The Woman

"Daddy! Daddy, Daddy, Daddy! You'll never guess what happened in ballet class today!"

Sherlock barely had time to set his laptop bag down on the floor before his tutu-clad daughter catapulted herself into his arms. Marie was 5 years old and the younger of Sherlock and Molly's two kids.

Sherlock had just gotten home from work, where he was a professor of criminal studies at a local university, teaching the science of deduction to future police officers. He still acted as a consulting detective in his free time, but he found his day job surprisingly rewarding.

"I might not be able to guess, but I bet I can deduce what it is," Sherlock said as he adjusted Marie in his arms. She wrapped her own arms around his neck.

"Ohhhh yes! I love deducings," Marie giggled.

"Alright. Well, you're happy. So it's obviously a good thing. You said it happened at ballet class, so it must have something to do with that. And you've been in class for several months, so it's probably time for some kind of recital to show off your brilliant new dancing skills. And since you are most definitely the very best dancer in your class…it only stands to reason that you were given the very best part in the recital. Am I right?"

"Yes! I'm going to be the butterfly!" Marie's auburn curls bounced as she vigorously nodded her head. "You're always right, Daddy."

Marie dissolved into giggles again as her father gave her a kiss on the cheek.

"Not always." Sherlock gently lowered his burden to the ground. "Where's your brother?"

"He's in his room doing his homework."

"And Mummy?"

"She's in the kitchen, talking on the phone."

Sherlock headed up the stairs to check on his 7 year old son, John. He'd just set foot on the second floor landing when he heard John's frustrated shout from down the hall.

"WRONG!"

"Wrong, wrong, wrong! You are so wrong!" This second exclamation was followed by a loud crash.

When Sherlock entered his son's room he found him curled up on the bed, with a look of absolute disgust on his face.

One of John's school books was splattered face down on the floor across the room next to a few spelling bee trophies which had previously resided on a shelf up above. It wasn't hard to determine what the crash had been from.

"What's wrong, son?" Sherlock winced as soon as he'd said the words, realizing how stupid of a question it was.

"EVERY SINGLE WORD IN THAT BOOK!" John yelled, pointing an accusing finger at the offensive item.

Sherlock sighed and walked across the room to pick up the book and replace the trophies on their shelf. He noticed one of them was slightly broken. He picked up the broken piece and put it in his pocket.

"Because I understand your frustration all too well, I'm not going to tell your mom about this. You know she'd be upset with you for throwing things and breaking stuff."

John only rolled his eyes and snorted.

Sherlock opened the book and flipped through a few pages. It was an introductory science text book. His son was right. It was unequivocally and unbelievably wrong. Sherlock tossed the book down on the desk like it was on fire.

"Ok, alright. So this is wrong," he started. "But we've talked about this…remember? How a lot of the things other people say are wrong-"

"And we can learn from that by figuring out why they're telling us something wrong," John finished in a bored, sing song voice.

"Right."

"BUT IT'S NOT RIGHT. WRONG CAN NEVER BE RIGHT. IT IS ALWAYS JUST WRONG!"

Sherlock sighed. He really couldn't argue with that. But Molly would be angry if she found out he'd agreed with it. He decided distraction was the only option. He spotted John's football in the corner and picked it up.

"Why don't you take a break from homework and go down and kick the ball around? It'll still be light for a few more minutes. I'll come join you as soon as I say hi to Mum, ok?" Sherlock tossed the ball to his son, who caught it easily.

John grumbled a bit, but still led the way out of his room and down the stairs.

Molly Holmes had her back turned when her husband came into the kitchen.

"No, John, it's really ok, you don't need to come over. Sherlock should be home from work any minute now," She said into the phone. Sherlock loudly cleared his throat and Molly spun around.

"Yes. Here he is now actually….Uh huh…I'm sure you'll be hearing from him soon. Ok, bye." As Molly finished her call, Sherlock noticed she had tears in her eyes. He rushed across the room to her.

"What is it? Is John alright?"

Molly only nodded as a tear rolled down her cheek. She pointed to the kitchen table. It was covered in strange looking pages and pictures. Sherlock stepped closer and examined each one individually. They were pictures of his family. Pictures obviously taken without their knowledge. There was Molly taking John to school and walking into ballet class with Marie. The whole family going out to dinner a few days ago. A few close ups of his children whose origin he couldn't pinpoint. And scrawled across the photos in black marker were threats against their lives.

