Author's Notes: For miabicicletta and thewinterspy. I read miabicicletta's story 'Every star a sun' and felt a lot of things about the trope of Parentlock and especially the 'secret child' trope. This AU you see here is the consequence of those feelings. Also major thanks to thewinterspy for giving this story a read when I was stuck with it and giving me the motivation and energy to finish this AU. I wanna squish them both in the biggest hug I can give.

As ever, reviews and favourites and general musings are extremely welcome.

Oh, mirror in the sky, what is love?
Can the child within my heart rise above?
Can I sail through the changing ocean tides?
Can I handle the seasons of my life?

Well, I've been afraid of changing
'Cause I've built my life around you
But time makes you bolder
Even children get older
And I'm getting older too.

— Landslide, Fleetwood Mac

2015

The door creaks open, the hallway light a slice of yellow against the dark and the stars in the sky still glitter. She turns her head, her hands tucked underneath her thighs. She outstretches one towards her little man. He grumbles, fingers on the doorknob and his other hand pulling at his curls. It's the same old dream. She sees it in his face.

"Hey little man," she whispers, and she hopes there's a smile in her tired voice. Her beautiful little boy stumbles forward, once, twice, and clambers onto the bed. His tiny fingers clasp at her open hand and she shifts, leaning forward to pick him up. She lets him nestle against her lap. His head lolls against her chest, and his thumb's hidden by thick pink lips.

She cuddles him close. She talks to him. He never initiates the conversation. Never asks her to speak about one thing or another. He just likes the sound of her voice. Tonight, she talks to him about the coming winter. Some nights, she talks about the stars, but the news and all their worrying about grit shortages and forecasts of snow-centred doom has taken her back years. She talks to him about snow, about how it's made; about the fact that the UK has grown so desperate for a white Christmas that only one snowflake has to fall on the 25th of December for it to count. (At that, he gives a giggle.) Talks about how every snowflake that falls is never quite the same shape.

Not surprising that she soon runs out of things to say. She kisses his hair, and rocks him.

"He was shouting at me this time." Words spoken to silence. She doesn't hush him, or quiet him. She just strokes his dark, thick curls.

"He'd never shout at you."

"I got scared. And I woke up."

"It was a dream," she whispers, and she clings to him. "A bad dream."

Her little man pauses.

"He shouted when he left." She closes her eyes. Lets him talk. "I remember it. I was in the kitchen, wasn't I? And he was shouting. Can't remember what about."

She traces his cheek with her thumb, pausing when she feels wet skin. She helps him sit up and holds him so close she thinks, for a moment, that she might crush him.

"He wasn't shouting at you. He never, ever would shout at you." His arms hook around her neck, hugging her. "Your daddy loves you."

"He loves me?" His face lightens and her heart aches. "Will he be back?"

She wants to say yes. She wants to say it over and over again.

But she can't tell her little man no. So she says nothing at all, just pats his back and waits until she hears the soft breathing that tells her he's slipped away into sleep. Then she gets off the bed, moves out of her bedroom and pads down the hallway and puts him into his bed. She tucks his bear, Einstein (he did a project on him in school, and hasn't shut up about him since), beside him. He mumbles softly, and she draws open the curtains.

He likes to wake up to the sunrise.

She makes herself a cup of coffee, and sits down in the living room. She watches crap television, the sound turned down. She hears snatches of dialogue, but it's nothing important. She tests out her skills by watching the sign interpreter. She's rusty, hasn't had to use them in so long, but she manages to keep up. The coffee is hot against her throat, and burns her tongue.

The thing that hurts most is that he never shouted. Not at him, not at her. One time, he raised his voice, her name on his lips. His eyes had fluttered shut, his gaze lowering, and when he'd caught sight of him, their little boy, staring up at him with wide eyes he'd given him a too-bright smile and promised he'd return within no time.

Perhaps the smile was why that didn't take. Children are amazing, smart and so much more observant than adults. After all, they don't know how to prioritise; they don't know what to keep and what to discard. So they can see through smiles. They can see anxiety. They can see anger.

That day, Sherlock Holmes had worn both.

I have to go, he'd said, swallowing as he handed Noah over to her, his fingers carding briefly through Noah's tangled curls. Another smile preceded his next words, the smile genuine and helpless and rare for him. Got a plane to catch.

Then he'd disappeared through the front doorway.

It's been a month. She doubts she will ever be able to correct herself or her son—their little man—when they both say 'loves' instead of 'loved'.

1991

The sand, cold and damp and untouched, sunk in between Molly's toes and she stumbled, giggled and pressed against a torso. She squinted. Grey. She reached forward and with her thumb and forefinger, gently plucked at the fabric. Fleece. She squinted harder. No Smiths lyrics, no beer stains. Odd.

Not Ryan. Not her brother.

She craned her neck up, and her gaze landed upon the owner of the t-shirt, or fleece. It was a blue-eyed owner, with short cropped black hair.

She giggled.

"Oops. Sorry," she whispered, pressing her finger to her lips as she wobbled up to a hopefully straightened position. 16 and she was steaming drunk with her brother disappeared off somewhere. Probably with a girl. What would her father say? Still, beach party. "I'm just trying – trying to get back…"

She turned her head. A glow of orange, which seemed to float and flick through the air strangely enough, met her eyes and she pointed.

"Over there," she managed to finish, and she smiled. The t-shirt owner nodded slowly.

"I think you should sit down."

Molly peered up at him, and quickly jabbed her finger up, landing it neatly on the tip of his nose.

"I've been taught self-defence."

"I'm not going to attack you."

"Good. Whoop!" Molly yelped as the sand underneath her disappeared and she ended up, quite unexpectedly, falling backwards. Two arms grabbed at her waist and caught her. Molly slurred something that resembled 'thank you' as together, she and her rescuer collapsed to sit upon the sand. When her rescuer did not let go of her however, but instead moved his hands to touch at her back that was when she took umbrage.

"Hey, hey!" She jerked away from his touch. "Hands!"

"I was actually just supporting your back," the boy said, irritated. "The tide's going to come in, and if you fall asleep, you'll pass out and most likely drown."

"Oh. Well, thanks." Molly blinked, swayed slightly and focused her gaze on the boy. He was thin, kind of gangly – and those eyes. She knew those eyes. She leaned closer towards him, frowning. "How – how…"

Her eyelids fluttered closed. Sleep would be good. That would be nice.

If only this boy would stop tapping at her cheek. She groaned and opened her eyes. "How does drowning happen anyway?"

"That's what you were going to ask?"

"No. I don't know. Yes. I – think so? Usually I'm more cohesive than this, I promise."

"Will you stay awake if I tell you how drowning happens?"

She tilted her head. "Why are you helping me?"

"Because you invited me."

Molly blinked rapidly. Her mouth dropped open. "I – invited – you."

She thought she'd recognised him. The boy gave a nod.

"Yes. In case you've drunk so much alcohol that you can't remember my name, I'm William. 'Will', for short."

Oh. William. Molly giggled and reached forward, pressing a finger squarely in the middle of his forehead. His nose wrinkled a little, perhaps in contempt. Wouldn't be a surprise.

"I knew I knew you." She let her hand drop away from his face, and settled it against his shoulder. William. Famous for being the most unlikeable student in school. Why would she invite him? She stared, ponderously, at his blue eyes and reached up, cupping at his cheek. Those had probably been the reason. Probably. They were gorgeous. All of him was, to tell the truth. She tapped gently at his cheek with her thumb.

Screw it.

She kissed him. It was sloppy, not entirely expert, but he didn't seem to mind. Or at least, he didn't – until he… did? He broke away from her.

"You're drunk."

Molly paused, drawing her forefinger against the collar of his t-shirt. She bit at her lip, swallowing a giggle, and looked at him. His eyes were narrowed, staring at her, concern in his face and his words, and she sighed, dropping her head to nuzzle against his neck. "Alright," she said quietly, a whine edged at her voice. She smiled, and flicked her gaze back up to him. "Can we still talk about drowning?"

2007

Sometimes, Molly wished they'd left it there, on that stupid, clumsy kiss on Lowestoft beach in the middle of a very English summer. One kiss and that should've been it. The end.

But no. She'd been too enamoured, he'd been too charming and now they were stuck in this ridiculous tug-and-pull which had no real sign of stopping. Three weeks after the beach, their relationship was known to the school. They tried for three months, always saying it would get better when they left (only four months to go after all), but they were young and things fizzled out of their own accord. For the last remaining month of their high school career, the two of them had to dodge every rumour going. She'd cheated on him, he'd cheated on her, they'd argued, they'd fought—it was a proper little soap opera that their year had got going, when really, it was just a case of not really knowing what a relationship was.

Years passed, 1991 turning into 1999, and she was dressed in her graduation robes (due back the next day) and disembarking from the train with nerves that made her hands shake and her teeth chatter. She'd had other boyfriends by then, proper boyfriends who did all the standard 'boyfriend' things, so she knew the drill. She hadn't expected to see him on the other platform as the train pulled away, hands in jean pockets and headphones on. It took him a turn of his head to see her, and that was when she recognised him. An awkward, stilted wave of her hand was her greeting. Difficult to be smooth and debonair when you spot a childhood ex at a train station.

He disappeared up the stairs, and she watched as he hurried along the bridge and down the steps towards her. She called his name, and his mouth twitched with a smile.

"Sherlock, actually."

At that, she laughed. Stared at him, eyes flitting over him. "Sherlock?"

"Felt – fitting," he muttered with a shrug. She frowned. There was something different, something akin to distance.

Then he smiled, asked what she was doing, and she was back at the start and asking him to stick around for coffee, even if she didn't entirely believe he'd be there. (As was his way, he surprised her; and it took them only cup of coffee and an hour of talking to head back to her flat.)

The differences between the William of high school and sloppy drunken beach kisses and the Sherlock she'd randomly encountered at the train station were quick to make themselves known. William was disliked because of his bluntness, something he couldn't quite control, something he hadn't yet grown into—much like his height. Sherlock avidly seemed to seek out people who loathed him, or at least tolerated but still disliked him. Whatever bluntness with which he spoke to people was meant, designed to create some kind of reaction.

In 2000, turn of the century, she discovered the reason a week shy of their one year anniversary. And every inch of her hated him. She saw the needle and the tourniquet and the drugs, hidden beneath his bed in some shitty shoe box and she waited. With the box beside her on the sofa of their living room in their flat (theirs, a fact which once made her giddy), she watched television, flicking the channels over and over again until she heard the door of the house close and heard his footsteps on the stairs. She turned off the television as the door to their flat opened. She took hold of the box, standing.

Her words, as she dropped the box at his feet, were short and sharp and cutting. He didn't try to reason with her, or lie to her, or do anything her brother had done when she'd gone through the same process with him two years earlier. He barely seemed to listen.

Probably high.

She packed her bags that night, and vowed never to trust, or speak to, Sherlock Holmes ever again. It was only two days later that she got a visit from his brother.

"He's gone into rehab."

"I'm guessing Violet forced him into it?"

She'd met Violet before, at Christmas. A fascinating, formidable woman.

Mycroft smirked at her question. "Voluntarily, actually."

A week later, her father hired a van and helped her empty the flat. Sherlock's possessions had already been taken away, presumably on either the command of his parents or Mycroft, but she didn't care. She simply sorted out the bills, handed the keys to the landlord and with a gentle smile, asked him to halve the deposit into each of their bank accounts as soon as possible.

She didn't think of Sherlock Holmes at all, over the next few years. Caught up in the art of job searching, she didn't have time. She ferried herself from job to job, gaining experience little by little until in 2005, she gained a job at St. Bartholomew's Hospital, London with a boss was kind and genial and showed her round and wished her welcome. The labs, he told her, were to be redone soon, a whole new refurbishment with sleek table tops and top-of-the-range laboratory equipment. "If the bureaucrats ever get their arses into gear of course," he'd said with a laugh.

She happily wiled away her time there for two years when her boss idly mentioned someone coming in to use the laboratory equipment. She didn't fully register the fact; people came into the labs on many occasions, often students or interns, and sometimes it was consultants who worked with the police, and they were all nice and polite and didn't interrupt her work.

She wasn't there when her boss welcomed in the new intrusion to the lab. If she had been, she liked to have thought that she would've said something, perhaps would've thrown him straight from the lab and told him to find somewhere else to work, but she knew herself too well for that. The work came before any feelings or emotional history.

Some tiny part of her though felt delighted to find that on seeing her walk through the door, he'd gone as stiff as a board and cut off whatever remained of the sentence streaming from his mouth.

His hair was longer. Skin, bright. Healthy.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade, not yet bogged down with the weight of being one of Sherlock's many handlers, frowned and turned. "Oh, Molly. Hi. This is Sherlock Holmes. He's working with the police."

"Oh." Molly nodded. "Private detective?"

"Consulting," Sherlock corrected. His voice was tight.

"Well, that must be interesting." Politeness stretched to the extreme. Straightening her shoulders and taking a breath, she stepped forward and held out her hand. "I'm the specialist registrar here."

"Yep. If you need any help with bodies or whatever Sherlock – she's your girl." Lestrade beamed a smile at her. (He fancied her, and she had once or twice entertained the idea, but she'd scotched those ideas when she overheard him moaning about his wife to her boss.) Sherlock nodded and she just about managed a smile when he reached forward and took her hand to give it a single shake. She let her arm drop back to her side, tucking her hand inside her pocket, her fingers slowly curling against her palm.

Funny how one single moment could bring back a whole breadth of emotions.

It was the small moments that made her believe in the impossible. The two of them had never questioned their arrangement, or how it had started; a quick, fumbling fuck in her flat after they'd chased down and caught a criminal, some madman with a crow bar. For four months, they shared a bed two or three times a week. Sometimes it was quick and fast, something to numb the thoughts in both of their heads. Sometimes it was slow, savouring each moment. The former, he never stayed over. She always woke to an empty bed, and somehow, she preferred that over the awkward mornings they endured with the latter. Those mornings, the morning afters, allowed for moments.

Sometimes she'd wake up to the sound of the shower going in the bathroom mixed in with his casual hum. Or she'd wake him up with the smell of breakfast, causing him to blearily step into the kitchen, wearing his dressing gown. (She never questioned the presence of that in her wardrobe either.) He'd help her, cooking his own breakfast and sitting opposite her at the kitchen table. Then he'd finish and wash up and head into the bathroom, brushing his teeth and calling out to her, asking if she had any milk he could borrow. Morning afters showed her the boy on the beach and let thoughts creep into her head. They made a bed there, ideas of starting it all up again, of scratching out the old and making something new, something without baggage.

One tiny blue plus sign put a stop to that.

She told him that evening when he came round. It stopped him, quite suddenly, in his tracks. He sat there, still and frozen, but finally nodded.

"Keeping it?"

"Yes."

A pause. "Alright."

December, 2007

It hurts. Everything hurts. The walls cold blue, their clothes a darker hue but all she can see is red. Her fingers dig against the flesh of his hand and she yells, all of her might and her strength in the sound, and he finally comes into the world pink and squalling and crying.

It's when they bring him back to her, his cries naturally quietening into squeaks and burbles and his small pink body wrapped in blue that her tears begin.

"Hello," she mumbles. He's so little, so light. Her little man.

Blue eyes find hers, but he waits until she nods to reach forward and take him and he holds him tightly to his chest. The smile that creeps onto his face is small, hesitant; not like his big fake grins or smirks of triumph. It just touches at the corners of his mouth, makes his cheeks twitch that little bit. It's a smile she once thought he'd only have for her.

In a way, it still is.

2010

When Noah turns three, she moves out of London and settles in Surrey in a house that's had her name on the lease ever since he came into the world. The reason for that is there when she arrives, its suit a smart cut and hair smoothed back and expression blankly superior. It breaks when Noah runs up to him, jumping up at him. He catches him with ease, and the superiority is gone, a calm smile in place as he listens to his nephew tell him all about the journey.

"Everything's in place," he tells her, letting Noah go to her when he asks. She heaves her son up towards her, holding him tightly to her hip. Three years of running around after her son alone has made her strong. Mycroft smiles. "Remarkably, the movers didn't break anything."

"They'd have hell to pay if they did," Molly answers quietly, running her fingers through her son's hair and sticking her tongue out at him, making him laugh. Surrey is a quiet place, leafy. Good transport links to the centre, nice range of shops and good schools for her little man. She lets Noah slide from her arms, ushering him down the path towards the front door. It's green, with stained glass, red and yellow and blue. Mycroft follows and he's quiet as she unlocks the door, much to her little man's delight because he immediately goes shooting off.

"Wow!" she hears from the kitchen. "Garden! Mummy, we got a garden!"

She smiles. It's only a small garden, cut off by tall wooden fences and hemmed in by flowerbeds that were the previous owner's pride and joy. An elderly couple, they'd enjoyed the last ten years of their life in this house. A stroke had separated them, and their son had overseen the selling of it. New furniture and white walls cover whatever memories they've made. Meena will no doubt insist on painting a mural for her. She can never bear plain walls.

"Seems he'll like the garden," says Mycroft.

"He will," Molly says with a wider smile, hugging herself. A pause precedes what Mycroft says next, and she turns as he speaks.

"I'll tell him you've moved in. At long last," he adds. His voice is typically dry. Not a surprise. It's been a tussle, this house. Countless times she's seen it, walked over its old floorboards and up its winding staircase. Every time, she could only give Mycroft one solid answer. Maybe next year. London is safe, thriving and living. Here, things are calmer. Here, she'll have to drop Noah off at nursery in the car, not walk with him. She'll have to travel to the train station, park, pay for the privilege and jump on the train. Here, she has a routine. She's always been terrified of those. Partly why he appealed to her so much. Why their— arrangement appealed to her so much.

She breathes through her nose, the scent of fresh paint hitting her, and she nods, clearing her throat.

"Yeah. Please – please do."

Mycroft leaves without another word.

Noah's just about arranged his bedroom to his liking when the doorbell goes. Her heart's in her mouth as she descends the stairs, leaving Noah with his toys, but when she sees thick, long dark hair through the stained glass, she grins and quickens her pace. Meena flings herself forward and hugs her almost as soon as she opens the door.

"I'm so sorry I couldn't help with the move! My boss is stubborn as the day is long, ugh. Can't wait for the month to be up." Molly laughs, a proper laugh, and they settle in the kitchen. Meena admires the size of it, and of course mentions a mural or two, but soon the conversation turns.

"Does he know?"

"That I've moved here?" Molly turns her cup 90 degrees clockwise. An old habit, something she does when she's thinking. "Not yet."

"You going to tell him?" Meena asks, eyeing her as she drinks.

