Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“That’s it, Mary. Re…lax.“

Sherlock got his face smashed against the car window for his trouble.

A moment later, Mary desperately demanded that John pull the car over. Sherlock had to concur based on the trickle of blood that streamed down the inside of Mary’s leg. John barely got the car off the road fast enough.

Sherlock called for an ambulance while watching John deftly guide his new daughter into the world. Seconds later, the unimaginable happened. John was checking the baby over in preparation for handing her into her exhausted mum’s arms. But, before he got that far, Mary’s head did a little wobble that made it clear she was on the verge of losing consciousness.

“I think I’m…” she started, then her eyes rolled back and she slumped on the car seat, unconscious.

John gave a quick glance down at the baby in his arms, then turned to Sherlock.

“Take her,” he commanded in a tone that brooked no arguments, before unceremoniously depositing the newborn into Sherlock’s arms. For his part, Sherlock stared down Mary’s unconscious form then at the tiny creature he was now holding with a combination of amazement and utter terror.

“Support her head” John reached over and moved Sherlock’s hand into the correct position before turning back and crawling inside the car to assess Mary’s condition. Sherlock shifted so he could see what John was doing, concern for Mary mounting by the second, and hoping this would be one of the exceptions when medical services arrived in less than their standard 8-minute average. If anything happened to Mary… No, he shook the thought away.

The baby blinked up at him and began to wiggle and fuss against his chest. Trying not to jostle her, he awkwardly pulled his scarf loose and wrapped it around her small form. Whereas everything earlier in the evening seemed to move at warp speed, now time stood still.

The rest of the world dropped away as his eyes flicked over the fascinating new life snuggled against him. She reached up, her tiny arms flailing. By instinct, Sherlock nudged her hand with the edge of his little finger and she grasped it, curling her tiny hand around his finger with a surprisingly strong grip.

He found himself swaying side to side to an internal rhythm he hoped young Watson found soothing. Something strong and warm bloomed under his ribcage and for a few short breaths of time, the new and beautiful little life in his arms was all that mattered. Not the race to solve all the cases he could, not the Moriarty video, not the unidentified snippet of song that had recently begun to run through his head when his guard was down. Nothing but the newest Watson, wrinkled and sticky as she was, and his vow to always be there for her.

The sound of sirens growing steadily closer brought him back to the moment at hand. Relief flooded through him to see that Mary was awake and attempting to sit up, despite John’s cautions to ‘take things easy’ and not move too quickly. A moment later, an ambulance pulled up beside the car and two paramedics jumped out. One immediately began to question John and assess Mary’s condition. The other addressed Sherlock.

“You the father?” she asked. He felt something he didn’t want to give name to constrict in his chest.

“No.” He inclined his head in John’s direction. “They’re the parents.”

“Oh, ok.” The woman looked briefly over her shoulder at John and Mary, then quickly refocused her attention on Sherlock, or more accurately, on the baby cradled in his arms. She held out her hands.

“If you pass him to-“

“Her.” he corrected.

The woman looked affronted for a split-second at the interruption, but quickly course-adjusted and continued.

“Right. If you give HER to me, I’ll get her all checked out and make sure she’s healthy.” She took a step closer, smiling in a friendly manner and clearly expecting Sherlock to comply without argument. He had every intention of doing so, but for some reason he was also completely loath to give the baby up.

“Alright. Just a moment, if you don’t mind, or even if you do.” he said, while awkwardly fishing his phone from his pocket.

He adjusted the infant’s body so she was laid along the length of his forearm, head and neck still carefully supported in the crook of his elbow, held his phone above her and quickly snapped a photo with his other hand. It was too close and would most likely come out a blur, but he didn’t care. He felt a need to document a moment he wished wasn’t so abruptly coming to an end.  Sentiment.

He swallowed the feeling down and carefully handed the baby into the arms of the medic. She carried the child, still wrapped in his scarf, into the waiting ambulance.

Chill air rushed into to fill the space the baby had occupied mere moments prior and now felt remarkably colder than the ambient temperature of the night air around him. He glanced down at his ruined shirt then up to see Mary being loaded into the back of the ambulance. She was sitting up on a trolly, craning her neck for a glimpse of her baby. As soon as the gurney was lifted into the ambulance, John jogged back over to where Sherlock stood alone on the pavement.

