Sherlock Holmes was pacing the floor of his sitting room, waiting impatiently for the butterfly to emerge from the cocoon. His friend, and sometimes business partner, John Watson, had been assuring him for quite some time that, if he wished to make his consulting detective endeavors into a viable business concern, he would be required to take on some cases which, while not necessarily stimulating to his mind, would indeed, stimulate his bank account. To this end, Sherlock had agreed to take on a case for the owner of a very high-end disco in the City. He had not even been aware that such things still existed. Evidently they were now simply called "clubs'", and attracted a varying level of clientele. The one in which he was to conduct his investigation this evening was of the highest calibre, awash in a wealthy and socially/politically connected clientele. This did not mean that it was not, per se, disreputable. It had a reputation as being an integral part of the city's drug scene, although the addicts frequenting this establishment tended to use designer drugs as well as wear designer clothes. Sherlock was not going there to investigate, or infiltrate, the drug culture. No, it was on a simple financial matter. The owner had employed him to find the source of a huge financial leak, one accounting for the loss of thousands of pounds per week. Many thousands. Sherlock had already deduced the source of the leakage, of course. Tonight's trip to the club was simply to observe, and confirm his deductions. He had already given a preliminary report to his employer, the final results of his investigation to be delivered in the morning. It had to be wrapped up this evening, as he was scheduled to leave in the morning for an assignment for his brother Mycroft. Something about spies, national security, money trails, etc. No dead bodies. No daring robberies. No impossible crime to keep his brain occupied. Just several weeks of undercover boredom. But, he owed his brother for that whole Magnussen debacle, which Mycroft never let him forget. And it was for Queen and country, after all.

But, although he did not want to admit it, even to himself, he did feel a bit insecure working his way into such a drug-drenched environment on his own, given his history. He needed a minder. John Watson would not due, in this case, as he really could not see Mary Watson allowing her husband to accompany him as his "date". Besides, he needed someone who could be attractive enough to be distracting to his male suspects, as he went about his observations. He needed Molly Hooper.

Molly had been rather excited about the prospect, at least at first. She had heard about the place, but never thought should would make in into its elevated atmosphere. No designer clothes, no social connections, no money of which to speak. Molly was the kind to prefer an evening at the local pub. Glitter and flash were just not her thing. But Sherlock was emphasized how much he needed her along, and had offered to supply her attire for the evening. She probably should have been insulted by the suggestion that nothing in her wardrobe could have possibly been appropriate, but she knew he was correct. Sherlock Holmes was elegant and posh, with more than a hint of sexy. Molly knew she was none of the above.

And, so it came to pass that evening that Sherlock was pacing, Molly was dressing, John Watson was working on his blog, and Mary was fussing with baby Claire, all in preparation for Sherlock and Molly's trip to the dance club. Mary Watson had taken one look at Sherlock, dressed as he was for a night on the town, and was never more happy with the fact that her husband was completely heterosexual, for Sherlock Holmes was definitely looking his best, and Sherlock's best was stunning! Tight black trousers, cut to perfection in all the right places. A chest-hugging purple shirt, Molly's favorite color on him, Mary noted with a smile, buttons barely holding, the top four, seemingly having given up the fight without even trying. His usually unruly curls had been conditioned and coiffed to within an inch of their lives. His cheekbones looked almost polished, and his eyes, perhaps emphasized by the color of the shirt, could probably kill a woman, or a man, given his sexual preference, at twenty paces. Molly Hooper was definitely in for an interesting night! Mary may have giggled slightly at the thought, for Sherlock looked at her suddenly, and said, "Problem, Mary?"

"No, Sherlock, not at all. You look, uh, lovely…"

"My look is entirely appropriate, given the venue, Mary."

"Of course, Sherlock. But perhaps, being undercover, I thought you may have toned it down a bit…"

"Have you ever been to this club, Mrs. Watson? Perhaps in a previous incarnation?" When Mary shook her head to indicate that she hadn't, the detective continued, "I thought not, or you would have realized that this IS toned down, thank you!"

But the Watsons soon appreciated how "toned down' Sherlock's look truly was when Molly Hooper made her appearance. The petite pathologist was wearing a shockingly short silver lame dress which picked up the light from the sitting room lamps and distributed it in a shimmering fashion over the fabric. Or what fabric there was! The silver hung in a loose drape over her breasts, covering only the minimum requirements of decency, clung tightly around her hips, and ended far, far shy of her knees.

