Ok, this is the end of this story and I hope I've tied up all the loose ends and answered all the questions.

This epilogue is an unashamed fluff-fest! (Apologies to those for whom that's not your thing.)

Epilogue

Molly stepped from the black cab and, as she straightened up on the pavement, experienced a bit of a wobble. Her night out with Greg Lestrade and his team, to celebrate the (mostly) successful conclusion of the St Bart's case, had merely confirmed that, in the drinking stakes, she was definitely a light-weight. Those Scotland Yard guys worked hard and they knew how to play hard, too.

Although it would be months before the HSE produced their report, Lestrade was fairly sure that bad management of staff and resources would figure fairly high on the list of causes and that the Chief Executive, Senior Administrator and Head of HR would all be seeking employment elsewhere, if not legal representation, so the team were in high spirits and ready to let their hair down. And it was Friday night so tomorrow was not a school day.

Molly had been slightly taken aback by how quickly the banter had degenerated into sexist innuendo, aimed primarily at Sally Donovan but Molly had inadvertently found herself in the firing line, too. A couple of rounds of beer were all it took to open the flood gates that had remained firmly closed during the actual case work. Molly found herself looking at her co-workers with different eyes.

A joint visit to the Ladies had given her an opportunity to quiz the female officer about this phenomenon.

'At least they only do it when we're off-duty, now,' Sally replied. When I first joined the Met, twelve years ago, it was all day, every day.'

'How did you stand it?' Molly asked.

'It pissed me off, I don't mind saying,' the DS admitted. 'But it also spurred me on to be the best police officer I could possibly be. Those guys make their stupid, adolescent, schoolboy jokes in the pub but, back on the job, they know I can wipe the floor with them. Why do you think I'm such a stickler for doing things by the book? I know the book inside out – and they know I do. If one of them puts a foot wrong, they have me to deal with.'

'I can see why Sherlock and his maverick ways would peeve you,' observed Molly, apologetically.

'Oh, Sherlock can be annoying, that's true, with his bloody sixth sense, telling you what you had for breakfast and who's shagging who in the car park,' Sally agreed, 'but at least he's even handed. He doesn't give a toss whether you're male or female, just whether you're smart or stupid. Unfortunately, in his opinion, all police are stupid. But he's always respected you.'

'Oh, I don't know about that,' Molly mumbled, remembering all those cutting remarks about small breasts and thin lips.

'Hey, trust me, he has,' Sally insisted. 'He always used to complain about the Pathology Department at Bart's – until you came along. Once you arrived, he chilled completely. But he would always check if you were on duty before he agreed to look at a body. He said it was because he could rely on you to do a thorough job. And not compromise the integrity of…'

'…the crime scene!' Molly chimed in, as they both laughed, 'or, in my case, the body.'

'Yes, he might be a bit of an arsehole, your husband, but he's no sexist,' Sally confirmed, perhaps proving that she was slightly more inebriated than she might have appeared and, therefore, less guarded in her speech.

By eleven o'clock, Molly had had quite enough of the ribald humour and raucous drinking games so she bid farewell to her erstwhile work colleagues, thanked them for including her in their post-case celebrations, and took a cab home.

Walking up the path to the front door, she could see the flickering light from the television seeping out round the edges of the sitting room curtains. Sherlock had obviously waited up for her. And he'd left the hall light on, so she wouldn't have to fumble around in the dark for the light switch when she entered the house. She smiled, fondly, at his thoughtfulness.

On opening the front door, her senses were immediately assaulted. Her husband had been busy, again, keeping himself occupied during her absence. And, looking around the hall and up the stairs, she could see the results of his labours. Everywhere glistened, shone and sparkled. Sherlock had put up the Christmas decorations.

A glossy garland of holly and ivy leaves, bearing clusters of both red and white berries and little parcels wrapped in gold and silver shiny paper, wound its way up the stairs, threaded in and out of the banister uprights. The walls were decked with loops of tinsel and huge, golden concertina bells hung from the ceiling.

Making her way into the kitchen, Molly found further evidence of Sherlock's industry. From every door handle of the kitchen cupboards, he had hung a bauble or a little bell – in some cases, both – so that when the doors were opened or closed the bells would tinkle or the bauble would twinkle, and around the kitchen window he had fixed a string of fairy lights that flashed on and off, in sequence.

In the centre of the farmhouse kitchen table was a Father Christmas lamp that, when switched to a certain setting, would rock back and forth and say 'Ho-ho-ho'. Molly remembered it well from the year before. It had driven the grown-ups potty, in the end, but William and Freddie loved it and perhaps Violet would overcome her Santa-phobia and come to love it, too. On every shelf and work top, there were bowls of Christmas-themed potpourri, rich with cinnamon sticks, pine cones, cloves and dried orange peel. They filled the house with a wonderfully festive atmosphere.

Moving on, through the door to the dining room, Molly was greeted by the spectacle of an enormous cardboard cut-out sleigh, pulled by eight reindeer, flying up the wall, opposite. The sleigh was crammed with gaily-coloured parcels, and occupied by a smiling, ruddy faced man with white whiskers, wearing a bright red suit and black boots. That was a new edition to the seasonal display. Sherlock must have smuggled that in at some point without even Molly knowing.

