Epilogue

It was getting late, and John knew he should think about getting Rosie home to bed. She had done amazingly well considering that she had spent several hours as the centre of attention, even managing to steal the limelight from her godfather, with his drama queen tendencies. Although, to give Sherlock his due, he had been remarkably well-behaved that afternoon – it had been his suggestion to host Rosie's first birthday party at Baker Street, and he had even given the place a good clean (though he suspected that Molly might have had something to do with that, either through influence or practical help or a combination of the two).

John had arrived just after lunch to find the flat, his former home, bedecked in brightly coloured bunting and streamers, balloons hanging from anywhere it had been possible to fix them.

Molly and Mrs Hudson had been happily and efficiently preparing food (John had offered to pay for catering, but they had both refused, Molly even taking a day off work to enable her to pitch in), while Sherlock hovered in the background, occasionally picking out a few bars on his violin. Given the diminutive stature of the women, Sherlock must, John reasoned, have been responsible for hanging the bunting and streamers – he wished he'd been around to witness that scene. Saying that, if there was one person who could influence Sherlock's behaviour, with apparently little effort, it was Molly Hooper; this had long been the case, but John knew how especially careful his friend was being since the events at Sherrinford.

The get-together had been lovely, just the core group of people who John considered his family – Sherlock, Molly and Mrs Hudson. Mike Stamford had stopped by with a gift and for a piece of cake early on before he went on shift, and Lestrade joined them when he clocked off for the day, keen to catch up with everything he'd missed. Rosie seemed to love each and every one of them, and she was adored in return; it helped, too, that these people knew and loved Mary as well, and would help him to keep her memory alive for his little girl. He knew Sherlock had extended the party invitation to his brother, too, and although neither of them expected he would attend, a very generous gift arrived by courier that afternoon with Mycroft's apologies.

Molly and Mrs Hudson were enraptured by the old-fashioned rocking horse, each taking it in turns to hold Rosie in the saddle, encouraging her to jiggle the reigns.

"My brother was a terrible equestrian," Sherlock noted. "If Rosie can master this, she's doing better than he ever did."

John noticed Molly elbow Sherlock in the ribs.

Something else that John noted was that Molly and Sherlock's gifts to Rosie appeared to be from the both of them. Probably because Sherlock was the worst, most clueless giver of gifts around, to the point that he mostly didn't bother – which wasn't really an option when it came to his goddaughter. But he'd clearly had an influence on the choices, as everything was themed around one of Sherlock's particular fascination – bees. As well as a birthday cake shaped as a bee, Rosie was now in possession of a bee costume, a plush bee that was almost as big as she was, a wooden, push-along bee on wheels and a bee-themed frieze for the wall of her bedroom.

Molly had insisted on stealing Rosie away to one of the bedrooms, returning a few minutes later with his daughter decked out in her bee outfit. The chorus of adoration warmed John's heart – and he had to admit that she did look incredibly cute, oblivious of the antennae bobbing about on her head, and the netted wings attached to her back.

"Like the t-shirt, Molls!" Greg had commented, and John realised that Molly had changed into the 'World's Best Godmother' t-shirt that he and Rosie had bought a few months ago.

"Oi, where's yours?" John demanded of Sherlock, who at the time seemed slightly distracted by something.

"I let Mrs Hudson cut it up for dusters," he replied. "Or possibly I used it to culture some mould spores. I forget which."

"Don't pay any attention," Molly said, smiling conspiratorially. "He's been keeping it for best."

"Go on, then," John urged, grinning. "Don't want to disappoint your goddaughter on her birthday, do you?"

"John, I could be sitting here dressed as a French mime artist – or wearing absolutely nothing at all – and young Rosamund wouldn't question it for a second."

John snorted, and the comment also earned a mild admonition from Mrs Hudson. Molly, John caught, was blushing slightly.

"Yeah, um, I think the rest of us might have an issue with that, mate," John told him.

"Agreed," chimed in Lestrade. "Some of us haven't eaten yet."

"The child is dressed as an Apis – albeit not a particularly anatomically-accurate one," Sherlock tried to reason, "a situation that she is singularly unaware of and unmoved by. So, on the basis of that evidence, I-"

"Sherlock?" said Molly, her soft voice full of purpose. "We had an agreement – remember?"

