Hey, everybody!

I just cannot thank you all enough for accompanying me on this crazy journey that was my first fanfiction. Thank you for your support and encouragement and kind words!

Black Night - Thanks! And yes, I liked Lissie, and did not want her permanently messed up, like Doyle's Lady Carfax was...I am a sucker for happy endings, that way. Thank you for all of your insightful and encouraging reviews!

Einvine - Thank you! Thank you for being my first reviewer, for being so encouraging, and for having a similar sense of humor and romance (the things you comment on are usually the parts I enjoyed writing the most!) Thanks also for introducing me to the Lizzie Bennett Diaries, which I am still watching because of situations but now that it is summer I will finally be able to finish them and read some of your stories! :)

Arcoiris - Thank you! I'm glad you enjoyed the kiss, and thought everything made sense! Thanks for your encouragement and awesomeness.

To my two guests - thanks for the reviews! Also, guest with the long review, I think you may be one of my regular reviewers - so thank you! I love how detailed your reviews are. They are super helpful and a joy to read!

Also…I forgot to mention in the previous chapter, but taxi cab geometry, which Sarah Jane used to pinpoint the parking garage, is a legit type of mathematical reasoning. And it is fun. City planners use it when developing streets and zoning school districts. (/end math nerd soliloquy.)

In this chapter, Sherlock uses the term paresthesia. It is the medical term for that pins and needles feeling you get when a limb falls asleep. (Courtesy of Wikipedia.)

Also, the title in the previous chapter, and the title for this chapter, were inspired by the song "You Can't Hurry Love" by the Supremes. * big grin* I have an unabashed appreciation for them, and Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons, and Billy Joel, and...and I just…I really like dancing to that kind of music. So I felt a happy ending deserved a happy…soundtrack? Something like that. So when you're done reading you should listen to You Can't Hurry Love. And dance.

Also, a reference to Johann Strauss II's "Vienna Blood Waltz" is made in this chapter. It is a lovely waltz and I think you should listen to it, too.

I don't own the songs, or Sherlock.

Final Chapter

In Which You Can't Hurry Love

(but once it arrives – it is perfection itself)

Just two hours earlier, Molly had arrived at Baker Street angry. Well – not angry anymore, as much as – relieved, and – very, very frustrated. Mrs. Hudson had let her in, and Molly hung up her things, and sat down on the couch with a huff that was equal parts fatigue and frustration.

She knew in her heart that he had not meant to worry her, or John – but when she saw Sherlock, perfectly fine…working with the sniper (who admittedly turned out to be not dangerous – for them, anyway) of his own accord – she was relieved, but also angry that Sherlock had apparently not even considered answering her, or John's, texts. She'd known what she was getting into, of course, when she agreed to all this – being in a relationship with Sherlock Holmes…but the excitement and fast pace of the past few days (it all happened so fast) had drained her – physically and emotionally. And since Mrs. Hudson had only seen Sherlock leaving with the man – how was Molly to know it was of his own volition, and not from the sniper's force? The man had been listening in on them earlier, after all…

Sighing, she flexed her hands, and rubbed the stiffness out of them. Between work and unconsciously clenching her fists in worry all day, they were tired again. Looking up, she took in the sights around her – dirty dishes piled in the kitchen sink, the remains of some sort of experiment (luckily – not the sort involving human flesh) left out on the kitchen table, Sherlock's armchair – the skull on the mantel, the smiley face, the bullet holes, the rubbish bins, still with piles of broken dishes in them, papers and journals scattered about – and she smiled, warm and wan.

"Well, Molly. This is what you signed up for, you know," she told herself. And honestly – she wouldn't change it. Even - even Sherlock cavorting around London with a felon. Because although of course she would prefer him not to…she felt that that would be too big a thing to ask him to avoid. It was his work, and most of the time he was so successful at his work because he…well…he ran around London with felons when he saw fit. And she trusted his judgment, the same way he implicitly trusted her to take the proper precautions when dealing with infectious tissue or dangerous viruses or any of the other things she encountered on a daily basis at her work. However…she may have to make answering her texts – especially panicked ones – an additional stipulation to their relationship.

