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Chapter Text

"Lestrade's son is getting married."

Sherlock waves the pair of invitations over his head so John can see them and (as expected) snatch up the one addressed to him with a huff of annoyance. "The bride-to-be is Greek, judging by the name on the return address," he continues as John rips open the envelope. He of course hasn't bothered; why open an invitation to a wedding he has no intention of attending? It would be a destination wedding, probably in Greece if not in Australia, where Lestrade's son had settled after his parent's rather contentious divorce ten years prior.

A conspicuous silence from John brings his attention to his flatmate; he's frowning over the opened invitation, brow wrinkled in the way it does when he's particularly troubled (or confused) about something. "Problem?"

John jerks his head up, staring at Sherlock as if he'd completely forgotten his presence. He makes a ghastly attempt at a smile. "No, no problem," he lies - interesting, why is he lying? - before crossing back to Sherlock's side and plucking the second invitation from his fingers. "Not going to attend, I'm guessing? No? Good, I'll just-" he gestures vaguely toward the unlit fireplace, hesitates, then makes a rapid exit from the room. "I'll just toss this for you," he calls over his shoulder as he hastens up the stairs to his room.

Interesting. What about the invitation has John so spooked? Not the usual level of mystery he's inclined to investigate, but what the hell. Things have been quiet lately, and he's sure Mrs. Hudson would appreciate him snooping in John's room rather than, say, shooting a smiley face into the wall.

Sherlock waits until John hurries back down the stairs, pausing on the landing to oh-so-casually call out that he has an errand to run, then waits a moment longer until he hears the front door slam shut. Then he shoots to his feet and peers through the window, taking care not to be seen as John casts about for a cab.

As soon as his flatmate (and, difficult though it is to believe at times, best friend) enters the (third) cab he manages to flag down and vanishes down Baker Street, Sherlock dashes up the stairs two at a time until he reaches John's bedroom. Picking the lock is child's play, and proof that John hasn't taken the invitations with him, else why bother locking the door? Within seconds he finds his, stashed under John's neatly folded (all white, the man is dead boring when it comes to things like socks and shorts) under things.

He takes it down to the kitchen, keeping an ear out in case John realizes his mistake and comes back to the flat, and starts the kettle boiling. Carefully he steams open the envelope, after first making certain his personal supply of stationery glue hasn't dried out (he hasn't had cause to use it for almost six months), and slides out the invitation, bypassing the usual deductions of the quality of the paper and likely amount of money spent on it.

Instead, he immediately reads the embossed invitation, eyebrows rising in astonishment at the name of the bride-to-be.

Rosamund Mary Morstan.

No. It can't possibly be...her. She's far too sensible to marry a man half her age, isn't she? But the mother's name is shown as Mary Morstan, no father's name listed...and Sherlock feels his heart lurch in his chest and his knees go just wobbly enough that he gropes for a chair and sits heavily in it.

The Rose Morstan he'd known twenty years ago had never done or said anything to indicate that the name she'd given him wasn't her own. But then, he'd been young and high and willing to take her at face value, uncaring if Rose was a pseudonym or her own name or a variation thereof. Variation, he now deduces, still feeling more than a little dazed. Rosamund Mary Morstan, now with a name-alike daughter.

A daughter who is getting married to Detective Inspector Lestrade's son. What are the odds that the girl is approximately twenty years old, less, say, nine months? Oh, his devil-may-care Rose, is this her way of obliquely letting him know that he has a daughter as well? But why the return address under the name 'Leto' - OH!

He springs back to his feet, snatching up his mobile and rapidly entering the name and searching for its possible meanings. "Leto," he reads aloud, "Greek, meaning 'hidden' or 'woman'."

Or, in this case, hidden woman. An admiring grin splits his lips; that's his Rose, he thinks fondly, clever enough to offer him multiple mysteries to solve at the same time.

In his excitement and, frankly, nervousness at the idea of meeting a grown daughter he's only just found out about, he completely forgets John's own odd reaction to the invitations. He thrusts it back into the envelope and bellows down the stairs to Mrs. Hudson that he's leaving for an extended period of time on a case, then rushes to his bedroom and digs his suitcase out from under his bed. The wedding is in less than a week; just like Rose to wait until the last minute to invite him, he thinks abstractedly as he pulls his best suit from the wardrobe, along with a selection of shirts and socks and underclothes, his shaving kit, toothbrush, whatever else he needs - focusing on the needs of the moment to still the nervous fluttering of his heart.

He's a father, how could he have not known, why had she waited all these years before telling him? Yes, their affair had been short-lived (explosive and passionate but definitely nothing meant for the long term, they'd both known it even before Mycroft had shown up to drag him off to rehab), and he certainly has no interest in rekindling things at this late date (he pushes aside thoughts of the new pathologist as St. Bart's and how his heart tends toward a different sort of fluttering in her presence), but why tell him now? Was he to be Rosamund's wedding present, a surprise from her mother to make her special day even more special?

He has the vaguest of ideas that a surprise like that would actually be more of a bad idea than a good one, but he's not about to question how Rose does things; she never was one for conventional, well, anything, he thinks in fond remembrance.

oOo

By the time John returns, barely an hour later, Sherlock has already left, and in his relief he forgets to make sure the invitation is still where he'd stashed it. Instead, he hurriedly packs his own suitcase and rushes right back downstairs to let Mrs. Hudson know that he's going to be gone for some undetermined period of time due to a family emergency (allowing her to faultily believe it has to do with his sister Harry).

It's not until he sees Sherlock boarding the small launch heading for the island where Mary Morstan now lives that he remembers that blasted second invitation and curses that particular oversight. "Following me, are you?" he demands.

Sherlock being Sherlock just looks down his nose at him "Hardly," he sneers. "I was invited too, after all " He gives John the fakest of fake smiles. "Wouldn't want to disappoint Giles, after all."

"It's Greg, you git," John corrects him, still suspicious. "I thought you told Mrs. Hudson you had a case."

"Hmm, yes, the case of the disappearing flatmate," Sherlock replies. "Mrs. Hudson called to tell me you were visiting your sister, and in light of our mutual absences she was having the building fumigated." He waggles his mobile accusingly. "I had no idea Harry was invited to Daniel Lestrade's wedding."

They've been so involved with their argument that the new voice catches them both off guard. "Oh, are you here for the wedding, too? Friends of the groom, I take it?"

Both John and Sherlock look him over and dismiss him in one glance. Still, he persists. "Hullo, I'm David, David Greene." He beans at them both impartially. "I'm an old friend of the bride's mother, haven't seen her in ages, was pleasantly surprised when I got the invite."

One look at his hopeful, eager expression and John knows, he just knows, that this..this..wanker is Mary's rebound boyfriend, the one she ditched him for after that disastrous phone call with Sarah Sawyer.

He has enough to deal with at the moment so he focuses his growing irritation on Sherlock. "Is that really why you're here, as a friend of the groom's side, or are you just sticking your nose where it doesn't belong?" he demands.

Sherlock studies him through narrowed eyes, and John's irritation grows. "Oh no you don't," he growls. "Stop deducing me."

