Molly spent the following morning within reach of the toilet, the lights off because they hurt her eyes. Sherlock stood by and watched her like a hawk, in case she passed out or needed his help. She'd waved him away when he'd tried to get closer.

"It's a perfectly natural reaction for someone in your condition, Molly. And I've experienced far worse than a bit of sick. The smell of a body that has been dead for six weeks is much more intense."

Molly retched again. "Not the best topic," she said hoarsely. Working around cadavers, she'd never had an issue with discussing them before, but the extra hormones in her system had increased her sensitivity.

"Sorry." Sherlock felt out of place standing in the doorway. His impulse was to be closer to Molly—she looked so small and helpless in the state she was in—but his brain stopped him from going against her wishes. "Do you think—well, obviously not now—but might you want tea later?"

Molly nodded and made a small sound that Sherlock translated as a 'yes'. Relieved to have something to do, he headed for the kitchen and put the kettle on.

Molly shuffled into the kitchen twenty minutes later, her hair sticking up and dark circles under her eyes. Sherlock put a plate loaded with eggs, sausage, and toast down at the other end of the table. There was already a cup of tea waiting there, still steaming. Molly smiled.

"I thought I smelled something delicious." She quickly dropped into the chair and grabbed her fork, shoveling the food into her mouth. Sherlock drank his tea and said nothing until she was finished eating.

"Are you well enough to go down to the beach?" He asked.

Molly brightened. "I'd love that." She still felt a little off-balance, but that had been a common symptom lately. The cool air would help.

Although it was overcast, the weather was mild, and the breeze coming off the English Channel was gentle. Molly loosened her knit scarf and scuffed her boots in the white sand, wishing it was warm enough that she could dig her bare toes into it. Sherlock didn't care too much for it, but he could tell that Molly was enjoying herself, so he didn't complain.

"This is only my second visit to a beach. There was never enough money when I was growing up to take a holiday to the shore, so I just waited and went by myself after university," Molly said. Her brown eyes were mesmerized by the rolling gray waves and the seagulls as they dipped over them in search of fish.

"You probably would have preferred a clearer sky," Sherlock said, glancing up at the clouds.

"I don't care. The important thing is that I'm not alone this time."

Sherlock slid his arms around her waist from behind and kissed her neck. "I'm not sure if I'm the best substitute for singleness. I've caused you a good deal of trouble lately." Regret echoed in his voice.

"That's true." Molly closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of his aftershave. "But I'd take trouble with you over a dull life on my own any day."

Three weeks into their stay at the seaside cottage, Sherlock began to grow restless. He'd had to shut off his phone service so no one could track the device, which left him with the cottage's dinosaur of a computer as his only link to the outside world. Spending time with and taking care of Molly distracted him somewhat, but without any cases to solve or information to memorize, he felt like a good chunk of him was missing. And still no news arrived from Mycroft about Victor's recapture, only the monthly package of pound notes that paid for their food and whatever else they needed.

Molly sensed it right away, even though it was apparent enough from how he paced through the house like a caged animal. She instantly felt guilty; if Sherlock hadn't been determined to keep her in a safe place because of the baby, he could be off in far-away countries solving crimes to his heart's content. Dover had nothing to offer him. And it hardly helped that her first trimester was turning out to be a rocky one, giving rise to emotions and irritations she'd rarely experienced before.

"Would you quit that racket?" Molly asked, glaring at Sherlock. He was drumming on the computer table, waiting for a web page to load.

"Might you prefer me return to target practice?" Sherlock said. He looked pointedly at the pistol lying on the table.

"No! Your relative is going to wonder why the biggest tree on his property is riddled with bullet holes. Besides, it's noisier." Molly grabbed a piece of newspaper and folded it into fan. It was November and cold as ever outside, but she was burning up.

"It's half-rotted anyway. If it falls, I'll be doing him a favor."

Molly rolled her eyes. It seemed like everything got on her nerves these days, especially repetitive sounds, which Sherlock seemed particularly skilled at making. She rested her hand on the slight curve of her belly and sighed. She'd have to start looking for maternity clothes soon. "You're going to attract attention."

"Even if someone in that bloody town could hear the gunshots, their simple minds would probably chalk it up to a hunter shooting his game."

"Why do you have to be so waspish all the time?"

"Why do you have to be so temperamental?"

Tears welled up in Molly's eyes. Her anger melted, and she began sobbing uncontrollably.

Sherlock's mood disappeared as well. He abandoned the computer and sat next to her on the sofa, pulling her against his chest. Tears soaked the front of his shirt. "I didn't mean that, Molly."

Molly's sobs were reverberating through her body. "No, you're right. You've been shut up with me in this cottage for almost a month, and that's against your nature, being in one place for so long. It's all my fault."

"That is completely false. None of this is your fault. If it's anyone's, it's mine. I asked you to marry me, and I practically forced you down onto the bed that one night in the hotel room."

Molly sniffled. "Well I wouldn't say you had much resistance," she said with a small smile.

"All the same." Sherlock smoothed down her hair. "Something else is bothering you, isn't it?"

"Maybe. Alright, perhaps two things."

"And those are?"

"Mary should be giving birth any day now, but we're not there. And also, I don't even know if we're having a boy or a girl."

Even though there wasn't anything he could do about missing the arrival of Eliza Watson, he did feel a sense of responsibility regarding their own child. A visit to the doctor would result in medical records surfacing, which Victor might be able to track down. The last thing he wanted was the criminal knowing they were even more vulnerable now than before. But that also meant they couldn't check to see if the baby was healthy, or determine its gender. What worried him the most was Molly's health; her heartbeat was fairly regular, and he'd restructured her diet to give her changing body what it required, but there were plenty of other things that could go wrong.

"I promise we'll find out as soon as Mycroft gives the all-clear."

Molly drew away from Sherlock and folded her legs up against her chest. "If that ever happens." She looked out the window. In truth, she was just as antsy as he was. She had grown accustomed to running with him, solving complicated cases and jailing dangerous criminals, but life had been monotonous since their flight from Baker Street three weeks previous.

Sherlock felt like the space between them on the couch might as well have been a wide, impassable canyon. He stood up. "I'll be outside if you need me," he said, fumbling in his pocket for a cigarette.

Molly noticed this but remained silent. She only retreated further into herself, wondering when she had stopped being enough for him.