Poem is in italics titled 'Winkin', Blinkin and Nod' by Eugene Field

On quiet days, Sherlock would go to St. Barts and make use of the lab. There was always something to do there. While Sherlock waited for the results on one of his experiments, he wandered around the lab and Molly's office. He could hear Molly talking quietly in the morgue. Her voice was soft, conversational, perhaps she had an interesting autopsy and she'd let him listen while she dictated. Getting to his feet, he went to see.

Quietly, so as not to disturb her, he let himself into the morgue, waiting by the door. On the slab were the remains of a boy, no older than ten. Molly was just reintroducing his organs to his body; she would be closing him up in a few moments. Sherlock knew children were hard for her to autopsy. It was all part of the job though, and a shaky, weepy pathologist was not helpful. He wasn't aware of her process for coping with difficult autopsies; he'd assumed she muscled through them as best she could. He'd seen the after-effects of a child-autopsy, Molly would come home and sit in a hot bath until the water went cold, sometimes he would bring her to bed and comb her hair while she cried. He expected to find her attempting to maintain her calm as she set the bag of organs back into the chest-cavity, voice trembling and hands shaking. Instead, he watched, almost marveling at her gentleness, taking a little more care than usual. Her voice was steady and her hands were strong.

"There we are, neat as a pin," she said, brushing the boy's hair so it hid the stitches on his skull. "You look like the sort who would rather enjoy fairy stories," she continued. "Probably had your mum read you Peter Pan," she said, very carefully threading a needle with surgical thread. "My dad always read nursery rhymes to me, I'll tell you my favorite." Her voice was gentle, almost reverent as she spoke to the corpse.

Obviously, the boy couldn't hear her, but it made her feel better to talk out loud. She pulled back the chest flaps, stepping back for a moment. Sherlock watched her reach for the needle, pinching the skin; she pushed the needle through, drawing it up and pulling the surgical thread taut. Softly, she began to recite:

"Winkin', Blinkin' and Nod, one night, sailed off in a wooden shoe,

Sailed on a river of crystal light, into a sea of dew

"Where are you going, and what do you wish?" the old moon asked the three.

"We've come to fish for the herring fish that live in this beautiful sea.

Nets of silver and gold have we." Said Winkin', Blinkin' and Nod.

The old moon laughed and sang a song as they rocked

in the wooden shoe. And the wind that sped them all night long

ruffled the waves of dew. Now the little stars are the herring fish

that live in that beautiful sea; "Cast your nets wherever you

wish never afraid are we." So cried the stars to fishermen three -

Winkin', Blinkin' and Nod. So all night long their nets they

threw to the stars in the twinkling foam. 'Till down from the skies

came the wooden shoe, bringing the fishermen home.

'Twas all so pretty a sail it seemed as if it could not be.

Some folks say 'twas a dream they dreamed of

sailing that misty sea. But I shall name you the fishermen three –

Winkin', Blinkin' and Nod."

Up and down, back and forth, the needle and thread went, sewing the boy closed. When she was finished, the y-incision neatly stitched, she snipped the thread, set the needle on a tray and covered it. She peeled off her gloves and threw them in the bio-hazard bin. Covering the body with a sheet, she wheeled him back over to the wall. The body was on the gurney to be transferred back to cold storage until the funeral home would pick him up. Molly drew the sheet up over the boy's chest. Sherlock watched as she tucked the cloth just so.

"Now Winkin' and Blinkin' are two little eyes and Nod is a little head.

And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies is a wee one's trundle bed.

So close your eyes while mother sings of the wonderful sights that be.

And you shall see those beautiful things as you sail on the misty sea.

Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three - Winkin', Blinkin' and Nod."

The drawer shut with a grating sound, heavy and echoing in the room. The body out of sight, Molly's shoulders sagged, and she bowed her head.

"Does it help?" Sherlock asked, and she turned, startled.

"What?"

"Reciting…does that help?" he asked again. After a moment, she nodded, hugging herself. He crossed the room slowly, hands in his pockets.

"Makes it easier...especially the way some of them died, they had their innocence taken from them…I know they can't hear me, but I feel better. Once the notes are taken and cause of death is recorded, I can try and forget how they spent their last few moments alive, and I can see them as a child, an innocent child, rather than a victim." He wasn't aware of how this particular child had died, apparently not by natural causes. He hesitated for a moment, before putting his arms around her, drawing her near. Her forehead rested against him, he smoothed the nape of her neck, drawing circles on her back as she cried.

That Night

"What is it about the autopsy that upsets you?" Sherlock asked. Molly opened her eyes to see her husband sitting on the closed toilet, forearms resting on his knees. She lifted her head from the end of the tub, thinking.

"I don't know, it's a lot of things…" she shrugged. "It's the fact that they never got to really live their lives. They had so much taken from them. It's the faces of the parents that I have to see when they come to identify the bodies," she was quiet, pensive. "Life is so precious, it's an honor to be a parent, and to have it taken away, have a life you created snatched from you…" she shook her head, bleak. "I can't imagine anything more horrible." In the water her hands rested on her abdomen. Sherlock had known for quite some time, even before he and Molly were married, that she wanted to be a mother. For the longest time, he couldn't fathom why anybody would want a child around. Noisy, interfering, smelly, and costly. Lately Sherlock had begun to see children in a different light. The idea of coming home to a wife and child did not seem so unappealing. Seeing Molly speak of children, he felt something stirring, a want he had not been aware of. The years were slipping by and soon she wouldn't be able to have children.

"Molly," he began slowly. "Would…that is…should we have a baby? That is do you still want to be a mother?" she looked at him, pale and drawn, but there was fire and hope in her eyes.

"Sherlock-" she began, breathless, almost overcome.

"Because if you do," he interrupted. "I think that it…that we have the room for one here and it isn't such a bad idea as I had previously thought-" he didn't get to finish for she'd pulled him into the tub with her, kissing him. His legs dangled over the edge of the bath, the only thing dry being his feet. "I suppose that's a yes," he choked, spitting out the soapy water. She laughed, pushing his curls out of his eyes.

"Yes, yes it is, are you sure?"

"Quite sure, now let me get out so that I can begin researching children."

"A child isn't an experiment."

"There are things lacking in my knowledge of them," he sniffed, squirming to get out of the tub. She lifted her knees and he toppled all the way in now, sitting across from her. She laughed, biting her lip as he spluttered and coughed, wiping his face again.

"You're not one bit sorry!"

"Not one bit," she agreed, putting her arms about him and kissing him outright. "I do hope you'll do something about it."

Sherlock decided the research could wait.