Traffic had been slow between the Watsons' flat and the Holmes' west London abode, and Bea hadn't stopped talking the entire time. Molly had noticed the taxi driver surreptitiously putting in his earphones after about ten minutes, and on the seat beside her, Sherlock had been getting increasingly fidgety and irritable. He almost looked ready to make a break for it when the cab stopped at a red light. Molly didn't have a huge amount of sympathy, though, considering that the non-stop, slightly hyperactive, totally unselfconscious gabbling was a distinctly Holmesian trait – Bea was exactly like Sherlock was when he had the opportunity and audience to expound on a topic he loved. And in Bea's case, on this occasion, the topic was Rosie's upcoming overnight stay.

"As soon as we get in, I'm going to show you the kittens – they're so cute!" Bea was gushing. "Dad says we can't keep them, but Mum says it's his fault for not getting Winston neutered."

At this, Molly saw Sherlock roll his eyes. For the past three years, she had been living with the assumption that the cat had undergone the necessary procedure, only to discover a few weeks ago that the task of taking Winston to the vet (while she was at a conference) had slipped Sherlock's mind when he'd been presented with a triple murder in Wokingham. For all Molly knew, Winston had probably fathered most of the local cat population, but this was the first time that parentage had been proven absolutely. Mrs Argyll from across the street had turned up one day with an expression like thunder, and a cardboard box containing six kittens, four of which had virtually identical markings to the Holmes family cat. Despite this suggestive evidence – or possibly just to annoy Mrs Argyll - Sherlock had refuted it and insisted that Winston and his alleged offspring undergo DNA testing, although Molly had drawn the line at him using the path lab for such purposes.

"Are you sure your father can't be persuaded, Rosie?" Sherlock asked, leaning forward in his seat.

"Maybe if I wasn't going away in a week's time," Rosie replied, smiling. "I would absolutely love one, but Dad's not really a cat person."

"Hmph," Sherlock responded. "Twenty-three years, and we've finally found the thing John and I have in common."

"We'll find homes for them," Molly said, to placate Sherlock and reassure Rosie, although she wasn't massively confident – not many people would be actively looking for a pedigree Persian crossed with a rescue cat.

"Oh, and we're having takeaway from Angelo's tonight!" Bea declared, moving onto a new topic. "So we need to choose that when we get home - although Will and Teddy won't have to choose because they always have the same thing - and then Dad will have to help me move the fold-up bed into my room, and you can put all your stuff in there, and I can show you my new school uniform for September and the project I'm working on for coding club, and that really funny YouTube video I was talking about earlier, and-"

"Breathe, Beatrice," Sherlock told her, earning a smile from Rosie. "Rosie will be with us for nearly twenty-four hours, so there is no need to exhaust all possibly topics of conversation before we reach the front door. And, oh look, the gods of private-hire transport are smiling on us, because here in fact is our front door."

"I'm just excited!" Bea declared.

"Really? I'd never have guessed," Sherlock replied, exchanging a look with Molly.

"It's ages since Rosie's been over to our house," Bea continued. "And it's, like, years since she's actually stayed over."

It wasn't. But Bea years seemed to be like dog years – perhaps not surprising given her close affinity with Mycroft-the-dog.

They piled into the house, Sherlock carrying Rosie's overnight bag, and Bea running ahead to make sure the kittens were all safely contained in the back room. Thankfully, the dog had decided to adopt a paternal, protective role in relation to the kittens – unlike the kittens' actual father, who would occasionally enter the room and look askance at the sight of other felines apparently on his territory.

Sherlock set Rosie's bag down in the hallway, and they were all heading for the kitchen – tea very much on Molly's mind – when Teddy sauntered out to greet them.

"How's your dad?" he asked Rosie, through a mouthful of something.

"Teddy, we'll be having dinner soon," Molly sighed. "What are you eating?"

"Crisp sandwich," her younger son replied, swallowing.

"Ooh, what flavour crisps?" Sherlock cut in, before Molly could remonstrate.

"Prawn cocktail," Teddy replied.

"Mm, not bad," Sherlock told him. "Although roast beef is obviously the superior choice."

Nearly twenty years of co-habiting and home-cooked meals had only gone so far in curbing Sherlock's junk food proclivities; he and Teddy were a liability when left on their own with a full cupboard and fridge.

"My dad's doing well, by the way," Rosie said, catching Molly's eye as she said so, and grinning.

"Cool," Teddy replied, nodding. "Sorry my dad nearly killed him."

