All the Things We Thought We Knew Chapter 11: What We Know Now, a sherlock fanfic

A/N: Thank you so much for all of your thoughts, prayers, positive thoughts, and messages! My baby girl was born healthy and happy and delightfully wild on November 20th, and she is already growing into a little firecracker. Her big sister is amazing with her. I love them.

Also, just a word of caution:

There are a few discussions and descriptions of Sherlock and Molly's physical relationship in this chapter. There is absolutely nothing explicit, but things are alluded to. I feel that there is nothing in this chapter that has not already been similarly alluded to in Sherlock or shows rated similarly, and I did my best to keep everything very classy, but as I usually don't include much more than kissing in my stories, I wanted to give you a heads up.

What We Know Now

"I love you. I – love you."

-Sherlock, "The Final Problem"

The cabbie winces as the cheery tune plays again, the toddler in the back seat clapping her hands and screeching along.

"Sorry," John apologizes, doing his best to use the diaper bag to muffle the speakers on the overly-large, musical, colorful – did he mention larger-than-necessary? - specially-made periodic table of the elements that Rosie's godfather bequeathed her for Christmas.

It's been two days, and he's over it.

It doesn't turn off, and there is no volume control.

It also has the disturbing habit of suddenly springing to life in the middle of the night, or from across the room when no one is near it.

If he has to listen to a chirpy mechanical voice sing one more time about 'helium – he-he-he-helium – it's a gas! – up up and away with – helium – Atomic Number – 2!' he is going to lose it.

And so it is being returned to one Sherlock Holmes, and he can deal with the bloody thing.

He tips the cabbie an extra fiver - (of course he'd taken his car to the shop for some blasted recall on the passenger-side airbag over the holidays. He'd be home, it'd be lovely. He didn't anticipate the Educational Monstrosity would be sitting under the tree come Christmas) – and struggles up the walk.

He lets himself in to Baker Street, since Mrs. Hudson still hasn't returned from her holiday trip (she's due late tonight), and attempts to make his way to Sherlock's door.

Rosie's nearly two, now, and she wants to go up the stairs herself. Which is fine by him, because it's difficult enough to carry the Periodic Table of Torture whilst also juggling a nappy bag, blankie, and all the other paraphernalia that accompanies young children and wintertime.

Rosie takes her sweet time, half-crawling, half-plodding up the stairs, John protectively staying just behind her, until they finally reach the door.

He knocks unceremoniously with his foot, and Rosie takes that as her cue to deliver a few open-handed slaps to the door as well, grinning up at her da.

He smiles down at her as the door opens to reveal a freshly-showered Molly, hair still hanging damp around her shoulders. He blinks in surprise as Rosie exclaims "Ahn Mah-ee!" and lifts her arms in expectation.

Molly's expression changes from sheepish surprise to easy delight so quickly John's not really sure if he saw correctly in the first place. Molly scoops up her goddaughter and gives her a hug. "Hello, Rosie! How lovely you look today! Did you climb up the stairs all by yourself?"

Rosie nods, a shy smile blooming on her face, her thumb in her mouth.

"Oh, how strong you're getting! What a big girl! Did you have a Happy Christmas?" She continues her conversation with the child and moves aside to allow John to enter.

John's expression has recovered somewhat as he steps inside and gently closes the door behind him. He still appears bewildered and a bit suspicious.

Sherlock is lounging on the couch, still in the clothes he left John's in the night before, scrolling through something on his mobile. His eyes dart to John, and a smirk creeps up his lips.

"So," John exhales, looking between a brightly chattering Molly and Rosie and the smile on Sherlock's face, which is attempting to appear smug but comes off as more - euphoric.

"Oh!" Molly says apologetically, still clutching an affectionate Rosie in her arms. "Sorry. Hello, John. Did you have a Happy Christmas, as well?"

He turns toward her, and her smile is as wide and delighted as it was when she waltzed into Baker Street a year ago to announce that her brother was back and sober.

Still, he's not taking any chances in deducing the situation incorrectly. "Um, yeah. It was – very good. Thanks. Except," he continues, bemused, staring at the toy in his hands, "I'm sorry to say I have to return this gift." He turns the periodic table toward Molly and looks up to give a pointed glare at Sherlock, just as his jostling causes the gift to spring to life once again.

Sherlock moves to a sitting position in one fluid motion and shakes his head, a full-blown grin on his face. He rests his elbows on his knees and props his chin in his hand. "Too much knowledge for you to handle?" He asks breezily. "Pity. Rosamund does seem to favor Mary's side for intelligence and observation. Afraid she'd surpass you before she's out of diapers?"

"No," John begins warningly – and is interrupted by another burst of noise from the toy. He clears his throat and blinks again, setting it carefully atop the kitchen table and moving away slowly, lest he waken the beast again. "No," he repeats, holding Sherlock's gaze. "Too much bl – er – it requires too much attention. The thing goes off – all the time. Keeps me up more than Rosie, at night. In fact, it's almost as obnoxious as the person who gifted it." He raises his eyebrow in challenge, and does not fail to notice the obvious, silent exchange between the two other adults in the room.

"And you? How was your holiday, Molly?" John asks pointedly. "I thought you weren't due home for another few days?" He can't help but smile, now, too – because she's looking shyly at Sherlock. She bites her lip in an attempt to keep her expression in control. Rosie, completely oblivious to what's going on in the room at the moment, tugs on Molly's hair in an attempt to 'braid' it, and Molly attempts, unsuccessfully, to blow a stray strand out of her eyes.

Sherlock rises and walks to Molly, stopping just behind her. "May I?" He asks, his hands hovering near the nape of her neck, having procured a hair elastic from where, John hasn't a clue.

"Um – okay?" She blinks, an uncertain smile blooming on her face.

Long, gentle fingers pull Molly's hair out of Rosie's hands and back from her face, and he uses the hair tie to keep it that way, a smile showing more in the creases around his eyes than on his lips. He then retreats just enough to give John a very serious look. "Molly's brother has a very big mouth."

"Mmm," Molly corrects him, placing Rosie down to toddle toward her father. Molly turns, brushing her arm lightly against Sherlock's, and looks up at him, eyes wide and smiling. "In his defense, it was his girlfriend, Adri, who slipped up."

Sherlock discreetly, reassuringly brushes his knuckles against hers. "I've heard they're loads of trouble, girlfriends." He says innocently, darting a glance at the woman beside him.

She smirks up at him. "Not nearly as much trouble as boyfriends."

He looks down at her with barely-masked adoration.

John watches the exchange with a myriad of expressions playing across his face, settling, at last, on complete incredulity. He tilts his head in wonder and crosses his arms, bringing one hand up to rub thoughtfully across his chin. "So," he draws out after a moment. "Are you actually going to come out and tell me what's going on, or are you going to force me to draw my own conclusions?"

Sherlock snorts at that, breaking his gaze away from Molly's to give John a withering look of superiority. "Don't be ridiculous. You can't even manage to turn a simple child's toy on and off."

John narrows his eyes at his friend. "Listen- "

"Sherlock," Molly interrupts, trying not to laugh. "I told you you should've gone with the traditional power switch. Like this, John," she says, taking pity on him. She takes a step toward the toy, and beginning with Helium, runs her finger down all of the Noble Gas buttons at once.

"Bye-bye!" sings a cheery mechanical voice, and the toy falls silent.

"What?!" John exclaims, looking at her in disbelief. Cautiously, he tries out Hydrogen. Nothing. He presses Lithium. Nada. He runs his hand over the whole blasted thing, and it doesn't make a peep.

"Noble gases – non-reactive, turns it off." Molly explains sheepishly. "Press and hold Fluorine to wake it up." She moves her hand over the symbol, but John quickly waves her away.

"No, no!" He clears his throat. "That's – er – I'll do that later. Thanks. I've had enough of it for one…lifetime." He mumbles under his breath.

She returns to her place beside Sherlock and looks up at him probingly.

"Spoilsport," he mumbles, and lets out an exaggerated huff of air. "I could've gotten at least another two days out of him."

"Stop," she laughs, pushing lightly on his arm, and then inclines her head toward John, just a fraction – still questioning.

Sherlock sighs. "And to answer your question, and confirm your deduction…yes. We're – yes."

And John breaks into a huge grin. "That's – that's wonderful. It's – really great, yeah?" He pulls Molly into a quick hug and turns to Sherlock. "It's about time."

"It's past time," Sherlock corrects. "And before you begin your lecture," he adds quietly – almost embarrassed, "I am aware that I don't deserve her. But I am endeavoring to be all she deserves."

John blinks at him, surprised at the still-rare show of humility from his friend. "Actually, I wasn't-"

"Well," Molly interrupts. "I'd say you're doing just fine, for a boyfriend. Perfect record, so far."

Sherlock's brows draw together and the corner of his mouth twitches at 'boyfriend', and he notices the slight fall of her expression. "Sorry. Old aversions die hard."

"Oh," she nods. "Would you - prefer another term?" She raises her eyebrows in innocent challenge.

Sherlock gives her a curious look, and her nonchalant, rapid-fire continuation surprises both him and John. "Because there are lots of options. Lover? Paramour? Suitor? Sweetheart? Significant other? Partner? Beloved? Darling?" – she continues, batting her eyes and suppressing a smile, before continuing, dead-pan – "Escort? Companion? Boo?"

"Boo! Boo!" Shrieks Rosie delightedly, covering her eyes with her hands. "Boo!" She shouts at Molly.

Sherlock cringes, but Molly squeezes his arm affectionately.

"It's alright," she reassures him, suppressing a laugh. "We're just – together – and that's good enough for me."

Sherlock's eyes follow her as she turns to put the kettle on. "Stay for a cuppa, then, John?"

John startles out of his reverie, and nods. "Yeah. Yeah, thanks. I think we will."

Two hours later, after the surprise of Sherlock and Molly's newfound relationship has worn off and the conversation has turned to other, more typical fare, John gathers his daughter and their things and prepares to leave.

Rosie is ready in her boots and overcoat, waving good-bye to her godmother and godfather, when she spies her toy on the kitchen table. "Oh no!" She says clearly and seriously, waddling over to reach for it with both hands. "Oh no, Daddy. Oh no!"

"Er – you – really want to take it home, Rosie darling?" He asks, crouching down to her level. She doesn't even turn to look at him – just keeps reaching for her gift on the table and grunts as she stands on tiptoes to get it. John sighs heavily. "Right then. Home it goes." He tucks it under his arm, careful to avoid Fluorine, and turns around just in time to see Sherlock Holmes press a kiss to Molly Hooper's forehead.

"Really? Couldn't even wait until we were out the door?" John asks, but he's grinning again.

Rosie, however, has a serious frown on her face as her 'Ahn Mah-ee' and 'Shalk' break apart. She looks between the two of them, her eyebrows drawn together in concentration.

She quickly waddles to the two of them, hands up again. "Me!" She insists. "Me! Me!"

"Is someone jealous?" Molly coos graciously, picking up the toddler to give her another good-bye hug. "Would you like a kiss too, Rosie darling?"

"Me!" She insists once again.

"Very well," Molly says, and gives her a light peck on the cheek. She moves to set her down, but Rosie clings to her neck. "No! Shalk! Me! Me!" She presses her cheek to Molly's and reaches out to her godfather.

Molly frowns, and Sherlock sighs. "All right then, Rosamund. But this is not to set a precedent." He bends down and presses a light kiss to her chubby toddler cheek, as Molly sneaks one last peck in, herself.

Satisfied, Rosie allows herself to be set down and toddles back to her father. "Buh-bye!" She calls cheerfully. "Buh-bye!"

"Well then," John says teasingly (and not at all desperately), shifting their gear so he can take her hand and help her carefully down the stairs. "If you fall asleep on the way home, Rosie, I'll give you fifty pounds."

"Fee-pouns!" Rosie calls over her shoulder in a sing-song voice. "Fee-pouns!"

Sherlock and Molly can hear her singing it all the way down to the front walk.

Molly moves to the large windows overlooking the street as soon as they hear the door shut, and leans against the sill, smiling to herself as she watches John load up the cab.

Sherlock walks over and stands beside her, hands clasped behind his back, more interested in watching her than his friend below.

She grimaces in self-reproach as John drops the blanket and Rosie leans out of the cab to 'help', nearly falling out herself, and John just catches her. "We should've offered to help him." She darts a glance at Sherlock before refocusing on the scene below.

When father and daughter pull away, she turns to Sherlock. "What?" She asks, a small smile on her face at his intense expression.

"We should have," he agrees after a moment. He hesitates, and then asks – "Did I – do alright?"

She arches an eyebrow and crosses her arms over her chest. "Do what alright? The - telling John about us?"

He gives a slight nod. "I'm sorry," he begins –

- but Molly shakes her head. "You don't have to be sorry. Sherlock, you – you're fine."

