The morning came, much to Molly's displeasure, and as much as she wanted to stay in bed, she knew it would be best if she simply got up. Only for the good of her children was Molly digging through her drawers for something decent to wear. Alfhild was at her side the entire time, large paws shuffling after Molly, plopping down outside the shut bathroom door when she refused to let her in. Finished with her morning ablutions, Molly picked up her phone to see who had messaged her. Mike Stamford had texted, letting her know her shift was covered, and he wanted her to take the day. Just as well, Molly might have been able to put clothes on, but she wasn't up to having to face her usual workload too.

A knock on the door just as the kettle was boiling reminded her that Violet and Sigurd would be stopping by for breakfast. One wild look in the fridge reminded her that she only had leftovers from her baby shower (at least half a slow-cooker of cocktail hotdogs, a dozen savory pastry pinwheels, and far too much cake).

With a weary sigh, she went to the door, hushing Alfhild, who refused to stop barking and making a show of protecting Molly until she smelled Violet and Sigurd and recalled them to be 'friendly'.

"That PA of Mycroft's sent over some things for the dog, and for breakfast as well," Violet said, looking just as tired as Molly felt. "How are you dear?"

"Tired," Molly replied, kissing Sigurd's proffered cheek. "Kettle has just boiled,"

They sat and ate quietly, if tears were quietly shed, everyone pretended not to notice. Tears were expected, and there wasn't any use in trying to stop them from falling.

"You must come to the house this weekend," Violet urged. "Don't stay cooped up here by yourself."

Molly didn't give a definite response, but she was fairly certain Mycroft's car would be arriving at Baker Street Friday evening, whether she wanted it or not.

In the end, she did go to the country, Alfhild at her side. She was grateful for Sherlock's gift; the constant presence of the dog was a great comfort. By some miracle, Toby took a liking to the dog right away, purring contentedly, kneading the dog's sleek belly and cleaning her ears. Molly took a video, sent it to Sherlock's number, then suddenly remembered there was no one on the other end to receive it. But the video had sent, it hadn't returned with any error message. More than likely the phone's battery was dead, and the video was lost somewhere, but Molly realized she liked the idea of being able to send videos off into nothingness, even if the one she wanted most to see them was gone. Caught up in a wave of ambition, she swiped through her photographs, sending a picture of her most recent sonogram. That sent through as well.

It became a private habit. Every morning, Molly got up, sent a text or a snapshot of Baker Street, sent it to Sherlock's old number, and then went on with her day. There was no chance of him ever seeing the photographs or texts, so Molly wrote everything that she wished she'd told him before he'd died.

The day of Sherlock's funeral was, fittingly so, cold and raining. Violet could not bear to see her son buried a second time, and so she and Sigurd stayed away, but sent Molly their love and they in turn, sent nearly half a dozen messages for her to come visit as soon as she was able.

In a quiet lot, towards the back of the cemetery they all gathered.

Greg stared at the unturned earth, looking dazed and utterly numb, a feeling they all shared.

John and Mary held hands, fingers laced. Mrs. Hudson hung on John's other arm, visibly shaken, truly disturbed.

The jingling of tags made them all look, and there, coming through the grassy path was Molly and Mycroft, Alfhild on a short leash looped around Molly's wrist.

"She was agitated at my going," Molly said softly. "So I just…brought her."

No one seemed offended, most simply nodded, murmuring some kind of understanding.

Sally Donovan was the first to speak, and though she didn't cry (she wasn't the type), her voice was soft, somewhat humbled, and she spoke honestly. The man who had once aggravated her to no end had become a good man, and she spoke well of his work for the police, and for London. John only said a few words, voice gruff, murmuring apologies when he couldn't finish. Greg looked around, then stepped forward. Pulling out a piece of notebook paper, he shuffled his feet as he read aloud what he'd managed to pen the previous evening. By the time he finished, everyone was quietly crying, save Mycroft, who was staring at the headstone with some kind of iron will that Molly could only wish for a portion of.

At the end of it all, Mycroft took Molly home while the others went to a nearby pub for a much-needed pint or two.

