Sherlock Holmes had gotten himself stabbed—right in the side, dangerously close to his lung. It seemed that Sherlock's jujitsu was no match for a cornered criminal with a knife. Sherlock was never in danger of dying, but it was bad enough that he was in the hospital for nearly a week and spent another few weeks convalescing at home, driving his wife and Mrs. Hudson and any other visitor foolish enough to venture in to see him mad with his demands and his boredom.

Molly, upon hearing that Sherlock was hurt, had stayed very calm. While at the hospital, she maintained an air of professional detachment, examining the wound when they finally let her in to see him. Her only concession to her worry was a slight tremble of her hands as she smoothed back Sherlock's hair and kissed his forehead. Molly thanked John and the doctors who were attending and then took a cab home and made it all the way to the bedroom before she broke down into hysterical tears.

When Mycroft stopped by not long after she had left the hospital, he found her sitting in Sherlock's chair, his bloodstained coat in her lap. Molly Hooper was not easily shaken—she had helped Sherlock fake a suicide and kept his secret for nearly two years. In her line of work, she was exposed to the horrors of death, violence and disease and took them in stride. But seeing the man she loved, the man who had jumped from the roof of a building and survived, injured by a common thug had frightened her. She knew his emotional vulnerabilities, and though Molly knew it better than anyone, Sherlock really was just a man, a man who could bleed, who could die—for real this time. Faced with the thought of her husband's mortality, she sat pensive in the dim light of evening.

Mycroft seated himself opposite, in John's old chair. He watched her for a moment, her hands smoothing the coat on her lap, almost as if they were stroking the man to whom it belonged.

"If it helps," he broke the silence. She looked up, startled out of her thoughts.

"If it helps, " Mycroft continued,"I know an excellent dry cleaner. Sherlock has used him before. Always gets out every last drop of blood."

Molly gaped at Mycroft's insensitivity before realizing was teasing her, reassuring her.

"Oh?" she remarked.

"Yes. This used to happen quite a lot, this kind of thing. I'm thinking he didn't mention his near asphyxiations, concussions, numerous stitches—I'm sure you've seen the scars?" Mycroft gave her a pointed look.

Molly blushed and nodded. Yes, she had seen those scars. Sherlock was tough, and he knew how to handle himself. She should not worry, but how could she help it. Molly knew the man with the impassive face across from her worried every bit as much as she did.

"This kind of thing has not happened in a while, Molly, due in great part to your presence in his life. I think my brother may actually be able to think about someone other than himself—" he paused to amend his statement. After all, Sherlock had faked his death for his friends, "Well, he is doing it more consistently—for you." He gave her what might be considered a smile. "I have high hopes that my little brother may be growing up. Finally. Let's just hope he does not get himself killed in the process."

She gave a small smile and they sat in silence for a long time, taking comfort in each other's presence, bound by their shared love for Sherlock.

It took every bit of her love for Sherlock to get her through the next few weeks. The man was insufferable, and in his misery at being confined to home, he made everyone else as miserable as possible. First of all, he was a fretful baby. He did not want to take his medicine because it made him sleepy—dulled the edges of his
razor sharp mind.

"My intellect cannot afford to suffer, Molly," he had moaned. You didn't think of that when you were shooting up though did it?—she bit her tongue before the words were out of mouth. He caught the gist of her thoughts though.

"It was a special solution," he muttered. "I wasn't an addict." He went to flop dramatically on the sofa, but his wound made him wince and he sat down gingerly instead.

"Hmm," was Molly's only response but she had her suspicions as to why he would not take his medication. She respected the fact that he did not want to risk a relapse into his former habits. On the other hand, when Sherlock was in pain, so was the rest of the world.

So, he was cranky. His stitches itched. He was not hungry, well, maybe he was if Mrs. Hudson would make soup, no, not that kind of soup. He wanted his laptop. It was too warm sitting on his belly. No, he did not want to sit up at his desk. He had a headache. He wanted his gun—not that he was going to shoot anything. He wasn't! Could he have a cigarette? Please? Now! He was bored. Bored. BORED. BOOOORRRRREEEDDD!

Molly was thankful for the peace and quiet she found at work. The dead were so much nicer to work with than the living at times.