He nods again, but looks uncertain.

"I mean it, Sherlock," she says, tentatively wrapping her arms around him and resting her head on his chest. His arms surround her in a loose embrace.

He sighs. "I'm – I did not anticipate – that. And it's a bit exhausting."

She raises an eyebrow, and he quickly amends – "The - announcing. Not the – actual – being with you."

"It's all right. I don't expect you to take out a billboard announcing our relationship."

"People do that?" He blinks, both intrigued and mildly horrified.

Molly laughs. "No! No. I mean, now that I think about it, I should text Michael and Adri, just to let them know I'm fine and that everything – everything's fine – more than fine, but with everyone else – we can just tell them as we see them. Or, if you prefer, text them. Let them figure it out for themselves? I don't know - I'm certainly not going to hide it, but I know it's – probably better not to - flaunt it, either. The – press, and-"

"Par for the course." He mumbles, dismissing her concern. "But - that's it?"

"That's it. No formal announcement in the paper." She giggles to herself again, and after a moment, adds – "You could always update your Facebook status." She pulls away to stare at him, obviously amused.

"My - what?"

She shakes her head. "You don't have a Facebook, do you?"

He shakes his head. "I have my blog –" he says slowly, but Molly laughs again.

It would make him uncomfortable, but she's smiling at him so beautifully - he gives her a nervous smile of his own. "Are you – what are you - ?" He asks uncertainly.

"I'm teasing you," She says seriously, and gives his hand a squeeze. "But I mean it – we don't need status updates or group texts, no formal announcements, no billboards, no blogs. I don't really care about that. I haven't had the best record with – um – blogs, public – relationships. Putting on a show. You're more experienced with managing that. I mean – oh! I just mean - " She laughs nervously, and pushes a strand of hair behind her ear again. "You're used to the press. I trust you to handle that, unless there's something specific-?"

He shakes his head, his mouth tugging up at one corner. "They'll catch on, and we'll confirm, and then avoid all other headlines as much as possible. There's bound to be some royal baby or engagement or celebrity knighting that will distract them soon enough."

Molly nods. "All I care about, really – is that our friends know. Just – telling our friends as we see them, or - maybe texting them. Avoid the awkward looks altogether, if that's - what you want."

He holds her at arm length, and just looks for a moment. His expression is so serious that her smile falls away, leaving an expression of searching concern.

"I am not concerned with what I want, Molly Hooper. I've spent my entire life concerning myself with what I want, and aside from my recent accumulation of - friends, I have very little to show for it. And I can't say I'd ever devote a single brain cell to what the general population thinks about our relationship, aside from being discrete enough to keep you safe. But," he continues seriously, "I care very much about how committed I appear to you. If you truly desired me to take out a billboard, or acquire another facet of social media simply to denote our relationship status, or-" his eyes move to the ceiling, searching for something equally ridiculous – "hire a sky-writer-" they both smile, a little, at that – "I would. I am entirely relieved you don't go in for that sort of thing – but - never doubt the place you hold in my life. You were, and are, and will be, always – the one who matters most."

Her smile returns, but it is understanding and gentle – a little less like the sun, and a little more like the moon's reflection on water – "That's enough for me," she whispers. "That's more than enough."

"All right," he murmurs, and pulls her in for a kiss, content to leave everyone else out of their relationship, for now.

As it turns out, the holidays give the new couple a few days' time to adjust to their relationship before outing themselves to the rest of the world – and the rest of their friends.

She stays over the remaining two days of her vacation, and aside from the short and pleasant but unexpected visit from John, their time together is deliciously uninterrupted.

After dinner their first proper evening together, she tucks her feet beneath her on the couch and leans into him, using her mobile to give her family in Edinburgh a short confirmation that all was – very, very well, before checking her personal and work emails. He opens his laptop and scrolls through his own emails and cases, and after she sets her mobile down, he closes his laptop and takes her hand, gently turning it over in his.

He tilts his head and silently draws his fingers across her palm, tracing the lines across it. He strokes every fingertip, traces her nails, runs his fingers along her knuckles. He presses lightly on the pads of her palm and rubs his thumb across the back of her hand.

Molly is frozen, every nerve in her hand made alive with his gentle attention. A pleasantly tingling warmth radiates from the point of contact to her scalp and back down to her toes. She barely breathes, and she can't help but stare at him as he studies her.

His expression, for the most part, is neutral – he is methodic in his ministrations, as though he is cataloging every curve and line of her hand – but every now and then, his lips twitch upward into a small smile, and his eyes betray his amusement and affection.

When he is done, he lays her palm flat on top of his and threads his fingers through hers before bringing their hands, together, to rest on top of his knee.

He clears his throat as he takes in her wide-eyed, dreamy expression. His eyes move from her face to their now-joined hands. "This is – good?"

Molly breaks into a disbelieving smile. "Yes," she agrees softly. "Yes, it is."

And then they talk. For hours.

It surprises both of them – but they do. It begins with reminiscing – Sherlock makes a comment about how he's always appreciated her hands, at least, and then protests Molly's skeptical snort with his memory of the day he first noticed them. They talk in circles – a case of Sherlock's leads to a conversation on his study of American country music, which leads to the time Molly was forced to square dance when her parents took her to the States one holiday, which leads to the awful things Sherlock's parents have made him endure recently. (Musicals!). Which reminds Molly of her mum's favorite movie, and how the telly was broadcasting a Julie Andrews marathon the day of her mum's funeral, and how she just can't stomach any of them now – the older musicals. (Glee notwithstanding, of course.) Round and round it goes, for the next twenty-four hours – laughter and indignant arguments and gentle caresses and looks of surprise and adoration that lead to quiet moments. Sherlock listens to all of her memories with quiet attention, though all the personal anecdotes he chooses to share are more recent – from the last ten years or so. She doesn't pry, knowing he is still working through the accuracy of his childhood memories himself, and that he will share when he is ready. They then drift away into their own things – books, music, cases, emails, television, food - until one of them strikes up conversation again.

Late that evening, they hear Mrs. Hudson come in downstairs. She calls Sherlock's name once, letting him know she's home, and pauses a moment.

Molly looks to Sherlock, but he only smiles and presses a finger to her lips, shaking his head. "Tomorrow," he whispers.

She understands. They wait quietly for a moment, and hear Mrs. Hudson retire to her own flat.

It's a lovely little gift they've been given – this quiet day alone to fall into each other and get comfortable with both each other and the shape of their relationship.

The morning of her last vacation day, Molly rises and puts on some coffee before showering. When she's done dressing she opens the door to let the steam out and breathe a little easier, Sherlock is standing in the hall, arms crossed and an eyebrow raised.

"You've packed."

Molly finishes rubbing the last of her damp hair with the towel, and shakes it out before throwing it into the hamper.

"…and you've discarded your towel," he notes.

"Yes. Very observant of you," she comments wryly.

"Why are you leaving?" He asks seriously. "You don't work again until tomorrow morning."

Molly eyes him playfully. "Yes, I work tomorrow – but I've been away for a week, I told Jim and Bethany that I'd pick Toby up from their flat today by noon, I've got laundry to do and work to review-" she explains patiently.

"Mmm," Sherlock grunts.

"I know," Molly laments with him. "Real life. How dare it get in the way of our fun?"

When he still doesn't crack a smile, she wraps her arms around him and breathes him in, and he reluctantly returns the embrace. "Well," he continues quickly, and gives her a quick kiss on the forehead, "if you must, you must. You're the best Bart's has." He removes himself from her arms and enters the bathroom himself, leaning on the counter and inspecting himself in the mirror, rubbing his stubble with one hand. He takes out his shaving supplies and begins filling the sink.

"And," he continues seriously, because he can tell that she's leaning on the doorframe, watching him – "if we're being honest, I've been away from the Yard long enough. No telling what chaos they've caused. It'll take me a week just to properly solve all their botched cases."

Molly laughs and turns to finish packing and make them breakfast – only to find that Sherlock's already prepared beans and toast and has them sitting on the warming plate on the stove.

For all their cavalier attitude toward leaving each other earlier in the morning, as eleven o'clock approaches – they both keep finding little things to push off good-bye for another few minutes.

"Oh, did your brother respond? To your text?" (Sherlock – and he didn't really care, he just wanted to see her smile to herself again.)

"How'd your visit go? With your sister, Christmas morning?" (Molly – she genuinely cared, though she was a little hesitant to ask.)

And then she notes the time and pecks him on the lips, and takes her duffle and backpack, and strides purposefully out the door – only to turn around before the latch has even caught. She dumps her things unceremoniously beside the door and marches up to where Sherlock is leaning against the kitchen table, and puts her hands on her hips.

"I need a proper good-bye kiss," she announces, and before she has time to take a breath, Sherlock has picked her up. In one smooth motion, he sets her so that she is perched on the table, and - framing her face with his hands, brushing a strand of hair away from her eyes with his thumb – he covers her mouth with his.

Her arms wrap around his neck, pulling him closer, and her legs wrap around his hips. He presses one hand flat against the table for support, the other arm snaking around her waist so that they are flush against each other.

They are so lost in their good-bye that they fail to hear the sound of footsteps on the stairs, or the turn of the key in the lock (or, if Sherlock hears – he doesn't care.)

They do hear a familiar voice exclaim "Oh – my-", and the hurried slam of the door to Sherlock's flat.

They spring away from each other, both staring at the now-closed door. Molly stifles a laugh with her hand and slides off the table, and Sherlock primly straightens his shirt, boyishly grinning, the tips of his ears flushed pink.

He glances sidelong at Molly, and mutters – "Not exactly a billboard, but it'll do."

She laughs openly at that, and then calls out to his landlady. "Mrs. Hudson? It's all right. You can come in."

"Is that Molly?" Martha Hudson's muffled voice comes through the door. "Molly Hooper?"

"Yes, it is," Sherlock confirms. "You can -"

"Are you both quite decent?" She asks shrewdly.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Yes, Mrs. Hudson. Come in."

"Well, you never know, do you -" Mrs. Hudson cautiously opens the door and pokes her head in, surveying the flat before nodding appreciatively toward Molly. "I've had a few encounters on tabletops, myself."

"Oh. Did you – have a pleasant holiday, Mrs. Hudson?" Molly asks, before the silence becomes stiflingly awkward.

"Oh, yes, very. Though not as pleasant, I suspect, as yours." The landlady raises an eyebrow at Sherlock.

Sherlock has regained his footing, however, and is unperturbed. "It was."

"Well," Mrs. Hudson beams at the two of them. "Congratulations. I was sort of expecting you'd get back with John, you know, since-"

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock interjects, exasperated.

But she winks at Molly, and Molly knows she's teasing him.

"- but I suppose you both really have moved on, haven't you? Oh, well, Molly's – you're really very lovely, Molly – you keep him on his toes, make him downright respectable, and – more importantly, of course – you make him happy. I know he looks forward to your visits. Didn't realize how much – but - I'll be glad to have you round more. I'll leave you to it. And," she adds, as she grabs the handle of the door, "I'm so happy to hear you've got yourself a potential flatmate again, Sherlock." She looks conspiratorially at Molly. "It's all your problem, now, dear, and I wish you the best of luck with it. The best of luck…" she mutters, glancing toward the fridge and shaking her head, and closes the door behind her.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock shouts in protest.

"Talking about the flat itself, dear!" She shouts in return.

Sherlock and Molly are thrown back into the ebb and flow of London with more force than they expected.

They are eating together later that evening. (Sherlock arrived at her flat shortly after five, proclaiming that he thought she might need some food (he was correct) and groceries (also correct) and that she may not have time to get them before tomorrow because she preferred to pick up Toby and get her flat in order over shopping (correct, again).)

They are watching a poorly-made science-fiction drama about giant mosquitos, and both of them are gesturing with forks, alternately laughing and cringing at scientific fallacies and general plot holes around mouthfuls of spaghetti and meatballs courtesy of Angelo, when Molly's mobile rings.

She takes a sip of water before answering. "Hello?"

She motions for Sherlock to turn the volume down on the television, and he obliges, pretending not to listen to her side of the conversation – though they both know he is.

Molly stands and takes her plate to the kitchen, scraping the remnants of her food into the bin. Her side of the conversation is mostly a series of "Mmmhmms" and some variation of "that's not good". At one point, she grins to herself and says "sounds like he shouldn't have lost his head", and suppresses a laugh before swallowing and agreeing – "no, you - you're right, not really appropriate right now."

She sighs and listens for a few more minutes before agreeing to come into the morgue early – as in, now.

She hangs up and grimaces at Sherlock. "Wanna come see a headless corpse?"

He tilts his head. "What makes this one so interesting?"

"Well," she says slowly, "It appears that there never was a head to begin with."

He raises an eyebrow. "Go on?"

