Okay guys. This is it. The end.

*sniffs *

And I tried to keep it believably delightfully montage-y cheesy. However, you may still need a few crackers to balance this one out. ;) Triscuits, or Wheat Thins, perhaps? (And now I'm hungry...)

And, despite my ridiculously massive enjoyment of all of the following things, I own none of them: Sherlock, the Parent Trap, or any songs referenced.

Thanks to OpalSkyLoveDivine for being wonderful.

I'll just stop talking now and let you read. After one more comment. : )

Thank you for this marvelous journey, and for all of the amazingly helpful and sweet reviews. They really have made writing so much more enjoyable. So thank you!

Chapter 13: Hook, Line, and Sinker

"Come to me, my sweetest friend -

This is where we start again."

- The Goo Goo Dolls, "Come to Me"

Several rather unremarkable fliers are posted in Napa Valley's library, all depicting various summer camps and all clamoring for the attention of the parents and children that visit to exchange books or attend the library's various programs.

This week is Spring Science Week, and among the mass of children, a single child is extremely noticeable. She is tall for her age, and appears to be just shy of slightly too old for the children's science program. She has dark, shoulder-length hair, and bright hazel eyes, and is the only child in the library wearing a lab coat and goggles.

The goggles have been pushed onto her head, and she is seriously studying the bulletin board where the unremarkable camp fliers are on display. She frowns at each of them in turn, because none of them are science camps.

A woman – middle-aged, with brown hair in a sleek ponytail, khakis, old, worn sneakers, and a very bright green top – comes up behind her. "Anything good this week?" She asks.

The girl pulls a face. "No science camps, Mum."

The woman smiles. "Well, you went to a science camp last year. And the year before. And you're at this one, here, now. Why don't you try something different this year?"

"Do I have to?" The girl says, just barely keeping her voice from a whine.

"Mmm, yes. Besides, you'll get to spend time with me at work when you get back, remember?"

The girl sighs.

"What about this one?" The mother asks, pointing to a camp in Colorado.

The girl shrugs dramatically.

"Or this one?" The mother points to one close by, in California.

The girl wrinkles her nose.

"Fine, then. You choose. But you have to choose today, because we'll have to start researching and filling out forms and you only have a few months left before you'll actually be at camp. So choose."

"Fine," the girls says, resigned. She studies the posters for another moment, and looks at a few brochures on the small table in front of the bulletin board, and five minutes later, she announces with very little enthusiasm – "I guess this one works."

The mother comes back over to her daughter, and flips through the brochure herself. "Camp Walden for Girls – Virginia. That's a long way away, Lydia."

"I know. I've never been to the East Coast." The girl gives her mother a huge grin, which the mother returns after a moment.

"All right, Lydia. We'll see what we can do."

Lydia Hooper is registered for camp by mid-March.

A certain woman employed as personal assistant to a certain man who may or may not have a minor position in the British Government notices.

The papers for camp have not come in yet, but she overhears Molly and Lydia discussing it at Molly's place of work, one day. The hijacked hospital surveillance systems are one of the very few places where the life of Molly Hooper can be overheard, since Mary Morstan removed most of the bugs from Molly's place of residence long ago.

The certain woman who is monitoring the hospital surveillance sits back in her leather office chair, and taps her desk with one perfectly manicured fingernail, and narrows her eyes as she thinks.

One minute later, she makes her decision.

And then she places a phone call.

Thousands of brochures advertising Camp Walden are mailed from the camp itself on March 19th.

They make their way faithfully through the United States Postal Service, traveling to Alexandria, and then to Washington, D.C., and then to Boston, before being loaded by a rotund woman with frizzy hair onto a plane bound for London.

When they arrive, the brochures are placed in a sorting center. They are separated and organized by a young man new to the job with a slight twitch in his left hand. The brochure addressed to 221 Baker Street is almost dropped into wrong sorting bin, and it balances precariously on the edge between the bins for Marylebone and Mayfair, but at the exact right moment the young man accidentally hits the bin with his hip, and it falls into the London: Marylebone bin.

The mail bound for Marylebone district is sent out on March 26th, and is picked up by a middle-aged mail carrier with red-blonde hair.

The brochure addressed to 221 Baker Street arrives on March 27th. An older woman with gray hair and a plethora of nervous energy accepts the post containing the brochure with thanks and a comment on the weather. The red-blonde middle-aged mail carrier chats with her for a moment, and then continues on his way.

The woman takes the mail into her flat, and sorts it according to recipient. She decides the Camp Walden brochure is meant for 221 B, and places it in that particular stack, and carries it up the stairs and places it on the coffee table, since the kitchen table is currently occupied with the remnants of an experiment that looks highly suspicious to her. She sighs at the sight on the kitchen table, and makes a note to tell her tenants to clean it up properly later. Her tenants are out for the day – one at a doctors' office, one at school, and one out who-knows-where.

The man out who-knows-where returns first. He is tall, with dark curls and startling blue eyes. He does not see the mail on the coffee table. Or if he does, he ignores it. It's not his area. He goes about making an even bigger mess of the kitchen table.

The school-goer returns next. She is a young girl – tall for her age, and has long, glossy dark hair that reaches nearly to her waist, and hazel eyes.