"Interesting," Sherlock breathes, and with a sick feeling in his stomach John realizes it's too late; he's already been deduced. "The question isn't what I'm doing here, it's what are you doing here?" He takes a step closer, scanning John as intently as any suspect in a murder case. "So, John, care to tell me how you know Rose Morstan?"

Chapter Text

Mary's welcoming smile vanishes as she watches the three newcomers disembark from the launch. Dear. God. She recognizes all of them, but still can't bring herself to believe her eyes.

She's staring at three men she hasn't seen in twenty-one years - no, strike that; twenty years and three days shy of nine months. Is that why Rosie set her own birthday as her wedding date? Was she planning this all along, to invite these particular three men, hoping to discover which one had the biological right to walk her down the aisle? (There's no questioning how she found out about them in the first place; apparently that clever hiding place for the thumb drive holding her mother's video diary wasn't so clever after all.)

There's David Greene, CPA (no, she hasn't kept track, but it's what he was studying for and solid, dependable David was never going to suddenly change his mind and become a card sharp or circus performer or even a solicitor, bless him; he hadn't the imagination for any of that). He's grinning broadly at her with only a hint of uncertainty in his eyes. Standing next to him is Sherlock Holmes, world famous consulting detective (no need to keep track of a man who's regularly in the news), and next to him…

Next to him stands John Hamish Watson, physician and former soldier. The man she once mistakenly believed would be the only man she'd ever love, the only man she'd spend her life with, the only man she'd ever be with. (Have sex with, no need for childish evasions, Rosamund Mary Morstan, she silently chides herself.)

Well, two out of three wasn't bad.

"You weren't expecting us, any of us."

It may not take a deductive genius to figure that out, but he's the one who speaks. John simply nods, as if he expected that to be the case, while David's face falls as she shakes her head. (No surprise there, she hadn't exactly bedded him for his brains.)

"The invitations came from Rosamund, correct? AKA Leto, the 'hidden woman'."

Still Sherlock; that man never did know when to shut up. She takes a (very brief) moment to appreciate her daughter's choice of nom de plume before responding, with an attempt at lightness: "Yeah, Rosie must have sent them out without telling me. She does love her surprises." One look at John's face and the laughter dies in her throat. God, even after all these years that man does things to her. "It's um, it's really good to see you all."

She means it, even though she knows things are about to get extremely awkward; it's obvious that both John and Sherlock have figured out the truth behind Rosie inviting them, but David, poor lamb, is absolutely clueless.

She'd love to leave him that way, but it's far too late for that. Still, with any luck she can manage some sort of damage control before Sherlock puts his foot in it - or John, who is obviously holding himself under tight control, finally loses the temper she's clearly trying not to loose. She tries to take David's arm, suggests to all three that they take things somewhere a bit more private but apparently all John needed to trigger him was the sight of her touching another man. Later, she'll feel the tiniest bit happy that he still cares enough for her to react with such ferocious jealousy, but not now.

Not when he's muscled his way between her and David and stands glowering at her. "Are you fucking KIDDING me?" he growls. "You not only threw me over for this wanker, but slept with my best friend as well?"

Oh, that is NOT going to stand! John Hamish Watson does NOT get to act as if he was the innocent babe-in-the-woods taken in by the wicked slag! The Mary Morstan he'd wooed and won and then abandoned was a far cry from the woman she'd grown into since then. "Since you only met Sherlock, what, five years ago? he was hardly your best friend at the time you ditched me in Brighton to run back home to your fiancée!"

An indrawn gasp and murmur from somewhere behind her brings her back to her senses. They're attracting a small crowd - a few dock workers she knows by sight, the crew of the launch, a few tourists she hopes to God aren't wedding guests she hasn't met yet. "Can we please take this somewhere more private?" she says through gritted teeth. They'll be the talk of the entire island within twenty minutes but there's nothing she can do about that now. "Come up to the hotel, all of you, or get back on the damned launch and go home, I don't care which!"

John doesn't answer her but he neither does he stop her when she heads for the hill leading up to her sad little run-down hotel. Fury, humiliation, and disgust lend wings to her feet; she doesn't realize just how quickly she's moving until David, half-jogging to catch her up, reaches for her arm. She yanks it away, in no mood for being reasonable, but slows her furious pace when she hears him panting for breath. The hills, she concedes, are very steep on her island home.

"So, sorry Mary, but I just want to make sure I understand," he says, his voice tentative. "You didn't invite us, your daughter did?" She nods, not looking over at him - but unable to keep her ears from straining to hear if anyone else is following. She thinks she hears at least one set of footsteps but David is still talking so she can't be sure. "And she's - her father is -"

This time when he grabs her arm, she allows him to swing her round so they're facing one another. "Her father is one of you three," Mary tells him in a flat voice. "I slept with all three of you in the span of about two weeks and I have no idea which one of you is Rosie's father. I didn't tell you because I didn't know I was pregnant until after I broke things off with you and left for Greece." She cocks an eyebrow at him. "Happy, now that you know the whole sordid truth?"

To his credit he neither flinches at her cold tone nor backs away when she crowds into his personal space in order to give him a challenging stare. "I'm sure you had your reasons," is all he says, but the hurt shines through when he adds, "although I really wish you'd told me after you found out. We could have had a paternity test done, I'd have been there for you even if it wasn't, even if -"

"Even if one of us was the father?" Sherlock's voice, of course. Mary shakes her head and makes as if to start walking again, but stops when she sees John out of the corner of her eye. He's standing behind her, arms folded across his chest, and she can feel his anger and what she fancies is disgust rolling off him in virtual waves. "Very noble of you, Darcy."

"David!" he interrupts, but of course Sherlock just steamrolls over him.

"Very noble indeed. But if Rose wanted us in her daughter's life, she'd have reached out. So clearly, she did not. I know why she wouldn't want to tell me - I'm hardly father material now, let alone during my drug using days - and it's quite obvious that you were more in love with her than she was with you, another no brainer. But John?" He swings round to face his flatmate with a sneer. "Cheating on your fiancée, stringing Mary along? No wonder she dumped you for me."

The punch is untelegraphed but not unexpected, at least not to Mary; she's always known John had a temper. Apparently time hasn't smoothed off all his rough edges. He catches Sherlock just under the eye, missing the nose by a millimeter only because the taller man manages to duck away in time. David lets out a bleat of shock, grabbing for Mary's arm as if to pull her to safety, but she easily avoids him, instead shoving herself between the two men before it can devolve into a full-on fist fight.

Thankfully they'd reached a spot just outside of town before everything went pear-shaped, but it won't be long before someone chances across them. She shoves, hard, at John's chest, staggering him, and grabs a fistful of Sherlock's collar when he makes as if to lunge at the other man. "Stop it, both of you!" she demands, shaking Sherlock a bit before letting him go. "Look, I'm sorry I didn't tell any of you but frankly I'd had enough of all of you by the time I found out I was pregnant and was determined to raise my baby on my own. Which," she adds, raising her voice just a bit when John seems about to voice some (doubtlessly rude) comment, "I have done quite well, thank you very much!"

