The taxi deposited her outside a small, fairly nondescript-looking café in the shadow of The Shard, which she probably would have overlooked had she been passing on her own. And if Sherlock hadn't immediately stepped out onto the pavement to open the car door for her. Funny, even all these months later - and despite the domestic turn their lives had taken - Molly still felt a jolt of desire and delight when she was reunited with him like this. Seven years of unrequited love, she reminded herself – old habits die hard.

Once she was on the pavement and the cab fare paid, Sherlock moved in to give her a quick kiss in greeting. These public demonstrations of affection, however brief, still took Molly by surprise and stirred strange feelings of pride that she was the one to inspire them.

"You're wearing shoes, I see," he said, smiling, as he laced his fingers with her gloved ones and led her towards the café.

"My big achievement for the day," Molly replied. "So don't expect much this afternoon. How was the case?"

By this time they were inside. As usual for Sherlock, this place was very much off the tourist trail, but it was still bustling – small tables with waiting staff twisting through the narrow gaps, chatter from the staff in the semi-open kitchen. From the signage and the wonderful smells emanating from the kitchen, Molly recognised it as Korean.

"Tedious," Sherlock replied, moving her chair out for her. His Belstaff was already draped over the chair opposite. "Only worth turning up for the sight of Anderson tripping over his kit box and nearly falling down a flight of stairs."

"Is he okay?"

"That really depends on your definition of okay. He is physically intact."

Molly rolled her eyes. She knew that Sherlock's indifference to the wellbeing of others only ran so deep – and Anderson only continued to annoy him because the man claimed to have deduced Sherlock's feelings for Molly before Sherlock even knew himself. He deduced the deducer, so to speak.

"Dare I ask how you came across this place?" Molly asked, with a nod to their surroundings.

"I was sleeping rough under the bridge for a case five years ago," he replied. "Sang-hoon gave me a bag of leftovers without me even asking. Of course, that was after one of his kitchen porters nearly broke my arm because he thought I was stealing."

Although Molly had read John's blog in secret for many years, this was yet another detail that wasn't familiar. It was probably best to accept that she knew about the big stuff now, and the rest would undoubtedly come out in dribs and drabs.

"I've ordered," Sherlock added. "I hope you don't mind? I thought you'd be hungry and I asked Sang-hoon for his recommendations."

In the past, it would have irritated Molly if a man ordered for her, and if she ever thought Sherlock was doing it to assert his dominance she would have put him in his place – but she trusted his motivations, and besides, he was right about her hunger levels.

"So..." Molly began, as a young waiter brought a jug of water and some glasses to the table. "Are you going to tell me now?"

"Hm?"

"What we're doing today? "

"Ah, not just today, Molly - for the rest of this week and beyond!"

Suddenly, he had that look on his face, the one usually reserved for a seemingly unsolvable murder or a set of particularly unusual lab results - that slightly perverse boyish glee that drew her to him all those years ago, the same glee that had the tendency to appall everyone else. Molly acknowledged that she must have a bit of that in her, too, although the difference was she had the tact Sherlock lacked and the social manners he couldn't care less about.

"The week, Sherlock?" Molly said, as Sherlock poured them both some water. "Is this plan going to involve me sitting on the sofa with the six novels I bought to read on maternity leave?"

"It's much better than that," Sherlock replied, his face breaking into the kind of disarming and incredibly handsome smile that still made her stomach do stupid things. "I've got an itinerary."

An itinerary. That sounded ominous.

"Okay…"

"Remember our visit to Bart's Museum?"

Of course she did. Technically, she supposed, it was their first date – although by that time she was already several weeks pregnant, so not a first date by most people's standards. Bart's Pathology Museum was generally only open by special arrangement, but Sherlock had somehow talked the head archivist into allowing them a private visit. He had turned up at the lab one lunchtime bearing sandwiches and crisps from the canteen and they had walked over to the museum together. Molly had been there before, of course, both as a medical student and later on when she took some taxidermy classes there (she still thought she'd like to produce a friend for Milo the skateboarding mouse someday). But everything was different when seen through the eyes of Sherlock Holmes, and she'd been happy to let him be her enthusiastic guide, pointing out the curiosities that piqued his interest. At some stage when he was talking animatedly about the skull of John Bellingham, she had backed him up against a cabinet – out of sight of the archivist - and kissed him thoroughly. Museum exhibits were pretty much forgotten at that point.

