This is a sort-of-sequel to my story 'Take a ride with me' - some of the references will definitely make more sense if you've read that first. Basically, that one focussed on Molly and Sherlock's ambulance ride to meet Culverton Smith, and this one is based at the 'cake place' mentioned at the end of that episode - it assumes a short time (a week or two?) has passed, allowing Sherlock to be out of hospital and on the mend.

The Cake Place

He had barely been outside in the past couple of weeks, and certainly hadn't been very far on foot, so it surprised Sherlock how breathless he became during the short walk to the cake place. They had walked at John's insistence – doctor's orders, he said. Bloody John and his bloody medical degree. But despite the slight stiffness in his muscles and the shock of the brightness of London on a cold January day, he immediately felt rejuvenated to be back in the land of the living – back in his city.

John's 'pep talk' was still fresh in his mind; his first instinct had been to delete the conversation entirely, but it seemed to be resisting deletion. One thing that was very clear, however, was how fundamentally John misunderstood his relationship with The Woman. He had listened to John wittering on about how a relationship would complete him, how he needed to find someone who would make him want to be a 'better man' - and he wondered then how the hell John then made the leap to Irene Adler. Adler was a wily puzzle, a player of games, a worthy opponent – yes, she had diverted him, distracted him, but so had Jim Moriarty (and despite what Mrs Hudson might think, any interests he had did not lie in that area). Sherlock knew he had unravelled the enigma of The Woman more than most, and that she had human frailties like anyone else, but what fulfilment could he possibly derive from a relationship with her? He would never admit to John the extent to which he thought about these things (a very deep and secure room within his Mind Palace), but from what little he knew, romantic entanglements shouldn't be about competition and one-upmanship. The mere thought of that actually made him feel tired. His chosen line of work was intense, all-consuming, mentally demanding – if he were to ever make room in his life for a relationship, he needed it to give him something else…

"Oi!" John said, nudging him. "No Mind-Palacing – it's your birthday."

John was carrying Rosie in the BabyBjorn (god, he was actually starting to become familiar with the brand names!), and Rosie smiled up at Sherlock, trying to reach out and grab The Hat. Bit ambitious given their height difference, but she had spirit, he'd give her that.

Sherlock had no idea where they were heading until they rounded a corner and he spotted Molly hovering outside a shop door. She was wrapped up in her huge winter coat and comically-long scarf, and Sherlock felt his heart hitch a bit. She was carrying a canvas duffel, reminding him that, of course, she was staying at Baker Street that night, 'junkie-sitting'.

Molly spotted them and offered a little wave, and Sherlock suddenly felt the pace of his heart increase. He quickly attempted a deduction on himself and concluded that there was some residual anxiety, based on the fact that they hadn't had a proper conversation since the one conducted in the ambulance en route to his showdown with Culverton Smith. She'd come to see him at the hospital, of course (she was part of the reason he agreed to undergo treatment and monitoring in the first place), but they were rarely alone and she always seemed to want to keep things light, jokily upbeat even. For whose benefit, Sherlock wasn't sure.

"Hello, my gorgeous one!" Molly cooed as they approached.

"I agree he looks better than he did, Molly," John replied. "But I'd say that's going a bit far."

Sherlock saw Molly's cheeks colour slightly as she simultaneously reached out to Rosie and cuffed John lightly on the arm. Molly allowed Rosie to pat her face, placing a kiss on the infant's cubby, outstretched hand.

"Hi Sherlock," she said then. "How are you? You do look better."

"Hello, Molly – and thank you," he replied, wondering why he was sounding so formal. It was faintly ridiculous considering all that they'd been through together in the past few months.

"Happy birthday, by the way!" she exclaimed, taking a step forward to give him a hug. He wished he'd seen it coming so that he could have prepared, perhaps made it last longer.

"It was Molly who told me it was your birthday," John put in.

Molly looked a little uncomfortable at this.

"Medical records," she said by way of explanation. "A long time ago, I mean – not recently. I…just sort of remembered."

"What happened to doctor-patient confidentiality?" Sherlock asked, arching his eyebrow at her and earning a shy smile in return.

"I'm your bloody doctor, Sherlock," John said. "I know you think you're special, but you don't need two doctors. Leave Molly in peace."

They made their way into the café, Sherlock hanging back to allow Molly to enter in front of him.