She, too, ignores the mail. She greets the man with the blue eyes with a kiss and a comment about the state of the kitchen table, and he replies that they're due for a night of take-away anyway. She grins and retreats up the stairs…presumably to do her homework.

The doctor, a sturdy, short man with blonde hair returns last, and he has grocery bags and take-away, and he arrives to see the tall man and the young girl playing a duet in the sitting room. He pauses for a moment in the doorway, smiling in appreciation at the scene before him, before he notices the state of the kitchen table.

His smile turns into a dark frown, and he immediately interrupts the lovely, mournful sounds of the violins to ask what the bloody hell the man with the blue eyes was thinking.

And so begins an evening of affectionate sarcasm, and sharing of food, and of ignoring the small stack of letters and other mail left on the coffee table.

The brochure sits on the coffee table for two days, undisturbed and unnoticed.

Two days later, the doctor is back in the flat, and he is shouting at the man with the blue eyes to pay his bloody electric bill. He begins searching through the pile of papers and mail on the coffee table, and, with a flourish, pulls out said bill. As he does, the Camp Walden brochure falls to the ground near the couch. The men ignore it as they pull their coats on and make their way out the door – the doctor frustrated, the man with the blue eyes mildly amused.

Later that day, the girl arrives home from school, and the older woman has fixed her some tea. They sit on the couch, sipping the tea and eating biscuits, and the girl, studying her shoes with mild embarrassment as the older woman goes on about how she loves hearing the girl play the violin with her father – the girl notices the brochure on the floor. Eager to change the subject, she picks it up and begins to flip through it.

"What is that, dear?" The older woman asks.

"It's a brochure. For a girls' camp," the girl replies.

"Hmm, let's see it then. You haven't decided on a camp yet, have you, Gigi?"

"No," the girl shakes her head.

The two ladies study the brochure.

When the two men arrive home later that evening, the girl announces that she's decided where she wants to attend summer camp, this year.

She presents the brochure, and the research she did earlier about the camp, and stares at the tall man with blue eyes. "Please, Dad?" She asks. "I went to a science camp last year. May I please go to Camp Walden this year?"

He looks over the brochure with mild distaste, and shrugs his approval.

A barely suppressed smile plays about his lips when the girl throws her arms around his neck and kisses his cheek soundly.

Weeks later, near mid-April, the certain woman employed as personal assistant to the certain man known in some very small, very private circles as The British Government – the woman known as Anthea - receives two identical packets of forms for Camp Walden – one for Lydia Hooper, and one for Genevieve Holmes.

When the papers come in, Anthea grins.

Later, as she tells her employer to 'sign here', he eyes her over the paperwork.

"Anthea," he says evenly. "Were you aware that both my dear younger brother and Dr. Hooper chose the same summer camp for Genevieve and Lydia this year?"

She smirks at him, because she knows he knows about the phone call she made to Camp Walden, encouraging them to broaden their target audience to include international campers. And he knows she knows he knows. "Well aware, sir," she replies.

They hold each other's gaze for a moment, in a smirking sort of stand-off, before the man sighs and hands the packets back to her. "You are, without a doubt, one of the most manipulative and calculating women I have ever met." It sounds like he means it as a compliment.

She throws him a serious glance over her shoulder as she leaves, but there is a smile in her eyes. "I have learned from the best, sir," she replies.

Present Day

London, England

"Where are my shoes?!" Genevieve Holmes wailed, frantically digging through the haphazard pile of footwear in her (now her and Lydia's) closet.

"Your what?!" Lydia shouted from the bottom of the stairs.

"MY SHOES!" Gigi yelled. In a very un-Gigi like move, she began digging through the pile and flinging shoes over her shoulder as she searched, adding to the mess in the room.

Most of the time, she adored the new additions to her family, but sharing a room with Lydia was far from easy.

Oh, Gigi still kept her half of the room nice and tidy and perfectly organized.

But she'd only been sharing with Lydia for three weeks, and it felt like years.

It was like they were the young twin tween versions of 'The Odd Couple'.

It was almost comical – in fact, patient and loving Gigi would normally say it was comical. It was like an invisible line was drawn down half of their room – Gigi's half contained a perfectly organized bookshelf, a neat desk with a dictionary and tidy piles of sheet music and a little pencil holder lined up on top, a perfectly made bed, and a clean floor.

She'd only finished unpacking two and half weeks ago, but Lydia's half already contained a bed that only occasionally had the sheets and blanket carelessly pulled up near the pillow, and a bookcase crammed so full of books, CDs, DVDs, and little trinkets and fossils and papers that it looked like it would explode or collapse at any moment. Her desk was similarly strewn with diagrams and papers and remnants of different (safe) experiments, and her telescope was pushed to one corner of the desk with her lab coat and goggles hung precariously over the side.

And the floor - well.

You couldn't even see that there was one.

Lydia's clothes were everywhere.

Usually, Gigi attempted to place the dirty ones in a pile and at least cram the clean ones back into the closet they shared, but it only took a day or two for the clothes to be spread over the floor again.

Only Lydia's half of the floor, though. Lydia was at least thoughtful of the fact that she shouldn't muss up Gigi's side of the room.

Gigi never seemed to be able to keep the closet clean, though.

It was just impossible.

Hence, her frantic searching for the little black dress shoes her Mum and Mary had bought specially for her practice performance with the London Symphony Orchestra.

