Author's Note: Last chapter. I hope you've had fun with this fic and the places it has gone, and I also hope you like this ending chapter. Thanks to everyone who has reviewed, favourited and followed. I say it all the time, I know, but that doesn't mean it's any less true. (Yeah, I'm in a sappy mood.) Enjoy!

Sunday

Behind him, the wall clock ticks. The pace is regular, monotone; insistent.

Two minutes. 120 seconds.

120, 119, 118, 117...

"I did want to get some autopsies done today." Leaning against the kitchen worktop, stirring the boiling pasta idly, she crosses her legs and reveals an even more expansive view of her thigh. She sighs, the sound bright and almost cheery, and stretches. He doesn't fail to notice the flash of her knickers (pink, laced) that accompanies the gesture. 114, 113, 112, 111, 110…

"But of course, Mark hadn't filed the reports I told him to do – so I got stuck with a huge amount of admin instead, again. I think I'll have to get Mike to talk to him, see if he can get Mark to buck his ideas up a bit. I mean, I know we work in a morgue, and the dead aren't exactly the most impatient of people, but to spend all day playing Tetris…"

She pauses, switching off the oven and draining out the pasta. Soon, a plate of something resembling pasta with sauce is placed in front of him. Innocently, she settles down opposite him, her brown eyes wide and focusing on him as she picks non-committedly at her food.

"Do you that little amount of faith in your own cooking?" he asks lightly, and she glances at him, considering his question. She answers with a shrug and a quick bite of her meal. Her tongue darts out against her lips.

99, 98, 97, 96, 95…

She breaks out into a giggle. "Yes. You know I'm a terrible cook, Sherlock."

He risks a taste of the meal in front of him, and can't help but make a face. He has to admit; she's right. Cooking has never been—and probably never will be—Molly's forte. Giving a single nod, he lightly pushes the meal away.

"Not my best experiment." She moves towards the bin, scraping the uneaten food into it. She turns her head to look at him, strands from her messy bun falling out and framing her face.

90, 89, 88, 87, 86, 85, 84…

"Maybe I should get Mrs Hudson to teach me." She wanders back to the table, leaning against it, close beside him. "What do you think?"

She's within reaching distance. All he has to do is stretch out an arm and wind it around her waist, pulling her away and onto his lap—

The clock keeps ticking.

80, 79, 78, 76, 75, 74, 73…

"A good idea," he answers, swallowing. "I'm sure Mrs Hudson will be glad to help you."

She leans further back against the table, eyebrows knitting together in a question. She still hasn't noticed the clock. 69, 68, 67, 66, 65. "You're sure?"

"If you ask nicely, yes."

"Hm. I suppose so. You're horrid to her, and she does pretty much everything you ask." As if it's an everyday action, before he can even reply, she shifts back, further and further until she's sitting, cross-legged, on the table, opposite him. She fixes him with a sincere look, but nothing between them is said.

54, 53, 52, 51, 50.

Her gaze moves away from him, down towards the shirt she currently wears. It's not her favourite; it's a rich, dark maroon, a striking colour that only serves to accentuate her paler skin. He looms over her in usual situations, so it isn't a surprise that his shirts drown her. Unless she rolls them up past her elbows, the sleeves are always far too long. The hem, if she doesn't tie it tightly at her waist, skims the edge of her thighs.

One button, slowly undone. A second, quicker this time.

30, 29, 28, 27, 26, 25…

A third button crumbles under the gentle pressure of her fingers, and the shirt falls away, slipping down past a shoulder, giving him a glimpse of what he yearns to (and now can) touch. Her hair tickles the base of her neck. She pulls herself a little closer. Her legs part. A smile comes, twitching at the hollow of his cheek. If this week has proven anything about his Molly, the woman he plans to marry, it's that she is utterly wicked. Her hands touch at her, palming at the flesh, moving underneath towards the back of her legs before they draw upwards, coming to rest atop her thighs.

He eyes the clock.

15, 14, 13, 12, 11…

A hand returns to the buttons, hovering over the fourth. If she undoes that one, no doubt that the shirt will fall away, leaving only a pair of knickers to contain her modesty.

10, 9, 8, 7, 5…

He doesn't care a jot about modesty.

Neither does she.