Molly was fussing with the drape of the neckline, furiously checking on something. "Did you even know they make a two sided tape just to keep your breasts covered, Mary? I never thought I'd need something like that."

"Turn around, Molls," Mary said in reply, "Let's see the back."

So, see the back they did, or didn't, actually, as there was no back to speak of. The silvery fabric fell in a soft drape to well below her waistline, exposing every single vertebra that would have been decent, secured only by a rhinestone chain across her shoulder blades.

"How do I look?" Molly asked nervously, turning once again to give them a better view. Her makeup was perfect, her hair done up in a high ponytail secured with a glittering clasp. The ponytail brushed her upper back, leaving a large expanse of creamy flesh and toned muscles on full view.

"Like something out of 'Vogue'," Mary said with admiration.

"I was thinking something a bit sluttier myself," Molly replied. "Maybe 'Cosmo'?"

"What do you think, Sherlock?" Mary turned to the detective, and almost laughed when she saw the appreciative expression on his face.

"She'll do." Sherlock said flatly, finally.

Mary Watson was no so amused when she saw the same expression on her husband's face, however. Perhaps she was no longer so grateful that he was a confirmed heterosexual after all!

Sherlock Holmes seemed to be in a bit of a hurry to cover his companion up, as he practically flung her coat at her, and he grabbed his faithful Belstaff from the hook by the door. "We'd better be on our way, Dr. Hooper. The earlier there, the earlier home, after all."

John and Mary watched as the overly attractive and underly clothed pair made their way down the stairs and out the door, Molly proving surprisingly adept at maneuvering in stiletto heels. Mary turned to her now recovered husband, to say with a wink, "Going to be an interesting night, John!"

"How come you never wear anything like that, Mary?"

"Some of our patients already have weak hearts, love. I wouldn't want to kill them! The National Health Service frowns on that sort of thing."

"My heart's fine, Mary. Perhaps, later, we could…"

"Let's go home and discuss it, dear. After we put Claire down for the night." Mary then leaned in to give her husband a peck on the cheek, for which John had to settle, at least for the time being!

The dance club was in full party mode by the time Sherlock and Molly arrived. Having checked their coats, they quickly found a table in the corner, where the detective could observe the entire operation. He soon turned Molly loose on the dance floor, feeling slightly guilty because he had practically force fed her a potent cocktail, a Zombie, by name, in tribute to one of her favorite scifi genres, in order to lower her inhibitions. Said cocktail had proven more than effective, as Molly was currently dancing with abandon, drawing attention to herself, and away from him. He quickly scanned the crowd, observing the movements of the staff members in question, confirming his suspicions without much trouble. Case closed.

His first thought was to gather up his pathologist, and head home. But he found that he, to, was finding Molly Hooper very distracting. She moved with such grace, even to the abominable noise which passes for music in this place. And when a slow dance started, one that would allow him to hold her close and move their bodies in a sinuous rhythm, he found he couldn't resist. Perhaps it was the same rather potent cocktail concoction he had fed Molly working on his inhibitions as well. He politely separated her from her current partner, and gathered her to him. She made a small startled sound as his hand came to rest on the bare skin of her exposed back, but she quickly came to enjoy the experience, even more so when she lowered her head to rest on his shoulder, very near to the exposed area of his chest. Fortunately, another slow dance followed, with Sherlock discouraging all attempt by others to cut in. But the episode came to a conclusion as the tall man leaned in to whisper in her ear, "I have all I need, Molly. We should be going now."

Molly Hooper thought that, for a brief moment there, she, too, had had all she needed. But when the music ended, the pair made their way to the cloakroom, redeemed their outerwear, and headed home.

"Shall I drop you at your flat, Molly? Or do you want to come back to Baker Street?"

Why would she need to go back to his flat, she thought, the alcohol making her forget that her clothes, her real clothes, were still there. She was thinking, as the man beside her continued. "It's not really necessary, you know. I did factor your outfit into the expense account for this case, so it's your to keep…"

"Don't you mean, it belongs to your business, Sherlock?" Molly teased.

