Hello! Thank you all for your reviews - I took a risk with the feely-ness of that last chapter, but I'm glad it was well-received. Thank you for your comments and suggestions! :) Sherlock still has a lot to learn, however, so after the adrenaline and endorphins it's back to basics with him in this chapter.

I do not own Sherlock. Title for this chapter inspired by one of my favorite country singers, Josh Turner. He's got a fantastic voice, and I love this song.

There are also a few nods to Doyle's Sherlock in this chapter. Props to you if you get them. :D

Also...the name of Baby Watson gave me a great deal of grief. If you have any better ideas for her name, by all means, give me some suggestions. I feel like they certainly would not name their daughter 'Sherlock' - they are John and Mary, very traditional names, after all, even if they're not very traditional people - but...they would, perhaps give a nod in the general direction of his name. Let me know your thoughts on that.

Enjoy!

Chapter 20, In Which Time is Love

Sherlock was about to make his escape – slide between the unfaithful doctor with a Diet Coke addiction and the sniveling child with a head cold who spent far too many hours watching the telly, then duck behind the well-timed wheelchair-bound postal worker before making a mad dash to the revolving doors – when he was interrupted, once again, by the loud, nagging voice of Mrs. Martha Hudson. Should have known she'd come out after him.

"Sherlock! Where are you going? I'll show you where the baby is. Such a sweet -! Sherlock? Sherlock! Well!"

Bullocks. The well-timed wheelchair had passed. He gritted his teeth and stiffened as the older woman gripped his shirtsleeve. He'd been planning on escaping the hospital shortly after leaving Molly Hooper's examining room.

While the sensations he'd experienced in the short time he was with her had been stimulating, enjoyable, and curious, he really had experienced all of the sentiment he could handle for one day. Perhaps for the rest of the week, as well. He also had his brother to converse with (as much as he hated the thought, he did need to know what had happened with Janine, and his brother would give him a much cleaner, more fact-oriented story than John), a mind palace to organize, and plans to make regarding the investigation of the criminal network Moriarty and Janine had recently begun. If he had any luck at all (not that he believed in luck), the web would still be in its infancy and would take no more than a few solid arrests to break down. While his mind appreciated the challenge, his recently developed and strengthened connections with his…friends required that this web be brought down quickly and cleanly, for all of their sakes.

And then – Mrs. Hudson.

"Sherlock! Are you listening?" Mrs. Hudson tsked impatiently. She made a disapproving sound from the back of her throat when Sherlock moved to pull away from her. "Oh no – you! You don't. Years, I've waited for this – a new baby!– and you'll not spoil it by -"

"Mrs. Hudson, you have not been waiting years for this. Mary's only been pregnant for nine months – a little less than that, actually. Eight months and twenty-six days, to be precise." When Sherlock glared down at her and realized that for once it was having little to no effect on his landlord-not-a-housekeep (she was already fiercely protective of that child, and determined that he should love it, too), he changed tactics. "I am fatigued, and require food and sleep. Perhaps you could convey to the Watsons-"

Mrs. Hudson tsked again. "I'll do no such thing, Sherlock Holmes! And you've gone days without eating or sleeping before – one little visit will not cause you to drop dead – then you can go home and sleep and eat. I want to see my boys with my little girl!"

And she beamed at him, but her grip did not lessen. Her eyes were bright and dared him to defy her in this. Sherlock briefly considered feigning to accompany her and then making a mad dash through the many hospital corridors he knew like the back of his hand until he'd lost her.

Almost as if she'd read his mind, she tightened her already firm grip on his arm, then slid her right arm together with his left until they were linked at the elbows. She still held firmly to his left arm with her own left hand. "There now," she said cheerfully, patting his arm affectionately and then gripping it firmly once again. "Ten minutes, Sherlock. That's all I ask. Ten minutes, and then you can go home to Baker Street and start dodging about in your brain attic again."

"Mind palace," he snapped. "Mind palace. And five minutes, beginning now."

