ONESHOT. Tag for "The Lying Detective." A day after Sherlock's birthday, Molly brings Rosie round for a visit. But with their renewed stability being so fragile, something as little as Irene Adler's text alert could cause Sherlock to lose Molly, too.

While writing, I listened to "Titanic – Nearer My God To Thee (Full Version)" on You Tube. Though any stringed version will do.

Utterly Mistaken

Sherlock sat in his chair, a cup of hot tea cradled in both hands in his lap. He stared absently down at it, watching the steam rise from the dark liquid, caught in the early afternoon light. He'd slept until noon today, his whole body like stone. Once he'd finally forced himself to drag out of bed, he hadn't been able to summon the energy to shave, and he had barely taken the time to put on trousers, his shoes, a comfortable shirt and his dressing gown before sinking down into his chair. Mrs. Hudson had brought him some tea before she'd gone to a bridge game with some friends. It was Saturday, after all—he supposed people did that sort of thing. He allowed his eyes to drift shut, his brow furrowing. All of his muscles ached. Especially those in his right forearm.

The door downstairs creaked open. Light footsteps. The door shut. More nimble, careful footsteps on the stairs. He opened his eyes.

Molly stood there on the threshold, her dark hair back in a bun, a few strands hanging loose around her face. She wore a colorful, zig-zag-patterned sweater and black trousers. In her left hand she toted a heavy diaper bag and her purse. And in her right arm, pulled tight against her side…

Rosie.

Something lifted in Sherlock's chest.

He knew she'd been carrying something—he could hear it in every move she made—but his addled brain hadn't been able to distinguish between a baby and a possible second bag—

The edges of his mouth softened. His gaze darted quickly between Rosie's sleepy, feather-haired little form—dressed in a pink onesie—and Molly's large, somewhat haunted brown eyes.

"Hello, Molly," Sherlock managed.

"Hello." She shifted Rosie on her hip. Rosie stuck her thumb in her mouth and watched Sherlock intently.

"Thought I'd…Thought I'd bring her by while I…You know. John wants me to…" She ducked her head and nodded toward John's chair. Sherlock quickly nodded also.

"Yes, of course," he murmured, glancing briefly down at his teacup. Molly took a deep breath and lifted her chin.

"John's at home, but I asked him. He…" A ghost of a feigned smile crossed her mouth. "I thought it would be better if the two of us just…" She took another bracing breath. "We can watch the baby. Together. Instead of me watching you." She swallowed.

Sherlock didn't take his eyes from her. Her own eyes were encircled by shadows. And something like a tremor kept passing through her frame.

She looked thin.

"Are you…feeling better?" he ventured. He hurriedly looked down at his teacup again. "You cancelled…Well, you texted and said you couldn't come to the cake thing after all. Yesterday." He risked finding her gaze again. "Stomach ache?"

Molly swallowed once more and nodded, faking another smile.

"Yeah, I've had a kind of nervous complaint lately," she said.

"Ah. I see," Sherlock allowed. There was more, but he didn't dare press. Molly looked at the floor. Sherlock rubbed the lip of the cup with his thumb. Silence fell. Sherlock suddenly lifted his eyebrows.

"Tea?"

"I'll get it," Molly instantly offered, coming closer and setting the bag and her purse down by John's chair.

"No, really, I can—" Sherlock started to get up.

"It's okay, I can do it," Molly interrupted. "I know where everything is. You just…Sit, and hold her, okay?" She came near, took Rosie up so the baby's back was to Sherlock, and held her down to him. He set his teacup on the table and, trying to hide the shake in his hands, he reached up and took her. Carefully, he hefted her down into his lap, to rest back against his chest. She weighed exactly three pounds more than the last time he'd picked her up. He opened his mouth to remark—

The Noise.

From his phone.

His phone, right on the table by his left elbow. His phone lit up and made The Noise.

He twitched.

Molly's head came around. She stared at it.

"What's that?" she asked, the skin tightening around her eyes. She turned to him.

"What's what?" he fixed his eyes on hers, his heartbeat picking up.

"That, that sound," Molly pointed at the phone. "I've heard that before—at the Christmas party that time."

Sherlock didn't answer.

"It was her. That woman," Molly said. Her voice quieted to almost nothing. "She's not really dead, is she?"

Sherlock swallowed, his expression shrugged—he lightly turned his head away.

