A/N - This is the End! I hope the sweet, fluffy ending makes up for all the angst! Thanks so much for reading


Sherlock and John stood outside the pre-term nursery, staring through the window at the impossibly small creature lying in the humidicrib. A pink hat gave away the baby's gender: a girl.

"It's amazing, isn't it?" John said.

"What?" asked Sherlock absently as he stared at the tubes running into her nose and mouth, counting each breath that inflated her doll-sized belly.

"That something so small has so much power," John explained.

Sherlock turned to his friend, his eyes narrowing. "She's attached to tubes for food an oxygen, that doesn't seem too powerful to me."

John shook his head, "You'll learn." He patted Sherlock on the arm, a paternal gesture. John had only been a father for a year, but of course, he had been acting like Sherlock's own father for much longer than that.

"Maybe you're right," Sherlock conceded, "but I have learned one thing today."

"What's that?" John asked, unable to hide the intrigue in his voice.

"Apparently, babies come with hats."

John exhaled in mirthless humour.

The two resumed comfortable silence - or, a silence that was as comfortable as possible considering the fact that one of the men was on the verge of possibly losing the two people he loved most in the world.

Sherlock caught the thought before it evaporated. Yes, John was right. Something so small was indeed so powerful. Tiny fingers, translucent eyelids, not enough visceral fat on her body, but still coated in a fine sheen of protective hair – the baby didn't look like the ones he'd seen on TV, yet, to him she was impossibly perfect. He couldn't wait to see her with Molly.

Molly. His face fell at the thought. Time had resumed its fateful pace, if she didn't wake up soon, there would be no certainty that she would. She had lost too much blood, and in turn, her brain had lost too much oxygen in the process of rescuing their baby from a womb which could no longer support her.

The baby's life may have come at the price of Molly's – but Sherlock knew she definitely wouldn't have wanted it the other way around.

John, who had been reading Sherlock's face intensely, broke his reverie.

"You know, if you get Mycroft to call, I'm sure they'll let you in to see her. Maybe hold her."

"No," Sherlock said with a force that shocked even him.

John's questions were written all over his face. They were as plain to Sherlock as his friend's doubt at Sherlock's paternal connection, his fear for what would happen if Molly didn't wake up soon, his worry that the baby as well as her mother would make it through the day.

"Molly will be the first one to hold our baby," Sherlock finally said.

John nodded. Of course he would understand.

Sherlock took a moment to consider how much of a shock the day's events must have been for his friend. He smiled as he remembered the way John and Mary found out that the baby was his.

Sherlock couldn't remember much of the ride in the cab from Baker Street to Bart's. He couldn't remember paying the cabbie, or running through the doors to Emergency. But he would always remember the moment his eyes locked on Molly's as she lay on her side on a hospital gurney, her face almost as white as the sheets under her.

"That bad, eh?" She smiled, reading his face with the skill he had read hers a hundred times. Sherlock wondered if this was what it was like to feel so exposed under someone's gaze.

"No!" he lied entirely unconvincingly, changing his tune when he could see how she wasn't buying it "Well, yes, you do look terrible."

She laughed weakly. "I knew I could trust you to tell it to me straight."

Molly was attached to monitors that charted her own heart-rate as well as the baby's. The constant and steady beeps and pings sounded comfort for the moment.

"How is everything?" he gestured at her belly.

"Well, it seems little Pumpkin and I have reached the end of our mutual attachment."

"Pumpkin?"

"Butternut," she added. "That's what I've been calling her in my head," Molly said, absently rubbing her belly.

"Oh," Sherlock smiled. Trust Molly to come up with something as unique, bright and cheerful as the clothing she always wore, and the personality she naturally exuded.

"What do you call her?" Molly asked.

"I've honestly never thought about it. I just thought we'd name her once she arrived."

"Well, you'd better get thinking, because from my guess you've got about an hour."

"An hour?" He knew the fact of Molly's pregnancy, had experienced her hormonal changes, her sicknesses, moods, and sex-drive fluctuations. He'd watched as the child slowly expanded her belly, making its presence felt through ripples and kicks under the surface. But somehow he'd never emotionally processed the reality –

- in a little over an hour, they were going to have a child.

