Here it is, my lovelies. The very last chapter. Thank you, thank you, thank you to all of you who were so good as to leave reviews, it means a lot that you take the time to leave a comment, and I really appreciate it! Thank you for reading, favoriting and following!

"Uncle Sherlock," the Consulting Detective looked up from the beakers on the table to four year-old George Watson. George was just chin-level with the table now. He had his father's nose and right now it crinkled at the smell leaking from the uncorked bottle in Sherlock's hand.

"Yes?"

"What's that?" he rose on tiptoe, his hands boosting him up to see.

"Hands off the table when I'm holding sulfuric acid, you know the rules," Sherlock cautioned. George obediently let go of the table and dragged a chair over beside Sherlock.

"Why do you need acid?"

"For an experiment." It was a house rule, if Sherlock was using any type of acid, he was not allowed to fully explain the experiment, at least not until the children were in school. Sherlock didn't particularly agree with it, but George was not his son, and John insisted, so he abided by the Watson's requests.

"Uncle Sherlock?"

"Yes George?"

"Why is Aunt Molly so fat?" Both looked to the living room where Molly was helping Lucia pin up a picture she'd painted in school. Molly turned, and Sherlock found himself proudly admiring her protruding baby bump. Very soon now, he would be a father, and he was looking forward to it.

"She's not fat, she's pregnant," Sherlock clarified.

"Does that mean there's a baby in her tummy?"

"No, it means there is a baby in her uterus."

"It looks like there's a baby in her tummy."

"But it isn't," Sherlock contradicted and George simply shrugged in response. Molly, having overheard the conversation, smiled across the room at her husband, her hands tracing lazy circles over her belly. Words could not convey the gladness Molly had when she learned she was pregnant.

Two years married, Sherlock Holmes supposed he was domesticated. Or at least as domestic as he could be. He and John still solved cases. He still performed experiments, and played the violin at all hours when he couldn't sleep. The one change in his life was Molly, or perhaps she was the one constant. She'd always been there, now she had a permanent place, and he was pleased that she had such a central place in his life. Yes, he loved her, though he probably didn't say it as often as she liked. He did try, especially now that she was pregnant and her hormones made her prone to cry at anything from Toby the dog falling asleep beside Lucia Watson to a commercial about mattresses. Married life was nothing that he expected it would be, and he was pleased. Molly was happy, truly happy, and very much herself again. There were still days she had anxiety attacks, days when she was depressed or afraid to enter the locker room at Barts. Those were the days Sherlock took her home to 221b and helped her through whatever it was she was dealing with. Her last therapy session was long past now; Doctor Bremen had proudly declared her quite ready to cope with whatever the world threw at her. Unsure, but believing him to never lie to her, Molly returned to work. Clutching the black opal, she'd walked all through the morgue and labs, and on her last day of work before her maternity leave, she walked through the locker room, Sherlock waiting at the doorway, watching her, quite proud of the progress she'd made.

Five years since she'd been kidnapped, two years since they were married, she was finally able to look at the room she'd been kidnapped from. She stood by her locker, finally finding the courage to open it. There wasn't much inside, a sweater she'd thought she'd lost a spare phone charger and a pair of sneakers. She found she wasn't ready to bring any of it home yet so she shut the locker to leave it until another day. Sherlock held out his hand, smiling one of his rare, genuine smiles that were reserved especially for Molly.

"Six months down, three to go," he said and she smiled, excited. She thought often of how Sherlock had taken the news of his impending fatherhood. He'd fallen to his knees in the middle of 221b, pushing her blouse up and kissing her soft belly, his hands trembling. They had thought for some time that perhaps she couldn't get pregnant (they'd done things the usual way and for a year and a half of their marriage, Molly fretted that their inability to conceive was her fault. Sherlock, not bearing to see her so distraught, endured test after test (apparently they were both healthy) until the doctors told them to simply keep on as they were and something was bound to happen. Happen it did and now both 221b and 221c were baby-proofed and waiting for the littlest Holmes to arrive.

Noting Molly's weariness, Sherlock pulled off his gloves, setting them aside.

"Nevermind the crayons, we'll pick them up before your mum comes to fetch you," Molly said as Lucia crawled under the coffee table.

"When are they coming?" Lucia asked. She liked to know beforehand exactly how much playtime was left before she had to clean up.

"Not until six," Molly assured her. "Just set the crayons in the box, Uncle Sherlock can put them in the cupboard." Her eyes twinkled at her husband who returned her smile.

"Lucia, go and see Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said. "The ice cream truck will be here shortly and she always keeps pocket-change in the coffee tin in the cupboard. Bring George with you." Needing no further incentive the children dropped what they were doing and hurried off. Slipping his arms around his wife's waist, he pressed her back against his chest, feeling the baby kick against his palms.

"You are a little heavier than Mary was when she was pregnant with Lucia." He commented. Molly pinched him, hard and meaning and he jerked away, frowning. "Bit not good?"

"A whole lot of not good," she said. "You'll just have to make it up to me." She turned in his arms, smiling almost mischievously and Sherlock found himself conjuring up all sorts of lovely ways she'd make him apologize.

There was a quick knock on the open door and they both turned to see Greg standing there.

"Hey," he waved to them. "Sherlock, we need you down at Barts, you know that Ripper copycat? We've got another body."

"Should I meet you at the morgue?" Molly asked, stepping out of her husband's arms, she reached for her coat.

"Nope, you're on leave," Sherlock answered. He switched off the Bunsen burners, covering the rows of test-tubes with a cloth. "I'll be back late,"

"But Sherloooooock," Molly complained.

"Nope."

"The pathologist on shift is an idiot," she groaned. "He doesn't even sew up the bodies neatly. He practically butchered poor Mr. Crenshaw's skull cap."

"Mr. Crenshaw was butchered himself," Sherlock replied. "Stay here where it's safe and there are relatively few toxic things to harm you or the baby." He slipped his arms through the sleeves of his coat. Molly pouted and he bent, pressing a gentle kiss to her lips. "I'll text you the details," he said.

"Promise?"

"Promise." Another kiss, and then he bent down to her belly. "You behave as well, your mother is run off her feet with your constant kicking." He kissed her stomach, feeling a fluttering as his unborn son shifted.

"Send pictures too," Molly said, hands on her hips as he straightened. "If the exit wound is the same-"

"I will," he promised.

"I love you." She kissed him once more, and he fairly smiled.

"And I you."

Life was, dare Sherlock say it, pleasant. Not much had changed in his day-to-day schedule, excepting that Molly was central in it, and he liked it that way. Two independent adults, who found that life was so very much better together. This was what John and Mary meant when they tried to explain marriage to Sherlock. He very smugly pointed out to any and all that the first two years were only the beginnings of the best years of their lives, and that it had all started when Molly stabbed a man.

"It came after that, actually," Molly said. "After you rescued me."

"My dear woman," Sherlock scoffed. "You rescued yourself." Molly felt warmth blossom in her chest and her face flush. It had taken a long time for her to see why she could be proud of herself. She was proud that she had protected herself, that she could look at herself now and be happy with who she saw.

"I rescued myself," she murmured. He nodded in affirmation, pulling her close.