Molly couldn't decide whether it was worse being heavily pregnant in December or May. Unable to see her feet past the ridiculously large bump that had been William, she had constantly worried about slipping on the slush and ice in December; but now London was experiencing an unseasonably warm May, and not even the floatiest of summer maternity dresses could do anything to prevent her from sweating like a carthorse. Like trying to cool a volcano with an ice cube, Molly took a few gulps from her bottle of water (though it needed to be sensibly consumed, given the limited capacity of her bladder these days).
The pregnancy had been normal, uneventful, and for that Molly did feel incredibly grateful, particularly because being pregnant while also looking after a toddler was a radically different experience. There was no time to be tired, and certainly very few opportunities for those precious afternoon naps she was able to steal the first time around. During the second trimester - once the so-called morning sickness had subsided but she wasn't yet the size of a water buffalo - there had been moments when Molly was so busy she had forgotten she was even pregnant. The idea of 'nesting time' was laughable, and she was basically gambling on them, somewhere in the flat, still having everything they needed for a new baby.
William was now nearly eighteen months old, and a one-boy force of nature; he would tear around for hours, particularly if Rosie was around to pursue, refusing all suggestions of a nap until finally crashing out pretty much wherever he happened to be standing. However, after a twenty-minute 'power nap', he would be up again and looking around for where the next adventure might come from. His resemblance to Sherlock was adorable, but Molly was sure it would probably be more adorable if she wasn't so bloody knackered all the time.
Another difference between the pregnancies was the number of extra appointments she was obliged to attend. The doctors had assured her that while there was no reason to expect it to happen again, the abruption of the placenta that led to William's emergency delivery meant that they weren't taking any chances. Since she hit the third trimester, she had seen the midwife almost on a weekly basis. While she was still working, this only meant a short walk through the cool hospital corridors during her lunch hour or after work, but now that she was on maternity leave again, it involved a lengthy bus or Tube journey – and it was a toss-up between which was worse in the warm weather.
Still, Molly wasn't about to complain about the extra ultrasound scans the midwives insisted on – and neither was Sherlock. So far, he had attended every single one – on one occasion, she only found out afterwards that he'd left Lestrade and a handcuffed suspect waiting outside in the hospital car park. Sherlock was inordinately excited about the baby, but Molly knew that only she ever saw the full extent of this; the way he held her hand tightly and studied the screen intently during the scans, the attention that he lavished on the bump when they were curled up in bed, the extensive notes that he was keeping that he thought she didn't know about. She wasn't fooled in the slightest when he played it casual in front of his parents, rolling his eyes as though their own effusiveness was ridiculous and overblown.
But although she was asked every time she had a screen, Molly had opted to once again keep the baby's sex a surprise. Sherlock was just going to have to wait until the day itself to see how his theory played out.
All that said, today was the first time that Sherlock hadn't been able to attend an ultrasound appointment – which was ultimately why she was on a bus and not in a cab. He was paying one final visit to Sherrinford before the due date, and had left the flat before Molly had even woken up. His parents had offered to take care of William to allow her to attend the appointment, which was on top of the regular day's childcare they had been doing since she returned to work. The rest of the week had been divided up between her and Sherlock, with Sherlock taking care of William on Tuesdays and Wednesdays (which his own casework apparently showed were the days of the week least likely to yield a juicy murder). As a result of his eschewing work on two full days, it did mean that cases could often run over into the weekend – the criminal classes, he pointed out, were not strict observers of the traditional British working week.
Molly took another sip of water and fanned herself with the free newspaper she had picked up on the bus – she would be home in forty minutes, if the traffic wasn't too horrendous. It was such a relief not to be doing this commute quite so often, even if she had only been working three days a week. That said, it only seemed five minutes since she was sitting in Mike's office on her first day back, apprehensively breaking the news to him that she was pregnant again. His reaction – one of laughter – had taken Molly by complete surprise; apparently, his wife had predicted it would happen.
