It felt like a reason to celebrate. For almost ten straight weeks, Molly had felt like she was now only distantly related to the human race, dragging herself around Bart's in a semi-comatose fug and crawling into bed the moment she arrived home from work. During those glorious weeks of early pregnancy, almost every single smell she inhaled (and she really tried hard to breathe through her mouth) had made her stomach lurch, and just the suggestion of having something to eat was enough to make her want to throw the nearest solid object at the proposer. Which, to his misfortune, was usually Sherlock.

And it turned out - with the possible exception of farmers and perfumers - that she had the worst job in the world for strong smells. The lab was marginally better than the morgue, but suddenly, chemicals and cleaning products that she hardly noticed before were amplified to unbearable effect. It was lucky, really, that Mike – father to a fleet of little Stamfords – was so understanding and said nothing about the emergency kidney bowl that Molly had to carry with her at all times.

But now, she was hungry! Not force-down-some-dry-crackers hungry, but actual enthusiasm for a proper meal – and, as a bonus, she felt she had the energy to stay up beyond six pm and eat one, too. It felt incredible. Having had to spend the past ten weeks reminding herself (often while hunched over the toilet bowl) that she was happy, she now actually just felt it. Not that she wasn't still tired, and not that she felt ready for an Tudor-style banquet, but now that the worst had – very suddenly – passed, everything seemed more manageable.

Just as well, because the countdown to the wedding now stood at only ten days. Naively (well, now she knew it was naively), she had assumed she'd feel fine again by the start of the second trimester, in plenty of time for the wedding. Although, Molly reflected, she probably wouldn't have been the first bride to vomit in a floral display.

When she had arrived home with her appetite still intact, she had sent a text to Sherlock while getting changed, asking him whether he could bring some dinner. He had responded almost right away.

Dinner for you? - SH

She had smiled, picturing his face as he contemplated whether he had understood correctly.

For both of us – Mx

She had wondered whether that was still open to interpretation.

You and me, I mean. The baby has stolen enough from me already – Mx

A brief pause before he replied again.

Plain pasta, or dry toast? – SH

Molly had had enough of both for a lifetime, and quickly tapped out a response.

Proper food please - Mx

Sherlock had responded by saying he'd be home around seven-thirty. He had been deep into a case for nearly a week, and between his long days and her early nights, it felt to Molly as though they'd only had a few, snatched conversations in that time. He'd always insisted on returning to her flat, though, however late it was; Molly would be aware of the dip in the mattress, the arm pulling her close (but more gently than before), the kiss on her cheek or temple. One thing she missed was the woody scent of Sherlock's aftershave but, given that for a while it had the unfortunate effect of violently turning her stomach, he had stopped wearing it. That was something else that could now go back to normal.

Normal. They had barely worked out what 'normal' was for them when Molly had discovered she was pregnant; it was planned, of course, but she had assumed that there would be more rehearsal time before the real thing – and from Sherlock's reaction, it had been clear he thought so, too. Nearly ten years of a steadily evolving friendship had suddenly – in the space of a few weeks - accelerated into a lifetime romantic commitment, and although the course was set, the practical details were still a bit lacking. Although Molly couldn't help noticing that Sherlock now used the word 'home' in relation to her flat, which perhaps said something about his ideas for their future.

It was shortly before seven-thirty when she heard the key in her front door, but the noises that followed told Molly that something had clearly happened between their earlier exchange of texts and the present moment. She could hear Sherlock's voice, low and rumbling, followed by the dull thump of something being deposited on the hallway floor.

Molly's curiosity got the better of her fatigued limbs, and she hauled herself off the sofa to pad the few feet to the living room door. Before she'd crossed that small distance, though, she heard something else, something she knew so well as to be unmistakable.

"Hi!" she said, taking in the scene in front of her.

"Ah, yes, hello," Sherlock replied, looking up with slight surprise at seeing her standing there.

"You're, um, you're not alone," Molly said, brow creasing into a frown, as she waited for the explanation she hoped would come.

"That is, ah…yes, you are correct, Molly, I am not alone," he said, stooping to allow another bag to drop off his arm and onto the floor.

