Chapter Text
“One, two, three, push. That’s right, Molly, you can do it, just a few more times. I can see a head,” A gray-haired doctor said calmly to Molly Hooper as she lay on the delivery room bed. Pearls of silver sweat beaded on her pale forehead. Her coffee colored eyes shut tight creating wrinkles above her nose. Molly’s muscles tightly contracted as she pushed again, squeezing her long fingers around the hands which had been offered on both sides at the start of her contractions.
“Here come the shoulders, one more push should do it Molly,” And Molly pushed, the biggest one she had given yet, and she heard a tiny cry and an enormous smile broke out onto her face, and two sighs of relief came from both sides of her bed, and Molly Hooper held the child she had carried within her for the first time.
“Oh, she is beautiful,” Molly whispered, “she is the most beautiful baby Aunt Molly has ever seen,” She glanced at her two supporters who had now moved to one side of the bed and were staring down at the child as all new parents do. Molly could see pride in their eyes; she could tell they were frightened, but also excited to start this new chapter of their lives.
“Here,” she offered up the newborn babe to her parents, strong arms engulfing the tiny pink blanket and holding it tightly. Tears gathered in their eyes as they took in every detail about their baby girl, “What are you going to name her?”
“Evelyn Watson-Holmes,” a deep, resonant voice said.
“Evelyn Molly Watson-Holmes,” a second voice corrected. “I mean you are the reason we have her. Thank you Molly Hooper.”
12 months earlier
John Watson woke up to the sun pouring in the window like one would pour tea into a cup. A long, pale arm was wrapped around his waist and he gently pushed it off, rolling over as he did so. He was now facing a dark haired beauty, and he smiled to himself as his eyes rolled over his husbands’ body. The blankets were pulled up to his waist, but the sun streaming in through the glass shined upon the soft skin. John instinctively ran his fingers across the porcelain stomach of the one and only Sherlock Holmes, still not quite believing he was married to the gorgeous man, although yesterday had been their four month anniversary.
They hadn’t done anything intimate or romantic the day before. They had gone to Bart’s as usual to check on an experiment Sherlock was working on, before getting a call from Detective-Inspector Lestrade to come to a crime scene by the Thames. It had been a relatively simple case, and of course Sherlock had known who the culprit was and where to find him within an hour. Back at 221B they cuddled on the couch and watched a crime show which Sherlock ruined (“the cook did it obviously, look at the crumb of bread on the floor in the kitchen. That same type of bread was in the victims room.”), and ate take-out from down the street. John had gone to bed around ten and less than two minutes later Sherlock was in their bed stark naked.
“You're mine John,” Sherlock’s voice had deepened, and was raspy. John took a deep breath and held it. Sherlock began taking off his clothes. “I am in charge tonight,” that gravelly voice said in the dark.
“What are you doing?” John asked breathless.
“This is you anniversary gift love.”
Which was how John’s arse became sore, good sore, but still sore, and why he and his husband were still in bed at that time of day. Sherlock’s eyes flitted open and the sides of his lips twitched in a sleepy smile.
“Good-morning John,” he said with a yawn.
“Hello there. I was just admiring how completely delightful you look with the sunlight spilling in on you.” John sat up and flung his legs over the edge of his bed. “I am going to have some coffee, would you like any?” he asked as he pulled his red shorts off of the floor and onto his naked body.
“No,” Sherlock raked his eyes over his husband, John’s strong back was facing Sherlock as he pulled his night pants on over his shorts, the muscles standing out. Sherlock’s blue eyes focused on the large scar on Johns shoulder and various other small ones down his back. John hated them, but Sherlock knew they were perfect; he had memorized every one of them and their pattern. At 5’ 6” John was half a foot shorter than himself, but he was sturdier. John turned toward Sherlock locking eyes for a split second before striding out of their bedroom. Sherlock rolled out of bed, traveling the few short steps to the connected bathroom and stepped into the shower.
John sat down in his chair with the paper and his coffee, trying to relax before his husband got out of the shower. Two minutes later the bathroom door opened and white clouds of steam came rolling out. John sighed and kept reading.
Sherlock called out of the room asking John to check his mobile and see if Molly had text with the time decomposition had started. John leaned over and grabbed the phone off Sherlock’s desk where it had been left in a hurry. One new text, John clicked the open button. The body you are looking at started decomp. at 9:57 pm. If you need anything else let me know. –Molly H.
Sherlock walked in the room completely dressed for the day. John glanced at him, “9:57,” he said.
Excellent!” Sherlock shouted. He kissed his husband, grabbed his phone and coat and flew out the door. John shook his head, running a hand through his blonde hair. He was glad Sherlock was gone. It gave him time to think.
Three days ago he had gone to see Harry in rehab. She seemed to be doing better. They had talked for three hours, and towards the end she ran her hands in her burgundy hair, quite like John had just done and asked him a question. It made him think, he had no answer, and he was certainly not going to ask Sherlock about it, he would only roll his eyes and keep on with what he was doing.
“I’m so happy for you Johnny. Have you and Sherlock thought about kids? You could adopt,” she said smiling at John. John had not stopped thinking about it since. Of course he had wanted kids, growing up he had thought about being a father, a grandfather, having small children running around his feet, laughter in the air. But he had given all of those notions up two years ago when he had become Sherlock’s flat mate. You can’t have kids if you’re in love with your best friend who is married to his work. But he had gotten Sherlock to marry him; maybe convincing him to have kids wouldn’t be that hard.