Broken Child

Molly swallowed the lump stuck in her throat as the warm water from the faucet drizzled onto her shaking hands. She scrubbed her trembling fingers together, nervous and anxious from the news she had just learned. Her skin bubbles as little white puffs of soap drift along her wrists like miniature clouds. Her soap was lemon scented. She liked the smell, it reminded her of her times of cookie baking and lemon squeezing with her mum in the summertime. The thought eases her momentarily, but her mind finds its way to that single solitary word and clings onto it for dear life; Mum. Oh god, she thought. How was she supposed to tell him? How would he react? She looks up in the mirror, staring back at her reflection. Her eyes were big. Molly's eyes always grew large when she was nervous, or afraid. He would point that out to her. Oh. God! But of course he has got to know already! By just one look at her, he would be able to read every emotion on her face, every tiny little habit she had adopted over the past week and translate them into the truth that she was so anxious and eager to tell him about. She gripped the sink, supporting her balance on her palms, squeezing her fingers against the tile so hard she felt she might crush it into tiny grains. Molly had to tell herself that everything would turn out fine, that he isn't prone to emotion like her, he wouldn't react the same way she was. He would be happy. Unafraid. Wouldn't he?

She smoothes back a strand of her auburn hair that strayed from its ponytail and flashes a wry smile at herself. Confidence, she thought. Spinning on her heals, she breathes in deep, grips the metal of the door handle, and steps forward.

He was sitting upright at the foot of the bed they shared, his long fingers skimming over files and papers Lestrade had given him for his most recent case. Head down, eyes knitted together in concentration. Molly stands at the doorframe watching his elegant motions, the way his eyes never seem to flicker away from the pile of papers resting on his lap. She runs through different explanations in her head, hammers her brain for ideas. He barely seems to take notice of her when he finally says,

"You've spent quite a lot of time in the bathroom."

Great, thinks Molly. She opens her mouth to speak, but no words come. As if her jaw was stuck with glue. He tilts his head ever so slightly to the side, momentarily stopping his work. His eyebrows raise.

"Okay clearly you've got news."

He says blandly. Molly takes a small, hesitant step forward.

"Umm...Sherlock..."

She shuffles over to his side nervously, twiddling her thumbs like a hive of frantic bees. He turns around in her direction, finally displaying full attention towards her. He furrows his eyebrows.

"Your eyes are big again, it's something important isn't it?"

He says. She flinches,

"Um, sure. Well actually, yes, um..."

She stutters, her tongue tied. Their is a pause, he remains mute, waiting for her to speak. His eyes emotionless, limbs stiff and cold like a statue. She hesitates.

"Sherlock, I'm...I'm..."

She can feel the heat flushing to her cheeks, burning hot, like fire. His stare does nothing to help ease her embarrassment. She barely manages to choke out the last words.

"I'm...P-Pregnant."

Sherlock seems to trap her in his awe struck stare. For a second, she thinks he might not even say anything, the way he sits there motionless, unflinching, seemingly unfazed. Then he slowly opens his mouth, blinking his eyes at her.

"Pregnant?"

He squeaks. Theirs a lilt to his voice, like he's trying to clarify with her, like he's asking a question rather than stating the obvious.

"Um, yes."

Molly replies. She chuckles nervously and smiles wryly.

"I actually thought you would have already known, you with your deductive reasoning and all-"

"Molly..."

He interrupts, staring out past her, and Molly isn't quite sure whether his mind is still processing the news, or if its stopped working altogether.

"...When did you learn..."

"Just now, um..."

Molly says, hooking her thumb over her shoulder towards the bathroom.

"And it's...it's ours?"

Sherlock asks hesitantly. Molly raises her eyebrows, the fire from her humiliation transforming into that of rage.

"Course it's ours you git who do you think I am-"

"Molly...this...is wonderful."

At this he stands up abruptly, the papers resting on his knees drifting to their carpeted floor, and he engulfs her in a hug. The gesture surprises her at first, but the feel of his hands around her waist, his fingers pressing softly against her back, soothes her entire body, infusing her with a feeling so warm and real that she simply clings to the material of his shirt, refusing to loosen her grip, forgetting the stupid question he asked just seconds ago.

"Did you...did you think I would be angry?"

He quivering voice asks in a hushed whisper. Molly shakes her head.

"No. I don't know...I was afraid...I thought you'd be too..."

He chuckles.

"Oh I'm very afraid. Molly. Terrified."

She closes her eyes, rests the side of her head against his chest.

"You don't sound like it,"

Her voice is muffled as she speaks into his shirt.

"That's because I have you to help me, Molly. Without my pathologist I'd be hopeless."

He rests his chin against the top of her head.

"Well that's awfully reassuring,"

She whispers, and for a seemingly endless amount of time they remain wrapped in each others arms.