Special thanks to Crimson and Chrome 42, daisy321, Mrs Isabella Cullen, ShanGeorgiaMarie, ad-iuficium, kaoruca, Icecat62, 2oldforthis, and SammyKatz for commenting on the last chapter! It was amazingly fun to read all your guesses, and you had excellent ideas.

I edited the crap out of this chapter to get it exactly right (mostly because it's in John's voice and I struggle with my post-S4 view of John) but I really like how it turned out. I hope it satisfies.

I'll be back with the last chapter mid-week, so I won't leave you hanging for too long.

John and Molly came down the stairs into the living room, chatting animatedly about plans for her nursery. Despite that fact that his own daughter would be making an appearance soon (speaking of, he and Mary really needed to agree on a name one of these days), he found he'd be delighted to assist Molly in getting her nursery ready when the time came. He knew his wife would agree.

"What about painting it yellow? The windows let in a nice amount of sun. Have you learned what you're having—"

Molly stopped abruptly at the foot of the stairs and he nearly crashed into her.

He followed her gaze to Mary, perched on the living room settee with a strip of what looked like ultrasound photos.

Mary raised her eyes to them, a calculating look on her face. "She already knows what she's having. It's a boy - says so right here on her 20 week scan. Which she attended nearly a month ago. Her due date was hiding under the fridge magnet." Mary raised an eyebrow, "What were you up to six months ago, Molly? Not Italy."

Molly stood frozen in the doorway. John moved around her to take the strip of pictures. "Bugger. She's right, Molls. Why would you—"

"Oh God," the pathologist gasped, and bolted. She paused halfway out of the room, spun on her heel, and came back to take the photo strip out of his hands. She wiped at her eyes with the heel of her other hand. "This is mine. Excuse me, I've got to… something. See yourselves out, won't you?"

"Molly!" Mary shouted after her, but their friend had already retreated into her bathroom and shut the door. There was an audible 'click' a moment later as the door locked.

"Well that went swimmingly," John growled. "Just a great job of 'being there for our friend in her time of need,' Mary! You're supposed to be some sort of super-spy! Did you have to be so confrontational about it?"

"This didn't need subtlety, John. This was a band-aid that needed ripping off. Now go be a doctor and stop the bleeding!"

oOo

They dithered about strategy for a few minutes, but in the end he simply knocked on the bathroom door. "Molls? Can I come in?"

There was a long silence. John gave his wife a very pointed look and hissed, "How am I supposed to fix this if she won't talk to us?"

"Patience, Husband. Keep trying!"

He knocked again. "Molly, please!"

This time, they heard a muffled reply. "I don't suppose you want to go away and pretend this never happened?"

He sighed and put a hand to the knob. "I'm coming in! Unless you're…ah…"

Another pause. "I'm not on the loo, John. Come on then."

The door was locked, but it was the sort of cheap push-button contraption that was more of a suggestion than a deterrent. He wiggled the handle a few times and it clicked open.

Molly was sitting on the floor by the sink, a wad of loo roll in her hands and more crumpled by her side. She had been weeping quietly. Soldier on, Watson. He'd never been great with crying.

He approached cautiously and crouched in front of her. "Are you okay?"

This set off a fresh wave of crying. She made a choked noise and brought the tissue to her eyes. "I've had better days."

He wrestled with growing unease and tried to keep his voice level. "So… not Italy?"

"Nope." She shredded the tissue in her hands, avoiding his eyes.

"Why did you lie about it? I mean… look, Sherlock is brilliant in so many ways, but he's clueless at deducing others. Is it possible that he could...that Sherlock could be the…um..." he trailed off.

"Of course he's the father!" she burst out, saving him from needing to finish one of the more awkward questions he'd ever started.

Mary chuckled from the doorway and exclaimed, "My God!"

John was not amused. "How could you not tell him? What possible reason could there be for a lie of this magnitude, Molly?"

Her chin snapped up, finally meeting his eyes. "Take your pick, John. The drugs, the boffing Janine and I at the same time, the dangerous lifestyle which recently culminated in a near-fatal gunshot wound, the fact that he doesn't really like children, the fact that he's certainly never indicated an interest in having children, or the way he avoided me for six bloody months following the aforementioned boffing. Which one of those, to you, screams, "this man should be the father of my baby?!"

"But he is the father of your baby, whether or not you tell him about it. And he's bloody well going to figure it out eventually, because he's Sherlock Fucking Holmes! How were you planning to explain giving birth four bloody weeks earlier than expected?" He dropped his head and took a deep breath, trying and failing to master the rage that bubbled under his skin.

