Author's Note:This was inspired by an anonymous prompter who, to put it basically, asked for a Canon!Sherlolly AU based on the 2010 movie, "The Switch" (a really good movie, for a romantic comedy. I highly recommend it.) This fic will be a two-parter, and the next part should be up soon enough; that's if my other WIPs don't drown me in feelings. Rated T for swearing and other *ahem* stuff. Enjoy, and don't forget to leave a review/favourite/follow!

Set Post-The Sign of Three; takes place in the month between TSOT and His Last Vow and beyond.

Fuck.

That was the word that passed through the fuzzy, plagued-by-alcohol brain of Sherlock Holmes as he, with an ever increasing feeling of dread, watched the thick, gooey liquid slip from the precious bottle and down the drain of the bathroom sink.

He didn't know how long he stayed there, frozen with his hand hovering over the edge of the sink, watching the water pool at the base. Trouble—that was what he was in—a lot of trouble. He sat back onto the floor with a dull thump, his blurred vision just about catching the words scribbled onto the label.

D… Do… Don…

She would hate him. Everyone would hate him. Even his mother would—no. She wouldn't have to know. Why would he tell her? It wasn't like she'd wish to know what her younger son did in his spare time away from the family home. Especially not if he got up to such activities as this. Well, he didn't, so that was good. Maybe.

Sherlock groaned and ran his fingers through his curls. He stared at the bottle again, but the words still made no sense. They were jumbled, barely intelligible. Just how much alcohol had he consumed? John Watson had to be behind this. He'd obviously doubled his alcohol intake, shoved him inside here and waited for the results.

No, that wasn't possible. He wouldn't be so… whatever it was that deceitful people were. There was only one person who had led him to this point, slumped on the floor on Molly Hooper's bathroom, steaming drunk and with an empty sperm donor bottle in his hand.

That one person was, unfortunately, him.

"Sherlock I wanted to talk to you about something—"

Her following words were cut off by the sound of the electric saw against the skull of the corpse between them, and Sherlock grunted in reply. He could've sworn to see Molly roll her eyes as she continued to work, but he decided to ignore that for the time being.

"I was wondering if you could get me a head," he said after a moment. "I need to look into the effects—"

"Sherlock," Molly said impatiently and she switched off the saw and flipped up her visor. "This is important."

Finally he looked up, only to immediately frown as he watched her. Twitching of hands, crinkle of brow; something was wrong. Yet she was smiling too; a genuine smile, one of excitement. So whatever was wrong was also something she felt was right. Hm. Puzzling.

Molly smiled wider.

"I'm having a baby."

"You're… pregnant?" Sherlock asked with a swallow. He wasn't envious, not at all. Nor was he surprised. Nor was he currently furiously trying to deduce who the father was; and even if he was, that all blew away with Molly's next sentence.

"Christ, not yet! No, I'm – well, after all of that stuff with Tom, I just felt like – I'm not explaining this properly. I am going to have a baby; I just don't know who the father is yet."

Sherlock nodded curtly and gave a shrug. "Sexual promiscuity isn't uncommon these days, it's—"

Molly's cheeks and neck flushed a deep red and she shook her head, flapping her hands a little.

"No, it's nothing like that! I'm going by donor."

"Donor."

"Yeah. Artificial insemination. I'm sure you've heard of it?"

"And you're telling me because?"

"Because you're my friend and I want you to know," Molly said simply.

Sherlock gave a false smile, followed by a quick nod. It wasn't his place to dictate what Molly wanted or what her decisions were. If she wanted a child, then she wanted a child. She was a logical woman; it was only sensible that she—feeling herself to be somewhat unlucky in the department of romantic relationships—would want to go for a more scientific method.

It was completely logical, and utterly sound in terms of planning. Easy, necessary to her needs and had little to no emotional attachment. It was the perfect arrangement for Molly Hooper, pathologist at St. Bart's Hospital.

That thought didn't provide any comfort for him. Nor did it stop him from clearing his throat and muttering a small excuse for his departure before he swept from the morgue.

He spent longer than he would've cared to admit on his reflection of Molly's decision. From the moment he got back to Baker Street that afternoon, he had shrugged off his coat, threw on his dressing gown and settled himself onto the sofa (well, he had more thrown himself and accompanied the gesture with a dramatic sigh) before he tucked his fingers under his chin and stared up at the ceiling.

That position was the one he remained in until he heard the familiar knock of the door that came with John Watson's entrance to 221b Baker Street. On hearing it, he opened one eye and raised an eyebrow.

"You're putting on weight."

"Blame Mary's cooking," John retorted. "You texted me about a case?"

