Chapter 101 — I've Always Trusted You

Sherlock dropped his phone onto the living room table with a resounding, "Yes!" after ending the call with Lestrade. His heart thumped enthusiastically.

The D.I. had his daughter coming to stay for the night ("You have a daughter?" Sherlock had asked, to Lestrade's bemusement). His ex-wife had to attend a thing, so Lestrade couldn't stay at Baker Street as a result.

Molly may have been able to replace him, but she was expecting a late post-mortem to come in. Judging by Lestrade's hesitance in speaking, he was trusting Sherlock to be okay by himself for the night, perhaps because the D.I. didn't want to incur Mycroft Holmes's silent but deadly wrath by informing him of the shift change.

Sherlock strolled to the living room window and looked out onto the street. All he had to do now was wait until just on nightfall, instead of after midnight, as he had been doing all week, then he could escape to St George's Fields and visit his family. A smile stretched wide and his chest swelled. His family.

He turned from the window and shrugged out of his dressing gown. He strode purposefully towards his bedroom, whistling the first two bars of Bach's Sonata No. 1 for Solo Violin. Sherlock examined his image in the full-length mirror as he drew on his jacket.

Might shave when I get to Rose's.

He rubbed his jaw in thought. The cropped beard drew some attention away from his injuries. If he had a clean-shaven face, the subconjunctival haemorrhage in his left eye would feature more prominently. Perhaps he'd leave the shaving for now.

After straightening his lapels and running a hand through his curls, Sherlock left the bedroom for the kitchen, restarting the sonata, and making several attempts to whistle the trills in the second bar.

He stopped short as an idea hit him. He could play lullabies to Grace! Would that be okay with Rose? What kind? Did he have any? Should he take his violin over there tonight?

A number of tunes ran through Sherlock's head as he filled the kettle. The fingers on his left hand automatically danced over imaginary strings. He still had some time before last light after sunset, so he may as well enjoy a cuppa while he searched through his sheet music for suitable, child-friendly pieces.

As he placed the kettle onto its holder and switched it on, the front door clicked shut. Light treads on the staircase easily identified the visitor. Not Mrs Hudson with a bag of groceries! Sherlock's heart sank. His plans for an early visit were thwarted!

"Hi!" said Molly, her cheeks flushed from her rapid ascent. "I've brought that chicken you like this time."

Sherlock forced a smile to his face as Molly entered the kitchen from the landing, carrying a bag of takeaway Chinese.

"I thought you had a post-mortem."

"They transferred it to—"

"Good," he said, turning toward the kettle and not really hearing Molly's reply. "Tea?"

On any other night, Sherlock may have enjoyed Molly's company. Good food. Interesting post-mortems to discuss. But all he could think of was the lost opportunity to spend more time getting to know his daughter. He smiled inwardly at the thought of Rose good-naturedly chastising him for spending the first few nights he'd visited holding Grace in his arms the entire time he was there. Most of the time, that was, when Rose wasn't feeding her.

"You'll spoil her!"

Yes. Yes, he would. Because he was her daddy and that was his job.

All things being equal, he only had one weekend of incarceration left. Mycroft would stop this ridiculous need for Sherlock to be babysat, and he'd be free to spend all day, every day looking after Grace! And spend it with Rose! He had already planned to purchase more 'Scott Williams' attire here in London, since most of his alter-ego's wardrobe (except for his pyjamas) were in Edinburgh. Or he could get Rose to buy them for him if Sherlock Holmes shouldn't be spotted shopping for off-the-rack clothing.

They could go strolling through Hyde Park together, just the three of them, before the autumn chill really set in. With a hat and sunglasses and the rest of his casual attire, Sherlock imagined he'd look like one of those pointless celebrities trying to hide in plain sight by looking ordinary.

And Sherlock Holmes was far from ordinary.

But he ate and chatted with Molly, more amiably than his previous persona would've allowed. They had their own books to read, but frequently interrupted each other with random thoughts. As the hour grew late, Sherlock realised his error. With Lestrade, the more talking they'd do about disturbing cases, the more alcohol the D.I. would consume. With Molly, it was cups of tea! She'd never get tired at this rate! Sherlock needed a new strategy.

He feigned a yawn and turned the page of his book.

"Don't let me keep you up," Molly said, as if on cue.

Sherlock snapped his book shut and gave her a tired smile.

"At least with Class A stimulants," he said, "I could last a bit longer. I'm having nothing more potent than caffeine these days."

He rose from his chair, a real yawn escaping this time. He stooped to retrieve their tea cups and was satisfied to hear an empathetic yawn from Molly.

"Greg said you were going to bed early most nights," she said, twisting around as he entered the kitchen. "You must need your sleep."

Sherlock glanced at Molly. She was now looking towards the sofa. Panic flitted through him. Molly was a light sleeper! And further more, she'd probably spend a couple more hours reading. He'd never get past her if she was perched near the door!

