o.o.o
It's late in the afternoon of Christmas Eve when John calls. Sherlock is at Baker Street with Molly; as has become their habit, they went there after finishing their latest case to sip tea and discuss the solved mystery (only a 5, so he probably didn't actually need Molly there, but he hadn't seen her in over a week and he'd found himself calling her in to help before he'd quite realized what he was doing).
They've long since left discussion of the case behind, though, and Molly is listing all the reasons she wants to visit Paris and Sherlock is listing all the reasons she'd hate Paris when the ringing of a cell phone interrupts them.
"It's time," John says without preamble when Sherlock answers. "I'm taking Mary to the hospital now. Just wanted to let you know. I'll call when—"
"I'll be there in thirty minutes," Sherlock interrupts. "How far apart are the contractions? Do you have her overnight bag?"
Molly looks up, excited. "Is that John? Is the baby coming?"
Instead of answering, Sherlock pulls the phone from his ear and puts it on speaker so Molly can hear the conversation. "Hi, John!" she chirps.
"Hello, Molly," John says. "And yes, Sherlock, I have the bag. But you don't need to come to the hospital yet; it could be hours before anything happens. I'll call you once she's born."
"Nonsense, I'm going to come be supportive. Aren't you always tell me to be more supportive?"
"You remember that you're not allowed in during the actual delivery, right?" John asks. "Even if the hospital allowed it, we wouldn't. Mary doesn't really fancy having an audience."
Sherlock is silent a moment, put out—he'd hoped John and Mary had forgotten telling them that—but even so . . . "I'll be there in thirty minutes," he repeats. "To wait outside, if you so insist."
John simply chuckles, as though he never expected to win this argument. "Have it your way," he says, and hangs up.
Sherlock is across the room and hurrying into his coat in moments; Molly is slower to reach the coat rack, as she's been putting their tea things back in the kitchen. "Hurry up," he tells her firmly.
She just smiles and shakes her head as she reaches the front door. "I can show myself out if you want to leave now." She slings her scarf around her neck and then points at him. "And if the baby's born before midnight or after seven, call me, but if she's born in the middle of the night, text."
His hands grow still on the buttons of his coat. "You're not coming?"
She looks surprised. "No. You heard John; it could be hours before the baby's born, and even when she is born we won't be able to see her right off." She shrugs into her coat. "Besides, I promised a friend I'd be at his Christmas party tonight."
He stares at her a long moment, long enough for her to start to look uncomfortable, before he pulls himself away from the surprising realization that he'll miss her if she doesn't come. "I'll call," he says, not meeting her eyes. "Or text." And then he hurries down the stairs.
"Don't forget to tell Mrs. Hudson!" Molly calls after him, but he's already to the front door at that point so he simply leaves, calling "Too late!" up the stairs toward her. Molly will tell Mrs. Hudson, he knows. She's thoughtful like that.
He allows himself five minutes of the cab ride, and five minutes only, to think about how why it bothers him that Molly didn't come with him—it's odd, really; he hadn't realized he expected her to be there until he knew that she wouldn't be. At the end of the five minutes, he has come up with two reasons he feels good about: first, he thought she'd be there to keep him company while waiting, the way she sat with him after Mrs. Hudson's accident, and he thinks it could be very boring without her. (That's a startling revelation; until recently, there were exactly two people in the world about whom he could honestly say that their company was actually preferable to being alone. Now, apparently, there are three.) Second, he's startled by her statement that she's going to a friend's Christmas party—a male friend, to be precise. He wasn't aware that she had any male friends besides him and John and Lestrade, and he wonders why she hasn't said much about this man and maybe he's a recent acquaintance or maybe he's one of the men she's been on dates with recently and he's not sure why that idea bothers him so much until he remembers that this is Molly he's thinking about. Molly has been targeted before by men (by one man, anyway) who took advantage of her trusting nature and her proximity to the great Sherlock Holmes. So really, it's self-preservation when he thinks he wants to hunt this male friend down and ask him exactly what he wants with Molly Hooper.
He's not so sure it's self-preservation, though, when he finds himself wondering if she'll dress up for this man like she dressed up for Sherlock many Christmases ago. In fact, if he's honest with himself, he knows self-preservation is merely a flimsy excuse.