"Solved it," Sherlock said with a shrug. "Uncle did it, buried brother in backyard to avoid suspicion. Shallow grave, didn't count on heavy rainfall."

Opening both eyes, his gaze flicked back to the ceiling. He didn't need to look to know that John had pulled one of his (by now trademark) 'I don't know why I bother' faces before he'd settled down into his chair, just in time for Mrs Hudson to advance up the steps with a tray of tea in her hands.

Sure enough, the door swung open and Mrs Hudson's voice trilled a bright greeting.

"Hello John! Didn't know you'd be coming round. Would you like a cup of tea?"

"Tea would be lovely, Mrs Hudson, thank you."

"Biscuit?"

"He only eats Mary's now Mrs Hudson," Sherlock drawled, smirking slightly as John again protested that it wasn't his fault that his wife cooked so well.

"I know dear," Mrs Hudson said as she continued to chatter. "Men are all the same. Always say they don't want something to eat, but then they are, chomping away as soon as your back's turned! How's Mary by the way? Doing well?"

"Yeah, yeah, she's doing great. She's enjoying being pregnant."

"Oh, that's nice. So lovely to be having a child, don't you think? Actually, talking of children – did you hear about Molly?"

At this, Sherlock's gaze moved slowly over to John. He watched his friend's face change as Mrs Hudson relayed the news to him; when she was finished however, he did not display the same reaction as Sherlock had done, but instead a sort of faint amusement.

"Wow," he said after a moment. "That's – interesting. Good luck to her I guess."

Sherlock huffed and threw himself back on the sofa. Annoyingly, John was right: it was an interesting decision. More than that, it was puzzling. Why now? She had never mentioned a desire for children before—or had it just not come up in their conversations before? She wasn't old either; her 'time' wasn't running out. Simple biological knowledge could tell him that.

So why on Earth was she making this leap?

He bolted up. Tom. She'd mentioned him. Clearly their parting had been much more antagonistic than she had ever made out, if she was willing to give birth to an actual living and breathing child to try and get over the man. (Though that would mean she would've had to have had some actual feelings for him. Damn it.)

Sherlock was up and out of the door before John and Mrs Hudson were even allowed to notice that he had gone.

If he were in any other situation, he would have knocked. In this situation however, knocking was an unnecessary evil and quite fortunately, her door was unlocked anyway. (He made a mental note to warn her in the near future about the need for security.) He stepped through.

On a good day, Molly's flat often looked akin to a bomb site. Papers were strewn over tables, cups seemed to collect themselves on coffee and side tables, books were stacked precariously in corners and on shelves and clothes seemed to belong more on the floor than in a laundry basket. Sherlock however, had long ago decided he preferred it that way. She may have been untidy, but she was not slovenly. The disorganisation of her home was less of a consequence of laziness and more a reflection on her busy lifestyle.

When he walked in on that night though, everything was tidy. Toby, her exasperating hairball excuse for a cat, was curled up on the only armchair in the room. Any papers were neatly filed away on the coffee table; any books were carefully arranged in the bookshelf; her clothes too, were gone, presumably stuffed inside some laundry basket he was yet to see or find.

He felt uncharacteristically stupid as he gingerly stepped forward.

"Molly?"

Her voice, light and happy, floated from the kitchen. "I'll be out in a minute! Make yourself comfortable!"

Decidedly the opposite of comfortable, Sherlock perched on the edge of the sofa. Molly, much to his surprise, continued to speak. Either she had forgotten the abrupt manner in which he'd departed their earlier conversation, or she thought he was someone else. He decided to hope for the former.

"I'm just making up some tea – its decaf, if you're okay with that. I mean, of course it's decaf; I've got nine months of the stuff to look forward to so I might as well get used to – Sherlock!"

She stopped in her tracks as she entered into the living room. She had changed from her earlier clothing into a decidedly neater ensemble; instead of the customary colourful, inevitably fruit-based cardigan and dull dark trousers she wore in the morgue, she now wore a blouse with a neat bow and jeans. Her feet were bare. Relaxed, but smart.

"You're meeting someone," he said, almost dumbly. She gave a small nod.

"I am. It's—" She never got to tell him; a ringing of her doorbell was what stopped her.

Instantly, she began to move. Raking her fingers through her hair, she shooed Toby from his place on the armchair (earning a protesting hiss from the creature for her efforts) and practically sprinted towards the door to pull it open, a wide grin on her face. A man—dark haired, bearded, tall—stepped through.

"Hi," he said smoothly. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Irish. Of course he'd be Irish. With a huff, he rose to his feet. The arrival came to a halt on seeing him and blinked, looking to Molly.

"Um – is this your boyfriend then?"

