Note: if you have prompts, or questions regarding stories, characters, relationships within the story or suggestions, please pm me, rather than trying to contact me via reviews. I can't promise I'll follow through and write them, but I will read what you have to say.

Molly woke to the sensation of cold fingers encircling her wrist.

"How is she, Doctor Watson?" a soft voice asked.

Watson glanced up from his pocket watch to Frederick Hooper.

"Fit as a fiddle in no time at all," the points of his mustache curled upward. "And if I'm not mistaken, soon to be back amongst us," his smile grew as he saw her blink, opening her eyes a little more. "Hello at last, how are you feeling?"

"Sore," Molly croaked, licking her dry lips. She spied a glass of water on her nightstand and reached for it.

Watson reached forward, keeping her from pushing herself up. "Ah-ah, wait," he instructed. Helping her sit up, he pushed her pillows up towards the headboard for her to lean against. "There," he held the glass, setting it against her mouth to help her drink. Perhaps she was still weak and did not realize. She complied until she had her fill. Watson set the glass down again, turning to tend to his bag on the end of the bed. "Your father has been most anxious about you."

Molly reached for her father's hand, only to gasp in surprise. Her palms had been bandaged, and she suddenly remembered the broken glass she'd fallen into.

"Your feet are wrapped up as well, I got all the glass out," Watson promised, seeing her horror. "You'll have to make use of a wheel chair for the time being, I don't want you on your feet until I tell you it's safe."

"You listen to Doctor, now," Mr. Hooper instructed her. He smoothed the bandages on the back of her hand, smiling through his tears.

"I'll see about sending up a tray for you," Watson said, picking up his bag and heading for the door. "You must be famished."

Molly smiled at him. "Thank you Doctor Watson," relief in her voice. She was exhausted still, but at the mention of food, she realized just how hungry she was.

The door shut after the good doctor, and Molly turned back to her father.

"I'm all right now," she said quietly as her father sniffed, wiping his eyes.

"Oh let me cry a little," he gave a watery laugh. "I cried when you were born, when you graduated from the university, got your position at the hospital, why shouldn't I cry now?" He reached, cupping her face. "See you're not completely heartless there," he teased, seeing her own eyes were shining. He gently thumbed at the bandage that ran the length of her cheek. He recalled very clearly when she'd been carried in, he'd catalogued every bruise, every mark, especially her hands and feet. He'd sobbed when Watson told him of the glass in his daughter's hands. He'd cried for he was certain it would mean they were damaged and she wouldn't be able to work. It took some time (he was ashamed to say) for the doctor and Mrs. Watson to convince him that while her hands might be scarred, the glass was not deep enough to damage the nerves.

Molly 's merry laugh broke him from his unhappy memories.

"I get it from you," she smiled as she wiped her eyes, careful of her bandages. "How long was I asleep for?"

"Almost two days," her father answered. "Mrs. Watson has been taking very good care of me, not to worry, and your Mr. Holmes has found us a cook. She was delivered with references by way of Lord Mycroft Holmes," he leaned forward, lowering his voice. "He's a funny sort of man, that Lord Mycroft, as if he knows a good deal too much about everyone, and everything."

Smiling, Molly tucked the blanket around her lap.

"I suspect he does at that, father." Her smile fell somewhat, and she grew quite shy then. "How is Sherlock?" She dared glance up at her father, who's smile was fond, and his eyes twinkled at her.

"Ohh," Frederick Hooper smiled knowingly then. "I see how it is now, never mind your poor old father now, eh?"

"Don't say it like that, as if I was only thinking of him," Molly covered his hand in hers. "I was thinking of all of you, you first, always."

"Not true," her father countered, squeezing her fingers gently. "But that's to be expected."

"It is so!" Molly contradicted. "I knew Sherlock would come for me, but who would be waiting with you? You haven't been well lately and…" she trailed off, looking at her lap again, fiddling with the fringe on the blanket.

"I said, Mrs. Watson has taken very good care of me!" Frederick insisted. Mary Watson had been sure he was headed for a stroke. Perhaps he was, but the relief that Molly was safe at home again eased his heart and mind greatly. She was home. Well…home for now. A knock the door reminded him that it was no longer just the two of them. "Come in, come in, she's awake!" Frederick called and the door opened.

Mary appeared, carrying a tray.

"Oh, Mary!" Molly reached for her. Mrs. Watson set the tray down and then embraced her friend.

