A/N: OK, so I found a HUUUUGGGEE gaping plot hole that I fixed. Back in chapter 2 I showed that Molly KNEW Mary's secret. But in chapter 5, I had Moriarty reaveal that secret to a shocked Molly! BAD ME! I went back and fixed chapter 2 if anyone wants to read the version that actually makes sense. Sorry about that, and if anyon notices me doing stuff like that, feel free to call me out, either in a review or a PM, cause it totally shouldn't happen.

That being said, welcome to the final chapter of this little kidnapping story. I hope it doesn't disappoint, and thanks for sticking with it!

He didn't believe in prayer, had no belief in a higher deity than cold human intellect, and yet Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective, found himself sincerely praying that his goddaughter and his new wife and unborn child had been spared even the smallest injury from the gunfire. Moriarty was collapsed not two feet away from them, and the neatly placed bullet hole in the middle of his forehead, from which blood was still oozing, told Sherlock that he, at least, would never threaten harm to anyone ever again. Mary's skills with a gun were beyond par, he would have to be sure to tell her that.

Later. Right now, as Sherlock reached Molly and Lucy and dropped to his knees in front of them, the only words he could manage were a gasped, "Are you all right? Are you injured?" Eyes darting frantically over her and the loudly screaming Lucy Watson, Sherlock quickly took note of the blood on Molly's left arm. "John!" he yelled. "Molly's injured, come quickly!"

"I'm fine," Molly tried to tell him, but he shushed her, gently taking Lucy into his arms and holding her against his shoulder in the hold he knew she liked best when she was upset. The baby calmed quickly; he could hear and feel her snuffling against his shoulder and judged that she was not only frightened but hungry and – a quick sniff confirmed – in desperate need of a diaper change.

The sound of running feet brought Sherlock's attention away from his goddaughter, but the sight of her father racing toward them was a comforting sight. However, when John dropped to his knees and attempted to take Lucy away from Sherlock before attending to Molly, he frowned and gripped the baby tighter, bringing her muffled whimpers back to full howls. "For fuck's sake, Sherlock, give her to me!" John shouted. "Molly's fine, look, you git, she's fine, it's just a scrape!"

Sure enough, Molly had scrambled to her knees and was showing Sherlock the source of the blood – a large scrape on her right forearm. There were tiny bits of gravel imbedded in the flesh that would have to be removed by a pair of tweezers, she would need to be cleaned and bandaged, but John was right; she would be all right. Sherlock gave Lucy up without another murmur of protest, absently dropping a kiss on the top of her head before letting John scoop her into his arms, crooning some nonsense or other all parents seemed to make when their offspring were unwell.

Sherlock's heart lurched as he realized what trauma like this – the kidnapping as well as the heavy drop to the roof – could do to a three month old fetus. Without another word her scooped Molly into his arms and headed purposefully for the stairs. "Sherlock, what…" she started to ask, but stopped as he looked meaningfully at her abdomen. She had put her right arm around him, cradling her injured member to her chest, and nodded her understanding and her acquiescence. "I'm not in any pain," she said quietly as he kicked aside one of the dead thug's arms that was blocking the door. "No cramps or anything."

"But you need to be checked out nonetheless," he replied grimly. And so did Lucy, as soon as John and Mary had reassured themselves as to her general state of good health, that she hadn't been hit by any debris or shrapnel or stray bullets. All of which he'd already ascertained, but he wasn't her mother or father and no amount of reassurance from him would vanquish the need to see for themselves. Once upon a time that would have made no sense to him, but he very much understood it now.

On the way down they met up with some of Mycroft's men thundering up to the roof, all of whom stood respectfully aside as Sherlock growled at them to get out of the way. He yelled the status of the situation as he knew it over his shoulder, then put them entirely out of his mind, focused intently on getting Molly to the A&E.

oOo

Two hours later, cleaned, bandaged, and scanned, Molly was resting comfortably in a hospital bed with Sherlock pacing back and forth in the limited space available to him. He refused to leave her side even after the scans showed their child was perfectly fine, that Molly wasn't hemorrhaging internally or hadn't suffered any damage to her uterus – or to any other part of her body other than her arm.

He'd even undergone his initial debriefing by Mycroft in that very room, when his brother had taken a seat, resting one hand on his umbrella and silently holding out Sherlock's stolen wedding band with the other. Sherlock had thanked him – nonverbally, of course – and held it in his hand as he answered Mycroft's many questions, and asked several of his own. Once the formalities had been dealt with, Mycroft had offered Molly his sincere appreciation of the fact that she and her child were both safe, had mumbled something about having meetings to get to when she laid a kiss on his cheek, and had practically run from the room. But Sherlock had seen the slight pinkness in his brother's cheeks, and knew that he was touched by Molly's gesture. The two hadn't ever been close – entirely Mycroft's fault, of course – and Sherlock hoped this day might prove to be a turning point. It would certainly make his parents happy.