"According to Bonnie, poor man looks like a Ken doll that lost his head. A child's toy – Barbie - never mind." She explains, then dismisses it as unimportant with a wave of her hand. "Anyway. Skin's grown up and over the neck cavity, no obvious wounds or signs of decapitation – body is otherwise unharmed. Like there was never a head there in the first place. Insides are intact. That's all I know at the moment - "

-But Sherlock's already put on his shoes.

The next seventy-two hours are a flurry of excitement as Sherlock and John work round the clock to solve the case that John eventually dubs "Frankenstein's Monster". Molly only sees the two of them for a few hours total, as they pop in to examine the body. Sherlock is completely absorbed in the case, though he smiles genuinely whenever he sees her, and at one point, winks flirtatiously as he leaves.

It makes her just a little bit ridiculously happy, and she uses the time available to her to catch up on her work and to study the fascinating body that showed up in a strangely still-functioning deep freezer during a routine demolition of an old factory in south London.

If it weren't so grotesque, it truly would be work of art. Over the course of the past few days, Molly and her colleagues have discovered that Frank (as they've come to call him, inaccurate literary analogies aside) has the most impressive skin graft Molly has ever seen – nearly perfect stitching, minimal scarring – covering his neck cavity. Organs are intact, showing signs of freezing but otherwise unharmed. Frank himself is a mystery. He doesn't match any missing person reports and no cadavers or bodies are missing from hospitals, either. It's a perfectly preserved body (minus the head), and a perfectly captivating mystery for all those involved investigating it.

The organs have been investigated and catalogued, and Molly has started investigating the surrounding tissue to see if any clues may be had, there. She is in the middle of testing the tissue in the lab for signs of stress and disease (which is difficult, considering that she has to take into account how long it's been frozen and the accompanying effect on the flesh) when Sherlock arrives, John, Lestrade, and Donovan in tow.

"Any new developments?" He asks, removing his coat and whisking a sample from a petri dish out of its pocket. He rolls up his sleeves, and quickly spreads some of the sample onto a slide and places it beneath the microscope.

She greets the people accompanying him for the third time since the case has started and gives him a short summary of what she's ruled out, and he nods distractedly as he focuses on the sample in front of him. "Right. I could have told you cause of death wasn't asphyxiation or hypothermia. Did I not tell you that?" He asks sharply, but his tone is not condescending. If anything, he is almost apologetic.

"No, you didn't," Molly replies evenly. "But I had to run the tests anyway. Paperwork. Proof. Courts tend to require that, these days. You could say they're - dead serious about it, even."

He snorts in response, but his mouth twitches at the corner. "Take a look?" He moves back just enough to allow her access to the microscope, and she peers in, curiously.

"Dried blood? Signs it's been frozen. Slightly anemic. You think it matches Frank – er, the victims?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes at the corpse's nickname. "If that's even what he is."

"You think he's a cadaver, then?"

"Mmm, nope. But not a murder victim, either."

"Ah. More a victim of circumstance?"

"In a way." His voice trails off as she refocuses, makes a small sound of discovery, and motions for him to look again.

"Upper left quadrant, about 11:00."

He takes a quick look, and nods. "Exactly. Test it for me, please?"

"Of course."

"Thank you."

Sherlock and Molly continue like this for the next five minutes or so, talking back and forth, responses rapid-fire and at times sharp, challenging each other's train of thought and observations, confirming or discarding potential evidence and hypotheses. Sherlock, however, concedes exactly two points to her with nary a snide remark, and seems to have no scruples about invading her personal space to get a closer look at the evidence.

Lestrade and Donovan watch with increasing interest and incredulity at the exchange between the two scientists in the lab. Sherlock has treated her with the utmost respect since Sherrinford – but this is different. At one point, Sherlock places his hand on the small of Molly's back as they switch places at the microscope, Donovan turns to Lestrade, skepticism written on her face.

"Is it – is it me-" she whispers, inclining her head toward Sherlock and Molly –

"No – no. Definitely not just you," Greg mutters back. "John?" he asks, and nods toward the both of them.

John is leaning against the wall just inside the door, using his phone to flip through real estate listings near the factory the body was found in, looking for 'a brownstone building, no more than two stories, with a basement, and rhododendrons in the landscaping nearby', per Sherlock. "Hmm?" He asks absent-mindedly, and looks up as Sherlock and Molly exchange a look over decomposing pancreatic tissue, that could be considered either pointed or playful – possibly both.

"Mmm." He makes a noncommittal shrug and raises his eyebrows innocently at the Yarders beside him.

Donovan stares John down to no avail, and after a moment, she turns her attention back to Sherlock and Molly. He returns his attention to his mobile.

Sherlock's grinning and thanking her over his shoulder (for the third time), and she smiles in response before returning immediately to her work - and then he's brushing past them all to leave.

John clears his throat meaningfully, and Sherlock pauses, palm still flat against the door, brows drawn in irritation.

"What?"

"Forget something, then?" John asks, clearly sliding his eyes toward Molly. She's already started preparing her samples for testing.

Sherlock frowns at him, as John looks pointedly at Lestrade and Donovan, still standing behind the detective, then back at Molly, and then raises his eyebrow in question.

Sherlock narrows his eyes at his blogger, tilting his head in an attempt to discern what he's talking about.

John stares right back at him, expression deadpan. If he could draw arrows with a glance, they would all be pointing, flashing neon, at Molly.

After a moment, Sherlock's eyes widen in understanding and concern. "Ah. Yes." Once again, he sweeps dramatically past the officers beside him.

He strides purposefully back to Molly, and she turns toward him expectantly. "Wha-" she begins to ask, but the determined and yet surprisingly uncertain look on his face causes the question to die on her lips. She blinks up at him. He swallows, hesitating for a moment, and she smiles nervously at him.

She looks behind him, and John has his arms crossed, expression struggling to remain neutral with a slightly furrowed brow. Lestrade and Donovan, however, have almost visibly leaned forward in expectation.

She sighs in understanding, her mouth pulling in at one corner, and focuses back on Sherlock. "It's okay-" she whispers, soft enough that only he can hear.

"No," he replies, just as softly. "It's not. I'm sorry I didn't tell them th-"

"We were standing around a headless corpse, we were all a bit distracted-"

"-well, I'm less distracted now." He sniffs, straightening his cuffs.

She smiles up at him, shaking her head affectionately. "Almost solved it, then?"

He raises his eyebrows, shrugging minutely – eyes crinkling in appreciation. "Close," he confirms. He sighs and brings his hands up to cradle her face, tracing her cheek with his thumb. "I don't deserve you," he mutters.

She opens her mouth to protest that train of thought, but he presses his lips to hers in a sweet and delicate kiss that still somehow leaves her a little breathless.

"Thank you, Molly Hooper," he hums against her cheek, and then pulls away. He gives her a knowing smirk, and turns with a flourish to face their audience. "Case should be solved by tomorrow afternoon, at the latest. Dinner tomorrow?" He asks over his shoulder.

She nods in affirmation, pressing her lips together to keep herself from laughing.

John shakes his head at them, grinning. Lestrade looks outright stunned, and Donovan is still appraising the situation, eyes narrowed at the two of them. John follows Sherlock out the door without hesitation, but the two officers seem frozen in place for the time being.

Seconds later, Sherlock pops his head back in the lab door. "Game is on, Lestrade, let's go."

Greg shakes himself out of his shock, his mouth pulled up at the corner, still disbelieving. "You – you -"

"- yes, your eyes have not deceived you – thought I made it obvious enough, questions can wait – I've got a dinner date tomorrow I cannot miss," Sherlock interrupts impatiently, flashing a quick grin at the DI.

Greg blinks and snaps his mouth shut. "Right then," he says, nodding his acceptance and approval. "Good, Molly - " he takes a breath and nods toward her, his eyes softening with affection, and she beams in response. "That's – it's – congratulations."

Donovan takes a breath and shakes her head, following her DI and his two companions to the elevator. She pauses at the door, and turns back to address Molly.

"Doctor Hooper?"

"Mmm?"

"Well done, then."

Molly makes a small sound of thanks, and turns back to her work.

"And Doctor Hooper?"

"Yes?"

Sally Donovan lifts her chin in solidarity, a sideways smile on her lips. "If he mucks this up, there's a whole lot of us who'll - look the other way if he disappears, yeah?"

Molly raises her eyebrows, flushing slightly. "Oh – um. We'll be fine, thanks."

Donovan studies the floor for moment, and then nods, sincere – "I hope you're right, then - really" – and leaves the doctor to her work. Molly knows, however, that it was the officer's way of wishing her the best.

The four colleagues ride in silence in the lift. Donovan keeps opening her mouth as though to say something smart, but decides against it.

Greg, for his part, is staring intently at the button panel, and Sherlock swallows.

"Greg?" He asks, and the DI frowns, nodding to himself.

Sherlock darts a glance to John, silently asking – what's wrong with him, then?

John has no answer, however, and shrugs in response, looking a bit concerned himself.

The doors ping open, and Donovan exits, John following soon after. Sherlock steps forward to leave, but Greg holds his arm out, against the other man's chest. "Sherlock," he says quietly, as serious as Sherlock has ever heard him.

"You know I consider you a great man," he says quickly, and Sherlock freezes, unequipped to deal with his friend's opinion of him and his new relationship without the other half of it present to steady him. "And I know, now, that you are also a good one," Lestrade continues. He gives Sherlock a sidelong, serious glance and a sharp nod. "Molly is a good woman. She is exceptional. Make sure you are exceptional to her, yeah?"

He drops his arm and exits the lift.

Sherlock is stalled, processing for so long that he has to jut his hand out to keep the doors from closing on him.

"I am her boyfriend."

"I am her boyfriend," Sherlock repeats, muttering to himself. "I am her – boy- friend. I am her boyfriend. I am her boyfriend. I am her boyfriend. I am her – boyfriend. Boyfriend. Boy-friend? Boy-friend. Boy-"

"Sherlock?" Molly asks, concerned, setting the bags of take-away on the kitchen table.

He blinks, noticing her there for the first time. "Molly," he says evenly. He adjusts his suit coat and stands, walking briskly to her and greeting her with a peck on the forehead before rummaging through the containers of lentils, rice, and shwarma. "Two baba ghanoush?" He asks, raising an eyebrow at her.

"You always eat mine," she protests. "Now you have your own."

He sighs and begins spooning food onto a plate, and when he turns, he nearly runs into her. Molly's arms are crossed in front of her chest and she's regarding him particularly suspiciously.

"What?" He asks petulantly. "I left some for you."

She rolls her eyes. "What was that about, then?"

He frowns for a moment. "Ah! You heard - "

She nods.

He shifts for a moment, expression unreadable but obviously working something out. "You are – exceptional, Molly Hooper," he begins, and she can't help the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"Go on," she encourages after a moment.

He sighs. "As much as I enjoyed shocking our colleagues with the revelation of our relationship by bestowing lavish expressions of affection upon you, you deserve to have a – partner, who can, at minimum, introduce himself to acquaintances and co-workers as your – boyfriend -" He frowns, obviously still unsatisfied with the way the word came out of his mouth - "without grimacing at or choking on the word."

Molly presses her lips together in amusement. "And this is-"

He sighs again, scowling. "Exposure therapy."

"Dr. Rowan, Sherlock Holmes." Molly nods from her new colleague to the tall man in the dark coat. After losing Jeremiah Schmidt as a potential intern-to-hire to the pathology department, Dr. Emily Rowan, who'd already been employed at a morgue in Liverpool for several years, was hired instead. "He'll say he's got the run of the place, and he'll act like it too - but he does not." Molly smiles cheekily at Sherlock, and he rolls his eyes and pulls a face at her, but it isn't vindictive. "He does have full clearance in the lab, but he's only allowed in the morgue under staff supervision, and any cadaver parts he requests need to be cleared by Mike Stamford or myself."

"Ah," the middle-aged blonde woman nods, lips pressed together in concern. "Is he-"

"Consulting detective for Scotland Yard," he supplies. When she nods again and offers her hand tentatively, he shakes it.

She swallows uncertainly and tilts her head, studying him. He returns the gesture – but whatever he sees in her, it doesn't seem to be worth mentioning.

"My reputation precedes me," he drawls, amused, but somehow – not unkind. He does not wait for a response, however, and instead, turns to Molly. "I may not see you until tomorrow. The formerly insanely boring insurance fraud case has taken a decent turn, and John and I have a few leads that may take all night to pursue. Enjoy your night out with Meena, I'll need the test results for the missing dogs case in the morning."

"Crumpets or just coffee?" She asks in stride, and Dr. Rowan does not have time to hide the look of confused disbelief that passes across her face at their exchange.

"It's all right-" Molly quickly reassures her – "you'll never be expected to bring him breakfast -"

"-I'm her boyfriend," Sherlock interjects smoothly, and then – his expression changes, just for a moment – to one of pleased surprise.