She glares at each man in turn; David looks abashed, Sherlock haughty, and John mulish. Still, they're listening and that's as much as she can ask at the moment. "Now," she continues, "my hotel is just up that way." She points up the path. "The offer still stands: you can stay or you can leave; you can meet Rosie or contact her at some point in the future if you want to - hell, you can all submit to paternity tests for all I care. But I am going back to my hotel and I am having a drink from a very expensive bottle of whisky I've been saving for a special occasion and, God help me, this occasion is very 'special' indeed."

This time she refuses to slacken her speed, even with David's plaintive "But Mary!" ringing in her ears.

She dashes away a few angry tears as she veers off the main road and onto one of the winding side-paths, one that will get her back home a few precious minutes sooner than her three unwelcome blasts from the past.

She's going to need those minutes for that drink, and to find Rosie so they can have a few words in private about boundaries and privacy but most of all about not meddling in things you know nothing about.

Chapter Text

Rosie is very conveniently nowhere to be found when Mary finally emerges from their private rooms - but unsurprisingly her mother's two best friends are waiting to ambush her on the terrace. They drag her over to a secluded corner; Janine plonks a bottle of Ouzo and three glasses on the table, fills them, then points to a chair. "Right," she says as Mary grudgingly takes a seat, "out with it. What's with the three blokes you had a blow out with on the docks?"

"I know them," Molly says, staring owl-eyed at Mary. "I mean, not all of them, but I know John and Sherlock, they work with Greg, they come into St. Barts all the time. I didn't know they were good enough friends with Greg for him to invite them-"

"He didn't," Mary says, taking a long sip of her Ouzo. "Rosie did."

Both women give her quizzical looks. Mary sighs; there's no point in hiding things from them, not now. "You know how I told you that Rosie's father and I weren't together and never would be?" They both nod. "Well, what I didn't tell you was that I wasn't actually sure who her father was, that there wasn't just one man in my past...but three."

Molly very slowly lifts her glass and downs her drink in three large gulps. Janine grins and raises her own glass in a salute. "Wicked girl, well done, you! Keepin' a secret like that all these years, from us no less!" She leans forward conspiratorially. "So, dish. Which one's best in bed? I'm betting it's Sherl, although he's so pretty he might be too vain to make sure a girl gets what's comin' to her, if you know what I mean." Her eyes sparkle with delight.

Molly's reaction is a slight blush that might be embarrassment at Janine's brashness, but despite her own (understandable) self-absorption at the moment, Mary immediately realizes the truth of the matter: Sherlock Holmes is the man from back home that Molly's mentioned being interested in. The one she asked out for coffee who instead gave her his order and left her standing there like an idiot. She'd never said who he was, heavily implying it was a coworker, but Mary is an expert at reading between the lines.

Making a mental note to find out if Sherlock really is as clean of the drugs as he claims to be, she turns her mind back to the subject at hand as Molly says, "So Greg didn't invite them, but surely you knew that he worked with them? You've talked to him about being a detective inspector, haven't you?"

"I'd heard of him, yeah, but I had no idea he was Danny's father until he arrived yesterday," Mary admits. "They've only recently reconciled and I thought Danny was Australian by birth." Serves her right for not investigating his past, but she'd promised Rosie, which in retrospect had been a Really Bad Idea.

Molly is clearly still trying to come to grips with this revelation. "So they're here because the three of them, at least one of them might be, or is, actually…"

"Rosie's father," Mary confirms glumly. "The little shite sent them invitations on the sly."

"But how did she figure it all out?" Janine asks, taking a vigorous swig of her drink.

Both of her friends are breathless with anticipation; with a sigh, Mary shrugs and takes an equally healthy gulp of her own drink before responding. "I think she swiped an old thumb drive with some very private files on it and made a copy."

Janine's eyebrows rise. "Rosamund Mary Morstan, don't tell me ya made sex tapes?"

Molly looks utterly scandalized; Mary shakes her head. "No, don't be ridiculous, Janine." Slyly she adds, "We both know that's more up your alley" and they both burst into laughter. Molly continues to look scandalized but also faintly relieved that this isn't about to devolve into a fight.

The three women have been friends since Rosie was born, when Molly was still in medical school and Janine was just starting out as a PA to that blackmailing snake Magnussen. (Taking him down had been an absolute pleasure.) They're as different to one another as any three people can be: shy, unassuming Molly who has no idea just how lovely she really is; brash, assertive Janine who knows exactly how lovely she is and lets no one forget it; and herself, Rosamund Mary with the shady past and trust issues and a history of running away when things get emotionally difficult.

Having Rosie put a stop to that personality trait, at least; she'd fallen in love with her daughter the instant Molly placed her in her arms, and would rather cut off her own head than do anything to hurt her perfect little golden-haired girl.

Even after she'd pulled such a despicable stunt as inviting Mary's past to her wedding, putting her mother on the spot and wreaking absolute havoc without a single consideration as to how disastrous a decision it might be.

Mary sighs again. "It's just a sort of video journal I made," she confesses. "Nothing scandalous - except for the part where I talk about the three blokes I slept with in the same month. Christ, I didn't even know Sherlock was, well Sherlock!" she exclaims. "Back then he was still going by his first name, William, and I was going by Rose because…"

Her voice trails off. She'd introduced herself as Rose to the wild, cigarette-smoking, drug-taking young man on the motorbike who'd offered to show her around London, because if Mary hadn't been good enough for John then she damn well wasn't sharing that name with anyone else. She'd had more than a bit of self-loathing at that time; is that something she can share with these two women, her closest friends in all the world, from whom she'd kept so many secrets?

Molly reaches out and lays a gentle hand on her arm. Janine does the same to her hand, squeezing it in encouragement. The mirth has gone from her face; she and Molly are so identical in their concern for her that she surprises them all - herself especially - by bursting into tears and throwing her arms around them. "I'm sorry," she eventually gasps out. "I'm sorry I never told you about them, about David and Sherlock and, and John." She can't help the catch in her voice as she says his name, but hurries on, hoping the others won't notice. "I knew you would never judge me, but I was so busy judging myself I couldn't bear to even think about it, let alone talk about it. And now they're here, they're all here and I'm just so...confused!"

Molly and Janine take turns murmuring soothing words to her, but it's Molly in the end who has the practical advice. "Well, there are such things as DNA tests. Surely the local hospital can run the tests? And if not, then we'll take care of it when we're back in London."

"David's already said he would have gladly submitted to a paternity test," Mary admits, wiping her eyes. "As for Sherlock and, and John, who knows?"

"Oh, don't worry about those two," Molly says with a rather alarming glint in her eyes. "They'll agree - at least, I'm pretty sure I can get Sherlock to agree, just by threatening to revoke his lab privileges!"

Mary offers her a watery smile. "Molly, you're a true friend, d'you know that? I wouldn't blame you if you, well, if you hated me a bit, right now."

Janine glances between them in puzzlement. "Why's that? What aren't you two telling me now?"