Sherlock's friends were not spared his fits of temper either. During his daily visits to the flat, John had argued violently with Sherlock more than once, and Molly came home from work one day to hear Lestrade turning the air blue with the foulest curse words she had ever heard, being directed at Sherock who merely tossed his head and pointed to the door.

"God, Molly—I'm sorry you have to put up with that dickhead!" shouted Lestrade on his way out.

Even Mrs. Hudson, dear Mrs. Hudson—the only person who gave Sherlock almost as much leeway as Molly herself, got fed up with him after a particularly cruel deduction about her television viewing habits and called him a "little bugger." Molly had gasped with laughter at the time. Sherlock was not amused.

These were just things that were said in the heat of the moment, however, and it was not long at all before Sherlock was a well as he ever was, and he and John were back to business-Sherlock sporting a rather "sexy" new scar—at least in Molly's opinion.

But things were not quite back to business as usual for all. Molly had borne the brunt of the work and the abuse as Sherlock recovered, and though he was now as fit as ever, Molly was run down, tired and sick. She yawned her way through her scheduled autopsies, nodded over her paperwork, and Stamford once found her with her head buried in her arms, napping lightly in the cool dimness of the lab. Molly was strong though. She was a driven woman, and a professional like her did not have time to be sick.

Molly was busy, too busy to notice that something was not quite right. She was married to one of the most demanding men on the planet. She had just spent weeks worrying and overworking herself. Despite her best efforts, she had gotten behind at work. Research had been ignored. Paper work had not been filed. She was working double shifts to catch up.

On the more personal front, pills had been forgotten even as celebratory recovery sex had been enjoyed. Cycles had been ignored, and if she noticed that she was late—she didn't—she would have attributed it to the stress of having one's husband stabbed. Molly had always been responsible-had never even had a scare in any of her previous relationships. The symptoms just didn't register. It was hard to even consider a baby when she was married to one of the biggest babies she had ever known.

Sherlock, for his part, was the most observant man alive, but if the facts did not immediately present themselves as useful, he deleted them or filed them deep in his mind for retrieval at a later date. Did Sherlock know the signs of pregnancy? At some point, he probably did, but given that he had been married to his work for years and as such had no reason at all to worry about impregnating a woman, he had no idea what to look for other than the obvious, a big belly and if pressed, he probably could have recalled something about vomiting. Molly was still slim and if she were throwing up (she wasn't), she was not doing it around him. The idea of pregnancy simply was not on his radar.

So, though one would think Sherlock and Molly would be the first to know that they were going to be parents, it was, in fact, their friends who slowly began to suspect it before the parents themselves even began to wonder.

Mrs. Hudson, living just down stairs, was the first to suspect. Mrs. Hudson was a light sleeper. Unless she took one of her herbal soothers, her hip pain was nagging and often kept her awake. She became aware that someone in 221B was using the loo at all hours of the night. The pipes were old. When it was late at night and quiet, the gurgle of the pipes was distinctive. Mrs. Hudson counted six trips one night.

Mrs. Hudson arrived at 221B the next morning to find Molly, looking pale, munching toast in the kitchen. Sherlock was gone—off with John bright and early. Molly informed Mrs. Hudson that she thought Sherlock had said something to her before he left about a smuggling ring. She wasn't sure—she had been half asleep. She would text him later. Or see him later. Sherlock had been trying to be more considerate. He would be in touch one way or another.

"It's so good to see him back to his old self," Mrs. Hudson remarked, "Would you like some jam with that?" She found a jar of strawberry jam in the cupboard and handed it to Molly, who shook her head with a wrinkled nose.

"No, thanks." Molly waved it away and took a sip of her tea.

"Butter?" asked Hudson, heading toward the fridge.

"Urgh," groaned Molly. "Dry is fine, thanks." Mrs. Hudson pursed her lips and studied Molly's pallid face. She sat down across from Molly and patted her hand.

"I did want to ask you, how is Sherlock reacting to his medication? Any side effects?" she asked Molly, who looked at her strangely. She put down her tea and shook her head.

"No, none really. He's not even taking anything at the moment." Molly answered.

"Ah, so uh, no diuretics or anything?" Mrs. Hudson attempted to be delicate.

"No. Well, they gave him some to reduce edema when they had to intubate him, but nothing regular." Molly wrinkled her brow, "Why do you ask?"

