A/N: And so we come to the final installment of this reboot. Thank you everyone for your lovely reviews and I hope you find the ending as satisfying as the rest of the story.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimony..."

Sherlock found himself utterly unable to attend the minister's words, lost in an entirely unexpected daze at the realization that the woman standing by his side, Miss Molly Hooper, was actually in the process of becoming his wife.

Molly, for her part, looked completely composed, her eyes forward and giving every appearance of taking in every word being spoken. She'd never looked lovelier, with her rose gown and matching bonnet, her hair curled into an elaborate style which he'd never seen her wearing previous to this occasion and which he presumed was his mother's doing.

Or, he thought, perhaps it was due to the influence of her matron of honor, Mrs. John Watson, who stood next to her husband opposite Sherlock and Molly. John's wife was something of a fashion plate, although never in such a manner as to tax their budget; try as he had during the early days of their marriage, Sherlock recalled with an internal wince, he never could fault Mary for her handling of the purse-strings.

Mary remained in his thoughts for no longer than that as Sherlock's restless mind – and eyes – settled once more on Molly Hooper's slender form. Beneath the high waistline of her gown the slight roundness of her abdomen showed not at all, although she was nearly three months gone with his child.

A smile threatened to break out over his face but he sternly held it back. To be seen smiling fondly at his wife in the midst of their wedding would give away far too much to the curious eyes of his father and brother; although Mycroft surely knew by now that Sherlock would never have allowed this situation to occur did he not love the lady in question, their father was certain to pounce on such knowledge as a weapon to be wielded against his youngest son in the future. It was simply how the man's mind worked. Better he should continue to believe that Sherlock had allowed himself to be trapped like an untried yokel, that this marriage was a duty he was carrying out, and that he was fond of Molly and nothing more.

No, Sherlock was resolved that his father would never have the opportunity to try and use Molly and his grandchild as pawns or tools. Which was why they would repair to the Baker Street residence in London once Molly's father felt comfortable turning his practice entirely over to his new partner – a young Irishman he'd found on his own through his associates in the medical field, declining (quite courteously if somewhat wryly) Sherlock's (entirely sincere this time) offer to find him an acceptable replacement for John Watson.

He was jolted back into the present by the nudge of a discreet elbow in his ribs. He met the minister's amused gaze, staring blankly at him as the older man repeated his words. "Do you, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, take this woman, Margaret Elizabeth Anne Hooper, to be your wedded wife? To have and to hold from this day forward, cleaving only unto her, for as long as you both shall live?"

Sherlock managed to stutter out a dazed-sounding "I do" and turned to face Molly, who spoke her own affirmation of the vow in a clear, strong voice. Her smile was the sweetest thing he'd ever seen as she raised her hand and allowed Sherlock to slip the simple gold band he'd chosen for her onto her finger. Curious; he'd fully expected her to be the more nervous of the two of them today, yet his was the one that hand trembled a bit, while hers remained steady and warm in his shaky grasp.

"I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss your bride."

With those words – and yet another friendly nudge from John – Sherlock leaned down and pressed a chaste kiss to Molly's lips.

It was done; they were wed.

The daze that had fallen upon him as the ceremony concluded remained as congratulations were offered, the women pressed kisses to his and Molly's cheeks, and his hand was shaken by the men. It persisted all through the wedding supper; toasts were offered to his and Molly's health, he did recall that much, although of their actual content he could never be certain. Nor could he describe one single item on the menu, nor the taste of the wine with the meal or the port after, when the ladies – his wife included – had left the men in the dining room and departed for wherever it was they went whenever the cigars came out.

The daze only eased slightly once his wife was away from his side, for the first time since she'd joined him in front of the oversized fireplace in the main parlor. They'd been wed by special license, his father's way of daring anyone to comment on the briefness of his youngest son's engagement, and the broken almost-engagement to Miss Hawkins that had preceded it. He still could taste nothing of his port or the cigar that was thrust upon him by his brother, but at least now he could partake of the conversation with some semblance of intelligence.

That momentary return to his customary awareness of the world around him vanished as quickly as it had returned once the men repaired to the formal parlor where the ceremony had taken place. And all because his wife, the newly christened Mrs. Sherlock Holmes, was waiting there for him.

She was standing near the French doors, speaking quietly to Mary and his mother, and he found himself unable to move further into the room as soon as his eyes came to rest on her slender form. As if she felt his gaze upon her, she looked up and offered a shy smile before dipping her head in response to something Mary had just said.

He felt (yet again) an elbow jostling his ribs and stumbled into the room, still unable to fully comprehend that this moment, the one he'd planned so carefully for, had actually arrived. Molly truly was his wife; their child rested safely within her womb, and very shortly the two of them would repair to the bridal suite that had been prepared for them in the west wing. They would leave in the morning for an abbreviated tour of the Continent – Paris, Rome, and a surprise visit to Switzerland, which he knew Molly had always wished to visit – and return in a month, long before she would begin to show. It had all been meticulously planned out by his father – with only Sherlock's insistence on the week in Switzerland upsetting the applecart in any way – in order to achieve just that face-saving goal.

