A/N: Well, the special definitely gave some contrary ideas to this story ever being possible, but I'm continuing nonetheless (the joys of fanfiction of course!). Hope you enjoy it regardless! Feel free to talk to me about the special or anything else on Tumblr (same name as my fanfiction one)!

"Oh my god," Molly said. "Sherlock, please tell me that isn't what I think it is."

He looked up from his project and frowned at the tone of her voice. Was there a reason she was so concerned?

Her eyebrows were furrowed, and she was busy tugging at the neckline of her dress in her usual nervous fashion. He looked it over, noting the price tag tucked under the arm that she hadn't quite managed to snip off. Something new then. Though that was unsurprising considering she'd lost five pounds in the last two months alone. He hadn't made any remarks yet. He knew that such things in Molly were rarely good signs…not when she hadn't changed her diet in any respect.

"It's a Christmas gift," Sherlock said. "Obviously. All it takes is using your eyes to discern that much."

She stared at him for a long moment. "I know it's a gift. What I'm concerned about is the fact that we never discussed what I can already deduce is inside the box. I swear, sometimes you really are clueless, Sherlock."

He frowned sitting up a little straighter. What could he possibly have missed? He eyed her again, noting how she shifted under his gaze.

"But you've mentioned how much you missed him. I assumed it would only be natural that you and Johann and Alex would want another. It seemed like a suitable Christmas gift to me."

Molly positively scowled, though her face softened some as she heard footsteps on the stairs. Sherlock watched as Mrs. Hudson came up with Lestrade behind her.

"It's so lovely you two decided to do this," Mrs. Hudson said. "I've missed you two the last few years, always going off to see Sherlock's parents."

"Yes," Molly said. "Well, it was time for a Christmas at Baker Street for once."

"In other words, even Molly Hooper herself can only stand so much time with my parents," Sherlock said with a shake of his head.

Even with the two of them off traveling, he knew he'd managed to hit the real truth of the matter. Especially when Molly's cheeks flushed.

Mrs. Hudson just waved a hand as she ushered Lestrade over to the table already laden with various cakes and sweets. The detective inspector politely filled his plate before coming to take a seat on the sofa.

"So, what were you two quarreling about before we came up?" Mrs. Hudson asked. "It's Christmas. You've promised you'll behave, Sherlock."

"I have never made such a promise in my life," Sherlock said.

Molly sighed and shook her head. "I wouldn't trouble yourself with it, Mrs. Hudson. You'll find out when we open gifts I suspect."

Lestrade grinned and downed another large swallow of his drink.

"Not an engagement ring or something ridiculous I hope. I thought you two were determined never to tie the knot."

"Some of us have no desire to end up divorced," Sherlock said. "Painful things divorces, aren't they Lestrade?"

His smile disappeared. "Eh, you've no right to say a thing like that. You heard Mrs. H. You behave, you hear me?"

"Sorry," Sherlock said, offering a faux smile as he steepled his hands. "At least your new lover is proving to be semi-successful. Or it seems to have lasted a decent amount of time if nothing else."

Lestrade just scowled and stood up to go pour himself another drink. Sherlock wondered if he should comment on that as well…the obvious point that the lover was mysteriously absent and Lestrade was downing more than his usual amount of alcohol.

But before he could. Molly reached out and delivered a stinging slap to his arm. He winced and pulled away from her, sighing as he recalculated his words.

"I apologize," Sherlock finally said. "My point simply is I don't believe either Molly or myself really sees a reason to go through a ceremony at this point."

Molly eyed him, but she said nothing. He knew she was probably still thinking about what he'd told her. And he meant it of course. Marriage was pointless in his eyes. But there was no reason he wouldn't go through with a ceremony if it meant something to Molly.

But only after he was certain things were safe. There was no point in dragging themselves through all that nonsense with Moriarty still on the loose.

He sighed, wondering if it was too much to hope that by next Christmas things would finally be wrapped up.

"And where are the boys?" Mrs. Hudson asked, pulling him from his thoughts.

Sherlock straightened up, glancing towards the stairs. He honestly wasn't entirely sure what was keeping the two of them so long.