Molly shot Teddy a look at the same time as a similar one was being aimed at him from Sherlock's direction.

"What?" Teddy asked, innocently. "She said Uncle John's okay."

Although there had never really been a threat to John's life, they had all had a slight scare two weeks earlier, when, as he and Sherlock were chasing a suspect on foot through Billingsgate Market, John had been seized by chest pains and collapsed to the ground.

"Your dad saved my dad," Rosie replied, glancing at Sherlock. "Not that my dad would admit it, though."

It had only been when Molly had arrived at the hospital with Rosie - armed only with the fragments of information from Sherlock's text – and spotted a rickshaw abandoned by the main entrance, that she started to understand what Sherlock saving John had involved. According to John, later on, at the sight of bumper to bumper traffic, Sherlock had hijacked the tourist rickshaw outside the market, turfed out the American couple who were en route to the Tower of London, and commandeered the vehicle from its driver. Then, Sherlock had, according to eyewitnesses and the many mobile phone videos that had emerged, hauled John into the rickshaw and pedalled like a demon to the nearby Royal London Hospital. The reception staff had been greeted by the sight of two middle-aged men, gripping tightly to each other, both out of breath, and both distinctly smelling of the fishy wares of Billingsgate.

The Holmes children outwardly professed the whole idea of Sherlock pedaling anything to be utterly hilarious, but Molly could tell that this small act of pedal-powered heroism had made more impact on them than any of Sherlock's professional capers.

Lying in his hospital bed, hooked up to a heart monitor, John had jokingly blamed Sherlock for the mild heart attack that had been diagnosed – it was only a matter of time before Sherlock killed him, he said. He'd also railed out how unfair it was that Sherlock seemed to be so fit and healthy, despite the fact that for nearly twenty-five years, he'd been smoking unfiltered cigarettes, guzzling Class A drugs, and subsisting on an erratic diet of mostly takeaway food and biscuits. ("While I, Sherlock, I drag myself out on a bloody bike three times a week, and mostly eat incredibly boring food that is supposed to be doing amazing things for my heart.") Sherlock had smiled along with his friend, but when John wasn't looking, Molly could see the concern etched on his face, the quiet relief; she couldn't help but loving him even more for it.

This sleepover had been organised prior to John's illness, at Rosie's request; she wanted to have one final overnight stay before she started university. She wasn't going very far (to John's delight, she'd been accepted onto the Journalism degree course at Goldsmith's), but she would be living in student halls, and everyone was quietly aware that this was the end of an era. Rosie had been hesitant about leaving John, to spend the night elsewhere, but he had insisted – particularly because he himself had plans for the evening anyway.

"What's your dad up to tonight?" Molly asked, as she filled the kettle.

Rosie had one eye on the door, aware that Bea was likely to appear with an armful of kittens at any moment.

"Oh, some meeting with a commissioning editor from his publishers," she replied. "It was supposed to be at some fancy restaurant, but she's coming round to our flat instead."

Molly caught Sherlock rolling his eyes.

"I thought he'd got this ridiculous book thing out of his system," he groused.

He was fooling no-one – or at least he wasn't fooling Molly; she knew how much Sherlock had enjoyed the renewed attention, had relished turning down the appearances and media interviews.

"She wants him to write a sequel," Rosie grinned, enjoying Sherlock's apparent exasperation. "But I reckon maybe something else is going on, too, because this editor came to see Dad in hospital – twice. I'm pretty sure tonight is actually a date."

This immediately made sense to Molly; she had bumped into another woman outside John's hospital room – around fifty, pretty, and stylishly dressed - who had been making her way out. She tried to gauge Rosie's reaction now. It wasn't as though John had been without female company for the past eighteen years – taking up the mantle of celibacy abandoned by Sherlock – but very few women had ever been introduced to Rosie. John was too careful, with his own heart as well as hers.

"Ah, so that was aftershave I could smell earlier," Sherlock mused, apparently to nobody in particular. "It was either that or furniture polish."

"Well…that's nice for your dad…?" Molly said to Rosie, realising that her intonation made it sound like a question. She glanced at Sherlock, floundering slightly, but he was still pulling a face.

"Yeah," Rosie replied, hitching herself onto a stool at the counter. "She seems nice. I met her at a couple of the book signings."

