This is one is quite short, but I needed to put something out there.
***
When the talk came, Sherlock didn’t feel prepared. He was testing the acidity of a specific element when Molly approached him, tussled and sleepy-eyed from sleep.
“Sherlock,” she started, wrapping her palms around the top edge of the chair opposite to him. “It’s been a few days, so I think it’s time we talked.”
Pure, blind panic assaulted him. The blood began roaring loudly in his ears, distracting her from what was being said. Even though it hadn't been said, and he had no evidence to back up the claim, he could already hear the sweet tilt in her voice when she said I don’t want the baby. Her answer would not surprise him in the least. Molly had never expressed any desire for children, and Sherlock by proxy would follow in her footsteps. He would never force something like this upon her carefully constructed life.
By the time he snapped back to attention, he realized Molly was looking at him strangely, having said something—probably important.
“Yes?” he croaked, his grip on the tweezers incredibly tight. The pain helped distract him from current events.
“Did you hear a word I said?” There was a smile there. Why was she smiling?
“No.” He set the tweezers down and regarded his mate. She walked over to his side and wrapped an arm around his shoulder.
“Sherlock, what do you want to do about the baby?”
He opened his mouth, but was stopped by Molly’s finger. “Let me rephrase that. What do you, the bearer of this child, want? I know you, Sherlock. Don’t answer for me, answer for you.” Her gaze was soft, but stern. She rarely displayed any of the frustrated anger that was so often found in others like John Watson, and yet he cowed equally under her attention.
At his looked of an animal being trapped, Molly slid up beside him, her hand resting gently over his thigh in a means of comfort. Sherlock didn't feel caged, exactly, but his throat was dry and his hands moved on their own to settle over Molly’s. What did he want? If Molly hadn’t carved a space inside his head with the persistency of a starving animal, what would he have wanted? He couldn't exactly imagine some random alpha staying with him, murmuring in his ear as life was created. He would never be that careless. He almost said this to her, and then remembered that this was his own construction; Molly was just asking him a question: what do you want?
“I want..." He waited, microseconds turning into miliseconds, turning into minutes, while Molly waited patiently beside him. Finally, he shrugged his shoulders, eyes trained on his hands. "I don’t want an abortion." He knew it was incredibly unlikely for Molly to hit him (even if she had been the stereotypical alpha brute), and he didn’t fear for her reaction, but all the same his eyes cast her way and he waited, watching her face.
Molly wore a small smile, pride shining clearly in her eyes. “I was just thinking about Miranda for a girl. Although I wouldn't mind a mini Sherlock running around, either.”
Sherlock couldn’t help his reaction—he grinned, his cheeks aching from the wide stretch. Molly laughed and hugged him, running one hand possessively down his back. “You will be a wonderful father, Sherlock. Don’t let anyone or discourage you.”
Sherlock snorted. “You know how much I despise the general public. If I cared about their opinions, I wouldn’t have mated an alpha. You’re all terrible brutes.”
Molly’s eyes were soft as she kissed him. “Yes: what were you thinking, mating me? And a baby, Sherlock? People are going to think you’re getting domestic.”
“God forbid,” he said, pressing a chaste kiss against her mouth. Her lip gloss was cherry flavor. “Also, I’ve heard that Sherlock is becoming a very popular girl’s name, you know.”
Molly giggled, burying her face in Sherlock’s neck. “I know you tried that on John,” she accused. “Don’t even bother.”
Re: Baby fill continued (p6)
***
When the talk came, Sherlock didn’t feel prepared. He was testing the acidity of a specific element when Molly approached him, tussled and sleepy-eyed from sleep.
“Sherlock,” she started, wrapping her palms around the top edge of the chair opposite to him. “It’s been a few days, so I think it’s time we talked.”
Pure, blind panic assaulted him. The blood began roaring loudly in his ears, distracting her from what was being said. Even though it hadn't been said, and he had no evidence to back up the claim, he could already hear the sweet tilt in her voice when she said I don’t want the baby. Her answer would not surprise him in the least. Molly had never expressed any desire for children, and Sherlock by proxy would follow in her footsteps. He would never force something like this upon her carefully constructed life.
By the time he snapped back to attention, he realized Molly was looking at him strangely, having said something—probably important.
“Yes?” he croaked, his grip on the tweezers incredibly tight. The pain helped distract him from current events.
“Did you hear a word I said?” There was a smile there. Why was she smiling?
“No.” He set the tweezers down and regarded his mate. She walked over to his side and wrapped an arm around his shoulder.
“Sherlock, what do you want to do about the baby?”
He opened his mouth, but was stopped by Molly’s finger. “Let me rephrase that. What do you, the bearer of this child, want? I know you, Sherlock. Don’t answer for me, answer for you.” Her gaze was soft, but stern. She rarely displayed any of the frustrated anger that was so often found in others like John Watson, and yet he cowed equally under her attention.
At his looked of an animal being trapped, Molly slid up beside him, her hand resting gently over his thigh in a means of comfort. Sherlock didn't feel caged, exactly, but his throat was dry and his hands moved on their own to settle over Molly’s. What did he want? If Molly hadn’t carved a space inside his head with the persistency of a starving animal, what would he have wanted? He couldn't exactly imagine some random alpha staying with him, murmuring in his ear as life was created. He would never be that careless. He almost said this to her, and then remembered that this was his own construction; Molly was just asking him a question: what do you want?
“I want..." He waited, microseconds turning into miliseconds, turning into minutes, while Molly waited patiently beside him. Finally, he shrugged his shoulders, eyes trained on his hands. "I don’t want an abortion." He knew it was incredibly unlikely for Molly to hit him (even if she had been the stereotypical alpha brute), and he didn’t fear for her reaction, but all the same his eyes cast her way and he waited, watching her face.
Molly wore a small smile, pride shining clearly in her eyes. “I was just thinking about Miranda for a girl. Although I wouldn't mind a mini Sherlock running around, either.”
Sherlock couldn’t help his reaction—he grinned, his cheeks aching from the wide stretch. Molly laughed and hugged him, running one hand possessively down his back. “You will be a wonderful father, Sherlock. Don’t let anyone or discourage you.”
Sherlock snorted. “You know how much I despise the general public. If I cared about their opinions, I wouldn’t have mated an alpha. You’re all terrible brutes.”
Molly’s eyes were soft as she kissed him. “Yes: what were you thinking, mating me? And a baby, Sherlock? People are going to think you’re getting domestic.”
“God forbid,” he said, pressing a chaste kiss against her mouth. Her lip gloss was cherry flavor. “Also, I’ve heard that Sherlock is becoming a very popular girl’s name, you know.”
Molly giggled, burying her face in Sherlock’s neck. “I know you tried that on John,” she accused. “Don’t even bother.”