"Ahem!"

Mary cleared her throat theatrically, and stared pointedly at the man on the other side of the living room, whose thumbs were still moving rapidly across the screen of his phone.

"Oi! Lanky! Get yourself over here and come and say a proper hello to your goddaughter," she insisted. "Or I'm withdrawing that offer of cake."

John had disappeared into the kitchen to make tea, but Sherlock had remained in the living room, engrossed in whatever case or curiosity that had come his way that day (and honestly, how important could it be?) He looked up with a slight scowl. Mary was waiting on the no-doubt scabrous retort that would be coming her way, and true to form, Sherlock opened his mouth to say something – and then abruptly stopped. Instead, he stared. But quite clearly not at her – his gaze instead fell to her right.

On Molly.

Puzzled for a second, Mary glanced sideways at her friend, who was cradling the baby and apparently oblivious to the conversation going on around her. Mary looked back up at Sherlock, who for a fleeting moment had the startled look of a man who had been caught out, before recovering himself and shifting to a more neutral expression.

But Mary hadn't missed it. Sherlock Holmes had been reacting to the sight of Molly Hooper – with a baby. And the nature of his reaction was irrefutable.

Mary had to bite down on a smile. This was just the latest in a series of little incidents and occurrences that made her more certain than ever that something was shifting.

She raised her eyebrows at Sherlock and offered him a bright smile, which he countered with the irritated look of a little brother whose big sister has got one over on him again. He was not giving ground; he was admitting to nothing.

"As I was saying," she continued, adopting the kind of breezy tone she knew was guaranteed to irk him. "Come and say hello. I'll hold your phone."

"No," Sherlock replied resolutely, even as he crossed the room towards the sofa.

Mary tilted her head and gave him a look.

"Phone."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"I should have gone home with Mrs Hudson."

He slapped the phone into Mary's outstretched palm.

"Good boy!" she grinned, tucking the phone under the sofa cushion beside her. She wondered how long it would be before Sherlock started to exhibit physical withdrawal symptoms. "Now sit!"

Heaving a dramatic sigh, Sherlock popped the button on his suit jacket before taking a seat to Mary's left. It seemed to be this action that prompted Molly to look up from the baby, and she seemed slightly startled to see that Sherlock had moved. Mary noticed her friends making eye contact for a second before Sherlock shifted his gaze to his knees and Molly focused hers on the baby's forehead.

"Do you, um," Molly began, flicking her eyes across to Sherlock. "Do you want to hold her?"

Mary saw Sherlock's mouth open again, but she wasn't going to let him answer that one.

"'Course he does!" Mary replied. "Yes, you do, Sherlock," she added, as she heard the first note of objection.

He shot her a dirty look, which she deliberately ignored.

Molly carefully stood up, holding the baby close to her chest. Mary nudged Sherlock sharply in the ribs, promptly him get to his feet, too. He stood stock still, like an awkward teenage boy at a school disco, until Molly was standing right in front of him. Mary watched them have a detailed interaction using only their eyes, as Molly rose onto her tiptoes and Sherlock stooped slightly, their bodies meeting so that the baby could be transferred. It took a few moments after the baby was in Sherlock's arms, Mary noticed, for his gaze to leave Molly.

"Aw, look, he's a natural!" Mary grinned. There was almost nothing more satisfying than teasing Sherlock Holmes – and so easy, too.

"Natural at what?" John asked, returning to the living room with a tray of mugs. He clocked the sight of his friend holding the baby.

"Oh my God," he said, setting the tray down on the coffee table. "How did you manage that?"

Mary smiled, leaning her elbows on her knees and settling her chin in her hands.

"Oh, he couldn't wait," she replied, winking. "I think we made a good choice of godfather there."

"Did you steal his phone?" John asked. It was barely a question.

Mary tilted her head first left and then right, indicating that she wouldn't be drawn on that subject. She wasn't sure that Sherlock was even listening anymore. Instead of sitting back down as Mary assumed she would, Molly had stayed standing, and was busy giving small, tentative attentions to the bundle in Sherlock's arms, stroking the baby's wrists, her cheeks. Although her eyes were firmly on the baby, Sherlock's were most definitely on Molly.

Mary took the cup of tea that her husband handed to her. He looked at her questioningly, cocking his head, and she replied with a shrug of innocence. John narrowed his eyes as if to tell her to be careful; not to push things.