When the five minutes are up, it's harder than he expected to shove all these thoughts back into their tidy little room in his mind palace.
o.o.o
At eight in the morning on Christmas day, Sherlock calls Molly to inform her of the birth of Elizabeth Ann Watson. Molly is clearly still in bed; she answers with a sleepy "Hello?" that almost completely derails Sherlock from his errand because now he's imagining her with sleepy eyes and tousled hair in the quiet sanctuary of her room and it's doing funny things to his chest. But he presses on and gives her the news and says the Watsons are sorry they can't hold to their original Christmas plans but would she like to come see the baby around noon?
Molly says she'd love to, sounding much more awake now, and asks him how he enjoyed waiting all night (he knows she knows he didn't sleep at all). He answers simply, "It was long." He doesn't tell her the truth, which is that he re-read two entire books on childbirth that he has on his phone, not because he doesn't remember the contents but because re-reading them was strangely calming. He doesn't tell her that he thinks he was more anxious than Mary and John combined, because he may not see the allure of having a baby but this is the most important thing in the world to the two most important people in his life and for their sake he is going to take this seriously—and sometimes when he takes things seriously he goes a little overboard. He doesn't tell her that he wishes she'd been there with him because he prefers her company to just about everyone else he knows and she would have kept him even calmer than reading those books managed to do. In fact he barely even tells himself that last one.
Molly just laughs. "See you soon, Sherlock." She pauses. "And merry Christmas."
Yes, that's right, it's Christmas. He'd forgotten. "Merry Christmas to you, Molly Hooper." And as he hangs up, he finds himself smiling.
He calls Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade then—John asked him to do all the announcing, and Sherlock knew perfectly well his friend was just trying to distract him from wreaking havoc at the hospital but he agreed to it anyway—and then, suddenly surprisingly hungry, walks out of the hospital to find breakfast. There's not much in the area, but he finally finds a small coffee shop with fruit and pastries, and then he walks the streets for nearly two hours. He's not allowed in until noon either; there are tests to do and the doctors insist on at least an hour of skin-to-skin bonding between the baby and Mary—it sounds uncomfortable to Sherlock but he's read the studies on the health benefits and he admits that they are fairly compelling—and the Watsons want time alone as a new family. Sherlock understands the reasoning there and he tries not to let it make him feel like such an outsider. He just keeps walking.
Finally, after even more waiting at the hospital, John comes to the door and motions him in. It's only eleven-thirty, and he looks at John quizzically as they walk to Mary's room. It's Mary, looking exhausted but blissful, who responds to that quizzical look. "We thought you'd want some time to bond with your new niece before everyone else arrives," she says. Sherlock raises his eyebrows and she smiles. "Is it all right if we tell her to call you Uncle Sherlock? She won't have any uncles otherwise."
"And only one very ill-tempered aunt," John adds.
Sherlock blinks twice, struggling to find words; he hasn't felt this way since John said he was his best friend. But he doesn't have time to write a best man speech expressing how moved and overwhelmed he is by the Watsons' love for him, so instead he says, "If you're looking for people to act as relatives, I'm sure my parents would be happy to oblige. They're still not over the idea that Mycroft and I will never give them grandchildren."
John rolls his eyes and Sherlock smiles, and then they're hugging—a rare occurrence for them, and what's even more unusual is that looking back, Sherlock thinks he might have been the one who initiated it.
When they break apart, Mary's eyes are shining. "My boys," she says fondly.
"Mary," John laughs, like a good-natured scold.
"Hey," says Mary firmly, wiping a tear from her cheek, "I just gave birth to your baby and I'm feeling a little delicate and I think I'm allowed to cry a little. Now Sherlock, come hold your niece."
She holds the pink-wrapped bundle out to him, and he quickly seats himself in the chair next to the bed and takes the baby from her with confident hands (he's extensively researched how best to hold a baby). Elizabeth Ann Watson is a red-faced, wrinkly-skinned little gremlin, as he finds most babies to be, but he's only looked at her scrunched-up face and her impossibly tiny fingernails for a few moments before he knows that this is yet another person in his life that he would die for.
