A/N: Welp, here we are, at long last, the end of the road. A little fluff, a little smut, and hopefully a satsifactory end to this fic. Thank you so much for sticking with me - since 2014! - and all the encouragement you've sent my way over the years. Enjoy!

Epilogue

There was no drama around his sister's birth, much to Wills' disgruntlement. He'd imagined a frantic race to the hospital, possibly with the car breaking down mid-way there, no mobile service, and he and his father delivering the baby in the back seat while Molly showered them both with gratitude, and little Karen Violet Hooper-Holmes (Vivi from the day she arrived home, at Wills' pronouncement) cooing and burbling her joy at being out in the world at last.

Instead he was stuck waiting in a boring hospital corridor with his grandparents, Uncle John (John had graduated to uncle status pretty quickly after taking Wills to a few rugger matches) and his girlfriend Mary, and, eventually, Uncle Mycroft and Aunt Grace and his cousin Louisa.

Dad, of course, was off with Mum doing whatever it was dads did when babies weren't being born in the backs of cars. Holding her hand, maybe? Wills was a little fuzzy on the whole thing and didn't want to bother any of the grown-ups with questions. At least Louisa was just as fuzzy on the whole thing as he was, so that was okay. Even better was the fact that he knew how babies were made and she didn't; Aunt Grace wouldn't let him explain it to her because apparently that was her job and she wasn't ready to do her job just yet.

If she didn't, he resolved, then one day when Louisa was visiting he might accidentally-on-purpose leave open a tab on his laptop, one talking about reproduction and how it all worked. Louisa deserved to know before her own new sister or brother was born. He just wished Aunt Grace would figure out that she was pregnant so he wouldn't have to keep it a secret any more! But Dad had warned him about just blurting out his deductions ("Look how much trouble it gets me into, Wills") and so he'd kept his mouth shut for a whole week now.

Ugh. Keeping that deduction to himself was almost as hard as just sitting here waiting for Vivi to be born.

Speaking of...the door to the waiting room burst open and his father appeared, holding something carefully in his arms and beaming at everyone. They all jumped to their feet but Wills was allowed first look at his new sister - who was red and wrinkly and bundled up in blankets with a little yellow cap on her head that looked like it could fit one of Louisa's dolls. "Well? What do you think?" his father asked him.

Wills looked up at him. "I think she looks like a prune," he said. Then, as his father frowned, he hastily added: "A really, um, cute prune."

Everyone burst out laughing, including his father, so that was okay. And it was even more okay when he got to hold her, sitting in the chair next to mom's hospital bed. She was so tiny and warm and wiggly, and her yawns were super cute (not that he'd tell anyone that, but he knew Dad felt the same way which made it okay) and yeah, she looked like a prune but Mum reminded him that he'd looked like a prune when he was just born and Dad looked kinda sad, like he wished he'd been there and then he and Mum started kissing and just...ugh.

(Not seriously 'ugh', but 'I'm a kid and I get squirmy when my parents get all lovey-dovey 'ugh'.)

Of course, he thought as he glanced sidelong at his smoochy parents before rolling his eyes and looking back at Vivi, they hadn't been very lovey-dovey for long. All that fighting and his Dad saying stupid things ("I can be as much of an idiot as any other idiot, Wills, and so can you and we must never forget that") and his Mum being sad was finally done with. Well, for now; Mum reminded him that it hadn't all been sunshine and light before they met his Dad, and his Dad had nodded and agreed and well, that wasn't something Wills wanted to think about right now.

Just then Vivi gave a little cooing noise, then smacked her lips and stre-e-e-e-tched and wow, suddenly Wills knew what people were talking about when they said love at first sight.

There might be fights and sadness in the future but he knew with rock-solid certainty that as long as they stayed a family they could get through any tough times that might come.

Three Months Later

Sherlock scowled at Molly. "Why? Why do we need to go through this superstitious nonsense? Indoctrinating Vivi into a faith neither of us practice, forcing John and Mary into the role of godparents, inviting everyone to a party-"

"Oho, the truth comes out!" Molly matched his scowl with one of her own. "You don't give a fig about 'superstitious nonsense' or coercing anyone into being godparents, you just don't want to have a party! Well, Sherlock, too bloody bad!

She poked him in the chest, once, twice, but the third time he grabbed her hand and brought it up to his lips. After pressing a warm kiss to the offending digit, he grinned down at his irate wife of exactly one day. "Fine, you got me," he replied, pulling her inexorably closer despite her token protests. "We were just forced to endure a wedding reception, and now you want to go through all that again? For the sake of a baby who won't remember any of it?"

"She won't but we will," Molly replied, chin lifted stubbornly. "Besides," she added before he could scoff at her reasoning, "you love showing her off to everyone as much as I do."

