Sustain
or
Concerto for the Famished in D Minor

Part Five

On New Year's Day, Molly woke up on the sofa, as was getting to be her habit, because the bed was too hard to get into and out of. Sherlock was asleep on the floor beside the sofa because, once again, they had fallen asleep watching telly. If you could call it that; Sherlock made it impossible to actually watch anything, because lately, he changed the channel almost constantly, and on the rare occasion when he found something acceptable, he shouted at the screen about everything from grammar to motivation to internal inconsistencies. It would be more accurate to call it 'Sherlock versus the Medium.'

She had finally made a rule: he had to stay upstairs when it was time for Doctor Who, rerun or not. She just did not want to hear it.

She looked around, and suddenly, she felt panicked. Her home was a tip. A few months ago, she had moved into a beautiful flat with gorgeous furniture, gleaming fixtures, and Egyptian cotton sheets. Somehow, when she wasn't looking, it had been turned into a magpie's nest, with treasures and rubbish stashed on every surface, in every nook and cranny. She was going to bring her baby home to this?

Not if she had any say in the matter.

With the gleam of motivation in her eye, Molly struggled to her feet and started cleaning her flat, top to bottom, stem to stern. While Sherlock slept, she made quick work of the sitting room.

By the time he woke, she'd already made tea and was scrubbing the hob.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Sherlock awoke to discover that, at some point during the night, Molly had gone mad. Everything in her sitting room was hidden away. It looked like John Watson had gone on one of his thoroughly unpleasant tidying rampages.

Sherlock stretched and made his way to the bathroom, wondering, as he emptied his bladder, if it was permissible or even practical to solicit fellatio from a woman in Molly's advanced state of pregnancy. He could hear her banging about as he pondered the logistics involved. He washed his hands and went to Molly's kitchen, deciding along the way that it was an option best left unexplored.

Oh good lord. She was scrubbing the hob. With a toothbrush.

Sherlock sighed. At least there was tea waiting for him, in the cup Molly had designated his. Her personal favorite.

He took a drink. Not the worst cup Molly had ever brewed. So, yes, bad, but not awful. He wondered, not for the first time, what it was about the preparation of infusions that eluded her.

"Morning," he said to her back. He wondered if she was going to make something like breakfast.

He glanced at the clock. 11:03.

Something like tea, then.

On one of her nicer plates, there was a peeled orange and a slice of wholemeal bread with a bit more butter than he liked.

He took a slice from the orange and refused to wonder why she'd peeled it for him.

"I don't know what I was thinking, letting the flat get into such a, a, a state!" she said, scrubbing vigorously.

The best reply Sherlock could manage was "Mmm," as he pulled his phone from his dressing gown pocket and took a look at the morning news.

"The baby will be here before long -" scrub clank "- and look at this 
place -" scrub scrub clank "- it's a disaster!"

Sherlock looked up to see her, wearing a pair of marigolds, scrubbing the wall above the cooker. The wall.

"Going upstairs," he called behind him as he left as quickly as he could without breaking into a run. Neither babies nor manic tidying fell into his sphere of interest.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

It was well past midnight when Molly's frenzy started to ebb. She needed a shower desperately, but her flat finally looked acceptable. Not perfect, but at least it was now the sort of place you could bring your baby home to without the neighbors ringing social services.

Of course, her closest neighbor was Sherlock, so she was probably safe on that front. Still -

She woke up on the sofa again the next morning, not having showered or cleaned her teeth, and feeling like she had been beaten in the small of her back with a lead pipe. That would teach her to over-do it.

There were heaps of baby things that needed folding, and the present seemed as good a time as any. They were so tiny, these body suits and all-in-ones and the socks, God, the tiny socks - how could a real person be so small?

She had the unpleasant feeling that Sherlock was going to be very scarce once the baby came, that she was going to get exactly what she'd asked for. She'd wanted a baby of her own, so there was no use regretting it. She knew she'd be deluding herself if she ever imagined Sherlock was going to play happy families with her.

Sherlock liked her. He liked her more than he liked most people, she suspected. That didn't mean he wanted anything to do with the baby. She'd have to be stupid not to notice the way any mention of the baby made him glaze over or literally sent him running.

She was in love with him, stupidly in love with him. All told, she liked him only about twenty or thirty times more than he liked her. It was a fact of life. She might be a fool, but she was an honest fool. Six months, even three months ago, it would have made her cry to admit it. But now? Well, now she imagined there were worse things.

Being alone, for instance. She had been alone and she knew for a fact it was worse. Even if he took advantage of her, even if he flat-out did not care most of the time, there was something very comfortable about simply being with Sherlock.

Her back hurt again. No, not just hurt; it was spasming, now. She probably pulled something scrubbing the wainscotings. She sat on the edge of the bed and waited until it receded again.

She went into the baby's room, put away the folded clothes, put the mattress in the cot, and put the sheet covered in clouds and stars on the mattress. Nappies on the changing table. Mobile above the cot. It only took a few minutes, and the room looked ready. She put her hands on her belly. There was one person who mattered far more to her than Sherlock Holmes did or ever would, and if Sherlock couldn't appreciate that, it didn't bloody matter.

Oh, her back was starting again. A hot shower would help loosen the muscles. She let the warm water beat down on the small of her back, and it felt good, so good. It felt wonderful, being clean. It felt -

The pain hit again.

The pain -

Oh Jesus. How stupid could she be? How blissfully ignorant? Molly, you idiot, she thought, you are in labour.

She dried off quickly, cleaned her teeth. Another pain came, but she stood through it, breathed in and out very deliberately while hanging onto the edge of the basin, waited for it to end. She put her toothbrush and a few other odds and ends she'd forgotten in her overnight bag.

Another pain. This time she checked the clock. 10:23.

She had her bra and knickers on before the next one hit. 10:27.

She put on her wristwatch. grabbed her phone off the dresser.

ORDER ME A CAB?

-MOL

She would have typed out her name, but another pain came and it was all she could do to press send.

His reply came not in the form of a text, but in the thunder of footsteps on the stairs. He burst in like someone who habitually burst in.

"You're having it, then?" he said, utter surprise and focus in his face.

"Him. You said it was a boy," Molly answered, not quite able to speak properly for the pain.

"Why aren't you dressed? You can't ride to the hospital in your knickers," he huffed.

"Forgive me if the fact that I'm nine months pregnant and in labour is slowing me down," she said. Well, shouted.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and proceeded to pull clothes from her cupboard. It took her a moment to realize he intended to dress her.

"Put your left foot here. This is a great day, Molly, and do you know why? Do you realize once this is over you need never wear any of these horrid maternity clothes again? What say we burn them ceremonially in the back garden?" he said, pulling up one of her three pair of khaki trousers.

"Mrs. Hudson wouldn't like - " she began.

"Arms up," he ordered without missing a beat. He tugged a black jumper over her head as another contraction made her grip his wrists hard enough to make him wince.

"Do you mind?"

"It hurts," she said.

"I believe that's par for the course. Need I remind you that this was your idea?"

"Oh, shut up!" she said. "It hurts and I'm not going to pretend it doesn't just to make you feel better."

He guided her to sit on the edge of the bed. "I assure you, Molly, I don't give a toss how you feel," he said, grabbing hold of her foot.

"Oh, as if I hadn't noticed." She pulled her socks out of Sherlock's hand and struggled to put them on herself.

Sherlock was either annoyed or worried; she couldn't tell which. Either way, he took back the socks, grabbed her foot again, slipped a sock over one foot, then the other, and rammed her shoes on. For an encore, he tied her laces.

"Thank you!" she snapped.

"You're welcome!" he snapped right back.

She paused for another terribly painful contraction, then struggled to her feet and out of the flat on her own power, thank you very much.

Thank goodness Sherlock remembered her overnight bag and her handbag.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Sherlock was preparing to hail a taxi when Molly turned and said the most extraordinary thing to him.