He turns to Molly expectantly, and she's beaming at him.

Dr. Rowan blinks, but seems to take the news in stride. "You're – together?"

"Yes," Molly confirms as Sherlock takes his leave. "Yes, we are."

Dr. Rowan nods. "Right. Sherlock Holmes. Consulting detective, full clearance in the lab, guard the bodies with my life, and feeding him is your responsibility."

Molly grins at her. "Oh, I think you'll get on here just fine."

She can't stop focusing on the smudge, there on the floor.

A small mark from – perhaps a drop of sauce, or a spider, squashed?

She keeps trying to clean it, because a vague sense of impending doom has descended on her – she must clean it. She must.

Counter-clockwise – one, two, three – all the way up to ten.

Clockwise – one, two, three – all the way up to ten.

But it won't come out.

'Out, damned spot,' she thinks to herself, over and over.

She giggles, just a little, because it's fitting, isn't it?

She does have a lot of blood on her hands.

She should wash them.

The cycle continues – again and again.

And she can't seem to stop herself.

Several weeks pass, and in that time frame, both Sherlock and Molly work out a rhythm to their relationship that suits them both perfectly.

Some changes are barely noticeable. Molly continues to work at Bart's, and finds a new friend in Emily Rowan. Sherlock continues to bring Molly coffee, continues to hold doors and hail cabs, and continues to clean up after himself much more frequently (though not always consistently) in the lab. But he is closer, now – physically and emotionally - and he makes good on his promise to repay her thoughtfulness in the lab and morgue with tasteful kisses and softly-spoken thank-yous.

Molly continues to provide spare parts and equipment for Sherlock to experiment with, though she joins him in those experiments much more frequently, now. Mrs. Hudson is disappointed to find that an unholy number of human appendages still find their way to the bottom drawer of the fridge. There are more meals, more games, more moments of comfortable silence and friendly arguments.

Sherlock still gets irritable when presented with a lamentable lack of interesting cases, and he still has the ability to cut people down with a long glance and a verbal lashing with his sharp tongue – but he does his best to reserve that particular skill for guilty parties, only.

And then there are changes that may not appear monumental to an outsider, but – all the same – they are.

Molly discovers that Sherlock is endearingly content with the simplest physical acts in their relationship.

He kisses her, of course. Well and thoroughly.

But he seems to enjoy all points of contact with her - rubbing the sleeve of her blouse between his thumb and forefinger while brushing a slow farewell kiss to her cheek, brushing his arm against hers while beside her in the lab, sliding next to her in a booth while out to eat with John and Rosie and keeping his leg pressed against hers.

And this casual touching is only the tip of the iceberg. He seems to enjoy when she rests her legs over his on the couch. He claims that resting his head in her lap is conducive to his thought processes, and she loves to stroke his hair – running her fingers through his curls. She finds a small red birthmark beneath them, just behind his left ear, and she traces it affectionately - and from somewhere deep inside his mind palace, he relaxes into her.

Sometimes, she leans into him, resting her head on his shoulder, and he absent-mindedly wraps an arm around her, pressing a kiss to her hair, before returning to whatever it was he was doing – or before turning his full attention toward her.

She loves the way he threads his fingers through hers when they are alone at home – at either home – their homes – and is content to just be, together. She adores the way his eyes flicker closed when she traces his jawline with her fingertips and presses a kiss to his collarbone.

And then – during those singular moments where time turns in on itself and seconds and minutes and hours bleed together and become impossible to tell apart - his passion for her is both the heat of the desert sun and the cool rain that relieves it. And if – if a good old-fashioned snogging does this to her – their (mostly) fully-clothed bodies pressed together against walls, sofas, floors – she wonders briefly what on earth sex will be like.

He apologizes, once, after pulling away, suddenly – his forehead pressed to hers – and he can't seem to explain, coherently, what is going on in his head –

"It's-" he swears, under his breath – "I'm sorry, I-" he swallows and rolls to his side, one arm under her head, rubbing a strand of her hair between his thumb and forefinger. "It's – good – more than good – blinding - but it's – so much, all at - once, and I don't think – I can't – yet. I – want -"

She smiles slowly at him, and rests her hand on his collarbone, gently pressing her thumb to his fluttering artery. Her voice is low. "I'm not in a rush, Sherlock. It's – overwhelming, sometimes, for me too."

He pulls her close and kisses her, and she is content.

They spend more nights together than apart, and slowly – the evidence of that makes itself apparent in both of their flats. Sherlock's clothes and a dressing gown reappear in her bedroom; a toothbrush and razor in the bathroom, his preferred brand of tea in the kitchen - and a reorganized guest bedroom where he can pin clues and maps and string to his heart's content and leave piles of papers and books, without worry of repercussions from Molly – all take up residence in hers. Her clothes, pajamas, a spare pair of slippers tucked on her side of his bed, her shampoo and lotion in the bathroom, well-stocked cabinets and shelves in the fridge in the kitchen, a handful of novels and an extra chair in the sitting room – all make themselves quite comfortable at Baker Street.

And thus, seven weeks into their relationship, Molly is sitting on the couch at Baker Street. Her feet are propped up and Sherlock is lying on the couch beside her, his head in her lap. She absent-mindedly strokes his hair as she focuses on the book she is reading – a predictable but nevertheless captivating post-apocalyptic zombie horror novel. She has The Great British Baking Show on in the background, and Sherlock is scrolling through news feeds on his mobile.

After a few moments, he frowns. It takes him a moment to pinpoint what exactly feels off – and notices the pleasantly stimulating feeling of her fingers through his hair has stopped.

He sighs, tilting his head backward to look up at her. "Molly," he drones patiently.

She doesn't seem to notice. In fact, she withdraws her hand completely and rubs her thumb against her bottom lip, eyes darting across the page she's reading.

"Molly," he tries again.

"Shhh," she shushes him, waving him away with her hand before she turns the page.

Sherlock gives up, equal parts amused and irritated - and instead rolls to the side, reaching the remote to turn off the television.

Molly frowns. "I was watching that," she says, half-protesting, turning the page again.

He snorts. "I seriously question -"

"Jane and Candice botched their Yorkshire puddings, Benjamina had the best pancakes, and I'm betting it's between Tom and Val to go home, but if they do well on their showstoppers -"

Sherlock shrugs, rolling his eyes. "I stand corrected." He frowns for a moment, peering up at her, and she stares at him from over her book, attempting to maintain a straight face.

"Fine," she admits, after a moment, breaking into a sheepish grin. "It's a re-run. I've seen this one before. But I like having something cheery on in the background when I'm reading something frightening!"

Sherlock snorts. "Zombies aren't-"

Molly rolls her eyes. "I know. But that doesn't mean it's still not a little bit-"

A confident knock sounds on the door a split second before Mycroft lets himself in.

"-scary," she finishes, as Mycroft greets his brother from the door. Molly places a bookmark to hold her page and closes her book.

"Mycroft," she greets him, surprised.

"Molly," he nods in greeting, after a slight pause. Sherlock sighs dramatically and sits up, maintaining eye contact with his brother.

They stare each other down for such an uncomfortably long time that Molly considers opening her book again, if only to appear as though she's unconcerned about the whole thing.

"I suppose congratulations are in order." Mycroft sighs, breaking the silence. "Well done, brother. However, Doctor Hooper-" he turns to her, addressing her formally, and she feels Sherlock bristle slightly – "I must offer you my deepest sympathies, as you have chosen a rather unfortunate family to align yourself with."

He says it with such solemn gravity that she thinks for a moment he may actually be chastising her, but the very small smile he graces her with at the end makes her believe it may very well be a joke. Despite her interactions with him throughout the years, and throughout Operation Lazarus, he is still something of an enigma to her.

"Oh, well -" she clears her throat, and continues, wide-eyed, casting a sharp smile between the two men in an effort to get them to play nice – "I think I can handle myself, thanks. After dating a criminal mastermind like Jim and being engaged to a man who thought 'meat dagger' was a brilliant way to murder someone, I think Sherlock's a very happy medium, don't you?" She smiles and a short laugh escapes, bright and slightly nervous.

Sherlock stifles a burst of laughter that abruptly turns into a cough, and Mycroft's smile becomes a touch wider, though she's not sure if it's actually more genuine. "Well then, I suppose I should congratulate you on your exemplary qualifications. Welcome to the family," he says primly – and yet, almost kindly - straightening his cuffs before taking a seat on the edge of John's chair.

"Um – thanks…?" she says, darting a look to Sherlock, who rolls his eyes.

"He's being melodramatic, but surely you've picked up on the fact that he's always been – if not fond, then at least agreeable toward you. Somewhere in that supposedly empty ribcage of his, the Hallelujah chorus is playing, imagining all the scrummy little goodies he'll be privy to more often, now. He's just rubbing it in that I don't deserve you."

Molly frowns. "That's not-" true, she thinks, before Mycroft interrupts.

"I apologize for interrupting the 'honeymoon' period," Mycroft sighs, "but unfortunately, our sister is sick."

Molly's expression fades, and a different sort of nervousness pricks in her chest. She shifts to stand, but Sherlock places a hand preventatively on her thigh. He is about to tell her to stay, if she very well pleases, but Mycroft, surprisingly, beats him to it.

"Actually," he says softly, "I could use your opinion as well as Sherlock's, as Eurus's problem seems to be as much medical as it is mental. I was hoping for Doctor Watson, but you are qualified as well."

"Qualified," Sherlock snorts. "Of course she's"-

"-I think he meant it as a compliment, Sherlock," Molly interrupts quietly. "Tea?" She asks Mycroft.

He blinks at her for a moment before nodding, and shortly after the three of them sit down to discuss Eurus's current condition.

The official diagnosis, made by Sherrinford staff and confirmed as sound by both Molly and John, is a complicated mix of several disorders due to mental and emotional trauma, onset by an autoimmune response to a simple strep infection.

Treatment is easy enough – antibiotics, which are quickly (though not easily) administered, and a recommended cognitive behavior therapy that the Holmes' flat out refuse, knowing that it would not end well.

Eurus recovers quickly enough, but afterward – she is subdued.

Quiet.

And once again – unresponsive.

She hadn't meant to do it.

She wasn't in her right mind, and she knows that. She knew it as it was happening, as a matter of fact, but she couldn't control herself.

She's never…not been in control before. Not like that.

And truth be told, she's terrified of it happening again.

Because this time – no one died. The nurse had his arm broken, sure, but he'd recover quickly. It wasn't a bad break. A few others received minor scratches.

Even if someone had died, she wouldn't feel all that terrible about it. They're just staff, after all.

But the thing is – next time, it might not be staff she hurts.

She's not guilty. She's afraid.

The evidence is before her.

Her treasured violin – her one mode of communication with her family – her Sherlock – had lain broken in a heap before her.

While they would not allow her to keep the pieces (reasonable, considering she could make a variety of weapons from the remains) – she did manage to hide one small, smooth tuning peg from them, and if they've noticed – they've let her keep it. It becomes a worry stone of sorts – she turns it over and over in her fingers – a physical reminder of how easily that fragile, beautiful thing was broken.

She wraps her arms around her legs and rests her chin on her knees. Her nostrils flare, and she's made up her mind.

They said the chances of it happening again were very small, but – there's still that chance.

You can't prevent all illness.

And next time, it might be worse.

She won't risk destroying the one person who chose her.

And so she clings to what feels like the last thread of goodness in her, and decides that her relationship with her brother is over.

The trouble with Eurus is – to be concise – everything. It seems the more Sherlock attempts to visit her – the more he tries to convince her to play with him, even listen to him play – is met with stiffness and distance and, in this latest, heart-dropping case – his sister angrily banging on the glass dividing them, and clearly gesturing for him to leave.

He cancels more than one 'date' with Molly in an attempt to salvage what communication he'd had with his sister, before. His conversations with Molly are focused on Eurus, on music, on communication. They do what they can to keep the fear at bay, but it's there – fear that this setback may be dangerous, fear that Sherlock may lose his sister, and fear of what Eurus may be capable of if she decides to 'play' with Sherlock again.

But after this glass-banging incident, he and Mycroft agree that it's better to drop back to twice monthly visits for the time being.

Maybe time is what she needs.

And so, feeling defeated and guilty and frustrated, he makes his way to Molly's.

He opens the door to her flat, and the warm smell of baking washes over him. He removes his shoes and closes the door behind him.

He takes in the wrapped gift on the table near the door, pink paper and white curled ribbon, and notes the tag –

To: Rosie

With Love,

Aunt Molly and Uncle Sherlock

Rosie's birthday.

He'd forgotten.

Not her actual birthday, of course – but that her party is tomorrow, and that typically, small children receive presents on their birthday that are not of the periodic table variety – even if it does sing.

