It started out a normal day in 221B Baker street for the world's only consulting detective and his flat mate/husband, John Watson. You know, the normal routine. John and Sherlock wake up [together, in the same bed, usually half-naked], John make tea, Sherlock sprawls across the couch, then works on a case while John goes to work in the clinic, the couple finish their work, eat dinner, watch some of their programs, go to sleep in each other's arms, and the cycle repeats the next day.
But, today didn't turn out as normal at it had seemed it would. Although just because it's not normal, doesn't mean that it's not the best thing that ever happened to anyone who ever resided in 221B Baker street.
Sherlock set off to meet Lestrade, with John following closely behind him. The curly-haired man hadn't had any work in weeks, and he was starting to worry- though, he would never admit it- that the police force no longer needed him.
At first, he tried not to think about it, but instead distract himself from the matter, whether it was playing his violin or shooting bullets into the wall. But after a week or so, he realized that his deductions were correct, and that he should investigate this mess immediately.
And so it was now that the inseparable pair arrived at Scotland Yard, one of the two about to scream with suspense as to why he was not automatically given something to work on.
But for once, Sherlock was wrong. It wasn't that the police didn't need him any more, it was that the police didn't need his boss anymore.
Instead of in the morgue at Saint Barts, Molly Hooper was sitting in Lestrade's chair, at his desk, silently crying and not so silently throwing his possessions on the floor.
"He hurt you", Sherlock immediately deduced. "I'm not sure how, I'm not sure why, and I'm not sure exactly what it was that he did, but he hurt you."
Molly looked up, her nose red and eyes puffy, filled with tears.
"You don't have to be a detective to figure that one out, now, do you?" Molly said as she attempted to laugh, but instead whimpered and made a noise that no human should ever have to make. "Molly, dear, sweet Molly", John said, also on the verge of tears, "what did he do to you?"
Sherlock, being the genius he is, stepped out of the room, without John even having to say anything to him.
The doctor pulled up a chair next to the weeping woman, and put his hands on her shoulders, which made her pull away instantly and cry even harder. "Tell me, Molly. If you bottle it up, things will only get worse. Trust me, I know."
Sniffling, she lifted her head up from the now empty desk, and wearily, quietly began telling her story.
"We were on a date. Greg and I, I mean. Things were going great, and I was ready to take him home, to, you know...But then, we turned a corner, and he changed. He suddenly got really angry, with me, with the world, with everything. But mostly with me." She started to tear up again, but she struggled on through her story.
"He started hitting me, spewing out insults, then apologizing, telling me how hot I looked, stroking my cheeks. I tried to run, but he had a tight grip on me. I screamed, but there was no one around to hear me. Then, he- he pushed me down onto the concrete, pulled my panties off, and..." By now, she was in hysterics.
"He raped you?" Sherlock said as he entered the room, clearly eavesdropping the whole time, and probably wishing he hadn't. "And that's not even the worst part!" Both John and Sherlock had a look of pain and worry on their faces by now. "How can it be any worse?" John said in horror. "She's pregnant", Sherlock answered.
The next ten minutes was filled with painful, awkward, empathetic silence, until Molly said, "He killed himself, you know. I would too, if I had permanently traumatized somebody who thought they loved me. But now, I'm all alone with a baby in my stomach and a good chance you two might be seeing it in the morgue, along with me. I just can't do it. Not his baby. I know it sounds selfish, but I want nothing to do with it. It's just too painful, having to look at Greg's spitting image every second of every day and I hate myself for not being strong enough to keep it."
"Don't hate yourself, Molly", Sherlock said in the kindest, gentlest voice John had ever heard him use, "It's not your fault Lestrade was just as bloody stupid as Anderson. And, if you decide not to abort it, well..." John gave Sherlock a look, and he returned it. "Should you proceed to birth this child, Sherlock and I would be happy to take it in as our own. Since we can't exactly have our own biological baby, this is the next best thing. Of course, only if you choose to keep it."
By now, Molly was even more hysterical than before, but this time, it was cries of happiness. "Looks like you've got yourself a baby", she said to the two.
A/N: Hi! So, this is my first parent!lock fic, hope you liked it. I've learned from experience to never promise a date that I'll have the next chapter done, as I'm a champion procrastinator. But, I'll try to update as often as I can. I'll only continue the story if people respond to it, though, as I would hate to write a beautifully written story for nobody to see. I live in the US, so if I get anything wrong about the UK, please let me know! Bye for now, Sherlockians :D