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How our hearts are worn
When the results come back for the gender of their baby—a girl, healthy as could be it seemed from the ultrasound—Sherlock had started deciding on what to name her. Molly let him be, knowing that he would call the baby whatever he wanted anyway so it was easier to let him do the naming. She was just happy that as her belly grew and their lives changed to accommodate this tiny new person, that Sherlock was doing his best to understand and adjust. For a man constantly searching for something new to occupy his mind, he required that his physical space remain largely unchanged—the changes around the flat were constant points of contention. The idea that near the door downstairs was where they would keep a pram was almost untenable to him for several days, until Molly threatened to make him wear a front-loading baby-pack and have their daughter attached by ungainly straps to his chest constantly whenever they went out.
As time went on, he slept less and less it seemed like—but spent more and more time in their bed at night. Molly could hardly sleep after a few months, so she almost always fell to dozing with Sherlock's hand gently rubbing her abdomen and woke up the same way. She wondered who would feel the baby—Mavis, first name will definitely be Mavis he'd declared a week after they'd gotten the news of gender—kick first, Molly or Sherlock. It was a long-shot, but Molly almost wanted to put her money on Sherlock since he was scientifically precise with his attentiveness.
She knew that being a parent for Sherlock Holmes would be half an exercise in patience and half a scientific experiment of an incredible scale. Molly didn't complain, because if she thought about it, she'd always known he would be this way if he were to ever father a child.
As the weeks came and went and her abdomen rounded further every day, she mustered the courage to ask him. Molly did wonder what Sherlock would think of her suggestion but tried not to worry about it too much, tried to tell herself that it would be fine. She wanted their child to be born in wedlock, an idea which Sherlock didn't exactly despise in previous conversation but was bewildered by.
But for Molly, the idea of being married before she gave birth made it feel as though she wasn't completely dancing on her father's grave with the romance between her and Sherlock. Her father had been a staunch Catholic, devout and pious—Sherlock would have put him off by the hour if not the minute had the old man been alive. Sherlock, meanwhile, was a staunch atheist—her dad wouldn't have been able to sit in the same room as him after such a discovery. Molly herself didn't feel like she needed to spend the mental exercise 'choosing' between the two.
She actually didn't mind so much. She'd gone through more than a decade of school and training to work with the dead, after all, she didn't really care what people thought would happen to them after they died. It made them happy in life, hopefully, and after that she didn't mind. It had gotten them through the day for a number of years, and she wasn't about to judge someone who could hardly defend themselves.
Sherlock minded, though, because he had the truth of the world in his opinion—and those who refused to accept truth and fact were lesser in his eyes. There were even people he refused to associate with because of their religious leanings.
In fact, Sherlock had minded so much that he'd done something rather shocking after agreeing with her, saying that he'd like it if they married. He'd called his scary older brother—Mycroft Holmes—to preside over their small, civil wedding. He'd done it just to make sure that the mention of 'iron age fairytales' was expertly excised from the literature Mycroft read from. Mycroft, who Molly had only met a few times over the last several years, was cut from the same cloth as Sherlock.
Molly had sighed as Sherlock enumerated his reasons in the cab home, leaning against him when he put his arm around her to bring her close. She wasn't willing to reason with him over something like this, not when she'd gotten what she wanted out of it and not when there wasn't really any point. Besides, he'd gotten her a such a lovely ring without even asking what she'd like—in her fantasies growing up, the man of her dreams would just know what kind of ring she'd want. It brought a tired smile to her face—that must mean that Sherlock was the man of her dreams somehow. In which case, her dreams were made of some precariously weird stuff.
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