He sighs, feelings of guilt and frustration at failing his god-daughter in this regard playing tug-of-war with feelings of appreciation for Molly, and he turns to the sound of metal on plastic as Molly drops a knife into a small, nearly empty bowl.

Molly is in the kitchen, hands smeared with various colors of icing – Rosie loves her Peppa Pig, and Molly's made a decent go of making her a Peppa cake for her second birthday. "Hey. Almost done. I'm glad I decided to make it today. Not sure I would've finished in time for her party, tomorrow. Might've been a Pinterest fail, otherwise – but I'm really happy with how it turned out, today!" She smiles up at him, using her shoulder to brush a strand of hair out of her face and leaving a smudge of flour on her cheek in the process.

He brushes it off with his thumb, a tired smile on his face. "I don't deserve you."

Her smile falters on her face, and he frowns, concerned. "What? What is it?"

She breaks eye contact and her half-smile quickly slides into a frown. "I wish you wouldn't say that."

"Say what?"

She takes a breath and meets his gaze. "That you don't deserve me."

His mouth twists into a bemused expression. "But I-"

"Yes, you do. You seem to have – this idea in your head that I'm – somehow better than you. I'm not. You deserve me just as much as I deserve you. One of us isn't better than the other. Stop putting me on a pedestal." She's very serious about this, and frustration seeps into her tone.

He steps back, a concerned frown settling on his brow. "I'm – sorry."

She sighs. "It's – I know you don't mean to. But – I get the feeling that you're substituting 'I don't deserve you' for 'I love you', and - Sherlock - " she runs her hands over her cardigan sleeves and then lifts them, annoyed that she'd forgotten about the icing, and that now there's residue left on them. "-that's a dangerous exchange to make. Because one day – even though I don't want to – even though I don't plan on it – one day, I'm going to hurt you." She peers up at him.

He opens his mouth in protest, but she cuts him off.

"I am. It's – it happens. And if you keep me up on this pedestal – the fall is going to be that much worse. People hurt each other, Sherlock, and I need you to stop thinking that I'm – perfect. And not the – perfect like – 'oh, she has - cute flaws – she makes awful jokes and is sometimes socially awkward, but she always does and says the right thing' – but," she sighs, frowning at the nearly-finished cake on the counter before her, and takes a few moments to collect her thoughts.

"You want me to – look for your flaws?" Sherlock asks slowly. He stands very still, reading her body language, listening intently, more confused than he's ever been in his life.

"No. No," she huffs, looking to the ceiling for the words she needs. "I need you to – to know that I'm human, Sherlock. That I make mistakes, and that I'm going to make them with you. I need you to – not expect it, really – but to just know it's – it's possible, and it's probable, and I need to know – that when it happens – you won't be – I won't let you down, completely. That you'll forgive me. Let me be human, too, Sherlock."

"I know you're human, and I would forgive you anything," he says stubbornly, and she frowns at him.

"I'm serious, Sherlock."

They stare each other down across the counter, until Sherlock sighs in defeat.

"Fine," he says shortly. "You're human, you've just as many flaws as I have, and I'll stop saying I don't deserve you, no matter how true I believe it to be."

Her lips twitch just a bit at that. "I mean," she says slowly, "you can still tell me how much you adore me. How wonderful I am. Just – not that you don't deserve me. Because you do. Please."

"Oh. Well. In that case," he says, rolling his eyes and moving around the counter to stand beside her – "Molly Hooper. You are incredibly selfless and talented. Your Pepper cake-"

"-Peppa-" she corrects, her face serious but her eyes laughing –

"Peppa cake will delight and enthrall our goddaughter, and I'm sure the gift you bought her will, too. I-" he swallows, and his eyes soften as his voice lowers an octave, almost whispering now. "I am forever grateful that you are in our lives, and more specifically – in mine." He leans forward and brushes his lips across hers. Her eyes flutter closed and he deepens the kiss, slowly savoring it as she steps closer to him.

"I like you -" he murmurs against her lips, pressing another kiss to the corner of her mouth, and pulling away slightly. She rests her head against his chest, wrapping her arms around him –

"And I love you." He presses another kiss to her temple, pulling her close, and rests his cheek on her head. "And I'm glad the feeling is mutual."

She sighs against him and he can feel her smiling.

"Is that an acceptable way to express myself?" He asks saucily, pulling away suddenly and raising an eyebrow in challenge.

"Hmm. It'll do," she responds with equal sass. "It'll do."

"You sure you're fine, then?" John asks, allowing the overnight bag he'd packed for Rosie to drop from his shoulder.

"I think I can handle it," Sherlock says drily, as he picks up his goddaughter. She's already lifted her arms up, one hand wet with saliva from her habit of sucking on her thumb. "Molly gets off at ten for 'lunch'. I only need to make it…four hours?" He looks at the clock above the mantle. Rosie rests her head on his shoulder and immediately puts her thumb back in her mouth.

John nods, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah. Yeah, I know. You're good. Thank you, for doing this for me. Hank and Nina were still doing nights when I signed up for this course, but with their daughters graduating, they've cut back -"

"John," Sherlock interrupts. "We've been over this. Watching Rosamund once a week is not an inconvenience, nor a chore. We will be fine. Sandwich acceptable for dinner?"

John scrutinizes his friend for moment and nods. "That's all she'll eat these days, anyways. I've got a fruit and veg pouch in there for her too, see if you can get her to eat most of it."

"All right. We'll eat some veg, if we must, huh?" Sherlock addresses the little girl in his arms. She smiles slightly around her fingers in response. "Same bedtime routine?"

John nods. "Peppa DVD is in the bag – just one episode, mind you - followed by nappy change, pajamas, brush teeth, and – she's moved on from Goodnight, Moon. Now it's – The Going to Bed Book."

Sherlock nods. "Got it. Say good-bye, Rosamund."

"Buh-bye, Daddy. Buh-bye," she says, taking her fingers out of her mouth to wave.

John steps up and nuzzles his daughter, kissing her on the cheek. "Buy-bye, love. Daddy will see you tomorrow morning after breakfast, yeah?" He squeezes Sherlock's shoulder. "Thanks again. Now's your turn to be the life saver." He gives his friend a sideways smile.

After her Daddy leaves, Sherlock sets her down and she looks up at him questioningly.

"Dinner?" He sighs, placing his hands on his hips. She thinks for a moment, and nods in approval.

Sherlock pulls a kitchen chair to the counter and allows her to 'help' spread the butter on the bread and place the cheese on, for both of their sandwiches. He toasts them lightly on both sides, and cuts Rosie's into triangles. He does manage to get her to eat two-thirds of the pouch, and when they're done, he pulls the chair up to the sink. Rosie splashes in the bubbles as he does the dishes, and gets a rag of her own to 'wipe' down the chairs they were sitting in. (She's not quite tall enough, yet, to reach the table.)

When they are done, there's still an hour to kill before bedtime, and so Sherlock takes down the box of 'treasures' on the mantle that Rosie carefully goes through every time she comes over. There's an old pocket watch that survived the blast at Baker Street but no longer functions, several dried and pressed flowers and leaves that Rosie had brought in herself, preserved in plastic cling wrap – the thoroughly cleaned skull of a field mouse, and an old earring, left by one of Sherlock's clients and never claimed.

He watches her carefully, though she's past the stage of putting everything in her mouth, and smiles as she quietly, studiously inspects each and every item in the box. She shares her treasures, handing him each thing to inspect as well as she finishes with it. He makes small sounds of interest and places them back in the box.

When they are done with their treasures, Sherlock returns the box to the mantle and asks – "Dance, or 'Do You Know'?"

Rosie lifts her arms to him. "Do know?" She asks expectantly. "Do know?"

He lifts her into his lap, and she settles comfortably in the crook of his arm, thumb returning to her mouth once again. He pulls up Google images on his phone, and begins the tradition he started with her when he stayed at John's flat those several weeks Baker Street was being repaired.

"Do you know," he begins, showing her a photo of a large reddish-orange flower with five petals, each bigger than the child herself - "That the largest flower on Earth is the rafflesia arnoldii, and it smells so terrible that it is also known as the 'corpse flower'?"

He shows her pictures of flowers, spider webs, blood cells, snowflakes, raindrops, baby animals – accompanied with appropriate facts, and she sits, enthralled, for another twenty minutes.

She stifles a yawn after a photograph of the Milky Way, and he shifts her so that she sits facing him, balanced on his knees.

"I think," he says kindly, "that it is almost time for Peppa Pig."

"Peppa!" She smiles, nodding in agreement. "Peppa time!" She sings sleepily.

He washes her face and hands and places the DVD in, sitting on the floor behind her as he gently combs through her tangled curls. When it is over, he changes her nappy and puts her pajamas on, and then begins the ordeal of brushing her teeth.

Once that is over (and he washes her face, again) and they read her Going to Bed Book, he walks her up the stairs to John's old room, places her in the travel cot, turns the nightlight on and the lamp off, and presses a kiss to her forehead. "Good night, Rosamund," he says softly, ready to turn to leave –

-and then she sniffles, and he peers down at her, the star-shaped nightlight in the room illuminating her frown and worried, teary eyes.

"Where Daddy?" She asks, and he pulls the desk chair over to her cot and sits beside her, placing his hand on her back, patting her gently.

"Daddy is at work. He'll be back in the morning," he says quietly.

She nods in understanding, and sniffs again. She's used to sleeping at Hank and Nina's, and she's used to Sherlock or Molly putting her to bed at her house without John, but she hasn't stayed at Baker Street without her father, before.

Sherlock stares at her brave, sad face for a moment, and then asks – "Would you like me to stay, until you fall asleep?"

She hesitates for a moment, and then nods, turning to her side, her hands gripping her blanket and lovie close to her cheek.

"All right," Sherlock nods. He sits quietly beside her for a few minutes, hand still protectively patting her back, but she keeps sniffling every now and then.

"Rosamund," he says, "Do you know-" he falters, but she shifts slightly to look at him, and he plows forward. "Do you know – you are – very much like your father. You have his eyes. Your Daddy is passionate, and kind, and has a very strong sense of justice. He also makes me laugh - and so do you."

She settles back into the blanket, the rustling of fabric and a sigh demonstrating that she is content with this new addition to her bedtime routine.

"And – do you know, that you are very much like your mother?" His hand stills on her back, and he swallows. "She had hair very much like yours, and I imagine that when she was young – hers, too, was most likely curly. She – she was very brave, and very – selfless, and – observant. She had a way of understanding that sometimes what I mean is the opposite of what I say, though I'm getting better at that, now – saying what I mean. And she was charming. She had a way of knowing just what to say to alleviate tension in the room, to smooth over my many faux pas – to call me out without starting an argument, to get everyone to laugh and move on. I liked her very much, Rosamund."

Her breathing becomes more even, and she is no longer sniffling, but he continues, under the spell of a sleepy toddler in a dim room –

"-And, do you know, Rosamund, that perhaps the trait you share with your parents that I favor the most is this: You, all three of you, came into my life at precisely the right time – at a time when I was at a crossroads and needed a push in the right direction, first John – your father - then Mary, your mother – and then – you. I was world-weary, lost, and tired, and each of you – in your own right – were guiding stars, bright and beckoning and interesting – full of light and life. And though you display agreeable traits from both parents, you are also so delightfully yourself – that – I think, sometimes – Rosie – that you are – miraculous."

He gently removes his hand from her back, and when she moves slightly, he peers over the edge of the cot to confirm that she sleeps. Her mouth is open and her breathing deep and regular. The curls he combed through so carefully earlier are now tangled, a swirl of spun gold against the mattress of the cot.

And he is struck, very suddenly – it is quite nearly a physical blow – at how trusting and innocent she is. She is so full, of promise and potential.

Something both very old and very new stirs in his chest, and he stands, imparting one last secret to Rosamund Mary Watson before he leaves her to her slumber.

"And do you know, Rosamund," he whispers, voice thick - "I see you, now, and – sometimes -" He blinks and falters – stumbling over the words, because he cannot seem to put words to this feeling that has risen – fierce and frightening, from somewhere deep inside his being.

A shadow of a figure, in his mind, in the place where possibilities are kept – of a promise, of potential – with hair curly or straight, raven or chestnut, eyes brown or blue or some shade in between –

"Sometimes, now, I see you - and I wonder." He swallows abruptly.

He leaves his secret to sleep with Rosie in that upstairs bedroom.

"How bad was it today, then?" Molly asks quietly as Sherlock slams the door to his flat and stalks over to his desk, where he lays his violin, rubbing his hands over the worn case.

Her voice is a salve on his frayed nerves, and some of the tension leaves him as she places a tentative hand on the swell of tense muscle beneath the shoulder of his suit jacket.

"Better than some, worse than most," he mutters. It's been over three months now, since Eurus got sick, and he knows that it may take years for him to regain what they had, before – but it doesn't make it any easier. His twice monthly visits don't seem to be doing any good, but if he attempts to visit more frequently, it sets her off in a way that is concerning and frightening.