Molly spluttered a giggle and flushed red, vigorously shaking her head.

"No! No, no. This is Sherlock Holmes; he's just my friend."

"Yes," Sherlock said slowly. He stepped forward and held out his hand. "Just a friend."

The man gave a sigh of relief and shook Sherlock's outstretched hand. "Oh, thank God. That would've been awkward, if you know what I mean."

"No, I don't think I do."

The man's smile slipped into a nervous frown. "Uh… well, you know. I'm… the donor. It just feels a bit weird, talking about… the thing in front of another guy."

To say that the silence that fell over the three was awkward would to be a great underestimation.

"Donald," Molly said brightly. "Do you want something to drink? I was just – making some coffee."

Donald gave a relieved sigh and nodded. "Cuppa would be lovely, actually. Milk, one sugar, if you please."

Molly grinned and clapped her hands together before she spun around and headed towards the kitchen. Sherlock smiled falsely at Donald.

"I suppose then that your sperm count is high?"

It was as if he had released a fox into a chicken coop. Molly actually yelped as she spun around, whilst Donald blushed beetroot red.

"Uh – uh…"

"Sherlock – could I speak to you for a second?" Molly's voice was tight. "In the kitchen."

Although she had asked him, Sherlock got the strangest inkling that he had no choice in the matter; that inkling was confirmed when she captured his arm in an iron-like grip and steered him towards the kitchen, pushing him inside and slamming the door behind them. Letting out a breath, she whirled on him, eyes blazing.

"What the hell do you think you are doing?!"

"Helping you choose a donor. That one isn't a good choice by the way; he's married, for a start."

"I know!" Molly cried, exasperated. Sherlock blinked.

"You know."

"Of course I do! I didn't just meet him on the street and ask him to give me a baby! He's signed up with The London Sperm Bank."

Sherlock paused for a moment. "That actually exists?"

Molly sighed heavily, scowling as she crossed her arms over her chest. "Why are you so against this?"

Sherlock laughed. "I am not against this, Molly. I'm helping you to be careful, that's all."

"No, you're really not. You're acting like a spoiled brat."

Sherlock huffed. "Look, I just don't see why you feel the need to have a baby just to get over Tom. It is, to be honest, the act of a desperate woman."

Going by the way in which Molly's expression darkened and she stepped towards with an arched eyebrow, he quickly guessed that he had said exactly the wrong thing. Molly brushed her hair from her eyes, her glare still fixed straight on him.

"Tom? You think I'm doing this because of Tom?"

"In my defence, you did mention him—"

"As an example! I'm getting old, Sherlock. I want a kid. Sure, this isn't entirely how I envisioned having one, but at least I'm getting what I want and at least I get to choose whose sperm I use. And Sherlock, you're ruining it for me. You're not being supportive, and you're certainly not helping."

"Oh, well, I apologise for trying to help you see that this isn't exactly the healthiest way of coping with a breakup!"

"This isn't about Tom!" Molly yelled, before she took a steadying breath, touching briefly at her temple. "I want and I am having a child. If you have a problem with that, then you can feel entirely free to leave."

Although he did have plenty of problems with the situation at hand, he made no attempt to leave. Instead, he remained fixed to where he stood, blinking slightly in surprise at Molly's suddenly forthright nature. She was never usually this stubborn or this angry—unless of course, he had done something wrong. Therefore, logic dictated he had indeed done something wrong. Shifting his weight from head to foot, he tilted his head at her.

"Why didn't you ask me?"

Molly stumbled back at the bluntness of his question, and a blush grew over her cheeks. Somehow, she was more embarrassed by this question asked in the intimacy of her kitchen rather than any other question he had asked thus far.

"I'm sorry?"

"Why didn't you ask me?" Sherlock repeated his tone matter-of-fact. "Isn't my sperm good enough?"

Molly let out a squeak of surprise—or perhaps something else, it was difficult to tell—and her blush deepened.

"No!" she whispered. "No and no! I can't, and you know I can't."

"Why not? I am after all, a friend, and we know each other. Surely it's better to use a friend's offering rather than a—"

Molly held up her hands, causing Sherlock's train of thought to stutter to a halt. When he raised an eyebrow in a silent question, she slowly shook her head. Her expression, he now noticed, did not carry the same amount of rage that it had done only moments before. It was softer, sadder; unreadable too.

"Sherlock, please, stop." Her voice was gentle. "You know why I can't ask you. You know."

He swallowed a little. He did know, but at the same time, he didn't know. As such, he chose not to reply to her observation. To reply was to delve into a whole world of complications.

