Chapter One

The whole day had been a bit of a whirlwind, but a good one nonetheless. Now that they were back at home and everyone had been fed and watered, John Watson felt that he could relax a bit – and finally, finally get a drink himself. Mary was over by the table where the cake and buffet were laid out - or what remained of it at least – cradling a champagne flute. She looked happy. He loved it when she was smiling without realising he was watching.

"There you are!" Mary exclaimed, as he came up to her. John kissed her temple and wrapped his arm around her shoulder. "Where have you been?"

"Oh, you know, just talking to Greg Lestrade about a few things. Recent cases."

"You mean you were watching the match highlights on the upstairs telly."

How did Mary do that? He couldn't do anything but shrug slightly, but it was clear that she wasn't upset with him anyway.

"Where's our daughter, by the way?" he asked. "You know, the one we had christened today."

Mary laughed lightly.

"She's working the room," she replied, pointing to the other side of the living room. He followed her finger to a gathering in the corner, at the centre of which was Rosie Watson, being held by Mrs Hudson, who looked to be feeding her tiny pieces of christening cake.

"And what are you doing?" John asked his wife.

"Having a breather. Watching."

John's next thought was to wonder where on earth Sherlock was. Probably long gone, if previous form was anything to go by – to be honest, he was amazed that Sherlock had been persuaded to come back to the house.

"He's over there," Mary said, somehow reading his mind.

Somehow he had missed him the first time – probably because Sherlock was, intentionally or not, usually the most conspicuous person in the room – but his friend was part of the group with Rosie, standing slightly behind and to the side of Molly. Tapping furiously into his phone, of course, but managing to cope with being part of a gathering.

"Seems to be on his best behaviour," John observed, tipping the last of bottle of champagne into a coffee mug, the only clean receptacle he could find.

"Yeah, and it's obvious why."

John frowned. Sometimes his wife was alarmingly similar to his best friend in this regard, assuming that he must have spotted something and therefore making him feel like a halfwit. Which he was not. Although…

"Why?"

Mary nuzzled slightly into his embrace.

"Look at them."

"Who?"

"Sherlock and Molly."

John did look at them. What was he supposed to be seeing? Sherlock was still on his phone and Molly was talking to Mrs Hudson. Molly looked good today, he thought – bright, happy, less tired.

"What about them?"

"Mark my words, John Watson, those two aren't going to be too far behind us," Mary said, emphasising her point by poking his chest with her finger.

Eventually, he caught on to her meaning, and nearly burst out laughing, just managing to reign it in.

"Sherlock and Molly? Are you kidding?"

One glance at her face and he knew that she wasn't.

"Of course I'm not. It's obvious!"

John screwed up his face. He and his wife clearly had very different ideas of 'obvious'.

"Look, Mary, I know today has been lovely, and I know that you'd love everyone to be happy and neatly paired off," he replied. "But I think that champagne is doing a bit of the talking now."

"Don't you patronise me, John Watson," Mary retorted. "I'm a trained assassin, remember? I'm merely seeing and observing."

John looked again, willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. Molly was in the process of taking Rosie from Mrs Hudson, adjusting the baby in her arms. This act seemed to distract Sherlock from his phone momentarily, but he soon went back to his texting.

"They're just…normal," he said, unsure what he was supposed to be seeing.

"He keeps looking at her," Mary said, lowering her voice even though there was little chance anyone would overhear them over the general chatter. "When he thinks nobody can see him. It's quite funny, actually – he'll suddenly realising he's been gazing too long and he quickly goes back to his phone."

He did remember Sherlock's reaction earlier that day, when Molly arrived at the church in the cab she'd shared with Lestrade. Sherlock had sort of done a double-take, but it didn't seem like anything really.

"Look, look!" Mary hissed, poking him again. He wished now that she hadn't had her nails done before the christening. "Look where his hand is!"

Sherlock had been persuaded to admire his goddaughter, and as he leant from behind Molly, his hand – the one not glued to his phone – rested lightly at Molly's waist.

"When does he willingly touch anyone, let alone like that?" Mary whispered. "And look, she's pretending she hasn't noticed but look how she's smiling."

Sherlock's hand did seem to be lingering at Molly's waist a little longer than was probably necessary, but even he had noticed that Sherlock was becoming more comfortable with what other people considered normal interactions – it didn't seem anything more than that.

"Did you see them in the church?" Mary continued.

"I'm sorry, you were watching our friends during our daughter's christening service?" John asked, amused.

Mary shoved him lightly.

"Just the odd glimpse," she replied. "They looked adorable."

"Now I know you've had too much to drink," he said. "Sherlock is many things, but I doubt anyone has accused him of being adorable since he was about Rosie's age. Not even his mother."

"They looked…married."

"Oh, you heard them arguing over who's going to put the bins out, then?" John asked. His wife was definitely getting carried away. Yes, Sherlock was a much changed man from the one he met in the lab at Bart's all those years ago, but he'd always made his position on romantic relationships very clear.

"Mary, I-"

"Hand's on her shoulder, look, look!" Mary hissed again, nudging him a little too enthusiastically in the ribs.

And yes, Sherlock's hand was now on Molly's shoulder. And yes, he wasn't even looking at his phone. But he seemed to be talking to Lestrade – or at least listening to him - who looked a little worse for wear (John had cracked open a bottle of scotch for the pair of them while they caught up with the half-time scores), his attention not really even on Molly.

"He's comfortable with her," Mary said, and he noted the happy tone in her voice. "Because he loves her. Even if he doesn't realise it yet."

John opened his mouth to protest, to rubbish her idea, when he realised that Sherlock had broken away from the group and was coming towards them. He felt Mary pinch his thigh in warning, a little too hard for his liking.

"Sherlock!" Mary exclaimed. "You're not leaving, are you?"

Sherlock frowned, as though Mary was suggesting something completely absurd.

"No, I'm merely getting another drink," he replied. "Lestrade is talking about his divorce again, so more alcohol is definitely required."

They watched as Sherlock refilled the two glasses in his hand.

"Greg's probably had enough," John said, nodding towards the detective, who at that moment seemed to have Mrs Hudson in a bear-hug.

"Lestrade is a grown man who should, in theory, be capable of making his own decisions about his alcohol consumption," Sherlock replied. "But if he does wish to continue to imbibe, he will have to take it upon himself to visit the drinks table."

"So both drinks are for you?" John asked.

Sherlock gave him the 'imbecile' look again.

"Of course not. One of them is for Molly."

As soon as Sherlock's back was turned and he was making his way back to Molly, John felt his wife's elbow in his side again. He sighed. She was apparently viewing Sherlock's normal – albeit, polite - gesture of getting Molly a drink to be a sign of impending matrimony.

"I'm telling you," Mary said, selecting a grape from the fruit platter on the table. "This time next year, things are going to be very different."