Three Kisses Says It's A Romantic Attachment

The hushed voices upstairs had caught her attention..

She left Daddy sampling Christmas cake with Grammy, quietly tip-toeing her way up to her Uncle Sherlock’s flat. He’d been so busy with cases lately, Rosie had hardly seen him; she missed him. Carefully avoiding the creaky stair, she crept to the landing, squinting in the dim lighting; the doorway to the flat was open ever so slightly and Rosie could see something moving inside. She stifled her giggle as she moved closer, intending to leap out in surprise. Easing the door open slightly, however, Rosie stopped dead at the sight before her.

Uncle Sherlock was home, casework either finished for the day or abandoned in favour of kissing Santa Claus. Kissing was perhaps too tame a word but Rosie tried not to look, grimacing slightly at the thought. She covered her moutht to keep from making any noise, watching Santa reciprocate enthusiastically, both hands clutching his enormous trousers to keep them from falling down. Rosie noticed the sprig of misteltoe hanging above them. Maybe this was Uncle Sherlock’s approach to getting the unicorn she wanted for Christmas...

Downstairs, Daddy had finished with Grammy and was now noisily making his way upstairs like a clumsy elephant. Rosie sighed and backed away, hoping to stop her father before he ruined everything. She REALLY wanted that unicorn. She collided with her Dad halfway down the stairs.

“Whoa, sweetie. What’s the matter with you?” He said too loudly for her liking, catching her shoulders to keep her from stumbling over. Rosie pressed a finger to her mouth.

“SHHH!” She whispered urgently, attempting to shove her father down the stairs, “we have to go.”

“What? You’ve been on about seeing your Uncle all day!” With that he scooped her up despite her protests and carried on upstairs.

The damage was done, anyway. The noisy git had disturbed the passionate pair and by the time they entered the flat, Santa was trying to hide behind Uncle Sherlock, blushing furiously and still holding his trousers up. Uncle Sherlock looked rather pleased with himself despite Santa’s discomfort. Daddy looked confused, staring between the two of them.

“What’s going on?”

“I saw Uncle Sherlock kissing Santa Claus,” Rosie whispered helpfully. She took advantage of everyone’s stunned silence to sneak away and nab one of Santa’s cookies from the table.

“What?”

“Bart’s Christmas party,” Santa squeaked, emerging from behind Sherlock with a slight waddle, “I- Doctor Samuels couldn’t attend so they asked...me.”

Sherlock patted Santa’s shoudler fondly, “Doctor Samuels in slightly more Santa-esque than dear Molly, here but...” he smirked, “she did her best.”

Rosie sighed. Aunt Molly. Still, maybe she could get the unicorn from the real Santa Claus.

“And, what, Santa just...does it for you?” John asked, gesturing slightly at the petite pathologist drowning in the large costume. A pair of tiny spectacles were perched on her nose and the long beard came down to her middle. Now that he thought about it, he wasn’t sure he wanted Sherlock to answer his question.

Sherlock shrugged, “she didn’t have time to change,” he took her hand, smiling shyly as he gazed at her, "and I missed her.”

As she nibbled the remains of her cookie, Rosie couldn’t help but smile; at least one of her Christmas presents came early.

(I) (II) (III) (IV) (finale)

He never should have asked his brother for advice about his first date with Molly. If it even was a date. They hadn’t discussed it. Maybe he’s misread all their interactions and she still saw him as the arrogant parent she’d been warring with. The detective watched as agent after agent set about setting a table and chairs, preparing candles and flowers, laying the immaculate looking tableware all atop St. Bart’s roof. Mycroft stood aside, surveying his men with a watchful eye, his younger brother nervously waiting next to him.

“She’ll think I’m trying to hard.”

(I) (II) (III) (IV) (final)

Clara’s at her Dad’s this weekend, if you want to come round. Mx

Lana read the message carefully, scratching her chin thoughtfully. From his chair, her Dad watched her impatiently, waiting for her verdict. After what felt like an age, she handed over the phone with a shrug.

“It looks like Miss Molly wants you to go to her house.”

“Yes, when you were sick, we agreed to rearrange,” Sherlock explained, still staring at the message as if hoping to uncover a secret meaning. He sighed, looking at his daughter, “you think I should go.”

Lana rolled her eyes, looking very much like her father, “well, yeah. And you’re supposed to be a detective.”