He wanted to hate this place. It was brightly coloured and perky, and had some horrible twee name that punned on baked goods - but the occasion and the company he was with somehow outweighed his irritation. He was 40 years old, alive and with his good friend, his charming goddaughter and his...well, his Molly. Whatever that meant these days - it was constantly evolving, wrong-footing him.

Once he had chosen, Sherlock chose them a table in a back corner, where he was soon after joined by Molly, carrying Rosie on her hip.

"She was getting fussy," Molly explained. "Think the sight of so many cakes was a bit much."

"I understand completely," Sherlock replied, finding himself searching around for a highchair for their goddaughter.

Molly giggled. Her soft laughter was like a balm to Sherlock, and he realised just how much he had missed it from his life in the past weeks. As he placed the highchair at the end of the table, he looked at the two women in his life and felt a rush of...something. Rosie, still fussing and grizzling, was not keen to be placed in the chair, so instead Molly sat the baby on her knee. Hesitating for a moment, Sherlock slid into the booth beside her, and almost immediately Rosie starting beaming, reaching her short arms up into the air.

"She wants your hat, I think," Molly said, smiling shyly.

God, he still had that thing on his head. Mustn't let that become a habit.

"Here you go, Watson," he said, removing it from his head and giving it to the delighted baby. "Have at it!"

Immediately, Rosie sunk her gums into the tweed, shaking it around with her tiny hands.

"Adorable though it is, Sherlock, just how clean is that hat?"

"I'm developing her immune system," he replied. "Too much sterility is no good."

Inevitably, Rosie let go of the hat and it fell on the bench between Molly and Sherlock. He set it down on the baby's head, and immediately reached into his pocket for his phone, knowing he probably had a time window of a few seconds before Rosie yanked the hat away. He snapped a photo - John would love this.

At that moment, a woman and her teenage daughter came past, heading for the door.

"Do you want one of the three of you?" she asked.

Sherlock opened his mouth to decline, but the woman was already offering her hand, and he suddenly found himself holding out his phone - the precious device that ruled his life - to a complete stranger.

"Okay, smile!" the woman said, before counting down to the flash. "I took a couple in case you want to choose."

"Thank you," Molly replied, brightly, probably, Sherlock realised, because he had forgotten to say anything, hugely relieved to have his lifeline back in his hands.

"She's absolutely beautiful!" the woman said, before turning to leave. "You all are - just so sweet! She's definitely got Daddy's eyes."

"Better not mention that to John," Sherlock commented drily after she'd gone, raising a smile from Molly.

"I should have...sorry I didn't say anything...you know, to make things clear," she said, tripping over the words. She was blushing, and Sherlock wished she wouldn't - he hated for her to be uncomfortable.

"It was harmless," he replied. "Easier to just go with it."

She nodded, turning her attention back to Rosie. He suspected she was relieved when John finally approached the table with a laden tray, providing a distraction as he handed out the drinks and plates.

"I see you went for the most expensive cake available, you git," John said, plonking a giant slab of chocolate cake in front of Sherlock, along with a double espresso.

"My birthday," Sherlock replied. "You're treating me. May as well be a proper treat."

Molly had selected a salted caramel cupcake and John had a slice of Victoria sponge. John hoisted his daughter into the highchair, and she immediately started whining and reaching out for the cake. She batted away the beaker of milk she was offered, followed by some small slices of banana.

"Give the girl what she wants, John," Sherlock said, without looking up from his phone.

"Yeah, you're one to talk!" John quickly retorted.

Sherlock's head snapped up, and when he met John's eye, he saw his friend's mouth twitch at the corners – what the hell was he getting at?

"Here you go, sweetheart," Molly said, reaching over and popping a tiny piece of cupcake into Rosie's mouth. The little girl's face lit up, and inevitably she wanted more.

"Now you've done it, Molls," John sighed.

"It's what godmothers are for," Molly smiled, shamelessly.

"So what is it that godfathers are for, eh, Sherlock?" John asked.

But Sherlock didn't hear him, not at first. His scrolling thumb had landed on the photos just taken by the cake shop customer, and what he had come face to face with was like a photo from a parallel life. Himself, Molly and a young baby, all smiling (did he really smile like that?) and looking…familial. In the second photo, instead of looking at the camera, Molly was looking at him, crinkling her nose, and the smile on her face made his heart jolt.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"Lost you there for a second. Godfathers, what are they good for?"