Molly watched her goddaughter sideways as she got her a drink, and Rosie really did seem completely nonchalant about the whole thing. Several times over the years, she had asked Molly whether she thought her dad would ever meet someone else, but she'd never asked it out of fear or insecurity – she'd always just seemed curious, perhaps even a little sad. Now, with Rosie about to take a big step towards independence, a distraction (and hopefully more than that) might be exactly what John needed.

"You don't have to bunk in with Bea tonight, you know," Molly said, quickly scanning the doorway in case their daughter was in earshot. "We can get the boys to go in together and you can have some space of your own."

It was Will's room Molly had in mind; Teddy's was part-workshop, part junk shop, to the point where you had to look twice to see the bed. His room also had that musty, hamster-cage smell that until fairly recently had been the signature scent of Will's (albeit tidier) bedroom, too; it was, Sherlock had confirmed to her, simply eau de fifteen-year-old boy. Anyway, it seemed to be resistant to cleaning products, and it wasn't fair or very welcoming to inflict that environment on Rosie.

"No, it's fine, Aunt Molly," Rosie replied. "Actually, I'm looking forward it. It's where I always used to sleep before Bea was born, so it'll be kind of nice."

"Look, Rosie!"

Bea was entering the room, carrying a pair of Sherlock's shoes, in each of which was a small and slightly startled-looking kitten.

"Beatrice, those are Yves Saint Laurent Etons!" Sherlock spluttered, clattering his mug down on the counter.

Molly couldn't help but smile at Bea's blank expression.

"They've got a really nice lining," Bea reasoned, with a slight shrug. "I think that's why the cats like them."

"Yes, the 'really nice lining' might have something to do with the fact that they cost over five-hundred pounds," Sherlock retorted.

"Seriously?" Bea asked, looking between the shoes and her dad. "They're pretty boring for five-hundred pounds; I could buy ten much nicer pairs for that."

Molly had had the same conversation with Sherlock at least annually for the past eighteen years.

"Let's get you out of there," Rosie said, lifting a ginger kitten out of Sherlock's left shoe. She handed the shoe back to Sherlock, who immediately scrutinised it as though it had been despoiled forever.

"That one's Ada," Bea said, authoritatively. "After Ada Lovelace. And the white one's Rosalind – you know, like Rosalind Franklin."

It was fair to say that Bea had been more than a bit inspired lately by the Great Women in Science book she'd been given by Sherlock's mother. Luckily for her, five of the six kittens were female (the other, to Molly's quiet delight, Bea had named Toby).

"Beatrice, what did we say about naming them?" Sherlock said. "If we name things, we invariably end up keeping them. Something very similar happened with you eleven years ago, and now look where we are."

"Eleven-and-a-half," Bea corrected. "And obviously, you wouldn't have given me away because I'm too amazing."

Rosie laughed at this.

"I remember that Uncle Sherlock did think you were pretty amazing," she said, eyeing Sherlock with a gleam. "It's the only time I've ever heard him sing: when you were a baby, and he used to sing to you."

Molly saw Sherlock colour momentarily.

"Ugh, well you've never heard him sing in the shower," Bea said to Rosie. "He does, like, opera stuff. It's really embarrassing."

Now Sherlock's expression shifted from mild discomfiture to one of defiance.

"Yes, well, I'm practicing for when you have friends over to stay," Sherlock told their daughter. "Of course, I will wear a towel for that particular performance, but probably just a small one. I've found there to be a direct correlation between the quality of my operatic baritone and the scantiness of my clothing."

Rosie sniggered, causing some alarm to the kitten in her arms, which she just managed to catch as it made a leap for the kitchen scales. Just as a disgusted Bea was about to compose a comeback to her father, they all heard the front door close; a few seconds later, Will arrived in the kitchen. He was dressed in his jujitsu outfit, and quickly said his hellos before making a beeline for the cupboard, from which he took a huge glass and went to fill it at the tap. At least, Molly noted, he wasn't drinking directly from the tap as he did on some occasions, or straight from their milk carton – she put this down to the fact that they had company. Speaking of which…she couldn't help noticing that Rosie suddenly seemed distracted, when a couple of minutes earlier she couldn't have been more relaxed. As though she wanted to look at Will, but also didn't.

After a couple of gulps, Will turned back to them all.

"Have you ordered from Angelo's yet?" he asked, eyes flicking around the group, questioningly.

"Hello to you, too, sweetheart," Molly said, sidling up beside Will to give him a quick hug. In the past couple of months, William had sprouted another couple of inches, and was now almost level in height with Sherlock; he was lean, with dark, tousled curls, and although it was possible Molly was a tiny bit biased, it was obvious to everyone that William Holmes was very handsome.

