For the first time in twenty weeks, and without any notice to put on pants, Molly Hooper saw John and Mary Watson for the first time since Moriarty hijacked London's televisions.
She didn't have to go into Bart's until 3 o clock, and the downstairs had been rather quiet. Gandalf had moved up to her bed, which he usually did when Sherlock left, and was curled into a fluffy white ball by her feet. She shifted slightly, and he perked up, making his way down towards her face for a nuzzle.
He smells like Sherlock she thought, scratching his head as he purred happily. Molly sighed, and with great discomfort, sat up in bed.
Her stomach had begun to feel like a bowling ball attached to her torso. It was still only a bump, but Molly hated waking up every morning and having to get used another new discomfort. This morning, it seemed, was going to be lower back pain.
"Bloody hell," She threw one leg out of the bed and then the other, wishing that she could simply float downstairs. A bath sounded downright beautiful right now.
She walked over to the doorway and listened. It didn't sound like anyone was downstairs, which meant no one was in the shower. Almost giddy with excitement, she grabbed one of her towels and let herself out of the room, Gandalf slipping between her legs and running down the stairs in front of her.
When she reached the bottom she saw that Sherlock had left a bowl of Gandalf's food out, saving her the time of having to fill it herself. Bill wasn't home either- the living room's couch was nicely made up, and his sketchbook was tucked under the couch with the rest of his belongings.
"Bill? Sherlock?"
Silence. Smiling to herself, Molly walked down the hallway and into the bathroom. She started the hot water tap.
:::::::
She had maybe been in five minutes before the door slammed open and voices flooded into the apartment.
"Sherlock, are you sure it's safe for us to be here?" John's voice hit Molly like a bucket of cold water. Shit.
"I promise you, John, Mycroft has this place rigged to the nines with surveillance. And as we're not going to make a habit of it, I think it's fine that you all be here for one simple day,"
"Simple doesn't sound like the right word for our situation," Mary chided. "Isn't that right, Charlotte? Uncle Lock couldn't define simple if her ran face first into a dictionary."
Molly's heart seized. They brought the baby too.
"Uncle Lock?"
"Well 'Sherlock' is too long of a name for her to say!" Mary giggled. "Besides, I think it's cute."
Sherlock sneered but didn't say anything. Molly slowly began to lift herself from the bathtub.
"Oh! There she is!" Molly heard Mrs. Hudson's voice ring out as she climbed the stairs. "Is this Charlotte?"
"Yes!" Molly began to slowly put her nightie back on. She didn't dare start to let the tub water out, fearing it would make that loud hollow noise and alert everyone to her whereabouts.
"Oh, she's precious!" Mrs. Hudson cooed over the baby, speaking to her in high-pitched little whispers.
"How about I make some tea?" asked Mary.
"I've never seen the kitchen so clean," John said. "And is that a cat?"
"Aw, get lonely, Sherlock?" Mary laughed. "The sink's not working,"
"Oh, that'll be the piping," Mrs. Hudson said. "it's acting funny again. Just get the water from the bathroom, dear."
Molly froze, and two options immediately came to mind: One, she could walk out now, let everyone know she was here, pregnant, and quite comfortable taking baths in Sherlock's house, or two, she could run out of the room screaming, hail a cab, catch a flight, start a new life in the Caribbean, and forget all about the embarrassing scenario of letting your friends find out you're pregnant and living with a man by having them walk in on you wet and nearly naked.
Unfortunately, Molly chose option one.
Mary turned the door handle and immediately stopped in her tracks as she saw Molly standing in the way of the sink, hair dripping onto her nightie covered belly.
"Molly?" Mary asked. "What are you doing here? What is-" her eyes widened a bit before looking back up at Molly is disbelief.
"You're pregnant?"
Molly was about to speak before John and Sherlock came down the hall and looked in.
"Molly? What are you doing here?" John asked.
"She's pregnant," Mary said.
