lim·er·ence / ˈlimərəns/ • n. Psychol. the state of being infatuated with another person, typically involuntary, and characterized by a strong desire for reciprocation of one's feelings.

Prologue

John Watson had heard Sherlock Holmes swear twice and blaspheme once.

According to Mycroft, this was of great significance as he'd known him for all of his 35 years and had only heard the detective curse once. John had tried to hold back a beaming grin as he heard this. He failed.

Over the eighteen months he had known him, John had concluded that to see any undiluted emotion from the consulting detective was quite the phenomenon. A smile -or at least a 'Sherlock smile' comprised of a slight one sided (always the left) smirk – had a quota of perhaps 3-4 times a week. Laughter was much rarer, perhaps once a week. John had yet to determine if this was due to outstanding self control or due to Sherlock simply being a miserable sod. Moebius syndrome wasn't a possibility, as Sherlock was perfectly able to do the following:

Scoff, sneer, smirk, scowl, snarl, snigger and most of all, sulk.

Selective expression, that's what Mrs Hudson had called it.

Now these three occurrences - which gave John eternal bragging rights to all three of Sherlock's other close contacts – were not simply from the man stubbing his toe, or even for letting a criminal get away in the back alleys of London. Oh no, only in the most momentous, truly divine moments of Sherlock's life would he would he turn to such archetypal methods of expression.

Mycroft seemed to be under the impression that the tales behind these marvels were a currency of sorts that ought to be traded with others for 'highly valued information' (or in other words, gossip from the upmost realms of society) – although John suspected that Mycroft simply revelled in revealing his brothers 'Achilles heel'.

Nevertheless, two of the three occurrences would be for John's ears and for John's ears only. Ask him to describe these events in detail and he will simply blush and hide behind anything nearest to him. Most likely a newspaper or his laptop screen. If it's a good day Sherlock will immediately step in front of John, thereby doing the job for him. It was perhaps the only job he did for him.

The most recent occasion was perhaps the most glorious in John's mind, although he played no part in its fabrication. It was too pure a memory to be used for ammunition against Sherlock, for it was something John had never yet seen, nor expected to see for the entire duration of their friendship.

It was a moment devoid of sharp wit, brilliant mind and sociopathic indication. The only time when John completely forgot that kneeling in front of him was the great Sherlock Holmes, tabloid celebrity and child prodigy and simply saw Sherlock Holmes - actual human being.

On the 3rd of March, 2011 at 6:12 am, in the living room of 221B Baker Street, Sherlock cursed as he held his child for the first time.

16th June – 2010

"The Geek interpreter, what's that?"

"That's the title."

"What does it need a title for?"

John couldn't help enthralling in Sherlock's mild confusion and bit his cheek to hide back a smirk that he was sure Sherlock would not appreciate. He also noticed the scent emanating from the detective's jaw but didn't appreciate the prickling heat that was beginning to crawl up the back of his neck as a result.

Jermyn Street Aftershave Lotion, courtesy of 'Taylor of Old Bond Street'. Uses it every time he shaves, which is usually Tuesday and Friday morning. Always in the living room, so he can glance between the mirror and Jeremy Kyle on the telly. Alcohol free, for sensitive skin. Yeah Sherlock, I know about the eczema.

"John?" Sherlock drawled, focusing his attention on buttoning the cuffs of his newly dry cleaned shirt. And yes, John did take and fetch it for him – the man pouted, what was he supposed to do?

The laptop was clicked shut and John made his way to the refrigerator to make his third cup of tea for the day.

"No milk."

The doctor made a U Turn and returned to his chair with a roll of the eyes, carrying the pile of the day's newspapers that Sherlock insisted were analysed every day for anything 'not boring', but without his tea.

"I'm going to the lab." Sherlock stated, walking to the mirror in the living room and now smoothing down the lapels of his blazer. Or in other words, 'I'm going to disappear off the face of the planet. Don't even think about lazing around watching that Lost Box set you bought yesterday, don't be so boring John.'

"Brilliant, I can watch that Box-"

"No."

A stand off began between the two men in 221B Baker street, with Sherlock flurrying around their desk, papers cascading onto the floor.

"Why the bloody hell not?"

The detective picked up a piece of paper of paper with an 'aha!' of victory before turning to his flatmate, "Because it does nothing to contribute to society John.'

"I thought you were all about being a social deviant, Sherlock."

"I am. Social deviance is not measured in terms of morality but in terms of what a society would call irrational or what I like to call 'non conforming behaviour'."

