Epilogue

John had been taken to hospital. Sebastian Moran had been hauled off in cuffs, ankles to wrists, but not before Sherlock plucked something from his inside jacket pocket – a well-creased envelope that Moran cursed and fought to retain. His shouted threats and barrage of swears seemed to linger in the air long after he'd been manhandled from the warehouse.

Irene was gone as well. Mycroft had escorted Molly – after being thoroughly checked out by the medics and declared into good shape – and Sherlock and Edmund to one of the ubiquitous sleek black cars that always marked his presence on the streets of London.

He'd watched as they slid into the back seat, Sherlock having surrendered their son to Molly's anxious arms. She could barely be convinced to place him in the carrier seat, but a reminder that it was the safest place for him inside the vehicle – by Mycroft's dark-haired assistant, of all people – had caused her to see reason.

It was during that ride, while Eddie babbled and played with his father's mobile and shirt buttons that Sherlock opened up the letter he'd taken from Moran. Molly watched as he read it, wondering what it was; more threats, more commands for Sherlock to follow

When he handed it to her, her hands shook but she took it and read it, every word.

When she was finished, she was even more confused than before. "Jim told Moran...that he was killing himself...because of me? Because he loved me and couldn't bear to live without me?" She looked over at Sherlock across Eddie's carrier seat, watched as he nodded, then gave a disbelieving laugh and tossed the letter back to him. "That's...insane," she said unsteadily. "It's completely fu- uh, insane," she repeated, remembering that her son was coming to an age where he would gleefully start repeating the most embarrassing words anyone spoke in front of him. "Why would he say such a thing?"

Sherlock shrugged, carefully refolding the letter and handing it over to his brother. "Because it was true, I suppose," he replied.

Molly had spent most of the day feeling stunned and helpless; this shouldn't have been able to affect her at all, a cup of water in a drowning man's face, but she felt her cheeks redden in embarrassment as she muttered: "He had to be lying."

"Actually, I agree with Molly," Mycroft said, inserting himself into the conversation without asking. Not that Molly cared; he could have forced her to listen to him recite every line from "Madama Buttefly" and she would have listened attentively, so grateful was she to him for saving Eddie's life. Even if he'd chosen a rather unorthodox way to do so – all for the sake of keeping Moran from blaming Sherlock, of course. To keep him from going after her. "No offense to your charms, of course, but James Moriarty has never struck me as the sentimental type."

Before it could devolve into a deductive argument between the two men, Eddie shouted: "Dada! Looka! Car!" and pointed out the window while his father dutifully admired the expensive red sports car that was driving next to them.

Either way, Molly dismissed it from her mind. It was insane, thinking that Moriarty might have had actual feelings for her, but at least it gave a reason for Moran's overwhelming hatred for her. Not a very good reason, but a reason nonetheless.

oOo

All over but the shouting, wasn't that what Molly had told herself earlier?

Well. As they arrived at the government offices where they were to be officially debriefed before being allowed to visit John or return to their respective flats, all she could think was, this is where the shouting begins.

The questions put to her were brief, perfunctory at best She'd never been completely at ease in Mycroft's presence, had never seen him show much affection for her son, but watching how his eyes softened whenever his gaze happened to fall on Eddie's dark curls, Molly wondered if she'd been fooling herself, if she'd allowed Mycroft's aloof facade and tight-lipped attitude trick her into believing that he was as heartless as he seemed to want everyone – herself and his younger brother included – to think he was.

She broke into what turned out to be his last question for her, reaching across the small table to press her hand to his and catch his attention. "Thank you," she said, with all the warmth and sincerity she was feeling. Eddie had fallen asleep on the comfortable armchair next to hers, and she saw Mycroft's eyes flicker that way for a moment before he gave her a brief nod and excused himself.

She waited less than a minute before the door to the small conference room opened; expecting Mycroft to be returning, she glanced over her shoulder, then froze as she saw Sherlock, standing tentatively in the doorway.

She relaxed the slightest bit when his eyes swept over her form and zeroed in on their sleeping son, and gestured for him to enter when he returned his attention to her, a questioning, hesitant expression on his face.

Time for the shouting, then. Only it would have to be done very, very quietly in order to keep from waking Eddie.

"Apparently Uncle Mycroft is Eddie's new favorite person outside of Mama and Dada," she said, breaking the conversational ice, as it were. She rose to her feet, knowing it was foolish to feel at a disadvantage just because Sherlock was standing, ridiculous, even considering how much taller than her he was, but still.