His other arm was engaged in the balancing of their goddaughter, who had her coat over her pyjamas and her face buried in the crook of Sherlock's neck. The noises that Molly had recognised were the whimpering whines of one very tired Rosie Watson.

"Is everything okay?" Molly asked, moving to support Rosie's weight while Sherlock shrugged out of his Belstaff. "Is John all right?"

"That would depend on who you ask," Sherlock replied.

He paused, repositioning Rosie so that he could lean down to meet Molly, capturing her lips in a brief but melting kiss (just because these greetings were now commonplace didn't mean they would ever become less amazing for it). His hand drifted down to her waist, smiling, as his thumb strayed a little further to graze over the small swell of her belly.

Molly unzipped Rosie's coat, their goddaughter protesting a little at being manhandled; she did look slightly flushed, but removing layers would probably help.

"John would tell you he was fine," Sherlock continued. "But John probably wouldn't tell you that he fell asleep in a chair at a crime scene yesterday, and again in the cab today – twice. He said something about Rosie being unsettled over the past few nights. Given that he has a shift at the clinic first thing tomorrow, I made the offer to take her overnight…"

Molly watched his expression change to one of slight uncertainty.

"Is…is that okay…?" he asked, hurriedly adding, "I can take of her; I know you need to rest."

In all the years she'd known him, she had never doubted that Sherlock was capable of ordinary human emotion (even when he was doing his best to defy that belief), but the proof just kept on coming. Tired though Molly was, delicate though she was feeling, she could hardly be annoyed at such a demonstration of empathy, not only towards her but for his friend, too.

"Yes, of course it's fine, Sherlock," she told him, kissing Rosie. "And I'm not going to break. Although please tell me you brought something to eat as well?"

He stooped to pick up the carrier bag he had left by the door, handing it to her.

"Courtesy of Angelo," he said. "Although he suggested something tomato rather than cream-based – gentler on the stomach. Wouldn't want your memories of your favourite carbonara to be sullied forever."

Sherlock offered to put Rosie to bed (her travel cot now permanently set up in Molly's spare room), and Molly kissed her goddaughter goodnight before going off to unpack the offerings from Sherlock's favourite restaurant. As she did so, her thoughts returned to John, and the nagging worries that had kept resurfacing. They had celebrated Rosie's first birthday a few weeks ago, and John had thrown himself into it full-force, but Molly could tell that it was a defence mechanism; if he slowed down for a moment, that tide of grief could claim him again. She couldn't help but worry, too, that the upcoming wedding might not be helping matters, that despite John being delighted for them, it was always going to be bittersweet.

Molly could hear Rosie's protests coming from the spare bedroom, and she wondered whether the little girl had been picking up on her father's mood. Her Wednesday afternoon babysitting had been hard work, too, with all the usual distractions failing to placate Rosie - although Molly had attributed that to the fact that she herself had felt utterly crap, and hardly in the mood for play.

Shortly afterwards, Sherlock appeared in the room in his shirtsleeves and socked feet.

"Sounds like she put up a fight," Molly commented, setting their plates down on the little kitchen table. "Is she okay?"

"Hm," he replied, taking a seat opposite. "Apparently, being a baby is exhausting."

"This smells amazing," Molly grinned, winding some linguini around her fork.

"Definitely feeling better, then?" Sherlock said, eyeing her as he rolled up his sleeves.

She nodded, savouring the first mouthful of tomato-and-herb magnificence.

"Might not be the only appetite that I'm getting back, either…" she ventured, slowly raising her eyebrow at him.

"I see…" Sherlock replied, pursing his lips as though digesting that information along with his meal.

"I mean, I'm not suggesting you throw me on the table right now-"

"-that would be a waste of perfectly good pasta-"

"-but, you know, maybe later, and not involving the table…"

She saw Sherlock's mouth pull into a brief smirk.

"Message received and understood," Sherlock replied. "You merely have to say the word, Molly."

All of a sudden, Molly wanted to get through dinner a lot more quickly. It wasn't that she hadn't wanted to during the past couple of months (and there hadn't been a complete drought), but a permanent feeling of motion sickness wasn't particularly compatible with sex. Plus, it would have been the ultimate insult to the man she loved had she fallen asleep during.

