"I'm going to be sick."

The information, while not totally surprising (given Molly's condition) was somewhat distressing as there was a considerable distance between herself and the nearest toilet.

"Oh…uh-" Mycroft hated that word. 'Uh' it wasn't even a bloody word and with his vast vocabulary, 'uh' was simply lazy speech. Yet, when it came to trying to find a solution for Molly's current predicament, he was at a loss for words.

She didn't seem to mind at any rate. She blew out her breath, bending over so her head was almost between her knees. "Just find a waste-basket, it doesn't always happen but it might, and I'd hate to ruin your carpet."

"There's a toilet at the other end of the room-"

"I can't walk, Mycroft, just give me a bloody waste basket!"

He obeyed, taking the one under his desk and placing it under her lowered head.

After about five minutes or so of careful breathing, she finally straightened. "I think I'll be all right for now, thank you. I hope I didn't frighten you," she smiled weakly, still pale.

Mycroft shrugged it off, pretending that he had not been in a horrendous panic only moments ago. "Perfectly understandable, now, as to what I was saying earlier…"

"He doesn't know," Molly confirmed before he could restate his question. "Sherlock left before I could tell him."

Mycroft's gaze fell to the ring that hung on a chain around her neck. "I take it then congratulations are in order. I should have known he'd give himself a reason to come back to London."

"There was always a reason," Molly shrugged. "John, Inspector Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, you-"

Mycroft snorted, shaking his head.

"It's true," she insisted.

"If it isn't too personal a question, may I inquire as to when this all happened?"

"January three years ago, after the Adler incident."

Mycroft frowned. He had taken his brother's reaction to finding Miss Adler to be genuine. Molly seemed to be reading his mind, for she went on:

"He did care about Miss Adler, but not the way everyone thought he did. He admitted to me he did find her attractive, but I suppose for once he used common sense and decided that arms-length was best."

"I think he rather put aside that distance when it came to you, however," Mycroft replied crisply, eyeing the gentle swell of her abdomen, barely visible but still telling to one with an eye. "May I ask when the happy day was?"

"The conceiving of your nephew, or the date Sherlock and I got married?"

"Why the conceiving, of course," he answered, smiling thinly.

Molly shook her head, truly amused. "We were married in February. I found out I was pregnant a month after he left for Europe."

Mycroft nodded, pondering this information. "And will you tell him?"

Slowly, Molly shook her head. "The timing is always off with us," she answered. "We didn't even have a proper wedding, we just…snatched what time we had, grabbed flowers from a corner store," she smiled a little at the memory. "I insisted on at least flowers. We ran to the nearest Justice of the Peace and were married in fifteen minutes. Didn't even have a honeymoon. At the time it didn't matter because we were together," she shrugged, smiling despite her watery eyes. "I do wish…when I have my selfish moments, that we'd had a big wedding, like John and Mary, and had a nice holiday, just the two of us." With a sigh, she shrugged, replacing her frown with a wistful smile. "But I won't say I regret marrying him. The months we had together were wonderful,"

"But not quite what you envisioned your married life to be." Mycroft finished.

"No," Molly shook her head. "But life couldn't' be normal, not until Moriarty was dealt with, how could we make anything public with everything that was happening? It was safer…is safer." She placed the flat of her palm over her belly. "It is hard, sometimes..."

Mycroft felt a small stab of guilt then. Molly Hooper (or Holmes, rather) did not have family to speak of. Her sister was estranged, her father dead. John and Mary Watson had been distant since Sherlock had left. If they knew, of course they would have offered their support. That was the sort of people they were, but no one was privy to Sherlock and Molly's relationship, not even Mycroft. He had found out about it by way of a cctv feed. Through the black-and-white visual monitor, he was surprised to see Molly in the maternity section of Harrods, clearly shopping for herself. There was only one possible solution to why she would be there, and who indeed, the father must have been. It had been easy to put two-and-two together, but he had been more shocked (yes, he could use that word confidently in this instant) that Sherlock and Molly's relationship had gone on for longer than anyone had known about.

"What about that bridesmaid of Mrs. Watson's, what was her name, Janine?"

"She never actually stayed the night," Molly replied. "The morning John came, she'd gone up and used the shower, put on one of Sherlock's shirts, I suppose she was hoping to convince him to stay in," Molly smiled to herself. She did feel that Sherlock had done the woman wrong, and made him pay some recompense for Janine's troubles.

"And Tom, I already recall was one of my security measures," Mycroft nodded, recalling his brother's call that someone be placed as detail to Molly Hooper. Mycroft had found the request curious, but acquiesced.