She was dressed in the special, demure, grown-up black dress they'd bought her, as well, and her hair had been done up quite nicely by Mrs. Hudson. (Apparently part of the older woman's life history meant she was quite good at doing hair.)

But she couldn't find her shoes.

She sat back on her heels and let out a frustrated little yelp of annoyance.

"Oh, your shoes?" Lydia asked, coming in behind her. "Why didn't you say so?"

Lydia moved through the 'organized chaos' of her side of the room, and within seconds had moved a small pile of clothing and model of the human eye, and lo and behold – there were the shoes.

Gigi let out a frustrated sigh. "Thank you," she said.

Lydia flashed her a grin, tugging, slightly uncomfortable, on the hem of her own dress she'd received (and was forced to wear) for the occasion. "No problem. I told you, I know where everything is in here. Organized chaos."

After slipping on the shoes, Gigi gave her sister a nervous smile of her own. "I know. Thanks again."

She bit her lip.

Lydia punched her lightly in the shoulder. "Hey, Gigi. It's okay. You're going to do great. We'll all be there cheering for you."

Gigi looked slightly mortified. "You don't cheer at the symphony, Lydia. You applaud. You know that, right?" She could imagine her sister standing on the seat, whistling and screaming her name. She blushed at the thought.

Lydia laughed. "Of course I know that. That was a joke. A joke, Gigi. Tryin' to lighten the mood a bit, here."

Gigi gave her a weak smile. "Right."

Lydia looked at the digital clock on the nightstand the girls shared. "We've got to go. Mum said she'd meet us there from the airport."

Gigi took a deep breath. "Right." She nodded. "Right. I can do this. I can…do this."

Lydia gave her another bump on the shoulder. "Of course you can. You're a Holmes. And a Hooper. You can do anything."

Gigi let out a long breath and smiled. "That's right. After our parent trap? This should be a - a cinch."

Lydia nodded, and took her sister's arm. They made their way down the flights of stairs, where their uncle and father were waiting for them with a cab and Gigi's violin.

Changing into attire suitable for your daughter's first practice performance with the London Symphony Orchestra in an airport washroom is not a pleasant or an easy feat, but Molly Hooper (soon to once again be Molly Hooper-Holmes) managed it.

Barely.

"Stupid pantyhose," she grumbled. She hated the way the toes of the nylons didn't sit just right on her feet. And then they bunched up at the ankles. And then she had to even them out. It was entirely uncomfortable.

Thank goodness Mary was there to zip up her yellow dress.

As Sherlock had promised, the two of them had discussed Molly's position in California, and the timeline for her and Lydia moving back to London. After an awkward start (both were carefully hesitant to have a lively debate, still basking in the relief of being together again after a long separation), they soon settled in on an easy cadence in their discussion and reached the agreement that Molly would spend a month organizing her research and training her replacement in Napa Valley before moving back to London. Mycroft had arranged for her to work at Bart's again – not that she needed his help to get a position there, he just sped the process up a bit - three days a week in research, two days in the morgue, if she was needed there. ("Because I really do enjoy working there, too, most of the time," – Molly had insisted.) In the meantime, Lydia would move to Baker Street so that she would be prepared for the start of school. Molly had spent the past three weeks flying back and forth from California to London on the weekends, and she was truly looking forward to finishing her last week in California and being home for good.

"You are…planning on…moving in…with Genevieve and I." Sherlock had said it as a statement, but there had been a question in his glance. They'd been sitting on the sofa in her living room, everyone else having long since gone to bed.

"Oh – of – of course," Molly had replied. "Isn't…wasn't that implied when you asked me to…marry you again?"

"Well, of course," he'd replied. "But I wasn't sure if you'd be…comfortable. Sharing things yet." He'd studiously avoided her gaze, his expression neutral, but at that last comment, his eyes darted over her face, and down - and the way they'd lingered on her -

She'd blushed. "Oh." She'd thought about it for a moment. "Are you…comfortable…sharing things yet?"

He'd given her a look that could only be described as completely skeptical. "Molly Hooper. I thought I'd made my…desires perfectly obvious by my rather public display of affection earlier this evening."

Molly had blushed for the second time in the span of three minutes, and returned his look with what she hoped was a skeptical one of her own. "And I didn't?"

His mouth tugged up at one corner in that way that made her want to kiss him there. "Indeed you did, Molly, if your pupil dilation and increased heart and respiration rates were anything to go by."

"Still," Molly continued. "It's…extremely…thoughtful…of you to ask. And really…it is best to take this all in…in its own time."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. " 'In its own time'?"

"Just means…not…terribly slowly…and not rushing…but…well, we've got a month before I'm…with you all full time, in London. I'll stay with you all on a weekend, occasionally, and…we'll just…let things…happen. Naturally."

"Is there an 'unnatural' way to go about this?"

Molly laughed, and poked him affectionately in the shoulder. "I think just about everything in our lives, our family, and our relationship, could be considered a bit 'unnatural.'" She was teasing him again. "Though I really wouldn't have it any other way."

He smiled, and a moment later he was pulling her onto his lap and holding her, closing his eyes and resting his cheek on her head and breathing in the scent of her and reveling in the feel of her. He just held her, completely still, feeling his heart beat against her.

After a moment, she wrapped her arms around his torso, and shifted so that her legs rested across his and her cheek was on his shoulder. "I missed you too," she whispered.

