…In which there's a wedding and another life-changing decision to be made…

Hope you enjoy, and thank you for sticking with me to the end – it's been a lot of fun!

6 months later

It hadn't been the best build-up to a wedding. Everything had been fine until Sherlock decided he wanted to take a case down in Cornwall four days beforehand, confident that he would have it wrapped up within 24 hours – two days max. Two days had turned into three, and on that third day Molly threatened to send Mrs Hudson in her Aston Martin – but this time Sherlock would be made to share the boot with John.

On day four, Molly didn't even have time to be angry, as all of her time was consumed with getting herself and William ready for the wedding. Well, that wasn't quite true – her preparations were instead carried out under a cloud of heightened annoyance. If she wasn't such a patient, reasonable human being (or a pushover – she couldn't decide) Sherlock might have come home to find his latest experiments 'accidentally' contaminated, or his sock drawer 're-organised', or his favourite shirts donated to his homeless network.

Between them, she and Mrs Hudson had been taking care of Rosie, too, and Molly had had to leave both children in their elderly landlady's care while she ran the last few errands like a woman possessed. To Sherlock's pride and delight, William was an early crawler, but Molly was definitely seeing the advantage of having a child who just sat in one place like a pudding. These days, William was often in a futile pursuit of Toby, or trying to keep up with Rosie (who treated him a bit like another pet). Expecting Mrs Hudson to dash after a baby - apparently magnetically drawn to danger, just like his father - was asking a bit much.

By the time Molly went to bed the night before, she had resigned herself to having to make serious excuses the next day; she had already been picturing the look on Sherlock's mother's face. But it wasn't as though life with Sherlock was ever going to be nicely timetabled and easy to predict.

It was the smell that alerted her first – a damp, earthy smell that reminded her of scrabbling through ditches during cross-country running at school. Then, a heavy arm had settled across her, as Sherlock pulled her into a possessive embrace, his nose delving into her neck, an appreciative hum reverberating from his chest. Usually this meant 'I've solved the case; let's have sex', and while Molly had a retort to that fully prepared, this time Sherlock was apparently too tired to even speak, and the next thing Molly knew he was snoring loudly into her ear.

It was only when she got up to answer William's cries from the nursery somewhere around dawn that she realised Sherlock had passed out fully dressed. And covered in mud. Which meant their bed was also covered in mud. A foray into the living room to make an early cup of tea revealed that John Watson was also in their home, equally comatose on the couch, with his donkey jacket over his face.

The act of waking them both up had almost made up for how exasperated she was with them, and saw John tumbling down the stairs to retrieve Rosie from Mrs Hudson, while Sherlock spent much more time than they could really spare recapping his recently-closed case to William (who always looked enthralled, although that was probably more to do with Sherlock's gymnastic eyebrows and theatrical delivery). Eventually, Molly had to almost forcibly shoo him off to the shower, reminding him of where exactly they were all supposed to be in just over an hour.

The car had to wait for them, and the driver had looked positively horrified at the sight of three partially-dressed adults, two distressed infants and half a ton of baby equipment being shoehorned into his vehicle.

The mad scramble from the gates to the front entrance of Mycroft's country home reminded Molly far too much of the opening scenes of Four Weddings and a Funeral. Watching that when she was fifteen turned out to be much funnier than inadvertently re-enacting it as a supposedly responsible adult – she even had the floppy-haired posh boy with her, although in her version of events, he wasn't the one doing all of the swearing. Molly had found herself pushing William's buggy at high speed along the gravel path, her pretty new heels stuffed under the pushchair, her hair already coming loose from the up-do she'd fashioned during the car journey. John hadn't even had time to unfold Rosie's buggy, and was jogging slightly ahead of her with the buggy under one arm, his gleefully shrieking daughter in the other, and the tie he hadn't had time to do anything with clamped between his teeth.

Meanwhile, Sherlock had sauntered behind them, perfectly turned out, typing on his phone and managing to make the zoo-themed changing bag on his shoulder look like a stylish accessory. Molly loved him deeply, but at that moment she would have happily drop-kicked her fiancé into Mycroft's koi carp pond.

Thankfully, things had improved after that, and Mycroft's wedding to Lady Smallwood had gone off without a hitch. Attendance at the ceremony was restricted to close family and friends, and as Molly stood beside Sherlock in the summer room, his hand at her waist and their son in her arms, she acknowledged (damn him) that he was forgiven – again.

0000000

A few hours later, Molly was in search of Sherlock. She had managed to settle William in the travel cot in the guest room where they were staying (she hoped Mycroft wouldn't notice the infant teeth-marks on the Victorian four-poster bed), and had set up the iPad as a baby monitor (Sherlock had an app, of course).