"Well," Sherlock continued. "I recall you mentioning one or two other museums you had yet to visit, so I thought this might be the perfect time. I thought we'd start with The Old Operating Theatre and Herb Garret as it's conveniently close by, then tomorrow we could go to the Hunterian Museum and have lunch at Angelo's. Wednesday would be a good day for the Royal London Hospital Museum – there's a very comprehensive archive from the original Whitechapel Murders – and I thought Thursday could have a slightly different focus; perhaps the Grant Museum of Zoology in the morning, and then I've always liked the idea of the Magic Circle Museum near Euston, even though Mycroft was the world's worst amateur magician in his youth and almost put me off for life."

He was speaking a mile a minute now and Molly was struggling to keep up, all the same feeling a smile spread across her face as she watched him hitting his stride – if there wasn't both a table and a huge baby-sized protuberance between them, she would have snogged him right there.

"Friday's going to be good," he continued. "The Dental Museum and the Anaesthesia Heritage Centre, both of which are in Marylebone, and in very close proximity to the finest chips in the whole of London."

Without knowing why, Molly felt her heart hitch in her chest – and then her memory caught up with her.

"The owner gives you extra portions," she said, smiling.

Sherlock looked at her quizzically, surprised. He didn't remember.

"How-?"

"You told me," Molly replied, recollections from that day now flooding back to her. "That day you asked me to solve crimes with you. You suggested we went for chips. But we, ah, we didn't."

She saw a more serious expression cross his face, and she suspected they were now mulling over the same thoughts, the same memories. The exchanged looks on that day, the shared enjoyment of each other's company and the cases they were investigating…the ring on her finger, the kiss on her cheek.

"No, we didn't," Sherlock replied quietly.

"I…I wish we had," she said. "I…when I thought about it later, I wondered whether maybe it…maybe you were…"

"Asking you out?" Sherlock finished.

"Um, yeah."

This shouldn't be awkward considering what they now were to each other, but all the same…

"I said it without thinking," Sherlock replied. "I had enjoyed our time together and simply wanted both to prolong it and to introduce you to some very good chips. It was only once you questioned my…my motives…that I realised it wasn't entirely appropriate. In the circumstances."

Molly nodded. The Sherlock Holmes who humiliated her that Christmas and thought nothing of sabotaging any attempts she made at a relationship wouldn't have let a little thing like an engagement spoil his fun – but the man who returned from two years of enforced exile did. Right there in the hallway of that house, the tingle of Sherlock's tender kiss still on her cheek, Molly had known that she and Tom were doomed.

She reached across the table and covered Sherlock's large hand with her smaller one.

"Well, I think those extra portions might come in handy now," she smiled, rubbing her belly with her other hand. "If the owner still remembers you, that is."

"Oh, he remembers me," Sherlock said. "That was a hell of a set of shelves I helped him to put up."

Molly looked at him through narrowed eyes.

"I always wondered whether that was a euphemism."

"I couldn't possibly divulge," Sherlock replied, eyes briefly drifting to the ceiling.

At that moment, a text alert pinged to his phone and Molly waited while he checked it.

"Ah, perfect timing!" he said, his eyes lighting up. "Lestrade!"

"Another case?" Molly asked.

"Nope. He's called in a favour for me. Well, more for you, really. I asked him about the Black Museum."

"At Scotland Yard?" Molly asked, surprised. "I thought it was closed these days. I mean, I remember there was an exhibition from there at The Museum of London a little while ago, but I thought it was off-limits these days."

"Apparently, Greg's boss is a fan of my work," Sherlock replied, raising an eyebrow and not even trying to hide the smugness on his face.

He held his phone out so that Molly could read the text message.

'Cleared it with Douglas. You've got an hour next Monday. Weird place for a date, Sherlock, even for you and Molls. You owe me, mate.

Greg'

Molly was fairly sure that by Monday she would be suffering from museum fatigue, but Sherlock seemed so happy – and proud of himself – that she wasn't going to rain on his parade. Just then, her own phone chirped with a text.