She had him there, and all he could do was draw her into his arms for a kiss on the lips that was much more satisfying than one on her fingertip. "Very well, Mrs. Holmes," he murmured when the kiss ended. "You win. We'll have the bloody Christening and party and then one for Wills' birthday the month after and every other excuse you can come up with to celebrate. But for now…" He smiled at her, a slow, seductive smile that brought a sweet blush to her cheeks, "the children are with my parents and we are here in this lovely hotel suite in Paris and I would very much like to make love to my wife for the first time. If that's all right with her?"

"Oh, it's very much all right," Molly assured him, somewhat breathlessly. She giggled as he swept her into his arms and carried her from the elegantly appointed lounge to their even more elegantly appointed bedroom. She giggled again when he dropped her on the bad and dashed back into the lounge; she heard him fumbling at the door and knew he was hanging the "Ne pas déranger" sign on the handle.

She used the brief interval of his absence to start the process of removing her clothes, but had only got as far as shimmying out of her skirt and stockings and unbuttoning the top button of her shirt when he reappeared. He, meanwhile, had managed to shuck himself down to his socks and shorts and hopped inelegantly on one foot as he began removing the former. She froze in mid-unbutton, drinking in the sight of him as he strode toward her, now barefoot, and only began moving again as he pulled her close for a searing kiss.

When they broke for air, Molly discovered that Sherlock had managed to finish unbuttoning her blouse; she shrugged out of it and allowed him to fumble at the clasps on her bra, her own hands far too busy gliding his shorts down his slim hips, freeing his heavy, delicious cock to her appreciative view.

She leaned forward, her hands back on his hips, his shorts somewhere in the vicinity of his knees, intent on taking that delicious cock into her mouth, only to be stopped by his hands on her shoulders, pushing her gently but inexorably back until she was sprawled on the bed. She'd taken her hair down when they'd first checked in, brushing it out before broaching the subject of Vivi's Christening, and it spread across the bedspread in a manner Sherlock later assured her was almost as enticing as the sight of her near-naked form.

He pushed her legs open, looking down at her body with a reverence that sent a tingle down her spine, not to mention her lady-bits, and she bit down on her lip as he removed her knickers with agonizing slowness. Once they were at her ankles, however, he pulled them off with a suddenness that startled a snorting giggle out of her, and flipped them over his shoulder to land somewhere on the floor (or rather, as she later discovered, onto the corner of the dresser perilously close to the remote for the telly).

The urge to giggle was quickly quenched when he dived between her legs, his tongue doing sinfully delightful things to her body, his fingers carefully spreading her open to give him better access to her clit. She shuddered and came after only a few minutes of such delightful ministrations, then lay there panting in the aftermath. He joined her, moving up to lie beside her and stroke his fingers along the side of her face. With a squirm he kicked his shorts off from where they'd fallen to his ankles; with a sudden shove she sent him onto his back and made her determined way down his body to return the fabulous favor he'd just performed.

His appreciative noises - grunts, groans, the hoarse, desperate chanting of her name - were music to her ears. She sucked him down as far as she could, bobbing her head over his cock until he gasped and reached out to press his hand against her forehead. Recognizing his signal for 'stop now or I'll cum in your mouth, you wanton goddess' she released him with a pop, kneeling up and grinning down at him. "Had enough?" she asked innocently. "Shall I just-" She gestured over her shoulder with her thumb, as if suggesting she might leave the room.

With an unintelligible growl he pulled her down atop him, laying a series of sloppy, desperate kissing on her lips before reaching down and roughly lifting her hips so that she was once again on her knees, straddling him. "Ride me," he commanded hoarsely, and with gleeful abandon she did just that.

They'd only made chaste, gentle love once she'd recovered from giving birth to their daughter, and had abstained during the two weeks preceding their wedding in order to - in Sherlock's words - ensure that they would be insatiable for one another during their two-day sex holiday. Insatiable, Molly thought deliriously as she shuddered through her second orgasm, was certainly the word for it. There were other words equally as applicable, she was sure of it, but the feel of Sherlock bucking beneath her, of his warm seed flooding into her, ensured her complete inability to come up with anything other than a feeling of deepest contentment.

As they cuddled together on the bed, sipping champagne and feeding one another the complimentary chocolate covered strawberries that came along with the honeymoon suite, she thought her heart might just burst with happiness. Instead of scoffing at her sentimentality when she expressed that thought aloud, Sherlock just held her closer and said, "Of all the ways to die, I suppose that comes second only to dying of extreme old age in your sleep - or," he added consideringly, "after being shot by an elusive serial killer at the end of an exhilarating chase across the London rooftops, with your last sight that of him misstepping and plunging to his own death."

Molly responded to that rather outrageous - and oddly specific - declaration the only way she could: by kissing her new husband soundly on the lips and conceding that yes, that was definitely, um, a way to go.

He was a lunatic, she thought fondly as he shoved the champagne and strawberries onto the floor and rolled her beneath him with another toe-tingling kiss, but he was her lunatic - and she wouldn't have him any other way.