A/N: Well, here we are – the final chapter in this story! Although I've never left a fic unfinished, I have to admit I was a bit nervous about this one. There may or may not be an epilogue, as this chapter does manage to wrap things up nicely.

I would like to thank Marvel Lit Chick for her support and fangirling – it's been a blast!

And, as always, I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters, and am only borrowing them for a spot of fun.

Sherlock was seated at the kitchen table, his gaze focused out the window, when Molly came downstairs the following morning. He'd watched night slowly turn to day, shadows fading with the light, the sun bringing birdsong and the scent of dewy foliage. His eyes had seen it, but his mind had been elsewhere, caught in an endless loop of recovered memories.

"Your side of the bed wasn't disturbed," she said, coming to stand behind him and placing her hands on his shoulders. She squeezed, her strong fingers massaging the tense knots that had formed after sitting in a wooden chair for seven hours. "You didn't sleep last night, did you?"

"No," he admitted, lifting a hand to place it over one of Molly's. She was still warm from being in bed, and he regretted not having joined her. It might have done him some good to lie with her, to hold her and let the cadence of her sleepy breaths lull him into peace. Instead he'd lapsed into old habits, isolating himself and trying to work his troubled thoughts out on his own.

You should know better by now, he chastised himself as he watched her fill the kettle and put it on the stove. "I talked to Mycroft about Eurus after you went to bed. There was a lot I needed to digest. More memories, more information." More anger, more frustration.

She pulled out a chair and sat next to him. "You could have woken me up." Her eyes searched his face, most likely looking for signs of upset.

"I know. I could have - should have - but I'm fine," he assured her. "Mycroft was able to answer all of my questions - and then some."

Molly worried her bottom lip between her teeth in that way Sherlock found so endearing. "Can you… Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not really, no," he replied truthfully. "But I probably should – speaking them out loud might help me understand the thoughts bouncing around in my head. I haven't organised them in my mind palace yet." He grimaced. "After what happened yesterday I'm still a bit leery of going back in there."

"Well, I don't blame you if it was bad enough to give you a panic attack," Molly agreed before standing up to make two mugs of tea. She set one in front of Sherlock before sitting back down. "What did Mycroft have to say, then?"

Sherlock spent the next hour going over every detail his brother had shared, confirming his memory of her heightened intelligence ("he used the term 'incandescent' to describe her genius"), her animosity towards Sherlock, and the likelihood of her being responsible for Victor's disappearance. Mycroft had also filled in some blanks: the burning of Musgrave, Eurus's placement in an institution and her eventual death years later, as well as her role in forming Sherlock's character. "He said she's the reason why I'm the man I am today - every choice I've ever made was because of her," he finished, staring into his empty mug.

"He's wrong," Molly replied firmly. "Maybe she helped shape the man you were five years ago, or even two years ago. But she had nothing to do with who you are today, Sherlock, nothing." She stood up and walked over to him, wrapping him up in a hug, which he accepted gratefully.

She allowed him to pull her onto his lap, resting her head in the crook of his shoulder. He didn't need to tell her he'd changed because of her, because of John and Mary and Rosie, because of their persistence in loving him each in their own way. "Are of you going to let your parents know you've remembered?" she asked as she played with a loose thread on one of his shirt buttons.

"Mycroft asked me not to. He said it was an old wound I shouldn't be reopening."

"That's not right!" she replied, sitting up straight. "They have a right to know, and you have a right to ask them about it. Imagine the guilt they've carried with them all these years, hiding the truth from you, keeping their only daughter a dirty secret. It's horrible."

Sherlock threw her a mischievous look. "Since when do I ever do what Mycroft tells me to? Of course I'm going to talk to them about it."

"Good on you," she replied, standing up. She stared at the stove for a moment, hands on her hips. "Are you hungry? I'm thinking eggs and bacon would be good right about now."

"I thought bacon led to heart disease?"

"Pfft. Food's never bad for you when you're on holidays," she replied airily, waving her hands around and throwing him her own mischievous look.

He rose, stretched, and walked over to where she was assembling the ingredients for breakfast. "Do you need help with anything?"

"No, I'm good," she replied, lighting a burner on the stove. "I can manage this on my own if you want to go have a shower."

"I think I'll do just that." Invigorated by the thought of washing away the past day's melancholy, he kissed Molly on the cheek and headed upstairs for a quick wash and a change of clothes.