That had been the worst day.

There were still awful days after that, especially milestone days in her pregnancy that she should have shared with Sherlock, instead of sending a text out into the nothingness. She started telling Mycroft about her pregnancy. After a while, he got rather used to hearing about her symptoms, and often had Anthea send over remedies or exercises for Molly to try. Greg often joined Molly for exercise classes, not at all phased by the fact that he was the only male in the studio, cheerfully stretching (and grunting just as much as those around him). Mycroft sometimes picked Molly up from her Lamaze classes, though he could not bring himself to offer to be her Lamaze coach (Mrs. Hudson had eagerly asked if she might go along on the classes with Molly, to which she happily agreed).

John and Mary made a constant effort as well to always be on call or nearby. Molly needed friends, and they needed her as well. Anthea, who knew nothing about motherhood or baby-rearing, often joined Molly and Mary, listening with morbid fascination as the two women described their ailments. Sally was the last to join their Thursday night 'girl chats'. Molly wanted to get to know the woman better, and knew the feeling of being left out. Sally was a marvelous addition to their group, and Molly was glad for her company, as they often had the same evenings off, and since Mary was often busy with being a wife and mother, and Anthea was busy being personal assistant to the country, Sally was the most likely candidate to come over at the drop of a hat for Doctor Who marathons.

Molly's due date was creeping up fast, and of all people, Mycroft was the most agitated. He insisted John Watson stop by every day and check Molly's vitals, update him on the condition of the twins, and any other changes.

"Honestly Mycroft, you act as if you're the father," John groused. He paused suddenly, glancing between Molly and Mycroft.

"No." both of them said at the same time.

"I thought not," John replied. "Because I know you said-"

"Believe me, Doctor Watson," Mycroft interrupted. "If Molly were carrying my children, do you really think I would entrust her welfare to you?"

John's frown was something akin to murder, to which the elder Holmes merely shrugged off while Molly did her best to smother her giggles.

"Be nice, boys," Molly said.

"Here I was thinking I was missing that Holmes snark," John muttered, winking at Molly. "Whoops, oi in there, cut that out-" John ordered the twins as they kept kicking his stethoscope.

"They don't like the cold," Molly said, laughing, again causing her belly to move.

"Well I don't like my eardrums being kicked," John replied, removing the stethoscope, warming up the metal on his hands before replacing it. After a few moments he nodded, setting the instrument back into his bag. "All's well, how do you feel?"

"Tired, bloated, horrendous, like a giant tellytubby."

John nodded. "That about sums it up. You're on schedule far as I can tell, heartbeats are all normal, no discomfort, other than the usual?"

"No, everything is about the same. Kicking seems to have increased."

Mycroft looked, alarmed, at Watson, who only folded his arms across his chest, nodding.

"That's to be expected. I expect space is getting somewhat cramped for the pair of them. If it's getting to be too much, sit if you're standing, or lie on your side. More than likely the babies will find something else to do."

"It's the rib kicks that hurt," Molly grunted, shifting her weight, tugging down the hem of her blouse.

"Try some pelvic tilts," John suggested. "Or a gentle nudge." He started closing up his bag. "You've got your maternity bag all packed for the big day, though?"

"Yes it's over the by door," Molly nodded. "And Mrs. Hudson will look after Alfhild while I'm in hospital, goodness knows how long it will all be."

"Good girl," John pecked a kiss on her forehead. "I'm off to pick up my girls, I'll see you tomorrow, yeah?"

"Right."

"I'll see myself out," he waved once more, disappearing out the door and down the stairs.

Mycroft waited until the front door shut before heading to the kitchen. "Tea?"

"If you've got time," Molly said, boosting herself to the edge of the couch and then easing herself up to her feet. She caught the expression on Mycroft's face as he set up the tray. "What is it?" she asked, realizing he wanted to talk to her.

"You're still messaging his phone." Mycroft didn't look at her, pretending to be absorbed in opening the packet of crackers.