"Ah, well, it's really none of my business, I've just heard someone in the loo…a lot." She waved her hand nervously, "I probably shouldn't have mentioned it. I was just worried about him."

Molly nodded, "Of course you are! No, that's just me, I'm afraid. Bladder the size of a walnut lately. I'm turning over a new leaf—healthier eating, drinking more water. Should probably cut back before bedtime. If Sherlock's going to risk himself, one of us needs to stay healthy."

Mrs. Hudson nodded in sympathy. "I'm sorry if I woke you up," Molly started to apologize, but Mrs. Hudson cut her off.

"No, no dear! Those old pipes you know. They rattle all night long anyway. And this hip of mine just gives me fits—that's what is keeping me up. Never you." Mrs. Hudson looked at Molly curiously.

"A sick Sherlock really takes its toll, doesn't it?" She smiled, reaching out to pat Molly's hand again. "Have you been to the doctor yourself? Maybe it's time you got a check up?" The older woman gave her a rather piercing glance.

Molly laughed, "Oh, no. I just had my yearly physical a couple of months ago. Fit as always! I'm never sick," she tossed the rest of her toast on her plate, "just tired." She stood up to take her dish to the sink before she began to gather up her bag, her keys.

"Well, I should be off. The dead won't wait —well, they will wait, but they shouldn't have to—I just mean, I'm already late. " She was blathering. She was so tired she could not think straight. "Slept past my alarm again."

"Oh, yes, don't let me keep you," Mrs. Hudson stood to go, but she paused and reached out to squeeze Molly's shoulder, "You will tell me if you need anything? I'd be happy to do some cooking for you today, or does anything need to go into the wash?" She stared into Molly's face, smiling hopefully. "If there's anything at all that you want to tell me—to do, I mean—"

Molly hesitated, "but you've done so much already. I don't want to be a both-"

"Shush! No bother at all." Mrs. Hudson smiled and gave her a little hug, "You know I like to do it."

Molly nodded, pleased but a little curious as to this early morning affection, not that Mrs. Hudson was anything but kind, but this seemed a bit…more so. Mrs. Hudson shooed her out of the kitchen.

"Now, you go off to work. I'll have dinner waiting when you get home." A sudden thought seemed to cross Mrs. Hudson's mind. "And one more thing before you go, young lady, I will be putting my foot down about the experiments in the kitchen. I'll not have anymore of that now, especially now. Sherlock and you have that whole lab at the hospital. No more feet in the fridge or bacteria in the bathtub, do you hear? Honestly, two grown people making a hazard of their home. It's time you two started thinking about the consequences of such things." She wagged a finger at Molly.

Molly stood by the front door, taken aback by the sudden change in the older woman's demeanor.

"O-okay," she stammered quietly, "well, okay, then. I'm off." She gave a half wave.

"Have a lovely day dear! I'll have your supper ready by seven, and maybe I can do a little dusting." Mrs. Hudson started on the dishes Molly had left in the sink.

Molly shook her head before grabbing her coat and heading out the door, leaving Mrs. Hudson washing saucers and happily dreaming of dimpled knees and dark curls.

Lestrade was the next to suspect. He was a father twice over. He'd been through his wife's pregnancies and was aware of the more subtle symptoms, and when he saw Molly in the morgue a couple of days later, it did not take much for him to begin to suspect. She was sitting on a stool, staring heavy-eyed at something in a specimen tray when he came in, Anderson in tow. She stood up quickly when she saw them—had been expecting them in fact, but she quickly grasped the edge of the metal table and closed her eyes in a near swoon. Lestrade was at her elbow in an instant helping her sit back down.

"You okay there, Molly?" he asked. She put a hand to her forehead.

"Just a little lightheaded." She replied faintly before giving a small smile, "Must be time for lunch."

Lestrade gave her the once over. Sherlock had run her ragged over the last month or so, but while Molly was a little wan, she did not look bad. The pink was already returning to her cheeks. Molly waved off his concern and stood again to get the necessary chart. Lestrade's sharp eyes noticed the buttons of Molly's shirt were strained, one had even come undone. Lestrade was a detective, a very good one in fact. He was also a father. There was some very strong evidence here that the consulting detective was about to be a father as well.

"How are you feeling, Molly?" he asked solicitously, teeth flashing in a grin. "Sherlock mentioned you weren't feeling so well—said not to be surprised if you weren't in the morgue." He raised his eyebrows expectantly.

