I've given up apologising for the endless delays! However, you'll be glad to hear that this is one of those chapters that had to be split up...which means the next chapter isn't too far off - hooray!
Chapter 45
Only a couple of weeks had passed before Molly heard from Mycroft again.
She had hoped that she'd made her point with sufficient force to keep him away for far longer, even though it was inevitable that the oldest Holmes brother would make himself unwelcome sooner or later.
Sherlock had made no further reference either to the botched case or to his brother. The shared knowledge lay heavily between them, since he had no doubt deduced that she knew the truth and had confronted Mycroft herself. She knew she couldn't hide anything of that nature from Sherlock – it'd be written all over her face. There was an odd tension between them, and yet he didn't seem angry with her for getting involved. He merely seemed eager to draw a line under the matter and move on.
Molly had taken a deep breath and contacted an estate agent to find a long-term tenant for the house. They had found a suitable client quite quickly – an older couple, both retired pharmacists - and Molly had hurried down to clear it of any personal effects. Since there was probably no further need to keep her battered old car in Eastbourne, she drove it back to London and found a permanent space for it for an exorbitant fee in a residents' car park close to Baker Street.
Sherlock had merely grunted when she'd told him that the house was finally let. She felt mildly guilty whenever she recalled the measurements and sketches he'd made to convert the stable into a laboratory. However, since that weekend, he'd shown no interest in taking his plans any further, and she assumed that it had only ever been a brief theoretical possibility for him.
The cold reality was that John was absolutely right. You couldn't live two lives. 221B Baker Street was their home and London was Sherlock's life and his consuming passion. And here they would stay.
After a while, the tension began to lift. Sherlock spent several days on a complicated and engrossing case of art fraud involving a lightning dash across several European countries. He'd come by it courtesy of a Hungarian client and seemed certain that his brother had had no influence on this occasion.
When he returned, he was the old Sherlock – fizzing with energy and purpose, working through even minor cases with his familiar manic energy. He was also back to insulting Sally Donovan whenever she popped over with a complex case. Although the policewoman occasionally snapped angrily at one of his caustic comments, there was a wry glint in her hard eyes. Even she had accepted that the insults went with the territory if she wanted her cases to be solved.
When they were alone, he was good humoured and easy-going. The experiments continued, but he made more of an effort to tidy up after them. He even tried his hand at cooking a few new recipes - with some success, much to Molly's surprise. For a while she was suspicious of his motives. However, as time went on, she got used to being waited on and very much appreciated it after a long day. She decided to embrace the tasty results for as long as the culinary phase lasted. No doubt he'd lose interest in a few more weeks.
On a Friday night in July, Molly was just finishing work for the weekend and Sherlock had just texted to tell her he'd made a Moroccan lamb tagine, which would be ready the moment she arrived home (she'd given up trying to work out exactly how he knew what time that would be). She grabbed her bag and walked out of the office with a swift step, her mouth already watering at the prospect. As a result, she didn't notice the familiar grey-suited figure in the pathology lab until she had almost bumped into him.
Her first instinct was to walk past, pretending not to notice him. However, bitter experience told her he'd probably keep following her until she'd heard him out, even driving slowly by the pavement until she stopped, which was always embarrassing.
She sighed impatiently and dumped her heavy bag on the floor before folding her arms. "What do you want?"
Mycroft gave her a supercilious look. "What makes you assume I am here to see you?"
"Oh, come off it, Mycroft. Why else would you be in here? Dead body to inspect?"
She put her head on one side, considering him. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a couple of her colleagues giving them an odd look; Mycroft looked extremely out of place in the laboratory. It was unlikely that anyone realised he was Sherlock's brother.
He adjusted his tie minutely, revealing an air of mild discomfort. "I suppose… You would not consider accompanying me to a nearby restaurant?"
She shook her head briskly. "No. I'm going home. Sherlock has cooked dinner."
He raised his eyebrow, appearing to be genuinely surprised. "Really? A new interest?"
She cocked one of her own eyebrows. "Are you trying to tell me that you didn't know?"