"Goodness sakes, water works again," Mary sniffed, pressing Molly's cheek. "Oh look at you," she touched Molly's bandaged cheek, careful of the bruises on her jaw.

"I was never much of a looker, so it's no skin off my nose if it leaves a scar," Molly smiled. "Besides, maybe now those awful surgeons at the hospital will start being afraid of me, rather than hating me."

"I'd wager they'd believe you got it in a knife fight!" Mary laughed, eyes still shining. Her smile grew bittersweet, and she bent again, pressing Molly's forehead. Mouth trembling, she smoothed her hair. "Look at that, your hair's all come undone," she dug through her pockets, fishing out a handkerchief. "I'll see about fixing it,"

"That's my cue to leave," Frederick stood, pressing Molly's cheek. "You let Mrs. Watson look after you, and mind you eat your breakfast. In a little while I'll send up your sweetheart." He smiled at her, then winked at Mary before taking his leave.

The door shut behind him as Mary turned and wiped her eyes again before facing Molly, smile on her face.

"Well, aren't you going to ask about Sherlock?" She crossed the room, opening the curtains to let in the light.

"I have," Molly said around a mouthful of food. "So far no one's said anything. Is he all right? Has he slept?"

Mary shook her head. "Not since you've come back, and," her smile was mischievous. "He's sent telegrams to his parents at their house in Sussex, twice, and messages to his brother almost half a dozen times, with almost twice that many in response," Mary bent low to tuck the sheets back into the mattress, smiling up at Molly who stared wide-eyed at her. "I know because I read the addresses before passing them along,"

"Mary!" Molly chastised, then paused. "What did they say?"

"Would I read someone's private mail?" Mary asked, her face the picture of innocence.

Molly swallowed a mouthful of toast, giving her a look. "You might if you 'happened' upon it by way of their pocket and your nimble fingers."

"Well, that's an entirely different thing," Mary said, straightening. "No, I did not read mail from either of the Holmes. But I understand Lady Holmes is coming very soon."

"His mother?!" Molly was alarmed, hand to her breast.

"No, goodness, not yet," Mary shook her head. "I should have said Lady Anthea Holmes. She's been anxious about you, and stopped in yesterday afternoon but you were still asleep. She sent a basket, and promised to look in later in the week."

"That was nice of her."

"Yes, well, better her than Miss Adler."

"Why?" Molly asked. "She hasn't tried calling, has she?"

"Oh yes, several times," Mary nodded, looking a tad annoyed. "I'm sure she means well in her own way, but I don't see how any of this is her business, as she's not friends of the family," she bustled around the room, heading to the wardrobe and bringing out Molly's one tea gown. "Still, I suppose Sherlock feels somewhat indebted to her, seeing as she helped look after one of his Irregulars who got hurt looking for you."

"The little boy?" Molly asked with a start. "Whatever happened to him?"

"Jimmy," Mary said with a nod. "His arm was broken. Lucky Inspector Lestrade was there as well."

"Poor boy,"

"Yes, and poor you, come on," Mary picked up the tray, picked clean now. "Let's get your hair fixed and you in something decent before he comes back." She smiled at Molly's questioning look. "John convinced him to take a walk down to Scotland Yard and help fill in any details as far as the case goes. Inspector Lestrade will want to speak to you as well, as soon as you're able. Once you're up to it, we can send for him and you can give your testimonial."

"As soon as I'm dressed," Molly answered, then paused. "And after I've seen Sherlock."

Mary's smile was dear. "I should think so, after all the trouble you've been through. Come on, then, if you're going to be entertaining men all day, let's get you washed and dressed."

Scotland Yard

"How is she, then? Any news?" Lestrade asked. He watched the consulting detective pace the length of his narrow office, for once not bothering to rifle through the case files that littered his desk.

Sherlock Holmes glanced at the inspector, then looked back at his shoes. "Mary tells me she will wake soon. She has been deprived of sleep for some time, added to it the traumas she endured."

"No doubt," Lestrade nodded, sorrowful. "Well, soon as she's up to it, we'd like to close the case." He was thoughtful then, looking over the Ripper file on his desk. "It's funny, innit? Young woman like Molly Hooper, first female pathologist in probably the whole world, she not only gets kidnapped by the Ripper, she survives it and solves it for us."

"Harrumph."

"Any news on the lad?" Sherlock heard the tentativeness in the inspector's voice and turned to face him then.

