John and Mary`s baby boy is born in April, when the bluebells are springing up, dancing their heads alongside those of the daffodils. Catkins and Pussy Willow unfurl from branches and acid green shoots are appearing everywhere. It is a time for growth; a time for rebirth and new beginnings.

Sholto William Watson is nearly eight pounds in weight and twenty two centimetres long – slightly longer than average. He has sandy, tufty hair and a light down all over his body which they know will disappear within a week. He can blink and yawn and cry and sleep. He startles with loud noises and uncurls his little fingers like starfish in surprise. He is slightly pink and smells of milk and powder and – just baby.

At Baker Street, Mrs Hudson has welcomed the new parents and their mini-Watson with cake and tea. DI Greg Lestrade and DS Sally Donovan are part of the welcoming committee, since they are visiting Sherlock regarding the attempted suicide of Mr Arthur Harry Pinner. ("Forced, at gun point – G.S.R. in small of his back and near his temple. Check his brother`s account at Crockfords" – Sherlock). Alterations are underway in the cellar of Baker Street – 221A is being re-designed as a high tech laboratory for Sherlock`s exclusive use. It appears that several of Charles Augustus Magnussen`s ex-blackmailees are more than grateful for his demise. Thus, with traipsing workmen and baby welcoming committees, Baker Street is bustling. And everyone wants to hold the new baby.

Almost everyone.

Molly Hooper sits alone in Sherlock`s bathroom. She needs a moment. Or, two.

In less than two weeks, Molly will be leaving London to embark on her lecture tour (such an embarrassingly grand title – she cringes whenever Mike mentions it.) She will be out of the country, on and off, for around seven months. It is a fabulous opportunity – amazing. If her paper is backed by such prestigious sponsors as Bern University and the Stockholm Kunskapsbas Library, she might even get more sponsorship for Bart`s which would mean their lab improvement and expansion project would get the green light. Oh God – so much responsibility on the small shoulders of Dr Molly Hooper… It brought her out in a cold sweat in the middle of the night.

She clutches her knees close to her chest; sat on top of the lavatory seat. She checks her watch again.

Oh God.

She would only be able to visit the UK between venues, and that was allowing for weather, transport and times of year. She has joined a research team at the Uppsala Medical School in Sweden, and much of her spare time will be spent there.

Maybe there was a little more leeway with visits home than they first mentioned. She was going to have to talk to the organisers. Maybe. What the hell time is it now? This was truly brilliant timing. There was a baby in the building; workmen rushing up and downstairs, demanding tea with six sugars; Sherlock constantly asking her opinions on homogenisers and centrifuges for the new lab and now – she was at the mercy of a twelve centimetre piece of white plastic.

Her future career; her standing in the medical community; her travelling around the cooler parts of Europe; her responsibility towards the Department at Bart`s – all hanging on the whim of a stick on the side of a bath.

God. For a couple of smart people, she and Sherlock had been kind of – unsmart. Maybe.

How many seconds left?

She sneezed. Another cold. Was her immune system suppressed? That wasn't good.

Lutenizing hormone (LH) and Follicle Stimulating Hormone (FSH) were a couple of co-conspirators who had (maybe) picked a terrible time to join forces and gang up on her. If Human Chorionic Gonadotropin (hCG) had decided to join the party – she was truly – deaded. All bets off. End of the road.

Downstairs, Sherlock has just rolled his eyes at yet another workman who didn't really understand the need for so many gas outlets and been accosted as the only remaining human who had not had `a hold` of baby Sholto (Ridiculous! `Sherlock` would have been a far better choice – ) when he receives a text. Holding a tiny, hot, squirmy infant would not, however, be enough to stop Sherlock Holmes opening a text.

"Aw, look, Sherlock, he likes you!" He really should put Mrs Hudson on semi-permanent mute.

`There has been a spike in hCG. My corpus luteum is ready to rock and roll. Time for the unholy trinity. MH`

Bollocks. Bastard. Bloody hell.

John Watson lifts Sholto from the arms of a glazed Sherlock Holmes. Did he say that out loud?

"Lovely – most people just say `he`s the image of you!`"

It would seem so.

He can just hear Mrs Hudson`s "SO unlike him – usually not much of a swearer!" as he takes the stairs, two at a time, to Molly, in her porcelain fortress of solitude.

THE END