Things had actually worked out well in the end. One of the senior lab technicians was retiring at the same time as Molly was coming back, so she took on the bulk of his lab work as well as overseeing the pathology students – and her maternity cover was kept on in the morgue.
Being in the lab on a more permanent basis obviously meant that there was a small amount of crossover with Sherlock – which, during the second trimester in particular, had sparked memories of certain illicit supply-cupboard encounters during her first pregnancy. One afternoon, when the coast was clear, Molly had managed to drag Sherlock in there for a repeat performance – but it had ended abruptly when, in his haste to hoist her onto the worktop, he had sent a stack of steel equipment trays flying. He then had to remain in the cupboard for twenty minutes after Molly had left, so as not to arouse suspicion among the students and technicians. Needless to say, they had not attempted it again.
The bus was sitting in stationary traffic outside Holborn Tube when she felt it for the first time. Without warning, her whole stomach seemed to suddenly go rock hard, and a forceful twinge took hold of her, starting in her back and moving around to her belly. It wasn't painful exactly, more like a gripping sensation, and it passed within seconds. Molly breathed out slowly. That couldn't be a contraction?
The bus wheezed and slowly moved off again. Ten minutes passed, and Molly started to relax again – it was probably just the baby's response to being repeatedly prodded by the midwife and the ultrasound paddle. Stretching itself out, making itself comfortable again (usually at the expense of her bladder or lungs).
But they'd only crawled as far as the corner of Bloomsbury Street when she felt it again. Like a sudden cramp, twisting her insides and stealing her breath – no more severe than the first time, but equally startling.
Molly dug out her phone - thank God for bus wi-fi. Googling symptoms was never a good idea, but given the circumstances, i.e. stuck on a non-air conditioned, moving bus in the middle of London, it seemed justified. Flicking between the NHS website and various parenting forums, she realised that all wisdom seemed to be pointing in one direction.
Taking a breath, she started to compose a text.
Might be having contractions. Only mild at the moment. Will update later – Mx
She knew Sherlock wouldn't be able to answer his phone on Sherrinford, and wasn't even sure when he would receive the text. Immediately after sending it, Molly questioned whether she should have – it could all be a false alarm, particularly as there were still two weeks till the due date.
When the next one hit, it brought with it such a spasm of pain that it nearly lifted Molly off her seat. Once she had recovered, she took out her phone and flicked through to the stopwatch – she was going to have to time them. Of course, she was now acutely aware that her waters hadn't broken, and while this should have been reassuring, it now seemed more and more likely that this delightful happening was going to take place on the west-bound W8 double-decker.
Still questioning her own sanity, Molly gingerly got off the bus near Tottenham Court Road and rang the maternity unit at Bart's. While she was waiting for the receptionist to find an available midwife, another contraction took hold, and Molly had to brace herself against the bus shelter for support. She had just enough mental acuity remaining to check the stopwatch and relay this information to the midwife who had just come on the line.
"If they're still only ten minutes apart and your waters haven't broken…you're sure they haven't broken?"
Molly frowned at the phone in her hand.
"Um, wouldn't I have noticed?"
"Not necessarily," the midwife replied. "It can sometimes be more of a trickle than a gush."
Molly screwed up her nose and tried to remind herself that she was medical professional. However, the fact that there was no trail of liquid on the bone-dry pavement between from the bus stop and where she was standing suggested that everything was still intact.
"Like I was saying, my love," the midwife continued. "If they're ten minutes apart, we'd only end up sending you home until things start to really get going. You're best off going home, having a nice bath and waiting until you're closer to four minutes. Now, that could be very soon, but it could be hours or even into tomorrow."
Oh Jesus. Molly was starting to think that she had got off lightly with an emergency C-section.
When she hung up, she checked to see if there had been a response from Sherlock, but there was nothing. She was going to have to ring him - but when she tried his number, it went straight to voicemail. With a mounting feeling of disquiet, she went to compose another text before abandoning it. No, it was too soon. But…what if it wasn't.
