Fic: the breath that passed from you to me (Sherlock, Molly/Sherlock, 14800 words, Mature, 1/2)
Summary: Molly knows the sex was never really about her. She makes the choice to keep the baby anyway. She's not, to her surprise, alone in raising her son.
Notes: Title from Florence and The Machine's "Between Two Lungs."
Story on AO3
1.
They have sex. Sherlock comes to London, they have sex, and he leaves again. Molly may have romantic dreams about him, but she's not a complete fool. It's not about the sex; it's about the connection. It's about being with someone who knows him.
He looks more and more worn every time. Sometimes he puts his head on her chest or her stomach, and she thinks the dampness on her skin is not sweat but tears.
Molly gives up trying to date. She stops wearing lipstick, stops answering the few messages that come as a result of her online dating profile, stops saying yes when mates from work want to set her up.
She hears one of the lab techs tell one of the new hires that she's had a disappointment, like something out of Austen.
It's fine. Molly ignores them. She lives. She puts one foot in front of the other, cuts up dead strangers, keeps her sheets clean and condoms in the bedside drawer. It's fine. None of it bothers her.
Until her period doesn't come.
*
Molly has access to an entire lab and she often works the night shift. She does a one-handed blood draw and runs the tests herself. No room for mistakes with this one.
Then, of course, she's no idea what to do. Sherlock's gone, no way for her to get a message to him, no way to ask what he thinks, what he wants. The burden of choice, of decision, lies solely with her.
*
"Doctor Hooper." A dark-haired woman dressed better than Molly could ever hope to be opens the door to a very expensive car. "Please come with me."
The car takes her to a restaurant for which she is even more underdressed than for the car ride. The woman takes her to a secluded booth where she's left to sit by herself and wonder what she's doing here for a good five minutes before Mycroft Holmes slides into the other side of the booth.
"I've taken the liberty of ordering for us," he says. "Neither of us has time to waste."
Plates arrive just after he does.
"What am I doing here?"
"Enjoying lunch. The salmon is excellent." Mycroft gestures at her silverware and waits until she picks up her fork.
"I do wonder," he says a bit later - the salmon is excellent - "just what you intend to do."
"Do about what?"
"Your situation," he says. "If you intend to continue the pregnancy, you and the child will, of course, be provided for."
She could ask what he means by that, but she chooses the more important question: "Does he know?" Her eyes prick with tears when Mycroft doesn't answer. "Can you tell him, if he doesn't?"
He doesn't answer that either, merely reiterates his insistence that she'll be taken care of. The dark-haired woman puts her back into the same car as before, and sends her alone to Barts.
Molly throws up every bit of the excellent salmon in the first-floor loo.
*
"You've gained twelve pounds," Sherlock says. "Boyfriend?"
"Pregnant." It's not, she admits, the best way to tell him.
There's nothing in his face she can take as an emotional reaction. "Mine?"
"Yes."
"You haven't terminated it."
"No."
"Are you going to?"
"I don't know." Molly leaves him there and goes into the kitchen. "I've no idea what I'm going to do. Are you eating?"
"No."
Molly heats up leftover take-away for one and takes it to the table. Sherlock sits across from her and watches her eat.
"You've not much time to make a decision."
"No," she says. "Few weeks, at the most. Easier to do it sooner if I'm going to." Molly loses her appetite and puts the rest of her dinner back in the fridge. She'll eat it later, or tomorrow, or not at all. "You can have a say. I mean, if you want me to terminate or not. You can have a say in that."
Sherlock looks at her as if she's a not very intriguing puzzle. "It won't tie me to you."
"I know." She has no delusions about that. When he's done with whatever he's doing, when he can be himself again and have John and Mrs. Hudson and Inspector Lestrade, he'll have no need for her. "We're the worst possible people to have a baby now."
"How is that?"
"You don't love me, and we're both lonely."
If he notes the omission in her reasons, he doesn't mention it. "No doubt Mycroft has offered to provide you with a lifestyle more suited to him than to me. That should ease the strain."
"Is that your vote?"
"Do as you like, Molly."
What she would like is to wake up in a world where she's only awkward, unnoticed Molly Hooper and he's swanning about solving cases and being the most unattainable man in her world.
"I'm going to bed," she says. "You can come. Not for sex. I'm knackered. But if you want to come to bed with me, you can."
He does, creeping in after she has the lights out and her head on the pillow. He puts one hand on her stomach and the other under her shoulders. It's nice, the cuddle.
He's gone in the morning, and she looks down her body, says, "Your dad's utterly brilliant, if a bit mad. Dunno you'll ever meet him."
That, she supposes, is that decision made.
*
"You're-" Sherlock looks at her stomach, which is most definitely showing her condition now.
"In the second trimester. God, the hormones." Molly pulls him into her bedroom and sets to getting him to do what he did to get her in this state. It takes less work than she might have expected, and she falls asleep more satisfied than she has been since she found out she was pregnant.
*
Molly's eight months pregnant the next time Sherlock comes to her door. She says no to sex, but he comes to bed with her anyway.
She wakes up in the middle of the night to use the loo and finds that he's awake, one hand pressed flat to her stomach. He doesn't say anything, just puts it back when she gets into bed again.
*
It's nearly six months later, when she turns on the telly to have something to occupy her while Charlie nurses, that she sees Sherlock again. He's on the news, a headline story about everything he's done since his death.
He doesn't come to see her.
2.
"That's interesting, isn't it, Charlie? Not going to revolutionize the field, but solid work it sounds like. Good methodology."
The door to the lab interrupts her quiet lunch. She's in a corner, away from expensive equipment or anyone's active experiments. But she chose it because everyone else should be away for the hour.
Sherlock barely glances at her as he comes in, John following behind him. "Isn't the point of picking him up from the creche for lunch to get away from the hospital?"
"He'll only sleep if he can hear my heartbeat. It means a lot of sleeping in the rocking chair. Going anywhere else is too tiring."
John hesitates, but comes over to her. "Who's this then?"
"Charlie." Molly tips Charlie so John can see him. "This is John. He's a doctor too, but not the same kind of doctor as Mummy."
John smiles. "He's lovely."
"Thank you." Molly doesn't look at him as she says it.
"John," Sherlock says, and John nods and joins him at the bench.
Molly turns the page of her journal and reads the abstract of the next article out loud.
"Isn't he a bit young for that?"
"He needs the sound of my voice more than words."
*
"And then Mummy took out Mr. Harrison's heart. We have to weigh the heart after we take it out."
The doorbell interrupts Molly's recitation of her day. Post-mortems might not be most people's idea of appropriate stories for children, but it's what she does all day, and talking to babies is supposed to be good for them. Aids language development and all that.
Molly lets Sherlock in without question. He looks at Charlie resting against her chest.
"It's good for children to be in contact with their parents." Molly frowns. "Not that I mean you. I mean I'd rather hold him. It's comforting."
"For both of you, I presume," Sherlock says. "This is why he won't sleep away from you."
"I'm sure he'll be wanting to get as far from his mummy as possible soon enough. It's fine for now."
Sherlock looks at her for longer than is comfortable. "I'm sure Mycroft offered you a nanny." He looks around the flat. "And a larger flat."
"He did."
"You didn't take them."
"I can raise my own child." She doesn't say the other part of it, that she didn't want to move while Sherlock was gone. He probably knows. He probably could have found her no matter where she was.
"You should take the flat," Sherlock says. "Not whatever he wants to give you. Find one you like and have him make the arrangements. You'll want the space when Charlie starts crawling."
It's more thoughtful than she expects from him. "Maybe. Do you want-"
Sherlock says, "No," before she's even sure how she was going to finish the question.
Molly bounces Charlie a little while Sherlock stares at her, because that's what you do when you're holding a baby.
"You're not one of those women who is well-suited to motherhood."
Molly laughs, softly because of Charlie. "No," she says. "I'm not the least bit suited to this." She runs her hand over Charlie's hair - dark already, but still straight; she expects it to curl later. "I do love him though. There is that."
"Some modes of thought on the matter consider that the most important quality in a parent."
Molly lifts one shoulder in a shrug. "I'll muddle through."
*
Molly puts Charlie's car seat down and lets John take her coat.
"Merry Christmas," she says to the room at large. There are a few greetings back, but she waits until she has Charlie out of his car seat and in her arms before she goes around to greet everyone. More people than the last time she was at Baker Street for Christmas drinks.
She tries not to think about the last time.
"Look at you," Mrs. Hudson says, "with a baby."
Molly takes Charlie over to her so she can see him.
"Oh, he's just lovely. Must get heavy carrying him about all the time."
"He does a bit. Good for the arms, though. We moved last weekend. Easy as anything to carry boxes into the new flat."
"Wait until he's a toddler," Lestrade says. "Then you'll really get a workout."
"He's just gorgeous," Annie says. Molly hasn't met her before, but since she's the only one there she hasn't, she guesses she must be John's girlfriend. "Isn't he, John?"
John raises his chin. "Can I get you a drink?"
"A drink would be lovely." Molly goes with him into the kitchen.
"Wine? Scotch?" John gestures at the bottles on the table.
"She can't have alcohol," Sherlock says from behind Molly. She hadn't noticed him coming. "She's breastfeeding."
"Right," John says. "I can make you some tea."
"Soda and lemon will be fine."
Molly takes the glass from John and sips at it. When she turns around, Sherlock is gone, halfway across the flat arguing with Lestrade about something.
It's a nice party, small, but pleasant. Lots of small talk interspersed with Sherlock's declarations and deductions. Mrs. Hudson cajoles Sherlock into playing for them, and even Annie looks on him kindly when he does.
Molly puts her glass down and catches John's attention when Charlie starts make the small noises that mean he needs to eat.
"He's hungry," she says. "Is there somewhere I can?"
"Yeah, right, of course. Sherlock-"
"Yes, yes." Sherlock waves a hand at them, and John takes her to what must be, from the conversation and the periodic table on the wall, Sherlock's bedroom.
"Thanks," Molly says. "Won't be a bit."
"Take your time." John closes the door behind himself with a quiet click.
Molly sits on the edge of the bed and unbuttons her blouse. "There you go," she says as she gets Charlie settled. She looks around the room while he nurses. It's plain, neat, giant bed. Not really what she expected. Not at all how she ever thought she would end up in it.
"He seems like quite a good baby," Mrs. Hudson says when Molly rejoins the party.
"I don't have much for comparison," Molly says. No one else smiles with her. "But I suppose. Quiet most of the time. Serious."
"Much like his father, no doubt." Mycroft's voice comes from the door.
The question in the room is nearly palpable. Molly doesn't look at Sherlock.