Slowly, she nodded. "It's…therapeutic," she confessed. "It's daft, I know it's daft, his phone was dead probably weeks and weeks and weeks before we even knew, but…I don't know…it makes me feel like-" she shrugged helplessly. "I know he isn't seeing the messages, dead is dead. But when I text his phone it's like," her mouth twisted into a grimace, and she covered her eyes with her free hand. "It's like I still have a piece of him."

"You do," Mycroft replied gently. "You've got two pieces of him," he nodded to her belly, where her left hand idly traced patterns.

"Is it selfish of me to want him too?" she asked.

He shook his head, studying her. "No." Carrying the tray into the living room, he set it down before seating himself across from her with a grunt. "No, it rather makes you human, something we Holmes are strictly against."

"No it isn't, stop it," Molly scolded. "If that were true you wouldn't be here, and I certainly wouldn't be carrying Sherlock's children."

"Hmm, yes you do have an annoying way of bringing out the sentiment in us," Mycroft nodded.

Molly picked up the teapot before he could. "How is Anthea?" she asked, changing subjects abruptly. She suppressed the urge to grin as he shifted slightly in his chair. Defenses were up. How curious.

"I would imagine she is perfectly fine, why?"

"No reason," Molly shrugged, lifting her eyebrows innocently. "She just said that you'd asked her to dinner the other night."

Again he shifted in his chair. "Perhaps it was for business."

"No one takes a woman to a cozy little restaurant to discuss business," Molly replied, handing him a teacup. "And if you did, so help me I'll make you come to the rest of my Lamaze classes."

The look Mycroft threw at her was positively livid, clearly torn between telling her just to get out of going to a birthing class, and subjecting himself to the tedium, and take his secret to the grave. Instead, he asked her a question:

"Has she said anything?"

Molly's smile was knowing, it reached her eyes. "She said she thought it went well. You were quite romantic in your own way, though she wouldn't have minded your being slightly less than a gentlemen and given her a little pawing in the car on the way home."

Mycroft's cheeks bloomed red to the tips of his ears. "She did not," he stammered, now clearly squirming in his chair.

"No," Molly laughed. "Maybe not quite that, but she hopes next time you'll kiss her goodnight."

Mycroft coughed. "Yes, well…perhaps."

"What do you mean 'perhaps', you have asked her out again, haven't you?"

"Molly-" his tone was warning, which Molly returned. He sighed heavily. "Yes of course, another 'date' as you call it was scheduled that night."

"I know it's difficult to talk to anyone about these things," Molly said. "But I'll just say this: if you're serious, really serious, don't spend the first dates faffing about. A girl likes to know the man she's out with really is interested. She doesn't want someone who's playing hard to get. Swallow your pride and just…go for it. It took Sherlock ages to come round, him and his bloody pride," she fell silent, thoughtful. "I wish we'd both put aside our high opinions of ourselves and just admitted we liked each other ages and ages ago. We might've had more time."

Mycroft said nothing, choosing instead to take a drink before setting his cup down. Still, he was clearly thinking on what Molly had said.

One Month Later

"What, you mean they're really dating?" Greg helped Molly to her feet off the yoga mat.

"Yep," she took a towel, wiping the sweat from her neck. "It's going all right I think. Anthea says it's looking…really well, actually." Her smile was somewhat bittersweet.

"Hey, you okay?"

"Yeah," Molly blinked, nodding. "I'm happy for them, don't ever think I'm not."

"It's hard," Greg nodded. "Seeing other people happy and getting on."

"Speaking of getting on, how are you and Sally?"

Greg shuffled his feet, blushing. "Met her folks last weekend."

"Yeah?!" Molly grinned at his expression. "What'd they say? How'd it go?"

"Great, better than great," he picked up their gym bags, giving his arm for her to hold onto while she shoved her feet into her slip-on sneakers. "Asked her dad for permission."

"Oh that's fantastic!" she hugged him then, squeezing with as much strength as she could muster. "I am so happy for you both!"

"Yeah, oi, okay!" Greg laughed, but quickly grew serious, wagging a finger at her. "But don't you dare tell her or anyone else yet! She doesn't know, and I've got the whole thing planned out."

