Er...so I had intended for Sherlock's parents to turn up in this chapter, but I didn't want to cram too much in, so they're *definitely* going to be in the next one instead. Sherlock has a bit of unfinished business to take care of first, among other things...

Sherlock Holmes was not a patient man, which therefore made any interaction with a hospital an extremely testing experience. Around nine o'clock they had been told that the doctor would be there shortly to sign off the discharge papers, and over an hour later they were still waiting. Molly had pointed out to him that delays were commonplace across the health service, including her own area of work – it was just that her clients weren't in a position to complain. Sherlock was well aware that when she first sent him to the café for coffees and then later suggested he take William for a walk around the wards that she was trying to keep him busy – and let's face it, avoid a scene.

But then, shortly before noon on New Year's Day – and following the most anxiety-ridden taxi journey of his life – they arrived at the front door to 221 Baker Street. Sherlock had barely helped Molly out of the car and was still unstrapping William's seat when the front door flew open and Mrs Hudson was skipping towards them with open arms.

"Oh, my dears!" she exclaimed, completely throwing Sherlock's concentration as he tried to sort out the taxi fare. "It's so good to have you home! Now where is my little William?"

Sherlock duly lifted the (surprisingly heavy) car seat so that Mrs Hudson could admire his son.

"Oh, he's asleep, how adorable!" Mrs Hudson cooed. "Babies love a good ride in the car – always sends them off. Come on, get him inside where it's warm!"

"Exactly what we were planning," Sherlock replied, earning a good-natured swat from his landlady.

"Are John and Rosie home?" Molly asked.

"You just missed them," Mrs Hudson replied, her hand on Molly's elbow as she ushered her over the threshold. "John held out as long as possible, but Rosie was getting so restless that they went to the park to feed the ducks. Shan't imagine they'll be long, though – it's hardly playing outdoors weather."

Once indoors, there was yet more cooing and general adoration in the kitchen of Mrs Hudson's flat, followed by an insistence on photos ("to show the girls at Zumba"). Sherlock was aware of how tired Molly looked, but knew that her inherently lovely nature would prevent her from telling Hudders to back off so she could rest.

"My…ah…my mother and father will be arriving in a couple of hours," Sherlock began, clearing his throat. "We should probably ensure that this young man is fed and freshened up before they get here."

He saw Molly shoot him a discreet but grateful look. Their ability to read each other so quickly had rapidly grown during the last few months – well, his ability, really (it seemed that he'd always been completely transparent to Molly).

"Oh, yes, of course!" Mrs Hudson replied, getting up from the kitchen chair. "And you should have a nice lie down, too, Molly. Sleep when your baby sleeps – isn't that what they say?"

"They do, apparently," Sherlock said. "Although I get the feeling that 'they' are living in somewhere approaching 'cloud cuckoo land'"

It hadn't escaped his notice that no sooner had William fallen asleep and Molly had sorted herself out, been to the loo, had a bite to eat, than their son was awake again and expecting the whole cycle of feeding to resume. Stomach the size of a walnut, Molly had told him, with a gusty sigh.

"Well, your laundry is done, there are new sheets on the bed, and I picked up a few bits and pieces to put in your fridge, so you won't starve," Mrs Hudson continued. "I've taken a few messages, too – they're in a pile on your desk, Sherlock. John's been through the work ones and weeded out the nutcases – the rest are from well-wishers."

Sherlock rose from his seat and pulled her into a hug.

"Hudders, you're a paragon of virtue!" he told her. "And quite patently the best housekeeper in the central London area."

"Landlady, Sherlock," she replied, patting his hand. "Giving me a beautiful godson doesn't change that, I'm afraid."

"Thank you, Martha," Molly put in. "And not just for this, but for everything. I…I don't feel as though I had the chance to say it properly before. If you hadn't been with me, I-"

"Oh hush now," Mrs Hudson smiled. "What matters is that you're both here and you're both healthy. Besides, Holmes men can't do anything without at least a bit of drama – I'm well used to it."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He assumed that he was going to be enduring endless supposedly good-natured (read: hellish) 'banter' from this point on. It didn't bear thinking about what his next visit to Scotland Yard would see him subjected to.

"It's just so funny," Mrs Hudson continued, as they moved out into the hallway. "I can still remember the first time you came here and sat in my kitchen, Sherlock Holmes. Such a young thing, just a boy, really. And here you are coming back to this house with a baby of your own."