"Mycroft."
"Don't worry, dear brother, I'm not staying. I was merely passing by on my way to another engagement and thought I would drop in to wish everyone a happy Christmas." He turns to Molly. "I trust Charles's gift arrived safely."
"Yes," she says. "Thank you." They probably all think he's Charlie's father now.
"You're quite welcome. May I?"
"Oh, yes, of course." Molly lets him take Charlie. Mycroft holds him as coolly and competently as she's ever seen him do anything else.
Sherlock crosses the room in a few steps and takes Charlie from Mycroft. "We're all assured a happy Christmas, assuming you haven't got a war to start in the next two days. You can go now."
"Sherlock," John scolds. To Mycroft he says, "Would you like a drink?"
Sherlock holds Charlie like he knows exactly what he's doing. Head supported, close to his chest so Charlie isn't adrift in the air.
It strikes Molly, the way it does sometimes, that she knows what he looks like naked. She knows what he looks like in her bed.
"No, thank you," Mycroft says. "I really must be going."
There's another round of good wishes, from everyone but Sherlock, and Mycroft leaves as suddenly as he'd arrived.
"Mycroft," Sherlock mutters.
Molly holds out her arms. "I can take him."
"You've barely eaten," Sherlock says. "And he's tired."
"Oh, I'm sure the boys can find somewhere for you to put him down," Mrs. Hudson says.
"He won't sleep without a heartbeat," Sherlock tells her. "Is this too much noise, or will he be able to sleep?"
"He'll sleep," Molly says. "If you- Do that." Sherlock has done exactly what she would. He has the blanket tucked close around Charlie, one hand holding it over his head to block the noise, and Charlie's other ear pressed to his chest. He's opened his suit jacket so there's only his shirt between Charlie and his heartbeat.
"Eat something," Sherlock says. "He's fine."
*
Molly lets Sherlock in, even though she's in her pajamas and ready to try to get Charlie to sleep.
"Is there something? Do you need something?"
Sherlock presses his lips together for a moment. Then he holds out his arms. "I'll sit with Charlie."
Molly just stares at him. "I thought you didn't want-"
"No," he says. "I need to think anyway, and you need sleep to be effective in the lab."
Molly gives Charlie to him and turns out the lights in the living room. "I usually sit in the rocking chair in the nursery." She starts down the hall, then turns. "You haven't been here yet."
"It's not so large that I'm likely to get lost."
Molly's too tired to let that hurt her. "Nursery." She points into it. "I'm across the hall. He'll want feeding in the middle of the night. You can bring him in to me." She leans in, close to Sherlock to get to Charlie. "Good night, love." She kisses Charlie's cheek. "Mummy loves you."
Sherlock's looking at her like she's something to be studied, but he doesn't say anything, so she goes into her room and closes the door.
Going to sleep so early in her own bed is strange, after so many nights spent rocking Charlie until late. Her body is used to his rhythms, though, and she wakes up just before Sherlock opens her door.
She's already unbuttoning her pajama top by the time Sherlock gives her Charlie. Molly sits up against the headboard, eyes closed and head tipped back, while he nurses.
She blinks her eyes open to keep from falling asleep and finds Sherlock watching her. "Not very sexy is it?"
"Evolutionarily speaking," Sherlock says, "proof that a mate can provide for the survival of the offspring is a desirable quality."
Molly smiles a little, and Sherlock takes Charlie from her when he's done nursing. Molly slips back under her covers without bothering to button her shirt, and wakes up in the morning to Sherlock bringing her Charlie again. Sherlock leaves as soon as Charlie starts nursing.
*
"-Tuesday," Sherlock's voice says at the end of the hall. He sweeps through the door with John, Lestrade, and Sergeant Donovan behind him, and forces them all to stop to avoid running into him when he stops walking.
Charlie, unsteady as he is, falls down with the loss of focus. He looks up at Molly, and she waits for a moment to see if he's going to cry. He doesn't. He looks down the hall instead.
"Ock!"
"Yes, love," Molly says. "Sherlock."
"When you fall," Sherlock says, "you have to stand up and start walking again."
Charlie plants his hands on the floor and pushes himself up.
"Let's go, Freak," Sergeant Donovan says.
"Oh do be quiet, Sally," Sherlock says. "You'll startle him and he'll fall again. It's not so far." His tone doesn't change much when he talks to Charlie. "You can make it."
Molly trails along behind Charlie until he gets within arm's length of Sherlock.
Charlie plants his hands on Sherlock's trousers - Molly cringes to think of the damage he's going to do when he does that with something all over them - and grins up at him.
"Well done," Sherlock says. "Perfectly developmentally appropriate." He scoops Charlie up and pulls a teething ring out of his pocket. It's one of the round ones, the kind you put in the freezer. Charlie grabs onto it and sticks it in his mouth.
"Hello, Charlie," Lestrade says. "Molly. We're here to see a couple of bodies."
Molly hesitates.
"It can't wait," Sherlock says. "I have Charlie."
"I don't want him seeing the bodies."
"I can take him," John offers. "Stay out here."
"No," Sherlock says. "I'll need you. I have Charlie. I'll keep him from seeing the bodies."
There's no way Molly will ever be able to figure out anything about Sherlock just by looking, but she tries it anyway.
"You would trust the Freak with your child?" Sergeant Donovan asks.
Molly says, "He's very good with Charlie," and lets them into the morgue.
Molly gets the bodies for them and listens to John and Sherlock talk their way through their relevance to the case. Molly catches the needle marks behind one of the ears and gets a pleased look from Sherlock for her trouble.
She keeps half an eye on Charlie, but Sherlock is as good as his word and keeps him turned away from the bodies.
The rest of them stand around discussing their case - or Sherlock lectures them about it; Molly's not clear on the distinction - while Molly puts the bodies away and washes her hands.
"He's sleeping," Sherlock says with a frown when Molly comes back to get Charlie. "Why is he sleeping?"
"Because he's teething," Molly says. "It hurts and then he doesn't sleep."
"He's sleeping now."
"Because he's tired and you're holding him and you gave him something to chew on." Molly's arms slide along Sherlock's chest as she takes Charlie from him.
"There are other ways to relieve the pain of teething."
Molly cuts him off before it can become a full-fledged lecture. "Yes, I know, and I've plenty of people giving me advice. I don't need any more. If you really want to help, you can come sit with him. Or tell me whatever it is Mycroft is trying to say with all the things he's been sending Charlie."
It's very rare that Molly surprises Sherlock, but she's done it now. Lestrade doesn't seem to know where to look, and Sergeant Donovan is frankly staring at them.
Molly ducks her head and presses her lips to the top of Charlie's head. "God," she says, "I'm sorry. When he doesn't sleep, I don't sleep." She tries a smile. "It's fine, really."
Sherlock says, "Text me a list of what Mycroft sent you," and sweeps out of the morgue.
John, Lestrade, and Sergeant Donovan take their leave a moment later.
"God, I'm rubbish at this," Molly says. She kisses the top of Charlie's head again and takes him up to the creche.
*
Sherlock hasn't come by to sit with Charlie since he started sleeping on his own, but there he is, three days after the morgue, outside her door. He doesn't look any more rested than she feels, but he holds out his arms.
Molly lets him in, but doesn't hand over Charlie. "You don't have to. I didn't mean it. You don't have to do anything."
Sherlock cuts her off by saying her name. There's a pause as if he's waiting to see if it's going to take. "I won't sleep, not yet." He holds out his arms again.
This time, Molly kisses Charlie then gives him to Sherlock.
Charlie's too worn out to be enthusiastic about visitors, but he curls trustingly against Sherlock's chest.
"Mycroft wasn't telling you anything," Sherlock says just before she goes through the door to her room. "He was," and here he looks positively pained, "helping. Providing items to aid in Charlie's development." He looks down at Charlie. "He will need more stimulation than other children."
Molly's tired, days on end of watching Charlie hurt and neither of them sleeping, so she just nods and goes to bed. It's not until the next morning when she takes Charlie from Sherlock and sends him home to get some sleep before he nods off in the rocking chair that the sheer terror of being responsible for the mental development of a child who is half a Holmes hits her.
*
Molly doesn't have the Holmes mind for finding patterns in anything and everything, for unraveling mysteries and knowing everything about a person just by looking at them. That doesn't mean she's stupid.
She notices, after the first few times, that on non-urgent occasions - although there's always a sense of urgency about Sherlock in her lab - Sherlock and John always come to the lab at lunchtime.
Charlie's vocalizations aren't quite real sentences yet, but he can make himself very clear when he wants to. The lab is safe enough that Molly puts him down. He makes his own way around the benches to Sherlock.
"You will have to wait a moment," Sherlock says. "I have to put the sample on the slide first." He has a scalpel, which he is using to scrape something off of a very large pendant.
"I'm not occupied," John says. "I don't even know why I'm here." He glances at Molly, for permission maybe, before he picks Charlie up and holds him where he can see what Sherlock's doing.
Charlie reaches for Sherlock, an entreaty Sherlock ignores until he has the slide under the microscope. Then he takes Charlie and settles him on his lap. "It's a case," he says. "The pendant was dragged through something after it was taken from its owner and before it was returned to her. She considers it precious - the way she handled it. She would have cleaned it if it had been an accident."
"And she's not a criminal," John says.
Sherlock makes an annoyed noise and adjusts the microscope. His other hand never leaves Charlie, keeping him safe. "You finding her sexually attractive does not negate the possibility of criminal behavior."
"Sherlock." John's voice has gone tight and displeased. "That isn't-"
"Of course it is." Sherlock pulls away from the microscope with one swift motion. He adjusts the knobs to pull the eyepieces together, frowns at it, adjusts it again, and lifts Charlie up to look into it. "Paint," he says. "Acrylic, likely from an artist."
Charlie grips one eyepiece and babbles an unintelligible sentence.
"You'll learn to recognize it later," Sherlock says.
Molly's heart aches, and some of her terror recedes. No matter what Sherlock may have said at any point, she isn't solely responsible for Charlie's development.
*
Molly gets used to - again - having Sherlock in her flat, staying awake nights in the rocking chair with Charlie, swapping out teething rings and pressing Charlie's ear to his chest to hear his heartbeat.
She is not used to Sherlock dropping by at half ten on a Saturday.
Charlie, of course, is delighted. He says, "Ock," and continues to babble on even as Sherlock picks him up.
Sherlock listens with what seems like more attention than is really warranted. "Your language development is coming along nicely," he tells Charlie.
Charlie beams at him, like he understands.