She was interrupted from her musings when her stomach growled, loudly. She'd skipped lunch to bring Sherlock the fingerprint results on Daniel Harding, and had since been running around London attempting to track her missing boyfriend down. (Although Sherlock may not like the term, Molly could think the term, and any other endearments she pleased, and there was nothing he could do about it. It was a small, smug little victory.)

Sighing again, she patted her stomach absentmindedly as it growled again and got up to look through the cupboards. No telling exactly when Sherlock would return – although she knew (hoped) it would be sometime in the next few hours, and she was determined to address this newest development, and the terms of their relationship, before he did anything else to turn her prematurely grey.

Still – no need to discuss these things with him hungry. Or exhausted. One of the many things she had learned from her parents' marriage was not to let your physical issues influence your emotional issues. (Her father, for example, always became extremely cranky if he was too hungry. If he was feeling angry, hunger exacerbated the problem.) Many unnecessary arguments were avoided simply by taking a nap, eating a snack, going for a walk, or taking a shower. Afterwards, her parents were almost always able to discuss things calmly, and with love.

So she made herself a sandwich, ignoring the severed fingers in the fridge (thankfully Sherlock ensured they were properly sealed up), and as she did, she realized that Sherlock was probably experiencing the same physical issues she herself was. So she made him a sandwich, too, and placed a toothpick in it with a little scrap of paper that said for Sherlock, and set it on the coffee table.

After eating her sandwich, she lay down on the couch with one of the many science journals Sherlock had scattered about, and set about reading it.

As Sherlock pushed the door open, he braced himself for…something. Anything. It was eerily quiet, and that concerned him. Had she been silently glaring at the door for two hours, waiting for him to arrive? Had she…had she left?

There was something akin to fear in his chest when that particular thought struck him, but it was quickly assuaged by the sight of her jacket and purse hanging just inside the door.

"Molly?" He called softly – warily - stepping in and shutting the door behind him, and removing his own coat and scarf to hang beside hers.

He saw why there had been no reply.

There, lying on the couch, curled on her side – one hand up beneath her cheek as a make-shift pillow, the other hanging off the couch, fingers loosely curled around the most recent copy of the International Journal of Biological Sciences – hair covering her shoulders and mouth open – Molly lay, asleep.

She looked silly.

And he loved it.

His trepidation vanished, and he found a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. He quietly crossed the room, and noticed she'd eaten, and also – she'd left him a sandwich, as well.

It was almost cloying - that perfect little sandwich, left on the plate, with a note on a toothpick that read for Sherlock.

And his smile broke free, because she didn't include any hearts or smiley faces or anything so ridiculous – just a note that the sandwich was for him, with the implication that he should eat it.

So he ate it, watching Molly sleep – knowing that he was incredibly lucky to have Molly in his life, and determined to keep her there.

And because he had not slept in three days, and could not seem to force himself to the bedroom when Molly Hooper was sleeping on the couch before him (I wonder if her presence improves my ability to sleep as well as my intellectual functions?), he carefully, gently shifted Molly to the edge of the couch so he could squeeze in behind her. After arranging himself in that corner of the couch where the backrest meets the seat, he rolled her back the tiniest bit so that she was cradled against him, and he carefully draped one arm lightly across her waist, his other arm serving as a pillow for his head, curled at the elbow. Logically, this position would not be comfortable for long…but for some reason, he did not care that his arm would experience paresthesia in approximately ten minutes.

He was asleep in seven.

Sometimes in life, the timing of things works out just perfectly. At such times, it is almost impossible to believe that there isn't some great orchestrator of events, working things out for the greater good.

And though it was the smallest of moments, and Sherlock and Molly would not think of it as timed or orchestrated (perfectly or otherwise) in any way, it was a perfectly timed moment.

They woke up together.

Molly woke, and was aware of being comfortably warm, and realized that the source of said warmth was not a blanket, but a consulting detective beside her on the couch.

Sherlock woke, and though his arm was indeed soundly asleep, found that his body was content in a way that it had not been in many, many years.

Neither spoke for several moments, until the pins and needles feeling Sherlock was experiencing in his arm overpowered the scent and sight and feel of Molly Hooper beside him. "Molly…"

"Yes?" A sleepy sigh.

"My arm is currently experiencing a severe bout of paresthesia."

"Mmm." A pause. "Oh. Wait." A chuckle, and then a stretch, and the shift of the pathologist to a sitting position, which Sherlock quickly followed.