"We've already eaten, and we fed your penne arrabiata to the cats," Sherlock told him, glancing at Molly. "Now that we have six extra mouths to feed, I'm afraid it's every man for himself."

Will gave Sherlock a withering look, then crossed the room to where Rosie was sitting and started to pet the kitten she was holding. Again, Molly found herself watching her goddaughter, whose gaze would land on Will before quickly shifting off to one side.

"Is your dad recovering okay?" Will asked, standing back and taking another swig of water.

"Yeah, thanks," Rosie nodded. "And thanks for your messages."

Will nodded in response, both teenagers clearly uncomfortable about the public nature of their conversation.

"What messages?" Bea piped up, curiously.

Will looked irritated.

"Just texts," he told her, with a vague waving gesture and a slightly defensive tone. "You know, to ask how Uncle John was getting on."

Molly could see that Bea's curiosity had not been satisfied, and that – knowing her children – this was probably going to escalate if it was allowed to continue unchecked. So she directed Bea to return the kittens to the other room and to feed the entire Holmes menagerie, and suggested that Will go and get himself changed while Sherlock phoned in their takeaway order. Bea gave Sherlock her food order, and Bea took Ada-the-kitten back from Rosie before she left the room.

"So," Molly said, taking some salad vegetables out of the fridge. "Have you got everything you need for uni now?"

Rosie slid off her stool and went to wash her hands at the sink before joining Molly at the kitchen counter.

"Think so," she replied, picking up a knife and sliding a chopping board in front of herself. "We've been to Ikea to get stuff for my room, and my books have all arrived now. Dad's actually paid for me to have a phone upgrade, too, although I think that's because I've now got unlimited call time."

"You could always block his number," Sherlock suggested, without looking up from his own phone. "I do it intermittently myself when he's being boring."

Molly shot Sherlock a disapproving frown, at which he looked genuinely surprised.

"I've been using my new laptop already," Rosie continued. "It's an amazing present – thank you."

"You're welcome," Molly told her, as she set about shredding the lettuce. "You can hardly be expected to be a crusading investigative journalist without a decent laptop."

Rosie laughed.

"Well, it's great," she said. "And really generous."

"Mm, that reminds me," Molly said, wiping her hands and crossing over to the old-style kitchen dresser that had come with their house so many years ago. "I'm afraid it was a two-part present. You get the laptop, but you have to take this with you as well."

Rosie took the photo frame from Molly's hand; it contained a picture of the entire Holmes family with Rosie on her eighteenth birthday, which John had taken in the restaurant where they had celebrated. It was a lovely photo, and even Sherlock and Will had found it within themselves to smile, as opposed to most photos where they both looked as though they were about to face a firing squad.

"Molly is under the impression that you might forget us," Sherlock said, looking pointedly at her. "Given that you will be almost nine miles away in the wilds of south-east London, hopelessly cut off from all modern forms of communication."

Molly narrowed her eyes at Sherlock. She aimed a cherry tomato at his face, which he instead caught with annoying ease, popping it into his mouth and eating it with one eyebrow raised at her in challenge. She'd get him later – she always did.

"I'm definitely not going to forget you," Rosie smiled. "I'll be coming back regularly for food, anyway."

"We'll always be pleased to see you," Molly told her, surprised at the lump that seemed to suddenly appear in her throat at those words.

"Speaking of food, shall I take the stuff through for Bea to give the kittens?" Rosie asked.

Molly opened what was now very definitely the pet supplies cupboard and pulled out several ludicrously expensive pouches of kitten food, and some miniature bottles of kitten milk. She could feel Sherlock rolling his eyes behind her, but he was in absolutely no position to complain about the expense. To this gourmet collection, Molly added a bag of kibble for the disgraced father (Winston, not Sherlock) and some dry food for Mycroft-the-dog. Rosie's eyes widened as Molly loaded up her arms, but once she'd balanced herself, she went off in search of Bea.

For no reason except that she wanted to, Molly went over to plant a quick kiss on Sherlock's lips before she returned to the salad preparation. Dutifully, he followed her to the counter and picked up where Rosie left off.

After a few moments, he spoke.

"So, she still hasn't said anything."

Molly darted a glance up to him, then shook her head.

"It's not like we gave her a deadline," she said softly. "She must still be thinking it over."

"And we just…wait?"