Mrs. Hudson's smile fell as she realized he was serious.

"Four minutes and fifty-seven seconds…" he intoned calmly.

She fairly dragged him through the hallways until they reached John and Mary's room. They made it in less than thirty seconds, which was impressive, even by Sherlock's standards.

John and Mary looked up from their baby as Mrs. Hudson dragged Sherlock into the room by the elbow, then detached herself from him and stood near the door, beaming at the room. "Well now, Sherlock. Have a look," she encouraged.

Sherlock took in John's face, softened with emotion and weary with the exhaustion of the past two days, and Mary's own face, radiant and tired, and then moved just a step forward to see the tiny bundle in Mary's arms.

Mary noticed, and turned the child so that her scrunched pink face was visible to the consulting detective. She'd already been cleaned, weighed, charted by the hospital staff, and Sherlock could see immediately that she would have Mary's eyes and John's lips. John's lips – that was unfortunate.

She let out a healthy cry at being exposed for so long, and Mary pulled her back to her bosom, shushing her softly and smiling prettily at her little girl.

John grinned at Sherlock. "Well?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I suppose you expect congratulations are in order."

"Well – yeah. Actually, I do." John's grin hadn't left his face. Nothing Sherlock said could possibly take away any of the joy John was feeling at this particular moment in time.

"She appears to be a healthy, adequately formed child. Congratulations on your progeny, John, although nature and Mary have done most of the work, at this point. So I suppose I should be congratulating Mary as well. Congratulations," he said seriously, lips twitching into a sort-of smile.

The tiny child let out another cry, this one louder and more demanding.

Sherlock paused. "She also has a very…healthy scream."

Mary laughed, low and pleasant, and smiled at Sherlock. "Thanks for trying, love. Thanks for trying."

John smiled fondly at Sherlock, too. "Yeah, you've done worse" he admitted. His gaze shifted to his wife and daughter, then back to Sherlock. "Want to know what we've named her? Ma-"

"Madeline Willow Watson," Sherlock smirked.

John gave Sherlock a mocking glare, but couldn't quite force his lips into a full scowl. The result was quite comical. "Yes, well…hmph…we told you, Sherlock's not a girl's name, but Willow…"

"Is an appropriate substitute for William. Yes," Sherlock cleared his throat awkwardly. Too much sentiment for one day, but – "Thank you." Good. It was sincere.

There. Five minutes.

He gave John a small smile and nodded soundly, using up the last stores of his patience and compassion, and turned, sidestepping Mrs. Hudson and escaping the hospital without so much a backward glance over his shoulder.

Luckily, John and Mary took his swift departure as a sign that he was overwhelmed with gratitude and needed a moment to himself. Otherwise, there may have been more difficulty gaining their assistance when Sherlock mucked up the beginnings of his sort-of relationship with Molly after a mere seven days.

Molly Hooper woke to the blare of her alarm and sunlight streaming in through a crack in the curtains. She grumbled incoherently to herself and rolled over, hitting the snooze button with expert aim and a hard thwack from her cast.

Ouch.

Something rubbed against the small of her back, and she started from her half-woken state.

Toby.

"Ah, Toby," she mumbled, and turned to scratch his ears. He purred loudly, and when her hand stilled with sleepiness again, he meowed indignantly and butted her hand with his head.

"All right," she yawned, and threw her covers off with a flourish.

Toby meowed again, but the sound was muffled by the sheet, blanket, and quilt, now covering him like a kitty-burrito.

"Oops," Molly giggled sleepily. "Sorry, Toby." She stretched, and moved the covers enough for him to escape. He jumped lightly to the floor, and moved quickly to her bedroom door. It was cracked open, and she heard him meowing impatiently in the hallway for his breakfast.

She stretched, long and luxurious, for moment before getting out of bed and wrapping her dressing gown around her. She smiled to herself. Today, two days after being released from the hospital, was the day she was returning to work at St. Barts. She was looking forward to returning to the familiar routine of work, and the familiar routine of being regularly interrupted from said work by Sherlock Holmes.