"Uncle Mycroft is now my favorite person as well," Sherlock returned wryly, keeping his voice low, glancing now and again at Eddie as if reassuring himself that their son was really there. Molly completely understood, since she found herself doing the same thing, and having to restrain herself from pulling him into her arms and never ever letting him go again, ever. "Once I was able to slip him the clue that Eddie was the target – and believe me, Molly, in spite of what Irene said, it was not from lack of trying on my part – he found a way to take a blood or urine sample and got his people onto finding an antidote as quickly as they could."

"And when they did," Molly concluded the story they both already knew, "he had one of his men steal Eddie from the flat while I was napping." She shivered and hugged herself. "God, I felt so...so helpless, so frightened, when I woke up and he was gone." She gave a shake of her head. "And even after all the horrible things you'd said and done to me, the first thing I thought of was to find you, because you would be able to find him and bring him back to me. Even if all we were was a case, you would be the one to find him. Not the police or Mycroft, you."

Sherlock looked uncomfortable; good. He deserved to, after everything he'd put her through.

Molly took a step toward him then stopped. "Is that how you got through this?" she asked, her voice a hushed whisper even though Eddie had slept peacefully through their low-voiced conversation so far. "By treating it like a case, by just turning off your feelings for us, pretending you meant it? Is that how you were able to leave and not look back?"

He shook his head. He opened his mouth, then shut it again, fumbling for something in his jacket pocket. Wordlessly he held out his mobile. There was a single voice mail; with a questioning glance, Molly pressed the code to open it, and listened.

Her breath caught in her throat when she heard the sound of her own voice, tinny and flat but still recognizable, coming from the speaker. "Hi, Sherlock, it's Molly, of course you know that already, don't you, sorry, but please, I need to talk to you. It's important. Oh, Eddie's fine! It's nothing…bad. It's just…call me. I need to talk to you as soon as you get home. Love you."

"I can't tell you how many times I've listened to that message since you left it," Sherlock said softly as he closed his hand over hers, ostensibly to retrieve the mobile, but he left his hand on hers – they were both trembling, shaking. Both hands. Not just hers. "It kept me sane and tortured me at the same time, knowing that you meant the words when you said them, but that you might not…that I might never hear you say them to me again."

She looked up at him searchingly. His eyes were clear, warm, sincere. As sincere as she'd ever seen him.

He'd never said the words she longed to hear. She'd told herself over and over again that she didn't need to hear them, that he proved his feelings every day he stayed with her and their son.

When he'd left them, ordered them out of his life, she'd told herself it was better that he'd never lied, never said the words, that it had all been some kind of feeble attempt on his part at living a normal life. An experiment that he'd deemed a failure in the end.

Now…she still didn't know how she felt. He'd hurt her so badly, sent her sanity tumbling down a well to hide from the harsh reality of daylight. She'd spent a week in recovery, trying to patch her mind and heart back together again as best she could, and only the twin knowledge that Eddie needed her and that the new baby was going to need her just as much had provided the stitching she'd needed in order to properly mend herself.

But it had been a fragile sort of recovery; she'd known that as well, had seen it nearly crack back into fractured pieces of broken crockery when Sherlock had returned two weeks ago and said those terrible, awful, cruel things to her in the morgue. "It really was two sets of accidents," she finally settled on saying, knowing that he'd follow her train of thought as clearly as if she'd spoken the words "my pregnancies" out loud.

He nodded, his expression grave but slightly anxious. As if he were afraid that she wouldn't believe him. "I know," he said, confirming the movement of his head, making it absolutely clear that he understood her. "I know, both times…I know, Molly. I didn't…didn't mean any of the things I've said to you, in that note or the last time we…none of them, Molly," he added in a rush, expression and voice turned to desperation as he stumbled his way through the words as if they'd landed in some alternate reality where he was the one who couldn't put together an entire sentence in her presence.

She reached up with one hand to run her fingers gently along his jawline, up to his forehead and amongst his dark curls. His eyes closed and he reached out with a hand that actually trembled to touch her wrist, to hold her there for as long as she'd let him.

"I love you so much, Sherlock," she whispered. "I've never known if you…well, I did, or I thought I did. Then I thought I'd just been fooling myself."

"And now?" he asked, his voice only a breath louder than hers, eyes still closed.

"I know you love Eddie," she replied, fingers still moving gently against his head, tangling in his curls, brushing against his skin. "I know you've always loved him, would do anything for him – and if I needed proof, well, I've been given that, had it made crystal clear."