“What should I do?”

Lana tapped her chin, “hmm. Well, remember Mum?”

(I) (II) (III) (IV) (final)

Molly was almost at the top of the stairs when she heard the faint murmur of voices inside the flat; she frowned, pausing at the top step so she could listen.

“I’m fine, Daddy,” Lana was saying. She didn’t sound well at all, weakened and tired. It didn’t take a genius to work out she’d fallen ill at the last minute.

”Nonsense. You’ve got a temperature,” Sherlock sounded so concerned Molly couldn’t help but admire him, even if he was a git, “you know what your Uncle’s like. Anyway, it’s best you to stay with me so I can look after you.”

“But...what about your date?”

Molly rolled her eyes: their children had really gotten the wrong idea. A sigh came from inside the flat.

"Well, I-  we could always rearrange,” disappointment was evident in his voice and for some reason, Molly’s heart skipped a beat, “there’s still time. She’ll understand.”

The pathologist thought it best to leave them to it and began to descend the stairs quietly; unfortunately, she managed to find the one creaky stair. A moment later, Sherlock was standing above her, clutching Lana in his arms.

“Molly. I should’ve text you-”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she looked up, smiling awkwardly. He was wearing a rather fetching purple shirt and his hair was a mess, no doubt from running his hands through it. Lana was half-asleep in his arms, coughing softly every so often. Molly bit her lip, “do you need...anything? I can help, if you want.”

(I) (II) (III) (IV) (final)

When the taxi first pulled up alongside the ancient building, John assumed the driver had simply made a mistake. The morgue he and Sherlock usually frequented was situated in the opposite direction - it was small, untidy and the staff weren’t exactly accomodating of their needs. Then again, neither was Sherlock. Still, St. Bart’s was clearly a vast improvement.

“Why are we here?” John asked, following Sherlock out of the taxi and towards the Hospital.

“I’ve decided Bart’s facilities would be much more beneficial for our cases. It’s closer to Baker Street, carries state of the art equipment,” the detective stated matter of factly, pushing through the front doors. The two headed towards the lifts, pressing the button leading to the lab. Sherlock continued as they walked, “I am aquainted with the Head of Pathology, he has assured me his staff are very obliging.”

(I) (II) (III) (IV) (final)

Molly Hooper fidgeted in her seat, checking her watch.; only ten minutes had passed since she’d arrived outside the Headmaster’s office of her daughter’s school. She’d been called in over a bullying incident involving another student,  an incident that had been happening far too often of late. Neither Clara or the other participant, Lana Holmes, accepted responsibilty for their spats, which always resulting Molly stuck in a room with the Headmaster and Lana’s infuriating father, Sherlock. They never got anywhere themselves, each finding the other as insufferable. So much for setting an example...

“Well, Mrs. Hooper. Here we are again.”

Speak of the devil. Molly gritted her teeth, determined to be civil as she faced him, “it’s Doctor Hooper, if you please, Mr. Holmes.”

“Ah,” he said, sitting beside her on the uncomfortable wooden chairs provided, “divorce come through, did it?”

The Watson’s annual themed Halloween parties were renowned for their beauty and finesse. Last year had been pirate themed at the insistence of their adopted child, Sherlock Holmes, despite his repeated assertions that he ‘didn’t give a damn what they did’. There had been a Disney theme (their first to celebrate Rosie’s first Halloween), Game of Thrones (much to the delight of avid fans Greg Lestrade and Molly Hooper) and Harry Potter. This year, the couple had opted for a Victorian theme.

Festivities were underway with the Watson’s house turned into a gothic Victorian dwelling - John wore an uncomfortable moustache to perfect his gentlemanly costume, Mary had found a cute, old-fashioned hat to match with her costume and Rosie wanted to be a vampire queen. Classical music blared from an old gramophone John had found at a market and snacks had been prepared, laid out on plate of feux silver. After trick or treaters had been and gone, guests began to arrive. Greg Lestrade arrived wearing a pair of ridiculous sideburns, which Rosie got a good laugh out of. Stamford was keen to show off his vintage glasses and pocketwatch. But it was Molly Hooper who surprised them, as usual.

“What do you think?” The pathologist had donned a gentleman’s suit, a short wig and a small moustache. She rocked on her heels, tugging at her shirt braces proudly, “I’m a Victorian pathologist. Women wouldn’t have practiced medicine back then. Neat, eh?”

