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Although he was covered in blood, Bill Wiggins looked as if he recovering from his heroin addiction quite nicely.

Molly stepped over his body when she entered, and then turned to where Sherlock was hiding behind the sliding doors to the kitchen.

"The blood splatter on the wall isn't convincing enough to have been a gunshot wound," she said as she peeled off her coat. "Not to mention the placement of the body. He's turned to the side, and if it had been a self induced gun shot to the head, he wouldn't have fallen like that unless someone kicked him over,"

Sherlock growled from his hiding place. Molly continued.

"And while he's turned over," Molly bent her head down, careful not to bend from the waist. "the head wound on the back is just dreadfully inadequate,"

"That's because," Sherlock emerged. "in this scenario Moriarty shot a blank into his mouth and a device triggered the detonation of some sort of blood pack from the back, which led to a larger container of blood, concealed in his jacket, that would pump through into puddle."

"Wouldn't you have noticed that?" Molly asked. "A large bag of blood in his jacket?"

"I don't know!" Sherlock snapped. He looked down at Bill "And please do get up," he said.

"I was in character," said Bill, his eyes opening widely.

"You were sleeping?"

"Is it because of the creases on my face?" Bill asked.

"It was because you were snoring. Molly? Hungry?"

Molly had since picked up Gandalf and given him a little nuzzle. The kitten had gotten bigger. "Yes, please."

Sherlock nodded before turning back towards the kitchen, with Bill hopping back onto the couch.

"You alright, Molly?" he asked, grabbing a rag off the end table.

"I'm fine, Bill. How are you today?"

"Same shit, differen' day," he tossed the 'bloody' (Molly assumed it some sort of cornstarch mixture) rag into the corner. "Better than living in the smack houses, though," He looked down at her bump.

"How far along are you, now, anyways?"

Molly's hand fell to her tiny swell. Sherlock had lied when he said Bill was going to be staying with them for a week. It had been nine weeks that the living room had turned into a small campsite. Luckily, Bill didn't have many possessions, and only required the couch and end table for his needs, but it was still massively inconvenient. Molly would come home every night from a long day of paper work, only to be greeted by a new 'Moriarty' corpse. The first week Sherlock spent all day locked inside his 'mind palace' (i.e., his room), leaving Bill and poor Gandalf wishing for his company. Bill made use of his time alone, however. To Molly (and eventually Sherlock's) great surprise, Bill was an accomplished artist. Molly came home one night at 5 am, absolutely knackered after a night shift of filling out paper work and getting up every thirty minutes (pregnant women were not supposed to sit for more than an hour, Sherlock had reminded her one night when she had just wanted to sit and binge watch Downton) and found him hunched over a sketch book. "Thought heroin would make me better," he muttered. They slipped into a routine that week. Molly would make food and Bill would clean, and they'd spend their in between time, lounging in the living room; Molly reading and Bill drawing. He had already drawn a rather prestigious looking picture of Gandalf, a few still lives of the crowded mantle, and rather flattering one of Molly sitting in Sherlock's chair. Her favorite by far, though, was the ink sketch of a baby Bill had given her only a few days ago when Sherlock was out picking up food. "It's my guess of what your baby might look like," he said, handing her a cardstock print. Molly sweetly thanked him, and as naturally as she could muster, went up to her room to promptly bawl her eyes out. While it was undeniable that the baby boy's big brown eyes were hers, along with his nose and lips, his cheekbones were high, and his hair had strong, telling black curls. Bill was the apt student Sherlock had promised.

"Sixteen weeks," Molly said, running her hands down her stomach in a V. She had only been to a few appointments with Mycroft's appointed physician. She was a kind Jamaican woman, with, thankfully, warm, soft hands. Her first visit had been only a week after living with Sherlock, and had taken three hours to shift between cars in secret and then sit in the waiting room. Dr. Dixon had been worth it, though. Her equipment was impeccable, and had access to some of the best technology. Even while lying on the exam table, with yet another person inside of her, Molly envied the pretty tools that the doctor had.

