A/N: Penulitimate chapter here, folks! There will be a time jump in the epilogue cause I think Molly will need more than a few minutes to get her relationship with Sherlock back on track. Plus I'm sure to be told Sherlock is OOC at the end of this chapter, but I defend his emotionalism, otherwise he really wouldn't be human. Just sayin'. Enjoy, and thanks to all my wonderful readers (and especially reviewers) for sticking around during this emotional rollercoaster ride of a story. Not beta'd, by the way, so all errors are mine. Oh, and a head's up: The next two I post will be just as angsty, so be warned! :)

Molly had heard the saying "it's all over but the shouting" before, but this was the first time she'd ever found herself murmuring it aloud.

Moran was securely bound, awaiting the arrival of Mycroft's men. Sherlock had tossed her Irene's phone, and although Molly was loathe to touch anything belonging to that woman, John needed medical attention badly. He had passed out and was bleeding again, or he had been before Molly had Sherlock strip off Moran's lightweight jacket so she could press it to the wound, which made three unconscious people in the echoing emptiness of the warehouse.

Leaving her, at least temporarily, alone with Sherlock. "Should we tie her up, too?" she asked, with a pointed glance at Irene Adler's unconscious form.

He shook his head. "She had nothing to do with Edmund's kidnapping, no matter which side of the law she's currently working on."

"Did you know she suspected something? That you weren't just there to...be with...her?" It was hard for her to say the words, even couched so euphamistically. And why did she care? Sherlock had done what he'd done to save Eddie, yes, but he'd broken her heart in the process, and damned near broken her will as well. That week she'd spent at St. Elsbeth's...not to be borne. Certainly not to be dredged up here and now, where there were other, far more pressing concerns. Which reminded her... "What did he mean, Sebastian Moran, when he said it was my fault that Jim – Moriarty – killed himself?"

Before Sherlock could answer either question the warehouse door burst open. In poured a veritable sea of men in helmets and black body armor, weapons scanning the area. When the leader looked over at Sherlock, he gave a sharp nod. The other man nodded back, then ordered his men to search the premises. He held a walkie-talkie to his lips and spoke quietly; almost before he'd finished speaking, a team of paramedics with a gurney raced into the room, heading directly for the five figures in the small circle of light.

Molly was very busy for a while, explaining what she knew of John's injuries, how he'd possibly reinjured himself saving them from Moran, but in no time at all she found herself gently pushed to the side – not literally, of course, but it certainly felt that way – while the EMTs focused on getting John to safety.

A second team came over to check her and Sherlock out, but since both of them were fine – relatively speaking, certainly compared to John – they quickly melted away. It was telling, Molly thought when she could actually think properly, that they spared not a single question for the two unconscious forms on the floor.

Moran was bundled up and removed almost as swiftly as John, although with not nearly as much care. Irene Adler was...when Molly glanced down at the floor, Irene was simply not there. She blinked, turned to find Sherlock, starting as she realized he was standing very close to her. "She regained consciousness while the paramedics were working on John," he said quietly. "I felt it prudent to allow her to make her own way out."

"I supposes it's too much to hope she gets taken down by a sniper on the way?" Molly muttered before she could stop herself. When had she become so bitter?

When Sherlock left her that note, of course, she silently scolded herself. When her entire world shattered into so many pieces she never thought she'd be able to pull it back together again. But she had; it had taken a week in the care of others, but she'd pulled her world back together, more for Eddie's sake than her own, but she'd done it.

Eddie. Just thinking about her son threatened her hard-earned equilibrium. She turned back to Sherlock, fighting back tears. "Sherlock, Eddie, we never did find out who has him!"

"He's fine."

Molly spun around to face Irene – not gone after all. But what was she saying? She took a menacing step closer to the other woman. "What do you know?" she demanded, fists balled at her sides.

"That he wasn't taken by an enemy," Irene replied, her face expressionless. "I've been told by a reliable source that he is safe – and that Moran's poison has been removed from his system," she added, voice warming a bit with what sounded like sympathy.

Sympathy. From the woman who'd slept with Sherlock even though she knew he hadn't actually done so of his own free will. Who'd slept with a man desperate to save his son even at the expense of his son's mother.

Suddenly, Molly had had enough. As with Moran, the move was not telegraphed, although clearly Sherlock expected something of the sort, since she felt his hand on her arm.

She ignored it and let fly with a slap that rocked Irene back on her heels and left a sharp red hand-print across her cheek.

"I suppose I deserved that," Irene said, not even rubbing her cheek although tears had formed at the corners of her eyes.

"You deserve a lot worse than that, you bitch," Molly hissed while Sherlock held her arms to keep her from launching herself at the other woman. She ignored him, keeping her attention fully focused on the woman who had taken advantage of the situation Sherlock had been trapped in. "You knew he was being blackmailed, you knew the whole time and you still slept with him."