The Watson did have to admit...it was really neat. Last to arrive was Sherlock, thankfully in costume (he didn’t want to risk Mary’s wrath again), dressed in an impecible three-piece tweed suit, a fancy pocketwatch dangling from his jacket pocket; the ensemble was completed by the pipe the detective puffed from. By his side was his newly acquired Basset Hound, Roger - named by Rosie - wearing a tiny bee outfit.

"He wanted to be a bee”, was the only explanation he gave before swanning past them into the flat.

The party was a success. Guests danced and chatted, praising the Watsons for another fine get together. Rosie doted on Roger, feeding him pieces of chicken from the buffet. Sherlock, meanwhile, was transfixed by Molly, specifically her attire. Her idea was genius and historically accurate, something he apparently found pleasing. That moustache was doing things to him. Inappropriate things. He observed John’s bushy monstrosity, a growth covering most of the lower half of his face. Nothing. Sherlock studied Graham’s prominent facial hair, peeling away at the tops whenever he laughed. Not arousing in the slightest. But Molly Hooper’s piqued his deductive interest. So much so that he sidled over to her; she looked around as he approached, grinning over the wine goblet she sipped from.

"Good evening, Mister ‘olmes. How are you this fine evenin’?”

Sherlock could tell she was having perhaps a little too much fun roleplaying; well, who was he to disappoint her?

"Would you care to join me in the pantry? I wish to discuss a matter of utmost urgency.”

Molly raised an eyebrow but maintained character, “in seclusion?”

“Of course.”

The pathologist shrugged, draining the remainder of her wine and sighed in satisfaction; Sherlock couldn’t help but notice her fake facial hair was moist from the liquid she’d just consumed. It would remain so, if he had his way.

“Lead the way, my good man,” she giggled, gesturing towards the kitchen.

The party had all but died down, the guests having left after heaping praise on their hosts and accepting well put together goody bags. John and Mary had started cleaning up when Rosie bounded in the room, a plate of leftover chicken in her hand for Roger. She sat beside the fire with the happy dog, tossing him pieces of meat.

“Mummy, Uncle Sherlock is kissing a man in the kitchen,” the youngster said innocently. She petted Roger on the head and tickled his ears, “...and that’s okay.”

John and Mary caught each other’s eye - the army doctor didn’t share his wife’s amusement. He dropped the bag, tearing off his moustache.

“I’m going to bed.”

Later, as John was fetching a glass of milk from the fridge, he heard something from the spare bedroom they'd given to Sherlock for the night that would scar him for life.

“Oh, THAT’S why you were walking with a limp.”

When Molly awoke she was surprised to find she was alone. She’d been living at Baker Street for several weeks, since her flat was undergoing important repairs. For the most part, Sherlock was the perfect flatmate - there was the occasional four in the morning violin concerto but she couldn’t quite bring herself to hate it. He’d also insisted on sharing his room since John’s old attic room was cold and damp; Molly knew better than to argue.

Yawning, Molly rubbed her eyes and kicked away the covers; she wrapped his old dressing gown around herself and stopped to admire the Periodic Table on his wall. Several days ago, Sherlock had circled several of the letters - Molly thought nothing of it and assumed it was something for a case. She smiled, leaving the bedroom in search of a fresh cup of coffee; she found Sherlock fiddling with something on the fridge.

“What are you doing?”

He jumped, turning around and pressing himself against the fridge, “nothing.”

Molly raised an eyebrow, but decided not to worry about it too much; he’d been on edge the last few days. This case was really taking it out of him.

“Okay. Can I get the milk?”

Sherlock briefly glanced out of the corner of his eye before he shook his head, “no. We’re...out.”

Black coffee it was, then.

“Erm, alright,” she shuffled over to the kettle, aware of his gaze on her the entire time she filled and boiled the kettle. She turned in time to see him look away quickly, “what’s the matter with you?”

“Hmm?” He looked back at her then, scurrying over to join her at the sink. he waved a dismissive hand, “nothing. Let me do that,” Sherlock took the mugs from her hands and began directing her towards the bathroom, “you go have a shower...”

Molly had never been so confused in her life but she allowed him to lead her to the bathroom; she shrugged away his odd mood, choosing to worry about it later.

