"Already a new man in your life?" he asked, pushing through the door to her small office. She sat at her desk, making notes in a file and bouncing an infant in her lap.

"Well, you know. Have to move fast with the young ones or someone else will pick them up," she said brightly. Sherlock registered the play on words, smiled.

"Charlie," Molly explained. "Belongs to Sally, one of the nurses upstairs. She was on the way out and forgot to drop off a chart. Told her I'd mind him for a while." Charlie snuggled against her shoulder, babbling as he reached for her ponytail. Molly gave him her thumb to grasp at. Developing his tactile senses; thoughtful of her.

"Post mortem you wanted is over there," she said, gesturing to a lone file on top of the cabinet. She continued to bounce Charlie on her knee, humming a little tune. Something familiar. He was halfway through her findings (painstaking in detail, down to the toppings on the pizza the deceased apparently consumed as his unintended last meal) when the words began to make sense.

He turned over his shoulder, watching Charlie the Nurse's Child tug at her long hair, spilling it out of its binding. "Do you want children, Molly?"

"Yeah. Of course. Someday," she said, absently.

He finished his report as Molly Hooper sing-songed the bones of the vertebral column to a cheerful little tune.

(In a sunny, far-removed and much neglected room of his mind palace, Sherlock Holmes privately admitted that if there was anyone worth having a child with, it would be a woman who could turn the thoracic vertebra into a nursery rhyme.)

He sees it in the wistful glances at small children on the street, and in the way she deviates from her usual trek throughout the hospital in favor of routes that pass the maternity ward. When she queues for coffee. As she waits on the platform at Barbican Tube. Most often, he catches it directed toward the lovely and expectant Mary Watson.

"You're considering having a child," Sherlock says. The morgue is quiet at this late hour, as he expected.

Molly Hooper does not look up from the slide she's examining. "Yes."

Interesting. "Are you giving up on love, Molly?" It is the not the sneer it might have been, once.

She lifts her face from her microscope, though not to him, her eyes resting on some spot near the emergency procedures chart. "Not so much 'given up' just...sorted my priorities, I suppose." When she does turn to look at him, her gaze does not demure. Somewhere in the years after she orchestrated his death, the fretful stumbling went out of her. Perhaps killing a man will do that. Now he sees a young woman (no longer as young as she seems) and a friend.

"What do you need?" He asks.

Her brow furrows in confusion for a moment until the penny drops and her eyes widen, just a barely. Oh, he sees her think.

Oh.

"Just tell me one thing," John Watson demands. He takes a measured breath, choosing his words with care. He looks to Sherlock with uncertain curiosity, and no small bit of menace as well. He cares for Molly. Frankly he is not at all sure how he feels about this development yet. So he goes to 221B, takes his place in the old armchair, folds his hands together and asks,"Why?"

Sherlock steeples his fingers below his chin, staring dispassionately through window at London, mad and terrible and perfect as it is. "I asked her to help me, once. She didn't hesitate, even though it meant lying to her friends. Keeping my secrets. Deceiving her colleagues. But she did it anyway because I asked her to."

He turns, meeting John's scrutiny at last. "So why, John? Because three years ago I made Molly Hooper kill me. "

John thinks maybe, maybe, he understands, just a little. As best anyone ever can understand what goes on in Sherlock's mind, anyway.

"I owe her a life," his best friend says.

Anna Hooper Holmes is born on cold day in late October, a tufty stripe of black hair running a perfect line down the middle of her head.

Sherlock's daughter would, of course – just, of course she would – be born with a mohawk.

"And already the nonconformist, I see," John comments, a grin crossing his face. "Brilliant beauty. Well done, Molly. She'll be bossing David around in no time," he says, glancing sympathetically at his six-month-old son, asleep in the carrier with the ratty tail of a stuffed toy in his mouth. Right, well. Probably not a master chef, then.

"Mary's matching them in the crib, I think," Molly beams. Just hours after giving birth, she glows with happiness, but also appears more nervous than he's seen her for years. New Parent Terror, he diagnoses. He's only just gotten over it himself.

"Can you blame me?" Mary says, brushing Anna's spiky locks with her fingertips. "Think of the gene pool. Between our brains and good looks, there will be no stopping them." She looks sympathetically between John and Sherlock, adding, "I'm sure you boys add something to the package as well."

"Unless of course she prefers women," Sherlock drawls from his perch against the wall. "She certainly does now. Well, just the one, really."

"Shut up," Molly says, regaining her feist and throwing a decisive look in his direction. Leave the speculation about our daughter's sexuality for at least another decade, will you?

"You're a lucky man, Sherlock Holmes," Mary says to him before they leave Barts. "You be good."

"I'm always good," he replies. "Oh, you mean be nice. No. Boring." Mary smacks him playfully. So far, parenthood hasn't changed Sherlock.