Only a brief moment of silence went by before he finally made to move. Head bowed a little, he swept past Molly and out of the kitchen. He heard Donald throw a cheerful, if awkward, goodbye at him as he departed from the flat. Again, he did not reply.

It was a week later, not a day after he had been taken into the employ of Lady Smallwood, that Sherlock woke to find among his post a bright pink envelope, the familiar, feminine and looped writing of Molly Hooper written across it, spelling out his name and address. Inside said envelope, he found an equally bright, luridly cheerful invitation.

"Insemination party?" he mumbled under his breath and he rubbed at his tired eyes. Perhaps he had read it wrong. When he checked again however, the words were still there in large, invasive lettering: I'm Getting Pregnant!

With a sigh, Sherlock flipped the card over and dropped it onto the kitchen table with the intent of forgetting all about. A flash of smaller, but still equally familiar, writing caused him to pick it up again. A smile twitched at the edges of his mouth as he scanned the small note situated in the top corner of the invitation.

I won't apologise for the invite, as I like pink and I am getting pregnant. It would be so great if I could see you here tonight. Molly xxx

The three kisses did not go unnoticed.

When he arrived at the party, he found that the choice of music was distinctly 80s. That was the first bad thing about it. The second bad thing was that he found himself accosted by Meena. Molly's closest friend—aside from him of course—she was distinctly professional and almost tolerable when she was performing her duties at St. Bart's, but was alternative, bohemian and entirely intolerable when outside of the hospital. By the time he had stepped through the door of her home, it was all too clear that Meena had already ingested a fair amount of alcohol.

"Sherlock! Lovely to see you!" she said faux brightly as she shoved a glass of champagne into his hands. That was the only redeemable thing about Meena; on meeting him, she had immediately recognised him to be an obnoxious arsehole, and had made no bones about duly treating him as such.

"Lovely to see you too Meena," Sherlock said drily as he scanned the crowds.

"If you're looking for Molly, she's in my bedroom. Bit overwhelmed I think."

"I'd think so. I presume this whole scheme was your idea?"

Meena gave a proud nod. "Mm-hm. It's a big thing you know – having a kid! I wasn't going to let Molly celebrate it all by herself now was I?"

"Hm," Sherlock said shortly, and after making the decision that it was beneficial for both him and Meena to part her company as quickly as possible, he stepped away. Behind him, Meena gave another joyful cry as another guest stepped through the door. Sherlock took a larger gulp of champagne than was necessary and weaved through the crowds towards the living room, where he found John and Mary sat on the sofa, easily fitting into the whole tone and atmosphere of the party, social chameleons that they were.

On seeing his best friend, John cracked into laughter.

"Sherlock, you could at least look like you're having fun."

"Why? I've never been a fan of loud, obnoxious occasions before now – why should I start pretending now?"

"Because it's for Molly," Mary said quickly, grinning up at him. "And as her friend, you're supposed to be happy for her!"

"Yes. As her friend," Sherlock echoed and he took another gulp of his champagne, squinting as the alcohol took its effect. Briefly, the room swirled. He blinked. Surely he could hold his intake better than this? He managed to focus his stare on John, who frowned.

"Sherlock?"

"Fine – I'm fine," Sherlock said and he blinked again. Why couldn't he just focus? "Molly – no, wait – kitchen. Kit. Chen."

He turned on his heel and headed out of the living room, leaving a perplexed John and a slowly realising Mary behind him.

"I know he's terrible with alcohol, but he can't be that bad."

"No-one's that bad," Mary said, as she took the last gulp of her water and stood up to head out of the living room, calling out just one name as she went. "Meena!"

Mary had met Meena a few times, over lunches and during various girls' days out with Molly, and so she knew of Meena's penchant for 'alternative remedies'. It wasn't to say she judged Meena for it, but she did judge people who spiked other people's drinks; especially if those other people were her friends.

She found her outside, a particularly pungent cigarette hanging from her lips as she adjusted the paper lanterns that decoratively dotted the path up to her house.

"Meena," Mary said, grabbing at her elbow and turning her around. "What the hell did you give Sherlock?"

For the briefest of moments, Meena appeared to think playing innocent was the way to navigate this particular conversation, but after she took a puff of the joint between her lips, she thought better of it and instead gave a shrug.

"Look, when he came through that door, he looked like he was attending a funeral, not a party. I thought it was best to – loosen him up a bit. Stop him being such an arsehole, y'know?"

"That doesn't mean you spike his drink," Mary hissed.

"C'mon! I put, like, half a pill in there. It'll barely affect him."

"Sherlock can't cope even with normal alcohol, let alone drugged alcohol!"

This seemed to get through to Meena, whose features paled. She inhaled another dose of her joint, but that didn't serve to calm her.

