"No, no, NO." Mary yelped. "Are you bloody kidding me?"
Molly looked down at the puddle at her feet and sighed. Of course this would happen now. Sherlock was always difficult and inconvenient, why would his child be any different?
"We can't get her out of here," John said. "Not now. Now with all of-" he flailed his arms at the window.
"Exactly!" Sherlock smiled like a child on Christmas. "This is just what he wanted!"
"How exactly could he have planned for Molly to –"
"He took a risk! Stress often causes labor to begin, and knowing him he could have kept the whole city in pandemonium until the right time. I assume we are being watched as we speak from some undisclosed location and that he will be arriving shortly,"
"Arriving shortly? Here?!" Mycroft spat. He grabbed for his phone and immediately began dialing.
"Don't bother, he'll beat whatever police or medical personnel you can call over,"
"What should we do?" John asked, wringing his hands.
"How about," Molly spoke up, taking in a deep breath with her first contraction hit her like comet. "getting this fucking child out of me?"
The room went silent for a moment, in awe that Molly Hooper had just dropped an f bomb. Annoyed by their shock, she spoke again.
"NOW. WOULD BE NICE."
Immediately John turned to Mary, who nodded and handed Charlotte off to Mycroft, who looked terribly confused by the child. John rolled up his sleeves and turned to Sherlock.
"Your bathtub. How big?"
"Jacuzzi size. Why? Wait, WHY?"
"Right, get up Molly," John slung his arm around Molly's shoulder and began waddling back to Sherlock's room.
"No- You're not going- John-"
"Water births are second to epidurals in terms of pain management. And since you caused all this mess, I figure you can buy some extra Clorox after I deliver your child,"
"There's a system- John, don't just go knocking things around!" Sherlock cried after him. John retorted by slamming the door in his face.
Mycroft appeared behind Sherlock, carrying Charlotte much like a three year old child carries a puppy. "Are you going to stand outside this entire time then, staring at the door like a sad, forgotten pet?"
"It's not my child, there's no reason I be in the room,"
"Oh brother dear," Mycroft tilted his head. "We both know that that's not true,"
"Excuse me!" Mary parted the brothers and went for the door knob. "Sherlock, the kettles on. When the whistle goes off, I need you to pour it into one of your pots and bring it back here,"
"Why me?" he asked.
"Don't be a twat," Mary disappeared into the bedroom and shuffled back to the master bath, where Molly stood bent at the waist, holding onto the counter.
"Fucking bloody bastard shite mother fucker son of a whore-"
"Good, let it out there, love," Mary rubbed her back as John turned the tap off. "Right, Molly: I need you to take off your underwear and climb into the bath. You can keep your nightie on if you don't mind it getting all bloody."
Molly obliged, kicking off a pair of cotton knickers and shuffling over to the tub. Mary nodded at John, who moved out of the way and went to the bathroom sink.
Mary kicked off her khakis and sandals and sat on the edge of the tub, looking down at Molly.
"Molly, I need you to listen to me. We don't know how long this labor is going to last but I need you to tell me when you begin to feel your contractions."
"You've done this before?" Molly asked, gritting her teeth.
Mary nodded. "Before I worked with John I was a midwife up North. Delivered hundreds of babies, love. Don't worry," she patted Molly's knee. "Now, I need you to open your legs so I can see how much you've dilated."
Almost on cue, Sherlock came into the room, holding a pot of boiling water. He looked down at the scene, and then back at John.
"Where'd you put the plants that were in the tub?"
"I dunno," John said as he rummaged through the medicine cabinet.
"'I dunno?' John, those plants were vital-"
"Can you stop talking about your bloody experiments for one second and give John the goddamn water?!" Molly spat.
Sherlock turned back to her and rolled his eyes.
"Please, Molly, stop putting on a show. You're not the first woman to have a baby in a war zone-"
"Oh my fucking GOD," Molly barked. "You think I wanted to be delivering a child in a bathtub as your psychopath arch nemesis tries to overthrow the government a wall away from where I'm going to be pushing something the size of a watermelon out of my vagina? It's your fault my cat's dead, your fault I had to move out of my flat, and it's your fault that instead of falling into an epidural haze on 1,000 thread count sheets, I'm going to be pushing OUR CHILD into the world IN AN IKEA BATH TUB. So PLEASE. DON'T. TELL. ME. HOW TO ACT." With that last sentence a contraction rippled through her again, and she slammed her hand down on the side of the tub.
"I like labor Molly," Mary smiled at the boys. "She's feisty."
"She's going to need more towels," John said, pulling one hand towel from the top of the cabinet. "Honestly, how do you dry off?"
"Don't answer that. Go put another kettle on and try to find some towels in Molly's room," Mary pulled her hand out from between Molly's legs. "You're about 6 centimeters."
Molly groaned in response.
Sherlock scoffed and went back through the door. As he turned to go to the kitchen, he wished he had been able to get a word out in the chaos. Whether Molly realized it or not, he did feel bad about everything. And whether or not he could admit it to himself, he could feel the creeping desire to be involved in the child's -
Violet's
-life. Violet. Violet Iris. He mouthed the name to himself as he turned into the kitchen. While h had despised couples who had always assured themselves that their child's name was perfect, he was absolutely convinced that Violet Iris Hooper Holmes was the most phonetically beautiful sound he had ever heard. The way is rolled off the tongue and went through loops like it was a cart on a roller coaster. In the nights when he couldn't sleep, he caught himself imagining what she would look like, with her mother's eyes and his hair. Or maybe with his eyes, his hair. Maybe a spitting image of Molly. He imagined her crawling around 221 B, grasping at things with a genetically imposed curiosity and analyzing them with the look in her eye that her mother got when she was staring into a microscope. He imagined her toddling around, reciting the elements in the periodic table like a nursery school song and telling Gandalf all about the bones in her feet. He would never tell anyone how he had caught himself smiling at these thoughts, or how whenever he felt nervous or anxious he would absent mindedly run his fingers across his wallet. As much as he tried blocking these thoughts out they always came back, like moths to the ultra-Violet Hooper Holmes. He wouldn't tell anyone. He couldn't. But as he filled up the kettle and flicked on the stove, he finally admitted it to himself.
He loved his daughter.
With a small smirk on his face, he turned to face Mycroft and tell him about the bathroom war zone.
Only instead of his panicked brother, trying to understand babysitting duty, Jim Moriarty stood at the end of the counter, holding a bright pink 'IT'S A GIRL' Balloon.
"Am I on time?"
EEP. Well, sorry it took so long, but I'm officially done with finals, and I plan on writing all through break! Sorry to leave with another cliff hanger. I love you guys!