"I'm sorry for that. Back there. I'm not at my best right now. I ought to - I want to thank you - oh!" He could see the pain coming over her, her whole body tightening with it. "Um, thank you for everything, and let you know I can manage from here."

He took her arm to steady her. "Just when things are finally getting interesting?" he asked in disbelief. "I think not. Taxi!"

He helped her in. It was obvious to him that she was in no fit state to manage anything on her own at present. Molly wasn't given to exaggeration, so if she said she was in pain, he could be sure that she was in quite a bit of it. He wondered where it fell on the pain scale, and what sort of answer she'd give were he to ask her.

The next pain passed in grimacing silence.

"I take it the child has moved into the appropriate position for delivery?" he asked.

Molly shrugged. "I'm not sure. He switched position twice during my exam last week. He's pretty fidgety." She smirked. "I've no idea where he got that trait from."

Sherlock knew what she was getting at, but the very idea that anyone would inherit anything of his disposition made him uneasy. He looked at her carefully. Knowing what was to come, her abdomen looked wrong - too wide as opposed to long.

"What are you doing?" she asked

"Feeling for the child's position, obviously. Mike's never palpated your uterus?"

Molly closed her eyes. "Let me rephrase that, Sherlock: why are 'you' palpating my uterus? When did you do your obstetrics training?"

"He's still breech," he said, eyes now focused on his phone. "Shoulder presentation. I'm having Mike meet us in the operating theatre. I texted John from my flat."

In some way, it made Sherlock feel a bit better that there was a surgical solution. Better than the alternative. Better than squeezing a whole person out of her vagina. While he was perfectly aware this was the normal order of things, he was familiar with Molly's vagina and it hardly seemed possible, especially with the child presenting this way.

Drugs and a sharp scalpel seemed the more acceptable option.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Sarah Sawyer-Watson was with a patient, discussing a tonsillectomy for a fifty year old woman. Not common, but in this case it seemed warranted, when there was a knock at the door.

"Sarah?" It was John, looking a bit sheepish. She knew right away Sherlock was involved.

"I'm with a patient, Dr Watson, can you wait five minutes?"

"Oh, sorry to interrupt, Mrs. Horvath, but no, actually I can't. I, ah, I just got a text - " John winced.

"Let me guess," she said.

"Yes. Himself," John said. "He says if I value our friendship at all, I will drop whatever I'm doing and come to Barts immediately."

Sarah frowned. "That's a bit melodramatic, even for Sherlock, isn't it?"

"Yeah," John said, looking concerned. "It really is. I - do you mind?"

"I'll cover for you," she said, "but you owe me one."

"Another one, you mean. How many does that make?"

"Oh, six or seven dozen. Who can keep track?" She smiled. "Be safe, don't let that idiot get you hurt again, keep him safe, if possible."

"Thank you," he said, grinning from ear to ear. He pecked her noisily on the cheek. "You are the best wife in the world," he said. "Mrs. Horvath, this is the best wife in the world."

"Yes, I am," Sarah agreed. "Good thing you're a passable husband." She turned her attention back to Mrs. Horvath's chart. "Have fun saving the world."

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

The very last thing John Watson expected to see when he came to Barts was Sherlock sweeping through the entrance, a pregnant woman in his arms.

No. As it turned out, the very last thing John Watson expected to see when he came to Barts was Sherlock sweeping through the entrance with a pregnant woman John knew in his arms.

"Molly?" he asked.

"Hello, John," Molly said through gritted teeth. She had her arms looped around Sherlock's neck like it was the most natural thing in the world, as if Sherlock carried her about Barts like a baby every day of her life. "How's Sarah? How was your trip?" Then she hissed. Then she turned her head into Sherlock's collar and sobbed.

Good God. She was in labour, hard labour by the look of it, maybe even transition. His training kicked in. "Sarah's fine, the trip was great," he answered. "So when did your labour start?"

Sherlock gave him a look that was corrosive enough to eat through a chair. "Why are you wasting time on this when you should be getting scrubbed?"

"Excuse me? What? Scrubbed?"

"Obviously. Molly's in labour. The child is breech, shoulder presentation by all indications. A Caesarean section is most likely at this point. Now stop dawdling," Sherlock said.

John blinked at him. "Sherlock, I don't have privileges here. Molly, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I can't, it's not - "

"You're observing Mike Stamford in theatre 7B. And by observing, I mean delivering this child. So for God's sake, go wash your bloody hands!"

Sherlock was serious. Dead serious. Molly had her face pressed into Sherlock's chest and was muttering.

Not quite the sort of mystery John had been expecting, but clearly a mystery. Not one he was going to solve by standing around the lobby, either.

"All right, fine, I'll just go -" He jerked his thumb toward the lifts.

"Yes, do that," Sherlock ordered.

As John headed toward the lift that led to the theatres, he could hear Sherlock shouting, "No, she doesn't need to fill out any forms. What she needs is a Caesarean section. How do I know? I know because I palpated her uterus!"

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

For months, Molly thought the most beautiful words she could ever imagine coming out of Sherlock's mouth were 'I Love You'.

Oh, how wrong she'd been. What an idiot.

The sweetest words he could have ever said, did say, eclipsing any stupid love shite were these:

"Mike, I want an anesthesiologist in here administering an epidural in the next sixty seconds or I am going to the dispensary and getting the morphine myself."

Molly couldn't help herself. She grabbed his hand. "You are brilliant," she said. "I mean it, Sherlock. Brilliant."

Sherlock squeezed her hand tight, but instead of answering, he turned to the confused looking woman who had just come through the doors. "About time you got here. This woman needs an epidural, now!"

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

John Watson had really ever only seen Sherlock keyed up about crime, criminals, and the stupidity of everyone who worked with, by, or at, New Scotland Yard. So this? This was new.

Molly's belly had barely been swabbed with povodine when Sherlock started in.

"You'll want to begin with Pfanstiel's incision," Sherlock said, pulling the mask over his chin.

"Yes," Mike Stamford agreed.

Sherlock craned his neck to watch the scalpel drag through Molly's abdomen. He was standing much closer than he should be, in John's opinion. Sherlock was used to Lestrade, who let him get away with anything as long as he delivered in the end. An operating theatre was not a crime scene, though, and Mike was a patient bloke, but even he had limits.

"Next, you'll need to separate the subcutaneous tissue manually."

"Well aware, Sherlock," Mike said. "Unlike you, this is not my first C-section."

"John has smaller hands," Sherlock noted. "Perhaps you should have him do this bit."

"I've got it, Sherlock," Mike said, huffing slightly.

"Sherlock, mate, calm down," John said. "Trust me, Mike knows what he's doing."

"Then why is it taking you so bloody long?" Sherlock said. "You should be separating the rectus abdominus muscle by now."

"There, separating it, see?" Mike said. "Happy now?"

"Delirious," Sherlock answered dryly. "Next you need to hold the urachus and incise it along with the visceral peritoneum."

"We know!" John and Mike said in chorus.

"The bladder needs to be pushed down with a retractor to bring the lower uterine segment into - " he insisted, but was interrupted by a furious voice from the operating table.

"Sherlock Holmes! There are four people in this room who finished medical school, and you're not one of them! Be quiet and let these people do their work!"

"Bless you, Molly," Mike muttered.

"Four of whom," Sherlock said quietly, under his mask.

"Oh, get stuffed," Molly replied.

John had to suppress a laugh. He only wished he could see Sherlock's face behind the mask.

The next thirty seconds were mercifully silent. Then a head, a tiny pale head covered with fine black hair emerged from the incision. John had no idea why his heart was beating so hard. This had to be a dream.

Suction, followed by a cry, both loud and lusty, and everything you wanted to hear from a baby.

"Heads up, John," said Mike lifting the baby the rest of the way out of Molly's body and into John's arms. "Good God, look at the size of him. What do you make it? 9 pounds or so?"