"Doctor Watson has informed me Jimmy will recover."

"He have a place to stay, or will you be taking him in?"

"At the moment, I believe Mrs. Hudson is looking after him at Baker Street, why?"

Lestrade shrugged.

"No reason, he's a good lad, wouldn't mind keeping an eye on him myself." Sherlock looked quite surprised then.

"Well…he does not belong to me, only that he's one of my informants is all. You'll have to take up living arrangements with him."

"Might look in on him, see how he's doing," Lestrade said in answer finally. "Must be bored, sitting all day."

Sherlock nodded, understanding somewhat. He reached for his pocket watch, checking the time.

"Well, that's it for me then, they must be nearly finished dressing Miss Hooper by now."

"You don't mind if I pop by Baker Street then, since you're heading over to the Hooper's? I can fetch you a bag if you need it."

Sherlock paused at Lestrade's offer, rubbing his chin, he had not yet shaved in the past two days, and his suit was wrinkled and creased from sitting too long.

"Perhaps I'll stop by Baker Street for a fresh change of clothes," he nodded, heading for the door. "I'll fetch us a cab, meet you downstairs."

"Right."

Lestrade had been thinking long and hard on the boy. Jimmy was homeless, according to several of Sherlock's Irregulars. He was only eight, but dull he was not. There was a good deal of ginger in the boy's heels. He needed looking after. Lestrade wanted to see Jimmy in school, putting that clever brain of his to work. The boy couldn't read, though to his credit he knew a few of his letters. The boy had a hunger for learning, and liked to be useful. Lestrade knew too well what might happen as Jimmy got older. He might fall in with the wrong crowd, or he'd take odd jobs that were dangerous. While most of Sherlock's Irregulars were well looked after, there were always a few that drifted by the wayside and eventually found themselves without Sherlock Holmes' protection and on the wrong side of the law. Lestrade would have hated to see that happen to Jimmy. If there was something he could do to help him along, he wanted to, very much. He hadn't told Sherlock this yet, not sure of the Consulting Detective's reaction.

Grabbing his coat and hat, he headed down, passing by Sally Donovan's desk.

"You tell him then?" she asked. Lestrade paused then.

"Sort of."

"Go on then," she smiled, up at him, her dark eyes sparkling.

"I will," Lestrade insisted, though his grin was cheeky. "Same as I'll get around to telling you."

"Tell me what?" she leaned over her desk, minding she didn't put her hands on any of the photographs for current cases. He leaned over as well, nose-to-nose.

"You know what," he poked his head around the partition. "I'll let you know how it goes!" He hurried towards the door, putting on his hat. Sally only shook her head, turning back to the photographs spread across her desk.

"'You know what'," she muttered, grinning to herself. "I know plenty; we just aren't allowed to say on account of our supervisor." Lestrade gave a quick look-around, seeing no one was about and ducked back in to give her a quick kiss.

"I'll see you later tonight."

"You'd better," Sally folded her arms across her middle, and she smiled.

"Come on, Lestrade!" Sherlock bellowed from the sidewalk. Lestrade looked down the hall through the open door, waving that he was coming.

"Right, later," he nodded and hurried out to the waiting cab.

Hooper Residence

It was just as well Sherlock decided to go home for a change and a shave, Molly's hair needed washing which was a time-consuming process. Mary and Ellen carried her between them to a chair in the adjoining washroom. Setting her by the bath, they instructed her to lean forward over the tub so that she and Ellen could take turns pouring hot water over her head and neck. After, while Ellen wrung out her mistress' hair, she told her all about what Mr. Holmes had been up to while she was asleep.

"He's done nothing but pace the length and breadth of the house," Ellen said in hushed tones. Her eyes quite revealed just how keen a delight she took in the famous Consulting Detective waiting upon her mistress. She began plaiting her damp hair, smiling at her reflection as she continued, "He's barely eaten a thing, only your father could get him to take a cup of coffee and a little bit of a meat pasty, but that was yesterday."

Molly tried to excuse his behavior. "He's not one to eat when he's on a case," she said.

"But isn't the case over?" Ellen asked, looking from her mistress to Mrs. Watson.

"It is indeed," Mary replied with a knowing smile. "There must be something else weighing on his mind." Molly, for her part, flushed quite pink, and said no more on the matter.

In a little while Molly was dressed, her hair, though still damp, had been braided and hung down her back.