He had been carrying a clenched fist behind his sternum since the day he learned the truth about who had shot his best friend. Talking to Mary at Christmas has relaxed it, but it was still as much a part of him as his limp had once been. He scarcely noticed it anymore.

Molly made a noise somewhere between a groan and a sigh. "Balls. I told all my friends and Greg that I'd had a fling with the father and he wasn't involved. It was true enough. I asked Greg not to say anything to you or Sherlock so I could tell you myself. I couldn't decide what to say when I did finally see him, so I left things a bit vague with everyone else. People always ask when you're due, but if you say 'April', they don't ask whether it's the beginning or end. Lots of women go into early labor or take early maternity leave ahead of the birth." She nodded in Mary's direction. "I wouldn't have made a big social media announcement about it. By the time any of you were likely to visit, a few weeks on either side would hardly have mattered."

John made a strangled noise low in his throat. Now he was the one who couldn't meet her eyes. If he did, he'd start shouting. The fist in his chest constricted.

Molly held up her hands. "I know. I know it sounds terrible, but I didn't start out intending to lie. I took a pregnancy test a couple of days before you all showed up in my lab for the drugs test. I was just trying to figure out how to tell him. But then there were drugs and the beautiful girlfriend and I was so angry and I felt like such a ridiculous idiot… I went to Italy to give myself a chance to think. That's when it occurred to me that my guide would make a good patsy - he was tall, a bit foxy, and had dark curly hair. Everyone knows I have a bit of a type. I could always say the baby'd gotten my English complexion. I made sure to take a picture of him, but nothing at all happened between us."

Mary slipped in and eased herself down to sit on top of the closed toilet lid. In the small bathroom, she had to angle herself to avoid bumping them with her knees. "If it makes you feel better, he never actually slept with Janine. She was quite peeved about it at the time."

"I know you're trying to be kind, but I read the paps. She exaggerated and flatly made up all kinds of things, but there were things she could only know if she and Sherlock had been together. He has these moles, and the way he's, um, sized—"

"That's plenty of detail, thanks," John interrupted, and lowered himself to the rug next to her. "We can skip past that bit. Mary's right, they were definitely naked together and might've done some...things, but they didn't actually have sex."

Mary snickered, "I don't know why you're blushing about Sherlock's moles, Mr. 'He Forgets His Pants and I Blog About It.'"

"Can we please focus? Were you ever going to tell him the truth? Tell us?"

"I sort of panicked when you came into the morgue. It had started to feel like I might never need to tell Sherlock anything; he hadn't tried to see me in all this time. So I went with the lie. I know I'm small, and I like baggy clothing; it makes it harder to tell how pregnant I am. Nobody in the lab really even suspected till I was nearing the fifth month. I used all the tricks of deception - kept it simple, based the lie in real-life, put my hands in my pockets so they wouldn't tremble, redirected his attention. I doubt it would have worked if I were a stranger, but he was so distracted by the fact of my pregnancy that he didn't question it."

"You were never even going to give him a chance! You just assume he'd be a rubbish father, so what the hell's the point!"

"No! No, I actually think he could be a great dad. Not a conventional one, certainly. But if he wanted to be one, he'd be brilliant at it. He'd read all the books and teach messy science in the kitchen, and—and all sorts of things. When Sherlock cares about something, he puts everything he has into it. He doesn't do anything in half measures." She pulled a large wad of loo paper from the roll to dab at her eyes, which had started leaking again.

The crushing weight of his rage was finally starting to ebb. Her esteem for his best friend was clear. Plus, she was crying. "Then why—"

"Bloody hell, she's just said why. Didn't you, Molls?" Mary asked with dawning comprehension. "'If he wanted to be one.' You really don't think he would."

"Don't you see? I'm doing him a favor. He's a good man, even if he'll never admit it. He'd feel obliged to try. He'd— I dunno exactly what he would do, but this could ruin everything he loves best about his life."

"I think you're scared that he'll feel obligated to make you an honest woman," Mary was nearly grinning.

"Are you insane? This is Sherlock! He's not the marrying type, unless it creates an opportunity for breaking and entering," John sputtered.

Molly blanched. "I really don't know. The Holmes boys have a weird traditional streak, as well as a penchant for towering acts of self-sacrifice. When they're not pretending to be insufferable gits, obviously."

Mary nodded. "I think it's down to all that repressed upper crust schooling and delightfully normal parents."

"It's never been a secret how I feel about Sherlock, and how he...how he doesn't. If he thought he ought to be involved but hated it, or if he tried to make a go of being with me for the baby... It would destroy me, being with him and knowing it was a lie. Or having to say no, and wondering if he might really have felt something and I missed out because I was afraid. Or being wrong about all of that, and him wanting nothing to do with me.