"What? Oh my god-"
"Yes, everyone pile into the bathroom, where's is humid and wet-"
"Shut up, Sherlock. Molly, how long-"
"Who's the father?"
"Surely not-"
"Could we maybe move this to the living room?"
"Shut up, Sherlock."
"I'm just saying-"
"Molly? Are you feeling okay?"
Before Molly could nod, she dropped down to her knees and vomited into the toilet, and hoped she would never have to take her head out.
:::;;;;;;;;;;;;;
If she was being honest, she wished she could have tea at a time like this. If she was being more honest, she wished she could have a drink.
She sat in John's old chair, Sherlock next to her, looking at the Watsons as they were propped on the couch. Molly was holding Charlotte for the first time, but the joy of holding baby Watson had been drained by the sheer embarrassment she felt at this moment.
"How many weeks?" John asked.
"Twenty," Sherlock answered. Gandalf jumped onto his lap.
"How long has she been living here?" Mary's turn.
"About fifteen weeks I'd say. Up in your old bed room."
"Is it yours?" Mary asked. John guffawed.
"No," Sherlock lied. Molly twitched.
Mary's eyes narrowed. "You're lying."
"Excuse me?" Sherlock sat up a straighter and leaned in.
"You're lying, I can tell. I was trained to tell when someone was lying and you are definitely lying," Mary's attention turned to Molly. "Is he the father?"
Molly went silent for a second.
"It was a sperm donor-"
"Doesn't answer my question, is he the father?" Mary asked again, a little more harshly that Molly would have liked.
Molly turned back and looked at baby Charlotte, and wished that she had just stayed in bed.
"Yes," Sherlock answered for her.
John's mouth dropped open.
"Are you serious?"
"Why on earth-"
"Molly wanted a child, I helped her have a child," Sherlock looked over at Molly, who felt like she was on the verge of crying.
"Did you know about Mor-"
"No, it was before,"
"So you two-"
Sherlock scoffed. "Please. It was a donation."
Molly stood up, and handed Charlotte back to John.
"I'm going to be late for work," she choked.
"You don't have work until 3," Sherlock countered.
"Going to finish some early paper work," Molly called out as she made her way to the stairs.
Mary took Charlotte back into her arms, but not before sending Sherlock a venomous look.
"Oh brilliant, you git."
"What? What did I do?"
"No woman wants to hear someone laugh at the possibility of having sex with her," Mary snapped, hugging Charlotte a little closer.
"I wasn't laughing, I was telling the truth!"
"You didn't have to be so rude about it," John mumbled.
"Molly and I are both adults. We knew what we were doing."
"I forget you don't understand human emotion sometimes," John muttered.
"It's boring," Sherlock gave a wave of his hand. "Now, Mary, do you think you could stay here and wait for Molly to return while John and I go out?"
;;;;;;
Leaving early actually worked out in Molly's favor. The Mycroft's preapproved cab driver raced over to her house in record time, which let her leave the flat rather quickly. She asked if they could run through a drive through to get her a milkshake, and sat in the back and tried not to cry.
No one thought that Sherlock would really have sex with her, but he didn't have to say it in such a rude bloody way. While she had come to terms long ago that it would probably never happen, it still hurt to be shut down in such a curt, cold manner. Molly bit her lip and quickly wiped a tear out of her eye. It didn't help that she was a walking bag of hormones, and that every time she looked in the mirror she only saw a fat, old, mousy woman who couldn't start a family the old fashioned way; no, she had to forgo getting married to man who loved her well enough in favor of getting herself pregnant with some bastard's bastard. A cold, calculating, mean, crueld bas-
Molly gave a little shriek. While she knew how Sherlock could be, she never considered the possibility that her baby could inherit his tendencies. She had heard horror stories from John about how Sherlock dismissed his poor parents whenever they came to visit him, and Molly now wondered if that's how her child would see her: a burden, an annoying puppy that just wanted love. Images of a self reliant three year old pushing away her face, avoiding kisses, and spending time making rude, loud deductions on the tube shocked her. She hadn't been so naïve to believe that a baby would solve all of her problems, but she had expected it to fill some part of her that she felt was missing, the part where family belonged. Someone to make Christmas cookies with, someone to make Halloween costumes for, someone to teach and love and nurture. Now images of a baby as cold and horrid as it's father flashed before her eyes, and Molly started sobbing.