"What do you think?" Mary asks, eyes on his face.
"She . . . seems a very excellent baby," he says finally, and John and Mary both burst into laughter.
He's not sure how long he's sat there staring at her sleeping face, minutes or hours, before the door opens. He doesn't have to turn around to know it's Molly; he recognizes the sound her shoes make on the floor. Part of him wants to keep the baby for himself, to hold on to the surprisingly reassuring warm weight of her tiny body for a while longer. But a bigger part of him thinks that holding this little girl is the nicest thing he's done in a long time, and he wants Molly to have that experience as well. So as soon as she's taken her coat off and hugged Mary hello, Sherlock stands from his chair.
"Come here," he says, and Molly obligingly walks over to him so he can place the bundle of blankets in her arms. But he's not ready to give Elizabeth up just yet, so instead of moving away he stands close to Molly, one hand behind the baby's head and one hand on the small of Molly's back. Molly smiles adoringly down at the baby, and he looks adoringly down as well, and on some level it occurs to him that this is one of those rare moments where he's truly, unabashedly happy—but on another level he doesn't want to overthink it, he just wants to enjoy it.
And it isn't until he looks up and sees Mary giving him one of those smiles she does sometimes, like she's having a joyful secret thought that involves him (and Molly, perhaps; she's usually also present when these smiles are given), that he realizes how domestic a scene this must look: a man, a woman, a child. Blood rushes to his face and he moves away from Molly and the baby.
Molly doesn't notice. "She's perfect, Mary. She's so beautiful."
"I'm quite pleased with her," Mary says as Molly carefully moves to the chair Sherlock vacated and sits down. "You're very good with her, by the way."
"I used to babysit a lot when I was young," Molly smiles.
"That explains it," says Mary, then reaches out to brush her fingers against Elizabeth's sleeping face. "I think you're going to like Auntie Molly, aren't you sweetie?"
And Sherlock has never seen Molly look so surprised and so pleased.
So they're to be Auntie Molly and Uncle Sherlock, apparently. He doesn't mind. In fact he immediately begins planning the field trips he and Molly will take Elizabeth on when she grows up a little—the natural history museum, perhaps, which he loved as a child, and maybe the morgue when she's older. But now he's imagining him and Molly helping to care for this child, together, and it's making his chest do those twists again, and he shakes his head to try to get rid of the idea.
(He's not stupid; he knows perfectly well what these feelings might be. But he can't let them be that.)
Mrs. Hudson arrives then and distracts him from his thoughts by making a ridiculous fuss over the baby. Sherlock, watching her hold the little girl, thinks that it's a pity that she never had children of her own, and though he has been making progress in this area in the last few months, reminds himself not to get so annoyed when she fusses over him. He and John are the closest to children she's ever had. He's her family just like she is his, just like Mary and John and this baby are family.
Just like Molly is family, he thinks to himself.
Well, the kind of family you kiss under the mistletoe, anyway.
Maybe the family thing is a bad analogy.
o.o.o
Mary and Elizabeth both want a nap, so Sherlock and Molly and Mrs. Hudson venture out into the cold and find a mediocre Chinese restaurant where they eat soggy sweet and sour while Mrs. Hudson and Molly swap tales of their favorite Christmas memories. After a long meal, they return to the hospital, where Mrs. Hudson lifts the tote bag she's been carrying. "I know you've all been busy, so I don't want you to feel bad if you don't have anything, but I have your Christmas presents here."
Molly smiles and lifts her bag. "Me too."
The Watsons and Sherlock have nothing to give them in return, but the two women don't mind. They pass out their gifts while Sherlock watches and observes that this year, all of Molly's packages are wrapped with equal care. Her gift to him is marked "For Sherlock, love Molly x" and he tries to tell himself he's not strangely disappointed that it's one kiss, not three. It's a box of his favorite imported tea—very good, very expensive—and she smiles when he looks up at her. "To make up for all your tea that I've drunk."
They all stay in Mary's hospital room another hour, swapping jokes and holding the baby, until Mary shifts uncomfortably and Sherlock sees Molly and Mrs. Hudson look at each other. "We should probably go," Molly says.
Mary makes as though to protest, but Mrs. Hudson pats her hand. "You need your rest, dear."