Before Mary can find some graceful way to backtrack - how could she have let her suspicions slip like that? - Molly gives her a rueful grin. "Should've known you'd figure it out," she sighs, giving Mary's arm an affectionate squeeze to let her know it's all right. "Mary's figured out I've a bit of a crush on Sherlock," she tells Janine. "He comes swanning into the morgue and the path lab as if he owns the place, causes all sorts of chaos, but he's just so...amazing. He's brilliant, and gorgeous, and his work with the police is absolutely, well, brilliant," she concludes, a deep blush spreading across her cheeks.

"Right so the consulting detective is off limits; from what I've seen of David I'd eat him alive; and John is clearly the one Mary's still head over heels for, so that leaves the yummy father of the groom for me," Janine says cheerfully.

"Sherlock barely knows I exist!" Molly exclaims, red-cheeked, at the same time Mary demands, "What makes you think I'm head over heels for John Watson? He slept with me while he was engaged to another woman, then dumped me!"

Janine raises her hands defensively. "Hey, whoa, ease it up, there you two!" She points one elegantly manicured finger at Molly. "I'm a tart in a tight skirt, Molly Hooper, but I'm no poacher. You saw him first, so he's yours whether he gets his head out of his arse and recognizes what a fabulous catch you are or not. And you," she swivels to face Mary, "if you're not still in love with John then I'm a monkey's uncle! I can see it in your eyes every time you say - or should I say, stumble over - his name."

She lowers her voice confidentially, even though the three women are alone on the hotel terrace. "Admit it, you hope he's Rosie's father, don't you. I mean," she adds, "it's pretty obvious that Tall-Dark-And-Cheekbones isn't, there's no way Rosie wouldn't have inherited that magnificent head of curls! No, it's much more likely to be one of the two blonds, and of the two, well, I think we all know which one you'd prefer to become sudden co-parents with."

Mary finds herself unable to refute her friend's (questionable) logic. Nor does she miss Molly's quiet exhalation of relief at the thought of Sherlock being eliminated from the equation. It would certainly complicate things if the man she's carrying a torch for also happens to be the father of one of her best friends' daughter! "I loved him," she admits quietly as Molly lays her head on her shoulder and tightens her hold into a comforting hug. "I had fun with Sherlock - William - and tried to make it work with David but John…" She lets out a heartfelt sigh. "I thought he was the one, and when he broke my heart I suppose it...it never really mended."

"Tell us about it?" Molly asks gently, and Mary nods, memory pulling her back to those blissful, turbulent days of her youth.

"We met at a disco, of all places…"

Chapter Text

June 1997

Deep (I'm Falling Deeper)* by Ariel is playing, the pounding beat thrumming through her blood and sending a rush of endorphins flooding through her brain. She's just turned nineteen; her gap year has become more of a gap-lifestyle as she explores various options for her future, possibly including uni and possibly building on her experience in the hotel industry. She's gained that experience through painful necessity, having moved in with her aunt after her mum buggered off a few years back.

She's never known her dad or even who he is, but hasn't really missed having a father, truth be told. She certainly doesn't care if she ever does meet the man who broke her mum's heart so badly she's never fully recovered.

Her aunt has A Past that also includes a former husband who's no longer among the living due to his contempt for living life inside the law. Not that either she or Mary are anti-man; in fact, it's due to her encouragement that Mary's out tonight enjoying herself rather than working - not to mention she's the one sending her niece off to Greece for a visit with some distant cousins later in the summer, despite it being their busy season.

"You need to live a little before deciding what to do with your life," she'd said when offering her the time off - well, ordering her to take the time off, more like it. "There's plenty of handsome young lads who can wait tables and change sheets," she tells her niece with a wink and grin. "And you should find one to have a little fun with while you're still young and carefree."

And so here she is, enjoying herself as ordered. She's spent the night dancing with whoever catches her fancy, but there's one bloke she's noticed, sitting at the bar, drinking and watching the crowd on the dance floor. He's not what she'd normally consider her type - very buttoned down, obviously not a dancer, stockily built with a crop of blond hair, almost militarily short - a lad on his way to the army, rather than the uni student she initially pegged him as? No, she decides as she deliberately dances closer to the bar, weaving her way expertly through the thronging crowd. Not an on-leave soldier. Uni student it is.

She’s caught his eye; he gives her a flattering once over and a flirty half-grin and she feels a jolt of...something. Attraction, yes, but something else. Infatuation, from a single shared glance? Not hardly, she scoffs to herself, but nevertheless continues making her way to the bar, stopping in front of him but still moving hips and shoulders to the music. “Hi!”

"Hi," he replies, the corners of his (blue) eyes crinkling adorably as he ups the wattage on his smile from 'flirtatious' to 'charming'. "Buy you a drink? I'm John," he adds, and Mary realizes with a shock that yes, immediate infatuation is definitely the cause of the fluttering of her heart and stomach. He isn't much taller than her, she notes abstractedly, and is actually rather more fit than he'd appeared at first glance.

"Mary," she says, shocking herself again by offering him her preferred name rather than her hated first name. True, Mary is simple, boring, ordinary, but it's far better than Rosamund or Rose, as her mother and teachers call her.

Called her, she corrects herself crossly. Mum's run off to the continent and teachers are a thing of her past until and when she decides what she wants to study at uni - if she decides to go at all.

"Mary," John repeats, his charming grin deepening. "A pretty name for a beautiful lady. What'll you have?"

She leans one elbow on the bar, giving him her most flirtatious smile. "Depends on what's on offer," she shoots back, back on surer ground now. There's no way she's letting him - John - know exactly how much he's already affected her. Keep it light, girl, she counsels herself.

She lets him buy her a strawberry daiquiri because she's in the mood for something frothy and sweet, and even coaxes him onto the dance floor. He's a terrible dancer, but not afraid to laugh at himself and when at the end of the night they play something slow he allows her to drag him back out. They sway together, lost in each other's arms, and when he rather sweetly offers to walk her back to her own place she almost says yes.

However, common sense tells her not to let him know where she lives, not after just meeting him, but she does give him a time and place to meet her the next day. Then she dashes out like Cinderella at the ball, leaving him standing alone on the edge of the dance floor.

* https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mccL_F52D1M

"What, you didn't even let him kiss you?" Janine interrupts in faux outrage.

"Nope, not till our third date," Mary replies with a wistful smile. "Dinner and a movie, then a stroll along the boardwalk, watching the moon rise…" The wistful smile becomes a wistful sigh. "It was so sodding romantic, and he was on his best, most charming behavior, how could I resist?"

"How long before ya stopped resisting the rest of his charms?" Janine asks with a suggestive waggle of her well-plucked eyebrows.

"Almost a month before I let him get into my knickers," Mary admits with a reminiscent grin. It fades as she thinks back to what happened after that momentous occasion. "He told me he loved me," she says quietly. "I told him I felt the same. And then…"

"I hope you didn't break up with him because he...well, I know he has a bit of a temper," Molly puts in anxiously. "Sherlock said he beat up a chip-and-pin machine once, although I'm pretty sure he was exaggerating for effect." Her doubtful expression belies her words.

