Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to LadyK1138, Renaissencebooklover108, Sara Dobie Bauer, Aquitaine85, Reina434, blairebearwaldorf, AJP910, Cordelia, Rocking the Redhead, Kathmak, Katya Jade and my guest. This is the last chapter, so enjoy.

WHAT THE BLACKBIRD SANG III

Eleven Months In

There are things they can do, and things they can't, and the longer they're together the more thorough that list of limits becomes.

Sherlock, for example, cannot bring himself to display affection in public. However much he may feel it- and he does feel it, more than he ever thought he could do- he cannot make himself kiss Molly, or hug her, or tickle her, or do any of the other silly, playful things he's seen John and Mary, for example, do. He will hold Molly's hand when they're out (because he likes it and frankly, if there's a criminal in London stupid enough to a) not know who she is to him or b) try to get to him through her, then that criminal deserves to become the latest victim of Darwinism and Sherlock will cheerfully help the process along). He will touch, kiss, caress and even canoodle with her when they are behind closed doors. He will stroke her skin and read to her and even, unbelievably, brush her hair because he finds it relaxing and the sounds she makes when he does it are… distracting, to say the least. He will hold her, love her, be with her, no matter what obstacles the world throws their way-

But he cannot truthfully play the part of the lovesick swain before an audience; What's between he and Molly is between he and Molly.

The rest of the world can bugger off and mind its own bloody business, as far as he's concerned.

Molly, on the other hand, has more specific boundaries which she cannot cross. Loud voices and pushing or shoving will instantly make her freeze up; her body remembers only too vividly how it felt to be yelled at, forced, and it reacts on instinct. It goes completely dead. Even in the bedroom she still cannot sometimes bring herself to relax into his embrace, though he knows that it is no reflection of her feelings for him: They may not use the words, but Sherlock knows that they are in love.

There's no other reason he'd feel this way.

Or that she'd put up with him.

Besides, their amorous adventures together include all manner of licking, sucking, kissing and caressing, (though not, so far, coitus). It's an embarrassment of riches as far as he's concerned. He wouldn't change a thing about how they interact, for all he knows many men who'd think themselves hard done by for having to hold themselves back. But it doesn't matter: She has decent reasons for feeling so, and though they are not his doing, he will live with them. So what if she cannot bear to be held down and she cannot bear to be cornered in any way? She what if she cannot bring herself to go down on him either, though she tries several times to do so, dismaying herself when she finds that she cannot carry through? After all, she's still his Molly. Of all of her boundaries, this seems to be the one which bothers her the most, though Sherlock honestly can't see why-

"It's not like my penis will fall off if it doesn't have regular contact with the inside of a woman's mouth, Molly," he tells her one night, after her third aborted attempt at fellatio. "If that were true, I'd have been walking around like a Ken doll for years, now wouldn't I?"

Molly blinks up at him from her position at his hip, her eyes worried and frustrated. Her unwillingness in this area is down to Hough and his abuse, Sherlock knows; she doesn't mention details, but The Bastard used it as a… punishment. She looks… She looks almost defeated by his words; When he sees it, Sherlock sighs and pulls her up to him. Kisses her gently on her nose- he will never admit such an action to anyone, even John- until she presses her forehead to his. Sighs.

"And you have plenty of evidence that I'm not a Ken doll, now don't you, Ms Hooper?" he continues quietly, trying for humour to break the silence.

Her lips twitch with amusement, quite without her permission he's sure. "Yes, Sherlock," she says. "You're definitely not a Ken doll."

"Exactly. Glad we've established that." Sherlock smiles back at her. "Besides, had my cock fallen off from lack of use, you'd have tripped over it somewhere in the flat by now-"

She snorts. "More likely Mrs. Hudson would have. Or a client. Or John."

She gives an exaggeratedly dramatic shudder.

Sherlock shudders along with her. "Had that happened, people definitely would have talked." He makes a face. "And imagine reading about that on his blog-"

"I don't think he'd put it on his blog, Sherlock."

