John Watson could only watch as Sherlock practically flew out of 221B Baker Street and into the standard black Mycroft car that had not driven away after dropping him off before speeding away. He sighed and leaned his head against the glass windowpane after the car had disappeared round the corner. If he was supposed to be angry with Sherlock, he really couldn't bring himself to do that under the circumstances.

This was how Mrs. Hudson found him when she came up to 221B, having heard someone come up there slowly and then immediately leave it quickly – which, in her mind, meant only one person. "John? Was that him, dear?" she asked anxiously. She'd been informed Sherlock was back right after John had been.

John looked up at her and sighed again. "Yep," he said, collapsing into his favorite chair.

"What happened?"

In a sad tone, John told her what had happened, and Mrs. Hudson had to wipe away a tear. "Oh, that poor boy…we knew what he'd be coming back to…but that only makes it harder."

"Yep…I think he's the most surprised of all of us that he is a father."

Mrs. Hudson nodded. "And just finding out he's lost her, and he wasn't even here…can you imagine anything harder for him?"

John shook his head. "I just hope that he did…at least a little bit, even if he never knew it until –"

"Oh, I don't doubt that," said Mrs. Hudson tragically. "Do you really think he would have trusted her like that if he didn't? Or given himself to her if he didn't?"

John thought about it for a moment before finally nodding slowly. "I hope you're right, Mrs. Hudson…I really hope you are…" He looked at Mrs. Hudson in all seriousness as he stood up. "You know what I promised her just before she…and if he can't do that –"

"Have faith in him, John," scolded Mrs. Hudson, approaching him and taking his hands. "I know my boy: he will come back. He may need some time before that happens, but he will. Give him some confidence when he needs it most. How would you feel if this is what you came home to after all that horrible man did to him?"

John pulled the old woman in for a hug of comfort. "You're right, I know you are…I'm glad I'm not alone in this, though you know that already."

"Yes, I do," said Mrs. Hudson, patting his back before pulling away. "Now, I'm going to make some of those biscuits you two are so fond of."

The kind woman bustled off to the kitchen, and John fell back into his armchair. Resting his head on his hands, Mrs. Hudson's words brought back a memory from that terrible day came flooding through his mind…

He'd been at work when he'd gotten the call from Stamford that she'd just been brought in for a gunshot wound just above the heart. John had dropped everything and immediately traveled a few floors to get to her.

He learned the story from the paramedics. She'd walked to her local Tesco to satisfy her craving for ice cream when a man high on cocaine had come in and attempted to rob it at gunpoint. She'd been paying at the counter when he'd come in firing the gun, and she'd been in the worst possible position. The trauma induced her labor two weeks early. In the half hour it took for Lestrade and his troops to arrive, nothing worse happened. Even in his high state, shooting a very pregnant woman had been enough for him to drop the gun and cower under the register.

If she had not been pregnant, it's possible that surgery would have saved her. But the bullet had more than nicked a vital artery, and the damage couldn't be undone. When John arrived at her bedside, surgeons swarming around her, the dying woman made it very clear to him in her look and weak voice: save my baby even if it means I die. So an emergency C-section was held, and the mother was able to at least meet and hold her baby girl…

…An hour and a half later, there were six people in the small hospital room. The doctors had done everything they could for her, but all they could do now was make her as comfortable as possible, for she was going fast. Despite all of the life-saving efforts of John and later the paramedics, she had just lost too much blood thanks to a wound that had been, if not immediately fatal, fatal nonetheless. Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade stood near the bed in silent vigil, and Mycroft stood by the window.

John sat beside Molly on the hospital bed, holding the baby girl that was only an hour old. The new mother no longer had the strength to hold her baby, so John held her instead, making sure to keep them in sight of each other. All the mother could do now was let her baby hold her pale finger with the strength she had passed to her daughter.

All John could do was watch as the mother of his best friend's child fade before his eyes, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. As Sherlock had once pointed out, he had seen a lot of injuries and violent deaths in his time, but that did not mean this was any more devastating.

With the last drop of strength she possessed, she said in a voice so weak only John could hear: "John…" She had finally torn her gaze from her daughter to look at him earnestly.

The doctor leaned in closer to hear her.

"Have faith in…don't give up on…" Her gaze drifted back to her daughter before saying her last word: "…Sherlock…"

One last breath, and then she was gone, her finger slipping from the infant's grasp. The room filled with the horrible tone of the dead heart-rate monitor and the cries of the infant for her mother who would never wake up again. Mrs. Hudson sobbed against Lestrade, who hid his own tears on her shoulder. Mycroft turned to the window in mournful silence.

All John could do was try to soothe the crying baby with a lie as tears streamed down his own cheeks: "It's all right…it's all right…"

…The vibrating of his phone in his trouser pocket brought John out of the terrible memory. He wiped his face of the tears that had fallen before pulling out the mobile. Seeing it was from Lestrade, he answered it with a curt greeting.