“Mary’s checked out fine so far. Looks like just a temporary drop in blood pressure. Happens sometimes. The baby looks to be completely healthy too.” John reported with a wide, somewhat stunned smile.

“Ah, very good.” Sherlock took step towards the car, then pulled up when John didn’t follow suit.

“I’m going with them.” John continued, cocking his head toward the ambulance with a sheepish look, “Could you do us a favor?”

Sherlock forced a smile, “Of course.”

“Would you mind driving the car home?” He tossed the keys to Sherlock.

John made his way back towards the ambulance, where Mary was now holding their daughter. She cooed happily to the baby, then smiled a sparkling smile as John climbed up to sit beside her. They looked every bit the happy family, completely focused on the precious little life they had created together.

Sherlock was thankful to see Mary doing well. He was filled with happiness for his friends. So, it made no sense at all to also feel so suddenly and terribly alone. And yet…

The paramedics closed the doors and the ambulance pulled away. Sherlock climbed into the Watson’s car, pulled back onto the road and drove in the opposite direction.

Chapter Text

He’d initially intended to drive the Watson’s car back to their flat, then return to Baker Street by taxi.

Somehow the car pulled up outside of Molly Hooper’s house as if by its own accord. Stopping to contemplate that impossibility was probably a very bad idea. Instead, Sherlock allowed his feet to carry him from the car to her doorstep and he didn’t stop himself from ringing the bell, even though she’d likely be sleeping.

After a very long minute, a bleary-eyed Molly cracked the door open and peeked out, then removed the chain and unceremoniously swung the door open.

“Come in, Sherlock.” She mumbled as she turned and shuffled through the lounge towards the kitchen, leaving him to latch the door behind himself.

Once upon a time, she would have at least finger-combed her sleep-tangled hair and thrown on a less tatty dressing gown before opening the door to him. Those days were long past apparently, and to his mild surprise he realized he preferred this more authentic, rumpled version of Molly.

“Why didn’t you just climb in through the window or pick the lock or whatever it is you usually do?” She asked without so much as stopping to glance at him on her way to the kitchen. Once there, she began pulling tea things from the cupboard.

‘Whatever it was he usually did’ was, in fact, using the key she’d given him years ago for emergency purposes after he’d jumped from the rooftop at Bart’s. He wasn’t about to tell her that and demystify one of the few things she hadn’t yet deduced about him.

“I’m not here for tea.” He said instead.

She turned to look at him for the first time since answering the door. Her eyes widened at the smears of dried blood on his shirt. The box of tea she was holding dropped from her hand onto the worktop with a dull thud.

“Oh God. How bad is it? I’ll get the first aid kit.”

“No,” he shook his head, “I’m not hurt.”

Her brow furled as she regarded him, “Then, what do you need?”

“I… I…” His mind whirled back to the last time she asked him that question. Then, it had been the very real possibility of death that had driven him to seek her out. In the years since, he’d found any number of other reasons to turn up at Barts or in her flat. But now?

He wasn’t sure exactly what had brought him here tonight. Longing? Melancholy? Perhaps. He’d certainly felt the pull to protect, to hold, to fill the cold empty void he’d felt against his breastbone since handing Baby Watson over to the paramedic. He swallowed hard, resisting the urge to simply reach out and pull Molly in and hold her against him in the same place. There it was again…Sentiment.

In truth, what brought him this time was the exact opposite of death. It was life itself. New life. The tiny wiggling bundle he’d held in his arms and the vast possibilities she brought with her into the world. It was…

Hope?

He blinked at the realization. Perhaps the road was not as locked around his feet as it had seemed ever since he’d taken on Charles Magnusen. The infant’s arrival felt like a turning point of sorts, replacing the manic need push himself from one case to the next with a sense of unexpected excitement for what lay ahead that he hadn’t felt in years.