As she continued preparing for the day, she sighed and nibbled at her lower lip – whether from excitement or nervousness, she couldn't say. Anticipation, perhaps?

She had not seen Sherlock since he'd left her in the examining room with Mrs. Hudson and Greg. Mrs. Hudson had chased after him, intending to show him to John and Mary and Baby Madeline, and Greg had stayed with her until Mrs. Hudson returned, only fifteen minutes later. When she'd received the okay from hospital staff, she'd gone to visit the happy family as well, and she'd been released the next day. She took two days off of work to collect herself, and now – now she was returning.

It wasn't that she expected Sherlock to visit her again in the hospital, or even to come by her flat. Molly Hooper understood Sherlock Holmes in a way few people did, and knew that he would want to finish looking into the Moriarty case, and searching out any of his criminal associates, and cataloging everything in his 'mind palace'. She also realized that his confessing that he 'held a deep regard' for her would not change his priorities – she was high on the list now - she recognized that - and it meant a great deal to her that he had cared enough to show her that, but for all her hopes, she tried to be a very realistic person, and knew that work still came first for Sherlock – at least for the time being.

Her attempt at realism did not keep her from hoping, however, that maybe, just maybe…he would be at Bart's today, carrying out experiments and that perhaps – perhaps she might catch him looking at her with that softened smile that crinkled his eyes again. Not the intimate look from the hospital – no – she blushed – but the smile he gave her when wishing her well with Tom. She dared not hope that he hold her hand again. That would be far too much for even Molly to hope for.

She didn't see him that day.

Or the next.

Or the next.

As she left her shift at St. Bart's Thursday afternoon, she couldn't help her heart sinking in her chest.

Well.

He'd said she'd counted, and hadn't contradicted her when she said he loved her, but…perhaps she had misunderstood. Perhaps Sherlock loved her the same way he loved John, and Mary, and just also enjoyed her physical presence as well.

"I also find the sight of you, and your scent, quite stimulating."

For all she knew, he found the scent of ether and lemon disinfectant stimulating because it reminded him of the sterile environment of the lab.

Bother.

For all her understanding of Sherlock Holmes, she didn't quite understand this predicament she'd let herself get into.

Hopefully he'd show up soon and she could attempt to deduce him herself. She considered texting him, for all of a nanosecond, before dismissing that as appearing desperate and clingy and horribly humiliating.

She then considered texting John or Mary, for approximately two seconds longer, before dismissing that solution as well. They were busy with a new baby, and what would she ask them? If they'd seen Sherlock? She could practically hear the thoughts running around in their heads already.

Molly, why do you want to know where Sherlock is?

If you need someone to tell him off for messing about the lab again, I'll be happy to pass on the message.

Molly, don't fall for him –again- just because he rescued you. Pity.

Molly, don't let him manipulate you again. Pity.

Molly – don't – Molly – don't – Molly – don't. Pity.

She closed her eyes and scowled. She counted, and with him – he loved her. She was certain he loved her.

She just wasn't certain exactly how he loved her.

Bother.

"And you're quite certain she's given us everything?"

"All that can be expected, brother. She and 'Jim' kept more secrets from each other than you and I. Family ties, at their best. Not to fear, though, Sherlock. There weren't more than twenty criminals in their employ, and over half of them were disposable, mediocre thugs at best. My men are taking care of it, now. I can offer you Duncan Ross, if you'd like to have a distraction. You could use the practice, brother. Milverton should have taken you mere hours, and it took you nearly three days."

Sherlock snorted. "Milverton had a boat as well. Boats," he muttered darkly. "Why is it always boats, now?"

"Yes, well. Ross?"

Sherlock dismissed the offer with a wave of his hand. "A mere six, Mycroft. Not worth my time."

"And you have something better to spend your valuable time on?"