4, 3, 2, 1.

It's Sunday. It's 7 o'clock in the evening. A whole week has passed. For seven days, he has not touched this woman. This gorgeous, infuriating woman.

She says his name, and that's enough. Grabbing at her waist, he pulls her forward, gripping her tight and practically hikes her onto his lap.

"Sherl—"

That's as far as she gets. Cupping at the base of her neck, her hair running through and against his fingers, he crushes his mouth to hers for the first time in a week. She sighs into his mouth, pressing herself against his chest, looping her arms around his neck and shoulders, holding him closer, pawing at him until the sensations almost hurt from the relief and contentment that they provide.

He can feel her smile.

"What?"

"You lost the bet," she whispers against his lips, her fingertips running over the line of his jaw. There's a dreamy tone to her words, and he has to laugh. Wordlessly, he points to the clock. Still with her arms around him, she twists her head around. Her mouth folds into a pout. She looks back to him, and her eyes are beseeching.

"Can we still have the honeymoon?"

"I suppose – if you ask nicely, of course."

After a week of not touching (a week he knows he will never want to repeat), her grin widens at this particular statement. She leans closer towards him.

"Oh, I am such a silly old woman!" The groan that comes from Sherlock at the sound of both Mrs Hudson's breathless panic and her footsteps up the stairs cannot be contained. Hugging Molly closer, the pair of them watch as Mrs Hudson flies in through the kitchen doorway, hands flapping and muttering under her breath.

"Should've remembered – so very silly of me, I should've written it down somewhere!"

"For God's sake," Sherlock hisses, but Molly shushes him, always the politer of them both—even when she's half undressed.

"Is something wrong, Mrs Hudson?"

"No, nothing wrong dear – just annoyed, that's all—" Mrs Hudson says, still breathless from the exertion of her (no doubt needless) panic, and reaches up to grab at the wall clock. She tuts. "Oh, I can't believe I forgot!"

Sherlock shifts in his seat. Molly's breasts, just peeking out from underneath his shirt, are tantalisingly close and why in the hell won't Mrs Hudson leave? "What did you forget?"

"Surely you know! Daylight Savings!"

The silence that comes with her statement makes her look up.

"Sherlock, please tell me you've heard of Daylight Savings before! Today's the day the clocks go back!" She continues over the sound of Molly's immediate burst into hysterics. "I heard the man on the radio talk about it – a whole hour I could've had, all to myself today, it's so irritating – wait, Sherlock, you look a little disappointed, dear."

Molly, smug, laughter still bubbling up from her throat, grins. "Oh, he's not disappointed Mrs Hudson. He's just remembered he's got some housework to do – that's all."

The rarely-heard sound of the vacuum cleaner fills 221b Baker Street. Toby, purring, curls up on the top of the chair behind her, tail swishing and Molly takes a very deep swig of her triumphant cup of tea, her legs tucked nice and tight underneath her.

Sherlock, his features dark with a deep glower, pushes the vacuum across the floor.

"You might've said how tight these would actually be, Molly."

"I don't know what you're complaining about, Sherlock," she remarks, snuggling down into her fiancé's chair. She continues, gleefully, to absorb the sight before her. "I've got a perfect view."

She takes another sip, bringing out her phone. Sherlock glares at her.

"Molly, don't you dare—"

She dares. The camera flashes; his glare deepens. Molly shrugs.

"Just taking a picture for posterity." After all, it's not every day she gets to watch Sherlock Holmes, great consulting detective, clean Baker Street in nothing but a pair of bright red Speedos.

It's worth all the banging and crashing she hears almost constantly now. It's even worth the passionate yells and heated calls of their names that she has to use earplugs to block out. It's been worth the disturbances to her weekly bridge meetings and the odd looks she receives from potential tenants when they come in to see that newly refurbished basement flat.

Yes, some might term her trick with the whole Daylight Savings a little bit cruel (no doubt Sherlock will term her a traitor or some such thing when he finds out, but he is often a little dramatic that way, just like his brother), but, Mrs Hudson muses, chopping up apples for her apple crumble—she does love a bit of pudding—it did work perfectly.

And it is worth it; because, for once, in all the time that Sherlock Holmes has lived at 221b Baker Street, she isn't being the bloody housekeeper.