A boy. A solid, healthy boy, much too big to have fit through Molly Hooper's hips no matter the presentation, wriggled in John's arms, his umbilical cord dangling. The child was all arms and legs and big lolling head. He'd stopped crying almost immediately and was looking round, eyes already focused. John had never seen that in a newborn before. It was a little unnerving, and answered a few questions he hadn't had time to ask.

"Do you want to cut the cord, Sherlock?" Mike asked cheerfully.

"Me? I didn't go to medical school," Sherlock said. John thought Sherlock had been aiming for biting there, but in truth, all Sherlock's attention was on that baby.

Mike cut the baby free with a laugh.

"Let me see, John," Molly called. "Oh, look at his tiny fingers!"

People always said that, John had discovered. There seemed to be something inherently magical about the smallness of babies, about their tiny hands and tiny feet. On some level, babies were beyond belief.

"The nurse has to take him, Molly," Mike said.

"Take him where?" Sherlock demanded.

"To weigh him and clean him, blood tests, all the usual newborn things," John explained. "Let the nurse take him, and you can follow, okay?"

Sherlock looked lost, all of a sudden. Stunned. Under the circumstances, it seemed very human of him. Sherlock looked like any other bloke from Hampton to Hyderabad staring into the face of his new-born child. John hadn't delivered as many babies as someone like Mike, but every time he had, the father had worn that expression.

Never mind that this whole thing beggared, some might say buggered, belief. Sherlock Holmes was the father of a child. What's more, John was ninety-nine percent certain Sherlock was the father of this specific child. The question was, 'why?' And 'how?' And 'why' thrown in a few times more for good measure.

Sherlock seemed to snap out of it. He turned his pale glare on John. "Do not leave Molly's side," he said with all the authority of the Sherlock Holmes John knew and wanted to strangle on alternating Wednesdays.

"No worries," John said. "Mike's probably going to make me close, anyway."

"Too right, Johnny boy!" Mike answered with a grin.

"Don't worry, Sherlock," Molly called behind him. "Go with the baby."

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

When the smoke cleared, John managed to cajole two cups of bloody awful tea from the vending machine. He put three sugars in Sherlock's because he knew Sherlock was going to need it.

Sherlock stood with his back to the corridor wall, and appeared to be counting the ceiling tiles.

"Tea?" John asked as he found his own patch of wall to lean against.

Sherlock extended his hand for the cup without looking. "Thank you." He appeared slightly paler than usual, which, to John's mind, was quite the trick.

"Mother and child are resting comfortably," John said. "What about the father?"

Sherlock took a sip. "He's standing in a hospital corridor with you drinking overly sweetened, tepid dishwater."

"Yeah, I worked that bit out," John said. He wondered if he should offer congratulations. Sherlock didn't look like he was celebrating anything, so he decided not to.

Sherlock took another sip from his cup and grimaced. "Actually, I believe tepid dishwater would be preferable. Where did you get this, a puddle?"

"Vending machine." John took a sip himself. God, it really was awful.

They were silent a moment. When Sherlock didn't say anything, John took the lead. "Sarah mentioned months back that Molly wanted a baby and was considering A.I. I am frankly amazed she worked up the nerve to ask you."

Sherlock's brows rose. "She didn't."

"Excuse me?" John frowned.

"I volunteered."

He couldn't have heard that right. "You what?"

"The quality of anonymous donors in this country is appalling, John. Mycroft really should do something about it."

"Wait, how the hell did you make it through the donor screening?" John asked. "Oh, well, yes. Lied through your teeth, obviously."

"Didn't have to." Sherlock took another sip. "God, this is really horrid."

"What do you mean, you -"

Sherlock looked straight ahead, eyes locked on the pale green wall opposite. "No clinic, ergo, no screening. Do keep up."

John rubbed his forehead. "What? She had someone else perform -? Or did you-?" John shook his head. "No, what am I saying? You don't do girls."

"Don't I?"

John's head turned toward Sherlock so fast the joints in his neck snapped like gunshots. "You don't," he said. "You don't do anyone."

"Not an entirely accurate assessment on your part," Sherlock said, peeking at him out of the corner of his eye.

"You're the one who - you said it yourself!" John replied. "You said girlfriends weren't your area, those were your exact words."

"They aren't."

"So this was just a favour? A one-off?"

Sherlock started counting the floor tiles. "Not exactly," he murmured softly.

John spoke fairly fluent Sherlock-ese; 'not exactly' meant there was a good chance they were a regular - something.

This was madness. Black was white. Up was down. And America was going to win the World Cup - that sort of madness. If anyone had asked John what Sherlock Holmes would definitely not be saying today, or any other day, ever, for that matter, this would have been it. The idea, the very notion, that Sherlock - his best mate in the world, yeah, but a complete wanker most of the time - and Molly Hooper, - nice, sweet, normal, unassuming, wouldn't-hurt-a-fly, afraid-of-her-own-bloody-shadow Molly Hooper - were, were a regular - something, and had, had, had, become parents -

It boggled the mind. John's mind, anyway.

The words kept repeating in his head: Sherlock is the father of Molly Hooper's child, Sherlock is the father of Molly Hooper's child, Sherlock is the father - but that didn't make it any more believable. The words just sort of floated there, like oil on top of water, not sinking in or making any sense.

"So, uh, when did this start? " he asked.

"The child appears to be full term," Sherlock said, like that answered it all John's questions.

Which, well, right, maybe it did. "So about forty weeks ago, then? About 10 months?" John looked at Sherlock's profile. "About as long as I've been married, yeah?"

"Not everything is about you, John," Sherlock said, his lip curled. "If I hadn't done something. she would have gone. Got herself inseminated by some stranger and left for the hinterlands. I had to act."

"Why?" John still couldn't quite grasp it. "Why you? You never gave a damn about Molly, and don't try to tell me you did. She was just someone who worked at Barts, someone who you could get to - oh."

Sherlock actually flinched.

"Oh my God," John said, the full horror of the situation dawning on him. "You bastard. You complete fucking bastard. Hasn't Molly been through enough? She's lost her father, and that business with Moriarty. She has no one -"

"She has a child," Sherlock said. "She wanted a child, and now she has one. I saw to it. I made that happen."

John could almost see the shadow of Sherlock's reasoning, and he didn't like it. "Are you trying to make up for what happened with Moriarty? Because if you are this is not -"

"Absolutely not!" Sherlock snarled. "That was not my fault."

Which, John knew, meant Sherlock blamed himself completely. "Keep your voice down, you're in hospital."

Sherlock inhaled tensely and exhaled just as anxiously. "Since you've been -" he said slowly, then paused.

"Married?" John supplied.

"I was going to say 'absent' actually. Since you've been absent, Molly makes me sandwiches," he said as if revealing something quite intimate. Perhaps he was, for Sherlock.

John realized that, at that moment, he wanted to hit his best friend very much and very hard. He knew it was wrong, so he restrained himself, but the urge was there. "God, she's my replacement. Only better, because she lets you get away with anything. And I do mean anything. Christ." John shook his head. "Do you care for her at all?"

Sherlock shot him a withering look. He did not, however, answer the question.

"Sherlock -" John said, feeling his hands clench against his will.

"Molly likes me, John. She doesn't barely tolerate me or find me useful or wonder what I can do for her," he said, lowering his chin to look straight at John for an unnerving moment. "She likes me. She's one of two."

John thought, at that moment, Sherlock had perhaps overestimated the number.

"That day, after I got back, and I came to pick up my post, you were blocking the door, yeah? And I knew something was up, but -" he scratched the back of his neck. "So you've moved her into my old room?"

"Are you mad? A woman and child in my flat? With me? In my flat?"

"You're repeating yourself," John said with a grin.

"So I am." Sherlock's lips quirked. "Mrs. Hudson used the insurance money from the fake gas explosion to have the basement renovated. She's living down there."