Sorry - trying to get hold of Sherlock, but not answering. Can you reach him? - MH
She wasn't sure why she always started her (infrequent) texts to Mycroft with an apology – perhaps because it always seemed to be a semi-emergency. Perhaps because Sherlock's brother knew Molly only contacted him in serious situations, he could be relied upon for a quick response…but not this time, of course. Her fingers paused for a long moment before she dialed his number instead. Like Sherlock's, it went straight to Mycroft's voicemail.
She tried to clear her head, fix on a plan of action. Within the space of a few seconds, she had realised two things: the reason why she couldn't get hold of Mycroft Holmes on a Friday afternoon, and the fact that she was standing a few feet from a taxi rank. Before she had time to query her thinking, she was carefully climbing into the back of a black cab.
"The Mall, please," Molly said, hauling the seatbelt across herself. "The Diogenes Club."
0000000
When the next contraction had arrived, she did everything she could to try to conceal it from the taxi driver – he had clearly already taken one look at the size of her and decided that he was at risk of having to deep-clean his cab. But Molly cared more about the fact that the latest contraction clocked in only eight minutes after the first.
It went without saying that she had never been to Mycroft's ridiculous gentlemen's club before, but as she approached the imposing white-pillared portico, she reminded herself that she didn't have the luxury of feeling intimidated or hesitant.
On seeing her, the man on the desk looked as though he was about to reach for either an alarm or the lever for a trap door. Before she could even speak, he gestured firmly to the sign on the desk. Molly peered at it: Strictly no talking. Oh, for God's sake!
"I need to see Mycroft Holmes," she said, adjusting the strap of her shoulder bag.
The elderly man gestured again.
"Yes, I read that," Molly continued. "I can read, contrary to what anyone in this ludicrous establishment might think about women. And yes, you've probably noticed that I'm fairly heavily pregnant, and it's generally not a good idea to try the patience of a woman who is quite this heavily pregnant."
The man looked alarmed that she was still speaking, his glance flitting around the lobby in case any of the other fossils and relics of bygone Britain were listening. Quickly, he jotted something down on the ledger in front of him and turned it around to face to Molly.
She shook her head.
"Would it make a difference if I told you that I might be about to give birth to his nephew or niece?"
Within a couple of minutes, Mycroft had been located, and entered the lobby still wiping his hands on a napkin, and bearing an expression of mild alarm. When he actually greeted her out loud, Molly was at least relieved that her brother-in-law wasn't going to insist on playing charades with her to ascertain why she was there.
"Is something wrong?" he asked, guiding her over to a more discreet corner of the lobby.
His question was answered by the arrival of another contraction, which had Molly biting down on a curse – swearing in this place would feel a bit like swearing in church. She felt Mycroft lead her to a cushioned window seat, discomfit practically radiating from him like a distress beacon.
She checked her phone – six minutes. This was happening much faster than she'd ever expected.
"I need to speak to Sherlock," she said, once she recovered the ability to speak. "He isn't answering his phone, and if he isn't here soon, I'm now fairly sure he's going to miss the birth of his child."
She saw Mycroft swallow hard, noticed the fine beading of sweat in his hairline. He was probably inwardly panicking that he was going be drafted in as a birthing partner – although given the speed things were happening, maybe that wasn't outside the realm of possibility.
"I'll try to get hold of him now," he said. "You just remain where you are, and…ah…try not to be too distressed."
What, like you? Molly thought, irritably.
Mycroft returned a couple of minutes later, phone in hand.
"I was unable to get through to Sherlock directly, Molly," he said. "But I spoke with the prison governor, who confirmed that the helicopter departed Sherrinford thirty minutes ago. We can try to contact him again once he's back on terra firma. Should we be getting you to a hospital?"
"Too soon," Molly said, shaking her head.
Mycroft responded with an incredulous look. Molly shot him one in return that she hoped said yeah, tell me about it.
"Ah. Well, I'm sure you would be more comfortable at Baker Street, surrounded by the comforts of home. I can arrange for my driver to take you there directly."
