Molly's Theory

Genre: Family; FUTURE FIC

Pairings: All background

Main characters: Greg, Rosie, Molly

Given his past history, and the precedent he seemed to have managed to set, much to his chagrin, Greg wasn't the least bit surprised.

He thought, perhaps, he might let himself out to any pregnant woman in London who was running past their due date and was desperate to go into active labour once and for all.

At least, he thought, Rosie Bailey was a registered nurse, and had assisted in the delivery of far more babies than Greg had, in spite of his track record. In a pinch, Greg decided, Rosie could probably even manage on her own.

And, also, at least… Rosie's labour had started without any extenuating circumstance… say, being stranded on the moors, or caught in a city-wide power outage. This was something he had the luxury to reflect upon as he rushed her to hospital in his BMW while Rosie's mood swung between cursing in pain like a sailor, and laughing with joyous relief in between her streams of profanity laced contractions.

The afternoon had begun innocently enough. John and Alex, both at work, hadn't been at Baker Street that day. Greg had been enjoying a day off whilst Sally, newly promoted to Detective Inspector, found her footing as a team leader in the wake of Greg's impending retirement at the distinguished, yet still humble rank of Detective Chief Inspector. Greg had had a long and fulfilling career as a Yarder. He'd seen a few trusted team members come and go, and his last team, he felt, had been one of the best he'd ever had the honour of leading. Passing the torch to Sally, therefore, wasn't hard.

And true to nature, on that particular day, Sherlock could be found with his wife, who had consented to allow him to continue in his role as consulting git at crime scenes. Grudgingly, teasingly almost, Sally did admit that he could be useful at times whilst the REAL detectives carried on about their business.

Rosie, heavily pregnant and two days past her due date, bored to death and too restless to sit still at home, had decided on impulse to visit her old haunt. Once there, she found Uncle Greg relaxing in front of the fireplace with a novel, a piping hot cup of tea at his side and a snoring beagle puppy on his lap - the third beagle to snoop about and make trouble within the walls of 221.

"Oh Uncle," Rosie said, as she shimmied herself on to the sofa next to him. "This is interminable. Will this baby EVER make her appearance?"

Greg smiled at her warmly. "She will, trust me. And when she does you'll forget how long it took for her to get here, because suddenly it will feel as though the time passed rather quickly. Nine months is but a drop in the pond compared to what comes next Little Lass."

"Spoken as a man, obviously, who has also, obviously, never been pregnant," she huffed, shifting herself for what felt the umpteenth time on the sofa.

"No, but I'm a father, and yes it's different for us. But in the end, parenthood is shared, ideally. Once she's here, you and Julian will share the experience." Greg rose, gently shifting the puppy over to Rosie's lap, and headed into the kitchen to reheat the kettle for fresh tea.

"Now according to Molly," Greg said thoughtfully, "time is relative to our experiences here, she cites it as something akin to Einstein's theory, really. Anticipation seems to make time slow down considerably, whilst dread makes it pass too quickly." Rosie nodded at this, absently rubbing the puppy's ears. "The truth is, time passes equally for everyone, and remember she was pregnant twice. Sherlock was the one to point that out to her, and she found it to be comforting and actually, she's the one who has stated how quick pregnancy seemed in retrospect, once our babies were actually born. And I have to say that as her husband, watching her experience that wasn't as easy as you might think." Greg paused a moment to pour their hot refreshments. "I felt like a pure bastard for most of it. Any husband who give a flying rat's ass will feel that way, and Julian has expressed concerns to me to that effect as well."

"He has?" Rosie asked, curiously. "He hasn't said anything…"

"It's far different for him than for you of course," Greg said reassuringly, "but he's had his own set of nerves, and they haven't been easy. If I had a quid for every time he's called himself a pure son of a bitch for putting you through this I could have retired two years ago," he chuckled softly.

Rosie was about to nod in acknowledgement of her Uncle Greg's nugget of wisdom, and shared experience, when she felt a dodgy twinge.

Ignoring it for the time being, she merely winced.

Returning to the sofa with fresh tea, Greg handed a mug to Rosie, who smiled tightly but sincerely in response.

The next twinge nearly made her spill her scalding hot tea as she gasped in surprise.

Greg's dark brown eyes grew as large as they had ever been, while one singular, passionate thought made its way through his head and out his mouth.

"Oh… shit fire and shag me running..."

"Indeed, Uncle," Rosie said, smiling sheepishly. "I think perhaps my interminable wait has come to a conclusion."

Greg watched her carefully, noting her calm and, for the first time that day but certainly not the last, appreciating it.

And this, eventually, brought Greg to his hurried drive through the streets of London, using, not for the first time though one of the last, his authority as a DCI of New Scotland Yard, to convey his niece to hospital with sirens and lights full bore.

"Really, Uncle, I've a wait yet," Rosie said, laughing lightly and breathing deliberately through contractions. "Though I appreciate your expedien… oh SHIT… oh sod it Uncle… feckin' FLOOR IT!"

By now, Greg was used to this. Rosie was quite correct - she had a bit of time yet. He had contacted Sally, who had in turn radioed Julian, who was not, fortunately, in the field that day. From there, John and Alex had been called, as well as Kieran, who had taken a desk day to catch up on paperwork, and Emma, who was nearly ready to clock out for the day anyway.

From there, word spread like wildfire.

Upon their arrival, Rosie had claimed her Uncle's hand and had utterly refused to let go.

When Julian arrived, much to his shock, Rosie wasn't even pissed off at him for taking so long to get there, nor was she pissed off that he'd gotten her pregnant in the first place.

"Little Lass," Greg said soothingly, "Julian is here now. I really have no place here, so if it's alright with you, might I take leave to wait with the others outside?"

Rosie had looked at him with panic in her blue eyes. Finally, she nodded. "Are daddy and mummy on their way?"

Greg smiled. "Your mum has texted, they'll be here in a few minutes." With this, finally, Rosie nodded. "Will you stay until they arrive? Please?"

Greg merely nodded, understanding. She was a bit afraid, and wanted a substitute for her dad. Greg understood this, so he agreed.

"Yes, Little Lass," he said, squeezing her hand. "I'll stay and pass you over to your dad. Feel free to punch him if he gets bossy with your obstetrician, hey? I'll not allow assault charges," he said, kissing her temple.

"I love you Uncle," she said. "We won't be long, then you can meet your new great-niece," she promised. "Auntie Molly's theory and all," she winked with a glowing smile.

When Kieran had arrived with Sally, Greg found him to be a bit less calm than his son was about the whole thing – at least until Emma had arrived, to soothe some sense into the impending grandpa.

When John and Alex arrived, Greg gratefully reclaimed his hand, brushing Rosie's bangs aside with his other. "Think how soon we'll be able to ride again Lass," he said, with a mischievous smile. Rosie had actually laughed at that, promising that Ennie would indeed soon be reacquainted with her.

Greg was surprised to find John casual and cool as a Sunday stroll, and Alex the one to need settling. When Molly arrived to join the contingent in the waiting room, she merely took a spot next to her husband, handing him a fresh takeaway coffee.

"It may be a long day, or it may not. Let's see which it is, Darling," she said softly.

"Not sure it matters in the end, Love," he responded. "Give us about seven months," he whispered conspiratorially. "If we can survive Greer's next seven months, we'll be sitting golden," he said.

Molly said nothing to this, only resting her head on his shoulder with contentment, though privately she thought that seven months seemed SUCH a long time.

Oh, that damned theory.