When the last of the breakfast dishes had been put away, Sherlock leaned back against the kitchen table, watching Molly as she folded the tea towel and hung it on the bar inside the cupboard under the sink. "So," he said, rolling his shirt sleeves back down and buttoning the cuffs. "Do you have any plans as to how you want to spend your day?"

"I wouldn't mind playing tourist; I haven't been in these parts before." Leaning forward, Molly craned her neck to peer out the small window. "Something outside, if possible. It looks absolutely lovely out there."

Sherlock took the two steps to join her, wrapping his arms loosely around her. "Are you up to a lot of walking?"

"Walking shouldn't be a problem. If I get tired, I can always find a place to sit down." She leaned her head against his chest, her fingers playing with his belt loops. "Do you have any ideas?"

"A few places come to mind - all within a short drive from here. There's Framlingham Castle, Lavenham Guildhall, Landguard Fort, Sutton Hoo…"

"Oh, Sutton Hoo!" Molly pulled out of his arms, her eyes lit up with excitement. "Of course - we're near Sutton! I've seen the exhibit at the British Museum many times; it would be brilliant to see the burial grounds. Unless you'd rather go elsewhere."

"Not at all. It's been a long time since I've been - I might appreciate it more through the eyes of an adult, anyway. And if we leave early enough we'll avoid the worst of the crowds."

"Mmm.." she hummed, standing on her tiptoes to place a kiss on his cheek. "That sounds perfect. We can find somewhere to stop for lunch then spend a quiet afternoon back here."

The next few days passed in much the same way, with the couple playing tourist in the morning and spending their afternoon lazing around the cottage. It hadn't escaped Sherlock how the domestic pattern they'd fallen into would have left his old self writhing in sheer agony, but truth be told it suited him just fine. He didn't regret his newfound tolerance for routine any more than he regretted the manic level of activity from his earlier years.

On the fourth day of their vacation, his phone rang. He pulled back from his microscope - soil samples collected the previous day along a stretch of beach near Walberswick - and looked at the screen. Sighing, he answered. "Hello Mum."

"Oh, hello!" She seemed surprised to get an answer. "I just wanted to call and see how things are going, seeing as I hadn't heard from you yet."

"They're going well." He disregarded her obvious dig, his mind still partly on the sediment composition of his sample.

"You're not ignoring the poor girl, are you, Sherlock?"

"What?" That got his full attention. "Of course not! I've been chauffeuring her all over Suffolk - we've been to Sutton Hoo, Framlingham, the nature reserve. We've spent a fair bit of time at the cottage, but that's been on her terms, not mine."

"That's good. How is Molly, then?"

Now standing at the window overlooking the garden, he spied the object of their discussion. She was resting on a sunlounger he'd pulled out of a shed for her, lying on her tummy as she read a copy of Treasure Island she'd found in Sherlock's old room. The jean shorts she wore hugged her curves in a way that drove the detective's mind to places where it didn't belong. Exquisite, he wanted to reply. Instead, he said "She's fine. She's been… pragmatic, I suppose, about the whole ordeal. Said that things happen for a reason and this one just wasn't meant to be." He took a deep breath, trying to sort out the maelstrom of feelings surging suddenly within him. "She's such a strong woman, Mum. It's one of the reasons I love her."

"I never allowed myself to believe I'd ever say this, son, but that young woman is lucky to have you."

Her voice cracked, and Sherlock cringed. "Mum, please. I've had enough emoting this week." Gently, he added, "Although I do appreciate your faith in me."

Mrs. Holmes chuckled. "Well, I'll leave the 'emoting' at a minimum and let you go, then. You have a lovely time and send Molly our love."

"I will, Mum. I'm sure Molly sends hers to you and Dad as well."

"Oh! One more thing, Sherlock. Please remember to wash the sheets before you leave."

Sherlock frowned. "What do you mean…" Then her intent struck him. "Mum!" he growled, his cheeks flushing. "You know why we're here. We can't be doing anything like that."

There was a silence at the other end of the line - long enough for him to wonder if his mother had hung up the phone - before she spoke. "You really are new at this, aren't you?" she replied, amused. "Well, I'm sure you'll figure it out. Good-bye, Sherlock."

"Good-bye, Mum."

Sherlock walked over to the living room and sat in his chair, mulling his mother's words over. What on earth had she meant by him being "new at this"? Had she meant relationships? That went without saying - of course he was new at relationships. So she must have meant something else, he mused. Her tone had implied sex - he shuddered at the situation that put his mother and sex in the same thought - but he'd gotten Molly pregnant, so she couldn't have been talking about that.