"Gave Mycroft the honour."

"Hm." She gives no other comment. "How's Noah taken the move?"

"He's absolutely fine," Molly says, laughing again. Everyone's assumed he'd be difficult, that he'd demand to stay in London. Meanwhile, he's been counting down the days in his calendar, telling his toys he's going on an adventure. "Told everyone at school his new address."

Meena nods. "And you?"

That's a different kettle of fish altogether. The move is good, so she tells herself, and it is. Noah needs to breathe, needs to explore and this is an opportunity others might kill for. Yet that doesn't stop her yearning for it, her old flat with its ratty carpets and old oven and perfect heaters. This is a clean slate, and there's nothing more terrifying than a clean slate.

Meena turns her head, gazing at the plain wall.

"How about some flowers?" She gestures, as if she's got a paintbrush in her hand already. Always the artist. "Or clouds? Clouds would be good in a kitchen."

"I'm happy with plain," Molly says after a moment. Meena scoffs.

"You are so dull."

A week goes by when the letter box creaks open and a card is pushed through. It's a standard card, plain. Just a photograph of a red house by the beach, the sky blue and the sand yellow. A looped, elegant message is what Noah finds inside. I hear you have a garden now. It's signed with his name. She looks through the stained glass. Red and blue tinges the path, and distorts the figure heading away from the house.

The card takes pride of place in Noah's bedroom.

A body has come in, one of an old colleague who'd worked in IT and fixed her computer once or twice and always proved lovely. Often he'd chattered about his family and his holidays. When she'd seen his name on the form, she had sighed softly and made a mental note to send his wife some flowers. Sherlock's reaction is different. When she wheels it in for him under his request, he asks how fresh the body is.

"Just in. Sixty-seven, natural causes. He used to work here. I knew him, he was nice." Useless information which she always gives to anyone who comes into the morgue. People put such a focus on death all the time, in poetry and movies and plays. She has to treat it like the mundane thing it is. She wouldn't ever sleep otherwise.

"Fine," he says brightly. "We'll start with the riding crop."

His smile is genuine, wide. It makes her blink. Oh, she thinks. There you are.

"Err – yes," she replies, flustered. She leaves him to it but watches him in the observation room next to the morgue through the window. He attacks the body with the leather riding crop, hitting it in wide strokes. In her mind's eye, she sees William sitting on the beach. She sees the Sherlock she reunited with on the train platform while she was dressed in her graduation robes. It's for that Sherlock she rushes off to the bathroom to refresh her lipstick. It's for that Sherlock that she ventures back into the morgue and tries a joke.

"So – bad day, was it?"

He picks a notebook and pen out of the inner pocket of his jacket. He ignores her joke. Not a surprise, it's a pitiable one. Not her best.

"I need to know what bruises form in the next twenty minutes. A man's alibi depends on it. Text me." She nods and glances at the body. Red slashes are across his stomach and chest. She takes a breath.

"Listen, I was wondering—" Something's the matter with her. She shakes her head and tries again. "Maybe later, when you're finished—"

"Are you wearing lipstick? You weren't wearing lipstick before."

She jumps a little, startled. Back when they were in university he always made little observations like that. She took it further, the changes, bit by bit. Just to see whatever he might've noticed next. Her refreshing of the lipstick wasn't a tease though. A curiosity.

"I, err, refreshed it a bit."

The wavering look makes her think – perhaps, perhaps – but he resumes writing in his notebook. "Sorry, you were saying?"

"I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee."

He slams his notebook shut. "Black, two sugars please. I'll be upstairs."

He strolls easily out of the morgue and she's left there, fidgeting and shuffling on her feet. "Okay," she mumbles. It's a half-hearted answer to his oblivious reply. Obviously it's not a curiosity he wishes to give an answer.

He makes mention of the lipstick again when she brings the coffee to him.

"What happened to the lipstick?"

"It wasn't working for me," she says with an awkward smile. He arches an eyebrow and takes the coffee from her.

"Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth's too small now."

"Okay." With Mike and another bloke in the room, she swallows the retort she wants to give him. The card on Noah's windowsill looms up into her head, infecting the image of a boy dressed in jeans and a t-shirt and a leather jacket, and she decides to leave it alone. The feelings will settle eventually, she'll stop yearning and she'll meet another, someone kinder and sweeter, who will love her back and be a good father to Noah. All she has to do is to wait it out.

She doesn't bargain on Sherlock not allowing her to do so. He doesn't ignore her or blank her, like she thinks he will. He doesn't actively seek her out, true, but every week or so, she finds him waiting for her in the lab or the morgue or sidling up to her in the hospital café and trying to flirt with her so she'll wheel out some bodies for him. The latter is a trick he often used, back when they were teenagers and he was still William and when it was a joke between the two of them.

"Molly, please."

"No."

Gaze tracing over her form. A smile quirking at the corner of his lips. An upwards tilt of his eyebrows. Puppy eyes. "Have I told you how pretty you look today?"

A nudge of her elbow to his ribs. "Have I told you how annoying you're being today?"

"Many times."

"You've changed your hair." She sees it coming a mile off and still falls for it. Perhaps the memory had swayed her more than the action.

Then Jim comes along, a few months later. Kind, sweet, adoring. It feels nice. Nicer than any scrap of a memory. The sex is good too. Unexpectedly good. So she presents Jim to Sherlock, the nice and sweet man who has paid attention to her instead of expecting attention without giving anything in return.

That's why Sherlock's deduction bites so deeply. It's the harsh nature, the cold presumption. Then she sees the news and the dam is broken. She cries in her office; out of shock, out of frustration, out of fear. She's dated a psychopath. A man who has strapped bombs to innocents, passers-by in the street, for fun and it makes her want to be sick. Every inch of her crawls with the knowledge that she's been touched by that man.

At least she didn't introduce him to Noah, at least she insisted on going back to his place. She tells herself that over and over as she hugs Noah close, her duvet shrouded over both of them, protecting them both from the world. Noah doesn't understand why she insists he sleep in her bed. He asks if it has something to do with the man on the telly.

When she hears a knock on her door at three in the morning, her heart leaps into her throat. He can't know her address, she isn't listed, Mycroft insisted on it when she moved in— She straightens up when Sherlock comes walking through the door. Her eyebrows knit together.

"What are you doing here?"

He says nothing, but heads into the kitchen. She follows, tiptoeing through the door, and he pointedly jerks his head towards the table. She sits and watches as he moves around the kitchen as if he knows it. Bread goes into the toaster, the kettle is switched on and it strikes her that he's never set foot inside her house before.

Back towards the kitchen table he eventually comes, carrying a plate of buttered toast in one hand and a cup of raspberry fruit tea in the other. She bites back a smile. Never thought he would remember that – her ultimate comfort food. Saved for special occasions.

"Eat." His only command. She obeys, but her eyes don't leave him. He makes for a confusing figure. There's no attempt to move made, but instead he stands at the table, opposite her, with his hands folded behind his back. She swallows back a bite of the toast, and points to the chair next to her.

"You can – sit, if you like."

"I'm fine." He swallows. His Adam's apple bobs with the action. Letting out a breath, he straightens his shoulders, his feet shifting against the carpet.

"I don't blame you."

She pauses and tilts her head. There he is, all over again. William. Nervous, lip-biting William.

In a flash, he's gone. The door closes in his wake. She hears footsteps seconds later.

"Mummy?"

She pushes the tea and toast to one side and hurries up the stairs. Noah pads towards her, hugging his teddy who he still doesn't have a name for.

"What's going on?"

She picks him up, hauling her onto his lap. He sucks his thumb, looking at her. She could tell him it was just a friend, brush it off with a white lie. He wouldn't know. He's only three.

She takes a breath.

"That – that was your daddy."

Noah insists on knowing everything he can about his dad. She answers his questions as well she can, but there are always some things a three year old shouldn't know. When he's older, better prepared for it, she'll tell him; but for now, she gives him veiled truths and funny stories.

"Mummy." They're in her bedroom, on the carpet, playing Lego. Here, she can tidy it up. Lessens the risk of being stabbed in the toe with a stray yellow brick when she says goodnight to him. Noah's lost interest though, and has taken to wandering around her room. At his call, she pauses and tilts her head up.

"Mm?"

"What's this?" Noah pulls out a framed photo from the shelf in front of him. The frame is cheap, the photo small and grainy. Noah settles in beside her and frowns at the two people in the photo. He points to the girl.

"That's you."

She cuddles him, nodding. "Yep."

"And that's—"

"Your daddy," she finishes, letting out a breath. It's of them in university, the two of them wearing stupid smiles and even stupider outfits. Tinkerbell for her; a pirate for him. (He'd insisted throughout the night, whenever someone asked, that no he wasn't Captain James Hook.) Noah laughs, looking up at her.

"You look silly."

She scrunches her nose in mock offence, taking the photo from him. She stares at it, feeling the weight of it in her hand. "That's the whole point of fancy dress, little man."

Another visitor stops the conversation in its tracks. They ring the bell, rather than knock, and it's Noah who gets to the door first. He's not tall enough to reach the door handle yet, so he calls for the visitor to come in. The door opens, and Noah's eyes widen.

Sherlock stands awkwardly in the doorway.

"Hello, Noah."

He last saw his son when he was a baby, tiny and crying. It's her words, her stories, that have kept him alive in Noah's bright little mind. Noah runs forward and buries himself in his father, his little arms tight around his father's legs. To his credit, his father sinks to his knees and wraps his arms around his son.

"He's got your card on his windowsill." She's sitting at the kitchen table, directly opposite him. She swallows. "That's where he puts only his most precious things. Did you know that? Sherlock?"

She adds his name because she thinks perhaps that way it'll get through to him. He nods, staring at the dark brown liquid in his cup. She narrows her eyes.

"Sherlock? Did you—?"

"I heard you."

She sighs, leaning back against the chair, and takes a sip of her coffee. She keeps her eyes on him, perhaps hoping that if she stares for long enough, he'll stay.

"One card isn't enough." She speaks quietly. It forces him into asking for her to repeat herself. When she does, her voice is firmer.

There's a sugar pot between them, a delicately painted thing she slammed in front of him along with his drink. He spoons two into his coffee. "I thought it was."

"You were wrong." In the past, she's allowed herself to be taken in by his charm, his aloof nature, but she's a parent now, she's been a parent for three years, she's going to be one for a damn lot more. A grandparent, perhaps, maybe even a great-grandparent. He winces at her tone. The softening of her tone is instinctive, something she does not just with him but with her sister and Meena and God knows who else who needs her comfort, her kindness. She's the sun; so many people have said so in the past. Her father was the first, with his hands in her hair and his kind voice a whisper, the scent of dirt and cigarettes in his skin. Her acts of kindness are solar flares; waves of energy streaming from her fingertips and seeping into the soul, the flesh of others.

With him, it's not energy. It's her heartbeat. Ba dum, ba dum, ba dum. Over and over, a clockwork heart that keeps on ticking however much she breaks it apart. She used to think it was only him who would ever possess her heart like that. Then in 2007, with Christmas decorations hanging above a hospital bed, she had been handed a small human. He'd snuffled and cried in her arms and her heartbeat had thrown itself forward and curved around that little man. A different kind of love, a different kind of possession, but just as strong. It's little wonder she needs (wants) to protect him. It's the best kind of self-preservation.

"I know you pride yourself on distance," she says, her voice quiet but growing strong. "I know you – struggle with people. But Noah deserves more than a card."

"I know."

She drains her mug until it's only dregs and stands, moving away from the table and around the counter towards the kettle. The kitchen is open space, the counters curling around half of the kitchen in a square 'U' shape. A small step leads towards the kitchen table. White French sliding doors are a partition that leads out to a patio and on to the green of the garden. She switches on the kettle.

He lifts his head. "Tell me what to do."

The words almost make her cry, but she smiles instead. She turns, staring at him, and she's thrown back to careless morning afters that made her think she could lead a life with him. And he looks so helpless now. She has to remind herself of one simple truth: she's got three years. He's got one card and a stiff hello.

"Just spend time with him. Talk to him, do what he wants to do." She shrugs and against her better judgement gives a smile. "That's all."

He nods, taking another drink of his coffee. He rises to his feet.

"Thank you – for the coffee."

"Not at all," she murmurs, watching him walk from the kitchen.

She spends the rest of the afternoon restless. Some of it she tries to spend downstairs but she's fooling no-one, so she goes up the stairs and into her room. She's made to pause past Noah's room by her son calling her. Doubling back, she stands in the doorway and sees Noah engaging in a dogfight. Sherlock sits cross-legged across from Noah, holding a stuffed dinosaur and dodging the planes Noah sends its way.

"Dinosaur!" Noah says by way of explanation.

"I'm the dinosaur," Sherlock says, his eyes on Noah. They briefly shift towards her and his expression flickers, something more hesitant behind the smile. She nods, and the hesitation is gone and he's back to dodging planes. Heading into her bedroom, she makes herself busy tidying up the Lego. Across the hall, she hears Noah's light chatter which makes her smile. With it, she hears his low rumble telling Noah the basic facts of the solar system. Seems they've moved on from dinosaurs now to being astronauts. (Or maybe, with Noah being Noah, they're being dinosaur astronauts.) As she breaks the Lego apart and puts it all back into its box, she listens to his words. Every time, she prays he doesn't cut her little man down, tell him that something's obvious or stupid or irrelevant. She wants to trust him.

It's only until Sherlock makes it six weeks running that she begins to breathe easier.

Today the sun is out, laying everything in pale gold, white mist hovering against the grey air. The cold is crisp on their lungs and their footsteps crunch against frosted grass. Winter has arrived and with it, Noah's birthday. He's four, and Sherlock arrived in the morning, with a present but without prior notice, leaving her to answer the door in her pyjamas with reading glasses nested in her hair and toast in her hand. Now, after a hurried session of dressing, the three of them walk slowly around the park as Noah runs on ahead, inspecting leaves and picking grass. The park is always quiet at this time of day, when families are huddled in their homes, watching a Saturday film on the television instead of heading outside. Noah's cheeks and nose bloom red from exertion. It's a simple birthday, with a cake waiting in the fridge back home, but a happy one.

"How's John?" It's only small talk, but at least it's something. It's better than stilted conversations that leap from subject to subject.

"Hm?" he asks, with such a lost look on his face that she has to giggle.

"John Watson?" she asks, teasing. "Your flatmate?"

"Oh. Fine. Keeps badgering on about money." He frowns. It's as if the object of money concerns confuses him. Not a surprise. He's got Mycroft for a brother. "And milk, strangely enough."

Molly dregs up some fact John told her on their first meeting. "Didn't he used to work at St. Bart's?"

"Studied," he corrects.

She nods. Can't think of anything else to say. They continue walking.

"He wants to throw a party. A Christmas party."

She snorts and comes to a stop. Stuffing her hands in her pockets, she tilts her head at him. "A party?"

He answers with a grimace. "At Baker Street. You're invited."

"Am I?"

"Mm-hm. He says he wants it to be a gathering, but I'm pretty sure him wanting to parade his new girlfriend has something to do with it."

"Oh. That's – that's nice." She kicks idly at a frozen weed, scuffing it with the toe of her boot. She buries her cheek against her scarf, looking to him. "And, um – Noah?"

He stiffens at that, swallows; Adam's apple bobbing. "Adults only."

"Oh." It's a softer 'oh', with another meaning. She covers it with a bright grin. "Okay. I, um, I'll get someone to babysit him. When is it?"

"The 25th." He pauses, staring forward at Noah. His curls are tangled from the breeze. "8pm start. My suggestion."

One hour to get ready, one hour to get into London. Free to spend the whole day with her little man. It's an unconventional gift.

He surprises her on Christmas morning by arriving with another gift. This time, it's for Noah.

Noah makes them sit side by side as he doles out his presents that are tucked under the tree. She was up until about 2am wrapping each one, so each present is more slapdash than the last. Sherlock notes this with a silent raise of his eyebrow and a knowing look towards her.

"And that's for you!" He presses the last present into Sherlock's hands. It's actually a present he got for his aunt, but Sherlock takes the sentiment with a small 'thank you' and puts it to one side as Molly distracts Noah with a request for him to count his own presents.

"9, 10!" Noah finishes proudly after only a few moments. He turns on them. "Now your presents!"

Molly counts down for them and on the word "go", Noah giggles as she and Sherlock hurry to unwrap the presents laid out in front of him. She joins in with her little man's mirth, Sherlock's deep chuckle following her and mixing in with Noah's and hers.

She receives a book she's been hankering for and a pashmina that'll keep her warm. It's obvious Meena took him shopping for these presents and it makes her smile widen. Sherlock receives a bee encased in amber and a small plastic dinosaur. Molly's gaze drifts over to the tree. Tucked underneath all of the other presents, red glints out. It was one of the first presents she wrapped. Sherlock departs in the afternoon, just as the winter sun is setting. Noah waves until he's at the end of the lane.

Later on, when Noah's tucked up in bed that night and Meena is on the sofa watching an old Christmas movie, Molly bends down and picks up the present that glints red and slips it onto the top of her bag.

When she comes home early on in the morning, she can tell that Meena knows immediately that something's wrong. She doesn't put up a fight or even attempt to pretend. She simply tells her everything with a shaky voice and even shakier sighs.

"Wanker," Meena murmurs. Kicking off her shoes and sliding onto the sofa, Molly allows herself to be hugged. Meena's hand comfortingly strokes the back of her head. "What an utter wanker."

She's inclined to agree.

He stands in the doorway, but nothing about him gives an indicator of wanting to apologise or make amends. It's early morning, Noah's fast asleep and Meena's long gone from the house, having made Molly promise she'd ring if she needed her. She's dressed now in nothing but ratty Christmas patterned pyjama bottoms (it's a tradition, one she's kept up since she was a kid) and a grey t-shirt. Her make-up is scrubbed away, her hair pulled back into a low ponytail and he just stands there. She wants to scream at him, kick him in the crotch, pull at his hair – something that would make him stop looking at her in that way.

Just like the previous time, when she was living in fear and feeling sick to her stomach every time she saw Moriarty's face on the news, she's the one to speak first.

"What do you want?"

"My brother," Sherlock says curtly. In his hand, he holds his phone so tightly that his knuckles turn white. He lets out a breath and reaches out, pressing a hand to the doorway. "Miss Adler – the – Woman – is dead. So he tells me. Made the driver he sent come here."

The fact he's travelled all the way here doesn't register.

She grips the doorknob tighter. Her gaze falls to the floor. "I'm sorry."

Him stepping forward makes her look up. He enters inside and shuts the door behind him.

"You're sorry?"

