When the taxi deposited him outside Speedy's, his first action was to glance up at the first-floor windows for signs of habitation, realising at that moment how badly he wanted it to be the case. The curtains, left open when he departed the flat for Sherrinford early that morning, were now closed, something that gave his heart hope. It was always the same; visits to his sister were beyond exhausting, demanding a type of sustained concentration and heightened focus that left him physically and mentally drained - and on those days, all he wanted was to crawl up the stairs to 221b and sink into Molly's arms. They'd never discussed it, but Sherlock knew that Molly had started to arrange her shifts around his visits to Eurus, making sure that she'd be around when - or soon after - he got back. She seemed to be able to read immediately whether he wanted to talk about the visits, or whether he just needed her to distract him - and she was very good at both.

Lucky bastard didn't even begin to describe it.

Ordinarily, Sherlock would do all he could to put Molly to the back of his mind when he was with Eurus, just as he did when he was working - it felt like a protection for both of them, and usually, it worked. But today, his sister had caught him off-guard. After nearly three consecutive hours of playing the violin, trying to ignore the creeping numbness in his fingertips and the stiffness in his neck and jaw, Sherlock was aware that the end of their session was in sight. That was the point, however, when Eurus stopped abruptly - and then started playing that tune, the one he had played at her request when they first encountered each other at Sherrinford. She had only heard a few bars of his composition that day, but with preternatural instinct seemed to know exactly how the rest of the melody played out, all the while watching Sherlock's face intently for a reaction. Whether this gesture was a benign one or an attempt to taunt him, he couldn't tell - his sister's expression remained impassive throughout - but what was clear was that Eurus knew. She had remembered the significance of the day. How could he have expected anything different?

When Sherlock opened the front door, his mind was still miles away on Sherrinford, leading to him almost colliding with Mrs Hudson in the hallway and causing her to give a little squawk of alarm.

"You're always doing that, Sherlock!" she tutted, swatting him with the duster she had been applying to the banister. "Nearly giving me a heart attack. Honestly, sometimes I think it would just be kinder if you poisoned my tea and be done with it."

She recovered after a moment, and her expression softened.

"Oh, it was today, wasn't it, dear?" she said, more gently. "You've been to that...place."

Sherlock nodded, and Mrs Hudson gave him a sympathetic smile, briefly covering his hand with hers before giving it a quick pat instead. He glanced in the direction of the upstairs flat.

"Molly's not here," Mrs Hudson said.

With deductive skills like that, perhaps it was time to take his landlady on as a partner, and leave the vacuuming and herbal soothers to John. He'd look terrible in a pinny, but at least he'd appreciate the Aston Martin.

"Oh. I thought-"

"Oh, she was here earlier," Mrs Hudson elaborated, with a little swish of her duster. "She came in for a cuppa and we had a nice chat. Then she went upstairs to," - at this point, she adopted a stage whisper -"...drop off her things."

At this, Sherlock was certain he saw her give him a little wink. He wasn't entirely sure who, dwelling within the walls of 221 Baker Street, was not supposed to know that he and Molly were romantically involved, or that as a consequence she was a regular overnight guest in his flat.

"She asked me to give this to you," Mrs Hudson said, taking a folded note from the hall table and handing it to him.

Sherlock frowned, and murmured his thanks. He put down his bag and started to unfold the piece of paper, noticing as he did so that he apparently had an audience; Mrs Hudson had paused in her dusting, and was standing, arms folded, expectantly.

"Mrs Hudson, don't pretend for a second that you haven't already read it," he said, without looking up.

He heard her give a loud tut.

"Of course I haven't read it, you twit," she replied. "But if had had any interest in doing that, it's only because you and Molly are just so lovely together and, oh, I don't know, I just couldn't bear it if anything was, you know...wrong between you."

Sherlock cursed the burning sensation creeping into his cheeks; between them, Mrs Hudson and his mother were going to be the death of him.

"Nothing is wrong, everything is fine," he replied briskly. When he saw his landlady's put-out expression, he accepted that he might have been a little too brisk; after all, over the past several months, Mrs Hudson had come up with a series of increasingly dazzling and inventive excuses to keep unwanted clients (and occasionally Watsons and Scotland Yard detectives) from his door, all in the cause of giving him more time with Molly.