Sherlock, standing by the window with the baby in his arms, is torn as the two women begin gathering up their things. He assumes that if Mary needs to rest, he should probably go too, but he did imply that he'd be at the hospital as long as the Watsons need him. But then part of him thinks he'd like to walk Molly down to the cab, and maybe ask if she'd like to come back to Baker Street for a while—it's still Christmas, after all, and it's only late afternoon—but another part of him is pointing out that if he leaves now, it will make the most sense to share a cab with Mrs. Hudson which would mean the chances of spending any time alone with Molly are slim, and a third part of him is baffled as to why he's even considering this.
But Mrs. Hudson makes up his mind for him in the end. "Goodbye, Sherlock," she says. "See you back at Baker Street later?" She leans over the sleeping baby in his arms and kisses her on the forehead.
Molly hugs Mary, then John. "It's been a lovely Christmas," she tells them sincerely. Then she moves to where Sherlock stands and leans down to press her lips to Elizabeth's cheek. "It was wonderful to finally meet you, Lizzie," she tells the baby softly, then looks up at Sherlock. "Merry Christmas, Sherlock." Her face is shining with happiness and contentment, and before he realizes what she's doing, she has stood up on her toes, grabbed his arm for stability, and leaned in to kiss him on the cheek as well.
He's kissed her before, several times, but it's the first time she's ever kissed him, and he can't find his voice until she's halfway out the door. "Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper."
It's not until he notices John and Mary exchanging looks that he realizes he's standing stock-still and slightly dumbfounded. He shakes his head, as though he can shake his mood off, but Mary isn't buying it. "John," she says, her eyes fixed on Sherlock, "could you give Sherlock and me a moment alone?"
John only grins. "Of course, love." And with a kiss to his wife and a wry grin to his best friend, he's out the door.
Mary is very good at communicating what she wants with a look, and a few moments later, Sherlock is settled in the chair next to her bed and Elizabeth is back in her mother's arms. "I think you know what I'm going to ask you," she says.
He is stoic. "I can guess."
"What is going on with you and Molly?"
"Nothing," he says, because it's true.
Mary gives him a rather cutting don't-try-to-lie-to-me look. "You spend more time with her than anyone else, she's at your flat enough to feel like she's drunk all your tea, and you looked like a teenager on your first date when she kissed you."
Oh no, did he? "I assure you that there is nothing going on with Molly and me other than her helping me at crime scenes."
"But you'd like there to be more," Mary says with certainty.
"Don't be absurd."
She narrows her eyes at him and gestures vaguely with the baby in her arms. "I just went through twelve hours of labor to bring your sort-of niece into this world. I hurt in places I didn't know could hurt. The least you can do is not lie to me."
"You already used that excuse on John earlier."
"It's a good one," she says. "I intend on milking it for a long time. And I think I've earned it. Do you where I have stitches right now, Sherlock?"
"Yes, I do know, and I wish I didn't."
"Just tell me the truth, once, and I promise I won't bother you about it again." Her eyes are fixed fervently on him, eyes he loves in a face he loves, and he ponders to himself that it makes sense for Elizabeth to call him her uncle because her mother is the closest thing to a sister he's ever had. And he could resist those eyes if he wanted to, but strangely he doesn't want to. Strangely he feels that talking through his feelings would be a relief. He's always been able to think best when he can talk through what's happening in his head; that's why so much of what goes on in his mind palace is conversations with people who aren't really there. Maybe to talk to Mary would help him calm the slow simmer of emotion that's been a backdrop to everything he's done for the past few weeks.
He casts his mind over the last year, considering all of his interactions with Molly and all of the things he's thought and felt, until he comes to a (surprising) conclusion. Then, picking his words very carefully, he speaks. "If it was ever going to be anyone," he says slowly, "it would be Molly Hooper."
Mary didn't expect him to acquiesce, he can tell, and her eyes are starry. "Sherlock," she says excitedly, but then she frowns a little. "Why can't it ever be anyone?"
He raises his eyebrows at her.
"No, it's not obvious," she says. "Now talk."
"My life is dangerous," he says. "To allow anyone that close to me would make them a target."
