A/N: Here we are, folks, the end of this fic. It's dedicated to the fabulous Nocturnias (Sherlolly over on tumblr), and many thanks to Mouse9/stlgeekgirl on tumblr for reading over these past couple of chapters for me. And of course, thanks for your marvelous reviews and for sticking with me to the end. You guys rock!

Things progress rapidly from there, both in their relationship and in his return to his old life. He asks Molly to help him break the news of his un-death to his former flat-mate and friend, "since you've already vetoed the fake moustache and French waiter disguise, after all."

She agrees, of course she does, and is there to help clean him up after John punches him. She meets Mary Morstan, John's fiancée, at the same time Sherlock does; they explain things, working together as smoothly as if they've done this a million times before. She's the one to gently take Mrs. Hudson aside and explain things as well but leaves him on his own with Lestrade, whose warm, brotherly hug and obvious happiness at seeing him alive and well make up quite a bit for Mrs. Hudson's semi-hysterical remonstrations and John's lingering anger.

John freezes them both out for weeks after the reveal, but gradually Mary wears him down, and finally he comes to 221B to talk to Sherlock. To smooth things over between the two friends. Molly excuses herself, joining Mrs. Hudson and Mary for a getting-to-know-each-other-better chinwag and drink copious quantities of tea while the two men hash things out.

"It was the tattoo, I think," Sherlock muses as they lay together - for the first time - in his bed. "I showed it to him, explained why I had it commissioned and he actually seemed to believe me this time when I told him what I've already told him over and over again - that he just can't be trusted to keep his mouth shut and would have blown my cover if I'd told him I was alive."

"Sherlock!" Molly exclaims, but subsides when she he grins at her. "Yes, fine, you got me," she admits, allowing him to pull her more comfortably into his arms. "But it's good to know that he does understand that his life was in danger, and not just his. That you did it to save him and Mrs. Hudson and Greg."

Sherlock gives her his patented 'who are you talking about' expression, which she ignores in favor of pulling him down for a lingering kiss. "So, that's everyone sorted, then," she says when they come up for air. "Your reputation's been restored, your friendship with John's been restored, you seem to be getting on all right with Mary, the press conference announcing your return is tomorrow...am I forgetting anything?"

"Just one thing," Sherlock replies.

It's Molly's turn to look confused - legitimately, as she's pretty sure she's covered all the bases. But when Sherlock reaches into the drawer of his nightstand and pulls out a small, velvet covered box in the unmistakable Tiffany's blue, she gasps. "Sherlock, are you-"

He nods, opens the box with a flourish. "I am," he affirms. "So. Molly Hooper. The one who matters most." She reaches up and brushes her fingers against the ink on his chest bearing the Latin inscription of those last words just over his heart. He smiles down at her, a gentle, loving smile she once-upon-a-time would never have believed his face capable of forming. "Will you marry me?"

Six months later they reveal their matching wedding ring tattoos, inscribed with the date of their elopement (four days after he asks that oh-so-delightful and unexpected question), just above their left hips. John merely purses his lips and shakes his head, but Mary and Mrs. Hudson make admiring sounds and study them closely. "No," John says when his fiancée gives him a mischievous look. "Absolutely not. I was in the army, not the bloody navy."

If Mary ever gets him to change his mind, neither Sherlock nor Molly ever find out - nor do they particularly care. The only ink they ever concern themselves with is the ink on their own bodies, mapping out their life stories. Molly adds to hers more than once: the dates of their two daughters' births, a pair of gamboling kittens...and a deerstalker with the words "My Hat Detective" inscribed above it in an arch.

Sherlock pretends to hate it.

Molly, of course, knows better.