A/N: This story was originally written for Michaela Pendragon Holmes, but it's horribly late and actually turned into something I didn't quite expect. I think coming up on the anniversary of "The Six Thatchers," I find myself in mourning again for our beloved Mary, so here's a little something that helped ease the pain a little.

"now what were motionless move(exists no
miracle mightier than this:to feel)"
––e.e. cummings

The last of the cupcakes were praised for their delicate piping, and subsequently eaten. The last of Rosie's presents were opened and cooed at, and the floor of the Watsons' living room was a sea of pastel paper and glitter. The last of the guests were given fond wishes for safe travels back to their homes. And John bid good-night to his daughter's godparents, thanking Molly in particular for putting together such a lovely celebration. He went upstairs to put Rosie––who had started to fuss after the opening of her third gift––soundly to bed.

It was a successful party, as far as first year olds' birthday parties went.

John invited a handful of his neighbours, who brought their toddlers to play with Rosie, and kept the affair child-friendly. Greg Lestrade spent the evening entertained by Mrs. Hudson, who regaled him with tales of greener days spent in Florida. The fact that his date failed to show up did nothing to dampen his spirits. In fact, he even got an idea for a lead on one of his cases, after talking with Martha. Mycroft, who was lately invited, complimented Molly twice on her cupcakes as he bit into his third helping. Even Sherlock managed to keep from using his mobile, only taking it out twice to "check the time."

Molly put away the last of the dishes, hanging the tea towel over the sink, and breathed a sigh of relief. A month ago, she volunteered to throw "a small get-together" to celebrate Rosie's birthday. She so wanted to mark the occasion with their group of friends that she told John she would handle everything party-related.

So, naturally, she threw herself into party planning that she spent all her free time scouring Pinterest and shops, each decision secretly governed by whether she thought Mary Watson would approve. Molly was determined that their beloved little girl should not want for sweeties, presents, or happiness on the occasion of her first birthday. She would, that she could, guarantee Rosie's happiness for life, but at very least she could throw a god-dammed brilliant party.

Despite how pleasantly the evening turned out, Molly couldn't help but feel a bit, and selfishly, forlorn. Amidst the flurry of party preparations––in fact, she was in between checking the beef pasties in the oven and mixing the icing for cupcakes––she realised what tomorrow's date was. Because Rosie's actual birthday landed in the middle of the work week, Molly suggested celebrating the weekend following. She forgot that her own birthday would be the day after the party, but by then, their mutual friends would be too partied-out to celebrate with her.

It's just as well… Molly thought. She hated being the center of attention anyway. She only needed to remind herself that, quite frankly, she thoroughly despised being sung "Happy Birthday" to. She sighed as she gave the kitchen one last inspecting glance, and switched off the lights.

When she stepped into the living room, she found that she was quite alone downstairs. While Molly took to the kitchen earlier, Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson stayed a little after the other guests to help tidy up. Having cleaned the living room, they must have gone home as well. She couldn't help but feel a little disappointed that they (if she was being truthful, mostly just Sherlock) didn't hang about to see her leave, too.

In the weeks and then months following Sherrinford, Sherlock threw himself into his work. He was consumed with restoring his family to some sort of harmony, frequently flying out to see Eurus, when he wasn't on cases or godfathering duties. By then, Molly thought, the statute of limitation on bringing up dreadful and mortifyingly embarrassing phone calls must have long since passed, and since there really never was a good time to talk about it, they never did.

But at the same time, she could feel something had shifted, somehow changed, in their shared universe. This new Sherlock made her feel like they were the only two people in the world, though she couldn't remember the last time they were alone in a room together. Deep down, that most sanguine part of her suspected they were each lying in suspension, motionless, waiting for the other to tilt the scales a little askew. Or she could simply have just imagined the whole thing.

Her gaze landed on a framed photograph that hung on the wall, a candid shot of John and Mary on their wedding day, smiling widely and carefree. A pang of sadness bloomed in Molly's chest for her lost friend––tonight, among all the nights that came before––and the joys of this life she would no longer enjoy. Suddenly, Molly was able to brush aside her loneliness.