"Why don't you take my bed," he said, depositing the tea cups into the sink.

"Oh, no. I couldn't kick you out of your own bed," she said, rising from her chair.

"Nonsense," Sherlock replied, giving her one of his crooked smiles and crossing the kitchen to rejoin her in the living area. "I've hijacked your bedroom several times in the past. It's only fair you take mine. And I fall asleep quite easily on the sofa, as John can attest."

"I don't mind the sofa, really."

"I won't have it, Molly," he said, his voice deepening for maximum effect. "You've got… what was it? Three PMs to conduct tomorrow. You need your sleep. At least I can take a nap during the day if I feel as though I've slept poorly. Now, I'll just get my things…" He turned and strode back through the kitchen, not giving Molly another opportunity to protest.

Sherlock used the bathroom as quickly as possible and changed into his pyjamas and dressing gown. Molly had washed the tea things and gave him an embarrassed smile as he crossed her path on his way through the kitchen.

"All yours," he said.

And now it was just a matter of waiting.

Sherlock turned off most of the lamps in the living area, except for the one by the sofa. He arranged the spare pillow and blanket that had been placed aside each morning after Lestrade had left. He sank down, his elbows propped on his knees, head bowed. A clock ticked in his head. Seconds turned into minutes. But minutes stayed as minutes. They weren't fast enough to transform into anything.

Restless, Sherlock hovered in the darkened kitchen, listening to the water running in the shower. He resumed his position on the sofa, then he stretched out along the length of it. The sofa was quite comfortable on the occasions Sherlock had taken to it, entering his Mind Palace when in the middle of a difficult case. More comfortable when wearing his pyjamas than when he was wearing a suit, naturally. And sometimes he'd even fallen aslee—

Wait! What the fuck!

He was wearing his pyjamas! What was he going to do? Wander about London in sleep wear? If caught, he'd look more like a desperate junkie if still clad in pyjamas, even if he did have his Belstaff covering them.

Moron!

Sherlock padded into the kitchen once more, his heart hammering. Thankfully, Molly was still in the bathroom. As he crossed the threshold into his bedroom, he heard the water turn off. With quickened steps, Sherlock retrieved his suit from the closet, plus a new shirt, since he'd tossed the one he'd been wearing earlier into the clothes basket.

He'd left the kitchen area by the time he heard the ensuite door to the bedroom open. Close call!

How could a man who risked life and limb to break up criminal networks, both here and abroad, be so poorly prepared for something as simple as sneaking out of his own flat in the middle of the night? With these kinds of mistakes he would've been dead inside a week.

Sherlock stored his clothing in John's old room upstairs. If Molly came out to get a drink of water before retiring, he didn't want her to see the evidence of his planned escape.

When a sufficient amount of time should've passed, he took up surveillance in the hallway again. That end of the flat was completely silent. Was it devoid of light though? Sherlock ended up on his knees, peering underneath the slit in his bedroom door. Yes, there was a faint glow. Molly was reading by the light of the bedside lamp, the one on the far side of the bed, judging by the intensity of the glow.

Great. Good fucking deduction there. Glad you could use your skills for the greater good!

But what now?

He had to wait.

Just… wait.

By the light of the floor lamp next to the sofa, Sherlock idly flicked through his sheet music. But his heart wasn't it in. All he wanted to do was leave. Still, it proved a distraction for a few more minutes even though his eyes no longer saw the actual compositions and his fingers didn't dance over imaginary strings.

He found himself in the passageway outside the bedroom once more. No more glow of the bedside lamp! Sherlock straightened up, his pulse thudding in his ears.

Molly's turned off the lamp because her eyes have grown heavy from reading. She'd be asleep inside ten minutes. Action stations!

Sherlock tried to keep his movements restrained and quiet although he longed to bolt upstairs. He dressed in his trousers, shirt and jacket, as he had done a million times before, but his fingers felt thick and clumsy.

There, he thought, running his hand along his jacket lapels, before fastening the single button at his waist. But something felt wrong!

Sherlock dropped his gaze to the floor. His toes wiggled a hello up at him.

Shoes!

You fucking

idiot!

They were still in the bedroom, beside the chair in the corner of the room.

How could he have let this happen! Had all the drug use, inactivity and the presence of parenting hormones made him incapable of strategising a simple escape plan?

Sherlock found himself outside his bedroom listening intently to the silence within. He could do this. He'd once successfully retrieved a firearm from a sharp shooter in the dead of night from a criminal mastermind's headquarters on the outskirts of Berlin. How did this even compare!

Sherlock twisted the doorknob until he was sure the latch was now completely within the cylinder. He pushed the door inwards, at first just a crack, then finally to the point where he could slip inside.

Piece of piss.

