Last chapter! Thank you to all of you who have reviewed—I hope you enjoy this last installment.

MHMHMH

FIVE

Present day

Molly cautiously climbed the stairs to the second level of 221B, studying the strange, burnt smell that pervaded the space. She achieved the landing and hovered just outside the threshold, peering inside.

The windows had been replaced, the furniture set aright, but burn marks still scorched the floor and walls. And Sherlock stood partially turned away from her in the center of the room, a handful of blown-out books in his hands. He wore a black dress shirt and trousers, and his shoes were covered in soot.

Molly's heart banged hard against her breastbone, pain shooting through her ribs all the way down to her fingers. It wasn't too late—she could still turn and run…

He suddenly turned around. Saw her.

His lips parted.

"Molly."

She forced a brief smile onto her face, and ventured a couple steps closer, over the threshold, clutching her purse to her side.

"Looks…a bit rough," she managed, gesturing stiffly to the room.

"Ah! Yes, well…" Sherlock cleared his throat, glancing around. "That's what a bomb does, I suppose." He stood for a moment, staring down at the ruined books in his hands, his mouth tight.

That pain came back to Molly's chest, and she couldn't maintain her smile.

"What did you want?" she asked. His head came up, and he glanced at her briefly before swallowing.

"I, erm…I wanted to tell you what…Well, all of this," he waved to the room. "And the…The phone…thing."

"You don't have to," Molly said. He came around and frowned at her.

"What?"

"Mycroft called me," she managed. "Told me you have some…wicked sister or something that…caught you all and trapped you in a maze and made you do horrible things." The edge of her mouth twitched as she looked at him. "She made you think she was going to kill me if you didn't get me to say…You know. So…You got me to say it."

Sherlock just stood there—looking as if he wasn't breathing. His eyes fixed on her. His mouth opened again.

"Molly—"

"It's okay," she cut him off, sniffing. "It's okay, I…I know. Thanks for trying to protect me. It's…nice of you."

"No," he stated.

She stopped.

"What?"

"No, that's not…I mean, yes, it was," he corrected, shutting his eyes and shaking his head briefly. "Yes, it was to protect you, but…" He stopped, gazing at her again. Open, earnest—and terrifying.

"What?" she whispered.

"I remembered something," he said—his voice low, careful.

"Remembered what?"

"I remembered it when I said it—don't know why," he said, gesturing with one hand. "But when I said to John, beside the ambulance, I said 'It's not a trick, it's a plan'…and I remembered something. Mycroft had said those words before, a long time ago. Right outside my door. When he thought I was asleep."

Molly's eyes went wide. And suddenly she couldn't speak. Sherlock's gaze pinned her to the floor.

"It didn't come back all at once, just in pieces, over the next few weeks after the Culverton Smith case. I suppose that shouldn't surprise me, considering the drug-induced stupor I'd been in when it initially happened," Sherlock explained. "But then I…When we walked into that room in Sherrinford, and in the center of it, up on stands, was a coffin….Practical. Unsentimental. A coffin built…for you. As if you had…shopped for it." Sherlock held out his left hand, as if he were resting it on the coffin's face. And he didn't look away from her eyes.

"And I remembered," he whispered. "I remembered all of it."

"All of what?" Molly breathed.

Sherlock's eyebrows drew together. He turned his hand over, and held it out to her.

Shivering, Molly stepped forward, inches at a time. She freed her right hand from her purse strap, and dared to stretch it out toward him.

He caught it. And with gentle, expert touch, he found two muscles in the base of her thumb. There, and there—he squeezed them.

It hurt. She winced.

And she put her free hand over her mouth, tears dripping down her face.

He held onto her. She felt a tremor in his own hand. He pulled on her.

She obeyed, coming closer, her throat closing. His hand enveloped hers, and then he pressed her palm against his breastbone.

The quiet, mighty thud of his heart vibrated through her whole arm. And she felt it through her entire frame when he took a breath.

"Don't ever leave me, Molly Hooper."

A sob cut loose from her, and more tears fell. Her head came up.

She looked up at him, right there—gazing back down at her, grey eyes bright as the sky.

And she kissed him.

She leaned up, caught his collar in her free hand and pulled him to her, capturing his mouth with hers.

He let go of her hand…

And reached up to cradle her head. And in breathless, sudden stillness…

He kissed her back.

She didn't know how long they stood, mouths locked together, hearts thundering, but without breathing.