"Here you go Miss, one vanilla shake," the cabbie reached back and his face fell as soon as he saw Molly's tears.
"Oh no, is everything okay, love?"
Molly reached out for the milkshake and stirred it around with the spoon.
"I'll be okay," she gave him a good natured smile through the tears.
He nodded, and began to pull out. Molly sipped her milkshake and tried to keep her thoughts at bay.
;;;;;;;;
"When were you going to tell me?" John asked, and he and Sherlock crossed Baker street and hailed a taxi.
"Hopefully never," Sherlock said. "The plan was to leave Molly to a life of single parenthood and spend my last few months alive roaming eastern Europe, throwing a wrench in crime boss's schemes until I got a bullet in the head,"
John winced at his candor. "And now?"
"Now what?" Sherlock asked.
"Now she's living with you?"
"Yes, for the time being." Sherlock hailed a cab. He was sick on relying on Mycroft's approved taxi service, and really only saw it as a way to keep Molly safe. His own mortality fell far lower on his list of concerns.
"Is she your girlfriend?"
Sherlock laughed. "I don't have girlfriends," he corrected, before opening the cab door.
"When's she due?" John asked.
"Soon enough, I'd imagine. She went in for her first sonogram about four weeks ago, putting her at twenty weeks I believe. Scotland Yard, please," Sherlock told the cabbie.
"Boy or girl?"
"I know, Molly doesn't."
"Why?"
"She didn't want to know, asked me to destroy the answer she got back in an envelope,"
"You checked it?"
Sherlock pulled a piece of paper out his coat pocket, and handed it over to John.
"You keep it in your pocket?"
"Don't act like it's sentimental. I left it in there,"
"Right," he unfolded the paper and read. "Have you written names?"
"Molly found it emotionally taxing, I thought I could give her some suggestions-"
John stared at Sherlock, his best friend, his brilliant, brilliant best friend, and for the first time in their long friendship, could tell that he was bullshitting.
"You're not doing this for Molly," John said.
"What?" Sherlock snapped his head to towards John.
"You want to be involved,"
"I most certainly do not,"
"Tell me then, why are some names scratched out and others underlined?"
"I wrote some before doing research-"
"Research?"
Before Sherlock could answer, the car took a violent hard left. Both men looked up just in time to see the front of the cab hit another car, and begin to roll. Instinctively, they curled their necks in and balled up, but passed out any way.
;;;;;;;;;
Molly liked being in her office, sometimes. The milkshake had calmed her down quite a bit, and now she was happily filling out some of her colleagues reports. She missed being in the morgue, but her last trip to Dr. Dixon had warned her against some of the chemicals used in autopsies. So now and until her due date, she was kept in her office, only occasionally venturing into the morgue to answer an intern's question.
At the moment, she was filling out a report on some nasty case of flesh eating disease, while an Internet radio played from her computer. She wished she had gotten to work on this patient. The details of the report sounded beautifully gory and Sherlock would have loved-
Stop. Stop it, Molly.
She signed her name at the bottom and pushed back her chair. She had worried at first that she would be sitting down more than recommended by doing only paper work, but her frequent bathroom breaks had taught her that she had been mistaken in worrying. Molly waddled over to the door and into the hallway, praying that she would make it to the bathroom on time.
;;;;;;;
Sherlock woke up on his side, with John Watson passed out next to him. The cabbie was gone, and Sherlock could hear the wails of sirens roaring down the street. He moved his shoulder and unlocked his seat belt, only to cut his bicep on a shard of broken glass. He hissed as he pulled it out, and then turned around to wake John.