"Yeah?" Molly asked, still grinning ear to ear. "You gonna get down on one knee and everything?"

"Course," he nodded with a laugh. "Got flowers and everything."

"Good for you," Molly smiled. "I'm happy for you, you and Sally, and Mycroft and Anthea."

Greg pulled her in for a one-armed hug, kissing her forehead. "Thanks Molls."

In due course, announcements were made, Greg and Sally celebrated their engagement at Angelo's, surrounded by family and close friends. Anthea even talked Mycroft into their making an appearance, if only to give Molly a ride home. The usual gold ring Anthea wore on her right hand was missing, in its place was a subtle solitaire diamond in a platinum setting. Molly took her hand, quirking an eyebrow.

"Not a word," Anthea whispered, hushed, though she was smiling. She glanced around the room. "We want to keep it quiet. We'll let you know when the official date is, but let's leave it for now, we don't want to steal Greg and Sally's thunder tonight."

Molly promised to keep it hush-hush, though she pressed Mycroft's cheek, whispering congratulations to him.

That Night

Everything is changing now. Greg and Sally are engaged, the date is set for this summer, July sixteenth. She asked me to be matron-of-honor, and Mary and Anthea to be bridesmaids. I think I'm walking down the aisle with Dimmock, or Greg's brother, not sure which. Speaking of brothers, yours got engaged as well, naturally to Anthea. They seem happy. Everyone is happy. – MollyH

Her phone beeped: Message Sent

You'd be asking me if I'm happy, and the answer is…I'm getting there. I'd be so much happier if you were here. I'm learning to be happy again, I suppose is a more appropriate answer. I'm about a week from my due-date, and the idea of being a mummy all by myself is absolutely petrifying. I wish you were here. I've had such a time thinking of names. I've settled, finally, and I think you'd be happy with what I've chosen. Alfhild is nudging me, which means I've been up too late. I'll say goodnight. Love you! Xoxo -MollyH

Message Sent

With a sigh, she plugged her phone in and put out the light, patting the empty space on the bed. Alfhild jumped up, whining piteously, nosing Molly's belly.

"Oi, stop that, you've got a cold nose!" Molly laughed. "Come on, lie down big girl." The dog obeyed, head resting as close to the top of Molly's belly as her neck would allow. "That can't be comfortable," Molly commented, trying to shift Alfhild so that she could lay beside her. The dog flattened herself out, digging her elbows and paws into the mattress. "All right, lay there if you want," Molly shrugged. "If you get a stiff neck it's your own fault."

Alfhild blew out her jowls, clearly annoyed that her mistress was not listening, scooted closer, whining, with increased volume.

"Good grief, what's wrong- ohhhhhhhh…" Molly sat up suddenly, feeling her waters let. "Well there's that…" Swinging her feet over the end of the bed, she hefted herself up with a grunt, grabbing her mobile off the bedside table. Quickly dialing Mycroft's number, she went to her wardrobe, pulling out a change of clothes.

"Hello?" clearly he'd been asleep.

"It's about that time," Molly said.

"What? Oh!" Mycroft sat bolt up in bed. "Have you called an ambulance? Never mind, I'll call, stay put, don't move, what do you need?"

"No I haven't called one yet, that was next on my to-do list. I'm all right, my water broke is all. It might be a few more hours before my contractions even start to get ba-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-d-" she gripped the end of the bed, feeling a spasm of pain in her lower belly. "That was just a contraction-" she said, once she'd caught her breath. "It's okay. I'm staring a timer," she swiped through her phone for a stop-watch. "I'll be okay-"

"Like hell you will!" Mycroft struggled into his trousers, trying to balance the phone on his shoulder. "Don't. Move. I'm coming over. An ambulance will be there shortly. Wake up Mrs. Hudson, don't you dare move."

"Well I'd like to change out of these soiled pants," Molly said, unable to hold back a smile.

"You can't change your clothes!" Mycroft sounded horrified.