It was in that moment that Sherlock realised he couldn't wait any longer.

"Molly, there's something I – ah – well –"

Sherlock stumbled. Over the years, cracks had appeared in his once impenetrable armour, letting people in – first John, and now Molly. But still, emotions didn't come easy to Sherlock, nor were they easily expressed.

"What is it?" Molly asked, her eyes wide with worry.

"Molly," Sherlock cleared his voice, he wanted to make sure what he said, perhaps the most important words he'd ever say, were said as clearly as possible, "Molly, I don't want this baby to come into the world as anything other than my child, and I don't want to wait any longer to let the world know that I love you Molly Hooper."

What Sherlock didn't know at the time was the John and Mary had arrived and were waiting behind him for a chance to see Molly.

"I knew it!" came Mary's voice, loud, confident and joyful from behind Sherlock.

"Shhh," John silenced his wife, though his eyes were wide in disbelief.

"Molly Hooper, will you marry me?"

Molly was silent.

"Well?"

Instead of joy, there was concern on her face. Not the reaction he had been expecting.

"What is it?" he asked.

"You're not just proposing to me because I'm in the hospital? I mean, it's not the kind of thing you're doing in a moment of stress and emotion and will regret in the morning?"

From his pocket, Sherlock pulled out a box, handing it to Molly.

"I've had this for a while."

Inside was a modest diamond, small and dainty. The perfect size for her hand.

Molly's breath caught, "It's um –" she began, then stopped herself, "Wait – this wasn't Janine's was it?"

"I was thinking the same thing!" Mary called again from the peanut gallery.

"No!" Sherlock looked defensively from Molly to Mary and back again. He took a step closer to Molly, handing her the small, black box. "It was my Grandmother's," he explained. "She gave it to my father who gave it to my mother who has given it to me to give to you."

Molly's eyes began to water as she stared at the ring.

Sherlock tried to be patient, which lasted all of half a minute before he asked, "So what do you say?"

"Sherlock, I-"

Molly was cut off by the sound of alarms, the heart-rate monitor spiked.

"The baby?" Sherlock asked Molly. But there was no response. With eyes shut tight, her body began convulsing.

Molly's monitor had triggered the alarm.

An ER team rushed in, three people checking Molly all over, rushing, prodding, gauging, deciding.

"We have to operate, now," a faceless medic barked.

And like that, Molly was wheeled away.

The ring box fell to the floor.

Hours later, as they stood watching the small shallow breaths of Sherlock's daughter through the window of the preterm nursery, John turned to his friend, handing him a small object.

"I believe you'll be needing this," John said.

"I hope so," Sherlock replied.

"I hope so too, mate. Even if I never thought I'd see the day."

"I did tell you that when we first met that I considered myself married to my work," Sherlock said, and in his mind travelled back to that evening in Angelo's.

"Is that why you didn't tell me? That I'd be disappointed that you had changed, that you had found something – someone – outside the work that made you happy?"

Sherlock thought for a moment. He'd never considered it like that.

"No, I don't think that's it." He stopped, replaying every scene in his head of every time he had hidden his love for Molly in John's presence. In his mind, he every time he and Molly had exchanged silently meaningful glances in the presence of John, every time he and John were on the way out from Bart's only for Sherlock to feign a mobile phone call, waving his friend on so he could return to chat to Molly, or the times he had told John he needed to cross-check a result with Molly, only to double-back into her lab for one stolen kiss before proceeding with his case.

Why did he go to so much trouble when just telling his friend would be painful, perhaps, embarrassing, maybe, but easier in the long-run.

"Reality, John."

"Sorry, what?"

"Reality. I was afraid of it."

"You sound like some kind of tortured artist, or a teenager writing terrible poetry. What on earth are you getting at?"

Sherlock stilled, frustrated at the fact he was failing so spectacularly to express his meaning.

"If you and Mary knew about Molly and I, it would make it real."