John chuckled silently to himself, the heading on the open page of The Sun catching his eye – 'Police puzzled by disappearance of blonde bombshell, Jennie Bentham'. "Behaviour such as considering thrashing somebody's dead relative with a riding crop a healthy past time?"

"Precisely." Sherlock stated wryly, "This," He began, waving a Chinese takeaway menu millimetres from John's face, like an overexcited child showing their parent a drawing, "Is for you."

"Let me guess: I am meant to have some psychic powers to determine when you are going to come home and have number 78 and 24 – without the bean sprouts-" He added, with a nod of approval from Sherlock, "On the table for you? Ha. That's new."

"No, the list on the back is for you. Don't want you getting bored." The detective retorted, before heading out the door.

John wasted no time in fetching the DVD from his bedroom and inserting into the telly, before settling himself onto the sofa. But that takeaway menu was in the corner of his sight, lying on the coffee table and it was bugging at him to death. With a sigh of frustration, he picked up the flyer, narrowly avoiding the conical of blue dye named 'Benedict's reagent' on the corner of the table. Mrs Hudson wouldn't appreciate that staining the floorboards.

1. Get Milk. Honestly John, you know 93.5% of my diet consists of tea, you'd think you'd be considerate enough to provide this essential component.

2. At exactly 15:00 pm, remove all sources of light from the kitchen and living room. Open the cupboard under the sink and add the contents of the teacup into the fish tank. Don't ask questions when I come back.

3. You may want to clean the bath. Very nasty experiment involving a pig's stomach. If it's any consolation, it was boring.

4. Take back that maroon jumper you purchased last Thursday from Paul Smith. Just because it's from a 'posh' shop doesn't make it attractive on you. Petrol blue is much more your colour. Besides, Paul Smith is from Nottingham, the city with the highest rate of gun crime in the UK. Bit of an oxymoron don't you think?

P.T.O

John rolled his eyes and turned over the leaflet.

By the way, that Box Set you bought? They're in Limbo. Now you don't have to be boring.

"The bloody prick." The man sighed, tossing the leaflet as far away from his as possible in a huff. John – 3, Sherlock – sodding thousands.

The next 10 minutes were invested in trying to enjoy the programme. It was a wasted investment. John got up and put on his coat to head out to the shops when his phone vibrated in his pocket:

Number 78 and 22. Taking a risk. Home at 11 – SH.

John smiled. Home at 11. Home. How domestic for the Consulting Detective.

Sherlock knew that he was not in a good mood. He had rarely been in what people described as a 'good' mood. Cognitively aroused perhaps, but never 'happy'. His life was led with as little emotion as possible and it suited him just fine.

That's why when after several days of having some peculiar physiological symptoms that neither the DSM nor the Oxford Handbook of Clinical Diagnosis could explain, Sherlock found himself trying out several methods of torture on a certain Zuzanna Michalska, aged 31, C.O.D: Maternal death by hemorrhaging.

Sherlock wasted no time in peeling back the white sheet covering the body before picking up the hot iron rod, spending a moment to appreciate the almost white hot tip produced by Sherlock walking in on a particularly mournful Cremation, donned in baby pink over gloves, with the iron rod in hand.

He didn't understand the cries of complaint from the family of the deceased, he did wait patiently until they had all left before throwing open the door and thrusting the iron rod into the still glowing ashes of coal, coffin and...well.

Nonetheless, Sherlock pressed the rod firmly under the curve of the corpse's left breast and watched with utter fascination as the skin began to hiss and redden immediately.

Forgot face mask. Burning flesh. Not pleasant.

"S-something's bothering you."

Sherlock sighed inwardly, "How long have you been there?" He sighed tossing the brand into the sink behind him, cold water spilling over the side and belching out steam from the rod.

His eyes flashed in the pathologist's direction for a mere second before returning to examine the wound.

1-2 minutes. Slightly off putting.

"Not very long, I mean, I just got here, I wasn't watch-"

Sherlock raises his hand to her and she stops immediately, blushing furiously. At this point in their routine she will either offer him coffee or scamper out of the room in humiliation. He therefore decides to press her for more information when she does neither.

"'Something's bothering you.' Do elaborate Molly." He mumbles from somewhere around the corpses navel, followed by the sound of a tazer. The body spasms and Sherlock adds one to his weekly smile quota.

Body's fresh, less than 12 hours in order for muscles to still respond to electrical stimuli. Significantly less that 12 hours if the blood from the brand coagulates.

"You aren't writing down any results," She begins with a timid smile, "And you haven't controlled all the extraneous variables, see? The windows are open."