He shifted a little, seeming even more uncomfortable. "You know, I don't spend my entire time spying on my brother. I do have other work to do."
"What you mean is that Sherlock has discovered and destroyed your latest attempt to bug our flat," she replied, flatly. "Why don't you stop playing games and just get on with whatever it is that you want to tell me?"
He paused, his eyes flitting briefly around the room. "I had hoped to do so somewhere less public."
"Yeah, I bet you had." She knew his methods by now. Mycroft preferred to take his 'victims' to a quiet place, where he could control both them and the conversation. Her mind threw up a memory of the meal they had had in the empty restaurant during Sherlock's absence – apparently pleasant, but done for effect. "We can talk right here - although I'm telling you now that if it's about Sherlock's lifestyle and whether or not he should retire, I'm not interested."
The look he gave her was distinctly cool. "Not at all. In fact, it's more in the nature of a warning. Janine Hawkins has disappeared."
She felt something icy cold shoot down her spine. "You're not serious? How the hell did that happen? I thought she was in protective custody!"
He frowned, and she sensed a deep-seated anger in him – clearly whatever had gone wrong had been out of his hands. "The Americans were in the process of seeking her extradition on a charge of blackmailing a senator. She was being transferred to another secure house to be interviewed by the man's attorney when something went wrong. She managed to slip her guard and we have absolutely no idea where she can be." He was unable to hide the frustration in his voice.
She clenched her fists to try to disguise a sudden tremor. Already, she was sensing shadows in every corner… "You're not going to ask Sherlock to find her, are you?"
He shook his head decisively. "Absolutely not. It shouldn't remain a problem for long, anyway."
She frowned. "I thought you said you didn't know where she was?"
"I don't. However, Janine is a marked person. She made a very big mistake when she abandoned our protection. No doubt she was afraid the extradition would be successful and that she'd be facing years in an American prison." His voice was icily calm. "I fully expect a body to turn up any day now."
She swallowed, nervously. "So…you don't think she'll come after us?"
"I think she'll have other priorities – if she's got any sense at all. However, I've increased your surveillance – not inside the flat," he added with a wry expression. "But you should keep an eye out anyway. I'm sending the current intelligence to Sherlock in case he comes up with any leads. He can at least advise – if he's prepared to communicate with me," he added quietly, half to himself, although she was no doubt expected to hear him.
"Right. Well, thanks." She nodded a little brusquely. "I – um – I appreciate it."
He nodded. For a moment, she thought he would just turn away and leave, but he hesitated, giving her a quizzical look, as if he was expecting something else.
"I've let the house out," she told him, almost defiantly. "Just so you know."
He nodded, his expression neutral.
Somehow, this response wasn't good enough for Molly, and she burst out: "So your little plan to 'retire' Sherlock failed, as you can see. We're staying here and he's going to carry on as usual. All of it – the cases, the dangers. For as many years as he wants to."
An enigmatic smile crept onto his lips. "If you say so."
She blinked. Last time, he hadn't seemed so sanguine about the prospect. If anything, he appeared amused.
"For as many years as he wants to," he repeated slowly, still with that odd smile. "Of course he will."
And his eyes dropped from her face to linger on her stomach. The glance was brief but with obvious intent.
"What?" Automatically, her hands went across her stomach. "What are you talking about?"
He nodded to her, all polite formality once more. "I must go, Molly. Give my regards to my brother, as always."
"What – Mycroft?" She followed him as he headed to the door. "You can't just – what did you – Mycroft!"
The door swished shut.
Suddenly furious, she stormed after him, pounding through the door and shouting at his retreating figure. "You're wrong! I am not pregnant! You hear me? I am not pregnant!"
She stopped, leaning against a wall to catch her breath. A passing medical student gave her a curious look; she glared at him until he hurried on.
"I'm not pregnant," she added, under her breath, trying to reassure herself.
"OK, you're not pregnant," John confirmed for her, some days later.
