A/N: Whew, here it is, the final chapter to this saga. Thanks to WickedWanton and Nocturnias for checking it over for me, and thanks to all my readers and reviews and followers for sticking around to the end. This, indeed, is the promised light at the end of the tunnel. :)

Epilogue

Molly still felt the need to pinch herself at times, to confirm that she wasn't actually dreaming any of this. That she really was living with Sherlock Holmes, sharing his life and his bed – albeit chastely until now – and that Jim Moriarty and Sebastian Moran were really, truly dead.

But it was true, it was all true, and the nightmare she'd been enduring was finally over. From here, she reminded herself, things could only get better – and John Watson moving out was another step in that direction.

Oh, it wasn't that she disliked sharing a flat with John as well as Sherlock; of the two, on paper John was certainly the better choice, either platonically or romantically, but when it came to Molly's heart, there was only ever one choice, and John wasn't it.

Besides, she thought with a grin as Sherlock laid her carefully back in the middle of the bed he'd just carried her from not an hour ago, Mary would probably kill her if she even hinted at wanting John Watson to continue to live with her and Sherlock at Baker Street, no matter what the motivation!

"What has you smiling so mischievously, Molly Hooper?" Sherlock asked, cutting into her thoughts, his own eyes flashing with their own mirth.

"Just thinking about John," Molly replied airily, biting back on a chuckle as Sherlock's smile faltered just the tiniest bit. Wondering how far she could push this once-in-a-blue-moon moment of having caught Sherlock off guard, she added: "Do you think we should have tried harder to get him to stay here? With us?"

Sherlock's almost-frown completely vanished as he began undoing the buttons on his shirt, distracting Molly from her attempts at teasing. "Really, Molly, if a threesome is something you had in mind, I have to say that John would much prefer that it be you and Mary in his bed, leaving me out of the equation entirely. But if that's truly what you'd prefer, I can ask the two of them to come by, then nobly step aside and leave you to it."

The entire time he was speaking he was removing his clothing, once piece at a time, methodically folding it and placing it on the chair by the window while Molly watched through appreciative eyes.

He paused in the act of removing his underpants, giving Molly a studiedly cool look as he cocked an eyebrow at her. "Well, Molly? Should I continue or should I..." he reached for his mobile, which he'd left on the dresser after they'd first gotten out of bed that morning.

Molly sat up and threw a pillow at him, which he caught easily before tossing back at her. "Sherlock Holmes, stop teasing me right now or I'll call John myself!" she exclaimed in mock outrage as she put the pillow on the bed. But her face was flushed and her heart was already beating rapidly in her chest and she knew she wasn't fooling anyone – certainly not Mr. Most Observant Man In The Fucking Universe Sherlock Holmes! "Finish stripping then get into this bed!"

He gave her his most teasing grin as he asked, still not moving his hands: "Or what?"

Molly cast her eyes around for something she could legitimately threaten him with, and came up empty until inspiration struck. "Or I'll...kneel up," she said, making her voice as threatening as she could manage when all she wanted to do was giggle at the way this encounter had so swiftly degenerated into terminal silliness. "So help me God, I'll do it!" she added when he raised one eyebrow in a disbelieving gesture.

She leaned on one hand and made as if to do as she'd threatened – which, considering she was still undergoing physical therapy for her leg injuries, actually constituted a real threat, if only to her own recovery – then squealed and finally gave in to the giggles as Sherlock lunged at her, pressing her back so that she was lying against the pillows, his body hovering over hers, his hands on her wrists and his knees on either side of her hips. "Molly Hooper, not even in jest will I tolerate you making such a threat!" he growled, and she heard the real concern beneath his mock-anger and allowed it to melt her heart.

Hah. 'Allowed it', as if she could stop the process. "Sorry," she murmured, wishing he'd let her go so she could run her fingers through his hair the way she was truly itching to do at the moment. "I won't kneel up until I get clearance from my physical therapist. Promise." However, some imp prompted her to add, in her lowest and most seductive voice: "And then you'll see why one of my old boyfriends used to call me 'Little Miss Perfect'."

He swallowed. Hard. And Molly couldn't resist adding, in her most innocent voice, eyes widened to enhance the faux emotion: "Yes, I do that, too." Knowing he'd understand exactly what she meant, no matter how inexperienced he was sexually.

It was a topic that had – pardon the term, Molly thought with another internal giggle – 'come up' during their first few weeks of cohabiting. Their shared night together hadn't been his first sexual experience, but it was one of very, very few. He'd admitted to a few liaisons during his two-year stint at Uni, a few exchanges of sex-for-drugs in the years he was using – which he'd been painstakingly clear had always involved the wearing of condoms and no transmittal of STIs, as rigorous semi-annual tests had long since proven – and, much more interesting to Molly, a single week-end spent in the company of the woman he'd once identified in Molly's morgue by not-her-face.