Molly left the bathroom twenty minutes later to find Sherlock in his chair, typing away on his phone; she retrieved her lukewarm coffee from the table, taking a sip.

“if we need milk, maybe I should get some,” she said casually, opening the fridge and peering inside - this action seemed to interest the detective greatly. Molly frowned; there was barely enough for breakfast, “is there anything you need?”

When he didn’t answer, she peered around the fridge; she was met with an intense stare, one she hadn’t seen on Sherlock’s face in a long time. It actually made her feel rather uneasy.

“What?”

He sighed, returning his attention once again to his phone screen, “home delivery. It’s on the way.”

“Oh,” Molly tried to mask her surprise although she was sure she didn’t do a very good job, “right, good,” there was another awkward pause where Molly stood in the kitchen awkwardly before she asked, “er, do you need any help with the case?”

“Yes!” Sherlock looked relieved, jumping to his feet and tossing Molly her phone (which she only just caught), “an internet search, if you don’t mind.”

Molly nodded, deciding to keep her mouth shut about the fact he’d just been on his own phone. She brought up her Internet, noticing the flashing bar at the top of her phone - of course he changed the wi-fi password again.

“Whats the new password?”

“w1ll y0u m6rry m3?” Sherlock spelled, pacing anxiously in front of the fireplace. There was a heartbeat in which Molly typed on her phone; after a moment he looked up to find her staring at him expectantly.

“What did you want me to search for?”

He stared at her for a long while, blinking incredulously - just as Molly was about to question whether he was having a stroke, he invented a random subject for her to seach and proceeded to stare at her until their food delivery arrived late that evening.

He was examining on of the crime scene samples in the lab when she finally twigged it. Apparently, she’d spent all morning correctly arranging the letters on the Periodic Table and locating the post-it proposal that had been sitting on their fridge for two days. Molly burst in the morgue, brandishing her phone frantically.

“Y-you proposed to me?” She squeaked as if waiting for him to deny it, that she’d made it all up. When he didn’t, she continued, “wha- why would you want to get married? We’re not even dating!”

Sherlock merely chuckled, “yes we are.” When Molly’s response was to stare at him blankly, he frowned - of course they’d been dating! They lived together, shared a bed and even ordered takeaway to share. Unless...

His eyes widened, “oh.”

“Yeah, ‘oh.”

Sherlock abandoned his experiment, turning to face Molly and flashing her a smirk, “so, will you marry me?”

Molly blinked. Although she was slightly stunned, there was no way she was going to reply with anything other than, “...yes. Of course I will.”

“Here’s to a job well done, Mrs. Lestrade.”

Molly snorted but clinked her champagne glass against the detective inspector’s, “that’s Doctor Lestrade, if you please.”

“Right, how silly of me,” he chuckled, swigging the remaining champagne from his glass. He gathered up his jacket, smiling at his companion, “ready?”

Molly nodded, replacing her own empty glass and taking his outstretched arm. Three days they’d been posing as a married couple to solve a string of robberies carried out on wealthy British nationals. Circumstances aside, Molly was rather enjoying herself. She and Greg made a brilliant team and he’d built quite a list of resources and suspects. To celebrate their progress, he’s insisted on taking her to dinner - Molly wasn’t about to argue; she’d been looking for an excuse to wear her new dress.

Ten minutes later, the two were comfortably ensconced in a private booth in the hotel’s dining room; thankfully, Molly had retained enough of her schoolyear French to order the seafood special and a glass of red wine. Greg, meanwhile, absently fiddled with a breadstick, as if unsure what else to do with it. He swallowed almost nervously, looking across at Molly.

“Look, Molly, I’ve had a great time these last few-”

”Excuse me, sir, but zere is a phone call for you in reception.”

“What?” Greg looked up at the waiter who’d interrupted him; the bespectacled man was busy polishing cutlery with a cloth. He frowned, “tell them I’m busy.”

“Mr. ‘olmes,” the waiter replied, still rubbing at the knife as if he had a grudge against it.

Greg rolled his eyes, “I’m definitely busy.”

“Mycroft ‘olmes, sir.”

The detective inspector hesitated, glancing at Molly; the lovely woman just smiled, “it’s okay. You take it. I’ll be alright until you get back.”