A new chapter. Renewed beginnings. And even more surprisingly, he wanted to share that sense of wonder with Molly Hooper. He’d so often either ignored her or turned up and presented her with his desperation and fear. It was well past time to offer her back a glimmer of the optimism and kindness she’d always so freely given him. So why was he finding it so difficult to do so?

He suddenly remembered the photo.

“I thought you’d want to see this.” He pulled his phone from his pocket, thumbed it open and held it out to her.

Instead of taking the phone from his hand like most people would do, Molly closed the distance between them, moving to stand just an inch or two away, her shoulder almost brushing his torso, as she viewed the image on his phone. He curled his arm to improve her viewing angle and she brought her hand up to steady the phone, her fingers brushing over his.

“Is that?” Her breath caught in a surprised little gasp. “Mary had the baby?”

She swiveled her head to stare up at him, her eyes wide and sparkling with the question. He smiled down at her, and for the second time in less the two hours, he found himself not wanting the moment to end.

“Yes.” He breathed, nodding.

Molly looked back down at the phone, studying the image intently.

“Are they both okay?” Her voice was full of concern, “this wasn’t taken in hospital, was it?”

“They’re both fine. Mary’s labor just caught everyone out.” He went on to explain about the frantic birth in the car, all while Molly gazed happily at the slightly out of focus photo.

Somehow, they both shifted closer while he talked, and now she was leaned lightly against him, her shoulder warming the spot just under his sternum that little Watson had occupied earlier.

Molly was gazing at the phone with rapt attention, steadying it with her fingers intertwined with his. He breathed in the scent of her shampoo and the comforting scents of tea and citrus candles that lingered in her kitchen.  It wasn’t the familiar scent of the lab at Barts, smelling of disinfectant and Molly was wearing a tatty dressing gown rather than her lab coat. It was…domestic, comfortable. A bit terrifying? But moreover, it was…

Right.

Molly finally pulled her eyes from the photo of the child on the screen and raised them to meet his. Her expression morphed from joy into uncertainty as their gaze met. A blush crept up her cheeks and Sherlock felt his own smile drop as his eyes drifted down to linger on her lips. He wondered what she would do if he were to lean down and kiss her.

Then, something tightened on her face and she drew back, stepping away from him. Everything shifted from “right” to tense and awkward. It was probably for the best. He wasn’t sure what had just come over him. It wouldn’t do to make a foolish blunder just because he wasn’t feeling like himself. He stepped away as well, dropping his phone back into his coat pocket.

“Did Mary have a bag ready for hospital?” Molly asked, mercifully breaking the tension by steering the conversation into safe territory.

Mary did indeed have a bag packed. And in the excitement, none of them had remembered to transfer it to the ambulance.

“It’s in the car boot, outside.” He explained. “I’ll just go and deliver it to them, I suppose.” He nodded and took a reluctant step to leave.

Molly stared at the floor, worrying her lip, then looked back up, having come to some conclusion. He couldn’t always read her thoughts from her expression, but at the moment, her feelings were plain as day.  

Sherlock felt his shoulders lighten, the tug of something pulling at the corners of his own lips as he waited for her to speak.

“It’s a bit late,” she said.  “The ward will have things they can borrow.”

“Yes.” He agreed, waiting for her to voice the rest of her thought.

“And, I’d love to visit them both and see the baby.”

He nodded. There was that feeling again… Hope. Renewed possibilities.

“Would you like to come along in the morning? To deliver the bag? We could stop for coffee on the way.” He asked, the words tumbling out too fast.

He shook his head. What was wrong with him? He’d exuded confidence and cool when he’d asked Janine out. Why was he all nerves about asking Molly to tag along on what? …merely an errand, surely. It wasn’t as if he was asking her out for a date. Was he?

“I’d love that!” She grinned up at him, something shyly mischievous playing on her face.

“You know…” She continued, “it doesn’t make sense for you to drive all the way back to Baker Street, just to come back here tomorrow. If you’d like to stay?”

He met her eyes and allowed himself to smile back.

