Mrs. Holmes was already seated at a relatively secluded table when the brothers arrived. Chanel suit. Misaki pearls. Cartier watch. Her still mostly red hair in a chignon low on her nape. She was very regal and very thin and very French, despite the fact that she had not lived in France full time since she was three years old.

They each kissed her cheek before sitting down. She looked both of them over across the table and rolled her eyes.

"I should have known this wasn't a social visit, especially considering I've only seen Sherlock once since his return to England. Good thing I hadn't ordered anything yet. What's the matter?"

"Well, Mother—" Sherlock started.

"A matter which we have been at pains to keep secret is in imminent danger of coming to light, and since it involves our family, we thought it best you hear about it from us. From Sherlock since it involves him most intimately."

"You really did get Molly Hooper pregnant, didn't you?" Mrs. Holmes said, her icy grey eyes boring into Sherlock's.

"Well, Mummy—" he found he couldn't finish the sentence and merely gaped at his mother. She sighed impressively and leaned toward him.

"You are both my sons and it continues to amaze me that you always forget that your intellect was not created in a vacuum. The press may have bought your story, but I saw photos of that poor girl. She was whippet thin but came back from an incredibly trying ordeal carrying ten extra pounds and looking like a shell shocked war bride. I sat on the board at Great Ormond Street long enough to know the look she has. That is a look of profound loss. I did not pry because I know that you two always have reasons for your secrecy, but I'm assuming by the sudden urgent need for my knowing that I have a grandchild is that the media has caught wind of the child's existence. So where is it?"

Sherlock had still not recovered his capacity for speech so Mycroft took over.

"She was taken by James Moriarty and his associate Sébastien Moran the day after she was born, at which point Miss Hooper and Sherlock were released from their captivity." Mycroft pulled up the photo on his phone and handed it to Mrs. Holmes.

She looked at the photo and looked sharply back at Sherlock, aghast, her eyes glistening. She pulled a handkerchief from her handbag and dabbed at her eyes carefully before any tears could fall. When she looked back at her younger son, her eyes were dry.

"Her name?"

"Violet Rose." Sherlock said. Mrs. Holmes nodded her approval.

"She's two months old?"

"Yesterday."

"And you haven't retrieved her yet?"

"Mummy, it's very complicated and—"

"No more excuses, Sherlock Holmes. This is the life you chose, and you're finally beginning to understand the consequences. There will be time to sort out your feelings later but this is most emphatically not that time. Do what you have to do. Get her back. You've wasted enough time already. Call me if you need anything."

The two men stood as their mother rose. She kissed them each on the cheek and hurried out, phone already to her ear.

"That went well," Sherlock said. He checked his watch. "I should see if Molly's session was at all productive. Hopefully she's not still with her mother." He left Mycroft to deal with the rather confused waiter and hopped in a cab.

He messaged John for an update on Molly.

-At her flat. DON'T COME HERE. Her mum wants to murder you. Can't say I blame her.—

-Bring her to Baker Street. Molly, not her mother.—

-She's not exactly keen on that—

-Why not—

-You need to talk to her yourself—

-That's what I'd like to do but it would seem we're at an impasse if I can't come there and she won't come home—

-For Christ's sake Sherlock just call her—

His thumb was hovering above the call button when the cab rounded the corner onto his block.

"Marvelous," he said, pocketing his phone. A lone figure stood on the stoop, a dingy reporter called Will Ainsworth. He was finishing off a sandwich from Speedy's. When Sherlock got out of the cab, the reporter tossed the wrapper on the ground, wiped his hand on his trousers and held it out.

"Evenin' Sherlock."

"Hello, Bill. Slow news day?" Sherlock ignored the proffered hand and fished his keys out of his pocket.

"Shaping up to be a pretty great one," he said, getting out his mobile. "You wouldn't happen to be missing something would you?" He held his phone up.

Sherlock glanced at the photo of Violet. He kept his face carefully neutral before smirking derisively. "Still on that kick, are we? Your editors must be getting impatient by now."

"Come on, Sherlock. They're only giving us one guess each, have to post it in Missed Connections in Craigslist. But she's your spitting image, isn't she? If you just verify it for me, I'll make sure you get in on the exclusive before I take it to my editor."

"Sorry, Bill. I can't help you," he said, going into 221 and shutting the door firmly behind him. He locked it and continued up the stairs.

If Ainsworth had ever shown any evidence of being remotely trustworthy, Sherlock might have taken him up on his offer. He was certainly clever, being one of the few journalists who hadn't bought their story that the pregnancy hormones in Molly's blood had been planted in order to sensationalize Moriarty's narrative. The others who had doubted it had merely implied that Molly must have miscarried. Ainsworth was the only one who had been digging for evidence of a living child.

Sherlock retrieved his phone and called Molly.

"Don't come home just yet, Ainsworth is lurking around outside. I can come to you if you hide any sharp instruments from your mother."

"It's okay. She's left," Molly said dully. "Said it was all too much and she needed to be alone. That's what she does."

"Is John still there?"

"He left before she did. Said he needed to get some sleep before the shit really hits the fan."

"I'll come over."

"No."

"I need you to tell me about your session. You went, didn't you?"

"Yes, fine."

"You're upset with me."

"I'll see you in a bit," she said and hung up.

At her flat, she let him in and sat on the sofa. There was a glass of wine on the coffee table, but it looked to be untouched. She doubted she had stopped crying for more than a few minutes all day. He hung up his coat and sat in the chair nearest her end of the sofa.

"Molly, I'm sorry I couldn't speak to you earlier but I needed to focus."

"You think that's what's upsetting me? You think I'm pouting?"

"Well—not pouting but—Molly, I can't give you what you need emotionally while I'm working on this. It's not possible. "

"That's not what I'm asking for, Sherlock. I'm pissed off because you shut me out and left me in the fucking dark all day and had to hear about everything after the fact, from John. I'm not just some girl you're sleeping with. I'm her mother. I deserve to know everything the second it happens. From you."

"Why does it matter who you hear it from if you get the information?"

"If you really believed that, why did you make sure that our mothers got the news about Violet from us?"

"That's different."

"How?"

"Because John Watson isn't some reporter, he's my best friend. This is just—this is why. All of this is exactly why."

He stood up and went to get his coat. He had to leave. He didn't want to say the things he was thinking.

"Why what?" she said. She got up and cut him off, standing between him and the door. And she knew what he was going to say and she was going to make him say it anyway.

"Why I can't do this. For the rest of my life, if it's not you, or John or Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade, it'll be Violet. And all of this, this entire situation. The whole fucking reason that Violet even exists is because I let myself care. I can't ever stop caring about her or anyone else and it's ruining—everything."

Her big brown eyes filled with tears and she took a step toward him, her hand out to touch his face. He stepped back, hitting the door behind him, and grabbed her wrist.

"No," he said. "I can't." He couldn't give comfort or accept it or he would finally fall apart.

She looked at him for a very long time, tears spilling down her cheeks. He released her wrist and she stepped away from him. She went to the kitchenette and put the kettle on.

"About my session. There was only one thing. It took forever for her to get me under, but there was a little bit of conversation. From the last time they were giving me electroshock, in Dublin. I was me for a little bit and Sébastien told me that everything was okay, and that I'd be the hero in the end."