He kissed her forehead and hummed a noncommittal sort of agreement.

An hour later, details about the move to London decided, Molly had fallen asleep, exhausted from a day full of travel and emotional highs. She had stretched out on her side on the couch, her head on a throw pillow on Sherlock's thigh, one hand under her cheek and the other hand curled around his knee.

He stroked her hair absent-mindedly as he listened to the sound of her deep, even breaths, content just to be near her, for the time being.

When Molly woke the next morning, Sherlock's legs were propped on the footrest and one hand was resting on her side as he slept.

Everything about it felt perfectly natural.

She noticed with a start, as she gently sat up, that he was wearing his wedding ring.

He'd stirred, and noticed her noticing. "If it's all right with you," he said, "I think this time around I'd like to try wearing it myself."

It was definitely, completely all right with her.

And since then, he'd only removed it when necessary for safety reasons in the lab.

Molly smiled as she recalled the flurry of activity that had occurred since that evening – making arrangements for moving back to London (though that was fairly easy, with Mycroft involved. Especially if his nieces were the ones to request help from him) and making arrangements at her place of employment in California, and making arrangements for her work at Bart's, again. She'd been back to London twice in the past three weeks, and this third time was a special trip for Gigi.

She had promised Gigi she would be there for her debut with the London Symphony Orchestra and had made the trip a day early this week to hear her daughter play.

It certainly helped, sometimes, to have Mycroft Holmes as a relation.

"Ready?" Mary called to her friend, interrupting her musings.

"As I'll ever be, with these stupid pantyhose," Molly replied, adjusting them once more before they exited the airport bathroom. "Let's get to my daughter's concert."

Molly and Mary arrived with ten minutes to spare. They slid into the seats reserved for them – John and Mary together, and Sherlock and Molly together, with Lydia in between.

Molly and Mary greeted Lydia with a quick peck.

Mary gave John kiss before sitting gracefully beside him and talking quietly about how the girls had been adjusting and what he'd been up to in the week since she'd seen him last.

Mary had insisted on moving back to London with Molly and Lydia. ("Watching after you lot were my orders, after all. And last I checked, those orders haven't changed. Besides…company's gotten a lot more…attractive these past few months.") She'd hunted for a flat of her own two blocks from Baker Street, but when Mrs. Hudson had heard of it, she'd protested mightily. ("Nonsense! Complete nonsense, dear! You can have use of my spare bedroom, and then when John works up the nerve to ask you to move in with him or marry him, you can just move your things downstairs." Mary had liked the woman's audacity, and had agreed to the plan. Hadn't quite reached fruition yet, but she knew it was only a matter of time.)

Molly settled in beside Sherlock, opting against a blatantly public display of affection in this particular instance. While he may have never had qualms about snogging her senseless at Bart's or at crime scenes in the past, even then, it was usually in the presence of very few witnesses (if any), and there were quite a few people here – parents and family and community members interested in the ten children who had won the chance to practice with the London Symphony Orchestra. She could tell he was slightly on edge about his daughter's performance, and so instead of a kiss, she surreptitiously slid her hand into his and gave it a small squeeze as she sat beside him.

His eyes shifted to meet hers, and he held firmly to her hand as she moved to pull it away.

She smiled at him, pleased that he wanted to keep her close.

"She'll do fine, Sherlock," Molly whispered encouragingly as they waited for the performance to begin.

He squeezed her hand in response, brushing his thumb lightly over her finger, and she shivered at the gentleness of his touch.

His words, though, were not quite as gentle. "She'll do more than fine, Molly. She's exceptional."

Molly gave him a Look. "I know she's exceptional, Sherlock." Her words were gentle. "She's our daughter. It was a figure of speech meant to comfort you."

His lips twitched a bit. "Right."

Not a second later, Lydia reached over her mother and tapped her father on the knee. "Dad," she whispered.

"Mmm?" He raised his eyebrow.

"Sorry." She gave him a meaningful look of her own.

"For what?" He asked.

"No, not me. I mean – you. Say sorry. When you snap at someone. If I have to do it, you do too. Remember?"

"Your mother knows-"

"Say it. If I have to, you have to."

Sherlock snorted, but after a moment, he did mumble a gruff "Sorry."

Molly had to try very hard not to laugh as the conductor walked onto the stage.

Later that evening, after bouquets had been given and ice cream had been eaten and Gigi was glowing with the pride and the relief that comes after a particularly challenging and nerve-wracking but enjoyable experience, the Hooper-Holmes family sat at Baker Street, discussing the concert. The girls had long since been battling yawns, and Molly soon insisted that they go to bed before they had to be carried up the stairs.

After the girls were in bed, Molly sat beside Sherlock on the couch. It had become something of a routine for them to sit beside each other on the couch after the girls had gone to bed, during her brief visits. Sometimes they talked, sometimes they spent time pursuing separate interests – research or recreational reading material for Molly, cases or science journals or newspapers for Sherlock. Once, they fell asleep together, like they had that night in California. Most of the time, Molly went to bed first. Sometimes Sherlock would follow her. (All right – he had followed her every time, so far, with the exception of the one evening he'd been called out on a potential 8 by Lestrade. She'd encouraged him to go on the case, smiling at the spark of excitement in his eyes and the torn expression on his face.) He had missed her. She would appreciate all of the attention while it lasted.