Greg nodded, shooting the waiter a final disapproving glance before hurrying off towards the reception. Molly sighed, fiddling with her wine glass as she watched her company exit the dining room.

“Do you think that disguise is fooling anyone?”

After a moment, the ‘waiter’ abandoned his aggressive polishing and took the seat opposite her. Molly stared at Sherlock in annoyance, taking in his dark glasses and drawn moustache; he looked ridiculous and gorgeous at the same time and it pissed her off. He folded his arms.

“It fooled him.”

Molly was having none of it. "What are you doing here, Sherlock? Why are you following me?”

"I’m not following you,” he snapped defensively, “I'm on a case,” Molly raised an unimpressed eyebrow and he cleared his throat, “I may have come across you in my...free time.”

“Like the Eiffel Tower, for instance? Yesterday lunchtime?” Molly said, a hint of smugness to her tone; her smile grew when the man in front of her refused to look at her, “Or how about when Greg and I were walking through the park-”

"He had no right to hold your hand.”

Molly rolled her eyes; honestly, she had no time for his pathetic jealousy. Instead, she picked up her napkin and dipped it into her water glass.

“Could you at least get rid of the moustache?” She reached across the table, gently wiping at his upper lip, “you look like a knock-off Poirot.”

He frowned, “who?”

”Nevermind,” Molly chuckled, grasping his hand, “you know I prefer my detectives clean shaven.”

Before he could do more than smirk, Greg returned to the table looking rather flustered; Sherlock and Molly quickly dropped hands before the Inspector could notice.

“Sorry about that. It was just-” he stopped, staring at the waiter occupying his seat opposite Molly, “um...aren’t you supposed to be working?”

Sherlock jumped up, immediately returning to waiter mode as he flashed Molly  grin, “my apologies. Is zere anything else I can do for you?”

“No,” Molly smiled, finding it immensely difficult to keep her composure under the look he was giving her, “th-thank you for your help.”

"A pleasure, mon chere,” he brazenly took up her hand, pressing his lips to her soft skin. The keycard passed between them and Molly blushed prettily, tucking her hand out of sight. A final wink and he was gone.

“What was that about?” greg commented, finally taking his seat. Molly shrugged, fiddling with the keycard in her lap.

“You know the French.  A bit over-friendly.”

Greg looked out at the Paris landscape, exhaling the cigarette he was indulging in - one wouldn’t hurt, it’d been a long day. The city was beautfiul in the dark, the streets near empty and lights twinkling like stars. the case hadn’t provided him with much free time; he made a mental note to come back for a holiday.

“Right, I’m just going out for a walk,” he turned to see Molly yawning, stretching her arms above her head, “fancy stretching my legs. Don’t wait up, I might walk into the town.”

He nodded, puffing once again on his cigarette, “yeah, sure. Say hi to Sherlock for me.”

Mycroft barely glanced up from his work at the soft knocking at his door; no doubt it was Anthea, binging him tea and cakes. he always did feel peckish around mid-morning. Anthea approached his desk, clutching a file in her folded arms; darn, he was really looking forward to that tea.

”Good morning, sir,” she greeted with a smile, her eyes swivelling around the room, “how’s it going?”

“Busy, as usual...” Mycroft replied, meticulously scrawling across his papers. Athea was still scanning the room, a slight frown appearing at her brow.

“Where is Victor?”

"Hmm?” Mycroft murmured distractedly before he remembered. His nephew, the child he’d been ordered to babysit for the day, despite his strongest protestations. His eyes widened. Shit, “ah, yes, he went for a...stroll.”

Anthea raised an eyebrow, “at four months old?”

"He is MY nephew, remember?” He snapped defensively, rolling his eyes, “we Holmes' are fast learners,” he knew he was rambling but once he’d started he couldn’t stop. Anything to get that look off of his PA’s face. Mycroft waved a hand dramatically, “he'll no doubt be solving a crime or dissecting a corpse before he's in school. Anyway, I don't see-"

The office door swung open at that moment, followed by a tall suited man; he was sweating profusely and holding the missing infant in a carrier strapped to his chest. Anthea recognised him, one of the new interns assigned to Mycroft’s department; she couldn’t help but smile as the pieces fell into place.

"I-I’m sorry, sir,” the flustered youngster started, lifting the wriggling baby from his confinement, “I-I've fed him and changed him and stuff but he keeps fussing. I think he wants you."