"No, nothing like that," Mary rushes to assure her. "He was never violent toward me or any other woman that I know of. I mean, yeah, he did tend to be a bit shouty when frustrated and he wasn't afraid of getting in another bloke's face if they were being an arse, but he never so much as raised his voice to me."

Not until they'd met at the dock only a few short hours ago.

Brushing that ugly incident off as best she could, she dives back into her story. "No, it was a phone call that did it. His family had a vacation house and we were there, the morning after, when his mobile rang…"

1997

Honey honey, let me feel it, a-ha, honey honey
Honey honey, don't conceal it, a-ha, honey honey
The way that you kiss good night
The way that you hold me tight
I feel like I wanna sing when you do your thing

Mary rolls over sleepily, fumbling at the bedside table for her mobile. She squints at it, why does the ringtone sound off, and why is it coming from the other side of the - Oh, right, John's mobile is ringing, not hers. She grins and closes her eyes, snuggling back under the light blanket, basking in the afterglow of the most glorious night of her life when reality not only rears its ugly head, it reaches out with claws and fangs and proceeds to rip her heart to shreds.

"H'lo?" she hears John say. He slips quietly from the bed and into the en suite bathroom. "Yeah," he says before quietly closing the door. "Me too."

Mary's eyes fly open and she clutches the blanket as shock washes over her. No, it couldn't be, he wouldn't...maybe she's misreading the situation. It could be his sister or his mother; some guys can't say the words in front of other people no matter who they're saying it to.

So she pretends to still be asleep when he emerges about ten minutes later. He slides back into bed next to her and she stirs as if this action is what wakes her up. "John?"

"Hey," he says, putting his arms around her and planting a soft kiss on her neck just below her ear. "Sorry if the phone woke you, it was, uh, Harry, letting me know there's something...there's a family emergency. I have to head back to London for a couple of days. Would you...would you like to stay here til I get back?" He sounds hesitant, but she allows herself to be reassured by his question; if he wants her to be here when he gets back then the phone call must be exactly what he says it is. They make love for a second time, then she makes them a late breakfast while he takes another call on his mobile.

Another private call. But it's a family emergency, she reasons as she piles the dirty dishes in the sink. Of course he needs some privacy. His mum's a drinker, he's already told her that, and Harry might be a year or two older than him but from what he's shared with her his sister is a bit hopeless when it comes to anything important. Reading between the lines Mary has already sussed out that Harry's turning into as much of a drinker as their mother. So maybe the problem's with her instead?

Either way it's really none of her business she tells herself. He doesn't owe her any explanations; they've only known each other a month and even though he's said those three little words and she's said them back, it doesn't necessarily mean he's ready to spend the rest of his life with her.

On the other hand, he's been so open about his mother's drinking, and free with the hints and worries about Harry, that she can't help but feel as if he's deliberately hiding something from her.

She tries to keep her suspicions in check, but can't help noticing the furtive way he glances back at her before muttering another "me too" into his mobile and moving into the next room.

She's got a car, nothing fancy, but he accepts her offer to drive him to the train station with a smile and a kiss. She isn't proud of herself for this, but she manages to bump into him as he boards his train, 'accidentally' knocking his mobile out of his hand and substituting it for hers. He slips it into his jacket pocket without looking, kisses her goodbye, and then he's off to London and whoever 'me too' might be.

Mary waits until the train has pulled out, when it's too late for him to try to retrieve his mobile if he's discovered the switch, then walks back to her car and stares at his phone for a long moment before finally hitting 1471 to redial the last number called.

A woman's voice answers; her heart pounding in her chest, Mary asks, "Who's this?"

"Sarah, who's this?" the woman answers. "And why do you have John Watson's mobile?" She lets out a laugh. "Let me guess, he dropped it again. He's always losing the bloody thing, I told him, after we get married you'll have to let me carry it for you!"

Married. After we get married.

The words ring in her ear, drowning out whatever else the other woman, Sarah, is saying. Not only does John sodding Watson have another girlfriend , he’s got himself a fiancée ! She says something about leaving the phone at the Lost Property window, then hits the “end” button while Sarah is still talking and drops the mobile onto the empty passenger seat.

She doesn't really remember much of the drive or even deciding where to go, but isn't really surprised when she ends up at the boardwalk. Exiting the car she scoops up John's mobile, holding it in one hand as she numbly makes her way past the crowds of holidaymakers to a relatively quiet spot.

She leans on the rail and stares out at the ocean, wondering why she isn't crying. It's because she's furious, she decides, much more angry than hurt. "Fuck you, John Hamish Watson," she says, then hurls his mobile into the ocean, not bothering to see if it sinks or not.

She's done with caring about anything to do with him.

Present Time

"Oh that bastard."

Molly's expression is sympathetic, but Janine's - like her words - is full of righteous fury. "He strung you along for a month, until you slept with him, then buggered off back to London and his sweetheart? Then has the nerve to show up here, now?! Did he bring the wife and kiddies along too, to rub in your face, show you the life he stole from you?"

"Well obviously he never married her, or if he did, it didn't last," Molly is quick to point out. "I mean, he's living with Sherlock now - no, I don't mean living living with him!" Her cheeks are crimson, her eyes a bit panicky, but she ploughs on. "I mean, yes, there's lots of gossip and speculation in the tabloids, but John tells anyone who'll listen he's not gay, he always has loads of girlfr...uh, he goes on dates. With women." Her blush deepens, impossible though it seems. "Sherlock is always complaining - uh, saying," she corrects herself. "Not because he's jealous or anything, at least, I don't think that's it. I think it's more…"

"It's because John is insufferable when he's seeing anyone romantically," a deep, baritone voice cuts in, and all three women look up in surprise - well, not Mary; she knew he'd be the first one to seek her out.

"Hello, Sherlock," she says, breaking from the embrace of her friends in order to lean on the table and look up at him with a bright, artificial smile. "Please, fill us in on how insufferable John Watson is."

Chapter Text

He looks good, and, much like Janine, he knows it. He's wearing expensive leather shoes, an obviously bespoke suit, and a sinfully tight button-up - aubergine - but the wind ruffling his hair gives him a more relaxed air than the clothing would otherwise imply. "It disrupts the Work," he goes on in response to her encouragement, that last word clearly capitalized. "Dating distracts him and makes him, oddly enough, more snappish rather than less. You'd think a man getting a leg over would be happier in his conquests but apparently…" he glances at Mary, "none of them seem to quite come up to his standards."

He shrugs as if he's completely baffled but Mary knows exactly what he's getting at. Before she can make up her mind as to whether to be annoyed or pleased at the implication that John isn't over her, he offers Molly a brief greeting and flicks his eyes over Janine in that dismissive way he has of summing people up. Good to know some things haven't changed, Mary reflects, even as she bristles at him for whatever deductions he's made and is doubtlessly about to share with the group.

"This is Janine," Molly blurts out before Sherlock can say anything - keeping him, Mary notes with rising interest, from voicing those deductions out loud. "We've been friends with Mary since she was pregnant with Rosie, but of course you've already deduced that." She gives a nervous titter, which Sherlock frowns at, but he remains silent. Which is even more interesting, since it's obvious (to Mary, at least) that he has quite a lot he wants to say.