This pink will turn to red, blood red. Said the picture of Marie in her pink tutu.

Can you spell asphyxiation? Over John walking into school.

Such adorable children, they'll be even cuter in their coffins. Said another.

There was also a typed up letter:

My, my Sherlock. A wife and two kids. You have been a busy boy, haven't you? I've been busy too. But my next move is up to you. I could have your kids killed. Or not. I'd love to talk it over. Let's have dinner.

"Moriarty," Molly whispered the word like a curse.

"No. He's dead."

"But-"

"He's dead. I saw him put a bullet through his brain," Sherlock snapped, his mind racing. He knew who it was, but what did she want?

"And John saw you fall off a building! Ordinary rules don't apply to people like you and Jim Moriarty!"

"People like us?" Sherlock asked, reacting to the blame in her tone.

"Don't Sherlock! You know what I mean!...Just don't ok?...I'm scared!"

Sherlock heard the way Molly's voice shook and immediately felt guilty for his lack of sensitivity. He'd gone into consulting detective mode the minute he'd seen the first picture. When his brain tried to process that much information, things like empathy and compassion usually got squeezed out.

"I know, darling, I know. I'm sorry," Sherlock murmured as he pulled Molly into his arms and planted a kiss on her forehead. He pulled her chin up so she was forced to look into his eyes.

"I not gonna let anything happen to them, ok? I promise I won't let anything bad happen to them."

"Or you?"

Sherlock chuckled. It still amazed him sometimes how much she cared.

"Or me."

They shared a quick but passionate kiss.

"I've gotta go, ok? I'll take care of this. Call Mycroft, tell him what happened. He'll have the whole damn army over here in 10 minutes," Sherlock said before rushing out of the room.

Sherlock stormed into the elegant French decorated hotel room, past the maid who'd opened the door for him. It hadn't been hard to find her. Not for him.

"I wouldn't have dinner with you when I was single. What makes you think you've got a snow ball's chance in hell now that I'm a married man?"

"Ah, hello gorgeous," the perfectly coiffed brunette purred from her place on the sofa.

"I saved your life Irene. And this is how you repay me? By threatening my children and terrifying my wife?!" Sherlock growled.

"You've become so dreadfully boring these days, my love. How else was I to get you to come out and play?"

Sherlock crossed the room in a few quick strides and yanked Irene up by her wrist, mercilessly twisting it behind her back.

"I'm not playing!"

"Mmm…I can see you remember that I like it rough," she cooed. Sherlock gave her a rough shake.

"What do you want?!"

Irene slipped her leg between his and ground her hips against him suggestively by way of response. Sherlock scowled and abruptly let go, pushing her back down on the sofa and walking away a few steps.

"I said I didn't want to play, Miss Adler. Now tell me what you want."

Irene pouted. "Your hateful brother…he's been ruining all of my fun. He's got something of mine…and you're going to help me get it back."

"I assume there's an 'or else.'"

"Wow, you have been out of the game for a while, haven't you? I've already told you that part."

"The pictures. The letter. My kids."

Irene nodded and feigned a yawn.

"I meant what I said in the letter. They are adorable kids. Truly. Your son, he must take after the mother. But the girl. Ah! Those eyes! That hair! She's so much like you, it hurts." Irene had lost little of her beauty over the years, and none of her charm.

"Their personalities are actually quite the reverse…" Sherlock responded, forgetting the circumstances of the conversation for a second.

"Why should I believe that you have the power to do anything to them? They're well protected," he went on.

"For now. They go to school don't they? And ballet lessons? And football practice? And friend's houses? Are you going to lock them up in a bulletproof room for the rest of their lives?"

Sherlock frowned.

"What is it exactly that Mycroft has?"

"A kiss on the hand may be quite continental…" Her singsong voice trailed off seductively.

"You're looking pretty well dressed, why can't you just buy yourself some more diamonds?"

"This particular piece is worth more to me than money."

"Surely, you don't mean sentimental value. Someone's going to kill you, then, if you don't deliver."