"Well, technically, I suppose so. But I doubt whether I could do it justice, as you have, Molly…"

Had Sherlock actually paid her a compliment on her appearance? He often (well, maybe not often, but at least sometimes) complimented her intellect, her skill with a scalpel, her latest professional paper. But she couldn't remember the last time he had said something nice about her appearance. If he ever had. She looked over at the man she had been infatuated with for years, and found that she simply could not look away. Sherlock always looked good, with those eyes, cheekbones, and damn near perfect lips. And Molly had certainly heard of the expression "beer goggles". She had observed him through those on previous occasions, and he looked bloody good. But tonight, Molly Hooper was looking at him through what she was now referring to, at least internally, as "Zombie lenses", powered as they were by that deceptively potent cocktail consisting of sweet fruit juices and three kinds of rum. And he looked positively heavenly! She found herself saying, "Let's go back to Baker Street."

"I would prefer to see you home, Molly. It is getting rather late." Sherlock fell silent for a moment. "You could just spend the night, I suppose. As I told you before, I will be leaving in the morning. Some business for Mycroft. Mrs. Hudson could feed you breakfast. And paracetamol. Does that sound good to you?"

"Just perfect, Sherlock," Molly said with a sigh, as she rested her head on his upper arm. And, much to his own surprise, Sherlock did not object.

They were soon climbing the stairs to 221B, Sherlock following closely behind Molly, partly to keep her from stumbling due to a combination of cocktails and stilettos, and partly because he was enjoying the view of the slinky fabric across her bum. He knew that such a minimal amount of alcohol had never affected him like this before, so it must be Molly herself causing his mind to cloud and his temperature to rise. When they reached his sitting room, the detective was surprised as the small woman rounded on him, smiled enticingly, and asked, "So, you really think I look good, Sherlock?"

" 'Good' has nothing to do with the way you look, Molly. Perhaps the dress was a bit extreme…"

"You picked it out!"

"Yes, but I was aiming for 'hot young professional', not 'moderately priced call girl'. You seemed to have added your own interpretation…"

"You think I look like a hooker, Sherlock? " Molly couldn't suppress a giggle. "At least I'm 'moderately priced', eh? Not one of the cheaper models…"

Sherlock was beginning to smile as just how bold his pathologist was getting. This was a new side to her, evidently brought on by alcohol and arousal. "No, Molly, there is nothing cheap about you…"

"Well, you don't look much higher up on the food chain yourself. Would you prefer 'male escort', 'gigolo'? 'Rent boy', perhaps?" His pathologist was now smiling up at him in a very un-pathologist way. "Sherlock, I'll make you a deal. I won't charge you, if you won't charge me." Molly moved closer, putting her arms around the taller man's neck. It was an easier than normal task, as she was still wearing the spike heels.

"Molly, just how drunk are you?"

"Just enough, I would say! And I'm willing to bet you are just drunk enough, too!"

Sherlock moved his hands up to dislodge her arms, but she wasn't going to give in without a fight. "This is not a good idea, Molly," he said quietly.

"Speak for yourself, Sherlock Holmes. I think it's an excellent idea." She now busied herself nipping at his ear, and moving down along his jaw, and finally his neck. "You know I've wanted you for ages. Tonight was the first time I actually believed that you may, in fact, find me attractive. Physically. So, what's the big deal! Will one night kill you? We're both adults here." Then, thinking about his bouts of sulking, anger, and his downright refusal to clean his fridge, she added, as if in passing and in a much lower tone, "One of us possibly more than the other."

Sherlock Holmes knew he was fighting a losing battle when his already tight trousers started to become noticeably tighter. Molly seemed to notice, too, as she took a downward glance, and mumbled, "Not gay, then."

"You know I have to leave in the morning, Molly…"

"Don't care!" She started to unbutton the few buttons on his shirt that needed to be undone.

"I'm not good at this sort of thing…"

"Don't care!" By this time she had started to work on his trousers. Not wanting to be seen as some sort of slacker who would allow his companion to expend all the effort, Sherlock started to work on Molly's dress, what there was of it. All went well until he got his fingers stuck on the double-sided tape securing the fabric to her breasts, which was now, evidently, securing his right thumb and two fingers to that same breast. He really had no complaints, however. When Molly started to giggle, he stopped her abruptly by snogging her senseless, picking her up bodily, and carrying her into his room.

"Please tell me you don't have any more of that bloody tape on you, Dr. Hooper!"