She steps back. He presses forward, gradually circling around her. Her gaze flutters towards his lips. Parted, only by a tiny bit. She shakes her head as her back hits against the wall of the hallway.

"Go home." It's an order, not a request.

His hands settle against the wall, at either side of her head. "I have to go and identify the body. No idea why."

"You're upset, Sherlock." She presses her hands against his chest. "Just – leave me alone. I don't – Noah can't see you like this."

Those last words seem to get to him. His whole demeanour changes. His gaze grows sharper, his jaw tightens. Back to the consulting detective.

Drawing away from her, he moves back towards the door. She follows as he departs, shutting the door and locking it.

The landline's harsh ring coming from the kitchen makes her jump, and turn. Jogging into the kitchen, she picks up the phone, and through the receiver, she hears the voice of the last person she wants to speak to.

"Your help is needed at St. Bart's," Mycroft says crisply.

She sighs, one hand sinking back into her hair. Always the most impeccable timing.

Later on, he comes into the morgue with his brother following, and she stands before him in a Christmas jumper, jeans and a lab coat. His first words are contradictory to his brother's firm insistence. "You didn't have to come in, Molly."

He doesn't mention his midnight visit. She isn't surprised. Why would he?

And then she pulls back the sheet and he recognises her, The Woman, by well, not her face and it aches that she feels jealous.

New Year, 2011

Noah asks for his bed long before the New Year comes in, but she makes sure to kiss him on the cheek at midnight anyway. He mumbles sleepily in reply. She gets no such cheer from Sherlock when she arrives in the lab on the 1st of January. Silence and a tight jaw, that's what she gets. She peeks at the computer monitor he's so focused on. On the screen is the image of an X-ray. Its subject makes her peer closer.

"Is that a phone?"

"It's a camera phone." Snappish, fast. Thinking.

"And you're X-raying it?"

He eyes her. "Yes I am."

Those horrible feelings of jealousy, of curiosity bubble up again. They take the form of an innocent question. "Whose phone is it?"

"A woman's."

"Your girlfriend?" Fear makes her voice tremble. He doesn't notice, just aims a look at her.

"You think she's my girlfriend because I'm X-raying her possessions?"

She's on the back foot now, was from the start of this conversation, and it's not a shock that a nervous laugh is her initial answer. "Well, we all do silly things."

He frowns.

"Yes." Then his frown lightens, disappearing. He lifts his head. It's a proper lightbulb moment. "They do, don't they? Very silly."

Molly follows his movements as he zips up to his feet, grabbing the phone from the machine (she wishes he'd follow proper safety rules, the hazard signs are there for a reason). "She sent this to my address," he murmurs. "And she loves to play games."

"She does?" Sounds familiar. No wonder he's so taken, so distracted, by her. His idea though, doesn't take. The phone beeps and he abandons it on the work station, sitting back down at his microscope. His mouth is turned down into a sulk. She can just hope that, that— she clears her throat and turns, looking fully at him.

"You won't let this stop you seeing Noah, will you?"

She gets another look aimed at her for her trouble. A harsh look that soon mellows.

"No."

True to his word, he still keeps up with his visits. Even going to Devon didn't keep him away. Noah, finding out about his father's trip, had pleaded to go with him but she'd said no. That had led to a rant and a sulk that she'd managed to alleviate by holding a competition of who could blow the biggest raspberry.

That doesn't mean Christmas hasn't had its effect. Their conversation, whenever they're together, has trickled down to polite civil small talk. Noah must see it, because he doesn't force them together like he did at Christmas. He gives attention to one of them, and then gives his attention to the other. He divides himself equally for the sake of not creating tension and it hurts her.

So she resolves to try.

Unfortunately, he gets there first.

"I almost called you."

She blinks, turning her head towards him. They're in the park again, Noah walking just behind them, swinging a stick at weeds. She tugs against the rim of her hat. It's knitted, with a bobble on top. One of her mother's projects. It keeps her warm.

"You – called me?" she echoes quietly, trying out the words against her tongue.

"Almost. I had – I panicked. You'll probably find the details of it on John's blog." He says the words with such a drawl of contempt that she hides a laugh.

"That old thing?"

"Yes. It's still quite popular – for some reason. Not like he's any good at it. But, um, to cut a long story short, I saw – something out there, during the case. And I panicked." Somehow, it all feels like a confession. "And I almost called you."

He's panicked before, in her presence. High alert, observations and deductions tripping from his tongue, accompanied by quick and jerky movements and an inability to keep still. He's at his most vicious when he panics. And she was always there to soothe him, calm him, bring him back, and make him breathe.

"It's a good thing you didn't call. Noah might've answered."

He laughs. It's a proper and full deep laugh and she playfully nudges him. He nudges her back.

Noah suddenly appears between them, looking up at both of them.

"Are you friends again?"

"Yes," she answers after a moment, glancing at Sherlock and back to her son. She sticks out a hand. "C'mon now, little man. Home."

Noah nods and looks to his father. He offers out his hand. Sherlock takes it without hesitation and, as Noah calls to be swung, Molly looks to Sherlock and she smiles.

"I—" He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth and lowers his head, the right words assembling in that big brain of his. Arms folded over her chest, she waits, ever patient. The spring sunshine is hotter than usual today, and so they've spent most of their time outside. Noah has tried to coax something out of Toby but he just curls up on the porch table and purrs, tortoiseshell fur brilliant in the sun. Sherlock oscillates on his feet, rubbing his lower lip. He sighs and straightens his shoulders. The sleeves of his crisp white shirt are rolled up to above his elbow. Flecks of grass and dried mud, the consequences of playing, mark his palms and the knees of his dark trousers.

"My parents. You need to meet them."

"I have." She stills, going cold. "Unless—"

He nods. "Yes. You and – Noah."

He forces out the words with a flap of his hand. She takes a breath.

"You want – him – to meet his grandparents?" And suddenly, she's remembering why this house was such a tussle. Why she aches so much for London whenever she steps off her morning train and feels the sounds and smells and pure activity of London soaking into her bones. Here, Noah is safe, yes; he's safe from the prying eyes of the media and criminals who might hurt him but he's also a secret. A secret child, stuffed away in a nice house for his father to come and see on weekends or whenever he hasn't got a case on. Her head swims.

She hurries into the house and presses her hands against the kitchen worktop, bending her head and breathing. In her sights, she zones in on the silvery curve of the kitchen tap. She hears him talking to Noah, then footsteps across the patio and the sliding of the doors.

"I didn't mean to offend you."

"I know. I know you didn't. I just – I just—" She forgets however that sentence was going to end and hugs herself, turning around. She tries again. "His world is so small. I guess it just made me think – what happens when he grows up? He's not going to be a toddler forever."

He's going to grow out of this house, grow out of her telling him what to do or where they're going to go. He already wants to fly off into space. One day, he's going to want to go to university. She's going to ache for him to be something, to step out of the shadow of his father and be somebody.

"I'm afraid my brother doesn't think that far ahead."

She bursts into tears. She doesn't know why. No, no— she does know why. She knows exactly why. She's so tired. Exhausted. Of dodging questions, being quiet, thinking and hoping, of being a single woman one minute and a mother the next. Her little man is bright, intelligent, funny, odd beyond belief sometimes, obsessed with dinosaurs and astronauts and the galaxy, he likes cereal without milk and he's a secret.

Arms awkwardly wrap themselves around her, some gesture of comfort, and she continues to cry. It's a long time before she stops.

At the bottom of the stone path, stood just before the wooden gate with the red-coloured cottage ahead of them and with her car behind, Noah stops. He itches at his shirt collar and whines.

"Wanna wear a t-shirt."

She, crouching down in front of him, holds his hands in hers. The skirts of her dress, pastel pink and flowing, flutter in the breeze.

"You can wear all the t-shirts you want little man, any day you choose, but today you've got to be really neat." She tweaks his bow tie and tilts her head. "Understand?"

"I 'spose," is the reluctant mumble. She stands, brushes herself down and takes Noah's hand. Together, they walk to the door. She knocks three times, each one short and staccato. She hears the tail end of a conversation as the door is pulled open.

"No, don't worry about the pork, I'll take it out in a minute or – oh." Violet Holmes turns her head and comes to a stop, her mouth trapped into a small 'o' shape. She wears a silver and gold kaftan with black trousers, a silver jewelled necklace around her neck. Her eyes immediately zone in on Noah. Her lips grow into a warm, welcoming smile. She bends down to his eye level.

"I believe your name's Noah. Correct me if I'm wrong."

"She's an awful scatter brain," Michael says gently, approaching down the hallway of their cottage. He wears a crisp pale blue shirt and brown cord trousers. His black shoes are polished within an inch of their life. His eyes twinkle as he smiles. He's got a smile which you have to return, however nervous or agitated you are. Noah is no exception. He moves forward, almost stumbling. His hand is still tightly in Molly's. Shyly, he puts forward his left hand towards Violet.

"My name's Noah Hooper. You're my grandma."

Violet nods and shakes his hand. Her smile widens but when she straightens up, Molly can see her eyes glistening.

"And I'm your grandpa," Michael says, bending down and shaking Noah's hand. "It's very nice to meet you, Noah."

He playfully tweaks the bow tie he wears. It's black, like Noah's. "Look," he says to Noah, "we could pass for twins."

"Give or take a few years," Violet quips, discreetly wiping her eyes. "Lunch is nearly ready, and the living room's just down the hall – to your left there. You'll remember."

Molly nods and picks Noah up and holds him to her hip. She treads the path to the living room. Before she's strolled down it like it's her home, with a boy she'd thought she could take anywhere and everywhere. Now she walks like a stranger intruding on hallowed halls, her haunches up and eyes consistently shifting to every surface. As if she's going to be told to leave, to get out, at any time. In the living room, there's a rich scent of real firewood, the walls a crimson red and photographs on side tables. There's one on the coffee table of a younger Violet holding a baby Sherlock, whose black curls are already prominent. Violet points out the camera to a young Mycroft, just seven and too busy peering at his little brother to pay attention. Noah, seeing the photographs, laughs. He asks if he looks the same as his dad.

"You do," Molly confesses, and she brushes her hair out of her eyes. "To a degree." When she was last here, she was welcomed as Sherlock's significant other. She doesn't know what she is to them now. A mother? A sordid family secret? Maybe both.

Settling on the sofa, she positions Noah on her lap and hugs him, settling her chin on his shoulder. He stares at the hearth, watching the flames of the log fire.

"Do they like me?"

"Of course they do," she replies. "Who wouldn't like you?"

The living room door opens again. Mycroft silently enters, wearing a face for a funeral. He wore the same expression last time she was here. The disapproval though, so prevalent in his features last time, is lacking. Sherlock follows. He wears a similar look to his brother but it falls away when Noah sits up and calls for him.

"Dad! Come sit! Sit!"

He obeys, sitting on the other end of the sofa. It's a small sofa, with too many cushions to count, so Molly shifts as Sherlock settles, removing his Belstaff coat and rolling up the sleeves of his purple shirt. As soon as he sits down, Noah scrambles from Molly's lap onto his father's. Out of the corner of her eye, Molly can see Mycroft watching the situation with his usual lazy curiosity.

"I met Grandma!" Noah announces to his father. "And Granddad!"

Sherlock holds Noah's wrists with his fingers, absentmindedly waving Noah's arms from side to side in small arches. "Were they nice?"

"Very!" is Noah's verdict. Sherlock nods once and lets Noah's wrists go from his fingers. Molly reaches forward and touches at her little man's nest of curls. She'd given his hair a good comb before they left but the attempt at neatness had vanished the minute they'd gone from the house.

"A bit shocked," she says, "but yes – very nice."

Noah suddenly turns thoughtful. "Mummy—"

"Yes?"

"What are we having for lunch?"

"No idea, little man. No idea."

"I'm sure it'll be delicious," Mycroft pipes up.

"Yes, well – just make sure not to eat too much and leave some for the rest of us Mycroft," Sherlock says with a grin. Noah buries his head forward into his father's chest, giggling, and Mycroft's expression sinks rapidly into a murderous glower.

She wraps her pashmina around her shoulders. The thin material, magenta and fringed around the edges and embroidered with patterns made of silvery thread, serves to block out the cold but it won't do for long. It'll buy her an extra five minutes, give or take. The front door to the cottage creaks open. Molly turns. Stepping off the doorstep, Mycroft nods once at her.

"Noah's still talking to his grandmother." Molly swallows the urge to reply that she knew. Ever since Noah had known Violet was a mathematician, he'd hung onto her every word throughout lunch, listening to how maths had served to bring man to the moon.

"Heat was getting to me," she explains, the answer to an unasked question. "From the fire."

"Yes, Mummy always insists on the – what?" He fixes her with a quizzical expression, as if he's never heard laughter before. Being in his line of work, he probably hasn't. Not on a day to day basis at least.

Molly shrugs. "Well – Mummy."

Mycroft sniffs but doesn't bother protesting the point. He walks down the path towards her and stops beside her. Rummaging inside the inside of his suit jacket, he fishes out a lighter and packet of cigarettes.

"You smoke." She says it bluntly. The corners of his mouth tilt upwards, amused.

"You don't."

"Stopped when I – when Sherlock and I—" she waves a hand, "broke up."

He lights his cigarette, coughing a little when he inhales. Her eyebrows arch up. Still a beginner. She's found one thing, at least, that Mycroft's not good at.

"The first or second time?" What he is good at (what he prides himself on) is throwing people off centre.

"Second."

Mycroft makes a low, disinterested noise at the back of his throat. He inhales again. Another slight cough. He hides it with a clearing of his throat.

"When his drug habit was discovered, my brother was told to go into rehab four times."

She sucks in a breath, and shrugs. "He's always been stubborn."

"The fifth time, it was me who told him to go. Soon after he moved back here." As he speaks, he stares out at the landscape beyond his parent's garden, a green expanse of grass that the breeze skips along like stones in water. It's unused and unwanted but perfectly kept. "And he agreed."

She turns her head, her hair flying everywhere. She scoops it to one side, still looking at Mycroft. "So I was wrong to dump him? To move out of the flat? Is that what you're saying?"

"Not at all." He drops his barely burnt cigarette on the ground, stubbing it out with his heel. "Quite the opposite in fact."

Mycroft's always indulged in veiled words and hidden meanings. He has to; that's his industry. And she's just one in a long line of secrets that he has to keep.

"Molly." He says her name quietly and steadily, still standing beside her. "My brother has always needed to help people. I think he sees himself as some kind of warrior."

"A dragon slayer, perhaps?" She blames the reference on reading Tolkien to Noah. Mycroft gives her something halfway to a laugh.

"Hm. Maybe. But even the best kind of – dragon slayer – needs help. Someone they go to in times of need. For a long time, I held that rather – difficult position."

Mycroft is more like his brother than either of them would care to admit. They both struggle with normality. Sherlock has coped by saving the good ones and capturing the bad ones, putting them behind bars and building himself up as a god. (A seductive image.) Mycroft's coped by sitting in the shadows, pulling and cutting strings when the time is right. Some might've said he was more a puppet master than a god. From where she stands, a mother of a child to one and an asset to the other, there is little difference between the two.

"And now?" she asks.

He gives a soft sigh. "Now I'm the cavalry."

Over the coming months, she sees something is wrong. Sherlock is steadily more alert than usual. He smiles so brightly for Noah, he smiles for John, for Lestrade. When he's with her, when they're alone in the kitchen and Noah's in bed and she's given him black coffee with two sugars, the smile fades. There's no cutting remarks or poorly hidden smirks. Numbness clouds his face, dulls his eyes. It's a numbness she's encountered twice before. Once with Ryan, the second time with her father. With Ryan it was brief, broken by tears and promises that he'd never go near any kind of drugs again. Her father endured it in the same way Sherlock endures it now. Quietly, solidly with smiles that slip away as soon as he believes himself alone.

"You're a bit like my dad. He's dead. No, sorry." No need to tell him that. He knows. He was there when it happened, he attended the funeral. His hand stroked her back and his voice lulled her back to sleep whenever she woke up crying in their bed. He'd been a teenager, as had she; too much pressure, for both of them. There are some days when she wonders if that was why they broke up. Some days when she thinks it wasn't just naivety that forced them apart.

"Molly, please don't feel the need to make conversation." His voice bites at the air, sharp like wolf's teeth. "It's not really your area."

She swallows. "When he was dying, he was always cheerful. He was lovely. Except when he thought no-one could see. I saw him once. He looked sad."

Sat at his old writing desk, she had seen him. Thin and gaunt he'd been, with every movement painful (only a few weeks later he was in hospital and being wheeled round). Her mum had brought him a cup of tea and patted him on the shoulder. He'd grinned and kissed her hand and even made a joke. Both of their smiles left one another's faces when they parted. Hers crumpled, tears spurting from her eyes that she quickly wiped away. His merely faded, the corners of his mouth sinking down into a thin line. His eyes too, faded into something hollow. She hadn't told anyone of what she'd seen; not even him. There was an advantage to being a secret, to being invisible. There still is.

"Molly…" His voice is stern. He thinks that because he was there and he saw her collapse, mentally and emotionally, he knows what she's going to say. What she wants to say. She holds her breath.

"You look sad – when you think he can't see you." She looks over to John, who is stood at the other side of the lab. Their conversation is inaudible to him. When she looks back, Sherlock is staring straight at her. "Are you okay? And don't just say you are. Because I know what that means, looking sad when you think no-one can see you."

"You can see me." He speaks softly, tenderly. The last time he spoke to her that way, Noah wasn't even a thought in either of their minds. It was just them, 20 somethings, under the sheets of her old bed in her old flat with his hand on her hip. His thumb had absentmindedly stroked circles into the skin of her hip.

She shakes her head a little. "I don't count."

She's got her little man who is frustrating and strange and perfect and she's got her clockwork heart, but that's all. She's not Mycroft. She's not John, she's not Lestrade. She has no special skill. Sherlock stares, unendingly, at her. She peers back at him. In a way, she's starting to understand Mycroft's words to her all those months ago. She clears her throat. Best to start again.

"What I'm trying to say is that, if there's anything I can do, anything you need, anything at all – you can have me. No, I just mean… I mean if there's anything you need…" She gives up that particular sentence. "It's fine."

She goes to walk away.

"What – what could I need from you?"

That has her turning back. As is her way around this infuriating man, she doesn't have a proper answer. "Nothing. I don't know." Then it hits her. "You could probably say thank you, actually."

Thank you for raising our child the last four years, she thinks. She loves her boy and millions of babies are born every year but a little bit of credit would do the world of good. So often he forgets that by building himself up as a god, he also leaves a trail of confusion in his wake, making people clear up his mess as he goes. That'll be his downfall one day, if he's not careful. Maybe that's why Mycroft spoke to her in the way he did.

