I decided to write a few more vignettes to this because I've been in a sappy mood, so why not?
London had been suffering from an August warm spell and days of clouds without the reprieve of rain on the day Molly gave birth. For two full days she had been pacing – well, shuffling – restlessly around Baker Street, in more discomfort than she had been for the previous two months. No pain yet, but plenty of pressure, her muscles aching dully and her baby daughter rarely stilling at the feel of Molly's hands running over her belly as she always had before. The only thing that seemed to help were the dulcet tones from Sherlock's violin. It eased the baby and Molly as well. Sherlock had done everything his extensive brain could think of to make her comfortable – constantly adjusting the thermostat to her body's changing needs, hot water bottles, calming teas, baths, massages – until she begged him to stop, the stimulation only frustrating her when none of it worked.
But the violin…oh the violin, it worked wonders finally and Molly eased back into the couch, her legs angled out and her hands rubbing random patterns on the skin under her shirt. Her eyelids had drifted down, but she could still focus on Sherlock in his chair, his eyes locked on her while he played. In minutes, her eyes had closed and she was breathing steadily, feeling sleep close in on her.
She was just drifting off when she felt the first jolt of pain shoot through her pelvis and across her back, her muscles starting to cramp. Her eyes opened wide.
"Sherlock," she said slowly. "I do believe it might be time."
Some six hours later, her body feeling every last bit of the natural birth she had chosen, her doctor lifted up the tiny, squalling form of her daughter. Molly let out a desperately happy cry, tears spilling from her eyes as one hand held tightly to Sherlock's, the other reaching out to gather her child to her breast, the first contact overwhelming her system.
With the standard health checks done, mother and child cleaned up and cared for, the staff left the room and a stunned silence descended on the room. Sherlock sat next to Molly on the hospital bed, his legs pulled up awkwardly in the small space and his hands and arms cradling the precious life that had just been handed over to him. Molly lay tucked into his side, her cheek resting against his arm and staring down into the round, pink face of their sleeping baby. Sherlock had not taken his eyes off of her since she made her loud, healthy debut, looking shocked that the swell inside Molly had indeed turned out to be a real baby.
Molly had to hold back more tears as she watched Sherlock visibly fall in love with their child faster than he'd ever learned to care about anything in his life.
"I didn't know I wanted this," he murmured suddenly.
She smiled, knowing exactly how he felt. Her professional and personal life had rarely been stable, safety-wise, and no matter how many candles showed up on her birthday cake she never quite felt like a grown-up. Not really. Children were not always part of her five year plan.
She slid a hand carefully over the dusting of dark hair on her daughter's head, knowing that her heart had been lost forever to this little life and she wouldn't change a thing about that.
"I'm scared to take my eyes off her," Molly whispered. "Afraid she'll stop breathing if I look away."
For the first time in nearly twenty minutes, Sherlock turned his head and properly looked at her.
"She'll be safe, Molly. I promise you that," he said, leaning down to place a kiss on her forehead, speaking to all her fears. "She will always be safe."
Ever so carefully, he transferred the little bundle in a polka dot blanket to her arms, sliding his own around Molly and settling them further into the bed pillows. She hummed contentedly and smiled, completely basking in the emotions of holding her daughter and being held by Sherlock.
"You hear that, Clara Lynn?" she asked, snuggling her closer. "Always safe. Always."
The light dimmed in the room as the muted, cloud covered sun set on the day. In the first moments of twilight, the sound of raindrops pattering against the window started a stunted rhythm, turning to a steady drum in minutes.