"Pleasure to meet you," is all he does say (obviously not meaning it, at least to Mary's ears). He accepts Janine's extended hand and gives it a firm, but brief, shake before returning his attention to Mary. "Might I have a moment to catch up with an old friend of my own?"

Janine and Molly both look at her; Mary nods and the two rise reluctantly to their feet, Janine ostentatiously downing the last of her drink before setting the glass back on the table. Molly gives hers a quick swipe around the rim with a napkin she's fished from her pocket-book, then sets it unobtrusively next to the half-empty bottle of Ouzo.

Mary's eyebrows rise as Sherlock settles himself into Molly's abandoned chair and reaches out for the bottle, pouring a splash of the Ouzo into the glass she cleaned and then sipping from it. He grimaces and sets it down, but Mary senses that it's important that he'd made the effort, and wonders if he's nearly as oblivious to Molly's charms as her friend seems to think he is.

Abruptly, without preamble, Sherlock speaks. "I've spent a very interesting half-hour with your front desk clerk. He was quite happy to show me pictures of you and Rosamund over the years." Not surprising, that; Ajay's been with her ever since she purchased the place with the money her aunt had left her after her passing ten years ago, and Rosie's had him wrapped around her little finger since their first meeting.

"Judging by the physical evidence of Rosamund's appearance, it's unlikely that I'm the father," Sherlock goes on, "but of course I'll submit to a DNA test." He raises his mobile. "I've already asked Mycroft - you remember my insufferable brother, yes? - to get Molly Hooper access to the local hospital to perform the tests. I should hear back from him soon."

"Tests, plural?" Mary inquires with a raised eyebrow. She wonders if the note of wistfulness in his voice at his dismissal of himself as a candidate for Rosie's father is real or imagined, but she is absolutely not fooled by the stiff formality with which he pronounces Molly's full name. She's important to him, and not just as some kind of asset to 'The Work'. She may not have spoken to this man in over twenty years, but she still recognizes an attempt at hiding deeper emotions when she sees them.

(If only Janine weren't as good at that as she was, then her friends would remain none the wiser about her own hidden 'deeper emotions' for a certain hot-headed, cheating, lying little hobbit of a man…)

As if reading her thoughts (or, more likely, her microexpressions), Sherlock says blandly, "Of course John will submit to a DNA test as well, and the over-eager Dickie has already made his willingness obv -"

"David," Mary corrects him, concealing a smile behind her stern tone. "His name is David and you know it, Sherlock. Stop being so passive-aggressive. He's a very nice man and I treated him very badly." She shrugs. "But then, I guess I treated you all very badly by not letting any of you know about Rosie or ever trying to find out which one of you is her father. But I had no interest in being a burden to anyone," she adds firmly.

"And of course you didn't exactly have the best role model when it comes to parenting," Sherlock says.

She simply nods her agreement, but can't help but be impressed that he's remembered that much about her. "I was determined to raise Rosie on my own, true, but I was also determined to do a better job of it than my mum had." She offers him a wry smile. "Not sure how well I've fared in that area."

"She's obviously well taken care of, feels confident enough of your continued love for her to search out her father on her own even against your own expressed disinterest in learning that truth at this late date. And she's a very clever young lady," he adds with something that sounds suspiciously like admiration. "Sending out the invitations without your knowing about it, using a coded name in the return address so we wouldn't know the name of the bride-to-be until opening the envelopes...clever enough," he muses, "that I question my original assertion that she couldn't be mine based on specious physical dissimilarities."

"Well you've swallowed a thesaurus or two since we last met," Mary laughs, feeling a bit uncomfortable now that her suspicions regarding his hopes that he might be Rosie's father have been confirmed. "You used to be a lot more informal, Sherlock - or should I call you William?"

He offers her a lop-sided grin and one-shouldered shrug, as if needing to balance one asymmetry with another. "Only if you want me to call you Rose. But," he leans back in his chair, visibly (deliberately?) relaxing his posture, "that would imply we were interested in a return to a past relationship we both know ran its course long ago."

"Yeah." They share a reminiscent smile, and Mary lets go of any lingering doubts as to her feelings for this man - or his for her. "We had fun, though, didn't we?"

"We did," he confirms, with a distant look in his eyes that tells her he's remembering that fun just as fondly as she is…

1997

They meet outside the London Blackfriars train stop, or rather, almost literally run into one another there; she steps into the street without looking and he nearly hits her with his motorbike. Luckily for them both they share quick reflexes and keen eyesight; he yells at her, she yells back at him, and the next thing he knows she's riding behind him, her arms around his waist as he takes her on a tour of a city she's only visited once or twice.

She tells him about the man who broke her heart; he pretends he doesn't care but in the few hours since he's met Rose he's reluctantly felt an affinity for her. She waves away the joint he offers at the pub where they've stopped for a drink and bite to eat, but doesn't stop him from lighting it or give any signs of disapproval as he smokes it. Point one in her favor; he has enough people in his life lecturing him and telling him what he's doing wrong and isn't interested in adding another to the list.

Point two is that she doesn't go on and on about the arsehole with the secret fiancée, just mentions it as her reason for being in London when she's supposed to be getting ready for a visit with some distant relations at some location he immediately deletes. Relatives are boring, holidays are boring, but Rose is...interesting. So he deduces her, as much to gauge her reaction as because it's almost an instinct for him to do so. Tells her about her absent mother and unknown father (offhandedly offers to find either of them if she wants, which offer she politely but firmly declines) and the older relative who'd taken her in. (Aunt rather than grandparent but that's just details.)

She tells him he's an arse; he nods agreement and takes another long, slow inhale of his joint. "Aren't you worried about being kicked out?" she asks, as he's taken no pains to hide what he's smoking.

He shakes his head. "Nah, the owner's a - well, not a friend, but someone who owes me a favor or two so he pretty much lets me do what I want. Within reason," he concedes, remembering the time he tried to shoot up at this very table before being dragged into a storeroom to 'poison y'self in private, y'daft bugger'.

He leans forward, planting both elbows on the beat-up wooden table top. "Do you know what you need, Rose?"

She mimics his pose. "What's that, William?"

Only half-seriously he replies, "A good shag to get over the wanker you followed here. Then, when you've been properly rogered by someone who knows what they're doing, then you find him and confront him. Or not," he adds with a careless shrug.

He's less than shocked when she looks him dead in the eyes and asks if he's offering or just observing.

He shrugs again, but his heart is pounding a bit harder at her challenging expression. "Personally if I was you I'd just bugger off to Finland or wherever it is you said you were supposed to be going and find another bloke to shag there but yeah, if you're interested, I'm offering." He gives her his most devil-may-care grin and she grins it right back at him.

"Got a place of your own, Posh Boy, or are you still living at home with Mummy and Daddy?" she asks, showing off her own impressive deductive skills.