Molly giggled slightly as she said, "You'll find out soon enough, won't you Sherlock?"

By the time the detective had the pathologist fully undressed and in his bed, he had definitely changed his mind, deciding that this was a good idea after all. A very good idea, indeed.

When Molly Hooper awoke the next morning, she knew immediately where she was. She could smell Sherlock Holmes on the pillowcase, the sheets, the coverlet, and herself. But she also could sense that the aroma was all there was of him to be found. She opened one eye to find a glass of water, a bottle of paracetamol, and a note.

Molly -

Mycroft sent a car early this morning. I shall be gone for several weeks, and can tell you nothing more. I had to leave my mobile phone behind due to the secretive nature of the mission. In case of emergency, you can reach me through my brother. Maybe. Don't worry. It's all very boring observation and deduction. No one will try to shoot me unless the get to know me, and it usually takes slightly longer than I few weeks to get to the point of actually considering killing me. You should know!

Sherlock

The small woman sighed, took a couple of pills, and lay back upon the bed. It was for the best, she thought. He would be gone for a few weeks. She might not have had the courage to face him today. She, Molly Hooper, had actually seduced the unseducable Sherlock Holmes! Now when she had her fantasies, she would be remembering, not imagining. She would emphasize to her friend that she understood completely his reluctance to embark on any kind of emotional relationship, and that she in no way expected him to do so. She wanted him to remain in her life as a friend, possibly her best friend. That was all she was asking, she only hoped that he could find it in himself to face her without embarrassment after the night they had shared. But she had several weeks to come to terms with this new aspect of their friendship, and now all she wanted to do was go back to sleep.

Several weeks did, indeed, pass, with no word from the consulting detective. Molly had been tempted, once or twice, to call Mycroft and make an enquiry. But she had decided against it. If she could survive two years of him putting his life on the line while dismantling Moriarty's nefarious network, then she could go for a few weeks while he pushed paper and performed calculations. But that didn't stop her from worrying. She was tense, irritable, and feeling slightly unwell by the time Sherlock appeared in her lab exactly twenty six days after his abrupt departure.

"Molly!", he called as he burst through the double doors.

Molly, of course, recognized the voice immediately, and was thankful that she had a moment to gather herself before he made his way into her office.

"I'm back!", he announced in a ta-da moment, standing in her doorway.

"So I can see, Sherlock. Are you alright? No papercuts, or eyestrain?" Molly tried to make light of his reappearance.

"Molly, I just wanted…."

"Sherlock," the pathologist interrupted him, speaking before her courage failed her. "Before you say anything, I just wanted to apologize…"

"For what?" Sherlock sounded a bit puzzled.

"You know exactly for what, Sherlock Holmes! Don't come in here and try to convince me that you have erased the entire incident! I practically threw myself at you…"

"Well, I did manage to catch you rather handily, Dr. Hooper…"

"And don't try to be flippant about it, either! I'm trying to apologize, damn it! I know you hate that kind of thing."

"Molly, you are mistaken. I am, after all, a healthy male. I can, and do, engage in sexual relations as the need, as it were, arises. I am not in the least embarrassed about the night we spent together, as evidently, you are…"

"Sherlock, you are a dear friend. Perhaps my best friend. I do not want to lose that…"

"Funny, I thought we were behaving in a rather friendly fashion that night, Molly. I remember getting very friendly, in fact. Four times, if I recall correctly?"

Molly now felt a blush beginning to rise, and wanted to get through this conversation before her stammer, so long forgotten, returned. "Sherlock, could we just pretend that it didn't happen? Could you just erase it, please? I want to remain friends, I don't want to risk losing that…" Molly's voice trailed off on a plaintive note.

"If that's what you want, Molly, I see no problem in complying with your request. You will always be my friend, no matter what. I want you to know that."

"Thank you, Sherlock." Molly now stood up, heaved a sigh, and said. "Now is there anything that you need?"

Sherlock could think of a few things he needed, and a few more he wanted, but none of these could she supply in her professional capacity. So, convincing himself that it was all for the best, that he probably would have messed it up anyway, he smiled at the woman who stood in front of him, planted one of those godawful kisses on her cheek, and said, "Not at the moment, Molly. Just stopped in to inform you that I had returned to London. I shall see you soon, I would imagine." And then he turned on his heel and walked out.