He rubbed his arm briskly, kneading the nerves and encouraging them to return to their normal state.

They sat in amiable silence for a moment, still waking up, and Sherlock was the first to break the silence, again. "Thank you. For the sandwich. And the sleep."

Molly sighed, rubbing the sleep from her face and rearranging her hair and jumper. "You're welcome," she yawned, and then frowned at the floor.

Staring at a point somewhere near her feet as well, Sherlock added, "I apologize for…upsetting you."

Molly sighed, a mixture of both uncertainty at his sort-of apology and pleasure that he thought to apologize at all - but before she had a chance to respond, he continued. "But I am not sorry for working with Daniel Harding, Molly." His voice was gentle, but there was warning in it, too. "I did say I would put myself in dangerous situations on a…somewhat daily basis. That…will not change. Though I will try to avoid worrying you. Not sure how that will work, being 'in danger' and not worrying you, but…"

And Molly smiled. "I know," she interrupted. "And I forgive you. And really…I was more…upset that you didn't respond to my messages than the fact that you were with Daniel Harding. I really thought…I thought you were in danger. But - I…I trust you too, you know."

And he met her eyes and returned her smile. "I am grateful for that." He sighed again, and ran a hand through his hair. "I wish that I could say it will not happen again, but…"

"But it probably will," Molly conceded. "And…I just…want you to try. To let me know, when you're…out, on a dangerous case. Even with John or Greg. Especially if you're with someone who is not John or Greg. Or Mycroft. Actually," she amended, "Let me know when you're doing something with Mycroft."

Sherlock smirked, and adjusted the cuffs to his shirt. "Wise. You see him too, don't you, Molly Hooper."

"Not as well as I see you," she said softly.

Straightening, Sherlock seemed to shift back into his on position – fully engaged, ever-observant, and calculating. "So, two stipulations, then – no seducing anyone on the job – or off," he added, predicting Molly's clarification – "and responding promptly to texts when I am on a dangerous case. I believe I can live with those. However, since I am new to the whole idea of being…in a…relationship…I would like to request five free passes a month, for when I make…a mistake…like that again. No arguments or confrontation or -"

Molly snorted, as amused as she was incredulous. "- five free passes?"

"I was going to ask for ten…" he said uncertainly. "Because at the rate I am going, I expect I will make over five mistakes a week. Of course, the free passes can be renegotiated after a year."

"A year?" She asked, a sudden warmth filling her and making her almost giddy. Sherlock expects that we will still be together after a year. Which of course she was hoping for, as well – but the fact that he thought that –

"-six months?" He suggested, noticing her somewhat shocked appearance. Perhaps five a month for a year – sixty free passes a year – that may be…a lot….

"No, no – a year is fine," she quickly assured him. "But…you know, I will always forgive you, you don't need-"

"Oh, forgiveness," he waved a hand, dismissing the notion. "I know you will forgive me. Just as I will…forgive you." He attempted to sound generous. "What I mean is, if I am concentrating on a case or experiment, and make a…mistake…I can use a free pass to avoid correction at the time the mistake occurs. For the sake of maintaining concentration," he explained.

"So you'd like five free passes a month? No consequences or corrections?"

"Correct."

"And unless you redeem them, I can…correct you all I want?"

He hesitated, suddenly concerned.

"Joking! Just joking," Molly said hastily. "What I mean is…I love you the way you are, Sherlock. Unless you're doing something particularly hurtful or dangerous, I will do my best not to change you."

He smiled at her then – the warm, true smile that made his eyes crinkle at the corners and that still made her heart perform acrobatics in her chest.

After a moment of silence, she suddenly brightened, and said – "Does this mean I get five free passes too? Five times I can be sentimental or…help you, if you're being an – if you're making an – an - "

"Arse?" Sherlock supplied, amused.

"-an arse of yourself…and…not…have eyes rolled at me or be snorted at or…or…sneered at?"

Sherlock pondered that. "Five…"

And Molly smiled. "We could each have three."

"Three?"

"Three."

"Three."

And Sherlock held out his hand, as though to shake on it, and Molly laughed a little laugh, and took it, returning the grin that was now spreading across his face.

Instead of letting go, however, he pulled her very suddenly and swiftly in to him, and his lips found hers, and it was a very long time before either of them came up for air.

