The word was as bitter of her lips as the bile from her stomach. This morning, as many mornings before, she awoke in a cold sweat. It was as if he were there in the room; a ghostly figure waiting for her in the depths of the shadows. He was dead, of course. Sherlock had promised her over and over. He'd seen the barrel of a gun slide between those too-white teeth, the explosion of the gun, and the bits of brain spilling out onto the pavement. His beady black eyes opened wide and his mouth permanently stuck in that cocky little grin.

There had been a funeral for Mr. Richard Brook. Nobody came. Not Sherlock, not John, not even that Kitty woman from the papers. But she had. She wanted to see him one last touch him and know beyond a shadow of a doubt that the bastard was dead and gone, never to hurt another person she loved ever again.

Standing at the gravesite, she stood under a large umbrella while the priest droned on about peace and eternal life. Her lips quirked up; eternal damnation was more like it. The world could only be at peace now that he was dead and gone. After the service the priest consoled her...not that she'd needed it. He tried to make her go home and get some rest but she stood her ground; until he was covered over with dirt, six feet underground, she would not be satisfied.

It had taken hours for the gravediggers to come out with their shovels and finish the job of burying him. The cold was bitter and she shivered deep within her soul. It was done. As she stood at the gravesite, she'd stared down at the headstone. Richard Brook, loving friend... January 15, 1981 - January 15, 2012. Clever, clever Jim...he'd given himself exactly the birthday present he'd wanted. Death.

Walking away from the grave, she seemed to ache more with each step. The roiling in her belly started again and her legs felt leaden. Thankfully she hadn't driven here. Tucked safely into a cab, she headed for her small flat. What she needed now was a hot cup of tea and some crap telly. Anything to distract her from the through racing through her head.

She had believed that seeing him buried would ease the pain. It would make her better able to stand in front of the mirror each morning and put on her makeup without his voice in her ear, "You're beautiful without that powder on your face. Leave it, Mollybear...for me?" If he was really dead and buried, he couldn't hold any power over her. She wouldn't envision him on the sofa, sipping tea-two sugars, just like Sherlock. Nor would she awaken in the middle of the night gasping for breath as she remembered his hands trailing down her body, his teeth scraping over her pert breasts while she screamed in a jumble of agony and ecstasy. The longer she sat there, the more the profound sense of longing grew until she ran to the toilet and vomited until nothing came up but bile.

Her. Missing James Moriarity. A man who had tormented her friends, terrified a nation, and murdered countless people in cold blood...all because he was bored. She should hang just for thinking it. And yet...he'd never been cold or cruel to her. He listened to her, comforted her, he'd had her virginity. And he'd left her with a piece of himself, buried inside her. Nobody knew...except Sherlock of course. She couldn't keep a single thing from him, even if she'd wanted to. He'd known before she had.

"You've gained three pounds..." His eyes didn't lift from the microscope but she knew he could sense the rage boiling inside her. "Two and a half..." Her voice quaked. "Three." Storming out of the room, she grabbed her coat and headed straight for home. She knew why he did it; to force her eyes open to a possibility she didn't want to consider. Moriarty was a distant memory to her; he laid dormant, awaiting the perfect moment to strike. She was dating...bloody hell if she could even remember his name now. He was chubby, blonde, passably handsome for someone mousy and plain like her and he had a steady job. What more could she hope for?

St. Bart's was just a hop, skip, and a jump away from her flat. Or on this particular occasion, a limp, crawl and a slog...numbly she walked down the street and passed a pharmacy on the way. At first she'd walked right past it. Nothing to see there! But something caught her eye. A young family walking down the street. Mother dressed in a purple overcoat, pushing a pram while the beaming father walked beside her, arm around her waist. They were disgustingly happy. Turning on heel, she headed back into the store.

The bell over the door let out a cheery clang but to Molly it felt like a death knell. Trembling fingers picked at the pregnancy tests, reading each of them twice. But the words just blurred in front of her. Deciding on a whim to pick the one with was plainly wrapped in a white and blue box, as opposed to ones with chubby, happy babies on them, she paid for it and shoved it into her purse. Turning on heel, she rushed back to the apartment and darted up the stairs. The directions were simple: pee in cup, dip test, wait three minutes...

Oh if it only were that simple. Her hands were shaking, her heart pounding, and her vision was swimming. Sitting at the edge of the tub, she counted under her breath... 1...18...29...66...89...115...180. Three minutes. Reaching a shaky hand out for the test, she grasped it. She expected emotion to rush over her, overtake her in its avalanche. But she just felt nothing. Absolutely nothing. Staring at herself in the bathroom mirror, she felt as if she'd been removed from her body and was an impartial observer watching the scene unfold.

Molly Hooper was pregnant with James Moriarty's child. The spawn of Satan had sired this child with her...right now it was growing, changing, and being shaped within her womb. A scorching pain seared through Molly and she cried out, realizing that she had forgotten to breathe. Her head pounded and her stomach twisted again. A baby...Jim said he knew what her deepest desires were and that he'd make them all come true. Had he known that she'd always wanted to be a mother? Had he known that her womb had been particularly achy as her twenty-ninth birthday approached, one year closer to spinsterhood. He must have...that's why he left her with this 'gift'.

Although she was half-delirious, she managed to walk into the bedroom and lie down on the bed. Even now she could sense the changes happening to her life. She'd have to break up with 'what's his face'. Explaining to him that she was carrying the child of a serial murderer tended to scare guys off. She wanted him to remember her differently. Her clothes weren't tight yet but she could feel that her belly had imperceptibly softened (imperceptibly unless you were Sherlock Holmes, that was). And her heart was breaking little by little. She couldn't destroy this baby, even if he was the child of a sadistic murderer. But she needed help...

Reaching for her phone, she took a steadying breath. Her fingers pressed the keys one by one, finally hovering over the send key: I need your help. -Molly.

She had no choice. There was only one person who could help her now...and she couldn't afford to wait any longer. Closing her eyes, she hit the button and waited. Phone resting in her hand, she was startled when she got a text back just moments later. Reading it carefully, she immediately slid out of bed and went to find her purse.

Meet me at the tramway. 1 hour. Wear a coat.

He would know what to do...he had to.

A/N: So I kind of wrote this on a whim this afternoon. I'm not sure where it's going or if I'm going to continue! But I'd love to get some feedback! If I see positive reviews I'll keep working... who do you think Molly texted? What's going to happen next? Hope to hear from you soon!