Sherlock stared down at the small hand folded in his clasp and squeezed it gently. When the owner of the hand answered in kind, he felt every phalanx, phalange and metacarpal move beneath the soft, warm skin.

The delicacy of her fingers made him suddenly and acutely aware of her fragility. He couldn't breathe for a moment as her luminous brown eyes shone up at him with guileless admiration. He felt like a child who had discovered a stash of his Mummy's sweets (which he neither deserved nor should indulge in).

Molly smiled shyly then wrinkled her nose as she parsed out her next words. "Um, I guess we-we're here. We should probably, er, not walk in there holding hands, right?"

Sherlock moved his thumb over each one of her digits. He nodded but was extremely reluctant to relinquish his hold. He loosened his grip and tried not to react as she pulled her hand away. Molly lowered her lids shyly, attempted to suppress a smile and then knocked on the door. Sherlock thought he had himself under control until she twirled a lock of hair between her fingers and absentmindedly rubbed the twisted strands against her lips.

Next thing he knew, he was descending on her again like a man half-starved. He sucked in a breath against her soft lips which parted eagerly beneath his and allowed him to take possession of her mouth. A groan bubbled up from deep within his chest. He gathered her against him tightly trying to soak up the feel of her in his arms. Her hands wrapped behind his neck and she clung to him in return. She was tiny, insubstantial, but . . . everything. Heat built in his blood. The pulsing of fluid through his veins became a cacophony of white noise in his ears.

Then it was as if he was doused with water. He heard the door swing open beside them and the murmuring of animated conversation turn gravely silent. He raised his head to see a straight shot into the Watson's flat and their living room where more than a dozen guests stood agape. Sherlock's eyes flicked down to John who had a gasp on his face like a prize trophy trout. His face swung back and forth between Molly and Sherlock.

"Um, ah," he stammered before his voice dropped to a whisper, "God, really?"

Molly squeaked and buried her face in Sherlock's chest. Sherlock smoothed his hand over the back of her head.

"You'll have to face it eventually," he murmured in her ear.

He spun Molly off him but intertwined his fingers in hers and stepped past John with her in tow. John closed the door and dogged their steps into the living room.

"Sherlock-?"

"Not now, John!" he replied. "Mary, you're looking well."

Mary's eyes were almost as wide as John's but she had an incredulous smile on her face. "I'm good, Sherlock. Molly, you're back! So, the emergency at work - false alarm?"

Sherlock watched Molly turn a deep crimson. "Um, Mike was able to cover."

Mary's brows rose and she smirked. "Hmm, I see."

A standoff ensued until Greg Lestrade coughed and greeted them. Then, everyone resumed their conversations and the hum of the room began again like a needle falling onto a record.

Sherlock averted his gaze from John's and struck up a conversation with Greg who began filling him in about a recent interesting unexplained death investigation. John huffed, muttered a curse and threw up his hands as he walked away. Molly's hand slipped out of Sherlock's shortly thereafter and when he scanned the room for her, he discovered she had disappeared. Mary too, it seemed, had gone somewhere. No doubt she was grilling his pathologist in the kitchen.

His pathologist? He shook himself mentally but a word burned in his mind's eye like a flash of lightning.

MINE.

A thousand puzzle pieces fell into place in an instant. The solving of the conundrum of Molly Hooper seared through his brain with such ferocity that he felt like a permanent fissure would remain. His. She'd been his since the moment he first laid eyes on her drowning in an over sized lab coat and baggy hospital scrubs patterned with miniature ducks. No matter how much he tried to ignore his feelings, he'd never been able to relinquish his claim. In fact, he hadn't just fallen asleep naked in Molly's bed the night she broke up with Tom by happenstance. He'd lured Tom to her flat by sending him a text from her phone earlier in the evening and inviting him to stay the night.

"Holmes, are you listening to me?" Lestrade's voice cut through his thoughts.

Sherlock shook his head. "Yeees?"

"Ack, you're not! I asked if you had any ideas about the dead dentist? Was it really a heart attack?"

Sherlock's eyes constricted. He snapped into deduction mode and recalled the information he managed to glean from Greg' ramblings.

"No, it was the lover. Well, no, not truly. An accident really. Mrs. Leeds found Dr. Leeds dead at the clinic from huffing too much gas during a sexual misadventure. She covered it up to save herself the scandal of his particular proclivities coming to light. You see, his lover was a young male, one of his patients and unfamiliar with the proper settings on the gas apparatus . . ."

Greg's mouth dropped open. "You never cease to amaze me. How did you get all that from what I said?"

Sherlock prepared to explain but let out an exhaustive breath instead. "Do you really want me to point out all your incorrect assumptions or just inform you that you'll get a complete confession from Mrs. Leeds if you mention that her insurance policy will pay her three times the settlement if she can prove he died as a result of an accident instead of natural causes?"

Greg let out a breath as a whistle. "Er, that, I guess. Well, thanks, saves me some paperwork."

"Excellent."

Sherlock scanned the room again looking for Molly. She had not yet returned unlike Mary who was once again surrounded by people blubbering nonsensically to the infant in her arms. He started to walk away from Greg on a mission to track her down.

"Guess we're done speaking," Greg quipped.

Sherlock raised his brows. "I thought that was apparent . . ."

He then happened to glance at John who was greeting another visitor at his door. Time went on hiatus. Sherlock had to blink a few times to convince himself he was suffering from some sort of mental break as he watched the scene unfold.

His voice came out strangled, practically inaudible. "John . . .don't."

John did not hear his friend and continued to address the stranger. "May I help you?"

A tall, slim man dressed entirely in black sauntered past John into the gathering with a smile that turned Sherlock's stomach.

"Excuse, me, sir, do I know you? You a friend of Mary's?" John prodded.

"God, no!" He replied.

Sherlock was paralyzed. He tried to analyze details to calm his mind. The man's familiar ruddy copper hair was cropped close to his head. His hands were hidden in the pockets of his designer suit. His bright blue eyes scanned the scene like a predator taking stock of prey. Then, like the crack of a whip, his eyes found Sherlock's.

"Such a charming little ecosystem you have going on here, Sherlock, but you're still trying to sort out the right way to tend to them, aren't you?"

The man whirled on the ball of his foot and surveyed the room again. His eyes lingered on Mary for a moment as she clutched her baby to her chest.

He looked back at Sherlock with a smirk. "What do you do with them when they expire? Flush them?"

"Sherlock, what's going on?" John asked sharply.

Sherlock was overwhelmed and tongue-tied as if thirty years of his maturity was wiped away in an instant. Fear rooted him to the spot.

The man cocked his head to the side. "Cat got your tongue, second chair?"

"Sherlock!" John shouted. "Who is this?"

Spurred into action, Sherlock reached into his pocket and pressed the secret panic button on his phone which send an alert to Mycroft. Finally, he cleared his throat and managed to speak.

"It's Sherrinford, my eldest brother."