The dining table was laid with a bright red runner and the Christmas candelabra, fitted with tall red twisted candles for a centre piece, and the sideboard bore the traditional nativity set, complete with an open-fronted stable and the figures of Mary and Joseph, shepherds, kings, angels, farm animals and the little baby Jesus, in his manger. Molly had bought that for William's first Christmas and it came out every year. Molly could already picture the children's faces when they got up in the morning and came downstairs to find themselves in a Winter Wonderland. And the whole family would go out tomorrow, choose a tree, bring it home and dress it. Christmas in the Hooper-Holmes household had officially begun!

Captivated by the magical transformation the house had undergone in her absence, Molly suddenly noticed that the architect of all this delight was strangely absent from the scene. Looking through the double doors that led into the sitting room, she saw that the TV was, indeed, switched on but the sound was so low she could barely hear it. The sofa, Sherlock's favourite resting place and clearly visible from the doorway, was unoccupied. But then she spotted a flaccid arm, shirt sleeve rolled up to the elbow, dangling over the side of the armchair whose back faced toward the dining room.

Molly tip-toed into the sitting room and round the side of the chair where Sherlock was slouched, sound asleep, his long legs, crossed at the ankles, stretched out across the rug in front of him, his head resting against the back of the chair. His features appeared almost childlike in repose, the wrinkles on his brow and between his eyes smoothed out. Molly gazed at him, her mouth quirking at the corners, then leaned forward and pressed her lips to his.

She felt the subtle and gradual increase of tone in those lips, as he slowly rose to the surface of consciousness, and then his eyelashes brushed her cheek as his lids opened. She drew back to meet his gaze.

'Oh, it's you,' he mumbled, and closed his eyes again.

Molly smiled.

'Of course it's me, you numpty!' she giggled, sliding into his lap and resting her head on his shoulder. 'Who else would be creeping in here, kissing you, at this time of night?' she giggled.

Sherlock gave a small shrug, causing Molly's head to bob up and down.

'I dunno,' he muttered, 'the future Mrs Holmes, perhaps?'

'Oh,' replied Molly, 'I didn't realise the post was vacant.'

'It's not but if the current holder of that position continues to be derelict in her duties…' he slurred.

There speaks a man with deep-seated abandonment issues, thought Molly, with an affectionate smile.

'And what duties might the role entail?' she asked, quietly beginning to unfasten his shirt buttons, one by one.

'Wifely duties,' he replied, with his eyes still resolutely closed, though he did place an arm, loosely, round her waist and a hand on her knee.

'You mean things like cooking and cleaning?' said Molly, slipping her hand inside his shirt and running a fingertip, lightly, round his nipple.

'Perhaps,' he grunted.

'What about child care?' she asked, nuzzling into the crook of his neck.

'Very likely,' he replied, with a slight hitch to his voice.

'And conjugal duties? Are they included in the job description?' she murmured, nibbling at the lobe of his ear.

'Naturally,' he gasped.

'And do you have a short list of likely candidates?' Molly whispered, sliding her hand up to his shoulder and around his neck, to comb her fingers into his hair.

'A long list,' he hissed, wrapping his arms around her, to draw her close and fix her with a smouldering gaze.

'Well, I'm sorry, but the incumbent is not quite ready to step down, I'm afraid,' Molly sighed, tilting her head, in preparation for the kiss she knew was about to come.

'I suppose I'll have to make do,' he breathed, gently carding his fingers through the hair at the nape of her neck, caressing her cheek with his thumb. Then he pulled her head sharply toward him.

Molly gasped at the suddenness of the movement. He held her, millimetres away, their lips almost touching but not quite. She could feel his warm breath on her skin and smell the familiar scent of his cologne, tinged with slight musky undertones. She watched as his lips parted and he moistened them with the tip of his tongue, holding her mesmerised, with his eyes fixed on hers all the while, as she gazed into the inky blackness of his dilated pupils.

Just when Molly thought they would stay like this forever, caught on the cusp between want and fulfilment, Sherlock tilted his head, too, and pressed their lips together in a slow, sensuous declaration of desire that swept them both away.

ooOoo

In the cold, crisp, frosted hollow of the Dark Entry, a wraithlike figure slipped in and out of the shadows, always moving, always searching, always waiting for the next soul that might require her assistance. For how long she had been here, she had no way of knowing. The measurement of time was meaningless, in the great span of Eternity. But every needy soul she found and assisted on their journey, easing them forward into the next phase of their existence, moved her one more step towards her own redemption.

For this was her penance, the debt she must pay for that moment of sheer madness when she had put the poison in the pie and murdered the Bishop and his mistress, in a fit of jealous rage. After the good citizens of Canterbury imprisoned her in the pit under the flagstones and left her to die, she had at least been granted shriving time, which was more than she had allowed her victims. And this was the pact she had made with her Redeemer.

So, until she fulfilled that pact, each soul a payment in lieu, Nell Cook would continue to haunt the Dark Entry, in Canterbury Cathedral precincts, on Friday nights, seeking those who were nearing the end of their mortal toil, and offering a helping hand. On those like Elsie Gadget, who embraced her magnanimity, she would breathe her fatal breath.

ooOoo

Ref: The Thomas Ingolsby Legends: 'Nell Cook - A Legend of the Dark Entry - The King's Scholar's Story'

Thank you to all my readers who have read this story, faved and followed and written such brilliant, encouraging reviews.

A Merry Christmas and a happy New Year to you all and Happy Sherlock Day (1st Jan 2016!) :)