Could she?

That line of thought drove him straight into a minefield he'd worked hard to avoid while they'd been at the cottage: sex (or lack thereof at the moment). The thought alone made him feel like a selfish cad, worrying about sex while Molly healed physically and emotionally from a miscarriage.

Frustration coursed through him and he swept his arm across the small table next to him, sending newspapers and periodicals flying across the room. His anger dissipating immediately, he looked at the mess he'd created and sighed.

Molly walked in as he knelt on the ground gathering the scattered papers into a semblance of a neat pile.

"What happened?" she asked, getting down to help him.

"I…" He searched for a way to explain what had happened, but came up short, not wanting to admit he'd become agitated after indirectly speaking with his mother about sex.

"Threw a tantrum?" she guessed, the corners of her lips pulling into a smirk.

"Yes," he admitted, looking back down at the stack of papers.

"What is it, Sherlock?" she asked, picking up on his discomfort. Of course she noticed - she'd always been able to read him, even before they'd been together.

"It's nothing," he assured her, punctuating his reply with what he hoped was a convincing smile. The last thing he wanted to do was make her feel guilty because they couldn't have sex.

"Sherlock," she persisted. "We've been through so much together. You know you can tell me anything."

Sherlock stared at her, his emotions beating at him like waves against a cliff. She was right and he knew it. No more secrets, no more holding back. "I… I miss our physical intimacy. I never knew it could be like this, needing someone, wanting someone, every minute of every day. I have to hold myself back from hoisting you over my shoulder and dragging you to the bedroom," he confessed with a mirthless laugh, hating the slave he'd become to his baser needs.

"Then why don't you?" she asked, as if it were that easy.

"Molly, the doctor said…"

"The doctor said no intercourse. You don't have to have intercourse to be intimate," she told him, smiling. She stood up and reached out to him, arm outstretched, waiting for him to place his hand in hers.

Sherlock allowed Molly to lead him up the narrow stairs, too distracted by the nervousness and curiosity and excitement coursing through him to be distracted by the creaky third step or the photograph of Aunt Harriet that was always askew no matter how often he straightened it.

She led him to their bedroom. Dropping his hand, she left him at the entrance of the small room and walked over to the wicker chair in the far corner, sitting down. Although she effected an air of ease - she leaned back, her legs crossed at the ankles - her nervousness was apparent through the set of her shoulders and through her fingers, which were nervously toying with a thread on her shorts.

"Take your shirt off," she instructed breathlessly.

"Molly," he asked, not understanding where this was leading. "What do you…"

"Take," she interrupted, "your shirt off." Sotto voce she added "Please trust me."

Trusting her, always, Sherlock did as she bade and began to pop the buttons on his shirt, cuffs first, then each button from top to bottom, slowly revealing himself to her. Although he'd undressed in her presence many times - they'd practically been living together for the past few months - her unabashed gaze, coupled with the mystery of her request, left him with an elevated heartbeat and nerves on fire. Curious, he thought, how something mundane can become erotic in the right setting.

He slid the garment off, dropping it carelessly to the side, and turned to face Molly.

"Now your trousers," she instructed, her voice rougher and less steady than before. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips swollen and her eyes half-lidded - all clear signs she was as affected as he was by the striptease.

Her gaze followed Sherlock's hands as they reached for the clasp at his waist. He moved slowly, wanting to draw the moment out, but almost lost his control when the tip of her tongue peeked out, tracing her lips. Instead he exhaled slowly, the sound coming out as a strangled groan.

He knew what her next command would be before he'd even kicked his trousers to the side, but that didn't stop his pulse from quickening at her whispered "your pants".

Hands shaking, ears pounding from the sound of his heart as it threatened to beat through his chest - illogical, he well knew, but then so was the extent of his need for Molly at that very moment - Sherlock slid his underpants off, finally standing bare before her.

As a man who prided himself on controlling every possible aspect of his life, it was oddly exhilarating to relinquish control to Molly.

And it was in that dual moment of excitement and vulnerability as he waited for Molly's next instruction, that he understood his mother's comment. Of course, now was not the time to think about that.

"Sit on the bed, leaning against the headboard."

Sherlock did as she bade, placing a pillow at his back for comfort. He was thankful for the breeze gently blowing through the window - despite its warmth it helped cool him off in his flushed state.