John swallowed the last of his awful tea. His head was swimming, trying to work out what the hell Sherlock was doing. And to think his greatest fear had been that Sherlock had an entire rotting corpse in his flat. Or a cat. Perhaps two cats. This was so much harder to imagine.

"Nice renovation, is it?" he asked, because the conversation wasn't quite bizarre enough for his tastes yet.

Sherlock shrugged. "She seems to like it. You should've seen the place she was in before."

"As bad as that?"

"A bed-sit," Sherlock said, as though it might be contagious.

All John Watson could do was try not to stare.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Sarah knew how it went when Sherlock was involved; John would send a series of texts letting her know he was okay, and eventually he would come home in the wee hours of the morning, probably a bit scuffed up, and as randy and excited at a school boy. Which was fine. It kept him fit and happy and out of her hair, and made her appreciate their time together even more.

She didn't expect to see him back at the surgery before the end of the day, popping his head into her office.

"Case solved already?" she asked, looking up from her stack of charts. "That was quick. Everyone okay?"

John closed the door and sat in the chair in front of the desk. "There was no case," John said with a funny shake of his head. She couldn't tell if he was amused or confused or disturbed. "Not exactly a case, anyway."

"Oh. But Sherlock - " she started.

"Yeah. He wanted me at Barts to deliver a baby."

Sarah's head shot up. "What?"

John scrunched up his face as if he didn't quite believe what he was saying. "His baby, in fact. Yeah, it sounds as mad when I say it out load as it does in my head."

"Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes? Tall bloke, bit dramatic? Best man at our wedding? Him?" Sarah shook her head. "Yes, you're right, it does sound mad. Who's the lucky - ?"

John raised his eyebrows. "Yeah, about that. It gets weirder, if possible; the mother is Molly Hooper."

"What?! Oh, right, right! He was the donor, then," Sarah said trying to piece the information into a scenario that made sense. "I knew she was looking into A.I. That's - unexpectedly nice of him."

John, shook his head. "Not the donor, exactly. And I'm not sure how nice. Apparently, they've been, ah, seeing each other, I guess, since we went to Africa. He's even moved her into the downstairs flat at 221B."

Sarah blinked. She had nothing to say to that. She knew she ought to say something, but she couldn't think of anything, anything at all.

"It's a boy, by the way," John said exhaling slowly, "named Edmund."

"And you delivered him? How?"

John shrugged. "Mike delivered him by C-section. I 'observed,' which means Mike made me close, the tosser."

"Mother and baby well?"

John nodded. "Apgar 10 out of 10, weight 4.6 kg, 55 cm long, really tall, like his dad." He grinned. "Yeah, still sounds mad."

"My God, that's practically a two month old," Sarah said. "And Molly's so tiny. That poor woman. I hope you made certain she had good drugs."

"She did. Connie Hartley - you know her, yeah? - she did the epidural. I think she knows Molly through the hospital and Sherlock by reputation and made sure everyone was well fortified, pharmaceutically. On top of everything, else, the baby was breech, so it had to be quick. It was a bit of a nightmare."

"Oh?"

John shook his head. "Not the operation itself. That was fairly cut and dried, but Sherlock stood there shouting directions until Molly reminded him there were four people in that room who had finished medical school and Sherlock was not one of them. It actually shut him up, which was kind of amazing. I never would have pictured it in a million years. I'm still not sure I believe it." He laughed. "If anyone had ever tried to convince me Sherlock would have a child before I would -" he shook his head again. "No, never."

"So," Sarah said, "any idea what she was thinking?"

John snorted. "Not a clue."

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Sherlock stood outside the door to Molly's private room. He was perfectly aware Mycroft was in there, waiting for him. With flowers, of course.

He braced himself and stepped through the door.

"Hello, little brother," Mycroft said quietly.

"Mycroft," he acknowledged.

Sherlock cast his eyes about the room, taking in an array of flowers, balloons and gifts, wondering vaguely who had sent them. Molly's baby was in a little clear plastic box, which he supposed was meant to be some sort of cot. Molly slept like a stone, exhausted and drugged to the gills. In the hospital bed, she seemed small and weak, worn paper thin.

Her doing, all of this, not his. If her skin was a colour more suited to a lampshade and the delicate tissue around her eyes looked over-ripe and bruised, he was not to blame. If it had been up to him he would have used a condom. Every. Bloody. Time.

Well, what was done was done. He'd complied with her wishes, done as she'd asked. She had her baby. She'd have no further use for him, now.

"You have it, now what are you going to do with it?" Mycroft asked.

"With what?" Sherlock asked.

"Fatherhood, of course." Mycroft smiled his tight-lipped little smile. "Congratulations, by the way. Which, I'm sure you've realized by now, is why I am here."

"Mm?" Sherlock answered distractedly.

"Are you ready to reconsider my standing offer?" Mycroft asked. "You've real responsibilities now, and you know as well as I that your abilities are wasted on these petty problems. Are you done playing detective?"

"Playing? I am not-"

Sherlock would have explained, in detail, the merits of his avocation, as opposed to that of his elder brother, if the door hadn't opened so quietly it was almost, but not quite, silent. There stood a person Sherlock hadn't seen in close to twenty years, and had, in truth, never planned to see again. The person he hated most in the world.

The Old Man.

"You look like you could use a fag, son," were the first words his father said to him in nineteen years.

And there they were, how utterly predictable, the Gauloises Bleu, extended. He was about to sneer and decline when The Old Man pulled them back with a smirk.

"Oh, but you've given it up, haven't you?" The Old Man moved his thumb imperceptibly to extend a nicotine patch hidden behind the cigarette pack. "Perhaps you'd prefer one of these instead. You forgot yours this morning when you were rushing to get my grandson born."

"No, thank you," Sherlock said, despite that fact a patch would have leveled him out considerably. He supposed it was part of the price of reproduction: all the undesirables coming out of the woodwork. He hoped Molly appreciated what he was suffering on her account.

The Old Man shrugged. "Suit yourself."

Mycroft broke in. "Father, what are you doing here?"

The Old Man looked smug. "My first and likely only grandson is born, and you ask why I've come."

"And just how did you find out about this - blessed event," Mycroft asked, inspecting his nails. "Who told you?"

"You don't expect me to answer, so why ask?" The Old Man replied, keeping his voice low. He walked over to the bed and inspected Molly's sleeping form, which Sherlock did not particularly like. In fact, he discovered right there and then that he would have be positively giddy had The Old Man never clapped eyes on either Molly or her child.

Sherlock looked at Mycroft, but he could tell at a glance that Mycroft hadn't been expecting their father to appear any more than Sherlock had. Mycroft got to live another day.

He was glad Molly was drugged. Had she been awake, she would have reacted to The Old Man the way every other creature on the planet seemed to: women wanted The Old Man, men wanted to be him, dogs wanted to roll over and bare their bellies the moment he walked into a room. With Molly being painfully, childishly, predisposed to men, The Old Man wouldn't have even had to make an effort. Even considering it made Sherlock's skin crawl.

He always left Sherlock feeling declasse, as though he was trying much too hard, as though he was always speaking too loudly, even when he consciously whispered so softly that anyone in the room had to strain to hear him. Sherlock was an amateur. A gauche boy. An embarrassment.

He was a clumsy, awkward, ugly child.

His chin was weak.

His face, entirely too narrow.

His eyes, too beady.

His shoulders were thin.

He had a face only a mother ferret could love.

No wonder people hated Sherlock at first sight.

Everyone loved The Old Man, though. Even when he was betraying them, God, even when they knew he was betraying them. And The Old Man was always betraying someone: it was his 'thing', what he did. Sherlock might be able to pretend, play out the part of the bumbling neighbor or the grieving school chum convincingly for a quarter of an hour, but The Old Man could do it for months on end, years even. And all he did was play-act. He didn't have an honest bone in his body. It was possible he had no core self at all; whatever the moment called for, he became.