"Much better! I had a rough couple of weeks there, but I'm tip top again. I don't know what that little dizzy spell was." She smiled and walked over to the row of drawers. "Which one did you need again? Evans, G.?" Anderson gave the affirmative and she opened the drawer and pulled out the slab.

"Here, here now!" Lestrade hurried over, "Let me do that! No need to strain yourself. Anderson, give us a hand." He and the forensics specialist finished pulling out the slab. Molly threw him a perplexed look before shrugging and reaching for her gloves.

Lestrade stood by, overseeing Anderson's inspection and smiling inwardly at that thought of Sherlock Holmes changing diapers.

About a week later, John and Sherlock were holed up in 221B, going over the evidence for their latest case. Photographs and maps were strewn about. Train tickets and schedules were pinned to the wall. Sherlock was pacing and talking at John while Molly sat nearby on the sofa attempting to read through a scientific article. She kept yawning though, and her blinks were longer than strictly necessary.

"So, Mr. Gardner disappeared on the 14th of April and it is now the 29th of June. Knowing that Mrs. Gardner was out of the country for the first two weeks of that time period, that gives him ample time to ha—"

"Wait—what is the date?" Molly asked suddenly, interrupting Sherlock.

Sherlock and John turned to her in surprise. She had been very quiet. They had assumed she had fallen asleep . She was not. She was wide awake now and blinking at them with wide brown eyes. She seemed surprised by something.

"Today is June 29th." Sherlock said simply. He'd been about to say something sarcastic, but his irritation at being interrupted died out when he saw the look on her face. "Why?" Here was a new mystery, closer to home.

John smirked to himself. He was a doctor. He had seen the signs once the others mentioned their suspicions. Frankly, they had all assumed that Sherlock and Molly were hiding it from them, the way they did the start of their relationship, the way they did their marriage, the way they kept everything about their relationship private—it was a logical assumption. However, seeing the look of shock on Molly's face, John realized it was also the wrong assumption.

Molly didn't answer, but she suddenly dashed to the loo. They heard cabinets opening, closing. A few minutes later, she emerged. Without a word, Molly walked to the front door, grabbed her bag. With one last wide eyed glance at Sherlock, she picked up her keys.

"I-I'll be back in just a minute. I just need to go pick up a few things. Do you need anything? Matches? Milk? The tabloids?" she shuffled nervously as Sherlock and John stared at her. Sherlock shook his head. John looked down, his hand coming up to hide his grin.

She nodded and hurried out. Sherlock turned to John and took in his smile.

"What? What is it?" he demanded. How dare John act like he knew something about his wife that he didn't.

"Molly was ill for a few weeks there, wasn't she?" asked John meaningfully. Sherlock stared at him with narrowed eyes.

"Ye-es." He admitted and lifted his chin. He felt like he should know where this conversation was going. He did not.

"She's put on some weight, yeah? Stomach upset?" John's eyebrows arched significantly.

"Molly has gained 3 and a half pounds. And I've told her repeatedly that eating lunch in the cantina is no longer advisable since they hired Mr. Dunstan as manager," Sherlock answered distractedly, he was sinking into his mind palace, sorting through things he had noticed but not reflected upon. John watched as Sherlock became lost in thought, his eyes staring but not seeing. Suddenly, Sherlock's eyes snapped back to focus on John. His face was curiously blank. Then he walked carefully over to his chair, and dropped heavily into the seat. He folded his hands under his chin. The pin had dropped.

"Oh." Sherlock said.

"Yeah." John answered. "Would you like to talk abou-, or no? No. Okay. Perhaps I should go before Molly gets back?"

Sherlock nodded without looking at him.

Smothering another grin, John departed, leaving a rather anxious father to be behind.

Molly was staring at two pink lines. Never had the color pink seemed so threatening before. Sherlock had been lost in thought when she returned from the shops, and he had not said a word as she made her way directly to the bathroom, bag in hand.