Sherlock glared at him. "Anything spent away from your insufferable influence is time more wisely spent."

"A thank-you for securing your pardon would be appropriate." Mycroft raised his eyebrows expectantly.

"Thank you, brother, for poking your rotund nose into my affairs."

"Anytime, brother dear. Anytime. And Sherlock?"

"Mmm?"

"I should like to remind you, in light of recent events, that caring is not, and will never be, an advantage."

Sherlock smirked at his brother. "A fascinating notion, Mycroft. I have recently been looking into the scientific validity of that statement. My findings are, as of yet, inconclusive. I will not keep you apprised of the situation."

Mycroft watched his brother leave, and a smile crept onto his face.

Any onlooker would have declared it extremely unsettling.

"Sir?" Anthea approached moments later, fingers whirring over the smart device in her hands.

"I do believe a call to my mother is in order, Anthea."

"Hullo, Molly. Finish up on Mrs. Fitzwilliam?"

Molly sighed and finished signing her name on the paperwork of Mrs. Yolanda Fitzwilliam. "Yeah, Greg. Just finishing up now." She sighed again, and handed the files over, staring at the liver of the woman, now in a sterilized silver bowl on the counter. She sighed again.

"Awful lot of sighing for an old bat like her," Greg teased kindly.

"What? Oh…yes. I was just…thinking." Molly smiled and looked at Greg. "It's…nice to be back into the routine of things, again."

"Yeah," he agreed pleasantly, then shifted. "Speaking of routine, has Sherlock been 'round lately? It's been almost a week since…well, it's been almost a week. Not that I've gotten anything particularly exciting for him, but…always like to keep apprised of the situation with Sherlock, eh?" He gave her a knowing grin.

She smiled stiffly back at him. "Yeah. Haven't seen him. How are John and Mary and Madeline? I haven't really heard from them, either. Not that I expect to, really, but…" she let her voice trail off awkwardly.

Greg gave her a strange once-over. She usually wasn't so…quick to change the subject, when it came to Sherlock. Especially since Molly and Sherlock had become friends, after his return. "Er…yeah. Good, I expect. Mrs. Hudson's right pleased with Maddie. I've gotten a few texts from her…with pictures…she is a cute kid."

"Yeah, she is," Molly smiled, thoughts turning to the Watson baby.

"Well," Greg sighed. "Back to work, for me. Have a good one, Molly."

"Yeah," she answered, belatedly. "You too, Greg."

Sherlock was at Baker Street, in his mind palace, focusing on the Moriarty case, making sure that he hadn't missed anything that would jeopardize the safety of his…the safety of the people who counted. He was looking forward to an evening of peace, perhaps a bout on the violin, a bath, and some food.

He was interrupted from his musings on the connections between Janine and Duncan Ross when he noticed the door to his flat opening and closing.

"I've already ordered takeaway, Mrs. Hudson. I do not require tea."

"Well good, 'cause I'm not bloody getting you any," a warm voice greeted him.

Ah, John. Not necessarily a welcome distraction, but not un-welcome, either. Sherlock opened his eyes.

John sat down in his old armchair, still unmoved from all those months ago when Sherlock had moved it in anticipation of his relocation back to Baker Street. "What did you order, then? I hope it's Chinese. Egg rolls? Mate, I could go for an egg roll right now." He sighed pleasantly, and rubbed his face tiredly with his hand.

Eyes – hair – clothes, unkempt – vomit stain, near his right shoulder – primarily milky substance – "I hardly think Mary would approve of your 'escape' while Madeline is going through a bout of colic."

John froze, then chuckled. "Right. Well, she got to escape for three hours earlier today – Harry came by and took her out for a massage – so I get to 'escape' myself while the girls take care of Maddie. Surprised you missed that, Sherlock. Not slipping, are you? Don't let Molly find out you're loosing your edge," he teased.