Molly groaned, raising her eyes to the ceiling and mouthing a heartfelt "Thank you" at whatever deity might be there and remotely interested in her gratitude. She fastened her trousers with shaking hands and sat up on the medical bed.
It'd taken several days, some frantic literature searching on the failure rate of the Mirena coil and a multitude of negative pregnancy test results to get up the courage to ask for a scan. Strictly speaking, John wasn't her GP and shouldn't have offered to scan her at his practice, but she hadn't wanted to ask anyone at the hospital – there was no surer way for her colleagues to find out that Dr. Hooper might be expecting. And she'd been worried that her own GP would have thought she'd gone mad requesting a scan when she hadn't had a single positive test. John would understand without any further explanation that this was Mycroft.
Although, on this occasion, it seemed he was wrong…
John had walked behind the curtain to give her some privacy while she adjusted her clothes. He now reappeared to clean the gel off the ultrasound wand.
"Would it have been so bad?" he asked quietly as he worked.
She stared at him in disbelief before taking refuge in sarcasm. "Oh no, because chasing murderers goes really well with play dates and family picnics… Are you serious? Sherlock as a father? It'd be…carnage!"
He grunted, sounding a little annoyed. "He's not that bad!"
She frowned, trying to assess his mood. "You don't think I mean…? John, you're a great dad! Brilliant – you and Mary both."
He dropped his wipe and sat down, suddenly looking tired. "But it's like you said. The 'chasing murderers' doesn't fit all that well with parenthood." He gave a wry smile. "Don't think I don't know that all too well."
Molly considered him thoughtfully. She'd never heard John moan about his parental responsibilities. Both he and Mary seemed to cope quite well, but Mary wasn't always around either – from time to time, she seemed to disappear on some mysterious mission of her own. It must be challenging for them to coordinate their schedules and manage to lead a relatively normal life.
Ellie was a quiet but robust little girl of four and a half now, a physical amalgamation of her parents, and about to start at the local primary school. She seemed to cope pretty well with all that life threw at her, and was used to being babysat by Molly or Mrs. Hudson if both parents were involved in one of Sherlock's cases. She could often be found hanging around in the background while Sherlock and John's investigations were going on. She would occasionally show some mild interest in Sherlock's work, especially in the gorier experiments, typical of a child of her age. As far as Molly could tell, Sherlock didn't particularly encourage her interest, but he didn't seem to mind her being around either. It was possible he didn't even notice her most of the time.
"No." She shook her head emphatically. "It's not that at all."
"So, what then?" John narrowed his eyes. "Are you afraid that Sherlock wouldn't love his own child? Because all that sociopathic stuff is crap and you know it. He loves you, doesn't he? We didn't think he was even capable of love…until it happened."
Molly shook her head, trying to find the words to explain. "No, I don't think that. I'm sure he would love his child - he'd probably throw himself completely into being a father. You know how obsessed he can be. And that's the real problem."
She saw the understanding dawn in John's eyes; his body language grew marginally less hostile. "You're worried that he'd abandon the Work for the sake of his family?"
"Well, of course he would…but John, can you just see Sherlock at antenatal classes and – and children's parties and parents' evenings? The very mundanity of it would drive him insane!"
John smiled, rubbing his forehead. "I can't say I'm much looking forward to the parties myself."
She laughed. "I bet you're not – but the big difference between you and him is that you'll be able to cope. You, me, Mary – we can all put up with a certain amount of boredom. The kind of routine you have to cope with when you have a child and you want that child to grow up normally. But Sherlock?" She shook her head, firmly. "No chance. He'd do it if he had to. But - but it'd be soul-destroying…"
"Have you actually asked him? About whether he wants to be a father one day, I mean?"
She laughed, a little bitterly. "It's not something we ever really discuss. You know Sherlock. He doesn't 'do' domestic conversations."
John's mouth dropped open. "You mean, you've never discussed the future? Marriage, kids, all that? Most couples do that at some point, but you're just – just drifting along!"
