A/N - The wonderful and talented miabicicletta left a review on this (long forgotten) fic the other day and it inspired me to update !


Chapter 3

Transfixed on Molly's small form, still hidden beneath a hospital blanket, breathing tubes and IV lines, Sherlock didn't notice that he was no longer alone in the doorway until the firm hand of John Watson grasped his shoulder. Sherlock met his friend's eyes, wide with concern, and observed his ruffled clothes and unkempt hair. He'd hurried to get there, and it seemed from the coffee stains on his shirt, and the lines under his eyes, he'd been there for a while.

Mary was at his side, her mouth drawn in a tight line.

"How's she doing?" John asked, eyes flicking to Molly.

Sherlock didn't answer, gesturing vaguely in the direction of her chart, which John promptly studied, brow furrowed in concentration.

Mary pulled Sherlock into a hug. "It seems odd to be saying 'congratulations'," she said into his shoulder.

Sherlock pulled away. "Yes. It is odd."

But then, their relationship was always going to be some version of 'odd'.

For the longest time, Sherlock tried denying what had been plainly obvious – Molly's residence at Baker Street wasn't out of some logistical need for her protection. As the days stretched into weeks and months, and it became clear that the Moriarty broadcast was nothing more than a prank orchestrated by some bored hackers and a Moriarty look-alike, Sherlock had become accustomed to Molly's presence in his flat, in his home-

-in his bed.

Her warm presence beside him in the morning, her hair fanning out over the pillow towards him, the hitch in her breath as he would kiss her neck telling him that she was beginning to wake up, her low, sleepy moan as his hands traced patterns in their slow worship of her body.

There was never any doubt in is mind that Molly would stay at Baker Street – long after the threat had passed. The only problem was finding an excuse that would fool John, Mary, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, and any curious passer-by who would be keen to use that information to their advantage.

He didn't want Molly used as his pressure point.

"But there wasn't a threat, Moriarty is gone," Molly protested when Sherlock told her of his plan late one night as they ate re-heated pad thai straight from the take away containers.

Sherlock put his food on the table, rounding on her, and gently taking hers out of her hand. He placed a hand on either side of her face, looking deeply into her eyes.

"What about the next one?" he asked.

Molly closed her eyes in silent agreement, her forehead gently touching his.

He knew she understood.

And for a while, all was fine. Molly kept up the pretence of her flat on Montague street, but would spend every night at Baker Street – even those when Sherlock was out of town on a case.

And one morning when Molly's cat Toby almost gave the game away, revealing to John by his presence at Baker Street that Molly had never gone home, a well-practiced lie rolled off his tongue.

"It's a stray."

John's eyebrow raised quizzically.

"A stray?" He surveyed the cat, "A well-fed, well-groomed stray?"

"Yes."

John wasn't buying it. "A well-fed, well-groomed stray who looks suspiciously like Molly's cat Toby?"

"All cats look the same."

John waited in silence for some form of truth. Sherlock gave him half. "I became accustomed to company."

In the end, it only took a few lies, half-truths and a bit of creativity to keep his relationship with Molly a secret.

That was, until the morning Molly woke up, pale-faced, eyes wide, and proceeded to run to the bathroom. Her departure was followed by the unmistakable sound of vomit.

When it happened again the next morning, they assumed she had caught a bug.

But when two mornings became three, and three became four, then five, it only took a trip to Boots Chemist to prove what they'd both suspected.

Molly was pregnant.

"Where is she?"

Back in the hospital, Mary had her hand on Sherlock's arm. A trained nurse as well as a mother, she would know the risks as well as anyone.

Sherlock wouldn't take his eyes of Molly, so small, so pale.

"In the pre-term nursery. They're running some tests."

Mary nodded. John replaced Molly's chart and came to join them. A sign of support.

"Have you seen her?" he asked.

Sherlock slowly shook his head.

"I can't," he finally admitted, "there's no way to show them that I'm her father."