Chapter Six

He didn't have to wait long. Of course, he could have just let himself into Molly's flat with the key she'd finally provided him with a few years ago – or picked the lock (he liked to test himself from time to time) – but it seemed important this time to wait for permission. Sherlock immediately felt a sense of peace whenever he reached Molly's door; it had taken him a long time to figure out what that feeling was, but he knew it kept driving him back there. It had been by far his favourite bolthole over the years – hardly surprising, given that it provided him with a comfortable bed, proper food and a woman who understood him absolutely. Occasionally, the comfortable bed and said woman had been at his disposal at the same time; warm, comforting embraces under the duvet that were supposedly strictly platonic, but had undoubtedly awakened something in Sherlock so that they became like a new drug of choice.

Molly appeared at her gate clad in hat, gloves and one of her ridiculously colourful scarves – and a warmth immediately spread across Sherlock's chest. And she was smiling at him – a small, questioning smile, but a smile nonetheless. That was fine – he had something to work with.

"What have you done with your family?" she asked, coming down the short path towards him. "Please reassure me that none of them are going to turn up at the morgue tonight."

He felt his mouth twitch into a slight smile.

"Don't be ridiculous, Molly," he replied. "I know all the best places for disposing with bodies in the Greater London area."

He got up from where he'd been sitting on the top step, collecting up the box that had been sitting beside him. She approached him, took a step up so that their eyes were level and a wider smile spread across her face.

"You're lucky you're so bloody gorgeous," she said, shaking her head.

"No, I'm just lucky that I found a beautiful woman with an unusual predilection for sociopaths," Sherlock replied.

Molly giggled (god, he loved that laugh, and always felt a swell of pride and happiness when he was the cause).

"What's in the box?" she asked.

"It was hard to think of something that said 'sorry my family are arseholes', so…"

He held out the flat box to Molly, enabling her to lift the lid. Inside was a giant cookie, iced with the very words 'Sorry my family are arseholes'. Molly's eyes widened before she dissolved into laughter again; Sherlock's heart performed a complicated acrobatic manoeuvre in his chest as her eyes met his.

"It's perfect," she told him.

"Apparently, it wasn't the strangest request they'd had today," he replied. "But then most human beings are appalling and have a lot to apologise for."

"Well, I've just eaten a pastry on the way back from the park, so I might have to save that for later. But thank you."

Molly pushed herself up on tiptoes and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. Instinctively, Sherlock caught her elbow to hold her in place, losing himself in the unique and heady experience that was Molly Hooper.

"Can I come in?" he asked, when they eventually separated.

She looked up at him, surprised.

"I assumed you would," she said. "Though you know my shift starts in less than two hours, so after that it's just you and Tobes."

"Actually," Sherlock began, ignoring the bait about her feline flatmate. "You've got the night off."

"What?"

"I called Stamford, explained you'd had a traumatising day, you were exhausted -"

"Sherlock, you can't go around re-organising my life like that!" Molly exclaimed, finally locating her key in her bag. She looked up for a second, sighing, glanced down to her stomach. "I mean any more than you already have."

He paused for a moment, trying to conjure up Mind Palace John, who would be sure to tell him whether this was a 'bit not good'.

"I'm only twenty weeks pregnant, I feel fine, I'm a professional, and god knows I've had more traumatising things happen to me than meeting your parents!" she added. Sherlock winced a little at the last comment, knowing that a great many of those 'more traumatising' things were of his doing.

"All of those things are true, Molly," he said carefully. "But…after what happened today, there are a few things I was hoping we could discuss."

There was a moment of silence while Molly seemed to be taking in this request, turning it over in her mind.

She sighed.

"Okay, fine," she said, eventually. "Although if one of those things is your brother sleeping with Lady Smallwood, I would rather spend the evening with the recently deceased."

She stepped back to let him into the house, and Sherlock was once again relieved – and thankful beyond words - that such a patient, understanding and morbidly-humoured woman had agreed to share her life with him.

Once indoors, Sherlock divested himself of his Belstaff, hanging it on what he had come to think of his peg on the coatrack (Molly obviously agreed, as she always left it empty), and watched Molly remove her many woollen garments one by one. Almost immediately, The Cat (Sherlock always saw the capitals in his mind) slunk through from the living room and started to wind its way around his ankles. This always seemed to amuse Molly greatly, because while he was doing his very best to act like he didn't mind Molly's beloved pet, they both knew he wasn't doing a very good job. He tried to recall the average lifespan for a domestic cat and came to the conclusion that it was longer than was reasonable.

"Are you eating today?" Molly asked, heading for the kitchen in the knowledge that he would follow. "Because I'm afraid I was just planning on a quick beans on toast before heading to work."

Sherlock moved towards her and wrapped his arms around her waist, aware of just how many hours it had been since he'd touched this woman.

"All taken care of," he told her. "Angelo's is delivering at seven."

Molly looked up at him, frowning.

"Angelo's don't deliver, do they?"

"They do when their favourite customer happens to mention that he's going to be a father."

Molly laughed, swatting him lightly on the chest.