"Yeah, 'most couples'…" She shrugged, not meeting his eyes as she jumped off the bed and grabbed her jacket. "I learnt a very long time ago that the usual rules don't apply to Sherlock. How do you discuss domestic matters with someone who probably knows what you're going to say before you say it? You sort-of end up not talking, if you get what I mean. It's kind of…telepathic communication. He generally knows what I'm thinking, and I – well, I've got used to reading his body language. Anyway, it seems to work for us. And what about you?" she added, quickly. "Any plans to promote Ellie to the role of big sister?"
John grunted and returned to cleaning off the equipment. He clearly wasn't convinced by the change of subject. "Another one? Shouldn't think so."
"Mary not keen?" At one point, she would have wondered whether John himself wanted another child. He was a devoted father, but Ellie's birth hadn't been planned and couldn't have made life easy for them. However, over the years, it had become increasingly obvious that John wanted to slow down a bit and focus on his family more. From time to time, when Sherlock texted him, he'd shown a clear reluctance to get involved.
Now it was his turn to avoid her scrutiny, bending his head over his work. "She's very busy with…well, various things. The time never seems right…for either of us."
She repressed a sigh at the note of melancholy in his voice; John despised pity in any form. "Well, thanks for reassuring me. I appreciate it."
He nodded, suddenly all business again. "Don't forget your coil expires in four months. You'll need to get it replaced…or – you know – maybe not."
She laughed at the sly dig, raising her hands in surrender. "Alright, alright! Point taken. I'll talk it over with Sherlock."
Making promises to John was one thing, but in practice it wasn't quite so easy to raise the topic.
In the first place, Molly wasn't certain how she felt about children, let alone how Sherlock felt. She'd never felt particularly maternal. When she'd been with Tom, there'd been an unspoken assumption that they'd get on with starting a family fairly soon after they were married – Molly had been in her early thirties then, but she hadn't wanted to be an older first-time mother, and Tom was older too, so it would have been sensible not to wait too long. When she had broken with Tom and accepted that no man could ever replace Sherlock in her heart, she had resigned herself to the fact that she would never become a mother. It hadn't seemed to matter much at the time.
And now? She was approaching thirty-seven and Sherlock was forty-one – ironically, the same age as John when Ellie was born. Despite that, it felt a little late to be contemplating first-time parenthood.
But the idea seemed to fix itself in her mind. Suddenly, everywhere she went, she saw children. Harassed parents with pushchairs on shopping streets, small children running in Regent's Park and squealing with excitement on the boating lake. She began to picture herself pushing a Bugaboo, holding small hands, carrying toys, kicking a ball in the park. She even browsed the Mothercare website and gave some consideration to the changes that would be required to turn John's old room into a suitable nursery. She walked by the primary schools near Baker Street, looking them over with a critical eye – they were closed for the summer holiday, but she tried to imagine being a mother waiting at the gates at home time.
Occasionally, she pressed her hands against her stomach and tried to imagine how it would feel to have a life growing in there – moving and flourishing. A child. Her child – hers and Sherlock's. The concept was dizzying; when she thought about it in those terms – creating a beautiful new life – she wanted it so much that it hurt. A little boy with his hair and her eyes – no, no, with his wild hair and his beautiful eyes…and his dazzling intellect and his passion and energy. A perfect little boy – or a girl. And she'd love this child and cherish it, would give it everything it needed. He or she would be Sherlock without the baggage of an extraordinary childhood and young adulthood.
But then…the more she thought about it, really what trauma had Sherlock had in his past? John and she had quite naturally pictured a cold-hearted mother and a workaholic father, until they'd met the delightful and perfectly normal Mr. and Mrs. Holmes. So it surely couldn't have been their upbringing that had turned Sherlock to hard drugs and a dangerous lifestyle, or Sherrinford to self-imposed exile and anonymity, or Mycroft into a cold but brilliant bureaucrat. If she created a carbon copy of Sherlock, didn't she run the risk of creating another hyper intelligent child who wouldn't fit in with his contemporaries and would grow up as isolated as his father? The idea was profoundly depressing – much as she loved him just the way he was, she wouldn't wish Sherlock's complicated brain on anyone else.