But it was hard not to want to. Everything seemed so steady, so perfect at the moment; she and John were in a better place, their baby was here and was healthy (if still unnamed – they would really have to resolve that soon), and they were surrounded by friends. Sherlock was clean again, and he looked healthy, fit and – by his standards – was in good humour these days. As for Molly, she too looked relaxed and happy, not to mention lovely in that outfit – and Sherlock Holmes was a bloody idiot for not seeing it. Although it seemed likely to Mary that he did see it, but just didn't know what to do with that information or any feelings it might stir.

"Can you see yourself doing this?" Mary asked, smiling. It was ostensibly addressed to Molly, but she noticed Sherlock's head spin round, too. There was a fleeting look of horror before he recovered himself.

Molly was blushing slightly, and Mary suddenly felt a little guilty for putting her friend on the spot like that. It wasn't as though she was unware of the feelings Molly had for the man in front of her, although they'd never discussed it.

"Oh…I don't know," Molly replied, eventually. "I mean, maybe…but it's not really…I'm not really in the…right, um, situation."

It was an oblique reference to Tom, Mary knew - and what could have been.

"Well, whatever the situation, never let the lack of a man hold you back, Molls," Mary grinned. "Science has made them pretty much obsolete anyway, hasn't it?"

"Thanks," muttered John, and she patted him on the arm, indulgently.

When Mary glanced up at Sherlock, he was aiming a slightly disgusted look in her direction that was so perfect it almost made her spit her tea. Seemed as though this particular man of science didn't approve of her implication that Molly could – or should – go it alone. Mary thought about making the point that Molly had a good job, owned her own home, could afford great childcare, etc, just to see what Sherlock's reaction would be – but it didn't seem fair to put her child's new godmother in the spotlight, just because she enjoyed seeing the godfather squirm.

But there was a serious point, and Mary wanted Sherlock to see it, acknowledge it. No good circling a woman at a safe distance, sabotaging her attempts at a social life, and just assuming she'll always be there at your beck and call, all because you're too bloody proud (and scared) to admit that you have feelings like everyone else.

"Well, being a godmother is lovely, anyway," Molly said. "And it's, you know, an honour. It means a lot to be asked.

At that, Sherlock seemed to make some kind of 'humph' sound.

"Yeah, well, don't worry, Sherlock," John said in response. "We didn't ask you because we thought you'd be the best person to provide moral and spiritual guidance for our daughter. And by the way, she's not an explosive device."

Mary smiled; Sherlock did look as though he was holding some kind of rigged package.

"I thought that's exactly what babies were," Sherlock muttered. "Both ends."

Mary offered him a sarcastic ha ha smile.

"So when's the christening going to be?" Molly asked, still standing beside Sherlock, her hand still stroking the baby's arm.

"Er, not sure yet," John replied. "Depends a bit when they can fit us in. Hopefully in the next couple of months, though."

"People actually join a waiting list to have their offspring initiated into irrational, invisible-deity-worshipping cults?" Sherlock frowned.

Molly elbowed him in the ribs and gave him a sharp look. Mary smiled.

"Shush!" Molly admonished. "Can't you just be nice about it?"

"Yeah, Sherlock," Mary grinned. "All you have to do is stand at the front of a church beside Molly and say yes when the vicar asks you a question. Nothing life-changing."

"Molly and Mrs Hudson," put in John. Mary gauged from her husband's tone that he felt she'd gone too far.

The sight of Molly's blushes and Sherlock's adolescent snarl made her think that maybe he had a point.

Just then, there was a series of loud buzzing noises emanating from somewhere to her left, and Mary saw Sherlock looking visibly anxious.

"Look, I'm in the middle of four different consultations at the moment," he said, blinking rapidly. "I'm expecting some crime scene photos from Lestrade's team, and a copy of a post-mortem report from Bart's – that's probably them now. Lives could well depend on this, so if you'll kindly-"

Mary rolled her eyes and got to her feet.

"Okay, okay, keep your fifty-quid pants on," she said, holding her hands out to take her daughter from the consulting detective, only just obtaining a firm grip on her before Sherlock released his and took off to the sofa to retrieve his phone.

Molly took a seat beside Mary on the sofa again, picking up her champagne flute and taking a sip.

Sherlock suddenly paused in his typing, frowned and looked up.

"John, how is it that your wife knows how much my pants cost?"

