Here we are at the last chapter! I've had a blast reading your comments and I will miss posting updates!

I am working on an epilogue, which I'm leaning towards posting separately as its own story because I like how this wraps up.

My apologies to anyone who speaks Italian, as I clearly do not. Also, a cookie to the first person to spot the Star Trek reference!

Molly came into the living room, intent on not spilling the large mugs of tea she held. "Tea's on! John, who was at the door-" Distantly, she felt the cups slipping from her fingers towards the white carpet, and couldn't be bothered to care. She stood frozen, gaping at the men in front of her.

"Excellent! Molly! You will, of course, remember Francesco Morelli?" Sherlock Holmes was standing in her living room in all his glory, complete with swooshy coat, bespoke suit, and perfectly disheveled curls. He was bracing an attractive young man with long black hair, who appeared to be struggling to stay upright. A man who, she was slowly realizing, appeared in her pictures alongside the Italian countryside.

"Signora M—Mona, is long time no see! Sei bellissima!"

"Molly, it's Molly," Sherlock exclaimed in exasperation, then muttered, "We talked about this in the car."

"Signora Molly! Buona sera!"

"It's early afternoon, but I suppose it's the thought that counts," grumbled Sherlock.

Molly's limbs tingled; sound was strangely muffled as if she were underwater. She stared blankly at the pair as tea soaked into the carpet. Oh my god. This is really happening. This is my divine retribution. I lied to Sherlock and now I'm being smited. Smitten? No that can't be right.

The man - Francesco - stepped towards Molly, apparently intent on kissing her cheeks in greeting. She drew back instinctively, and he overbalanced and crashed to floor.

She stared down at him, noting vaguely that tea was soaking into his white shirt from the carpet and wondering if he'd hit his head. It's punishment for my misdeeds. I'm a wicked lapsed Catholic with terrible life choices. "Sherlock, what have you done?"

The detective, who had been staring at the fallen Francesco with his head tilted to the side, startled and said, "Ah yes, you'll have questions. I feel I owe you an apology for the way I acted last week."

The shocky feeling was beginning to recede from Molly's limbs. "You owe me an apology, so you tracked down the alleged Italian father of my baby, and brought him to my home?"

"...Yes?" Sherlock said, lengthening the word into a question.

"Even though I told you I wanted nothing to do with him."

Sherlock looked to John, who was standing awkwardly behind him, seemingly wishing to be anywhere but here. "You're on your own with this one, mate," his friend said, and made a push-away gesture.

"Cin cin!" Francesco interjected loudly, and then put his head down on folded arms, apparently prepared to fall asleep.

"Yes, okay, I did, but there are extenuating circumstances," the detective said. "Allow me to start over. First, are some things I feel I should clear up. For the record, I never engaged in coitus with Janine and I wasn't high the first time," Sherlock abruptly lowered his voice until it was audible only to Molly, "the first time we made love. I was on subsequent occasions, however, which I suppose I ought to apologize for as well. I regret very much that I didn't try to talk to you sooner. If I had called you from the hospital perhaps this," he gestured to her belly, "would have gone very differently. But I didn't. When you didn't come to see me after I was shot, I thought all hope was lost."

"I did, though," she said distractedly.

"What?"

"I did come visit you, loads of times. I needed to see you, but not so much talk to you, so I watched you sleep. God, it sounds creepy when I say it that way."

Mary snorted, perched as far forward as she could over her rounded stomach in a living room chair.

"Not at all. Well, maybe a bit. At any rate, I can't change the past. I can only try to make it up to you. Hence, I've brought you Mr. Morelli," he gestured proudly at the young man, who was now snoring with his face planted inelegantly into the carpet. "Consider it an opportunity to review all your options. If you want to give it a go with Morelli, I'd be happy to provide him with, shall we say, 'motivation.' I'm sure Mycroft could smooth the way for immigration paperwork so that he could move here and be as involved as you wish. Or he could come to visit you and your child several times throughout the year and provide a financial contribution, if that's what you prefer. He does have a responsibility to you and your child."

Fucking hell, what have I done? "How did you even get him here?"

"That was surprisingly easy. I booked a private tour, then took him out for a night on the town; we had a few drinks, and then I asked if he's ever wanted to see England. He's not the cleverest man. It's possible he thinks this is a date. "

John snorted, "And you apparently got him very drunk."

"Yes, you'll be pleased about this part, Molly," the detective returned brightly. "In respect for your wishes, I ensured on the flight over that he remained intoxicated so that he wouldn't clearly remember you or your condition. Thus you can send him on his way again without changing anything."

John snorted. "You've succeeded spectacularly. I doubt Molly's rhododendrons will ever be quite the same."

"Ah. Yes. Regrettably, he appears to have taken a quantity of GHB in the airplane toilet in celebration of his trip to England." He shrugged and raised an eyebrow coyly at her. "You certainly do have a type."