"Upstairs," Molly said. "They'll be down in a minute."

There was a moment of awkward silence. And then Sherlock heard the telltale sound of footsteps before both boys appeared in the door. The only problem was that neither was empty handed.

"Happy birthday to you," Alex began, voice unwavering in spite of its poor key. Johann grimaced at his brother's lack of tune, but nonetheless sang as well, doing his best to add a harmony, never letting go of the cake balanced in his hands. The confection wavered slightly as they stepped down, several candles flickering as they bathed the chocolate frosting in an orange glow.

"What nonsense is this," Sherlock muttered even as Molly giggled.

"Happy birthday dear Sherlock!" Molly and Mrs. Hudson and even Lestrade chorused at the same time as Johann said "dad". "Happy birthday to you!"

"Oh blow out the candles and make a wish, dear!" Mrs. Hudson said, clapping her hands.

"Have all of you lost your minds? Or did you just completely forget that my birthday is in January?"

Alex grinned and came forward to set several presents into his lap.

"We're not idiots, you know. We just knew if we tried to sit you down for a party in January that you'd resist. So we figured if we surprised you early at an occasion you already felt obligated to attend that you'd have no choice but to accept us celebrating you."

"Precisely," Johann said with a nod.

Sherlock sighed, but did oblige the boys at least by leaning forward and puffing a long breath onto the flickering flames of the candles. It only took two blows before he'd extinguished them. Alex and Johann both grinned before setting the cake aside.

"Now boys," Molly said. "Though I believe you do have some things for your father, I think Sherlock's gift should probably be opened first…"

She gave a pointed glare in the direction of the box.

Johann went to grab it. He knelt and glanced at the tag before nodding to Alex.

"It's for you," he said.

"Well, it doesn't take Sherlock Holmes to deduce what that box probably is," Alex said, eyeing the holes in the side. "Sherlock, you didn't have to."

Even with his meek protests, Alex went over to lift the lid. There was a soft noise and then one of Alex's hands dipped into the box to scoop out the contents. Sherlock smiled as Alex pulled out a small orange kitten that had begun to mew.

"Sherlock," Molly said with a sigh.

"What?" Sherlock asked, blinking a few times as he gazed at her. "It seemed a perfectly logical present. You buy one something that they need replaced. For example, you bought Johann new dress shoes since he's outgrown his last ones."

Molly pursed her lips. "I would have thought with Redbeard, you'd be familiar with the idea that pets aren't exactly something that can just be replaced."

It was impossible to restrain a flinch from her words. That name, he didn't know how it could still inspire such pain. But it did, and he recoiled from the emotions the moment he began to feel them.

"That's irrelevant," Sherlock said with a wave of his hand, doing his best to keep the images of his beautiful old dog out of his mind.

"Is it, Sherlock?" Molly snapped.

"I like him," Alex said. He looked up and stared at Molly fiercely. "So don't you dare chew him out. I'm happy."

"What are you going to name the little bugger?" Lestrade asked, taking a larger swallow of his drink as he looked between Sherlock and Molly.

"I think I'll name him Brutus."

"Brutus is a dog's name, dear," Mrs. Hudson said.

Alex's head snapped up and a look Sherlock didn't think he'd ever seen passed over Alex's face.

"I want to name him that and I'm going to," he snapped. "He's my cat."

"Quite right," Molly said, putting on a smile even as she glanced at Mrs. Hudson nervously. "You name him what you wish, Alex."

Sherlock still found his gaze on Alex's face, trying to discern what that wrinkled brow and those pursed lips really meant. He didn't think he'd ever seen the boy snap at Mrs. Hudson of all people.

"Of course, dear," Mrs. Hudson said with a wave of her hand.

Alex's face softened some. "Westley," he said after a moment. "His name is Westley."

For some reason Sherlock found himself searching his mind palace, trying to place the significance. There was something in both. Some meaning that had caused Alex to become so snappish in the first place. Brutus… Mrs. Hudson was correct it did strike a resemblance more to a canine name than the softer feline counterparts.

He was so lost pondering that he missed what Molly had said until he looked up to find her gazing at him fixedly.