After he left, Sherlock turned to Molly, holding his wedding band between two fingers and offering it to her. He cleared his throat before saying, "I'd very much appreciate it, Molly, if you'd put this back where it belongs…and I promise I will never let anyone take it from me again. Or you. Or our baby. Or anyone else I – "

She shushed him, taking the ring and sliding it onto his finger, then folded her small, pale hand around his before laying a soft kiss on his knuckles. "Hush, Sherlock. No need for promises or vows. I know you'll always do your best for us. And I know that there will be times, like this one, where your best might not be enough. I don't hold you to impossible standards, and you shouldn't hold yourself to them, either."

He kissed her, unable to resist, hearing the truth of her words and seeing her quiet faith in him shining in her eyes. She returned the kiss, then leaned her head back on her pillow with a quiet little sigh. "I do have some questions about Mary, though," she said. "There were some things Moriarty said…"

"Ask me anything you'd like." Mary's voice came from the half-open door; she and John entered the room. She was cradling Lucy in her arms, and from her relaxed pose it was clear their daughter was fast asleep. She handed her to her husband, who took her carefully, his eyes never leaving his daughter's sleeping face, and held her close as Mary took the chair opposite the one Sherlock had finally been convinced to occupy.

Sherlock watched and listened as Molly explained how Moriarty had so casually – and so cuttingly – revealed not only that 'Mary Morstan' wasn't the name the current Mrs. Watson had been born with, but also that she'd been the one to shoot Sherlock during the Magnussen case.

Then it was Molly's turn to listen as Mary told the story she'd already shared with John and Sherlock, a story she stressed to Molly that she'd never wanted to burden her friend with. "I thought it was gone, buried, dead with Magnussen, but I should have known better," Mary said with a sigh as she finished. "And Molly, I never wanted to hurt Sherlock, it was a combination of training, instinct and pure panic, I hope you can understand."

In the next moment, Molly Hooper demonstrated just what it was about herself that Sherlock found so remarkable: she placed her hand on Mary's and smiled. "I do understand, Mary. And certainly if John and Sherlock were able to forgive you, I can do the same. But," she added with a hint of steel, "I think everyone in this room will agree with me, that nothing like that can never happen again. We have to have each other's backs, and I think today only proves that. Agreed?"

"Agreed," Mary said, followed quickly by both Sherlock and John.

"And Molly, I can't thank you enough for taking such good care of Lucy while she was…while you were…" And for the first time since Sherlock, John or Molly had known her, Mary Watson broke down in tears, crying softly into her hands. John hurried to her side, shifting Lucy into one arm while he knelt by his wife and hugged her with his other arm, pressing kisses to her cheek as he did so. "Sorry," she gasped out as the storm began to ebb. "I don't know what…"

"Fear for your daughter's life, the need to be strong during the crisis, and the ability to finally let go," Sherlock replied crisply. "John, I do believe it's best if you take your wife and daughter home, don't you think?"

"Yeah," John replied, gently helping Mary to her feet. "And Molly," he added, turning to face her with a smile, "what Mary said goes double for me. Thank you for taking such good care of our little girl. If you've been wondering what kind of a mother you'll make, I don't think you should worry. Ever." He gave Sherlock a half-grin and added jokingly, "As for what kind of a father this git will make…"

"Overbearing, bossy and a complete fuss-budget," Molly pronounced with a grin of her own. "In other words…absolutely perfect." Then she bestowed an adoring smile on Sherlock, and he mumbled his good-byes to John and Mary, very eager for them to leave the room so he and his wife could enjoy a quiet snuggle – yes, Sherlock Holmes was eager to snuggle – on the hospital bed where she would be spending the night in order for the doctors to continue monitoring her condition.

He might have heard John chuckle fondly as the door closed behind them, but he only had eyes and ears for his wife. "I love you, Molly Holmes," he said softly as he finally shucked his coat and shoes. She scooted over as he carefully joined her on the side opposite her vitamin drip, and was even more careful with her bandaged arm as he settled in next to her.

"And I love you, Mr. Holmes," she replied with a kiss. "Now do be a love and let me sleep, yeah?" She yawned widely. "It's been a bit of a busy day."

"Anything you want, Molly," Sherlock replied as she nestled trustingly in his arms. "Anything you want."

As Molly drifted off to sleep, Sherlock found himself thinking about the late Jim Moriarty. His nemesis had tried to take away the one person who mattered most, and had failed quite spectacularly at it.

Good riddance, Sherlock thought with a triumphant smirk. No one likes a wedding crasher anyway.