"You're going to milk this for ages, aren't you? Get as many favours and freebies as you can wring out of people."

Sherlock managed to keep a poker face.

"My acquaintances are quite simply expressing their genuine pleasure and regard at this joyful event," he told her. "So, do you want the carbonara when it arrives or shall I feed it to Tobias?"

She thanked him, biting down on a smirk. As he watched her, he saw the expression on her face alter, as though coming back down to earth. This could only be to do with his family – they tended to have that effect on him, too.

"I can't imagine I'll be a welcome guest at your parents' table any time soon," she sighed, toying with one of the buttons on his suit jacket.

Sherlock immediately felt another stab of anger towards his parents and Mycroft, reminded of how uncomfortable they had made Molly feel, how they had once again turned what should have been a happy occasion into another opportunity for the Holmes Family Circus.

"They would be immensely lucky if you were to ever grace their table!" he told her, managing to coax a smile. "Holmes family dinners are notoriously dreadful affairs, and I will do everything in my power to limit your exposure to them."

He saw Molly's brow wrinkle slightly.

"Your parents actually seem…nice, though. They seemed genuinely excited about this, about the baby."

"Yes, well, I imagine it was a shock to discover that one of their socially maladjusted sons had found someone willing to bring a child into the world with him," he replied. "Finally gives my mother a reason to learn to use that phone of hers, too; somehow I think she's going to enjoy 'I'm a grandma' a little more than 'my long-dead daughter is actually alive and in a secure island prison facility'."

Molly prodded him in the chest again, gently scolding him.

"Yes, okay, but I wasn't very nice to them," she continued. "I implied that they weren't very good parents."

"They weren't," Sherlock shot back. "Sometimes nice people aren't necessarily the best parents. But I get the feeling they might be better grandparents – well, at any rate, they aren't going to give us a day's peace."

Molly laughed, and it was yet another occasion where Sherlock recognised he'd made a joke, completely unintentionally. He knew, too, that Molly was a sadist and had a tendency to enjoy his discomfort. She disentangled herself from his arms and led him towards her sofa, where he collapsed before swinging his legs onto the low coffee table.

"Who's William, by the way?" Molly asked suddenly, clearly struggling to keep a sly smile off her face.

Sherlock sighed theatrically before looking at her sideways.

"That would be me," he replied.

"So you're…"

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes, yes. My parents have a tendency to forget my preferences when it suits them."

Molly shuffled along the sofa so that her body was flush with his, and he automatically lifted his arm to accommodate her, wrapping it around her shoulder.

"So it was your choice?" she asked.

"Yes."

A pause followed, and he knew what was coming next.

"To be more like Mycroft?"

Sherlock removed his arm from around Molly, and at the same time allowed his feet to clump back down onto the floor.

"Nothing of the sort!" he told her.

He then felt Molly's fingers creep across his shoulder and start to wind through the hair at the nape of his neck.

"I think it's sweet," she said, and Sherlock realised that she didn't seem to be making fun of him anymore. He turned his head to look at Molly, and she was just gazing at him; he could almost see her brain ticking over.

"William," she said, in a tone that he couldn't quite identify. Her small hand reached across and took his, lacing their fingers together; he would never grow tired of seeing that simple sight. Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, revelling in how the mother of his child had an incredible way of making him feel at peace.

"So what about Mycroft?" Molly asked, nudging his hand. "Did your parents send him away with his tail between his legs?"

Sherlock snorted, opening his eyes again.

"I offered him a way out," he said. "A way to make amends. Something that I'm hoping will be agreeable to…well, to everyone concerned."

"What do you mean?"

Sherlock took hold of her hand again, rubbing his thumb across her knuckles, an act that once again reminded him that there was something missing from Molly's hand. He swiped that thought away quickly, threatening to send him careening off course – one thing at a time, he reminded himself.

"I'm aware that we haven't yet discussed…living arrangements," he began, feeling the pace of his heart begin to accelerate. "Up to this point, despite our mutual attachment, we have continued to keep quite separate domains. Certainly, I have spent numerous nights here and you have on occasion stayed over at Baker Street, but you are attached to your house and I to my flat. But…I can't see how this arrangement can continue, in the circumstances."

Molly's hand was resting on her gently rounded abdomen, and Sherlock felt another rush of emotion – what was this one? Fear, possibly, mixed with anticipation, excitement, nerves.

"Molly, I want us to all live together, you, me and our son," he continued, feeling that if he barrelled on, he could at least finish what he needed to say. "I want to be there when he wakes up in the morning, if he has a fever at night, when he takes his first steps, when he utters his first, brilliant words. I also want to be the man you need me to be, a man who will support you and love you and whom you will not regret sharing your life with. I would like to be able to express my love for you physically without having to take a deeply frustrating twenty-minute cab ride first. I cannot do any of this properly if we are not inhabiting the same space."

When he dared to peek at Molly, her expression worried him for a moment – was she going to cry?

"Sherlock, are you asking me to move in with you?" she smiled.