"It'll be fine," she said, her false grin giving away just how not fine it would be. "As long as he stays away from the guacamole, he'll be fine."

"What, is the guacamole drugged too?"

"No. It's just really good guacamole."

Sherlock had never really indulged in party food before; as he barely ate in his day to day life anyway, he'd never seen the need. On the other hand, he'd never encountered such stupendous guacamole before. Taking up another tortilla chip, he dunked it into the bowl and shoved it into his mouth. His chewing was no doubt an obnoxious sight, but who was he to deny himself the glories of guacamole? He took another portion and again, shoved it into his mouth.

"Enjoying the party?"

He did not hide the groan that came with his hearing of Donald's smooth Irish accent, but if that had offended Donald, it didn't matter. Donald—Donald the donor—still parked himself in the kitchen chair opposite. He gave a heavy sigh, soon followed by a nervous grin.

"Wow. This is all a – a bit intense, isn't it?"

Sherlock shrugged petulantly and snapped off a corner of his tortilla chip. "I wouldn't know. I'm not the prize hog."

"Hm. I honestly didn't think there would be this much of a fuss about it all."

"If you wish to put blame on anyone, put the blame on Meena," Sherlock said his bitter tone loud and clear. "She set up the whole scheme."

Donald nodded, clearing his throat. "Yeah, uh – yeah. I met her. She's – she's a feisty one."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he carefully pushed the guacamole to one side, his eyes never once leaving Donald. He leaned forward, again taking a bite of his tortilla chip. He slowly chewed it, almost pondering.

"Why did you do it?"

"What – sign up?"

"With the London Sperm – thing. Why?"

"Oh," Donald gave a nervous laugh and his gaze flitted towards the door. "Well, uh, my wife and I… we've already got two kids – thought it was selfish to uh – well. Call it an act of charity, I guess."

"Your wife," Sherlock repeated, the words elongated and slurred. Slurred? Odd. "Are you having troubles with your – wife?"

"No, none at all. No, she's… she's beautiful. We married three years ago. Love at first sight. The kids followed straight after. Yeah, uh… we're in love. Still going strong, knock on wood!" Donald gave a quick tap at the kitchen table with his knuckles to prove his point.

"Humph." Sherlock leaned back in his chair and took up another portion of guacamole and made to bite into it. Unfortunately for his—already rather reduced—dignity, his mouth missed the portion entirely and the tortilla chip promptly snapped into two, leaving him with a rather large guacamole stain on his previously pristine shirt. Using this as his chance to leave, Donald nodded at him once and quickly departed. With a heavy sigh, Sherlock stood and stumbled his way past the kitchen table and towards the sink.

"Sherlock, are you – damn." Behind him, Mary gave a sigh. "You found the guacamole."

"It's very good," Sherlock mumbled, turning around and leaning against the sink. Mary raised an eyebrow, and Sherlock lowered his gaze. Seeing the guacamole, he sloppily reached up and grabbed the excess from his shirt, dropping it into the sink. Mary rolled her eyes.

"Stand still," she ordered and she moved towards him, grabbing at a wodge of kitchen roll. Without a word, she cleaned him up and brushed him down, eyeing him.

"Molly's still hiding. Go and see her."

"Don't want to," he mumbled, his tone not too dissimilar to that of a petulant toddler.

"Go."

He went.

His knock against the bedroom door was tentative. The following call of "who is it?" was soft. If he weren't paying full attention, it might have become lost against the pounding 80's music. Fortunately, he heard her voice loud and clear. Instead of answering her however, he took her question as a sign that he was allowed inside, and as such, he pushed open the door and entered. On seeing him come in, Molly—at that point sat cross-legged at the head of the bed, surrounded by pillows and various trinkets of a bohemian nature—smiled.

"Hello. Shut the door, won't you?"

He obediently did so, and he again obeyed her when she gently patted the space on the bed in front of her, mirroring her crossed legs and her slumped posture as he sat. Molly watched him.

"You're drunk, aren't you?"

Shrugging, he rubbed at the back of his neck.

"Yep." He narrowed his eyes at her and raised a finger towards her eye line. "And you are hiding."

Molly raised an eyebrow. "Is it that obvious?"

"Mm-hm."

"Thought so. I don't know, I guess – I guess I thought it would be easy – it's always seemed so easy on paper. But now – everything's just become so – big."

Sherlock made a face. "You didn't have to have the party."

Having grown used to his blunt and overly honest ways (ways that were seemingly exacerbated by his intake of alcohol) Molly just gave a breath of a laugh and reached forward, touching her fingers against his open palm.