In the inky blackness of the room, Sherlock crept across the floor knowing precisely where the chair stood. Beside the chair legs he'd find his shoes. He stooped, fingers brushing the edge of the leather. Now confident he had the pair in his grasp, he straightened up.

One knee cracked.

Dear God, he was getting too old for this sort of thing! Desperately out of shape!

Sherlock froze. If Molly stirred at the sound, she'd probably open her eyes. Not seeing bobbing shadows or hearing muffled noises upon which to ponder, she'd most likely go back to sleep.

There was a click of the bedside lamp before the room was bathed in a warm glow. Defeated, Sherlock straightened fully.

"Sherlock?"

He twisted around and gave Molly a friendly smile.

"Just getting my shoes," he said casually. "But now that you're awake, I'll just…" He waved vaguely toward his dresser drawers and cleared his throat. "Ah… get a fresh pair of socks, too."

He rounded the bed, making for the drawers, feeling Molly's eyes upon him. He gave a light cough once more as he took out the first pair of socks he laid eyes on. Not good for the sock index!

"Where are you going?"

"Oh, you know…" he said, taking a seat on the edge of the bed with his back to her. "Just going out for a walk."

He began pulling on his socks as if this were an ordinary day… or night, hoping the airiness in his voice would force Molly to reconsider any suspicions she harboured about his intentions.

"Sherlock, you can't just go out in the middle of the night with no explanation."

"Oh, relax, Molly. It's just a walk."

"Why now?"

He glanced up at her and gave her a rueful smile.

"Little bit famous," he said, before returning his focus to his shoes. "I don't want to draw any attention to myself. Can't go out during the day, not while Culverton Smith's deeds are being reported in the press on a daily basis. And I can't sleep at the moment. Too much tea."

Molly stayed frustratingly silent as Sherlock laced up his shoes. Outwardly, he probably looked the epitome of calm, inwardly however, his stomach was performing somersaults.

"I'll come with you," she said.

"No need."

Sherlock swiftly rose and made for the door, hoping like hell his over-confidence was enough to detain Molly.

"You can't go out by yourself."

Sherlock paused by the open door.

"I'll be fine," he said. "London at night is my playground, remember. And besides, you've got a full day of work ahead of you tomorrow. You need your sleep."

"Sherlock, I'm not worried about your safety at night. I think you know that."

Uh oh, Molly was wide awake now. He could quite possibly be in a lot of trouble if he didn't shut down this conversation right now.

"I won't be long," he added, stepping across the threshold. "Don't wait up!"

He shut the door behind him and made tracks through the kitchen.

"Sherlock!"

Dammit!

He glanced over his shoulder. Molly was hastening towards him, pulling her dressing gown around herself. He stopped on the rug by the armchairs, his shoulders drooping a little.

"You know why I'm concerned," she said, pulling up in front of him. "You're an addict. You've been clean for a week. The risk of relapsing—"

"Molly. There's no need to recite statistics. Firstly, I don't relapse. I intentionally use when I—"

"Intentionally use?"

"Yes. You know why I was using. And before this whole business with Culverton Smith, my previous substance use was necessary to delve into my Mind Palace to work out whether or not James Moriarty was dead."

"Sherlock—"

"And before that, I used drugs as a strategy to make Charles Magnussen think I wasn't a threat. The days of me using because I'm bored due to a lack of cases are long gone. You know that. I'm not that flippant. And these days, I… I have far too much to lose."

The remaining air whooshed out of his lungs, as if he'd just been punched. His voice, threadbare. He knew why. Because his last session of drug-taking had resulted in him missing the birth of his daughter and nearly losing the love of his life.

Molly was studying him as if she couldn't quite figure out what was going on with him. Sherlock stood taller and drew in a steadying breath.

"Molly. Sometimes a walk is just a walk." When she still didn't look like she was on board, he added, "As it has been every other nigh—"

Oops. Not good to admit to sneaking out on all those other occasions! They really will put the shackles on him then.

"What?"

Sherlock sighed and gave a half eye-roll.

"I've been out every night this week. For fresh air. No sign of drug use is there? John sees me every other day, as do you. Lestrade, every night… when he's not passed out on the sofa and Mrs Hudson, throughout the day. You can take a urine sample in the morning if you like."

Molly seemed to consider his words. Sherlock looked towards the door just a few metres away. He could make a run for it.

"I'm still coming with you," she said, folding her arms in front of her. "If a walk is really just a walk, then you won't mind if I come along, too."

No, no, NO! This wouldn't do!

"Really, Molly. This is highly unnecessary."

"I'm going to get dressed," Molly replied, indicating the bedroom with a wave of her hand. "And if you so much as set a foot outside the door, I'm going to ring Mycroft. And he will catch up with you eventually, then you can have this conversation with him."

She turned to leave.