Sherlock frowned. Obviously the giddiness of fatherhood had not worn off yet, and paired with the exhaustion of a colicky baby, John was in a sort of mood that was easily turned from high to low in an instant. Best to proceed carefully. Of course I noticed. I thought it best not to mention Harry's recent binge – nope. A bit 'not good'. Ah, he was getting better at this. "I'm not 'loosing my edge', John. And why would Molly care?"

John smirked at him. "Well, Sherlock. It was a bit of a joke – you know, since she likes you, and all, and you – well, have you decided…how you…you know, feel about her?"

"Of course. I relayed my regard for her at the hospital shortly after speaking with you."

John stared at him. "You what?"

"I relayed my regard for her at the hospital shortly after speaking with you," Sherlock repeated, face expressionless, tone casual, as if discussing the fact that he stopped by to ask Molly for another eyeball or toe.

"Your…regard?" John's brain seemed to be having difficulty accepting the news.

"That's what I said, John. Has your offspring's healthy crying made you hard of hearing?"

"No," John shook his head. "So you…told her you loved her?"

"She seemed to summarize it as such, yes."

There was silence for a beat. "And?" John prodded.

"And I confirmed that she counted. She told me that I counted, to her, as well."

"Wait…what?"

Sherlock sighed impatiently.

John leaned forward, scrunching his eyebrows together, trying hard to make sense of the limited information Sherlock was giving him. "So…was it…?"

Sherlock scowled at John. "Although I have several questions for you regarding relationships, I have a lot of work to see to at the moment, regarding Moriarty's case. You are welcome to stay for dinner, of course, and I see you've brought your laptop, perhaps to blog, but please refrain from asking about my personal life for the time being." He sniffed indignantly.

"Now, wait – wait," John held up his hands, snorting. "You – you, who've deduced the hell out of every woman I've ever dated, every friend I've ever had, every stranger we've ever encountered – now that you may finally have a shot at a relationship resembling something human – you want me to refrain from asking about your personal life?"

"Very good, John. You understand perfectly."

"No, no! You'll not change the subject that easily. So you told her she counted? Counted – romantically?"

"Counted emotionally, intellectually, and – physically," Sherlock opened one eye to glare at John. "And if that is construed as romanticism-" he sneered.

"Well, yeah, Sherlock – yes, it is. Physically – huh. Did you – did you kiss her?"

Sherlock snorted. "Of course not, John."

"Did you hug her?"

"No."

"Did you hold her hand?"

Sherlock's silence answered for him.

"You held her hand. Did she say anything, Sherlock?"

"Again, she returned the sentiment. I count to her as well." He shifted in his seat, all thoughts of a pleasant, quiet evening of solitude abandoned. John's visit was quickly moving from 'not unwelcome' to 'decidedly unwelcome'.

"Right, okay. Right. Anything else happen?"

"No. We were interrupted by Jeremy and Mrs. Hudson, I saw Madeline, I left, I've been working on the conclusion of the Moriarty case, and now you've interrupted what should have been a very productive evening."

"So, you told her she counted, she told you you counted – of course you do, she's got the patience of a saint and the heart of a lion, no other way she could handle all you've done unless she loved you – and you haven't seen her since?"

"Correct."

John paused for a moment, lips pressed together.

His mood was shifting from high to low. Sherlock frowned. What could possibly have happened? Perhaps he was angry that Sherlock had insinuated that John was counter-productive to his thought process at the moment.

"Have you called her?"

"No."

John drew a deep breath through his nose, and blew it out in an angry snort. "Texted?"

"No. Why would I?"

"So you told her you loved her, implied romantically – how you managed to convey romance is beyond me – and it's been – a week? – and you haven't contacted her at all since then?"

"Correct. Really, John, you've established your talent at summarizing a series of events quite well. I believe you've proven you're proficient at that particular skill."

John glared at him. "Sherlock, I told you to think carefully about how you felt about Molly. Do you care for her as a friend?"

Sherlock furrowed his brow, confused. "Of course. That should be apparent, even to you."

"And do you care for her as more than a friend?"