"In point of fact, I…" He closed his eyes to concentrate. "I don't answer. At least…Not all the time. She texts me, I ignore it. Most of the time."

He opened his eyes and looked openly up at her. She still stared at the phone, biting the inside of her lip. Then, that expression came over her—the exact expression on her face from that awful Christmas party. She gripped her fingers together.

"I think I'm going to go," she whispered.

Sherlock's heart banged against his breastbone.

"Molly—"

She shook her head.

"No, it's all right, I've some things to do," she said quickly, picking up her purse. "Just remembered. Erm, John will be here in an hour, so…" She turned part of the way around, found him for a second, and said, too brightly: "Can you take care of Rosie till then?"

But Sherlock caught sight of her eyes.

He stood up. It hurt—every muscle screamed. He fought not to, but he had to grunt with the effort of it—and with the effort of keeping hold of Rosie.

"Molly, wait."

She halted, her head down, her mouth unsteady.

Rosie started to whimper.

"It isn't…I mean…What do I mean?" Sherlock stammered breathlessly. "I went round and round with John about it, and it isn't…I mean, it is. But I don't…" He heaved a tight sigh, battling to get his brain to stop spinning and dashing around and just work clearly enough to articulate what he meant—

But he couldn't. That hint in the edge of her brilliant eyes—

She turned part of the way toward him—but still didn't look.

"Molly," he asked cautiously. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing," she muttered. "I've just got some…Some errands to run. That's all."

"I've done something," Sherlock said quickly. "But I'm…I'm not sufficiently recovered to deduce correctly—in fact, I place little faith in the entirety of myself and my skills at the moment." He stopped, feeling dizzy, raw—and exhausted. "Please," he tried. "Tell me what's the matter."

She shifted, nervously fingering the strap of her purse.

"I erm…I don't know if you ever thought of it," she began. "But…Mary was my friend, too. John and Mary have always been very nice to me. I like them. I mean I…I like John. I liked Mary. You know," she whispered.

Sherlock nodded earnestly, listening.

"And it's been so…" Her breath shook, and her brow twisted. "It's been so hard to just watch all this, with John…And then you the other day…" She gestured to him. "I told you that you had weeks to live and you saw me, you saw what I…" Her mouth hardened. "You didn't seem to care."

Sherlock's lips parted, but nothing came out. Pain danced around inside his chest. Rosie whimpered against him again, more urgently. Molly addressed the floor.

"Have you ever read Jane Eyre?"

Sherlock blinked.

"I…Erm, I might have done. In school. Probably deleted it…" He trailed off weakly.

"There's a part in there I always think of," Molly said quietly. "Stuck in my mind since the first time I read it." She braced herself, her hands closing. "'Do you think because I am poor, obscure, plain and little, I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong. I have as much soul as you, and full as much heart. And if God had gifted me with some beauty and much wealth, I should have made it as hard for you to leave me, as it is now for me to leave you.'"

Sherlock was having trouble breathing. Molly finally met his gaze, her eyes shining, and smiled brokenly.

"I've always known that I don't mean much to you," she said softly. "I'm…off to the side of things. Useful, sometimes. I'm happy to be that. And sometimes I manage to forget that I'm…just that. But not today." She adjusted her purse strap on her shoulder. "And I can't…I'm not in a state to bear it today."

She took a step toward the door.

"Don't ever say that again."

The words rumbled through Sherlock's chest, startling the silence. Molly stopped, confusion crossing her face.

"What?"

"You've said that to me before," Sherlock reminded her. "And I still find it completely baffling how you could arrive at that conclusion."

"Well," she shifted her weight. "It seems fairly clear, whenever you—"

"It isn't true," Sherlock countered. "Not in the slightest."

She stared at him, saying nothing. But finally, Sherlock's mind had cleared, and he knew what he had been trying to say.

"I mean it, Molly Hooper," Sherlock warned. "Whenever that ridiculous thought crosses your mind and you are tempted to repeat it, I beg you to remind yourself that you are absolutely and utterly mistaken."

Molly didn't move.

Then, suddenly, she turned her head away, wrapped her arms tight around herself. And, stifled almost to silence, she began to cry.

Rosie broke into a wail.

It nearly shattered Sherlock's right eardrum. 221B instantly flooded with infant torment—watery howling that spilled through all of Sherlock's senses. He glanced over at her little face—twisted in pain, tears rolling down her cheeks, the whole of her tiny frame shaking. And he came back round to see Molly—soundless, eyes screwed shut, tears dripping from her chin.