She had her rose-tinted specs on, that was for sure. Rather than the fresh-faced, puppyish youth Mrs Hudson was idealising, in reality he had just left (escaped from ) rehab and only had a couple of hundred pounds to his name. Landing on Mrs Hudson's doorstep was the only alternative to either vagrancy or crawling on his hands and knees to Mycroft. Now, rather unfeasibly, he had acquired both a brilliant woman and a child who he already loved in a way in which he hadn't thought he was capable.

Yeah, but you're still a git, he heard John say in his head. Probably quite reassuring, actually – too much change was unsettling.

000000

Less than half an hour later, he was sitting in his old chair again, elbows braced on his knees, fingers steepled under his chin. But this time – instead of an unsolved murder or an international criminal conspiracy - the object of his contemplation was William, asleep on the low table in his car seat.

Molly was asleep, too. She'd stayed awake long enough for a cup of tea, and for them to stand in a long embrace while they watched their son and contemplated the magnitude of this New Beginning – but she was so tired she could barely stand, and she didn't need any persuasion to go to bed.

Sherlock wasn't sure how long he sat there with William, but as soon as he made the decision to get himself another cup of tea, he saw William starting to stir. His little face twisted, as though in disgust. Sherlock froze, waited – perhaps he would settle again? William's features relaxed, only for him to then redouble his efforts and start to emit his stuttering protest.

Quickly, Sherlock unclipped the car seat harness and slid his hands underneath his son to lift him up, cursing as he accidentally caught William's arm in one of the straps, which only served to anger the infant further. Not hurt, just pissed off. Well, he wasn't the first to feel that way as a result of an encounter with Sherlock Holmes.

A brief attempt to show William around his new home only resulted in flat-out rage, by which point Sherlock could hear Molly's concerned voice coming from the bedroom.

"There now, we've woken Mummy," Sherlock told his son. "Or perhaps that was your plan all along?"

William was now bawling and resorting to frustrated head-butts in the general direction of Sherlock's chest. Clearly, his son wasn't going to be happy until he'd taken his case to a higher authority.

Padding through to the bedroom, they found Molly half sitting up in bed, blinking through her exhaustion and pushing her hair out of her eyes. Sherlock felt a sharp pang in his chest, now wishing that he'd been able to delay his parents by a further day so that Molly could at least get one night's sleep at home first (whatever a night with a newborn looked like).

"I, ah, I think he's hungry again," Sherlock said, apologetically. "The tour of 221B wasn't diverting enough for him."

Molly rubbed her eyes with her knuckles, yawning and reaching out for William.

"Come here, sweetheart," she murmured, taking their son from Sherlock.

Sherlock dug into his pocket for his phone, remembering something he had read during his period of idleness while he waited for Molly to start her maternity leave. He held his phone out to Molly, who was at that point wrestling with her pyjama top.

"Apparently, it works lying down," he said, angling the screen so she could see it, and raising his voice to be heard above the godawful din their son was now making.

Molly looked at him sideways - apparently slightly surprised by his depth of breastfeeding knowledge - but she let him take William back while she got herself comfortable and then settled William by her side, making sure he wasn't covered by the duvet. Once their son had calmed down, he realised his needs were being met and he very quickly settled, emitting soft gulping sounds as though he'd been deprived of sustenance for days rather than two hours. Molly looked up at Sherlock with an expression of surprise and delight.

"Wow, it was worth you annoying those mums on the parenting forums all along!" she smiled.

"Yes, well, my IP address is now blocked from several of them, so it's just as well I've got a Mind Palace to call upon," he replied drily. But he couldn't help but feel a spark of pride at having helped to solve at least one small problem – not entirely the rubbish father he feared he might be.

Over the course of the next half hour, Sherlock busied himself with a number of small but satisfying jobs, pausing every so often to put his head around the bedroom door. Molly and William were both asleep, side by side, William's knees pulled up as though trying to resume the foetal position.

Some short while later, Molly padded into the living room alone.

"Are you okay? Do you need something?" he asked, starting to get up from his desk.

She smiled sleepily.

"I'm fine, thank you. I managed to transfer him into the crib," she said. "Never in my life thought that would work."