"Thank you," he said instead, leaning forward to kiss his landlady's cheek.

Mrs Hudson, visibly pleased, swatted a hand at him.

"Oh go on and read your note!" she said, turning and heading back to her flat.

A year ago, he might have been perplexed as to why she hadn't just texted him, and in fact it had taken him a while to understand that Molly just liked to leave him notes sometimes. There were a lot worse things to tolerate in a relationship - even when Lestrade found one that had dropped out of his pocket in the morgue, and then wouldn't shut up about it for days.

The note asked him to meet her at the end of Chiltern Street, just off Marylebone Road, at six o'clock. It was almost six now, but at his pace it was a five-minute walk, so he left the bag containing his violin at the bottom of the stairs and ventured outside again. Sherlock texted to tell Molly he was on his way, and then made a conscious effort not to think too much about the possible reason behind the note and the meeting place; Molly always knew when he'd worked something out in advance, even when he attempted to feign surprise.

And there she was, a small figure, bundled up in her winter coat against the February chill, hat pulled down almost over her ears. He was able to observe her for a few seconds before she noticed him, and it was one of those moments - in spite of the fact that their relationship was no longer new - that seemed to send an instant bloom of warmth to Sherlock's chest; a physical reminder that Molly was his, and she was waiting for him, thinking of him. And, of course, that it was perfectly okay - encouraged in fact - for him to kiss her in the middle of a busy street if he felt like it. Molly had certainly been very effective at helping him overcome his self-consciousness in this area.

"Hi," she said, greeting him with a big smile.

"Your nose is cold," Sherlock observed, when he leant down to kiss her.

Molly gave a brief snort of laughter.

"What do you suggest? A balaclava?" she grinned. "I could knit one to match my scarf."

Sherlock smiled, kissing her again briefly, before reflexively offering his hand, into which she slipped her own. They didn't immediately move off, however.

"So, how was today?" Molly asked, a tentative note in her voice. Sherlock acknowledged that although he didn't always want to discuss it, he still wanted to be asked, and he hoped she always would.

"It was fine," he replied. "Well, about as fine as I could expect three hours playing the violin in a maximum-security facility with a terrifyingly-intelligent elective mute to reasonably be."

"Well, I'm pleased you're back," she replied, squeezing his hand. "And that you're okay."

Sherlock was not blind to the fact that Molly worried about him, and that in this respect his visits to Eurus far outweighed any case he might become embroiled in - but she rarely talked about that worry. She accepted it as part of the package, he supposed. He just wished she didn't have to; that he could somehow give her...more. For things to be different. And he certainly didn't want to spend this evening mired in gloom.

"So...why are we here, and where are we going?" he asked, changing the subject. "I assume we are going somewhere? Not that this part of the A501 isn't charming in its own way, if you can get past the smog and the endless cacophony of car horns."

Molly nudged his side, reprovingly, but with a smile on her face.

"I wanted to take you for chips," she replied simply, tugging his hand. "My treat."

Sherlock had to admit to himself that this wasn't what he expected, and probably wouldn't have been, even if he'd been trying. He realised he must have been wearing a puzzled expression, because a look of uncertainty passed across Molly's own face.

"It's the place down here, isn't it?" she started, glancing down Chiltern Street. "The one you told me about?"

Immediately, he felt himself sucked back through time to that staircase, to that hallway; the echo of his own voice as he had rolled the dice and, as indifferently as he could, asked the woman now holding his hand to come out to dinner with him. He brushed off the memory before his brain started to conjure up the next bit.

"Er...yes," he replied. "Just down here on the right. With the-"

"Big picture of a fish?" Molly smiled, raising an eyebrow up at him.

"That's the one."

They walked the short distance to where the scent of fried batter was drifting out onto the street of a cafe, where the windows were steamed up with warmth. Immediately, Sherlock's stomach started to growl, reminding him that he's eaten nothing since the bacon sandwich he had grabbed at Speedy's before Mycroft's car arrived that morning. He took a step ahead to push open the door for Molly, then followed her inside, where they were immediately hit by the heat and the noise from the kitchen. As they shuffled into the queue, Molly now clasping his elbow, Sherlock heard a voice that he recognised immediately - before he could see its owner.

