A bit of Sherlolly Baby fluff, a tiny bit of sadness, and a tiny bit of smut :)
Light pitched babbling drifting into the kitchen alerted Molly to the fact that her daughter had woken from her nap. Ever since she had started to vocalize, Clara woke every morning and from every nap babbling to herself, never crying and always perfectly content until either Sherlock or Molly came to get her. They had converted John's old room to a nursery and Mrs. Hudson had been more than happy to allow renovations so that the only access to the top floor was from 221B. On busy days, though, Molly let Clara take her afternoon naps in their bed. She liked having her daughter nearby when she was doing chores or helping Sherlock with experiment analysis in the kitchen. It took giving him nearly unrestricted access to Bart's, pulling every string she had at the hospital, to get him to taper down the work he did at home, but fortunately his intellect was great enough to understand that infants and biohazards did not mix.
Now nearly three years old, Clara was growing into a curious, bright little person right before their eyes. Molly was still struck by how much she had grown as she stepped into the bedroom to collect her. She had inherited Sherlock's blue eyes and his striking bone structure was visible even underneath the round baby cheeks. Her hair had grown brown and wavy, framing her delicate face with its roseleaf complexion.
Clara was sitting up in the bed, holding her stuffed rabbit in her lap and conversing with it. Her language skills were developing perfectly adequately, but her comprehension was off the charts. Sherlock would frequently quiz her on the names of invertebrates or plant species in a book and she would, without fail, point to the correct picture of the specimen. It was really quite remarkable.
She may have followed in her parents' footsteps when it came to intelligence, but her personality was all her own. She was a complete ham, only encouraged when John Watson visited and found her bubbly antics absolutely hilarious. Particularly when it contrasted with Sherlock's straight laced disposition, providing all kinds of amusement for a family dynamic.
Clara noticed Molly standing in the room and lifted her arms up high, the bunny aloft in one hand, a huge grin on her face.
"Mum!" she cried.
"Hello my darling girl," Molly said, smiling as she leaned over the bed to gather her up in her arms. Clara rested her head on Molly's shoulder and her little fingers gripped at her arms, bunching the sleeves of her blouse. The slight powdery scent of infancy still lingered on her, but was fading fast. It made Molly's heart ache for the briefest of moments. "What do you say to a new nappy and then you can help mum gather the laundry."
Clara responded by patting her arm enthusiastically.
Molly put a fresh pair of pull-ups on her, noting that she'd made it through the nap without soiling the first pair. Fourth time this week, she thought. Definitely time to start potty training. She could only imagine how that conversation would go with Sherlock. He was worse than Molly when it came to refusing to believe their daughter was growing up.
"Daddy?" Clara asked when Molly put her on the ground, trailing after her mother as Molly grabbed the laundry basket and began picking up articles of clothing on her way out of the room.
"He's thinking," Molly answered, holding the basket out as Clara grabbed one of Sherlock's shirts with both hands and dumped it inside the whicker. "On the sofa. Do you remember what that means?"
"Princess castle," Clara said, nodding seriously.
Molly bit back a snort of laughter. There had been many attempts to explain the concept of the mind palace to her, but Clara's little mind must have been firmly influenced by the few times she had seen Cinderella. She could only imagine that Clara envisioned her father bouncing around a shimmery castle like a character in a Disney movie.
They picked up the last of the discarded clothing and Molly set the basket on the floor next to the front door before grabbing a tin of biscuits off the counter and popping the lid off to give one to Clara.
"Thank you for the help, my girl," she said. "You're a very good cleaner upper."
"Upper upper," Clara repeated, taking the biscuit and immediately shoving it into her mouth to gnaw on.
She stuck next to Molly's leg for several minutes while Molly began to sort a basket of freshly cleaned laundry, folding and stacking on the mercifully clean kitchen table. When she had pushed the last of the biscuit in her mouth, Clara turned her clever eyes on the lounge and took a few steps away. Molly looked on quietly as she folded a tiny pair of pants, watching Clara shuffle across the room towards the sofa, her blue eyes glued on her father. She hardly made a sound as she came to stand directly next to the sofa, less than a foot from Sherlock.
It only took a few seconds before one of his eyes cracked open and he looked at Clara, who squealed and raised her fisted hands under her chin as she smiled.
"'Ductions, Daddy!" she giggled.
Molly smiled. It was their favorite game. Clara called it, or tried to call it, 'Deductions.' She would nick something of Sherlock's, usually his phone, and hide it somewhere in the flat, nearly falling on the floor laughing as Sherlock tried to find it. The deduction portion usually came from him narrowing down the location of the item based on how much Clara was giggling. If she had hidden something today, she must have done it long before her nap.
Sherlock's eye closed again and he resettled his steepled hands beneath his chin.
"Metacarpals," he said simply.
This was the other part of the game. He would only begin searching when Clara had answered a question correctly.
The little girl reached out and grabbed one of his hands, triumphantly patting the back of it right below the knuckles and then releasing it. Sherlock's mouth quirked up and he opened his eyes, sitting up to begin his search. Molly watched him scour the room, Clara's giggling getting louder the closer he got to the bookshelf. She was practically shrieking when he knelt down to inspect the bottom shelf, pulling a large volume from between the other books and flipping the cover open. The book was hollowed out and inside was his access pass for Bart's.
Clara jumped happily and ran to throw her arms around her father's neck.
