted to know every detail of how Molly had managed, being a single mother. Molly talked warmly about all the support Mycroft had given. She described the day he came to the hospital and discovered his inner uncle. When she came to the part about putting William's name down for a school, Sherlock rolled his eyes. He assured her that, although Mycroft really was into that 'old school tie' stuff, he could not care less. He had not been particularly happy at Harrow but he would not have been happy anywhere. That was just who he was.

She told him about Maria and her part in 'Project Pregnancy' and about the 'A.I' subterfuge. Sherlock was in awe of how Molly had coped with the labour, admitting to being moved to tears, watching the video. He thanked her for documenting William's life. He was thrilled at her choice of god-parents and impressed with her manipulation of the gestation time, to allay John's suspicions.

They talked about how and when he would reveal himself to his other friends and suggested that Molly invite everyone to 221B Baker Street for the dénouement, the next Saturday, after letting Mrs Hudson in on the secret and enlisting her support.

He explained he would be busy for the next week, 'being debriefed' by his brother's minions – essential, Mycroft insisted, after such an extended period in deep cover - to make sure he was 'safe to let out on the streets, again', so she wouldn't be able to speak him, directly. But if she needed to contact him urgently, she should do so through Mycroft.

He revealed that he had already under-gone two days of interrogation and was supposed to be under 'house arrest' at the family home, for the duration, but had managed to outwit the Secret Service 'morons', who were supposed to be guarding him, and escape to come and see her.

No change there, then, she thought.

Sherlock looked at his watch and said,

'I should be going.'

It was very late and he figured that William was probably an early riser.

'You can stay, if you like,' said Molly. 'We have a guest room,' she added.

'Better not,' he replied. 'I have Mycroft's phone. He's probably suffering withdrawal symptoms, even as we speak.'

'I expect he's traced you and has the building surrounded,' she giggled.

He paused and then said,

'Once this debrief is over and everyone who matters knows I'm not dead after all, I'd like to meet William properly. I can't really do it before,'

He got up, collected his coat and stopped by the front door. Turning back, he gave her a warm hug.

'Thank you, Molly Hooper, for everything,' he said, kissed her on the cheek and left.

Molly watched him, in the security monitor, as he stepped through the main front door and was met on the step by a 'Mycroft Man', and escorted to a waiting car. At least he didn't have to look for a cab.

ooOoo

As Molly got ready for bed, she reflected on the evening's developments. She was amazed at how easily they had talked together and realised that this was, in fact, the first proper conversation they had ever had. The dynamic between them had changed. She recognised what the difference was. She was no longer in awe of him and he had a new-found respect for her. Now, they were equals.

ooOoo