Sherlock puts him back on the floor, in the midst of the mess he's made out of Mycroft Holmes' ideas about appropriate child development aids. Sherlock watches Charlie choose one of the soft cubes, each of the six sides made of a subtly different fabric.
"Do you still think," he asks, "that we are the worst people for this?"
Molly has to think, months and months of pregnancy and raising a baby between when she told him that and now, to remember the conversation. "You're not lonely anymore," she offers.
Sherlock looks at her sharply. She doesn't bother trying to hide anything; it's not worth it around him.
To her surprise, he doesn't say anything to her. Instead, he folds himself onto the floor and describes the fiber content of the two sides of the cube Charlie has his hands on.
*
Charlie can manage stairs, some of them, but Molly still carries him up to the flat at Baker Street. "Merry Christmas, everyone," she says, and gets a chorus of greetings back, the sound of Sherlock's violin behind them.
John comes to take her and Charlie's coats, and he brings a lovely blond woman with him who he introduces as Mary. Molly puts Charlie down, and he promptly takes the few steps that bring him to Mary and grabs onto her leg.
"Charlie, love," Molly says, and she bends down to pry him away.
"It's all right," Mary says. She crouches, carefully, so she's at Charlie's level. "I'm a nanny, live-in. I don't even own anything that isn't washable and child-proof. Hello, Charlie. My name is Mary."
Charlie gives her a perfect, gorgeous smile.
"Oh my," Mary says, tilting her head up to look at Molly, "he is lovely. Going to break a few hearts when he's older."
Charlie lets go of where he'd shifted his grip to her arm and heads for Sherlock. He has to go around furniture and Lestrade, and he can't possibly see Sherlock for half the journey, but he does it unerringly. "Ock," he says, "up!"
Sherlock stops playing, picks Charlie up, and sits on the couch. "Put your hand here," he says, placing Charlie's palm flat to the body of the violin. "You'll be able to feel the vibrations."
Molly realizes she's being rude and snaps her attention to Mary. Charlie will be fine with Sherlock. "Your pendant," she says before she thinks about it. "Sherlock brought it to the lab."
Mary touches it. It looks better; even Molly can see it's been cleaned, and anything would look better on Mary than lying on the lab bench. "Yes," she says. "I hired him. That's how I met John." Her face goes soft when she says that. "It was your lab, then? John said Sherlock had a friend there."
Molly looks across the room at Sherlock bent over Charlie and the violin. "Yes," she says. "I mainly do post-mortems, but sometimes that requires the use of a lab." She makes a face, because post-mortems and lab work are not good party conversation. "You're a nanny?"
"For now."
Molly follows Mary's gaze to John laughing with Lestrade in the kitchen.
"The youngest is off to school next fall, so they won't be needing me. I'm not sure yet if I'm going to look for another position or find something else to do." Mary looks at Molly again. "Oh, but you don't have a drink. Let's get you something."
Molly looks at Charlie again - he's perfectly, happily, occupied by Sherlock's continued instruction - and lets Mary take her into the kitchen.
"You didn't get Molly a drink," Mary says. She brushes a kiss onto John's cheek. It looks comfortable, easy.
"I'm sorry," John says. "I was distracted." He waves at the room, a meaningless gesture that Molly takes to mean he forgot in the bustle of coats and introductions. "What can I get you?"
Molly looks at Mary's half-full glass. "Wine," she says. John pours her a glass and tops off Mary's.
"Charlie looks well," Lestrade says.
"Yes," Molly says. "He's wonderful." It comes out more forceful than she meant, and she hasn't even touched her wine.
"That's lovely," Mary says, "that you adore him."
Adore, Molly thinks. Adore doesn't even begin to cover the way she feels about her son.
"Toddler now, isn't he?" Lestrade says. "Getting into everything, I imagine."
Molly smiles. "Yes. I've cleared all the lower shelves in the flat, and he still finds things to take off of them."
"It's only a stage in his development," Mycroft's voice says from behind her. "I'm sure he'll grow out of it. Merry Christmas, Doctor Hooper, Miss Morstan, Inspector Lestrade, Doctor Watson."
"Merry Christmas," Molly says.
"Dropping in on us two years in a row?" Sherlock comes to the kitchen as well, Charlie held in one arm and the violin dangling from the fingers of his other hand, leaving only Mrs. Hudson in the living room. "No need to make a habit of it."
"It's the only reliable way to convey good wishes to all of you at once. Hello, Charles."
"My-of," Charlie says.
There's a ripple of displeasure across Mycroft's face and an answering smile on Sherlock's.
"Consonant blends," Mycroft says. "You should be able to say them any day now."
Sherlock turns away, putting himself between Mycroft and Charlie. Molly would have done it if he hadn't.
"You've conveyed your wishes," Sherlock says. "You can return to whatever plans you've manufactured to make this convenient."
"I would never manufacture plans," Mycroft says, "but I will be late if I linger. Good evening."
There's a moment of silence broken only by Charlie's soft babbling after he leaves.
"Who, exactly, was that?" Mary asks. "And is he always like that?"
"Sherlock's brother," John says, "and yes."
*
Molly is surprised to hear from Mary again.
Mary says, "Sherlock gave me your number. Would you like to have lunch?" so Molly leaves Charlie in the creche at lunchtime and meets Mary eight blocks away for curry.
"John didn't mention," Mary says after they've done all the hellos and how are you?s, "so I assume he doesn't know that Charlie is Sherlock's son."
Molly's breath catches. Only three of them know that. Sherlock hadn't chosen otherwise, so she hadn't either. "You-" She doesn't know what she means to say, or ask.
"I've spent my life caring for children," Mary says. "There's a resemblance. Besides, I've no idea how he feels about you, but it's obvious he loves Charlie."
Molly doesn't think that's obvious in the least. "I've no idea either," she says. "Are you going to tell John?"
"No," Mary says. "That's between him and Sherlock. But if we're going to be friends, I want you to know that I know."
"Oh," Molly says. "Are we going to be friends?"
"I've no idea," Mary says cheerfully, "but we might as well make a go of it."
*
Molly gets a text from Mary on a Thursday: Girls' night, Saturday, 8pm. You in?
Her phone buzzes again a second later with another text: I will sit with Charlie on Saturday. SH
Molly texts back a yes to Mary and Sherlock shows up at her flat at half seven on Saturday. He runs his eyes over her, picks up Charlie, and walks straight into her bedroom where he ignores the clothes she'd been trying on and pulls a skirt and blouse out of her closet.
"Your usual shoes will do," he says. "You're going to drink, and you'll harm yourself in heels."
Molly looks at what he's chosen. They are smart enough, and he's right about the heels. She thinks she can take his suggestion as meaning he'll stay for Charlie if she comes home drunk.
"Your mummy," Sherlock says to Charlie in a familiar lecturing tone, "is going out with a group of women, only one of whom she's met before. She wants to look smart without looking like she's trying to look smart. It's a waste of mental energy, but that's what most people do."
Molly gives up on waiting for him to leave the room - it's not like he hasn't seen everything of her already - and takes off her clothes. Sherlock watches her, but not the way he does when they have sex. She doesn't realize she knows that it's a different kind of watching until she thinks it.
The lecture goes on while she puts on the clothes Sherlock chose for her, and Charlie looks at Sherlock the whole time, listening closely, learning from more than just her. She's relieved, and she wants to snatch Charlie back, tell Sherlock that she chose this, not him.
Sherlock looks at her peculiarly, and she turns away to step into her shoes.
She has to come close to him to kiss Charlie. "Enjoy your time with Sherlock," she tells him. "I'll see you in the morning. Love you."
"Love you," Charlie echoes back, and Molly kisses him again for good measure.
Molly starts to step away, but Sherlock's hand on her cheek stops her.
"What?"
He looks at her, for a very long moment, then lets go. "You're going to be late."
Molly is late, but no one seems to mind. "Mary says you have a toddler," Kyla says. "We all know how that goes."
The whole group of women, she finds, are nannies, former nannies, and one child development expert. "It's good cross-contamination," Judy, the child development expert, says. "We all learn from each other."
"And then we stop talking and get pissed." Heidi leans away from the table and orders them another round.
Mary hugs Molly tightly at the end of the evening, when they're dispersing to buses and taxis and the Tube. "You'll come out with us again," she says, and, "I'm going home to John. I'm not saying you have to keep Sherlock at your flat, but it would be nice to have sex with my boyfriend without his commentary later."
Molly laughs, drunk enough that it's funny, and makes no promises. Still, she thinks about it when she gets home and Sherlock is on her sofa raising questioning eyebrows at her.
"No heels," she says, swaying a little as she crosses the room to sit next to him. "That was a good idea. I would have fallen down."
"Yes," Sherlock says, "you would have." Then a frown creases his forehead. "You didn't think about taking the Tube."
Molly laughs. And laughs. And laughs some more. "No," she says. "No, no, no. I had your child and your monstrously rich brother pays for my flat. I took a cab."
That doesn't make Sherlock look any more pleased.
"You're gorgeous," Molly says, even though she didn't mean to say anything. "Really fit. I can't believe-" And then she stops herself from talking and kisses him instead. To do it properly, she has to turn, climb half into his lap. God, throwing herself at him, literally this time. She expects to be rejected. She expects him to dump her on her arse and leave.
He kisses her back, carefully.
It unlocks everything she wants from him, everything she knows they'll never be, and she kisses him hungrily, shoves her hands under his suit jacket, says, "No, please," when he stops kissing her.
"Charlie," he says. "Locked door."
And yes, yes, that's a fantastic idea. Brilliant. Her bedroom door locks. She leaves her shoes by the sofa, the skirt and blouse he picked out in the hall, her bra and knickers on the bedroom floor.
Sherlock locks the door and lets her - lets her, she's not fooling herself, none of this has ever been about him actually wanting her - have him.
*
Girls' night becomes a monthly thing, a slightly shifting group depending on responsibilities and other commitments. Sherlock stays with Charlie, or arranges for Mrs. Hudson or Greg Lestrade to watch him if he has a case. Molly drinks but doesn't get drunk again.
3.
Charlie clambers up the stairs at Baker Street, book clutched in one hand. He's getting control of his body now, not quite her baby anymore. Molly follows him closely anyway, ready to catch him if he falls.
Charlie precedes her through the open door of the flat. He ignores everyone else and goes right to Sherlock. "Ock," he says, "look." He can say Sherlock's name now, and will, sometimes, but he still calls him "Ock." Molly figures it's better than any variation on "Dad," even though she's almost certain Charlie regards him the same way.