With that settled, Sherlock and Molly fell back into a comfortable routine working together, albeit with a few more meals shared, and (to Molly's pleasant surprise), quite a few more frequent, though (usually) subtle displays of physical affection.

And although Sherlock did indeed use up his three free passes within a week and a half, Molly generously allowed him many more (although there were times when she put her foot down, and Sherlock learned that if he wanted Molly to enthusiastically return his increasingly not-as-subtle displays of physical affection, he would have to adjust his behavior accordingly).

And it wasn't until she used one of her free passes one evening (she was watching 50 First Dates on the telly, and refused to change the channel), that Sherlock realized that although they had been together for nearly a month, now – he had yet to take her on one date.

When Sherlock Holmes put his mind to something, it occupied his waking thoughts until he had come to a conclusion that was satisfactorily to his standards.

Dating…was something that made his lip curl in aversion and although he had thought he had done a brilliant job with Janine…well…as it had turned out, she was playing him as well, so it was probably best not to count that experience as a valid exercise.

And in true Sherlock fashion, he wanted to blow any competition, previous or future, imagined or otherwise, out of the water.

And so he had quite a bit of research to do.

"Right, just a second, mate – be right back." John said distractedly, as Sherlock waited for him to head out on a case. He was looking for his mobile, which had fallen out of his pocket the night before, and now that Madeline was crawling – well – he knew there was no telling where it might have ended up.

"Try under the obscenely large pile of plush on the floor at the end of her crib," Sherlock intoned. He sounded bored, but the amused, upward twist of his lips gave him away. It had turned out that human growth and development was a lot more interesting when one had the same subject to observe every day, and he was getting quite good at deducing Madeline's movements around the flat.

"Right, right…" John muttered, and left the kitchen to locate his missing object. The first of many, to be sure.

As soon as John was out of earshot, Sherlock turned to Mary, who was bouncing Madeline on her hip as she stirred her own coffee.

"Where did John take you on your first date?" He asked innocently, out of the blue.

Mary smiled down at her coffee, absent-mindedly attempting to pour in some sugar single-handedly. "Oh, it was sweet. He took me to dinner at my favorite restaurant, and then to a film, an older one showing at-"

Suddenly, she realized the oddness of the question, especially coming from the man before her, and blinked, a confused, suspicious smirk playing on her lips. She finished stirring her coffee, and tapping the spoon on the side of the mug, looked up at him, expression knowing. "And why would you be interested in our first date, Sherlock?"

He blinked in response. "I…realized I had never asked about your courtship. I only entered the picture after you had come to a tentative agreement to spend your lives together in wedded bliss."

Mary nodded, lips still curved upward in that smug smile, focusing on making a cuppa for John, now, too. "And so you're asking with the express intent and purpose to understand how John won me over? How he still…lights my fire, so to speak?"

Sherlock's eyes widened a bit and drifted away from Mary's and made an awkward, strangled sort of sigh in his throat, which Mary took to be agreement.

Mary thought for a moment. "He found out what I liked, and then did those things with me, even though Indian food and old horror films are not things he particularly likes. He still does, actually. Does those things, I mean. Takes me to Indian food, watches 'The Birds' and the ridiculously funny ones like 'The Blob'." She smiled at the thought. "And I do things with him, that I both like and dislike. Sometimes we both enjoy everything about the evening, sometimes we -"

Sherlock interrupted. "Why?"

Mary snorted. "Why? Because-"

Sherlock plowed on, attempting to convey his confusion. "You are both highly compatible, and have many similar interests. Why would you continue to spend time together doing things one or the other is not interested in? It seems much more efficient to spend time together doing things involving shared interests, and then to pursue the odd interests separately. So why-"

And during his speech, Mary sat Madeline down on the floor with a stainless steel bowl to play with, and rested both palms on the island counter, and leveled a silencing gaze at Sherlock from across the room. "Are you attempting to reason your way out of doing things with Molly that she likes to do that you do not? Because that would be a very poor decision, Sherlock."

"No. I am just…trying to…quantify…"

" – Dating?" Mary laughed then, and smiled at him. "Well, that's nearly impossible. But I can tell you why. Why John sometimes does things with me that he dislikes, and why I sometimes do things with John that I dislike, and why Molly sometimes does things with you that she dislikes-" and noting the expression of incredulity on his face, she soundly assured him "-and yes, you pompous arse, she does dislike doing some things with you, and no I'm not sure what - but there's always something – no one is that compatible, Sherlock – but the answer to your question is actually deceptively simple. I don't think you'll like it, though."