"Try and stop me, I'm not going to the hospital in soiled underwear!" Molly carefully shimmied out of her pajamas, finding a flannel to clean herself up and carefully, carefully, step into a loose shift and yoga pants. If she had to go to the hospital, she wanted to at least be comfortable. "I promise I won't go anywhere, I'll call down for Mrs. Hudson. Don't worry."

"I'll be there in ten," with that, Mycroft hung up, grabbing the rest of his clothes, dialing down to the garage for a car, as well as sending for an ambulance.

The east side of baker street was lit up with flashing lights in less than twenty minutes, just as Molly sent off a quick text to Sherlock's phone:

Today's the big day. Babies on launch-pad, T minus 10 and counting! – MollyH

Mycroft made it about the same time as the ambulance did, hurrying up after the EMT's.

"I do not need a stretcher, thank you," Molly said, when Mycroft suggested she be put on a gurney. "Don't you dare make them," The EMT's suppressed their laughter, instead helping Molly down to the waiting vehicle while Mycroft took Molly's overnight bag.

The sun was just cresting the horizon when Mycroft called the Watson's into the delivery room. Mary and John had texted Greg and Sally, and kept Mrs. Hudson updated. John pulled out his phone to dial the elderly woman just once more, informing her of the successful birth.

"Oh Molly," Mary sighed, seeing her friend tiredly cuddling the newborns.

"They're small, but that's to be expected," Molly said with a sheepish smile. "There can't have been much room down there for them." Gently she held out the girl for Mary to take. "This is Lavender,"

"Oh hello sweet thing," Mary cooed. "Oh look at you,"

John came to stand beside his wife, peering at the baby in her arms, warmly smiling at the tiny bundle.

"The boy is called William, for Sherlock," Molly said, she held him out to Mycroft, who after a moment, took him.

"One can only hope he won't copy his father in all things," He glanced up at Molly, who returned his gentle smile. "Well," he cleared his throat, handing William back to her. "I'll go and call Anthea, tell her the good news."

"Right miss" John said, all business-like. "Time for a feeding lesson, and since Mycroft is giving me a certain look, I'm guessing he wants me to do it."

"You guess correctly, Doctor Watson, how sharp you are this early morning." Mycroft replied, hand over the speaker of his phone before he retreated from the room.

So Molly's family grew by two that morning, and after three days spent recovering in the hospital, she returned to Baker Street. John and Mary and Charlotte would be staying for a few days to help her get settled while she recuperated.

"Oughtn't I hire a nurse?" Mycroft objected, but Molly waved her hand at him, shaking her head.

"Honestly, Mycroft, they've had a child, and Mary is a nurse, John is a bloody doctor. You couldn't get a live-in doctor-nurse pairing if you owned half the world!"

"Who says I don't?" Mycroft sniffed.

"I do," Molly said. "I want John and Mary to stay with me."

"Very well," Mycroft agreed.

Her second night home, Molly woke to the sound of Lavender crying. Yawning, Molly got to her feet, shuffling into her slippers. Alfhild got up as well, following after her. For now the cribs would be in Molly's room, but in a few months, John and Mary would help her move them upstairs to the nursery, and Mycroft would have some top-of-the-line baby monitor installed.

Carefully, she lifted Lavender from her crib, shushing her gently. "I know baby, I know, shh, you'll wake your brother, and if he's anything like his father, he won't stop until he's eaten us out of house and home." Molly laughed softly, remembering her husband's eating habits. Sherlock would go days without proper food, surviving on Quavers and black coffee until a case was finished, then he'd show up at her flat, where Molly would have prepared a weeks' worth of lunches, which he'd promptly devour in one sitting.

At her feet, Alfhild settled while Molly sank into the rocking chair to nurse Lavender. "I wish he could see you both," Molly said after a moment, gently rocking back and forth. "I wish a lot of things, I guess that's selfish of me. I've got quite a bit right now, after all…"

Suddenly, Alfhild lifted her head, hackles raised as she bared her teeth. Molly sat up, feeling her heart drop. She stopped rocking, sitting forward in the chair. She stared, wide-eyed at the open doorway, at the figure looming there. They were frozen in place, staring back at her. Alfhild rose to her feet, placing herself between Molly and the stranger, growling low and menacingly. Molly watched the figure reach over to the switch on the wall, flicking the lamp by the door on. The room was illuminated in a soft glow.