Sherlock takes Charlie's coat off before letting him sit in his lap and turn the pages of the book. It's one of Mycroft's gifts, and Molly supposes that letting Sherlock go through it with him will probably do more than she can with whatever Mycroft intended with it.
John takes Molly's coat, and Mary greets her with a hug before hooking her arm through Molly's and taking her to the kitchen to get a drink. Molly calls out greetings to Greg and Mrs. Hudson on the way.
"He's very good with Charlie," Greg says in an undertone when Mary lets go of Molly enough for her to talk to anyone else. "I wouldn't have thought it."
"Oh, Sherlock's got a good heart," Mrs. Hudson says.
They've moved on to discussing the deplorable state of the weather when John's voice, from the edge of the kitchen says, "My God."
Molly looks up, alarmed at his tone and the direction of his gaze. But Charlie's fine, still in Sherlock's lap, identical expressions of intense concentration on their faces. She looks at John, staring at them, and back at Charlie and Sherlock.
"Sherlock," John says.
Sherlock does look up at that, meeting John's eyes across the room for a moment until Charlie tugs on his lapel and he looks down again.
"Can I talk to you?" John asks.
"I'm rather occupied at the moment," Sherlock says. "It will have to wait."
"Sherlock," John says, with more force.
"I believe," Mycroft says from the door of the flat, "that Doctor Watson has finally figured out one of your secrets."
John turns on him instead, and not having that anger focused in Charlie's direction lets Molly take a breath. "You," John says. "This is why you've been dropping in at Christmas."
"Yes," Mycroft says, "of course. Hello, Charles."
"I thought," John says, "that he might be yours."
Molly can barely contain a noise at that. Mycroft. No.
"No," Mycroft says. "Children would not be," a pause, "advisable for me."
"Did you even think of that?" John says to Sherlock. He doesn't raise his voice, but it's frightening enough without the extra volume. "Did you even think about the danger you're putting him in?"
Charlie's fingers are tight around the fabric of Sherlock's coat. Sherlock puts one arm around him, and he settles a bit, although he's still looking from Sherlock to John to Molly with the same watchfulness Molly catches on him sometimes when he's in unfamiliar situations.
"No one," Sherlock says, low and sure, "would ever find the bodies of anyone who hurt my son."
Molly's heart catches in her throat. His son. She didn't think that would ever be a choice he would make.
"You can be quite sure of that," Mycroft says.
"I shouldn't be hearing this," Greg says.
"But I believe," Mycroft continues, "that you're frightening Charles."
Sherlock gets up, deposits Charlie in Molly's lap, and joins John in the kitchen. Mycroft goes to stand in the doorway, making himself a barrier between the two of them and the rest of the party, and Mary comes over to sit on the arm of Molly's chair.
"It'll be all right." Mary puts her arm around Molly. "You know John won't stay mad at Sherlock long."
Molly holds Charlie close, too close, breathes in his smell and accepts his arms around her neck. "All right, love," she murmurs. "Mummy's all right." She kisses his temple. "I love you."
"I love you Mummy," he says, solemn as anything.
"That's rather more excitement than we usually have at Christmas," Mrs. Hudson says.
"You were seeing him while he was," Greg pauses, "away."
There isn't any reason to answer that. He's a detective. He can figure out the math.
"Charlie," Molly asks, "what did Sherlock say about your book?"
She lets him tell her about it, more advanced, she thinks, than most children his age could manage, and tries to ignore the voices coming from the kitchen. After an uncomfortable few minutes, Greg strikes up a conversation with Mary about her job.
Sherlock comes out of the kitchen, John and Mycroft just behind him, and picks Charlie up.
Charlie wraps his arms around Sherlock's neck and says, "I love you, Ock."
"The correct response," Mycroft says, "is to return the sentiment."
Sherlock talks to Charlie the same way sometimes, more direct, less genteel, but the same kind of instruction. Teaching him the rules of navigating society, as if it's a game.
"Only if one feels it," Sherlock says.
"Ah," Mycroft says. "Just so."
Molly doesn't dare breathe. She won't be able to bear it if Sherlock hurts Charlie.
Sherlock's mouth works for a moment, Charlie leaning back in his hold to look only at his face. "I love you too," Sherlock says at length.
Mary squeezes Molly's shoulder, then goes to join John. Mycroft leaves. The party gets back into what counts as full swing for Christmas drinks at Baker Street.
Charlie falls asleep in Sherlock's lap while Sherlock plays something gorgeous and quiet on the violin.
*
Judy throws a New Year's Eve party. Molly takes Charlie to Mrs. Hudson's - Sherlock said he was busy - and shares a cab to the party with John and Mary.
Molly knows a dozen people there, and she's perfectly fine on her own when John and Mary get drawn into conversation. She chats with Judy, meets Lizzie's partner, dances with a man who smiles at her and kisses her hand.
She thinks she sees Sherlock across the room, but it can't be. Sherlock doesn't do parties, certainly not such ordinary ones.
There's no one for her to kiss at midnight, but she sips a glass of champagne and watches the couples around her, watches John and Mary. They're not romantic a lot of the time, but they're comfortable with each other.
Molly tells them to stay when she lets them know she's leaving. "Charlie, you know," she says. "Enjoy the rest of the party."
Mary hugs her tight. John's hug is more careful. Still angry, then, about Charlie.
Sherlock is waiting for her in the foyer, Charlie in his arms and cab waiting on the street behind him.
"I would have come to get him," Molly says.
"I know." Sherlock holds doors for her and gives the cabbie her address. She expects him to leave her and Charlie at her flat, but he pays the cabbie and comes up with her.
He takes Charlie straight through to the nursery. Molly hangs up her coat and goes to the kitchen for a glass of water. She's probably not drunk enough for a hangover even without it, but Charlie will be up early and the combination of alcohol and London winter are very dehydrating.
Sherlock joins her in the kitchen. "You enjoyed the party," he says.
"Yes." It's weird in how very ordinary it is, the two of them talking about the party while their son sleeps in the nursery.
Molly drinks the rest of her water and puts the glass in the sink. She turns to Sherlock and looks back at him. If he's going to stand in her kitchen and stare at her, she's going to get some enjoyment out of it.
One side of his mouth quirks up, like he knows what she's thinking and it amuses him.
"You're not lonely," he says after long enough that the silence is starting to be uncomfortable.
Molly thinks about girls' night, lunches with Mary, Judy's party. About, over and around it all, Charlie, taking up her time and her life and space in her heart. "No," she says, "I guess I'm not anymore."
Sherlock crosses the kitchen and kisses her. It's not a meaningless kiss, not the kind of kiss that leads to sex. It's a sweet kiss. A midnight kiss.
"Happy new year, Molly Hooper."
Molly smiles at him, the father of her son kissing her in her kitchen. "Happy new year, Sherlock Holmes."
*
"I'm keeping my flat for now," Mary says at girls' night when she tells the whole group about the state of her and John's relationship, "but we're trying it out."
"You and John have been together for ages," Lizzie says. "Why not just move in with him?"
"He's got a flatmate," Mary says. "We haven't told him yet. We're waiting to see if he's okay with it."
"His flatmate?" Rachel asks. She's new to girls' night and hasn't heard much about Sherlock yet. "Just tell him you're moving in."
"Think of it this way," Mary says, and although she's serious, there's laughter in her voice, "if Molly were going to ask a man to live with her, she'd have to make sure it's okay with Charlie. This is the same thing."
"Does that make you the stepmother?" Judy asks.
Mary laughs. "Could be. He acts like a spoilt child often enough."
"Now what about you, Molly?" Kyla asks. "You've not been out with anyone since I've known you, unless you're keeping it all very secret."
Molly thinks about Sherlock kissing her at New Year's, about letting her have him the first time she came out for girls' night. "No," she says. "No secrets."
"I've a friend," Kyla says. "He teaches pre-school, so he'll understand about Charlie. Great bloke."
"If he's so great," Lizzie asks, "why aren't you dating him?"
Kyla laughs along with the rest of the table. "No," she says, "we're just friends, but he is lovely. You'd like him," she says to Molly.
"No," Molly says. "That's lovely of you, but no."
"Still hung up on the ex?" Heidi asks.
"Ex?" Rachel asks.
"Not that Molly would ever tell us," Heidi says, and Molly doesn't think she means to be hurtful. "But Charlie didn't come from nowhere."
"He's not- It's co-"
"Don't say it's complicated," Rachel says. "It's never that complicated."
So Molly doesn't. She tells them the truth instead. "He doesn't love me." To her horror, she can feel her eyes fill with tears. It's worse saying it to them than it was saying it to Sherlock.
Across the table, Mary winces.
"Oh, God," Heidi says, "I'm sorry." She puts her arm around Molly. "Someone pour her another glass of wine."
Molly laughs a little and wipes her eyes. "It's all right. You weren't to know." She accepts both the wine and the change of subject Kyla affects that takes her out of the spotlight.
She doesn't forget about it, though. Doesn't forget about how much it hurts when she lets herself think about it, doesn't forget about how now Mary knows everything about her. Or almost. As they're leaving, Mary hugs her close and says, "Don't worry, I won't tell him."
Molly doesn't answer that. She just hugs Mary back, gets into her cab, and tries not to think about it on the way to her flat.
Sherlock is lying on the couch, just as he would be in his own flat. He glances at Molly when she comes in, then sweeps himself off the couch and comes to stand in front of her. "You've been crying," he says. "They upset you."
Molly turns away to hang up her coat. "It's fine."
"It's not fine." Sherlock puts his hand on her arm, uses it to turn her toward him. "They're supposed to be your friends. They're not supposed to upset you."
Molly pulls herself out of his grip. "It's fine. It happens. No one meant to upset me. It's fine."
Sherlock stands unmoving in front of her for a long minute. Then he puts his arms around her. It's a hug, she realizes after a moment. He means to be comforting.
It's almost too much to bear, but she lets herself have it, leans into his chest and inhales the scent of him. Only for a moment before she really can't bear it. Then she pushes him away.
"I'm fine," she says to his puzzled expression.
"You're not fine."
"Well, I will be. I just need to look in on Charlie and get some sleep. I'll be fine." She steps aside, so he can leave.
He looks at her suspiciously.
"Really." Molly can't quite manage a smile. "It's fine."
He still doesn't leave.
"Sometimes," Molly says, "this happens with friends."
He looks at her for another horribly long minute before he leaves.
Molly locks the door behind him, leans her forehead on it until she can move again. She opens Charlie's door quietly, just to look in on him. Molly watches his chest rise and fall for a minute, two, five.
She goes to bed and doesn't cry, even though she feels like she could.
*
There's a text, in the morning, from Mary: Why did you let him come home?
