Life After Death - A Post-Reichenbach Trilogy

Part Two - Consequences

Chapter Five

Next morning, after spending the night in the crèche, so that Molly could rest, Baby Hooper, as his i.d. bands stated, was brought back to his mother. He had been weighed and measured, bathed and dressed and placed in a little plastic crib on wheels. He had been given glucose and water but nothing more, so he was ready for his first feed. The specialist nurse guided Molly through her first breast feed, the burping and the nappy changing, and then left her and her baby alone together.

The new mother sat in the nursing chair, next to her bed, cradling her son in her arms and gazing in awe at his delicate features. Could this be real? It hardly seemed possible that, from the frantic need of that desperate night, all those months ago, she and Sherlock had made this exquisite being. Yet here he was, this miracle baby, this gift from nature, her serendipity.

A light knock at the door roused her from her reverie. She looked up to see John Watson and Mary walking in, carrying a huge bouquet of flowers. Maria had performed her duties well, phoning around all the people on the list that Molly had prepared in advance, to advise each of them, as Molly had instructed. John came over and gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek, then stood beside her, gazing at the serene expression of the sleeping baby.

'Would you like to hold him, John?' Molly asked.

'Well, it's been awhile since I did any paediatrics so I suppose a bit of practice wouldn't go amiss,' John replied, with a grin. Molly passed the swaddled infant to him and he stood, rocking, with a huge smile on his face. Molly climbed back onto the bed and Mary took the chair.

'Have you thought what you might call him?' Mary asked.

'No, not yet. I have a few ideas but I want to think about it a bit more, decide what suits him best. I have six weeks to register him,' she replied.

They chatted about this and that, for around fifteen minutes, whilst first John and then Mary held the baby, then they popped him back in his crib and took their leave, so that Molly could rest. However, they had barely been gone five minutes when there was another, sharper knock at the door and it opened to admit a tall, thin gentleman, in a three piece suit, carrying a furled black umbrella.

Molly had been dozing but her eyes fluttered open as Mycroft Holmes walked toward the bed. He stopped about three feet away, glancing from Molly to the crib and back to Molly before he spoke.

'Miss Hooper, your messenger asked me to come here to see you this afternoon but, I must confess, my curiosity has gotten the better of me so, I regret, I am a little early. I trust this is not inconvenient.'

'Well, it could have been a bit awkward. John Watson has only just left,' Molly replied.

'And why might that have been awkward?' Mycroft enquired, fixing her with an intimidating glare.

Molly had thought long and hard about how she would like this conversation to go. She was glad that she had rehearsed it in her head. She could deliver her lines like the prepared speech it was.

'Mycroft, this is my baby. He's also Sherlock's baby. He's your nephew.'

ooOoo

Mycroft stood leaning on his umbrella, maintaining a bland facial expression, and did not speak. Molly took a breath and went on.

'I appreciate that you may require some proof that Sherlock is the father of this baby so I asked the nursing staff to get me a DNA collection kit, to take a sample of his saliva.'

Molly looked towards a sealed vacuum pack on top of her bedside cabinet.

'You can take the sample with you and arrange your own paternity test.'

Mycroft shifted his position, processing this information, then gave a brief nod.

'Thank you, Miss Hooper. I am impressed by your pragmatism. May I collect the sample now?'

'Be my guest,' Molly replied.

Mycroft's brow furrowed and, for a brief moment, he looked distinctly flustered, but recovered quickly.

'Miss Hooper, I would be grateful if you would ask one of the medical staff to collect the sample and I will take it with me, now.'

Molly pressed the call button and, an awkward few minutes later, a member of staff came in. She explained to the nurse what was required and the lady obliged by, quickly and efficiently, collecting a sample of William's saliva and sealing it in the tube provided. The poor woman was in a bit of a quandary as to whom to give the tube but Mycroft held out his hand and Molly nodded, so she gave it to him and excused herself from the room.

Mycroft looked at the tube in his hand, then over at the still-sleeping babe, and back to Molly then bowed his head, smiled thinly, turned and left. Molly relaxed back on her pillows, relieved that the ordeal was over, though it was nothing less than she had expected. But it did leave her wondering how Sherlock's brother would react when the test did in fact prove positive.

Two days later, she got her answer. She had just finished feeding and changing Baby Hooper when a nurse came to the door and announced that she had a visitor. Molly gave her the nod to admit them. It was a very different Mycroft who came through the door, this time.

