I didn't forget! Here's the long awaited final bonus chapter. I hope it's happy enough to make up for a lot of the other stuff.

Molly laid back in bed, staring up at her ceiling. The tree of life sprang from pictures of happy moments; their branches intersecting, winding and spreading joy to tiny little stamp sized leaves. Her head was supported well on a memory foam pillow—Sherlock brought them home with a strange mattress one day, saying it would help her with sleep. Molly didn't think she needed that. She was able to stay awake alongside him, listening to his violin play sweet summery songs. John always complained about his 2 AM playing, his screeching half notes when he was frustrated, his depressive boredom composing, but she didn't experience any of that. She had a feeling that the man kept more complaints to himself, despite his extroverted, attention seeking nature.

She knew that Sherlock secretly enjoyed having someone to share the nights with.

But tonight, she was alone.

Physically, Sherlock was present but he was curled up beside her, almost around her with his head resting high on her stomach, almost on her breasts and an arm wound around her, caressing her side. He simply stumbled in, pulling off his coat before practically throwing himself on top of her and falling asleep. Usually, he would immediately start rambling on about his case but for some reason, he was taxed much more than usual. Molly ran a hand through his hair, noting the lavender scent on his body. It was an old fashioned and expensive scent, one she had only smelled when she was around one woman: Sherlock's mother.

Christmases with the Holmes had been interesting. It had been shockingly normal and pleasant, uncomfortable in all the ways Molly had learned came with family. She hadn't really had one of those. She was far from an orphan but her parents were both only children and her grandfather lived with Evan. The Watsons brought their massive army of a family, filling the country manor with the chaos of children. It was on such a Christmas that Molly met Violet Holmes for the first time.

She was lovely—but Molly could see why Sherlock could collapse from exhaustion after a long chat with her.

Molly giggled, continuing to stroke Sherlock's curls, listening for tiny murmurs and moans that he occasionally emitted. He must have had tea with her and possibly with Mycroft as well, though it seemed like a chat with Mycroft would energize him—and make him very annoying. Sometimes, even after Argentina (and Belize, and Spain, and France—) Molly would still have to find a way to be alone when he was on a roll. She stiffened, feeling Sherlock stir, sliding her hand out of his hair.

"No, keep it there." Sherlock groaned, "Case—mummy—day—what day—"

"Saturday, Sherlock."

"Saturday—the fifteenth—yes—five—six—"

"Five thirty in the morning."

"Oh. Good morning."

"Good morning to you too, Sherlock. So—"

"Are you happy, Molly?" Sherlock asked without prelude, immediately completely awake, sitting straight up and letting Molly's hand slide down from his hair and then down his cheek and torso before she retracted it.

"Well—yes—yes I suppose I am, now that I think about it. What brought this on?"

"Mummy mentioned something—it hadn't quite occurred to me—but I was wondering if it would be something you would want—that is—marriage."

"What?"

"I suppose this is a botched up version of a man asking a woman to marry him."

"It is fairly botched." Molly wouldn't deny that, even as flutters filled her and bile rose up her throat in her nervousness.

"A truly poor rendition, I would say."

"Atrocious." Molly added.

"Atypical." Sherlock agreed.

"Awful."

"Appalling."

"Alliterations!" Molly cheered. Sherlock didn't seem particularly pleased with the direction of the conversation. She tried not to sound too much like she was trying to change the subject, but Sherlock didn't seem all sorted, "Look, Sherlock. It was just a chat with your mum. I wouldn't read too much into it. You've never done anything you didn't want to do and I don't think you're going to start now."

"How do you know what—"

"You would have mentioned it. You never shut up about anything, Sherlock."

"Has the thought ever crossed your mind?"

"Not, really, no."

"—Are you happy with things just the way they are?" Sherlock watched her face closely for any sign that it wasn't so.

Molly smiled, "Of course, love," she reached out and stroked his cheek, lifting his chin slightly to kiss him briefly, "I just don't want you to feel pressured or uncomfortable—do you want to marry?"

"I don't see why we should. We already live together, both of our names are on the lease, and it's not like you would change your name and—" He abruptly stopped.

"And?"

"Marriage seems to be only for the religious or people that are unsure that a person would stay with them without a document binding them. We don't have that problem."

Molly felt her throat constrict slightly, "So—breakfast then?"

"Not hungry."

"Yes you are."

"No I'm not."

"Sherlock—"
"I can think of better things we can do this morning—"

"I'm making pancakes." Molly left no room for argument.

Sherlock conceded, "Then there's that."

Molly grinned, "After we partake in your idea."

So this is really the end of Sour Air. I have to say that it's been a beautiful experience writing this and seeing so many people review and find a little bit of relatable content in it. Thank you all so much!