Any thoughts of plans for the evening were, however, interrupted halfway through the meal by cries from the spare bedroom. With a sigh of resignation, Sherlock answered the call, returning five minutes later with a red-faced Rosie, who was howling and refusing to be soothed.

"She was fairly insistent that she doesn't want to be in bed," Sherlock said, with a note of apology. He was holding Rosie slightly at arm's length, to avoid the furious waving of limbs.

Molly got up from the table and felt Rosie's head and tummy with the back of her hand.

"She does feel hot," she murmured, trying to recall where she put the infant thermometer.

"As would I if I had I been screaming blue murder for ten minutes," Sherlock grumbled, struggling to contain Rosie on his lap.

"Rosie, sweetheart, does something hurt?" Molly asked, stroking their goddaughter's head.

"Not sure she's in the mood for rational conversation, Molly," Sherlock replied. "Or, in fact, conversation of any kind - that being the way of babies."

Molly rolled her eyes. It was all very well Sherlock treating this situation with sarcasm, but in five months' time they would have their own irrational being to contend with.

"It's probably her teeth," she said, trying to peer into Rosie's mouth. "She might be getting her molars."

"Yes, well, I'm not volunteering for that assignment," Sherlock told her. "I've fallen for that one before."

It did seem that Molly was the only adult in Rosie's life who hadn't found out the hard way that Rosie had new teeth coming through. Molly fetched the gel teething ring from the freezer, and encouraged it into Rosie's mouth – livid, Rosie yanked it out and threw it on the floor, using this affront as an excuse to ramp up the screaming.

"Isn't there some sort of pink goop that's good for this sort of thing?" Sherlock enquired, above the din. "John says it's like crack for babies."

Not a particularly tasteful joke for John to have made to a former drug-addict, Molly reflected, as she trotted off in search of the Calpol. She offered both the medicine and a beaker of water to Rosie, who slapped the beaker from Molly's hand in rage, but greeted the first taste of strawberry-flavoured paracetamol like a long-lost friend. She gave Molly a look, as though to say finally!, before calmly accepting the beaker of water, too.

Not long afterwards, Rosie fell asleep in Sherlock's arms on the sofa, and Molly was able to transfer her goddaughter back to the cot, pulling the blanket only up to her middle in the hope that she would cool down a little.

Once she'd carefully pulled the door behind her, she found Sherlock leaning against the doorframe of her bedroom.

"About your proposal earlier this evening, Molly…" he said in a musing tone, his eyes narrowed as though in thought.

Molly smiled, closing the distance between them until Sherlock's hands reached out to take her around the waist. He broke into a smile, too, before leaning down to kiss her gently – too gently for Molly's liking at that moment.

"Sherlock, I promise I'm not going to break," she whispered.

"I realise that, Molly, but...umhh!-"

She had decided she needed to show him how she wanted to be kissed, and once Sherlock got the idea, he seemed happy to oblige. One of them found the bedroom door handle, and very soon they were on the other side of it, moving across the room in tandem until the backs of Sherlock's legs made contact with the bed and he was forced to sit. She could work with this, Molly thought, wickedly; there really was no downside to having Sherlock Holmes in this position.

A shriek erupted from across the hallway.

The initial shock tore Molly away from their long-overdue pursuit, and once it had worn off, she sighed and pulled her jumper back over her head, noting that the anguish on Sherlock's face pretty much mirrored her feelings at that moment. She scuttled back to the spare room to find Rosie kneeling up in the travel cot, damp hair plastered to her forehead, mouth open in paroxysms of distress. The little girl's hands were outstretched in desperation and, whispering reassurances, Molly lifted Rosie into her arms.

No wonder she was so distraught - she was burning up.

Quickly, Molly sat them both down on the tub chair in the corner, holding Rosie close while she unfastened her sleeping bag to try to cool her down. No doubt drawn by the relentlessness of Rosie's crying, a tousled Sherlock appeared behind her, pulling his shirt back over his shoulders.

"What can I do?" he asked, blinking in the dim light of the room.

"She needs water – and a wet cloth, too. There's some in the drawer in the bathroom."

Within moments, Sherlock had returned, by which time Molly had stripped off Rosie's sleeping bag completely. The cool, damp cloth was met with resistance, but Molly pressed it to Rosie's forehead anyway, then to her cheeks, and eventually Rosie calmed down enough to have a few sips of water.

