Observing Molly

Sherlock had honed the methodoligy of observervation from childhood, refining it with assiduous care.

It was essential that the subject was unconscious of the scrutiny; awareness led to contra body signals that just confused the issue.

He assessed the pertinent, skin tone, breathing, the condition of clothing. Performing small, innocuous tasks usually served to cover his purpose.

For the last two hours he had been observing Molly Hooper. She had, apparently, completed reports, filed them, tidied the laboratory, eaten a blueberry yoghurt (that made absurd pseudoscientific claims on it's label) Retied her pony tail four times, on each occasion choosing a different position for it. Now she sat at the far end of the work bench, apparently writing.

However, based on the way she would tilt her head to one side, as if to view the paper at a better angle, the evident care she took with each stroke of the pencil, and, of course, the charming way the tip of her tongue curled out at the corner of her lips.

(Charming? What an extravagantly romantic word. Where had that come from?)

It was manifestly obvious that she was, in fact, drawing.

To Molly it would seem Sherlock was still deeply involved in the study of the acorn shells and strand of iridescent green hair found on the floor of the hospital canteen, next to three empty, polyvinyl blood bags.

(The hair he had found to be real, but inexplicably, not from any identifiable species on the planet.)

Molly had been wittering on about...kittens, or...puppies?

No, no it had been babies; her assistant had announced her pregnancy. So, clearly Molly was drawing babies.

Sherlock's mouth quirked smugly at the banality of his pet pathologist's thought processes.

An annoyingly chirpy ringtone sounded, Molly snatched up her phone, and sighed. "I'll take this outside." Pulling a pink file furtively over her art work, she hurried out of the room.

At last he drew his eyes from the microscope, the urge to prove himself right in a matter of such a trivial thing annoyed him, but it was too much. Stepping down from his stool, he strode to where she had been seconds earlier, and flicked the folder away with his pen.

He was partially right, babies were involved.

Frowning and inclining his head to the side, much as Molly had done, he surveyed a beautifully executed line drawing of a very naked, very pregnant Molly. Her hands rested under the strangely, wonderful belly, she was being held from behind, large, long fingered hands cupping magnificent breasts. The hands belonged to a man strongly resembling...himself.

Sherlock made a surprised moue, and ran the tip of his index finger over the swollen belly and up to the tip of a full breast, resting there.

Would a naked, pregnant Molly look like that?

What did she look like naked now?