"It's fine," she replied, through gritted teeth. "Maybe if someone could just get me a cab..."
A taxi 'miraculously' appeared outside the building less than two minutes later, and Mycroft accompanied her to the kerb, one of the butlers from the club following behind with her bag.
"Is Dr Watson at home?" Mycroft asked, as he opened the cab door.
"No, he's at the surgery today," Molly said, only just spewing out the final syllable before - Jesus, here comes another one.
As she rode the crest of the pain-wave, she had grabbed onto the nearest thing to hand…which turned out to be Mycroft's arm. When she relaxed her grip and dared to meet his gaze, he momentarily looked as though she was the school bully who had just made him cry. Molly muttered an apology and he quickly recovered himself.
"That's, ah, quite all right," he said, straightening out his sleeve. "Completely, ah, forgiveable in the circumstances."
Six minutes. At least things seemed to be stabilising.
"Mrs Hudson is at home, I think," Molly replied, feeling for some reason as though she needed to make Mycroft feel better. "She wouldn't miss a Holmes family childbirth drama for all the world."
She had laughed awkwardly as she'd said it, and noticed that Mycroft hadn't joined in. And seconds later, she wasn't laughing either. Because as she climbed into the cab, Molly felt a strange popping sensation somewhere in her lower regions…and then a gush.
"What…?" Mycroft queried, having clearly seen the look of shock registering on Molly's face.
"Really sorry, but I, um, I need to get back inside," she said in a hoarse whisper, feeling the trickle of warm liquid starting to pool in her shoes. "And you probably need to give the taxi driver fifty pounds."
It took Mycroft a good five minutes to recover the power of speech, and even longer to be able to look her in the eye again. Between them, he and the butler had managed to help Molly back into the Stranger's Room of the Diogenes Club, where – thank God – normal speech was permitted. Although, Molly conceded, normal speech was slightly different to the noises that she was struggling to suppress; two of the waiting staff actually jumped backwards when the next contraction hit.
God, why was this happening? Why couldn't one of her pregnancies result in a nice, standard birth in a well-equipped maternity unit, somewhere close to the due date? Instead, she was standing in her own bodily fluids in the middle of Britain's last acceptable bastion of sexism, her husband strapped into a helicopter somewhere, with no means of making contact.
She tried to focus on the positives, mainly just to prevent herself turning into a sobbing mess. Although the circumstances were, frankly, shit, and the pain was almost overwhelming at times, she didn't feel afraid – not like she had felt immediately prior to William's birth. And more than that, in perhaps just a few hours she would be looking into the eyes of her second child.
Now, if Sherlock could just magically materialize, things would seem manageable. But instead…
"We're not terribly well-equipped, I'm afraid," Mycroft said, returning to the room, as Molly lowered herself gingerly into the (towel-covered) armchair. He was holding a bundle of clothing.
"I believe these are chefs whites," he continued, laying them across the arm of the chair. "Although I did manage to lay my hands on this smoking jacket, which I believe is a spare – not that smoking is permissible at the Diogenes any longer, of course, but old habits do rather die hard."
By this time, all other occupants of the Stranger's Room had either fled or been politely ushered out of the door. Mycroft stepped outside while Molly slowly, awkwardly changed out of her wet things and into a large white t-shirt and the ridiculous burgundy, quilted smoking jacket. It wasn't exactly an Earth Mother look. She was recovering from another contraction (five minutes) when her brother-in-law returned.
"Shouldn't we be calling for an ambulance now?" he asked. "This all seems rather…urgent."
Molly sighed.
"I know it might be hard to believe," she replied. "But this wouldn't be considered an emergency - they're not going to send an ambulance for a woman in normal labour. When the contractions are four minutes apart, I can get another cab back to the hospital, and they should admit me then."
"And when will that be?" Mycroft asked, carefully.
"Probably not long at this rate, don't worry," Molly said, no longer particularly caring how irritated she sounded.