Sherlock pauses at this, standing straight and rolling his shoulders slightly after being bent over the body for too long. His eyes are squinting in analysis.

He says nothing however, so Molly decides to continue. "A-and this morning you said you were investigating the effects of external stimuli on a dead body, which you are, it's just that if you were looking into coagulation, you should have chosen to brand on an extremity – the toes for example – or a major blood vessel, and you well...haven't."

The pair of them shares a glance, before Molly backs down, wringing her hands.

"Quite right Molly, on both accounts. Stagnation of blood in the lower extremities due to Livor Mortis and yes, something has been bothering me."

"What do you need?"

"I have been suffering from some physiological symptoms for some time and as I have been unable to find the reason behind these symptoms, I have deduced that they are in fact caused by an emotion." He states, the last word spoken through clenched teeth.

"Sit down."

"Excuse me?"

"S-sit down Sherlock?" She repeats, patting the lab stool next to her. He complies, but not before covering up the body. "So..."

"I have been suffering from headaches, restlessness, heart palpitations and...sweating." He says, mouth downturned in disgust.

"And are these periodic?" She asks gingerly, getting up to make coffee. She returns with two cups, although she knows that he won't touch his.

"Yes." He nods, hands clasped together and both index fingers tapping on his chin furiously in thought.

"And do you have any neurological symptoms? Blurred vis-"

"I know what neurological symptoms are. And no, nothing of the sort."

"So...any nausea, stomach pain or light sensitivity?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"Tension headaches then." She says with a slight smile, leaning forward slightly to catch Sherlock's attention, but recoiling when his piercing grey eyes glared at her.

He eyes widen suddenly and turns to the pathologist, "The episodes are triggered by a particular thought process.'

"A memory?"

"No. I feel as though I am in ...anticipation."

Molly clears her throat, her voice coming out with a slight squeak, "Anticipation of what?"

The man forces himself from the stool and does what he does best when in cerebral hysteria: pacing. Time passes – 7 minutes and 24 seconds in total - coffee becomes lukewarm at best and Molly shifts uncomfortably on her stool.

He finally stops and spins on his heels to face the pathologist directly. "You." He states, a hint of accusation in the way his eyes narrow and his head tilts back a little, just daring her to retaliate.

Molly swallows loudly, "M-me? What have if done?"

"Artificial insemination."

Molly is a textbook 'doe in the headlights' and she ticks every box as the sympathetic nervous system overrides any possible rational thought or action. She is the helpless creature and this man is as threatening as a FV4034 Challenger 2 with Chobham armour and 120mm rifled gun.

Molly would still perceive him as a Jaguar though, preferably that one on the advert with that man with the velvet voice that made her need to cross her legs a little too tightly – XKR-S wasn't it?

"...Dunno know what you're talking about..."

"Don't give me that Molly Hooper, remember to whom you are you talking to."

Obvious flush around the cheeks, neck and cleavage. Although slight tint before accusation, colour is now borderline scarlet. Most likely due to embarrassment although caffeine consumption is also a contribution.

Dilation of pupils at attempt to view all potentials threats, or...

Increased heart rate, breathing rate and muscle tension – white knuckles gripping the desk... wait.

"Are you having an orgasm?" He asks with a cocked eyebrow.

"WHAT?"

"Hmm, ability to respond coherently suggests not." Sherlock mumbles to himself, storing this piece of information in his mind palace, preferably taking place of the solar system. "Anyway," He continues, clearing his throat and shoving his hands deep into his trouser pockets, "As I was saying, as sneaky as you believe yourself to be Molly, nothing can be kept from me. You are looking into artificial insemination."

Sherlock attempts to beckon a response from the woman, preferably an auditory one. No such luck.

"No?" He asks, sighing deeply, though secretly reveling in his chance to show his talents, "Alright then. Although I had my suspicions, my thoughts were not confirmed until last Friday when that woman brought in her newborn – what was her name? Susan...Susie..."

"Rosie."

Sherlock dismissed this was a wave of his hand, "No matter. What intrigued me was your fascination with the child. How you fussed over him, watched him and how your eyes were all glazed over when the pair of them finally left. Now of course, most people would assume that you were particularly hormonal or just very fond of children. However, I know you ovulate around the 29th of each month, so that wasn't it. Furthermore, you have always been rather avoidant of children – so what changed?"

Molly rested her head in her hands, "You tell me Sherlock."