Rosie's cries tore through him, rattling the rafters. And he couldn't rip his eyes from Molly.

Somewhere, in the depths of his chest, something seemed to give a smart crack.

He crossed the room, the heartbroken infant bawling into his collar. And he reached out with his left arm, and wrapped it around Molly's shoulders.

She gasped, jerking and startled—he pulled her in.

She let out a strangled sob as she fumbled into his chest, leaning her forehead to his heart. He drew her in tighter, bowing his head to rest the side of his face against her hair. Saying nothing, he rubbed his hand back and forth, back and forth across her back, while she choked and shuddered, and while Rosie screamed. Sherlock closed his eyes, listening and feeling every nuance of each cry flood and rush and thrum through him, as if these two were the bow, and he were the strings of his violin.

Molly shifted. She loosened her arms from against her chest, and wrapped her right one around Sherlock's waist, underneath his dressing gown. That band of warmth, surprisingly strong, somehow eased the ache in those long muscles. She nuzzled her head, and turned it so that her ear pressed against his heartbeat. And she reached up with her left hand, and began to stroke Rosie's little head.

"It's okay, sweetheart," Molly murmured, shaky and watery—but earnest. "It's okay. I love you. I love you. I love you. It's all right."

Those repeated words—Sherlock closed his eyes as the sudden heat of them warmed his entire chest. As if he had just breathed in sunlight itself. He set his chin on top of Molly's head, wanting her to keep talking, to keep saying it…

"I love you, sweetheart. Dearest…Don't cry." She wiped away Rosie's tears as the baby kept keening. "I love you. Don't cry. I love you."

Sherlock blinked, and his vision blurred. And before he could account for it, his own hot tears spilled down his cheeks. Molly rubbed Rosie's back, tightening her arm around Sherlock's waist.

"It's all right. Don't cry. I love you," she whispered. Rosie stuck her first two fingers in her mouth, whining softly…

And dropped her head wearily over onto Sherlock's shoulder. With her fingertips, Molly stroked the baby's hair just above her ear.

Sherlock lifted his head. His tears dripped onto Molly's hair. He turned, and pressed a kiss to Rosie's soft forehead. But the edge of his mouth touched Molly's thumb.

Molly stopped moving. Sherlock kept his eyes closed.

"More than you can possibly know," he whispered against Rosie's featherdown hair, and Molly's soft skin.

And he kissed them both again—deliberately, and gently. Then, he settled his chin on top of Molly's head again, his eyes shut. And they stood thus for he didn't care how long, Rosie making soft sucking sounds in his ear, Molly sighing into his heart.

SHMHSHMHSHMH

Tiredly, his back aching, John Watson climbed the creaking stairs to 221B, frowning as he did. He didn't hear any conversation, or baby screaming or giggling, or pacing back and forth—which was more than odd. He supposed Rosie might be napping, and Sherlock might be ignoring Molly to read some book or other…

He pushed through the door, glanced around…

And stopped.

Sherlock, Molly and Rosie—all three of them—lay on the couch.

Sherlock, unshaven and in his dressing gown, lay propped back into one corner and armrest, his legs crossed and stretched out, his heels on the table. Rosie snuggled into the crook of Sherlock's left arm. And Molly, her shoeless feet tucked up on the cushions, lay pressed against Sherlock's right side, her head on his shoulder, just beneath his chin. Her arm wound beneath his.

And upon Rosie's chest lay Molly and Sherlock's entwined hands—her left and his right—their fingers interlaced. All three completely exhausted, and completely asleep.

John just stood there, astonished, and on the edge of letting out a soft, bewildered laugh, for several minutes. Then—

Sherlock's phone. Over on the table by his chair.

It lit up, and made that Irene Adler sound.

John spun and faced it, then twisted, waiting for Sherlock to snap awake and fire off the couch—

He did stir.

But he only turned his head a little, adjusted his gentle hold on Molly's hand, and rubbed his thumb across hers. Then, he gave a limitless sigh…

And that was all.

For another long while, John gazed at the three of them, something painful and bittersweet swelling in his heart. Then, he smiled crookedly and rolled his eyes.

"Huh," he muttered. "Well, what do I know."

And he crossed the floor as quietly as he could to go make himself some tea.

The End