He was frowning slightly, struggling, Molly knew, with the possibility of such open-endedness. It had been nearly five months since Rosie turned eighteen, and although Mary made her presence felt in their conversations that day, they had yet to return to the topic of the thin file of information in the bureau drawer.

"Yes," Molly nodded, with what she hoped was a reassuring smile. "We just wait."

00000000

An hour or so later, the dining room table looked as though it had been directly transported from Angelo's. In addition to their order, Angelo – because he knew it was a special occasion – had thrown in a variety of starters, as well as two large cannoli, which were going to be a challenge even for the six of them. It was the sign of a good meal being well enjoyed, Molly reflected, when there was near-silence in the room; when even Bea and Teddy couldn't think of anything to say that was more important than the next mouthful.

In between periods of contented eating, they had covered the topics of Rosie's university course, her accommodation, Bea's recent move to secondary school, the fate of the kittens (again), and of course Sherlock's equal parts heroic and hilarious rescue of John.

As Molly watched Rosie, she couldn't help thinking of herself thirty-five years earlier, packing up the contents of her bedroom in preparation for an entirely new life as a medical student in London. Oscillating between feverish excitement and crippling self-doubt - and of course the pangs of guilt about leaving her dad on his own, something that had to be afflicting Rosie in some way, too.

Sherlock, Molly knew, had virtually no memory of the build-up to or start of his university experience – it had been a shock to his parents that he'd even remembered to turn up for his A level exams, or been in a fit state to complete them, so the fact that he was taking up a place at university was astonishing to all of them. As it was, he had refused his parents' offer to accompany him on his first day – and probably as a result of this, he had turned up with little more than the clothes he was wearing, two-hundred cigarettes, an early-model Nokia phone and his framed periodic table.

"So, what's Mat doing this year?" Molly asked Rosie. Out of the corner of her eye, she was fairly certain she could see Will glowering at his penne. (As recently as a few days ago, Molly had heard her son describe Rosie's boyfriend as a 'posturing ignoramus with a terrible haircut'.)

"Oh," Rosie said, clearly taken a little by surprise. "He's, er, he's going to Liverpool Uni. Actually, I think he's already gone."

The subtext was obvious, and Molly immediately regretted having brought it up.

"We…um…we broke up a few weeks ago," Rosie added. "It wasn't really going anywhere, and well, you now, with uni and everything…Anyway, it's all fine."

"He was rubbish at Cluedo," Bea offered.

Rosie laughed.

"Yeah, you're right, he was," she agreed.

"He did have a nice bum, though," Bea added.

"Beatrice!" Sherlock exclaimed, as Teddy sniggered and Will rolled his eyes.

"What?" Bea asked. "He did!"

Sherlock turned to Molly with a slightly horrified expression; it seemed as though he might be expecting her to do or say something, but at that moment Molly was simply trying not to laugh.

"Bea, it's, er…" Molly began, trying to compose herself. "It's not nice to…er…objectify people, is it?"

It was Bea's turn to roll her eyes now, but it seemed to bring the subject of Rosie's ex-boyfriend's superior posterior to a close. But where one controversial subject closed, another seemed to begin…

"Well, I'm sure Will is behind your decision one hundred per-cent, Rosie," Teddy said to Rosie, sliding a look across to his brother. "Right, Will?"

Molly frowned at her younger son; it was now certain who'd be doing the dishes and taking out the bins that evening. To William's credit, he didn't leap across the table and perform a jujitsu chokehold on Teddy; instead, he calmly turned to his brother and offered him a fixed smile.

"What Rosie does is her business," he replied crisply. "But, generally speaking, I would applaud her decision to concentrate on her academic pursuits."

At that moment, Molly was certain she saw Rosie's face fall, but she quickly recomposed herself, tucking a hair behind her ear and spearing another piece of meatball with her fork. When Molly chanced a surreptitious glance at Sherlock, it was clear he had seen it, too; his eyes flicked between William and Rosie, his brow furrowed as he raised his glass to his mouth.

A short while later, when Molly had whisked the remaining cannoli from the table to save Sherlock and Teddy from themselves, and was boxing up the meagre leftovers in the kitchen, she could hear laughter coming from the living room. It was sustained enough to make her curious, and when she arrived in the living room she saw Rosie, Bea and Teddy crowded around Rosie's laptop.

"Am I going to regret asking what you're looking at?" she asked, eyeing them all suspiciously.

"Come and look, Mum!" Bea said. "Rosie's got loads of old pictures on here."

"I thought I'd put them all on my laptop before I go off to uni," Rosie explained. "Keep them all in one place."