Sherlock perched on the top of the pine drawers a few feet away, looking slightly rattled, while Rosie gulped and hiccupped her way through her water.

"I…suppose we've got all this to come," he said, almost gravely.

Like her, Sherlock had probably been contemplating the extremes of being a parent – the amazing highs and the crippling fears – rather than the in-between stuff; the interrupted nights, the uncertainties, the general muddling-through. The child Molly was vaguely forming a fanciful picture of, complete with Sherlock's curls and her nose, was going to steal their hearts and then put them through the wringer.

"She's going to hate this, but I think I may as well change her now," Molly sighed. "She might be more comfortable, especially if she gets a bit of cool air on her."

Surprisingly, Rosie didn't protest a great deal when Sherlock lowered her onto the changing mat (he was already insisting that Molly didn't put strain on her body), or when Molly started to wiggle her pyjama trousers off her legs. It must have been a relief; the pyjamas were damp with sweat.

Molly took the new nappy from Sherlock's outstretched hand and was about to unfasten the old one when she stopped.

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"Could you...could you just put the lamp on for a minute?"

He did as he was told, angling the glare away from Rosie's face.

"Does that-?" Molly paused, gently pushing up Rosie's onesie to expose her tummy. "Sherlock, it looks like…hang on."

She gently eased Rosie's arms out of the onesie, and then the onesie over her head. Once Rosie was lying there in just her nappy, there was no mistaking it.

"Molly, is that-?"

"Um, yep," she sighed, smoothing her hand over Rosie's head. "I'm pretty sure that's chickenpox."

Rosie was temporarily distracted from her discomfort by the sight of both of her godparents carefully scrutinizing the handful of pink spots scattered across her body and legs.

"We should probably let John know," Molly sighed, sitting back against the cot.

Sherlock frowned.

"We could do that," he replied. "But then he'll insist on coming to collect her, when there's really no need. Everyone gets chickenpox as a child, so this is just normal, yes?"

Molly sighed, nodding. He was right in a sense – there was very little John could do that they weren't already doing, and if they called him now, it would mean another sleepless night for him.

"We'll need to keep an eye on her," she said.

Sherlock nodded, buttoning his shirt (and with it, finally snuffing out Molly's last lingering hopes).

"That's fine, I-"

He stopped.

"Is it safe for you to be exposed to chickenpox?"

Molly reached out to stop Rosie in the act of trying to escape from the changing mat.

"I had it the year I started school, so it's fine – the baby and I should both have immunity."

Sherlock was still frowning as he tucked his shirt back into his trousers (which seemed an unnecessary formality at this time of night).

"Yes, but isn't it possible to contract it for a second time?"

"It's incredibly rare, Sherlock," Molly said, hoping she could do something about the troubled look on his face. "Honestly, I'll be fine - we'll both be fine. Let's just get Rosie to bed, hm?"

A short while later, Rosie had surrendered to sleep again, this time dressed only in a short-sleeved onesie and covered by only a light blanket. Molly suspected that she'd just cried herself out for the time being and would probably demand their attention again in a couple of hours. Sleep was beginning to sound like a good idea to Molly, too, and when she left Rosie's room, she went straight to hers (theirs?) and dug around for her own pyjamas. When she looked up, the sight of Sherlock – apparently materializing from nowhere in the doorway – made her jump.

"Sherlock-"

"I'm going to take Rosie back to Baker Street with me," he said, his brow furrowed in thought. "I've been thinking about it, and it would be better all round. However small the risk, I couldn't live with myself if you became ill or anything happened to the baby."

Molly sighed, taking a couple of steps towards him

"That's very sweet, but you really don't have to," she told him.

"Noooo, but I love you and, therefore, I want to," he replied, reaching out to draw Molly closer to him. "Besides, it's been a while since Rosie and I have spent any quality time together."

Molly snorted.

"Wasn't the last time when you let her roam freely around the flat and then thought she'd swallowed my engagement ring?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Yes, well, I never promised John and Mary that I'd be a very good godfather," he said. "They were broadly aware that I was only in it for the cake."

Molly arched up on tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips.

"You are a bloody brilliant godfather," she said, grinning as she pulled away. "I wouldn't have let you knock me up if you weren't."