She texts back: Was he very awful?
Mary texts her: Harangued me for letting anyone upset you.
Molly doesn't have an answer for that.
Part Two
Notes: Title from Florence and The Machine's "Between Two Lungs."
Story on AO3
1.
They have sex. Sherlock comes to London, they have sex, and he leaves again. Molly may have romantic dreams about him, but she's not a complete fool. It's not about the sex; it's about the connection. It's about being with someone who knows him.
He looks more and more worn every time. Sometimes he puts his head on her chest or her stomach, and she thinks the dampness on her skin is not sweat but tears.
Molly gives up trying to date. She stops wearing lipstick, stops answering the few messages that come as a result of her online dating profile, stops saying yes when mates from work want to set her up.
She hears one of the lab techs tell one of the new hires that she's had a disappointment, like something out of Austen.
It's fine. Molly ignores them. She lives. She puts one foot in front of the other, cuts up dead strangers, keeps her sheets clean and condoms in the bedside drawer. It's fine. None of it bothers her.
Until her period doesn't come.
*
Molly has access to an entire lab and she often works the night shift. She does a one-handed blood draw and runs the tests herself. No room for mistakes with this one.
Then, of course, she's no idea what to do. Sherlock's gone, no way for her to get a message to him, no way to ask what he thinks, what he wants. The burden of choice, of decision, lies solely with her.
*
"Doctor Hooper." A dark-haired woman dressed better than Molly could ever hope to be opens the door to a very expensive car. "Please come with me."
The car takes her to a restaurant for which she is even more underdressed than for the car ride. The woman takes her to a secluded booth where she's left to sit by herself and wonder what she's doing here for a good five minutes before Mycroft Holmes slides into the other side of the booth.
"I've taken the liberty of ordering for us," he says. "Neither of us has time to waste."
Plates arrive just after he does.
"What am I doing here?"
"Enjoying lunch. The salmon is excellent." Mycroft gestures at her silverware and waits until she picks up her fork.
"I do wonder," he says a bit later - the salmon is excellent - "just what you intend to do."
"Do about what?"
"Your situation," he says. "If you intend to continue the pregnancy, you and the child will, of course, be provided for."
She could ask what he means by that, but she chooses the more important question: "Does he know?" Her eyes prick with tears when Mycroft doesn't answer. "Can you tell him, if he doesn't?"
He doesn't answer that either, merely reiterates his insistence that she'll be taken care of. The dark-haired woman puts her back into the same car as before, and sends her alone to Barts.
Molly throws up every bit of the excellent salmon in the first-floor loo.
*
"You've gained twelve pounds," Sherlock says. "Boyfriend?"
"Pregnant." It's not, she admits, the best way to tell him.
There's nothing in his face she can take as an emotional reaction. "Mine?"
"Yes."
"You haven't terminated it."
"No."
"Are you going to?"
"I don't know." Molly leaves him there and goes into the kitchen. "I've no idea what I'm going to do. Are you eating?"
"No."
Molly heats up leftover take-away for one and takes it to the table. Sherlock sits across from her and watches her eat.
"You've not much time to make a decision."
"No," she says. "Few weeks, at the most. Easier to do it sooner if I'm going to." Molly loses her appetite and puts the rest of her dinner back in the fridge. She'll eat it later, or tomorrow, or not at all. "You can have a say. I mean, if you want me to terminate or not. You can have a say in that."
Sherlock looks at her as if she's a not very intriguing puzzle. "It won't tie me to you."
"I know." She has no delusions about that. When he's done with whatever he's doing, when he can be himself again and have John and Mrs. Hudson and Inspector Lestrade, he'll have no need for her. "We're the worst possible people to have a baby now."
"How is that?"
"You don't love me, and we're both lonely."
If he notes the omission in her reasons, he doesn't mention it. "No doubt Mycroft has offered to provide you with a lifestyle more suited to him than to me. That should ease the strain."
"Is that your vote?"
"Do as you like, Molly."
What she would like is to wake up in a world where she's only awkward, unnoticed Molly Hooper and he's swanning about solving cases and being the most unattainable man in her world.
"I'm going to bed," she says. "You can come. Not for sex. I'm knackered. But if you want to come to bed with me, you can."
He does, creeping in after she has the lights out and her head on the pillow. He puts one hand on her stomach and the other under her shoulders. It's nice, the cuddle.
He's gone in the morning, and she looks down her body, says, "Your dad's utterly brilliant, if a bit mad. Dunno you'll ever meet him."
That, she supposes, is that decision made.
*
"You're-" Sherlock looks at her stomach, which is most definitely showing her condition now.
"In the second trimester. God, the hormones." Molly pulls him into her bedroom and sets to getting him to do what he did to get her in this state. It takes less work than she might have expected, and she falls asleep more satisfied than she has been since she found out she was pregnant.
*
Molly's eight months pregnant the next time Sherlock comes to her door. She says no to sex, but he comes to bed with her anyway.
She wakes up in the middle of the night to use the loo and finds that he's awake, one hand pressed flat to her stomach. He doesn't say anything, just puts it back when she gets into bed again.
*
It's nearly six months later, when she turns on the telly to have something to occupy her while Charlie nurses, that she sees Sherlock again. He's on the news, a headline story about everything he's done since his death.
He doesn't come to see her.
2.
"That's interesting, isn't it, Charlie? Not going to revolutionize the field, but solid work it sounds like. Good methodology."
The door to the lab interrupts her quiet lunch. She's in a corner, away from expensive equipment or anyone's active experiments. But she chose it because everyone else should be away for the hour.
Sherlock barely glances at her as he comes in, John following behind him. "Isn't the point of picking him up from the creche for lunch to get away from the hospital?"
"He'll only sleep if he can hear my heartbeat. It means a lot of sleeping in the rocking chair. Going anywhere else is too tiring."
John hesitates, but comes over to her. "Who's this then?"
"Charlie." Molly tips Charlie so John can see him. "This is John. He's a doctor too, but not the same kind of doctor as Mummy."
John smiles. "He's lovely."
"Thank you." Molly doesn't look at him as she says it.
"John," Sherlock says, and John nods and joins him at the bench.
Molly turns the page of her journal and reads the abstract of the next article out loud.
"Isn't he a bit young for that?"
"He needs the sound of my voice more than words."
*
"And then Mummy took out Mr. Harrison's heart. We have to weigh the heart after we take it out."
The doorbell interrupts Molly's recitation of her day. Post-mortems might not be most people's idea of appropriate stories for children, but it's what she does all day, and talking to babies is supposed to be good for them. Aids language development and all that.
Molly lets Sherlock in without question. He looks at Charlie resting against her chest.
"It's good for children to be in contact with their parents." Molly frowns. "Not that I mean you. I mean I'd rather hold him. It's comforting."
"For both of you, I presume," Sherlock says. "This is why he won't sleep away from you."
"I'm sure he'll be wanting to get as far from his mummy as possible soon enough. It's fine for now."
Sherlock looks at her for longer than is comfortable. "I'm sure Mycroft offered you a nanny." He looks around the flat. "And a larger flat."
"He did."
"You didn't take them."
"I can raise my own child." She doesn't say the other part of it, that she didn't want to move while Sherlock was gone. He probably knows. He probably could have found her no matter where she was.
"You should take the flat," Sherlock says. "Not whatever he wants to give you. Find one you like and have him make the arrangements. You'll want the space when Charlie starts crawling."
It's more thoughtful than she expects from him. "Maybe. Do you want-"
Sherlock says, "No," before she's even sure how she was going to finish the question.
Molly bounces Charlie a little while Sherlock stares at her, because that's what you do when you're holding a baby.
"You're not one of those women who is well-suited to motherhood."
Molly laughs, softly because of Charlie. "No," she says. "I'm not the least bit suited to this." She runs her hand over Charlie's hair - dark already, but still straight; she expects it to curl later. "I do love him though. There is that."
"Some modes of thought on the matter consider that the most important quality in a parent."
Molly lifts one shoulder in a shrug. "I'll muddle through."
*
Molly puts Charlie's car seat down and lets John take her coat.
"Merry Christmas," she says to the room at large. There are a few greetings back, but she waits until she has Charlie out of his car seat and in her arms before she goes around to greet everyone. More people than the last time she was at Baker Street for Christmas drinks.
She tries not to think about the last time.
"Look at you," Mrs. Hudson says, "with a baby."
Molly takes Charlie over to her so she can see him.
"Oh, he's just lovely. Must get heavy carrying him about all the time."
"He does a bit. Good for the arms, though. We moved last weekend. Easy as anything to carry boxes into the new flat."
"Wait until he's a toddler," Lestrade says. "Then you'll really get a workout."
"He's just gorgeous," Annie says. Molly hasn't met her before, but since she's the only one there she hasn't, she guesses she must be John's girlfriend. "Isn't he, John?"
John raises his chin. "Can I get you a drink?"
"A drink would be lovely." Molly goes with him into the kitchen.
"Wine? Scotch?" John gestures at the bottles on the table.
"She can't have alcohol," Sherlock says from behind Molly. She hadn't noticed him coming. "She's breastfeeding."
"Right," John says. "I can make you some tea."
"Soda and lemon will be fine."
Molly takes the glass from John and sips at it. When she turns around, Sherlock is gone, halfway across the flat arguing with Lestrade about something.
It's a nice party, small, but pleasant. Lots of small talk interspersed with Sherlock's declarations and deductions. Mrs. Hudson cajoles Sherlock into playing for them, and even Annie looks on him kindly when he does.
Molly puts her glass down and catches John's attention when Charlie starts make the small noises that mean he needs to eat.
"He's hungry," she says. "Is there somewhere I can?"
"Yeah, right, of course. Sherlock-"
"Yes, yes." Sherlock waves a hand at them, and John takes her to what must be, from the conversation and the periodic table on the wall, Sherlock's bedroom.
"Thanks," Molly says. "Won't be a bit."
"Take your time." John closes the door behind himself with a quiet click.
Molly sits on the edge of the bed and unbuttons her blouse. "There you go," she says as she gets Charlie settled. She looks around the room while he nurses. It's plain, neat, giant bed. Not really what she expected. Not at all how she ever thought she would end up in it.
"He seems like quite a good baby," Mrs. Hudson says when Molly rejoins the party.
"I don't have much for comparison," Molly says. No one else smiles with her. "But I suppose. Quiet most of the time. Serious."
"Much like his father, no doubt." Mycroft's voice comes from the door.
The question in the room is nearly palpable. Molly doesn't look at Sherlock.
"Mycroft."
