Hey guys! Sorry I haven't been updating as quickly, college is killing me! But I found some time today to write this up. I hope you like it, I'm pretty proud of it! Your reviews make my day! I can't believe this silly little story got all of y'all's attention!

"Honestly, Sherlock-"

"I'm trying to concentrate,"

"One of the greatest minds in all of the nation-"

"Mycroft-"

"-and you can't figure this out?"

"The design is flawed,"

"How convenient, blaming the manufacturing,"

"Shut up, will you?"

"Sherlock?" the two brothers heads snapped up after hearing Molly cry up the stairs. Slowly, carrying her heavy belly, she maneuvered herself into her room to find the two Holmes brothers, Mycroft leaning against the wall and Sherlock on the floor, in front of what looked like a half assembled crib.

"What's this?"

"A gift," Mycroft answered, before Sherlock could interject.

"Oh, that's so sweet, you really didn't have to, Mycroft,"

"It's not from me, unfortunately," he scowled and looked down at the instructions in his hand. "You really ought to read these,"

"I know what I'm doing!" Sherlock snapped, not taking his eyes off what he was at least fifty percent certain was one of the bars to the small cage.

"Who's it from then?" Molly asked, moving to sit on her bed. At 30 weeks, it was getting hard to move around, and the highlight of her day was coming home to sit and relax for a moment.

"The grandparents," Mycroft turned to Sherlock "Honestly, if you keep shoving those bits together it's going to fall apart onto itself,"

"Maybe if our mother hadn't thought to buy a crib from IKEA," Sherlock popped himself up and looked over to Molly. "They'll be coming round tonight,"

Molly's eyes widened. "Sorry, what?"

"Unfortunate news, I know," Sherlock smoothed his hair and looked down at the mess. "Don't suppose you know how these things go together, do you?"

"Do we need to cook?" Molly asked, starting to get up. "I have some pasta I can make,"

"They'll be bringing dinner," Mycroft said, looking down at his watch. "They'll be here in about an hour, in fact."

"Are you staying?"

Mycroft gave a curt nod. "Family dinner,"

Mummy Holmes was a hurricane of a woman.

True, Molly had been intimidated by the Holmes family before, but something about Vivianne Holmes set her closer to the edge. She commanded the room's presence and would not let it go for the life of her. Her husband, who Molly related with much more, was a pleasant older man who just smiled and nodded with everything his wife tittered on about. In fact, when the bell rang, and Sherlock (reluctantly) opened the door, she waltzed in as if it were her house, carrying a large dish of something that turned Molly's stomach, and began talking, eyes sweeping over the clutter of the living room.

"You've decided to raise a child in this mess, Sherlock?"

"It's not my child," he said, following up behind her. Molly sat in John's chair, Gandalf perched on her arm rest, and felt suddenly self-conscious. She had tried to look nice for her first meeting with the elder Holmes, even putting a headband in her hair, but now she just felt like she looked juvenile.

"You genes, your child," she placed the dish down on the table and jerked her head towards Molly. "You must be Molly then, dear?"

Molly was a bit startled by her quick shift in tones, but gave her a quick, almost too excited, nod. She began to get up, but Mrs. Holmes waved away her effort, eyes traveled down to Molly's swollen belly, and took her in.

"How many weeks are you?"

"30 yesterday," Molly said, spreading her fingers across the top of her stomach.

"Won't be long now, then?"

"No ma'am."

Mrs. Holmes approached her carefully, almost like she was considering buying Molly at a live auction. Her hand went from her mouth and then hovered over her belly, before retracting it, and then reaching out again.

"May I?"

"Of course,"

Violet was kicking, and Mrs. Holmes obviously felt it. Her eyes widened and she gave a slight smirk. She dropped her hand and turned back to her sons, who were standing quietly, watching the scene.

"Shall we eat?"

Despite being many parents' dream, Molly was always uncomfortable with family dinners. She never knew what to say, and in lieu of being able to bite her nails, she would often pick at them under the table, a trait Sherlock noticed.