He came in looking rather ruffled. He was trying, without success, to control a very powerful emotion. He looked at Molly, seated in the nursing chair, holding her baby, walked straight over to her, knelt down on one knee and put a slightly trembling hand on the baby's head. Molly was so taken aback, she couldn't speak. They were, all three, frozen in that tableau for a long moment, then Mycroft stood, stepped back and wiped his hand across his brow in a very uncharacteristic gesture. Molly found her voice first.

'Mycroft, please sit down.'

He looked around for a chair, saw one against the wall and drew it forward, to sit diagonally opposite her.

'Miss Hooper….'he began and then seemed to lose his concentration and falter.

'Molly. Please, call me Molly.' She felt quite moved by Mycroft's obvious discomfiture.

'Molly,' he began again, 'as I am sure you have guessed, the paternity test proved positive….'

'No, Mycroft,' she interrupted, quite calmly, 'I didn't need to guess. I know who the father of my baby is.'

Mycroft then looked even more flustered.

'I am so sorry Miss….Molly, I mean Molly. I did not intend in any way to impugn your virtue. Please, I do apologise!'

Molly could not help herself. She began to giggle but quickly regained control and said,

'Mycroft, I appreciate this is a difficult situation. I know what you were trying to say.' She paused, then smiled and, easing herself upright with one hand on the arm of her chair, she stepped forward, placed the baby in Mycroft's startled arms and sat back down again.

At first, he just stared at the little creature, as though it were about to explode, but then he seemed to relax and settled into a more comfortable position, gazing into his nephew's wide-awake eyes, with a strange smile lifting the corners of his mouth.

'He looks just like Sherlock did at this age, all hair and eyes. We have photographs at home that could be him!'

This was a side to Mycroft Holmes that Molly could never have imagined existed and she was utterly charmed. She suddenly understood that he really had been concerned about his brother, for all these years, and had, perhaps, not entirely been the rabid control freak that Sherlock had made him out to be. It was a revelation.

Mycroft was completely engrossed in the baby. He began to rock, very gently, from side to side, as he studied every pore of the child's face. Molly didn't know much about Sherlock's up-bringing but, from her knowledge of the Holmes brothers, she had surmised that theirs had not been a particularly loving home. Taking into account the seven year age difference between them, she imagined that the older brother had been obliged to assume quite a parental role for his younger sibling from a very early age.

In many ways, this explained much about their fraught relationship. It seemed almost inevitable that Sherlock would become the perennial stroppy teenager, who thought he knew it all, to Mycroft's disapproving father figure, who had forgotten what it was like to be young. A psychoanalyst could make a whole career out of unravelling the two of them, she thought.

'You have the magic touch,' Molly said, breaking the comfortable silence. The baby was sound asleep. Mycroft looked up, smiling rather sheepishly – a mixture of pleasure at the compliment and embarrassment at having revealed his softer side.

'What have you named him?' he asked.

'I haven't, yet. I wanted to talk to you first,' Molly replied.

'Yes,' responded Mycroft, 'we do have rather a lot to talk about, don't we.' It was a statement, rather than a question.

He stood up and placed the baby in the little crib, making sure to lay him on his side and cover him over with the thermal blanket. Then he turned to Molly and said,

'Do you mind if I remove my jacket? It is rather warm in here.'

Molly gave her consent, with a little shrug, marvelling at the complex social rules that governed this man's everyday life. Mycroft took off his jacket and hung it on the back of the chair before sitting back down and folding his hands in his lap. He looked at Molly, inviting her to speak first.

'I would like to call him William, after my dad, and his surname will be Hooper-Holmes. But I wondered if there was a particular family name that you thought Sherlock might like him to have.' Molly paused.

Mycroft steepled his fingers below his chin, in a gesture so painfully reminiscent of Sherlock himself. He seemed to be giving the matter very careful consideration. Then he took a breath and replied,

'Our mother's maiden name was Vernet but she was a member of the Howard family, through the distaff line.'

He looked at Molly as though this should mean something to her but other than the fact that, if one were a member of a family one would expect to share the same surname, she could not see the significance of his remark. He saw her confusion and elucidated.

'Through her mother – our grandmother – Violet Vernet was a descendent of the Howard family, who made a practice of sacrificing their daughters to the Tudor court, in the 16th Century, in exchange for wealth and power,' he explained. 'She was distantly related to Kathryn Howard, the fifth wife of Henry VIII, and, of course, to Anne Boleyn, Henry's second wife, who was Kathryn's cousin. Both ladies, sadly, met a very grim and untimely end.'

Molly was stunned by this revelation. She had been vaguely aware that Sherlock was 'connected' but she had no idea how well. But she quickly regained her composure.

'William Howard Hooper-Holmes,' she ran it by them both. 'Quite a lot of 'H's but it does have a certain ring to it,' she concluded. 'And Howard does sound like a given name as well as a surname so, yes, I like it'. She nodded, appreciatively. That was settled, then.