(On the whole, John is somehow relieved to know it.)

He understood, finally, in the moment after the pediatric nurse placed his daughter in his arms and she had looked upon him with wide, pale eyes, full of infinite questions – when she held his gaze for the first time; when she did not cry – that this, this was all that people meant to say when they spoke love.

She is small; her tiny hands cannot encircle his thumb. She does little other than sleep and eat, and yet, he is fascinated by her in all ways. Love is a still a thing that perplexes him in the abstract. But not her. Oh, never her. If love in the the macrocosmic takes the shape of bloggers and colleagues and brothers and friends, then in its simplest, purest form, it is exists in the sound of Anna's soft giggles; the warm, pliant curve of her skull; the gentle grip of her infant fingers attempting the most instinctive of movements. His mammalian brain demands bonding, and so, bond he does.

(He is no longer given to fighting off his baser instincts, it would seem.)

At Baker Street he dutifully presents her to Mrs. Hudson, who cries with happiness and coos like a pigeon. Molly cries a little, but in the way that indicates happiness, rather than grief and hurting. When she falls asleep in his bed, exhausted from labor and its aftermath, he presses a kiss to her forehead, studying her in silence: the curtain of hair spilling over her shoulder, curve of her jaw, so small in his hands. Strange; she is so much larger in his mind than in life.

He walks Anna around the flat, introducing her to Bill the Skull, and to Kevin the bison on the wall. He describes his experiments, and by her solemn expression can see she's already very much interested in how they turn out. Obviously.

(A door in his mind opens on the very room in which they stand, and in his vision a young ponytailed girl sits politely at his side, smirking at his clients and exchanging private smiles with him when they reach the same conclusions.)

At John's wedding he had admitted he'd never expected to be anyone's best friend. It naturally followed that he never expected to be anyone's father. And if the terror he felt then pales in comparison to what he feels now, well, he's risen to the occasion before.

(Hadn't he?)

The groaning of footsteps on the stairs. Not as loud as the last time he visited; Mycroft must be dieting again.

Sherlock cocks his head to the side, looking out the corner of his eye. "What's that? We have a visitor? Well spotted, darling. She's very observant," he says, turning around. "No surprise there."

Mycroft stands in the door clasping his omnipresent umbrella. "Well, genetics is something of a lottery. So: The offspring," he says, pronouncing it with mild distaste.

"Anna, meet your uncle Mycroft," he says, proffering the perfection of her.

"How proud you must–"

What casual disdain lay in his brother's smug expression vanishes. It is almost instantaneous, the spell she casts upon him. Anna crows and chirrups a sweet, infant's sound as she burrows into Sherlock's shirted arm. Mycroft appears to be wonderstruck. His brows furrow so comically Sherlock can practically hear the query register: [UNKNOWN DATA]. He suddenly has a better grasp of the expression love at first sight. A thing he hadn't thought possible. Interesting.

"Oh," Mycroft manages.

Well played, he thinks, congratulating his daughter on her first victory over Mycroft (the first of many, he is certain, if the look of utter enchantment on his brother's face is to be believed).

Anna makes another small sound. "Hmm?" Sherlock sounds. "Oh, she'd like you to know she wants to be a pirate," he relays.

Mycroft briefly looks up, nonplussed at his minor theatrics. "Indeed."

"I speak Baby, you know. Learned it in just a few hours."

His brother purses his lips, not even bothering to roll his eyes. "I'm sure."

"Oh, sit down, Mycroft. Hold your niece. She's light enough that even you can manage."

"Well, I don't–"

But before he can properly object, Sherlock tugs him off balance, settling him into the chair by the fireplace. He hands Anna off, placing her neatly in his brother's arm, ensuring her head is properly held. She fusses briefly before quickly settling in, finding herself quite content.

Mycroft gawks in silence. Eventually he manages, "I must say it, Sherlock. I never thought…" He trails off, thoughtful. A silence hangs between them. Something more than the sum of their familial or fraternal parts, always a solution equal parts rivalry and bitterness tinged with a dash of obligation, diluted by regret.

Finally Mycroft offers a somewhat terse, though seemingly heartfelt, "Congratulations."

Motherhood means waking at odd hours, accustomed to early morning feedings and a regularly interrupted sleep cycle. But tonight the monitor is quiet when she stirs. It is some dead hour, long before she needs to begin the day, and in her cozy little flat, all is still. A soft lamplight slips into her bedroom.

She pads softly to the doorframe. A lovely mobile of the solar system courtesy of Greg Lestrade – (This one's Earth! reads the label above the little blue and green ball third out from the sun. Below it, one reads That's for you and not the baby, Sherlock) – rotates imperceptibly in the low light. Anna's bassinet is empty, and the reason for its vacancy is spread out on her sofa, fast asleep.