"Don't worry, dear brother, I'm not staying. I was merely passing by on my way to another engagement and thought I would drop in to wish everyone a happy Christmas." He turns to Molly. "I trust Charles's gift arrived safely."
"Yes," she says. "Thank you." They probably all think he's Charlie's father now.
"You're quite welcome. May I?"
"Oh, yes, of course." Molly lets him take Charlie. Mycroft holds him as coolly and competently as she's ever seen him do anything else.
Sherlock crosses the room in a few steps and takes Charlie from Mycroft. "We're all assured a happy Christmas, assuming you haven't got a war to start in the next two days. You can go now."
"Sherlock," John scolds. To Mycroft he says, "Would you like a drink?"
Sherlock holds Charlie like he knows exactly what he's doing. Head supported, close to his chest so Charlie isn't adrift in the air.
It strikes Molly, the way it does sometimes, that she knows what he looks like naked. She knows what he looks like in her bed.
"No, thank you," Mycroft says. "I really must be going."
There's another round of good wishes, from everyone but Sherlock, and Mycroft leaves as suddenly as he'd arrived.
"Mycroft," Sherlock mutters.
Molly holds out her arms. "I can take him."
"You've barely eaten," Sherlock says. "And he's tired."
"Oh, I'm sure the boys can find somewhere for you to put him down," Mrs. Hudson says.
"He won't sleep without a heartbeat," Sherlock tells her. "Is this too much noise, or will he be able to sleep?"
"He'll sleep," Molly says. "If you- Do that." Sherlock has done exactly what she would. He has the blanket tucked close around Charlie, one hand holding it over his head to block the noise, and Charlie's other ear pressed to his chest. He's opened his suit jacket so there's only his shirt between Charlie and his heartbeat.
"Eat something," Sherlock says. "He's fine."
*
Molly lets Sherlock in, even though she's in her pajamas and ready to try to get Charlie to sleep.
"Is there something? Do you need something?"
Sherlock presses his lips together for a moment. Then he holds out his arms. "I'll sit with Charlie."
Molly just stares at him. "I thought you didn't want-"
"No," he says. "I need to think anyway, and you need sleep to be effective in the lab."
Molly gives Charlie to him and turns out the lights in the living room. "I usually sit in the rocking chair in the nursery." She starts down the hall, then turns. "You haven't been here yet."
"It's not so large that I'm likely to get lost."
Molly's too tired to let that hurt her. "Nursery." She points into it. "I'm across the hall. He'll want feeding in the middle of the night. You can bring him in to me." She leans in, close to Sherlock to get to Charlie. "Good night, love." She kisses Charlie's cheek. "Mummy loves you."
Sherlock's looking at her like she's something to be studied, but he doesn't say anything, so she goes into her room and closes the door.
Going to sleep so early in her own bed is strange, after so many nights spent rocking Charlie until late. Her body is used to his rhythms, though, and she wakes up just before Sherlock opens her door.
She's already unbuttoning her pajama top by the time Sherlock gives her Charlie. Molly sits up against the headboard, eyes closed and head tipped back, while he nurses.
She blinks her eyes open to keep from falling asleep and finds Sherlock watching her. "Not very sexy is it?"
"Evolutionarily speaking," Sherlock says, "proof that a mate can provide for the survival of the offspring is a desirable quality."
Molly smiles a little, and Sherlock takes Charlie from her when he's done nursing. Molly slips back under her covers without bothering to button her shirt, and wakes up in the morning to Sherlock bringing her Charlie again. Sherlock leaves as soon as Charlie starts nursing.
*
"-Tuesday," Sherlock's voice says at the end of the hall. He sweeps through the door with John, Lestrade, and Sergeant Donovan behind him, and forces them all to stop to avoid running into him when he stops walking.
Charlie, unsteady as he is, falls down with the loss of focus. He looks up at Molly, and she waits for a moment to see if he's going to cry. He doesn't. He looks down the hall instead.
"Ock!"
"Yes, love," Molly says. "Sherlock."
"When you fall," Sherlock says, "you have to stand up and start walking again."
Charlie plants his hands on the floor and pushes himself up.
"Let's go, Freak," Sergeant Donovan says.
"Oh do be quiet, Sally," Sherlock says. "You'll startle him and he'll fall again. It's not so far." His tone doesn't change much when he talks to Charlie. "You can make it."
Molly trails along behind Charlie until he gets within arm's length of Sherlock.
Charlie plants his hands on Sherlock's trousers - Molly cringes to think of the damage he's going to do when he does that with something all over them - and grins up at him.
"Well done," Sherlock says. "Perfectly developmentally appropriate." He scoops Charlie up and pulls a teething ring out of his pocket. It's one of the round ones, the kind you put in the freezer. Charlie grabs onto it and sticks it in his mouth.
"Hello, Charlie," Lestrade says. "Molly. We're here to see a couple of bodies."
Molly hesitates.
"It can't wait," Sherlock says. "I have Charlie."
"I don't want him seeing the bodies."
"I can take him," John offers. "Stay out here."
"No," Sherlock says. "I'll need you. I have Charlie. I'll keep him from seeing the bodies."
There's no way Molly will ever be able to figure out anything about Sherlock just by looking, but she tries it anyway.
"You would trust the Freak with your child?" Sergeant Donovan asks.
Molly says, "He's very good with Charlie," and lets them into the morgue.
Molly gets the bodies for them and listens to John and Sherlock talk their way through their relevance to the case. Molly catches the needle marks behind one of the ears and gets a pleased look from Sherlock for her trouble.
She keeps half an eye on Charlie, but Sherlock is as good as his word and keeps him turned away from the bodies.
The rest of them stand around discussing their case - or Sherlock lectures them about it; Molly's not clear on the distinction - while Molly puts the bodies away and washes her hands.
"He's sleeping," Sherlock says with a frown when Molly comes back to get Charlie. "Why is he sleeping?"
"Because he's teething," Molly says. "It hurts and then he doesn't sleep."
"He's sleeping now."
"Because he's tired and you're holding him and you gave him something to chew on." Molly's arms slide along Sherlock's chest as she takes Charlie from him.
"There are other ways to relieve the pain of teething."
Molly cuts him off before it can become a full-fledged lecture. "Yes, I know, and I've plenty of people giving me advice. I don't need any more. If you really want to help, you can come sit with him. Or tell me whatever it is Mycroft is trying to say with all the things he's been sending Charlie."
It's very rare that Molly surprises Sherlock, but she's done it now. Lestrade doesn't seem to know where to look, and Sergeant Donovan is frankly staring at them.
Molly ducks her head and presses her lips to the top of Charlie's head. "God," she says, "I'm sorry. When he doesn't sleep, I don't sleep." She tries a smile. "It's fine, really."
Sherlock says, "Text me a list of what Mycroft sent you," and sweeps out of the morgue.
John, Lestrade, and Sergeant Donovan take their leave a moment later.
"God, I'm rubbish at this," Molly says. She kisses the top of Charlie's head again and takes him up to the creche.
*
Sherlock hasn't come by to sit with Charlie since he started sleeping on his own, but there he is, three days after the morgue, outside her door. He doesn't look any more rested than she feels, but he holds out his arms.
Molly lets him in, but doesn't hand over Charlie. "You don't have to. I didn't mean it. You don't have to do anything."
Sherlock cuts her off by saying her name. There's a pause as if he's waiting to see if it's going to take. "I won't sleep, not yet." He holds out his arms again.
This time, Molly kisses Charlie then gives him to Sherlock.
Charlie's too worn out to be enthusiastic about visitors, but he curls trustingly against Sherlock's chest.
"Mycroft wasn't telling you anything," Sherlock says just before she goes through the door to her room. "He was," and here he looks positively pained, "helping. Providing items to aid in Charlie's development." He looks down at Charlie. "He will need more stimulation than other children."
Molly's tired, days on end of watching Charlie hurt and neither of them sleeping, so she just nods and goes to bed. It's not until the next morning when she takes Charlie from Sherlock and sends him home to get some sleep before he nods off in the rocking chair that the sheer terror of being responsible for the mental development of a child who is half a Holmes hits her.
*
Molly doesn't have the Holmes mind for finding patterns in anything and everything, for unraveling mysteries and knowing everything about a person just by looking at them. That doesn't mean she's stupid.
She notices, after the first few times, that on non-urgent occasions - although there's always a sense of urgency about Sherlock in her lab - Sherlock and John always come to the lab at lunchtime.
Charlie's vocalizations aren't quite real sentences yet, but he can make himself very clear when he wants to. The lab is safe enough that Molly puts him down. He makes his own way around the benches to Sherlock.
"You will have to wait a moment," Sherlock says. "I have to put the sample on the slide first." He has a scalpel, which he is using to scrape something off of a very large pendant.
"I'm not occupied," John says. "I don't even know why I'm here." He glances at Molly, for permission maybe, before he picks Charlie up and holds him where he can see what Sherlock's doing.
Charlie reaches for Sherlock, an entreaty Sherlock ignores until he has the slide under the microscope. Then he takes Charlie and settles him on his lap. "It's a case," he says. "The pendant was dragged through something after it was taken from its owner and before it was returned to her. She considers it precious - the way she handled it. She would have cleaned it if it had been an accident."
"And she's not a criminal," John says.
Sherlock makes an annoyed noise and adjusts the microscope. His other hand never leaves Charlie, keeping him safe. "You finding her sexually attractive does not negate the possibility of criminal behavior."
"Sherlock." John's voice has gone tight and displeased. "That isn't-"
"Of course it is." Sherlock pulls away from the microscope with one swift motion. He adjusts the knobs to pull the eyepieces together, frowns at it, adjusts it again, and lifts Charlie up to look into it. "Paint," he says. "Acrylic, likely from an artist."
Charlie grips one eyepiece and babbles an unintelligible sentence.
"You'll learn to recognize it later," Sherlock says.
Molly's heart aches, and some of her terror recedes. No matter what Sherlock may have said at any point, she isn't solely responsible for Charlie's development.
*
Molly gets used to - again - having Sherlock in her flat, staying awake nights in the rocking chair with Charlie, swapping out teething rings and pressing Charlie's ear to his chest to hear his heartbeat.
She is not used to Sherlock dropping by at half ten on a Saturday.
Charlie, of course, is delighted. He says, "Ock," and continues to babble on even as Sherlock picks him up.
Sherlock listens with what seems like more attention than is really warranted. "Your language development is coming along nicely," he tells Charlie.
Charlie beams at him, like he understands.
Sherlock puts him back on the floor, in the midst of the mess he's made out of Mycroft Holmes' ideas about appropriate child development aids. Sherlock watches Charlie choose one of the soft cubes, each of the six sides made of a subtly different fabric.