John waited for a moment before rolling his eyes.

"We can rule out thrilling conversation, I think," he sighed.

Sherlock was vaguely aware of his friends having a conversation – something tedious about nursery places or some such – while he was quietly stealing another look at the photographs. God, he had to stop this. Why couldn't Lestrade text him with something he could solve while he ate? A three or four would probably do it, just something to distract him enough from his flights of bloody fancy.

The problem was that when he looked at the photographs, his mind embellished them, distorted them somewhat. He couldn't help but see in Rosie's place a brown-eyed infant with a tight crop of dark curls – or perhaps one that did have his eyes, but instead had downy, hazel hair.

These horribly sentimental fixations were starting to become more commonplace. The day of the christening had a lot to answer for – not the christening itself of course (why did anyone seek to induct their pre-language infant into an international cult?), but what happened afterwards. He and Molly happened afterwards. A shared cab ride, a late-night raid on Molly's fridge; Molly in that dress, her hair just begging to be unpinned. Sherlock had no idea that sex could happen like that – just naturally. He remembered Molly making a terrible joke about 'deduction' and 'seduction', and before he knew it they were on her sofa, taking each other's breath away.

They'd done it once before, of course, after he jumped from the roof of Bart's Hospital, but he still wasn't sure what that was. He recalled the intensity, the sensory overload, the satisfying of an urge – but the recent occasion couldn't have been more different. He hadn't really thought about sex being fun before, but he and Molly had barely stopped giggling throughout, and he had felt any anxiety, any hang-ups, completely evaporate. He had never been so glad that he had taken a chance on something normal.

And he nearly gave himself away the next morning, when Molly woke up while he was drawing circles on her stomach with the pads of his fingers. Was there anything that more obviously screamed "I'm wondering what it would be like to make a baby with you"?!

He hadn't meant for that to happen; what he'd intended was to be fully dressed when she woke, thanking her for the pleasant evening and then hailing a cab back to Baker Street. Instead, he had found himself having a 'morning after' breakfast at a café on Molly's route to Bart's, after which he had decided to head home on foot, suddenly feeling the need for more thinking time.

The thinking time hadn't helped much, and he found himself wishing someone or something would solve this one for him. Be careful what you wish for, of course. Mary's death, and his culpability (as he saw it) changed everything - not only did he lose a dear friend, but came close to losing the two friends sitting here in the café with him, too. In the space of a few weeks, he sabotaged whatever ground he had made with Molly, whatever it was they were moving towards. It didn't seem likely that he could just say, "Hey, can we forget about the appalling events of the last month or so and have some more of those adult sleepovers, while I try to figure out what the hell I want?"

He was fully aware that there was nothing sexy about a 40-year old man trying to wean himself off heroin, knocking back anti-emetics and barely able to muster the energy to dress himself. Molly Hooper didn't need another dependent, making draining demands on her already busy life.

"Oh, we didn't sing!" Molly said suddenly.

"Sing?" John asks.

"Sing 'Happy Birthday'."

"I can think of several good reasons why we categorically are not going to do that," Sherlock responded. "One, we're in a public place; two, I'm a grown man; and three, it's possibly the most lazy and inane song ever committed to paper. I can't believe someone out there actually derives an income from it."

"Thanks, Sherlock," John said. "Now we're definitely going to sing it."

So they did, John adopting a mock-operatic singing voice while Molly softly joined in, holding each of Rosie's little hands in hers, their little goddaughter looking surprised and delighted by this impromptu singalong. It took all of Sherlock's strength and resolve not to break into a smile.

When it was over, John reached out and clapped Sherlock on the shoulder, his hand resting there for a moment, gripping his shirt.

"Happy birthday, mate," he said, a note of earnestness in his voice. "We're glad you're here."

Sherlock nodded his acknowledgement. He had ignored the missed call from his parents that morning (they had long since learned not to bother with presents or cards) and disregarded Mycroft's gloating text message welcoming him to middle age, but as he had finally acknowledged, family can transcend genetic bonds, and this, being here at this moment...wasn't completely unpleasant.

...well, until Rosamund Watson planted a sticky hand on his cheek, shrieking delightedly. He heard John snigger as he reached up to remove the errant crumbs of sponge cake.