"We'll have to set you by the fire so your hair can finish drying," Mary said. "I don't suppose you'd like to visit with a very anxious consulting detective while you wait?"

"Mary, for goodness sake, let him in!" Molly begged.

Sherlock had already let himself in, greeted Frederick, and started up the stairs by the time Ellen had gathered the old linens and was heading downstairs.

"Go right up, Mr. Holmes," she beamed, happy to finally give him the message he was waiting for. "She's expecting you."

Taking the stairs two at a time, he suddenly found himself quite anxious. He had not been allowed in the room for the past two days (she'd been sleeping, and while Frederick trusted the consulting detective, he couldn't allow a single gentleman in the bedroom of his thus-far still-single daughter).

"If you'd proposed before-hand, well that'd be different," Frederick had said and Sherlock rolled his eyes. He hadn't asked Molly yet for the precise reason that she felt they weren't ready. Stuff that. He'd propose this afternoon!

If she'd let him that is.

He lingered by the doorway, waiting for Mary to notice him. He watched for a moment as one of his dearest friends took care of the woman who mattered most to him. Molly was pale, but her color was coming back. Her hair was damp, and the room smelled of castile soap. She appeared relaxed, and he was glad to see the breakfast tray near the bed was empty. The room was warm, and somewhat changed from when he'd last seen it. The bed was made this time, no heart in a small box sat on the floor, and the windowsill had been scrubbed of any boot marks. The window latches had been changed as well, he noted, glad that Frederick had heeded his suggestion.

Mary straightened from tugging a light blanket over Molly's lap, noticing the consulting detective watching them from the doorway.

"I'll see if Mrs. Levinson can send up a fresh pot of tea," Mary smiled, patting the back of Molly's hand before heading out. "Mind you leave the door open," she said as she passed Sherlock, and he promised he would.

Stepping at last into her room, he waited, listening to Mary's retreating footsteps before crossing the room in four strides. Sinking to his knees, he reached, cupping her face in his hands. She moved with him, bending so he could reach her without disturbing her bandages. He kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her jaw and finally her mouth, murmuring her name like a prayer until he felt her bandaged hands cover his, and she turned her head to the side. This, of course, rather exposed her neck to him, and so he naturally bent and kissed that too, pleased at the gasp (he did deduce a good deal of pleasure as well as surprise in her exclamation) that elicited from her.

"Sherlock," she said, gently. He took note of the tremble in her voice, and leaned back, realizing the unspoken warning that he had best not start what neither of them ought to finish just yet. He studied her carefully, looking for any sign of disapproval.

Nervous.

Embarrassed.

Pleased.

He stood, taking the chair near the bed and dragging it over across from hers.

"Forgive me," he said at last.

She was still blushing as she folded her hands in her lap, looking up at him through her lashes.

"Mary told me you've written to your mother."

"Yes," he settled into the chair, crossing one leg over the other. "I thought it was high time you met, there will be time enough for a visit later on when we're married, but as you cannot travel far in your condition right now, and she has not been to London in almost a year, she might as well come, she and father, that is."

Molly was nothing less than alarmed. "Oh, what did she say? Will she come? I can't receive looking the way I do!"

"Certainly you can! She sent me a reply this morning," Sherlock answered. "She'll come in a week's time. You'll be up and about by then, or at least used to the wheel chair then."

"Where will they stay? A great lady like your mother should be in a fine hotel-"

"She has asked that perhaps she and father, if it is not imposing, may stay here, to be of assistance while you are on the mend," Sherlock dug through his pockets, finding in his jacket his pipe and the leather slipper of tobacco. He'd squirreled it away when he'd returned to Baker Street to change. He filled the bowl, pressing down the fragrant tobacco and then searched his pockets for a match. "She has liked very much what she's heard of you," he continued, the stem clenched between his teeth as he found a match and lit his pipe. "She's quite proud of you, you know, what you've overcome, what you've survived, and too of your work."

"My work?" Molly echoed, shocked.

"Hmm," he blew a smoke ring, and then another before he slouched somewhat in the chair (a sign Molly took to mean he was quite comfortable, and she smiled inwardly at this). "I had told her something of your position at Barts, and she had Mycroft send her your papers that you had published." He sat, puffing away on his pipe and Molly didn't know what to think for a moment.

"So…she's, she knows of us then, that we'd like to be married?"

"I imagine she's put two and two together," Sherlock nodded, smiling.