And everyone loved him for it.

Everyone but Sherlock.

Well, everyone but Sherlock and Mummy.

And possibly Mycroft. Sherlock wasn't entirely convinced his brother's hate was quite as pure as it ought to be, though.

"Why did you say you were here, again?" Sherlock asked. He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets because he suddenly had no idea what to do with them.

"I didn't," The Old Man said brightly. "So this is the girl from over the chippy, is it?"

"This is, in fact, Dr. Mary Magdalen Hooper," Sherlock said, willing his blood not to ignite. "She's a noted published pathologist at one of the top hospitals in the country."

The Old Man smiled indulgently. "I'm not faulting her, son. We lot could do with an infusion of fresh blood. Hybrid vigour, and all that," he said, and Sherlock was shocked to see him ever so lightly touch the little gold cross Molly wore at her throat. "Speaking of vigour, I'm willing to wager this one's a wildcat behind closed doors."

Oh, there it was; the leer. It went with the film star good looks and the charisma and the fucking Gauloises Bleu. Mummy had only been a few years out of a convent school herself when The Old Man married her. Sherlock felt violently ill at the implication but kept his face blank.

Sherlock didn't mean to but his mouth opened. "She's hardly Mummy."

The Old Man laughed softly. "Good Christ, of course she isn't. You're much smarter than I was, son. With a background like hers, a girl as plain as that, she's bound to have more gratitude in her little finger than your mother has in her entire body. She must be very, very eager to please."

Sherlock hadn't known it was possible to want to kill his father more with each passing second. He looked at Mycroft, desperately wanting him to do something, anything. But Mycroft was sitting with his eyes closed, gripping the arms of his chair, pretending to be elsewhere, planning a nice little coup d'etat, perhaps.

Sherlock's chest went cold as The Old Man made his way to the plastic baby box and picked up Molly's infant son. "Oh, he's a lovely lad, isn't he?"

Sherlock counted from one hundred backward to one in Numic, willing his father to put the child back in its cot. And then to disappear forever.

"So, when should we expect you?" The Old Man asked, inspecting the sleeping child. "You don't need much training, per se, but there should be a brief adjustment period."

"Don't be ridiculous, Father," Mycroft said, suddenly returned to the land of the living. "He's not going to work with you. Sherlock will be joining me."

"Be realistic, Mycroft," The Old Man said, now jostling the infant in a way that made Sherlock want to snatch the child away and just run. "Your brother would be bored to tears working with you, scheming your little schemes, day in day out, locked in an underground bunker, never seeing the light of day. Whatever he likes to think, there's too much of The Old Man in him. He needs the zest of adventure to be truly happy."

Since when had Sherlock's happiness ever crossed The Old Man's mind? If it did, he'd put that bloody baby down.

"I'm not interested in either offer. I'm perfectly -" Sherlock was going to explain in detail, while not looking at either his father or - Molly's son - that he needed neither his brother nor his father breathing down his neck in exchange for a pay packet, but The Old Man had never liked allowing him the luxury of finishing a sentence on his own.

"Oh, come off it, boy. I've kept an eye on your exploits. The Cairo affair was quite impressive, yes, and then that little adventure in Texas, interesting as well. First rate work, all the way round. Not exactly as I would have gone about things, but good job, none the less. But, son, you were born for Box 850 and," here he sighed, "it's not as though you're good for much else."

Sherlock took a deep breath. "I am a consulting detec-" he began.

"Sherlock, please," Mycroft broke in. "That's not even a real 'job'. You made it up yourself!"

"Time to stop playing at coppers, son," The Old Man said, as though Sherlock were six years old.

"Haven't you exhausted the nostalgie de la boue yet?" Mycroft asked.

Enough was enough. Too much, in fact. "On second thought, I've  changed my mind." Sherlock strode over to The Old Man, fished the Gauloises Bleu out of his breast pocket, taking the entire pack as well as the silver lighter he'd carried ever since Sherlock could remember. It wasn't as though The Old Man could do anything to stop him with his hands full with Molly Hooper's baby, after all.

Sherlock walked out of the room. Then out of Barts. Then all the way back to Baker Street, smoking The Old Man's vile cigarettes as he went.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Molly woke up with her baby, Eddie, in a room full of flowers and gifts, and Sherlock nowhere in evidence.

Oh, the baby was lovely and perfect, and she wished Sherlock was there to see him.

She texted to let him know when she was being released from hospital. There was no reply.

Molly Hooper was heartbroken and relieved, both at once.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

John Watson had been disappointed in Sherlock Holmes before, plenty of times. So he shouldn't have been surprised when Sherlock was nowhere to be found soon after the delivery. And he shouldn't have been surprised to find Sherlock at home, in his flat, in his dressing gown, lounging on the sofa, when John helped Molly and her new baby home from hospital.

It was classic Sherlock Holmes, really, to take the easy way out, at least as far as dealing with people was concerned.

It was classic John Watson, really, not to let him get away with it. And if Sherlock Holmes didn't like it, he was bloody well going to have to lump it.

"Where've you been?" John asked, trying to keep his voice low.

"Here," Sherlock said, waving his hands, "obviously."

John didn't want to start off shouting; it would leave him no room to escalate. "And you think that's good enough, do you?"

"For?"

John took a deep breath. "Molly's just had abdominal surgery. She needs help. It'll be at least a week before she can manage on her own."

John decided Sherlock must have a death-wish, because he shrugged and said, "So?"

"So, Sherlock, this is your responsibility."

Sherlock reached for a magazine. "It's not," he said. "It's really not."

John yanked the magazine out of his hand and dropped it on the floor. "Molly is willing to let you do as you please, clearly, but I'm not. This is yours." He gestured to the baby in the carrier in his hand. "Deal with it."

"That wasn't the agreement, John," Sherlock said, shaking his head. "I was told, I have been told repeatedly, in no uncertain terms, in fact, that my duties, my rights and responsibilities, ended at conception. That," he pointed to the baby, "is not my problem."

John blinked at him. What the hell was Sherlock on about? "Not your problem? So, so let me get this straight. You were there in the theatre, shouting orders, ready to reach round Mike and cut Molly open yourself because this is not your problem? Because you don't care? Seriously?"

Sherlock closed his eyes. "Fatherhood is hardly my area of expertise."

"It's not anybody's bloody area of expertise, Sherlock! You'll just have to do what everyone else does."

"Which is?"

"Deal." With that, John gently hauled the baby from the carrier and set him on Sherlock's chest.

"What? John, what are you -?!"

"Don't forget to support his head," John said, grabbing Sherlock's hand and resting it on the baby's back. "Molly's going to be out for hours, and unlike you, a baby needs to eat every day, several times a day, in fact. You'll know he's hungry because he'll cry. Molly's breastfeeding, so you'll need to take him downstairs for that. She won't be able to pick him up or carry him for at least a week. Good luck."

John was about to make his exit when Sherlock said, "One question."

"Yes?" John said over his shoulder.

"His name?" Sherlock asked.

That was a shocker. Jesus Christ, Sherlock Holmes didn't know his own son's name. "Edmund," John said, trying and failing to keep the disgust out of his voice. "Edmund Vernet Hooper."

"Vernet?" Sherlock asked. "Really?"

"That's your mother's maiden name, isn't it, and your middle name? She named him for you, Sherlock," John said. "See if you can earn the honour, yeah?"

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Sherlock lay there with the small warm lump on his chest. He looked down at it, and miraculously, it looked back at him. Its eyes were dark like Molly's, but otherwise, it was very much like looking at a fetal form of himself. Its tiny hand was pressed against Sherlock's chest, and it was strange, Sherlock realized, so strange, to see a hand and know, to absolutely know, the shape it would grow into, each minute digit having been programmed by his own DNA to end in just such a fingertip.

