Here it is! The final instalment of this two years and two months long labour of love. I hope you enjoy it.

The Epilogue

24th June, 2016

Sherlock drifted slowly to the surface of consciousness, through the ragged remnants of a bizarre dream which had him scrambling over the roof tops of a row of Victorian terraced houses, lifting glass saucepan lids off the chimney pots to release huge flocks of small birds, which flew up in great clouds, tweeting and squawking, filling the sky and blocking out the light of the sun.

As the memory of that weird image faded, he opened his eyes – well, one eye, at least; his right eye flatly refused to cooperate – and noted that the other side of the bed was empty. A background hum impinged on his awareness – several distinct voices, muted by distance, but clearly engaged in a fractious discourse. At first, he thought Mrs Hudson must have her TV volume turned up exceptionally high but it soon became apparent that the sound was emanating from his own sitting room, explaining where Molly had gone.

He rolled out of bed and, donning his favourite dressing gown, made his way to the sitting room, via the bathroom to relieve the pressure on his bladder. As he entered the kitchen, he was confronted by a sight that made his heart lurch – Molly Hooper, sitting in his chrome and leather armchair, hugging her knees to her chest and weeping like a baby, while the voices from the TV continued their heated debate.

'What's happened?' he demanded, striding forward and kneeling on the floor beside her.

'Mycroft was right!' she hiccupped, dabbing at her eyes with a damp tissue.

Sherlock's hackles bristled, his ire aimed directly at his absent brother.

'Mycroft? What's he been saying?' he growled. Not six months earlier, Mycroft had promised never to interfere in his personal life ever again. That promise clearly had a short shelf life!

'We're leaving!' Molly gasped.

'Sorry, what? Leaving where?' Sherlock blustered, his indignation turning to confusion.

'The EU,' she wailed, waving a hand in the direction of the TV.

'The E…what?' Sherlock turned to look at the television, where the rolling news was covering the result of the European Union Referendum, which had taken place the day before.

'Oh, that,' he said, slightly relieved.

The newspapers had been full of this EU Referendum for weeks but, like many people, Sherlock was rather detached from the whole thing. He failed to see what any of it had to do with him. Politics was for people like Mycroft so he hadn't paid it much heed. In fact, he'd only gone and voted because Molly absolutely insisted that he did, and he voted to stay 'In' because – well, better the devil you know than the one you don't and being 'In' the European Union was all he had ever known. However, the result had apparently just been announced and it would seem that Vote Leave had won. He could see how that might be disappointing for those who wanted the UK to remain a part of the European Union but was it really something to cry about?

He was about to ask that question but, fortunately for him, Molly forestalled him and answered it unbidden.

'This is going to be disastrous for the NHS,' she sniffed and, even though he thought she was being a bit melodramatic, he could see that she was genuinely upset and he really hated to see that, especially when he was the cause, which he usually was.

He turned back towards her and took her hands in his, gracing her with what he hoped was a sympathetic expression.

'The Royal College of Nursing, the Royal College of Surgeons, the British Medical Association, the Royal College of Midwives…in fact every single medical organisation in the country has stated repeatedly that leaving the EU could have severe consequences for staffing, for the cost and availability of drugs and services and even for the amount of funding the NHS receives.'

Even though Sherlock, by his own admission, hadn't been paying that much attention to the whole Referendum malarkey, one image had stuck in his mind.

'Hang on a minute,' he interjected. 'Wasn't there a big red bus somewhere with a sign on the side saying something about an extra £350 million a week for the NHS if we left?'

Molly snorted with derision, snatched up the TV remote control and, aiming it like a weapon at the screen, shut off the distressing news broadcast.

'Oh, yes!' she spat, 'there bloody well was! And not five minutes after they announced the final result, that bloke with the foreign name – the one who's always photographed drinking pints of beer and smoking cigarettes, just to prove he's a 'man of the people' – he was asked directly whether that extra money would now go to funding the NHS and he said 'No'! He said that wasn't true, that it never should have been said and that he didn't say it!'

Molly hardly ever swore. Only when she was really angry or frustrated. And she very rarely raised her voice. And now she was doing both, leaving Sherlock in no doubt about how upset she was at this news.

And why wouldn't she be? he thought. As an NHS worker, she could be very personally affected by this result. It was at that point that Sherlock realised he really needed to step up to the plate and offer her some serious emotional support. Cupping her face with his hands, he used his thumbs to brush the tears from her cheeks, then followed up with lots of tender kisses.

'I'm so sorry,' he said, with deep sincerity, 'Why don't I make you a nice cup of tea?'

She gazed back at him with those beautiful dark brown eyes, still moist from weeping, and made a brave attempt at a smile.

'Actually, I don't really fancy tea,' she sniffed. 'Could I have a glass of milk instead, please?'

Sherlock was astonished. Molly loved tea. She was the most dedicated tea drinker he had ever known. And she had always maintained that the first cup of tea of the day was the best one of all. Yet here she was, saying no? Well, that was testament to just how very upset she must be, if she was off her tea!