"And this isn't evidence enough?" John gestured at the baby though the glass.

"Well, that's precisely my point. Keeping my relationship secret, even if it meant keeping our child a secret meant I wouldn't have to face the reality of failure."

"I'm still not following you."

"I think it won't surprise you to discover, I'm a pretty lousy boyfriend. I'm not going to be much better as a husband," Sherlock's voice caught in his throat. Molly would have to wake first before that happened. "And as a father – I'll probably fail at that, too."

John waited a moment, letting Sherlock's words sink in before he replied.

"Sherlock," he began in a tone of comfort and support, "You are definitely going to fail as a father."

That was not what Sherlock expected to hear. "Thank you very much for your vote of confidence, John."

John continued, unperturbed, "And, you're definitely going to be a lousy husband."

"Again, thank you," Sherlock's sarcasm hid his hurt. He turned to leave, but John caught his friend's arm in a vice-grip, holding him in place.

John beckoned Sherlock closer, as if revealing a secret.

"But let me tell you one thing: we all are. What matters is that we try. And we keep trying."

Sherlock sighed in relief. John's words, delivered as they were in his trademark acerbic way, had definitely delivered the comfort he needed.

"Thank you John," he nodded, "Got any other tips for me?"

"Nah, I know you, and I know Molly, and I know that Molly is the only one who's ever been able to slap any sense into you – literally sometimes! I'm sure you'll be fine."

Sherlock hoped his friend was right.

The two men walked back to Molly's room, grabbing some coffee for Mary on the way.

"Any change?" John asked Mary the question that Sherlock was too frightened to.

Mary shook her head, "not yet," she said, always putting a positive spin on things.

The three sat in silence for a while, before Sherlock asked Mary something that had been bothering him for hours.

"How did you work it out?"

"Trade secret," Mary smiled conspiratorially.

"Oh, come on!" Sherlock batted her arm gently. "For future reference – you'll never know when it will come in handy on a case." It was a weak excuse, but he hoped Mary was in the mood to play along.

"Guess," Mary taunted.

"I will not-" Sherlock started.

"-was it Molly's lipstick on his collar?" John cut him off.

"No."

John tried again, "Sherlock buying Molly coffee when we'd visit Bart's?"

"He's been doing that for years," Mary replied. "Just not when you're there with him." Mary added when John's confusion was evident.

Sherlock nodded in confirmation.

"Was Molly's science Journals at Baker Street?" Sherlock added, not one to let his friend beat him at his own game.

Mary crooked her eyelid "Seriously? Journals? That's a tell for you?"

"It isn't for you?" Sherlock retorted.

"Was it the time Molly said Sherlock used her flat as a bolt hole?" John asked.

"No, but I've been meaning to ask you about that," Mary added.

Sherlock smirked, "Trade secret."

John and Mary shared an exasperated eyeroll. Some secrets would remain that way for now, it seemed.

"It was her perfume," Mary revealed.

Sherlock and John looked at each other as if to say "of course."

"Ah! There's always something I miss!" Sherlock exclaimed. "But what about the perfume?" Sherlock asked.

"I didn't understand why you kept smelling like it. Even on days when I knew you hadn't been anywhere near Bart's."

"Maybe I'd picked up the scent from my bolt hole?"

"Maybe. But it didn't explain why there was a half-used bottle of it in your bathroom, though."

Mary grinned like the cat who ate the canary.

"Well done, wife," John said, kissing Mary on the cheek.

"Thank you, husband."

The three were lost in the humour of the moment that they didn't notice the arrival of the midwife, and with her, the large portable crib in which Sherlock and Molly's baby lay, still sleeping, still attached to tubes.

All three fell silent. Mary's eyes watered in the empathetic way all mothers did when they imagined their own children undergoing some kind of trauma or difficulty. John placed an arm around her in comfort.

There was no one to comfort Sherlock.

She small, pump woman in her late 50s looked at the scene before her. Her tag read Nurse Anderson. Sherlock hoped she wasn't a relative of anyone he knew.