"How on earth did she find this?" he muttered, slipping the pass into his pocket and lifting Clara up into a piggyback.
Molly shrugged.
"She's good at pinpointing what's important to people," she said.
"Mm," he replied, crossing into the kitchen. "What do you think the chances are of training her to hide Mrs. Hudson's disco records?"
"Sherlock, she loves those," Molly said, elbowing him gently in the ribs.
"She plays them enough to be bordering on obsession. Just trying to help her break the habit," he said, earning an eye roll from Molly. He lifted Clara higher on his back and grabbed her changing bag from the counter. "Taking her to the museum today. Say bye to mummy, Clara, she'll be at work cutting up cadavers when we get back."
Molly shot him a look, but leaned forward to plant a kiss on her daughter's cheek.
"Bye mum," Clara said, patting Molly's cheeks with her chubby hands.
"Goodbye, my darling," Molly said sweetly. She turned to face Sherlock and stood on tiptoe to press a kiss on his lips. "Remember our deal. No mummification techniques until she's at least six. I don't want her getting nightmares."
"I read about it when I was five," he argued.
"You also had Mycroft for an older brother. Far more horrifying," she said with a smile.
Sherlock chuckled and leaned down to give her a lingering kiss, only breaking away when Clara started tugging at the collar of his shirt impatiently. Molly watched the two of them disappear out the door before turning to get ready for her shift at Bart's. The day went by uneventfully and she was happy to escape the paperwork piling up on her desk when the shift ended late in the evening. She took the tube home and climbed the stairs at Baker Street, grateful to be home. She looked in on Clara, standing in the doorway for several minutes to watch her resting peacefully in her tiny bed, hugging her bunny tightly to her side. Quietly descending the stairs, she made her way into the main flat and dropped her bag on the floor, shedding clothes until she was down to her shirt and underwear as she walked towards the bedroom in the dim light. Sherlock was waiting up for her, concentrating on the screen of his phone until she slipped into bed beside him.
"Missing inheritance," he said distractedly. "Brother suspects the sister. Sister suspects the brother. How surprised do you think they'll be when they find out it went to the mother's favorite charity because she couldn't stand either of them?"
"Very, I would guess."
"Almost not worth leaving the flat for," he said with a sigh as he put his phone down on the bedside table. "But they insist on meeting at the law office."
Sherlock turned to look at her and his eyes stilled.
"You're sad, Molly," he stated.
She looked up at him, surprised. The day had felt a bit off, but she chalked it up to feeling out of sorts for no particular reason. Natural ebb and flow of hormones and emotions. But the moment he said it, she realized that she was indeed feeling sad. She'd been trying not to let things get to her, living for the moment with her family, and for the most part it was easily done. Their home life and her professional life was wonderful and she loved what she had. But that didn't stop Sherlock from seeing her worries.
"She's getting so big," she said quietly, glancing away from him.
"I know," he started gently. "I've told you before, age differences are nothing to worry about. Mycroft was seven years old by the time I was born, and we hated each other just like every other normal set of siblings."
Molly laughed lightly at his attempt to cheer her up. It lasted only for a few seconds before she bit her lip, turning her face further into the pillow.
"It's been a year," she whispered. She felt the blankets pull as Sherlock shifted, lacing an arm around her waist and resting his forehead against hers. Taking in a shaky breath, she curled against him, feeling the comfort and warmth of his body. "We've been trying for a year."
"Sometimes it takes a while," he murmured.
"I know," Molly sighed. "Everything has just been so easy with Clara. I didn't think this would be what was hard."
"I understand what you want, Molly. I do," Sherlock said firmly, his fingers running soothingly over her back. "But if you and Clara are all that I have in this life…I will be perfectly happy. You know that, don't you?"
Molly lifted her face to look into his eyes, her hand drifting up to lay against his cheek.
"Of course I do. Oh Sherlock, yes, of course I know that."
Taking in the small, contented smile that graced his face, Molly thanked her lucky stars for the hundredth time and leaned forward to press her lips to his. She loved how soft his mouth was, how gently he kissed her until it became clear that he wanted to do more than kiss. His mouth changed from gentle to sensual, deepening the kiss as he rolled his body over hers. She arched instinctively towards him as his hands travelled up her shirt, releasing the buttons and pushing the fabric open. Slipping an arm under her back, Sherlock pulled her upright, sitting back and placing kisses to her neck and chest while she pulled her shirt off and quickly reached for the hooks of her bra.
Her body came alive where he touched her, lungs working twice as hard to catch her breath when he finally had her free of clothing and reverently caressed her with his hands and lips. She sighed happily when he slipped inside of her, making love to her exactly how she needed and wanted – a slow burn, holding tightly to each other, rocking together until her pleasure peaked and radiated to every cell in her body, taking him with her after only a few seconds.
He held Molly close for a few minutes, letting their breath slow down in tandem, before kissing her softly and pulling away, offering her a hand to pull her out of bed and towards the bathroom to clean up. As he sometimes did after they'd made love, Sherlock headed straight for his microscope, his mind unusually focused and free of distracting thoughts. Molly pulled on one of his t-shirts and grabbed a spare blanket from the linen cupboard, settling herself on the sofa with a perfect view of the man she loved working away on some experiment or another. Never in a million years had she anticipated this strange little arrangement to be the epitome of family life, but it worked. It worked in so many ways. And she loved every bit of it.