'Of course,' he cooed, kissing her some more before leaping up off the floor and heading for the kitchen. 'One glass of milk coming right up…assuming that we have any milk,' he cautioned, as an apprehensive afterthought.

But when he opened the fridge door, there was a two-pint carton of milk and it was more than half full – and still fresh. Taking it with him, he moved to the cupboard above the sink, took out a clean glass and filled it almost to the brim.

As he brought it to her, Molly stood up, saying, 'Here, I'll sit in John's chair then you can have yours back.'

'No,' he replied, smiling fondly, 'why don't we share?'

He placed the glass on the side table and settled himself in the arm chair then welcomed Molly into his lap, slipping one arm around her waist and resting his free hand on her thigh. Molly thanked him with a brush of her lips to his then picked up her milk and took a swig.

'Mmm, that's lovely,' she sighed, licking the residue from her top lip.

'You know,' Sherlock ruminated, 'when John was here, we were always running out of milk but now it's just us two, we never seem to. I wonder what he did with all that milk?'

Molly snorted with laughter, despite still suffering the effects of the Referendum result.

'John didn't do anything with the milk!' she exclaimed. 'It's you who uses all the milk, in your mould experiments. John just stopped buying more milk, whereas I haven't.'

'Oh,' he mumbled, through pouting lips, then turned his head and kissed her cheek. 'Sorry about that.'

Then his expression morphed to puzzlement and he asked,

'Have you changed your shampoo?'

'No,' she replied, between sips of milk.

'Your perfume, then. Have you changed that?'

'I don't wear perfume,' she replied, 'well…not as such. I only use vegan organic beauty products, the ones that don't use animal bi-products and aren't tested on animals, either? That rules out most perfumes,' she explained. 'Why do you ask?

'You smell different today.'

'What do you mean, different?' she demanded, rather accusingly. 'What are you inferring?'

'Nothing!' he exclaimed, realising that he had perhaps not read the room before voicing his observation. 'I'm not inferring anything.'

'Are you saying I smell?' She looked seriously cross, now, and her body had stiffened, no longer moulding itself to his.

'No!' he insisted. 'I just noticed because it reminded me of Mary.'

'Mary? Which Mary?'

John had been dating another woman called Mary, a few months earlier – Sherlock thought he probably chose her because of the name, as it made it less likely he would blurt out the wrong one in the throes of passion - but it hadn't worked out so he was back on the dating apps.

'Old Mary…I mean dead Mary…er, Mary Morstan...as was.'

'Mary Morstan?' Molly huffed, really agitated now. 'She's been dead for over a year! Are you saying I smell like a dead person?'

One seemingly innocent comment had suddenly taken their conversation in a distinctly unfavourable direction. This seemed to be happening rather a lot lately, with normally calm, reasonable, patient Molly Hooper taking exception to something completely innocuous which he said without any malicious intent.

And it filled Sherlock with dread.

He had wondered, very early on in their relationship, at what stage did those quirky little character traits that first attracted one person to another begin to rankle and end up forcing then apart? Well, it would seem that they had reached it. Which was sad. Because he had hoped their 'honeymoon period' would last a whole lot longer.

'No, Molly, I don't think you smell like a dead person, not at all,' he soothed in his most placatory tone. 'In fact, I was reminded of Mary on her wedding day, when she was probably more vibrant, more alive and more beautiful than she had ever been before…Oh!'

He suddenly stopped talking and his face took on that blank, buffering expression that usually heralded a major left field deduction. Molly watched in fascination, almost forgetting to be cross with him. Then his eyes flickered back into focus and he said,

'Molly, remember that conversation we had a couple of months ago?'

'We have lots of conversations,' she huffed. 'I'm afraid I don't have an eidetic memory for these things so you're just going to have to be a bit more specific.'

He smiled, lovingly, and brushed a stray lock of hair off her face with the back of his hand.

'The one where we talked about your biological clock ticking…?'

'Oh, right, that one,' she sniffed. 'What about it?'

'Well,' he continued, 'we decided that if we intended to procreate, we'd better get on with it, yes?'

'Yes,' she confirmed. 'And we decided to stop using contraception.'

'Yes, we did,' he nodded.

'I'm not pregnant, if that's what you mean,' she retorted.

'How do you know?'

'Well, for one thing, I haven't missed a period.'

'When is your next period due?'

Molly face scrunched up in thought…

'Erm…tomorrow, actually.'

'Any of the usual pre-menstrual symptoms?' he asked. 'Acne breaking out, breasts swollen and tender, unusually tired, constipated…?'

Molly stared at him, eyes wide, lips parted, buffering. None of the above, she thought.

'Perhaps you should take a pregnancy test?' he suggested, gently.

'But…but even if I am, it'll be less than two weeks so it's not likely to show up on a test…'

'Worth a try,' he shrugged.

ooOoo

Sherlock stood in the corridor outside the bathroom at 221B, leaning against the wall and contemplating the immediate future. Were their lives about to be irrevocably changed…for the better, of course. And were they ready for this new level of responsibility? Was anyone ever completely ready to become a parent?