She found Sherlock in the drawing room, sandwiched between his mother and father on one side, and some of Mycroft's professional acquaintances on the other (the evening drinks reception was a larger affair). Wanda Holmes had her arm hooked around her younger son's elbow, and had somehow managed to trap him against the wall so that there really was no escape. The look of resignation and despair on his face was priceless. But God, he looked ridiculously handsome in that suit. You had his baby six months ago, Molly reminded herself, you're allowed to perve with impunity these days.

"Molly!" he exclaimed on seeing her, the subtext being for God's sake, help me.

"Hi," she replied, smiling to his parents and the admittedly very dry-looking individuals that formed the rest of the group. "Sorry. Sherlock, would you be able to give me a hand with something? I can't get the hang of the baby monitor."

"Excuse me, Mother," Sherlock replied, visibly relieved, as he disentangled himself.

"Rescued by the cavalry, eh, darling?" she replied, raising an eyebrow at him and earning a ripple of polite laughter from the group. "At least you didn't drug us all this time to escape our company."

"It's lost the element of surprise now," he replied, with an artificially bright smile.

He extricated himself from the group and followed Molly across the room, immediately digging out his phone.

"What's wrong with the monitor? It really is quite a simple app, Molly."

"Nothing's wrong with it," she replied with an innocent shrug. "You looked as though you needed saving."

As those words sunk in, Sherlock's expression broke into a smile; he took her hand and bent his head to whisper in her ear.

"I adore you, Molly Hooper," he murmured, causing a spike of arousal to course through her, which – given where they currently were – she fought to tamp down.

"Did William go down okay?" he added, interlacing their fingers and starting to lead her out of the room.

"Mm-hm," she replied, leaning into him slightly. "John said he'll be up there until about nine and will keep an eye. I said I'd take over after that, and watch Rosie, too."

Sherlock glanced at his watch.

"Sooo…an hour," he said, pursing his lips.

Molly narrowed her eyes.

"Uh huh…" she replied, cautiously. She could feel Sherlock's thumb caressing the back of her hand.

"It's a pleasant evening," he said. "How about we get some fresh air? I believe my brother has some very rare Japanese asas somewhere out in that garden of his."

Sherlock tugged at the tie around his neck, making a satisfied noise as he pulled it from his shirt and stuffed it into this jacket pocket.

Molly snorted, squeezing his hand.

"Since when do you have any interest in horticulture?"

"Right now I'm interested in anything that will put a comfortable distance between me and the world's most boring wedding guests," he replied. "They're all too tedious for me even to waste time on deducing. At least John and Mary's wedding had a vengeful photographer."

"I think most people here are more likely to die from natural causes," Molly smiled. The average guest actually made Sherlock's parents seem very youthful.

Sherlock smiled, taking her hand to help her down the few steps into the garden.

"You're picturing them on the mortuary slab right now, aren't you?" he said. "Wondering what interesting things you might find if you carried out their post-mortems?"

Molly grinned.

"Got to keep my hand in while I'm away from work," she replied.

The gardens at the back of the house were vast and beautiful, at their peak in early June. It was still light, the sun low, and a still-warm breeze softly fluttered her wrap and the hem of her dress. Molly couldn't begin to imagine how much effort went into maintaining the grounds – although she was fairly certain none of that effort would be Mycroft's. The four adults at 221 could barely keep on top of the postage-stamp-sized lawn at the back of their own home.

"You know, I thought that John might, um, bring someone with him today," Molly ventured, looking at Sherlock for his reaction.

He frowned, his brows arching up in the middle, the corners of his mouth turned down.

"He did bring someone with him."

Molly rolled her eyes, even though he wasn't likely to see it.

"I mean other than his two-year old daughter, you pillock," she replied, smiling. "A date."

This time Sherlock glanced down at her as though to check she wasn't having a psychotic episode.

"What date?"

"I dunno," Molly replied. "I just thought…lately I thought that he might be seeing someone. Haven't wanted to ask, though, in case it's nothing…or in case he thinks I'm…I don't know…prying."

Sherlock looked off to one side for a moment.

"Seems a bit soon."

Molly had anticipated that he would react like this if she mentioned it, but at the same time she felt she needed to prepare Sherlock for the possibility.

"Mary's been gone nearly two and a half years, Sherlock," she said carefully. "To you and I it's probably flown past, but…it's a long time to…be on your own."

She saw Sherlock swallow.

"I thought…" he began. "I had hoped that coming back at Baker Street might help he and Rosie to feel…less on their own."