"Middle Eastern Princes can be so unforgiving."

"Fair Warning: So can I. Are you sure you want to go through with this?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"Absolutely."

"Fine. You'll receive a package from me by tomorrow evening." Sherlock approached her and stared down into her eyes for a second. Irene laughed slightly, clearly puzzled by his odd behavior.

"What happened, Irene? How'd it come to this? I know you've always operated just on the wrong side of decency, but this is low, even for you."

Irene flinched and looked away.

"Not everybody has a family to worry about disappointing."

"You could."

Her eyes shot back to his.

"I asked. Dozens of times."

"You know that we could never have had that."

Irene's said nothing but her eyes told him that she didn't agree. They stared each other down in silence for a few more minutes.

"Goodbye, Irene Adler," he finally said.

"Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes," she answered his retreating back.

Two days later.

Molly dropped the plate she'd been holding when she heard her daughter's scream. The glass crunched underneath her shoes as she ran from the kitchen toward the front of the house. She stopped short and put her hand to heart when she reached the foyer and saw her daughter shrieking in the arms of a man.

"Ahhhhh! Uncle Mycwoft, put me down!" Marie gasped out between giggles.

"The price of getting put down is a kiss, are you willing to pay it, my dear?" Mycroft Holmes asked his niece.

Marie sighed and her face scrunched up in frustration as she shook her head. "I can't! Daddy said if I kiss a boy other than him, that the boy will die and I don't want you to die, Uncle Mycwoft."

Molly heard a snort and spotted Sherlock standing at the bottom of the stairs with his hands on his hips. The rapid rise and fall of his chest revealed that she hadn't been the only one to come running when Marie screamed.

"It's ok. Daddy didn't mean your Uncle, sweetie." Molly said and Sherlock let out another snort. "Give him a kiss and go find your brother and tell him he has 10 more minutes with those video games and then it's time for bed."

Marie planted a kiss on her uncle's cheek and then ran off in a flurry of pink cotton.

Molly walked over to give her brother in law a hug.

"To what do we owe the pleasure, Mycroft?" she asked.

"Oh, I'd just like to get Sherlock's opinion on a certain government matter," he said, gesturing to the briefcase in his hand.

"Next time come over earlier! You haven't had dinner with us in ages. And the kids miss you so much!"

"No doubt, the same cannot be said for my little brother," Mycroft said drily.

"Ohhh no! That's not true," Molly called after the men as Mycroft followed Sherlock into the study and pulled the door shut behind them.

Sherlock pulled open the desk drawer, took out a blue velvet box, and handed it to Mycroft.

"Ah, thank you," Mycroft opened the box to reveal a necklace and pair of earrings adorned in enormous diamonds.

"But how on earth did you get a believable fake made so quickly?" Mycroft's tone was skeptical.

"I have my ways. I assure you that I've returned them to you in perfect condition, if that's what you're worried about," Sherlock replied smoothly.

"I trust you."

"But of course you'll still have them reappraised."

"Standard procedure." The two brothers were silent for a few minutes.

"If the fake is so good, how can you be certain that the Saudis will realize they've been swindled?" Mycroft finally asked.

"They've received an anonymous tip to that effect," Sherlock's voice was flat and emotionless. Mycroft stared back at him in surprise.

"Of course, you realize that she'll be killed instantly…?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He was half seated on the top of the desk with his long legs stretched out and crossed in front of him, staring off into space.

"And you won't be there to save her this time," Mycroft continued. Sherlock cleared his throat before answering.

"No."

A few minutes of silence passed before Sherlock got up and walked around to the back of the desk, stopping to stare down at its cluttered surface and fiddle with the frayed edge of the ink blotter.

"I tried to warn her," he said, keeping his eyes fixed on the desk. "I tried, but she was so insistent."

Mycroft shook his head. "I can't believe that this is the end of Irene Adler. The end of the woman."

"It's the end of Irene Adler. It's not the end of the woman," Sherlock said, glancing toward the door.

"I see," Mycroft answered, tucking the velvet box into his briefcase and standing.

After letting Mycroft out, Sherlock climbed the stairs in search of Molly. He found her in their bedroom, seated in front of her vanity, already dressed for bed, staring down at something sitting on its wooden surface.