She sighed a happy, tired sigh, and leaned her head against his shoulder. He picked up her nearest hand in both of his, and gently, absentmindedly began exploring the expanse of her palm, and her knuckles, and her fingertips.

"One week," he muttered.

"Mmhmm," she agreed happily.

"I was thinking a short ceremony at the Justice of the Peace, with the girls and John and Mary as witnesses, as soon as you are back."

She lifted her head to smile at him. "In a hurry, Mr. Holmes?" She teased sleepily.

Instead of immediately replying, he smirked and lifted her hand to his lips, and pressed a light kiss on her fingers. "Not any more so than you," he stated smugly after a moment.

She rested her head on his shoulder again, and pressed a kiss to his neck. She was delighted to feel the quickness of his pulse on her lips. "I love you," she whispered.

He didn't need to say it back, but he found himself saying it anyways, if in his own way. "The feeling is mutual."

Molly yawned again. "And I agree with you. Small ceremony. Though the girls will be disappointed in a lack of wedding."

Sherlock smirked. "I don't think they'll be disappointed for long."

Molly lifted her head again. "What do you mean?" She woke a bit from her pre-slumber haze. She studied Sherlock's expression for a moment. "Oh – oh! Is it – John and Mary?!"

Sherlock's smirk only widened. "I estimate he'll be proposing by mid-October. Apparently this whole – family reunion – has awakened some sort of sentiment in 'Three Continents Watson'."

"Sherlock!" Molly scolded, smiling widely now. "And do you approve?"

He snorted. "My approval hardly matters."

"It would matter to John," Molly said knowingly.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her, but he was obviously pleased that she believed John thought so highly of his opinion. "Well..." He thought for a moment.

After a moment, she prompted him again. "Well?"

He sighed, and stretched. "She suits him. He's certainly done much worse."

"Sherlock!" Molly scolded again. "You'd better sound more enthusiastic than that when he asks you to be his best man."

Sherlock sat upright, and gave her a curious look.

She grinned at him. "He will ask you, you know."

He peered at her. "You…think so?"

"I know so."

He looked perplexed.

"You're his best friend, Sherlock," Molly said, a bemused smile on her lips at Sherlock's reaction.

Sherlock blinked, and she knew he'd be retreating into his mind palace, soon, to ruminate over this newest piece of information. She also knew once John confirmed it for himself, Sherlock's reaction would be fairly similar.

The man really did underestimate himself, sometimes.

She pressed a kiss to his forehead. "Goodnight, Sherlock," she whispered affectionately, and went to bed.

Sherlock was correct. The girls did not protest much that their parent's second wedding was not glamorous and did not involve anyone aside from themselves, John, Mary, Mycroft, Anthea, (the girls insisted that they be invited, though Mycroft and Anthea had sworn the girls to secrecy as to the full extent of their involvement in the whole 'parent trap' event), and Mrs. Hudson. (Greg could not attend on such short notice, though he did bring a bottle of champagne later to celebrate.) The girls did not protest because Sherlock and Molly informed them of John's most likely impending proposal, and the girls soon occupied all their free time outside of school watching John and Mary with increased focus, and using all the methods of encouragement at their disposal to cement the bond between the two of them.

"Mary's a great shot, isn't she, Uncle John?" Said after the couple had taken the girls out for an evening of laser tag, to give Sherlock and Molly some much-needed alone time a few days after Molly had made the final move from California.

"John's so thoughtful, isn't he? You know he's always been the one to buy the groceries. Just don't let him near a chip and pin machine." Said after John had dropped off a tin of Mary's favorite biscuits just because he 'knew she liked them'.

"Wow. Mary's really beautiful, isn't she? And she's an amazing cook, Uncle John. She makes the BEST bread." Said one evening as Mary cooked the Baker Street bunch supper.

"Just pop the question already, Uncle John." Lydia had stated that one quite grumpily after startling them by stepping out of Mrs. Hudson's flat and interrupting a rather passionate snogging in the hallway. Mary had laughed and John had given Lydia his most stern 'Not Good' look.

Days home turned to weeks. Molly continued her fully-funded research at St. Bart's, and also spent time occasionally helping Gunner with autopsies, when he was needed it. Sometimes she saw Sherlock at her work, sometimes she did not. He still kept odd hours and took all sorts of cases, but true to his word, he attempted to at least inform Molly of every case he took, and he made sure to discuss those that were dangerous.

It got a bit ridiculous.

One day in September, barely two weeks from being back in London (and a mere twelve days into their marriage), the girls were in school and Molly was at work. Her mobile buzzed incessantly as he texted her about every single case he took and solved. She received several in the span of a few moments.

John's at work saving boring lives. Going solo today. – SH

Taking a missing diamond case. –SH

Found the diamond. –SH

It had fallen behind the washroom counter. –SH

Seriously, I am not a lost-and-found consultant. I am a consulting detective. That was ridiculous. –SH

Didn't even leave the flat. – SH

Taking an adultery case. Still not leaving the flat –SH

Solved. –SH

Taking a plagiarism case that looks promising. Possible 6. –SH

Never mind. Solved. Still at Baker Street. – SH

After this went on for an hour, she was nearly laughing in disbelief. She told her supervisor she needed to take care of something at home, and that she'd return as soon as possible.