"Meena's into palm reading – just as a hobby though," she added on seeing him wrinkle his nose in disbelief. Her dimples deepened as she smiled and his eyes slowly dropped towards his hand, listening as she traced the pad of her fingers against the lines of his skin. "This is your heart line. This is your head line; and this is your life line. Yours are all pretty long to be honest."

"Does that mean anything?" He tried not to sound mocking, but sound mocking he did. He felt Molly's eyes flick up to settle on him.

"I have no idea." A giggle burst from her and she let his hand drop back into his lap. Her giggles faded away as he lifted his gaze towards her, and the same look of quiet terror overcame her features. She worried at her bottom lip.

"What if I fail, Sherlock? What if I'm not a good mum? What if – what if my child gets taken into – I don't know – social services or something, because I don't measure up? I don't want my child to be a statistic."

Sherlock felt himself smile. If sober, he would not have known quite what to say when confronted with this heartfelt confession of emotion; but on seeing his friend, his Molly, upset and scared and nervous when she should've been happy and at peace, he knew he needed to provide her with at least a crumb of comfort. Gently, he reached forward and cupped her cheeks with both his hands. Her brown eyes lightened with warmth.

"Any child of yours, Molly Hooper, will be a wonder to behold."

At this, her smile grew and he felt her squeeze at his arm as he leaned forward and kissed her forehead before he drew his hands away from her face.

"Thank you, Sherlock." Her smile widened as she patted at his knee. "When you're not being a complete arse, you're quite sweet."

"Because I'm highly unlikely to remember any of this tomorrow, I'll accept that back-handed compliment."

Molly laughed and briefly rolled her eyes. "Glad to hear it."

Unfurling her legs from underneath her, she slid off the bed and stood, only pausing to fix an elaborate flower crown to the top of her head. She met Sherlock's raised eyebrow with a scrunch of her nose.

"Don't laugh – I personally think I look quite cute."

"Only you would think a flower crown looks 'cute', Molly."

Her only response to that was to swiftly stick out her tongue before she headed out of the door.

It was a little while later that Sherlock found himself stood, swaying gently, in a corner of Meena's living room, with the rest of the guests—and Donald—all squashed in there with him. By the fireplace stood Meena, with a severely embarrassed Molly situated beside her. Meena, having partaken in an increasingly large amount of alcohol, had a bright and happy tone to her voice.

"Okay! So, as Donald, our Viking of the night, has now kindly provided his offering,"—at this, there was a tittering of giggles from some of the guests whereas Donald awkwardly cleared his throat and tried not to look anyone in the eye—"we are all supposed to leave. However, before any sort of… transaction is made here tonight, I have to say a few words. I have to say a few words to Molly. Molly, you are the reason we are all here tonight, and honestly – I couldn't be prouder of you. You're taking control of your life, and you are such an inspiration honey – such an inspiration – to all of us!"

Meena raised her champagne glass high. "A toast! To Molly!"

The guests replied in kind, and Sherlock couldn't help but smile as he saw Molly, as the pounding music resumed, briefly close her eyes, steeling herself for the congratulations that were now coming her way.

He did not however, stay for the dancing; mostly for the reason that he had come to the realisation that he needed to pee. Half-stumbling, half-walking out of the living room, he made his way down the corridor and towards the bathroom door. When he tried it, it was locked. He knocked what he believed to be a light, polite knock but somehow managed to come out as an impatient pounding.

"Bugger off!" John's voice came floating through the door, and Sherlock could've sworn to have briefly heard a distinctly familiar female giggle. He raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. Mary wouldn't be pregnant if they weren't at these levels of amorous. Although the irony of the situation did cause him to chuckle.

"You're a dog, John Watson!" he called through the door and he took another gulp of his drink.

"Look, just piss off!" Frustration edged at John's voice. Mary's giggling grew louder. "Use the bathroom upstairs, Sherlock!"

"Will do, will do! Enjoy your—" The end of his sentence was cut off by a large, unexpected burp. A trail of a laugh escaped him and Sherlock pulled himself away from the door and turned towards the spiral set of stairs that led up to the first floor. With a firm grip on the rail, he just about managed to reach the top without falling over.

The bathroom, he managed to figure out through his blurred vision, was signified by a cartoon of a toilet holding a toilet brush with the supposedly funny, definitely vulgar comment of "Number twos only". The exclamation mark after it was particularly blatant. Sherlock therefore blinked when he stepped inside and switched on the light. It was a lot more… organised than he expected it. Cleaner. More neutral. Clinical. Yes, clinical. Posters and papers were stuck to the door; although his vision wasn't at its sharpest, but he still managed to pick out certain words. Ovarian pain. Cycle day. Pink dots with numbers.