"I'm not," he said quickly and unconvincingly. "But this, ah, location doesn't really seem ideally suited for the…process you're currently, ah, experiencing."
She was poised to answer him when her phone rang, and when she saw Sherlock's name on the screen, she snatched it up.
"Molly, are you okay? What's happening?"
For the first time that afternoon, Molly felt as though she might cry.
"I'm all right - at least I think I am," she said, the sound of Sherlock's voice an overwhelming relief. "But my waters have broken and the contractions are getting closer together, and I think it's going to be pretty quick. Wh-where are you?"
She barely dared to ask the question.
"Waiting for clearance to land at the heliport," Sherlock replied. "Where are you? Where should I come to?"
When Molly told him, he asked her to repeat it.
"No, you heard right," she confirmed, sighing. "I don't know why - it seemed a good idea at the time."
"Okay. Is my brother there?" he asked, and when she told him, he added, "Put him on. Molly, I love you, and I will be there as soon as humanly possible."
Molly handed the phone to Mycroft, just as she was overcome by another contraction; the pain – and coping with it – was starting to make her feel nauseous and faint. She tried to listen to Mycroft's conversation.
"Yes, of course I'm fine!" he was asserting, although Molly noticed that he was avoiding all eye contact with her. "…apparently, an ambulance won't come yet, although that seems absurd…of course I will…no, Sherlock, I am not a complete imbecile…yes, I will do that, and yes, I will call him..."
By this time, Molly had levered herself to her feet and was pacing the room, trying to regulate her breathing with deep, controlled breaths – it seemed to be the only way to keep the pain at a manageable level. Moments later, Mycroft loomed into view again.
"I have John on the line," he said, holding out his phone. "Excuse me, Molly – I thought it might be useful if I ascertain whether there is a doctor in the house, so to speak."
Molly nodded, feeling slightly relieved when he left the room – she cared for Mycroft a great deal, but at a time when all she really wanted to think about was the baby, she felt she was having to make allowances for a forty-eight-year old baby, too.
"John?"
"Molly, is Mycroft right? You're in labour?"
"He said that?"
"Well, I don't think he could bring himself to use the word 'labour', but that sounded like what he was trying to describe," John said. "Waters have broken?"
"Yeah. And contractions are less than five minutes apart now," Molly said, feeling another starting to build, deep in her core. "The whole thing started less than two hours ago."
"Okay," John said, as though stalling for some thinking time. "Okay. Mycroft said that Sherlock's on his way, so that's good. I'm going to come straight over there, too, but it's going to take me half an hour or so – if things start to speed up, Molly, you'll need to get over to Bart's."
"I know. Mycroft's seeing if he can find a doctor," she told him. "I mean, I assume a place like this must be full of Harley Street specialists."
"Yeah, sure to be," John replied. "Make sure Mycroft gets you everything you need, Molly – he'll feel better if he can organise something. I'll see you soon."
No sooner had he rung off than Mycroft appeared again. He was accompanied by one of the waiting staff, who set down a tray with a jug of water, a pot of tea and a selection of triangular sandwiches and small cakes. Apparently, Mycroft thought they were going to have afternoon tea while they waited for his nephew or niece to enter the world.
"You'll need sustenance," he said, by way of explanation. "And the chef's petits fours really are exquisite."
She thanked him. He was, Molly supposed, trying to play to his strengths.
"I'm afraid I didn't have much luck seeking medical assistance," he continued, perching cautiously on the edge of the chair set across from her. "We do have a retired naval surgeon, as well as a director of the British Veterinary Association."
Good grief – she wasn't that desperate yet. Although…
Molly winced, the heavy ache in her lower back now preventing her from sitting comfortably for more than a few moments at a time.
"Let's see how long it takes for John to get here," she said, picking up her phone and getting ready to start the stopwatch again.
As the contraction subsided, Molly was surprised to find Mycroft leading her back to the chair and trying to make her comfortable. His manner was stiff and he was certainly perspiring more than she'd ever seen before, but, credit to Sherlock's brother, he was trying. Lady Smallwood, she had no doubt, was a good influence.