The intern bustled over to the desk, handing over Victor without another word, hastily running to the exit before his boss had time to react. Mycroft avoided Anthea’s gaze, instead looking into Victor’s large brown eyes; he was happily sucking his fingers, gurgling as he watched his seemingly unhappy Uncle. He noticed then that his nephew was wearing the bee-patterend babygro he had gifted Molly when he discovered she was pregnant. he allowed himself a small smile, a smile that didn’t go unnoticed by Anthea.

“i’ll leave you to it, sir,” she said, stifling her giggles as she left the room.

Mycroft suppressed a groan at the sight of the incoming Facetime call on his phone; he plastered a tight smile onto his face as he answered. His brother and sister-in-law popped into focus, the two of them sitting on an unfamiliar bed, wrapped in the sheet - honestly, how Molly had convinced Sherlock to go to that two-night couples retreat he’d never know.

“Hi, Mycroft, how’s my little boy?” Molly cooed, trying to look past him in search of her son.

“Oh, he’s...sleeping. Best not disturb him,” he stated casually. In truth, Victor was back with the intern having a nappy change.

“Not keeping you up, is he?” His brother asked to which Mycroft shook his head.

“Not at all. Sleeps through the night.”

The two exchanged amused looks and Molly chuckled, shaking her head; she patted Sherlock’s knee fondly and left the camera; he heard the padding of feet on wood before the sound disappeared completely. He was left with Sherlock.

“So...” his detective brother smirked, "who’s he with?”

Mycroft sighed, “Goldberg.”

“The new one?” Sherlock said in a tone that told Mycroft he’d made a huge mistake, “my son?”

“I’m incredibly busy, must dash. See you soon,” he hung up the call before he could embarrass himself further. Hopefully, they weren’t too mad. He rather enjoyed babysitting.

Molly Hooper was in the middle of attempting to tame her son’s unruly curls when the knock at her door sounded. Will looked up at his mum with wide eyes, excitement clear.

She replaced the brush; no way, she was finishing that tonight, “I wonder who that could be?”

“Sherlock!”

The youngster charged out of the bathroom in his superhero pyjamas and threw open the door, attack-hugging the tall detective ebfore he could even utter a word. He managed to wriggle an arm free to pat the boy on the head.

“Will. I suppose you want to hear about the case?”

“Uh-huh!” Will declared happily as he was hauled into Sherlock’s arms, his hair tenderly brushed aside beside his favourite person. He giggled, “I’ve been practicing how to deduction and I think I can help you now!”

Pride flashed across Sherlock’s face for a brief moment before he nodded, sitting the two of them on the sofa, “brilliant. You must take after your father...” Molly chose this moment to return to the living room, raising her eyebrow as Sherlock turned his smirk on her, “whomever he may be.”

“A git,” she responded with a shrug.

“A handsome git,” he winked at Will, ruffling his hair fondly.

Molly chuckled, switching on the kettle, “an arrogant git.”

“All of those things,” he muttered, looking at the boy in his lap, “he has to be.”

Silence took hold and for a brief moment, Will just looked between his mum and Sherlock, before he rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically.

“For God’s sake, Sherlock, I KNOW you’re my dad!”

Sherlock almost dropped his son as he stood and Molly very nearly broke every cup in her cupboard. Once safely on the ground, Will skipped happily to the fridge.

“What’s for dinner, anyway?”

Molly was quite sure she’d never been so excited to get home in her life. When she finally got there, an hour after her shift, no thanks to London’s rush hour traffic, she found her husband reading a book whilst their son practiced on his violin.

“I have some news...” Molly announced to her inattentive boys, slipping her jacket from her shoulders and hanging it on the coat rack.

“Dad, Mum’s talking to you,” Victor murmured, concentrating intensely on his playing. Behind him, Sherlock frowned and turned a page loudly.

“Victor, your mother’s talking to you.”

“Actually...” Molly said with a grin plastered to her face as she moved to the kitchen, switching on the kettle, “I'm talking to both of you.”

Victor paused his thoughtful tune and turned to his father; Sherlock had also ceased his reading, apparently trying to deduce what his wife was talking about. The eleven-year-old shuffled over and sat opposite his Dad, lowering his voice to a whisper.

“She looks happy.”