So they end up in his dingy flat on Montague Street, and spend the rest of the night and most of the next day making love, eating leftover takeaway and just...talking. She's fascinating for someone who's lived her entire life in a boring place like Brighton Beach, working at a hotel and attending school and apparently making a habit of picking up the wrong types of men.

He counts himself in that category and is frank about telling her so. "Then who should I be picking up?" she asks idly as she sits back in her chair and sips her coffee. They're back at the pub he'd taken her to after that motorbike ride through London's most interesting (to him) sections, waiting for their fish and chips. The one fancy drink the place offers is a strawberry daiquiri, and he notes the way she recoils when the waiter offers it to her.

He orders a couple of pints of lager for them instead but for once refrains from commenting on her reaction, despite the way his mind is racing through the possible reasons for said reaction.

The first and most obvious is that it's a drink she shared with Arsehole Ex, but he can't rule any of the other possibilities out without asking her to confirm them and before he can do so… "Fuck!" he exclaims as the door to the pub opens.

Rose cranes her neck around to see what's got him obviously upset, but he says nothing, simply rises to his feet and glowers at the be-suited, brolly-clasping, obnoxious, over-protective ponce strolling oh-so-casually toward them. He stops at the table, favoring Rose with a distant but polite nod before turning his attention to… "Ah, Sherlock, here you are," he says, obnoxiously stating the obvious. "I suppose you know what comes next now that I've located you."

He nods jerkily, arms folded protectively across his chest, meeting Mycroft's supercilious look with a scowl. "Rose, Mycie, Mycie, Rose," he grinds out. "You have your arsehole, I have mine."

He realizes even as he says it that it doesn't come out nearly as sneering as he intends it to, but it's too late to take it back and Rose at least has the decency not to snicker at him. Mycroft's raised eyebrows are, however, as bad as any laughter would have been, and the git knows it.

"Say your goodbyes, little brother," Mycroft says. "The car is waiting outside. I've already informed our parents where you'll be spending the next ninety days. You'll enjoy it; it's on the Sussex Downs. I understand they have beehives or some such nonsense. Something you'll enjoy studying."

Rose gives him a long, considering look, then ostentatiously turns her back on him and rises to face Sherlock. "Sherlock's a good name, far more interesting than William," she says quietly. "Good luck at rehab." She rises on tip-toe and kisses him on the cheek.

He closes his eyes, not watching as she starts to walk away, then opens them in a flash as he hears the door open. "You already know the tells for a cheater," he calls after her, watching as she hesitates in the doorway. "Obviously you can also spot a reckless arse with no direction in life except getting high and having fun. Find someone the exact opposite of both and you'll avoid some of the mistakes you've made this summer."

She doesn't turn around, but she nods acceptance of his words and then she's gone, out of his life forever - or so he believes at the time.

The Present

"So, you mentioned Mycroft," Mary says, sipping the last of her Ouzo. "I guess that means the two of you aren't quite as, erm, at odds as you used to be?"

Sherlock shrugs and rolls his eyes. "I suppose," he says grudgingly. "And before you ask, it's three. Three times I went through rehab before it stuck. Then I found The Work -" there are those capital letters again, Mary thinks with amusement "- met Lestrade and eventually John…"

"And Molly," Mary interjects with a raised eyebrow. She notes the way his eyes flicker at the sound of her friend's name and she hides a quiet smile behind her hand under the pretense of rubbing her upper lip. "She never mentioned your name but I'm positive you're the arse who 'misunderstood' her when she tried to ask you out for coffee last year."

"Molly Hooper," Sherlock says, with immense dignity - and once again enunciating her full name as if invoking a deity - "is a useful contact at St. Barts, a colleague and occasional assistant in The Work and nothing more. The coffee thing was an actual misunderstanding," he adds with a glower. "No need for air quotes, Miss Morstan."

"Yet you trust her," Mary is swift to point out. "She says you had her text you test results, which means she has your mobile number and as I recall you weren't too keen on giving that out to anyone, at least not back in the day. Not only that, you said you'd have her run the DNA tests rather than just leaving it to the actual hospital staff here to do it."

Before Sherlock can protest her deductions, they're interrupted by the arrival of another of her past suitors - David, this time, looking apologetic. "Sorry to interrupt," he says, "but that chap at the bar, Ajay, I think his name tag said? He said you were out here and asked me to tell you that Detective Inspector Lestrade was asking after you."

He shakes his head and raises his hands apologetically as Mary starts to rise to her feet. "Oh, sorry! No, not you, Mary, him." He nods at Sherlock. "He said something about a case, I guess?"

Sherlock rises to his feet, giving Mary a lingering smile as he grasps her hand in (temporary) farewell. "Right, off to help your clueless soon-to-be in-law with whatever petty problem has cropped up here." But there's a sparkle in his eyes that belies his blasé tone, and Mary only has time to wonder if she should be worried about some kind of criminal case popping up on her sleepy little island home before he's turned on his heel and left.

Meanwhile, 3000 Miles Away In London

Mycroft reads the text a second time, then a third, reaching up to pinch at the flesh between his eyebrows. "Sherlock, Sherlock," he tuts, "how many times must I tell you that caring is not an advantage?" He sighs, opens up his laptop and does as his brother has requested, ensuring that this Doctor Molly Hooper is given access to the specified hospital and laboratory facilities, then presses "Send."

He hesitates, then opens a document he's had in his possession the past twenty years. He's not sure how his brother will feel when he discovers the truth Mycroft has known all along, but of one thing he's certain: After this, Sherlock's life will never be the same again.

Chapter Text

David stands before her, shifting nervously from foot to foot; with an internal sigh Mary invites him to join her. "I'd offer you a drink but I'm afraid it's gone," she apologizes, indicating the empty bottle. "But we could go inside and get something else, if you'd like?"

"No, it's okay," David rushes to assure her. "Unless you want to, of course. Whatever you want, Mary, is fine with me."

She quells a groan; same old David, always so willing to please, to do what she wants rather than voice his own needs. It's one of the many reasons they would never have worked out, and she wishes he'd got over her as easily as certain others from her past seem to have done.

"He always has loads of girlfr...uh, he goes on dates. With women."

She tries to ignore Molly's voice in her mind; she tries even harder to ignore Sherlock's and the flutter of hope it brings. "You'd think a man getting a leg over would be happier in his conquests but apparently none of them seem to quite come up to his standards."

Right now John Watson isn't the man she needs to be thinking about, it's David. Sweet, easy-going David, wearing his heart on his sleeve and his hopes in his eyes.

Hopes she needs to find a diplomatic way to quash, once and for all. She has absolutely no interest in rekindling that particular flame and needs to be very firm with him about that truth.

While she searches for the best way to tell David she's just not that into him, he asks an unexpected question, one she should have considered before now. "Am I - still invited to the wedding?"

"You are," she assures him, because he really is a nice man and it's possible he's Rosie's father. "You all are," she rushes to add, before he can read anything into her words. "It's Rosie's wedding, after all, she can invite who she likes."

"What about you, Mary?" he asks, his voice wistful. "You said it was good to see m- us," he corrects himself quickly. "Did you mean it?"