"Hey, John. Just wanted to let you know Sherlock's just left."

Confusion flooded John's mind. He looked at his watch, and realized that he'd been lost in terrible memories for nearly half an hour. "Left?" he asked. "What do you mean?"

"He came to the New Yard wanting to see the bastard alone. Since he knows how to hit without leaving a mark – and since I know the British Government will sanction it – I had no problem granting him that."

Feeling relief that Sherlock hadn't left town completely, John replied, "Well, he certainly has the right to…You say he just left? Do you know where he's going?"

"Back to Baker Street. He said he's already seen you…has he seen her yet?"

"No further than the crib. We'll just have to wait and see how that goes."

"Honestly, John, I wouldn't be surprised if he looks away or runs away. Except for that head of hair, she looks so like her mother."

"I know, mate, I know…But let's try and have faith in him. It's what she would have wanted us to do."

"Too right, John…I'll see you guys soon. Let me know how it goes."

"I will. Bye, Greg."

"Bye, John."

John hung up his phone and went to the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson was putting the finished biscuits on a large plate, since tea time was rapidly approaching. She turned to look at him when his footsteps stopped. "He's on his way, I think."

Mrs. Hudson nodded. "Good. The little one should be waking up soon."

John nodded. "You go sit down, I'll put the kettle on."

Mrs. Hudson had only been sitting down in the sitting room for five minutes before the sound of heavy footsteps could be heard on the steps. John paused in pouring the tea and shared an anxious look with Mrs. Hudson, who took a deep breath.

A moment later, Sherlock stepped into 221B like a dead man walking. His knuckles were even more bruised and bloodied than they had been when he left the Diogenes Club. When his eyes fell on Mrs. Hudson, she just breathed, "Oh, my boy…"

Without a word, Sherlock approached his mother figure, knelt at her feet, and laid her head on her lap before sobs he'd been holding in for two hours were torn from his throat. Mrs. Hudson stroked his head and back as she cried with him. John silently came into the sitting room, beholding a Sherlock he'd never imagined he'd ever see. Knowing that words would be useless and empty, John knelt by his friend and silently placed a strong hand on Sherlock's shaking shoulder.

We're here for you, mate. We're not going anywhere.

Ten minutes later, Sherlock entered his bedroom alone. After he'd released all of the sobs that were threatening to tear him apart, John had cleaned and bandaged his knuckles and he'd helped himself to a few of Mrs. Hudson's biscuits. They had gently pointed him to his room, informing him that its occupant would wake up soon. He was glad that they were not following him.

This needed to be between him and her alone.

He walked across the room and stopped at the crib. Finally, he allowed his eyes to look down into the crib and look at his daughter for the first time. She wore a warm, lilac onesie, and a yellow baby blanket was loosely wrapped around her.

If anybody had any doubts that she was his, all they had to do was look at her head. It was covered in wispy dark hair that would curl when it grew out. Looking at her little hands, Sherlock could tell that, when she grew, the fingers would be long just like his. Looking at her little rosebud of a mouth that was partly open in sleep, Sherlock instinctively knew that they would be more similar to his than hers.

The rest of her, however, came straight from her mother: petite, fair skin, rosy cheeks, button nose…and Sherlock knew that, when the baby woke up – which would be any moment, now that she was stirring – he would see her mother's eyes on her cherubic face.

He was right.

The doe-brown eyes fluttered open, and immediately landed on him. Her gaze met his gaze, and Sherlock felt his entire universe shift: like and with her mother, she would be the center of it now.

Father and daughter looked intently at each other, hardly blinking at all. Sherlock tilted his head to get another angle, and his eyes widened as his two-month-old daughter imitated his action. He tilted his head the other way, and so did she. The baby squirmed and lifted her little arms, reaching for him.

Carefully, Sherlock reached down into the crib. One hand slipped under the head, the other splayed under her back and backside, and then he lifted her up carefully. Their gazes never broke. He brought the baby up to his face level; the little arms reached out and the little hands touched his face. She cooed as she patted his cheeks and nose.

Sherlock gave the closest thing to a smile he could give as he spoke in a soft, tender voice: "Hello, Amy Margaret Holmes. I'm your father, and you will not lose me as we lost your mother."

Later, after the sun had gone down, Sherlock and John sat in their sitting room. John sat in his armchair watching Sherlock, sitting across the couch, feeding his daughter with a bottle. A sight I never dreamed I would see…

"She won't let go of my finger," observed Sherlock, both to himself and John.

The doctor chuckled. "She likes you, then. Strong grip she's got, eh?"

"Exceptionally," murmured Sherlock. The bottle now empty, Sherlock set it down on the coffee table.

"You've got to burp her now," said John, tossing John the proper rag. "Toss that on your shoulder, lift her up, and pat her back firmly until she does."