"John, John!" he shook his friend until he came to.
"What? What happened?"
"Accident. Are you hurt?"
"No. I don't think so-"
"Good," Sherlock began to crawl out of the cab, and stood up to inspect the damage.
Somehow in his and John's heated discussion, he hadn't noticed that the cabbie had driven them down a back alley. Only now were people coming to inspect the damage. The other car they had crashed into was gone, with only broken glass and paint scraps on the cab as evidence that it had been there. One woman who had sprung from the back door of what looked to be a restaurant ran up and helped John out of the car.
"Did you see the other car who got away?" Sherlock asked quickly.
She shook her head. "We heard a crash, but we thought it was one of our supply trucks dropping something heavy. Someone's already called the police, though. Are you alright?"
"I'm fine," Sherlock turned to John. "Are you alright?"
"Yes, I believe so," he sighed. "I've only gotten back to working cases with you for one day,"
"Please, don't complain," Sherlock pulled out his phone and checked the time, to only immediately receive a text.
I DON'T LIKE THE NAME 'AIDEN'. TOO BORING FOR YOUR CHILD. – JM
Sherlock felt his heart drop into his stomach and splash acid.
"John, we have to leave,"
"What? The paramedics-"
"John," Sherlock held up his phone. "I think something's about to happen to Molly,"
;;;;;;;
Molly had only just finished peeing when the buzzer went off.
"CODE 9. CODE 9. BART'S HOSPITAL IS OFFICIALLY ON LOCK DOWN. STAY IN YOUR OFFICES UNTIL YOU ARE GIVEN CLEARANCE."
Molly's hand flew to her pocket. Empty. She must have left her keys in her office. Quickly, she made for the door and slammed it shut, locking the top quickly and backing into the wall of the single. She tried to keep her heart rate down. It was probably just a drill. It had to be. It had been fifteen weeks already-
There was a bang at the door and she gave a shriek, and then quickly covered her mouth.
"Missus Hooper?" a gruff voice asked. "Open the door, please."
;;;;;;
John had never seen Sherlock make a call so quickly in his life. As the two were running down the street, he had somehow managed to dial Lestrade while being at least two to three paces in front of John.
"Lestrade," he barked. "I think something's going to happen to Molly,"
"She's not at Bart's, is she?"
"Yes! Why?"
"The place is on lock down. Saw a man a few blocks away with a bomb strapped to chest, threatening to blow the whole street! Your brother's security team jumped on him,"
"I don't think it's the bomb threat you'll have to worry about. Has anyone gone inside the hospital?"
"I don't know-"
Sherlock hung the phone up and immediately texted Molly.
ARE YOU SAFE? –SH
He looked around frantically before choosing a route. John, who was breathing heavily behind him, could barely keep up. Being stuck inside a safe house for weeks had crippled his progress with cycling, and he felt pathetic having to bend over and catch his breath.
"Hurry, John!" Sherlock cried, before beginning to make another call.
;;;;;;
"Missus Hooper, are you going to make me break down this door?"
Molly tried to keep quiet, and clutched at her stomach.
"I know you're in there," there was a quick BANG against the door. Molly let out a cry.
"GO AWAY!" she yelled.
"That'd be against orders," the man answered. Another BANG, and Molly heard the lock rattle, about to give.
"WHAT DO YOU WANT?" she said, reaching into her pocket, grasping for something, anything to use as a weapon.
With one more BANG the doo fell down, just narrowly missing Molly. She looked up and saw the gaunt figure of a blonde, scarred man. He was dirty, almost as if he had been living on the streets for weeks, and from his rolled up sleeves she could see track marks on his arms. She looked him in the eye and saw his pupils were the size of quarters. Heroin addict. High. Dangerous.
"What do you want?" Molly asked again. The man smiled, held up his hand, and flicked his thumb. Switchblade.
