A/N: This is my entry for the Sherlolly 2015 Big Bang Challenge created by artbylexie on tumblr. The full story is already posted on AO3. There are trigger warnings for mentions of rape (nothing graphic) and violence in later chapters. The wonderful mslestat created cover art for it that you can see on both tumblr and AO3. Feel free to read ahead on that site, or wait for my daily double-chapter updates instead!

Many, many thanks to broomclosetkink for being my beta and helping me out so much on this story. Stay tuned for a special bit she wrote for me several chapters from now!

"Sherlock, tell me what happened. Why didn't you let me accept your mother's invitation to Christmas dinner? Why did you take Bill Wiggins, of all people, instead? And why haven't I heard from you since then - it's been a week!"

He can't meet her gaze, even if there's nothing but quiet resignation in both eyes and voice when she makes her request; no, scotch that – no matter how quietly offered, it isn't a request, it's a demand. And Molly Hooper makes so very, very few demands of him – of anyone – that when she does, people listen. Well, most people. Sometimes even him, in his own way.

Say you're sorry.

Sorry your engagement's over, though I'm fairly grateful for the lack of a ring.

"Sherlock!"

Brought back to the present by the sudden sharpness in Molly's voice, Sherlock finally meets her gaze. They are standing across the small space of her kitchen, but it might as well be a chasm the size of the American Grand Canyon. "I've killed a man, Molly."

She doesn't flinch; she never flinches no matter what he says to her, no matter what he asks of her.

Molly, I think I'm going to die.

What do you need?

"You've killed more than one man, Sherlock Holmes. There's no way you took down Jim Moriarty's criminal empire without killing anyone. Why is this different?"

"For a lot of reasons, some of them good, some of them...not all of them forgivable," he admits.

You always say such horrible things. Every time. Always. Always…

I am sorry. Forgive me.

Shaking off the ghost of conversations past, he takes a step forward before stopping himself. No, he deserves no physical comfort from her, even if they have become something...not more than friends (such a ridiculous term) but different than friends. Something special to one another after she'd finally forgiven him for going back on drugs and tricking Janine into a relationship.

He would even go so far as to admit he was ready to consider Molly in a romantic light, much as people like John Watson would scoff at the idea. Or rather, he had been until taking that fateful shot in front of a myriad of government witnesses. Now, on the eve of exile, he knows there's no possibility of taking that 'something different' they share to any other level.

The quiet tap of one foot on the lino reminds him that Molly is still waiting for an explanation. So he gives it to her, unflinchingly, not attempting in any way to excuse or justify his actions. Her eyes narrow angrily when he admits to having drugged his family and the very pregnant Mary Watson, then widen with alarm when he tells her about Magnussen's mind palace and the threats the former newspaperman represented. He makes no mention of the danger to John and Mary Watson, of course, but instead focuses on how Magnussen had gloated that he now had a hold over the Holmes brother he was most interested in being able to blackmail. "Which would be disastrous for the entire country," Sherlock concludes, fists clenching in remembered anger.

"Today England, tomorrow the world," Molly murmurs, her perpetually awkward sense of humor easing some of the tension that's sprung up between them. He assumes it's a quote of some kind but doesn't question her on it – especially since it's entirely appropriate to the scope of Magnussen's ambitions. "So you shot him. To keep your brother out of his clutches." Her brown eyes are serious, her lips turned slightly downward as she studies him. "That's a good reason, a forgivable reason. Why else? What is it you're not saying?"

"Part of it was wounded pride." The confession isn't an easy one to make, and as he speaks he does his best to mask his unease at how well she can read him. Had he ever truly fooled this woman about anything? Possibly during the first few months after they'd met, when all it took was a smile and a compliment to get her to do whatever he wanted. But probably not for much longer than that. She still has a waiting look about her as she nods her understanding. And so against his better judgement, he adds, "And partly because of something I can't share with anyone because it's not my secret to tell."

She nods again, startling him all over when she murmurs, "I won't let on that I know, Sherlock. They'll never have to worry about hearing it from me." Before he can deduce her meaning, she reaches out and rests her hand briefly on his abdomen – right above the scar left by Mary Watson's bullet.

Molly knows. How, how can Molly possibly know? The only people who are supposed to know are himself, Mary, and John – well, and Mycroft of course, impossible to keep secrets from his meddlesome elder sibling – but how had Molly found out? Before he can ask, she gives him a sad smile and pulls her hand back. "So what happens now?"

"A mission in eastern Europe for Mycroft. He estimates it'll take no more than six months." The mystery of Molly's knowledge of secrets in his past is put aside in favor of concentrating on the secret regarding his future.

He has no intention of telling her the truth; it would be cruel, putting that burden on her shoulders. He's already loaded up her slim form with more secrets than any one person should ever have to bear. And since he has no intention of telling John the truth, telling Molly will force her to once again keep things from others. No, he refuses to do it.

"Six months," she says quietly, head down. She reaches out blindly and clings to one of his hands with both of hers, and he realizes with a jolt that tears are leaking from her tightly-clenched eyes. He's known her for more than five years and yet this is the first time he's ever seen her cry. "Six months and then...you're not coming back. Are you."

He really needs to stop underestimating this woman. "No," he says simply, and she bows her head in silent acknowledgement of his words. What, he wonders uneasily, should he do now? Memories of being comforted by his mother and father during times of deep distress in his early childhood flash through his mind. With that to nudge him into action, Sherlock reaches out with his free arm, tentatively encircling her slight frame and holding her close to his body. "I'm sorry, Molly." The words are entirely inadequate to the situation, but what else is there to say?

He braces himself for more tears, for anger and hurt and anything else she cares to throw at him, but instead of the expected flood, she tilts her head up and meets his gaze, cheeks wet, but her mouth firm and chin positively defiant. "Sherlock, we've known each other for a long time now. And in all that time, I've never asked you for anything." She pauses and he nods, sensing that some sort of acknowledgement of her statement is required. "And if this is really happening, if you don't think...if you're not…" She takes a steadying breath before dropping her bombshell. "I want something from you. Before you go. Something only you can give me, Sherlock."

"Anything," he replies, confident that she won't ask him for something impossible, like a promise to return.

Her response, however, is entirely unexpected, and takes more than a few minutes to process. "I want a baby, Sherlock. Your baby. Will you do that for me?"