"Stop picking, Molly," he said as he dolloped some green bean casserole onto his plate. Molly's hands flew to her sides. The smell of mushrooms made her nauseous, but she didn't want to be rude and refuse Mrs. Holmes dish. She wondered if she could handle having the offending smell on her plate, next to the parmesan chicken cutlet and rice that had actually smelled good enough to make her hungry.

"Sherlock, don't correct her," his mother snapped. Her attention then suddenly turned back to Molly.

"So, Molly, tell me about yourself,"

"Well-"

"Oh must we really do this?" Sherlock said. He turned towards Molly. "I promise you she's already pumped Mycroft for ever last detail he could squeeze out of the British government's records. By the way, when were you going to tell me that you were in the Peace Corps for a year?"

"Sherlock!" his mother gasped. "There's no need to be so beastly, we're just trying to make small talk,"

"It is true, though," Mycroft bit into a green bean before turning towards Molly "but really, why did you choose Laos?"

"Excellent casserole, love," Mr. Holmes said, smiling to himself.

"So, Molly, do you know what the sex is?" Mrs. Holmes was quick to change the subject, something Molly was grateful for. Finally, something she could happily chat away about.

"A girl," she smiled. In the past weeks she had fallen in love with the fact that she was going to have a little girl. While she didn't want to admit it, she had hoped her first child wasn't going to be a boy. She had a hard enough time understanding them in their adult forms, and was worried that her incompetence would translate to their younger counterparts and make her an awful mother. Plus, she liked the idea of having a little girl to dress in tiny lab coats and play 'experiments' with, jump-starting a new generation of female scientists. She couldn't wait until she could plait her daughters hair back, put on some oversized lab goggles on her tiny, perfect face and show her how to dissect a cow eye.

Good god, Molly thought to herself, she's going to have an absolute nutter for a mum.

"Have you thought of names?" Mrs. Holmes broke her trance.

"Violet," Molly said.

"Oh, that's beautiful. Isn't that beautiful, Henry?"

"Oh yes,"

"That does sound familiar," Mycroft wolfishly smiled, eying his brother. "How did you come up with it?"

"Oh I didn't Sher-"

"Anyone want any bread?" Sherlock interrupted. However, his mother had already deduced what Molly was saying.

"Sherlock," Mrs. Holmes said, leaning into the table so she could get a better look at her son. "Did you-?"

"I gave advice," Sherlock said. He took a bun for himself.

"Oh come no, brother," Mycroft said, looking smug. "tell mummy about how you named you daughter."

Sherlock side eyed Mycroft as Mrs. Holmes continued.

"Violet…wasn't that the name…who was it the name of?"

Sherlock looked as if his face was made of porcelain right on the cusp of cracking. He ground his jaw.

"Yes, Sherlock, who?" Mycroft baited.

Sherlock sighed and looked up at the ceiling.

"She was a wonderful teacher-"

"Ha! That's right!" Mrs. Holmes turned towards Molly, grinning. "there was a teacher he had during primary, wonderful woman. He had to be around seven or eight when he was put in her class. Brilliant. Huge on teaching science. She used to keep butterfly cocoons in the class, take the children to the labs on Fridays, and have the entire lot of them do little experiments. What was that one of yours that she liked so much, Sherlock?"

His nose crinkled and with an obvious distaste, he began to answer her before she cut him off.

"That's right! For his final project, he did one of his funny studies on ash in the teaching longue ashtrays! She loved it! When she gave him the ribbon for best project, I don't think I'd ever seen him so red! Oh, you had a bit of a crush on her, come on," Mrs. Holmes giggled. "What happened to her, anyway?"

"Breast cancer," Sherlock answered, flicking his napkin out. "2010."

"Oh dear," Mrs. Holmes covered her mouth. "That poor, sweet woman. She was a great teacher,"

"The best," Sherlock said. He picked up his plate and stood. "I'm finished. If you'll excuse me," he marched towards the kitchen and deposited his plate, before making his way to his bedroom and shutting the door, letting the music of a violin waft into the hallway. Molly poked around at her casserole, and back at the Holmes family.