A soft knock on the door and they turned to see Ellen standing with a tea tray.

"Mrs. Levinson sent up your favorite cake," the maid said to her mistress.

"How did she know I wonder?"

"I told her, obviously," Sherlock said. "Thank you, Ellen," the maid bobbed a curtsy and hurried back out. Molly reached for the teapot but a look from him had her sitting back in her chair. She folded her arms across her middle, thoroughly amused at the sight before her.

Pipe firmly between his teeth, he kept puffing away as he poured out, handing over her cup. He glanced up at her as he moved the sugar bowl into her reach.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"Nothing!" she reached for her teacup, but the bandages were a hindrance. He made to help her, but she waved him off. "I can manage." He watched, amused, as she tried to pick up the cup with the heels of her hands, with the bowl of the cup resting loosely in her palms, but the porcelain was too hot. Eventually, she managed to hold the handle of the cup with the tips of her fingers, she could drink. "I just think…"

"Hmm, yes, you do a lot of that, especially whenever I broach the subject of my mother…" He leaned against his elbow on the table, smiling as she rather indelicately sipped her tea.

"I'm nervous, aren't I allowed that? We aren't even engaged yet, and your mother is coming to stay, and that she feels obligated to look after me as if I needed looking after indeed- oh botheration!" The cup slipped from her hands, dropping onto her lap. Hot tea splashed against her gown and she hissed in pain. Pushing herself up for a moment on her wrists and forearms, she sank back down into the chair, unable to keep herself suspended. Sherlock was on his feet immediately, removing the soiled blanket. He folded it over and tossed it by the open door.

"Clearly," he answered, rolling his eyes. "Never mind it, you'll have a new trousseau soon enough, you can stain them all too if you like," he teased. Seeing she was not smiling, he sobered, bringing his chair closer. "Are you hurt?"

"Only my pride," she grumbled, trying to blot the stain with a napkin.

"Do you not want to meet her?" he asked softly. She raised her head then, and he found himself lost in her eyes. So much emotion, so much to say! He could see her trying to think of a way to say something, perhaps in a way that would not offend or hurt him. He felt his heart sink.

"I do," she said, quite feelingly. "But…oh Sherlock, look at me!" she cried, gesturing to herself. "I can't even walk, I'm all bandages and bruises, I need help drinking from a teacup, for goodness sakes! I want to show your mother, a great lady, that I can be a good wife to her son, who happens to be a great man. I want to show her that I love him, that I can stand on my own feet."

"You will," he promised. He held his pipe between his fingers, and with his free hand, dug through his waistcoat pocket. "Especially if she sees you've got this." He held out an oblong box, not quite one a ring would be kept in. She tried very hard not to look disappointed. Sherlock saw, of course, but he also noticed that she leaned forward, eager to see what he had brought her. "I realize," he said as he undid the fastenings on the box, "That you cannot wear a ring until your hands are healed, so, I thought perhaps you wouldn't mind wearing it around your neck, until such time occurs." He opened the box then, holding it open for her to see inside a gold chain, and on one end hung a gold ring with ivy leaves and forget-me-nots engraved on the band. "It's an emerald setting," he continued. "Mycroft was given Granny's sapphire, but I rather think the emerald suits you…" he trailed off, realizing she had not spoken yet.

"When did she give it to you?" Molly breathed, quite overcome. She looked up at Sherlock, waiting for him to answer. His mouth hung open slightly, and he smiled then, facing her.

"As soon as I told her about you." He took her hands then, carefully, thumbs smoothing over the backs of her fingers. "I want so much for you to see that you needn't be anyone but yourself, you don't have to worry about making a good impression on her, she likes you already."

Molly was quiet, pondering his words. Finally, she lifted her eyes, expression still serious.

"What about your father?"

"Very much like yours, if I'm honest, which is why I rather got on with Frederick," Sherlock smiled. "He and father should have a marvelous time in your father's study. All those plants, I'm sure the only argument that will erupt between them will be what makes the best plant food." Molly laughed then, genuinely, and he was pleased, seeing the relief in her face. "You still have not answered me, Miss Hooper."

"Haven't I?" she asked, and he took note of the teasing in her voice.

"Minx," he muttered, reaching for the box that had fallen shut again. Removing the chain and ring, he held it out to her. "Shall I get down on one knee?"

"You'd better," she said, almost laughing. "After all I went through for you in that old factory!"