"Thank you." The words come out hesitantly, as if he doesn't quite know why he's said them.

"I'm just going to go and get some crisps. Do you want anything? No, it's okay. I know you don't." Silly of her to forget really. It's a rule he's had since he was a teenager. Body is transport, work before food. When her dad had died, he'd spent a whole evening trying to convince her to eat something. That's a rule of my own making, so he'd said. You're not supposed to obey it.

He'd gently slid a bar of chocolate towards her across her duvet to prove his point.

"Well, actually, maybe I'll—"

"I know you don't."

She walks out of the lab. Coming back, she finds that Sherlock and John are gone.

She throws on her coat and slings her bag onto her shoulder, phone pressed to her ear.

"Meena, I really appreciate this. I'll be home at about 10. Richards left all the paperwork up to me, so I had to work late. Bloody – urgh. Anyway. Noah's going to insist on waiting up. Please don't let him, please. I don't want him worrying—"

"It'll be fine," Meena promises. "I'll make sure he gets to bed. You just focus on getting home!"

"Okay, alright. I'll see you later." She hangs up and tucks her phone into her bag. Switching off the lights, she heads into the dark lab.

"You're wrong you know." The words have her gasping and spinning round. He's a figure in the dark, his face turned away from her. Her grip against the door handle loosens. His name, a question within it, is on her tongue. It soon disappears.

"You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you. But you were right." He breathes, but his voice still shakes. "I'm not okay."

He's looking at her now and even in the dark, she can see fear and anxiety and everything he thinks he's overcome.

"Tell me what's wrong."

"Molly, I think I'm going to die."

She stays, frozen at the door.

"What do you need?"

"If I wasn't everything that you think I am – everything that I think I am – would you still want to help me?"

This isn't William. This isn't some snotty young boy on a beach telling her about how people drown to stop her from passing out. This is Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes asking her for help. She repeats her question.

He stands over her, nearly pinning her to the door. "You."

When he told her 'you', they both knew he didn't mean it in that way. He just wanted her help. And after all of the organisation, all of the talks with Mycroft, she's offered him the spare room for tonight. Being tucked away in Surrey has its benefits. It allows a dead man a few hours of sleep before reality catches up with him again and he's off on a plane. Flying off to chase what now seems like the world, like Helios in his chariot, chasing away the night and all its shadows. He's cleaned off most of the blood but the tips of his fingers are stained a bloody pink. The water from the tap had run red, pooling in her kitchen sink and flowing into the drain, a never-ending circle. Now he walks up the steps, his eyes drawn towards Noah's bedroom. Every footstep is measured and quiet. If they speak, it's audible only to them. She tells him the spare bed is just a single, and that it creaks a bit but it should be okay for one night. He pushes open the door to the spare bedroom, dim light creeping through.

She turns to go into her bedroom, but his fingers catch her wrist and she finds herself turning. His eyes are burning blue. She can see the dried blood stains on his coat and in his hair. He's dead and she's never seen him look more alive. More frightened.

"Molly, I—" He swallows, lowers his gaze. He doesn't try again.

She steps forward, and reaches up. His curls are tangled and sticky against her fingers, rough to the touch, and she holds on. His fingers remain on her wrist. She twists her hand in such a way that her hand cups his and they end up there. The corridor expands, darkens. It grows and grows as they stand there together until it's dark and empty and hollow and she feels so small, standing with him there.

"You're okay." Her whisper seems to echo. "You're okay, Sherlock."

A door creaks, and the corridor shrinks again. Her hand falls from his hair. Noah stands behind his door, his hand on the doorknob and tears drying on his cheeks. He sniffs and wipes at his nose with his sleeve.

"I had a nightmare," he murmurs, and he hiccups.

Sherlock hesitates, his mouth parting, words ready. Tomorrow he's going to be a fraud, someone who will be hated and loathed and spat on. 'Fake genius' they'll call him. (They're not clever enough for anything else.) Sherlock's mouth closes. It's not a burden their little man should carry. He falls back, into the shadows of the corridor and Molly rushes towards her son, falls to her knees and hugs him tight. Noah clings to her as she stands. Entering the bedroom, she closes the door behind her and she sits on his bed. His legs curl up to his chest and his fists become tight little balls, clinging to the material of her shirt.

"There were spiders," Noah burbled, sniffing. "Spiders and they – they were crawling up my legs…"

He flinches, curling up tighter against himself. She rubs his back.

"It's alright. You'll be okay. Let's just get rid of those spiders. No need for them to be there." She mimes opening a trapdoor in the midst of Noah's curls and she blows against his scalp. He lets go a laugh, shaking his head and ruffling his curls.

"There," she says brightly. "All better."

She sings to him. A short lullaby she remembers from when she was a child, a story sung to her by her mother. Her voice had been like a needle and thread, weaving the story of a woman with golden hair who sang so sweetly blackbirds would grow silent at her sound. Her voice is not as rounded as her mother's, not as practiced, but Noah grows sleepy all the same. She tucks him into his bed and he stares up at her, eyes lidded and mouth parted. Tomorrow, he'll wake up to a world which hates his father.

She can't let him believe them.

"Little man…" she whispers. His eyes open.

"Mum?"

"Your father's a brave man. A brave and clever man. You know that. Don't you?"

Noah nods, eyes closing. His reply is a mumble, words as easy as breathing. "Yes Mum."

She kisses his forehead and leaves. Outside Noah's bedroom, Sherlock steps forward. His face is still, the fear and anxiety gone. Calm. His eyes narrow a little, the space between his brows creasing.

"Thank you," he murmurs finally. She turns as he walks past her and begins to descend the stairs. Leaning against the stair's rail, she whispers his name. He stops and cranes his neck to look at her, his gloved hand pausing on the balustrade.

"Mycroft?" One name, with a million questions and meanings. Sherlock's reply is a rueful smile, and he departs. After a moment, her fingers let free of the stair's rail and she moves back. The door to her bedroom opens with a soft click and she steps inside. The bed is unmade, the trinkets (her old teddy bear, books, photographs) in their rightful places on shelves and in bookcases. Her clothes are tucked away in the wardrobe.

Her bedroom window overlooks the street. In the early hours when she can't sleep, she curls up on the windowsill with a pillow tucked behind her back in order to watch the world rise. She watches the vivid orange of the street lamps fade into a monotonous grey, watches the milkman's van make its way down the street with a clatter and a wheeze, watches commuters in black and grey suits with colourful ties leave their houses with a suitcase in one hand and a piece of a rushed breakfast in the other. She witnesses the sky turn from inky black to blue and sees the stars fade.

Tonight, she watches a dead man walk down the pavement's path and open the door of a black saloon car which has its engine running and its headlights off. It melts into the late night like liquid. She watches him pause. He looks over his shoulder towards the house. She shrinks back, burrows into the shadows. She can feel her breath form a cloud against the glass. (He doesn't see her.) He climbs inside the car. The door shuts behind him, and the car pulls away.

The next day, Noah comes out from his school building crying because the kids have kept saying Sherlock's a fake. Noah's so quiet at school. He daren't speak up, so they don't know. How personal their gossip is, how hard it hits him. So she drops to her knees by the school gates, cuddles him close and rocks him, comforting him and calming him. Make it back, she prays. Please, please make it back.

2012

Noah Hooper has been on this planet for five years and three days. (Snow had coincided with Noah's birthday, a short flurry in Paris.) Winter is inching away, eroding into grey slush and patches of black ice. Noah is five now, and he struggles to know where the time has gone. Christmas lights form a roof over the street, pale blues and golds that children crane their necks to stare at and parents point out.

She does that now, crouched down behind him. One arm is around his shoulders, holding him and her right hand is pointed skywards. In the crowd, he cannot hear her but he can see her mouth move. He can see her smile as Noah stares open-mouthed at the lights, awed as they flash and shine above him. The lights illuminate both of them in a cloak of white, the blue and the gold melding together. Noah's gloves are red, knitted, a white pattern of a reindeer's face on them. The tip of his nose is pink, like his mother's. She wears a white bobble hat, the wool thick and tightly woven.

He's wearing a cheap leather coat, a five o'clock shadow and longer hair and brown contact lenses. His gloves are green and frayed; an item he managed to negotiate off the hands of one of his homeless network. He had to sacrifice his scarf in exchange. He's hidden in some corner of a café, the window his only barrier to them. One of Mycroft's minions should be here soon, passing on a message on behalf of their boss because heaven forbid Mycroft do any work.

It strikes him that to anyone else, she's another mother showing her child the Christmas lights that hang above Regent Street. He's only able to see her like this, to see the both of them, because of the decision she made. She could've dismissed him outright; could've told him to get someone else. Just like she could've got rid of the boy she now holds in her arms. But she isn't him. She made a decision that night that both risked her career and proved what he had (has) always known.

Molly Hooper is a far better human than he'll ever be.

Behind her, the door to a shop opens. Noah turns as she does, and they greet the man coming towards them. Noah chatters at him; she presses a kiss to his cheek. The man grins widely. His hair is curly, his face long and his hand slips into Molly's with ease. Molly asks Noah if he's ready to go home, and the three of them head down the street.

Sherlock watches them until the crowd thickens and he can't see them anymore.

2013

You available for dinner tonight? x – Tom

The text comes as she's finished her shift, which is exactly like Tom. He never calls or texts while she's working and apologises profusely if he happens to. He's kind and considerate and it makes her remember why she's with him. Now though, reading that text only makes her swallow thickly. She types out her reply, but her thumb hesitates. She isn't naïve. She's intelligent, she's cunning. She can see through a seemingly innocent text.

Should be. 7pm good for you? – Mx

Great. I'll book the restaurant x – Tom

Tucking the phone into her trouser pocket, she moves down the corridor, rubbing at her neck. Tom's text still on her mind, she doesn't take a second glance around the locker room as she enters.

She takes a second look in her mirror though and jumps, turning on her heel. Her heart skips a beat when her eyes fall on him. Her hand falls on her locker door, thumb pressing against the sharp metal corner. Her heart hammers. She can barely get her greeting out.

"You're – you're alive then," she says and she gives a shrug of a shoulder, as if the last two years mean nothing with the fact of him standing there. A teasing smile comes onto his lips at her words. She lets out a breath. "Noah will be pleased."

She's wrong. Noah screams. As she stands in the doorway, he yells and he shouts and he storms. A little hurricane in the centre of the living room.

"You didn't tell me!" he repeats, over and over, stomping around and around in circles with his teddy bear wrapped in his arms. Her eyes swim with tears.

"Noah—"

"YOU DIDN'T TELL ME!" It's an almost inhuman screech that echoes against her eardrums. Her expression hardens. She almost wants to slap herself. She's let him get caught up in hurt and fear and confusion and now his cheeks are stained with tears and his cheeks are burned red.

"Enough, Noah," she says sternly. He shakes his head, fervent.

"NO! You lied!"

The truth of his statement is like a knife.

"Enough," she repeats. He stamps his feet again and drops his teddy and scrambles towards the sofa. He bunches himself up in the furthest corner he can. Fingers sink into his curls and he screams that she's a bad mum, that he hates her. Calmly, she picks up the teddy bear and walks towards the sofa.

"Go away!" Noah snaps. She sits down. Tucks the teddy bear against his side. He sniffs, wipes his nose and shakes his head again.

"You lied, Mummy," he mumbles petulantly.

"I did. I had to."

"No you didn't!" He's defiant to all her words, this tight ball of anger that has his forehead pressed to his knees and his eyes squeezed shut and his fists curled. (It's a world away from telling him about Tom; then he'd been quiet, with only one tentative question.)

"Yes I did."

"No you didn't." He says it with such purpose, such determination that it's like he's a king and she's a repentant traitor brought before him. She reaches forward and wraps her arms around his waist. That's akin to setting off a bomb. He screams in her ear for him to let her go and slaps at her hands and kicks out but she does what her mother did whenever Ryan screamed as a little boy. She holds him, trapping his arms and his legs in the tightest hug she can manage. He still screams, for a bit. She rocks him and holds him. His yells finally trickle down into hiccupping tears.

"You remember the bad man on the telly? The one Mummy was so scared of? That was Moriarty. James Moriarty." She breathes before she continues. It takes a lot to keep her voice even. "Your dad got in trouble with him. Moriarty wanted him dead. And he wouldn't stop. Not at all. But your dad found a way, with mine and Uncle Mycroft's help. If he – died, and stayed dead, he could – chase Moriarty down. Stop him from hurting anyone else."

She combs her fingers through Noah's hair and stares at this hurt little man. This time, her voice breaks.

"To stop him from hurting you." She presses her cheek to the top of Noah's head and closes her eyes. Silence fills the room. Up until his tiny voice breaks through. A shallow crack in the surface.

"I wouldn't have told anyone."

She holds him tighter. She can see him again, pink and squirming and wrapped in a thick blue blanket in her arms. Her hearts swells. "I know. I really do, little man, I do. But we couldn't take the risk."

Noah gnaws on his bottom lip and finally falls into her hug. She turns him towards her and rubs his back. He snuggles against her chest. "Sorry. For hitting you."

She rubs his arms, letting out a singular and heavy sigh. "Sorry for not telling you."

Above them, they hear a tentative tap on the wall. Green-blue eyes peep round. Molly lets Noah run to his father. Sherlock Holmes runs forward and grabs his son. He swings him skyward and cuddles him close. He stands there for a while in the middle of the living room, holding Noah in his arms.

"I promise that I," he speaks so softly and tucks Noah close against his hip, looking straight at his son, "will always protect you."

Noah hugs his father around the neck. In her pocket, Molly's mobile beeps. Tom's name flashes out at her when she checks it.

Restaurant booked for half 7. Pick you up? X

Sure, she types out. Her eyes flick up briefly towards Sherlock who gently sets Noah back down on the ground. Together, the two of them begin to tidy up the living room. She swallows. Noah will be asleep by then.

The text makes its way into the ether. From that instant, a feeling creeps inside her. Vines that twine and twist into her stomach. Hollow and deep and the feeling echoes.

It doesn't stop her saying yes when she finds the ring at the bottom of her champagne glass and Tom trips over his words while asking the question. It's white gold, a small diamond in the centre and more diamonds stretched across the top. Modest, understated with a flash of magnificence. Just like the man she's going to marry. He asks her if it fits well. Twisting it around her finger, she gives a small smile and says yes for a second time that evening.

"Oh. Congratulations, by the way." They've spent the whole day together. The first half they'd spent in the warm huddled in 221b, breaking up marriages and exposing evil stepfathers for who they really were. A woman had crumpled into tears over her lost relationship and he'd looked at her with a withering look. The look he wears whenever John goes on about sentiment too much. She hadn't managed to return it. All she managed to do was look at him and feel her heart jolt and realise how heavy her engagement ring was. Then they'd ventured out into the winter, winds whipping and making his scarf flutter out from his coat and against his face. She'd struggled to decide what was funnier. Seeing the scarf whack the consulting detective fully on the nose, or seeing the unflappable consulting detective huff and try to tuck the offending scarf back into his coat. When they'd climbed into her car, him comically too tall for an old Beetle, he'd complained it was just as cold inside her car as outside. She'd switched on the heater for him, though she admitted she was perfectly warm.

But she feels cold now when she looks down and sees her engagement ring on her finger. Soon it'll be replaced by something thicker, plain and silver. Tom's been looking at wedding rings online. He's sent her a few links to look at. He's so eager to be Married, with a capital 'M'. He wants the cosy life, the suburban life with a house that has a leafy pathway and a wooden gate. He wants kids, a whole army of them. He must think they sprout out of the ground, all blonde-haired and gurgling sweetly. He hasn't been there. He hasn't known how emotions are both everything and nothing when your baby is given to you. You know you feel all of it (fear, love, terror, relief, excitement, protection) when that little bundle of blankets is in your arms but none of it registers. You're too busy staring at your little person, the human who has been your constant companion for nine months. The human who's been the cause of all your trips to the loo, the fault of why you can't remember things properly, the reason why your hormones have been up and down in an instant.

"He's not from work." He's not. He's an accountant. She met him during one of Meena's New Year dos in 2011, and they'd spent the whole night talking. He likes crime shows, and was more than politely fascinated by her job and didn't wince whenever she got into the gory details. Towards midnight they'd walked outside of the flat to Meena's balcony, with muffled 80s music behind them. The night was overcast, with no room for stars. Their kiss had been the normal kind of kiss. A meeting of mouths layered with small talk and hesitant words.

Sherlock smiles. He's just told her she's the one who matters (he didn't need to, she's known how much she matters to him since he came to her that night in the lab and left the boy on the beach in tatters behind him) and all she can come up with is what sounds like an excuse.

"We met through friends, the old-fashioned way. He's nice. We… he's got a dog." Partly the reason why Noah likes visiting him so much. He loves Tom's old dog. He calls it Jack. It's real name is Jackson, after Michael Jackson. Apparently Tom's dad is a big fan. "We – we go to the pub on weekends. And he… I've met his mum and dad – and his friends. And all his family. I've no idea why I'm telling you this."

She knows exactly why. It's the proper life she's got going on with Tom and maybe if she doesn't look at Sherlock, he won't tell her exactly what she needs to hear.

"I hope you'll be very happy, Molly Hooper." (He always knows what she wants.) "You deserve it. After all, not all the men you fall for can turn out to be sociopaths."

His idea of a joke. She might as well play along.

"No?"

"No."

Bit less of a joke now. It's just a statement. A nebulous thing without purpose or reason. It hangs between them in the silence.

He steps forward. She almost moves. Almost steps away and tells him goodbye and that if he can, he should come and see Noah this week. Not on Bonfire Night though; she's taking Noah out to see the fireworks at Wimbledon Park as a treat. Tom might tag along if he can get the time off work.

Sherlock's smile widens. His lips kiss her cheek. Somewhere, a long time ago, she read something about kisses. Their meanings. A kiss on the hand: admiration, tenderness. Perhaps a desire for love. A kiss on the cheek: affection, support. Complicity.

The last time he kissed her on the cheek, it was to save face. To apologise for throwing her kindness back in her face. This kiss is not an apology. It's something she feels, that she follows, her cheek turning towards his mouth just a little as he draws away. It joins them. Perhaps they'll get caught in some accidental embrace that happens in romantic comedies and she can throw her engagement ring off and fall into his arms.

A fanciful movie-like dream that she's too kind and he's too noble to ever act on. He walks off down the hallway and she watches him go. A dream it may be, but it proves one thing.

"Maybe it's just my type." Another attempt at a joke, but he doesn't hear.

