This is it folks.. The final chapter of this fic, a bonus as promised. I hope you've enjoyed reading it as much as i've enjoyed writing it. Thank you all for you wonderful support throughout this project, I never dreamed I'd write something that would be this popular. The sequel will be Z-A, a slow burn sherlolly (because I can), and follow cannon up to the end of S4. I will be starting that one with Sherlock's view point of the fall out of Molly's break up. Hope to see you there :)

B is for Bonus Chapter

Molly was updating her photo albums, she had stacks of photos from the Watson wedding, her excursions parent-sitting, and from various holidays that needed to be dated, annotated and stuck in. Her favourite part was always looking back through time, and reminiscing in a very private way about her life, her choices and the people around her. She cherished the photos she had of her when she was young, with her mum, dad and younger brother, the happiest of times. She loved the photos with her university friends, and following herself grow up as the album progressed through her medicine degree, then her pathology degree, her training, her boyfriends throughout the ages. The photos of when she first met Greg, through his previous sergeant, and later Sherlock. Her brother's wedding came next, stuck next to pictures of his children, interspersed for her own amusement by the odd one of Mycroft, her honorary older brother. Eventually ones of Mrs Hudson and John appeared with a couple of Jim from IT, as he was then, for good measure. On a page by itself sat one solitary photo of Sherlock's headstone, a reminder of a traumatic time that no one else would ever understand. The last few completed pages were almost entirely of her and Tom during Sherlock's stint away, walking the dog, sitting in pubs, being distinctly average.

Some of her photos came from stills from the various cameras installed at Baker Street and her own flat; Mycroft almost always sent her one for her birthday, her favourite of the lot being one taken on the Molly's Day her and Sherlock had rearranged Mycroft's furniture. They're sat on her chewed up old sofa, laptop on the coffee table, laughing hysterically – a candid and beautiful shot. Somewhere in the album there was photographic proof that Sherlock was able to do his own washing, and ironing, alongside a photo of the two brothers on one of their games evenings, both focussing hard on playing the children's game operation.

She managed to get a few photos put in, mostly of the wedding, before her phone beeped, she was on call tonight and needed to get back to the hospital. Molly tidied up a little, leaving just one pile of photos and the album on the coffee table, before grabbing her coat and going downstairs to hail a cab.

Tom wasn't a nosy person, he generally kept himself to himself and wasn't particularly concerned with the details of other people's lives. He thought that he'd had a pretty honest, and open relationship with Molly, so when he came home to find a photo album he didn't recognise on the coffee table, his first instinct was not to look, but to continue in his quest for finding some food (his second was to be grateful that it wasn't another bloody experiment). After he'd eaten, washed up and watched the football, however, he felt the glare of the album, just sitting in the corner of his vision. He picked up the photo stack first, sifting through recent memories, disappointed in the lack of photos of the two of them. The album, however, was a whole different kettle of fish. He didn't know Molly had a younger brother, or that she'd evidently got to know Greg through the policeman she was dating at the time. He hadn't realised that when she said she'd been involved with Moriarty, she actually meant that they'd been in a relationship, nor had he thought about the upheaval in her life when Sherlock had fallen from the rooftop. Everyone had seen the news, and followed it as the reports went from fraud to tragic misunderstanding. They say a picture is worth a thousand words, and the single tombstone alone in the centre of the page spoke volumes to Tom. She had told him when they'd first met that she'd suffered the loss of a friend, he'd never equated that with Sherlock, until now. The weird habits, the two months she'd drunk black coffee with two sugars because she seemed incapable of making two beverages without that being one of them, her assumption that he was some sort of mind reader, the terrible sleep pattern.

What was most telling, however, was the singular photo of Molly, Sherlock and Mycroft, amongst those of her brother's children. The three were covered in cake, even Mycroft had a shadow of a smile on his face, the most relaxed Tom had even seen the elder brother.

Molly got in around 11 pm, looking forward to spending half an hour or so with her photos before she went to bed. She wasn't expecting to be questioned within an inch of her life on every aspect of her life.

"You never told me you dated the Moriarty." Tom said quietly when as she sat down on the sofa. Molly rolled her eyes, she was quite sure that she had.

"We went on three dates, I ended it." She replied flippantly,

"You dumped the greatest criminal genius this century?" Tom parroted, part in awe, part in terror.

"Yup." She popped the 'p' subconsciously, avoiding explaining just why she had broken it off.

"You never told me you had a brother," Tom said after a moments silence, trying and failing to sound nonchalant.

"You never asked," She retorted, scooping up her photos and the album, taking them into the bedroom, and slamming the door shut behind her.

Tom shifted uncomfortably in the armchair, Molly had the government in her pocket, a consulting genius at her beck and call, and had dated and dumped one of the most dangerous men ever to exist. She was a force of nature, and he had tried to get her to do the ironing.