Sherlock raised a brow expectantly.

"When you really love someone, you can share their happiness."

Sherlock was about to commit an eye-roll of epic proportions, but Mary beat him to it. "Yeah, yeah - I mean it, Sherlock. That's what makes it so natural for Molly – she loves you, and when you are happy – not just level, or satisfied – but when you are really truly happy – on a case, or solving a puzzle, or experimenting – that makes her happy, even though she may not innately love solving cases or puzzles." Mary paused thoughtfully. "I do think she truly enjoys experiments, though. You certainly are similar in that regard. Corpses, and such. And eventually…you may learn to like things you didn't before." And she smiled kindly at Sherlock. "You'll see. No need to rush it, though, as long as you're trying. Molly's a patient woman. When you get it right, and she is radiant with happiness, you will feel happy too. Maybe begrudgingly, but you will feel happy."

"-happy about what?" John asked, returning the room, using a baby wipe to clean the dried slobber off of his mobile.

"Nothing," Sherlock said quickly, flashing a quick smile at Mary, and patting Madeline on the head as he made his exit. "Coming, John? The game is on!" And his coat flapped behind him with the speed of his exit.

John tucked his phone in his pocket and stooped to kiss his child, and then straightened to kiss his wife. "He'll feel happy about what?" He repeated.

Mary shook her head, smiling as she returned the kiss. "Just about something he has to figure out, John. No worries, love."

It seemed painfully simple – the whole 'date' aspect, at first. Dinner, and some sort of activity that (preferably) both attendees enjoyed, although the goal apparently was to impress the female.

Dinner was simple enough. The only food Molly did not enjoy was Indian – the curry was too spicy – and determining her favorite – anything savory; but especially salmon with a simple risotto – was also easy enough.

The activity was what was giving him problems. A film was far to common – and he detested films. ('Not the point', John had argued firmly, but Sherlock was determined to find something that both of them could enjoy, that did not involve crime solving or dead bodies.)

They could always go to a museum, of course – but again, that felt…too common. They could do that anytime. He wanted something special, for their first date. He wanted to make an impression.

When he finally hit on the perfect idea, he had to double check with John and Mary, just to be sure that he wasn't missing something that ordinary people would find obvious.

They approved.

"Did you come up with this on your own?" Mary had asked, appropriately impressed.

"Is this even legal?" John had asked, his grin giving away his approval.

Molly gave herself a once-over in the mirror, wiping her hands on her skirt. It was silly, she told herself, to be nervous about this. After all, she and Sherlock had been together (that's what Sherlock called it – their relationship – being 'together' – never girlfriend, or boyfriend, - just – completely, and assuredly, together) for a month now, and had spent quite a bit of time together, doing quite a few different things. She should be exasperated, if anything, that it had taken him this long to take her out on a proper date.

But she was excited, and nervous, as she double-checked her reflection. The only thing Sherlock had told her was that she should wear comfortable flats, if she chose to dress up. When she asked what he would be wearing, he said 'what I always wear', and gave her a look as though the idea of him wearing anything but the suits he wore every day would be ridiculous.

So of course she'd worn flats – and with it, a nice swishy skirt and blouse that complimented her complexion. She loved her normal clothes, but they were not going out clothes, and since Sherlock had mentioned flats, she went with it. Her hair was up in a loose up-do, and her make-up was minimal and natural. She felt confident that unless they attended tea with the Queen or some ridiculously formal opera (both highly unlikely, thank goodness), she would be fine.

"You are…more than adequate, physically, of course," Sherlock said from somewhere behind her, and she jumped, and laughed nervously, and rolled her eyes.

"Sherlock, now would not be the time to give me a heart attack," she sighed, as she turned to face him.

Of course, he was…perfectly perfect – dressed to perfection - as always.

He held out his arm, and kissed her lightly on the cheek, and led her to the door.