'Now, Miss…I…I mean Molly, if you wish to register Sherlock as William's father, since he is officially deceased, you will need this.' He reached round into the inside pocket of his jacket and extracted a folded piece of A4 paper, handing it across to her. She opened it. It was the Paternity Test Report. She read it through.

'Ninety-eight percent?' she queried, with a rising intonation.

'Yes, well, obviously I did not have a sample of Sherlock's saliva to hand so I submitted my own for the test. As we both know, I am not this baby's father. Consequently, the match was not quite perfect but, as – again - both you and I know, it is near enough. The registrar will accept it as proof of paternity. But, if you encounter any difficulties, please let me know and I will deal with it.'

He nodded, confidently. Molly knew that he was very good at dealing with things.

'Now, Mycroft, I know that you have some means of communicating with Sherlock but I must ask you not to tell him about William. I'm worried that, if he knew about him, he would want to come back and, even if he didn't want to come back, it might be very distracting for him and could make him careless, perhaps put him in danger.' She looked to Mycroft for a response.

He inspected his hands, now resting on his knees.

'I agree entirely that it would be better by far, for him, if he were kept in the dark about this. He really cannot return yet. It would be far too dangerous. You can rest assured that I will not burden him with this knowledge.'

Molly was quite amazed at how well this conversation was going. They had agreed on two out of two points, so far.

'Now, M…Molly, we really need to discuss your domestic arrangements,' he began. She fixed him with a rather wary look. 'Please don't be alarmed. And please be assured that I only have yours and your baby's best interests in mind. You live alone. You have no family nearby, in fact you have had no visits from any family members since the child was born…'

'Are you spying on me, Mycroft?' Molly was mortified.

He inclined his head to the side and bit his upper lip, exhaled sharply, then said,

'I do have the hospital under surveillance, yes. Even before the test result came in, I was fairly confident that Sherlock was your baby's father and so his and your safety was paramount.' He paused, to collect himself. Molly just stared at him, dumbfounded. He went on,

'This child is not only Sherlock's heir, he is my heir, too. He is very important, very dear to me.' Molly could see what a strain it was on this normally so inscrutable man to bare his soul in this way and she was moved that he was showing her his vulnerability. She conceded the point with a small nod and a shrug.

'My family are coming down on Saturday,' she explained. 'My mother and my sister both work in the week.'

'I do appreciate their circumstances, Molly.'

There, he had said it, without a hesitation, at last!

'It is exactly for this reason that I would like to engage a neonatal nurse to help you take care of William…just for a few weeks, perhaps,' he added as he saw the alarm in her eyes, again. 'Please allow me to do this for you.'

He was pleading, now. Mycroft Holmes was pleading with her!

She knew he was right, of course. Here in the Mother and Baby Unit, everything was ergonomically designed to facilitate all the tasks involved in baby care to maximum efficiency. And there was always someone around to give advice or lend a hand. Once she left here, in a day or two, she would be on her own and the prospect was rather daunting. She looked at Mycroft. He was waiting for her to complete her internal dialogue.

'OK,' she agreed. 'But just for a month, yes?'

'For as long or as short a time as you feel necessary,' he assured her.

'Now, can we talk about your apartment…?'

The startled look reappeared. Mycroft opened his hands in an imploring gesture.

'You live on the second floor of a building with no lift AND you have no access to a garden,' he stated the obvious. 'Carrying a baby, a pushchair, shopping and all the other things that one must carry up and down those stairs is going to make your life very difficult, is it not?'

He spoke gently and reasoningly and she knew he was right, yet again, but her flat was her home and she loved it.

'I have taken the liberty of making an offer on a very comfortable garden flat, not ten minutes' walk from St Bart's. It would be extremely convenient for your work and it has an entry phone system and CCTV security surveillance. They have agreed to take it off the market until you have had the opportunity to view it. If you don't like it, Molly, I will withdraw the offer and we can look elsewhere. But you do need a ground floor flat and you do need a garden. Children need outdoor space and, believe me, if your child is anything like his father, he will need it more than most. We grew up in a very large house but two consecutive rainy days would have Sherlock bouncing off the walls. I remember it well.'

This had been quite a long speech. Mycroft had kept talking so as not to give Molly the opportunity to raise any objections until he had made all his points. He was very good at that, as well.

'But I own my flat,' she said, a little plaintively.

'You part own it, Molly. It's a shared ownership and you own fifty percent – which is admirable for a single woman of your age, living in London.' He paused and smiled, kindly. 'You would not have to sell your property. You could let it out and it would provide you with an income. I would buy the new flat outright and the freehold would be in your name. You would be rent and mortgage free.' He paused, again, for her to consider.