She came up behind him where he sat, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and leaning down to nuzzle her cheek against his. The warmth of her body was welcome as ever, once again reminding him of what an idiot he was to have shunned this for so long.

"What have you been doing?" she asked, her breath tickling his ear.

"I spent a very agreeable twenty minutes sorting William's clothes into a more logical and pleasing order," he told her. "They are now arranged not only by clothing type, but also colour palette, fabric weight and likely occasion for use."

He saw Molly trying to suppress a smile; she'd always found the ordering of his sock drawer inexplicably amusing.

"I also found an app," he replied, tilting the screen of his phone. "To help keep track of Will's feeding, sleeping and, ah, nappy habits. I've also set reminders on it for his Vitamin K drops, and for your Clexane injections, iron tablets and painkillers. Do you want me to add something to remind you about your compression socks?"

Molly pressed a kiss to his cheek, ruffling his hair on the other side of his head.

"Go on then," she replied. "After all, compression socks are incredibly sexy."

Sherlock cocked his head.

"Well, perhaps if you just wore the compression socks…?"

Molly pulled a face that said clearly said 'pervert' before shuffling off in the direction of the kitchen. He saw the exact moment that her eye caught the gift bag on the coffee table, and she turned back to him, frowning in a questioning way.

"Sherlock…?"

He was suddenly gripped by a concoction of excitement and anxiety, and tried to swallow it down, keep things casual.

"It's, um…a sort of 'welcome home' present. Presents."

The look Molly now gave him was full of such naked affection that he actually felt himself start to blush. They did not make a habit of giving each other gifts – Molly had made it clear that she didn't expect him to woo her through lavish gestures, and it was enough for him that she kept him all the interesting spare body parts – so he hoped he hadn't missed the mark.

"Can I open it?" she asked, a smile spreading across her face.

"Yes, Molly, that is the general idea," he replied, rising from his chair and walking around into the sitting area to be closer to her.

She started to unpack the bag, meeting his eye with a little smirk as she removed the shredded tissue paper (yes, perhaps that was a touch out of character, but it helped to maintain an element of suspense). He watched as she took out the small lilac-coloured tube, studying the writing printed on it.

"I…I remembered seeing it in John and Mary's bathroom cabinet not long after Rosie was born," he explained. "Not that I was snooping. Well, I was a bit. But anyway, I did some research and it's supposed to be the best thing on the market for cracked nipples. Perfectly safe for babies, too."

Molly's eyes shot up, wide as saucers. Her surprise soon gave way to a fond smile.

Right, while he was on a roll…

"There's a box in there, too; the white and orange one," he gestured. "Some of the women at that NCT thing were talking about it. It's for stretch marks – not that you've got a stretch-mark problem, and even if you did have, you shouldn't care and I certainly don't, but it's supposed to be very effective and actually smells very nice too. Plus, it helps to reduce scarring – not that there's anything wrong with having a scar; in fact, it reminds me of how immensely proud I am of you and what you went through to give us our son, but-"

Molly closed the distance between them and beckoned him down to meet her lips (standing on tiptoes was still a little sore).

"Sherlock, this is incredibly sweet," she murmured against his lips. "When did you get to be so sweet?"

"I don't know," he replied, again feeling a blush rise in his cheeks. "But please don't tell my mother; it'll only make her think she did something right after all."

He nodded towards the bag.

"There are…other things in there, too."

Giggling like a child at Christmas, Molly delved back into the bag, pulling out the Kindle he'd ordered and had delivered to Mrs Hudson.

"I thought it might help you to read when you're feeding William," he offered. "I know you prefer a proper book – as do I – but I imagine it could be rather difficult to hold one of those big Victorian novels you like, one-handed. If you don't like it, I-"

"I love it! Thank you!" Molly told him. "You really didn't need to do any of this, Sherlock."

She came to his side and snaked her arm around his waist, leaning into him.

"Yes, I did," he told her, resting his chin on top of her head. "Anyway, these are all eminently practical gifts."

"They are."

"Nothing frivolous."

"Nope," she smiled.

"Although…" Sherlock said, clearing his throat, which seemed to have suddenly dried up on him. "There is…er…something else…in the bag, I mean."

Giving him another questioning look, Molly picked up the bag and swept around in the bottom until she brought out what he was referring to. A small, black velvet jewellery box.