Dinner was pleasant, and tame. Molly was surprised at how…normal, the dinner went (well, aside from the fact that the owner insisted on giving them a tour of the old apartments above the restaurant – Lord Byron lived here, at one time, he insisted, excitedly – and he recited for them She Walks in Beauty -) and Sherlock murmured something flattering into her hair, and she blushed, and they returned to their table, and feasted on salmon and risotto.

After dessert, Molly smiled at him. "Thank you, Sherlock," she said earnestly. "Really – this was lovely, I really -"

And he gave her a smug smile, and shrugged. "This was nothing. Are you ready for the remainder of the evening?"

"There's…more?" She said, pleasantly surprised. She had not thought Sherlock would plan…more. She wondered what he had planned. She couldn't really picture him sitting in a theater. Perhaps a museum…?

"Of course," Sherlock said, holding out his hand. She took it, and the rest of their evening began.

It started out as a walk, and Sherlock recounting tales of mysteries solved in the various streets and shops they were passing, and soon he moved on to describing the history of the buildings around them.

"Did you know that Bainbridge was originally built as a refuge for Lord Greyson's love child during the Second World War? When it was hit during the bombings, they only restored the lower two stories, but kept the façade of a three story building. You can only see its duplicity from this…spot…here."

"This particular theatre used to be a hospital for tuberculosis victims. It connects, via a series of tunnels, to that bakery across the street – which used to be a morgue."

"Originally, this street was supposed to join the others here – at this cross section. After the First World War, the joint was bypassed-"

"Anatomy!" Molly interrupted suddenly, stopping, and smiling in wonder at the man beside her. "You – you're showing me the bones of the city – a London autopsy."

He grinned at her, obviously pleased that she had caught on so quickly. "Exactly. Would you - like to see more?"

"Lead the way," she said, and took his arm, and they resumed their dissection of the great Lady London.

They had been walking for over half an hour when Sherlock stopped in front of a particularly large, grand mansion. The yard was lined with hedges, and the gardens in front of the house were beautiful, even in the shadowy night. The mansion itself rose from the flowers, and the windows seemed to be keeping guard over them by night. The couple had woven their way through many different parts of the city, and here, Sherlock had stopped.

"Casa Loma was supposed to be a wedding gift for the wife of Sir Henry Pallatt. She died before it was completed, and he soon followed in her footsteps. It sat here for years, unfinished, until one of Sir Henry's friends completed the project. As you know, it is now open for tours during the day." He smiled mischievously at her then, and she raised her eyebrows, curious.

"Follow me," he said after a beat, and slipped between the hedges lining the yard.

"Sherlock!" Molly froze, looking around and whispering loudly. "We can't…go in there now. It's – it's closed!"

"Ah, to the public. I have…favors, that were owed me," he said, and his head reappeared through the gap in the hedges, waving a set of keys. "Follow me?" He repeated, and this time, he was asking.

Looking around once more, and figuring that surely Sherlock could get them out of any trouble he got them into (it was only a date, after all – not a case) – she grinned at him, and followed him through the shrubbery.

The gardens were beautiful, and the scent of growing things added a sweet perfume to the air around them. To her surprise, Sherlock did not lead her to the house itself, but to a smaller area – a stable, or garage? – near the back of the home.

Before he entered, he whispered excitedly to her – we are very near the heart of the city, now – and he pushed open the doors, and led her through, locking the door behind them.

He fumbled for a moment with something, and then a torchlight illuminated the area.

It was an old stable, and from what Molly could tell, there were a few things set up as exhibits for tourists, but aside from that, nothing out of the ordinary.

Sherlock was already making his way through the stables, and entered one stall that was set up to look like it would house a horse. He handed Molly the torch and carefully began moving some bales of hay out of the way.

Molly watched quietly, her curiosity peaked.

In a matter of moments, he'd revealed a trap door, which opened with a protesting squawk. Throwing the trap door open, he turned and climbed down a ladder into the darkness.

Molly stood for a moment, unsure of what she was supposed to do now – and suddenly, a switch was thrown, and a soft glow emitted from the trap door.

A moment later, Sherlock's head appeared, and he grinned at her. "Follow me?" he asked again, and she grinned, lopsided, at him, and gathered her skirt carefully, and made her way down the ladder.

After she came down – Sherlock's hands hovering by her hips, making sure she kept her footing on the old ladder – he quickly popped back up for a moment, to rearrange the hay bales and close the trap door above them.