Sherlock obeyed without objection, but spoke again. "Who named her, John?" Sherlock had been told her name by Mrs. Hudson before meeting the baby.

"It was my idea to give Amy her mum's name for her middle one, but the first name had been decided at least three months before…"

Sherlock gave him a look. "Do you know why?"

John shrugged. "She was so certain she was having a girl, always referred to her as a 'she.' When I asked of any thoughts on names, it was always 'Amy' and nothing else."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in thought, still dutifully patting his daughter's back and bouncing her a bit. Under other circumstances, the combination of the look and his actions would have made John laugh out loud. "No family or friends with that name…look it up, John. The origins. She wouldn't have stuck with that name without a very good reason."

John obediently grabbed his laptop from the floor, opened it, and looked up the name on the internet. The baby burped, and Sherlock settled her in the crook of his arm again, content to gaze at her while she played with his fingers curiously. But the sound of John giving a pained gasp caused Sherlock to look at him, and was struck by the pain and sorrow on his face. "What?" he demanded.

"This explains everything…" choked John before clearing his throat. "She told me more than once that she would make sure her daughter would be loved, by her and those closest to her, and that her daughter would never doubt she was…" John looked at Sherlock sadly; neither of them needed to explain why that was so sad to know. John then dropped the other shoe: "The name 'Amy' comes from the French word aimée…which means beloved."

Sherlock's eyes flashed, and he looked back down at his baby daughter, happily cooing in between sucking her father's fingers. Even in the dim lighting, John could have sworn he saw a tear fall from Sherlock's eye.

A few minutes later, when Amy's cooing had quieted, Sherlock observed: "She's falling asleep…Go into my room and get out my violin."

John smiled and got up. "Good idea. She played violin music for Amy in the womb all the time."

They went into Sherlock's room; the father gently placed his daughter back in the crib and tucked the yellow blanket securely around her, while John got out the long-untouched instrument. Amy fussed when she lost contact with her father, but once Sherlock began playing, she quieted immediately.

John leaned against the doorway as he listened to the lullaby Sherlock played. He had no doubt that this was a composition on the spot and from the heart, due to the beautiful but tragic melody. Damn near made him cry, but managed to hold it in. Enough tears had been shed between them today.

The melody ended, and Sherlock silently put his violin away. He turned to John, who beckoned him to follow out of the room. After silently shutting the door, Sherlock followed John to his desk, where the doctor pulled out a flat, rectangular, wrapped object. Sherlock took it and carefully unwrapped the simple paper from it.

When he saw what he was holding, his entire body froze and warmed at the same time, while his heart both twisted and filled. It was a framed photograph, black-and-white, good quality, of a very familiar woman with a seven-month-pregnant belly. Engraved on the frame below the photograph in beautiful cursive was her name:

Molly

"I took it when she wasn't looking," said John softly. "She was humming a lullaby."

Sherlock could practically hear that lovely sound as he looked at the photograph. She was leaning against the window of the Baker Street sitting room; sunlight was pouring in, giving her a glow. Her long hair fell loosely over her shoulders, and she wore a maternity dress he deduced was a dark purple. Her eyes were on her pregnant belly, which her hands were cradling, and a soft smile was on her face.

My Molly…

His throat closed up for a moment, but he had no more tears left to cry that day, so it passed. But when he looked back up at his best friend, he said in all seriousness and gratitude: "Thank you, John."

The doctor merely nodded, and watched Sherlock head back into his bedroom.

After shutting the door, Sherlock placed the photograph on his bedside-table, his finger caressing the photographed face after sitting on the edge of the bed.

Molly Hooper…my Molly...my first and only kiss…my first and only lover…love of my life…Ever since meeting her, nothing about her had left his Mind Palace; no memory, no detail had been erased. That would never change, he resolved then and there. She would not disappear or be forgotten, not now or ever. Most importantly, he would make sure their daughter knew her mother, for she would never know her.

After he didn't know how long, he got up from the bed and walked to the crib. Gazing down at his sleeping daughter, he felt that great wave of fear again at the thought of bringing up this child without Molly, who would have been the best mother any child could have. But he would not be alone; their friends, more like family, would be there to help him. He would be sensible and welcome it, for Amy's sake and Molly's memory.

He would be the best he could be for his girls.

What hurt the most was the reason why Molly had chosen their daughter's name. He would always regret that he had not told Molly how he felt, even if he didn't truly realize it until he lost her.

But had Molly given their daughter this name in despair…or in hope? Did his Molly understand his heart when he couldn't? Did she know that when he returned his heart would be opened to the both of them? Did her faith in him never waver, even after he had left?

It didn't take him long to realize the answer.

Carefully and quietly, Sherlock Holmes leaned down, kissed his baby daughter's brow, and whispered: "I love you, Amy Margaret Holmes…this you will never doubt and always believe."

The End