"We're going to cut the cake now, is that all right?" she asked.

"Yes," Sherlock said.

He watched as Alex withdrew to the other side of the room, still holding Westley close. The boy had his head bent forward slightly, hair falling into his eyes as he focused his attention on the cat. He sat down in John's old chair, looking up slightly as he did so. And again Sherlock was struck by how much he looked like his father. But in the moment there was nothing in that to be celebrated.

Sherlock could so easily recall that first day together. John in the chair with his cane beside him while Mrs. Hudson welcomed him to the flat. He remembered John's face lined, eyes shadowed, merely a fragment of his true self. Harrowed by war and pain and stress.

And here was a mirror image not conjured by mind palace. But in a boy half John's age, still somehow bearing the marks of harder battles than most adults had faced in a lifetime.

Merry Christmas indeed.

"Dad?"

He looked up to see Johann standing to his side with a piece of cake. Those eyes stared at him, then over towards Alex.

"Your cake," Johann said, pushing the plate forward. He leaned in and whispered, "Better eat it or Mrs. Hudson will have a fit."

Sherlock took the fork and raised it to show his compliance. His stream of thought broken, he did his best to concentrate on taking a few bites of the sugary offering. But still, his mind wandered as he did.

His only hope was in seeing a rare smile form as Westley snuggled into his new owner's lap and quickly fell asleep. Sherlock caught the joy in Alex's eyes for a moment, and he took it as a sign that better times were perhaps on the way.

Answers weren't there.

He simply needed to begin to accept that fact. But Sherlock was nothing if not persistent. And he refused to believe that there were no answers. Such a belief would have been the end of him.

Wandering the room, he kept his eyes out for the telltale clues. They had to be here. They were here somewhere. He'd reviewed them regularly, and he knew these facts well enough. There were answers somewhere in these very walls.

He knelt and looked at a broken frame, trying his best to pull together the signs of what had happened just from the pieces of shattered glass.

"If anyone can do it it's you."

He spun around and eyed his companion with a good deal of scrutiny.

"Perhaps he's right. I've lost my touch," Sherlock muttered. "If this was a few years ago I'd be done with this case. But somehow…somehow this one lingers."

"You haven't."

Sherlock smiled and looked John over once more. "I just cannot piece it together. I've tried. I…I've never been more helpless before."

John stepped forward, reaching out to lay a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Put the facts together. You know you have it."

He turned back to the room, surveying it once more. The clues were all here. All he had to do was—

"Sherlock."

His eyes opened and he looked up to see Mycroft standing over him. Sherlock blinked a few times as he regathered his wits, taking in the familiar Baker Street flat he was sitting in.

"Not again," Mycroft sighed. "List please?"

He shook his head and pushed himself off of the sofa to stand. He put one hand to his temple.

"It's short," he said. "In fact, short enough I didn't write it down. Merely a few nicotine patches. Satisfied?"

Mycroft frowned. "Sherlock Holmes if you are lying to me I swear I will—"

"I'm not."

"Good. Because you can use all the clear-headedness you can muster. I'm afraid England needs your help, as ever."

"What's wrong this time?" Sherlock muttered.

The corners of Mycroft's mouth seemed to move impossibly lower. "Assassination."

His head jerked up. He was unsure if he'd heard his brother correctly. But another second's pause gave him time enough to be sure it was right.

"Of whom?"

Mycroft sighed.

"I'd assume it's someone important," Sherlock said. "Considering you're here in person rather than calling me."

Lips pursed. Sherlock might have celebrated both hitting the nail on the head and getting under his brother's skin, but the moment was too grave for either. He waited, deciding to just allow the words to be spoken, even if he could determine it himself with a little work.

"Three members of parliament."

"At the same time?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft shook his head. "No. I'm afraid not."

Oh this was good. Three separate killings that were somehow linked. Serial murders then. Perfect.

"Names? Details? Anything you can give me."

Mycroft sighed. "James Hartley, shot in the head while driving just two hours ago. Mathilda Hopkins, broken neck in her own home last night, found in the last half-hour. Samuel West, stabbed in the heart while in a public restroom sometime this morning."