He cocks his eyebrow. "Oh? Why not, pray tell? He bloody put everything else in-"

Molly's smile is wider now, some of her embarrassment forgotten.

She shifts so that she's closer to him, some of her stiffness winding away.

"He had enough trouble scoring when you were living together and everybody thought you were a couple," she points out. "I'm not sure how his heterosexual credentials would fare, if people knew he'd gone and found your cock, and that it had gone and run away on you-"

"I suppose…" Sherlock mock-frowns. "Though if it's that inclined to wanderlust, perhaps you should check and make sure it's still there."

He shoots her his most innocent look, takes her hand and guides it down to his penis. As her fingers wrap around him he lets out a contented sigh; He sees the spark return to Molly's eyes, the reminder that they can share this even if oral sex is off the table, and he grins, begins moving her hand with his own. She shifts, straddling him as her hands work him and his fingers slide up her inner thigh to tease her clitoris, her lower lips. She throws her head back, a moan forming deep in her throat and he laughs, kisses her chin, her ear. "See, cock's still there," he says.

His voice is sing-song.

"Yup," she answers, popping her ps, "And it appears to like me…"

Her words die as he presses his thumb against her just so and again she moans.

They pass the night like that, happy and sweaty and proving beyond a doubt that Sherlock's cock is not detachable (though it may be inclined towards roaming…)

He falls asleep with his head pressed to Molly's breasts, her fingers in his hair, and it is the most peaceful he thinks he has ever been, or will ever be again.

Eleven and a Half Months In

The Woman returns, tries to see him.

She's found herself an alias in the US, for real this time, and it's her last chance to visit dear old Blighty and pay her respects.

Sherlock refuses to see her but she won't take no for an answer.

She turns up at Baker Street to find that he has another living there.

Adler's eyes narrow on Molly in her jeans and t-shirt, her hair still wet from the shower, and she snickers at her. Calls Sherlock lover and tells him she's surprised at him, thought that he had higher standards than that. She even offers to give Molly some advice about "playing with the Holmes' boys," to which Molly proudly answers that she needs no help, she's had too much fun with trial and error to start trying for professionalism now.

She also, incidentally, tells Adler to, "fuck off."

The Woman seems surprised, then impressed by, Molly's absolute lack of intimidation in the face of her allure. She leaves Sherlock a business card, tucking it coquettishly into his jacket pocket as he escorts her from the premises, but her expression tells him she knows he'll not be using it, tonight or any night. When he comes back upstairs he's not sure what to expect, whether Molly will be upset or not-

She kisses him once though, asks him if there's something he wants to tell her.

He shakes his head- there really isn't- and that night he finally gets around to taking Adler's messages off his phone.

Molly notices, but she doesn't say a word, and neither does Sherlock.

Adler may always be The Woman to him, but Molly is Molly, he knows.

A Year And A Day In

The day he finally accepts what he and Molly have, peaceful and happy and unexpected as it is, is the day that John and Mary christen their first child.

It is also, coincidentally, the first time that he and Molly engage in intercourse, though he's not trying to suggest that the two things are in any way linked.

Or maybe they are. For when he watches his best friends present their child to the world- James, they've named him, after John's old commander Shalto- it occurs to Sherlock that, though he is not at ease in this group, he is nevertheless a part of it. He is as much a member as John, or Mary, or Molly, or Mrs. Hudson; He belongs with these people and their joy. And despite what Mycroft so often told him, he no longer thinks that that's necessarily a bad thing- Sentiment, in fact, is something which has been really rather kind to him-

For a moment his thoughts drift to his sibling, in exile now due to his handling of the Hough affair, but instantly he brings his mind back again.

He will not feel sorry for Mycroft, no matter what his heart whispers to him. His treatment of Molly was appalling, and from that, there can be no turning back.

