A little side story in the and still, it moves universe. Takes place before Chapter 3. Title comes from the delightful Magnetic Fields song 'Queen of the Savages'. Because of course a man who fancied himself a pirate, once upon his younger years, would imagine his children to be barbarian royalty. I may have altered some of the lyrics to fit Sherlock's mood and Molly's sense of decorum (no "funny things we see when we smoke," for instance). Left the cannibalism in there to annoy John, however. What can I say? Sherlock made me.

Millicent Holmes presides over the holiday preparations with all the menacing goodwill of a benevolent dictator, which of course she very much is. There is little room for arguing as she clucks at her husband, at Mary and Mycroft, directing them to and fro about the kitchen, her small army bearing pots and cups and cutlery. Molly Hooper smiles as she tuts at Father Holmes for daring to sample the frosting off a particularly delectable looking raspberry-almond layer cake. The genetic case for Mycroft's love of sweets, at last revealed.

As she turns her attention to the next order of business, the sound of guitar chords slips in under the bustle and commotion. She follows it to the source, the background banter fading under the music as it filters in from the living room. She leans against the doorframe, her mouth rising in amusement as she watches the scene before her unfold. She had known that Sherlock would be a better parent than he expected himself to be, but the full extent of it still smacks her with delight at times.

"My girl is the queen of the savages," Sherlock sings to Anna, whose pert sideways smile is the near-mirror of her father's. "She don't know the modern world and it's ravages." In his hands he strums a battered, old acoustic guitar that his father claimed, years before, to have won off Bob Dylan in a card game at the Newport Folk Festival in '63.

"I had a run of luck with a pair of queens, and as a result he had to play electric," Timothy Holmes told her once, his blue eyes twinkling.

"Bit of a scandal, wasn't it? Weren't people incensed?" Molly asked, amused by her all-but-in-law's terribly bohemian youth.

Timothy had given her an affable shrug. "I seem to recall something of the sort. Never saw it for myself, though. With the rest of my winnings I'd bought a bus ticket to New York to track down a girl I'd met. She was beautiful and ingenious and frequently left me unable to finish two sentences. I could never seem to speak in her presence, but—" at this he paused, looking to Millie with open adoration. "She made me want to sing."

(It is endlessly amusing to Molly Hooper that the parents of stoic, patrician Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes were, once upon a time, total hippies.)

Much like his father and grandfather before him, her son was born with music in his blood. At seven-years-old, Jack is able to play near to anything with a string, and is presently involved in a dedicated effort to obtain either a drum set or a saxophone (either way, Molly figures she may never sleep again). It is remarkable the way her youngest can pick an instrument up, and after only a few short hours, coax out a tune as though he'd played it for years. Sitting at Sherlock's side, he effortlessly strums a ukulele he'd found at a street fair in Shoreditch not three days ago.

Molly leans against the door jamb, watching her son play much in the way he breathes—without thought or concern, and regarding his abilities with a wholly cheerful indifference.

The same, however, can not be said for his sister, whose interest in performance had, from day one, been perfunctory at best. Oh, Anna is content to listen, and to collect (her music library is impressively diverse for an eight-year-old, in fact), not to mention irritate her father to no end with a particular love of popular West End musicals (an interest Molly indulges often, and with glee). But Anna has little love for playing music for the joy of it.

The contrast had become more pronounced recently, with Anna growling more and more often about her school's compulsory music lessons.

"Why is it always such a beastly fight with her?" Molly had groaned not two weeks ago following a particularly volatile fit that had involved Sherlock-quality door slamming, stomping and scowling. Hurricane Anna had swept up to the third floor – leaving a trail of papers and the echoing thunder of angry footsteps in her wake. Frazzled, Molly ran a hand through her hair as she picked up composition pages for Canon in D and Only the Good Die Young.

"Probably has something to do with the fact that she's completely tone deaf," Sherlock had offered. "Though the inclusion of Billy Joel on her syllabus is an equally justifiable reason to pitch a fit..."

"Sherlock!"

"What?" he said, eyes lifting from his tablet in consternation. "You have heard her play. Your long-dead cat would have elicited something closer to an actual melody just by stumbling along the piano keys than she does whilst attempting to play them," he said, miming at invisible chords.

"Be that as it may," Molly commented with reproach. "You could be a bit more tactful."

"Mmm, no. She's completely aware of it. Why do you think she hates having to go to those stupid lessons with the irredeemably idiotic Mrs. Kenton? She'd much rather spend her time learning something more suited to her interests and her talents rather than suffer through scales, hour after hour. Seems perfectly reasonable to me. I'd speak to the arts administrator myself if it were not for The Rules."

At this, he had glared a piece of paper stolidly taped to the front of the refrigerator bearing Molly's distinctive handwriting. Rule #5 was crossed out and rewritten several times. Version one read:

Sherlock Holmes will not offer unsolicited advice to anyone involved in Jack or Anna's education no matter how strongly he disagrees with their pedagogical theory.