"No. Wait," Sherlock said, having already determined in a few hundredths of a second that sacrificing just one night of being in the company of his new family with actually going for a walk with Molly will still have further consequences. She would feel compelled to tell the others about his little jaunts through the city at night. Mycroft would probably increase surveillance, perhaps even set a tail on him after hours!

He knew what he had to do. He had to come clean with her.

"Could we just talk… for a minute," he said, gesturing towards the armchairs by the fire.

Perhaps it was his expression, muted by a heavy heart, that caused concern to flit across Molly's face as she took John's old armchair. He waited until she was seated and comfortable before he cleared his throat.

"I could just ask you to trust me that it's not drugs," he said, moving towards his chair, his hands shoved into his trouser pockets. "It's nothing bad at all, in fact, it's something quite..." He almost lost his composure again as the word formed on his lips. "...wonderful." He drew in a steadying breath before continuing. "But I'm pretty sure I've lost any trust you have in me, what with my track record."

"If it's drugs, of course you'd say it wasn't drugs," Molly said. Tiny creases had appeared in her brow. Clearly his alternating expressions still confused her.

"Yes. Yes, you're quite right."

Sherlock took his seat, perching himself on the edge of the chair, resting elbows on knees with his fingers threaded together.

"So, what is it?" Molly prompted him.

Sherlock stared fixedly at the rug. Where to start? Though he'd decided to tell Molly the truth, telling her everything there was to know about his and Rose's relationship seemed a bit of an overkill right now. At any time, really. He didn't want anybody else to know about how they met. He told Mary about Shelley the prostitute. How painful was that to relive! No one else was ever to know his darkest secret. He couldn't do that to Rose.

Or Grace.

Sherlock stood up abruptly, his heart stuttering.

Moving away from the fireplace, he said, "I'm not sure where to start."

"The beginning?" Molly offered.

With his back to her, Sherlock could feel his insides roiling. Definitely not at the beginning.

Not their beginning. He had stood there, on the pavement outside the brothel with one request only: to lose his virginity. Such a naïve expectation. And there was Rose, in the back room, studying—trying to make ends meet to see her through uni. Neither party thinking that what they were about to engage in was wrong. He demanded a service. She was there to deliver it. Thoughts of exploiting a person for the purposes of sex, whether or not they had 'consented' to this way of life, had never entered his mind. His participation in the spectrum of violence against women now sickened him. Tonya Small's lectures to him threatened to replay in his Mind Palace.

"Erm…" he began, struggling to reconcile his feelings. He shook his head a little to clear it. "No," he then added, his voice now thickened with emotion. "It's a long story."

He projected the love and concern he currently held for Rose onto the person she was back then—the young woman waiting for him in the brothel. The one whose repeated experiences of submitting to unwanted sexual intercourse would lead to her own declining mental health.

Rose. His Rose. The mother of his child.

His stomach clenched.

"Why don't you just tell me why you need to go out tonight?"

Molly's questioning was soft, patient. Kind. She was willing to let the silence stretch before them because she was giving Sherlock the space he needed to process whatever was going on in his mind. Molly always seemed to know when he possessed an inner torment. Dear Molly. And all he ever did was exploit her good nature.

Turning to her, his eyes stinging, he said, "I've always trusted you, Molly."

She gave him an uneasy smile. Of course she was wondering where this was heading, because the last time he'd spoken those words they had led to his death!

Sherlock wrung his hands together as his heart continued to pound.

"This is something that's so important to me, it's crucial you don't tell anyone." When Molly's eyes widened by degrees, he added, "N-not yet, anyway. I will tell people when I'm ready. But not right now. Do you understand?"

"Not really."

She smiled again. The smile that told him she was uncomfortable with whatever he was asking but she'd go along with it because he was Sherlock and she was loyal.

"But you can trust me not to tell anyone," she added, "unless it's something that'll cause you or someone else harm."

"No. It's definitely not something like that."

The thought of what was waiting—who were waiting—for him at the other end of this painful conversation flooded him with warmth. It plucked at his lips, painting a faint smile there.

"Then tell me," Molly said.

The joy was causing his chest to swell. It bubbled inside him, until it pooled as unshed tears.

"I'm…" he began, his heart racing. He raked a hand through his curls. "I'm a… a… dad. A... father." He couldn't help it, but his mouth kept twitching into a faint smile. "I… I've just become a father, Molly."

.


Author's Note:

Apologies for leaving it there! I'd like to give credit to thedragonaunt for her wise suggestion about the timing of Sherlock telling Molly about Rose and the baby. Leaving it until after the ILY scene in TFP would be far too devastating for her. It's much better her knowing beforehand. It's still a difficult revelation for both parties, but the pain is lessened this way, I feel. And it gives the ILY scene additional meaning.

But, I'm sorry. You'll have to wait until the next chapter to read Molly's reaction!