It was several days later before the consulting detective had reason to return to St. Bart's. Lestrade had asked him to take a look at a body currently being dissected there. Possible homicide. Sherlock had not been avoiding Molly deliberately, but he felt no need to seek her out. Well, this was not exactly true. He did, in fact, feel the need, but had decided against giving into it. But a case was the perfect excuse for a visit.

As soon as he saw her, he knew there was something different. "I need to see the former Mr. Bartlett at your earliest convenience, Molly," he spoke without preamble. Molly looked up at him. "I've just finished his autopsy, Sherlock. He's in drawer number 133 if you really must see him, but my report is right here." She tossed a folder in his direction, and reached for a bottle of stomach tablets at the same time.

"The report will be fine. Any evidence of foul play?"

"None whatsoever. Although Greg would like there to be, for some reason."

"Who?"

"Lestrade!" Molly snickered as she once again played this ridiculous name game with the detective.

Sherlock studied the woman more closely. She looked a bit tired, a perhaps the tiniest bit bloated. Her breast, even under the baggy lab coat, seemed just the slightest bit larger. Sherlock, of course, remembered, from his brief experience with them, their exact size, and shape, and feel, and that damned sticky tape…! He pulled himself away from these thoughts to ask, "Feeling a bit queasy, Molly? Stomach problems?"

"I think I'm coming down with something, Sherlock. You better hope it's not contagious. We all know what a terrible patient you are…"

"I don't think I could possibly come done with the same thing, barring some outlandishly new and experimental scientific breakthrough, Molly. You're pregnant."

Molly was sputtering as she replied, "I can't be. I have an implant!"

"Think, Molly. When was it implanted? It has to be just over three years ago, doesn't it? And what are there projected efficacy limits?" Sherlock could see that Molly was quickly putting two and two together, and coming up with a number not to her liking.

"Oh, god, Sherlock. You may be right! I haven't been keeping up with those things, because, well, there really was no need, until…"

"Yes, Dr. Hooper, we both know until what. It seems we both made assumptions."

"What assumptions, Sherlock?"

"We both assumed that you could count to three, Molly! Or thirty-six, if you want to measure by months! And you know what happens when you 'assume', Molly, according to the old adage?"

"Of course, you git! 'When you 'assume', you make an 'ass' out of 'u' and 'me'..."

"Or, in this particular case, Molly, parents!"

"Oh, god, Sherlock. I'm so sorry. This is all my fault…"

"You hardly could have done it by yourself, Molly. Please allow me to take some credit!"

"Sherlock, please don't joke about it. I'm going to be a mother! Wow!"

"I would assume you would be happy were it not for the child's parentage, Molly. I know you've always wanted children…"

"Oh, god, Sherlock. Don't think like that! I'm not sorry you're the father. I'm just sorry for you, after all. You've never wanted a family, a child. And now, look what I've gone and done to you. But you have no need to worry. I'll not ask you for anything. I will be perfectly happy to raise the kid on my own. I don't want you to alter your life, or give up anything…"

"Molly, I am perfectly capable of, and willing to, provide for my offspring…"

"But I don't need you to, Sherlock. I make a good living. I can handle this. I don't want you…"

And after those words, Sherlock Holmes retreated to his mind palace, shutting out Molly Hooper and all her unexpectedly hurtful words, something which he had never done before. He couldn't tell himself that her attitude was unexpected. Molly was a kind and loving human being. Why would she want her precious child to be tainted by the influence of a selfish, arrogant, unfeeling creature such as himself. It was for the best, he thought. But there was this feeling, deep in his chest, which kept distracting him from his thoughts. He firmly believing it was the feel of his newly discovered heart breaking. He found himself rising from the office chair, saying as he took his leave, "I understand completely, Molly. I shall be in touch."

For the first few minutes after leaving St. Bart's, Sherlock Holmes had no conscious thought about where he was going. He planted one foot in front of the other until he reached the street and flagged down a cab. He slightly surprised himself by giving the driver the address of Mycroft Holmes' office. But upon reflection, he realized that Mycroft was always the one he went to in times of trouble, because his brother was always there for him, even if he hated to admit it. He did not for one moment believe that Mycroft could remedy this situation, but there was one thing which he was more than competent to handle.