Chapter Text

Molly didn’t think very often about the little blog she’d started around about the time she met Sherlock.  Well, exactly when she met him.  Because she met him…  She’d finished it the way he’d asked her to and not taken it down because he’d asked her not to and she never checked the comments.  Almost never.  But there must be something of that younger woman with a crush left still inside her, because she always wrote a paragraph or two in her head every time something significant happened involving Sherlock. 

Her friends took it in turns to shout from the rooftops when they moved in with someone, got engaged, got married, got pregnant, had a baby; their lovely little linear lives playing out on her Facebook feed in a stream of beaming faces.  Even her friend from school who had recently divorced posted a gorgeous picture of herself on holiday in Santorini accompanied by a long and (self)loved-up caption.  Molly felt the urge to do the same, only that wasn’t the kind of life she led.  Because after that day at Barts, they’d asked her to be careful, the security services or however she was supposed to refer to Mycroft Holmes’ people.  They’d asked her to be discreet, not to draw attention to herself or Sherlock and especially not his absence.  Even though he had been home a long time, she kept to her word. 

Didn’t stop her writing a line or two in her head while she washed her face.

My friend had a baby!  It’s not his baby, it’s his friends’ baby, but he helped them give birth and got as covered in blood as them, so it’s like it’s his, too.  But anyway – so happy!

Molly shook her head at herself in the mirror, smiling.  Perhaps it was a good job she didn’t have a blog.  She folded her facecloth over the radiator while the sink emptied.  Her cheeks were flushed from the warm water, she patted them dry with a towel.  Catching her own eye in the mirror while she rubbed in her moisturizer, she admitted to herself that, really, the high colour in her cheeks had little to do with washing.  The pinkness of her lips was from pressing them together, running her teeth over them… imagining them pressed into his, wishing it were his teeth…

It was definitely a good job she didn’t have a blog, because even having grown up a bit, she wasn’t sure she would be able to resist rushing to type what it was like to stand inside the circle of his arms, even though it was a phone he was holding and not her.  How it felt to brush his skin with her fingers, even though it was (mainly) accidental.  What it did to her, that glorious moment when his gaze had dropped from her eyes…

Could she ever find the words to describe what it was to know the blood dried into his shirt came from cradling his best friends’ newborn child?  Did words exist to do justice to how that boy who showed up in the lab one day, all nervous energy and sharp tongue, had become this man, this fiercest of friends? 

It had overwhelmed her, just now.  She’d managed to pull herself away, and Sherlock had begun down the well-trodden path of retreat himself.  And yet, here he still was.  Just feet away, the other side of a door.  But this wasn’t work, he didn’t need her to do anything.  He’d turned up on her doorstep covered in blood before, but never without needing a stitch or two, or a bolt-hole. 

Molly opened the bathroom door and instinctively her eyes went to her bedroom door, expecting to see it closed.  Single Occupancy Only.  But instead she found Sherlock leaning on the doorframe, showered and pyjama-d, phone in hand.  After a few seconds (which Molly spent on thoughts of silent dead-of-nights when the four walls she called home had been a sanctuary for both of them) Sherlock looked up at her and smiled a quick smile, straightened and slipped his phone into his pocket.

“I can’t believe it,” Molly said.  “We had a baby.  Well – not we, not us, I mean… not you and I…”

She’d made herself stop.  When she dared look at Sherlock again they only had to catch each other’s eye and they both laughed.  Hers was all bubbly happiness.  His sounded like relief.

“You know what I mean,” she said.

“Yes,” he replied.  “I think I do.”

Molly smiled but she felt it falter slightly.  There it was again, that terrible, wonderful look on his face.  In the lab, in an unfamiliar stairwell, always as one of them was about to leave. 

“Well…” she said, clearing her voice afterwards.  “Goodnight, hope you sl…”

“Sharing your bedroom seems… logical,” Sherlock said and Molly’s eyes widened with shock.

“Pardon?”

“Fabric softener.”

“Fabric softener?”

“You’ve changed from your usual fragrance to something distantly derived from lavender.”

“Erm, yes.”

“’Summer breeze’ isn’t conducive to sleep, I imagine.”