Sherlock nodded; he knew better than that, though. “It might be a trap.”

“She might have found a broken something,” Victor added with a shrug, glancing at his mother over his shoulder.

In his haste to defend himself, Sherlock neglected to whisper, “well I didn’t do it!”

“I’m pregnant!”

Victor couldn’t help but smirk at the look on his father’s face; apparently, he was just as shocked as he was. The boy coughed and lowered his gaze to the floor, taking advantage of his father’s stunned silence.

“Looks like you did.”

Victor was too busy sniggering to dodge the leftover newspaper Sherlock sent flying in his direction.

John Watson was the last person she’d been expecting to find outside her door at  7:00am that morning, yet there he was. Molly tugged on the hem of her dressing gown, grinning broadly at them awkward looking army doctor.

“Hi, John.”

He blinked, looking her up and down; he clearly hadn’t anticipated the almost giddy pathologist in front of him, especially after the phone call at Sherrinford. He cleared his throat, “um...I just wanted to check on you. After...”

“Eurus?” Molly said, noting the way John bowed his head and nodded slightly. She waved a hand, “don’t worry. Sherlock explained everything and I'm fine.”

“You’re...fine?” John replied skeptically, folding his arms, “just like that?”

"I had a drink,” Molly nodded at the remnants of a champagne bottle sitting on her coffee table. Her grin returned as she fiddled with the door handle, “I shagged someone.” 

John didn’t quite know what to say but, thankfully, he didn’t have to. The previously unseen, and unnervingly half-naked, consutling detective Sherlock Holmes strolled into Molly’s kitchen, looking just as debauched as she did.

“I’m someone,” he clarified with a grin that matched Molly’s, before turning to rummage in her cupboards. Wide-eyed and more than a little shocked, John glanced at Molly who was smiling shyly, her fingers toying with the sleeves of her dressing gown.

“He loves me.”

"And she loves me,” Sherlock declared through a mouthful of biscuits, pointing at his pathologist. As uncomfortable as John was, he couldn’t help but smile at his friend’s newfound happiness. He couldn’t wait to tell Mary...

“So,” Mary Watson, former army doctor and new resident of 221B Baker Street, looked up from the menu placed in front of her; her new flatmate, consulting detective Molly Hooper-Holmes was busy staring intently out of the window. She didn’t even look around at the sound of her new flatmate’s voice, “you got a boyfriend?”

“Boyfriend?” Molly uttered, her attention still well and truly focused on whatever was going on outside; she flexed her fingers impatiently, her eyes scanning the many passers-by, “no. Not really my area.”

“Oh,” Mary responded in a tone of voice that suggested she understood.She shrugged, “you got a girlfriend?” This caught Molly’s attention and she turned to look at the blonde. Amused, Mary added, “which is fine-”

“I know it’s fine.”

There was a slight pause before Mary continued, “you’ve got a girlfriend, then?”

“No.”

Mary nodded and Molly returned her gaze to the window; the army doctor awkwardly flipped through the pages of the menu, “oh. Good, unattached. Like me.”

“I didn’t say I was unattached.”

When Mary looked up this time, Molly’s entire expression had changed as she found what she was looking for; a taller, curly-haired man had entered the restaurant, blowing into his hands and running them through said windswept curls. He unwound his scarf as he approached, smiling happily at them.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, taking the vacant seat beside Molly, “there was an outbreak of flesh-eating bacteria at the Hospital. They've only just lifted the quarantine,” after shrugging off his heavy coat and hanging it behind his chair, he leaned over to plant an absolute smacker on Molly’s lips, grinning broadly, “hi, gorgeous.”

Molly also smiled, her brown eyes lighting up, “did you keep a sample?”

“Nice to see you, too,” the man replied with an affectionate eye roll. Mary, who’d been staring blankly between them, finally made the connection; he was the pathologist she’d briefly come across earlier, the one who’d brought them coffee. He seemed nice.

“You’re the pathologist from earlier. Bart’s, right?”

“Mary Morstan, my husband, Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, the army doctor from earlier,” Molly clarified, gesturing between the strangers. Sherlock dropped his coffee cup and reached over to politely shake Mary’s hand.

“Nice to meet you.”

They chatted about their line of work for several minutes until Angelo brought over their food, always pleased to serve his favourite customers. Mary frowned at their host placed a large bowl of chips in front of the detective.