Molly looked up at him again, anticipation in her eyes, and then back down at the object in her hand. He watched her slowly lift the lid of the box and set eyes on the ring for the first time. He saw her mouth open slightly, her eyes starting to widen before she gently bit down on her bottom lip and glanced up at him. Was she…were those tears in her eyes?

"Are you…is it…okay?" he asked, tentatively.

The words were barely out of his mouth before Molly had grabbed onto his elbow, hauled herself up onto the chair to cancel out the height difference, and was kissing him thoroughly and passionately; he could feel her smile against his mouth. Fearful of her current physical frailty, Sherlock grabbed hold of her waist, taking her weight while he returned the kiss with equal ardor.

"Sherlock, it's…absolutely beautiful," she breathed, when they broke apart. "I love the style so much – is it 1950s?"

He nodded, a feeling of warmth filling his chest as he realised he'd chosen well.

"Yes, early 1950s, transitional cut," he told her. "I know it doesn't look showy as such, but I thought it elegant and understated…and well, I thought it would look nice with the style of dress you favour. I…I pictured you in that dress with the red, you know, flowers…from Rosie's christening."

Molly gave him a little questioning smile, looping her arms around his neck.

"You remember that?"

He angled his head back so that he could look at her properly.

"It was a little distracting," he told her. And yes, he knew by this confession that he was admitting to both of them that he had started to see Molly in a different light even before Sherrinford.

"Oh, really?" she replied, raising a sceptical eyebrow. "Because what I recall is that your eyes were on your phone the whole time."

"Not the whole time."

She allowed him to set her feet back down on the floor before he held out his open hand to her.

"Will you allow me?"

Molly let him take the jewellery box, and her gently lifted the ring from it before setting the box on the table. Locking her eyes with his, Sherlock took Molly's left hand and slowly slipped the ring on, caressing it with his thumb when it came to rest at the base of her finger. He brought her hand up to his lips, letting them linger on her knuckles for a moment.

He had had Molly's answer for two days, so the rush of joy and relief he felt right then at the physical act of placing a ring on Molly's finger was unexpected and strangely humbling.

"I have been waiting to do that for a very long time," Sherlock smiled. Probably much longer than is wise to dwell on, he added to himself. It would probably also be A Bit Not Good to share the other thought that had immediately struck him; namely that the ring he had put on Molly's finger suited her a thousand times better than the – in his opinion - oversized, gaudy number that she had been wearing a couple of years earlier. He would just have to bask in his smugness quietly.

Just then, a noise chimed out from his phone.

"Ah. My parents' arrival is imminent," Sherlock said, reaching into his pocket.

"How do you know?" Molly asked, still – he noticed, with yet more smugness – half-distracted by the ring.

"I found another app," he told her.

Molly frowned, pursing her lips.

"Sherlock, you didn't plant a GPS tracker on your mum's phone, did you?"

"Of course not. Most of the time, I have no interest whatsoever in where my mother is," he replied. "This particular app just sounds an alert when she comes within a mile of Baker Street. It was really very simple – all I needed was her SIM number. One pound forty-nine very well spent."

Molly bumped her hip against his.

"Well, better get used to hearing that noise a lot more from now on," she smirked. "I don't think there's much that comes between a new grandparent and their grandchild."

Sherlock shuddered slightly at the thought of it – good God, maybe his parents would make good on that threat of buying 'a little pied-à-terre' in the city, and then he'd never be rid of them!

"And speaking of grandchildren…" Molly said, tilting her head.

Now Sherlock, too, could hear the sound of William making his presence – and his unhappiness – known. Molly hurried off towards their bedroom, and he followed close behind her, eager to snatch a few more moments of serenity with his family (well, serenity once William was occupied with feeding).

But it wasn't to be. Because, instead, there was the sound of the brass knocker downstairs.

Sherlock looked to Molly pleadingly – Molly, whom his parents adored, and in whose eyes she could do no wrong - but she was already settling herself and William onto the bed.

"That'll be them, then," she smiled. "Go on."

"Sherlock!" came Mrs Hudson's echoed voice from the bottom of the stairs. "Your parents are here!"

"I have past success in surviving a jump from the living room window," he said quickly to Molly. "I'm suddenly willing to test out whether that was a fluke."

"Go on!" Molly repeated in a loud whisper, this time with more insistence. "And be nice."

Sherlock snorted.

"I think we both know I'd stand a better chance with the window."