Sherlock rummaged through the books on the table for the fifth time that day, then finally stalked into the kitchen.

"Where's my book on tobacco?" he asked the woman in a pink apron at the stove, stirring up chili.

"I don't know, Sherlock. I last saw it in our room," she answered, raising her eyes to glance at his disheveled appearance before returning her attention to the pot. It was a new recipe, and she didn't want to muck it up.

He strode back out, and she could vaguely hear him flipping through the bookshelf in their room, then opening drawers with a vehemence.

"It's not here!" He shouted out. She rolled her eyes, wiping her hands on her apron, and went to take care of her man-child's needs.

Unhesitatingly, she pulled open the bedside table drawer on his side, grabbing the big, bluish-greyish book inside and handing it to him.

Consulting detective. How did she ever believe he was so astute?

"I heard that," he said to her indignantly, though with much less dignity than he would have liked. Despite his wounded ego, he trailed her back to the kitchen, wrapping his arms around her waist and kissing her neck as she stirred the chili.

"Try some." She blew on the spoonful of quite nice looking chili, bringing it up to his lips. After giving it a preliminary sniff, he took an obligatory bite, and upon discovering the concoction was surprisingly to his taste, grabbed the large spoon from her hand, scooped up another spoonful from the pot, and proceeded to take it with him to the living room to enjoy.

Watching the consulting detective's antics, Molly's lips quirked up. She grabbed another spoon from the cabinet, dipping it into the pot, and took a taste herself. Only to immediately gag.

She dropped the spoon and, one hand over her mouth, rushed to the restroom, the other hand untying her apron and throwing it onto the couch.

Sherlock shot up, following her in and hurriedly pulling up the toilet seat and holding back her long hair as she collapsed on the floor and dry heaved. He patted her back, whispering soothing words into her ear as her diaphragm contracted again and again, her eyes shut tight.

When it seemed she was done, he helped her get up. She rinsed her mouth, gurgling a few times, then turned around to face her husband of three months, burying her face in his chest. He wrapped his arms around her.

"I'm not on the pill, I told you. Just once, you said, claiming it wasn't the right time. Sherlock Holmes, you are a liar!"

She took a deep breath.

"When did you find out?" she asked him, her voice deceptively calm.

He hesitated.

"A week ago. You complained about your breasts being tender and your appetite increased by almost fifty percent."

"It could have been stress," she shot back.

"No, I've been measuring your stress levels. Completely within the normal range."

"I can't believe you didn't tell me."

"I thought you would figure it out on your own."

"I'm going to kill you."

"There's a knife in the kitchen."

She raised her head to look at him. He was behaving very uncharacteristically.

"Why are you being so nice?" she asked suspiciously.

His eyes were wide, lips curved up into a little innocent smile that always meant he was up to something.

"Well, if you're already pregnant...can I..."

Mrs. Hudson frowned. The screaming and shouting upstairs didn't sound like their normal routine. But then she grinned to herself. Really, that Molly was so dense sometimes. Sherlock had burst into her flat about a month ago, complaining Molly wouldn't give in to his demands and seeking advice, then a week ago seeking advice on becoming a father. She had squealed in delight, but Sherlock made her promise not to tell Molly.

Well, Molly definitely knew now, and Sherlock was definitely going to be in hot water for a while, Mrs. Hudson thought to herself as she hummed and vacuumed her living room to drown out the shouting and knocking about.

Only a bit later did she recognize the moaning she had become accustomed to hearing every night.