Once again, thanks to There's A Time Lord In Lima and everyone who has reviewed and Favorited. You guys are the best! This chapter is one of my favorites and it's a little more on the cute side, so hopefully you all like it too!
Ducks in a Row
Six weeks old
As soon as the phone rings Sherlock practically dives to answer it.
By now it's a reflex he can't help and every time the nagging chime echoes through the house his mind wanders- actually, make that sprints- to Annabelle and Molly. He supposes it's the so called paternal instinct everyone tells him about, the constant fear that his child could possibly be in danger. He wants to find it annoying but it comes so natural to him that he can't seem to muster the feeling.
And that is what annoys him.
But tonight he fears the instinct might be right because when he picks up the phone all he can hear is the glass shattering wail that could only be coming from his daughter, accompanied by Molly's tear filled voice. Across the room John and his new girlfriend (John would like to point out that she's not a new girlfriend but that Sherlock has apparently failed to take notice of her until now) look up from their tea, casting worried glances at Sherlock while he rushes around for his coat and shoes before Molly can even tell him what's wrong.
Around Annabelle's cries he hears, "Sherlock, please can you come over. I'm going absolutely mad right now." She sniffles and murmurs something to Annabelle who doesn't relent in the slightest bit. As he rushes down the stairs Sherlock tries his best to calm Molly down so he can assess the situation while he hails a cab.
The more he thinks about it, the more he realizes he needs a car.
"Molly dear, you need to take a breath and tell me what's the matter. Is someone hurt? Sick?" he waits ten whole seconds for an answer, surprised he doesn't completely lose his mind. Molly has to suck in a few lungful's of air before she can even proceed.
"No, no one's hurt. It's just this bloody colic. She's been crying for the last three days ever since you left the other night and she just won't stop." He hears the music of Annabelle's mobile and he can picture the two swaying back and forth around the nursery as the little girl wails and her mother tries her hardest to reassure her.
As he breathes a sigh of relief that the extent of both mother and daughter's distress is nothing more than colic he manages to spout off Molly's address to the cabbie and tries his hardest to console her through the phone.
It's no doubt the trip was longer than it normally is and Sherlock's leg bounces up and down with the nerves the whole way, his bottom lip trapped between his teeth as he looked out the window. To the cabbie, he probably looked like a druggie desperate for a fix and he tries his best to ignore the accusing stare.
Upon pulling up at the curb across from the flat, Sherlock tosses his money in the front seat without offering a word; he's too busy trying to get to the front door and once he gets there he can hear Annabelle crying. He eases the door open and sees Molly standing in the living room, rubbing and patting the baby's back with exhaustion reflecting in her eyes and on her face.
When she sees Sherlock, relief washes over her features in a way that makes his stomach clench. It makes him feel needed, wanted. He smiles faintly and holds out his arms without saying a word, finding his daughter in them in an instant. Molly immediately drops onto the couch and lets her head fall into her shaky hands.
Sherlock takes immediate control of the situation.
As Annabelle continues to cry, he does his best to try and quiet her, talking to her and swaying in circles, offering her a pacifier only to have it spit back in his hand.
The heated battle between the colicky infant and her parents continues for nearly two more hours.
And finally, while she still hasn't gone to sleep her sobs have subsided to the occasional whimper and hiccup and she watches the room with wide eyes from the comfort of her swing. Molly and Sherlock, considered the losers of the fight, are collapsed side by side on the couch.
Molly's eyes are closed but he can tell by her breathing that she hasn't actually gone to sleep, a fact he finds surprising. He softly clears his throat to catch her attention, doing his best to avoid starting Annabelle on another rampage. Slowly she looks up at him and he can see the dark circles under her eyes clearly.
It does bring up a feeling of guilt from within him, realizing that Molly sacrifices so much more than he does. She constantly gives up sleep and time on her own, and while Sherlock may not need these things he's suddenly grateful that they are in such easy reach to him had he suddenly decided he wanted them.
He lays a hand on Molly's knee and gently squeezes, "Why don't you get some sleep? We'll be fine; she seems content enough for now." He smiles in Annabelle's direction and watches the little girl who's got her eyes on the pair, as if she's dissecting every move they make.
Molly turns her head slightly to meet Sherlock's eye and feels gratitude wash over her. It would be a complete lie if she said Sherlock hadn't come far since Annabelle had been born and whenever she thinks he can't surprise her anymore he does something that has her completely taken aback.
She realizes that maybe she hadn't made a mistake after all.
"Thank you," she says through a sigh, standing on wobbly legs, "Wake me up if she's too much trouble for you, alright?" After a quick promise and a kiss to her now much calmer daughter, Molly makes her way to bed for the first time in almost three days.
…
When she wakes up and the sunshine is streaming through her window, she wonders if it's a dream. She had collapsed into bed after trusting Sherlock with Annabelle which could only mean she hasn't woken until now.
It also means Sherlock has stayed the night once again. The thought makes her heart beat a little faster.
Rubbing the sleep from her eyes she sits up, pulling her knees to her chest and relishing the few moments she has to herself before she makes her way to the kitchen to prepare a bottle. Quietly she pads down the hallway on her tip toes, peeking into the nursery out of pure instinct and smiling so wide she wonders if her cheeks will burst when she takes sight of the scene she's walked in on.
Sherlock, with the addition of the pink blanket that is much too small for him, is asleep in the rocking chair with Annabelle's tiny body resting on his chest. Both fast asleep. She puts a hand over her mouth to quiet the chuckle that tickles her throat and steps into the room that's bright with sunlight.
She carefully picks Annabelle up and the little girl stirs but immediately recognizes her mother and snuggles against her chest. At the loss of her body heat Sherlock stirs as well, blinking rapidly and looking very lost. When he sees Molly standing above him he blushes and runs a hand through his disheveled curls.
"Good morning," he says, standing up and straightening his shirt, "I'm assuming you slept well?" He can see the visible change in her appearance and tenseness of her body, telling him the answer before she even nods in his direction.
"Very much, yes. Thank you for watching her." Sherlock waves a dismissive hand in the air.
"It's nothing. I don't actually see why you thank me for taking care of our child. Isn't that what I'm supposed to do anyways?"
"Yes, but most men in situations like ours don't act the way you do." Her words surprise him, but then again he wasn't aware of how most men in a situation like theirs acted. Apparently he was doing much better than he had originally presumed.
And that is what keeps him going.
"Alright then," Molly announces, breaking his concentration, "who's ready for breakfast, huh?" She smiles and carries Annabelle out of the room, and as Sherlock trails behind her he begins to suspect that this is what a family is truly like.