Carefully, so carefully, he lifted the baby and swung his own legs around, so he was sitting up, cradling the baby in his arms, supporting the head as John had ordered. With his free hand, he pulled off one little sock. Wasn't that curious - just like his.

The baby pressed its body against Sherlock's chest, like it was trying to burrow into him. Cuddling, like Molly. He held it close and settled back on the sofa. It was studying him.

Not it, he. He was studying him. His son was studying him.

Yes, that was it. His son was studying him.

He could see the intelligence behind the eyes. Inside the tiny, fragile braincase, a developing intellect was making sense of the world at its most basic level, without a single preconceived notion, without a single false idea.

And it was his. Edmund - Edmund belonged to him.

"And Molly," he said aloud. "Can't leave your Mummy out, can we?"

Edmund turned to the sound of his voice. Sherlock nearly forgot to breathe.

Oh, Molly Hooper had made a clever, clever little Homo sapiens sapiens. And he would make certain it stayed that way.

"Hello, Edmund," Sherlock said, tracing the shape of the sutures in his skull with a fingertip. "Hello."

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Molly woke up in agony. She tried to sit up and the incision burned and, oh God, her breasts were like huge, hot rocks strapped to her chest. Ooowwwww!

It took everything she had to get out of bed. It hurt and she felt weak and oh God, she needed to get to the baby's room and get him from his cot. She hoped she could manage.

Every step she took was agony, and she felt like she was going to cry if she didn't do something about the pressure on her chest.

Eddie wasn't in his cot. He wasn't anywhere in the flat, and by now, he had to be hungry.

Oh God, no. John had taken him upstairs.

She didn't know if the idea of facing Sherlock or the stairs was more horrifying.

She took three deep breaths, and slowly, very, very slowly, began climbing, cursing John all the way. Some people needed to learn when to mind their own damned business. Some people needed to learn when to leave bad enough alone. Some people who shall remain nameless. John Watson. And some people should stop being so nice. Molly Hooper. Some people should stop being such gits. Sherlock Bloody Holmes. Some people should just leave Molly alone with her baby like she wanted in the first place.

She had to stop and rest halfway up until the burning in her belly stopped, and she could force herself, truly force herself, to climb another stair.

Step by painful step, she made her way to Sherlock's flat, hating both he and John Watson more with every tread.

Him. Hating him. Wonderful. Now he was in her head, correcting her bloody grammar.

Oh, sweet Jesus, the pain. All she wanted was her baby in her flat, without some high-handed genius to reject her. She refused to cry, but oh, how it hurt, how every bloody thing hurt.

Filled with agony and rage, she threw open his door, only to find Sherlock asleep on the sofa, with Edmund on his chest.

And he was smiling. Sherlock was smiling. He looked like a bleeding angel. She had never hated him more.

She cleared her throat. "Excuse me," she said loudly, "can I have my baby, please?"

Sherlock opened one eye, yawned, stretched one arm, still smiling. "You look like hell," he said. "And you aren't supposed to be up and about."

"The baby, please?" she said. She felt feverish and dizzy, and honestly, she didn't know how she was still standing.

Sherlock frowned. "Your breasts, Molly, they're all -" He made what would normally be a rude gesture.

"Huge?" Molly said.

"I was going to say 'bizarre.' Are you all right?" He pulled his legs up, clearing a spot for her. "Sit down before you fall down."

She didn't want to sit. She wanted to take her baby and go. The fact that she couldn't imagine how she was going to make it down the stairs holding Eddie and her incision at the same time was immaterial. "My milk came in while I was asleep, I think," she said.

"It's not automatic?" he asked, curious. "It doesn't come as soon as the baby comes? Molly, sit."

Feeling like a traitor, like a stupid, stupid traitor, Molly sat. "No," she said, crossing her arms to cover her breasts, which hurt, oh God, it hurt. "I need to feed him. It's - I need to feed him." She was not going to sob, she was absolutely not going to sob.

In a blink, it seemed like a blink, Sherlock was there, baby still asleep in the crook of his arm, helping her up again, and that hurt too. "Come along," he said.

"Just take me to my flat. Please."

"My bed is closer," he said, "and if you need something, I'll be right here." Carefully, gingerly, he laid her down in his rumpled bed. "Molly, you should have called or texted. I would have brought him down to you."

Oh God, she thought. Why hadn't she? Because she was too busy being sore and angry and falling apart like an idiot, that's why. Poor Edmund, to have such a stupid, useless mother, and not even 3 days old. He was doomed.

"Edmund," Sherlock said gently, stroking the side of the baby's face. "Edmund," he repeated. The baby opened his eyes and immediately began to root against Sherlock's hand, which Sherlock clearly found delightful. "Mummy has something for you. Be gentle with her, she's had a very difficult week."

And then, so carefully, he laid the baby beside her, tried to lift her shirt -

"Stop!" she said. "What are you doing? I can do that."

"Are you certain? Because it appears to me you -" he said.

"I can unlatch my own bra, thank you." Good thing it closed in the front or she would have been a liar. Mission accomplished, she pushed her nipple into the baby's mouth. He latched on hard. It was both a relief and a torture. Milk started to flow freely from the other side as well.

Still, with each noisy suck, her left breast felt better. She could literally hear each swallow. The trouble was as her left breast felt better and better, she noticed how hot and hard and uncomfortable the right one was, despite its leaking. In less than a minute, her shirt was soaked.

Sherlock had disappeared. Figured. Just when she wanted him to do - do - well, something, he vanished. Useless bloody -

"Here," he said. He handed her a towel and a wet flannel. "I've brought you a clean shirt, too. Maybe if you put the towel here -"

She had so misjudged him. She took it all back; Sherlock Holmes was a prince. He did all he could to stem the flow of milk that seemed to be going everywhere.

She ran two fingers through Eddie's hair until it stood on end. What a boy. She stroked his cheek. So soft. He blinked at her, squinted, forced his eyes open again. Oh, she knew how that felt. He blinked twice more, sucked even harder. Oh, Eddie. If it wouldn't require moving her abdominal muscles, she'd bend to kiss him. She kissed her fingers and touched his forehead, instead. Eddie opened his eyes and remembered that he was supposed to be eating.

It only lasted a few more minutes, and then Eddie was asleep and drooling. On a positive note, she felt almost comfortable on one side; on a negative note, she did still have that other breast.

Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed, fiddling with his phone.

"Do you want me to take him away fro -"

"No!" Molly scowled, and pulled the baby closer.

Sherlock scowled back. "Fine," he said indignantly. "Do you want me to bring in the, the thing with, with the handles? The basket thing?" he asked, clearly frustrated by his lack of vocabulary.

"The carry cot? Maybe in a bit. He's sleeping so well I don't want to move him." She made the mistake of moving herself, somehow amplifying the pain in her right breast at least a dozen fold.

"Are you all right?"

"No," she answered honestly. "I'm not. I'm really not."

"Right," he said, still looking at his phone. "I'm going to try something,"

He set his phone down on the mattress, leaned over and -

"Owww," Molly squeaked as Sherlock attempted to squeeze her overfull breast into yet another towel "I'm not a cow, Sherlock," she said between gritted teeth.

Eddie made a face in his sleep that looked exactly like disgruntled Sherlock.

"Just trying to help," he said, picking up his phone again. Whatever the screen said it made him squint. "There is an alternate recommendation."

"Oh?"

Sherlock didn't elaborate. Instead, he looked around the room, almost as if making absolutely certain there was no one else but the three of them.

"Sherlock?"

He looked directly at her for a moment and then he looked away, tracing the curve of her hot breast with one finger. He barely touched her and yet it hurt. Molly winced. Sherlock chewed the corner of his mouth the way he did when he was uncomfortable.

In the pit of her stomach, Molly knew what Sherlock was planning. From a practical standpoint it was right, he was right, and it was obvious. But it seemed so, God, so wrong, so dirty. Absolutely, truly filthy.