"You know," he began, pouring Molly a glass of water. "There's an old statute on the club's books that states that any child born within the walls of the Diogenes Club will automatically receive lifetime membership."
Molly narrowed her eyes at him.
"Even if the child is a girl?" she challenged. She didn't know why she was picking this fight at this moment, but anything to take her mind off the ridiculous situation.
"Ah. Well. The clause was added in jest by the club's founders, because of course the, ah, gender makeup of the club's membership means that it would be rather difficult for any child to be born here. Although I suppose they didn't foresee…"
"Yup," Molly said, darkly.
This was one situation where she had zero interest in breaking new ground for women.
When Molly fumbled to halt the stopwatch on the next contraction, she felt a spike of alarm course through her: four minutes and six seconds. Mycroft watched as she called the maternity unit again, inwardly praying that she wouldn't be turned away again. When she described the scenario, the midwife – clearly fearing that Molly may not reach the hospital quick enough in a cab - informed her that an ambulance would be despatched. The flood of relief was immense – not least for Mycroft, who seemed to regain a little colour in his cheeks at the news.
The next contraction clocked in less than four minutes later.
"Mycroft," Molly began. "I think maybe you should ask for some towels and hot water, and any blankets there might be."
"Of course," he replied. "But you don't think-?"
"Just in case," she explained, hearing how ragged her breathing was beginning to sound. "I don't know how long the ambulance is going to take."
A few minutes later, two waiters appeared with a trolley bearing a huge urn of boiling water, plus a stack of towels monogrammed with DG, and a blue and green Tartan blanket.
"Wait a minute," Mycroft said, addressing the waiters. "Isn't that Sir Hilton-Soames' lap blanket?"
"Yes, sir," one of the waiters confirmed, nervously. "He isn't here today, and it was the only blanket we could find."
Mycroft sighed, and sent them away with a wave.
"Sir Theodore Hilton-Soames," Mycroft said, assuming that Molly was interested. "Is one hundred and two years old. He was private secretary to Churchill during the last years of the war - one of our most distinguished and venerable members. Regrettably, Molly, I'm a little uneasy about appropriating his possessions in this manner."
"I'm willing to risk it," Molly told him, grimly, taking the blanket from the trolley. He responded with a little nod that said of course.
When the door opened behind them, Molly was suddenly struck by a rush of hope. She couldn't help but feel anguish that it was John rather than Sherlock arriving, but when that initial moment passed, the anguish was replaced with relief. John had only just reached her side when another contraction took hold, and he crouched down beside her, putting his arm around her shoulder and squeezing tightly.
"How are you doing, Molls?" he said, rubbing her shoulder briskly.
Molly nodded, swallowing.
"Yeah, okay," she replied, hoarsely. "That was three and a half minutes, though."
John's eyes widened.
"Jesus. You're right – you might not have long," he said, setting down his medical bag on the table. "Sherlock texted me on my way. He's landed and he's in a cab – I wouldn't be surprised if he's actually stolen it, just so he can get here quicker."
For the first time in what felt like hours, she managed a tentative smile.
"There's an ambulance on the way, too," she said. "I just…I know it isn't an emergency, so it could be diverted."
"Don't worry," John said, throwing his stethoscope around his neck. "We'll be fine. I'll do whatever checks I can, but you seem like you're in control here, Molly."
"Anything further I can do?" Mycroft asked, hovering at a safe distance.
"Have someone watch for the ambulance," John replied, strapping the blood pressure monitor to Molly's arm. "Send someone over to Baker Street for Molly's bag. More towels, table cloths, cushions. And get ready to sedate your brother."
Another contraction broke while John was checking her over, but the look on his face was reassuring.
"Your heart-rate is fine, blood pressure is within expected levels. Baby doesn't seem to be in distress," he said, taking her hand. "The only thing not normal here is the bloody location, and we might just have to live with that. The smoking jacket suits you, by the way."