John saw his friend's head whip around, and there seemed to be a few seconds when there was a silent, subtext-heavy standoff between his two friends, before Sherlock's slumped shoulders signified that he was conceding.

John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade exchanged amused, puzzled glances over their glasses of champagne. John looked over to Molly, but she was giving nothing away.

A minute or so later, Sherlock appeared back in the room with his 'World's Best Godfather' t-shirt now in place of his aubergine shirt. He had a look of grim tolerance on his face, and when Lestrade's snigger became full-blown laughter, John couldn't help but join in.

"Sherlock?" Molly said again, pointedly.

"No."

"Yes!"

Another non-verbal standoff followed.

"Fine!" he sighed eventually. "Let's get this over with."

John looked at him questioningly. Molly went over to her bag and came back with two of what looked like headbands, complete with antennae that very closely matched that of Rosie's costume.

"Oh my god, really?" Lestrade said, with the look of a man whose Christmas had come early.

"It's for Rosie," Molly said simply.

Lestrade took his phone from his pocket, but was brought up short by Sherlock.

"I am doing this out of affection for my goddaughter – at least that's what Molly tells me," he said. "I am not doing it for the amusement of the feckless layabouts of New Scotland Yard."

"Oh come on! Just one photo!" Lestrade protested.

"It might be worth keeping in mind, Greg, that not only have I devised and catalogued seventy-eight different ways to kill you without detection, I am also aware of that moment of indiscretion at the conference in Bournemouth when you were supposed to be reconciling with your wife."

Lestrade's face fell slightly, while Sherlock arched an imperiously triumphant eyebrow.

"Fine, no pictures," Lestrade agreed. "And that wasn't what it looked like in Bournemouth."

Molly had already donned her bee antennae and had swept Rosie onto her knee. Sherlock took a seat beside her on the sofa and, with a scowl, allowed Molly to lodge his headgear in his trademark curls.

"Mrs Hudson, you can take a photo if you like," Molly said brightly.

Lestrade opened his mouth in protest.

"Mrs Hudson is entirely reliant on me to transfer the content of her digital camera onto her laptop," Sherlock said. "There is no chance of this 'going viral' anytime soon."

"I'll overlook that this time, Sherlock," Mrs Hudson said, positioning herself with the camera. "But only because you look sweet enough to eat."

Mrs Hudson snapped a few photos of the trio of bees.

"Anyway," she added. "One of the boys from downstairs can help me with my camera, so that will be a lovely treat for your mother later on."

Sherlock looked at her in open-mouthed horror, and looked all set to remonstrate with his landlady when John noticed Molly's hand land on Sherlock's sleeve. He stopped himself immediately, instead accepting Molly's offer of holding Rosie, who was now chewing happily on the antenna of her soft toy bee.

John couldn't help but marvel at what he was seeing – the famous misanthrope Sherlock Holmes, sitting in his bachelor flat, surrounded by friends, being playful with a one-year old child, wearing a gaudy t-shirt and novelty headwear. Mary would have been overjoyed by this scene.

He was glad, too, to see Sherlock and Molly so thoroughly reconciled. He had wondered how – and even if - they would move past The Phone Call, given the potential it held to wreck everything they had built over the years. But John was well aware of Molly's huge capacity for forgiveness, and her huge well of sympathy for the traumas of Sherlock's past, and if anything, their friendship had come out stronger.

"Didn't someone say something about cake?" Lestrade asked eventually, Rosie now taking a turn sitting on his knee.

"You do know this is Rosie's party, right, Greg?" John quipped.

He went to the kitchen to help Molly bring through the cake, plates and forks.

"You made that, Molls?" Lestrade asked, visibly impressed.

"It's stunning, love!" Mrs Hudson chimed in.

"Baking is just science," Molly replied, shrugging, modest as always.

"Yeah, but I'd like to see Sherlock make one," Greg laughed.

"Sherlock doesn't need to make cakes," the man himself replied, curtly, taking up his violin. "Sherlock is providing the traditional birthday serenade."