"And any signs of the assassin himself?" Sherlock asked he paced over to the window, looking out as though hoping for signs of the killer himself. "Have the rest of the members of parliament been given protection?"

"Of course," Mycroft said, leaning a little further on his umbrella. "All accounted for. We're proceeding cautiously, but for now these terror attacks seem to be done. As for the culprit, there is no sign of him."

"Him?"

Mycroft sighed. "A name has been floating about. We'd ignored it up until this point…assumed it was nothing. Perhaps just another of Moriarty's aliases with Richard Brook and all that."

"And the name is?" Sherlock asked. "Why didn't you tell me all this before? I might have told you if it was an alias or not."

"Sebastian Moran," Mycroft said. "It seemed irrelevant at the time. But now…"

"And your information on this man? What leads you to believe it's him?" Sherlock asked. He went over to grab his coat, already aware that he was probably going to be dragged to the crime scenes to study these various corpses and look for further clues.

"We were told he was a highly trained assassin," Mycroft said. "Working for Moriarty."

Sherlock paused as he reached for his scarf, considering.

"But we gathered up all the main parts of his inner circle," Sherlock pointed out.

"Then he has somehow proved that even in destruction he can continue to find henchmen," Mycroft said with a sigh. "He proves himself less a spider and more a sea star…able to regenerate his many reaching arms. But you had already suspected this."

"Yes," Sherlock said. "He grows weaker. The endgame approaches. And he will have done well to prepare himself with only the best. This has been his plan all along. Perhaps I've only played as he wanted me to."

He closed his eyes for a moment, and before him stretched the chess board he always pictured when it came to Moriarty and the way they'd danced around each other over the years.

There were pieces to the side of course. Already removed from play. He looked at Irene's bishop piece and winced at the thought.

The black side seemed almost empty. At least compared to how it had started. Pawns lined the sides of the board. No longer in play. But there were still key components he needed to knock out. And for once, Sherlock wondered if Moriarty had simply pushed those pawns at him in order to keep him off track of dealing with the real targets. He eyed the black queen. Moran perhaps? Could he really have missed someone so key to the game?

His eyes opened and he withdrew from his mind palace. Mycroft was still looking at him, though there was no confusion on his face. He knew what Sherlock had been doing.

"To the crime scenes, brother dear?" Sherlock muttered.

"Yes. Though perhaps you'd like to mention to your sons why you've left the flat."

Sherlock nodded, sliding into his coat before heading to the stairs.

He rapped twice before Johann told him to come in.

Johann looked up as he opened the door, leaning back in his chair at the desk. Sherlock took a moment to glance at the subject occupying Johann's attention, and he was somewhat unsurprised when he found that it was history, his current favorite. Though he wondered how much attention was going to the study when the boy's computer was also opened up.

"Focusing on your studies?"

Johann's brow furrowed. "Looking into the Australian outback. For my own purposes of course."

Sherlock shook his head, distracted momentarily as he noticed that Alex was asleep in the middle of his bed, his face planted in a maths textbook.

He stalked closer to shake the teenager awake. With Alex's busy schedule, he couldn't afford to sleep during the middle of the day. But Sherlock's attention was diverted as he noted a strange marking on Alex's hand.

Something had been scribbled in ink. Slightly faded, but still somewhat visible. He could just barely make out numbers there. 121.

Brow furrowed, he leaned in closer to try to make out the smaller script below. But just as he was about to see it, Alex's hand drew back into his chest, and the boy stirred. Alex's forehead crinkled before his eyes cracked open.

"You ought to wake up," Sherlock said. "It's the middle of the afternoon. Molly's said you have quite a bit of homework, and a football match this week too if I'm not mistaken."

Alex pursed his lips before stretching his limbs out in all directions. He yawned and shook his head.

"I'm too tired. Just give me a few minutes and I'll be back to work."

Sherlock frowned, but he knew this was more Molly's area than his. If Alex was confident he could finish his schoolwork and be prepared for his sporting events, then Sherlock saw no reason he shouldn't be allowed to sleep.

Until Johann interrupted.