"I want to cut that little baby girl out of you, Missus Hooper,"
;;;;;;;;;;;;
Sherlock arrived at Bart's, running on pure adrenaline. The cop cars had already made it there, securing the area and gearing up officers to go in.
"Lestrade!" he cried, and ran over to Greg and clutched his shoulders.
"Where's Molly? What's happened?"
"Turns out you were right, the bomb threat was actually just some poor man being forced to distract the security teams. We think Molly is still in the building, we have some officers getting ready to – hey!" He called after Sherlock as he ran through a maze of cars and officers, leaping over obstacles before bursting through Bart's doors. Molly's office. Where was Molly's office?
Third floor.
He spotted the opening for the stairs and immediately began climbing two, three at a time. He reached the third floor door in less than twenty seconds and slammed it open.
"Molly!" he called.
Hallway well lit. Carpet treaded heavily here. Bulletin board. Smell of coffee. He ran down the hallway. Offices 300-317, right. 318-330, left. Molly's office was by the bathrooms. Bathrooms were connected to the piping system which favored the left side of the building. Left.
"Molly!" he cried out again, running down the hall. He heard a cry from farther down.
"MOLLY!" he screamed. He started to see it: a busted door. Kicked in. metallic smell. Smell of blood.
He reached to door and balanced himself on the frame.
"Molly," he whispered.
On the floor, with her hands covered in blood, Molly Hooper lay holding her stomach. She wept loudly and openly, and stared down at the man who had a switchblade protruding from his neck. Sherlock looked back at Molly.
"He was going to kill her, Sherlock," she cried. "He was going to kill our daughter!"
Sherlock's face softened. He had found the missing puzzle piece. Gingerly, he stepped over the body and offered his hand to Molly. She took it weakly, prompting him to grip it tightly and pull her into a hug. She began to cry harshly, staining his coat with tears and snot and blood. He didn't mind.
He had done this to her.
;;;;;;;;
Back at Baker Street, Mycroft was livid.
"You took a cab that had not been preapproved, and continued to discuss personal matters in front of a stranger?!"
Sherlock's head was in his hands, avoiding eye contact with his angry older brother.
"Not only that, but you let Dr. Hooper leave the house without any sort of mace or weapon for self defense? Has this case really made you so careless?"
"I know," Sherlock growled.
"Why were you ever carrying around that stupid piece of paper, anyway?"
"Because I left it in my jacket!" Sherlock snapped at him. Mycroft was unimpressed.
"You left Mary Watson and her child alone in this house. You let Dr. Hooper leave before her scheduled time. You took strange cab and continued to talk about confidential matters in front of a complete stranger. Did I make a mistake in taking you off that plane?"
Sherlock remained quiet, and steepled his fingers in front of his face, staring down at the floor. Mycroft sneered.
"The man with the bomb was Mr. Johnson, one of Moriarty's unfortunate victims. Plucked from a tube station and kept in a safe house should he ever need a distraction. It would appear that he has been keeping some of his men in this area disguised as cab drivers, guessing correctly that you would one day think yourself above reproach and take the chance just to get to a place quicker. The cabbie texted instructions to one another, crashed the car, and then made their way to Bart's while you lay incapacitated. Mr. Johnson was dropped off three blocks away from the hospital to send it into lockdown, but not before the other driver found his way to Molly's floor."
"You didn't need to explain it to me. I'm not a child."
"Oh?" Mycroft asked. He fixed his glove and made to grab his cane. "Today you were thoughtless, Sherlock, and it almost cost you your child. So excuse me if I feel that now is an appropriate time to explain to you just what your mistakes made possible," he made to leave, but not before Sherlock stuck out his hand.
"Mycroft,"
"You can't be serious. It's evidence,"
"Mycroft,"
Mycroft sighed, and pulled the ratty sheet of paper from his pocket.
"Moriarty was right on one account," he sighed. "I don't see you having a daughter named Aiden,"
Sherlock waved him away, and began to look over his list. When he heard the door slam, he pushed himself up from his chair.