"I…am interested in pursuing further data on the subject." Yes! But Sherlock's irritation at John's interrogation was making him taciturn and sullen with his friend.

"No…nope! Sherlock!" John tensed, balling his hands into fists. "I said no experimenting on Molly! She's not an experiment! Not something you can manipulate at will and reach a conclusion about 'dispassionately'. She's not – science – dating, and relationships – they're not science, Sherlock!"

He sighed, exhasperated, and glared pointedly at his best friend. "I told you you'd better give her several damn good reasons for her to consider a relationship with you. Have you done that?"

Sherlock stared at him coolly, but the bob of his Adam's apple gave him away.

"You haven't. You haven't – of course not. You haven't even spoken to her since confessing your undying love for her-"

"Don't be ridiculous, John. I would never say something so sentimental."

"Of course not! You – you're mental! How do you think she feels, right now, Sherlock? After you told her all that, and then haven't bothered to even check up on her by text?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, slightly confused now. "I imagine much the same way I feel."

John eyed him carefully from across the room. "And how do you feel, Sherlock?"

"At the moment, tired and hungry from a week's worth of work tracking down and dismantling the more imminent threats from Moriarty's newest criminal network. Physically, that is how I feel, and as Molly has been back to work for three days, I imagine that at this moment, she also feels tired and hungry, since she is probably just arriving home from her shift."

John glared at him. "That's not what I meant."

"I'm aware of that," Sherlock sighed.

"Sherlock, she's probably been…expecting you. At least expecting you to show up at Bart's to do some sort of experiments. When you tell someone you…care about them, and then don't even bother to contact them for a week…well, it sort of sends the opposite message, doesn't it?"

"I told her she counted. If that changes at any point in the future, I'll be sure to let her know."

John stared at him, an incredulous expression displayed across his face, and burst out laughing in slightly angry disbelief. "You'll let her know! If your feelings change!"

"Yes. It would only be fair."

"Fair – fair! Sherlock," John gasped, "that is not how love works."

"Well then, please enlighten me, since you're such an expert," Sherlock sneered.

John narrowed his eyes at the man sitting nonchalantly across from him. "Sherlock Holmes. She's a grown woman, and knows what she's getting into – but if you bloody break Molly's heart because you're too selfish or stubborn or scared to face the fact that you'll have to spend time with her and do ordinary normal human things than you'd better bloody be ready to face the consequences. And they won't be pretty, Sherlock. I know at least three people, myself included, who would be willing to give you a right bloody nose if you treat her like you're treating me right now."

Sherlock's face was blank. "I would never do that."

"Never do what?" John asked warningly.

"Never treat Molly like I'm treating you right now."

"And how do you know that?"

"Because she wouldn't be interrogating me right now, when I'm trying to focus on completing a case."

John sat back in his chair. "So you'd prefer her company right now?"

"Apparently, she would not be willing to give it, since I've not spoken to her in a week."

"Well," John said, biting his cheek, studying the man across from him. "Well."

They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, both deep in thought. When John realized Sherlock would not ask him for advice, but kept darting his frowning gaze from the violin case beside him to John, he spoke. "Sherlock."

"Hmm?"

"Just spend time with her. If you…prefer her company, spend time with her. If you don't want to use words, that's fine. Well, you'll need to use words, eventually, but – to start – just spend some bloody time with her, yeah? Go see her at Bart's. Do some experiments. With her…not on her. With her. Invite her over to discuss one of your cases. And eventually, when you're not in a piss-poor mood, do something with her that she likes to do, right?"

"I'm not going to ask her on a date, John."

"Did I say date? I just said spend some time with her. And Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked up at John, eyes locked in a sort of battle.

"Don't be an idiot."

"John, I'm never an idiot."

John snorted, and much to Sherlock's relief, they were quickly distracted by the arrival of the take-away and John's enthusiasm for the egg rolls.

Please let me know your thoughts on this chapter! :)

Thank you for reading.