And then, slowly, Sherlock's chest unlocked, and he drew in a deep breath.

The same instant, Molly did the same.

Their lips gentled. Broke apart, just slightly.

She opened her eyes. He was already looking at her.

And, just for an instant, he smiled.

Then—suddenly, he blinked, and looked past her. His expression ironed out to one of flat disapproval.

"John," he stated.

Molly's face flooded with heat. She spun around…

To see John Watson standing there with a suitcase in his hand, looking as if he'd just walked in to see an alien sitting in Sherlock's chair.

"Hullo," he said cautiously, glancing at the two of them. Then, he stepped inside, tilting is head. "Ahem. I…saw that coming, by the way," he muttered.

"Saw what coming?" Sherlock demanded.

"That. You. You two," John answered pointing at them.

"You did not," Sherlock scoffed. "Not a month ago you were demanding that I phone Irene Adler."

"I was not," John bit out, striding past them toward the sitting area.

"Irene Adler…" Molly repeated, her head still spinning and her lips burning—but to her surprise, Sherlock reached down and casually took hold of her hand.

"John, how could you possibly lie to me about—I was sitting in that very chair." Sherlock pointed to the poor battered green thing.

"I was…Yeah, okay, I wasn't thinking entirely clearly that day," John held up a hand, then set down his bag. "But I've known since…Well, you know. The phone call…thing."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed.

"Aaaah."

Everyone spun and stared at the mantel—where a strange, breathy utterance had issued from Sherlock's phone.

John jabbed a finger at it and glared at Sherlock.

"What—What is that, then?" he demanded.

"Ugh, yes, it's her, all right?" Sherlock let go of Molly and traipsed to the mantel.

"Why is she still texting you?" John wanted to know.

"Because I haven't even looked at her texts for the past two weeks," Sherlock muttered, swiping his phone off the mantel and coming back to Molly. "It's more than mildly irritating. Make her go away." He handed it to Molly.

"What?" She caught the phone, looking up at him in shock.

"Tell her something to make her stop," Sherlock said, crossing the room to the scorched couch and sitting down in it.

"Sherlock, why are you making Molly do this?" John wanted to know, beginning to look angry. Sherlock returned his look, very solemnly.

"So that she knows exactly what message was sent," Sherlock replied evenly. "So she will trust me."

Molly's mouth opened. Sherlock looked from John, to her. He raised his eyebrows.

"Go ahead."

"All right, fine. I…Yeah, I ought to just stay out of it," John muttered, throwing his hands up and entering the kitchen. "Is there a single clean teacup in this flat?"

"Try the top right hand cupboard," Sherlock called. John opened it. Heaved a sigh.

"I'm not tall enough to reach that, Sherlock, and you know it."

Sherlock smirked. Molly tried not to smile.

"I, erm…" She lifted the phone. "I don't know the pass code."

"0327," he answered. She started to type it…

Paused.

"That's my birthday."

"Yes," he said deliberately, watching her. Her face got hot again. She typed it.

Irene Adler's text popped up.

I've accepted the fact that you don't answer me half as often as I text you—but this not even *looking* thing…I think I like it. Yet another level of intimacy I've yet to explore.

Molly ground her teeth.

"She texts very well for…someone who's dead," Molly remarked, that heat traveling down her throat.

"Yes, well—not so dead, after all. Text her back, pretend it's me," Sherlock instructed. Molly frowned at him.

"What, just…Go away, leave me alone?"

"No, of course not," Sherlock waved it off. "That won't do a thing—she'll keep at it, worse than ever. Tell her something—whatever you think a woman would need to hear to stop texting a man."

"A normal woman…texting a…normal man?" Molly looked at him sideways.

Sherlock stopped…

And gave her a low, gentle smirk.

"Jokes, Molly."

"Right," she whispered.

"Sherlock...You moron…who puts teacups up here…?" John grunted, standing on a pile of books and straining to reach.

"Text her," Sherlock urged.

So Molly took a breath, and started typing. Sherlock sat back in the couch, frowning down at the few books in his hands, flipping through the charred pages.

Molly finished.

"Want me to read it out?"

"No, send it," Sherlock sighed casually, scanning a very burnt page. Molly watched him for a moment, then took a breath and sent the message.

"All right then, what was it?" Sherlock asked. "What did you say?"

Molly looked down at the message, and read it aloud.