John smirked.

"I was about to ask you the same question, but decided I didn't want to know the answer."

"I've seen the labels," Mary shrugged. "Serves you right for leaving your dirty washing lying around the place."

This wasn't actually the whole truth; that particular nugget of information had come from Molly, who had confided to Mary about Sherlock's occasional 'sleepovers', and the resulting laundry that made it into the basket with her own. No twelve-quid multipack from M&S for Sherlock Holmes, it seemed.

"Oh, for-!" Sherlock exclaimed, raising his eyes to the ceiling. "Barrett has sent the wrong post-mortem report! How can he possibly confuse the corpse of an eighty-two-year-old woman with that of a twenty-six year old man? And if that wasn't clear enough, the name is on the bloody toe-tag!"

"You realise you can't do this during the actual christening, right?" John asked.

Mary saw Molly get to her feet, smoothing down her dress and placing the glass on the coffee table.

"I'll come and get you the report," she said to Sherlock. "Barrett's on a back-to-back shift. He's probably half-asleep by now."

"Isn't it your day off, Molls?" Mary asked, knowing full well the answer to that question.

"Yeah, but it's on the way," she replied, breezily. "Well, near enough."

It really wasn't, but Mary opted not to say anything.

"What are you waiting for, Molly?" Sherlock asked, already halfway to the door. Within seconds, he was waving Molly's coat at her, tapping his foot impatiently. "Is that sparkling wine impairing your motor skills?"

"That was champagne, you git," John interjected.

"Hmmm, not unless there's a Champagne region in the foothills of Romania," Sherlock replied, with a tilt of the head. "Perhaps next time don't go for the Special Offer at the local corner shop."

Mary saw her husband glower at his friend.

"I'm coming," Molly assured Sherlock, hoisting her handbag onto her shoulder. "Give me a second."

Mary watched in amusement as Molly dashed back across to the table, deftly folded a couple of sandwiches from her plate into a napkin and tucked them into her bag.

"These were lovely," she said, by way of explanation. "Sorry. I haven't been to the shops yet, and Sherlock will probably keep me at the morgue for ages."

Mary clocked Sherlock's reaction; it was expressing exasperation, but there was an underlying something else.

"Thanks again, both of you," Molly said over her shoulder as Sherlock herded her towards the door. "It's been a lovely afternoon. It's just, I'm so-"

"-happy, honoured, generally contented, warm and fuzzy inside, slightly drunk, yes, yes," Sherlock filled in, raising his wrist to look at his watch. "Now…"

He made a shooing gesture behind Molly's back.

Accepting that Sherlock was not going to allow for any kind of drawn-out, fond goodbye, Mary instead offered a little wave – and then watched the scene play out.

"We could go on the bus. I've got my Oyster," Molly said, as she opened the front door.

"Nope."

"Well, I've got, like…" – a rustle around in her handbag while Sherlock gave a barely suppressed sigh - "…three pounds fifty."

Sherlock's face scrunched up to resemble a used tissue.

"What exactly were you planning to do with three pounds fifty?"

"Nothing. I was going home, remember?" Molly replied with a short huff. "So, are you paying for the cab?"

In reply, Sherlock brandished a sheaf of notes from his pocket.

"Ooh, looks like you'll still have change for a new pair of pants there, too," Molly told Sherlock, grinning at him and aiming a flash of a smile over her shoulder at Mary. Yep, she was indeed slightly tipsy, and Mary loved her for it.

When the front door closed, there was a moment of silence before John spoke.

"What…was that?" he frowned.

"What was what?" Mary asked, innocuously, as though she hadn't also witnessed a scene from a 1940s screwball comedy play out in their own living room.

She watched his mouth open, his eyebrows knit for a moment, and then his mouth close again. He screwed his eyes shut and shook his head as though to clear his brain.

"Never mind," he said. "Whatever it was, I'm putting it down to sleep deprivation."

Mary grinned, squeezing his arm and leaning into his side.

"Probably for the best, love," she nodded. Their daughter had, by some miracle, drifted back off to sleep in her arms.

"It was your idea to have godparents," he said, his mouth against her hair. "I hope we're not going to regret it."

Mary smiled to herself as she wondered what kind of interaction was taking place in the cab making its way to Bart's; as she thought about the colour, the richness and the incomparable weirdness their friends would bring to their daughter's life.

No regrets whatsoever.