Outside, it's snowing. She pulls on her gloves. The traffic trickles past the house, a slow concerto of horns and revving engines the soundtrack. Her legs ache to follow the figure in the distance. Instead, she walks a little way up the pavement and round a corner into a small street. Her car (he'd driven them over here, and she had wondered idly why he was being so nice) is parked neatly away from the others, pointing towards the junction and the slow moving traffic. She gets inside, shuts the door and wipes her eyes. Clearing her throat, she starts the car and disappears into the traffic.

On the morning of Bonfire Night, the doorbell rings. Molly wakes, blearily. The doorbell rings again. She stumbles out of her bed (Tom groans and nicks a bit more of the duvet) and hurries down the stairs. She can't help but yelp when she opens the door.

Violet beams at her. Her coat collar is turned up and she holds her handbag with both hands in front of her. Michael stands just behind her, wearing his green farmer's jacket and a fresh checked shirt. Molly is all the more aware of her pyjama shorts with cartoons on them, of her white string vest and her tangled hair.

"Hello dear. We've just been to see Sherlock."

She hurriedly pulls her fingers through her hair. "Oh, um – for Fireworks Night?"

"No, no, just popping in," Violet answers, bustling inside. Michael follows, directing a small apologetic nod towards Molly. His wife is a wonderful woman but definitely dominating.

"He seemed rather distracted," Violet continues. "Especially when John arrived. I thought John knew about his scheme, but from looking at his face – apparently not."

"Definitely not, I'd say," Michael chips in and Violet laughs.

"True. I'm glad that's all sorted out now though. It was horrid what they said in the papers about him."

"Molly! No's still asleep, so I thought we could have some breakfast in bed, you know—" The words trail off into silence. Instead of sleeping in her room, the elephant in the room stands on the first floor landing with one hand frozen against his tangled hair. His other rises up in a stiff wave. Molly swallows.

"Tom," he says. "Tom Jones. I – uh – don't sing."

"Violet Holmes. And don't worry, I don't expect you to," Violet says with polite aplomb. "Molly dear, shall we wait in the living room?"

"Um, yes," Molly answers, sighing with relief. "I'll bring some tea in soon."

"That'd be lovely." Violet glances back to the first floor landing as she and Michael head into the living room. "Nice to meet you – Tom."

Tom's hand only falls out of his hair when they're both in the living room and out of view.

"Wow. Awkward first meeting." He jogs down the rest of the steps and kisses her on the forehead. "Hope I wasn't – you know – too embarrassing."

"You were fine," she reassures him and she begins to head into the kitchen.

"I didn't know your mum had remarried."

He's not a deer caught in the headlights; he's a new-born foal tripping and stumbling into new situations without pause or thought. She crosses the threshold into the kitchen and begins making four cups of tea. Tom grins at her use of his mug.

"She didn't remarry. My mum, I mean," she adds hastily, flicking the kettle switch down with her thumb. The kettle bubbles away in front of her and the water glows neon blue.

"That's not—" Tom starts, hesitant to bring it up.

"No."

"So who—"

"Noah's grandparents."

Tom's smile sinks into a frown. "She said – her name's Holmes."

"Mm-hm." She folds her arms and leans against the worktop, one ankle crossed over the other. In the living room, there's a tactical quiet. The low burble of Michael's voice breaks it. Molly avoids looking at Tom. She looks out of the French doors. The sunlight warms her face. It's winter sun, and autumn leaves scatter on the yellow stone of the patio, pulled along by the wind. She wishes she were one of those leaves. Floating, listless. Without purpose. She lets her hands fall back down to her sides.

Tom stumbles back. It'd have been better if she'd slapped him. "So that Sherlock bloke – is Noah's dad?"

"Yep." She pops her 'p' and clenches her fists. Nervous habits. "I couldn't tell you."

"Wow… um… yeah, just. Wow." Tom laughs but the sound is faint and non-committal. It slips from his mouth as soon as it appeared. He runs his thumb and index finger over his lips in thought. His other hand rests against the edge of the worktop. "I guess – I should've figured it out sooner."

"Not even John knows." She confesses the fact in a heartbeat. To cheer him up, to let him know. He's not the only person she's fooled. "Nor Mary."

"You planning on telling them?"

"I don't know. When the time is right, maybe. It's—" she breathes through her nose, "complicated."

"We'll be okay though, right? I mean, it's not that big a thing. After all, we've got that cottage in Cornwall to look forward to." A pre-Christmas holiday, a treat. The three of them on the beach and feeling the winter air. It was Tom's suggestion, one night in bed a few weeks back. At the time it had felt like the best idea in the world.

He stares at her, open and honest and sweet. And she knows, deep in her gut, that it's a wasted look.

2014

Tom always understands. He understands when he sees Sherlock at the door, ready to see his son. He understands when Noah grabs her hand and Sherlock's hand when they're walking and asks to be swung higher and higher. He understands the pain of having to leave Noah behind when they go to the wedding. He never fights her, never disobeys her. Never trips up. He wouldn't dream of it. They'll have all the time in the world for bickering when they're married, he jokes. (He wants the honeymoon to be in Bora Bora.)

So when she feels overwhelmed by the people and the buzz and the business of a wedding and tells him she needs to take five, he promises to save her a seat when they all sit down to dinner. She breaks out of the reception room by squeezing past a rotund uncle and a few work friends. She impulsively turns left as she passes the doors. The path she heads down is rocky, unlevelled. It leads her towards a grassy area, large and square, surrounded by clipped hedges. Statues stand guard at each corner of the area's square shape. Molly wanders towards one. It's a stone statue, the form of it a young woman. Fabric is draped over her, allowing peeks of thigh and chest. She carries a harp and her lips are parted. Her hair is curled, scooped up into a bun, stone tendrils still flowing. Her body is twisted, contorted so that her beauty is clear from any angle. All of it an appreciation of the human form. Beside the statue, there's placed a bench wooden and pale in the summer sunlight. She still shivers, even though it's warm. Her heels sink slightly into the grass as she sits. She stretches her dress over her knees. Yellow. She thought it would fit, it being a spring wedding. Or a summer wedding. She's heard people refer to it as both. It's on the cusp, is what it is. John and Mary met on the cusp of spring anyway (they flirted outrageously with each other, Mary had claimed, from the moment he stepped into the doctor's office), so it suits them. Molly sits forward and she breathes. The scent of freshly cut grass invades her nose and sharpens her mind.

A rustle, coupled with familiar footsteps, makes her look up. Sherlock blinks when he steps into the garden area and sees her. She nods towards the flash cards in his hands.

"Rehearsal?"

"Just quickly," he replies. He approaches the bench and sits down beside her. He reads the flash cards, his mouth miming the words. As if he wants to get every piece of it right. In the morning suit, with a white rose pinned to the lapel of his jacket and his shoes polished and his trousers pressed, he looks so young.

"Can I – have a look?" She feels comfortable enough to ask. They've had a good few months lately, him popping into the lab and asking her favours as before. Neither of them ever make mention of her upcoming nuptials.

"No." His mouth twists into a smile. "Rather ruins the surprise, don't you think?"

"Obviously," she says, rolling her eyes. He pauses.

"That wasn't an impression of me, was it?"

She shrugs. "Could've been. Known you for long enough. Am I in there? In the speech?"

"Mentioned. Stag night," he clarifies. 'Mentioned'. She knows him well enough to know that it won't be a detailed mention. (Molleeeeeee, his voice had slurred at her at 3 in the morning, crackling and muffled, measurements… wrong! He'd been insistent on the last word, repeating it a further five times before she'd managed to tell him to go to bed.) Sherlock rubs his thumb against his knee. It's a new habit. Before, he would bite at his lip or mutter. He would show it. Now though, now he's so contained. He jitters and jerks, sharp movements accompanying short words.

"Noah—"

"With Meena," she answers. Her voice—it's firmer than she wants to be. "He wanted to come."

"Right." He clears his throat and turns his head, looking at her. He swallows. "I won't be able to visit him. Not for a while."

She thinks back to a darker space. A corridor expanding around them with him looking up at her, her looking down, and his feet on the stairs. Eyes hollow in the dark. She brushes her hair from her face. "Mycroft?"

"Something like that," he mutters. He turns his attention back to the flash cards. His expression is sombre, drawn. "Tell him I'm sorry."

"Sherlock?" John's searching call breaks them apart, makes him clear his throat and her touch at her bow. He brushes himself down, stands. John breaks through the clearing. He doesn't question her presence. Ever since he met her, he's never questioned it. If she had her son with her, and if Noah smiled at him in his way, would he see it? Would he (they) all stop thinking of her as poor Molly Hooper, ignored so by Sherlock Holmes? Because she knows that she is so much more than that.

The sombre, quiet nature flees from Sherlock as he stands.

"Food's being served," John says. His eyes, though they travel briefly to Molly, fall on the flash cards in Sherlock's hands. His eyebrows arch. "Some, um, last minute adjustments?"

"Just a rehearsal." Sherlock sighs and buttons up his jacket. The mask has slipped so easily into place. He brushes past John and heads down the path.

"Huh. Don't know what's got him going." His wedding ring flashes in the sunlight and he's got a grin he can't quite get rid of. She returns it, warm and congratulatory.

"That's Sherlock for you," she remarks and John laughs.

"It'll be a long while before anyone figures him out. Oh, um, forgot to ask – you and Tom?"

She tells John that they're doing okay but behind John's grin he wears a look she's seen on Mary, on Lestrade; on Mrs Hudson. For a split second, she'd seen it on Sherlock. It's a look that ranges from questioning to aghast. She wants to tell them that yes, of course she sees it, she's not an idiot and she didn't go with him because of his appearance. (Without the coat and the scarf, he doesn't actually look much like Sherlock anyway.) She's gone with him—she goes with him—because he's safe, he's sweet. He bumbles along, happy and easy going. He's everything she should want, should desire.

Later on, when she's back in the reception hall and disco music is playing, she sees Sherlock silently slip out of the hall and walk away. She desires nothing more than to run out after him.

Instead, she takes the logical path. She stays where she is, and nods when a tipsy Mrs Hudson says to her "he's a nice young man, isn't he? Your Tom. Nice, nice young man." Then she goes home and the next morning tells Noah his dad won't be seeing him for a while. There's no tantrum, no tears. Just a plain expression and a shrug. A child's acceptance, freely given.

She loves her little man all the more.

Thwack. The lab is white around her, and he's a ragged lump leaning against the work station with his eyes glazed over and his mouth turned down. Thwack. This was why he didn't want to see Noah. Maybe he was right. Maybe Noah wouldn't have been so accepting if he'd known his father was going to risk his life again. He's wearing that same stupid face, the one he wore when she was a university graduate and he was a lost cause. Thwack.

"How dare you throw away the beautiful gifts you were born with? And how dare you betray the love of your friends?" Noah's name and the fact of his existence lies on the tip of her tongue. She's better than him though. She possesses more sense. "Say you're sorry."

The empty features twist into a snarl. His fingers curve around his jaw, showing off how easily he can wipe away the marks of a mortal like her.

"Sorry your engagement's over – though I'm fairly grateful for the lack of a ring."

He wants the comment to strike a hit, but bad decisions and experience have built up armour around her. (That's one gift her brother left her with.) His words don't even create a dent.

"Stop it," she hisses. It's a miracle she doesn't slap him again. His mother would. "Just stop it."

John storms forward before she can say anything more. For that, she's glad. "If you were anywhere near this kind of thing again, you could have called. You could have talked to me."

Molly swallows a scoff. He's managed to hide it for a year before. A month is child's play.

"Please do relax. This is all for a case."

She zones out. Excuses, it's all nothing but excuses. John shakes his head, tries to walk away but he's soon pulled back in. He's younger than she is at this, greener. He doesn't know how to deflect. The consequence of being a warrior, always looking for another battle to fight. No wonder they're such friends.

Then Sherlock receives a text and he's bouncing, bounding off into the land of case work where there aren't any consequences to his actions and he's the grand hero.

"Ah! Finally."

"Finally what?"

John blinks at her talking.

"Good news?" pipes up some druggie who calls himself Bill or Wiggins or both. Mary and John dragged him into the lab along with Sherlock.

"Oh excellent news, the best. There's every chance that my drug habit might hit the newspapers. The game is on." Moving towards the door, he throws it open. He glances back. His gaze skips over her. "Excuse me – for a second."

Her rage reaches boiling point, and the pot spills over into the form of her running out of the lab after him. The lab door slams in her wake, and there's a fragment of John's voice that follows, telling her he isn't worth it. The corridor is empty and grey, fluorescent light making him pale. His phone is nowhere to be seen. Instead, he stands away from the lab (out of earshot), leaning against the wall.

He gives a heavy sigh. A far cry from the bravado in the lab.

"Noah won't be implicated." His attention is fixed on the ceiling, eyes shifting and tracing the pattern of the uniform square tiles. "If you were worried, which you are. You wouldn't have run out after me otherwise."

She ignores the latter half of his comment. She's not here for barbs or bickering. "He won't be implicated in what? The story of your drug habit?"

"In the case." He bites on the last word, irritable now. She tucks her hands against her hips and flicks her tongue against her cheek.

"How can you be sure?" She's cold, unforgiving and every bone in her body wants to continue raging at him like she did in the lab, but— well. Parenthood changes one. She just has to look in his eyes to see that.

"I've made sure."

She shakes her head. "That's not good enough." She moves towards him, sinking her hands into her coat pockets. "First, you tell me you won't be able to see Noah. Second, John drags you in here and you're – you're—" The final word sticks in her throat.

He sighs again. "I know."

"No, you don't. You think you do – and there's a big difference between the two." His eyes are closing; he's barely listening to her. A distance behind them the door to the lab opens. John hurries down the corridor.

"Mary's taking Bill back to his parents. Sherlock, we're going back to Baker Street."

"Oh good," Sherlock says drily. He peels himself away from the corridor wall. "Peace and quiet at last."

His eyes fall on hers for the briefest of moments. She backs away. She heads back into the lab. He can come to her when he's less focused on getting high.

Noah likes it when his uncle visits him. The visits are few and far between but he brings gifts from abroad and funny veiled comments about the people he meets with. (If Noah ever realises the identities of the figureheads behind his uncle's comments, he'll become an international security risk.) Today the visit is for her and he's all rock and ice. Coolly stood in the entrance hallway, he is stoic and his attention is fixed on a framed painting. It's one Noah painted when he was a toddler and still in nursery. A butterfly, it is bright blue, smudged green circles inside the lopsided wings. Its antenna—drawn on in purple crayon—compromises of two long lines, set into what resembles a drooped 'v'.

"My brother is sorry, by the way."

The government official, the man who fixes elections, reduced to a messenger for his little brother. She smiles wryly. Not for the first time.

"Good for him." She turns on her heels and walks into the living room. She curls up on the sofa. Noah is at school and changing around of shifts has given her the blessing of a day off, so she's in her best ragged jumper and her best leggings. Entering the living room, Mycroft adjusts the hem of his jacket. A crisp designer suit, it's more than his uniform. It's his version of battle armour. She'd heard once that someone can take on the world if they're dressed well.

"When was the last time you talked to my brother?"

"Last week. When he turned up high at St. Bart's," she answers. She'd be exact (eight days, it's been eight days since she saw his face blank and hollow) but she'll have to deal with Mycroft's ugly look of triumph if she is.

"Hm." Mycroft tucks one hand into his trouser pocket, his other wrapped around the top of his umbrella. He surveys her for a moment, lucid superiority in his stare. He glances over the toys abandoned on the living room floor that she hasn't bothered to pick up yet. He breathes slightly through his nose and rocks briefly back onto his heels. His look swings back up to her, his chin tilting upwards. "He's been shot."

Such a bombshell hits against her armour with the force of a thunderstorm. Numbness ebbs and flows through her body and the tips of her fingers tingle. The hairs on the back of her head stand on end.

"When?" she asks. Her voice shakes. She bites on her bottom lip.

"The same day as your schooling of him. Consciousness was regained the day after he went into hospital."

She finds herself shooting to her feet. She's angry at him, that can't just be brushed away with one bombshell, but she's furious at Mycroft. "He's been in hospital for a week? And you only think to tell me now?"

"I would've told you earlier," Mycroft's voice is a sea of calm compared to her tornado. "But my brother gave the impression—"

"I don't give a damn what impression he made!" she snaps. She doesn't give a damn when she has thoughts flashing by her of him dying and of having to tell Noah that his father's gone, for real this time. Her rage bubbles against the pit of her stomach. "He was in danger, you should have told me!"

Mycroft holds his ground. "Would you have visited him? If you had been told? From what my brother's – insinuated, sounds as if you would be quite reluctant."

She mellows, quietens. "So he told you about that."

"Mm-hm." Mycroft fixes her with a deeper stare. On his mouth, there's almost a smile. "Mummy would extremely proud of you for that, Molly. Heaven knows someone needs to talk sense into my brother."

She swallows the smile coming to her lips. "Didn't stop him though, did it? He still got shot."

"Dragon slayers are stubborn creatures, Miss Hooper." Miss Hooper. So he's no longer a brother telling the mother of his nephew some bad news. Now he's Mycroft Holmes, puppet master of the government and fixer of elections. The cavalry.

"Mycroft—" She digs her toes into the plush carpet.

"Yes?"

"Is John still there? At the hospital?" She adds more names in her look. Lestrade, Mary, Mrs Hudson. Anyone who could find out the secret she's been holding onto ever since December 2007.

"No," Mycroft replies with ease. He fishes his mobile from an inside pocket of his jacket. "I managed to convince him to go home before I came here. I'll send a car. You'll get full access. No questions asked."

She runs her tongue over her teeth and pulls at the sleeves of her jumper. All of a sudden, it's too cold in the warm room.

The hospital is white and glossy with clean lines, high arches and higher ceilings. Noah's trainers squeak against the grey tiled floor. Her footsteps are hurried, rushing them both along. Mycroft was right as to the 'no questions asked'. There's a few double glances taken as she hurries past with Noah tripping along behind, but she's not been in the papers like John or Lestrade have. It's only as they get closer to Sherlock's room that the double glances take place. In the reception, in the hallways, they were just another worried woman with a child wanting to see a patient. She throws up the hood of her coat and keeps her head down as she ushers Noah into the private room.

Sherlock is sat up in the bed, his arms by his side, his bare torso covered by the sheets and blankets. Noah's features fall, confusion sinking in. He shuffles forward. Newspapers are strewn on the lower end of the bed, the remains of another visitor. Molly briefly recognises the girl on the front, wearing a deerstalker. 'He made me wear the hat', the sub-headline cries. The headline itself is even more obvious. 7 Times in Baker Street. She scoops them up before Noah can see them.