He runs his hands through his hair and turns to Molly, who wraps her arms around him and buries her face in his chest. "I'm sorry," she mumbles.

He frowns, blinking, as he makes note of her shuddering breath, and the way she presses into him, as though trying to make herself disappear inside of him.

He swallows. "Bad day for you too."

Her exhale is shaky, and she's trembling, now – a release of pent-up nerves. "Second child this week," she sniffs. "Four years old – this time - accidental gun shot." Her voice breaks a little bit at the end, and he pulls her tighter, closing his eyes against the way it reminds the both of them of Mary, and Rosie.

"Come on, then," he says softly after a moment, pulling away. She follows him to the bedroom and he takes off his suit coat and belt, before joining her on the bed. She rolls over back into his arms, and he holds her, still, as she cries silently into his shoulder. She does so well, most of the time – everyone dies, it's a fact of life – but every once in a while, some association or likeness worms its way through her professional barricades and breaks her heart.

After her tears are spent, they lay side by side, staring up at Sherlock's ceiling, lost in their shared sorrow, her head tilted against his shoulder and her fingers entwined with his.

He stares blankly ahead, and after a time that feels like it could have equally been three minutes or three hours, he asks, "How much leave do you have left this year?"

She takes a cleansing breath, and her hand twitches in his. "Three weeks' vacation time? I think. Plus about a week of personal leave and – lots of sick days." Her voice is nasally, her nose still flushed and stuffy from her tears.

"Molly." He says suddenly. "Would you like to go on holiday?"

Molly smiles, disbelieving. "What?"

"Holiday. You know. Away, from here. From irresponsible gun owners and stubborn siblings."

She turns so that she is on her side, facing him. "Sherlock Holmes on holiday," she muses. "Interesting."

"So is that a yes?" He turns on his side as well, and places his free hand on her waist, thumb brushing delicately over the knit fabric of her jumper.

"That depends. How long, and where?" She brings the hand she's holding up between them and places a kiss to his fingers.

"I have a few ideas as to where. How long depends on you."

Her teeth worry at her lip, and she takes in his serious expression. "This isn't case related? We'd really just go on holiday?"

"No cases," he promises. "Just the two of us on holiday."

Her smile is radiant.

Prija is waiting for them when the airport taxi drops them off at the hotel. Molly's already been charmed by the ride – the warm, humid air filling her lungs and lifting her soul like a helium balloon - the bright and brilliant sun - and the cacophony of transportation a delight to her senses – tuk-tuks and pick-up trucks with benches fitted across the back, city buses and retrofitted vans, motorcycle taxis and pedicabs and people in bright and colorful clothing a stark contrast to the gray London they'd left behind.

And if the ride to the hotel charmed her, it is nothing compared to Prija and her affection for Sherlock, extended to Molly as well.

Sherlock says she claims to be eternally fifty – but she looks to be closer to eighty. She is a small woman with a wiry build and a careful, almost graceful way of moving, though it is obvious to Molly in the way she moves that she has experienced great physical pain in her life. She smiles with her teeth and speaks to Sherlock in rapid-fire Thai and to Molly in careful English, welcoming them and showing them to their suite.

It is breathtaking – a room simple and elegant, the spacious kitchen and living area overlooking the Phuket beach – sparkling endlessly over the horizon, with a balcony that allows the breeze to fill the rooms. The living area attaches to the bedroom – clean and bright and luxurious, the bath equally impressive – and Molly feels like she's just stepped into an episode on some sort of international travel show.

"Do you like it?" Sherlock asks, and she turns to him in delight.

"Do I ever!" She laughs incredulously. "Sherlock-" she drops her bag onto the floor and turns in a slow circle, palms up – "This is – this is amazing!"

His smile grows affectionately as she takes in everything around her, making her way to the balcony and laughing, once again, as she sees the beach before them. He, however, has eyes only for her. She returns to him after a moment, embracing him fully and kissing him gratefully.

He should've known better than to expect their holiday to be relaxing. A week of sightseeing, some reminiscing with Prija making him look good in front of Molly, some mild adventure – a rest from living the real thing for far too long, a sun-kissed Molly -

But no. He was Sherlock Holmes, for goodness' sake.

Their holiday had lasted a full twenty-nine hours, before descending into the chaos that normally accompanies him.

One dinner with Prija's family later, and it'd been revealed that her eight-year-old grandson Anuwat had unknowingly been an accomplice in a drug-smuggling ring.

Anuwat had remembered the detective from his visit a few years prior, dismantling a trafficking ring linked to Moriarty's web. He'd been so proud to give Sherlock a welcoming gift, bought with his own money –

Said gift shocked his parents and Prija, and he was promptly whisked to another room of the house and interrogated by them, Sherlock listening all the while, until Molly asked him what was wrong.

(He helps his mother water the plants in the lobby, and he'd been making money by exchanging pretty little boxes left in his plants for men that contained samples, communication and instructions, though the boy hadn't known that – not until Sherlock asked the boy to show him one and inspected it.)

"Yai!" He cried, hiding his face in shame. "I'm sorry, grandmother. I'm sorry!"

He knew when Prija asked him for help that he could not refuse, and Molly did not want him to.

And now, here they are, in an aged petrol station in a derelict part of town outside of the tourist safe-zone of Phuket that had never fully recovered from the tsunami all those years ago, an enraged man pressing a gun expertly to Molly's temple.

He knows, as soon as they walk in, that something is not right.

He looks around, and the inside of the store is – smaller than he expected. He runs some quick calculations and schematics in his head. As soon as they enter, the man behind the counter leaves to go into a back room, and seconds later, a disgruntled woman comes out, a sleepy child – a girl, no more than six years old, trailing behind her. What appears to be the mother greets him pleasantly enough, but her eyes never leave him as he and Molly move around the store. The girl settles on an old folding chair beside the counter and puts her thumb in her mouth, watching the two foreigners move around the place.

"Hmmm. Hot and Spicy Crab crisps. I think I'll try them. D'you want a bite?" Molly asks absently, and Sherlock realizes, belatedly, that all the deductions he'd made about the likelihood of the owner of this establishment being linked to the trafficking ring prior to entering the store had been inside his head.

"No thanks," he says softly, smiling at her. "Why don't you just stay here and find something else for me?"

She looks up quizzically, catching something off in his tone, and he steps closer to her for a moment, giving her a little kiss on the cheek for show. "Stay here." He whispers through his false smile as he backs away from her. She nods slowly, wide-eyed, her own smile frozen on her face.

He walks around the small station, and as he makes his rounds, he realizes he was correct. Even taking into account the employee area behind the counter – the station is several cubic meters too small on the inside. There's a secret room in the station, behind the back row of snack foods and cold drinks, which means that this is more than just some lackey's stop on a drug dealer's journey – this is a base of operations.

Something in his face changes, and the woman watching him says something sharp in a dialect he's not familiar with, and the man that disappeared minutes ago comes out with a pistol, low in his hand.

Sherlock freezes, deductions sparking off the man like jolts of electricity, and everything – from the way he holds the gun to its age and make, to his clothes and the trim of his hair – tell him all Sherlock needs to know.

This man may not be the boss, per se – but he is important. And it's not just drug trafficking they've stumbled upon.

Sherlock raises his hands, speaking to them both in slow, careful Thai, attempting to appear more clumsy with the language, a tourist –

"No. Sorry please. No. What?"

The man narrows his eyes at him, switching to the same dialect.

"Come here."

Sherlock shrugs helplessly. "What?"

The man gestures, obviously motioning for Sherlock to come closer. "Come here."

When Sherlock shakes his head no, the man roughly grabs the little girl off of the chair, placing the gun to her head. She cries out, and the woman beside her looks shocked. She shrieks something at the man in the unfamiliar dialect, and moves to take the girl out of his hands.

The man smacks her across the face, and she staggers backwards, holding her cheek. Her eyes are wide, and a bit frightened – but more than that, they are angry.

She says something low and pointed at the man, and he narrows his eyes at her, his hand never wavering. They have a heated dialogue that lasts all of thirty seconds before he snarls and pushes the little girl away, grabbing the woman as his hostage instead.

"I said – Come. Here."

The little girls cowers on the floor, hands covering her head and curled into a tight ball.

Meanwhile, Sherlock runs through scenarios in his head at lightening speed, the safety of Molly and the girl at the forefront of his mind, taking into account the balance of power between the man and the woman. He's just about got it, when -

"Come here," Molly whispers, holding her hand out into the aisle where the girl lies, using the same phrasing the man with the gun just used. She'd somehow managed to sneak up and down three aisles without anyone noticing. "It's okay," she switches to English, her voice soothing. "Come here."

And the moment is forever branded into Sherlock's consciousness.

In the span of three heartbeats –

The little girl looks up slowly, a lock of dark hair falling across her face, her cheeks flushed.

The man and woman's eyes both slide to Molly, and the man's slide back to the woman he's got at gunpoint. He locks eyes with Sherlock, and his lips curve into a sneer.

He pushes the woman in front of him and lunges for Molly.

- And time resumes its normal cadence. Sherlock leaps for her, almost in sync with the man with the gun, but the woman is in his way – stumbling, falling sideways in an attempt to avoid landing on the little girl.

And the man has her.

His arms wraps around Molly's shoulder and neck, his gun pressed to her temple.

"Sherlock," she gasps, but she is resolute – still, eyes wide, lips pressed into a trembling line, waiting for him to make a move.

He'd told Anderson once that he was thinking too loud, but the forensic specialist's thoughts are a whisper compared to the man that has Molly.

Foreigner – ransom – pretty – he turns his face, just slightly into her hair, and breathes deeply. Very pretty.

Sherlock knows he will get nowhere with his innocent tourist act.

"Let her go," he commands, breathing heavily, his hands raised. "She knows nothing."

"Ah," the man fires back, lip curled. "But she knows you, and that is enough."

The man nods to the woman, who has gathered up the girl on the floor. Her thin arms wrap around the older woman's neck, and she buries her face in her shoulder. The woman carries her quickly into the back room.

And once again, in that span of thirty seconds, Sherlock runs through a hundred different scenarios in his head, and realizes that although there are two plans that would end up with a less than fifty percent chance of Molly sustaining a serious injury – that is not good enough.

He knows she will be taken, and he'll need to phone Mycroft first – then the police here, Prija and the rest of his contacts, all while doing his best to follow behind –

And he yearns with all his being that it will be enough, that nothing will happen to her, that he'll find her in time, and he thinks he may actually be praying -

A shot rings out as the dirty glass of the entryway shatters, and the man jerks forward, dropping his hold on Molly and loosening his hold on the gun to clutch his shoulder. Bright red blood blossoms from the wound there, and he curses.

Molly wastes no time in diving away from him, scrambling to Sherlock.

Sherlock blinks, taking a deep, sudden breath.

Molly has her arms around him and police and agents from the Thai government are pouring in, subduing the man in question and raiding the back room. There's an officer yelling and gesturing, and the sound of someone breaking something down further down the small hall, and then Hansa is there.

Hansa, who'd been tailing Sherlock while Sherlock was undercover in Thailand, who'd been looking into the sudden increase in drugs busts and the takedown of a major criminal gang, who'd almost caught up to Sherlock – almost, but not quite.

She's caught up with him now, and she's talking a whole lot, but all Sherlock can hear is Molly.

"It's all right," she says, her voice as tremulous as her body. "I'm all right." She nods, as if convincing herself, and brushes off his shirt. "See? I knew it would be all right. I'm always all right, with you. Everything is all right."

He is stoic as he sits beside her in the patrol car on the way back to their hotel room, stiff and serious. Apparently, his half-prayer had been answered, because Hansa had been looking into this trafficking ring for two years, now, and her team had been setting up a perimeter when Sherlock and Molly entered the scene, delaying the professionals for about fifteen minutes. It is unbelievable. And yet, it is the truth. Molly Hooper was saved, not by Sherlock's wit or strength, but by pure coincidence.

He doesn't believe in coincidences.

And yet, having eliminated all other avenues of possibility – through observation, some of his own subtle interrogation as they were being questioned, and then – debriefed – the fact remains: He did not save Molly (though he did buy some time). She did not save herself (though she did act quickly when given an opportunity to get away). Hansa had been planning this bust for months. It was supposed to happen last week, but due to bureaucratic red tape, it had been pushed back by five days. They'd planned on an evening bust, the dark better cover for themselves, but the lead agent who'd have to sign off on all contraband had been invited to his niece's concert. She played the cello. He'd rather have it done sooner.

All of these seemingly innocuous coincidences, relayed with eager explanation by Hansa during their debriefing, led up to Molly's rescue.

And yet, it was him she'd trusted to keep her safe. It was him she'd trusted to rescue her. It was him she'd looked to for strength and reassurance in the face of danger.