Molly gave a short laugh. She was just starting on another slow lap of the room when the grand oak door of the Stranger's Room flew back on its hinges, and a whirlwind tore into the room. For once, Sherlock Holmes did not look immaculate and he did not look in control – but bloody hell, she was pleased to see him. He practically tripped on the carpet in his speed to get to Molly, skittering across to her and taking her into his arms. Mycroft followed in his wake, visibly relieved.
"You're okay?" Sherlock murmured, his eyes still rapidly checking her.
Molly nodded, hands taking hold of his arms as Sherlock cradled her face, smoothing down her sweat-soaked hair.
"You're here," she said, managing a smile. "I was worried you might miss it."
Sherlock nodded, placing a kiss on her forehead.
"John, is everything all right?" Sherlock asked over his shoulder. "What can we do?"
John got to his feet, following them as Molly paced and Sherlock supported her.
"We wait, mate," he replied. "And see whether the ambulance or your little one arrives first."
"Okay," Sherlock said, nodding, as she shrugged out of his suit jacket. "Molly, can you rest?"
Molly shook her head, hunching over as the next contraction twisted and tore through her. She could almost feel Sherlock's surprise and fear, but being able to let him support her weight, feeling the physicality of him, seemed to make the pain pass more quickly.
She saw John looking at his watch.
"Molly, I make that less than two minutes now," he said, carefully. "You're going to feel like you want to push soon, but we need to make sure that you're ready."
"What does that mean?" Sherlock asked.
"I need to do a cervical exam," John replied. "Check how many centimetres' dilated Molly is. If she's close to ten centimetres, we could be ready to go."
"Ohhhh no," Molly said, before Sherlock could reply. "Please. The ambulance could be here any minute."
"Molly-"
"John, I know you're a doctor, but you're also my friend, and I'd really prefer it if you stayed top-end during this whole thing," she said. "I really don't-"
"What if I do it?" Sherlock put in.
Both Molly and John firmly said 'no' at the very same moment, exchanging looks immediately after.
"You're staying top-end, too," Molly told Sherlock. "This whole day has been traumatising enough."
"I think I'll just, ah, step outside," she heard Mycroft say. God, she'd forgotten he was still there!
"Good idea," John and Sherlock said in unison.
"But John can talk me through it," Sherlock protested. "I know it's not ideal, but someone needs to check you, and it looks as though someone may well need to deliver the baby, too – we can't-"
"I think I'd rather one of the waiters did it," Molly said, gritting her teeth.
"Don't think it's going to come to that," John said, with a smile. "Here comes the cavalry."
The door had opened again, and two paramedics – a man and a woman – hustled towards Molly with their kit bags. They greeted her and helped to manouevre her into a chair so they could examine her more carefully; they worked briskly and calmly, and Molly could see the look of relief on Sherlock's face behind them as he allowed them to work.
"It's not going to be a good idea to move you," the woman said, getting back to her feet. "You're ten centimetres dilated already, and you could end up having the baby in the back of the ambulance in rush-hour traffic. Labour seems to be progressing well, and if we can make you comfortable here, it would be a much better option for delivery."
Molly nodded, trying to digest this information. She looked to Sherlock to see the colour drain from his face in front of her eyes.
"You're Dad?" the other paramedic asked.
John nudged Sherlock sharply.
"Y-yes," he responded, still sounding dazed and holding out his hand. "S-Sherlock Holmes."
At this, a strange look passed over the paramedic's face. He glanced at Molly, frowning.
"Oh, that's right!" he said suddenly. "I thought I recognised you. You were outside Bart's that time, with an older lady. And that makes you the bloke who jumped off the roof!"
Molly's brain eventually caught up with her.
"Antonio?" she asked weakly.
"Yeah, well remembered!" the man grinned, as though delighted by this unexpected reunion.
Of all of the hundreds of ambulance staff throughout London, why did it have to be the only one she'd ever before had a conversation with? She wondered whether it was realistic to ask him to stay top-end, too. Molly was wondering if she could explain all this to Sherlock and John when another contraction began – the first in about four minutes, but stronger and longer-lasting. And John was right – suddenly, she felt the urge to push.