They waited as Molly lit the candles and placed the cake in the centre of the group. John took Rosie from Lestrade and held her at a safe distance from the entrancing flames, taking in that wonderful baby smell that for some reason still reminded him of Mary. Sherlock lifted his bow and played while they sang, the bee headwear discarded, but still wearing his t-shirt. A small smile played at his lips as he looked at his goddaughter, then caught John's eye – they acknowledged each other, brothers and protectors that they were. He saw Sherlock's gaze shift so that he was looking at Molly, and his smile seemed to broaden a little at the pathologist who was singing directly and enthusiastically to Rosie.

Not for the first time, John wished he had a Mind Palace of his own, so he could create a very special place for this day.

Now the party was over and Molly was wrapping up and handing out cake for everyone to take home. When the serving plate was empty, John saw Sherlock snap a photo with his phone.

"For my brother," he said, gleefully. "Before and after photos."

Molly nudged him lightly.

"There's plenty left, Sherlock," she said, scolding him. "You should send over to him."

"An unusual delivery for the Diogenes Club, I'm sure," Sherlock replied, sniffing.

With Rosie now sleeping in her car seat, John picked up a bin bag, shoving another empty bag at Sherlock who, to his continued amusement, was still wearing his t-shirt. Lestrade had gone, and the two of them worked their way around the room, John mostly picking up discarded wrapping paper while Sherlock grabbed for the streamers festooning his living room.

Mrs Hudson, who had been talking to Molly in the kitchen, appeared on her way downstairs.

"Why don't you stay tonight, John, dear?" she said. "Seems a shame to cart the little one halfway across London, she looks so comfortable."

John considered this for a moment. The day had been exhausting, and there was something very inviting at the prospect of a takeaway and a glass of scotch with his friend. But before he could say anything, Sherlock interjected.

"Thank you for your concern, as always, Mrs Hudson, but I'm sure Rosie would be more comfortable in her own surroundings. Consistency is important for a developing infant."

John stared at him.

"Oh, go on Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson admonished. "It's ages since you boys spent any time together."

"We were working a case together for six days straight," Sherlock said firmly, sounding as though his patience was wearing thin.

"I mean outside of work, just talking, catching up!"

"That's what taxi rides are for," Sherlock replied. "They have the added bonus of a defined end point."

"Sherlock!"

"It's fine, Mrs Hudson," John said, feeling very much as though his presence wasn't wanted, but not quite understanding why. "I'm sure Sherlock has some very important mould spores to catalogue."

He went through to the kitchen to find Molly, allowing her to dry her hands on her jeans before engulfing her in a hug. Holding her at arm's length, John took in how well she looked – tired, yes, but bright and happy, with a pink glow to her complexion. She looked as though she had gained a healthy few pounds, and the way she had done her hair really suited her.

"Thank you so much for today, Molly," he said, hugging her again. "You have made a little girl and her disorganised, middle-aged father very happy."

"It was my pleasure," she replied. "And Sherlock did help, even though he's pretending he didn't. We both love Rosie so much – and you, too."

At that point, Sherlock appeared at his shoulder, and John turned to embrace him, too.

"See you later, you grumpy bastard," John said, patting Sherlock's back. "And make sure you let Molly get home soon – I'm sure she's had enough of babies for one day."

"I know of fifty-two ways to kill you, too, John," Sherlock replied. "Just 'putting that out there', as they say."

"Molly, don't clean up after him," John said, ignoring him. "Go and put your feet up, and have a glass of something."

"Thank you, John," Sherlock said, moving seemingly closer to the front door, as though waiting to usher him out.

"Er, if you're waiting to get rid of me, do you mind if fetch my daughter, first?"

He picked up a sleeping Rosie, allowing Molly to bend in and place a kiss on her head, and Sherlock to touch his fingers to her hair in his own unique show of affection. John would never have given a second thought to Rosie having godparents, but Mary knew best as always – not only did she recognise that John might need their help, strength and support in the future, but that this strange pair had all the qualities needed to help raise his little girl to be a fine young woman. Sherlock was right to send him home – he needed to spend this night in the house he once shared with his wife, where his daughter's life began.