Molly had flatly refused to allow him to follow her into the bathroom, placing a hand flat on his chest.

'If you think you are coming in here to watch me pee on a plastic stick, you can think again, matey,' she declared. 'If this test is positive, then for the next nine months I can kiss goodbye to my dignity while the world and his wife gets to gander at my muff. So, please permit me this last vestige of privacy while I still have some.'

There was nothing he loved more than a really indignant Molly Hooper so, trying very hard to contain his mirth - sadly unsuccessfully - he stepped back and she closed the bathroom door.

He heard the toilet flush and pushed off the wall just as the door opened and Molly emerged, holding one of the two pregnancy testing sticks she had obtained from the hospital pharmacy. They were the most sensitive home tests available so, even at this potentially early stage of gestation, they should detect the human chorionic gonadotrophin hormone - which was usually produced from around six days after fertilisation - if it were present.

Sherlock stood behind Molly, his arms wrapped around her, and they both gazed intently at the little window in the plastic stick…and watched as a thin blue line gradually emerged, clear as day, right across the middle of the aperture.

'Oh, my God…' Molly gasped then turned to bury her face in his shirt front.

ooOoo

'You know, you're wasted as a detective,' Molly remarked, as they lay curled up together on the sofa, she fitting neatly into the C-curve of his body.

'Really?' he queried, still basking in the warm glow of the recent revelation.

It was a huge relief, actually, that there was now a rational explanation for Molly's uncharacteristic tetchiness and emotional mood swings. Perhaps she would still have cried at the Referendum result, pregnant or not, as the consequences could be very serious for her, but she probably wouldn't have been so stroppy on all the other occasions that she had taken umbrage at something he said or did.

He would need to be very patient and understanding of her hormonal state in the coming weeks and months but he would no longer fear that they were about to break up. Quite the opposite, in fact!

'Yes. We could advertise your services and have you standing downstairs, in the front hall, just sniffing the clients as they enter…' Molly was elaborating, '…you know, like one of those sniffer dogs at the airport? It would save the world from a huge amount of waste plastic.'

She was referring, of course, to the testing stick which had only confirmed what Sherlock's remarkable olfactory acuity had already detected.

'That sounds very wrong,' he replied and they both giggled.

It had been a few hours since they discovered their new status as expectant parents and they had used that time wisely, discussing all the pros and cons of early detection.

First and foremost, they should bear in mind that around twenty percent of pregnancies fail in the first couple of weeks, before the woman even knows she's pregnant – most women not having a handy human pregnancy detector nearby. So, if that were to happen, they mustn't take it too much to heart. It was just not meant to be.

Secondly, they would not tell anyone the news until after the twelve-week scan. It would be their little secret.

Thirdly…assuming this pregnancy resulted in a new little person…whatever its sex, they were not naming it Sherlock…or John or Hamish, or after any other close family member or friend. They would wait until the little tyke was born and then choose a name that best suited him or her.

And, fourthly, they would definitely NOT address each other as 'Mummy' or 'Daddy' except when speaking about each other to the child.

No doubt, there would be further discussions on any number of topics, as the situation developed but they were both relieved to have agreed on the basics.

'You do realise I'll be the size of a hippopotamus for the wedding,' Molly observed.

'I'm sure Eurus and Charlotte will not mind, at all, having a human hippopotamus as their Maid of Honour,' Sherlock assured her, 'though you might find it a bit awkward fitting into one of the bunk beds on the Sleeper Train.'

The entire family had been invited up to Edinburgh for the wedding of Sherlock's sister and her partner on Christmas Eve, and to stay over until after Hogmanay. They had all agreed to travel there and back by rail, to reduce their carbon footprints.

'You do realise my mother will absolutely adore you, now?' Sherlock declared.

Maura Holmes hadn't particularly taken to Molly, for the simple expedient that she thought cutting up dead bodies was not a very appropriate pastime for a young lady.

'It's so...unseemly!' she had exclaimed, wrinkling her nose.

'Do you think so?'

'Oh, I don't think so...I know so,' he insisted. 'You're going to give her a grandchild. You will be elevated to court favourite, without a doubt.'

'I'm still very sad about one thing, though,' Molly murmured.

'What's that?' Sherlock exclaimed, dismayed. He didn't want Molly to be sad about anything, right now.

'I'm sad that this baby won't be able to travel, study, live and work, freely, or fall in love in any of the twenty-eight different countries that currently make up the European Union,' she sighed.

'Oh, I wouldn't worry about that, if I were you,' Sherlock assured her. 'Mycroft will have found a way for us to re-join by the time Junior is old enough to do any of that.'

'I really hope so,' Molly replied.

ooOoo

Well, that's all, folks!

Apologies for the Brexit-y bits but I think that time and events have proven, beyond doubt, that Project Fear was actually Project Fact and that we were all lied to.

So, come on, Mycroft! Sort it out!