She arrived at Baker Street while Sherlock was standing on his armchair, peering down at the head of the client in front of him. "I'm afraid, Ms. Flangerhanger-"

"Flaversham," the young woman corrected, irritated –

"-whatever. I am afraid that it's your roots." He stepped off of the armchair, and gave Molly a questioning glance.

Molly responded with an encouraging smile.

"My roots?" The young woman asked, confused. "Why would that affect my employment?!"

Sherlock gave the young woman an insincere smile. "Unfortunately, your employer has a habit of entering into relationships with his staff. He is, in laymen's terms, a complete and utter piss-pot, and is only interested in seducing young women with naturally blonde hair. You, Ms. Flibbertigibit -"

"Flaversham," she correct again –

"Never mind. You, unfortunately, or – in your case – probably fortunately, considering the morals and past of your ex-employer – are naturally a brunette. He did not realize this when he hired you, and now that he has found you out, he has made some rather flimsy excuses to let you go. I should think you're better off, now."

The young woman blinked. "Oh," was all she could manage to say.

"Oh indeed. Now, if you'd be so kind – my wife has something she'd like to discuss with me." He inclined his head toward the door.

"Um…thank…you?" The young woman asked, as she made her way out the door.

Molly gave her a kind smile, and then refocused on Sherlock as the woman left.

Sherlock gave her a tight smile. "Solved. Still didn't leave the flat," he muttered, as if by habit.

She smiled at him, and clasped her hands behind her back so they'd have something to do besides fidget nervously by her sides. "Sherlock, I appreciate that you are being so open and honest with me about the cases you are taking on. It does mean a lot to me that you are including me in your work." She paused, and drew in a breath, considering how to phrase her next statement.

"But-?" Sherlock prompted her.

"But you don't need to tell me about every single case," she explained. "I mean, you can, if you want to – when I come home from work. But – you don't need to tell me about cases you don't leave the flat for. In fact," she continued, "you don't need to tell me about every case you do leave the flat for. I mean, I would like to know – that you're – out, solving cases, of course, and if you're going to be out late, or later than usual…but…" she took a breath. "I suppose…what I'm…trying to say, is that…I trust you. If you haven't taken a case yet that's seriously endangered yourself since the girls have been born, I trust you to continue being careful. I trust you to come home to me. To us. And of course, I trust your judgment. If you – or John – or – or – Greg, feel that a case is dangerous, or that it includes something I need to be aware of, then please, please tell me. But – I trust you. I can help you decide…for now…if you want, what constitutes as important enough to tell me…and so can John, or Greg. But really…if you're consulting for Greg, or if you're just solving cases at home…I don't need a text update." She eyed him for a moment, and rushed to add – "Unless you want to give me one, of course."

Sherlock stared at her for a moment before sighing dramatically with relief. "Thank you, Molly." He closed his eyes and sat down with a mirthful smirk. "And just reconfirming for you…no seducing. And I will inform you if I feel there is a threat to my life or limb. Even if it worries you."

She stared at him for a moment. "You did that on purpose, didn't you!" She exclaimed - but really, she couldn't help the exasperated smile on her lips. "Thank you," she said softly, in response to his confirmation.

He sighed again, and reached over to his laptop to search for another case to solve.

After a moment, he looked up. She had moved so that she was standing in front of him, and was watching him with a small smile on her face. "Molly?" He asked.

"We're going to be all right, aren't we?" She asked in a low, happy voice - but it was more of a statement. Like she knew they would be, and she was confirming that for him.

He returned her smile with a small, steady one of his own. "If we aren't already, we're well on our way."

She nodded, and reached over to shut his laptop.

After a break that went a bit longer than they'd originally intended, they both returned to work.

It was an adjustment for the entire family, being together again - but it was one met with enthusiasm and a determination to support each other through thick and thin. There were tiny squabbles over things like chores and food and manners and the appropriateness of certain experiments in the kitchen, and eventually a few larger ones about child-raising and world travel, but the Hooper-Holmes family worked through them with friendly sarcasm, gentle confrontation, practiced forgiveness, and an almost obscene amount of affection.

Because if life for the Hooper-Holmes clan and their odd, extended family was slightly unconventional, so was the depth and sincerity of their love.

Mid-October

"Shh, Dad – they'll see us," Lydia scolded.

"If you're shushing me, that means they'd hear us," Sherlock corrected, an amused smile on his lips.

"You know what I mean," Lydia grumbled.

"We shouldn't even be here," Gigi worried, whispering.

"Your mother would have stopped us if she believed it to be out of line," Sherlock replied. "She'd probably be here, too, instead of covering a shift at Bart's, if Gunner's wife didn't suddenly go into labor."

"She did tell us not to interrupt," Gigi pointed out.

"We're not interrupting," Lydia replied. "We're observing. We'll only interrupt if he starts messing it up."

"How would he mess it up? Didn't he help you plan yours, Dad?"

"Shh," her father replied, focused on the scene below them.

The trio stood on the fancy balcony that overlooked the restaurant that John Watson had chosen as the location of his proposal to Mary Morstan. The group attempted to stand behind one of the pillars, out of the couples' line of sight.

"He's going to do it!" Gigi whispered excitedly, noticing her uncle nervously flipping the ring box open and shut on his knee.

John leaned forward, and spoke earnestly with Mary for a few minutes. Mary's face was shining with gentle encouragement and love – and a hint of amusement.