Danger they both had an equal share of getting her into.

Molly is quiet as well, and her thoughts turn from introspective to awareness of the man beside her. Her hand sits on his, but he makes no move to hold it. He stares straight ahead, jaw tense – and she realizes he is angry.

The car stops and Sherlock makes a short comment to the officer, before sliding out of the car. He doesn't hold the door for her, doesn't wait for her, and she has to rush to keep up with him.

By the time they reach their room, she is hurt, and angry as well.

"Sherlock," she says sharply, frustrated that her eyes are already damp with tears. She closes and locks the door behind her, and crosses her arms in front of her. "What was that?"

His shoulders tense, and he kicks off his shoes. "You didn't listen," he hisses. "I told you to stay put."

Her mouth drops open a little, and then presses closed in wounded fury. "That's what this is about? I didn't listen?"

"I knew the moment we walked in it wasn't just typical petty drug deals. I told you to stay where it was safe, and you deliberately-"

"-what, 'disobeyed' you?" Molly mocks angrily. "That girl-"

"Would have been fine."

Molly scoffs.

"It's true. She was the niece of the smuggler. She's probably seen worse, unsavory as that may be. He was threatening her, and her mother, to stop me, to gain leverage over me, and then-"

"She was inconsolable, Sherlock!"

"Irrelevant!"

"Why are you shouting at me?!" They're both shouting now, and Molly is trying very hard not to cry.

He glowers at her, and lowers his voice, but he sounds so acidic that Molly thinks she prefers the shouting. "Because what you did was incredibly stupid, and you don't seem to be able to comprehend that!"

She blinks rapidly and sets her jaw defiantly. "Oh, I comprehend just fine. You're allowed to put yourself in danger whenever you please, but the second I apparently misjudge the importance of a little girl's safety, I-"

"It's not about the little girl!" He growls, gesturing angrily with his hands.

"Oh, I forgot – it's about how I didn't listen-"

"He would have taken you, Molly!" He explodes, shouting again. "It wasn't just a - petty theft ring, or a drug smuggler – that's all Anuwat was unknowingly involved with, yes – but he also dealt with humans, Molly!"

She freezes at that, and blinks at him.

"You are an attractive middle-aged foreign woman, and one that was obviously much more valuable to me than his sister in law. He wasn't just using you as a hostage, Molly. He'd have either gotten a hefty ransom for you or sold you," he spits out bitterly. "And this isn't London. Even calling Mycroft – even with my contacts here, with Prija's help and influence – there is no guarantee I'd have found you in time. Twenty-four hours, Molly – twenty-four hours is all I'd have had before you were stuffed in the back of a cargo truck on your way to be someone's slave."

She closes her mouth and swallows, colour draining from her face.

Sherlock tugs at his hair and runs his fingers from his forehead down to his chin, his glare changing to an expression of fear and something else she can't quite place. "I can't…you…I'm not…" he falters, now, his fury subsiding into a more defeated anger. He presses his palms against the smooth counter-top. "I'm not - strong enough, to lose you, like that – like…like that." He swallows, and looks back up to her. "One day, your trust in me will overestimate my actual abilities, and I won't - solve it in time, and it will break me."

He turns to her, face twisted with anger and revulsion, his voice sharp. "You have the power to destroy me, Molly Hooper. Be a little less careless with it."

Molly stands shocked, and Sherlock stalks out to the balcony, banging the sliding screen door behind him. She draws in a breath and gulps down air, taking a step back. Her back hits the door, and she slides down it until she sits, forehead on her knees, and her tears come.

A storm is coming.

It's still far enough out that the sky around Patong hasn't darkened yet, but the breeze from the ocean has picked up, and he can see the dark clouds in the distance.

He holds onto the guardrail of the balcony, squeezing until his knuckles turn white, and breathing deeply through his nose.

He'd almost lost her.

She might argue that he hadn't – it had all been over in a matter of minutes – but he knew. He knew what could have happened, and he can't stop playing it over and over in his head – his serious instructions to her to stay put, the woman behind the counter yelling in fear and protest, the little girl crying, frozen in fear – Molly doing her best to coax the girl to come to her, to comfort her – the woman shoved and falling into the rack of snack foods – Molly, the barrel of a gun pressed to her temple, eyes wide with fear, but more than that - with a calm, pleading trust –

He backs up against the siding and slides down until his sits, head in his hands.

He thanks God that the police showed up and saved her when they did, so that he could touch her, reaffirm that she was fine, she would be fine.

She's not fine, now.

The thought nibbles at the edges of his racing mind, and guilt and sorrow rise like the bile in his throat. He'd yelled at her. He'd made her cry. And the thing is – he feels guilty, because he doesn't feel all that badly about it, even though he thinks he should. But she didn't listen.

And the scene replays, again – like a wild animal prodding a wound, he can't seem to leave it alone. Fear and anger and guilt and heart-break deafen him to the sound of the screen door opening, and it takes him a moment to realize that Molly has come to join him on the balcony.

He tenses, as he's really not ready to hash this out again, but she stares at him for a moment silently before sitting beside him.

She sniffs every now and then, and it softens his anger. After a few minutes, he hazards a glance at her. Her legs are extended in front of her, hands wringing a tissue in her lap, and her eyes are red and puffy. She stares straight ahead, squinting a bit. Her breathing is even, though, and her anger, for the most part, seems to have abated.

They sit in silence, watching the surf become rougher as the storm continues to approach.

"I'm sorry," she whispers hoarsely after a moment.

He looks at her, brows drawn together.

She nods to herself. "I'm sorry," she repeats more clearly, and looks him in the eye. Apparently, what she sees there makes her tear up again, and she looks back down at her hands. She takes a deep breath and continues. "You were right. You implied, when we started, that I needed to do exactly as you said to stay safe. I didn't. I should have – I should have trusted your judgment. You have – a lot more experience in the field than me, than I do. And I should have – I'm sorry," she whispers again.

He swallows, and stares at an ant making a path along the cement beside his leg. "One hundred and twenty-seven," he says softly, after a moment.

Her mouth turns, uncertain. "What?"

He sighs. "One hundred and twenty-seven. It's the number of cases in my lifetime I haven't been able to solve – the number of people I haven't been able to help, because they came to me too late or they couldn't remember the details I needed them to. Roughly half of those cases I was unable to solve led, directly or indirectly, to someone's pain or death. You don't read about that on John's blog, though, do you?" He asks dryly.

"That's not your fault," Molly says, quiet and sure.

His lips twitch ruefully. "Doesn't feel like it, sometimes."

"Today wasn't your fault, either."

He makes no reply, and they continue to sit in silence, until the sky above them darkens and raindrops begin their descent, bringing a new scent to the salty air.

"I think," Molly says tentatively – "I think it might be a good idea if I stick to helping you in the lab."

He grunts noncommittally.

She swallows noisily, and her voice shakes as she continues. "The day my mum died, I'd cut my hair-" she draws in a sharp breath, and swallows, again. "She hadn't wanted me to, but it wasn't – a fight, or anything. She just – preferred it longer. My friend took me. And I came home feeling so grown up, smelling like salon shampoo and so proud. And my dad was there, with Meghan and Michael, and they didn't even say anything. I just – I kept asking what was wrong, and Dad opened his arms and pulled me into his lap like I was a little girl and told me my hair looked good. And that he had some terrible, terrible news, and that Mum had died. Hit by a drunk driver. I didn't cry, not at first. All three of us – Meghan, Michael and I – we didn't cry. We just sat and stared. And the first hour was – we were all together. But then phones were ringing and Dad had to do – a lot of things. My Aunt Nan came to stay, but she mainly took care of the house and Dad. And after everything was over – she stayed, for a little bit. But she didn't know things. Mum always made our lunches. Even – even then. And I went to school and didn't know what to do because I forgot about lunch and didn't have money to pay. So I sat in the toilets that day. I sat in the toilets the whole week. I - I didn't want that girl to feel like – like that. Alone," she says, and her voice is small. "I'm sorry."

When Sherlock doesn't respond – breathing evenly and blinking, eyes on the horizon - fresh tears spring to life, and she wraps her arms around her knees. "I was – I was so frightened, Sherlock. Today. And I know you're still – frightened, too, and angry, but I-" she clears her throat noisily – "I need you right now. Please – let me need you. Let me-" her voice fades to a whisper.

And his mind finishes her sentence with the words she'd spoken months earlier – words she'd used to warn him that one day, she'd do something to hurt him, and she'd like to know she could count on him to forgive her, eventually, when she did.

Let me be human, too.

The dying remains of his anger and fear fall away, and remorse rises in its place. He'd made her cry. She'd made an understandable mistake, and she'd apologized and sat in agony beside him and he'd been -as John has said so many times - a machine about it. He swears under his breath and in an instant, turns to her, drawing her to his chest. "Molly – Molly, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm – sorry," he murmurs. She shifts so that her legs rest over his, and she wraps her arms around him, silently sobbing into his shoulder. He sways instinctively, tightening his grip on her and resting his chin on her head. "I'm sorry," he repeats. "I'm sorry."

The warm rain gets heavier, blowing under the awning of the balcony and soaking them, but still they sit.

Thunder rumbles, and Sherlock squeezes her arm lightly. "Inside?" He asks softly into her ear, the sound of the rain making it difficult to hear anything else. She nods, and they disentangle themselves, returning to their rooms. He shuts the sliding glass door, and Molly shivers in the coolness of the air conditioning. Water pools around their feet, and without speaking, they divest themselves of their wet clothing. Sherlock takes it from her and walks to the bathroom, throwing the clothes in the tub for the time being, and returns with towels. They dry themselves off and both, now, return to the bathroom to hang the towels up. Molly shivers, and Sherlock turns down the duvet. Wordlessly, she climbs in, staring at him with wide eyes still covered in a sheen of tears, and he slips in beside her. She turns toward him, and they lay there, together, clinging to each other in the dark as the storm releases its fury outside.

He wakes the next morning, and Molly is not in bed with him.

She is talking to a woman in the hallway, murmuring repeated thanks in clumsy Thai, and he stands, pulling the sheet the rest of the way off the bed and wrapping it around himself, somehow managing to leave the duvet in place. He steps into the sitting area of the suite just as Molly shuts the door.

A fresh fruit basket and warm roti bread sits on the table, and Molly turns to him.

"Hey," she says softly.

"Hey," he says, looking between the food on the table, and Molly. She's run her hands through her hair to smooth it out, and is wearing the silk robe the hotel provides over the underthings she'd kept on the previous night. His throat is dry, and he swallows as he focuses on what she's saying.

"-I mean, he's said before, that he owed me some favours, you know – from your early days, with Lestrade, when I worked with you – ah – more than most, and especially after – after Operation Lazarus, and if there was anything I needed-"

"Wait," he interrupts, holding up a hand and looking up at her in disbelief. "Mycroft?"

She tugs at the bottom of the robe a bit, urging it further down toward her knees, biting her lip. "Um, yes. So – I cashed in on one of those favours. We don't have to go back to the station to – um – answer any more questions."

"You called Mycroft."

She stands in front of him, fiddling with the bowl of fruit on the table, and popping a piece of fresh mango in her mouth. "Yes." She's avoiding looking at him in the eye.

When he doesn't respond – and it's not out of anger, or resentment toward his brother – no – it's – she –

"It's just," she insists, "that after everything, I'd rather not waste the rest of our holiday giving statements and being interrogated, and I thought, neither-"

She finally looks at him, and he is staring at her in open-mouthed wonder, his body shaking with amusement. "My brother owes you favours."

A smile creeps onto her face as well. "Well – yes. Two more, now, to be precise."

He laughs outright, and pulls her down into his lap in delight. "My brother owes you favours," he repeats.

"It is a nice thought, isn't it?" Her smile is one of a very agreeable secret.

She is beautiful.

She is radiant.

She is brilliant and sunny and so full of softness and grace and apparent forgiveness from last night that it's a little – overwhelming.

His chest tightens and his face falls, suddenly, and he pulls her closer, tucking her neatly against his chest with her head beneath his chin, and he repeats himself, again.

He seems to do that a lot, with her.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I am sorry that I raised my voice yesterday. That I made you cry, and added to your distress. Please forgive me."

She pulls herself away from him, and there is some deep-seated, self-questioning shame in his face. It's a sight familiar to her, but this time – this time, she can do something about it.

"Sherlock," she says softly. She twists so she sits comfortably sideways in his lap, and smooths his hair from his forehead, pressing light kisses to his hairline and his jaw. Her fingers trace gentle lines and circles to the sheet on his shoulders, and she presses a kiss there, as well. "I forgive you."

He presses his head to hers and closes his eyes, and he believes her.

"Please forgive me, too." She adds.

He pulls away for a moment, but doesn't go far.