It couldn't have taken Sherlock long to notice her introspection – it probably wouldn't have taken anyone much time. She had grown absent-minded, sometimes not answering immediately when someone spoke to her. Even Mike Stamford had noticed, and he wasn't known for his astute personnel management skills.
At home, she would curl up at one end of the sofa, aimlessly watching hours of the crappy daytime TV that Sherlock was addicted to and wincing whenever the adverts came on, since they seemed to be mainly aimed at stay-at-home mothers.
So Sherlock must have noticed…and yet he said nothing for nearly two weeks. And she kept biting her tongue, trying to work out how to bring the topic up.
One evening, while she was standing in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil and staring blankly out of the window, he came in behind her and started fiddling around in the cutlery drawer for a sharp knife.
"You're doing that again," he commented.
She came out of her reverie. "What?"
"Placing your hands over your abdomen."
Startled, she looked down and realised that he was right. Luckily, the kettle chose that moment to boil, so it seemed natural to move her hands away quickly.
"OK – and…?" She poured the boiling water into two mugs, avoiding his gaze as she did so.
His hands paused in their activity, as if he was thinking it through. "It's a mannerism often used by people suffering from chronic stomach pain. But you're not in pain – if you were, your posture would be stiffer and you would be moving more carefully. It's also habitual for pregnant women – in fact, the easiest way to find out if a woman is pregnant and aware of it is to make a sudden movement and watch what she does with her hands. Inevitably, they go to her stomach, as if in protection. Illogical actually, since the best defensive action would be to raise her own hands to block her opponent's."
His voice was light and neutral. Slowly, she turned around to face him. He was looking at her, thoughtfully. "You keep putting your hands on your stomach. However, you're not pregnant. You don't show any of the early symptoms. And, the other day, when Mrs. Hudson's hoover fell backwards towards you, you simply grabbed hold of it, making no attempt to protect your stomach. No, so you're not pregnant…but, just recently, you thought you might be… You saw John for a scan to make absolutely sure, which is no doubt why he's been unable to look me in the eyes for the last ten days."
Without taking her eyes off his, she nodded slowly.
He dropped the knife he'd been looking for and walked towards her. "You are relieved to find that you're not pregnant…and yet, you're sorry too. Because you're not sure how you feel about not being a mother."
She smiled. "I suppose you could just as easily say that I'm not sure how you feel about…not being a father. I mean, we never discussed it, and I just assumed… You're very fond of Ellie…"
He was close enough now for her to feel the warmth of his body and smell that wonderful Sherlock aroma of cologne mixed with chemicals. His face was a little wry. "I am fond of Ellie…at a suitable distance."
"Then you don't, um… You don't feel that you've missed out in some way?"
He shook his head, emphatically, and she felt the breath she had been holding onto tightly rush out of her body. The tension of the last two weeks began to seep out, leaving her feeling a little shaky. She cleared her throat, trying to hide her reaction. "OK. Well, then. That's…OK, then."
She turned back to the coffees and added sugar to one of them with hands that weren't entirely steady. Her eyes were stinging, making her blink several times. She felt as if a weight had been taken off her shoulders…and yet, there was a painful knot in her stomach.
Sherlock was silent for a moment, but she could feel the weight of his gaze on her as she stirred the coffee vigorously.
"Molly, if you really wanted children, I wouldn't say no," he said, eventually.
She took a deep breath and turned to look at him again. His face was calm, his head tipped to one side in an inquiring manner – it was a pose that he often took when they were discussing human emotions. A pose that told her he was severely out of his comfort zone.
"I mean it," he added, quietly, his voice firm. "And if this flat wasn't suitable, we still have Prior's Holt. We could move there. I could make it work. If it's what you want, I don't mind."
She lifted a hand and smoothed it over his brow. The face was calm, the expression apparently determined, but there was anxiety in his eyes. She could sense that he was afraid of her response.