Molly smiled.  Her ironing board was in her spare bedroom, piled with clean clothes.  “No,” she said.  “It gets up your nose a bit.  But the lavender stuff is a bit better, so you don’t need to feel sorry for me having to sleep in the spare room. Not having to… I’m happy to, always have been… even before I changed the silly fabric softener.”

Sherlock dropped his gaze to the carpeted floor between them and Molly felt the warming in her chest which always came with watching him learn a lesson, realizing the effect he had.  Rare, but lovely.  Didn’t stop her heart galloping in her chest at the thought of what he had started this conversation by suggesting…

“It’s fine, honestly,” she said, the words rushing out.  “We don’t need to, you don’t need to…”

“I’d like to.”

Molly was aware of her breath, tingles across her skin.  His eyes were on hers.  She swallowed.  A flash of moments skipped across her mind of one of them leaving; moments like this always came before one of them left.  For a fleeting moment, she was frightened.  For a fleeting moment, she recognized the same thing in his face.  Then, it was as though her body was finished waiting for her to make her mind up, and she felt herself nod and take a step towards him.  Or maybe that was her heart that made the choice.

The thing was… there were lots of things… but the thing was, Molly had only ever seen Sherlock either pretend to be unconscious or else really be asleep in hospital.  On his back, arranged, almost like an exhibit in a museum.  So in her head whenever she had imagined him laid in bed, there was a hint of Dracula about the image.  Feet together, toes and nose straight in the air.  Perhaps he even held his fingers together under his chin.  Whenever he slept in her bed (with the door closed so pointedly she had never dared peep around it) he gave her the impression he barely disturbed the sheets they were so neat the following morning.  In another life, he’d have been a perfect chamber maid.

Molly suppressed a giggle, but barely.

“What?”  Sherlock’s nose crinkled.   

“Nothing,” Molly said.  “Just… what a night.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock hummed on an exhale, his eyes slipping closed and his expression relaxing again, slowly.  He was laid on his side, facing her, an unexpected and lovely tangle of long limbs.  His knee was raised a little to support him, like in recovery position.  The leg which was outstretched was outside the duvet, the rest of him beneath it.  He slept on both pillows, where she removed the top one.  His pillows were bunched up, now he’d finished adjusting them, one hand underneath and the other up top.  The fingers Molly could see were curled into his palm, and his temple rested against them.

Molly traced the line of his biceps with her eyes.  Found herself staring at his elbow, then the hairs on his forearm… not for the first time, the beautifully visible structure of his skeleton beneath the skin of his wrist and hand, the tendons which were still slightly pronounced even when he relaxed.  She longed to catalogue those hands, feel what she could picture in her mind that lay millimeters below her fingertips.  He was an incredible example, a fascinating subject.  Although, of course, he meant so much more to her than an experiment or case study.  She longed to know him. 

Even though it was almost pointless given that he was clearly comfortable enough to fall asleep with the light on and she was unlikely to sleep whether she switched it off or not, Molly reached over and clicked off the bedside lamp.  She made her room as dark as she could so she could sleep after nightshifts, but she always left the blind slightly raised when Sherlock stayed, knowing that he liked to set his body clock by the London sky.  Just enough streetlight snuck in through the gap to let Molly look. 

His hair was perfectly unruly when it was drying after a shower, it seemed.  His breathing pattern was long and slow.  The corners of his mouth almost downturned.  Molly’s heart ached.  She pushed her hand under her cheek, mimicking him, stopping herself reaching over the foot of clear space between them.  She closed her eyes, but she could still see him.

“Thank you, Molly,” Sherlock said, sleepily.

“What for?” she asked him.  His eyes were already open when she looked and it was a bit of a shock.  So close.  He paused before he replied.

“Just thought I should probably say it.”

Molly laughed, felt some tension release.  “My pleasure,” she told him.

She watched his mouth.  She couldn’t help it.  Watched his smile change, his lips move expressively, but wordlessly.  Then he moved his hand, flattened his palm onto the pillow next to his face.  Molly could have sworn she could hear every cotton fibre his skin came into contact with vibrate.  Her fingers reacted, almost twitching, ready to move. 

