"Should we?" Molly said nervously. "I mean, I know it'd be kind of weird but we may as well."
"It doesn't matter to me. Never has," he shrugged, returning to his book.
"But it won't be as much fun if you don't want to do it, and I mean, we really need something fun to do."
"I'm sure I'll be fine once we get started, I just don't really care one way or the other right now."
"You'll have to help me, though. I saw the perfect one on our walk yesterday. Just the right height and not too scraggly but not so lush we can't put ornaments on it."
"And what exactly are we going to use for ornaments, once I slaughter this tree for you and drag it back to the house?"
"There's got to be something here. But even if there isn't we can make snowflakes and garlands. Cranberries and popcorn and paper chains."
Molly stood at the window, peeking out of the curtain as raindrops started splattering against the glass. Sherlock observed her silhouette, and noted how her posture had changed, the curve of her back exaggerated in proportion to the outward curve of her abdomen. From behind, she looked much the same.
On their walk yesterday, he'd noticed that her stride had changed as well. It wasn't exactly a waddle, but it definitely lacked her usual quick efficiency. She had more stamina than he did, however, at least for now. He had been back for nine days. His body still ached dully and he had to be hyper diligent about controlling his temper, but it was better every day, the wanting had dulled from a roar to a low throbbing like heavy bass heard from blocks away.
"I know it's silly," she continued. "But isn't it weird, how we try to normalize things? Even in horrible circumstances. Like soldiers celebrating holidays in the trenches. Or like Anne Frank, how she still found things to be joyful about. Of course this is more Flowers in the Attic than Anne Frank but—I don't know. Did you ever read the Little House books?"
"It's hard to say, though I'm vaguely aware of what they are."
"I was obsessed with them, even more than I was with the Narnia books. It was like there was this magical place that actually existed at one time. Can you imagine? Areas larger than all of England with nothing but waving grass and blue sky."
"Sounds tedius."
"You'd love it. Lack of stimuli, good for brain work. Anyway, Laura's family never had much. They weren't destitute, and the only time they ever were in danger of starving was during the long winter, but they were still very poor. But no matter what horrible things happened, Christmas was always beautiful. There was one in particular when they didn't think that Father Christmas would even come, but he did. And all they got for Christmas was a peppermint stick and a new tin cup and a shiny new penny and Laura felt like her heart was going to burst because she felt like it was too much. And I thought it was the most beautiful Christmas story ever, which would have gotten me sent straight to confession if I'd ever told my mother, but I can't help it. So I've always tried to find some way to make Christmas a little bit joyous, even if I'm waist high in suicides or bus accident victims. So what I'm saying, Sherlock Holmes, is that I really want a bloody Christmas tree even if it's totally insane."
He hadn't told her everything that happened while he was away. What he had told her came out in small chunks in the blazingly fast monotone in which he explained his deductions. Meant only to be informative, no emotion conveyed. Always in the dark. He didn't want to see how it hurt her to know.
What he didn't tell her was how much he fantasized about breaking Sébastien's body, bone by bone, sinew by sinew. How he imagined it so vividly that he could feel the fine bones of his face crumbling under his fist and the ache in his own knuckles as he pummeled him.
He didn't tell her how much he wanted to strangle the life out of Moriarty, how sweet the struggle would be and how cathartic to feel the bastard's hands slacken and his body relax with his final breath.
Because even though she claimed she wanted to kill them, he knew she had not really thought about what that meant, no matter how acquainted she was with the frailties of the human body.
"Sherlock?" Her soft voice brought him back.
"Sorry," he said. "Yes. The tree. We just need a saw. And a stand. When it stops raining."
"You'll probably have to go over and ask for a saw."
"Yes," he said, making no move to do so. He was comfortable and drowsy, which was a rare combination lately. She came over to lie on the sofa with him, and he moved over so that she could wedge herself between him and the sofa's back. Soon there wouldn't be room on the sofa for both of them like this, which saddened him. Surprisingly, the tighter she held him, the calmer he felt.
"You know what tree I'm talking about?"
"Yes. I'm certain I know every rock and tree on this place now. With at least fifteen more weeks here, I'll probably be able to give them all pet names."
"You know, there's a good chance that the people who originally built this house lived their whole lives within twenty miles of here. Maybe less if there was a closer village at some point."
"Yes, but they also only lived thirty five years."
"What do you think he's going to do with us? After—after the baby?"
"I don't know, but if you're worried he'll kill us, I don't think so."
"I almost wish he would."
"No you don't. Because then there'd be no one to fight for it."
"I don't know how I'm going to be able to bear it," she whispered.
"The same way you've borne everything else."
"It'll be worse than all of that combined."
"You were just talking about how resilient people are. It's true; we're absolute lunatics that way.
"We haven't seen Jim in months. I just know he's going to show up on Christmas or something. I wonder what he's been doing all this time?"
"Decorating a nursery?"
She started to get up. She looked as though he had hit her.
"I'm sorry. That was awful," he said, pulling her to him again. It took some coaxing, but she settled against him.
"Tell me about Christmas at your house. Lots of cousins, right? Crackers and five different puddings and your Dad reading A Christmas Carol and doing all the voices?"
"Not far off," she said. "He usually preferred The Night Before Christmas, if he could get away with it. Mum always wanted him to read about the birth of Christ from Matthew and Luke but she rarely got her way. What was it like at your house?"
"Not—like that." He didn't want to elaborate and regretted opening the door up for that question. She didn't push him.
"Sherlock," she whispered.
"Yes?"
She took his hand and placed it flat on the side of her belly. He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly tight. He needed to look at this from a purely scientific perspective. He was merely observing. He sighed and was about to move his hand after not feeling anything for thirty seconds when it happened. It wasn't percussive, like a kick or punch. It was more like a wave under her skin. He looked at her in alarm.
"Just rolling over" she said.
He left his hand where it was and finally felt two little kicks, like someone gently thumping his palm. His fascination completely outweighed his fear. This was incredible. He had never paid much attention to pregnant women before, unless it had to do with a case. Just like with sex, knowing the anatomy and physiology of it hadn't truly prepared him for the reality of it. He couldn't say that he felt anything akin to love for this child, but he did suddenly feel an intense surge of possessiveness and wonder.
"Everything's going to be okay," he said. He didn't know if he was saying it to her, the baby, or himself.