"Sherlock Holmes!" the man said, edging around the staff at the fryers and counter until he came into view. "Christ alive, where have you been? Not dead again? Or have you been doing the dirty on us with another chippy?"

"Hullo, Davey," Sherlock replied, a smile creeping onto his face. "My apologies. I can assure you I have been completely faithful to your establishment in my absence."

He moistened his lips.

"Davey, may I introduce Molly?" he said. "Molly, this is Mr David Naylor, the proprietor of this fine dining experience."

He saw Davey smile at Molly, then look between the two of them.

"Is this the missus then?" he grinned, with the same look of delight and incredulity that Sherlock witnessed, almost without fail, whenever he introduced Molly to someone new.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"So people say," he replied, hearing Molly give a muffled laugh beside him.

Davey came around the side of the counter, tucking a pen behind his ear.

"So, what are you doing bringing Molly to this place on a Saturday night?" he said. "You should be taking her down the road to that place where all the toffs and celebrities go - the old fire station."

"Actually," Sherlock replied, sliding Molly a sideways look. "Molly brought me here."

"In which case, she's got good taste," Davey replied, with a wink to Molly. "Well, in food at least. What can I get you?"

They placed their order, Davey directing them to take a seat, with the promise that he'd bring their food over when it was ready. They settled into a corner booth, facing each other.

"So, um, how come we've never been here before?" she asked.

Sherlock felt his brow furrow, realising that he didn't really have a straightforward answer to this. What happened in Howard Shilcott's hallway probably had something to do with it, but it wasn't the whole story. In the end, he chose honesty.

"I don't know," he replied, bringing his eyes up to meet hers. "Although dinner at home has held a lot more appeal recently."

Molly smiled, and Sherlock felt her foot gently rub against his ankle; it almost made him want to close his eyes.

"Anyway, I finally get to admire your famous DIY efforts," she said, glancing past him.

Sherlock followed her gaze to the set of shelves to the side of the counter, stacked with sauce bottles and soft drink cans. He turned back to Molly and noted the grin on her face.

"Nicely hung," she added, with a gleam in her eye.

Sherlock gave a chuff of laughter, both amused and appalled (and also mildly aroused) by her terrible joke.

"Thank you, Molly," he replied, with a tilt of his head. "Although it might have been more of a case of Davey putting up the shelves while I had a quiet word with an unscrupulous loan shark out the back."

"I knew I was right about the shelves thing!" she said triumphantly, poking his shin with the toe of her brogue.

Sherlock sat back, adopting a nonchalant stance and casual air.

"You said murder charge," he reminded her. "This was just your mundane, everyday extortion racket. Hardly the same thing."

Molly laughed, shaking her head. They sat in silence for a while, watching their fellow diners, and Sherlock stealing the occasional glance at Molly when her attention was elsewhere; admiring that profile that he loved so much, the one he was lucky enough to see as a silhouette in the darkness most mornings and evenings. Something was going on, though; there was more to this, and Sherlock was convinced they had the same thing on their mind.

"Molly...why did you want to come here tonight?" he asked gently, causing her to turn. "Is it...does it have something to do with...with it being a year since...since that phone call?"

He saw her glance down at the table for a moment before looking up at him with a small nod.

"It's just...I know it was painful, and I know it wasn't how either of us would have chosen to start...this" - she exhaled deeply - "But it's been a year, Sherlock, and we are here, both of us, you and me, and I've...I've never been happier."

At this, Molly's face broke into a smile, and she swiped at her cheek, chasing away a tear. Sherlock felt that same warmth rise within his chest.

"I don't know," she continued. "I suppose I just didn't want the day to pass by completely, because it does mean something to me."

Instinctively, Sherlock reached across the table and laced his fingers through hers, pausing only to nudge aside the ketchup bottle and the laminated menu that stood in his path.

"It does to me, too," he told her. "It's...it's something that's been on my mind for weeks, Molly, but I just...I didn't know whether you'd want to mark it. After all, we do have other anniversaries...much happier ones."

Molly pulled her lips together into a pursed smile, her cheeks colouring slightly.

"I thought you don't believe in that kind of thing," she said, wrinkling her nose at him. "Attaching emotional significance to arbitrary points in time."

Sherlock smiled.

"That's just what I tell John, so I don't have to find something for his birthday."