"It's your fault you were up late last night," Johann said. "Just because you and Thomas were shagging each other's brains out."

"What?" Sherlock said, though he was neither shocked by the indelicacies coming from Johann's mouth, nor the idea that Alex had been having relations. Both were already tendencies he was aware of. But still, he didn't remember Alex leaving last night, nor Molly saying anything about it.

Alex flushed. "Nothing. Don't worry about it."

Johann looked up from his desk triumphantly. "He went out last night and didn't tell you. Came back home all flushed. No point in lying, Alex. I know what you were up to."

Alex stared at his brother, eyes narrowing. Sherlock sighed and shook his head. This wasn't the time. Between Johann actually acting his age and tattling and Alex acting in some rebellious teenage phase, he couldn't handle it. There was too much to do right now. But even so, he felt his heart racing a little at the thought of Alex out at night, walking the London streets where he was already aware Moriarty and Moran were waiting.

"I don't have time for this at the moment," Sherlock said. "Mycroft has a case for me. But rest assured, Alex, I'll be telling Molly about this."

He watched both the boys scowl at one another before shaking his head and going to the door. He just needed to pull this together. Finish things off so he could actually have a spare moment to be a parent. As he greeted Mycroft downstairs, all he could think about was the pressing signs that he was already failing.

By the time he arrived home his head was spinning. Sherlock felt like he could hardly think anymore, after being shown three different crime scenes, all of which had yielded so few results that he didn't know where to begin. He'd kept a face on in front of Mycroft, but it was difficult to remain optimistic in light of so little evidence.

He trudged in through the door, closing and locking it behind him. With a soft sigh he reached up to rub his eyes, passing Mrs. Hudson's dark kitchen.

Up the old familiar stairs, mind still wandering as he did. Perhaps he should work longer. But was there really more he could do?

"Moran is only human," he whispered. "He'll have slipped up somehow. The answer is…how?"

He'd seen signs of course. Scattered bullets in the location the assassin had camped out; a few that had rolled into a corner to be missed when the others were picked up again…as though the killer had been nervous…hands shaking as he loaded the weapon. How else would such an amateur mistake be made?

His trail of thought broke off as he entered the bedroom. Molly was stretched out on her side, the bedside lamp she'd left on illuminating her. He eyed her face, smooth and untroubled in sleep.

There was the temptation to turn off the light and go back to the sitting room to work. But at the same time, Sherlock knew he couldn't do it. No. He needed some rest. A recharge for the serious work tomorrow. Besides, without knowing anything about the bodies there was little he could do.

He slipped off his shirt and trousers, kicking his shoes off. He slid into bed without bothering to pick up the garments still on the floor.

Molly stirred as the bed tilted beneath his weight. She blinked a few times, looking at him with a sense of sleepy confusion on her face.

"What time is it?"

"Late," Sherlock said. "I'm sorry I disturbed you. Mycroft had me out on a case."

She groaned and sat up a few centimeters, enough to be able to look at the clock. One hand came up to rub at her temple and eyes.

"God, it must have been important."

"Parliament members killed," Sherlock muttered. He sighed and rolled onto his side to look her in the eye. "Three of them. We suspect it's Moriarty."

She sat up a little more, frowning.

"Wait, Hartley and oh…what's her name…"

Sherlock nodded.

"Yes, I looked them over," Molly said. "Was a bit late coming home myself after doing the post mortems."

Of course, Mycroft must have known it would be best to send them to Molly. Although, Sherlock suspected with the reputation Molly had gained in her field it might have just been normal enough for her to receive such high profile victims. Rush jobs that needed to be done quickly to satisfy the government and the public.

"Anything of interest?" he muttered. "I was told it was a shooting, a broken neck, and a stabbing."

Molly nodded. "Well…the shooting seemed quite unremarkable. Shot to the head. Perfect. He died quickly thank god. The broken neck was probably about the same…quick and calculated, done by hand from everything I can see. A sudden blow causing a cervical fracture. Whoever did it certainly knew where to hit. But it was the stabbing… there were…other wounds. Shallow cuts before the final one was struck."