Lydia sighed. "What's taking so long?" She hissed.

"Be patient!" Gigi admonished. "He's confessing his true love."

After another moment, John took the box and extended it toward Mary, opening it. Gigi bit her lip and clasped her hands with excitement, and Lydia leaned forward with a gleam in her eye.

Mary nodded, and John grinned, and Lydia let out a whoop that was just a bit too loud. The couple looked around for a moment, before Mary raised her eyebrow in the direction the trio was hiding.

"Shhh!" Both Sherlock and Gigi shushed her, and Lydia grinned sheepishly.

"Oops," she shrugged her shoulders.

Gigi sighed. "I can't blame you. It is so romantic, isn't it?" She peered around the pillar. "Hey! Where'd they go? Uh-oh – I think -"

"What do we have here?" John's cheerful voice interrupted Gigi's musings.

Only Gigi had the wherewithal to look somewhat abashed. Sherlock and Lydia were grinning at the newly engaged couple.

Mary smiled gently at her. "Well, love – I don't know about you – but it looks like two bridesmaids, to me."

"-and a best man," John added, pulling Sherlock in for an enthusiastic handshake and hug. Sherlock responded with an awkwardly pleased sort of half-smile. He stood staring at nothing in particular for a moment, processing the request, as the conversation continued around him.

"Really?!" Gigi gasped, obviously pleased.

"Do I have to wear a flowery dress?" Lydia asked suspiciously.

"Yes, and yes, though it won't necessarily be flowery," Mary replied, laughing. "But you'll also get first shot at the food at the reception." She gave a knowing lift of the eyebrow to her niece.

"Can I plan the menu?" Lydia asked, always happy at the prospect of good food.

"You can help," Mary said firmly.

"Deal," Lydia grinned, and allowed herself to be wrapped in the embraces of her Uncle John and Aunt Mary.

Several months later, Gigi and Lydia sat picking at cake, soundly stuffed and observing the first dance of their aunt and uncle on the dance floor. Their father had composed an original waltz for them, and their mother was sitting beside them, teary-eyed at the music.

Gigi had also played them a piece at the rehearsal dinner, but claimed she had too many responsibilities as a bridesmaid to try and play at the reception itself. No one argued with her.

After the bride and groom's waltz was finished and the beginning chords of "December, 1963 - Oh What a Night" were floating around the reception hall, Sherlock strode up to his wife of ten months. "May I have this dance?" He asked, holding out his hand with dramatic expectation, a serious, neutral expression on his face.

"You may," Molly replied with equal seriousness, before a smile broke out on her face.

Sherlock turned to his daughters. "Lady of the house gets first dance. Your turn will come." He winked at them.

"I call the first Kelly Clarkson song!" Lydia stated. She knew, in fact, that "My Life Would Suck Without You" was to be played in roughly twenty minutes. She'd made a suggestion to the DJ as they'd entered.

"Then I call 'Little Bitty Pretty One'," Gigi said immediately after. While Lydia had helped plan the menu, Gigi had helped create the list of songs to start the evening with and knew the song would be played in about fifteen. She and her father had been practicing, and she was excited to show off her new swing-dancing skills.

"Deal," their father said, before pulling their mother onto the dance floor.

He'd finally succeeded in teaching Molly how to dance properly. Well – most of the time. Molly still broke out into some fairly silly moves occasionally – but no one could deny the open (if slightly begrudging) affection on her family's faces, even when she did so.

As they spun around the dance floor and spoke of wedding things (Molly was determined to praise each of the amazing things Sherlock had done for this particular wedding, including his speech and solving the almost-murder of Major Sholto, an old friend of John's), Sherlock let it slip that Mary was expecting.

Molly dropped her arms and stood there, a look of complete shock on her face. "What?!"

Sherlock frowned. "You didn't notice the fact that she's been sick the past few mornings? Or that she's put on four pounds? Or that she distinctively disliked the wine she'd chosen that she'd adored three months ago?"

Molly laughed. "I did not. I was busy noticing the fact that Gigi and Lydia needed haircuts before the wedding, and helping with 'calculations' for John's stag night that ended up being a moot point anyways, and that my husband was obsessing over folding napkins, and that you and John both needed to blow off some steam before you went insane with all the wedding planning. Mary noticed that too, if you remember correctly." She smiled at him, taking up her previous position and falling back into dancing with him. "Do they know?" She whispered.

He grinned smugly at her. "They didn't."

"Sherlock – you – told them?!"

"I did."

"Sherlock!"

He spun her out again before pulling her close. The song was ending, and the familiar introduction to 'Come on Eileen' began. Sherlock showed no intentions of stopping their dance. He adjusted their stance and cadence to the new beat and continued with as much enthusiasm as before. "He's a doctor, Molly, and she's a…well, she's a nurse, among other things. It was appalling that they didn't notice before. I was almost afraid I'd have to have 'the talk' with him." He rolled his eyes and gave her a smirk.

" 'The talk'?!" Molly burst out laughing. "I didn't even know you knew what 'the talk' was."

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed in response. "Amazing as it is to believe, my father did give me 'the talk', Molly. Though his attempt at 'the talk' failed rather mightily, considering I'd been studying human anatomy for years by the time he got around to it."