'Tried to persuade His Majesty that the London Eye would be more romantic. Sorry Molls. Make him buy you a decent dinner. Hope the little one is behaving.

Greg'

She laughed lightly and showed the phone to Sherlock, who sighed, conveying that he thought that Greg Lestrade once again knew nothing. Molly remembered then that the day she and Sherlock visited Bart's Pathology Museum was also the day that Greg found out about them – he had been waiting in the morgue for Molly to get back, and had instead been greeted by the sight of her and Sherlock tumbling through the swing doors, attached by the lips. Greg's wide-eyed, gob-smacked reaction had been the best by far – especially when it was followed by a delighted bear-hug for them both and an amusing (for her) punch on the arm for Sherlock.

"So, what do you think?" Sherlock asked. "We don't have to do any of it, if you don't want to."

"It sounds fun," she replied, mostly truthfully. "Thank you, Sherlock."

"Not too much?" he queried. "John tells me I can be a bit what he calls 'full-on' sometimes."

Molly didn't think it was the moment to remind him that his 'full-on' tendencies were partly to blame for he being pregnant within weeks of his return from Sherrinford.

"It's lovely, and I appreciate it," she replied, finding his ankle with the toe of her boot. "Although with all of that walking, you're going to be busy with foot-rubbing duties."

"It will be my honour."

A waiter approached and presented them with steaming rice bowls and side dishes, the scent of which immediately made Molly ravenously hungry. Sherlock thanked the young waiter (in his native language, Molly noted).

"No fried egg or prawns in yours, I'm afraid," Sherlock said, somewhat apologetically. A perfect fried egg sat atop his rice bowl, drizzled with chili oil.

"So all the best bits, you mean," she replied, rolling her eyes and smiling.

"In five weeks' time, Molly, I will prepare you a banquet of ripe cheese, shellfish, soft-boiled eggs, and paté," Sherlock smiled. "You can feast to your heart's content."

She felt herself pouting slightly.

"Knowing my luck, it will be more like seven weeks," she said. "This baby seems pretty comfortable where it is, stealing my calories and giving me heartburn."

Sherlock was looking at her in that way that had become all the more frequent the more visibly pregnant she became. Molly still couldn't decide exactly what sentiment it was conveying – some kind of combination of gratitude mixed with pride, thankfulness, awe, and perhaps a little pinch-yourself amazement? Whatever it was, she couldn't help but blush a little under his gaze.

Just then, an older man appeared by their table with a woman of around Molly's age. Sherlock put down his chopsticks, quickly wiped his mouth with a napkin and got to his feet.

"Ah, Sang-hoon!" he said, shaking the man's hand. "A superlative meal, as always!"

"Mr Sherlock! Sit, please sit!"

The man, whose English wasn't good, now addressed Molly.

"It's good?" he asked.

She nodded enthusiastically, trying to clear a mouthful of rice and vegetables, and the man beamed in response.

"This is Molly," Sherlock said, as he took his seat.

Some words were then exchanged in Korean, and the woman spoke up.

"My father says your wife is very beautiful, Mr Holmes."

Molly opened her mouth to say something, although she didn't know quite what. Sherlock beat her to it, though.

"Tell your father that I agree," he said.

That wasn't what Molly expected.

More conversation between father and daughter followed.

"He says she's – how do you say? – out of your league."

At that, Sherlock barked with laugher.

"Yes, I know that, too," he said. "I'm a very fortunate man. Don't worry – plenty of people see fit to remind me at regular intervals."

At that point, the restaurant proprietor made a gesture as though he was miming a globe.

"Big boy!" Sang-hoon said, grinning to Molly and pointing at her stomach. "Very big boy!"

Molly felt her cheeks flush, and she shot a questioning look at Sherlock, who was smiling serenely.

"Um, yes," Molly answered. She was about to say thank you, but she wasn't sure what she'd be thanking him for (for noticing that she was the size of a house?) "Sherlock does think we're having a boy. We don't actually know for sure."

More words exchanged in Korean.

"My father says that you must bring your son – your child – here when it arrives. He also says there is nothing to pay for this meal – it is our gift and blessing."