Sherlock took that in. There were so many different conclusions that could be drawn though. Stabbing was more…personal. More difficult in some ways than just shooting a gun. But then again, so was breaking someone's neck…but perhaps the assassin had hesitated on that too. Perhaps Samuel West had been more difficult. The public setting…a struggle. Again, perhaps a place there might be more clues for him. He'd have to go back again tomorrow.

"Either way, they all died," Molly said with a sigh. "And they all came bearing the same marks."

"Marks?" Sherlock asked, frowning. Mycroft had mentioned nothing of this.

Molly stared at him for a moment. "Oh…I thought. Well…they all had letters written on them. Red paint."

Sherlock considered for a moment. There was something…odd about that. He had to place his finger on it. It took a second, and then he figured it out.

"What letters?"

Molly sighed. "Er…an O and a U…um…I think there was also an I."

Sherlock's mouth tightened as he discerned the meaning very quickly. I O U. Clever. Though not as clever as he might have expected. But still, there had to be a mistake somewhere.

"Even the sniper victim?"

Molly nodded, brow creasing. "That's true, I hadn't really thought much about him but he did actually have it…he…yes…on his face."

"Curious," Sherlock whispered, mind reeling. "So either the killer or an accomplice had to be near the body afterwards. This could be our key to catching him. The sniper shooting was the most public of deaths…perhaps someone or a camera saw him. Something, anything that could link him."

"Maybe," Molly said with a sigh. She moved closer, head coming down to rest on his shoulder. He brought a hand up to run through her hair, admiring how soft it was as always.

She relaxed into him, exhaling as she did, eyes closing. He murmured something nonsensical into her ear, watching as the tension completely unraveled.

"It's been a while," he said after a bit. "Perhaps…we ought to…?"

Her head moved minimally against his shoulder.

"No."

"You're sure?" he whispered. "We could…it might help us both relax."

"I'm fine." Her eyes opened again and she looked up at him pointedly. "I accept you as you are, Sherlock. You know that don't you? I don't need you to be something you're not."

"Of course not," he said with a frown.

"Then don't offer it like…like…like tea or something." She huffed. "It's not just something I want for comfort or destressing or anything like that. I'm happy, Sherlock. I love you, and that's what matters. That's always been what matters."

Molly moved in to press a soft kiss to his cheek.

His eyes roamed back over her, taking in the well-defined contours of her face, those deep brown eyes and those lovely lips. He let his gaze dip lower, over pleasing curves just barely hidden beneath her pajamas. As per usual, nothing really stirred. But it had been a long time since he'd first done this sort of thing as a teenager. He no longer felt panicked that he was somehow broken or wrong or a…freak. He was simply different. And that was all right.

"I don't know what I did to deserve you, Molly Hooper," he whispered, wrapping his arms a little tighter and delivering a squeeze.

Molly's smile brightened.

"You deserve me, Sherlock," she said leaning up to kiss him on the lips, chastely with just a brush of her mouth before pulling back. "You deserve…ten times more happiness than I can possibly give you. You deserve to wake up without fear and go on your cases knowing you're simply making the world a little better. You deserve to come home to a place you feel loved and cared for and…and understood. And if we have our way we'll build that world together."

He nodded and sighed. One of his fingers drifted down her cheek, tracing over it carefully. Perhaps he could memorize the details. He wanted that so much. To always have a perfect lifelike image of her in his head, just like this.

A/N: So I'm really sorry for the melodrama of saying I wouldn't post any more until I finished it. I swear, I'm working on being less sensitive, but I just am so bad at having confidence in myself and my works. The main thing is, I want to finish this story. So my one request is if you don't like the story to please just leave. I'm so close to the end.

You've probably noticed an increase of angst. Yes, that's only going to get worse. But I'm not a person who likes sad stories, so hang in there if you can. Better things are coming. Plus, in case I haven't mentioned it I'm happy to take oneshot requests of any fluffy adorableness you want when this is all over. Molly and Sherlock, or the boys, or anything else! You definitely deserve it for putting up with so much!

Thanks to BelieverofManyThings for reviewing. Positive feedback means so much to me!