He was on his knees in an instant, eyes twinkling merrily at her, though his expression was serious.

"Molly Hooper," he began. "Dear, lovely, pathologist extraordinare, with skill beyond compare, despite your scarred fingers, your knowledge of the human body is incomparable, and I find the sight of you holding a brain to be- do tell me when to stop and get on with it-"

"Get on with it!" she laughed, truly laughed then and he smiled, holding the ring between his thumb and forefinger.

"Will you do me the honor, the favor," he smiled so fondly at her, with such affection, so much esteem and love that Molly felt she would burst. "Will you marry me?"

The tips of her fingers were bare, and she could just barely bend them around the hand that held the engagement ring. Trembling, she managed a nod, and he quite happily closed the distance, kissing her at last.

"I didn't hear a 'yes'!"

They both flew apart, looking to the door where Mary Watson and Ellen peered from the doorway. Sherlock still held the ring and chain.

"She said yes," he informed them, and rounded the wheel chair, hooking the necklace around Molly's neck. She reached for the ring, holding it up to the light.

"Come and see Mary," she nodded. "And you Ellen, look!"

Sherlock found himself nearly shoved out of the way as the women bustled in, cooing and squealing, kissing Molly's cheeks in congratulations and admiring the ring.

"Yes well, it was…most appropriate," Sherlock muttered, feeling quite pushed out of his own engagement. Mary turned then, and taking his arm, pressed his cheek.

"Put out your pipe, and go and fetch Mr. Hooper," she said. "Ellen, go and find Doctor Watson, he should be in the library, and send a boy for Lord Mycroft, he ought to know too, if he doesn't by now."

"Shall I tell cook to make a big dinner?" Ellen asked, barely able to contain her excitement.

"Oh no," Molly said quickly. "She's only just begun, and it's so short notice. Whatever she's preparing will be fine," Molly insisted.

"But do send along a note to Mycroft," Sherlock interrupted. "Have him bring whatever is best in his wine cellar."

So the celebrating began that very afternoon. Mrs. Levinson sent up a message that it was too late to oblige Miss Hooper, she had already put a goose in, and she would simply have to be happy with a great roast dinner with all the trimmings that went with it. Lady Anthea arrived with Mycroft in short order, who carried a basket bearing six bottles of champagne.

"I hope you don't mind," Anthea said, bending to kiss Molly's cheek. "But the message said whatever we had that's best,"

"It was a gift from their Royal Highnesses' cellar," Mycroft said, a touch of annoyance. "Still, it must be drunk eventually, and one doesn't celebrate an engagement every day." Passing the basket to Ellen to bring to the kitchen, Mycroft removed his hat, gloves, coat, and then turned to Molly. His expression grew fond then, and he bent, tenderly kissing her cheek. "My dear woman, will you accept my condolences?"

"Thank you so much," she answered, quite serious, and then broke into a fit of giggles. Mycroft smiled then, gently pressing her arm before stepping over to Sherlock, grasping his hand.

"When is mother due?"

"In a week," Sherlock replied.

"Shall I put them up at The Savoy again?"

"No, ehm…she actually requested to stay here."

"Here?" Mycroft snorted. Molly and Frederick and Anthea all looked at Mycroft, who realized. "Oh, you mean, here, of course, how marvelous!" The others turned back, talking again, and Mycroft and Sherlock exchanged wide-eyed 'that was foolishly close' expressions.

"She wants to," Sherlock said, low, to his brother. "She's already quite fond of Molly."

"I expected as much," Mycroft nodded. "I suppose in the long-run it will be quite suitable, Mother and Father have never appreciated The Savoy."

"A hotel is a hotel," Sherlock quipped flippantly. Seeing Frederick motioning to them, Sherlock nodded to his brother, stepping towards the group.

"Come see, come see," the elderly man chortled, holding the box of cigars out to them. They saw John Watson had joined the group. "I've been saving these for a special occasion, something for us gentlemen to enjoy after dinner."

"I have brought a very find brandy that would go well with these," Mycroft spoke up then. He saw the brand of cigar, and quite approved, looking forward to after dinner now.

The group was merry, and all afternoon they visited, much to Mycroft and Sherlock's chagrin, but with the promise of a good dinner, and too the fear of offending Molly, they stayed and endured the endless chatter, though Molly sent them out to the garden several times so they could take a break from all the noise.