Quiet and steadier than it had been, Molly's voice carried over the singing of the birds and crickets outside. "Close your eyes. I want you to wrap your fingers around your cock and slide your hand up, to pleasure yourself. You're already so hard," she added breathlessly.

Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath, his gaze shooting up to meet Molly's. He'd never been shy about nudity, but this was something altogether more. More private, more personal, more intimate. His eagerness to please her, to play the game, far outweighed any sense of modesty, however, so he complied with her request, closing his eyes and taking himself in hand.

"Tell me what you think of when you touch yourself. I want to know what goes through your mind."

"You," Sherlock replied immediately. Despite the privacy of his innermost thoughts, he felt them tumble easily from his tongue, like liberated confessions. "I think of your ass, heart shaped and beautiful, as I pound my cock into you from behind." His hand slid up and down his slick shaft as he imagined the moist warmth of Molly's cunt. "I think of the noises you make when I fuck you, when you beg for more…" His mind played scenes from their encounters, further fuelling his desire.

Sherlock continued to talk - a lust-filled stream of consciousness narrative as close to babbling as he'd ever come - when he felt the bed dip at his side.

He went still when he felt Molly's breath, warm and tremulous, fanning against his skin. "Don't stop…" she whispered before placing a row of kisses along the taut column of his neck, her hand alighting on his inner thigh for balance.

There really was only so much a man could take, honestly. His already fraying control snapping, Sherlock opened his eyes and found the same unbridled lust reflected in Molly's gaze.

She opened her mouth to speak but whatever words had been at the tip of her tongue turned into a squeal when he flipped her onto the bed, covering her with his body. He crushed his mouth to hers in a fumbling, messy, desperate embrace which she returned with equal fervour. He wanted, needed, Molly so much his skin thrummed with it, his nerves on edge like when he needed a fix.

He pulled back, shifting his weight to his forearm and his knees, allowing himself enough room to let his lips wander down her jaw and throat. Molly squirmed beneath him, pressing her body against his, encouraging him through her gentle moans and breathless pleas.

His free hand wandered down her side, tracing the swell of her breast, the dip at her waist, the curve of her hip, a landscape it was intimately familiar with. When his fingers reached the apex of her thighs and encountered the damp proof of her desire, he paused in his ministrations, his restraint wavering.

"Molly, darling," he said, surprised at how calm his voice sounded when he felt like he could implode at any moment. "If you became this excited every time I undressed, we'd never leave the flat."

She laughed, staring up at him with eyes that twinkled with a mixture of arousal and mischief. Reaching down, she wrapped her hand firmly around his cock and added "You mean if we both became this excited we'd never leave the flat."

"Keen observation, Hooper." He'd tried to go for casual, but the catch in Sherlock's voice betrayed the cliff he teetered on. A small John stepped out of the shadows at the back of his mind. "You're going to want to think unsexy thoughts, mate, if you don't want to disappoint Molly."

Imaginary!John had a point, as usual. Leaning forward, Sherlock rested his forehead in the crook of Molly's shoulder, his hips thrusting shallowly. Men wearing flip flops. Sandals with socks. Mycroft eating a coconut cream pie without using utensils. Mum & Dad having sex. In this very bed.

Although not the bucket of ice water he'd expected (and he really did need to revisit that later), the thought of his parents doing what he and Molly were doing greatly reduced the urgency of his desire. Once again able to move without the threat of a sudden finish, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers in a slow, deep kiss.

His hand kept the same unhurried pace, two fingers sliding on each side of Molly's clit before slipping inside her and then back out, over and over again.

Beneath him, Molly writhed, pressing herself up against his hand. Sherlock committed each sound she made to memory, every breathless plea, every whimper, every call out to a god in which she didn't believe. He certainly hadn't been lying when he'd told Molly what it was that turned him on the most. The room he'd meticulously created for her in his mind palace contained a gramophone on which he could play records of sounds he'd memorized, forever having them at his recollection whenever he wanted - or needed - to hear her.

I must add that one, he thought to himself as his ears picked up the wet, sticky sound of his cock thrusting in Molly's small hand.

"Oh, Sherlock," she whimpered, her breath catching on the intake, her hand's rhythm faltering. She gasped and went still, her body arcing as if electrocuted, as her release shot through her. Sherlock followed her over the precipice, turned on as ever by the fact that it was at his hand that Molly climaxed, and it was his name she called out in the throes of passion.