This was followed by,

Sherlock Holmes will leave background investigations and the verifying of teaching credentials to the appropriate administrators.

And in red, above the previous iterations was:

I WILL HANDLE ALL PARENT/TEACHER INTERACTIONS FROM NOW ON. - MH

Molly smiles, shaking her head at the memory. The song he's singing now is an old one, and off an album she'd listened to—oh, God, a thousand times at least, forever ago at uni. She'd loved the sad, strange sound of Steven Merrit's rumbly baritone, and the way it reverberated down into her belly when he sang. Sherlock, Molly must admit, does a very accurate rendition. She may full well have first fallen in love with his mind, but that voice wasn't far down the list of things that entranced her about the man. (She rather suspects he knows this).

"Her friend is the king of the jungle folk," he sings, shifting focus to David. "He slays the wild beasties with a single stroke. We think all of life is a funny joke."

John rumples his son's sandy hair. In the light of the fire, it takes on a fiery ginger glow. David grins at the lyrics, sliding a knight across the gameboard that lay between he and Anna. Somewhere at 221B there is an half-finished Operation board that had been set aside after Myrcroft's last visit. Only in this family, Molly thinks, do the adults insist on games meant for primary schoolers, while the actual children prefer chess.

A pair of hands come to rest upon her shoulders. "There are days I cannot believe the joy of them," Millie says. Her voice soft and rich with wonder. Molly studies the look of replete happiness in her face. Sherlock's mother is the kind of woman Molly has always looked up to, had always wanted to be, in fact. Opinionated, unwavering, confidant in all things. Magnificent of mind; respected in her field; dauntless in the ferocity of her love and devotion.

"That makes two of us," Molly tells her. Millie squeezes her shoulders. "I still wonder how this could have happened. What I could ever had done to deserve this; deserve him."

"Him?" Millie snorts. "Unlike my perfect grandchildren, my son is a fool. You, my dear, are a far more extraordinary creature. How Sherlock managed to come by a woman with a heart bigger than both his brain and ego put together is mystery no one, not even my insufferable youngest, could begin to solve. Where you get your patience with him, I certainly shall never know."

Well, he does kiss rather well, Molly is half-tempted to reply. Among other things.

"My boy is the prince of ten villages, we live off the fruits of his pillages," Sherlock sings. "He eats other kings, he's very re-ligious. He has such dirty feet, I think I'll take him back to Baker Street."

Molly laughs, watching John frown in distaste. "Maybe next time you could pick one that doesn't, you know, invoke ritualistic cannibalism?" He gives a passive-aggressive shrug. "Just a thought."

"Best to keep them to yourself if you insist on having them, John," Sherlock answers.

"Play nice," Jack teases.

"Nice? Nice?" Sherlock cries, aghast. He scoops his son up in the air and pulls him against his side. "You know how I feel about being nice. Why in the world should I bother?"

"It's Christmas," Jack points out.

"No presents for the naughty list, Sherlock," Mary chimes in, peeking in on the scene.

The look Sherlock gives Molly is hardly decent. "Not in my experience."

"Enough with the innuendo mate," John groans.

"What's 'innuendo?'" Jack asks.

"Flirting," Anna replies without looking up.

"You flirting with Mum?" Jack snorts.

"Yes."

"Are you going snog her?" he says, nose crinkling in disgust.

"Probably. When you're in bed and dead asleep and unable to badger me about having to be nice."

Later, after the children are tucked in, the Holmeses retired, John and Mary enjoying the fireplace and a nightcap, Sherlock drags her out for a walk along the pond behind his childhood home.

"My girl is the queen of the logical," he sings, low in her ear. "She runs a tidy kingdom in her hospital." He spins her around and pulls her back to him, a half-smile on his face as they sway in the cold, winter air. "Our pair of wretched children are quite prodigal. She has a lovely microscope, I don't think I could bear to see her gooo."

"I don't remember that verse," Molly replies, a smile playing at the corner of her lips.

"Far be it from me to accuse you of not paying attention."

"Oh, no, you'd never."

He leans in close, his mouth hovering close over hers. "Happy Christmas, Molly Hooper."

She slides her hands along his jaw, kisses him soundly. "Happy Christmas, Sherlock Holmes."

This is our life, Molly thinks, making out with the most ridiculous, maddening, brilliant man she's ever known, there under the bright stars, happier than she ever imagined she could be.

Some weeks later, amid the tear-stained fallout of the terrible trauma they are all made to suffer together; at the very height of all her rage and grief and despair, Molly Hooper will remember the precise, incandescent clarity of her joy on that winter night.

She will remember how the radiance of her love shone so powerful, so bright, she felt it could burn forever, like some magnificent and eternal sun.

She will remember with tears enough in her eyes that when she lifts them to the skies above London, she will see nothing but darkness.

She will remember that moment, and feel she has been betrayed by nothing more so than her own treacherous heart.