But his hand stayed where it was and so did hers.  He sighed.  Not unhappily, but Molly could feel the uncertainty rolling off him like waves and she understood why he had asked her to share the bed.  She smiled at him briefly, aiming for reassurance, closed her eyes, let herself sink into the mattress.       

We had a baby, she thought it again to herself.  The day Mary phoned to say she was pregnant Molly had congratulated her and then gone on to relay the news that she was newly single again, and she had thought in that moment that it was pretty much how things would go.  Mary and John would start a family – be a family – the most blessed kind, watched over by a guardian angel.  However much Sherlock pouted over the microscope, Molly knew John wouldn’t shun his best friend, not now he had it all.  And Sherlock was to thank for a great deal of that.  Molly would simply stay where she was, on the outside looking in.

Sherlock might have been all right at observing everyone else, but he still couldn’t see himself.  He was his own blind-spot.  He didn’t know his worth or his impact.  He needed evidence.    

And could she have predicted she would be a part of this moment? That she would lie awake with giddiness at being the fourth wheel?  When she’d not denied Tom’s accusation that Sherlock was on her mind more often than was appropriate for a friend, did she ever think that eight months later she would find herself who Sherlock thought of first?  Not for a second.

“We could stop for coffee on the way.”

Molly sighed.  A little lab mouse’s dream six years in the making!

Something was different.  Christ – clearly something was different.  Shared history was a precious thing, but this felt like a new beginning.          

Chapter Text

Tempting as it was to see (and perhaps video) a man who still used a tea-service almost every day and lived above a caff attempting to make sense of the Starbucks drive-through, Molly took pity on Sherlock and directed him to pull up near Brockwell Lido.

“There’s a new café, supposed to be really good,” she informed him as they got out of the Audi.

Sherlock tutted.  “You’re the expert.”

Molly rolled her eyes.  Would she ever live it down that she couldn’t make coffee for toffee.  Not the way he liked it, anyway. 

They walked along the side of the outdoor pool.  Steam was gently rising off it, and several early-bird bathers were pootling up and down the lanes.  A thought suddenly occurred to Molly.

“Can you swim?” she asked Sherlock.

“Yes of course.”

Molly was taken aback by the sharpness of his reply.  “Oh,” she said, too surprised to think of anything better to say.  Sherlock’s expression softened as she watched, though.

“I learnt as a child, at my parents’ insistence.  Not an uncommon experience, as I understand,” he said. 

“Me too,” Molly said.  “I loved it.  Still do, don’t often get to go, though.”

“Lacks the convenience of running,” Sherlock suggested and Molly laughed, shaking her head.  She’d known him for years and she found things to ask him about every day.  He would probably never need to ask her anything – he just saw it all.  Of course he knew she ran, even though she made bloody sure no one saw her or found out some other way.  Presumably, he also knew she was pretty hopeless at it. 

“How do you stay so fit, then?” she asked him outright, keen to deflect from dissecting her running technique (or lack of it).

He smiled, but once again Molly saw the shadow across his face.  “Not swimming,” he said.

They took donuts and brownies from the café with them to the hospital and Sherlock remembered Mary’s overnight bag.  Molly insisted on stopping at the gift shop, then made a show of struggling to juggle the card and balloon and large, berry-coloured soft toy rabbit as well as the cakes, so that Sherlock ended up with the arm full of pink stuff and she the cakes and overnight bag.  She smiled to herself, suppressed a giggle or five at the look on his face as they made their way to the lifts, trailed by a helium heart.       

Several things happened at once and the quiet, serene, pink-and-blue-and-flowers-Richard-Curtis-film maternity ward scene which greeted Sherlock and Molly when they found their friends, turned into reality-telly chaos. 

John, being the only person not to have had a cuppa in the previous hour, and having shook hands and kissed cheeks and compared tiredness, departed for the canteen.  Mary had just passed Molly the tiny, perfect, rosy-cheeked little one, wrapped in her hospital blanket, causing what was left of Molly’s heart to melt completely, when a consultant appeared at the bedside and informed Mary that she was to have an ECG and asked her if she would she mind stripping off.  The ward was packed with new parents and visitors.  For a moment there was the risk of there being one less visitor when Sherlock offered to conduct the scan on behalf of the doctor, given that their efficacy rates were questionable and that was usually down to human error. 