At this, she could have sworn that Sherlock's ears turned slightly pink.

"I'm sure Rosie and I will muddle through," he said. "Anyway, I'm fairly certain that John would have left his daughter with Wiggins if it meant he could get a full night's sleep."

He started to pick up his jacket and shoes.

"You're not going right now?" Molly almost yelped.

"You shouldn't be exposed any longer than necessary," Sherlock replied. "Varicella can be caught simply by being in the same room as someone who is infected."

"You were Googling that when I was putting Rosie to bed, weren't you?" Molly said, narrowing her eyes at him.

Sherlock gave her that I can neither confirm nor deny look, the one he used when he didn't want to lie to her yet didn't like what he was going to have to admit to.

"Sherlock, we only just got her to sleep," Molly reasoned. "Look, just stay here tonight, okay. You can leave early tomorrow, and Rosie and I don't even need to cross paths in the morning if you really don't want us to."

He was silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed somewhere on the bedroom carpet. Finally, he took a breath and looked up.

"This is because you want me to throw you on the dining table, isn't it?"

Molly opened her mouth to reply, but thought better of it, settling instead on her own I can neither nor deny look, before picking up her pyjamas and heading for the bathroom.

0000000000

Three days later, Molly was perched at the bench in the lab, surrounded by the various components of her lunch, and working through some of the last-minute things that needed to be done before the wedding. It still hardly seemed real to be reading RSVPs addressed to her and Sherlock, to see their names side-by-side on emails from florists, caterers and the registrar's office at the Old Marylebone Town Hall.

She was just about to text Sherlock to see whether he had an opinion about chair covers (it seemed unlikely), when a text arrived from him. No message, just an image. Molly clicked on it and zoomed, frowning when she realised what she was looking at.

Oh no. I thought Rosie was over the worst? - Mx

All the photo showed was a small, indeterminate expanse of skin, puckered with pink spots. John was going to be gutted if Rosie was still coming out in spots; he was already apologizing, needlessly, for how their unofficial flower-girl was going to look in the wedding pictures.

Her phone vibrated on the bench.

So it is what it looks like, then? - SH

Molly frowned, tapping out a response.

Yeah. But at least she's not feeling so unwell now. John says her temperature's back to normal – Mx

There was a short pause before he replied again.

Molly, you have failed to recognise the inside of your fiancé's forearm – SH

Molly read the words and gave an audible gasp; this was definitely something she hadn't seen coming. She took a moment to consider the most tactful thing to say in response.

Is it bad? – Mx

I once caught body-lice from an old mattress in a doss house in Wanstead. This is worse – SH

When her shift ended, Molly took a cab over to Baker Street via a pharmacy. She had received live text-updates on the progression of Sherlock's condition throughout the afternoon, although thankfully there were no further photographs. She had explained to him that he probably caught chickenpox from Rosie much earlier in the week, before she even came out in a rash, but this made little difference to the patient.

She found Sherlock lying on the sofa in his pyjama trousers and dressing gown, actually catching him in the act of angrily scratching the back of his neck. When he turned around, Molly heard herself gasp again before immediately feeling guilty and trying to convert the gasp into a greeting. It didn't work.

"I know – I look hideous," he said, piteously.

Molly crossed the room and crouched beside him.

"No, you don't," she told him, all the while taking in the constellation of chickenpox across his face and neck. "You're just very, very unlucky to have got this for a second time, Sherlock."

He darted a look at her, before clearing his throat.

"Actually, it turns out that I, in fact, have not had chickenpox before," he said, with a slight scowl. "My mother confirmed this by text this afternoon. Apparently, Mycroft had it before I was born, and I somehow managed to avoid it throughout school. Why on earth wouldn't she have told me this before? Parents should have to hand over a full dossier containing this sort of information when their offspring reach adulthood. I fully intend to with our children."

Molly felt her eyebrows rise spontaneously at his use of the word 'children' rather than 'child', but it probably wasn't the best time to discuss that.

"Anyway, I brought you some stuff from Boots," she said, reaching into her bag. "Some calamine lotion, and this oatmeal stuff you put in the bath – it's meant for babies, but…"

"I resent that implication, Molly," Sherlock snapped. "I feel utterly wretched, I'm scratching like a dog with fleas, and these damn spots are everywhere!"

