When Sherlock finally came inside, Molly was already in bed for the night. She pretended to be asleep as he changed into flannel pajamas and slid under the covers. Her plan was to continue ignoring his existence, but then the smell of cigarette smoke reached her nostrils, and her stomach heaved. She rolled out of bed and raced to the toilet.

"What happened?" Sherlock asked, appearing behind her in a flash. He wiped the sweat from her brow with a towel when she was done. This didn't quite resemble the normal morning sickness.

Molly could feel a new wave of nausea coming on, despite the fact that there was barely anything left in her stomach to expel. She was shaking. "The smoke…from your cigarette. It's on you and your clothes."

"Heightened sense of smell," Sherlock deduced. He immediately jumped to his feet and went to throw the clothes he'd worn that day in the washing machine. Then he pulled off his pajamas, stepped into the shower, and worked on washing the cigarette scent off of his skin and out of his hair. Molly, who was lying on the floor with her cheek pressed to the cool tile, began to improve as the aroma of mint shampoo filled the bathroom.

"Better?" Sherlock asked as he dried off. For good measure he gargled mouthwash to remove any lingering traces of nicotine.

Molly nodded. "Considerably." She let him help her up and lead her back to bed. There was a faint scent of cigarette smoke on their sheets, but it wasn't enough to make her ill. "Thank you."

"I'm sorry." Simple though it was, it was the sincerest apology he'd ever uttered.

Molly grinned. Quite out of character, she pulled him down on the bed and climbed on top of him, kissing him at length.

"What's this?" He asked, surprised.

"Just thought I'd make us even."

Sherlock chuckled deeply. "I daresay you won't have much resistance," he said, meeting her lips.

The next day dawned gray and rainy. Sherlock was gone by the time Molly woke up, but the first thing she noticed on her routine bathroom visit was that his only pack of cigarettes had been discarded in the bin. She smiled.

After taking a shower, Molly tried to shimmy into a pair of jeans but was unable to zip and button them. "Yoga pants it is," she muttered. She grabbed a black pair and slipped on a long-sleeved green shirt, which stretched a little tighter over her chest than it used to. She put on the fuzziest socks she could find and headed for the kitchen.

"Well the jeans are a bit snug now. It's these until I find maternity clothes," Molly said, pointing to her pants.

"We'll go later today," Sherlock said. He was sitting at the table, reading a a letter. There was a bowl of hot porridge waiting for Molly. "This just came in the mail, via Mycroft." He handed her a photo.

Molly took it. Pictured was Mary in a hospital bed, makeup-less but glowing with joy. Her arms held a tiny pink bundle, the wrinkled face peeping out from between the blanket and a pink and blue-striped cap. John had an arm around them and was grinning widely.

"Oh. She's so beautiful," Molly said softly. "I wish we were there."

"It appears that John is letting the facial hair come back. What a pity," Sherlock said. "They sent a letter as well. Eliza Catherine Watson, born November 8th, weight 7 pounds 6 ounces. And they still want us to be her godparents. Although John isn't too happy about us up and leaving—there are some rather choice words in here—he says he understands and hopes all is well. Are you okay?"

Tears were spilling down Molly's cheeks and into her porridge. "I'm fine. Just homesick."

Sherlock tucked the picture and letter away in the pocket of his jacket and made a mental note to be careful about bringing up Eliza to her. "We can go into town as soon as you're finished eating."

Shopping with Sherlock was an experience. He had little interest in women's clothing, but he didn't want to upset Molly, so he feigned attentiveness to the best of his ability. However, he ended up criticizing half of the styles in each clothing store, and after incorrectly answering the 'does this make me look fat?' question, he was promptly instructed to wait outside until she was done. Not that he minded terribly; people-watching was preferable to him than shopping any day. It was cold outside, and a bit windy, but it didn't bother him.

"Have you finished?" Sherlock asked when Molly finally appeared around 4:30pm, loaded down with paper bags.

"Blimey you're impatient. I was only gone for an hour."

"Longest hour of my life," Sherlock muttered.

"What was that?"

"Er, I said 'I'd like to have supper with my wife.'"

Molly narrowed her eyes at him. "Mhmm. Well supper sounds brilliant. Let me put these bags in the car first."

They went to an Italian restaurant and ordered one large plate of pasta between them. Sherlock only ate a fourth of it, leaving the rest to Molly, who was ravenous as usual. This time, however, no comments were made about her appetite, and the waiter was very polite. It was a refreshing change after the pub landlord.

"Believe it or not, I'm completely full," Molly remarked as they walked to the car afterward. She felt relaxed and sleepy, and her eyelids began to droop, anticipating a good night's sleep ahead.

"First time for everything, I reckon," Sherlock said. Suddenly he halted abruptly, glancing around.

"What is it?" Molly asked.

"I'm not sure. Something isn't quite right." Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

Molly was immediately alert. His instincts were not to be taken lightly.

The next moment Sherlock was pushing Molly out of the way just as a gunshot echoed down the street. She managed to catch herself, but Sherlock staggered, clutching his arm. Blood was staining the sleeve of his coat, seeping between his fingers.

"Sherlock!" Molly stared at the wound in horror.

"Get to the car!" He shouted.

Molly took off. A man dressed in dark clothing chased after them, a pistol in his hand.

They ran past a few bystanders, all too startled to react. Sherlock's vision was starting to blur.

"Wait! Get in the passenger seat!" Molly said when they reached the Land Rover.

Sherlock shook his head. "You don't know these streets like I do."

"You're going to pass out before we've reached the end of this one. If you recall, I went with you when you memorized the layout. I know it well enough."

Sherlock was about to protest, but then a bullet hit the car door, only inches away from Molly. "Alright." He opened the door and fell inside.

Molly raced around to the other side and got behind the wheel. The sports utility roared to life and shot off, forcing their attacker to jump out of the way to avoid being hit. Molly's fingers tightened around the wheel as she whipped around corners and swerved to avoid cars.

"Don't…go back to the cottage." Sherlock was looking rather pale. The knuckles of the hand that was clamped to his arm were bone-white.

"What about our things?"

"Forget about them. I packed emergency supplies in here in case…something like this…happened."

"Okay." Molly looked at Sherlock. He was trying hard to stay conscious. "I'm going to find a hospital."

"No! They'll find us."

"At least we'll have a chance. There'll be security. You're losing blood to fast."

"I'll fix it up myself. Just drive along the coast for a bit."

Molly hesitated. "Right," she said, and headed in the direction he indicated. She drove down an empty highway, right hand on the wheel, the left clasped around Sherlock's unbloodied one. Perhaps she was imagining it, but it seemed to be getting colder.

Sherlock's head suddenly lolled against his shoulder, and his hand relaxed. He was out.

Molly checked his pulse. His heart was still beating, albeit weakly. She took a deep breath and turned off on an exit marked with a blue hospital sign.