"Come on, Love," Greg encouraged, as Sherlock sat in the corner of the small room, violin at the ready.
"You're insane," Molly said, exasperated, gasping in pain for what seemed the thousandth time that hour.
"Insane, no," Sherlock piped in, calmly. "In fact he's being quite sensible, listening to a doctor's advice. If I may be of some assistance, I remind you that "Sherlock", as a name, is also sensible."
"Oh, BOLLOCKS!" Molly cried, losing her breath. "You might just sod off, the bloody both of you," she gasped.
"Oh, nonsense, sweetheart," Greg said, urging her to her feet. "John suggested that moving around might move your labour along, and Sherlock here has been kind enough to subject himself to the awkwardness of seeing you in this state in order that he might provide musical accompaniment."
Sherlock, uncharacteristically silent for the most part, simply rose to his feet with a subtle flourish, raising his violin. "On your mark, Detective Inspector," he said, grinning broadly.
"Ohhhhhhh PISS OFF!" Molly spat, firing a death glare at their lanky friend.
"Close enough," Sherlock said dryly, as he began to play what had been their wedding waltz.
Greg, turning Molly's face towards his with a finger to her chin, smiled cautiously. "May I have this dance, Dr. Lestrade?"
Molly finally smiled, as her husband bowed.