A woman who, as it turned out, hadn't actually been dead.

She had, however, been instrumental in filling in some gaps in Sherlock's sexual knowledge, and for that Molly was willing to forgive her for being not-dead, especially since she, Molly Hooper, was the one to benefit from Sherlock's tutoring.

Not just for that first night, not just for this one, but for the rest of her life. Because Sherlock Holmes loved her and wanted to be with her and had most emphatically told her so, more than once. Especially the times when Molly had found herself overcome with self-doubt during the long recovery period after toppling over the roof of her former place of residence.

Times that were, thankfully, occurring with less and less frequency.

Sherlock loved her. He wanted to be with her. She needed to believe it all the time, not just most of the time. She wished the crippling self-doubt would just vanish, but her therapist had helped her to understand that something like that didn't just disappear overnight, especially after the trauma she'd endured.

Trauma that, thankfully (oh, she overused that word but it was the only one that fit!) had not resulted in her inability to ever bear another child. Sarah Sawyer had checked Molly out only a week earlier and once again reassured her that she was capable of having another baby any time she was ready to do so – emotionally and physically.

The question was, how would Sherlock feel about knowing that Molly wanted so desperately to have his child, even when she was still in physical therapy for her legs?

oOo

Molly had something on her mind, something other than lovemaking, and Sherlock was easily able to deflect his libido – he'd spent most of his adult life doing so, after all – in order to put his mind to work on what might have distracted her so completely from their second foray into sexual relations.

Lovemaking, he corrected himself crossly. No clinical words when it came to Molly. Ever.

Moriarty had once threatened to burn Sherlock's heart out; the only irony had been that he'd made the threat long before Sherlock had understood who, exactly, held that organ in the palm of her petite, well-shaped hand.

"There's something on your mind, Molly," he said, moving from his predatory stance over her, to lying by her side, his head resting on one hand the other gently cupping her face. She'd been so engrossed in her thoughts that it was clear she hadn't even registered when he'd released her wrists from his grasp. "Would you care to share it with me or should I deduce it?"

oOo

Well. That was different. It was the first time Sherlock had ever given her – given anyone that she was aware of – the option of telling him something instead of simply blurting out his deductions. While she hesitated, Sherlock continued to rub his thumb across her jawline. "Tell me," he urged quietly. "It's something that's been preying on your mind for a long time now. Unless it's something you don't wish to share with me..."

"Sarah says I can get pregnant again any time I want," Molly blurted out, then bit her lip and closed her eyes. "And it's...well, it's all I can think about," she confessed in a near whisper.

"And what does Dr. Flannigan say?"

Sherlock was responding to her words. Sherlock wasn't getting to his feet and leaving the room. Sherlock was – Molly opened her eyes to confirm this – yes, he was gazing at her expectantly. Of course none of this was a surprise to him; of course he'd already deduced it, but he was still being so incredibly patient, letting her tell him, that she suddenly found the words spilling out of her in a torrent.

"He says it's not up to him to say anything, that it's between me and you to decide if and when we want to try to have another baby, but for us to make sure we both want the same thing and not for the wrong reasons, not to try to, to make up for the baby we l-lost, and he said to tell you that you shouldn't say yes if it's just to make me happy but only if it's what you want, too."

Molly fell silent, once again gnawing at her lip, gazing down at her hands, which were twisting nervously on her abdomen. She couldn't believe she'd actually brought this up the very first time she and Sherlock were about to make love after all the trauma and pain they'd endured; whether he'd already deduced her feelings or not, she must sound ridiculously obsessed!

Just as she opened her mouth to try and offer up some sort of retraction or apology, Sherlock surprised her by leaning in for a gentle kiss. "Molly Hooper, I want you to listen very carefully to what I'm about to say, because it's doubtful I'll ever repeat it, do you understand?"

She nodded, trying not to let out the tears she felt building up, gnawing on her lip again as she waited to hear what he had to say.

"No child we have could ever take the place of the one we lost, do you truly understand that?" She nodded, braced for the 'but', for the 'so we should never even try' or even worse, the 'we never planned that pregnancy and it's not something I've ever wanted'.

She was expecting to hear something along those lines, was anticipating it so strongly, that it took her a moment to register Sherlock's words when he said: "That being said, as soon as your physical therapist pronounces you fully recovered, if you still feel the same way, then yes, I would be willing to...try again. With the understanding," he added firmly when she was about to tell him that she would never change her mind, "that it need not be only a one-time thing. That if you want more than one child, you don't have to consult with me or ask permission. Consider this conversation blanket approval of any such desires on your part." He gave her a bit of a scowl. "However, kindly do me the courtesy of letting me pretend that you had to talk me into it whenever Mycroft or John are around. Otherwise the pair of them will be insufferable."