"I know it's not what you enjoy," Molly said. "Go on, clear your head, you and Mycroft, I've got Doctor Watson and Mary and Anthea to keep father and I company!"

Out in the garden, Mycroft handed his brother a cigarette before taking one for himself.

"Prince George V swears by these, gave me a whole bloody box of them," he said. "They're bloody disgusting," Mycroft said. "But in a pinch, and when one doesn't want to waste a good cigar…"

"Hmm," Sherlock lit his, then passed the match over to his brother. "So," he released a long breath of smoke into the cold dusk air. He looked up, the first evening stars were just beginning to appear. "You like her then?"

Mycroft flicked the end of his cigarette, pulling a face at the acrid smell.

"Would I be here if I did not approve?"

"I'm not asking if you approve, I am asking if you like her," Sherlock took another drag from the cigarette, nearly gagging. Not at all like smoking a cigar, still the affect was not unpleasant.

Mycroft thought for a moment, smoke trailing from the tip of his cigarette. "She is unique," he said finally. "She is unconventionally pretty, and even in a wheel chair in a stained tea gown she manages to command some kind of elegance in her manner." He glanced at his brother, pausing to take a quick drag. "I trust you know that I'll have to like her more than you now, so you'd better take good care of her, or you'll have the wrath of mother, father, Frederick Hooper, Doctor and Mrs. Watson, Inspector Lestrade and Anthea on your head.

Sherlock's smile reached his eyes, and he looked at his feet before quickly glancing at his brother.

"I know."

"Good." Mycroft dropped his cigarette, stamping it out. "I'm going in; this is making me ill."

"You smoke like an amateur," Sherlock said.

"No, I just don't like cigarettes. They stink." He paused at the door. "Coming in?"

"In a moment," Sherlock replied. He waited for the door to close, and when it didn't, he looked over his shoulder to see Mycroft looking back at him.

"That woman does love you, for whatever reason," he said at last.

Sherlock was quiet. "Yes I know," he nodded. "God knows why."

"Don't…don't take that for granted, Sherlock." He looked as if he wanted to say more, and Sherlock waited for him, but instead Mycroft only nodded, and went inside.

Standing in the cold November air, Sherlock blew smoke rings and watched as the sky grew darker, and the stars began to appear.

He reflected on that day, on the people that filled his life now. His own, odd family, and Molly was a part of it now, a permanent part of it. He still felt his heart lurch when he thought of how close he'd come to losing her. Perhaps Mycroft was right to worry about his affection for his fiancée. Perhaps. But even Mycroft was not in possession of all the facts. He knew Sherlock had been attracted to Molly, knew that he'd told their mother about Molly too. That alone spoke volumes.

Muffled laughter reached his ears, and he turned, looking back at the house, warm light pouring from the windows. There was a time he would have hated the sound of voices, he would have rebuffed caresses from a woman, and ignored outstretched hands. There was a time he would have been perfectly happy to stay outside in the cold and smoke until the night was over. But now…hearing their voices, he missed them all suddenly. He listened hard, singling out Molly's laughter, it was not her polite laugh, but one that it seemed only her father could entice from her. Sherlock dearly wanted to make Molly laugh like that, he wanted to make her happy, for her to want him to be happy with her. He felt such a need, down to his bones to share the rest of his life with her, to not miss a single moment he wished suddenly they didn't have to wait to be married. So much time had been wasted already!

Without a second thought, he stamped out his cigarette and turned toward the house. The door opened, and there stood Watson.
"There you are! Come on then, the cook just brought out dinner, Molly's been asking for you, and if you think you're going to go without a heaping plateful- no two heaping platefuls-"

"Watson, calm yourself," Sherlock said as he made his way across the yard and up to the door. "I am well aware of my empty stomach, in fact for the past hour and a half, my guts have done nothing but remind me of the lack of nourishment, and I fully intend to take advantage of what I have no doubt to be a feast fit for kings, thanks to Mrs. Levinson's efforts." He beamed at the thoroughly confused Doctor and stepped into the warm house. Watson shook his head, closing the door behind them.

As they gathered at the tables Sherlock came to stand by Molly's chair.

"Molly, may I speak with you privately?" the table was suddenly quiet, and everyone turned to the pathologist.

"Of course you can." She answered softly.

"Do carry on without us, we won't be a moment," Sherlock said, wheeling Molly through to the sitting room. The group all leaned backwards and forwards, to see through the open dining room doors.