They were in the middle of looking at photographs from John and Mary's wedding, some of which Molly realised – when she perched on the arm of the sofa for a better look – she either hadn't seen for years or for some reason hadn't seen at all. Seeing them couldn't help, as always, but cause a welter of emotions to come flooding in - but perhaps it was significant, Molly thought, that these days the positive feelings outweighed the pain and sadness.

"Mum, that thing in your hair is massive!" Bea said, pointing at the elaborate bow that Molly could remember swearing repeatedly about as she hurried to get ready for the wedding.

"And it's all really…yellow," Teddy added, frowning, as though this defied explanation.

"I like yellow," Molly replied, tousling Teddy's hair.

"Better than lavender anyway," Rosie smiled, gesturing to the bridesmaid dresses.

"I believe it was lilac," said Sherlock, smiling, as he entered the room. Will was behind him; they had both been moving the fold-up bed into Bea's room.

"Your dad could have had a second career as a wedding planner," Molly told the children, grinning at Sherlock. He still had a habit, when waiting impatiently for food to arrive at restaurants, of fashioning the napkins into swans or the Sydney Opera House.

"Is that Tom?" Bea asked, wrinkling her nose at one of the informal snaps of Molly and Tom in the reception venue. Although the Holmes children knew about her former fiancé, Molly hadn't been falling over herself to dig out the photos. "He looks a bit like Dad," Bea added.

"Yes, he does, doesn't he?" Sherlock said, shooting a sly look in Molly's direction. She'd get him back for that later, too.

"Woah, who is that?" Teddy interjected, leaning over to peer at the screen.

Molly immediately saw that there was no need to get Sherlock back any longer; his blush and discomfort now was enough.

"That is, ah, that is Janine," Sherlock said curtly. "Mary's chief bridesmaid."

Teddy was evidently impressed.

"Don't Google her," Sherlock added quickly, in a warning tone.

The nostalgia continued through Rosie's early months, her christening and various family – and surrogate family – events, right up until Rosie's eighteenth birthday. Noticing how late it was getting, Molly eventually left them to it, heading upstairs to find some bedding for Rosie's bed. She was in Bea's bedroom, trying to stuff a duvet into a spare case, when there was a soft knock at the door, and Rosie came in.

"Can…can I ask you something, Aunty Molly?" she said.

It struck Molly that it had been a while since Rosie called her 'aunty'.

"Of course. What is it? I hope you weren't going to ask to change duvet covers, because I know this one is pretty hideous, but it's the only one that's clean," Molly told her, smiling.

"No, it's fine," Rosie replied. "I…I was going to ask if it's…if it's okay that I'm still angry at my mum sometimes?"

Rosie chewed at her lip; her expression was so incredibly earnest and vulnerable that she briefly looked to Molly as though she was seven years old again. Molly dropped the duvet and beckoned Rosie over to the bed, encouraging her to sit.

"Of course it's okay," she said. "I mean, I hope it is, because sometimes I'm still a bit angry at her, too. Not often anymore, and not all that seriously, but just…sometimes."

"I still don't know if I want to find out all that stuff about her life," Rosie continued, picking at a thread on Bea's bedcover. "I think I probably do, but…I want to get settled at uni, I want to have the time to properly…get my head around it."

Molly smiled.

"Sounds like a really good idea," she said. "And when you're ready, you know where to find us."

Rosie nodded.

"You know, I didn't find out the truth about your mum until after she died," Molly said, turning to her. "And that was hard. I couldn't help it; I felt like I'd been lied to. But…I eventually came to accept that the Mary Watson I knew was genuine, and so were the friendships and relationships she had formed. Your mum…the silence she kept about her past was to protect the people she cared about, and that is why, Rosie, that is the only reason that your dad and Sherlock and I are being so cautious over this new information. It doesn't matter that you're an adult now – we're still always going to want to protect you from anything dangerous or painful."

"I know," Rosie smiled.

She looked around the bedroom, taking it in; the wallpaper and paintwork might be different, and the furniture changed over the years, but the feel of the room and the view from the window was the same as the day Molly and Sherlock had brought Rosie to see their new home. Molly snaked her arm around Rosie's waist and gave her a quick squeeze.

00000000

Molly found Sherlock on his own in the living room, stretched out on the sofa with his glasses perched halfway down his noise, reading a book on entomology. Or attempting to read – one of the kittens was curled on his chest, part blocking his view, and another was using his left leg as a balance beam. A third was sprawled on the back of the sofa, perilously close to Sherlock's head.