This time Molly did say thank you, and Sherlock briefly stood again to shake Sang-hoon's hand again and clap him on the shoulder. She was wondering just how many free meals the two of them were likely to score over the next few weeks – knowing Sherlock, he might have planned the week's activities around who he knew in the restaurant industry.

When they had gone and eating had resumed, Molly knew she had to broach something with Sherlock. It had been there from the outset, but the longer it went on, the more the thought had worried away at her.

"Sherlock…you're not going to be, um, disappointed if the baby turns out to be a girl?"

His eyes flicked up from his food and he blinked at her. Then a lopsided smile began to appear.

"Of course not, Molly! What would make you think that?"

Was he completely dense?

"Er, because you keep insisting that the baby is a boy, despite the lack of scientific evidence to back it up." she reminded him. "Sometimes it seems like…I don't know…you think that if she wish hard enough it will happen."

Sherlock suddenly looked concerned, put down his chopsticks.

"That's not it at all, Molly," he said, his eyes now earnestly fixed on hers. "I don't have a preference, of course I don't. Why wouldn't I want a brilliant, beautiful little version of you running around Baker Street? It would be wonderful. But we can aim for that next time. This one's a boy."

"There's no way that-" – she stopped, suddenly feeling as though she'd been sideswiped. "Um…did you just say 'next time'?"

Sherlock, having resumed eating, looked up and nodded before reaching for his glass of water.

"Mm-hm."

"There's going to be a 'next time'?" she asked, this time slowly and pointedly.

"I'd like to think so," he said. "I mean, I don't exactly have a great touchpoint for the value of siblings, but I'm hopeful that your superior genetic contribution will go some way to diluting the Holmes Effect."

Molly felt a warmth spread across her chest. She'd never thought this far ahead, never allowed herself to because she had no idea where Sherlock saw this going. She probably should have just asked.

"Can I get this one out first, please?" she laughed.

Sherlock grinned.

"Probably a good idea. We shouldn't wait too long, though."

Molly snorted.

"Why? Because I'm ancient in motherhood terms?"

It was such a lovely feeling to have the midwife refer to her state of expectancy as a 'geriatric pregnancy'.

"I was thinking more so that they can share a bedroom for a while," Sherlock replied. "Although I concede that we may eventually outgrow 221B. With any luck."

Another bombshell. That one would have to wait for another day, another year perhaps.

She was going to have to stop eating soon, or else she would just become too sleepy to leave her seat, let alone walk to – and then around – a museum. It was at that moment that something struck her.

"Thursday's plans are going to have to go on hold," Molly said, wiping her fingers. "I told John we'd look after Rosie. I mean, that I would."

Sherlock cocked his head.

"She wouldn't like the Museum of Zoology?"

Molly had to check whether this was a genuine question, which apparently it was. She smiled, offering him a raised eyebrow.

"I think she'd prefer the actual zoo."

"What, in December?"

"Okay, maybe not the zoo. But something more…child-friendly."

She saw Sherlock almost literally shudder. She and John had already got plenty of mileage out of the thought of Sherlock enduring such rites of passage as soft play centres, petting zoos and theme parks. All while wearing his usual suit and Belstaff.

"We'll think of something," she assured him. "Rosie's usually just happy with a trip to the shops and a café. But maybe we can come up with somewhere else. I can ask John for ideas."

Sherlock hummed his tacit agreement.

"I'll reschedule Thursday's itinerary for next week. Or what about Saturday?"

Molly shook her head, pushing her plate slightly further away from her so that she could no longer be tempted to pick (although she now carried sachets of Gaviscon everywhere with her). She knew she was about to introduce a potentially tricky topic.

"I'm, um, I've got that NCT class all weekend," she said, aware that she was trying to avoid meeting Sherlock's eye. "Over in Islington. You, um, you don't have to come."

Sherlock frowned at her.

"Is that usual?"

Molly felt herself growing a little flustered and inwardly cursed herself. It was the old Molly trying to creep back in.

"It's probably not unusual," she reasoned. "I mean, there must be plenty of men who are working or otherwise can't make it, and lots of women who are, you know, on their own for other reasons."

She chanced a glance up at him. He was still looking perplexed.

"Well, I am neither working, nor otherwise engaged, nor feckless or indifferent towards my child or his mother, so therefore I will be in attendance," he said. "Although I'm not sure what this class will tell us about childbirth that either of us don't already know."