Once they were back in England, he would be allowed to retire from the social scene into which his position had always forced him, and he would conclude as much of his studies as he could before Molly's confinement brought him back home. He had already made arrangements with his various professors to pursue a correspondence course to complete his chemistry degree, which had been met with much less resistance than he'd anticipated. His father's generous donations to the department no doubt helped as much as his own reputation for disrupting Oxford's normally staid and hallowed halls.

He had already set aside his work with Inspector Lestrade's Bow Street Runners until such time as he and Molly were able to make a permanent move to London. The man had raised a politely disbelieving eyebrow when Sherlock informed of the reason for his hiatus, then chuckled and shaken his head as he declared, "Well, then Mr. Holmes, if you've found a woman mad enough to take you, I daresay it's no wonder you wish to hurry up the wedding, before she returns to her senses!" Then he'd turned serious, thrusting out his hand and offering up his congratulations.

In gratitude for the man's sincerity and the work he'd promised Sherlock could take up once again when convenient, he did not inform Lestrade that his wife had yet again taken a lover.

None of that was on his mind as John and his father followed him into the room. All he could think of, all he could see, was the radiant form of his wife. Everything else faded into insignificance as he made his way to her side. Murmuring some form of apology to Mary, he offered Molly his arm and hurried her out through the French doors, closing them firmly behind them.

Molly giggled as he sped up his steps, raising her gown in one hand – thankfully the bonnet had long since vanished – and hurrying to keep up with his swift pace. "Sherlock, please slow down," she gasped as he led her around a corner, the graveled path crunching beneath their feet.

He not only slowed his steps but halted them entirely as soon as he was certain they were out of view of the house. Molly's giggles became a surprised squeal as he pressed her against the trunk of the nearest oak tree, lowering his mouth to hers to capture a far more satisfying kiss than the one that had concluded their wedding ceremony only a few brief hours ago. The kiss seemed to relieve the daze that had fallen over his mind, as his thoughts focused on only one thing: this woman was his wife, his and his alone.

And he wouldn't wait to lie with her another moment longer. To the devil with propriety and the houseful of family and guests; Molly was his wife and they had been apart for far too long. He was not, however, so far gone as to ruck her skirts up over her waist and take her out here in the garden, much as a certain part of his anatomy might urge him to do. Instead, breathless from the kiss, he turned his head and nuzzled at Molly's neck. "Come with me to our rooms, wife. I feel a burning need to see what you are wearing beneath your wedding gown."

Her brown eyes were enormous in her face, her expression caught somewhere between happiness and anticipation as she licked her lips and offered him the tiniest of nods. He knew it was wildly improper to drag her away from the celebration just to satisfy his lusts, but since she was the only woman who had ever aroused them while at the same time capturing his heart, it was entirely her own fault.

Like two naughty children escaping the watchful eye of their governess, the two of them scampered off, Sherlock leading her the long way around the house, sneaking her in through the back entrance to the kitchen. The room was currently unoccupied by anyone but the scullery maid, who was busy scrubbing out the mound of pots and pans that had been used in preparing the wedding feast. Her attention was fixed on the large cast-iron pot at the top of the pile, and she wore a fierce scowl of concentration as she scrubbed. It appeared she hadn't noticed their entry into the room at all; raising a finger to his lips, Sherlock indicated that Molly should remain silent as they crossed the room.

She managed to repress her giggles only as long as it took them to leave the kitchen and make their way up the back staircase to the main floor of the house, meeting not one other servant along the way, which was all to the good. Once the giggles escaped her lips, they lasted all the way up the next flight of stairs, until they reached the secluded rooms that had been prepared for the two of them.

As soon as Sherlock opened the door, however, Molly seemed to sober instantly. Whether it was the sight of the rather imposing Jacobean four-poster bed that dominated the room, or the myriad of candles that rested on every flat surface – unlit but clearly brought into the room to give it a romantic ambiance – or something else entirely, Sherlock wasn't certain. Nor, to his surprise, did he wish to deduce the reason for her sudden cessation of mirth. He found himself strangely reluctant to do so, in fact.

He hoped it was not a sudden onset of shyness on her part, or worse, a sign that she'd changed her mind about renewing their intimate relations. They had shared no physical intimacy beyond kisses for nearly a month, and he felt a brief surge of discomfort at the realization that they had never discussed this. He'd made an assumption, and found himself unhappily contemplating the thought that he'd been foolish to do so.

He was reasonably certain that she believed him when he told her he loved her, even if he'd only said the words once, and he was more than reasonably certain that she loved him, but beyond that he found himself curiously unsure. When he turned to ask her, however, he found that she'd seated herself on the nearest armchair and was in the process of removing her shoes and stockings. When she felt his eyes on her, she looked up and dimpled. "Well, husband, now that you've got me all to yourself, don't tell me you don't know what to do with me!"