"This is very sweet," Molly grinned, gesturing to his feline charges. "And to think that I spent so long worrying that I was going to end up as a crazy cat lady."

Sherlock lowered his book.

"I can't help but feel that wherever he is now, Toby is having the last laugh."

Molly smiled, and moved across to the sofa, scooping up the kitten that was now nestled between Sherlock's knees and making space for herself beside him. He carefully swung himself around, one hand supporting the other kitten, and the other setting his book down on the coffee table.

"Research?" Molly asked.

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise.

"John has been prescribed rest for another month," he said, removing his glasses. "Things are quiet on the blog, and Scotland Yard hasn't sent me anything worthwhile for weeks."

"You're wondering what you're going to do?" Molly asked.

Things had changed, she knew. Not only was Lestrade long retired, but Donovan and Dimmock now were, too, and Hopkins had taken a senior job up in Manchester. Sherlock never seemed to have taken to any of the younger detectives who came through the ranks after them, but he had also, Molly knew, become even pickier about the cases he took on – although he wouldn't have admitted it, Sherlock Holmes had become more of a homebody.

"You're welcome to come and use the lab," she told him. "If you don't mind sharing it with half a dozen new student pathologists."

Molly was rarely working in the lab for long periods herself these days; now that she was a consultant, other people carried out most of her lab work. It was the same with the morgue; she tended only to be called in if there was anything out of the ordinary or that needed a second opinion.

"That sounds unspeakably awful," Sherlock replied, as he attempted to make the kitten release its grip on his shirt front.

It was then that a thought occurred to Molly, perhaps inspired by the book Sherlock had been reading; she wondered whether she might live to regret it, but the timing seemed…right.

"Why don't you think about doing the bee thing, then?" she suggested.

Sherlock looked up, as though he thought he might have misheard.

"What? You don't mean…you mean actually getting some hives?"

Molly nodded, watching his eyes light up at this confirmation.

"The kids aren't out in the garden as much these days," she said. "And you should probably do it before grandchildren start to come along."

Usually, Sherlock would blanch at the mention of possible grandchildren, but his brain was clearly already completely consumed by the reality of actually progressing one of his long-held fascinations from theory into practice. Suddenly, Molly found herself listening to a kind of stream-of-consciousness plan for the kind of hives he would buy, the equipment he would require, additional literature he would need to consult, and where he would source the bees. At the end of this, Sherlock quickly leaned forward and planted a firm kiss on her lips, almost tipping her backwards onto the sofa. Molly grabbed onto his neck to prevent herself losing her balance entirely.

"Thank you, Molly," he said, slightly breathlessly.

"You're welcome," she smiled. "Although in return I obviously do expect the very best honey in all of west London."

There was a pause before Sherlock spoke again.

"Do you…do you see us being here forever?" he asked.

Molly frowned.

"What do you mean? Here in this house? Here in London?"

Sherlock tilted his head to one side, thoughtfully.

"I…I have started to wonder about the Sussex Downs," he said, tentatively. "We used to go there a lot when I was a child and it seemed idyllic, and I…I always thought I would go back. How…would you feel about possibly retiring there?"

Molly realised that her eyes were growing wider as he spoke.

"Retiring? Sherlock, it sounds…lovely," she started to reply. "But I'm kind of worried about what might happen to you if you cut yourself off from London."

"It wouldn't be completely," he said quickly. "I would always want to keep 221B in the family; somewhere for us to all get together, wherever Will and Teddy and Bea end up being scattered."

Some time ago, Sherlock had offered to buy the leasehold for 221B from Mrs Hudson, and her response was to chastise him – she had been planning to give it to him and Molly as a gift anyway.

"And I don't mean immediately either, Molly," he added. "I know that you don't want to leave the hospital just yet, and that Bea is certainly several years away from finishing school but perhaps…we could look into it? If we found somewhere, it wouldn't need to be our permanent home just yet. John could even come to Sussex, too, if he likes - we could build him a granny flat in the garden."

Molly laughed.

"I get the feeling John's going to be fine for company," she said, thinking back to Rosie's comments earlier in the evening. She paused, studying his face for a moment. "You're actually serious about this?"

Sherlock nodded.

"You and I have been together for over eighteen years," he said. "We have produced three wonderful, maddening, brilliant children, and have done our best to be a positive, guiding influence in the life of a fourth. I know that we will continue to have obligations and commitments towards other people – but I can't help wanting to plan a future for us. I realise, of course, that you will insist on having a house with sufficient space for everyone single one of our acquaintances to come and stay, but I am prepared to tolerate that."