But she was in so much pain she couldn't find the energy to care.

He dropped the damp towels to the floor. She expected him to stretch out on the bed beside her, but no. Instead, he leaned awkwardly over her, meeting her eyes for just a moment as he took her nipple into his mouth.

His eyes snapped shut almost immediately.

The pain was worse, so terrible, that she had to bite her lip to keep from crying out. But then it eased slightly, then more, then there was relief, but it was terrible too, and she reflexively grabbed a fistful of his t-shirt. His eyes shot wide again as he sucked and swallowed. He stroked her cheek with the back of a single finger.

Without thought, Molly moved her hand from his back to his hair. It felt so good to have the pressure and the heat and the discomfort wash out like a tide. She held Edmund to her with one arm and Sherlock with the other.

Sherlock's eyes darted to hers again only for a moment. He looked away, then back at her, then away, before finally settling on her. There was a question there.

"Thank you," she whispered so quietly she could barely hear herself.

Sherlock's eyes slipped shut, and he nodded against her. She could feel the tension pour out of him. He touched her cheek again.

Finally, her breast felt nearly normal again, or as normal, she considered, as it would for several months to come. He could have stopped at any time after that, should stop, but it seemed such an awkward thing to say. Molly was too tired to sort out what the proper thing was, so drifted off with her fingers in his hair, a Holmes on either side of her.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Molly wasn't answering her phone. Neither was Sherlock. Molly had been quite heavily medicated and might still be sleeping. But Sherlock? Not answering his phone? Why were they back to that?

John had to wonder if he had done something incredibly reckless leaving the baby with Sherlock. Not that Sherlock would intentionally harm a baby, any baby. But what if he did something stupid? Sherlock could be very stupid.

John had worked himself up pretty well by the time he unlocked Sherlock's door with another key he'd 'forgot' to return to Mrs. Hudson when he'd moved out. Ordinarily, he'd call out, but there was an infant on the scene now, and shouting of any sort was out of the question. Or, rather, Eddie was probably in for enough shouting without John contributing.

He'd left Sherlock and Eddie in the sitting room, but it was empty. 
Maybe -

He eased open Sherlock's bedroom door very carefully and breathed a sigh of relief. There, in Sherlock's bed. Molly in the middle, baby on one side, Sherlock on the other, Sherlock with his arm wrapped around her waist. It looked like someone had posed the three of them.

He'd never believe it if he hadn't seen it with his own eyes. He still wasn't sure he did.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Everything still hurt when Molly woke up, but to a lesser degree. It was less 'shoot-me-now' and more 'sweet-Jesus-what-did-I-do-to-deserve-
this?'" In other words, bearable.

She would have happily slept for six months if it hadn't been for the music flooding into the room. She sat up and nearly cried. She looked at Eddie, asleep on the bed, red rosebud mouth open. His eyelids fluttered, and he made a little piggy noise in his sleep and it was breathtaking. Amazing.

She struggled out of the bed. She could just take Eddie and go back to her own flat, but the trip down the stairs sounded about as appealing as rappelling down Everest at the moment. She had to ask Sherlock to quiet down before he woke the baby. No, she had to tell him.

She hobbled her way across the flat to Sherlock's sittingroom. And there he was, in chair across from the fire, violin in hand.

It was Sherlock playing, and not the sort of thing he played when he was working. This was not discordant or angry or painful. This didn't rip her heart out of her chest with sorrow, or shred her eardrums. It was lively and yet, somehow wistful. And beautiful, so beautiful.

She watched, fascinated. She'd seen him abuse the instrument a few times, and even though she knew he was capable, she'd never actually seen him play it before. It was fascinating to see the way the fingers of his left hand raced along the strings, and when her eyes met his, he looked a bit bashful, the tiniest smile in the corner of his mouth.

Then, suddenly, the whole pace slowed, and for a moment the tune stretched out like melted toffee, slow and languorous, before speeding faster than before, higher pitched and faster, faster.

His motions were becoming grander, his left hand moving incredibly fast while his bow arm moved in huge, sweeping arcs. She wasn't sure if it was the fire in the fireplace, or the way he was exerting himself, but there were tiny drops of sweat on his forehead. She realized it then; she was his audience. He was performing for her.

She remembered what he said about audiences.

She couldn't help it; big, fat, stupid tears started rolling down her cheeks. Molly wiped her face with the hem of her shirt. Hormones, she decided. It had to be hormones. Which made it worse.

Sherlock stopped and exhaled, looking uncomfortable. "Gratifying as it is to move an audience to tears, applause works just as well."

"Shut up," she said fondly, sniffling.

"Your wish is my - strong suggestion," he said. And with that, the silly man actually bowed.

Molly couldn't help herself, she laughed, and she clapped.

And then, of course, the baby woke up.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Sarah and John stood at the door to 221B with the gift for Molly and Sherlock's baby at their feet. John had been a bit uneasy about accepting Sherlock's invitation, but he usually was when it came to Sarah and Sherlock mixing too much. John put a good face on and tried not to let it show, though, and Sarah appreciated that. She and Molly were friendly in that way colleagues often are, and knew many of the same people, professionally. She and Sherlock, well, they were friendly for a certain Sherlock-sanctioned meaning of the word. And she wanted to see this mysterious baby.

She felt a bit nosy, a bit like a looky-loo, but she'd feel just as awkward letting John bring a gift on his own. So she was going to satisfy her curiosity and get a good look at Molly and Sherlock's baby.

They had rung his bell twice when Sherlock opened Molly's door.

"Down here!" he called. Sherlock was in his pajamas at 7 p.m., with the baby in his arms.

"Oh, congratulations, Sherlock," she said, surprising herself. "Oh my goodness, isn't he sweet? And so much hair! Oh John, look at him." She looked up at Sherlock, trying to get a feel for whether or not he'd let her hold the baby, but the look on his face said it all: fat chance.

"Thank you," he said, with the oddest expression she had ever seen, one she couldn't pin a name, or even an emotional state, to.

Once they were properly inside the flat, Sarah looked around. It was lovely and modern, a little untidy, and a little bit cluttered, but nowhere near the mess Sherlock's flat had usually been when John still lived there, even with John's love of order and penchant for tidiness. So, all in all, it was about what she'd expect for new parents.

New parents. Even thinking it was weird. 'Sherlock' and 'parent' didn't seem to belong in a sentence together.

Molly stuck her head through the doorway, looking faintly alarmed. She, too, was in her pajamas and dressing gown. "Oh," she said mildly. "Hello?"

"Oh, by the way, Molly, John and Sarah will be dropping over, right about, oh, now," Sherlock said, rubbing the baby's back.

"Oh, yes, well, I see that. Um, hi. Welcome," she said. "Thanks for telling me, Sherlock, so I could make sure I was, um, presentable. Or even dressed."

"If I'd have asked you, you'd have said no," Sherlock explained, "and if I'd told you, you'd have run around in a panic. This way, you've done neither."

"Yes, again, thanks so much."

"Why do you think I ordered so much fish? You and I could not eat that much fish." Which sounded like Sherlock-logic as Sarah understood it.

"I'll throw in a few more chips, then, shall I?"

Seeing Molly's distress, John shot Sherlock a glare. "So sorry, Molly, we don't want to be any trouble. We could come back another time. Or I could throttle this idiot and dispose of the body. Your choice."

Sherlock glared back, but said nothing.

"Tempting," Molly said. "No. honestly, it's no trouble. It's just, you know, a surprise. I wish I didn't look such a mess. Very glamourous, new motherhood."

"Modesty hardly seems to be in order with someone who has seen your internal organs," Sherlock said, as though he was being put upon.

"True enough," John said, "but I promise, I only looked when it was medically necessary. And for the record, your pancreas is adorable. You can't fake that."

Sarah was happy to see Molly giggle and blush. Sherlock scowled. Jealousy? Oh, that was rich.