"So, now you know," Molly sighed. "And I hope you'll keep it to yourself."

"Miss Hooper- er,"

"Molly,"

"Molly," he corrected himself, fighting back the urge to roll his eyes. "I rather think it will make itself known given a little time,"

"I'd rather it that way than having to tell everyone," she said quietly. "John and Mary are busy with their own lives, with their baby. The last thing they need is a reminder of what Sherlock kept from them, and what he left behind," she held up a hand as Mycroft opened his mouth to speak. "I know he made his own choices that night. He told me he would stop at nothing, and…I know you think he did wrong, killing Magnussen." She shrugged, helpless. "Maybe he did. I don't know enough about it to say one way or another. But I do know who I married, and he never acted without reason or cause."

"He lost the game, pure and simple," Mycroft answered. "He never did know how to lose."

"But he knew there would be consequences," Molly said. "I guess the only thing he didn't take into consideration was just how big a consequence it would be."

Mycroft was silent then, feeling the unusual pang of guilt. Everyone who had cared about Sherlock was given a chance to say goodbye to him that last day. Everyone but Molly, for no one had known how much the pathologist meant to Sherlock Holmes. Mycroft did know, however, that his brother had a burner phone for the time being, and Molly was one of the two people he called. Three months into his mission, the days were ticking down to a deadline no one wanted to meet. A thought occurred to Mycroft suddenly.

"Has he said…anything about this mission to you?"

Her silence was telling. Slowly, the barest of smiles formed. She worried her bottom lip between her teeth, hands again moving to cover her abdomen. "Nothing substantial," she said at last. "But…I know." She looked up at Mycroft, meeting his piercing gaze. "I know this time…he's not coming back." Her mouth pulled into a frown as she covered her eyes. "It isn't fair."

She wept, wrapping her arms around herself, head bowed. Unexpectedly, she felt the lithe arm of Mycroft Holmes come around her shoulders, squeezing gently. Opening her eyes, she saw he offered her his handkerchief.

"Life is hardly fair," he said gently. "I am more sorry than I can say that this is how it must be," he paused then, gathering his thoughts. After a moment's hesitation, he drew another chair up beside hers. "But…I should like to point out that this burden is not yours to bear alone,"

She lifted her head, mouth hanging open slightly in shock. "Mycroft," she began, but he held up a hand to silence her.

"You are the one my brother chose, and I am pleased that it was such a woman of your character," he said honestly. "While the situation is not ideal, nor hardly what it should be, I should like for you to know you have my support in whatever it is that needs doing now. Whatever means needed for the child, for yourself, you have only to ask."

She smiled at her lap, shaking her head. "He needs a family, Mycroft, we, need a family."

He lifted his eyebrows, and slowly, he nodded. "Then that is what I shall be."

Molly left soon afterwards, declining Mycroft's offer for tea. He sent her home in one of his cars, and made a note for her to be added to his driver's routes, as well as send them her schedule. Being the sister in-law of the British Government ought to have some benefits, and he strongly disliked the idea of Molly taking the Underground or a cab. That finished, he set to work. Anthea was sent off to hunt for a suitable place for Molly and the child to live. Her current flat, while perfectly suitable for an acquaintance of Sherlock, was hardly a place for Mycroft's sister in-law and soon-to-be-arriving nephew. She would need somewhere close to her work, a secure place with a garden and perhaps room for a dog, should his nephew take after his brother's childhood desires for a companion. Anthea would know best what suited the pathologist's needs.

He set up a trust fund for the child as well, and deposited a substantial amount into Molly's personal account, sending her a note that appropriate funds were available for her to begin shopping for a nursery. With Anthea busy house-hunting, and Molly overjoyed (currently flooding his inbox with overjoyed texts, half of them scolding him for his extravagance) Mycroft went back to his desk to make one final call. Hand hovering over the call button, he thought back to what he had promised Molly earlier.

"Don't tell Sherlock."

Mycroft hesitated to give his word. "I don't think-"

"I have to insist on this, I do," Molly cut in. "If he doesn't come back, if he…" she steeled herself. "If he dies there, knowing he had to leave me, and a baby he'll never meet…" she trailed off, sighing heavily, once again on the verge of tears. "I can't do that to him, Mycroft, and don't you do it to him either. He's carrying enough guilt."

"I still think it's wrong," he replied. "But you have my word, I shan't speak of it to him."

Sighing heavily, he pressed the button, waiting for the other end to pick up.

"Hello?"

"Mummy, I have a favor to ask."