"I can do this on my own. I've a great job that pays well, and a house, loads of friends, and I'm really excited to be a mum. Isn't it better this way for everyone?"

Mary and John exchanged a look that spoke volumes. Should we tell her? He nodded minutely, jutting his chin toward their friend. Your turn.

Finally Mary began, "I reject your premise."

"What?" Molly looked aghast.

"I reject your premise. You act as if the only choices are to lie, or to ruin your lives. There are a lot of reasons - probably even good reasons - why you don't want to tell Sherlock about the baby. The biggest is that you're scared. I understand, but I'm here to tell you that you ought to tell him your secret before he finds out on his own. You'll regret it if you don't, and you could lose him forever." Her eyes slid to meet John's, and her dual meaning was clear.

He reached up to fold her hand into his. A moment stretched between that them suddenly felt as charged with potential as the trigger of a loaded gun. The touch felt electric, as if his entire being were connected to hers for a single, infinite heartbeat.

I love her. Categorically. Possibly cataclysmically, but I do. I love this madwoman. The fist in his chest released him abruptly.

It left him dizzy, oddly bereft but free in a way he hadn't known was possible. He smiled gently at his wife.

Mary took a steadying breath, squeezed his hand, and turned back to Molly. "You've built your logic on the idea that he doesn't care about you. But he's Sherlock Holmes; he's our confusing and complicated git, and I wouldn't write him off so quickly. And honestly, however he feels about you, he still deserves to know."

John cleared his throat. "The thing is, he's been a complete wreck and an utter tit to be around since we saw you last week. I've never seen him quite like this. Just give him a chance? We can help mitigate the damage."

"You're right; I know you're right." Molly wiped her eyes a final time, then collected the disused tissues and threw them into the bin. "Sodding hormones. Of course I'll tell him the truth. Help me up?"

John stood and pulled her up with him one-handed, the the other tenaciously refusing to let go of Mary.

Molly stood close to him in the small bathroom. "I am so sorry that I didn't tell you both. I should have done," she said earnestly.

Mary pulled herself to standing with John's hand still in hers. "Oh, bring it in you two!" She engulfed them both in a hug.

Molly was crying again, but she'd started laughing too. "Who knew I'd have a meaningful heart-to-heart next to my toilet? I haven't done that since Uni. Should probably clean it better if we're going to start throwing parties in here."

John snorted, and then they were suddenly all doubled over laughing. After a moment, they detangled from one another and moved out of the washroom.

One final thing bothered John, and he couldn't let it go without checking. "Not to be indelicate, but are you absolutely sure it's his? I mean, not Tom's. Not the Italian guy's obviously, because I know that was made up. But you were still with Tom at our wedding and that was only a bit before this must have happened."

"Quite sure, actually."

"'Cause this is Sherlock we're talking about. I've never been quite convinced that his alien DNA would mesh with a human's," he laughed uncomfortably and tried to play it off as a joke. It wasn't the kindest question, but he had to be sure before he put his friend through this kind of emotional minefield.

"The timing was fairly concrete with my period and everything, but erm… just to be on the safe side, I know it's a bit not good, but I…" She hesitated, then spoke quickly. "Just to be safe, I drew a bit of blood while he was in hospital. He was sleeping and he already had a cannula in; it was easy to fill a vial. I stashed it in the back of the lab collections freezer under a false name and ran the paternity test against the baby's DNA in my bloodstream after my 8th week. So, yeah, pretty sure."

Mary hugged her around the shoulders and whistled. "You're good. You're quite good. If I ever need to fake my death, I'm phoning you."

"That's not funny," John said as they moved into the living room.

"I'm quite serious, husband. I'm a bit turned on."

"Mary, let's focus— um wait, what?"

Mary laughed. "Has Mycroft come round to see you, Molls?"

Molly chucked weakly. "No, but I suspect he knows. The midwife I saw for my first appointment was mysteriously replaced by the head of obstetrics by my second. Also I found a deposit in my account last week that my bank refused to remove, and it turned out to be the exact amount for an overpriced cot set I'd been looking at earlier that day. Including installation. Seriously, that man is a bit scary sometimes."

"All the time," John muttered.

oOo

Molly was making tea a few minutes later when the doorbell rang out in a cheerful funeral march. "Could you get that, John?"

"You expecting anyone?" he asked, as he cracked the door. He peered out in abject surprise. Standing on the front step were a reeling young man with dark curly hair, and Sherlock Holmes.

The dark haired man called out in an unsteady voice, "Buona sera, signore!" He then promptly turned to vomit into Molly's rhododendrons.

Sherlock appeared unsurprised by this turn of events. He kept a steady hold on the younger man to prevent him falling off the steps. "John, excellent! Glad you're here. We need to come in and have a word."