He closes his eyes for the last time and sees the familiar white washed walls of St. Bart's morgue and her in the center, bent over a corpse talking animatedly to the recorder in her hand.

This, he thinks, is true peace, which truth be told is so much more than what he deserved when stacked against all the offenses he accumulated in his lifetime.

He takes a deep breath and truly looks at the room around him, committing the sheer simplicity and perfection of her into memory – letting the warmth of her skin seep into his pores, inhaling the notes of lavender and vanilla of her shampoo permeating the air.

He adjusts the duvet over her shoulders with one hand, as she buries her head deeper into a pillow; trying not to move too much so the chances of waking their son currently sleeping on his chest and supported by his other arm would be to a minimum.

It's one of those blessed afternoons where they're tucked safely in the corner of their world; the heavy sheet of rain pouring over the city outside protecting them from prying eyes, away from work and the reality of it all.

He relishes in the great reprieve these small moments of peace give him and silently chides himself for not realizing it sooner.

Try as he might, he was a man incapable of unrequited love, so when the reality of truly losing her to someone else slapped him in the face, he decided to finally relentlessly pursue her. He was foolish and desperate and so lost in his sentiment but he can't ever seem to talk himself into truly leaving her.

The only logical choice was to be with her, end both of their misery and move forward together.

There were moments of doubt, of fear, of the great possibility of his enemies getting him through her. And when, for the last time, faced with the task of choosing between her and leaving, he couldn't bring himself to go with the latter.

He was so glad he made that choice.

His eyes fall to the little bundle of brown curls in his arms, then to his wife sleeping deeply beside him.

Small and smaller.

The first time he laid eyes on his son he was certain time had stopped. How he could've been part of creating of something so beautiful is lost to him. One look. One look was all it took and he knew he was completely done for – that his fate is sealed and truly tethered to reality. And he wouldn't have it any other way.

He looks at him and hopes that a huge part of their child takes after his wife. That he would inherit all the good parts of her that saved him and gripped him hard in the times he was so sure he was facing death's door; the components of her that rescued him from himself when the world around him became too overwhelming and too much for him to bear. It's a given that their child would be devastatingly brilliant, but, Sherlock concedes, that there is so much more to a person than their intellect. There is courage in allowing yourself to be kind and warm but it takes a different brand of bravery to truly let people in. Had he learned sooner how to do such, he would've spared both him and Molly the pain of all the years lost.

Her softness and her heart had always been the strongest and most powerful parts of her.

They lived a good long life together, moved to a cottage in Sussex when his body could no longer take the demands of the work. They kept their respective practices in their more reserved and quiet forms – Molly taught the occasional classes in the university while he took the occasional cases, nothing over a four ever comes.

And when his wife died, of old age and in her sleep, the bitterness and self-destruction that everyone expected from him didn't come.

He grieved. He let himself wallow in despair but didn't allow himself to succumb to forces he once turned to for peace because he knows that she is still watching him, somewhere. Regressing back to his old habits would be an insult to her memory.

So, he lived.

He has never truly believed in an afterlife or a higher power prior to meeting her and her death. The hope of being reunited again once his life has run its course is one of the things that kept him going.

He refused to become a bitter old man and instead watched their son make it through life like she would've wanted him to.

He knows, hopes, wherever she is now, she's looking at him with proud eyes.

The morgue gives a little shake, the hanging fluorescent lights swaying in time with the room, as his body takes its last breath and his heart its final beat.

As she turns to him, grinning like she has a secret he's not privy to, he asks "I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee."

She resists the urge to smile, her brown eyes sparkling with mischief, and to him she has never looked any lovelier.

"Black, two sugars please."

Notes: This has been sitting on my desktop for 6 weeks now, haunting me because I can't finish it. Beta'ed by the lovely kendrapendragon and iced-tea-and-blankets. Any remaining mistakes are mine *giggles like crazy because beta readers rock*

Currently accepting prompts! Hope you guys enjoyed it!

Lemme know what you think!

-June