'Let me think about it, please, Mycroft,' she asked.

'Will you at least go and take a look?' he implored.

After a small hesitation, she nodded and he breathed a sigh of relief.

At this point, a gentle knock at the door announced the arrival of the tea trolley. The great English tradition of afternoon tea was still observed in this modern institution. The matronly care assistant poked her head round the door and Mycroft jumped to his feet, feeling rather exposed, having been caught without his jacket on.

'Oh, you sit yourself down, dearie,' the lady chided. 'I just wondered if you wanted a cup of tea, Mum. And what about you, Dad? Would you like a cuppa?'

Molly tried not to smile. She doubted that anyone had ever called Mycroft 'dearie' in his life, let alone 'Dad'.

'Just a fresh jug of water for me, thank you. This one is nearly empty,' said Molly and, making an executive decision, she added, 'I think Uncle Mycroft would love a cup of tea.' She looked to him for acquiescence and he nodded, politely.

The lady withdrew her head and reappeared a moment later with a fresh water jug and a cup and saucer, in that strange green colour that all institutions within the British public sector seemed to favour. She placed the jug on the bedside cabinet and took up the empty one, then walked around the bed and placed the cup of what could only be described as 'builder's' tea into Mycroft's outstretched hand. She then patted him, kindly, on the shoulder and left. Molly was impressed with his self-control. He barely showed any indignation at all. He took one sip of the tea, considered his options and decided to drink it, anyway.

'There are a couple more topics I would like to deal with, if you are not too tired, Molly,' he resumed.

'No, I'm fine,' she replied, 'but I think I will lie down, if that's OK.'

'Of course,' he declared, standing up and offering his hand, to assist her to transfer to the bed. Once she was settled, with a large glass of water in her hand, he raised the next subject.

'If my brother were here, he would, of course, contribute to the cost of caring for his son. As he is not, I will assume this responsibility on his behalf. I have taken yet another liberty, I fear, and arranged for a sum of money to be deposited, on a regular monthly basis, into your current account.'

He looked at her, to see how she was receiving this news. He was quite relieved to see that she seemed to have given up objecting. So he went on.

'Should this sum prove insufficient, I trust that you would tell me, so that I may rectify the situation.' He leaned forward, pleading again. She gave a resigned nod.

He had only one more request but he feared that this might be the sticking point.

'I would very much like to put William down for Harrow.'

'What?' Molly asked, genuinely confused.

'I would like to put his name down for Harrow School. I am an Old Etonian, needless to say, but Mummy felt that Harrow would be better suited to Sherlock's temperament and she was quite right, of course. So, it is only fitting that William should go to his father's school. And it goes without saying that I would cover the fees.'

'But, Mycroft, he's not even a day old!' Molly declared. 'And isn't Harrow a boarding school?'

'It is, indeed a boarding school, one of the finest, and it is never too early to put one's child's name down for a good school,' he countered.

'Look, I do appreciate what you are doing and I am very grateful, believe me, but I really could never send my child to boarding school.'

Molly had known several ex-boarding school pupils at University and they all seemed a bit damaged, in some way, and spoke about their house masters and matrons and the other kids in their houses more than they did their actual parents and siblings. She did not want this for her child. Mycroft could see that he had hit an immoveable object, with this one. He sat back and frowned, momentarily, then rallied.

'What about Westminster? It's a good school and a day school. He could still live at home. And he wouldn't go until he was thirteen, anyway.'

Surely this was a reasonable compromise?

'Alright, I can see that this is really important to you so I will agree to you putting him down for Westminster,' Molly conceded, stalling for time when she could table some realistic objections.

Mycroft leant forward, with his hands on his knees and breathed a sigh of relief.

'I fear that I have tired you, Molly,' he observed, 'and you need to rest so I will not disturb you further, today.'

He stood to put on his jacket.

'There is just one thing I would like to say,' Molly put in, causing him to pause.

'I'm going to tell Sherlock's friends that William is his baby, as soon as I can gather them all together. And I want to ask John Watson, Greg Lestrade and Mrs Hudson to be his god parents. I'd like them to be part of William's life.'

Mycroft pursed his lips and smoothed back his hair. He walked over to the bed and took Molly's hand.

'I can have no objection to my brother's friends being god parents to his son but how will you explain William's paternity?' He looked concerned. The dates just did not fit.

'Don't worry,' she replied, 'I have a very good cover story.'

Mycroft was not so sure but he patted her hand, smiled and took his leave.

ooOoo