She smiled gently and let her hand fall. "But that's not enough, is it? You can't become a father because you 'don't mind'. Well, I suppose you could…but you wouldn't be a good one. And I wouldn't want children under those terms. Both parents have to want children, otherwise it just won't work."
He sagged a little, his head lowering as he muttered: "I'm sorry", and she sensed that he meant it.
"Don't be." She stood on tiptoe and kissed him very gently. "Don't ever be sorry. You know, you're making an assumption about me – and you could be wrong."
His head reared up and he looked at her hard. "You mean, you don't want children?"
She shrugged, deliberately casual. "You think I want you to give up doing what you're best at? You're only forty, Sherlock! Your best years could be ahead of you – in fact, I'm certain they are. One day, maybe quite soon – you'll be needed for something incredibly important, perhaps a matter of national or international security. Do you really think I'd want to be responsible for the fact that you weren't here when you were needed most?" She shook her head. "You can't have two lives. You can't raise a family and do what you do so well."
She picked up the coffees, handing one to him before moving into the lounge. "And besides, maybe I'm not ready to stop doing what I do best. I'm just getting going in my career – and, you know, I'm good at it. I want to do great things too – go into research maybe - and I'm not going to be able to look after children at the same time."
He stood in the doorway of the kitchen, watching her as she set her coffee down and sank gratefully into John's old armchair. The adrenaline was beginning to desert her, leaving her feeling tired. "So…any news on Janine yet?" she asked, when the silence became too hard to bear.
He came into the room and sat in his own chair, facing hers. "We're working on a few leads. She's definitely still in the UK somewhere."
He'd become involved in the matter in the last couple of days, having reconciled with Mycroft to a certain degree. There appeared to be a tacit agreement between them not to argue over the recent past for now, so they could deal with the current crisis. Mycroft was presumably worried enough by now to accept Sherlock's help. She suspected that Sherrinford was also helping in some unspecified way, which was why she didn't question the 'we', even though she knew John wasn't involved in this case.
She shook her head in disbelief. "I don't understand how she can even be surviving! I mean, she's got no money, nowhere to live - she's got nothing."
"She's putting pressure on someone to shelter her. One of her blackmail victims – of which, there are many, and none of them will admit to anything. I'll know who's lying when I've seen them all."
She smiled at him before picking up a copy of The Telegraph. "You'll get there. I'm not worried that she'll come anywhere near us. She'd be stupid to do that – no surer way of getting caught. You know that Mycroft's got someone following me every time I'm outside now? He hasn't confirmed it, but I know when I'm being shadowed. Normally, I'd be a bit fed-up about it, but right now I don't mind a bit."
He nodded vaguely, his eyes off at some distant point. Assuming his mind was on the Janine situation, she turned her attention to the newspaper. She needed some kind of normality to ground her emotions. Her eyes stared at the print, trying to find something to focus on.
In a way, it was a huge relief to have finally confirmed what she had suspected. She knew he was right, and that she was right. It would be utter folly to start a family. Wrong for both of them – and anyway how could she think of bringing a child into the world knowing that he or she could be threatened at any time by Sherlock's enemies?
"You know, marriage is just a habit," Sherlock said, suddenly.
"What?" She looked up, confused.
"Marriage," he repeated, still staring at a bare corner of the room as if it held something of great interest to him. "It's simply habit. An empty social convention. Originally employed as a device to cultivate social and economic connections – and to ensure financial security and the furtherance of the genetic line. Entirely unnecessary these days - although, of course, I know that many people place a certain value on it," he added, quickly. "Women in particular, even though they are now, more often than not, financially independent of their husbands. Still," he continued thoughtfully, after a pause. "In certain cultures, it can be a useful way to ensure legal and financial rights. And can be viewed as a concrete intention to act as a – a social 'unit'. It is an obligation between two individuals. An agreement to face the world together. A declaration of unity of purpose…"
His voice trailed away as his eyes met hers, very deliberately. Waiting for her response.
She stared at him, setting her mind to 'Sherlock' in order to read between the lines. Until, eventually, she smiled.
"Yes," she said. "Yes, Sherlock. I will marry you."