Molly had a moment to look around. It was obviously an underground passageway of some sort, built before the home – different tunnels meandered off in all sorts of directions. She assumed one went to the mansion itself, but where – where did all the others lead?

It was surprisingly clean, albeit a bit dusty, with a cobbled stone floor and brick walls -but modern electric lights illuminated the passageways every few feet, flickering now and then.

It was beautiful and mysterious and slightly romantic. Molly half-expected Sir Henry's ghostly form to appear, wandering down one of the tunnels. searching for his lost wife.

"They go all over London," Sherlock intoned from behind her, still carrying the torch from the stables. He smiled at her, as she looked around.

"The tunnels? Really?" She said, and her voice was full of awe. "I mean, I knew there were…tunnels, besides the ones for the Underground, and I knew – there were some passageways, but – I never – imagined, there would be so many." She took them in, again. "Or that they would be so clean."

Sherlock smirked. "I called in quite a few favors."

"Oh," Molly breathed, and stepped towards him. He was even more handsome in the dim light of the tunnels – if that were even possible.

And he looked carefully at her lips, and licked his own, and then sighed and looked at the watch he was wearing on his wrist. "As tempting as you are, Molly Hooper, our date is not over yet, and we have about a twenty minute walk ahead of us. Right now, we are precisely on time. If we…linger…we will be late, and the surprise…will not be as surprising."

"Oh," Molly sighed again, but a smile was growing on her face.

"Follow me?" He asked again – and she took his hand, and followed.

As they walked through the different tunnels and passageways, Sherlock would pause every now and then, asking her to listen for something above them – restaurant – dance hall – auto mechanic – and he continued his history of the heart and soul of London.

There was one portion of the tunnels where they became particularly narrow, and Sherlock carefully helped her through, before they widened again. "When the Tube was built, it…affected the older tunnels. The original Underground," he said, by way of explanation.

And they reached a point where several tunnels met, again, and it was almost like a small room, comparable to the size of the study at Baker Street, if there were no furniture in it. There was a lonely wooden bench along one little wall, and Sherlock stopped there, and sat on it. Underneath were two bottles of water, and he offered Molly one.

She sat beside him, and drank the water. After a few moments of companionable silence, Molly began to notice something. It started off quietly, like the sound of the distant murmured conversation of hundreds of people – or maybe – insects? Or the wind - and then grew a bit, and then fell away again.

She twisted the top back onto her water bottle and leaned forward, listening intently. After a few moments, the sound began again, and then fell away.

She looked curiously at Sherlock, who was grinning at her. "They're warming up," he said softly.

"Who?"

"The London Symphony Orchestra. We're beneath Silk Street."

"Oh." She said, and stared at him, breathless, as the beginning notes of Strauss II's Vienna Blood Waltz began to play, growing in beauty and warmth – only exceeded by the beauty and warmth in her heart for the man beside her.

And she thought she couldn't possibly love him any more than she already did.

Sherlock had his eyes closed, smiling slightly in appreciation of the music – and after a moment, stood, and turned to Molly, holding out his hand.

"Follow me?" He asked quietly.

Speechless and flushed with pleasure, Molly nodded, and took his hand.

They danced for the entirety of the concert.

As the last strains of the last song faded away, the couple slowly swirled to a stop, all beating hearts and deep breaths and small smiles.

And Molly looked up at Sherlock so, so tenderly, and reached slowly up to brush his hair aside with her slender hands. She lay a hand on his cheek, and she could barely smile, so caught up was she in his presence. And he did not want to ruin that moment, of her memorizing the contours of his face, and now - her hand slid around gently to the back of his neck, and her other hand came up, brushing his chest lightly, to rest on his shoulder – and he lowered his head to capture her lips with his own. And it was almost painful, how much he loved her in that moment.

After a long kiss, they broke away, and Sherlock cleared his throat, and moved to collect the torch and water bottles.

"Well," Molly said, taking her water bottle from him and finishing it off, "...well. I take it that was a once in a life-time sort of thing, if you had to call in all those favors."

Sherlock smiled at her. "I can always accumulate more."

And turning to offer her his arm once again, he asked for the last time that night – "Follow me?"

And she replied, her face radiant with happiness – "Always."

And as they made their way back to Casa Loma in a silence that was neither awkward nor oppressive, Sherlock realized that Mary was right. He was beginning, in his own way, to understand why everyone was always chasing after love.

