This is it, everyone! The last chapter! Thank you all so much for the kudos and encouragement, it was much appreciated. Now, time for an ANNOUNCEMENT-The following chapter is in two versions. The PG-13 version is here on Fanfiction. It you want to read the explicit version, visit me on the other major fanfic site, A O 3, to find it. Just do an author search, I have the same name there.

Despite having been up late talking with John, Sherlock slept well and rose early, showering and shaving before John or even Rosie awakened. He dressed in his usual dress shirt and jacket, nicked a scone from a bag in John's kitchen, threw on his scarf and coat, and was off for Bart's.

He strode purposefully through the lobby, took the lift to Molly's floor and approached her room with no small degree of trepidation. Biting his lip, he leaned through the door. She was asleep. Sherlock silently stole into the room and took a seat, filling his eyes with the sight of her. Molly looked peaceful…and beautiful. He sat, trying to process the myriad of thoughts and emotions swirling in his head. Closing his eyes, he walked through the entry of his mind palace. The room that was labeled "Molly Hooper" was suddenly brighter than he had remembered. He spent the next several minutes filing memories, including "the call", which he no longer looked upon with such bitterness, considering that it was the catalyst for all of this. He must really remember to send Eurus a fruit basket or something. When filing was complete, he reviewed several "Molly memories" from their first meeting all the way through his recent birthday cake outing. Deep in his mind palace, he realized that in nearly every one of these recollections, he was happy. That boded well. He also realized that he was attracted to Molly in every possible way—emotionally, intellectually—and physically. Just thinking of that caused his pulse to race. Yes, yes, it was all chemical, and in the past he would have just rationalized it as nothing more than science, but now, combined with the deep emotional attachment (love, Sherlock) he had discovered, he found he definitely wanted to experience everything his relationship with Molly would offer, including exploring just how many ways he could satisfy her. After all, she (and himself, if he was honest) had been waiting for a very long time. He decided to linger on those thoughts for a while longer….

Molly's eyes fluttered open, and they landed on her Detective. He was seated a few feet away, eyes closed, likely in his mind palace, a faint smile on his features, which made him look years younger. She took this fortuitous moment to study him. Even though she had always loved to look at Sherlock Holmes, his declaration yesterday made everything different. Now he was hers. Who knew that the threat of death and destruction was all that was needed to rattle him and bring this all out in the open? She would've gotten herself in trouble a long time ago if she'd known! Today, he was a new man, and yet the same inscrutable, brilliant genius she'd fallen for. His dark curls framed his face, and she itched to run her hands through them, to trace his cheekbones with her fingers, to feel his blue-green eyes on her. He was wearing her favorite purple shirt, stretched tightly across his chest (which seemed more muscular—was he working out?). Her eyes wandered downward, to the black trousers he wore, which clung to him in an ever-so-delightful way.

As much as she would have liked to stare at him all day, she really wanted to get out of this hospital and somewhere they could be alone, to talk, to perhaps snuggle, and, she dared to think, to make love. She hadn't any idea how experienced he was, but either way, she looked forward to advancing their relationship. Ordinarily, she wouldn't be so anxious to do so, but after all, how long had they known each other? The way she figured it, she'd waited long enough.

"Sherlock."

His eyes snapped open, and he grinned as he looked at her. "Good morning, Molly Hooper," he drawled.

"It's nice to see you here," she said.

"No place I'd rather be," he returned. "Wait a minute. Actually, there are many places I'd rather be, but only if you're with me." Thanks for the coaching, John Watson.

"That's very sweet of you to say, Sherlock Holmes." Was he blushing?

"How are you feeling?"

"Honestly? Better than I'd thought. You?"

He nodded slowly, "Not bad, considering. I did a bit of a survey last night, and everything seems to be improving."

They were interrupted by the physician on duty, who performed an examination and deemed Molly ready for discharge. She sent Sherlock on a mission to the pathology department to retrieve extra clothing stashed in her locker. Upon his return, she changed quickly into the fresh clothes; he offered her his arm and within minutes, they were strolling out into the morning sunlight together.

They walked and talked, heads together, past St. Paul's, down to the river, taking their time across the Millennium Bridge. They stopped in the middle to lean on the railing. The breeze fluttered Sherlock's hair; hers as well, since she'd left it down today. A tourist boat floated by beneath them.

"Sherlock? You don't have to answer this question because I know it may be difficult, but I want to know—what drove you to destroy the coffin?"

He looked down, studying his hands, the damage done to them by his explosion. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. "I always told myself that I could best do my job and live my life by avoiding emotions. I suppressed being a feeling, caring human because it was easier than remembering what Eurus had done to me. But when I said those words to you, those simple, little words, they sounded—right. And there it was, the easiest deduction of all, the pure and simple truth—clearly, not only was I capable of loving, I loved you. Why did I destroy the coffin? It was for a lot of reasons. First I was angry that Eurus even thought to threaten you, and second, I was so angry at myself for wasting so much time. Third, I hated myself for hurting you, because that is the very last thing I want to do."