"Dad?" Noah asks softly.

Sherlock's eyes flutter open as she moves around the room. The lines of light against his face disappear as she closes the blinds. She stops and turns to look back at the bed. A rotary fan whirs on a cabinet beside the bed, each rotation slow and methodical. Sherlock blinks and his vision focuses on Noah. His mouth splits into a grin. His right hand slides down against the blanket, through a gap in the bed's rail and he reaches out towards his son.

"Noah."

"Mycroft told us the news," she blurts out, tugging back the hood of her coat. She feels the need to explain, to let him know: just because she is here does not mean forgiveness. Sherlock lifts his gaze.

"Did he now?" Sherlock responds, raising an eyebrow. "He's—"

"A rubbish big brother. I know. You've told me before." She keeps her tone light. She's not having Noah divide his attention. Not again.

"Where did you get shot?" Noah's question is innocently asked. Sherlock winces as he shifts, pulling himself up.

"Stomach," he answers. "Or chest. It's somewhere between. It'll take a few months to properly heal."

"Wow!" Noah's always seen his dad as a hero. After all, his first contact with him came in the form of a midnight visit and stories. Sherlock chuckles and bends down a little. With his index finger, he presses lightly on Noah's nose.

"You're easily impressed," he says. Noah laughs brightly but has no retort.

"Noah—" Molly presses her hands against her little man's shoulders and crouches down. Noah twists his head a little to the right to look at her.

"Mum."

"I've got to talk to your dad. Can you wait outside?"

"Yes Mum," he answers, obedient to the letter. "But be gentle – Dad has got shot."

She can't help herself from clutching his cheeks with her palms and smothering his face with kisses. Noah whines and calls for her to leave him alone. He's getting to the age where it's not cool anymore to have your mum douse you with affection. (Above her, she hears Sherlock chuckle again.) Making a show of releasing Noah from her grip she stands and pats Noah on the back, sending him out of the room, and the moment fades into something awkward and stilted.

She pulls up a chair to beside his bed and sits. Sherlock nods towards one of the machines he's hooked up to.

"Is morphine allowed?"

"Don't joke." She speaks firmly, rashly and he nods. He knows the ways she shows she's afraid. He's known them since forever. Their history makes them open books.

"I wasn't."

"Yes you were."

"A bit," he admits. A slight triumph on her part. She smooths her palms against her thighs, fiddles with the buttons on her shirt. She'd changed before picking Noah up from nursery, into a loose shirt and her rattiest jeans. Her trainers have holes in them, the laces ruined by Toby's innate need to kill inanimate objects that can't fight back. (If Toby ever encounters a mouse, he'll be lost.)

"You got shot." She says the words that have been rolling around inside her head and her voice wobbles. "You turn up to Bart's high and the same day – you get bloody shot."

"The dangers of my work, Molly."

"Oh shut up." She shoots to her feet, hissing her words. "Just shut up. Noah could've lost you! I could've—"

She bites her lip. Wills to forget that last part.

"But he didn't, did he?" he shoots back. "I'm fine."

"You're in hospital!" she says hotly.

"And they're looking after me." He speaks evenly, shifting against the sheets. "Not well, but they are—"

"This isn't a game." She isn't Noah. She isn't a hurricane, stamping her feet and sulking before crying and apologising. She isn't a child. She speaks with dangerous calm. Quiet thunder, her mother calls it.

Sherlock blinks. She stands over him and he looks at her. Properly looks at her. No deducing, no scanning for clues.

"When you get high, when you get shot—" She pauses. She lowers her head, her hair falling over her face. Her palms press against the white metal rail of the hospital bed. The metal is cold and bites into her skin. None of it is, or has ever been, a game. It's real life, all of it, and he plays with it like Noah plays with Lego. He builds and builds until he gets bored and then he kicks out and lets it all crash towards the ground.

"I'm—" He gulps back the words. Tries again. "Molly, I'm sorry. I am."

She doesn't see him raise his hand but she feels the warmth of his palm against her cheek. She falls into the touch. Her skin tingles as his fingers outline the edge of her jaw. The apology is stilted, hesitant and of few words but that's who he is. A smooth, low apology wouldn't be him. That would be the mask speaking.

"It's not me you have to apologise to." She speaks lowly, and his palm warms with the heat of her voice. She lifts her gaze and her eyebrows tilt upwards. The slightest of smiles finds its way onto his mouth.

"There are many people I have to apologise to, Molly."

She lifts her head and his hand slips from her cheek. She watches him fold his hands over his stomach. "Please don't joke," she whispers.

"I'm not." His gaze suddenly finds some gravity. "Not here. Not this time."

She nods. The roof of her mouth feels dry. "Good."

Letting go of the bed rail, she leaves and opens the door. Noah stands beside it, humming and scuffing the toe of his trainers against the tiled floor. She shuts the door behind her and crouches down. She pokes him quickly at his shoulder and he whips his head round, frowning.

"Ow!" he protests but she doesn't laugh. Instead she tries for a smile.

"Your dad wants to talk to you." She stands and holds out a hand. "C'mon."

Noah takes her hand and they move back inside. Sherlock smiles for his son when he enters and bids him to sit on the chair. Noah obeys, sitting quietly with his hands in his lap and his legs idly swinging. His eyes are bright and welcoming, his curls messy.

"Noah, I'm sorry."

Noah frowns. Settling his hands on the chair, he pushes himself off and approaches his father's bed. He holds onto the handrail and reaches up on tiptoes. Finally, he speaks.

"You shouldn't be sorry." He points towards his father's torso. "The bad man who shot you needs to be sorry."

Sherlock's gaze falls onto where Noah points and he laughs. "Mm. I think they're already sorry, Noah."

Noah tilts his head, narrowing his eyes. "Will you be in hospital long?"

"I doubt it," Sherlock answers evenly. "Your uncle has already prepared arrangements for my – convalescence."

His voice drips with playfully dark dread and Noah does a job of comforting him by patting his father's folded hands.

"That's good. You can see me more then," he says brightly with the glorious self-absorption little boys tend to have, and Sherlock smiles. Molly steps forward and runs her fingers thoughtfully through her son's curls.

"Home time," she announces. Noah groans a sigh but lets her swing him up onto her hip. Soon she's going to have to stop carrying him. On her way out, she sees Sherlock reaching towards the morphine drip and he twists a dial. A reduce of the dosage. His hands press together in a pose that's achingly familiar.

She says nothing.

At first, she thinks it's her mother that's ringing to tell her Noah's alright. She'd asked her mother to come down, spend a few days at the house. She'd picked up the phone to ask as soon as she got home from visiting Sherlock. Sat in the far corner of St. Bart's canteen, she scoops strands of her hair out of her eyes, and picks up her phone. It flashes with the force of another ring, white letters roaring out at her.

Sherlock's voice saying her name when she answers has her sitting bolt upright.

"Sherlock?" She doesn't bother to hide her disbelief. His response is crackled, voice breathless but she just about catches one word. Morphine. It's asked like a question.

"I don't – I don't have any morphine Sherlock." Her sigh is heavy as the penny drops. "You're not in hospital."

"No," he admits and he groans. She hears footsteps. He's struggling somewhere. "Don't try and figure out – where I am Molly. It won't – ah – do you much good."

"It's not doing you much good either! What the hell are you doing?"

"Something that needs to be done. Molly, I need you – to do me a—" He hisses and the pain he's feeling sears through her, white hot and vivid. "A favour. Maybe two."

"What – call an ambulance?"

"Yes. At about quarter past midnight. Could you also ask for them to bring morphine? I'll need it."

She glances at her watch. "It's eleven now."

"Then I've still got time," he says, more to himself than her. "Also, John – or someone, probably Lestrade – is going to come to you, asking about my – boltholes."

"I'll tell them you use the flat," she answers. Protective little white lies she's had stored in her head ever since she moved into the house. Her colleagues still think she lives in London. There'll be a day when she won't need these lies anymore. One day when she'll be laid bare. "When should they be coming?"

"Right about – now, I should think. Thank you, Molly." She hangs up but she remains staring at her phone. Somehow, this is easier. Being one of the outside parties, not having to hang onto secrets but getting whipped up into the intrigue all the same, makes her light-headed. No wonder John Watson is so addicted to it.

Then John comes hurrying into the canteen, with a notebook and a pen. Quickly she slips her phone into her trouser pocket and picks up her coffee. He sees her like that, sipping from her coffee and sitting quietly.

"You won't believe what's happened," he says with a shake of the head. There's a superficial fury in his dark blue eyes. "He's done a runner."

"A runner?" she echoes. She lets the concern biting away at her slip into her voice.

"Yeah. No idea where. We've got a list of his known boltholes but well, uh—" He clears his throat. She blinks. He's finding this awkward. "You know him well enough. Got any idea where he might be?"

"There's my flat."

"Your – your flat?" John's pen stills against his pad.

"Just the spare bedroom." She pauses. Her fingers itch with the feeling of tangled hair underneath her palms, made sticky by dried blood. "Well… my bedroom. We agreed he needs the space."

She sips her coffee. She avoids looking directly at John. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees he's busy looking everywhere but her. He scribbles something in his notebook.

"Um. R-right. Okay. Thanks, Molly – that's helpful." John is out of the canteen like a shot.

Come quarter past midnight, she's at home and by the landline in the kitchen. Noah is happily asleep upstairs and her mother has made a bed for herself on the sofa. (The spare room is too cramped for her tastes.) Molly grabs the phone and dials.

A crisp voice answers. "Emergency. What service do you require?"

"Ambulance, to 221b Baker Street," she says. She swallows. "There's been a shooting. The patient keeps asking for morphine."

The rest of the call is something that passes her by. She picks out something about 10 minutes. A beep tells her they've gone, off to save a life.

She hears her mother call her name from the living room, a questioning call that tells her she heard the call or at least heard her voice. Reluctantly, Molly pads out of the kitchen and into the living room. Her mother jumps at her entering, clutching her chest, and the wedding ring she's still wearing after all these years shines in the dark.

"Christ, Molly, you gave me a heart attack!" She stops, peering at her. "Were you on the phone just now?"

"Yeah. It was, um, Sherlock."

Her mother rolls her eyes. "Asking you on another case, I'll bet."

"Kind of." Another protective white lie; a half-truth. She moves forward and wraps her arms around her mother's shoulders in a hug. Her mother laughs lightly and rubs her back and tells her not to worry. Molly closes her eyes and hopes his trust in her has paid off.

His trust in her lands him in hospital for another month. Flowers crowd his room, like before. On this visit, the sky an odd bright blue against October rain, Molly doesn't bring Noah with her but leaves him with Meena. She brings him a bag of grapes instead. She couldn't think of anything else to get him. Lowering the bed rails, she sits on the edge of the bed. He shifts his feet to the left to make a bit more room for her.

"Thank you for ringing the ambulance," he says into the brief silence, leaning over to the side table to pick up the bag of grapes. He pops one grape into his mouth, soon swallowing. Her mouth twitches with a smile.

"You're welcome." There'd be no need for thanks if he'd stayed put.

He swallows and eats another grape. He chews it thoughtfully. "You're angry."

"I'm not angry," she says, directing a withering look at him. It's true. Midnight phone calls to ambulances are part and parcel of knowing him. Him trusting her to do so is part and parcel of their relationship. "I'm just – how do you think you're going to get better if you keep running off?"

"I'm already getting better," he says. Into his mouth goes another grape. "I'm being discharged tomorrow."

She jerks up, mouth dropping open, and he laughs.

"Mycroft didn't tell you? Yes, tomorrow I'll be in bed and solving cases from my inbox." He rolls his eyes.

"Mycroft isn't your messenger," she says pointedly, sinking back onto the bed and crossing her legs over, tucking her hands underneath her thighs.

"What is he then? My bodyguard?" he asks, and she hears the bitter childish tone that pervades both Holmes brothers whenever they talk about each other.

"Actually, he calls himself your cavalry."

"Of course he would." Sherlock rolls his eyes but she detects the hint of a smile. For a man who builds himself up as a god, the idea of a personal one-man cavalry must be a fun one. She shifts and turns to face him, folding her right leg underneath her left.

"You said Mycroft's prepared arrangements for your recovery?" She traces patterns into the blankets with her index finger.

"Mm. He wants me to go to some recovery centre in Derbyshire." He fully fixes his attention on her. "I told him no."

"Oh." She nods once, twice. She fiddles with the hem of her cardigan. It's patterned with red cherries. She's had it since she first started university and it's as ratty as anything. It's grown as she's grown, the stretch of it fading with each year. A far cry from when she'd first worn it in front of him years ago. It had still been slightly new then. Had still clung in all the right places. "Then you're going to recover at Baker Street. That's good."

He offers out the bag of grapes to her. She picks off two and pops them between her lips, one after the other. Sherlock dumps the bag back onto the side table and lays back, settling his head against the plumped up pillows and closing his eyes. Molly fiddles with the laces of her brogues. A hum fills her head and vibrates on her tongue. She gently sways side to side in time with the rhythm.

"You saw the tabloids." He opens one eye.

Her song ends, and she shrugs. "When I brought Noah to see you."

"Did you believe them?"

"No." Her mouth twists into a teasing smile. "You were never a 7 times a night kind of guy."

He gently knocks her back with his knee. "I certainly don't remember being so."

"I know you must've done something bad to make her do it. So on her behalf—" She reaches forward and pinches his upper arm.

"Ow!" He flinches, laughing. He rubs at his upper arm. "I forgot how lethal those could be."

"Always good to have a reminder," she says, sliding off of the bed. He nods. His fingers are still clasped around his arm. His thumb and fingers pulsate against his skin, massaging the area. She resists a comment – it's obvious to her now, when he's lost in his thoughts. She sits in the low-backed visitor's chair, plastic blue that reminds her of the chairs in primary school, and she leans forward, elbows pressing into the mattress. She rests her chin on top of her folded arms and lifts her eyes up to meet his. His fingers slip away from his arm as he turns his head down towards her. His blue-green eyes narrow.

"We didn't do anything."

"You and Janine."

"Yes. Some heavy flirtation though."

Her choice of revenge makes all the more sense now. It's almost admirable. Janine, it's clear, has a good sense of irony. Molly pushes the chair out from underneath her, standing. Smiling, she shifts herself closer towards Sherlock and bends her head. She kisses him on his temple. The warmth of his skin tingles against her mouth. She hears him breathe, a scrap of a sigh.

"Don't know why you're telling me," she murmurs, drawing away from him. "It's not my business." Her hand sinks, instinctively, into his hair. She plays with the tendrils of his curls. His eyelids flutter shut. She had thought him so young, dressed up in that morning suit, the day of John's wedding. Under the white fluorescent lighting of the hospital, with the autumn sunlight trickling through the blinds, he looks older. He looks as he ought to look. Not chasing the world, but being a part of it. Her voice drops to a whisper. "Didn't even occur to me to feel jealous."

Many white lies have passed her lips since 2007. This is not one of them. Footsteps approaching the room make Sherlock's eyes snap open. His attention zones in on her.

"John," he mutters, eyes sliding towards the door. She steps away from the bed, from Sherlock, just as the door opens. John Watson, bags under his darkened eyes, looks harrowed. Five o'clock shadow covers his chin and jaw. His shirt is crinkled, and his jeans. He's probably slept rarely. If he does so, it's in fits and starts. Molly shares a quick goodbye with Sherlock and John holds the door open for her.

"Molly?"

She turns, tucking back a lock of her hair. "Yeah?"

"How long have you known Sherlock?" He asks the question so that it's inaudible to Sherlock. He shifts his weight, biting at his top lip. "I never, well, I never asked."

"Since we were kids—" she scratches at her temple, gesticulating, "but um, since we were teenagers is more accurate."

John looks stunned for a moment. He glances over at Sherlock. "He – uh – never, never mentioned that."

She can see the puzzle pieces click inside his head. Why she was so angry at his relapse. Why she slapped him.

"No. Don't expect him to." She nearly says it's not important but it is important. She is important. Her little boy, who waits so patiently for her at home, is important. She wipes quickly at her eyes and bids another goodbye. Passing the window, it's through her periphery vision that she catches Sherlock watching her leave.

Once Sherlock leaves hospital the routine settles in. The week, she flits between London and her house. The weekend is for Baker Street. Its clutter is paradise for a child like Noah, who is quick to create his own little adventure playground among all the souvenirs and items collected over the years. In the past, she's seen all of it being built, even given Sherlock a few things to help fill it up a bit more. Sherlock entertains Noah with stories of cases and experiments.

Today, they've spent the whole day with him. He's almost recovered now, and it shows. A few more weeks to go and he can be out of the flat. He can drink in London again. Now though, it's evening. It's quiet and Noah lies curled up on the sofa. He cuddles Sherlock's bee cushion tightly, his thumb tucked between his lips. Her lap is being used as his bed, her shoulder his pillow. The yellow of the streetlamp outside covers their forms. Sherlock's silhouette stands contentedly by the window with his violin tucked under his chin. The last few notes of his song trills from his violin. Noah snuffles sleepily at its ending. Sherlock shuts away his violin into its case and moves around the coffee table. He bends down and kisses the top of Noah's head. It strikes her just how good he's become with Noah. He doesn't let Noah run away with himself but he doesn't restrict or lecture him or tell him how things should be. He indulges his son but doesn't spoil him. She tells him as such.

"I had a good tutor," Sherlock says mildly, sitting at the other end of the sofa. He sinks into the cushions, steepling his fingers together against his mouth. Molly tucks her chin against the top of Noah's head and rubs at his lower back. Her eyes fall towards his chest.

"How are you feeling?" she asks, looking back up at him.

"Fine." A sly grin slides into his features. He settles deeper into the cushions of the sofa until he's almost horizontal. "Doesn't hurt as much as you think."

"Well I'm supposed to worry, aren't I? I'm a doctor."

Against her, Noah snores. Sherlock's grin tilts up at the corners, though he swallows his laughter.

"I've got a cottage booked." She blurts the confession, speaking before she can think. Sherlock frowns, straightens up.

"Up in Cornwall," she continues. "Tom and I – and Noah – were going to spend a couple of days there, before Christmas." She keeps rubbing Noah's back. Keeps her eyes on the skull on top of the fireplace. "Obviously, Tom's not coming along anymore, so – we have a spare bed."

He doesn't move for a long second. "You want me to come along."