Molly felt a surge of affection for him at that moment; anyone who claimed that Sherlock Holmes wasn't capable of compassion and empathy didn't have the first clue. His friends came first, always.

"Yeah, and I'm sure that's helped a lot," she said softly. "But…I don't know…sometimes a person needs something more, Sherlock. I did. I think you did, too."

He turned to look at her, the intensity of his gaze confirming her assumption.

"But for me there's only ever been you, Molly," he replied, his words and tone so sweet and boyish that it sent a rush of warmth to her chest. The implication was, she knew, that he couldn't contemplate loving someone else – and she couldn't either, not anymore, but still..

"I miss Mary," she said, playing with his fingers as they walked. "I loved her, she was my friend and…without her, without what she did, you probably wouldn't be here with me now, and William wouldn't exist…But you know she wouldn't have wanted John to be alone forever – she loved him too much for that. And he's not the type, either."

"So, you're saying he needs to be allowed to return to his ludicrous flirting?" Sherlock asked.

"When he's ready…yes," she smiled.

Sherlock heaved a gusty sigh.

"I hear what you're saying, Molly," he said. "But, really, it was incredibly tedious to be around, not to say frustrating in the extreme; the man could barely concentrate when there was an attractive female within a fifty-metre perimeter. It's a wonder we solved any cases at all when he was single."

When she looked up at Sherlock, Molly saw that behind the bluff was a softness, an attempt at understanding – if only for her sake at the moment. He knew now what it was to have eyes for more than just The Work - and that there were some distinct benefits to that.

As they walked further, hand-in-hand, the sound of the string quartet in the house began to subside and the other guests became indistinct silhouettes in the windows. Partially hidden behind some huge gardenias and rhododendrons, Molly realised that there was another small building up ahead.

"Oh, I had no idea there was a summerhouse!" she exclaimed, walking more quickly as they approached, pulling Sherlock along behind her.

"D'you think this leads to your brother's secret nuclear bunker?" Molly giggled.

"I'd guess at underground tunnel to the nearest French patisserie," he replied.

Molly tried the handle. Locked.

Before she had time to say anything, Sherlock had dug something out of his pocket and was working on the lock.

"You brought your lock-picker to your brother's wedding?" she asked, bemused (but at the same time weirdly turned on – she wouldn't think about that too closely).

"Of course," he replied, not taking his eyes off the lock. "Mycroft has dozens of locked doors and cabinets in his house – it's pretty much an invitation. He'd be disappointed in me if I didn't."

"Isn't this still just breaking and entering, though?" Molly frowned, doing nothing – she realised – to discourage him from his endeavours (Sherlock Holmes had well and truly corrupted her, it seemed).

"This is barely a lock," he replied in a mutter. "Our son should be perfectly capable of disabling one of these before his third birthday."

Molly opened her mouth to object to that suggestion, but before she could formulate her protest, the lock popped open and Sherlock stood back to let her in.

The summerhouse didn't smell musty as Molly thought it might – clearly it had been used (or aired) fairly recently. Instead of the rattan furniture that might have been expected, in the middle of the summerhouse was a heavy, antique desk with a chair behind it, indicating that Sherlock's brother did indeed work out of there on occasion. Molly wasn't even sure how he'd got it through the doors – she was just starting to wonder whether Mycroft might possibly have had the summerhouse built around his desk when she realised she was being backed up against it.

The fingers of Sherlock's right hand had interlaced with her left, his other coming up to rest at her waist. As Molly glanced up to query what was going on, the look on his face told her quite clearly that she didn't need to ask. He dipped his head to capture her mouth with his, the firmness of his kiss taking her by surprise and causing her to utter a little shriek; his resulting chuckle hummed through her body, as the hand at Molly's waist now held her more firmly.

Molly put a hand to his chest to steady them both, guiding Sherlock to softer, slower kisses (he had a tendency, sometimes, to go from nought to sixty within a few seconds). He pulled away momentarily to press kisses to her jaw, her ear, her neck.

"I missed you," he murmured, as Molly felt his hand travelling northwards from her waist. "Four nights in a twin room with John Watson, and all I could think of was this."

"Hope you kept your thoughts to yourself," Molly giggled, his hair tickling her neck.

They were back to kissing now, and this time Sherlock wouldn't be slowed in his efforts. With a small grunt of effort – mostly for dramatic effect – Sherlock lifted Molly onto the edge of the desk. He then popped his jacket button (another quirk she found weirdly arousing) and braced his hands on the surface to either side of her. Molly's arms wound around his shoulders, encouraging him closer, her fingers carding through the hair at the nape of his neck. She felt his knee nudge her legs slightly apart, allowing his thighs to settle comfortably - familiarly - between hers – oh yes, she'd missed this too.