"Here, let me," Molly said, leaning across to apply a baby wipe to the side of his face. "You've missed some."

"She's good with babies," John said, earning a sarcastic glare from Sherlock.

Momentarily distracted by his friend's interjection, he was taken by surprise when Molly placed a kiss on his cheek, not far from where she had removed the cake crumbs. It was soft, like a whisper, and gone too quickly, and Sherlock had to try not to stare at her after it was over.

"Happy birthday, Sherlock," she said, a brief, warm smile passing over her face before she returned her attention to Rosie.

He was suddenly aware that John was staring at him, which made him think he must be doing something wrong. But when he fired his friend a questioning look, John only responded with a shrug that told him precisely nothing.

"Did you make a wish?" John asked.

"A wish?"

"Yeah."

"What would I wish for?"

"I don't know...at least one 'nine' per month? A nice juicy international crime syndicate to take down? Something that would complete you as a human being?"

Sherlock made the mistake of flashing a glance towards Molly; there was the briefest of eye contact before she looked down at the table again. He felt a sudden warmth rise in his cheeks.

"No candles," he said suddenly, the words tumbling ungracefully out of his mouth. "What do you expect me to do, make a wish on invisible candles?"

"I'll do it then," John replied, placing his palms on the table. "I wish for the most uneventful twelve months that it is possible for you to have without being bored. I wish for your health, I wish for your happiness, and I wish for your continued growth as member of the human race."

Sherlock bowed his head for a moment, wondering what this was like to feel humbled. No, he knew what that was like - the woman next to him had shown him many times over.

"Thank you, John," he said.

"Oh, before I forget," John said, delving into the rucksack he carried as a nappy bag. "A present from Rosie. Sorry it's not wrapped, but if you will be an awkward bastard who tries to keep his birthday a secret, there's only so much you can expect. Thank god for one-hour printing shops."

Sherlock unfolded the garment that had been handed to him - a cotton t-shirt - revealing lettering that read 'World's Best Godfather', underneath which was a printed image of a magnifying glass. He couldn't help but smile, despite the garishness of the item.

Molly was giggling as he reluctantly held it up against himself for display.

"We got one for you, too, Molls, for all the help that you've given us" John said, tossing her a t-shirt, which of course bore the legend 'World's Best Godmother'. The image on her t-shirt was a rack of test tubes.

"Sorry, the print shop didn't have a haemocytometer or a tissue bath in their image bank," John added. "And I thought a big scalpel might detract a bit from the nice message."

"I love it," Molly smiled. "Thank you! And thank you, Rosie."

She planted a kiss on the top of Rosie's head.

"Well, now you've both got something to wear for Rosie's first birthday party, too," John said, winking at Sherlock.

"I shall look forward to it," Sherlock replied, with what he felt was admirable restraint and good grace. He hoped neither of them could tell that he was now picturing Molly in her new t-shirt and very little else.

"We'd better get this one back home," John said, starting to pack Rosie's snack pots, bottle and bib into his bag. "You'd better get yours home, too, Molly."

"Medicine's gain is stand-up comedy's loss, John," Sherlock commented, darkly, getting to his feet and hauling his coat onto his shoulders.

"Molly, don't take any rubbish from him," John said, tucking his daughter's arms back into her snowsuit.

"We'll be fine," Molly replied, picking up her duffel bag and placing another kiss on Rosie's cheek. "I've got DVDs."

Sherlock groaned.

"Dear god."

"Sherlock, behave," John warned. "Molly, there's a pair of cuffs in the salad drawer if he tries to leave the flat."

They parted company outside the cake place, and suddenly Sherlock was alone with Molly for the first time since the ambulance ride. She refused his offer of carrying her bag (who was he kidding? he still felt as weak as a kitten), instead smiling at him playfully.

"You could wear the hat, though."

He rolled his eyes and feigned a weary sigh before restoring the (slightly chewed) deerstalker to his head. At that moment, he would have done anything she asked, including wearing the t-shirt he now had stuffed in his pocket. Instead, he offered her his arm and, to his quiet delight, she took it right away, allowing him to walk her the short journey back to Baker Street.

Hope you like it? Planning a second chapter set directly after, when Molly 'babysits' Sherlock overnight…