Spurred into action by her words and the teasing tone in which they'd been spoken, Sherlock closed and latched the door and hastily began removing his own clothing, the hated cravat nearly being ripped in two in the process, all doubts and worries tossed aside at the sight of her bare legs peeking out from beneath her rose gown. She'd raised it to her knees and was currently in the process of folding her stockings, smiling all the while.

It wasn't until he was in the middle of undoing his trousers that his mind caught up with what his eyes had observed: Molly was not wearing proper under-drawers beneath her wedding dress. When he turned his incredulous gaze to meet hers, she dimpled again and completed the task of folding her stockings, placing them neatly on the ottoman on which her left foot currently rested. "I anticipated your interest in resuming our previous...interactions...as quickly after the wedding as possible," she said, her voice serene but with a hint of laughter lurking in her eyes and the corners of her lips. "After my mother and Mrs. Watson finished fussing over me, I sent them out of the room on the pretext of needing a few minutes privacy – well," she interrupted herself with a giggle, "it wasn't actually a pretext, as I did, indeed, require those few minutes in order to divest myself of my..."

She did not complete her sentence, not out of any unwillingness to do so but because her husband's lips were covering her own, smothering any further words for the time being. Sherlock hadn't even been aware of moving until he found himself kneeling in front of his wife and taking her into his arms. They collapsed to the floor in a tangle of limbs when he became impatient to feel her closer and toppled her out of her seat. Molly's giggles returned, but only for as long as it took him to remove the remainder of her clothing and his own. Her corset presented a temporary difficulty which Sherlock resolved by retrieving his trousers, fishing out his pocket-knife and slicing through the ties. He would purchase new ones for her made of finest silk, but the blasted contraption needed to be removed now!

They had to return to their feet in order to complete this part of their disrobing; once they were both entirely nude Sherlock lifted Molly into his arms, as always marveling at the slightness of her frame, how easily she fit in his arms and how much he enjoyed holding her in this manner. It wasn't the pleasure of possession or dominance, although there was a very primal, very male part of himself that certainly responded to her that way. No, it was simply the fact that this tiny woman had so thoroughly captured his heart, had taken what was meant to be a simple solution to a mutual problem they shared and somehow turned it into the best and wisest decision he'd ever made.

He resolved then and there never to forget that fact, nor to allow her to think he'd ever done so. He knew he could be selfish and unheeding of the needs of others, but for her, he would certainly make the attempt to better himself. Not simply because he felt it was what was expected of him, but because he wished to do so, in order to secure her happiness – and therefore his own.

He was not unaware of the fact that he'd undressed Molly and carried her over to the bed in much the same manner as he had upon their first carnal encounter. He had yet to remove the myriad of hairpins from her elaborately-styled tresses, but reserved that pleasure for after his more pressing needs – and hers as well – had been met. Not only met, but satisfied and conquered as well he thought, with not the slightest hint of modesty.

Maneuvering the distance between armchair and the bed took longer than it should have, solely because of his wife's distracting habit of peppering his chest and throat with kisses while simultaneously running her fingers through his hair, disarraying the carefully disciplined waves into the curls he knew she much preferred. They finally made their way to the bed, where he deposited her carefully on her back, taking the opportunity to catalogue the changes that had occurred to her body since he'd last seen this way.

Her breasts were fuller, which fact he'd already noted. There was a slight curve to her abdomen, a firmness to his touch that had not been there before, but not enough, as he'd already noted, to disturb the lines of her gown. He wondered absently if it was time for her to forgo the use of a corset altogether, an entirely pleasing thought as he found that particular article of clothing an unnecessary impediment that did nothing to his wife's already slender figure…and then Molly smiled at him and raised her arms to him and his ability to think was once again disturbed, in the most delightful of manners.

oOo

Molly watched as Sherlock explored her body, wondering if he would find the changes, subtle as they were, in any way repugnant or off-putting, but he showed nothing but honest curiosity, his questing fingers far more gentle than she'd ever felt them before during such explorations. He gazed down at her with an abstracted expression on his face, but when his gaze moved to meet hers she smiled and raised her arms, which invitation he immediately – and quite enthusiastically – accepted.

They shared kisses, languorous and impassioned in turn, until neither could bear to wait a moment longer, and joined in love's sweet surrender.

Afterward, when they lay tangled together, Molly's head resting on Sherlock's chest, he lifted her hand to his lips to press a tender kiss to her knuckles, pausing only to admire the slender gold band now adorning her third finger. It was engraved on the interior in Latin, Tenetis Instrue – "You hold my heart, always." He looked forward to the day she discovered that secret truth almost as much as he looked forward to the day he first held their child in his arms.

A lifetime with a wife and children had never been something he'd envisioned for himself until three short months ago, and now, it was all he could see; indeed, he could no longer fathom how he'd not wished such a life for himself. "I love you, Mrs. Holmes," he murmured as his wife turned her sweet lips up to meet his for a lingering kiss.

"I love you too, Mr. Holmes," she replied. "And I do want to thank you for ruining me," she added with a playful grin.

"My pleasure," he replied, meaning every word.

He hoped for a lifetime of such ruination, if this happiness was to be the outcome.