Molly was sitting on her bed, sitting cross-legged and rubbing circles on her stomach. She didn't hear when Sherlock came in.
"Oh," she said, pulling her sweater over her stomach. "Hello,"
"Hi," he said, and crossed his arms. "How-how are you?"
Molly bit her lip for a moment, and then looked back at him.
"I don't regret it," she said. "Does that make me a monster?"
Sherlock's mouth fell open slightly. "No, Molly."
"It's just," she sucked in air through her teeth and breathed out shakily. "It's just I was sitting up her, rubbing cocoa butter onto these bloody stretch marks and I realized…I don't regret killing him at all," she wiped a tear away. "He was going to hurt me, hurt the baby and…I just…"
Sherlock quickly moved over to the bed and dropped down beside her. She looked up at him and laughed.
"She's got no hope, does she?" Molly asked. "Mother like me. Crying all the time," she put her palms to her eyes and pushed in.
"I think she's already yards ahead of the competition," Sherlock said. Molly's face went soft, and they held each other's gaze for just a second too long before Gandalf jumped up between then and began batting at Sherlock's paper.
"What's that?"
Sherlock forgot he still had the report in his hand.
"Nothing," he made to pocket it, but Molly's hand reached out and caught his wrist, while the other hand slipped it out of his grasp. She brought it up to her face, and Sherlock watched her with uncertainty as she read it.
"It's my results," she said. "You kept them?"
He coughed. "Yes. I thought it would be prudent to keep files like these, should any incidents occur in which knowing the sex would be beneficial-"
"You wrote names," she said.
He didn't know how to explain that one as well.
"You seemed emotionally strained by the process. I thought I'd help, I did some research, looked up some meanings. I thought you'd like to avoid plain, common names, having gone through life with a name like Molly-"
Molly smiled at his quip as he rattled on. Despite his dig, he was fighting off the inevitable. She had heard him talk to Mycroft, about how he had kept the scrap in his jacket pocket, and analyzing the carefully penned names, it have become clear: Sherlock Holmes, whether he liked it or not, wanted to be involved in his daughter's life.
"She's kicking," Molly interrupted. She reached out and grabbed his big hand, and placed it on her stomach, ignoring his protests. Under his hand, something pressed up against his palm, as if to say hello. He sat there, transfixed, feeling a small, living being press against it's walls and touch him.
"Tell me your favorite names," Molly said after a moment, prompting him to look back up.
He dropped his hand from her stomach and reached for the piece of paper lying next to her. He cleared his throat, sat up straight, and began to analyze the names of the paper as if they were names of suspects.
"Willow is based in nature, so I thought that might fit. But then I thought it might seem too hippie, so it was crossed out-"
Molly leaned back, and turned onto her left, listening to his deep, melodic voice fill her tiny room as he rattled off names. She felt herself drifting in and out, until she finally gave into a long, heavy, and deserved sleep.
But not before hearing the name.
;;;;;
She got up in the morning, surprisingly pain free. She made her way down to the kitchen, past Bill's sleeping form on the couch and found Sherlock in the kitchen making coffee.
"Good morning, Molly," he said. "Eggs?"
"Violet,"
"What?" he asked.
"Violet. That's the name,"
Sherlock paused for a moment, staring her down in a confused way. She waited for a response, but it felt like ages.
Oh god, I've broken him.
Finally, he opened his mouth, turned back to look her in the eyes.
"Violet," he said, as if trying it out on his tongue.
"That's right," she nodded. "Violet Hooper Holmes," She pulled out a breakfast bar chair and sat on top. "and eggs sound perfect."
After a beat, Sherlock turned to the ice box and pulled out the eggs, careful not to let Molly see the small grin on his face.
Thank you all for your lovely reviews! They keep me happy. I hope you liked this chapter. I always knew that Molly would be having a girl. I've got big plans for Violet Holmes!