Mycroft Holmes, sometimes referred to, only half jokingly, as the British Government, was more than a little surprised to have his younger brother pay him an unexpected call. This did not usually bode well, and, from the look on Sherlock's face. this visit was no exception. "Well, little brother, what brings you here today?"

"Molly Hooper is pregnant," Sherlock said flatly.

"I assume congratulations are in order!"

"You assume it's my child?"

"Of course, brother. Whose else would it be? Dr. Hooper has been in love with you for years. And you have driven off every suitor. No one could touch her with a ten foot pole, and I doubt very much that any of the aforementioned suitors were so well equipped in any case!"

"Mycroft, this is no laughing matter. Molly has informed me that I am her 'best friend', and that I will continue to remain so, and only that. One night together has, evidently, caused her ardor to cool considerably. I may have been a bit out of practice, but, judging from her reactions, she seemed well satisfied with my performance."

"Too much information, brother! But, I must say, I doubt her ability to judge your performance based on one occurrence…"

"It was one night, Mycroft, but four occurrences, as you say…"

"Hardly up to you standard, brother. 'Seven times a night' at Baker Street, I believe, was the headline…"

Sherlock bolted from his seat, "Where's that excellent Scotch of yours, Mycroft?"

"Calm down, brother. I assume it's early days yet. You can still straighten this mess out."

"Not thirty minutes ago, Molly Hooper informed me that she intends to raise my child, our child, on her own. No need for me to be involved, she said. She doesn't want me, Mycroft!"

"Sherlock, I find it hard to believe that Molly Hooper would actually say those things…"

"Well, she did, and I can understand, Mycroft. I'm not a good person. I'm not kind…"

"Sherlock, you always have been a better person than you think you are. And you are kind, when the need arises. You may not be polite, or politic, but you are a good, and even kind, man…"

Sherlock had found the decanter of Scotch, poured himself a healthy amount, and settled back into his seat. "I don't need a pep talk, brother. It seems our opinions of my character differ dramatically. What I need from you is legal advice."

"You don't intend to fight Molly for custody, do you?"

"No, no, of course not! Molly will be a wonderful mother. I had rather hoped that, eventually, I would make a passable father, with her to take up the slack, but…" He then took another swig out of his glass. "Mycroft, I need you to have a legal document drawn up, assuring that my son, or daughter, will be entitled to their full share of our family assets and trust. That there will be no legal question as to their parentage. My occupation entails some risk, as you know, and I want to take steps, as soon as possible, to ensure…"

"I understand, Sherlock. I will have the paperwork drawn up. There may be a DNA test required after the birth, but I assure you that will only be a formality. My nephew, or niece, will want for nothing."

"Thank you, brother. I owe you."

"Of course you do, yo git. You owe me quite a bit, as you well know. I don't suppose you would consider 'Mycroft' as a name for your firstborn, eh?"

"No, but I will consider it for my second son, as it is highly unlikely there will ever be another, given Molly's attitude."

"Sherlock, I feel that I already know the answer, but I have to ask. Have you ever really told Dr. Hooper how much you care for her, how much, dare I say it, you love her?"

"Believe it or not, I was at the point of doing so when she professed her undying friendship, and her desire to maintain the status quo. I thought I had all the time in the world. I honestly believed she loved me, and always would, Mycroft. But, as usual, I always miss something." The detective rose from his seat to take his leave, but Mycroft spoke once again.

"Sherlock, do take care. Please don't…"

"Not to worry, brother mine. This is not one of my danger nights. I feel they are finally behind me. I do have a child on the way, after all." Sherlock's smile was sad as he left his brother to his own thoughts.

It was only two days later when Sherlock Holmes received the call from his elder sibling, indicating that the necessary legal documents had been prepared, and asking him to meet Mycroft, once again, at his office at Whitehall. The man had already been in touch with Molly Hooper, and stressed the importance of her coming to his office for this meeting, without telling her the details. Because of this, Molly had prepared herself for a lecture, addressed to Sherlock and herself, and delivered by a rather put out big brother, on the utter absurdity of unprotected sex. But, due to her growing happiness at her unexpected condition, she decided that she could put up even with this.

Molly had not spoken to the father of her child since the afternoon he had diagnosed her condition, and she had confirmed the fact with six, no, seven, pregnancy tests. She didn't really know what to expect, as Sherlock had rather zoned out during their conversation, and taken off to who knows where. Now she had figured out that he had consulted his brother, who, no doubt, would try to propose his own agenda.