But Mary dismisses that idea with a scoff. "It's only truly dangerous once in a blue moon," she says. Sherlock opens his mouth to respond and she cuts him off. "John was your assistant for years and he's fine." She pauses, then cuts him off again. "Besides, Molly's already been seen hanging around with you at crime scenes; there's not much more you can do to make her a target. And if you were dating her, it'd be easier to keep her safe because you could be around her more."
That's true, in a way. But he's not out of reasons. "And I'm not really the dating type; I'm sure you've noticed that receiving and giving affection is not exactly my strong suit. I'm much better off alone."
"Rubbish," says Mary. "As much as you've tried to convince yourself otherwise, Sherlock, you are a very social creature."
He is indignant. "I am not—"
"Why do you think you're always dragging John and Molly around on cases? You know perfectly well you don't need them half the time. But you like having someone around. Even when you disappear into your head for hours at a time, you like knowing that someone will be there when you come back. You convinced yourself you don't need people when you were a bullied little kid, and I get that, I really do. But the truth is that deep down you crave companionship."
He stares at her, unmoving.
"Tell me I'm wrong, Sherlock. Look me in the eye and tell me none of that was true."
He would if he could but he can't; as surprising and unexpected as that revelation is, some part of him knows that it's entirely true. So he changes the subject instead. "Molly isn't even interested in me anymore. She has shown no signs of romantic attachment to me since she ended her engagement, and she's been dating other men."
Mary just rolls her eyes. "She's been on six dates since the spring and she hasn't liked any of them enough to go on a second date."
"Oh," he says, surprised and—he has to admit it—pleased, and some of that must have leaked into his voice because Mary gives him a knowing grin.
"She may have stopped pining for you, but I know she cares for you deeply. And I bet that if you took her out on a few dates, you could remind her why she used to be in love with you." She shrugs. "You could at least ask. What's the worst that could happen?"
"Potential humiliation for me, emotional distress for both of us, and the destruction of our friendship," Sherlock rattles off immediately. "Those appear to be the main harms that could befall us if I confessed to Molly how I feel." And then he freezes, forcing himself not to visibly react, shocked to find himself stating that he feels something for Molly.
Mary, kindly, doesn't hassle him for the admission he just made. She just points out, gently, "But on the other hand, think of the potential benefits: there's someone around when you need someone there, you get to spend more time with one of the few people who you actually like spending time with, and you get to snog the pretty girl you fancy."
He'd like to retort that he's Sherlock Holmes, he doesn't care about snogging, but before he can, the memory of kissing her under the mistletoe pops into his head and some sneaky little voice in the back of his mind is wondering what it would have been like if she'd started kissing him back. Wonderful, probably, given how much he enjoyed the kiss he did get.
The thought robs him of any response he might have made to Mary, and after several long moments of silence, Mary speaks again. "You're a grown man; you can make your own choices. So if you're telling me that you would genuinely be happier to carry on living alone, and you genuinely won't mind at all when Molly meets someone who will love her like she deserves and you lose her—because that will happen, Sherlock—" she fixes him with a firm look— "then you go right on pretending that you're not completely smitten with that girl."
He wants to object but he absolutely cannot find the words.
"But if you are ready to admit that you are much happier when she's around and you would be deeply hurt if she found someone new and you would really like to snog her face off, then maybe you should consider telling her."
He can only stare at Mary, who is giving him her patented "Stop being dense or I may have to smack you" smile. But after a stretch of silence, in which she waits patiently and Sherlock cannot decide what to say, her expression softens. "Would you like to hold Lizzie again?"
Sherlock nods slowly and eagerly accepts the baby, as holding her gives him something to look at besides Mary's penetrating gaze. After a long few moments, he speaks softly. "I will . . . consider what you've said, Mary."
"Good," she smiles.
"And now, as per your promise, you will not bring the subject up again."
"Of course I will," she scoffs. "The great Sherlock Holmes actually fancies a girl, and it happens to be the nicest girl on the planet and a close friend of mine? Why on earth wouldn't I bring that up again?"
He scowls at her. "Mary Watson, you promised."
She points at Elizabeth, sleeping peacefully in his arms. "Twelve hours of labor, Sherlock. Twelve."
o.o.o