He heard his mother sigh.

"It would be nice if you simply said 'hello' once in a while."

"I'm afraid I haven't time for pleasantries," Mycroft quipped. "But I do need a 'yes' or 'no' answer from you."

"Good heavens,"

He could hear his mother pulling out one of the kitchen chairs and sitting down.

"Well go on then."

"Mummy how would you like to meet Sherlock's wife?"

The Following Weekend

"You didn't have to see me off," Molly said as she pulled her coat on.

Mycroft stood in the doorway of her kitchen, coat and umbrella on his arm. "Nonsense. Mummy would be horrified if she knew I sent you to her without any sort of goodbye."

"You're sure it won't be an imposition?" Molly worried. "They've never even met me before."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Mummy likes everyone, well, almost everyone," he clarified. "She wanted you to come as soon as I told her, but I knew you would have preferred to take the weekend."

"I would, yes," Molly nodded.

"Is this it then for bags?"

"Yes," she reached for her suitcase but Mycroft beat her to it. "I'm not an invalid."

"You still shouldn't be lifting anything," he sniffed.

"You realize I have to heft dead bodies on my job, right?" she asked, following him downstairs and to the sidewalk where the car was waiting. "A full grown man weighs far more than my weekend bag."

"You'd never know it," Mycroft grunted, lifting the bag and handing it over to the driver to put in the trunk. "Now, James will be driving you to Mummy and Father's, he'll pick you up on Sunday afternoon so you needn't worry about train fare."

"I'd say I was worried about putting you out as far as transportation goes, but I'm sure you have a slew of chauffeurs."

Mycroft looked indignant as James chuckled under his breath. "I wouldn't say 'slew'," he grumbled. "Well, now then, have a good weekend, here, Anthea sent these over for you to look at. Three houses and two flats that might be suitable for your needs."

"I still think you're doing too much," Molly said, taking the files from him.

"My dear sister," Mycroft folded his hands over the handle of his umbrella. "It is hardly enough."

"You don't have to buy the world because Sherlock isn't here," she said gently.

"No," he agreed quietly, thoughtful. "But I must do something, and preparation is what I excel at."

"I thought you Holmes men excelled at everything," she replied with a smirk.

"Oh…get in the car," he huffed, annoyed.

"You haven't heard from him, have you?" There was always the tinge of hope in her voice that she tried so desperately to put aside. She didn't want to hope that there was a chance. But sometimes he called Mycroft, and it meant he was still alive. Molly lived for the days when she received a short text from Sherlock. It meant he was working, it meant he was breathing still. She tried to tell herself that it was just like before, when he was in hiding. The hard part was reconciling herself to the fact that it wasn't like before, and there was very likely to be no happy ending.

Mycroft looked at her directly. "No," he answered. "It is unlikely that I would hear from him before you."

"If you do-"

"I know," he nodded, interrupting. "I shan't breathe a word, and I shall tell him to call you directly."

She rose on tip toe, pressing his cheek then. "Thank you."

"Well," he cleared his throat gruffly. "Go on then, mummy is watching the clock, she expects you no later than half-past two, and if she doesn't see you by then, she'll send for the police."

So Molly climbed into the car, waving goodbye as the car pulled into traffic.

Anthea came to stand beside him. "Sir?"

"You've increased her security?"

"Yes."

"Who else do we know that she's told about this…situation?"

Another unmarked car pulled alongside the curb and Mycroft opened the door for Anthea.

"Mike Stamford at Barts knows some of Mrs. Holmes situation, only that she's pregnant. He doesn't know she's married, or who the father is."

"Let's keep it that way. I should like for her to be out of the media as much as possible. The last thing she needs is for the paparazzi to label her as 'The Widow of the Fake Sherlock Holmes, or whatever other nonsense they'll come up with."

Anthea nodded, humming in agreement. "Have you told your brother, yet?"

Mycroft looked with a start at his PA. "I beg your pardon?"

"Something like this, he needs to know," Anthea said, looking up at him. "It might be what he needs to help-"

"Help what, Anthea?" Mycroft interrupted, exasperated. "My brother is not coming home."

"I agree that there is a slim chance of his surviving, sir but-"

"It is slim to none, there is a ninety-seven percent chance that he will not survive." He turned to look out the window, indicating he would not discuss it further. "It does no good to hope."

"It doesn't do any harm, either."

Mycroft glanced over his shoulder to see Anthea hammering away at her phone, mouth set in a grim line. It was not often that they disagreed, but when it did happen, it made the day much longer, and much more difficult.