But the subject of the meeting came as a complete surprise to the pathologist. It seems that Sherlock was trying to provide for his coming child by assuring him or her a share of his family's fortune. Molly had been unaware that there was a family fortune, as the detective she knew was always borrowing money for cab fare. But Mycroft assured her, that, her child would be well provided for for the duration of his or her lifetime, regardless of any custodial arrangements she would make with Sherlock. Molly looked from brother to brother. The cultured accents, expensively tailored clothes, Mycroft's elegant home, their parents' listed "cottage" in the country finally all made sense. She may not have noted it before, but these two men, while opposites, were definitely the definition of posh.

"Mycroft, I hope you know I had no idea...really…"

"Of course not, Dr. Hooper. My brother is very circumspect about how he does, or rather doesn't, spend his money. I believe he has made his tailor wealthy, while living himself on a diet of beans and toast."

Molly had to smile at the remark, and noticed that Sherlock, too, made a slight guffaw. Mycroft continued, "Now as to the paperwork in question. Sherlock, would you care to read it?"

"No, brother, I trust you to do what I asked of you."

Mycroft made a dismissive sign. "Someday, Sherlock, you must learn to be not so trusting." He then address the woman sitting opposite him at his desk. "Molly, please read the entire document carefully. It's not that long, and I tried to make it as straightforward as possible…"

"I don't need to read it, Mycroft. I trust you as much as Sherlock. You've always been kind, and honest, to me, so…"

"Dr. Hooper, I must insist that you read the entire document, or I will not witness it, or allow Anthea to do so, either. My brother I can deal with. But I could not live with myself if, at a later date, you felt you were misled…"

"Of course, Mycroft, if you insist." Molly picked up the document and started to read. The first few paragraphs were all legalese, but relatively easy to understand. She was attesting to the fact that William Sherlock Scott Holmes was, in fact, the father the child she was currently carrying. That she would submit said child for DNA testing within thirty days after birth. That the child would be entitled to share in any and all benefits and trusts owned by the Holmes Family.

It was the final paragraph, however, that caused her more than a little surprise.

"My dear Dr. Hooper, I must make you understand that all the aforementioned items become moot if you were to simply marry my ignorant brother, as he so fervently desires. A child born in wedlock is automatically considered a partner in the family trust. It would make things so much simpler. One of my brother's favorite expressions, or confessions, is that he always misses something. I think you, too, suffer from this shortcoming. Have you ever asked him, point blank, if he loves you? I think not. Because I know he could not bring himself to lie to you, and we would all have been spared this rather dramatic turn of events. I rely on you to exhibit the courage the ignorant git lacks in matters of sentiment. For the love of god, and the sake of my elderly mother, who wants nothing more than to see that same ignorant git happy, just ask him. Pretty please."

Molly re-read the paragraph one more time. The "pretty please" at the end seemed to hint that Mummy Holmes was involved in the drafting of the document. Finally, she raised her eyes from the papers, looked briefly at Mycroft, who nodded in encouragement, and addressed his younger brother, who was sitting across the room, trying to look unconcerned.

"Sherlock do you love me?"

Sherlock Holmes blinked several times. He looked at his brother, then back at Molly. He swallowed hard, then folded his hands on his lap. "Of course I love you, Molly. How could you not know that?"

"Well, as you're so fond of saying, you always miss something!" She then took the legal document from the desk and ripped it into tiny pieces. "I guess we won't be needing this anymore! Unless, of course, you're going to refuse to marry me. I could always glue it back together…"

"That won't be necessary, Dr. Hooper," said the lovely man in the lovely coat as he wrapped her into his arms and kissed her passionately. And it was lovely.

"Are you sure, Sherlock? Are you sure this is what you want?"

'Molly, I want three things, in precisely this order. I want you. I want this baby. And I want a wedding." He then moved to kiss her again, but pulled back as something occurred to him. "Molly, I may have some bad news" For a brief moment, a cloud crossed Molly's face. "Due to unforeseen circumstances, we may have to name our second son 'Mycroft'."

"As long as we don't have to name the first one 'Sherlock', I'm okay with that." Molly said as she wrapped her arms around his waist and held on for dear life.

If you visit my profile you will find a link to my blog on wordpress. Feel free to visit! And comment! And discuss! Thanks.