"I'm sorry that I scared you, and – that I made it seem that – I wasn't – important to you. That I underestimated how much I mean to you."

And he startles a bit, because there it is. She has managed to pinpoint just why he reacted the way he did, yesterday, and he blinks.

"I forgive you," he breathes. And it's a bit of a marvel, he thinks, because already, he can see how this experience has made them stronger. How it's just – reaffirmed that he loves her. That they work.

He tightens his grip on her hip where she sits across his lap, holding her close, and presses his forehead to hers, the fingers of his free hand grasping the silk of the robe on her thigh. Something changes, then – looks and breaths and words and touches carry more weight, now, then they did a moment ago – and they both feel it.

Molly barely breathes at his look – intense and gentle and questioning.

"Sherlock," she says quietly. "Would you like to go back to bed?"

"Are you still tired?" He asks, just as softly.

"No."

His eyes widen slightly in understanding, and he shifts her on his lap so that his arms slide under her legs, and he carefully stands, lifting her with him. A small sound of protest escapes her lips and she wraps her arms around his neck, but he levels a serious look at her. "Molly, let me. Please."

He carries her to the bed and she pushes the sheet away from his shoulders, allowing it to fall to the floor. He lays her carefully on the bed, one hand tangled in her hair, the other gently untying the silk belt of her robe.

They take their time, and permission is sought with hesitant touches and granted with soft kisses.

It is not what they expected – in all the possible ways to consummate their relationship, this is not how either of them planned it – but it works, unforgettably so.

As they drink deeply of that ancient expression of love – kisses becoming more passionate, more urgent, more breathless – he realizes with resounding clarity that he is lost, forever, to this woman with dark eyes and the lightest, most radiant soul he has ever had the privilege of knowing.

One morning, one month after their trip to Thailand, Sherlock wakes up at Baker Street with Molly in his arms. She is snuggled into his chest, having just woken up, and he absentmindedly trails his fingers up and down her back, enjoying the feel of the worn cotton of her pajamas.

She shivers. "Stop that," she mumbles sleepily into his chest. "That tickles."

He rests his hand on her back instead, and makes the announcement he's been waiting to make since the day they got home from their holiday.

"I think I'd like to take a sex holiday." He says, his voice still low and thick with sleep.

Molly smiles against his skin, and pulls back a bit from him, narrowing her eyes at him groggily. "You – you do realize - a lot of people - don't actually go on holiday just to -,"

His lips tug up, just a bit, at the corners. "I know. I mean - one where we go away somewhere. And there's a holiday, as well as sex."

Her eyes crinkle at the corners as her smile widens. "Like the one to Patong?"

He frowns. "That one was also dangerous. I was thinking more holiday, less life endangerment."

"Like our two-day trip to Venice two weeks ago? That was lovely."

"Mmm," he grunts in disagreement. "I was thinking more sex and less history lesson, than that."

"Well," she says, propping herself up on her elbow. "What exactly are you thinking, then?"

His lips quirk up, but he can't seem to meet her eyes, choosing instead to fiddle with the end of a strand of her hair. "I – I was thinking…" his voice trails off uncertainly, and though she's still smiling, it dampens a bit and her eyes darken with concern.

He notices, and shifts to look her in the eye. "I was thinking," he tries again, slowly – "about taking one like John and Mary did, to Maldives."

He lets that sink in for a moment.

Her eyes narrow in concentration and her mouth turns up at one corner, staring at a place just below the window behind him, attempting to decipher what exactly it is he's trying to get at, without mentioning it directly.

"Or," he adds, swallowing - "like Michael and – Addie? – took, to Ireland."

Molly's face immediately relaxes, and she rapidly wipes the rest of the sleep from her eyes before she turns her gaze to the man beside her, eyebrows raised in disbelief. "Do you – do you mean a honeymoon?" She asks incredulously, a smile blooming on her face.

His eyes crinkle with relief. "Yes. Like that."

She grins at him, shaking her head just a little – still uncertain, not quite believing him. "You do realize you can't go on a honeymoon without getting married, first."

"I know," he says quietly. His lips are turned up in the smallest of smiles, but his face is open and serious, studying her closely.

"Are you saying – you want to marry me?" Molly's face has frozen into a look of open, pleased confusion.

"Only if you want to marry me," He says hesitantly, and his voice goes up at the end, making it a question.

She blinks and focuses on him, and her smile grows wider. "No fair answering my question with a question," she admonishes softly.

She's blushing, now, and it still does funny things to his insides.

"I want to," he says, and his voice is low – barely above a whisper, and his eyes darken as he presses closer to her, kissing her lightly.

He pulls away and cups her face in his hand, brushing his thumb tenderly against her jawline, then her lips, and it takes a moment for his gaze to move from them to her eyes. "Molly Hooper," he continues in that same low voice – "do you want to marry me?"

His thumb pauses over her lips, and he feels their soft, perfect pinkness press her answer into his skin.

"Yes," she answers, just as softly. "I want to marry you."

He grins at her, then, and turns over to rummage through his nightstand. He sits up on his side of the bed a moment later, and Molly quickly follows suit, curious.

He holds something in his hands, and opens them slowly, revealing a dark velvet box.

She looks at him in surprise, reaching for it. Her lips tug up at one corner, still disbelieving. "Is-"

"Open it!" He says, and he leans forward, barely containing his excitement. He's almost bouncing on the bed.

She does, and gasps. "Sherlock," she breathes, and the ring sparkles in the morning sun filtering in through the curtains. "It's beautiful."

"May I put it on?" He asks, voice low – and her breath catches in her throat.

"Of course."

He removes the ring from the box and slides it onto her finger – and it fits, perfectly.

"This – really, then?" She says, and she's blinking back tears. "You – this is all real, then?"

Sherlock tilts his head, and his expression is one of gentle concern. "Of course it's real, Molly. I didn't realize gumball machines gave out prizes this realistic."

"No-" she laughs softly, rubbing her eyes with her thumbs, sniffing. "No, silly! I mean – you – you really want to get married. That – this – we're really going to."

"Unless you prefer to simply be engaged for the rest of our lives, yes - I plan on carrying through with the promise to marry you. Preferably within the next year."

She smiles, holding her hand out before her, admiring the ring. "You really want this too?"

After watching her for a moment, Sherlock takes her hand in his, smoothing small circles on the back of her hand with his thumb. She looks up at him, and his expression is serious. "I did not ask out of obligation, or just to make you happy, if that's what you're worried about. I really want this too."

Her smile grows and grows until she flings herself at him, nearly knocking him off the bed, and they're both laughing, kisses mingling with Molly's excited exclamations that Rosie can be the flower girl! and There better not be any attempted murders at our wedding.

They are married in early autumn, when the sunflowers are in full bloom and the air is crisp and clean. Every detail is perfect, from the rich mocha bridesmaid dresses, the yellow bouquets, and Molly's simple, lace-adorned gown at the countryside chapel to the soft-lit floating candles and champagne in the crystal flutes at the reception hall.

They were very selective with their invitations, and as such, the party is a small one. Sherlock and Molly's immediate families, as well as John and Rosie, Mrs. Hudson, Greg and his girlfriend, Mike Stamford and his wife, and a handful of Molly's friends and colleagues were the only ones to make the cut.

The celebration is in full swing, and Sherlock has taken a break from dancing with his wife to walk onto the patio and breathe in the night air, while she handles the 'mingling'. He'd made his rounds with her when they'd first arrived, but socializing and small talk was still – and would always be – Molly's department.

As happy (Content? Delighted? Filled with immeasurable joy and pleasure?) as marrying Molly has made him, Sherlock is equally relieved that weddings are designed to occur only once in a lifetime.

He loosens his bow tie and undoes the first button on his shirt, leaning onto the stone balustrade lining the patio and looking out into the gardens. He would say that the evening had been a success – Rosamund had done marvelously as their flower girl, and Molly's nephew had been surprisingly good with her throughout the ceremony, holding her hand and guiding her back down the aisle at the appropriate time. Neither Sherlock nor Molly had misspoken during their vows. And while Molly teared up – especially during John's best man speech – there had, thankfully, been no crimes attempted that evening – murder or otherwise (though he considered the fact that leaving a speck of that cake to waste could certainly be considered a crime.)

Perhaps the only blight on an otherwise perfect evening was the fact that Eurus was as unresponsive as ever to his visits, and as such – had no part in their wedding. He had informed her of the impending nuptials halfway through his and Molly's engagement and had no doubt she could decipher the date from her observations, but her only response, beside a twitch of her lips, was to turn her back to him in her cell. Thankfully, there had been no other outbursts, and her anger after her illness seemed to have abated. Still – though the guards said that she would play her (new, courtesy of Mycroft) violin passionately and beautifully on her own, she refused to do anything but listen in silence when Sherlock visited her. Most of the time, she refused to even look at him.

But enough of Eurus. Tonight is about joy, and celebration, and –

"Needed a break, too, then, eh?" A familiar voice intrudes upon Sherlock's thoughts, and he gives a nod to Lestrade in welcome. The man joins him in leaning on the balustrade, suit jacket off and a glass of liquor in his hand. They stand in companionable silence, looking out over the moonlit shrubbery, still lovely before the coming winter.

"You know," Greg says slowly, after a moment – "if you'd invited me to your wedding two years ago, I'd've knocked your head off for leading Molly on for the sake of some stupid case, because that's what I'd've believed it was."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "Pretty low opinion you have of Molly's discernment."

Greg nods, a short laugh escaping him. "You're right. I'd underestimated the balance in your relationship for – a long time. But then, this – everything – you've done - well, Sherlock. And more than that – you've done good. I hope I'm not overstepping when I say – I'm right proud of you."

A smile flickers across Sherlock's face, and he inclines his head in thanks.

"Molly tells me you helped plan a good deal of this." He continues neutrally.

Sherlock straightens, stretching his neck to the left and right and giving his friend a grin. "Well, you know. Divide and conquer, isn't that what they say?"

"You'd have to, to pull all this off in less than four months."

Sherlock smiles to himself.

"You're a man of many talents. And a man of many secrets, too, apparently." Greg shakes his head. A short lull, and then – "Never took you for a spiritual man."

"Pardon?"

"Your vows. They were – more traditional than I expected. 'Before God' and all that. Was that for Molly, or…?"

Sherlock looks to the sky for a moment, where stars are just beginning to appear - a dusting of light on a pallet of blues and greys. He thinks of his sister, and his brother, and the roles they've played in his life. He thinks of Greg, and the paths the Detective Inspector has motivated him to take. He thinks of Stamford introducing him to Dr. John Watson, and of Mrs. Hudson – whose firm foundation has provided him a safe haven for so many years. He thinks of John, and Mary, and Rosamund – his guiding stars - and of Molly. Sherlock and Molly – the two of them were locked in a slow, distant orbit for so long, until the force that was Eurus caused their worlds to collide and implode, leaving something new and different and better in their wake. He thinks of his desperate, pleading prayer in Thailand for Molly to be safe, and the swift and uncanny response.

"I've always said that there is no such thing as coincidence; that the universe is rarely so lazy." A half smile appears on his face, and he is contemplative. "Perhaps - I've come to accept the idea that it is not simply the universe that is so animated in directing our lives. Perhaps a more creative – a more intentional - force is at play than simple matter moving through time and space."

Greg purses his lips and nods. "Right. Good - that." He claps Sherlock on the shoulder. "Ready to head back to the missus, then?" He inclines his head toward the hall behind them, where laughter and light and the sound of music make every effort to envelope the guests in warmth and levity.

Molly is standing by the nearest set of doors, and she's just thrown her head back to laugh at something a very cross-looking Rosie has stood on tip-toe to whisper to her. She quickly makes amends by bending down to look her in the eye, and smiles, imparting some sort of aunt-ly wisdom that appeases the child, who lifts her chin in triumph and stalks off. Molly rises slowly – her feet, even in low heels, must be killing her, right now – and she squares her shoulders, stretching them, just a bit, as she straightens. She looks out the glass latticework and meets Sherlock's gaze, and smiles.

"Always," Sherlock replies. "Always."

A/N: There it is! I apologize for the very long wait, but I think I had a pretty good excuse. Thank you for your patience.

I also apologize because I feel like I was unable to give this final chapter the time and attention I have given previous ones, for obvious reasons. But - I figured, better to bite the bullet and post as not-quite-perfect than to wait around 18 years for the kids to grow up and give me time alone, lol. Please let me know of any glaring grammar errors. I'm sure I'll spot seven as soon as I publish this.

I have to say thank you to my friend GoodShipSherlollipop, whose chats have really encouraged me to carve out some time for myself to get back into writing, and whose Journey story inspired the wedding scene and the little conversation with Greg at the end.

You may have also noticed that I did not finish with "THE END". This is because I have a (much much shorter) epilogue to write, because this chapter was long enough as is.

Please review if you have time!