Molly slipped off her shoes and hooked her ankles around Sherlock's knees to bring them even closer together, reaching up to slide his jacket off his shoulders, which he shrugged out of without breaking the kiss. Now his hands went to the sides of her face, allowing her the access to start working on the fastening of his trousers. She felt Sherlock chuckle against her mouth – it was, after all, confirmation that he was about to get as lucky as he thought.

"Wait," she said, hearing just how breathy she sounded. "Have you got…did you bring…?"

He stilled, his lips at the corner of her mouth.

"They're upstairs in the room," he replied, huskily. "What about in your bag?"

Molly shook her head, holding up her tiny yellow clutch bag as evidence.

"You're usually carrying something the size of a steamer trunk," Sherlock said, sounding almost irritated.

"Not to a wedding!" she retorted, adding with a sigh, "We should probably wait until we're back upstairs."

At that, Sherlock actually let out a moan.

"It's miles away!" he protested. "And we might wake up William."

What he meant, Molly knew, was that they would be in the same room as William, and Sherlock felt particularly squeamish about having sex with their sleeping son a few feet away. It made Molly wonder whether he'd accidentally walked in on his parents when he was young.

Sherlock's hands were on her thighs, the tips of his fingers having slid underneath the hem of her now-bunched-up A-line dress. He made no attempt to move them.

Molly sighed.

"Sherlock, I'm in the middle of my cycle – this is exactly the worst point for us to be having unprotected sex."

He didn't reply for a moment, his fingers tracing slow, idle circles on her thighs.

"Unless…" he began. "Unless…we don't care about that…?"

It took Molly a second to grasp his meaning, but when she glanced up at him, his eyes confirmed it.

"Sherlock, William is six months old – I'm not even back at work yet!" she hissed.

"Why are you whispering, Molly?"

"I don't know!" she blurted. "But have you also forgotten that our own wedding is in just under three months' time? That I could be throwing up on our wedding day? On our honeymoon?"

This seemed to give him pause for a moment, clearly considering the impact on the must-anticipated Sex Holiday (even though, with William in the picture, it would probably be less a holiday and more a stolen night in a central London hotel).

She watched a little frown appear on his face, saw him swallow. He cleared his throat quietly.

"But…we do want another child…don't we?" he asked, suddenly sounding uncertain.

Molly couldn't help but lift her hand to his face, bringing her thumb to rest on his cheekbone.

"Yes," she said. "But…you want to do this now? This isn't just because you don't want to go all the way to the house for a condom?

She laughed nervously, but immediately felt guilty when she saw that he looked a little hurt.

"That would be quite a long-term consequence to short-term laziness, I agree," he replied. "But no, Molly, while I may be extremely keen to have – frankly long-overdue – sexual intercourse with you, I would also be very happy if it resulted in another addition to our family. If you agree, of course."

He lifted her hand to brush his lips across her knuckles. Molly let out a puff of breath, her other hand braced around his bicep. She could feel that he was waiting on her response.

"Okay," she said finally, quietly.

She saw Sherlock blink.

"Okay what?"

Molly's face broke into a smile, which barely conveyed the pleasant swarm of butterflies that were invading her abdomen.

"Okay, we should get started on baby number two," she said, simply, linking her fingers with Sherlock's. "Although this time you have to share the parental leave with me, because I do want to go back to work sometime before I'm forty – and preferably before I forget everything about my job."

A small smile played on Sherlock's lips.

"Are we…negotiating?"

Molly raised an eyebrow at him.

"Well, you forgot to bring a condom and I'm the one who has to give up my body for nine months, so…um, yeah, we are," she smiled.

Sherlock dipped his mouth to hers again.

"Do you want it in writing?" he asked, when they broke the kiss.

"I can probably ask for it on audio," Molly replied. "I'm pretty sure your brother has even his own summerhouse bugged."

Sherlock's pupils slowly began to dilate as he took in this information – presumably at her willingness to proceed, home surveillance be damned. Molly saw them further dilate to the point of inky blackness as her fingers toyed with button of his suit trousers.

Her other hand found the back of his neck, drawing his face down to hers. Molly's lips paused at his ear, and she noted with a little smugness her ability to make him shiver despite his dominant position.

"Well, then, Sherlock Holmes," she whispered. "It looks like the game is on…"

THE END

There is the possibility of a sequel at some point – would genuinely like to know what everyone thinks it should include (partly because my brain is too tired to do this for me!)…