"Erm…I think I am, yes," he said, realising she had been able to articulate it far more succinctly. "If that's what you'd like. I mean, I know that it's not a great exchange – giving up a nice house you've worked hard since graduation to buy to move into a slightly dingy and ramshackle rented flat with a very untidy man-child."

Molly laughed, swiping a tear away from her eye.

"It sounds delightful," she smiled. "But…what about John and Rosie?"

Sherlock arched his eyebrows at her.

"That's where my dear brother comes in. I have persuaded him to use his not inconsiderable influence and resources to organise a full renovation of 221C into what I'm sure will be a charming two-bedroom garden flat."

The simplicity of it was sheer genius – it was amazing that he hadn't thought of it before.

Molly was smiling broadly, and wound her arm around his, snuggling into his side.

"Does John know about any of this yet?"

"I sent him a text."

"Might need a bit more than that."

"He'll be fine," Sherlock said, dismissively. "Cheap rent, handy for babysitting, what else could he want?"

Molly frowned.

"Hang on, did you say garden flat? You have a garden?"

"Apparently," Sherlock replied. "Never bothered to look, to be honest. It's possible that Mrs Hudson might be keeping her 'exotic' plants out there at the moment."

"And your home lab?" Molly asked, curling around him to wrap an arm around his middle. "What do we tell the health visitor about that?"

"Converting the attic," he said, enjoying the familiar warmth of her body embracing his. "Another little job for Mycroft."

She leaned back from him, eyeing him with what looked like scepticism.

"And he just agreed to all this?"

As he prepared to reply, Sherlock felt a small wave of nausea pass through him.

"He did impose one condition on me. One that is going to pain me greatly."

"Which was?"

He steeled himself.

"I have to take his place and accompany Mother and Father to a matinee performance of something ghastly called 'Annie, Get Your Gun'," he said, surprised that he was able even to eject the words from his lips.

Molly sniggered.

"Oh, Sherlock, I love a good musical!"

"Impossible when we both know there's no such thing."

"I'll go with them."

"So I -what?"

He had genuinely, actually, in all seriousness performed a double-take. Molly was looking up at him and she didn't appear to be teasing.

"I'll take the ticket and go with your parents," she said simply. "I mean, if they don't mind. It would be as good a time as any for us to get to know each other."

Sherlock couldn't help himself – he took Molly's lovely face in both of his hands and kissed her deeply, making her squeak in surprise before she started to return the gesture. When he finally pulled away, he kept his hands in place.

"Until just now, I was convinced it wasn't possible for me to love you more!"

Molly rolled her eyes - why was she doing that when he was clearly serious? – and looked as though she was about to get up from the sofa when something made her abruptly drop back down again.

"That was a big one!" she exclaimed, a hand to her stomach. Her expression was one of surprise and awe. "They've just been flutters before, but I…I really felt that."

Without another word, Sherlock put first his hand and then his cheek to Molly's abdomen. He felt Molly's fingers thread through his hair as he waited, still as stone. Nothing. Still nothing…

Wham!

Direct hit!

"Ow!" Sherlock exclaimed, reeling back for a second. Then he felt himself chuckling.

"Aahh, be careful of Daddy's cheekbones, sweetheart," Molly said, her own hand joining his on her belly. "Mummy rather likes those."

The moment was not lost on Sherlock. Not just the very real, very tangible presence of the life they had created together, but the first time that he had heard Molly use those designations – Daddy, Mummy. He knew he ought to be both cringing and terrified, but somehow neither of those seemed to apply to how he was feeling.

"Was that another one?" he asked, as he felt a ripple across Molly's abdomen.

Molly giggled.

"No, that was just my stomach," she said. "I can't stop thinking about carbonara."

Sherlock chuckled again, positioning his lips just above her belly button.

"Hold on in there," he told the baby. "Your mother will be consuming a meal very shortly. I know you were expecting beans on toast, but I assure you this will be much better."

At that moment, Molly's cat made one of its terrifying, unexpected pounces onto the back of the sofa, just centimetres from his shoulder. He stretched out, arching his back, before jumping down onto his owner's knee.

"That's what 221B has been missing all this time!" Molly said, her mouth quirking into a smile. "Toby is going to love having so many floors to explore."

Inwardly, Sherlock released a heavy, heartfelt groan of anguish, but somehow he managed not to externalise it. Because this, he knew, was how it needed to be. Molly accepted him with everything that he came with, and even he recognised that a tubby ginger cat (who, let's face it, probably only had a few years left in him) was nothing compared to the horrible mess of baggage that he checked in at her door. He could spend the rest of his life thanking her and it wouldn't be enough.

"Sherlock?" Molly said queryingly, interrupting his thoughts.

"Hmm?"

"I really, really want to start eating that cookie."

He snorted with laughter and pulled Molly into his lap, making Toby spring off the sofa and away to some unseen place. As he kissed her and allowed her to feed him the piece of cookie with the word 'arsehole' iced onto it, Sherlock knew what he'd known all along – that conspiring to get Molly Hooper pregnant five months ago was the best decision he would ever make.

THE END

Thanks for reading! This chapter ended up being much longer than I intended, but I just love writing dialogue between the two of them. What do you think? A sequel set a little further down the line?