“If we were meant to be, we would have been by now.”

a little insight into those three years Sherlock was away destroying Moriarty’s web and Molly dealing with her pregnancy

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.

“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.

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…

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.

tweaked a lot from my original (x)

he may not be a hands-on uncle, but hell, he loves his wittle nephew ♥