"Do you truly wish to marry me?" he asked, once the doors to the sitting room were shut behind him.

"What? Of course I do!" Molly reached for him. "Sherlock…what is it? Tell me what the matter is."

"There is nothing the matter," he scrubbed his hands through his hair, frustrated. "I-" he hesitated, hating himself for being so selfish. It was not mere carnal desire to want to be married so quickly (he was not an animal, for God's sake). He simply wanted the formalities to be over with. They knew they loved each other. But he was afraid too that Molly was not so eager as him. Perhaps she wanted a big wedding, to take the months to prepare and choose flowers and decorations.

"Sherlock," her gentle voice brought him to the present again, and he blinked quickly.

"Sorry…" he murmured, shaking his head.

"What is it?" she asked. "Tell me, you know you can tell me anything."

"I can, can't I?" he asked, suddenly shy. She looked as if she was about to cry, and she reached slowly for the ring on the chain around her neck.

"It was too soon, wasn't it?" she began to take the necklace off, but he stopped her, coming to kneel before her.

Shaking his head, he carefully took her hands in his. "No, Molly, that's not it at all," he sighed heavily, resting his forehead against hers. "I simply…I want all this to be over, for all the formalities, the parties, the before-wedding dues to be over. I want to be married now, I would have us married tonight if you would allow it- if your father would allow it!" He inched closer, sighing again, feeling some relief at having gotten that off his chest. "I almost lost you, I never told you how that felt…and it…I suddenly remembered that feeling and I couldn't face it, I don't want to face going without you another day."

Gently, carefully, she carded the tips of her bare fingers through his hair as he rested his head against her lap.

"Oh Sherlock," she smiled through her tears. "I almost lost you too, you know."

He raised his head then. "You did, didn't you?" Again, he silently berated himself. She had almost died, and here he was thinking only of his own feelings! Before he could say aloud the next thought in his head, he felt her hands cup his cheeks, forcing him to look up at her.

"Don't you dare say what you're thinking," she said, her voice very terrible and quiet. "Do not ever think that I should marry someone else." There were tears in her eyes again, and he briefly wondered why, before his own vision blurred. She sniffed, thumbing away his tears. "There is no one in the world for me but you, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, and if you want to be married before next summer, then," again she sniffed, wiping her nose on her cuff. "Then that's what we'll bloody do."

Laughing through his tears (for they were both unashamedly weepy now) he smiled at her. "Truly?"

"Yes, truly. Your mother and father are coming, and the time has not been specified for their return to the country. Give me a month to get ready, to heal a little," she cradled his head in her hands, and he leaned against her legs, face shining at her. "We'll be married in the new year, early in January."

His only answer was to kiss her, and kiss her thoroughly, to which she made no protest, and certainly no complaint.

They returned to the dining room, eyes red, but both smiling and happily assuring everyone that all was well, indeed that they had set a date for the wedding. As merry as the group had been before, now they were twice that, and everyone fell to talking. As plates were filled, and suggestions and plans were made for the January wedding, glasses clinked merrily against bottle rims (for the champagne had been opened, and the stuff was being poured generously), Sherlock looked around the table, finding some comfort in each of the faces, even Mycroft's. Molly was right, as she often was. There was no one in the world for her but him, and vice versa. He had changed, but it was because he wanted to, and for the most part, he was largely still very much who he was before. Molly had changed too, hadn't she? That was a silly question though. The events of the Ripper case had changed her, and she had shown her true mettle. She carried herself differently now. Some might have shrunk back into themselves, becoming a hollowed shell of what they once were, having survived what she had. Instead, she bore her scars as a soldier bore a medal from war, humility and recognition of her mortality, but some pride that her strength had carried her this far, that her endurance was not something easily trifled with.

There would always be cases, always a murder or a jewel thief, or an odd cult pretending to practice magic by means of mirrors and smoke. There would be moments of weakness when he would be tempted by old habits he tried very hard to stamp out and sometimes could not. But through it all, somehow, (sometimes he felt undeservedly so), Molly was there to help him through it, giving him what he needed, what she could, what he deserved, whether good or bad. She saw him for who he was, accepted him, and loved him in spite of it. For that, Sherlock gave her his heart, quite willingly. Molly Hooper did not love by halves, and Sherlock appreciated it, for neither did he.

Life for them was not always pretty or safe or easy, but it was shared equally, and happily between them.