Besides, today is a happy day and he is, despite his many (loud) statements to the contrary, determined to enjoy it. He might even, if he feels it necessary, dance. So he chats to John and Mary, smiles, albeit stiffly, in the photos. The baby cries but every time he picks him up it quiets, something over which Mrs. Hudson makes the most irritating cooing noises imaginable. "Don't get ideas," he tells Molly, but she just grins. Eventually the DJ starts up and they both do the awkward shuffling-around-the-floor dance (unfortunately, not even Sherlock can waltz to Shawaddywaddy). They drink and have little mini sausages while Sherlock amuses himself by sharing what he knows to be the food's contents- What's a little e-coli and dog meat between friends? And then, when he's had a glass of wine or two, he and John tell a couple of the funnier stories of their years together. Mary joins in, sharing one or two which makes her husband blush, and everybody laughs.

It's ordinary, and stupid, and absolutely bloody brilliant.

Sherlock and Molly stumble home, not drunk but pleasantly relaxed, sometime around eleven. They clatter into the house, easy and slow in one another's company now, and Sherlock doesn't know why, but for some reason when he looks at her, he knows he wants to have sex with her. Knows he wants… He wants coitus (though he's fairly certain he shouldn't use that word when he makes his pitch.)

Molly turns to look at him from her place in the living room, one yellow open-toe sandal in her hand where she's pulled it off, and though he might not be able to explain why, he has the strangest feeling that she too wants what he wants. It makes no sense; though he can see her pupils are dilated and her skin slightly flushed, which he knows are symptoms of inebriation, he looks at her and he just… Knows. (You'll be believing in sorcery next, the Mycroft in his head scoffs, but he forces the voice away.) For a split second they just stare at one another, her biting her lip, him shuffling awkwardly from foot to foot and then- Then-

Slowly, he holds out his hand and Molly closes the space between them. Takes it. She's barefoot now.

"Do you want to, um..?" he asks through a tight throat. "Um…"

"Shag?" Molly finishes. "Yes please." Her smile is shy. "If you want to, that is..?"

Sherlock nods.

"That would be um, good, yeah," he says, and with those words his-their- fate is sealed.

So they walk into the bedroom and this time when Molly closes the door, Sherlock isn't afraid of what will happen next. He reaches out and pulls the pins from her upswept hair- one, two, three- and scatters them on the dresser. The locks come loose, down around her shoulders, and though Molly is self-conscious- "It must look like a rat's nest," she murmurs- Sherlock has rarely seen a more lovely sight.

She steps onto his feet, begins undoing his tie. She struggles with the knot- he usually ties them himself- but eventually she gets it loose. Opens it. She presses his jacket off his shoulders and sets herself to opening his shirt buttons, folding the fabric back as she goes. With each button opened she kisses the spot of skin it exposes; Sherlock nuzzles into her messy, half-down hair and smiles, his hands stroking down her shoulders to caress her elbows, her hips, the flush swell of her arse. She gets to his cuffs and frowns, unable to open the TARDIS-shaped cufflinks. It's actually quite funny, since they were a gift from her, but Sherlock comes to her rescue, smiling as she finally pushes the shirt off his shoulders.

She stares for a moment, one small hand tracing patterns he can't understand on his flesh, and then she steps off his feet, presents her back to him. He places both hands on her shoulders; her breathing feels delicate underneath his touch. The zip of her dress opens easily and he slides one finger lightly down her spine, kissing her shoulders and nape. She shivers, but it's the good sort of shiver, he can tell the difference now, and he smiles as he presses the yellow sundress off her shoulders, downwards, downwards, as he wraps his arm around her waist to pull her back into him and out of the dress, letting his weight tug them backwards onto the bed-

Molly lets out a yelp of surprised laughter, both her arms coming down to tighten on his as they tumble backwards. "Sherlock!" she gasps, but she's not scared, she's happy, and once again he thanks his stars that he knows her well enough to tell the difference now. He's not sure why- and he'll never admit to it- but he tickles her belly, causing more yelping laughter. Her legs kick into the air as she wriggles against him, and as he pushes her knickers down her hips they slide to her ankles, only to be ejected to the top of the dresser when he tickles her again and her foot jerks. They both laugh at the sight of her underwear festooning the furniture, and this time she tickles him back, twisting in his grasp and pressing him backwards. Her knees go on either side of his hips and it's playful, happy, as she stares down at him in nothing but her stockings and her bra.

