Kind and Determined Hearts

Genre: Family

Pairings: Greg and Molly

Main characters: Greg, Molly, Johnnie, Scott, Greer

"Daddy," young Scott asked softly. "When will Mummy come home?"

"We miss her, Daddy," Johnnie added sadly. Greer, standing between her big brothers, simply nodded, gazing up at their dad.

Greg considered his children, reaching up unconsciously to scratch his head. "Well, I'm not exactly sure. Perhaps Uncle John would know better than I do. I suppose she'll be a couple more days, at least. Perhaps she'll be home for the weekend. She was very sick."

"Daddy," Greer finally said. "What's pneumonia?"

"It's what happens when mummies and sometimes daddies get sick and don't look after themselves," Johnnie said, with an exasperated huff. "If she'd listened to me and Scott, she might not have gotten so ill." Scott frowned in agreement with his brother and huffed as well, saying nothing but making his own opinion on the matter quite clear.

"Well," Greg said firmly, raising his eyebrows at his small doppleganger, "be that as it may, John William, Gregory Scott, I'm sure your mum has learned her lesson, and the next time she catches cold she might allow you to help her more." Greg had to stop himself from smiling while he was trying to be firm with them. The older his twin sons got, the clearer it seemed to become that they leaned towards a caregiving role, though at the same time, they seemed to crave excitement.

He knew at this point that Greer might very likely follow his footsteps into a career of policing, and likely even CID, eventually. But John and Scott seemed a bit… well, he wasn't quite sure. The best he could come up with was a guess that they may enter the emergency medical services field someday. That would be the most likely scenario to satisfy the excitement and the caregiving both that they seemed wired for. He had lost track of the number of times they had come to Greer's rescue when she'd gotten into a scrape – literally and figuratively both – one of them invariably carrying the small first aid kit as the brothers teamed up to bandage her wounds with surprisingly capable hands given their age, and soothe her damaged feelings with soft, firm words to reassure her.

But, they were small yet. Children tended to change their dreams frequently at that age, though his children DID seem to be rather determined and steadfast in their decisions. At this point, he wasn't sure that they had put any thought into what exactly they wanted to be when they grew up. Perhaps someday they would be able to define it, and put a title to it. Right now, Greg only had their natures to go by with his own opinions on the matter.

"So," Greer said, "pneumonia is like a very bad cold, then?"

"No, sister," Scott said. "Pneumonia is when a person's lungs…" He stopped. No need to frighten his baby sister. He and Johnnie had had enough of a fright themselves, though Daddy seemed just a bit less worried than they were. Perhaps he knew more than they did about it, and they always trusted Greg, and tried to follow his lead and his example. "Well, it's very bad," Scott finally said. "But Mummy is getting better."

"That's right, son," Greg said reassuringly. "Come on," he said, motioning them to the couch to sit with him. Settling down in the middle, Johnnie and Scott took their spots on either side of him, while Greer crawled into his lap. "Now it's true that mummy was very sick, but she's also very strong and very healthy otherwise, so her body was prepared to fight her illness. Now, when she comes home, we need to be very quiet for a day or two, and allow her to get plenty of rest."

"Do you suppose Mrs. Hudson might make her potato and leek soup, like she does when WE'RE sick?" Johnnie asked, hopefully.

"I'm quite sure Mrs. Hudson will do just that," Greg said with a small quiver at the corners of his mouth. Mrs. Hudson's soup was a favourite treat in the Lestrade household, Johnnie especially loving it. In fact, Greg would later find out, their grandmotherly landlady had even allowed Johnnie to help her make it a few times, teaching him how.

"Do you suppose she'll allow us to take care of her this time, daddy?" Scott asked, as he settled against Greg, snuggling into the one-armed embrace his father offered him.

"I think she would be very wise to do just that, son," Greg replied softly.

Greg had, in fact, already discussed that with his recovering wife, that day when he'd visited to check in on her. She had given him a tired smile of resignation, conceding that perhaps it would be best to let her children fawn over her for awhile, whether it was strictly necessary or not.

"They're destined to be heroes, our children, aren't they? Ordinary, everyday heroes. They've certainly the heart for it, don't they darling?" Molly, like Greg, had been thinking on what destiny may have in store for their twin sons, and also like Greg, Molly had come to the logical conclusion that perhaps one day they'd both be wearing a paramedic uniform. It would seem to be the only path that might satisfy their craving for excitement, and caregiving both.

"They certainly do," Greg had said, reaching over to take her hand. Giving it a squeeze, he gazed at her, thinking that his sons were right. "Look, sweetheart… I know it may seem a bit silly but you know they're going to be determined to nurse you back to health once you're home again. I really think you should just let them. They need to know you'll be alright, and they need to not just FEEL that they've done something to help you, but actually KNOW they have." Molly said nothing to this, merely nodding.

"Did you know that they've been practicing taking temperature on their sister?" Greg laughed softly. "She scowls at them fiercely but they know that with a thermometer lodged under her tongue she can't sass her way out of it."

"Oh?" Molly laughed quietly. "And what is their diagnoses then?"

"They've come to their professional conclusion that their sister is going to live forever. Based upon her temperature," he chuckled heartily. "Look, it's only for a few days," he said, more seriously. "They've actually got some rather sound ideas as to how to care for you. Please be patient if they lecture you. They've only their mummy in mind. Anyway based upon some of what they've been saying, I'm not entirely sure they're mistaken."

"Oh, WELL then, when you put it THAT way, Gregory," she said with a grin. "You might convince me if you were to kiss me, you know. I can be a hard sell. They DO say that doctors make shoddy patients."

Greg leaned in for a soft, casual kiss, then pulled back, smiling at her. "You're a pathologist, love. You do post-mortems. You were never THAT sick," he grinned, bringing his hand up to brush his thumb against her cheek.

"Well, I certainly felt as though I were, even if I wasn't. Oh Greg. Never again will I ignore my children when they're worried about me. They're a lot cleverer than we think they are," Molly admitted, sadly. "Oh, SO stupid."

"Oh, I wouldn't worry too much love," Greg said reassuringly, as he moved his hands down to take one of hers in both of his. He fiddled a bit with her wedding ring, seemingly lost in thought for a few moments. "We're raising them to be independent and strong. We've nobody to blame but ourselves if they have kind and determined hearts."

"Yes," Molly admitted, unable to stop a yawn. "Oh, I'm so sorry darling. I think I need to sleep. I can barely keep my eyes open."

"No worries," Greg replied, leaning down to kiss her cheek softly. "I have to go anyway, the boys are nearly done football practice. I'll be in touch. John thinks you may be a couple of days yet."

"Sounds about right," Molly answered, her eyes growing heavy. "He did say as much this morning when he checked in on me. He said my lungs are nearly clear and I should be home in time for the weekend. Perfect timing for my gorgeous little caregivers to nurse me back to health."

Greg chuckled softly at this, knowing Molly wasn't saying it in a glib way. She really was looking forward to making up for ignoring the concerns of her young, worried children.

Kind and determined hearts, indeed.