Toby curls comfortably on a pillow near his feet. Anna breathes softly, her hands clutching at the fabric of her father's shirt and head tucked under his chin. Sherlock anchors her against him with one hand, the other curled protectively around her skull.

Molly holds the perfection of the moment close. Had she a mind palace of her own, it would be first among her treasures.

She insists on keeping her flat. She has an obligation to be a strong, resourceful role model to her daughter, and she'll best do right by Anna as the professional, ever capable Dr. Molly Hooper and decidedly not by becoming Sherlock's part-time live-in, cook, maid, and therapist cum baby mama. However much she has bowed to him in the past, she'll damn well hang on to some sense of independence. Of course, doesn't mean people agree with her. Mrs. Hudson in particular, who complains bitterly that she never gets to see Anna. But Molly won't be swayed.

"We're not in love and we aren't getting married. Honestly, I don't see what all the fuss is on about," she grouses to Mary when she pops round with David for tea and playtime. "It's not – I am grateful for the way things are. He makes an effort, and he's...oddly involved. More than I expected. Always talking to her. Reading. Teaching her things. It's strange, and sort of... wonderful."

What Molly doesn't mention is that, in point of fact, Sherlock visits most nights, or she does him, and that when he isn't on a case, its rare he stays away. That from her vantage, domesticity looks as good on his broad shoulders as does a sheen of sweat or a good coat. That she knows the taste of his particular desire. That they didn't stop sleeping together after she got pregnant.

Mary eyes her. "You're still shagging him, aren't you?"

A nervous smile. "Who says we were? You know him. Not exactly the type for dating."

"Uh, yeah, he is," Mary corrects. "Only dates with him tend to involve murder and espionage rather than dinner and films. And you're avoiding my question."

"I told you we aren't–" Molly starts.

Mary gives her an impish grin and rolls her eyes. "Yeah, you did, love. But you also told people he was dead when he wasn't, so, mmm, you're record's just a tad spotty."

"Right." Hard to argue, that. Mary taps her fingers. Molly bites her lip, then nods her assent. Emphatically.

"I knew it!" Mary cries in delight. "You're way too happy a new parent to not be getting righteously fucked on a regular basis." She glances down at her son, wincing. "Shit. Better not pick that one up when he decides to start talking." They look at each other and both burst out laughing. On the whole, being a single mum isn't so bad, Molly thinks.

Well, semi-single.

Anna is three months old when a minor thug called Alfie Howell breaks into her apartment and changes her mind. Sherlock Holmes wouldn't take his case, he explains from behind his gun. Molly grips the countertop behind her, her knuckles aching. The length of space of two small rooms – the distance between her and her daughter – has never loomed so long.

"He'll got no choice now, will 'e," Howell boasts, very much pleased by the creative flair of his ingenuity. He gestures with the gun at the kitchen table, where Molly's phone sits, before turning it through the door to her living room and on the bassinet where Anna is, mercifully, asleep. "Let's give 'im a ring, love."

She scowls, taking a deep breath. Panic won't do. "Sherlock," she says when he picks up.

There's a silence on the end of the line. "You're calling. You never call; you text because you know I prefer it. Molly, what's wrong?"

"There's someone in my apartment, Sherlock. Says he knows you."

"Are you and Anna alright?"

Howell grins. "Your birds is fine for now. But you, Mista Holmes, you're gonna get to working and find my money. Else I might just lose my patience with Mummy, here. Be a shame to mark up that face in front of the little one, dontcha fink?"

She sees fucking red.

He's an idiot, and arrogant to boot. He's not expecting a fight from her. No one ever expects a fight from her; nice girls don't cause trouble. But Molly Hooper has spent too much time in the light of Sherlock Holmes and he's burned the niceness out of her.

She needs only a second of her idiot captors inattention (that's my girl, she thinks when Anna starts wailing) to snatch a knife from the carving block her aunt gave her for Christmas some years ago. She never uses it. The blade is still very sharp.

She knows her way around a human body. One quick, hard jab and the knife slides neatly into Alfie Howell's left lung. If he's lucky the techs will arrive in time to intubate him before he drowns in his own blood. If not, well...He'll be unlucky, then.

Thank you, Aunt Grace, she thinks as he falls to the floor. She kicks the gun across the floor and drops the bloodied knife into the sink. Anna's wailing has grown louder, as if sensing her mother's distress and adding her own young but powerful voice in the attempts for help. Molly gathers her to her quickly, her shaking hands and arms holding her close, filling her nose with her sweet baby smell.

The gurgling sound of Alfie Howell bleeding out on her floor cannot be ignored, however once Molly moves with Anna in the living room. With her daughter's safety assured for now, her motherly instincts are assuaged enough that she could now focus on the call of her Hippocratic oath.