"Molly," he muttered, shaking his head. "Molly, Molly, Molly…"

Giving a sigh, he turned around and moved over to the toilet, unzipping his trousers. He pressed his hand against the wall for stability as he peed, and duly washed his hands afterwards, pressing his cool, damp hands against his warmed face. Why did people get so warm when they were drunk? He needed to look into that. Perhaps through research or an experiment; he'd look into that later. Drawing himself away from the sink, he reached for a hand towel from the upper shelf.

His gaze semi-focused on a bottle, white with a blue screw-on cap. It was surrounded by weirdly-scented candles (vanilla? Sick? Hard to tell) and a bunch of bright yellow, fake flowers. Dropping the hand towel to the floor, he made a reach for it.

Leaning against the sink, Sherlock slowly unscrewed the lid. He frowned as he briefly looked at the white, gloopy liquid swirling inside. His frown deepened as he tilted the bottle slightly. A name, hastily scribbled onto the label, screamed out at him.

Donald.

"Donald," Sherlock muttered. "Twat."

The tap ran with cold water, forming a pool against the base of the sink. Knelt over it was Sherlock, still with the bottle in hand. Gently, with a soft laugh escaping him, he waved the bottle backwards and forwards over the small pool of water with a childish fascination as the thick liquid inside the bottle almost reached the tip of the bottle before he immediately drew it back.

A pounding came at the door. "Hey! Anyone in here?"

"I'm in here!" Sherlock blurted out, indignant at being interrupted.

That same indignant attitude soon evaporated when he looked back at the sink to find that he had let the bottle drop from his fingers, and Donald the donor's sperm was now merrily making its way down the plughole.

Sat on the bathroom floor, Sherlock gazed at the now empty sperm bottle and wondered what in hell he was supposed to do now. First, he remained still. Second, he panicked; small whines and tugs through his curls were the only indicator of the internal screaming that now took place. What could he do? Donald the donor was, well, now no longer a donor. The sperm that was going to be was now the sperm that would never be.

"Stupid…" he muttered under his breath, "stupid – stupid!"

Hated, reviled; that was what he would be. Most of all, most importantly of all, he had deprived Molly Hooper, sweet and kind and dependable Molly Hooper, of a child. A child who would've been loved and cherished and looked after and would've been made content, whatever it took. He taken that away, and all because he'd managed, in a fit of drunken jealousy, to flush away Donald's act of charity.

Sherlock's head snapped up.

Act of charity.

What if—well, no-one else was here. No-one else but him knew what had happened. Couldn't he just… perform his own—'act of charity'? He could just be a... a temporary Viking. To replace the one that had become waylaid.

Positioning himself on the toilet seat, Sherlock grabbed at the usual stack of bathroom magazines. Quickly, he flicked through them.

IKEA catalogue? No.

Good Housekeeping? Definitely not.

Knitting patterns? Why did Meena have knitting patterns? Who had knitting patterns in a bathroom?

Woman & Home? No—wait. He squinted. Blonde hair, white teeth. Big smile. He knew that woman. John had mentioned her. And her distinctive voice.

Ma – Mariella. Frostrup! Yes, that was it. Mariella Frostrup.

Sherlock leaned back against the toilet. Well, she was pretty enough, it had to be said. Infinitely better than knitting patterns, that was for absolutely sure.

Slowly, he reached forward, locked the door and reached to unzip his trousers.

No-one would know.

Absolutely no-one.

The next morning, Sherlock awoke with a headache of such magnitude that he decided it would have been much more tolerable to listen to Mycroft than to have a whole marching band play incessantly in his head. Even blinking hurt.

So how he made it to John's house without throwing up and only a slight, irregular bout of heavy groaning, he did not know. He decided to count it as a miracle. Yet when he knocked on the door—an action which only seemed to increase the speed of his internal marching band—he did not receive the warm and welcoming pity party he had been hoping for. Instead, John glared at him briefly before he slammed the door closed.

"John!" Sherlock called, knocking at the door again. "John!"

"I'm only opening this door if you're sober."

"I am! Highly hungover, but sober!"

"Promise?"

"Open this bloody door!"

"You're sober."

The door opened soon after, and John's glare was still there. He pulled his dressing gown tighter around himself and rubbed at his eyes before he focused on Sherlock again. "Just so you know, we are no longer friends."

"What?" Sherlock asked, following on as John began to make his way down the hallway and into his living room. "Did I do something wrong?"

John gave a short laugh. "Something wrong? I could make a list, Sherlock! You showed up here at 3 in the bloody morning, you—"

"I was here? Last night?"