Molly was torn between relief that she wouldn't be going to the class alone (and what that said about Sherlock's degree of commitment to her), and the fact that he was entirely missing the point. It seemed very likely that John Watson had got there first and filled Sherlock's head with his own unhelpful pearls of wisdom about childbirth classes.

"I have a medical degree and you've binge-read a lot of books," she countered.

"You've delivered babies."

"Yeah, about fifteen years ago, and I was never that confident with it even then. Decided I was better with patients at the other end of their lives. Besides, delivering a baby and having a baby are not the same thing, Sherlock."

"I got the general idea when Rosie was born," he replied, sounding a little more defensive now. "The experience was very…instructional."

Molly snorted.

"John said you went into buffering mode."

"Into what?"

"Buffering. Like you were finding it hard to process."

"Git," Sherlock huffed. "I was doing my best to be a comfort to and calming influence on his wife while he was dithering about for an eternity trying to find somewhere to pull over. I'd like to see him do better."

"Um, well I actually hope he doesn't get the chance," Molly said, biting her lip to keep a traitorous smile at bay. "John's a friend, but I can't imagine Mary enjoyed having you quite so close to, um, the action."

"Perhaps not, but she nearly broke my bloody fingers," Sherlock said. "I was genuinely concerned that my violin-playing days might be over."

Molly smiled at him, inwardly acknowledging that Sherlock's beautiful, violinist's fingers would have proven a loss to more than just the musical world. Pregnancy hormones were doing nothing to diminish her feelings of outright lust for the man sitting opposite her.

"It won't just be about the birth," she continued, distracting herself. "There'll be stuff about relaxation, and practical things about looking after a newborn. Also, I was hoping I might, you know, might people."

Sherlock, of course, looked baffled by this suggestion.

"What people?"

"I don't know. People. Other women like me."

"There are no other women like you, Molly, I assure you."

She smiled. Other men might say that with a hint of irony, but not Sherlock – to him, it seemed to be simply a statement of irrefutable fact.

Molly took his hand across the table again, just as the waiter returned to clear their plates.

"Sherlock, I'm going to be off work for at least nine months, possibly a year," she said. "You won't always be around, you'll be working, and that's fine, that's normal, but I might, you know, appreciate some company. Someone to meet up with, go for coffees with, talk about baby stuff with."

Molly could see that Sherlock looked sceptical, possibly unsure as to why anyone would knowingly reach out to complete strangers, with whom the only thing you may have in common is the imminent/recent arrival of a child. It wasn't really her idea of a picnic either, but she wasn't exactly drowning in female friends of her own age or the same stage of life, and she worried that new motherhood – especially when the game was back on for Sherlock – could be very lonely.

"Understood," he nodded.

Yeah right, she thought; but at least he's trying.

Sherlock slid some bills out of his wallet and onto the table, which were instantly shooed back into his wallet by Sang-hoon, who seemed to appear out of nowhere. Thanks were exchanged, with their host once again commenting almost disbelievingly on the size of Molly's bump when she hitched herself up from her seat (at least he hadn't seen fit to touch her stomach – it was surprising how many people apparently thought a pregnant woman was public property).

Once out on the street, Sherlock was on his phone seeking out walking directions while Molly sorted out her hat and scarf again.

"Hm," Sherlock muttered. "There's an exhibition at the Operating Theatre about male midwives in the eighteenth century."

Molly rolled her eyes.

"Am I going to have to look at a lot of medieval-looking birthing instruments this afternoon, Sherlock? Because if so, Madame Tussaud's is sounding like a much better option."

Sherlock chuckled, pocketing his phone and offering his arm. Molly took it, leaning into him and affectionately squeezing the bicep beneath her fingers. This was it, it seemed – this was really it. They were now firmly on a countdown, and these occasions – just the two of them – would end abruptly in a matter of weeks. Sometimes it struck Molly that unlike most normal couples, they hadn't had a lot of this, that her pregnancy had never not been part of the fabric of their relationship. But it was what it was. And instead of shopping for baby clothes, they were about the visit a museum about Europe's oldest surviving operating theatre, so who in their right mind would have called them a normal couple?