"Dad, you'd better get yourself up here," Antonio said, as he wedged more cushions and towels in around Molly. "And can everyone else please clear out?"
Molly saw John clasp Sherlock's shoulder briefly, and offer her a supportive nod before quickly herding a stunned-looking Mycroft and a random waiter back out into the lobby. Sherlock stumbled over to where Molly was braced in the chair, squeezing in beside her as best she could, and wrapping his arm around her shoulders.
"Sherlock," she breathed. "However long this takes, can we please agree that you'll delete anything…uncomplimentary that I might say during this whole thing?"
He chuckled, pressing a kiss to the hand that he held in his.
"Molly, I'm so extraordinarily proud of you," he replied. "And I can guarantee that whatever names you may call me, I have been called worse."
000000000
Molly pulled back the fold of the blanket to reveal more of the tiny, beautiful, pink face and the wrinkled little hand that jutted up beside it. Around them, the paramedics were still clearing things away and packing up their equipment. The whole delivery had been so quick that her bag of clothes for herself and the baby hadn't yet arrived from Baker Street, and they were having to improvise.
"You still look surprised," Molly said, smiling at Sherlock.
"I…a bit," he replied, sweeping a long finger down the baby's soft cheek. "But he is incredible."
"Yes, he is," she grinned, feeling tears prick the corners of her eyes.
When the paramedic announced that it was a boy, Sherlock had actually done a visible double-take, craning to get view of their child in a manner suggesting he didn't believe the woman. He still looked incredulous as he was being guided in the cutting of the cord.
But there he was. Dark eyes, hazel-brown hair and undoubtedly another Holmes boy – although not quite the immediate image of Sherlock that William had been at birth.
In a few minutes, the ambulance would take them to Bart's, where their second son would eventually be introduced to waiting friends and family – including his brother, who Molly was increasingly anxious to see. But there was an odd peace in the Stranger's Room now, as the baby slept, and the paramedics quietly worked around them.
"So, we're naming him after your father?" Sherlock said.
Sherlock had, of course, been focused on girls' names for the past eight months, but Edward had been chosen as the just-in-case name for a boy. Molly smiled, watching their little boy frown in his sleep, a tiny, fragile package wrapped up in a huge Tartan blanket.
"I…I think I want to change it slightly, if that's okay?" she asked. "I got the idea from your brother."
Sherlock's eyes widened in apparent horror.
"Please tell me we're not calling him Mycroft?"
Molly giggled.
"No. But he mentioned that this blanket belongs to a man called Theodore and…well, my mum used to call my dad Teddy, so…it just sort of seems to fit. And I think it kind of works with the other names in your family, too."
Sherlock smirked.
"You mean it's posh?" he said, arching his eyebrow at her.
"It's distinguished," Molly clarified, grinning. "And anyway, we'll probably only call him Theodore when he's in trouble."
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"That'll come soon enough," he said.
"'Scuse me, folks," Antonio cut in. "We're about ready to go here. Magda's just bringing the wheelchair from the ambulance."
Molly nodded, settling her weight – and that of the baby's – back against Sherlock's chest.
"So," he said quietly, stroking the pad of his finger over his son's downy hair. "Theodore Gregory Victor Holmes."
"Mm-hm. Teddy," she confirmed. "Now officially the youngest ever member of the Diogenes Club."
Sherlock laughed.
"Not sure he'll be able to adhere to the strict code of silence," he said. "But it's nice that you've got him a smoking jacket already, Molly."
Molly shook her head.
"I'm keeping this," she smiled, fingering the silk lapel of the garment she was still wearing. "I bloody earned it."
"Yes," Sherlock replied, murmuring into her hair. "You really did."
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That was a BEAST of a chapter – thank you to everyone who made it to the end!
That's about it for this fic, but there'll be an epilogue along before Christmas :-)