"You've been to see Colin Davis." He states, causing Molly to gasp in surprise as he leaned across the desk, his body towering over hers as he stared into her eyes in defiance. "Consultant Gynecologist, Floor 3, Room Number 3. 57. Appointment every Monday, for 3 weeks. It's the only time I see you wearing a skirt. I've also seen pamphlets in your handbag," He paused, taking on a more patronizing tone, "Are you ready to bring a child into the world? Being a single parent: How to cope."

The pathologist took a deep breathe and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, "She died in labor." She stated beckoning to the body that lay lifeless on the trolley, Sherlock frowned slightly, turning to give the corpse a once –over.

"Yes I know."

"She didn't even get to see her child," She began, her voice wavering a little. Sherlock felt a bizarre twinge down his back. "She was in labor for 28 hours and died on the bed. They had to..." She stopped, cupping her face with her hands to hide her tears from the consulting detective, "Cut her open to finally get the baby out."

"And this bothers you because...?" He mumbles to himself, before his mouth formed an 'o' of revelation as he reached his conclusion. "She's younger than you. Two years. If this happened to her at her age, there is an increased chance it will happen to you..."

"The longer I leave it..."

"The higher the risk, not to mention the harder it is to fall pregnant."

A mutual silence followed, with Sherlock mulling over the events of the last hour and Molly simply too stunned and mortified to speak.

Of course, most people would enquire as to why Molly Hooper was looking into Artificial Insemination in the first place. But Sherlock Holmes was not like 'most people' if in fact he was like any at all. He was aware that Molly was an extremely affectionate creature, possibly due to a lack of close family and only enough friends to count on one hand, most of which were friends of convenience – made by sharing labs several hours of the week. After Moriarty, relationships seemed to take a back seat, and even before the psychopath, Sherlock expected that Molly had slept with perhaps 3 other people at best, determined by her lack of sexual prowess. Thereby a child – a child created by AI – was the only logical option in his mind.

"Sperm donation, I am presuming?"

"Yeah."

"And you are aware of the risks?"

"Every donor is screened for genetic diseases, chromosome anomalies and sexually transmitted diseases."

"Yes, yes of course. But I mean for you Molly."

"Sherlock are you..." Molly began, reaching to touch his shoulder, "Worried about me?"

The detective flinched from her touch, "Worried? Of course not." He scoffed, ignoring Molly's obvious disappointment, "This is a life changing decision. Best not to be rash, that's all. You are aware that sperm donations are no longer anonymous?"

"Yes."

"And so your child would have the ability to search for their father if he/she desired it."

"Yes."

"And this thereby removes perhaps the only benefit of sperm donation, rendering it useless."

"Not true. I don't mind if the child would want to find its father. Besides, I am able to select the donor based on looks, personality, academic ability..."

"That is extremely dense of you Molly; please don't tell me you believe in all this 'gene for intelligence' nonsense? As for personality, have you not heard of the nature/nurture debate?"

"There has been some evidence to show that there are genetic predispositions for intelligence and aggression..."

Sherlock slammed a fist onto the table at this, vials and test tubes clattering as he did so, "Molly! This is not just some checklist, this is a child. I did not expect you be so cold – hearted."

"Me cold-hearted?" She wailed, now standing to meet Sherlock head on, "Surely this is a better option than choosing a man at random and producing a child from a one night stand! I thought of all people you," She gasped, poking Sherlock in the chest, "Would appreciate what I was trying to do!" She was rather appreciative of the deck between them, otherwise she may well have grabbed him by his lapels and shook him to make him see sense.

"I am evolutionist Molly; believe it or not, I strongly disagree with selective breeding." He snarled with great disgust.

"I don't even see what this has to do with you, why would you even care?" She says, pulling off her lab coat and rushing over to the coat hooks at the other side of the room. "Oh wait, how would you to able to work in the lab if I left to take care of a child?" She walked back to him now, standing so close to him she see the slight nick on his cheek from where he had shaved this morning.

Guess he is human after all.

She smirked slightly as she thought this, and Sherlock noticed it almost unconsciously.

"Why did you feel the need to reveal my secret? I know you like to show off, but there is nobody else here."

His eyes dart around her face and he inhales sharply.

Bingo.

"Because I believe I now know what I have been in anticipation of, Molly." He speaks slowly and Molly notices that there is no smirk, no hands crossed behind his back and, as she already remarked upon – no audience. He stands as a normal man, albeit as close to one as he could possibly get. This is no display of his grand intelligence.

"O-oh?"

"Oh yes Molly Hopper." He whispers with an air of mystery, "Because I believe I am about to make you a proposition."