But tomorrow's appointment was special. The news of the Watsons' new baby girl had sparked the desire to know her baby's sex. She had been texting Mary endlessly since Charlotte's birth five weeks previous, asking almost too many questions, she was sure. She longed to go and visit Mary and the baby, but she had yet to receive clearance from Mycroft. Sherlock had been sweet enough to bring home a picture for her a few days ago, that had found it's place upon the mantle next to Billy and Molly's old picture. Hopefully, she thought, with no news of Moriarty's return, it would come out as being a big hoax; some boys playing a prank. Then things could go back to normal.

This wasn't likely, however. Even if it had been a hoax, someone had broken into her house and killed her cat, and Sherlock was unable to let the link between the two go.

"Speaking of," Molly took the soup bowl from Sherlock as he walked back into the room, trey ready for the three of them to eat at their make shift dining table/desk. "I'll know the sex tomorrow,"

Neither man really responded at first, before Bill asked:

"Thought of any names?"

Yes.

"No," Molly said, slurping her soup.

If they're not going to be excited for me, then I'll save my breath.

"You're lying," Sherlock said, crumbling crackers into his soup. "You've been thinking of them since you got the blood work back."

Bill turned back to her, trying on his best deduction face.

"Is it because she's been wearing her hair up?"

What?

"Or the amount of books and photos she's been going through lately?"

"Mrs. Hudson found the list in one of her pockets," Sherlock shut him down. "Honestly, Molly, Francis?"

"I thought it could be nice," Molly felt suddenly small. Why did he get to criticize her choices in names? He made it very clear that it was going to be her baby and hers alone.

"Too old fashioned. Kids would make fun of him on the playground. He'd end up going by the name Frank, which you hate, from your aversion to calling our mail man that instead of 'Franklin'. Next," he slurped his soup.

"What's your next name?" Bill asked.

Molly went quiet for a minute, before bringing the soup spoon up to her mouth.

"Cadell," she said.

"Cadell?" Bill asked. "Like cattle? You're just asking for that poor little bloke to get arse kicked on the school yard. My mates and I used to beat up boys with his name, why would you pick something so st-"

"Shut up, Bill," Sherlock seethed. Bill turned to Sherlock, confused, and raised his hands.

"What? You were doing it. Just trying to help the lady out-"

"Cadell was my father's name," Molly said quickly, dabbing the napkin around her mouth. "He was Welsh. Moved her in 1976. Always wanted grandkids, but things didn't work out that way," she stood up. "I'm sorry, I'm not feeling well." She put her dish in the sink before going upstairs, Gandalf trailing behind her.

Bill looked at Sherlock.

"What?"

:::::::::::

Molly watched as Gandalf chased a bottle cap around on the floor. She didn't know where he had found it, but she was glad it was giving her some sort of distraction from the desire to cry her eyes out again. She couldn't think of her dad when she was pregnant, it only made the entire ordeal more painful. She wished he was here, sitting on the bed next to her so he could hold her head to his chest again and sing her one of those old Welsh songs he used to when she was baby. She missed him. She missed having one male presence in her life that wasn't cold and calculating but was warm, and kind. Thinking about her father made Molly wish she wasn't having this baby alone; she wanted her baby to have the father figure that she had had in her life: the dad who spent all night on the phone with his sister the day before her first school dance asking about make-up tips and how hair spray worked, who made lemon tarts for her birthday and would hug them every day.

She began to cry.

She didn't hear the small rap at her door, or hear him come in for that matter, but soon enough she saw his tall figure move to sit down next to her, and stare at her wall.

"Bill is learning but he's still an idiot in some respects," Sherlock sighed. Molly wiped her face off and looked up at him. His face was blank, and he made no move to comfort her.

"I'm sorry," she sighed. "I didn't mean to get so upset. Thinking of Dad just gets me…I don't know," she huffed again and looked down at Gandalf, who was rubbing his head against the dresser.

"What is that?" Sherlock asked, pointing to the picture tacked to the wall.

"Bill drew it," Molly sighed. "His interpretation of what the baby will look like,"

"Hmmm," Sherlock considered it, for a moment. It felt like an eternity had passed before he spoke again. "Silly to guess this. He made the right assumptions, dominant genes winning out, even gave him heterochromia iridum if you look close enough to the cross hatching in the eyes," Molly followed his finger. He was right, the left was darker than the right. "Although it's illogical to speculate such a thing whole heartedly. You won't know who the baby takes after until at least three months," he turned to her. "And for both of your sakes, I hope he looks like you,"

Molly shook her head. "Those cheekbones are an asset," she quipped.

