PHOTOGRAPH
a Sherlolly one-shot
—O—

"Yeah, but there will be cake. Will you do it?" That should do the trick, John thought.

Sherlock, who was rather busy rapidly firing tweets using his phone, spared him a brief look and answered, "I'll get back to you." Annoyed at his best friend's behavior, which had become even more irritating since he came back from his four-minute exile, John went to the kitchen to fetch himself a glass of water.

"Oy, how about a picture with the future godfather?" Mary called, trying to catch the pesky consulting detective's attention, but to no avail. She stood from the couch where she and Molly, who was cradling the little Watson on her arms, were seated, walked towards where Sherlock was standing and incessantly typing, and snatched the infuriating device from his hands. Before Sherlock could even protest, Mary had already placed a finger on his lips to shush him. "One picture with the baby and then you get your phone back."

He glared at the former army doctor's retired super-agent wife, but she simply flashed him a big smile in return, frustrating him all the more. With a sigh and a grunt, he gave up and went over to the couch. He suddenly froze midway through, and his eyes widened at the sight of his pathologist carrying the little bundle of what he heard most people refer to as 'joy' (Joy?). She cooed and smiled at the female neonate, who was trying to touch (Or maybe poke?) her cheek. Mrs. Hudson stood beside them, taking pictures. Sherlock felt warmth spread across his chest, and he was surprised at how foreign yet pleasant it was. He did not have enough time, however, to process his body's reaction as he was jerked back to reality by John's voice. "What's going on?"

"Sherlock is about to get his picture taken with Molly and the baby," replied Mary as she gave Sherlock a light push. "Dumbfounded, are we?" She whispered to his ear.

"Sorry, what?" Sherlock looked at Mary with confusion written all over his face. She, on the other hand, tried her hardest to repress the fit of laughter that was threatening to escape her lips.

Sherlock finally reached the couch and sat beside Molly, who seemed oblivious of her surroundings as she was a tad too fixed on the little Watson. She lifted her head as she felt the seat on her left sink and was startled to see Sherlock. She noticed that something seemed off about him, but did not get the chance to ask him what was wrong as Mary was already instructing them to pose for the camera. John and Mrs. Hudson stood on either side of her, watching. "Alright! Give me a smile you two. One…"

As if Sherlock's body had a mind of its own, he moved closer to Molly and placed his right hand on her right shoulder. He felt Molly tense a bit, but only for a fraction of a second. It was sufficient, nonetheless, to make him realize what he (My body!) had done, and that he could not exactly do anything but to go on with it. Surprisingly (Or is it?), the situation that he (My body!) accidentally (Maybe not?) put him and his future godchild's future godmother into did not seem uncongenial to him. If anything, he felt more relaxed than ever.

"Two…"

From the corner of his eye, he watched Molly ease into their current position. He released a breath he did not know he was holding, and felt the sides of his mouth turn up as he watched hers do the same. Interesting, he thought. Only three minutes and thirty seconds had passed since Mary grabbed his phone for the ridiculous request, yet he had already felt so much. So much emotion. So much happiness. Even more than in the past two weeks and he solved seven sevens! He had so much to sort. So much to catalogue. So much to delete. Delete?

"Three!"

Sherlock managed to look directly to the digital camera's lens barely a millisecond before Mary captured the moment. "Oh, wow! Look at that!" he heard her cry.

"Lovely!" Mrs. Hudson chimed in. John did a double take before letting out a chuckle. "That's surprisingly… beautiful."

Sherlock glanced at Molly, whose eyes were already on him. They smiled shyly at each other. Molly was about to ask him if he wanted to hold the baby when he shook his head. She nodded her understanding, and watched Sherlock get up from his seat and straighten his jacket. He then immediately went to Mary to get his phone back. With the gadget again in his possession, the detective planted himself on the same spot where he was previously stood and busied himself tweeting once more. If the wife owns a Christian Dior Rogue Dior in 'Red Smile,' check the husband's briefcase. John and Mrs. Hudson began chatting.

"Here, Molly. Have a look," Mary said as she sat beside the pathologist and showed her the picture. "You three look absolutely adorable!"

Molly was astounded by the image before her. It took her a little less than a half a minute to recognize the three people immortalized on it. Especially the curly-haired man seated beside her, with his hand on her shoulder, his arm clearly draped conveniently across her back. Oh, and his face! He held the slightest of smiles, but it was clear from the glint in his eyes and his body language that Sherlock Holmes was anything but uncomfortable. There was not a trace of awkwardness or displeasure. He looked… Content. Satisfied. The picture was truly wonderful. If the thought was not so silly, one might think that the photograph was actually of a—

"Can you, please, send me a copy?" Molly softly blurted out.

"Of course!" Mary giggled. Just then, she felt her phone, which was tucked inside the pocket of her pants, vibrate. She could not help but grin like a child as she read the message.

Me too. Thank you.
SH

That night, Sherlock lay on his sofa in Baker Street with two nicotine patches plastered on his left arm. He was sifting through a case, that Lestrade sent him the other day, in his mind palace when he heard his phone ping. It was a message from Mary. The photo. His reaction upon seeing it and the observations that followed were similar to Molly's. The warm feeling was back in his chest, but he decided to think about it some other time. With a smile on his face, he saved the copy and resumed thinking.

Thirty minutes later, he was on his way to the New Scotland Yard with his phone on his ear, barking "It's the gardener! The bloody gardener!" to the detective inspector, who was clearly at the receiving end of the consulting detective's call.