Molly bit down on a smile.

"Everywhere?" she asked mildly.

Sherlock fixed her with a look.

"Everywhere," he confirmed.

Molly nodded slowly, still trying to rein in that smile.

"Do you, um…do you want me to take a look?" she asked.

"Why, so you can laugh?" Sherlock said, with what looked very much like a pout.

"No, I was going to suggest you let me apply the calamine lotion," she smiled.

She saw a blush suddenly rise in Sherlock's cheeks.

"Much as I like the sound of that idea, Molly," he replied, looking genuinely pained. "I don't want your associations with…certain regions of my anatomy to be tarnished forever. Things don't look…at their best down there."

"I'm a medical professional, Sherlock," she told him with a smile. "I've seen a few sights in my time."

"Yes, but the…ah, things you see on the slab have outlived their usefulness," he insisted. "And I very much hope that mine haven't. I mean, we're getting married in a week…"

Molly hopped up onto the sofa to sit beside him, reaching up to card a hand through his damp hair.

"This will all have settled down by then," she said, taking the hand that rested on his knee. "You'll feel much better."

"Feel much better, yes," Sherlock retorted. "But you do know what this means for our wedding day, Molly, don't you?"

00000000000000

Molly tried not to look too closely at the sea of familiar faces as she entered the small ceremony room at the Old Town Hall, as she knew it wouldn't take much to make her lose her footing or for the gently flitting butterflies to become more like a colony of panicking bats. Reaching the end of the small aisle, she handed the small bouquet to Meena and came to stand beside Sherlock at the front of the room.

"Hello," he said, in a low whisper, turning to face her.

Immediately, the butterflies started to settle. Sherlock had been right – the chickenpox hadn't gone away completely before the wedding, and John had very nearly lost his Best Man role by making one too many cracks about 'Beauty and the Beast'. But oddly, it was the sight of Sherlock's face covered in pearly-pink blotches that calmed Molly's nerves immediately.

"Hi," she whispered back.

"You look beautiful," Sherlock said, the tips of his fingers wrapping around hers.

"Thank you," she mouthed. "You look pretty good yourself."

She meant it wholeheartedly, but Sherlock gave a quiet snort in response.

"I got the distinct impression that the registrar has never seen a forty-year-old bridegroom with chickenpox before," he said. "In fact, judging by the initial reaction, it's possible that she thinks you're marrying me to fulfil my dying wish."

Molly pulled her lips together tightly to prevent a snigger from escaping. During the lowest ebb of his chickenpox-induced misery, Sherlock had offered to postpone the wedding, but she hadn't considered it for even a second.

"Well, we've had a bit of practice with the 'in sickness and in health' bit, anyway," she replied in a whisper, aware that the registrar was gathering herself to begin.

"I'm sure the photographer can alter the photos so that it doesn't look as though you've just married a plague victim," Sherlock said.

Molly smiled at him, shaking her head firmly. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Rosie bouncing on John's knee; she looked in the pink of health, her own chickenpox having faded almost completely, and she was happily engaged in crumpling John's order-of-service sheet.

"This is our wedding day, Sherlock. I don't want some weird, sanitised version – I want to remember it as really was," Molly told him. "And it will always remind me of why you ended up getting chickenpox in the first place."

"Because my mother withheld vital information?"

She rolled her eyes.

"Because you're a really, really good godfather."

Molly watched Sherlock take this in; he was trying to look dubious, but she could tell he was pleased at this particular appraisal. She leaned into his side for a moment, looking up at him as he was looking down.

"And I bet I'm the only bride who gets to play join-the-dots on her husband's bum on her wedding night," she added quickly.

Sherlock adopted a pained expression,

"I wasn't aware that the 'for better or for worse' referred to your jokes, Molly," he replied, arching an eyebrow.

The words were only just out of his mouth when the registrar stepped towards them.

"Molly, Sherlock, are we ready to begin?"

There was a quick exchange of looks between them, before they nodded in tandem, and Molly felt Sherlock take her hand more firmly in his. She was content to let him have the last word on this occasion, particularly given his recent suffering - and after all, they had the rest of their lives for her to think of a good comeback.