A/N - I haven't written or posted anything since 2012! How is that even possible? Anyway, series 4 seems to have awoken the Sherlolly shipper in me. Who would have guessed it?

Comments welcome, but please be gentle. They say it's like riding a bike, but it really isn't.

Chapter 1

Onions made Molly cry. They always had done. It didn't help that she had itched her eye mid-chopping, and she continued to rub at her eye carefully, trying not to ruin her mascara any more than she already had. It was nearing 5 o'clock. Mrs Hudson had said she would be back by now. Molly Hooper busied herself around the elder woman's compact kitchen, silently acknowledging that she was behind schedule. As she thought this, she heard a key in the door, followed by Mrs H's voice carrying down the hallway.

"Only us. He's not here yet, is he?"

Molly shook her head as her friend entered the room.

"You've been gone ages," Molly tried not to nag.

"Yes, yes. I'm sorry dear. But I had to speak to the key worker at the nursery. This one's had a bad day."

Molly glanced around Mrs Hudson's legs to where their goddaughter stood playing with the toggles on her duffle coat.

"What's up, Rosie Roo?"

"Oh, she hasn't spoken a word on the way home. Her key worker says she's been like it all day." Mrs Hudson rolled up her sleeves and began to busy herself at the stove, stirring the large pan. Steam lifted into the air. "Smells good, love."

Molly smiled and then ushered Rosie back into Mrs Hudson's living room, to remove her coat and shoes.

"What's that frown for, eh? It's Uncle Sherlock's birthday. He'll be here soon and he'll want to see your beautiful smile. You were going to sing your song for him, remember?"

Rosie Watson shrugged, looking at her feet.

"Well, I can't sing it," Molly continued brightly, unbuttoning the winter coat. "He won't want it from me, you'll have to do it."

Rosie sighed. Molly's shoulders lowered.

"What is it, Roo? Is something upsetting you?"

The three-year-old considered the question.

"Abbie May won't play with me. She won't let me play in the gang."

"Gang?" scoffed Molly. "What do you want to be in a gang for? You're three. You should be having fun, eating sand or glue sticks or something."

"She won't let me play with her because I don't have a mummy."

Molly's breath caught in her throat. She stood up to her full height, laying Rosie's coat across the sofa arm.

"Really? Well, I don't have a mummy either. Neither, does Mrs Hudson. You can be in our gang." Molly marched back into the kitchen, filled with a sudden anger and sadness. Rosie swung on the edge of the door frame.

"Where is my mummy?" she asked. Mrs Hudson and Molly looked at each other. Molly continued to busy herself, avoiding the child's patient stare.

"Does Daddy ever talk about Mummy?" Molly asked. Rosie shook her head, her curls bobbing from side to side. Before Molly could say another word, the doorbell rang. Rosie immediately remembered she wasn't speaking to anyone and dived under the kitchen table.

Mrs Hudson welcomed the Family Holmes into her home. Sherlock's brother greeted Molly with a tight smile as he was followed by his parents into the cosy living room.

"Thank you all for coming," Mrs Hudson beamed. "Sherlock will be so pleased to see you all."

Mycroft's smile broadened. "I'm certain of it, Mrs Hudson."

She bustled away to put the kettle on.

"Doctor Hooper, always a pleasure. Have you met my parents, Stella and Edward? This is Doctor Molly Hooper, a very dear friend of Sherlock's."

Molly shook hands with Mr and Mrs Holmes.

"Ah, my dear," beamed Mrs Holmes. "Sherlock has told us all about you. He speaks very fondly of you."

"Really?" Molly winced at the colour filling her cheeks.

"Of course," replied his father, brightly. "And all of the fresh body parts you so kindly provide."

Molly's face fell and she made her excuses, rushing back to the kitchen to check on the meal.

It was not long before the door banged closed. Everyone braced themselves but it was only John, who shrugged off his coat as he greeted the full room.

"He not here yet?"

"Perhaps he got wind of your not-so-subtle plans, Doctor Watson," Mycroft scoffed as he scrolled through his phone. His mother elbowed him in the ribs. John ignored him and looked around the room. "Where's Rosie?"

"Under the table," Mrs Hudson remarked. John frowned.

"Oi, cheeky monkey," he called, lifting the edge of the table cloth up. "I haven't seen you all day and you don't even come out to say hello." Rosie shrugged. "What's the matter?"

"Actually John, can I have a word?" Molly asked, leading him out into the main hallway.

"Is she ok?" he asked in concern.

"She's a bit upset today. Some of the girls at nursery have been teasing her for not having a mum."

"Oh Christ," John exclaimed, running a hand through his hair.

"She was asking about Mary."

"What did you say?"

"What could I say? I told her to talk with you."

John sighed. "Right. Thanks. I'll sort it. I'll try to sort it, but not tonight."

He pinched Molly on the shoulder gently. Next thing they knew, they were almost knocked off their feet as the three-year-old moved past them at speed, hearing the click of the front door lock.

"Sherlock!" Rosie exclaimed, leaping into the air. He caught her quickly and she squealed.

"Well now, were you waiting for me?" He kissed his goddaughter roughly on the head.

"Yes, come see, we're having a party!"

"A party? When?"

Sherlock caught Molly and John exchange glances.

"Now," John said lamely. "Surprise."

Sherlock lowered Rosie to the floor and scowled at his friends.

"Wha- Oh, for fuck's sake!"

"Sherlock Holmes!" came a cry from Mrs Hudson's open door.

"Oh, you invited my mother! Bloody fantastic!"

"Yes," John said in a low voice, hoping Sherlock would do the same. "Your mother and father are here, and your brother. Don't! Now, listen, it's been a long year and we would like to celebrate the fact that you are still alive. So, this is what's going to happen. Go in there, smile, eat your dinner, blow out your candles and then it will all be over."

They locked stares, Rosie looked up between the two of them.

"Fine," Sherlock huffed in resignation, "But I need to wash and change first." He marched upstairs to his flat. John smiled tightly at Molly.

"I said it was a bad idea."

"Yes, thank you, Molly."

Wine was opened and poured. John took an extra large sip and then another. Mrs Hudson announced that she would soon be dishing up Molly's wonderful dish. There were polite comments about how the meal smelled delicious.

"Mycroft, please, put that thing away," his mother chided, as the man forced his phone back into his pocket. "An hour, with your family. That is all I ask."

"Of course, Mother. And where is the birthday boy, I wonder."

They were silenced for a moment by the sound of a dull bang, further in the house.

"That might be Greg," Mrs Hudson announced, opening her door and peeking her head around to check the front door. "No, nobody there."

John suddenly cringed.

"Bathroom window," he cursed under his breath. Molly looked at him.

"What?"

"Nothing," John shook his head. "Look, we'd best dish up," he suggested, imagining his dear friend, the birthday boy, leaping from the bathroom window above and out into the London streets. Anything to prevent himself from celebrating his birthday with the people who loved him the most.

A/N - Were we ever told Sherlock's parent's names? I'm not sure. In the wedding episode, when he reads the soppy telegram from 'Stella and Ted', I always imagined it was his mum and dad, so there you go.