I haven't had a chance to say much to the people reading, but I'd just like to say a HUGE thank you to everyone who's read/reviewed this story! This is the last part, but I'm trying to work out the basics for a sequel at the moment. My Tumblr is peetaholmes and I'm posting regular updates on their about how I'm progressing, so feel free to have a look! Onwards we go! :)

"Molly? Molly, please let me in."

At 5.54pm, Mary Morstan knocks on the bathroom door. Molly Hooper is locked inside, sitting on the cold toilet seat. She can feel that there are tears on her cheeks, but she lets them slide over her face and down her neck. She ignores the frantic pounding from the other side of the door.

Molly knows exactly who the shirt is from.

And she knows exactly why he sent it.

All day she'd been sneaking glances towards the door. Some part of her had really believed he would show up, that he would burst through the door and everyone would gasp and ask him how he was alive and he would smirk and tell them the story in a tone that implied it was obvious. Then he would see her staring at him and everyone else would be pushed aside as he made his way to her, to sweep her off her feet and carry her off to a life where they and their child would be safe.

Molly Hooper knows that some fantasies aren't meant to come true.

There is no doubt in her mind that the gift was a message from him. As soon as she saw it, she knew that he was telling her he was still alive. That he would be back one day.

That it wouldn't be today.

The thuds against the door have stopped, and she hears a whispered conversation in the hall, ending with a soft tapping on the wood.

"Molly, its John."

Without questioning his motives, Molly opens the door, expecting to find Mary stood with him. Instead, he stands alone, and she can hear a tone of concern in the conversation from the living room.

She steps back to let him in, resuming her place on the loo. John shuts the door behind him and leans against it, taking her in.

"Oh, Molly," he sighs, shaking his head, "I am… so sorry. I should have opened it; I should have checked what was inside before I gave it to you. God, if I ever find out who sent it-"

Molly shakes her head. She won't tell him that she knows the source; she can't do that to him.

John sees her blinking rapidly, and kneels on the floor in front of her, taking both of her hands in his.

And everything they've both felt in the past 5 months, every thought, every secret, comes to a climax and suddenly they're both crying and clutching one another and they can almost feel the loss as if it's a solid object. The embrace is in no way romantic, they are simply two people who have lost the most important person in their lives.

They stay entwined for nearly quarter of an hour, in which time they find themselves standing up, with Molly's head buried in John's neck as he rubs her gently on the back.

"He said he'd be here." she says hopelessly.

John's hand tenses briefly, before he continues rubbing circular motions into the material on her dress.

"I know, Mols. I'm sorry that the baby will grow up without knowing what a brilliant man he was."

Molly's reply bursts out before she can stop herself.

"It's a boy. I want to call him Sherlock."

John pulls back, holding her at arm length with a look of slight shock on his face.

"You're serious?"

Molly only nods, closing her eyes as a few more tears slip out. John pauses before squeezing her tightly and kissing her affectionately on the cheek.

"That's wonderful, Molly. He'd be so proud of you, of both of you."

John had finally convinced her to leave the bathroom, drying both their eyes beforehand. As she entered the kitchen, the lights went off and Molly was suddenly surrounded by candlelight and the sound of everyone singing. She gave a watery giggle, almost blowing out the candles in the process.

When the candles were extinguished for good, she cut the cake and handed slices around. Mycroft polished his off almost immediately, before bidding everyone farewell, patting Molly's hand and sweeping out of the door. Greg had his piece wrapped in a paper napkin and slipped it into his pocket, leaving soon afterwards in response to a text from his wife. Not on a break anymore, then. Meena ate half of her slice, declaring it "Too good to eat all at once" and twisted a napkin around it, packed it into her handbag and was seen to the door by Mrs Hudson, who insisted on giving her the recipe before she called a cab.

Finally, Molly thanked her friends for everything, gathering all of her presents with their help, and set off home (although John forced her to take a cab this time.)

When she gets back to her flat, she changes straight into her pyjamas, and slippers. Ensuring that all the other lights are switched off, she curls up on her side in her dimly lit bedroom, trying not to think of the one person who was missing.

She strokes Toby's head idly, calmed by the soft rumble of his purrs, and is just dozing off when soft violin music begins to play.

Molly bolts upright, her sleepy brain wildly running through thoughts of: He's alive, he's back, he's kept his promise.

Then she sees that the screen of her phone is illuminating the ceiling above her bed, and she nearly drops it when she sees the word 'Withheld' in bold letters. Shaking, she presses the green button and holds it to her ear.

"Hello?" her voice is nearly a whisper.

"Molly."

It's all she can do not to sob into the receiver at the sound of his voice. Barely managing to keep the phone in her grip, she breathes:

"Sherlock."

She has almost forgotten how deep his voice is, how it can take her breath away, and sure enough, there is a lump in her throat that she cannot swallow. She can hear his breathing on the other end as he decides what to say and it's a miracle for her that he is breathing.

She drops a hand to her bump to calm herself. Does he know? Of course he does, he wouldn't have sent the tshirt otherwise. Is he happy? Will he want anything to do with her once he gets back, or will they go back to how they were before, where he strides into her morgue at any hour and commands her to make him coffee just to have disappeared when she returns?

She receives no answers to these questions in his response.

"I'm sorry I didn't make it."

All of a sudden she is reminded that she's sitting alone in her flat on her birthday, a day that was mostly spent waiting for him to show up and she's so unbelievably angry at him that she almost doesn't trust herself to respond. She can almost see him, holed up in a dingy hotel room in some third world country, pacing as he waits impatiently for her to tell him what he expects to hear. Maybe he thinks she'll say something like "It's fine, I understand, I love you" and maybe part of her wants to say it, to hear him sigh contentedly.

She surprises them both.

"I'm sorry too."

At 10.08pm on November 21st, Molly Hooper hangs up on Sherlock Holmes.

She doesn't hear from him again for over a year.