"I really hope," Sherlock says breathlessly, "That my cock doesn't decide to run away right now…"

Molly kisses the tip of his nose. "If it does," she says with mock-grimness. "I'll run after it, don't you worry."

They both laugh, Molly throwing her head back, her brown eyes shining. She looks down at him with such affection, such love in her gaze, that it's really rather extraordinary. And then slowly, as he watches, she reaches behind her back and removes the bra. Tosses it.

She bites her lip as she shows herself to him completely naked, for the first time, he suspects, in all their interactions.

Sherlock stares, watches competing flushes of embarrassment and arousal fight their way across her skin. He sees the flare of freckles summer left across her collar-bone. The thin white line, all that remains of a childhood scar which tilts elegantly from beneath her jaw to track behind her left ear. Her breasts are pale and pink-nippled and perfect, and they rise and fall with each aroused, happy breath. Her lashes fan her cheeks, elegant and lovely as a shadow-play and he can't help himself, one hand reaches up to touch her face and tug her down to kiss him.

His voice is murmuring things and he thinks it's saying, "I love you," but he's not yet so brave as to let himself be entirely sure.

Not that it matters. Sherlock goes to move but she stays the hand at her cheek. Takes it and his free one in her own and presses them backwards above his head. He sees the arousal in her eyes deepen at the sight of it, and he gives a tiny nod, signifying his consent. Keeps his hands there even as she reaches down and pulls open his belt, his trousers, scooting down the bed to remove his shoes, tickling the sole of his right foot as she does. By the time she comes back to him he's hard enough to start proceedings, though he cannot say whether the same is true for her. But no matter, he'll soon know- She takes him in hand and moves against him and then he does know. The slickness on her thighs tells him everything and oh, but he's looked forward to this. There's a twist, a quick movement. Warmth. Wetness. A welcoming pull of flesh against his-

And then he's inside her and they're both moving, both pushing. She gasps his name and he could be wrong but this might be the best feeling in the world. He suspects that's because he's feeling it with her- his Molly- his Molly. It could be minutes or it could be hours, he's not rightly certain. He only knows that he holds on until her moment comes, as does his, in a gasp. In a rush. In dizziness. And then there's nothing but the two of them together again, and it is more than enough.

Now he knows why John chased after Mary so hard.

They both cling together tightly in the aftermath, pressed against one another in the bed, forehead to forehead.

They stay that way for the rest of the night.

It doesn't feel like an ending, he thinks, and when he tells her she says she knows what he means. It makes him glad, and it seems to make her glad too.

He falls asleep with his socks still on, Molly still in her makeup, and though they both look a fright the next day Sherlock honestly couldn't give a toss.

Two Years In

When she hands him the blue, gift-wrapped box, his first thought is that it smells like urine.

He asks her why this might be- after all, she could have brought him a new case for Christmas, she's thoughtful that way- but Molly raises her eyes heavenward and then kisses his crown lightly. Tells him to, "open the bloody box, and save the deductions for another time."

Inside he finds a pregnancy test, sees the two lines which signify that yes, he is about to reproduce. On seeing it he realises that Molly was foolish enough to furnish the fruit of his loins with a mother, and for that he is more grateful than he can say. For about ten whole minutes he stares at it, unable to speak, unable even to blink he later discovers-

But when she comes home from work the next night she finds his old cradle in John's former room. Finds a microscope and a book-shelf and a tiny nightlight in the shape of Big Ben, all happy, safe, warm things from when Sherlock was a little boy.

He's playing his violin when she comes to thank him, just to show how happy he is because he's not adept at using his words, but he usually finds a way around it. Molly hums as she kisses him and then sets about making the dinner, and Sherlock Holmes, the most unsociable man in London, raises his eyes heavenwards and wishes there were a God he could thank for his good fortune.

There isn't, but if there was he would.

A/N There now, hope you enjoyed that. I will at some point finish "The Boy on the Step," but I think this will be my last foray into this universe for a while. Thank you to everyone who read, reviewed, favourited and all round supported. Hobbits away, hey!