Molly felt another smile start to creep across her face. Up until a few minutes ago, she had just assumed that they had set down roots for life, and she had been fine with that – but she immediately knew that she would be more than fine with this alternative, too.

"I've got a day off next Wednesday," she said, kissing his cheek. "I quite fancy a day trip to the south coast."

Just then, the living room door opened and Bea came into the room, looking for the escaped kittens so she could put them all to bed.

"Where's everyone else?" Sherlock asked, stretching his arm around Molly's shoulder.

"Teddy's upstairs with that thing he's building," Bea replied. "And Will said he and Rosie said were taking Myc for a walk."

Molly glanced sideways to catch Sherlock's reaction.

"They've gone out? Together?" he asked.

"Yeah, to walk Myc," Bea repeated, clearly worried that her father was either becoming deaf or stupid. "Even though I told Will that Teddy took him out just before you got home with Rosie."

"Well, Myc never turns down a walk," Molly reasoned.

"Yeah, but Will does," Bea replied. "He never volunteers to walk Myc."

Once she was loaded up with cats, Bea left them alone again.

"So how long do we leave it before we go after them?" Sherlock said, turning to Molly. "An average dog-walk shouldn't take any longer than half an hour, don't you think?"

Molly gave a brief snort of laughter.

"Sherlock, we are definitely not going after them," she told him.

"You're laughing now, Molly," he replied. "But just picture the scene later tonight: 'Sorry for interrupting your date, John, but whereas you thought your daughter was due to embark on her university career next week, she is in fact on a train heading for Gretna Green in the company of your godson and an unwitting canine accomplice. I can try to charter a helicopter, but by the time we catch up with them, I'm afraid she might already be Mrs William Holmes.'"

Molly looked at Sherlock's face; she hated to make light of his anxiety, but at the same time it was completely ridiculous – even for him.

"That is not going to happen," she said, pausing for a moment before adding. "Besides, I'm pretty sure Rosie wouldn't take Will's name."

"Jokes, Molly? Really?"

With a roll of her eyes, she took Sherlock's hand.

"They're walking the dog, Sherlock," she told him. "And they will be back very soon, you'll see."

Although Molly believed this wholeheartedly, she knew it didn't exclude the possibility that the two teenagers had deliberately carved out some time alone together. It seemed quite likely, in fact. She had been at real pains to make it clear to Rosie that she would always be welcome in their home, but perhaps now their goddaughter would be back more frequently than she and Sherlock might have expected.

Sherlock relaxed into the corner of the sofa, and Molly went with him, tucking into his side with his arm around her shoulder; immediately, she felt his fingertips moving gently through her hair. When their relationship was still new, she could remember being surprised by just how tactile Sherlock was – sometimes, of course, it had been (and sometimes still was) an overture to sex, but more often than not he just seemed to enjoy contact. She supposed he had deprived himself of touch for so long that the sudden floods of oxytocin must have been fascinating.

"I suppose it would change things a bit, wouldn't it?" he said eventually, clearly still musing on the same subject. "Between us all."

Molly still thought Sherlock was running away with himself, but it wouldn't do much good to tell him that. She thought about when Rosie was born, how she accepted the role of godmother to the newest Watson with no hesitation and without much thought; how everything was upturned and roles were redefined when Mary died, and again when their own children started to arrive. She thought about the day it became clear that she and Sherlock were about to jump the tracks together and become more than just friends.

"Maybe a little," she conceded. "But we're good at change."

Sherlock gave a chuff of laughter.

"You are," he said. "I'm just fortunate that you have the patience to take me with you, Molly."

She turned her head to look up at him.

"Every time," she smiled. "Always."

As they sat there, Molly was eventually aware of footsteps coming up the front path - the soft tread of trainers and the quick scraping of paws - along with two muffled voices and the metallic rattle of a dog tag. She and Sherlock both turned their heads in the direction of the living room window before exchanging looks with each other. After what seemed like a very long moment, there was the sound of a key turning in the latch.

"I know that as trusting and trusted parents and godparents, we should probably stay here and act normal, but…" Molly began.

"But?"

"I really want to see their faces."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow at her, and his face spread into a smile.

"And I thought I was the corrupting influence in this marriage," he said.

"Nope," Molly grinned. "I just let you think that for eighteen years. Come on."

She held out her hand to him, and he took it.