She laughed again, and after a moment to catch her breath, continued. "Well, I can't say that I can blame John and Mary for not noticing. They've been pretty busy with everything lately."

"I'll say they've been busy," he replied, raising an eyebrow.

"Sherlock!" Molly snorted. Dancing really did bring out a rare side of Sherlock that brought a thrill to her heart. She'd learned that as they'd gotten better and better as dance partners as he'd taught her the past several months, and as they'd gotten more free in their movements - he'd gotten more free with his words, as well, and he was never as flirtatious as he was when he was dancing.

He stopped for a moment, as if reading her mind - and pulled her close, moving in half-time to the beat of the song, and began to murmur the lyrics into her ear - with a few minor changes.

"Come on Molly – I swear what I mean – at this moment – you mean everything-" he twirled her around, and brought her back close before continuing, his hand sliding seductively down her side and resting on her hip, the fingers of his other hand releasing hers and trailing up her arm to rest on her neck and brush against her hair – "with you in that dress – my thoughts I confess – verge on dirty-"

Breathless and emboldened, she raised a seductive eyebrow at him and, starting at his navel, slid her own hands up his chest, resting one on his shoulder, her thumb gently stroking, gently pulling at the fabric of his shirt near his collar, and the other trailed up his chest to his neck, her own lithe fingers tugging gently at his curls, pulling him down so that she could reach to kiss him properly. His arms tightened around her, and he returned her kiss with barely restrained enthusiasm. She could feel his lips smiling smugly at the small sigh he elicited from her as he pulled her closer so that she was flush against him.

"Hey!" John called, as he and Mary passed by them. "We're the ones supposed to be burning up the dance floor, you two!"

Molly broke away from Sherlock, who growled in mild, good-natured frustration, and she grinned at them. "Congratulations, by the way!" She whispered loudly, giving them an obvious wink as they moved away.

Mary paused for a moment, beamed, and leaned in, speaking with a low voice. "Sherlock, if you tell anyone else tonight about our little surprise I'm not going to be responsible for what happens to you. You really don't want to mess with a pregnant bride. Especially one with my particular set of skills."

He returned her grin with a cheeky one of his own. "Wouldn't dream of it," he said innocently.

After hours of dancing with their parents, their aunt and uncle, and each other, Gigi and Lydia sat beside each other, indulging in another piece of cake. They'd moved some chairs so that they could prop their feet up as they ate, and were watching the remaining party-goers with a careful eye and happy giggles.

"Hey, look who showed up!" Gigi bumped Lydia with her elbow.

In a dark corner, helping himself to a piece of wedding cake, was their Uncle Mycroft. Anthea stood beside him, checking something on her mobile before sliding it into her purse.

"Ha! He would go for the cake," Lydia snorted. "Dad said if he did make an appearance, that's where he'd go first."

"Mmm," Gigi agreed, watching the couple by the cake intently.

"Well," Lydia continued, carefully popping another bite of cake into her mouth and chewing thoughtfully. "What do we do now? I mean - we got our parents back together, you played for the LSO, we've solved mysteries with Dad and researched with Mum and planned a wedding for John and Mary…" she sighed. "Regular life is going to be boring after all that."

Gigi nudged her sister again. "Hey – look at them," she inclined her head toward Mycroft and Anthea, again.

Mycroft was handing Anthea a plate of cake, a napkin, and a fork. Anthea smiled and took it. The way their gazes lingered for just a moment distinctly reminded the girls of how certain other adults in their lives looked at each other.

"What – oh. Oh." Lydia sat up a little straighter. "Is he…did he really just serve her a piece of cake?"

The girls watched for a moment, smiles slowly growing on their faces.

"Gigi," Lydia said nonchalantly.

"Mmm?"

"I have a brilliant idea."

THE END

Lots of love to all of you followers, favoriters, and reviewers. xoxo

Arcoiris -Thank you! I am glad the mind palace scene worked. Because I needed a reason for Molly to leave so that Sherlock could go after her. I'm really happy that you enjoyed it, that it worked, and for your review. Your reviews are loveliness!

Guest - Thank you! But, I am no 'm' writer. Just not my thing. *blushing* *shifty eyes* :)

Black Night - Haha! And yes! I knew that! Everyone was like 'WHAT THE HECK ACD?!' I can only imagine the visit from his mother. :D Your reviews are so lovely and funny and make me smile. :D Another big grin for you. :D Hope you enjoy this chapter as well.

Em Kay Who - Thanks! I've never tried Mythea before but I've certainly enjoyed writing their developing-into-something-a-bit-more-than-friendship in this story. :)

Did you notice my little reference to The Great Mouse Detective? Just a teeny one. Because why not?

Also…I realize that last line may hint at a sequel…but I'm not quite sure if I'm going to write that right now. Maybe one day. Not sure exactly what the plot would entail, but I like the idea of matchmaker Gigi and Lydia!

I have ideas for 2 one-shots from keeptheotherone and myself that are post-Trap and focus on the Hooper-Holmes family that I will probably casually write these next few months.

If you have any ideas you'd like to see for one-shots about this crazy little family give me a PM and I'll see what I can do, but alas, I cannot promise I will be a fanfic-writing machine during the school year.

I'm actually looking forward to catching up on a lot of fanfics myself after all this writing! (Here's lookin' at you, Emma Lynch!)

Thanks again, everyone. It's been fun. : )