The instructions on the box recommended waiting until morning, but she could not wait. She stared at the white stick for 3 minutes. She knew she was pregnant before the 3 minutes were up. She knew she was pregnant before she even made it home from the store. Now that the dates were adding up, she realized that her fatigue and general malaise was not a result of being Sherlock Holmes's personal nurse, or rather, not just because of that. She stared at herself in the mirror. She didn't really look any different, but now she was two—there was someone else in there, a baby Holmes. She turned to observe her profile, running her hand over her flat belly before coming up to cup a heavy breast. She pulled her shirt up to get a better look. These should have been a dead giveaway, she thought to herself weighing them both in her hands. At just that moment, the door to the bathroom was unceremoniously thrust open and Sherlock stood there staring down at her, his lip curled in confusion.

"Hey!" she hollered, "Occupied!"

"What are you doing?" he asked as she pulled her shirt down, flushing with embarrassment.

"What do you think I'm doing," she muttered reaching out to cover the telltale white stick with her hand. Sherlock snatched it off the counter. She looked up at him with apprehension. Molly had no idea how he would react to this. Sherlock was a 36 year old toddler. She wondered how he would handle the competition. They had not ruled out having children. They had just never discussed it either.

"How do you read this?" he asked irritably. Sherlock shook the stick and held it up to the light. She reached out to snatch it back.

"You aren't supposed to shake it," she snapped at him. "Give it. Two lines. See?"

Sherlock nodded and looked at her, eyes asking the question his mouth couldn't seem to form.

"It's—," he began to ask, before stopping to clear his throat.

"Positive." She squeaked. He had not heard Molly's mouse voice in a very long time. It was almost a relief to hear it, added a touch a familiarity that he clung to in this unreal situation.

Sherlock blinked and took the stick from her again to look for himself before he tossed it on the counter. He reached out to cup a breast. It felt like an exam, not an intimate caress. He lifted her shirt to lay a palm against her flat abdomen.

"You've been sick?" he questioned her, prodding her belly with gentle fingers.

"Not really. Just tired. I guess." She brushed his hand away, "Don't. That tickles."

"And your…" he paused delicately.

"Late. At least 3 weeks past." She answered.

They stared at each other. His blue eyes were bright as he pressed his lips together. Those lips. They had been her undoing, Molly thought to herself.

"Well." Sherlock rasped. He cleared his throat again.

"Yes, ah, well." Molly responded. They stared at each other some more.

"You'll give birth in February, I suppose." Sherlock said, his eyes losing focus.

"Ye—what? I mean, I guess. Yeah." He'd figured that out fast.

"It would have happened just after I recovered, so conception was early May. February, maybe end of January." He took the test up again and gazed at the two pink lines.

"And how do you feel about that?" Molly asked, her voice soft. "Are you okay with that?"

He looked at her, raising a brow at her question.

"It doesn't matter to me when it's born," he replied and placed the test on the counter. "Though research has shown that children born in winter tend to develop allergies more frequently than children born at any other time of year."

Molly blinked at him slowly. "How do you even kno-? That study can't be well respected, but I mean—You don't have allergies." She felt a little dizzy. From the pregnancy or just talking to Sherlock she was not sure. "No, I mean, how do you feel about…ah, having a baby? Is it okay?"

Sherlock hesitated before replying, "What's done is done, Molly."

They looked at each other shyly.

"Do you mind it?" Sherlock asked. "It will mean an—adjustment. Career. Home. Though John's old room would make a fine nursery, I suppose. He will get a lot of afternoon sunlight—will that affect naptime, I wonder?"

For the first time, Molly started to smile. He was already planning, making room in the flat, hopefully in his heart. She wrapped her arms around his waist and laid her head on his chest. His arms came up to hold her gently.

"That's why Mrs. Hudson yelled at me about the specimen baggies in the freezer." Molly pondered aloud. "She already knew."

"They all know." Sherlock answered, reflecting on the hidden grins and sideways looks John and Lestrade had been giving him for the last week. "I can't imagine how I missed it."

"I'm the one who is pregnant and I didn't even consider it." She sighed. "This is embarrassing."

A dark expression creased Sherlock's brow. Molly felt her stomach tighten—were the second thoughts coming already?

"What is it," she almost whispered.

Sherlock sneered and rolled his eyes upward, "Mycroft is going to be absolutely unbearable," he groaned. Molly gasped with relieved laughter.

"Well, if that's your biggest worry, I think we're going to be okay." She tilted her chin up to smile at him.

He looked down at his grinning wife in puzzlement.

"Well, of course we are. Why would you ever doubt that?" he answered.

"I don't." Molly said and held her face up for a kiss.