"Sherlock?"

He stepped through the door, trembling. Molly made to stand, but she had no strength and she sank to her knees. Alfhild leaned against her, seating herself when she realized her mistress was not disturbed.

With her free hand Molly reached out, and familiar fingers grasped her wrist, drawing her hand up to cup his cheek. Lean arms wrapped around her frame, catching her, holding her upright, and Molly stared, wild-eyed, tears falling freely. "How?" she murmured, overcome. "It's you, it's really you. How is it possible?" She reached up, carding her fingers through his shorn hair.

"Th-they had to shave my head…lice from jail…it's finally growing back now." Was all he could say. He traced the shape of her face, her lips her nose, finally capturing her mouth in his.

"Sherlock…" she murmured against him, clinging to him with her free arm. "Is this real? This isn't a dream? It can't be a dream…"

"No, it's not," he spoke at last, voice raw, hungry, almost. "I didn't know…I couldn't…I got away and I never knew, even when I finally got on the plane if I could get back to you." He was staring at her as if he was seeing her for the first time, his fingertips ghosting over her cheeks, the slope of her shoulders, the curve of her waist and up to the tips of her ears.

Lavender, nestled between the pair of them, gurgled, Molly's breast fallen from her mouth.

Both Sherlock and Molly sat back, the former looking with surprise.

"I'm sorry, baby," Molly murmured, hoisting Lavender back up, the baby reattached herself, feeding once again. Molly looked up to see Sherlock's expression of wonderment. "We have twins," she said at last. "A boy and a girl. You're a father."

"Yes I know," he murmured, still staring with fascination as he watched their daughter breastfeed. "I got your texts."

Molly sat back with a startled sob, covering her mouth. "You what?"

"I couldn't respond, couldn't send any outgoing messages," Sherlock retrieved the burner phone from his pocket, the keys smashed. "But I could receive messages. I got them, all seventy-five, pictures included."

Lavender finished feeding, so Molly, still dumbfounded by this revelation, lifted her onto her shoulder. Sherlock took a cloth from the bedside table, cleaning her up and covered her up. The action was tender and gentle, and Molly wanted to weep all over again, which she did, smiling at him through her tears.

"Could I…may I hold her?" he asked softly. Molly passed her to him without question, showing him how to support her head. He cradled their daughter, studying her intently. Molly went to the second crib, picking up a sleeping William. Alfhild was at her heels, watching her mistress carry the precious cargo.

"And here is your son," Molly said softly. Sherlock sank onto the edge of the bed, and Molly placed William in his arms.

"Surely you don't want to call him William," Sherlock said at last, blinking back tears.

"Yes I do, anyway you weren't here to tell me not to."

He looked at her, expression guilty, heartsick. "I'm sorry," he said, soft, humble. "I've missed so much, but this," he looked at their children. "This is something I shall always regret missing."

"I think you've felt guilty long enough," Molly said, leaning over to kiss him gently. "Please don't, just…stay. Stay forever."

"My dear woman, what did you think I've come all this way for?" Again he kissed her, and Molly cupped his face, crawling onto his lap, careful of the children as she kissed him anywhere her lips would reach. Sherlock laughed, quietly at first, but he couldn't help it, finally guffawing, grinning from ear to ear, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes, unable to take his eyes from his wife.

Woken by the noise, William began to cry, and Lavender joined him. Alfhild, sensing that despite her mistress and this man's laughter, the children were crying, so she wriggled back and forth, barking as loud as she could.

John and Mary came thumping up the stairs, bursting into the bedroom.

Molly and Sherlock both sat up, he passed her one of the children, wary of what John's reaction would be.

"Oh you bloody-" John leaned against the doorframe, covering his mouth. Mary, trembling, hung onto his arm, laughing through her tears.

"Oh my god, someone call Mycroft," was all she got out.