"Any middle names?" Mrs. Holmes asked.

The Holmes had been gone for about an hour before Molly decided to brave knocking on Sherlock's door. Bill had just gotten back from one of his Addicts Anonymous meetings, and had passed out on the couch after eating a good amount of the left over casserole. The music had stopped some minutes earlier, causing her knocks to echo throughout the hallway, and causing the silence to weigh heavy on her shoulders until she heard him call in his baritone voice

"Come in,"

She pushed open the door and peered in. He sat on his bed, still in his dress clothes, petting Gandalf's head as he lay curled next to Sherlock. Sherlock stared at the wall, lost in thought.

"I cleaned up the kitchen," Molly said, leaning against the door frame. Sherlock didn't respond. Maybe he didn't hear her.

"I cleaned up-"

"Molly, if you want to say something, say it. Don't feel the need to soften it with an introduction."

Reluctantly, she waddled over to the bed and carefully sat herself down on the opposite corner. She looked down at him, still lost in thought and drawing circles with his long finger on top of Gandalf's head.

"She was a teacher," Molly stated.

"Yes," he answered.

"Why?" Molly asked.

Sherlock still didn't look back.

"She was the first person to tell me that my skills didn't make me a freak," he said.

Molly's mouth fell open. While she knew how adults talked, she couldn't imagine a young Sherlock having to deal with the same cruelty. She saw him suddenly, a young boy trying to make friends with the kids around him the only way he knew how, and being shunned for it or played up to be a playground legend. How scary it must have been for him, how alienating and lonely. She felt the urge to hug him then, but thought better of it.

"She'd let me practice on her. Try and trick me. Always tell me how brilliant I was. Silly things," he said in response to her silence, letting his head fall between his hands. She felt her face soften.

"Kindness isn't silly, Sherlock," Molly said.

His back straightened, and he finally turned around to take her in. She tried smiling at him, but whether or not this comforted him, he gave no response. Violet kicked against her hand.

"She's moving," Molly said, finally breaking the tension. Sherlock's eyes flicked down to her stomach. "I think she liked the music."

Silently, he got up and reached for his violin, turning back to her with a flourish.

"What would you like to hear?"

"Bach," she said. She settled herself against the pillows, as he began playing a sweet, melancholic melody that settled Violet into a calm.

Sherlock knew Molly hadn't meant to fall asleep on his bed. When he turned around after god knows how long, he saw her, passed out with Gandalf at her feet, belly extending from her body like an exercise ball. Quietly as he could, he put the violin down, and went to the kitchen to grab a glass of water.

He didn't know why he had included Miss Moss's name on Molly's list. Everything he said about her was true: she was a fantastic teacher, and one of the first people in his life to show him kindness. But letting Molly know that, even as indirectly as putting it on a name list felt so…personal. Of course fate would have it that she picked that one, too.

As he leaned against the counter, drinking the tap, his eyes fell across a paper that had his mother's handwriting all over it. In her neat cursive, she had practiced writing her granddaughter's name, with different middle names, over and over again.

Violet Claire Holmes

Violet Bianca Holmes

Violet Marie Holmes

All looped together in her sweet, matronly script. Sherlock almost discarded the paper before spotting Molly's chicken scratch print at the bottom.

VIOLET IRIS HOOPER HOLMES

She had repeated the name. Writing it as neatly as she could, but it was the first time she had written it that struck a cord with Sherlock. It was as if he was looking at the physical evidence of an idea being born.

Violet Iris Hooper Holmes, Violet Iris Hooper Holmes,

Violet Iris. Violet Iris.

He wasn't the sort of man to keep things for sentimental value. He wasn't the man who would cut up old receipts with scribbles on the backs. He wasn't the man who folded neat pieces of paper with their daughter's names into a neat square and put it in their wallet.

He wasn't the sort of man to do that, but he found himself doing it anyway