Author's note: Wow! I never thought anyone would actually read this. Thank you guys so much! I'm in a mood to write, so I cranked out another chapter. Y'all are awesome!
Lying on her back without her pants on, staring at the ceiling of her flat as her upstairs neighbors crashed around, Molly Hooper realized she had never felt as unsexy as she did now. Legs spread with a pillow underneath her bum, she inserted the small tube of sperm into herself, and pressed the applicator down. She then relaxed her body, and started the timer.
In an attempt to make it somewhat intimate, she had lit some candles on her night stand, the ones the staff at Bart's had given her when she announced her engagement. But now, on a Tuesday evening with another man's sperm making it's way towards her cervix, she felt this may have been a tad inappropriate.
Toby mewed from outside the door, and from her position at the edge of her bed she could see his tiny white paw batting under the frame. She had closed the door to keep him out – honestly, it was sad enough that she was impregnating herself with an unobtainable man's sperm, she didn't need her cat to watch her do it.
Molly was only slightly sad that her child would not be conceived 'the old fashioned way', but the more she thought about it, it made sense – Sherlock wasn't love, he was science, pure cold facts. And what was more scientific and cold than avoiding the feelings of sex and using chemistry and math to create life? Molly tried consoling herself that it was strangely romantic that her child be made this way, like their final lab experiment together.
She dozed off for a while, only to wake up to her alarm sounded off thirty minutes later. Toby had stopped crying, but she could still see his shadow from under the door. She removed the tube from her and threw it in the trash, carefully hoisting her knickers up, praying too much wouldn't seep out. She washed her hands and unlocked the door to her bedroom, Toby immediately rubbing against her legs. On the way to the kitchen, she picked up her phone and sent a quick text. Short, cold, and unfeeling; the theme of her evening.
IT'S DONE. –MH
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Two hours later and he still hadn't said anything about it. To be fair his phone kept blowing up every five minutes, and she very well couldn't talk about it in front of the men and women who kept coming up to speak with him. Three in the past hour had come up claiming to be Moriarty's apprentice, but he had seen right through them: Uni student, reporter, and a desperate for fame, out of work actor. She had moved to leave some time around 5:30, but he had gestured for her to stay. So she stayed, sitting in John's old chair, unconsciously keeping her palms on her stomach.
When 6:30 rolled around, her stomach started to growl. The stream of people had died down, and Sherlock had just seen the last reporter out when he bounded back up the steps.
"Hungry?"
She nodded, and got up to move to the kitchen.
"Wouldn't go in there," he said, pulling out his cell phone.
"What?"
He looked up.
"Experiments. Chemicals. Not good for a developing fetus,"
"Right," she said, and went to sit back down in the chair.
"I'll call for take out." He said, and dialed up an Itlaian place. After finishing his order he came and sat in front of her, sitting cross legged in his chair and looking down at her stomach.
"You were eager," he said after a pause. She looked up and scrunched her face.
"Sorry," he said. He looked at the floor and then back up. "Naturally we need to keep this secret as long as we can. You were already in a considerable amount of danger before, but being pregnant, especially with the child's parentage, will put both of you at a greater risk,"
Molly nodded, and ran her fingers through her hair.
"We can't tell anyone it's yours," she said, so he wouldn't have to.
His voice softened.
"It's not because I'm ashamed," he assured her.
"Safety," she said, turning back to make eye contact. "I understand."
"Of course I'm certain you won't want anyone thinking it's Tim's either,"
"Who?"
"Tim, your ex-fiancé."
"Tom."
"What?"
"His name with Tom. You know that,"
Sherlock waved a hand. "Whatever his name is, in any matter we need to solidify a story for you,"
"Sperm donor is fine." Molly said. After all, it was true, and she didn't have anyone to worry about scandalizing. 34 year old orphan whose closest friends included a PTSD riddled doctor, an ex assassin, and a neuro-non-typical detective who kept toes in his freezer had seen much worse than a near middle age woman taking family planning into her own hands.
"Right," Sherlock said. He bounced up out of his chair. "Well, glad that's settled," he started for the kitchen when Molly turned around.
"Sherlock," he turned to her, eyebrows raised and ready to receive a question. Although the timing was inappropriate, Molly hoped their child got his eyes. "When it's born," she tried to summon up the words. "Do you want to…see it?"
He considered this for a moment.
"See it?"
"You know…be a part of it's life?"
The air suddenly seemed more dense to Molly, as if the room had felt the tension and begun awkwardly sweating.
Sherlock chose his words carefully.
"It was my understanding that you were going to raise this child alone, Molly. As far as seeing him on holidays and occasionally saying hello, yes, that's fine, but if you're asking me if I want to be a father, then the answer is no. I thought that was the agreement."
Molly felt her throat tighten. Stupid, stupid girl.
"It was," she said, quickly turning around to wipe a tear from her cheek. "I was just making sure,"
"I assume the child will carry your last name and be adequately taken care of by your salary at Bart's. All I will share with him will be some unimportant genetics." Satisfied with himself, he began to turn to the kitchen when the bell rang.
"Ah! That'll be dinner,"
Molly hopped up out of the chair. Her legs were shaking, and to her extreme disappointment in herself, she was about to start crying. She picked up her bag quickly and edged past Sherlock.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
"I forgot to feed Toby," she called back, swinging the door open and forcing herself past the delivery boy a little more aggressively that she supposed she should have.
"At least let me call you a cab, it's not safe!" Sherlock called after her, but she pretended not to hear. The snow was coming down finally, and she walked into the white storm gladly.
::::::::::::
Stupid, stupid girl she thought, climbing out of the cab in front of her flat. She fished the keys from her purse before starting up the steps.
Of course he wanted nothing to do with the baby. That was the entire plan. Some part of him knew that this was his last gift to her, that he wouldn't be returning to England, so of course he never expected he would be involved. She just thought…maybe…it was real now. Not some liquid at the bottom of a Bart's cup after an awkward wait outside of the single bathroom, or a nameless egg on a fertility report; it was a small thing growing inside of her, a tiny cluster of cells with two different sets of genes fitting themselves nicely together to create one, perfect little baby. Molly felt herself begin to cry again.
"Stop it, you big baby," she cursed herself, and began up the steps.
She would be fine. She would have her baby, give it her last name, and be a strong modern mother. One who stayed up nights helping with homework and made Macaroni dinners and asked her child's permission before going on dates. She would be a wonderful single mother, with a support system of lovely friends, even if it did include the child's secret father.
If she had a daughter, she prayed she wouldn't inherit her mother's type in men.
Yes, she could raise this baby by herself. She thought with the turn of her key. She would be a great mother. She didn't need Sherlock Holmes.
With a smile on her face and new confidence teeming through her, Molly flipped on the light, and looked down at the floor.
There lie Toby, his little body torn from the inside out. His little eyes still open, and his mouth stuck in a permanent scream. Surrounded by a puddle of blood with a trail leading across the room, her eyes followed the crimson to a message on her living room wall.
There, written in her poor, innocent cat's blood:
MISS ME?