She felt the corner of her mouth twitch up into an answering smile. In a surreal, Sherlockian way, it had actually been quite considerate of him. How could she tell him the truth now, after he'd gone to all this bloody trouble? Better to call a stop to this now and then cough up in a few days. "That was sweet of you, Sherlock."

"Was it?" John interjected.

Sherlock turned and said sharply, "John, perhaps your time could be better spent seeing to Morelli?" He gestured with his head and gave his friend a very pointed look.

John let out a soft, "Ahh, too right," and went to kneel by the unconscious man, rolling him onto his side.

Molly said, "It was actually quite sweet. Really kind, but I'm not actually all that attached to Francesco and I don't in the least fancy his involvement in my life, or my baby's. So if you could—"

"Excellent! I was hoping you'd say that. I told you that there were options," he said, putting emphasis on the 's', "and I'd like to propose option B." He took a deep breath and stood to his full height. "Me."

"You? As in...?"

"A full partner and co-parent. I know I'm not a conventional choice, with my profession and history of drug use, but I assure you I can make changes to minimize my personal risk during cases, and to never take any case that would endanger you or your progeny. I would, of course, permanently discontinuing both drugs and cigarettes. We already know we're sexually compatible, so that's settled. Nicotine patches may require negotiation but I'm sure we can come to an arrangement. If you want."

"Is that what you… I mean, why? Do you think I need a coparent - a man - to raise this baby?" Molly said, suddenly feeling cold.

"Yes!" he exclaimed. "I offer myself as that man."

John groaned and sat back on his heels. Mary cackled so hard that she fell back in her chair and gasped for breath.

"I mean no! No!" He ran a hand through his curls in frustration. "You are a very capable woman, Molly. I have absolutely no doubt that you could raise a fantastic child all on your own, but you need to know that you don't have to. I don't want you to."

At the last, Molly found it inexplicably hard to breathe. "What do you want?"

"I want to try to make you happy." He seemed at a loss.

Her heart sank. He was acting out of some bizarre sense of honor. "It's a lovely offer - more than lovely." Everything I've ever wanted. "But you don't need to do that."

"You have to tell her the truth, Sherlock," Mary said urgently. "Tell her the squishy sentimental parts."

"She must know by now. It's irritatingly obvious," he said without taking his eyes off her.

"She doesn't!"

He nodded solemnly and cleared his throat. "Ask me again, Molly. Please."

She could hardly speak over the rush of blood in her ears. "What do you want, Sherlock?"

"You," he breathed. "I want you. I just want you. All of you, every day." Once he began talking, his words fell out of him like rain after a long drought. "And your baby; I want him or her too, more than I ever thought possible. I know it's not mine, but it could be, or as good as. The baby will be half you, so it is already certain to be extraordinary. And we could certainly pick a worse genetic contributor than Francesco Morelli - he's young, in good physical health, and comely enough (which seems to be a useful quality though I've never understood why). Recent psychological research suggests that maternal DNA may play the larger role in cognitive ability, and I believe I could be of service in providing quality environmental factors such as a strong parental bond and a stimulating environment to maximize intelligence. Regardless, I imagine he or she will be brilliant because they are made of you and you… you are the most remarkable person I have ever met."

Somewhere along the way, he had moved closer until there was only a scant few centimeters between them. She craned her neck up to meet his eyes, caught between being captivated by his words and horror at the way this was going to come crashing down around her ears.

"I am more regretful that I can ever convey that I allowed you to feel that I didn't care for you. I told you once that you mattered the most; I meant it far more than I should have with your previous engagement ring still on your finger. If I must do the 'squishy sentimental parts,'" he said, abruptly kneeling in front of her.

She swore softly and began to cry, though she couldn't have identified whether they were tears of joy or misery, or some surreal combination of the two. She couldn't look away. It was inescapably like watching her most treasured fantasy set aboard a train that was about to crash.

Sherlock continued, uncharacteristically distracted by the ring box he was drawing from his jacket, "Molly Hooper, would you do me the extraordinary honor of becoming my wife?"

She simply stared at him. Whatever you do, don't let him open that box. Say something, Hooper! Anything! "Oh God - no."

Sherlock's hopeful expression was gone in an instant.

Wrong something!

He looked up at her from a face that had gone brittle, as if a solid blow might shatter him into something that could blow away on the wind in a million tiny pieces. "Of course. I apologize for the intrusion. I'll collect Mr. Morelli and be on my way."

As he stood and moved toward the unconscious man on the floor, Molly tried desperately to collect her thoughts. She had to make him stay but she couldn't think, couldn't focus over the panic that bubbled up over how badly she had screwed this up.

"I love you," she called to his swiftly retreating back. It was the first coherent thing that came into her head.

