Warning: This is an angsty, hurt/comfort chapter (with a happy ending)

Something was wrong with Molly. For once, the consulting detective couldn't figure it out. To say he was terrified was an understatement. She refused to talk to him and made up excuses not to see him. No amount of small talk was welcome at Bart's. It was nothing but business.

One night he had went over to her flat to surprise her with takeaway, letting himself in with the key she gave him. The shower was running and music was playing. Even with the heavy sound of the water and the music, Sherlock heard it. He heard Molly's sobs that wracked her small form. His heart was breaking for her. Whatever was wrong, and he knew something was, she still refused to tell him.

He wrote a message for her on a sticky note and stuck it to the takeaway bag before leaving her flat. He didn't want to leave but anytime he tried to console her, she pushed him away. Sherlock didn't want to make things any worse than they were, so he gave her the space she needed, or at least said she needed.

Molly hopped out of the shower, dressed in her fuzzy pink bathrobe and her hair wrapped in a towel. She found the bag of takeaway, reading the note immediately.

Thought I'd bring you something to eat. Molly, whatever it is I did wrong, I'm so sorry.

Love, Sherlock xx

She cried for the third time that day.

The door to 221B was opened and Molly Hooper slipped into the flat like a sneaky cat. It was quiet…too quiet. Sherlock's bedroom door was ajar. She left her coat and shoes in the sitting room before padding down the hall and into his room. His back was turned to her but there was no doubt that he was sleeping. It was unusual for him. She walked around the bed and slid herself under the duvet next to him. He was most definitely asleep, but there were tear tracks on his cheeks.

Molly kissed the salty leftover tears from his face.

"I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry," Molly whispered. "I didn't mean to hurt you, Sherlock, please believe me. I made you cry." Tears slipped from her eyes as she realized she had broken his heart.

"Please don't cry," Sherlock mumbled sleepily. She sniffled and kissed his lips softly. "Molly, what's wrong?"

"I'll be fine. Just know that you didn't do anything okay? Don't worry," Molly spoke quietly.

"I'll always worry about you," Sherlock replied. "You know I'm here for you, right? You can tell me anything."

"I want to tell you, but I'm scared," Molly admitted.

"Scared of what?" Sherlock asked.

"Scared that you'll be disappointed; I don't want you to be," Molly answered.

"Molly, please tell me what's wrong," Sherlock pleaded. She took a deep breath before diving into her tear-jerking story.

"I received some bad news last week a—and I'm t—trying to cope but—" Molly faltered, sobbing into the crook of his neck. He just held her close and let her get it all out before she continued.

"God, I'm sorry, your shirt's all soaked," Molly apologized sheepishly.

"No apologies needed," Sherlock replied. "It's just a shirt." He waited for her to catch her breath.

"It turns out that I p—probably can't have children anymore," Molly's voice broke. "My eggs are dwindling a—and the chance is slim to none." She cried out once more.

"Molly, my darling," Sherlock whispered, rubbing small circles into her back. "Let it out. It'll be okay."

"Y—you're not disappointed with me?" Molly asked, confusion lacing her tone.

"No, why would I be? Molly, this is no fault of yours," Sherlock assured her.

"You still want me then? Even though I probably can't give you children?" Molly sniffled.

"I'll always want you," Sherlock told her.

"I really wanted a baby," Molly confessed. "Your eyes, my nose—"

"I could imagine a little version of you running around," Sherlock chuckled. "Darling, if I had control over this, I'd give you as many children as you wanted; our children."

"I know you would," Molly gave a slight smile.

"Was that a smile?" Sherlock teased.

"No," Molly denied.

"I think that was a smile," Sherlock insisted, playfully kissing every open area of her face available to him. He managed to elicit a giggle from her. His lips landed on hers and he held her tight to his chest, running his fingers down her spine. Their lips broke away from one another and he held her stare for a moment. his hand caressing her cheek.

"I love you," Sherlock whispered.

"I love you too," Molly whispered in return.

"Hey, Molly?" Sherlock asked.

"Hmm?" she replied.

"Only slim to none?" he questioned.

"Yeah," Molly confirmed.

"So there's still a chance," Sherlock stated.

"I suppose, but—mmph," Molly was caught off guard by his kiss. He lifted his head from her lips and smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"There's no time to waste then," Sherlock remarked. "Let's make a baby."

Five attempts, one marriage, another two attempts and nine months later, Charlotte Mary-Margaret Holmes was born. She was beautiful and the new parents held her gently like the little miracle she was. If one glanced into the hospital room, they'd see the father's forehead leaning against the mother's as she held their tiny bundle of joy. The father held his daughter's tiny dimpled hand in his for the first time and vowed to never let her down. Not her and not his wife. Ever.