"I'm afraid you'll all have to leave. The baby needs skin-to-skin contact with her mother to regulate her bodyheat. Only family can stay," she said in a stern yet understanding Scottish brogue.

Sherlock moved to leave before John and Mary did. John spoke up before Sherlock reached the door.

"He's her fiancée," John explained.

"Is that right?" Nurse Anderson said, looking Sherlock up and down, as if to assess if he was any threat.

Sherlock only nodded, unable to bring himself to assert the truth of something he wasn't entirely sure of himself.

"Then you can make yourself useful," turning to Mary and John she added, "but you two will have to leave, that is, unless you're the father?" She cocked an eye in John's direction. It wasn't entirely clear from the look on her face if she was joking or not.

"That's our cue to leave," John explained to Sherlock. Both he and Mary pulled their friend into a tight hug before departing.

Sherlock had never felt more alone, despite the fact that there were two other people in the room. Well, two people and an impossibly small baby, he corrected.

The nurse removed Molly's smock so that her chest was bare. Sherlock could see the way the skin of her belly, once taught with the baby, now hung loosely.

"It's also good for the mother," she explained as she opened the side of the crib and, with hands that Sherlock hoped were as steady as a card-shark's, lifted his daughter up to meet her mother. The two settling into each other, fitting together on the outside just as hours earlier they fit together on the inside.

Nurse Anderson placed a hospital blanket over the two of them, making sure that the baby's head had ample clearance. Sherlock noted for the first time that the feeding tube had been taken away, leaving only the small breathing tube around her nose.

"Now, this is where you prove you're not entirely useless," her words were harsh, but her smile was warm. "Put a hand here," she picked up Sherlock's hand and placed it gently on the baby's back.

Sherlock's breath caught as he felt the little body tremor beneath his hand.

"Usually, we only do this when the mother is awake," she explained, "but in this instance-" She stopped herself short.

Sherlock didn't dare ask about what prognosis had been given. He didn't need to, only nodding solemnly.

"Right, so if you're fine, I'll be back in 15 minutes to check on you." And with that she left.

Looking at Molly as she slept, and their child, Sherlock knew there was no denying it now – reality had dawned on him, whether he was ready for it or not.

Moments passed into minutes into what felt like hours to Sherlock as he searched for every detail, committing it to his perfect memory. He refused to admit it was because of what he feared – that this could be the one and only time the three of them were together as a family.

Of course, it had to be less than 15 minutes, that's what the nurse had said.

As he catalogued Molly, the flicker of her eyes, the pallor of her skin, the rise and fall of her breath, something stopped him in his tracks. A small, weak, yet unmistakable voice.

"Is that Pumpkin?" she whispered.

Her eyes opened. She looked down at the small creature on her chest. Tears began to flow - for both her and Sherlock.

"No, it's not Pumpkin," Sherlock answered her question, despite the fact that it really wasn't meant as one.

Molly's eyes opened more, searching for an answer.

"I was thinking of Isabelle," he explained.

"Isabelle?" Molly tried the name, and nodded.

"Molly, meet Isabelle Victoria Hooper," he said in mock-introduction.

"Isabelle Victoria Holmes," Molly corrected him.

In the end the greatest threat to Molly's life as a result of her relationship with Sherlock didn't come from a master criminal like Moriarty, nor was it from a minor thug hell-bent on revenge, or even from Sherlock himself - at least not directly. The threat which had caused Molly to be rushed to casualty and rushed into emergency surgery came entirely from within, the small child that grew inside her, and the unexpected complications of her dramatic and early emergency caesarean.

As he stood in the doorway and gazed at her pale form clad in a hospital gown that only added to her appearance of helplessness, Sherlock wondered if it had all been worth it. If he knew that night over a year ago that his choices would lead them on a path that led to this day, would he change anything?

But as he watched his now-fiancée, awake, recovering, and feeding their precious, tiny daughter, Sherlock knew with utter, complete certainty –

- he wouldn't change a damn thing.


The line "babies come with hats" comes from The West Wing. And the idea for the proposal scene came from Studio 60. Yes, I'm a fan of Aaron Sorkin!