She raised a hand to her lips, surprised to find that one of the incontrovertible truths of her life had just come spilling out of her mouth. As he turned to face her, she said it again softly. "I love you."

"Then why?" Now he looked lost, like a small boy abandoned in a market.

"Oh, Sherlock. I'm so sorry." She walked to the kitchen and took her ultrasound scan from where it had been left on the island, then placed it in his hands. She tapped the due date with a finger. "That's my baby." Our baby, she wanted to say, but he would figure that out soon enough.

He stretched the ribbon of ultrasound images out taut and stared intently at them for a long moment.

Molly waited, hardly daring to breathe. The moment stretched into three minutes, then five. She eyed the guest bathroom and then sighed. She really couldn't do a runner twice in one day. Even she wasn't that undignified.

"He's gone into his mind palace," said John from the floor. "He could be in there for hours."

"How's Francesco? Does he need a trip to A&E, or is he safe to sleep it off?" Molly asked worriedly. She finally moved away from the motionless detective and bent over John to check on his patient.

"He'll be fine. Regretting his entire experience on British soil by tomorrow, I imagine, but he'll recover."

"Maybe you should take him and go home. Could he sleep it off on your couch? If Sherlock's not up to collecting him after this, I can ask Mycroft to send someone."

Mary groaned, "Oh don't make us leave now! After all this work, I need to see how it ends!"

"I'll absolutely let you know. I'll probably need a shoulder to cry on. Thank you for all your tough love."

"It's one of my best things," Mary said, beaming.

The two women embraced, and John and Mary collected a whinging Francesco Morelli into their car and drove away.

Molly stood in the doorway of her little house, a part of her wishing she could have driven off with them.

A voice spoke behind her, "It's about time they cleared off."

She let out an inelegant shriek and spun, kicking the door. "Yeouch!" She tried and failed to put weight on her foot as she closed the front door. "I thought you were in your mind palace?!"

"I finished a few minutes ago, but it suited me to wait till the Watsons were gone. They'd have only insisted on staying to fuss. Come here, let's see to your foot." He scooped her under the arms and helped her to the settee.

"It's not broken. Think it's just my pride." She stepped hard and winced. "My toes and my pride." She sat heavily.

Sherlock sat at the far end and pulled her foot into his lap, removing her sock. He rotated her foot in various directions, asking if it hurt. Finally, he came to the same conclusion she had known almost immediately, that her toes were bruised and would heal with little intervention. The pain had already diminished to a dull ache.

She wanted desperately to know what he was thinking, but was too afraid to ask. When neither of them could find a way to use her accident as an excuse, they lapsed into silence. His hand remained on the bare skin of her foot, fingertips brushing the tops of her metatarsals in a deeply distracting way.

After a long moment, she marshaled her strength and began, "I should've—"

At the same moment, he said, "It's a boy?" They both halted awkwardly.

Molly gestured that he should go. Sherlock continued, "The ultrasound had 'boy' written on it, and there was some convincing genitalia in the scan underneath the heading. So you're having— we're having a boy. Yes?"

She nodded, not trusting her voice. We.

"May I?" He asked, scooting closer and indicating her stomach with an open hand.

She nodded again, a small sob escaping her throat.

He carefully placed a hand on her belly, emitting a soft noise of wonder. "That's...that's quite… Oh." He lapsed into silence, then offered, "Mary made me touch her stomach recently and it was quite embarrassing for all concerned. This is… better."

"Why aren't you shouting, Sherlock?"

"Should I be?" He moved a hand to the side of her belly, still seemingly absorbed in the sensation. "I suppose John would be. I admit that I was angry for a time. After I considered the matter, however, I determined that your reasoning based on the data available to you was sound."

"You've only known for fifteen minutes!"

"Ah, but in my mind palace, that is an eternity." He flashed her a sideways smile. It was his real one, the one that made her feel warm and special and never failed to melt her into a puddle of affectionate goop.

Tonight it only made her uneasy. "You should be angry. I lied, Sherlock! Until earlier today, I was prepared never to tell you that you had a son. You should be furious!"

"Now you're angry with me?" he said, sounding entirely too amused by the idea.

She sprang to her feet. "Yes! Well, no. Sort of. Look, there are only two reasons I can think of for you not to be angry. One, you aren't being honest with yourself; you really are furious and someday you'll realize it. It will be the worse for having been stuffed down and it will ruin everything. Two, you don't believe yourself worthy of love and therefore it doesn't bother you when the people you care for misuse you badly. I'm not okay with either one of those options." She scowled down at him, "Stop smiling!"

He didn't. "You are irksomely attractive when you're standing up for me. To me."

"Sherlock!"