Sherlock let a giggle loose. Real or not she couldn't speculate, but it didn't matter.

"Do you want to know the sex?" Molly asked.

"It's not my place," he said.

"Right," Molly said. A sudden, unshakeable feeling of defeat flooded over her. Suddenly she wasn't as excited as she had been. She didn't think it would matter if Sherlock would want to know or not, but somewhere deep down inside of her, she had hoped that maybe he would be a little curious about his child.

"I best go to bed," Molly said. "Early appointment tomorrow,"

"Right," Sherlock tapped the bed and hopped up. He looked back at her.

"I am sorry about Bill," Sherlock said.

"It's fine, really. I'm just going to sleep it off,"

Sherlock nodded, turning quickly with Gandalf in tow, and flipped the light off for her.

::::::

"Are you excited?" Dr. Dixon asked Molly as she lay on her back, bare stomach exposed and moist with wet goo.

"I've decided I don't want to know, actually," Molly said.

"What? Last time you were practically on Cloud Nine after I told you,"

"I think I'd just rather be surprised. Knowing will just have me overthinking everything, like names and nursery colours,"

Dr. Dixon smiled sweetly down at Molly, with only a flicker of sympathy in her eyes. Surely she knew Molly's situation, and had seen countless girls like her before. Single mothers hoping against hope to try and get the father interested enough to come to an appointment, pick a name, or even ask about how her heartburn was that morning.

"How about this," she said. "I'll write it down for you and put it in an envelope. When you get home, do whatever you want with it. But the option will be there,"

Molly nodded, and the Doctor smiled again before beginning the ultrasound.

::::::

It was the heaviest envelope she had ever carried in her life.

She was absolutely torn about looking. It had sat on the edge of her desk all day at work and practically stared her down, daring her to rip it open and put an end to her anxiety once and for all. She had contemplated throwing it in the trash, but couldn't bring herself to do it. She didn't want to know, but she couldn't throw away the only answer either.

When she got into Baker Street, she was surprised only to see Sherlock in. He was standing at the kitchen, holding a vial of some liquid up to the light. She didn't ask.

"Where's Bill?" Molly asked, putting her purse on the hat rack.

"Ran to the store to get some more Coke-A-Cola. Studying the effects of constant sugar intake on the urine," he put the vial down and removed his gloves.

"Is that really necessary? I mean, haven't there been studies?"

"Yes, but I'm incredibly bored and John would never fall for these sorts of tricks," he looked at his feet. "He's already gone through two liters since noon."

"That's barbaric," she pulled the envelope out of her pocket and held it up to him. "Get rid of this?"

"What is it?"

"Does it matter?"

"A strange envelope being thrust into my face with the request to destroy it?"

"It's the baby's gender results. I don't want them but she insisted on giving them to me in case I changed my mind,"

Sherlock frowned. "I thought you did want to know,"

"I don't. Not any more. No more name lists," she said, pushing across the counter. "Just get rid of it for me?"

"Of course," he said. Molly smiled at him before turning to go back up the stairs to take a long, long nap.

Sherlock reached out and looked at the envelope. Gandalf hopped onto the counter and began sniffing the vile of urine as Sherlock went to hold it over the Bunsen burner.

But then he stopped.

He drew the envelope closer to him, and looked back to the stairs. Molly had already shut the door, and was probably fast asleep by the weary look in her eyes and her hunched shoulders.

Tenderly, he drew his finger under the seal and popped it open. He reached in and pulled out a simple piece of notebook paper, and let Gandalf attack the manila envelope. Tentatively, he unfolded it, and read.

"…Interesting," he said.

Suddenly the door downstairs slammed open, and Bill was at the doorway holding two more liters.

"I'm ready!" he said. "I think I can get the first and half down in fifteen." he noticed the piece of paper he had daintily in his hand. "What you got there?"

Sherlock's head jerked up, and swiftly pocketed the piece of paper in his front jacket pocket.

"Nothing. Unscrew the top."