He turned his head slightly, just enough to press a gentle kiss to the palm of her hand. "But I haven't given you proof of my feelings for you," he said, finishing the thought she deliberately left unspoken. "Because if I…loved you…how could I justify any of the things I've said and done since this began? Even to save our son, how could someone who loves you allow you to go through the pain and suffering I put you through, to the point of a nervous breakdown, to the point of not being able to care for our son or yourself or the new baby?"

Molly's eyes fell closed at those quiet, painfully honest words. How could he? That was the crux of the matter. Yes, she knew he'd done it all because Moran was poisoning their son. Yes, she knew he'd been under strict orders to allow her no hope; that part of Moran's vengeful plot had been to destroy her, without mercy, using Sherlock as his weapon of choice.

"I can't answer those questions, Molly," Sherlock finally said. "Not in any way that could possibly make this better for you. I've never done well with sentiment, but you've always known that." She nodded, eyes still shut as she let him speak, let him have his say. "I love Edmund, you're right about that. And I've always cared for you, always trusted you…but romantic love never seemed…quite real to me. If the threat had been to you rather than to our son, I can't say that I would have gone to the same lengths to save you, that I would have been able to…hurt him…to save you…"

Her eyes flew open to meet his, shocked. "I would never expect you to do such a thing!" she cried, fingers tightening in his grip. "Never, Sherlock! If it had been me, I know I'd have done the same thing! I love you, but Eddie is our child, our baby," she choked out the last word, her free hand clutching convulsively at her stomach and the new life it shielded. "Any threat to Eddie, to the new baby…God, Sherlock, I'd have killed you myself if it meant saving their lives!"

Wonder blossomed on his face. "You do understand," he whispered as he held her gaze, cloudy blue-gray eyes staring into brown. He pulled her to him and she allowed it, lowering her eyes as she rested her head on his chest. She felt him lean down and press a kiss to the crown of her head, and smiled.

She didn't need to hear the words after all. All the doubt, all the pain and confusion fell to the side. Not gone, but not in the forefront of her emotions at the moment. He loved her. And she understood, finally, the depths that she herself would go to should it prove necessary.

They'd leave each other behind in a heartbeat if it meant saving their children. And they'd ache from the pain of doing so, but would never look back if that was what it took.

"I won't ask you to forgive me. I won't even ask you to take me back," Sherlock said, breaking the silence that had fallen over them. "I don't deserve either. But I would very much like to remain in Eddie's life, and be there for the new baby as well…"

"Oh, you'll be there," Molly murmured contentedly against his chest as she squeezed him tightly to her. "You're going to move us out of that overpriced flat your brother found, you're going to reinstall us at 221b, and you're going to turn the laboratory into a nursery. Oh, and Sherlock?"

She craned her head up so she could look him squarely in the eyes, determined that he understood how very much she meant this next part. He was smiling, as if her words had lightened his spirit, but the smile vanished as he waited for her to finish. "If that woman ever, ever so much as texts you, you are to delete it unanswered. I don't care how much you think we owe her for her part I rescuing Eddie, I do not ever want to hear her name, see her face or find out that you've had any kind of contact with her. Am I clear?"

She'd surprised herself with the steel in her voice, but apparently not Sherlock, because he simply nodded solemnly down at her before bending his neck to press a kiss on her lips. "I promise," he replied when the kiss ended, his voice husky and eyes suspiciously moist.

Tears were already dripping down her own cheeks, but she knew he'd never get over it if she admitted to knowing that he was on the verge of crying, and so she ignored the brightness of his eyes and concentrated on the feel of his arms around her. God, she'd missed him so much, even when she thought she hated him. Her eyes fell on their son's sleeping form, and a fond smile curved her lips.

"Take us home," she murmured as she tucked her head under Sherlock's chin, and smiled when she felt him nod.

A/N: Whew, what an effort that was. Fortunately I'd written out a bunch of it way, way back when I first started this tangled tale of deception. I know there are going to be some who are angry that Molly forgives him so easily, but I defend my ending; I paved the way for it in earlier chapters and considering how selfless Molly is when it comes to Sherlock, I doubt it would take years of therapy and Sherlock abjectly begging her forgiveness on bended knee before she would take him back. And, of course, there's no way sex is back on the table until after the new baby is born. Gender in this story? Undetermined. Up to the reader, a la "The Lady or the Tiger." Thanks for sticking around for the conclusion, folks. :)