This was 'loving'. It was painful, and messy, and inconvenient. It was tragic and perfect and chemical and defective and intuitive. It was strong and weak and brilliant and dull and genius and idiotic and irrational and completely, totally sensible. Because for all of the twisting and pain and distraction he'd experienced in his heart and stomach and body and mind, there was also warmth and comfort and joy and a determined, resolved strength that defied logic. Sherlock Holmes was loved, and he knew now, without a doubt, that he loved as well. He was not worthy of love, but in the end, no one is ever truly worthy of unconditional love.

Henceforth, to Sherlock's mild annoyance, the time period spanning the Moriarty and Sniper cases became known inaccurately and singularly as The Case to his small group of friends – the case that resulted in the romantic partnership of one Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper. Whenever Sherlock became cold and attempted to push Molly away for her own safety or for his own concentration, she (or John, or Mary, and once she was old enough, even Madeline) would simply tell Sherlock to "remember The Case". Of course, a few choice words would occasionally be added to that phrase, as well. He would scowl, and make one last cutting comment (usually about the inaccuracy and stupidity of shortening what was actually a rather long time period to one 'case'), and then there would invariably be a few moments of silence to allow Sherlock to contemplate his actions and words. And then he would apologize, and kiss Molly roughly on the cheek, if she was there, or text her an apology, if she wasn't, and continue his work.

There is much, much more to tell, of this story, of course – there were many more lessons for Sherlock to learn, about love.

Like the time Sherlock learned love could be quite…fun, when he and Molly together took some unplanned revenge on Mycroft. He was quite certain his brother would never bug his flat again.

And the time when he was tasked with babysitting a one-year-old Madeline alone, and - two broken chairs, a baby covered with goo (well, only her hair…), and a burnt nappy later – Jo Conners became the official childcare provider of John and Mary Watson, if Molly was not available to watch Madeline with Sherlock. And he learned that love was a combination of a very sincere apology and researching appropriate methods of childcare.

Or like the time he tried to teach Madeline the periodic table of elements, when she was three years old, and she got stuck on 'Helium' and just kept saying 'he he he he' over and over again, laughing. And he learned that love felt very much like the bright bubble of a child's laughter.

Or the time Sherlock snuck into Molly's flat to surprise her with breakfast and an invitation to take a light case with him in Greece, and she thought he was an intruder and gave him a bloody nose and a bruised femur. (She more than made up for it, later). And he learned that love could sometimes catch you off guard.

Or at Jo and Casey's wedding, four years later, when Sherlock looked across the table at Molly Hooper and began to consider, for the first time, that marriage was not out of the question.

Or on a bench overlooking their favorite park (which just happened to be at the cemetery where Molly's father was buried), two years after Jo Conners became Jo Long, after scrupulous research and hours and weeks and months of data collection and practice, Sherlock Holmes proposed, and he didn't even get to the best part of his scientific, well-rehearsed speech on the benefits of marriage before Molly realized what he was doing - and it took all of Molly's sweet patience and love to hear him out before she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him in response.

Yes, dear reader –this is as good a place as any to end our story.

And so we leave this story where it began – on a park bench – but this time, there are two familiar figures sitting there, whom we have come to know as the world's only consulting detective – and his pathologist. There is more to it, of course – just as there is more to every story. This is only the end of the beginning – it is the middle, really, of the long path of the intersecting stories of the Holmes, Hoopers, Watsons, and Conners – stories of tension and tenderness, frustration and fondness, mysteries and miracles - and above all, stories of a crazy little thing called love.

The End

Thank you for reading, and for sticking with me!

In the interest of full disclosure and total honesty, I have to tell you - Sherlock and Molly's date was completely impossible. I made up the buildings and histories, (although Casa Loma is real, it's just in Canada, not England, and the London Symphony Orchestra really does play on Silk Street), and the passageways, and so yeah...not possible. But I wish it was. *sigh*

I have also begun a new, fun story, called "A Trap of Parental Proportions", which will be a Parent Trap Sherlolly story, if you'd like to check it out. It's a bit different than this one (more fun and silly). I've posted the first chapter and have the next two done but not edited, so I probably won't post those until I get back from vacation next week.

Thank you again, dear readers! :)