Sherlock healed quickly under the care of Mrs. Hooper, and Molly considered it a success that she only had to prevent them from killing each other twice by the time November withered away and was replaced by barren, snowy December. It didn't take much for her to draw their attention; the nausea and dizziness usually characteristic of the first trimester decided to continue into her fourth month, and they were both more concerned about her well-being than biting the other's head off. Or rather, that's what Molly hoped. There were moments when she wasn't so sure.

Sherlock, feeling the effects of cabin fever once more, had decided to amuse himself by rearranging Colleen's things so that she went into a tizzy trying to locate her glasses or her letter-opener, and occasionally entire pieces of furniture.

"You really mustn't torment her so," Molly told Sherlock with as much sternness as she could muster. She was curled up on the wingback love seat by the fireplace, green-faced and draped in a thin blanket despite the draftiness of the house. Her body couldn't seem to decide if it wanted to be hot or cold. Snow was falling steadily outside the window, blanketing field, tree and driveway alike.

"I haven't the vaguest idea what you're talking about," Sherlock said, although a small smile pulled at his lips. Colleen was currently rooting around the parlor for her sewing table.

"Yes you do, you idiot. You're trying to drive her mad." Molly coughed. She'd spent a mere five minutes outside during a brutal hot flash, and now it appeared she was coming down with a cold. Her immune system was as frazzled as her hair.

"You're sick." Sherlock was there in half a second, his expression instantly wiped clean of amusement. He pressed an ear to her chest and listened to her breathing.

"No I'm not."

"Molly, don't even try. You're congested, and I don't recall the natural color of your nose being the exact shade of a ripe tomato."

"Well aren't you a peach." Molly coughed again. She cursed the mucus that rattled around in her chest.

"This is serious, Molly. If it's anything worse than a cold—"

"It isn't. Just make a cauldron of chicken noodle soup and another one of Earl Grey and I'll be sorted."

Bags under her eyes—they're not as bright of an umber these days—ashen skin, two new silver hairs. Increased appetite, but not gaining a desirable amount of weight. She's still experiencing stress. Labor isn't going to be easy; her hips aren't very wide. Sherlock sighed. It was times like this that he almost loathed the baby, irritated with it for the strain it was putting on Molly. What right had it to do so? Why was it still making her feel ill? Why did she have to have a cold on top of it all?

"We should probably be thinking of names for it," Molly said.

Sherlock was startled out of his reverie. "Names?"

"Yes, names." The word felt strange on Molly's tongue. Everything suddenly felt more real.

"We still have five months to figure that out."

"It's good to be prepared. We have no idea what will happen in those five months."

Sherlock stood up and strode over to the window, staring out listlessly at the snow. He didn't want to give it an identity. He was still cross with it. "You can decide."

"I want you to decide with me."

"John. Mary."

Molly smiled. "I'm sure they would be flattered. Perhaps we can use one as a middle name."

"What do you have in mind?"

"If it's a girl, we could name her after Mum."

"I will NOT have a daughter named after—" Sherlock stopped when he saw the twinkle in her eye. "Hilarious, I assure you."

"I couldn't resist. Alright, let's see...I like the old-fashioned names. Henry, Edmund. Amelia. Eleanor."

"Eleanor is agreeable." Sherlock paused and glanced at the family photo hanging over the fireplace. It featured the Hooper clan about twenty years in the past, when Molly's father was still alive and she couldn't have been more than fourteen. She was wearing braces and looked very uncomfortable in the standard button-up white shirt that the rest of the family was also wearing. "I don't believe you've ever mentioned your father's name."

"Haven't I? It was Grayson. Grayson Hooper."

"Hmm." Sherlock could tell that naming their child was important to Molly. Perhaps if they made this decision now, it would be one less thing weighing her down. "Grayson John Holmes."

Molly's eyes widened. "Seriously?"

"Of course."

"It's perfect. James was going to use it, but then he had three girls. Females tend to run in our family."

"Well males are common in mine, so we have a fair chance."

Molly smiled. "So, Eleanor Mary if it's a girl?"

Sherlock nodded. "Right. Now that that's settled, I'll go put the kettle on."

Molly laid back against the pillow, running the names over in her brain. She was surprised how quickly they'd arrived at a choice, especially taking into account that Sherlock let her pick out the first names. She knew he was most likely just trying to appease her, but suggesting the use of her father's name had been very considerate of him. Her mother would approve of Eleanor; it had been the name of a great grandmother.

"I have half a mind to toss that good-for-nothing husband of yours out on the street!" Colleen fumed, stomping into the room with the devil in her eyes.

"I'm sorry, Mum. He's not…accustomed to being idle."

"Childish, that's what it is. Never taught to stay put. It took me a good twenty minutes of my time to find my own bloody sewing table! And do you know where it was, Molly?"

"I'm afraid to find out."

"On top of the antique armoire in the drawing room! ANTIQUE!"

"Ah, your time is improving! Well done, Colleen," Sherlock said cheerfully, reappearing from the kitchen.

"You think this is some sort of game?"

"If you'd like to call it that. I'm merely enhancing your sense of perception."

"Oh are you? Would you like me to enhance your perception of freezing temperatures?"

"SHERLOCK!"

Both of them immediately stopped fighting. Sherlock rushed over to Molly.

"What's wrong?" He asked.

Molly only smiled. Her hand was pressed to her stomach. "The baby moved. Or at least I think it did. I've never felt anything like it."

Sherlock placed a tentative hand next to hers and waited. He was rewarded by a faint kick. The look that passed between him and Molly was brand-new, charged with a feeling that Sherlock couldn't define. It was like a different kind of communication had opened between them, one that transmitted in the form of emotions instead of words. It nearly sent him reeling. Neither he nor Molly noticed Colleen duck into the hall during the exchange.

"This is really happening," Molly said softly.

"I reckon so." Sherlock noted the light that had reentered her eyes, burning brighter and brighter. It was perplexing to him how the same thing that was hurting her was also helping her. His thoughts were interrupted by a whistling noise in the other room. "The tea. I'll be right back."

Molly watched him go, absentmindedly running her fingers over her stomach. Yes he was irritating, and, in the words of her mother, occasionally psychotic, but she found herself falling deeper in love with him every day. She figured the surplus amount of hormones her body was producing played a part, but there was far more to it than that. There was a possibility that they might not make such a bad set of parents after all.