221B Baker Street was quiet, although it was no longer early. Mrs Hudson was apparently out (was it her Zumba class on a Saturday morning?), and it was very possible that Sherlock had stayed up all night Mind Palacing and was now passed out until lunchtime.

John had felt bad for leaving the party when there was still so much clearing up to do, and he was convinced Sherlock would barely have made a dent in it, preferring to either ignore mess or wilfully live with filth. Rosie was with the sitter, and it was only a short diversion from his route to morning surgery.

There was no reply when he knocked, so John flipped through his keys until he found the spare. As he opened the door, there was the sound of feet skidding on the wood floor, and Sherlock suddenly appeared in view, a look of mild alarm on his face. His hair stood up at a variety of angles, which was amusing enough – but then John caught on to what he was wearing. Boxers, yes, and…

"Sherlock, why are you wearing Molly's t-shirt?"

"I…ah…don't you have work today?"

"I repeat: Sherlock, why are you wearing Molly's t-shirt?"

Suddenly, the bedroom door to his left opened.

"Um, because I'm wearing his," said Molly.

John felt his jaw fall open. Because, indeed, Molly Hooper was standing in the doorway to Sherlock's bedroom wearing his t-shirt and possibly very little else – except for a deep blush, that is. He blinked a few times, knowing now how Sherlock must feel when he's 'buffering'. He looked to his friend, who was biting down on his lip – was it awkwardness, or was he trying to suppress a laugh?

"How…when…" John began. "Did this happen last night?"

"Plenty happened last night, John," Sherlock replied. "But if you're asking if it happened last night for the first time…?"

"Yes!"

"No," Sherlock replied. "Not even close."

John couldn't stop looking between the pair of them, his brain struggling to catch up. He felt himself on the brink of hysterical laughter.

"Is this where you tell me you two have been sleeping together under my nose for eight years?" he blurted.

"Sadly not, John," Sherlock replied. "It is a…fairly recent development."

He and Molly exchanged a look. There! That's what he'd been seeing for weeks now, but not understanding – not observing! He could kick himself!

"Why didn't you tell me, you git?" John said, shoving Sherlock lightly in the chest, succumbing to the laughter.

Sherlock grinned.

"Because this way is more fun," he replied.

Unable to think of an alternative response, John grabbed Sherlock and pulled him into a bear hug, ruffling the back of his head. He felt Sherlock's big hands grasp him in return. When they released each other, John opened his arms to Molly, taking hold of her gently and feeling her arms hold his shoulder blades.

"Molly Hooper," he said, as he stood back. "Are you sure you know what you're doing?"

She grinned, taking a few steps over to Sherlock and snaking an arm around his waist. John marvelled and his friend pulled Molly into his side, slipping his arm protectively around her shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"I think I do," she said.

"Anyway, it's too late now," Sherlock said. "She's agreed to marry me."

"I'm sorry, what?" John gaped.

"To be fair, that is a very recent development," Sherlock continued, looking decidedly like the cat who got the cream.

John's eyes automatically sought out Molly's hand and there, sure enough, was the evidence in diamond form. Shyly, she held up her fingers for confirmation. John couldn't help laughing again, his head swimming with all of this new information, details that changed everything about the dynamic of their little group.

"Bloody hell, no wonder you were desperate to get rid of me last night!" he said, clapping Sherlock on the shoulder.

"Wellll, that and the fact that I was very turned on by Molly wearing bee antennae."

"Hey!" Molly exclaimed, shoving her fiancée - fiancée, bloody hell! - in the ribs.

"I make no apologies," Sherlock replied, haughtily.

John couldn't help it; he swept both of them into another hug, sandwiching himself between the lanky detective and the little pathologist and suddenly feeling such a huge outpouring of love for them both. Christ, Sherlock was right about him being a romantic. He suddenly felt Mary at his shoulder and something slotted into place – she didn't sacrifice herself so that he and Sherlock could continue to make the world a safer place, she did it for this. She did it so that Sherlock could discover what he was capable of, his potential to make another human being happy beyond words. He placed a kiss on Molly's temple and affectionately ruffled the unkempt curls at the back of his friend's head again.