"Do you still think," he asks, "that we are the worst people for this?"
Molly has to think, months and months of pregnancy and raising a baby between when she told him that and now, to remember the conversation. "You're not lonely anymore," she offers.
Sherlock looks at her sharply. She doesn't bother trying to hide anything; it's not worth it around him.
To her surprise, he doesn't say anything to her. Instead, he folds himself onto the floor and describes the fiber content of the two sides of the cube Charlie has his hands on.
*
Charlie can manage stairs, some of them, but Molly still carries him up to the flat at Baker Street. "Merry Christmas, everyone," she says, and gets a chorus of greetings back, the sound of Sherlock's violin behind them.
John comes to take her and Charlie's coats, and he brings a lovely blond woman with him who he introduces as Mary. Molly puts Charlie down, and he promptly takes the few steps that bring him to Mary and grabs onto her leg.
"Charlie, love," Molly says, and she bends down to pry him away.
"It's all right," Mary says. She crouches, carefully, so she's at Charlie's level. "I'm a nanny, live-in. I don't even own anything that isn't washable and child-proof. Hello, Charlie. My name is Mary."
Charlie gives her a perfect, gorgeous smile.
"Oh my," Mary says, tilting her head up to look at Molly, "he is lovely. Going to break a few hearts when he's older."
Charlie lets go of where he'd shifted his grip to her arm and heads for Sherlock. He has to go around furniture and Lestrade, and he can't possibly see Sherlock for half the journey, but he does it unerringly. "Ock," he says, "up!"
Sherlock stops playing, picks Charlie up, and sits on the couch. "Put your hand here," he says, placing Charlie's palm flat to the body of the violin. "You'll be able to feel the vibrations."
Molly realizes she's being rude and snaps her attention to Mary. Charlie will be fine with Sherlock. "Your pendant," she says before she thinks about it. "Sherlock brought it to the lab."
Mary touches it. It looks better; even Molly can see it's been cleaned, and anything would look better on Mary than lying on the lab bench. "Yes," she says. "I hired him. That's how I met John." Her face goes soft when she says that. "It was your lab, then? John said Sherlock had a friend there."
Molly looks across the room at Sherlock bent over Charlie and the violin. "Yes," she says. "I mainly do post-mortems, but sometimes that requires the use of a lab." She makes a face, because post-mortems and lab work are not good party conversation. "You're a nanny?"
"For now."
Molly follows Mary's gaze to John laughing with Lestrade in the kitchen.
"The youngest is off to school next fall, so they won't be needing me. I'm not sure yet if I'm going to look for another position or find something else to do." Mary looks at Molly again. "Oh, but you don't have a drink. Let's get you something."
Molly looks at Charlie again - he's perfectly, happily, occupied by Sherlock's continued instruction - and lets Mary take her into the kitchen.
"You didn't get Molly a drink," Mary says. She brushes a kiss onto John's cheek. It looks comfortable, easy.
"I'm sorry," John says. "I was distracted." He waves at the room, a meaningless gesture that Molly takes to mean he forgot in the bustle of coats and introductions. "What can I get you?"
Molly looks at Mary's half-full glass. "Wine," she says. John pours her a glass and tops off Mary's.
"Charlie looks well," Lestrade says.
"Yes," Molly says. "He's wonderful." It comes out more forceful than she meant, and she hasn't even touched her wine.
"That's lovely," Mary says, "that you adore him."
Adore, Molly thinks. Adore doesn't even begin to cover the way she feels about her son.
"Toddler now, isn't he?" Lestrade says. "Getting into everything, I imagine."
Molly smiles. "Yes. I've cleared all the lower shelves in the flat, and he still finds things to take off of them."
"It's only a stage in his development," Mycroft's voice says from behind her. "I'm sure he'll grow out of it. Merry Christmas, Doctor Hooper, Miss Morstan, Inspector Lestrade, Doctor Watson."
"Merry Christmas," Molly says.
"Dropping in on us two years in a row?" Sherlock comes to the kitchen as well, Charlie held in one arm and the violin dangling from the fingers of his other hand, leaving only Mrs. Hudson in the living room. "No need to make a habit of it."
"It's the only reliable way to convey good wishes to all of you at once. Hello, Charles."
"My-of," Charlie says.
There's a ripple of displeasure across Mycroft's face and an answering smile on Sherlock's.
"Consonant blends," Mycroft says. "You should be able to say them any day now."
Sherlock turns away, putting himself between Mycroft and Charlie. Molly would have done it if he hadn't.
"You've conveyed your wishes," Sherlock says. "You can return to whatever plans you've manufactured to make this convenient."
"I would never manufacture plans," Mycroft says, "but I will be late if I linger. Good evening."
There's a moment of silence broken only by Charlie's soft babbling after he leaves.
"Who, exactly, was that?" Mary asks. "And is he always like that?"
"Sherlock's brother," John says, "and yes."
*
Molly is surprised to hear from Mary again.
Mary says, "Sherlock gave me your number. Would you like to have lunch?" so Molly leaves Charlie in the creche at lunchtime and meets Mary eight blocks away for curry.
"John didn't mention," Mary says after they've done all the hellos and how are you?s, "so I assume he doesn't know that Charlie is Sherlock's son."
Molly's breath catches. Only three of them know that. Sherlock hadn't chosen otherwise, so she hadn't either. "You-" She doesn't know what she means to say, or ask.
"I've spent my life caring for children," Mary says. "There's a resemblance. Besides, I've no idea how he feels about you, but it's obvious he loves Charlie."
Molly doesn't think that's obvious in the least. "I've no idea either," she says. "Are you going to tell John?"
"No," Mary says. "That's between him and Sherlock. But if we're going to be friends, I want you to know that I know."
"Oh," Molly says. "Are we going to be friends?"
"I've no idea," Mary says cheerfully, "but we might as well make a go of it."
*
Molly gets a text from Mary on a Thursday: Girls' night, Saturday, 8pm. You in?
Her phone buzzes again a second later with another text: I will sit with Charlie on Saturday. SH
Molly texts back a yes to Mary and Sherlock shows up at her flat at half seven on Saturday. He runs his eyes over her, picks up Charlie, and walks straight into her bedroom where he ignores the clothes she'd been trying on and pulls a skirt and blouse out of her closet.
"Your usual shoes will do," he says. "You're going to drink, and you'll harm yourself in heels."
Molly looks at what he's chosen. They are smart enough, and he's right about the heels. She thinks she can take his suggestion as meaning he'll stay for Charlie if she comes home drunk.
"Your mummy," Sherlock says to Charlie in a familiar lecturing tone, "is going out with a group of women, only one of whom she's met before. She wants to look smart without looking like she's trying to look smart. It's a waste of mental energy, but that's what most people do."
Molly gives up on waiting for him to leave the room - it's not like he hasn't seen everything of her already - and takes off her clothes. Sherlock watches her, but not the way he does when they have sex. She doesn't realize she knows that it's a different kind of watching until she thinks it.
The lecture goes on while she puts on the clothes Sherlock chose for her, and Charlie looks at Sherlock the whole time, listening closely, learning from more than just her. She's relieved, and she wants to snatch Charlie back, tell Sherlock that she chose this, not him.
Sherlock looks at her peculiarly, and she turns away to step into her shoes.
She has to come close to him to kiss Charlie. "Enjoy your time with Sherlock," she tells him. "I'll see you in the morning. Love you."
"Love you," Charlie echoes back, and Molly kisses him again for good measure.
Molly starts to step away, but Sherlock's hand on her cheek stops her.
"What?"
He looks at her, for a very long moment, then lets go. "You're going to be late."
Molly is late, but no one seems to mind. "Mary says you have a toddler," Kyla says. "We all know how that goes."
The whole group of women, she finds, are nannies, former nannies, and one child development expert. "It's good cross-contamination," Judy, the child development expert, says. "We all learn from each other."
"And then we stop talking and get pissed." Heidi leans away from the table and orders them another round.
Mary hugs Molly tightly at the end of the evening, when they're dispersing to buses and taxis and the Tube. "You'll come out with us again," she says, and, "I'm going home to John. I'm not saying you have to keep Sherlock at your flat, but it would be nice to have sex with my boyfriend without his commentary later."
Molly laughs, drunk enough that it's funny, and makes no promises. Still, she thinks about it when she gets home and Sherlock is on her sofa raising questioning eyebrows at her.
"No heels," she says, swaying a little as she crosses the room to sit next to him. "That was a good idea. I would have fallen down."
"Yes," Sherlock says, "you would have." Then a frown creases his forehead. "You didn't think about taking the Tube."
Molly laughs. And laughs. And laughs some more. "No," she says. "No, no, no. I had your child and your monstrously rich brother pays for my flat. I took a cab."
That doesn't make Sherlock look any more pleased.
"You're gorgeous," Molly says, even though she didn't mean to say anything. "Really fit. I can't believe-" And then she stops herself from talking and kisses him instead. To do it properly, she has to turn, climb half into his lap. God, throwing herself at him, literally this time. She expects to be rejected. She expects him to dump her on her arse and leave.
He kisses her back, carefully.
It unlocks everything she wants from him, everything she knows they'll never be, and she kisses him hungrily, shoves her hands under his suit jacket, says, "No, please," when he stops kissing her.
"Charlie," he says. "Locked door."
And yes, yes, that's a fantastic idea. Brilliant. Her bedroom door locks. She leaves her shoes by the sofa, the skirt and blouse he picked out in the hall, her bra and knickers on the bedroom floor.
Sherlock locks the door and lets her - lets her, she's not fooling herself, none of this has ever been about him actually wanting her - have him.
*
Girls' night becomes a monthly thing, a slightly shifting group depending on responsibilities and other commitments. Sherlock stays with Charlie, or arranges for Mrs. Hudson or Greg Lestrade to watch him if he has a case. Molly drinks but doesn't get drunk again.
3.
Charlie clambers up the stairs at Baker Street, book clutched in one hand. He's getting control of his body now, not quite her baby anymore. Molly follows him closely anyway, ready to catch him if he falls.
Charlie precedes her through the open door of the flat. He ignores everyone else and goes right to Sherlock. "Ock," he says, "look." He can say Sherlock's name now, and will, sometimes, but he still calls him "Ock." Molly figures it's better than any variation on "Dad," even though she's almost certain Charlie regards him the same way.
Sherlock takes Charlie's coat off before letting him sit in his lap and turn the pages of the book. It's one of Mycroft's gifts, and Molly supposes that letting Sherlock go through it with him will probably do more than she can with whatever Mycroft intended with it.