"Yeah – and you would not shut up." John gave a sigh and settled into his armchair, sipping at a large mug of tea. "Seriously. Forty five minutes of you mumbling about acts of charity and – flower crowns and Vikings and Mariella Frostrup – how do you even know of Mariella Frostrup? For God's sake, Sherlock. You need help."

Slowly, with an increasingly puzzled frown, Sherlock settled against the sofa. He drew his hands over his face.

"John, I don't remember any of that."

"What, did you tune yourself out or something? Because honestly, I would not be surprised."

"Nope; I genuinely do not remember any of that. I remember – I remember arriving at the party and—"

John raised an eyebrow. "And?"

Sherlock shrugged in an admittance of defeat. "And nothing."

"Hm. Well, Sherlock, just don't do anything else stupid, okay? Because seriously – last night, you were weird."

"John, I'm always 'weird'."

"Exactly. So the fact that I'm calling last night 'weird' should tell you something."

Unfortunately for Sherlock, it all seemed to head downhill from there. His employment under Lady Smallwood, in order to investigate Charles Augustus Magnussen and retrieve a set of explicit letters, soon took up all his time, and in his determination, he found himself heading down some particularly taboo paths. It was soon after he had gone down the most taboo of paths in order to catch Magnussen's attention that John and Mary had discovered him. It was only half an hour after their discovery of his activities that Molly discovered them as well. Unlike John's choice to verbally rage at him however, Molly had taken a much more physical approach. The slaps to his face stung and her anger, her hurt and her disappointment was an image Sherlock was unlikely to forget.

The image and her actions stayed with him until the day she visited him in hospital. Aside from Mycroft—who had only come in and dumped a bag of grapes on his lap, told him to be more careful in future and departed as quickly as he had left—Molly was his first official visitor.

At first, he did not notice her as a result of his being asleep, but his eyes soon fluttered open when he heard the soft tap of her knuckles on the hospital room door and the even softer call of "hello" that came with it. A smile grew against his mouth and he tilted his head against the pillow, looking at her.

"Morphine's allowed, I take it."

Picking at her thumbnails, she bit back a laugh. "When it's saving your life, yes."

"Glad to hear it."

Her gaze flicked towards the discarded grapes on the hospital trolley.

"Mycroft," he said by way of explanation. "He's a rubbish big brother."

"Clearly." She settled herself into the chair beside his bed and leaned forward, her elbows tucked against her knees. "Sherlock, I just wanted to—"

"I know."

She blinked. "You know?"

His gaze flicked down to her abdomen. Her baggy clothing hid the bump well. Really, one could only notice it if they were intent on looking for it.

"How far along are you?"

"Oh, um – little under two months. Everything went well."

"So Donald the donor performed his duty," Sherlock said softly, to which Molly smiled, tucking her hair behind her ear.

"And uh, Sherlock… I wanted to say sorry. For the – slaps. You needed them, but still."

"You want to apologise. Clear the air."

Sherlock tried for another smile, but this one was less genuine. After all, he had a feeling he knew exactly what she was really here for. Part of him hoped this was one of the rare occasions that his instinct was wrong.

"Basically. And you've probably worked this out already, but – well, I've been thinking." She picked at her thumbnail again, and her gaze fell to the floor as she spoke. "London is – it's so expensive these days. I can't raise a kid here. And I want to do this right."

She let out a breath, steeling herself as she looked back to him. He made no attempt to look away from her.

"I'm moving. I've found this place in Suffolk – it's cheap, and it's in a good area. It'll be a great place to raise the baby."

"Suffolk." Sherlock swallowed slightly. "Right. That's – good."

He felt her warm fingers wrap around his and he watched her as she stood and moved closer towards his side.

"Sherlock, I know you don't remember saying this, as you were incredibly drunk at the time and I know you tune almost everything out, but you – you told me that any child of mine would be a wonder." She chewed a little at her bottom lip. Nervous habit. "Do you still believe that?"

Sherlock's grip around her fingers tightened.

"I wouldn't have said it if I didn't."

"Even drunk?"

He chuckled and gave a slow nod. "Even drunk."

She let out a breath of relief. A hurt he didn't want to recognise pricked at him when her eyes becoming damp with tears. Quickly, she ducked her head, pressing her lips to his cheek. Neither of them failed to notice the way in which she lingered briefly against his skin.

She straightened up, and Sherlock's grip around her hand loosened.

"Thanks for everything, Sherlock. Be nice to the other pathologists, won't you?"

"You always had too much faith in me, Molly Hooper."

"I have to, don't I?" She kissed him again, this time a brief, non-intimate press of her lips to the top of his curls. After that, it was with one more warm smile over her shoulder that Molly Hooper walked out of Sherlock Holmes' life.