"And he slept with me," Irene pointed out, her voice steady. She had the sense not to allow even the semblance of a smirk touch her lips. "Willingly. He didn't even try to contact Mycroft until after we'd been together for a month."

"And he and I will be discussing his actions at length," Molly replied, giving Sherlock a pointed look. He immediately released his grasp on her arms and stepped back, dropping his hands to his sides and keeping his expression cool and aloof – but she could see the emotions he was holding back, so clearly reflected in his eyes. A mixture of guilt and shame and even, she thought, a touch of pride – in her?

It didn't matter. She turned back to Irene, took a step closer and jabbed her finger into the middle of the other woman's chest. "If you ever come near my family again – on Mycroft's behalf or not – I will personally rip every hair from your head and make sure your mouth is too sore to kiss for a long fucking time."

The two women locked gazes; Irene was the first to look away, nodding as she backed away from the furious woman in front of her.

The sound of a throat being cleared from somewhere behind Molly and Sherlock caught their attention; she turned to see who it was, her expression lightening into one of pure joy as she caught sight of Mycroft holding her son. "Eddie!" she cried, pushing past Sherlock, holding out eager arms to take her son back into her embrace, all thoughts of Irene Adler banished from her mind.

"Mama!" he said, so clearly it brought tears to her eyes. She had despaired of ever hearing his sweet voice again. She lifted him up, hugging him and pressing kisses to his face until he squinted and pulled away, squirming and fussing until she eased her hold on him.

She spun to face Sherlock, uncaring of the joyful tears that were streaming down her face as she showed Eddie to his father, all sins at least temporarily forgiven in the overwhelming emotions – all positive, for the first time in far too long – of the moment.

Eddie's smile, which was already stretching his chubby little cheeks and crinkling his blue, blue eyes, widened further. "Dada!" he crowed as he held his arms out to his father.

His father, whom he hadn't so much as set eyes on since he was eight months old. In the nearly five months that had passed since Sherlock left for Cairo, Molly hadn't even shown him pictures of his father; had Mycroft...but no. He was shaking his head in answer to her questioning glance. So Eddie recognized his father all on his own. She felt her heart swelling with a combination of love and amazement at how like his father her boy was even at just over a year old.

In that moment, she was able to overcome a great deal of her hurt and pain, enough to allow Sherlock to share in the joy of the moment. Selflessly she held Eddie out so his father could take him in his arms.

oOo

Molly Hooper was the most amazing, wonderful woman in the entire world – no, strike that; in the entire universe – and he, Sherlock Holmes, did not deserve her.

Not in the least. Here she was, a woman he had systematically torn down at the behest of a criminal seeking vengeance for a non-existent crime (Really? Molly Hooper was the reason James Moriarty killed himself? For God's sake, what had put the idea into that man's…oh. Of course. He would have to be sure to explain it to her. Later.) – a woman whom he had literally forced into a nervous breakdown, and she was handing him his son to hold?

He didn't deserve either of them. Not for one bloody second.

Still, that knowledge – that bone-deep certainty – didn't stop him from holding out his arms and taking Edmund into his embrace. Didn't stop him from kissing his son's chubby (but much less chubby than they had been since the last time he'd seen him, almost five months gone; he was growing up rather than out at the moment, as he should be now that he was more mobile) cheeks, first one, then the other. Edmund giggled with delight and threw his arms around his father's neck. "Dada!" he crowed again. "You back!"

Sherlock thought his heart would stop, right there, but if it did, knew he would die a happy man. Edmund was talking, properly talking (again, as it should be; he was almost a month past his first birthday…God, he'd missed his son's first birthday) and he remembered his father. A man Molly would have been more than justified in erasing completely from his son's life.

He hugged Edmund tightly, feeling the small boy's arms and legs wrapping around his neck and torso in one of those full-body hugs only small children can manage, feeling such a surge of emotion he once thought himself incapable of feeling for another living being.

And yet two people had entwined themselves around his heart and mind so completely that he couldn't imagine a life without them. Molly and Edmund – and the new baby, a little brother or sister for Edmund. Another son or a daughter for Sherlock and Molly. He just hoped that her generosity would spill over past this moment in time, that she would allow him back into her life at least for their childrens' sakes.

"Molly," he said, his voice choked with emotion, staring at her, knowing that the tears running down her cheeks weren't far behind on his own face if he didn't bring himself under control. "Thank you."

In a fairy tale or a movie, she would have melted into his arms, embracing him as well as their son. The three of them would then walk off into the sunset – or at least back to Baker Street, where they would take up residence and live happily ever after.

All Molly did was nod and smile, but her eyes were on Edmund and Sherlock knew he still had a long road to travel before he made his way back into her good graces.

A road he was more than willing to traverse, as long as she and Edmund were at the end of it, waiting for him.