Her only response was to draw him closer and plant a kiss on his lips that was intended to express her love, her gratitude and her acceptance of everything he'd just said to her, all at the same time. She had no idea if she succeeded in that goal, but if the ardor with which he responded to her kiss was anything to go by, then she'd certainly succeeded in reminding him why, exactly, they'd repaired to the bedroom in the first place.

He was ridiculously careful of her legs as he pulled her into his embrace, but more than made up for it in his attention to her lips and throat and breasts. That attention was lovely, and she told him so, but he seemed hesitant to actually dig in, as it were. And when she rather crossly reminded him that it wasn't his restraint he was supposed to be exercising, he retaliated by tickling her breathless, then diving between her legs and using his mouth to work her clit mercilessly, until she was breathless for an entirely different reason.

This playful side of Sherlock was still something Molly was getting used to, and she'd never have predicted it would emerge during their first post-Moriarty bout of lovemaking. Their first time together had been so emotionally fraught, she'd expected this to be just as intense, just as overwhelming.

She couldn't have been more wrong – and couldn't have been happier to have been proven wrong. Once he'd brought her to the very brink of orgasm, Sherlock pulled his mouth away from her and grinned up at her frustrated groan. "Sorry, Molly, were you saying something before? About exercising restraint? It's given me a wonderful idea. Sometimes, I've discovered, waiting for what you want most – delayed gratification – can be even more stimulating than immediately…"

She shut him up by throwing her legs over his shoulders and ordering him to get back to what he'd been doing before she killed him. When he commented that killing him would only further delay things, she groaned and grabbed his hair, deliberately digging her fingers into his scalp. "Please, Sherlock, would you for God's sake just shut up and finish so you can properly fuck me?"

For a moment she was afraid she'd gone too far, stirred up painful memories or offended him with her coarse language. But Jim Moriarty was dead, Sebastian Moran was dead, and so, she was determined, were the experiences she undergone at their hands. She would always have faint white scars on the insides of her elbows and knees to remind her, but so did Sherlock from his own drug use, and she chose to view them as reminders that the two of them could get through anything – especially if they were together.

Then the moment passed; the blank expression on his face returned to the impish humor he'd been sporting, and without a word he lowered his mouth to her sex and began earnestly and without further interruption working her to a veritable frenzy with his tongue. When one long finger slipped deep inside her, she shouted his name, dug her heels into his back and gasped out an inarticulate string of syllables as she came.

When she was able to open her eyes (and breathe properly), Sherlock had moved from between her legs to lying next to her, head once again propped on one hand as he studied her. She smiled and reached out to brush his sweaty curls from his forehead, but he intercepted her hand, bringing it to his lips for a series of fervent kisses – knuckles, fingertips, palm. Her breathing and heartbeat, only beginning to return to normal, went back into hitching and racing, respectively, and her eyes fluttered closed once again.

He released her hand and she felt him shifting about, easing himself over her, and she obligingly spread her legs wider to allow him to settle comfortably between them. "Molly," he rumbled as he lowered his head so that his lips touched her left earlobe with every word, "are you quite certain you're ready to be properly fucked?"

In response she wrapped her legs around his hips, hauling him closer, so that his heated shaft met the warm wetness of her core. "Does that answer your question, Sherlock?" she replied as she nuzzled his throat. One hand made its way up to his dark, beautifully mussed curls as she tugged his head down, encouraging him to press his lips to her throat while she did the same to his. Later that day they would discover they'd left matching marks, and neither bothered to hide them even after leaving for Molly's physical therapy session.

The past two years had left marks aplenty on their souls and psyches and bodies; neither was inclined to worry too much about what people might think about the purple love bites at the bases of their throats.

But that was later. Right now, in the moment, Molly could only think about how right it felt for Sherlock to be easing his way into her body. She'd been long since declared free of any STIs, and his sexual activity had been nonexistent during his time away – and Molly had become much, much more conscientious about taking her pills – so there was no need to worry about condoms, which was just fine with her. She loved the way Sherlock filled her, the sensation of his cock inside her as he began moving, slowly at first, then thrusting harder as she whispered a series of filthy suggestions into his ear as to what else she'd like to him to do to her once she was declared fully recovered – and, more importantly, what she'd like to do to him.

"But only after I can get on my knees," she whispered as she sucked his earlobe into her mouth.

That drove him into a frenzy of hard thrusts, his hands beneath her arse, lifting her hips to an angle that had her screaming his name within seconds as she came for the second time that morning. He followed not long after, coming with a hoarse cry before collapsing on top of her while she held him tightly to her, refusing to let him go even if it was a bit difficult to catch her breath in this position.

He remedied that lack by rolling the two of them onto their sides as they gasped and panted and made the usual sounds of two people who had, indeed, been properly fucked.

Knowing that they loved one another, that one day there would be a child or children in their future, that no matter what storms might befall them they would weather them together…

That, in Molly Hooper's mind, made it all the sweeter.

The past two years were done; the future was something she very much looked forward to seeing.