The truth was, he and Molly had more anniversaries than probably even she realised; in fact, if he really thought about all the events, occurrences and milestones between them that he had catalogued and committed to memory over the years, it was amazing that his love for her could have felt like an epiphany.

Before he had time to further reflect on his own laughable stupidity, Davey hoved into view bearing two cardboard cartons groaning under the weight of battered cod and thick, golden chips. There was every chance they would need to hail a cab to carry them the half-mile back to 221b.

"There you go, get these down you," Davey told them. "And next time, don't leave it so long, eh?"

They thanked him, and Sherlock took two forks from the caddy on the table; he handed one to Molly, and picked up the ketchup bottle, but after a couple of moments, he realised that she was hesitating.

"Molly?" he asked, setting the bottle on the table again.

"Sherlock, there, um, there was another reason I wanted to come here," she said.

Sherlock looked up. Don't try to deduce, he warned himself, that's not what she wants. All the same, he couldn't do much about the pace of his heart, which had suddenly kicked up several gears.

"This is the place that gives you extra portions, isn't it?" Molly continued.

"Yes."

"Well, that's good to know," she said. "Because I'm, um, pretty sure that I'm now eating for two."

Sherlock was vaguely aware of the silence that followed, and the strange whooshing in his ear canals, which ended with a sudden, jarring clatter. Apparently, he'd dropped his fork onto the Formica tabletop.

"Actually, I'm not just pretty sure," Molly was adding. "I am sure. I did a blood test at work today, so..."

Sherlock cleared his throat, a little louder than he intended to.

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"Are you okay?"

Molly's voice was edged with concern, and while Sherlock's brain was still trying to comprehend the information it had just been fed, he could see the hopeful smile on her face starting to wane.

"I'm sorry, I...maybe coming here to do this wasn't a very good idea," she said quickly. "I didn't mean to-"

"If it's a boy, does this mean we have to call him Davey?"

As the words left Sherlock's lips, he slowly felt his face break out into a smile again, broader and broader until he was almost laughing. He saw Molly's own expression change from concern to momentary confusion, and then, finally, relief - and happiness. His mind still racing from the news - the terrifying, unexpected, incredible news - Sherlock slid out from his side of the booth and around into Molly's. He reached up to cradle her jaw, drawing her closer to him and kissing her deeply. How could he have missed that? he wondered. Because he was blinkered by Sherrinford, by that phone call, by what Molly might have been feeling about the anniversary of that day.

"So, it's...okay?" Molly whispered, when they broke apart.

"It's more than okay," he confirmed. "It's brilliant."

He kissed her again - feeling Molly's smile against his mouth - before pulling her into a fierce hug. He could feel a very real lump forming in his throat, the events of that day suddenly framing his perspective of this one.

"I love you," he murmured.

"I love you, too," Molly replied, her voice rumbling across his chest.

They sat like that for a long, contended moment, Sherlock wondering momentarily what they must look like to the other patrons, but deciding that he couldn't even begin to care.

"Sherlock?" Molly said, eventually, her voice muffled against his shirt.

"Yes?"

"Can I eat some chips now?"

He laughed, dragging his meal across the table so that he could sit beside her while they ate. Exactly a year ago, their lives changed forever - now, they were changing again; irrevocably, wonderfully.

"Molly," Sherlock began, through a mouthful of fish. "You do know that the theory of a pregnant woman needing to eat for two has been widely discredited? That, in fact, she is only required to consume around an extra two hundred calories per day, and only during the third trimester. Exceeding this can lead to all manner of increased risks, including the onset of gestational diabetes, high blood pressure and pre-eclampsia."

When she turned to shoot him a look, he smiled, one eyebrow raised.

"Sherlock, I'm fully expecting that any day now, I'm going to start feeling nauseous just at the thought of food," Molly said, narrowing her eyes at him. "So right now, I'm going to enjoy a massive portion of greasy chips, while I still can. And I should probably warn you that if you're going to come out with more gems like that over the next eight months, you're going to need to do it in full body armour."

Sherlock chuckled.

"Duly noted," he said. "Although I should probably warn you that I read a lot of pregnancy books when Mary was expecting."

Anything else that he might have been intending to say, however, was lost, as Molly selected a particularly outsized chip, and shoved it, unceremoniously, into his mouth.

He was right, though - the chips were really good.

THE END