"I don't know what to say," John said, shaking his head in wonder, and seeing a smile on Sherlock's face the likes of which he had never seen before. "This is just so…amazing, fantastic and…god, Sherlock, for someone who reckons he's the cleverest man in London, why the hell did it take you so long to figure this out?!"

A more serious expression passed across Sherlock's face, and John noticed him taking Molly's hand in his own.

"I…I think I have known it for a long time," he admitted. "But as you well know, John, it is very possible for one to see what is in front of you, but to not observe."

John beamed, moved by his friend's uncharacteristic humility.

"Well, I am bloody happy for you both," he said. "And Rosie is going to be so delighted!"

"Actually, Rosie's been keeping our secret," Sherlock replied, biting down on a smile.

John looked between his friends and his eyebrows raised.

"You've been…carrying on in front of my impressionable daughter?" he asked, with mock sternness.

"Not like that!" Molly said, suddenly looking mortified.

"Well, we figured that by the time she is able to verbally articulate a coherent thought, things would probably be out in the open," Sherlock said. "It's been nice to have a little confidante around the place."

John glanced at his watch, knowing full well that he wasn't going to make it to the surgery on time (he'd have to text Amanda on reception on his way over – she would shout at him again, but today he didn't care).

"Why didn't you tell me before?" he asked, wondering whether he was missing something.

He saw Sherlock and Molly exchanged looks, Sherlock's arm sliding around her waist.

"We…wanted to make sure it was right," Molly said carefully. "After everything that's happened, not just recently, but over the years, it was important…we needed to work it out without everyone watching us."

Sherlock smirked.

"What Molly is very tactfully saying is that she needed time to decide whether allying herself to an emotionally-stunted, sexually-inexperienced colossal git was a lifestyle choice she wanted to make."

John saw Molly lean into Sherlock tenderly, her hand coming across to rest on his stomach, rubbing affectionately through his t-shirt. They clearly couldn't get enough of each other, and god, it was oddly beautiful to see.

"I'm going to take a wild punt and assume that at least one of those things is no longer true," John said, raising a questioning eyebrow.

"Couldn't possibly comment," Sherlock said, with a short cough. "Although Molly is aware that the git thing is genetic."

John frowned.

"That isn't your way of telling me you've already got Molly up the duff, is it Sherlock?"

"Thanks, John," Molly said, rolling her eyes.

"That's a work in progress," Sherlock replied, with a certain degree of male pride. "These things take practice."

John grinned, before suddenly remembering that at that particular point he should be sitting behind a desk listening to Mrs Spencer tell him about the latest disease-of-the-week she was sure she had contracted.

"Well, I'm going to have to leave you to your practicing," he told them. "Because I'm ninety-nine per cent certain that that was what I interrupted when I arrived here."

He noticed that neither Molly or Sherlock made any move to deny it. Instead, Sherlock's eyes had acquired the qualities of a man who has suddenly become fixated on something very particular.

"We're celebrating this later," John warned them, as he turned to go. "So you'd better hurry up and tell Mrs Hudson and Greg at the very least."

"Fine!" Sherlock sighed. "After."

"I'm going."

"Good," Sherlock replied, before another shove from Molly prompted him to amend it. "I mean, thank you for coming by, John – and for your good wishes."

John started down the stairs to the front door, taking a couple of steps before turning around. He opened his mouth to speak, but was stopped by the sight of Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper, arms around each other's waists, sharing a kiss that was so tender and sincere that he actually had to swallow a lump in this throat.

But he hadn't gone unnoticed.

"What?" Sherlock growled, barely removing his mouth from Molly's.

"Sorry, just something I forgot to say," John said, clearing his throat and leaving what he thought was a dramatic pause. "You look bloody ridiculous in that t-shirt, mate!"

As he retreated down the stairs, there was the loud thump of a dress shoe hitting the wall close to his head. The shoe reached the bottom of the stairs before John did, around the same time that the front door to the upstairs flat was abruptly slammed shut. Shaking his head at the knowledge he had just gained, John stepped out into Baker Street to what suddenly seemed like a very changed future.

THE END

Hope this was a decent way to finish? I chickened out of writing anything during or immediately after Sherrinford, trying to imagine how Sherlock and Molly would eventually get back on track and start a new chapter together. Please let me know if you enjoyed!