John takes Molly's coat, and Mary greets her with a hug before hooking her arm through Molly's and taking her to the kitchen to get a drink. Molly calls out greetings to Greg and Mrs. Hudson on the way.
"He's very good with Charlie," Greg says in an undertone when Mary lets go of Molly enough for her to talk to anyone else. "I wouldn't have thought it."
"Oh, Sherlock's got a good heart," Mrs. Hudson says.
They've moved on to discussing the deplorable state of the weather when John's voice, from the edge of the kitchen says, "My God."
Molly looks up, alarmed at his tone and the direction of his gaze. But Charlie's fine, still in Sherlock's lap, identical expressions of intense concentration on their faces. She looks at John, staring at them, and back at Charlie and Sherlock.
"Sherlock," John says.
Sherlock does look up at that, meeting John's eyes across the room for a moment until Charlie tugs on his lapel and he looks down again.
"Can I talk to you?" John asks.
"I'm rather occupied at the moment," Sherlock says. "It will have to wait."
"Sherlock," John says, with more force.
"I believe," Mycroft says from the door of the flat, "that Doctor Watson has finally figured out one of your secrets."
John turns on him instead, and not having that anger focused in Charlie's direction lets Molly take a breath. "You," John says. "This is why you've been dropping in at Christmas."
"Yes," Mycroft says, "of course. Hello, Charles."
"I thought," John says, "that he might be yours."
Molly can barely contain a noise at that. Mycroft. No.
"No," Mycroft says. "Children would not be," a pause, "advisable for me."
"Did you even think of that?" John says to Sherlock. He doesn't raise his voice, but it's frightening enough without the extra volume. "Did you even think about the danger you're putting him in?"
Charlie's fingers are tight around the fabric of Sherlock's coat. Sherlock puts one arm around him, and he settles a bit, although he's still looking from Sherlock to John to Molly with the same watchfulness Molly catches on him sometimes when he's in unfamiliar situations.
"No one," Sherlock says, low and sure, "would ever find the bodies of anyone who hurt my son."
Molly's heart catches in her throat. His son. She didn't think that would ever be a choice he would make.
"You can be quite sure of that," Mycroft says.
"I shouldn't be hearing this," Greg says.
"But I believe," Mycroft continues, "that you're frightening Charles."
Sherlock gets up, deposits Charlie in Molly's lap, and joins John in the kitchen. Mycroft goes to stand in the doorway, making himself a barrier between the two of them and the rest of the party, and Mary comes over to sit on the arm of Molly's chair.
"It'll be all right." Mary puts her arm around Molly. "You know John won't stay mad at Sherlock long."
Molly holds Charlie close, too close, breathes in his smell and accepts his arms around her neck. "All right, love," she murmurs. "Mummy's all right." She kisses his temple. "I love you."
"I love you Mummy," he says, solemn as anything.
"That's rather more excitement than we usually have at Christmas," Mrs. Hudson says.
"You were seeing him while he was," Greg pauses, "away."
There isn't any reason to answer that. He's a detective. He can figure out the math.
"Charlie," Molly asks, "what did Sherlock say about your book?"
She lets him tell her about it, more advanced, she thinks, than most children his age could manage, and tries to ignore the voices coming from the kitchen. After an uncomfortable few minutes, Greg strikes up a conversation with Mary about her job.
Sherlock comes out of the kitchen, John and Mycroft just behind him, and picks Charlie up.
Charlie wraps his arms around Sherlock's neck and says, "I love you, Ock."
"The correct response," Mycroft says, "is to return the sentiment."
Sherlock talks to Charlie the same way sometimes, more direct, less genteel, but the same kind of instruction. Teaching him the rules of navigating society, as if it's a game.
"Only if one feels it," Sherlock says.
"Ah," Mycroft says. "Just so."
Molly doesn't dare breathe. She won't be able to bear it if Sherlock hurts Charlie.
Sherlock's mouth works for a moment, Charlie leaning back in his hold to look only at his face. "I love you too," Sherlock says at length.
Mary squeezes Molly's shoulder, then goes to join John. Mycroft leaves. The party gets back into what counts as full swing for Christmas drinks at Baker Street.
Charlie falls asleep in Sherlock's lap while Sherlock plays something gorgeous and quiet on the violin.
*
Judy throws a New Year's Eve party. Molly takes Charlie to Mrs. Hudson's - Sherlock said he was busy - and shares a cab to the party with John and Mary.
Molly knows a dozen people there, and she's perfectly fine on her own when John and Mary get drawn into conversation. She chats with Judy, meets Lizzie's partner, dances with a man who smiles at her and kisses her hand.
She thinks she sees Sherlock across the room, but it can't be. Sherlock doesn't do parties, certainly not such ordinary ones.
There's no one for her to kiss at midnight, but she sips a glass of champagne and watches the couples around her, watches John and Mary. They're not romantic a lot of the time, but they're comfortable with each other.
Molly tells them to stay when she lets them know she's leaving. "Charlie, you know," she says. "Enjoy the rest of the party."
Mary hugs her tight. John's hug is more careful. Still angry, then, about Charlie.
Sherlock is waiting for her in the foyer, Charlie in his arms and cab waiting on the street behind him.
"I would have come to get him," Molly says.
"I know." Sherlock holds doors for her and gives the cabbie her address. She expects him to leave her and Charlie at her flat, but he pays the cabbie and comes up with her.
He takes Charlie straight through to the nursery. Molly hangs up her coat and goes to the kitchen for a glass of water. She's probably not drunk enough for a hangover even without it, but Charlie will be up early and the combination of alcohol and London winter are very dehydrating.
Sherlock joins her in the kitchen. "You enjoyed the party," he says.
"Yes." It's weird in how very ordinary it is, the two of them talking about the party while their son sleeps in the nursery.
Molly drinks the rest of her water and puts the glass in the sink. She turns to Sherlock and looks back at him. If he's going to stand in her kitchen and stare at her, she's going to get some enjoyment out of it.
One side of his mouth quirks up, like he knows what she's thinking and it amuses him.
"You're not lonely," he says after long enough that the silence is starting to be uncomfortable.
Molly thinks about girls' night, lunches with Mary, Judy's party. About, over and around it all, Charlie, taking up her time and her life and space in her heart. "No," she says, "I guess I'm not anymore."
Sherlock crosses the kitchen and kisses her. It's not a meaningless kiss, not the kind of kiss that leads to sex. It's a sweet kiss. A midnight kiss.
"Happy new year, Molly Hooper."
Molly smiles at him, the father of her son kissing her in her kitchen. "Happy new year, Sherlock Holmes."
*
"I'm keeping my flat for now," Mary says at girls' night when she tells the whole group about the state of her and John's relationship, "but we're trying it out."
"You and John have been together for ages," Lizzie says. "Why not just move in with him?"
"He's got a flatmate," Mary says. "We haven't told him yet. We're waiting to see if he's okay with it."
"His flatmate?" Rachel asks. She's new to girls' night and hasn't heard much about Sherlock yet. "Just tell him you're moving in."
"Think of it this way," Mary says, and although she's serious, there's laughter in her voice, "if Molly were going to ask a man to live with her, she'd have to make sure it's okay with Charlie. This is the same thing."
"Does that make you the stepmother?" Judy asks.
Mary laughs. "Could be. He acts like a spoilt child often enough."
"Now what about you, Molly?" Kyla asks. "You've not been out with anyone since I've known you, unless you're keeping it all very secret."
Molly thinks about Sherlock kissing her at New Year's, about letting her have him the first time she came out for girls' night. "No," she says. "No secrets."
"I've a friend," Kyla says. "He teaches pre-school, so he'll understand about Charlie. Great bloke."
"If he's so great," Lizzie asks, "why aren't you dating him?"
Kyla laughs along with the rest of the table. "No," she says, "we're just friends, but he is lovely. You'd like him," she says to Molly.
"No," Molly says. "That's lovely of you, but no."
"Still hung up on the ex?" Heidi asks.
"Ex?" Rachel asks.
"Not that Molly would ever tell us," Heidi says, and Molly doesn't think she means to be hurtful. "But Charlie didn't come from nowhere."
"He's not- It's co-"
"Don't say it's complicated," Rachel says. "It's never that complicated."
So Molly doesn't. She tells them the truth instead. "He doesn't love me." To her horror, she can feel her eyes fill with tears. It's worse saying it to them than it was saying it to Sherlock.
Across the table, Mary winces.
"Oh, God," Heidi says, "I'm sorry." She puts her arm around Molly. "Someone pour her another glass of wine."
Molly laughs a little and wipes her eyes. "It's all right. You weren't to know." She accepts both the wine and the change of subject Kyla affects that takes her out of the spotlight.
She doesn't forget about it, though. Doesn't forget about how much it hurts when she lets herself think about it, doesn't forget about how now Mary knows everything about her. Or almost. As they're leaving, Mary hugs her close and says, "Don't worry, I won't tell him."
Molly doesn't answer that. She just hugs Mary back, gets into her cab, and tries not to think about it on the way to her flat.
Sherlock is lying on the couch, just as he would be in his own flat. He glances at Molly when she comes in, then sweeps himself off the couch and comes to stand in front of her. "You've been crying," he says. "They upset you."
Molly turns away to hang up her coat. "It's fine."
"It's not fine." Sherlock puts his hand on her arm, uses it to turn her toward him. "They're supposed to be your friends. They're not supposed to upset you."
Molly pulls herself out of his grip. "It's fine. It happens. No one meant to upset me. It's fine."
Sherlock stands unmoving in front of her for a long minute. Then he puts his arms around her. It's a hug, she realizes after a moment. He means to be comforting.
It's almost too much to bear, but she lets herself have it, leans into his chest and inhales the scent of him. Only for a moment before she really can't bear it. Then she pushes him away.
"I'm fine," she says to his puzzled expression.
"You're not fine."
"Well, I will be. I just need to look in on Charlie and get some sleep. I'll be fine." She steps aside, so he can leave.
He looks at her suspiciously.
"Really." Molly can't quite manage a smile. "It's fine."
He still doesn't leave.
"Sometimes," Molly says, "this happens with friends."
He looks at her for another horribly long minute before he leaves.
Molly locks the door behind him, leans her forehead on it until she can move again. She opens Charlie's door quietly, just to look in on him. Molly watches his chest rise and fall for a minute, two, five.
She goes to bed and doesn't cry, even though she feels like she could.
*
There's a text, in the morning, from Mary: Why did you let him come home?
She texts back: Was he very awful?
Mary texts her: Harangued me for letting anyone upset you.
Molly doesn't have an answer for that.
Part Two