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She is absolutely tiny, barely larger than the size of his hand. He spreads his fingers above her, feels the light flutter of breath against the pads of his fingers. His chin rests on the side of the plastic bassinet, and he watches the rise and fall of her chest as she breathes.
“She’ll grow,” says Molly from the bed. She sounds sleepy and amused, and Sherlock doesn’t look at her. He can’t take his eyes off the tiny figure wrapped in cotton. The nose isn’t a button; it’s a dot. The mouth isn’t a rose, it’s a single petal.
“All babies grow,” he says, off-hand. He is able to think in twenty streams at once, and at least three are devoted to how Molly does not know this information. Perhaps she is under the delusion that the child will remain small for some time. Perhaps the brain cells destroyed during labor were the ones carrying the information.
Or perhaps she is simply too tired to be logical. This is the most likely theory.
“Greg wants to name her Shirley.”
The knot in his throat forms quickly; he barely has time to swallow around it before he finds he cannot breathe.
“Ridiculous name,” he says.
“That’s what I said,” Molly says, and she sounds like she might mean it. Or perhaps it’s the after-effects of the pain medications. He lowers his hand to the child, letting his palm touch the soft cotton. He doesn’t dare touch her skin. He’s stained. She’s new.
“Maybe her middle name,” continues Molly, sleepy.
Sherlock waits until Molly’s breaths even out, joining her new daughter in sleep. He would like to stay forever, wait until they wake up, watch Lestrade come in, see them all together, the little family his jump inadvertently ensured.
He can’t stay, not yet. He kisses Molly’s forehead, and slips from the room. For the rest of the day, when he thinks of soft breath against his fingertips, he smiles.