After retrieving her coat from the closet, she noticed something on the coffee table. Her first thought was that it must be one of Rosie's presents, left unnoticed, and therefore unopened because it was so small compared to all her other gifts, which now occupied a small fraction of the living room.

When she went to pick it up, and felt the weight of it in her hand––it was small and light, wrapped in kraft paper and tied with red string, and somehow, also substantial––she saw that it wasn't meant for Rosie after all.

"Happy Birthday," a voice said softly from behind her.

Her heart leapt within her chest, not from fright, but for the usual reason––the reason being––that familiar, beautiful baritone always sent her heart aflutter.

She turned slowly, stalling, giving herself time to hide the ridiculous grin that threatened to break on her face. In a voice much steadier than she thought she could muster, she said, "I thought you'd gone back to Baker Street with Mrs. Hudson."

"Waited with her to find a cab," Sherlock explained. He was still dressed in his Belstaff and scarf, having just come in from the cold. He moved to stand closer to her, and with a conspiratorial air he observed, "That tiny woman can hold a surprisingly large amount of liquor."

"That she can." They had a giggle at this. When their laughter subsided, Molly dropped her eyes to the object in her hand, grateful for the dim light she hoped did the job of hiding the blush creeping up her cheeks. "Thank you. For this. It's, er, nice..." She grimaced inwardly. Her vocabulary seemed to have shrunk at that moment, with him so near.

"I know it's early, but... I thought I'd give it to you now, since tomorrow's only three hours away." He smiled that rare smile, the one that crinkled the corners of his eyes, and turned his irises the warmest shade of blue. "Are you going to open it?"

"I think I'll wait 'til later." She rather liked the feel of it in her hands, unknown and full of potential. "You're not the only one who likes mysteries," she teased.

"Quite right," he affirmed, the corners of his mouth still upturned. He nodded. "It was a nice party."

"D'you think so?"

"Hm. Even if the celebrant fell asleep halfway through." It was his turn to tease. "But, then again, she's one." His eyes landed on the same photo that Molly's did just minutes ago. He was silent for a several seconds, thoughtful, before he added quietly, "Mary would have loved it."

The statement hung between them for a moment. A small part of her registered that it was the first time he used The Word since, well, that time, but in an altogether different context, of course. More so, she was taken aback by his answer to a question unasked, one that had taken residence in the back of her mind as soon as she began planning for the Rosie's party weeks ago. The only syllable she was capable of uttering was a breathless, "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Thank you." She felt her vision start to blur and she blinked rapidly to clear it. It wasn't until Sherlock brushed her cheek with a side of his finger that she realised a tear had fallen. She also hadn't realised how closely he was standing to her. But despite herself, she felt lighter, somehow, lighter than she had felt for weeks.

Their eyes met, but they stayed quiet for a bit––and Molly surely hoped he could not hear her heart thundering in her chest––as if waiting for the other to break the silence. And, sure enough, they did so at the same time.

"Molly, would you like to go get…"

"I was thinking… maybe we could…"

"… chips and a drink… or something…"

"… go back to my place?"

"I'd like that," he replied. And she smiled.

Sherlock took Molly's coat from her, which was draped over her forearm, and unravelled it in front of his body invitingly, wordlessly waiting for her to step in. Before she did, she put her gift in the inside pocket of her coat––closest to her heart, a sentimental part of her thought. But then again, every bone in her body was sentimental, and she was old enough now––older still in a couple of hours––not to be ashamed of it. She felt him watch her as she did this, a light smile played on his lips, but he said nothing.

Molly felt her skin tingle where his hand grazed hers as she finally allowed him to help her into her coat. And without being aware of who reached for whose hand first, she found her hand clasped in his as they walked out the front door.

The pair of Rosie's godparents locked the Watson residence's door behind them, and set off to a new destination together. Across the living room, the photograph of Mary Watson on her wedding day caught the light of the moon through the window, and the gleam in her laughing eyes seemed to shine just a bit brighter under the moonlight.

end

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