Her eyes were full as he continued. "You said that it was always true, that you always loved me. Well, the truth is, I think—that I, no matter how hard I tried to deny it, have loved you for a long time."

"How long?" she asked, a smile playing about her lips.

Sherlock looked up in surprise. "How long?" he repeated.

"Since…your exam in the ambulance?" she suggested.

"Absolutely not," he said, eyes twinkling.

"Since…I slapped you when you were high?"

"Hmmm…no."

"How about…when I was dancing with Tom at the wedding?"

"Nope. But I was jealous."

"I should've gone after you," she admitted.

"It would have saved time," he chided her.

She rested her chin on her hands. "So, you loved me before that. Okay, how about since the Fall?"

"Uh-uh," he said. "Though the time I spent with you then helped."

Her brow furrowed in concentration. "This is getting difficult. I know—the Christmas party at 221B, when I brought you a present, and you said those horrible things, and I called you on it. And you apologised, and then you kissed me."

"Still not it."

"Damn. I don't think I washed that cheek for at least a month or so."

This drew a laugh from Sherlock. "Do you really want to know?" he asked.

"Well," Molly nodded, "yes—of course."

He turned and looked directly into her soft brown eyes. "All right. Molly, I've loved you since the very beginning, since I met you. After all, you were a pretty pathologist who allowed me access to the lab. It's not every consulting detective who gets to beat a corpse with a riding crop. I couldn't help but be intrigued by you. And then one day, they day I met John, you asked me out, for coffee, as I recall. I turned you down. God, that was stupid, but I was such a dick then, wasn't I? So, being intrigued at that time of my life? That was as close as I got to love then, but make no mistake, it was love. Molly, I know I hurt you so many times. I was an utter arse to you. How did you manage to put up with me?"

"Because I loved you, you great idiot," she said.

He hung his head sheepishly. "Will you please forgive me for the time I've wasted?"

She looked at him, hard, then nodding, she said, "Yes, but do me one favour, Sherlock Holmes."

"And that is?" he asked.

"Don't waste any more."

He had no need for words, but ruffled his hair, took her face in his hands, and lowered his lips to hers. They were warm and inviting, and as her arms reached up to encircle his neck, her mouth opened to his tongue and her body leaned into his. Sherlock's arms moved downward, pulling her close to him. His mind raced, processing all of these new sensations—the softness of her lips, the eagerness of her response to him, the glorious feeling of her body pressed against his. How long they stood there, kissing in the middle of London, as the great city rolled by past them, neither of them could ever be sure.

Sherlock finally pulled away, breathing fast. "Come on," he said hoarsely, his arm around her tightly. "Let's go home."

They arrived at Molly's—she had a bit of trouble fishing out her key since her fingers were entwined with his. It seemed that he couldn't get enough of even the slightest touch, and he hadn't released her hand since they entered the cab for the ride to her flat. She managed to get the door open, and they tumbled inside together.

Taking his hand, she tugged him toward her bedroom. "Molly," he said tentatively, "You're sure this is what you want?"

She gave him a gentle smile, the one that melted his heart, and brushing a stray lock from his brow, said, "Sherlock Holmes, you're very sweet to ask, but I've never been more certain about anything in my life." She pulled him into her room and after helping him divest himself of his coat and everything else under it, showed him just how certain she was.

Molly woke early the next morning, thoroughly relaxed and sated, with the utterly-pleasurable sensation of Sherlock's lean, warm body pressed up against her back, one arm wrapped around her, keeping her tucked snugly against his chest. She had never felt so…protected, so…loved. She lay quietly, enjoying listening to and feeling him breathe in his sleep. Tom had never made her feel this way. And for all his insistence that there had been a decided lack of physical intimacy in his life, Sherlock had been a considerate and expert lover, thoroughly devastating in his intensity and his abilities.

She twisted around until she was facing him, and he stirred. "Good morning," he rumbled.

"Good morning, Sherlock," she said, smiling impishly. "How are you?"

Considering his actions the night before, he looked so innocent lying there beside her, as he drew her closer to him. "I am…amazing. Never better."

"Me, too." She looked into his stunning eyes and said, "So, Sherlock…where do we go from here?"

He gazed at her knowingly. "I rather think I'd like to always wake up like this, with you. But how about we be like real people and actually go out on a date?"

"You? And me? On a date?"

"Yes, like…dinner, a night at the theatre, or…cake?"

"That doesn't sound like you."

"True," he agreed, "but I rather think I'm going to enjoy finding out who I really am. I've been…rebooted, Molly. It's time for a fresh start."

"I like that, but don't go changing too much, Sherlock. I fell in love with an insensitive arse who solves crimes, remember?"

"I'll try to remember that," he grinned. "Seriously, Molly—John recently pointed out to me that the one thing I was lacking that would make me a complete human being was having a romantic relationship, being in love. Well, he's right. Molly, you complete me. And I think—you make me the man I ought to be. Would you consider continuing to do that for me?"

"I'd like that, Sherlock, very much."

A mischievous smile stole across his face. "Then let's get started."