John chuckled, and Sherlock scowled harder.

"Can I help?" Sarah offered.

"I've got it, I'm fine, thanks." Molly smiled a smile that suggested she didn't actually want help. "Maybe someone else would like to hold the baby, Sherlock."

"Maybe they would," Sherlock replied. "Too bad."

Molly rolled her eyes. "Why don't you come in the kitchen and keep me company?" she suggested to Sarah. "Tea, anyone?"

"Sure," Sarah said. "Tea sounds great. Let me help. John? Sherlock? Tea?"

"Working on disposal plans for a body right now, thanks anyway," John said.

Sherlock was clearly not amused. "No, thank you," he answered.

"More for us," Molly said, and led the way.

Sarah found and filled the kettle, apologizing as she went. "I'm so sorry, Molly, I had no idea. I can't believe John trusted Sherlock to give you the message."

Molly shrugged. "You know how they are. John probably made him swear to tell me and Sherlock thought he had, or you know, that I'd have deduced it based on which socks he'd worn that day or something." She shook her head. "I've been lucky, though. Eddie's a good sleeper and he's been sleeping through the night since we came home from the hospital, so I am getting some rest. And I squeezed in a two-hour nap this afternoon, so I'm good."

"And Sherlock?" Sarah asked, feeling bold.

Molly stopped peeling potatoes and frowned. "He's here all the time," she said. "He's very attached to Eddie. He's trying to be helpful. He's um -"

"Under foot?" Sarah suggested.

Molly grinned. "A bit, yeah."

John poked his head around the corner. "Any chance on that tea?"

Sarah nodded to the pot under its cozy. "Steeping," she said.

"How've you been, Molly?" John asked. He pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sat. "Sherlock driven you mad yet?"

Sherlock wandered in with the baby on his chest. Sarah noted a spit up stain on his shoulder. "Why is everyone in the kitchen?" he asked. "Are you lot conspiring? Edmund, I believe they're conspiring."

"You know the rule," Molly said, pointing at Sherlock. "Babies and hot fat don't mix. John, can you take your tea and Sherlock and Eddie out to the other room, please? I'll be done in fifteen minutes or so. Promise."

John was working hard not to smile as he followed Sherlock back to the sitting room.

"So?" Sarah said. "How are you healing? Staples out yet?"

"Day before yesterday," she said, cutting the potatoes she'd peeled into the most regular slices Sarah had ever seen produced by a human hand. "Sherlock did it for me. You should have seen the face he pulled. But fair's fair, God knows I've sewn him up often enough. And I couldn't be bothered to trudge all the way to the hospital with the baby and wait ages for something I could do myself. Your husband does very nice work, by the way."

Even though she was a doctor herself, Sarah had to work to keep from wincing.

"He's a lovely baby, Molly, just gorgeous. He seems even-tempered."

Molly smiled. "He is. Sleeps through the night, like I said, and he barely cries. I know it's supposed to be good for lung development, but when he's awake he's mostly eating or looking round."

"Nothing to cry about, I suppose."

"Guess I'm lucky," Molly said, and lowered a basket of fish into the sizzling oil.

It was weird. They could be anyone. Who knew Sherlock had it in him?

It still left one question, the same one on the lips of everyone who knew Sherlock.

"This is terribly nosy of me, Molly, and tell me to get stuffed if you want, but -" Sarah said, inhaling sharply, "- how did all this happen?"

Molly turned her back, fiddling with the fish.

"I'm sorry." Sarah felt very foolish. "That was just rude. I shouldn't have asked. It's none of my business."

"No," Molly said, still facing the fryer. "I'm sure everyone's wondering. It's simple, really. I wanted a baby and he volunteered to help. It's seemed like such a bad idea at first, but -" Molly turned to her, blushed red to the roots of her hair, "- well, have you looked at him?"

Sarah snorted a laugh. She'd have to be blind not to have noticed he was a very attractive man. Especially when his mouth was closed.

Molly shrugged. "It was supposed to be a one time thing, but, well, it turned out to be like opening the packet and thinking you'd be satisfied eating one crisp. For me, anyway." She lifted the basket out of the fryer and shook it. "Honestly, I've no idea what he's getting out of it. Food's ready!"

Sarah looked at the clock. Fourteen minutes after Molly started peeling potatoes, they were in the sitting room eating the best fish and chips Sarah had had in her life.

"This is amazing," Sarah said, torn between stuffing her face and not burning herself. She watched as Sherlock balanced a baby in one arm with a piece of fish in the other, ripping the fish in half and releasing the steam before taking a bite. She'd never thought of it, but she'd never seen him eat before, and she'd actually been at meals with him. She guessed this explained how Sherlock's cheeks got filled in.

"Thank you," Molly said politely. "Grew up over a chippy, so I've done this a few times before."

Sherlock gave her an odd look. Something about what she'd said did not sit right with him, but Sarah could not imagine what.

"No wonder Sherlock's gain-" John started to say, but Sarah shot him a panicked look.

"We've brought a present," she said, "for the baby. John, could you -?"

"Yes, right," John said, and made a lunge for the package they'd left by the door.

Sherlock glared at Sarah and at John, both. John shoved the big box in Molly's direction.

"Oh thank you," Molly smiled. "That's sweet of you, thanks so much."

"No wonder Sherlock's what?" Sherlock said.

"I'm opening," Molly said.

"I've never seen you look better," Sarah said diplomatically. "You look healthy, Sherlock. And that baby suits you."

Sherlock raised one brow, but said nothing.

Apparently, realizing it was time for drastic action, John set down his plate and held out his hands. "Give him here."

Sherlock gave Sarah a brief dirty look, but all his attention was soon back on the baby.

"Come on, hand him over." John positioned the baby to face Molly, but little Eddie turned his head and peered at Sarah out of the corner of his eye, the same way Sherlock did. It was uncanny.

"Oh, this is lovely," Molly said. "This is so sweet of you. Thank you both so much."

Sherlock sniffed but didn't say a word. Sarah watched as John examined the baby.

"I thought Eddie might enjoy it. He's a brilliant baby. I swear I can see him thinking," John said, studying him.

Sherlock's chest visibly swelled.

John looked at Sarah, then at Eddie. "We should get one of these for our flat," said pointedly.

"Well, you can't have this one," Sherlock said.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Later in the cab, John was sitting, full of fish and questions, when Sarah turned to him.

"That was - nice," she said.

He had no idea what to say. There had a been a moment, just a split second while he was telling Sherlock a funny story, a very funny story, about something that happened at a border crossing during the honeymoon, when he noticed Sherlock wasn't paying attention at all. No, Sherlock had the baby over his shoulder and was looking at Molly, who was bent over in the kitchen. It had struck him as so odd. He'd never seen Sherlock looking at a woman, or a man, for that matter, like that before.

But that wasn't the oddest part. The truly odd part was how embarrassed Sherlock was, like a kid almost, like it was the most mortifying thing in the world to be caught looking at a girl's arse, particularly when the 'girl' in question was the mother of your child. Only, of course, Sherlock would have said 'backside.'

John still had no idea what Sherlock was playing at. And he more than suspected Sherlock had no idea, either.

"Yes, it was," he said. Somehow, looking at Sarah, thinking of the good food and nice baby, and how strangely domestic the entire evening had been, he burst out laughing. "Yes, nice. Bizarre, but nice."

Whatever it was, it was contagious, because Sarah began laughing too. "So domestic. It was so strange."

John laughed harder. "I know."

"Careful," Sarah gasped, "I think Sherlock is jealous of your familiarity with Molly's pancreas."

He couldn't stop himself he was wheezing. Tears were coming out of his eyes. "Now we won't be even until he sees yours," he coughed.

"That's a bit scary, considering. Oh, stop, stop," Sarah laughed. "Ow, my side hurts."

"It's probably your pancreas," John said, still laughing.