“What little dignity I have left after last night I am not wasting on you, Sherlock.  Now sod off.”

Mary’s interjection probably saved their visit from an untimely end, and Molly found herself stood on the outside of a swiftly drawn curtain, baby Watson in her arms and Sherlock at her side.  She looked up at him.  His head snapped around to meet her eye, brow fully creased, nose perfectly wrinkled, expression entirely despairing of the race he found himself an unfortunate member of. 

Good God, Molly might have been a bit affected by the loveliness of it all, a bit hungover from sleeping next-to-him-not-with-him, but was she ever hopelessly in love.

She laughed, and after a moment Sherlock smiled down at her.  His eyes shifted from hers to the baby and a deep and really quite powerful something ignited in Molly’s middle.  Sherlock lifted his hand and cradled the baby’s head, his fingers on the bare skin of Molly’s forearm.  Molly’s heart was skipping in her chest, full and floaty and giddy with possibility and yet, she felt strangely calm.  Sure and steady and grounded.  She looked back from the baby to Sherlock.  If she was that sort of person, she would have written in her blog that his eyes weren’t like the sky today, or an endless ocean, they were quite simply infinite, and they were looking at her.

At that moment – in true romcom style – the teeny tiny baby decided to fill her teeny tiny nappy with a poop which was surely the same volume as her teeny tiny self. 

There was a time when Mary only had eyes for work.  Then came the time when she only had eyes for her soldier.  In less than twenty-four hours – in a heartbeat – her daughter had forever more claimed her devotion.  Mary was absolutely terrified.  She knew love, she knew she felt it, she knew it would grow, and she sure as hell was not letting go.  Nothing, not now or ever, would ever threaten her baby or their family.  She had to make sure.

She watched Molly now, fiddling with the (admittedly infuriating) poppers on the little white babygrow she had changed the baby into after the poo-nami she and Sherlock had just endured.  Mary smiled as Molly worked away, her own heart full seeing her friend bend over the crib and coo at the baby.  Her smile broadened still more as Molly’s expression switched back to the gently exasperated one which had accompanied the constant back-and-forth between her and Sherlock throughout the last ten minutes.  Their midwife had handed Sherlock what was needed to sort the baby out once the ward had been subjected to enough of the newest Watson’s put-out grumbling, and Mary had been lucky enough to catch some of this little display of capable adults becoming rookies in the face of a newborn, once her scan had finished. 

Sherlock had been great, to be fair to him.  Largely because he had stayed quiet-ish.  Mary would never tell him, but he had just taught her something – that baby vests have those weird flaps on the shoulders so you can take them off downwards when they’re covered in tar-black poo.  Molly had taken his advice without question and gone on talking them both through it. 

Mary liked Molly, very much.  But in the last few minutes, that had changed.  Maybe it was the hormones, maybe not. 

John turned back up at the side of the bed with an almost empty coffee-cup of his own and a full one of hot chocolate for her.  She shushed him as he went to speak, pointing at his best friend and his pathologist. 

John’s forehead creased.  “What?”

“Just look,” Mary insisted in a whisper. 

Molly held out the old nappy and half a pack of used baby-wipes.  Sherlock adjusted the cuffs of the latex gloves he had made appear from nowhere before holding out a little orange nappy bag for Molly to dump it all into.  Molly went back to wrapping the baby in her blanket while Sherlock turned away, a ridiculously comical expression of disgust on his face as he tied a knot in the handles of the bag.  Holding it practically at arms length, he took it to the bin by the main door of the ward.

“And what about that is such a surprise that you’re making me watch?” John asked.

Mary swatted his front with the back of her hand, regretting it instantly as a sharp twinge went through her wrist from the canula which was waiting to be taken out. 

“Trust you to miss it,” she said.

Mary didn’t, though.  She didn’t miss a thing.  What was important to John was vital to her, so what was important to Sherlock mattered just as much.  And Molly was even better than that.  She could handle Sherlock – she could handle herself.  Mary had always liked her.  But now she looked and what she saw was love.