John, wiping his face, managed to get to his feet, stumbled to his best friend. Molly took Lavender from Sherlock's arms, and Sherlock, in turn, embraced John.

"You stupid, wonderful idiot," John said, muffled against Sherlock's scroungy jacket.

"I know," Sherlock admitted. "So if you want to hit me, you can."

"I'm not gonna hit you, not today anyway," John laughed, squeezing the back of Sherlock's neck. "Go on and kiss Mary, I'll call your brother."

Mary was greeted in a similar fashion, before she went back downstairs to fetch Charlotte, whom Sherlock very happily greeted.

In short order, Mycroft arrived at Baker Street. John's text seemed urgent, though the doctor had insisted that no security was needed, just Mycroft's presence. Fearing the worst, he took the steps two at a time, nearly breaking the door off the hinges as he burst into 221b.

Everyone sat in the living room, Sherlock stood up quickly, looking at his brother.

Mycroft stared. He blinked, clearly shaking. He looked at Molly, then back at Sherlock.

"My God-" Mycroft sat down hard, covering his face with his hands, unable to control his sobs. He looked ashamed of himself for the display, yet entirely unable to keep himself from crying.

Shocked, John very quietly went to the kitchen, gesturing for Mary to come with him. As much as he liked to see Mycroft break free from his Ice-Man persona, the elder Holmes would not forgive himself, or them, if they watched this display.

Sherlock helped his brother to his feet. "You've lost weight," He said at last. "I thought I told you a biscuit or two wouldn't hurt you."

"Wouldn't do you any harm either, brother-mine, you've dropped a stone and a half," Mycroft replied, finding his voice at last, putting on a show of trying to sound completely normal.

"Not to worry, I'm sure Molly will be fattening me up in no time."

"You'll have to watch her," Mycroft answered. "She likes to bake."

From the kitchen, the kettle began to whistle, and the sound of cups and tea tins being set out could be heard. Over steaming mugs, Sherlock told them how he'd escaped death, and how he'd found his way back to England over the past four months. Just before dawn, Mycroft left Baker Street. He would go directly to the country to fetch Violet and Sigurd personally.

"I'll have Anthea fetch Inspector Lestrade and Donovan, bring them over about the same time Mummy and Father get here. You ought to rest for now."

"Don't be bossy," Sherlock said, Molly responded by flicking him on the ear.

"Listen to your brother, he's taken good care of us while you were away."

Sherlock harrumphed, but got to his feet, calling goodnight to John and Mary, who lay back down on the pullout sofa, deciding they could do with a bit of rest after the night's excitement.

Babies all fast off, having been fed once more, Molly and Sherlock climbed into bed. Sherlock settled comfortably behind her, knees drawn up behind hers. He pressed a kiss to her neck.

"Have I mentioned that I have missed this?" he murmured sleepily.

"No, but it's implied," Molly said with a quiet laugh. "Rest for now. I'll give you a proper welcome in six weeks, after I'm all healed. That should give you plenty of time to get your strength back." She paused, biting her cheek to keep from giggling. "You'll need it."

"Minx," he murmured, kissing her again.

"Hush," she murmured, soothing his arms. "Rest for now."

"Mycroft took good care of you," He said quietly.

Molly turned around in his arms looking up at him. "He did."

"As good as me?"

"Oh no," Molly smiled. "I won't say that he was terrible, though he'd say he was the wrong Holmes for it, he did a fairly good job of looking after all of us."

"But not as good as me," Sherlock, despite desperate need for sleep, in fact he was falling asleep as he spoke, could not help but smirk.

"Never," Molly said against his mouth. "He's a good man, your brother, but he's not you." She kissed him once more (deciding she'd never, ever tire of that). "Now go to sleep."

"Molly?"

"Hm?"

"I'll see you when I wake up." He seemed to be realizing this.

Slowly, she opened her tired eyes, smiling up at him.

"Every morning."

"Every morning," he repeated, hushed. Resting his forehead against hers', he at last gave himself up to sleep, Molly close behind.

Safe in Sherlock's arms, finally, Baker Street at last felt like home.