“I thought digesting slows you down. When you’re working.”

“Usually, yes,” Molly responded, sliding her bowl of chips over to her husband; Mary couldn’t help but smile as the couple shared their food, smiling sweetly at each other.

She had a feeling she was going to like living at 221B.

The snowy log cabin was a nice surprise, a Christmas gift from Mycroft to ‘relax and put their feet up’. Of course, both Sherlock and Molly knew their holiday was a scapegoat for Mycroft to escape spending Christmas at their flat with their three young sons. Little did he know, there was still New Year...

Sherlock peered out of the window at his family; the boys were sprawled in the snow, flapping their arms erratically and giggling madly. Molly skipped around them, snapping photos on her phone and dodging the odd snowball they launched in her direction. Smiling, the detective added the finishing touches to the steaming cups of hot chocolate he had waiting; cream and cookie bits, oh how he spoiled them.

“Having fun?” He stated, looking up at his wife as she trudged into the kitchen. Molly, carrying two-year-old Ollie, kissed his cheek fondly.

“Oh, they’re loving it,” Molly chuckled, swiping off the youngster’s hat before he could go running off to his father, “they want you to build a snowman with them.”

“Almost finished,” he murmured, crushing a cookie and adding it to the beaker of lukewarm chocolate drink. He screwed down the lid and handed it to the small human trying to climb his trouser leg. “Oliver. Don’t tell Mummy.”

The toddler blinked his huge brown eyes up at his father, his lips firmly attached to the teet of his bottle; he raised his arms and Sherlock happily obliged, lifting his youngest into his arms.

Molly sniffed her own hot chocolate, licking her lips appreciatively, “mmm, this looks almost as good as you."

She dipped her finger into the whipped cream topping and sucked it into her mouth, deliberately keeping her husband’s gaze; she couldn’t help but smirk at the look on his face.

“Careful, Molly,” he warned, his voice deep and sinful, “there are children present.”

Their brief tender snog wasn’t broken by the happily suckling child in Sherlock’s arm but by the stampeding ones charging through the door.

“Dad, dad! Look, I made a big snowball. Come see!”

“Can we build the snowman now, Daddy? Please!”

Hamish and William tugged at his coat, eagerly pulling him towards the door as they explained how they wanted their dream snowman to look. Sherlock rolled his eyes but allowed himself to be dragged out into the snow; he just caught the hat for Oliver that Molly tossed at him. The family of five spent the remainder of the day rolling and molding various different sizes of snowball, before Molly handed her eldest son, Hamish, two pieces of coal for the eyes. William stuck on the carrot whilst Oliver (with Sherlock’s assistance) draped the blue scarf around their icy friend’s neck. Sherlock and Molly clasped hands, smiling at each other warmly; the moment didn’t last long as dozens of snowballs were sent flying in their direction. It was a fight and one he didn’t mind losing, not if it meant his sons would laugh. Not at all.

“I like Violet...”

Sherlock looked up from his an old case file and glanced at Molly; she was holding her growing stomach fondly, a thoughtful look on her face. Sherlock smiled, deciding against informing Molly he very much doubted they’d have a daughter.

"You don’t need to do that. Mummy loves you. Three grandchildren and another on the way? The woman’s practically built a shrine to your uterus.”

Molly giggled, curling up against him as she watched the fire dance, “I’m serious.”

“Oh. Then, no.”

Molly reached up and plucked the case file from his hands, prompting the consulting detective to stare down at her in confusion. Her eyes were full of so much warmth, his heart fluttered.

“I love you, you know. You’re a fantastic husband, a wonderful father but the best thing...” Molly leaned up and kissed him, “you’re a great man.”

“I love you, too,” he said honestly and with more love than he’d ever felt for anyone. He brushed a thumb across her lip and smiled, “but I’m not naming our little girl Violet.”

“Worth a try,” Molly sighed, sinking into his side and shooting him a wink. Oh, yes, he was so glad he loved her.

PART THREE OF THREE

“You Brits sure like to pull out all the stops,” Christine commented as she and Sherlock entered the fancy restaurant. The detective sniffed.

“It’s exclusive. My brother’s influence...” he peered over to where Molly and Stephen were sitting, the former holding the latters hands and stroking them fondly. Sherlock scowled, “although Mr. Wow is doing alright for himself.”