He came up behind her and bent over to wrap his arms around her waist and give her a provocative kiss on the neck.

"Sherlock," Molly was trying to affect a scolding tone, but it was completely contradicted by the giggle that followed. She directed his attention to the item on the vanity.

"I just found this under Marie's bed. Do you know what this is?"

It was a sparkly silver barrette in the shape of a bow. Of course, he knew what it was. He flew through the rooms of his mind palace, ending up in front his least favorite room, the most painful memory. There they all were, at Baker street on Christmas. John and his girlfriend of the week, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, him, and Molly, wearing a sexy skintight black dress and that obnoxiously festive silver bow in her hair.

"Oh, Molly. Please. Throw it away," Sherlock begged.

"No! I love it…it reminds me of you. And how you've changed," Molly said quietly.

Mentally, Sherlock was rudely pushed farther into that least favorite of rooms. The gift from Irene, the phone. Identifying her body. Mourning her death.

But tonight he wasn't mourning. Molly was right. He had changed, in more ways than she knew.

Sherlock forced a carefree chuckle and pulled away, beginning to unbutton his shirt as he walked over to the closet.

"You mean my conversion from dashing and heroic to domestic and dull?" He joked.

"No! You're still dashing and heroic!" Molly insisted, getting up to follow after him.

"I meant how you came to love me back," Molly voice was much less confident now. Sherlock stopped undressing to grab hold of her arms.

"Hey! Molly! You know that I have always loved you," Sherlock said firmly. He tried to look into her eyes but they were downcast.

"I know," she said shly, reaching out to run her fingers down the edge of his open shirt. He pulled her chin up with a finger.

"I loved you right from the beginning. It just bloody terrified me. Having something to lose for the first time in my life."

Molly smiled. "I know. I always knew that, of course," she said matter of factly.

Sherlock laughed and rolled his eyes as he pulled off his shirt.

"Right, darling. Of course, you did."

"Did you…have a nice chat with Mycroft?" Molly asked, as he moved into the walk in closet.

"I never have a nice chat with Mycroft. But if that's your subtle way of asking if our conversation had anything to do with those disgusting pictures, and if our children are safe now, then the answers are 'yes' and 'yes.'"

Molly sighed with relief.

"You're sure?"

Sherlock emerged from the closet wearing low-slung, blue pajama pants.

"One hundred percent," he said, pulling his wife into his arms. Molly looked up into his eyes while she ran a hand up the long column of his neck and rested it on his cheek.

"And I take it that you've decided I don't need to know anything more about it?"

"No. You don't. It's all over now." Finally, he thought. It was finally over.

"Alright," Molly said. "I trust you."

"I know. I know you do," Sherlock murmured as he leaned down to kiss her. "And that's the point." Sherlock trailed kisses down her neck and shoulder as his hands roamed underneath her nightgown.

"That's why you're the woman, the only woman for me," Sherlock said as he pulled her toward the bed.

Author's Notes: I hope this makes up for the lack of updates on Heart Attack. For the record, I definitely haven't given up on it. I'm just a bit stuck and I really want to get it right, so I'm taking the time that I need. I appreciate everyone's patience.

About this story: I love the Irene Adler character and it kind of killed me to write her this way. But I love Sherlolly more. haha. I also feel that Irene and Sherlock could never really be together, because they'd never be able to trust each other. Which is what I was trying to say with this piece.

Actually, I never intended to write this story. I just got a few lines of dialogue in my head and decided to jot them down. I even have this document saved on my computer as "just playing" because that's all I thought I was doing when I started it. Then I realized how much I LOVED imagining what Molly and Sherlock's kids would be like. I hope you liked my version of them. About their names...I realize that John is ridiculously predictable and is probably what their son is named in 90% of fanfics. But there's a really good reason for that. I found it impossible to imagine that Sherlock would name his first son anything other than John. I wanted to name their daughter after Mrs. Hudson (again, I'm sure a lot of people do this) but of course nobody knows her name. A google search revealed that "Marie" was a rumored name for her, and I love that name, so I decided to go with it. Sorry if you've been subjected to those names a hundred times before.

Also, thanks to namiseven on tumblr for the beautiful cover art for this story!

As always, reviews are what I live for...so I'd love you if you left me one!