"Fuck," he exhaled roughly, resting against her while he tried to catch his breath. He could feel the tattoo of her heartbeat against his chest, its rapid thump-thump-thump matching the tempo of his own pulse. Eventually he felt himself regain some of his strength, and he pushed back up onto his forearm.

Looking down at Molly, her cheeks flushed, her lips pulled wide in a sated smile, her warm chocolate eyes staring up him with more love than he would ever deserve, Sherlock Holmes had an epiphany. He would marry Molly Hooper. He would get down on one knee, propose in the most nauseatingly romantic way possible, and then take part in a ridiculous, archaic ceremony - all to officially let the world know he would love her until he took his last breath.

"What is it?" she asked, searching his face for a clue to his sudden introspection.

"I love you," he replied, sharing only the partial truth of where his thoughts had wandered.

"I love you too," she sighed contentedly before scrunching her nose up. "But as much as I love you, I really need to wash up."

Sherlock looked down and noticed the mess spread across Molly's hand and hip, as well as the bedsheets. "Ah," he said, rising off her and standing up. "Tissues are in the bathroom. Shall I start a bath while I'm fetching them?"

"Mmm…" she purred, "that would be lovely." She looked over at him mischievously. "Join me?"

"Let's go over the list one more time before we go," Molly said, sitting down at the table.

Sherlock groaned. "We've been over the list three times. We haven't forgotten anything."

"Has the rubbish bin in the bathroom been emptied?" she asked pointedly, raising an eyebrow at him.

Bugger. "No. I'll go fetch the bag and add it to the rest." Turning away, the detective walked back through the house, both relieved and disappointed their week away had drawn to an end. This had been the longest he'd gone without a case (barring illness, injury, drug addiction or the ensuing withdrawal, of course) and his brain was itching to once again be used for more than navigation or figuring out how to fold lawn furniture. On the flip side, his week alone with Molly had been surprisingly relaxing, and he'd amassed many wonderful memories to process over the drive home while Molly dozed (despite her assurances to the contrary the pathologist had, without fail, fallen sound asleep on any car ride longer than a half hour).

He took yet another final check upstairs - making sure windows were closed and secured, the beds were made, clean linens were folded and stored away, no stray knickers left under the bed (or on top of the armoire, or hanging over the curtain rod…). His inspection continued - straightening the photo of Aunt Harriet on his way down the stairs, making sure living room chairs and tables were returned to their original places - until he returned to the kitchen and deposited the small rubbish bag into the bigger one. "There," he said. "You can go upstairs and confirm for yourself, but all windows are locked, everything is where it should be and nothing is where it shouldn't be. Are we finally ready to leave?"

"Did you lock the shed?" she asked, pencil poised on her hand-written list.

"Yes."

"Lawn chairs put away?"

"Yes. I even Googled how to fold the damn things first."

"Then we're ready!" She stood up and looked around her, sighing. "I'm going to miss it here, but I think I'm ready to get back to my normal life. I feel like I haven't been to work in months, and I miss Rosie."

"I'm sure she'll be overjoyed to see her Auntie 'Mah'," he teased, following her outside. He locked the door and walked the garbage out to the rubbish containers at the side of the house, pausing to pick a few flowers for Molly from his mother's garden on the way back. He handed her the bouquet, leaning in for a quick kiss.

"They're beautiful," she sighed, inhaling deeply.

"They don't stand a chance against your beauty," he replied.

Molly blushed, laughing. "I would never have taken you for a charmer, Sherlock Holmes."

"I would have never taken myself as a man to fall head over heels in love, Molly Hooper, but you've changed that." He held her car door open. "Now hop in so you can catch up on your sleep."

"I do not sleep in cars. I just close my eyes and relax…" Chuckling, Sherlock shut the door and walked around to his side, taking one last look at the small cottage. So many things had happened this past week - he'd learned to relax, he and Molly had discovered new ways of pushing the boundaries of their physical relationship, and he'd regained his memories of Eurus (a conversation to be had with his parents in the flesh, with Molly there for support).

Was he changing because his life was changing, or was it the other way around? Maybe a bit of both, he decided as he sat in his seat and looked over at Molly.

Either way, he was happy with the direction it was taking. And after a lifetime of being angry at the world, he decided that being happy was a good thing.

The End

A/N: A happily ever after for Sherlock and Molly – yay! I hope you've all enjoyed this story and welcome you to share your thoughts in the reviews.