"'Sorry, I can't text you anymore. I'm engaged to be married.'"

CRASH.

Molly jumped in the air and spun around.

John's teacup lay shattered on the counter. John stared, wide-eyed, over his outstretched arm at her, then down at the smithereens of glass.

And Sherlock started to laugh.

Bewildered, Molly looked over at him—

He covered his eyes with his hand and kept giggling, shaking his head.

"Right, soooo funny," John barked, climbing down off his makeshift stool, glass jingling all around him. He stomped toward Sherlock. "Now I've broken another—another—one of Mrs. Hudson's antique teacups, and Molly is texting Irene Adler pretending to be you who's pretending to be engaged."

Sherlock continued laughing, shrugging as he did, and gestured to Molly.

"What? I think it's brilliant."

"Which part?" John demanded. "The teacup thing, the Irene thing or the engaged thing?"

"The teacup thing, of course."

"Sherlock."

"Okay, all of it," Sherlock admitted heartily, swiping tears from his eyes. "Especially the engaged thing."

Molly's heart skipped a beat.

John went still.

"Wait, what do you mean? You're serious?"

"Of course I am," Sherlock dropped his hand and gazed at Molly, a hidden smile in the corners of his eyes. "She's already promised not ever to leave me—isn't that essentially what marriage is? It would be an extreme inconvenience, otherwise."

"I…Yes, I suppose so…" John said, baffled. "That's not…really much of a proposal, though."

"Right, ahem," Sherlock cleared his throat. "Molly," he stated, leaning forward and folding his hands. "In the interest of national security and for the sake of law and order in England…Will. You. Marry. Me."

Molly swallowed. John gaped. Sherlock waited.

"That's it?" John cut in. "You're not…You're not teasing her, are you? Because if you are, Sherlock, I'll—"

"No, I'm quite serious," Sherlock said—never looking away from Molly.

"Ha!" John exclaimed. "Unbelievable. Yeah, a ruddy romantic, you are."

"John," Sherlock said flatly. "Did you propose to your wife while I was in the room?"

"I was in fact trying to—" John needled him.

"Yes, well—"

"Fine, fine," John huffed, storming toward the door. "Mrs. Hudson! I've broken another teacup…" He thundered down the stairs to Mrs. Hudson's apartment, leaving Molly standing in front of Sherlock. His features softened.

"Come here," he beckoned. She came nearer, around the coffee table, and he shifted so she would sit down next to him. She set the darkened phone down in front of him on the table, and then settled onto the couch—and he adjusted so his side pressed against hers. Slowly, cautiously, he reached down and took up her right hand, and felt those same muscles in her thumb again and again, watching the progress of his fingers.

"Mycroft was right. As usual," he muttered. "He's infuriating."

Molly almost smiled, memorizing the feel of his touch.

His hand stilled, smoothed out—and interlaced with hers. Held on. And went still.

"Well…I'm not going anywhere," he said softly—very carefully. "Are you?"

Molly took a trembling breath, and shook her head.

"No."

He let out a low, quiet sigh.

"That settles it, then," Sherlock murmured.

"Aaah." The phone lit up. Sherlock reached out, and tapped in the code.

Irene's text opened.

Congratulations.

And that was all.

Sherlock clicked the screen off. Glanced up thoughtfully.

"I think Mycroft should be in charge of the flowers. And perhaps the cake."

Molly chuckled—it burst out of her—and she turned and pressed her face into Sherlock's shoulder. She felt his smile beam through her.

"Look, whatever happens, Sherlock," John declared, stomping back up the stairs. "If you make me your best man, I'll not be doing all those stupid speeches."

Sherlock's head came up.

"What? Whyever not? You made me do it."

"Yeah, and look how that turned out," John muttered, crossing the parlor carrying a broom.

"If I ask you, you have to do it—it's just the way it is."

"No, it's not the way it is," John countered, starting to sweep. "And you're not printing my middle name on anything."

"Molly likes your middle name."

"No, she doesn't—nobody likes it."

"I like it."

"No, you think it's funny."

"That's the same thing."

"No, it isn't!"

And as the two dearest men she knew kept arguing, Molly just grinned into Sherlock's sleeve, reveling in the warmth of his hand, and listening for his powerful heartbeat.

THE END

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You guys should check out my original Victorian mystery series called "The Mute of Pendywick Place"—I know you'll enjoy it.