"I thought it might be nice. Considering what's happened lately." At best it's an olive branch. Sherlock grows quiet. He sits up and leans forward, steepling his hands back together against his mouth. He draws a vertical line over his Cupid's bow, his silence thoughtful and considering. It picks at her and picks at her until she opens her mouth to withdraw the invitation, to tell him it's not that big of a deal it's fine—

"I'm happy to come."

Three weeks later, the grey of the overcast sky matches the marble blue of the sea and murky waves wash over wet sand. Remnants of shells are buried within that same sand, ready and waiting to catch out bare feet. The ocean wind threads through her long hair; it snatches at strands here and there, tangling them together. She can taste sea salt on her tongue and in her teeth and her mouth waters with the thought of fish and chips. (The two are forever entwined in her mind.) The air is thicker here.

She holds a camera in her hand. One of those old disposable ones with a roll of film tucked inside of the casing. She takes a photograph of the ocean and the cresting waves. Noah's laughter flies high above the sound of the waves and the wind. She looks over to her right and sees them. Noah's army green Wellington boots splash against wet sand and the curls of his hair ruffle in the wind. His cheeks bloom red, his blue and purple scarf flapping out behind him. His coat is flying open, jumper and shirt ruined by smudges of sand.

Sherlock runs after him. The tails of his coat flap out behind him but the smart lined suits are a world away. They're hanging in a wardrobe back in a flat in London. Here he wears jeans and walking boots. His shirts he couldn't quite leave behind. He teases Noah as he's chased, steering himself one way before immediately turning another way. He runs backwards, sideways. Noah claims foul play with each turn. Suddenly Sherlock sprints forwards, grabbing Noah underneath his armpits and heaving him high. Noah wriggles, trying to protest, but he's laughing too much. They're both laughing. It's not a sight she ever thought she'd see.

She positions the camera; peers into the viewer. Through the lens, Sherlock swings Noah around and around in circles. His cheeks are pinked and his smile is wide. Her finger hovers over the button. Sherlock suddenly lets Noah back onto the ground and they both begin to run down the breadth of the beach. When the camera clicks, Noah has turned to wave at her and Sherlock is still running. His back to the camera, coat tails flying. She tucks the camera into her pocket and stands up. She wipes her hands and the knees of her jeans free of sand and runs towards them both.

The card on the windowsill seems a whole world away.

The garden attached to the holiday cottage is sloped at a shallow angle, a small clean square of grass. A half-circular patio is the centrepiece, dark stone its flooring. Tugging on a jumper over her t-shirt and skirt, Molly opens the back door and creeps out onto the patio. The cool breeze brushes at the hem and skims around her shins. Her bare feet press into the dewy grass. She twists the material of the skirt as she sits, and she hugs her knees to her chest to stare over the landscape.

The sunset on the drive back had been a brilliant orange, invading the grey and purple of the overcast day. Indigo blue followed and the sky cleared, leaving only stars. Noah, exhausted by the day, slept the whole way on the journey back. Alone with the constellations and the clusters, she counts them.

"Room for one more?"

She tilts her head back. An upside down Sherlock Holmes invades her vision. She smiles.

"If you like."

He gives no answer but settles down beside her with a sigh. She eyes him. Her cheeks dimple.

"You just made an old man noise."

His brow furrows. She giggles and lies back onto the grass. "Do you not know what an old man noise is?"

"Haven't needed to," he replies, following her lead and lying back. He slips his hands into his jeans pockets. "Old man noises don't come under detective work."

She rolls her eyes. An old excuse, but she'll let him have it. She stretches slightly, a yawn following the action. She settles her hands against her stomach, twiddling her thumbs.

"How about stars?"

"Fascinating," he replies, tone softening. He twists his head, cheek pressing against the grass. His eyes shift, taking her in. "Quite genuinely."

She rolls onto her left side, propping her head up with her arm. "Even though you don't know about the Earth going round the sun?"

"Yes," he says, giving a slow nod. His mouth tilts with a grin. "The two aren't irretrievably linked, Molly. Not even in the same field either."

"Mm, true." She rolls back onto the grass. Clouds have begun to drift through the sky, a dark grey blue hue that rolls over the gleaming white moon. Back in September, there had been a blood moon. A super moon, closer to the Earth than ever before. She'd woken Noah so he'd be able to see it and they'd sat in the garden back home, a blanket swathed over both of them against the cold.

The wind picks up as they lie there and she can feel goosebumps prickling against the skin of her legs. She tugs the sleeves of her jumper up to her palms and breathes hot air against her ice cold fingertips, rubbing her hands together. Dew seeps into her back and her hair. Behind her she hears the muffled sound of the washing machine, cleaning her ruined jeans.

She looks over to him and almost immediately rolls her eyes. His hair flutters against the force of the wind and the collar of his shirt flaps but he doesn't against the cold like she does. He breathes through his nose. His chest rises and falls with the motion. She shifts, rolling onto her left side and propping herself up with her arm. Her other she drapes over her stomach, nails picking at a loose thread. The mood has shifted. It's shifted into something darker, something that sends a shiver up her spine which she has to bite down on her lip to get rid of. They've been here before at a time when Noah was her first priority. He still is. He always will be. After all, there's a certain sacrifice one has to make when they become a parent. Sometimes it feels like she's sacrificed everything while he's sacrificed nothing.

"I am sorry." He turns his head to look at her. His eyes are heavy with not regret, not contrition, not a plea but shame. Not for the first time she wonders what he thinks of, what form his thoughts take. "For getting high. For treating you – and Noah – like another part of the game."

Her instinct kicks in before her heart or her head can interfere. "You haven't."

"I have." It's a loaded reply. "You were right. This isn't a game. It's not psychopaths and blackmailers. You – you are…"

He trails off, lowers his head. Thinking, considering. Trying. He laughs a thin laugh that reeks of helplessness. Of an inability to form the proper words. He raises his head, locking his eyes with her. They're blue in this light, crystal blue.

He shrugs. "You are."

"We're – more than a game?" She knows what he's trying to say, but she has to hear it. She can't have fragments or scraps. Noah can't have bits of a life.

"Yes." The answer is sharp and crisp and clear. He smiles. A true brilliant smile without agenda. He repeats the word in a whisper. "Yes."

Her arm is going numb from supporting her weight. Her fingertips tingle. She's cold. She dives forward and catches his mouth with hers. Her hand cups at his neck, her index and middle finger feeling his nape. His reaction is immediate. One hand draws against the line of her waist, coming to rest at the side of her hip. His other hand moves up into her hair, fingers trailing softly through her tangled curls. This isn't like normal kisses. This isn't the treading of an unfamiliar path. It's not nose to cheek bumps and clashing of teeth. It's not hurried apologies or nervous laughter. This is coming home.

Cold. Molly's smile fades. A speck of cold on her cheek. She breaks from him, feeling her skin.

"What is it?" he asks.

She sits up beside him, frowning. "Nothing, it's – well—"

White flakes are beginning to fall. Each one is as crisp and cold as the last. He sits up and stares at the sight along with her. Snow. In Cornwall.

A laugh bubbles up from her throat. She giggles and presses into him, burying her head into his shoulder. Her body shakes with the force of the sound. It fills the garden, tangles with the distant sounds of the sea.

"There's something I heard about snowflakes," he says, settling his right arm against her back. He draws circles into the damp material of her jumper with his fingers. There's a musing tone to his words. "Once upon a time."

She quietens, her laughter gently fading, but her smile is wide. "And what's that?"

He hesitates. With his left hand he lightly touches at the tip of her nose. His right hand remains at her back, descending to the lower part towards her hip. Molly stares as he draws away his finger. On the tip of his little finger is a small flake, already melting.

"No two snowflakes are the same shape."

"I've heard that too," she replies. "It's in the way they fall to Earth. And the temperature of course. Usually somewhere between zero degrees and below. The crystals that make up the snowflakes transform into six-sided plates. Then needles form – a few degrees lower than zero, that's where you get the fern shapes."

He gives her a knowing look. "You've read up on it."

She grins. "Mm-hm." Gently she takes his hand in hers, folding his little finger over into his palm. His eyes carry a smile she once thought she'd lost. Sherlock moves his right hand up from her hip towards her back and he brings her closer. He kisses her again, the taste of him sweet and brief. Her palm draws over his torso as they kiss. Through the material of his shirt, she can feel them. The ridges, the bumps. They'll fade with time but they'll never truly leave.

"Sorry for slapping you."

Like the beach, she wants to hold onto this memory. Like the snowflake on her nose, memories fade so quickly. They can settle, they can be shared between person to person through the lightest touch but unless you hold on tight to it, it's gone and another one comes, unique to the one before and entirely unable to replicate it. She drops her hand and breaks from him. She stands and holds out a hand. She takes a breath.

"I'm heading upstairs." That's all she says. Through the snow she sees him frown, sees him momentarily tilt his head, a twitch of his mouth. He reaches up and takes her hand. She leads him towards the low yellow glow of the house and into the warmth.

The master bedroom is something they've shared for two nights in a row now, with their backs to each other and hands tucked underneath the pillow with the duvet pulled over both of their shoulders. It's only a medium sized room, fit for a bed and a set of drawers and two bedside tables. The furniture is white washed, cracks and knots revealing its age. The door creaks as it shuts. She switches on one of the bedside lamps. It bathes the room in a low yellow. Snow trickles past the window, reminding her of her dampened jumper and tangled hair. There's a painting hung on the left side wall, a distance from the bedroom door. It's a landscape of the seaside, the sun's summery white light shimmering over the painted shores and blue waves churning. Colourful houses and red sails of fishing boats break the blue.

He moves to stand behind her, his footsteps heavy. She turns towards him just as he comes to a stop. His eyes are searing, no poetic yearning in them now. He wants this, her, and her heart pounds. It pounds and thuds and she aches to have him. She arches up onto her toes and threads her arms around his shoulders. Sea salt and aftershave and grass dew. The scents invade her and she buries her face in the space between his shoulder and neck with a sigh. His arms hold her waist, hands cupping her hips, and he nuzzles her, his nose dragging against the hollow of her cheek. His slow breaths are warming. They make her want to stay like this, holding him and hugging him and simply being. She hasn't been for so long.

Her breath shakes. His lips ghost over her cheek as she draws away from him, her head lifting and turning towards him, seeking him out. Their mouths are centimetres apart and they're dangling above new ground.

Her lips fold in against themselves, thinning. Her arms travel down from his shoulders towards his chest. She fiddles with the lip of his collar. "I have to go." She shakes her head, brows sinking, and Noah's name is the only explanation she can give.

His hands fall away from her waist and he lets her go.

Walking down the corridor she clasps her hands and fidgets at her hair, tucking strands behind her ear and her fingers running through knots. None of this is fantasy. It's reality. Her jumper itches at her skin, her feet are cold as they pad down the carpeted corridor and the wind whistles outside. The snow has turned to rain, pattering against the roof and tipping past the windows.

Noah sleeps soundly in his bedroom, the single bed more than big enough for a seven year old. She bends over him to kiss his forehead. Seven. It was just yesterday that he was small enough to still like dinosaurs. Those have gone now. Faded into the pages of his history. She's built such a life for this boy, this little man of hers who still sucks his thumb when he's nervous or sleeping. She's constructed a fortress for him to keep the bad people away, the people who would treat him as a target or as the source for a shocking headline. In doing so she's constructed her own armour. Ryan helped build the foundations. Protecting her family and her friends was the initial construction. The framework. This little man finished it off. Plastered the walls and did the brickwork. She gives a wry smile. He's not even ten. Standing, she leaves.

"Noah's alright?" he asks when she enters. She nods, closing the door behind her. She leans against the hard rough wood and flicks her eyes up towards him.

"Yeah," she breathes out the word, tilting her head back against the door. "Deeply asleep."

His tongue darts out over his bottom lip. "Good." His hands shake, fingers twitching and he darts forward towards the door. "Goodnight Molly."

She could step out of the way. Could fortify her armour and let him pass. She clutches at his arm. The material of his shirt bunches up underneath her grip.

"Don't go." The thought of her meaning (what it will entail) warms her body like a pulse that turns into a need. It's a need which forms the beats of her heart and seeps out onto the surface. She presses her head to his chest, her left hand coming out to hold his torso. His arms wrap around her body, embracing her without shame or guilt. "Please, please. Don't go."

For a moment, they stay locked together in that silence. Her meaning lingers. She hopes it'll never leave.

His hands let go of her and travel upwards. The palms of his hand slide against her cheeks and she straightens up to raise her head. The heat of him heightens everything. It pulls at the sensations that flood her head. The flesh of his palm gently cupping her cheeks. The stray strands that he tucks back into her hair. She's a mess, a patchwork of damp clothing and damp cheeks, but he doesn't cuddle her and treat her like a breakable doll. His thumbs stroke over her tears and wipes them away and he presses his forehead to hers. She holds his wrist with her fingers. He treats her (sees her) as human. Flawed, broken, but whole and important. He's seeing her as she's always seen herself. No wonder she'd begun to cry.

"I want this." His voice is deep, a desperate low growling truth that breaks from his lips. She gasps when he kisses her, but she takes. 'This' is a word with so many emotions and thoughts behind it, so many paths that could alter their lives completely but she takes it all the same. She hooks her arms around his shoulders, gripping at his hair which is stiff with ocean salt, and she takes. She kisses and moans. He groans in return, forcing himself forward.

Her back hits the wall of the bedroom and one of his hands holds her waist while the other scrabbles at the material of her skirt, bunching it up around her waist. His palm roams her inner thighs, mouth breaking from hers and licking a path down her throat. Teasing gestures, a familiar build-up that still thrills. She squirms and pants and wriggles, needing more, wanting more. His fingers slip inside her knickers, feeling her wet centre. She gasps and kisses him again. Hands descend, scrabbling for the zip of his trousers, freeing him, but he doesn't let up—not until he feels her and hears her come apart underneath his fingers. Then he takes her again, with her legs wrapped tight around his waist and her arms clinging onto his shoulders.

The fervour of the night gives way to the patience of the morning. Grey slides over the landscape in the window, watery sunlight peeking through. The snow has turned to damp ground, wooden porches darkened in colour by the rain. The kitchen is the largest room in the cottage, an open space area that spans through into the dining room and living room. A row of counters forms an L shape at the left corner of the kitchen, a fridge-freezer tucked in beside those same counters. Shelves are above the counters, plates and food and cooking instruments neatly adorned in the whitewashed wooden boxes. She stands at the oven hob, switching on the gas. Bacon fat bubbles in the frying pan, the meat cooking into a fleshy pink. Two slices of white bread sit on a plate beside the hob. The bacon soon cooked, she flips the bacon onto the bread with a deft flick of the fish slice. She heads out of the kitchen and sets the sandwich down on the dining table. Noah, finishing a glass of orange juice, grins up at her.

"Thanks Mum."

"You're welcome, little man," she mumbles, squeezing his shoulder. "Don't forget to pack your things. We're heading home soon."

She moves on into the living room. Converse to the kitchen, it's the smallest room in the cottage. A fireplace, made up of stone and mortar, is the heart. Fabric sofas, smothered by blankets and cushions, are arranged in a square. It's a place for reading late into the night while the waves crash and the fire crackles. Sherlock stands at the window, gazing at the view. He doesn't wear a shirt today. He wears dark jeans and a sweater. The sweater is blue, thinly knitted. It hangs off of his form, ill-fitting. Maybe he found it at the bottom of the wardrobe. Forgotten by a previous tenant. Her eyes drop and she notes with a smile that his feet are bare.

She picks up a blanket from one of the sofas and wraps it around her shoulders. She wears only a vest and pyjama bottoms, things she crawled into when she woke up, naked and the other side of the bed empty. She joins him at the window. She turns away from the view and leans against the wooden window seat even though it's already occupied by a landline phone and a vase of daisy flowers. Lucky she's small.

She chews at her bottom lip, gaze lingering on the rest of the tiny living room. "Last night doesn't have to mean anything. It could just mean – well – what it was." Sex. One hurried shag in a strange bedroom.

"Hm." He swallows. "What if – I wanted it to mean something?"

Here, away from London and away from detective work, he looks neither young nor old. He looks free. She pulls the blanket tighter around her shoulders, glancing down at her feet.

"Then I'd be relieved." She can't lie to him. She doesn't want to lie to him.

"Come with me." She turns her head up towards him. He's staring down at her, chin tilted and eyes bright with an idea, a hope.

"Come with me," he repeats, voice even. He turns his upper body in a direction of the dining room. "You and Noah. To Baker Street."

Her breathing slows, caught. It's the 23rd of December, almost Christmas, they're leaving this cottage behind in two hours and he's offering her a whole future. She blinks.

"No." Noah's still too young. In a year perhaps she could take up the offer. Before next September, before school starts up again. She shakes her head. "No I can't."

"Right." He looks back out of the window. She follows his lead. The thin sunlight floods the town in a pale yellow. Neither of them focus on the town's landscape. Nor do they look at the calmed sea. Both of them stare out at the garden, the green grass bright in the daylight. Sherlock shrugs.

"Just an idea." Outside, the ocean waves lap against the shore.

She's been better organised this year and has wrapped the presents in advance. She sits on the sofa. Noah is opposite her, crawling underneath the tree and retrieving all of his and her presents. Christmas songs play from a speaker deck, songs especially downloaded onto her phone for the Christmas season. (It costs her an arm and a leg every year, but traditions are traditions.) Noah, collecting all the presents, crawls out from under the tree and beckons her over. She unfolds herself from the sofa and kneels by the Christmas tree. It's the same one she always uses, a tall false one. This year, she let Noah have control over the decorating and it's a beautiful chaotic thing of colourful tinsel and flashing fairy lights.

She helps Noah separate out their presents before they sit opposite each other with their legs crossed. Noah's fingers hover over the folds in the wrapping paper, eagerly waiting for her to begin the countdown.

"3… 2… 1…" She pauses for dramatic effect. "Go!"

Noah rips at his presents and his eyes grow brighter with each present that tumbles into his lap. They're not the most imaginative presents around, just DVDs and a book on the stars from her and toys from relatives who've forgotten he isn't five anymore, but he loves them. There are two presents for each of them that they both leave until the last. The four presents are wrapped in plain red wrapping paper that glints under the light with golden tags taped to the top. He'd dropped them off on Christmas Eve afternoon with the apology that he couldn't stay long. Noah had pouted and volunteered to come along. He begged when Sherlock revealed he was going to his parents.

"Please," Noah had pleaded. Sherlock had shaken his head.

"Perhaps next year," he'd remarked. A hesitant tinge of a promise. Noah had sighed.

"I don't see why you need to go anyway."

"After recent events, I don't particularly have a choice, Noah." Sherlock's words were dryly spoken. A distant observation supposed to make their little man laugh. It worked, but when Sherlock took to look at her, the distance was gone and a sad smile ghosted over his lips. It was gone in a moment.