Grabbing a dish towel, Molly knelt down beside the bleeding man on her floor. This was a person that was dying and needed her help, not simply a person who had just threatened her and her child. She applied pressure on the wound. The crimson pool spreading across her kitchen tile is considerable, though she does her best to stop the bleeding

The sirens of help grow louder in the distance.

Molly did not wish for Alfie Howell to die, but she would later recall that she felt little remorse for her actions in the situation. He had threatened her daughter, and that had been the only thought that she'd been capable of processing in that moment.

Hands brush hers away from the bleeding wound as emergency responders take over. An inspector she's never met takes command of the scene. Everything seems out of focus until she feels a pair of rough hands pull her to her feet, the face of Sherlock Holmes the only clear thing in her vision. She's never seen the look on his face before.

"Never again," she hears him say, and it sounds like he's trying to make a promise.

And just like that, the cloud of shock lifts, and it all becomes clear again. Molly can hear Anna crying out for her and it takes Sherlock's strength to hold her back. She's about to claw his eyes out for keeping her there when he steers her to the sink, washing the blood of her hands and Molly manages to get control of herself again long enough to help him. As soon as the red is off, she's rushing to the officer holding her baby, nearly snatching her away, holding her tightly against her chest until Molly feels like she can breathe again.

Sherlock is before her again, his hands over her shoulder and pressed against Anna's back.

"Never again, Molly," he repeats himself and now she has no doubt that he's promising her something. "This will never happen again."

"You can't promise me that," Molly says. The sweet blow of Anna's breath sends goosebumps along her shoulder. She has fallen back to sleep. Molly looks up, into his face, so beautiful and, times, so guarded. "Safety not guaranteed, Sherlock Holmes."

He pauses, considering her words. "Then let me promise to always be there when you are in need of it," he answers. She supposes that is the best he can offer. They look to their child, her eyes closed in sleep, occupied by dreams.

This is how Sherlock Holmes convinces Molly Hooper to live with him at Baker Street.

A few months later:

"Oh, hell," Sherlock says, rolling his eyes and collapsing back in his chair. "Really?"

"Indeed," Molly replies, overwhelmed. She sinks into the armchair opposite.

"This is your doing," Sherlock scowls at Anna's bassinet. "Entirely too much estrogen – and oxytocin – in this flat."

Molly turns her chin in hand, meeting his eye. Not good.

"Well," he says eventually. "I suppose a second trial couldn't hurt."

She shares the news with John over horrid coffee in the hospital caf some days later. "At least we know what to expect this time."

"Not exactly planned, I take it?" He asks.

"Oh God," Molly replies. She threads her fingers through her hair, feeling a bit hysterical. "Is any of it?"

John Hooper Holmes is born six and a half months later. His elder sister greatly approves.

Not long after Molly's engagement dissolved, John went on honeymoon, leaving Sherlock temporarily without a shadow. He was not particularly aggrieved, however, at being forced to turn to Molly for help once more.

"I need a companion," he said, when met with her (rather weak) protestations concerning a marathon of Doctor Who. She snorted by way of response, but retrieved her awful scarf and tote."What's a madman with a cap over a madman with a box, I suppose."

By the early hours of the next day, they'd ended up soaked to the bone, following a killer's trail down the ancient course of the Fleet River, deep below London. In an unguarded moment, their quarry sprang from hiding and after knocking the gun from Sherlock's hand, attempted to shatter his skull with lead piping.

Molly shot the perpetrator at some miraculous middle distance, proving to have precision – chance though it may be – that went above and beyond her usual talents with a scalpel. (And even if she wasn't nearly as good as John, well, then, John was usually able to properly see his targets, for the most part).

She looked horrified by her actions for one long, suspended moment as the sound of the gunshot rattled around in their ears, but recovered herself quickly.

"Are you alright?" She'd asked, dropping to his side to assess him for injury.

"Fine," he replied as she helped him up. He found he was shocked as much by the sight of a weapon in the good Dr. Hooper's hand as he was by the skill with which she had discharged it.

"Lucky shot," she says, her voice rising in question.

"Yup."

She considered it, stupefied. "Well," she said, after a fact. "At least the autopsy will be easy."

They looked at one another, and as he considered the tiny, bedraggled woman at his side who'd just saved his life (again), the absurdity of her statement came over him. He laughed. A low chuckle that grew louder, echoing through the old, unused places of London (and some parts of himself as well).

Molly stared, then smiled and shook her head. She let out a breath of relief, letting the some of the tension of their chase melt away. He pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"Molly Hooper," he smiled. "Pathologist by day, crack assassin by night. Well done."

"No wonder John's gone gray." She tossed her scarf – by now beyond repair - into the Fleet, letting the dark, fetid waters carry it to places unknown. "This part-time work is terrible."