"Molly, consider option three - I reviewed every interaction we have ever had and comprehended that I had never expressed the depth of my feelings for you. I acted badly on a variety of levels which would not engender confidence in my level of responsibility. I never gave you any indication that I hold an interest in parenthood (unsurprising, as even I didn't know until last week). I extrapolated from all of this that you believed you were acting in my best interest as well as your own, and in that of our offspring. Even I am not so childish as to be angry at you for that.

"You see me better than anyone else does, but you seem to forget that I see you too. And if I always think the best of your intentions, it's because it always turns out to be true. Am I wrong about your reasoning?" He pulled her to stand between his open knees.

"No, but—"

"Excellent, then why are we still spending tedious time talking about this when we could be putting it to much better use?" He wrapped one hand around her back, the other coming to rest again on her prominent belly. He gazed up at her and let her see the naked longing on his face mixed with hope in equal measures.

She slanted towards him like a flower to to sun. Her mouth sought his, which was now only centimeters from her own. She breathed, "Well, when you put it like that…"

His smile widened. "Shall we discuss my previous offer?"

Molly startled and pulled back. "You mean the marriage offer? You're serious?"

"As a quadruple murder. Though to be fair, those have been known to be a roaring good time. Hm, hopefully that's an auspicious allegory for our nuptials."

"Sherlock, you do know that you don't have to be with me to have a relationship with the baby, right? I know you said all those brilliant, beautiful things before you even knew, but I need to be sure."

"Molly Hooper, you are the one person who makes me feel brave enough to even consider wanting a family, a child. I have spent so many years refusing to even consider such a mad idea, because it seemed so far beyond the grasp of someone such as myself. Yet somehow doing this with you is as straightforward as fundamental chemistry. The thought that this fantastic little person, these perfectly bundled neurons and tiny bones and musculature are comprised of your chromosomes bonded to mine…" he stopped and flexed his hands where they held her belly. "It's quite overwhelming. I can't find it in me to be angry at you for dishonesty when the truth feels like an answered prayer. This being mine… it's a gift I don't deserve."

She opened her mouth to argue that point, and he held up a hand. "Allow me to finish. I need you to understand that while I want it quite desperately, this is one area that I am woefully unprepared for. You'll need to help me along. That is… that is always assuming you do truly want me."

"I just told you how I feel about you. You know I meant it, that it's always been true."

"Loving me and wanting to spend every day of the rest of your life with me are very different things, Molly. I know how I can be. Even John feels compelled to punch me in the face at least once a year as a sort of top up. I will grant that I egg him on because I find his befuddled aggression oddly satisfying. However, the point remains functionally the same."

She knelt in front of him and took his face between her hands, and said very solemnly, "I want you, Sherlock Holmes. All of you, all the time, even the really aggravating parts because I love those too. You make my life better and profoundly more interesting. You make me better. But I need to hear you say it."

He was smiling now, with a hint of wetness in the corner of his eyes that he'd probably deny later. "It?"

"Don't be coy. You know what."

"You must know the truth of my feelings by now," he replied, a smirk forming at the corner of his mouth.

"Well, if it's true then say it anyway," she said with a matching grin.

"You first. I want very much to hear it again. Call it your way of making it up to me."

"Cheater."

"Always. Now say it like you mean it."

Her smile widened. "I love you, Sherlock Holmes."

He put his forehead to hers, and said reverently, "And I love you, Molly Hooper."

She kissed him then, or he kissed her. It hardly mattered. Nothing mattered for several minutes but the feeling of his mouth on her own and his hands on her body. The two of them felt like a closed circuit, electric and complete. When they separated, they spend a long moment breathing each other's air, savoring the feeling of their bodies touching. Sherlock slid an arm around her back and hugged her against him.

Molly wrapped her own arms tighter around him and teasingly brushed her lips above his collarbone until he shivered. She murmured, "Let's table the marriage offer to a day you haven't wined, dined, and kidnapped an Italian national and I haven't spent half the day on the bathroom floor."

"You what? Why?" He pulled back a few centimeters in startled concern.

"Long story for another time. My point is, let's start with coffee."

He breathed into her mouth, "Is that code for sex?"

"...God, yes."

"Fine, but you'll need to buy me dinner afterwards. And I do expect you to make an honest man out of me someday."

"Only if you can make me an honest woman."

He chuckled, and she could feel the rumble of it where his chest was pressed to her own. "I look forward to a lifetime of trying."

After that, no words were necessary for a very long time.

oOo

In the back of a car on its way back to her flat with Francesco Morelli drooling on her shoulder, Mary Watson found herself inexplicably grinning like a madwoman.

As an aside, Sherlock definitely chartered Gerti from MJN Air to smuggle Francesco Morelli to the UK and Carolyn Knapp-Shappey was NOT having any of their shenanigans. She would later point out to Martin that that Holmes git looked a bit like him. Well, he would if only Martin were good looking and taller and better at being a man. Much fun was had by all.

Thanks again guys, and I will be back in a week(ish) with a peek at family life for our happy couple.