Noah does not rip at his father's present. He peels at each folded corner, though still with that same eagerness that always comes with every Christmas. He gasps with the same joy when his present is uncovered. He's given a solar system, a motorized toy where the sun stands in the centre and the planets gradually rotate around. His own galaxy. Noah goes rushing off to find batteries that will fit.

She is not so careful with her wrapping. She tears at it as she does with every other present she receives and she immediately wishes she hadn't been so when the present is revealed to her.

It's an envelope. There's no name scrawled onto the white envelope, just a date. 22/12/2015 – Cornwall. She flips it over and tucks her thumb underneath the lip of the envelope. More photographs are tucked inside. Ones she took of the town, so taken was she by the colour of it. Ones she took of the landscape. Ones of Noah smiling, eating ice cream. Ones of Sherlock, eyeing the camera as the flash goes off (he's never liked having his photo taken). The last is the photo of them running. The sky in the photograph is as grey as it was on the day but the two figures are vivid. Noah, waving, looks like he could be reaching for the sky.

She wipes her eyes and grasps at the wrapping with one hand, finding the tag. His handwriting is carefully looped, the words written in fountain pen. A small memento.

She also finds a picture frame. Narrowing her eyes, she picks it up. As an object, it's small in size and white in colour. Inside the frame, layered underneath the glass, is a photograph taken on film. A thin black line is at the edge of the photograph. Must've been the last photograph taken. A small rock pool is centre stage. In the right top corner, there's Noah gazing into the rock pool with wonder in his features. Crouching beside him, there she is. Her arm is wound around his waist, holding him close and she points towards the rock pool. Her eyes are on Noah. Her mouth is parted, as if she's speaking. There's a smile, hidden away in her features, in her eyes. A moment caught.

"Mum!" Noah calls from the kitchen. "Where's the batteries?"

"Wait a minute," she replies, throwing the words over her shoulder and standing up. "Just have to—"

She lets her sentence fade and walks into the entrance hallway. There's a side table by the door which holds photographs of her mother, Ryan, her as a baby, Noah. She puts the photograph among them. It fits just right. In front of it, she tucks the photograph of a waving Noah and a running Sherlock. Noah calls for her again and she turns away, jogging into the kitchen.

Noah wakes up before her on Boxing Day. The first thing she hears is a knock on her bedroom door. She opens her eyes, blinks, and rolls onto her back.

"Noah?"

"Mm-hm!" Noah calls from behind the door. His voice is bright. Molly cranes her neck up to look at her alarm. 6 in the morning. He's picked up his father's habit of early morning calls. She swallows a groan and heaves herself out of bed. She pads towards the door. On it opening, Noah presents her with a large tray of breakfast. Coco Pops are collected together in a bowl, swimming in milk. Leftover chocolates from yesterday are gathered together in a bigger bowl. A chocolate muffin stands next to a mug of thick hot chocolate. The sentiment makes her laugh and she bends down, gathering his face up with her hands and kissing him on the nose. Noah groans, whining.

"You'll spill the chocolate!"

"Oops, sorry!" She steps back and takes the tray from him, moving over to the window seat. She sits cross-legged, setting the tray on her lap. Noah scuttles over and sits beside her. He eyes the Coco Pops and licks his lips. Wordlessly, she hands the bowl to him and sets about eating the leftover sweets. The morning sun hasn't risen yet but a low streak of orange melds in with the blue in the skyline. Beams of light peek through. Together, they work through the breakfast. (He allows her all of the leftover sweets, they share the muffin and he insists on her having the hot chocolate.) The hot chocolate slips easily down her throat and Noah methodically licks the crumbs of chocolate from his fingers. The haze of Christmas still pervades the street, at least for now. The milkman is finishing his rounds but the commuters haven't woken up yet. Christmas lights hung up around doorways and in windows still shine white or flash yellow, red, green and pink and purple.

A black saloon car pulls round the corner at the end of the road, entering into the street. Its engine purrs quietly. The driver, who she can see through the windscreen, is a bald thin man wearing spectacles. He pulls into an empty space near the house. The engine cuts out and the passenger door opens. She puts the tray to one side.

"Mum?" Noah looks out of the window, following her gaze. He gasps when he sees who it is. He announces their name with excitement and bounds out of her bedroom. Down in the street, Mycroft adjusts his tie and walks around the car towards the other passenger door. It opens before he can try. From her vantage point, Sherlock looks small and lost. His brother speaks to him before they head down the path. Molly jumps up from the window seat and hurries out of her bedroom towards the upper floor landing.

"Noah, wait." She reaches the bottom of the stairs and approaches her son, taking his hand. She opens the door with her free hand. Mycroft gives her no greeting but he looks down at Noah.

"How is my favourite nephew?"

"Great! I got some awesome Christmas presents!" Noah announces. He barely notices his father when he steps inside. Sherlock's eyes flit towards her but he looks away again and flips up his collar. Mycroft smirks at Noah's proclamation.

"I highly doubt that."

"I can prove it!" Noah says defiantly. Mycroft's smirk widens into a smile.

"I insist you do," he replies and he allows himself to be led into the living room. He makes sure to shut the door behind him. Molly watches them go. Mycroft couldn't be more obvious if he tried. She folds her arms over her chest and stares at Sherlock. Even when they're stood here, barely a step away from each other, he looks lost. Defeated.

She scratches at the nape of her neck. "Let's go into the kitchen. More privacy."

Sherlock nods and she leads the way. She sighs as she walks, a shiver catching at the sound and she rubs her arms. She pulls out a chair for herself, wood of the legs scraping against the wood of the floor, and sits down. Her knuckles turn white from the force with which she links her hands together.

"You've heard of Charles Magnussen?"

She nods. She's caught him on the news. Part of some newspaper inquiry. Sherlock gives a heavy sigh and folds his hands behind his back.

"He became… a problem." The word 'became' hits her like a bucket of cold water. She lets him continue. "He was blackmailing – oh, that doesn't matter. He became a problem and I dealt with it."

She nods. Her hands fall away from each other, palms pressing and spreading out against the table. They've talked so much here. About Noah mostly. She wipes her nose with the hem of her t-shirt. Her vision blurs.

"And you…"

"Mycroft's given me an undercover mission. With MI6." His voice is strained. Shaking. "Should last six months."

She sobs. Heaving, heavy sobs that feel like they might break her chest apart. She turns in her chair, leaning forward until her head is between her legs and her hands are in her hair and she's crying. She cries even when she has no breath left. She cries until her head spins and she feels like she's going to be sick.

Hands on her back ground her and she realises. He's on his knees in front of her, one hand on her back and the other holding one of her wrists. He's telling her to breathe.

Air comes back to her in fits and starts, ebbing and flowing. She leans back, holding the lapels of his coat, and presses her forehead to his shoulder. His hand, previously holding onto her wrist, strokes through her hair. He kisses her temple. His touch lingers.

"I would've done it." She makes the confession into the thin air of the silence. "Gone to Baker Street."

Her confession makes him hold her tighter, his arms snaking underneath her armpits and he hugs her at her chest, tugging her close. He mumbles something against the skin of her neck, something that's only for him and something that makes her cling to his shoulders and his hair.

The knock on the kitchen door comes far too soon. They pull apart and he stands, but they both can't quite let go. She reaches out, her fingertips touching his. He sinks his hand into hers and squeezes to show her he's still there.

"We have to go, Sherlock." For the first time in all the time she's known him, she hears regret in Mycroft Holmes' voice.

He doesn't leave, not instantly but looks to her. Hovering, waiting. Her jaw tightens and she lets her hand slip from his. She gives a single nod.

The kitchen feels hollow without him there. She wants more than anything to be a hurricane. To whip up storms and hurl things and scream until she gets her way.

"Dad!" Noah. Running footsteps sound outside of the kitchen. She chokes back a cry. No doubt he's throwing his arms open and pulling at the hem of his father's coat. "Cuddle!"

A habit between the two of them whenever Sherlock arrives for a visit. Noah shouts 'cuddle' and Sherlock swings him up and hugs him to his chest. Tonight makes no difference to that habit.

Her resolve breaks. She darts up from the chair and out from the kitchen. She stumbles on a scene she's seen many times before.

She calls Sherlock's name. Sherlock ignores her. So does Noah, wrapped up in quiet conversation about showing Uncle Mycroft his Christmas presents. She wipes her eyes. She steps forward.

"Sherlock, please. Sherlock, look at me—"

Sherlock whips around, eyes blazing.

"Molly!"

Noah's face crumples. That's the first time he's heard his dad shout. She jerks to a halt. Sherlock closes his eyes, sighs. He tries a smile and opens his eyes, but the smile is one that's too bright and too false. He whispers into Noah's ear.

"Don't worry." He pauses. The gravity of the promise he's about to make is not something he takes lightly. She can see it in the way he holds Noah, in the way his mouth moves, every word considered and chosen. "I'll come back."

He steps forward. Wordlessly, she raises her hands and takes Noah from him. Sherlock's fingers ghost over Noah's curls. Noah doesn't look at him.

"I have to go." His smile shrinks into something more real. "Got a plane to catch."

Mycroft steps to the side to let his brother leave. She stands in the hallway with her little man and wishes the door would open again.

2015

She prays until the moment the plane leaves the runway that something will go wrong. That something will cause the plane to turn around and land back on the tarmac. Sat in the back of a car Mycroft sent for her, behind tinted windows, Molly watches the plane disappear into the clouds. She goes back home and she finds Noah with Anthea, him watching a DVD and Anthea on her phone. Mycroft dismisses Anthea when they arrive and Noah whines a little when Molly pulls him onto her lap and into a hug. She lets him finish the movie in peace, going off to make a cup of coffee. Mycroft follows.

"This house was only ever a temporary measure." That's how he begins. "Until Noah got old enough."

Old enough to cope with the fact of the press. With the fact of being ogled at by people unable to believe Sherlock Holmes, man and machine, could procreate. Molly nods, continuing to make her coffee. She fetches out three biscuits from one of the overhead cupboards.

"You can move out, if you like. The proceeds of the sale would go straight to you."

"So I could go back." She spoons one sugar into the mug of coffee. Tendrils of vapour weave out of the liquid. "To London."

"Exactly. Baker Street or – somewhere else. Wherever you like."

She sips her coffee. Blankly stares at nothing. "Right."

"Oh for God's sake!" She blinks at Mycroft's outburst. He huffs. Very much a Holmes brother now. "I am trying to apologise."

"You're not doing a good job." She says it bluntly, without remorse or apology, and she stares straight into his eyes.

"My brother chose to go after Magnussen."

"That doesn't excuse you."

His voice turns heavy. "I know it doesn't."

A crack in the ice.

"I don't what to do, Mycroft." She forces out the words, bit by bit. She won't cry. She's cried enough. Strength is what she needs. Is what Noah needs. He's gone numb since she told him that Dad was gone and wouldn't be coming back. Between the counselling sessions, he watches DVDs and plays with his solar system. He watches the planets turn. She doesn't push him to show something or move on. He's a child, their child. Their little man, the person they brought into the world. If she's there for him, if she supports him, he'll come back. That doesn't stop her feeling utterly helpless.

"I know that – that there are certain people," Mycroft twirls his umbrella between his fingers, "who would benefit greatly from Noah's existence."

So it is that two months after the plane left some private runway, Molly steps into Baker Street. Mrs Hudson sits in Sherlock's old armchair. The last time Molly saw her sat there, it was Christmas and she was indulging in a glass of sherry. Today she carries a tissue in her hand. It's crumpled and thin from use. One of many, Molly suspects. Mary sits on the sofa. She's heavily pregnant now, a round belly limiting her movements. It makes Molly remember nights when she cursed the baby inside her for causing so many midnight trips to the loo. John sits beside her. His eyes, dark blue, are hollow and endless. He holds Mary's hand, his thumb stroking circles into the back of her hand. His gaze only grounds itself when he looks at her. Lestrade stands at the kitchen doorway, leaning against the door jamb. He holds a glass of beer. His appearance is relaxed, just got off work. Genial as ever.

They all, at varying points, look to her when she enters. Mrs Hudson volunteers to stand, allowing her to sit in Sherlock's chair.

"What's the reason for this gathering then?" Lestrade asks. "Mycroft arranged this all, didn't he?"

He nervously eyes the rest of the party, obviously expecting for someone to make a quip or jibe. Faced with silence, he swallows back a gulp of his beer. Molly rubs at her knees with the palms of her hands. She makes eye contact with every single one of the party. She's always imagined doing this with one other person in the room. Life never lives up to expectations.

"Um. I don't know how to start this." She swallows, throat dry. "Mrs Hudson – could I have a glass of water?"

"Of course dearie." Mrs Hudson bustles into the kitchen. One clink of glasses and another running of the tap later, she re-enters and presses the water glass into Molly's hand. Molly sips from it.

"Yeah, I – there's a reason Mycroft invited you all here. Some of you don't know that – that Sherlock and I have known each other since we were pretty young."

"Teenagers, you said." John's voice is deep, croaky. Lately not used to speaking.

Molly nods. "Yeah. Actually, we've – we've been in a relationship. In the past."

'In the past'. The phrase sits oddly on her tongue. Their relationship has never been in the past, not for either of them. She shifts. Takes another sip of water.

"In fact, we've – we both – hid a pretty big secret." She rubs at her forehead. It's better to say it, get rid of it. A cliché, but it'll be like ripping off a plaster. Quick, painful but at least done. "We have a son together."

A shocked sigh ripples through all of them. John leans forward and runs his hands over his face. Mary hugs his shoulders with one hand, the other holding his arm. The shock in her eyes has palpably knocked her for six. Lestrade stumbles back into the kitchen, muttering his disbelief. Mrs Hudson gently murmurs her need to sit down.

"How old?" Mary asks.

"Seven. He'll be eight in December."

John shakes his head. "Christ. So the whole time I've known him…"

"Noah had to be a secret." She trips over her words in a rush to explain. "We couldn't risk criminals – and the press, when Sherlock got more known – finding out about him."

"Noah?" Lestrade pipes up. He lets out a half of a laugh. "I'd have thought his kid would be named after Einstein or something."

Even now he can surprise people. He'd be proud of that.

"Can we meet him?" The endless look John had is fading. Hope is crawling back in. A scrap of his best friend still survives, an accidental legacy created by genetics. Molly nods and heads out of the flat, down the stairs.

Outside the air of the empty street is cold. A driver easily opens the door of the black saloon that waits around the corner, with its engine idle, outside the flat. Noah is sat with his uncle. In his arms he holds his teddy bear. He's still shy, still a little bit in his shell, but the counselling sessions and regular visits to his grandparents are doing him the world of good.

"They want to see you little man," she says, crouching down. "You happy with that?"

Noah nods. He clambers out of the car. Mycroft follows, as does Violet and Michael. The five of them walk back into the flat and up the stairs. Violet opens the door for Noah, and Molly lets go of her little man's hand. Noah steps into Baker Street, the place that was once his own playground where his dad would play violin for him and read him stories from the bookshelves. His eyes are like saucers as they stare at the new faces.

Lestrade clears his throat and steps forward, making Noah focus completely on him.

"Hello mate." Its obvious Lestrade has got kids. He crouches down to Noah's eye level and gives a cocky grin. All of it designed to put him at ease. "Greg. I knew your dad."

"Hello Greg," Noah replies. "My name's Noah Hooper-Holmes."

A recent name change, at Noah's request. Molly flicks her gaze towards the Watsons. John wipes his eyes quickly with his sleeve. Mary's hands settle protectively on her rounded belly. Noah goes round them all, saying hello. Mrs Hudson introduces herself as Sherlock's landlady. Mary introduces herself as Sherlock's friend.

Noah leaves John until last. For a moment John stares at him and doesn't say anything. Noah has inherited her eyes, and her hair colour, but he's inherited Sherlock's curls and his manner. He'll probably inherit Sherlock's height as well. She hopes he does at least.

"Hi. Um." John bites on his upper lip. He breathes through his nose and straightens his shoulders. He sticks out a hand. "John Watson. Best friend of your dad."

Noah's eyes widen. "He mentioned you."

John's eyebrows arch up, disappearing into his hair and he clears his throat. He shifts his weight from foot to foot. "I doubt it was very nice things."

"He said you were very good at nagging."

John barks out a laugh and soon, they're all laughing. They laugh until the walls of Baker Street are soaked with the sound.

It is not in his area to give verbal apologies. Half-hearted and vague statements are what he trades in. Soundbites that look good packed into a headline. Letting his brother's friends find out about the legacy his brother has left behind, however, seems like a good enough place to start. Molly Hooper acknowledges this half an hour into the visit, when she's sat in his brother's old chair with Noah on her lap and listening as Noah talks about the time they went to Cornwall and he raced his father down the beach. She is staring at Noah for the most part of the story but as he reaches the end, her attention shifts and falls on him.

He doesn't get involved with parties or gatherings. This occasion is no exception. Molly, seeing him, smiles and mouths two simple words: thank you. She doesn't feel the need to do anymore. She knows he would not appreciate any more.

She reads people so easily. Little wonder his brother had felt such a pull to her. He spent his life reading others, or attempting to read them. A relief on the mind to have someone else there to read you.

He turns his back, slipping away from the party, and heads down the stairs. Outside, he hears London, beating on in the distance. Traffic and sirens and jeering calls. Always more problems to solve. The knocker on the door, he notices, is adjacent as ever. Without thought he straightens it and turns. He glances either side of the road before crossing.

"S'rry mate, s'rry." Slurred speech makes him blink. It takes him a moment to register the tramp in front of him, stumbling back from being bumped into. The tramp zips up their hooded coat, stuffing their hands into their pockets. They stand with shoulders slumped and head down, hood over their face. "Didn' see ya comin'," they add.

"It's fine," he says distractedly and he moves on, walking left down the street towards the waiting car. The tramp's voice, he finds, echoes in his head. The low timbre of it beats and beats. A nagging thought at the back of the brain. He finds himself slowing. Finds himself turning. The tramp has moved from their spot, disappearing around the opposite corner of the street. There has to be a reason why they didn't see him cross, didn't see him approach. Something had to have caught their attention. He moves back, heading towards the spot. Only the slightest head tilt upwards allows for the answer. The light from Baker Street glows orange onto the street.

Mycroft glances to the left. The tramp is gone, his presence an echo, a ghost. A smile stretches across his lips. He does not know much about sentiment. He has observed it from afar but he has never participated. He has never felt the need. He knows however, what sentiment can do. In some circumstances, it can perform what someone might call a miracle.

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