"I did." And she did mean it, still does; all three men meant a great deal to her at one time. "But the invitation allowed for a plus one; surely some lucky woman's snapped you up by now?"

"Oh, she did, and then dumped me when she got bored," David says with an attempt at casualness that Mary can see through like a pane of glass. "Divorced five years now, no kids...well." He grins, an awkward thing that just makes her feel even more sorry for him. "Maybe no kids. Only time and a DNA test will tell, eh?"

"Sherlock's got a brother in the government; he's going to get my friend Molly permission to run the tests at the local hospital," Mary tells him. With a wry grin she adds, "Trust me, he's the efficient type; even if we don't get the results back before the wedding, we'll still get them quicker than if we went through a private lab."

David's smile dims, and she can tell it's because she's talking about Sherlock. With a sigh she says, "Look, David, I know what we had was special, but you also knew even then I was nursing a broken heart and could never really give you mine. And I'm afraid it's still not mine to give away."

She surprises herself with that quiet admission, but it seems to do the trick; David's expression turns resigned, and he manages a sad smile as he says, "But we did have fun, that week in Paris, didn't we?"

She returns his smile. "Yeah, we really did."

1997 - Paris, France

The summer air was soft and warm
The feeling right, the Paris night
Did it's best to please us
And strolling down the Elysee
We had a drink in each cafe

- Abba, Our Last Summer

She doesn't quite know how she ended up here, in the so-called City of Love, but after leaving William - Sherlock, the name really does suit him - she'd headed once again for the train station. At the window she'd bought a Eurail pass instead of a ticket home and now here she was. She'd bought a new mobile and contacted her aunt, letting her know she was doing some additional travelling before heading off to Greece.

Her only comment had been "Have a lovely time dear and let me know if you need any additional funds."

She's contemplating a suitable thank you gift when she meets David, in an upscale gift shop. No more wild rides on the backs of motorbikes through the murky parts of town for her; she's doing the proper Tourist thing this time - the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, the Champs-Élysées and the Arc de Triomphe, booksellers and flower shops and sidewalk cafes. She has La Vie En Rose playing on her Discman, not entirely unironically, and has spent some of her earnings from working at the hotel on new clothes and even a chic Dior hat.

She's heard the term 'shopping therapy' but frankly it's not doing much for her. She picks up a foot-tall model of the Eiffel Tower, compares it to a delicately painted plate bearing the famed landmark's image, when both are nearly knocked out of her hands by someone bumping into her from behind.

She turns with a scowl only to see a mortified young man - English, definitely, by his stumbling attempts at apologizing in French - with his arms full of parcels trying desperately not to knock into anyone else while at the same time trying not to crowd into her personal space.

She's wearing one of her new purchases, a flirty purple and white striped sundress; she's colored matching purple streaks in her short blonde tresses and is wearing an enormous pair of designer knockoff sunglasses. He's wearing jeans and a t-shirt advertising a band she's only vaguely aware of. His short blond hair reminds her of a certain person she's resolved never to think of again but his smile is sweet and so are his continued apologies.

She takes pity on both him and his rather limited French vocabulary and tells him in English that it's fine. His eyes light up at her British accent, and she finds herself accepting both his apology and his offer of a cup of coffee to make up for his clumsiness. In another man she would suspect him of ulterior motives, but David's as transparent as sellotape. Yes, he certainly finds her attractive but no, he's not the type to deliberately set up a 'meet cute' with a girl he fancies.

Honestly, he's just not clever enough to come up with something like that. But he's nice, and he's actually pretty funny and eager to please and she agrees to meet him for dinner later that evening at a restaurant she's been dying to try.

She's tempted to find the nearest cybercafé to do a little research on him, but acknowledges that her paranoia is entirely due to he-who-shall-not-be-named. Instead, over their cups of overpriced cappuccinos she just...asks him. "Anyone special back home?"

He blushes and stammers out a "God, no!" and she believes him; he doesn't seem like he could come up with a convincing lie if his life depended on it.

They talk some more; he spends a great deal of time enthusing about his studies at the University of London - accounting, sounds boring to her but he seems keen enough - but is even more eager to hear about her.

As they get to know one another she finds herself recalling Sherlock's last words to her, as clearly as if he were standing beside her and saying them again. "You already know the tells for a cheater. Obviously you can also spot a reckless arse with no direction in life except getting high and having fun. Find someone the exact opposite of both and you'll avoid some of the mistakes you've made this summer."

David is certainly the opposite of both Sherlock and... him .

So she meets him for dinner and they go dancing afterwards and he's so blessedly ordinary, so sweet and eager to please that she impulsively goes back to his hotel with him at the end of the night. He's eager in bed, too, although not as challenging (or athletic) as Sherlock or as passionate and attentive as…as someone else. He's happy to go along with whatever Mary wants to do, both in bed and while taking in the sights of the city, and there's a niggling little inner voice that she tries to ignore even as it whispers to her that she's going to eat him alive if this ever turns into something more than just a holiday fling.

Three days later he tells her he's falling in love with her and she immediately returns to her hotel, packs up her things and makes her way to Greece and her cousins without a single word.

Less than a month after that she discovers that she's pregnant.

The Present

I was so happy we had met
It was the age of no regret
But underneath we had a fear of flying
Of getting old, a fear of slowly dying
We took the chance
Like we were dancing our last dance

- Abba, Our Last Summer

"I shouldn't have just left you that way," Mary says, able to admit to a truth she'd dodged most of her adult life. "I do regret not saying good-bye. But I panicked; I wasn't ready to hear those words, not so soon after John and I had broken up."

In fact, she realizes, Sherlock is the only one she'd actually left in a manner that didn't involve panicky running away. Mostly, she's self-aware enough to admit, because their leavetaking was taken out of both their hands by his brother.

"It's all right," David says, as expected. Mary bites back an annoyed huff; does the man not have an original thought in his head, does he have so little self-esteem that he can't conceive of being angry at her for having left him that way? For not telling him he might be a father?

He surprises her by seeming to read her thoughts in a very Sherlockian manner. "I suppose you must think I'm just a lovesick fool," he says with a sad smile. "But then, I suppose it takes one to know one."

She rears back a bit, but he reaches out and takes her hand in his, giving her a knowing smile. "You said your heart wasn't yours to give, but you've never mentioned a boyfriend or husband - or girlfriend or wife," he adds in a conscious attempt at appearing Modern and Open-Minded that Mary appreciates. "So unless I'm mistaken you're still pining after him, aren't you?

She nods - and then David, dear, sweet David, spoils his moment of Sherlockian deduction by adding, "Well, he's a good-looking man and a famous detective to boot; I can see why you never forgot about him."

She manages to turn her startled laugh into a cough, waving away his offer to bring her a glass of water. "No, it's all right," she gasps out. She manages a reassuring smile, easing his worried expression. "Thank you, David," she says, gently removing her hand from beneath his. "I'm glad we cleared things up between us. Now," she adds briskly, scanning the main part of the terrace, "is there anyone you'd like me to introduce you to? I know who came with a plus one and who hasn't," she explains with a twinkle in her eye.

David blushes. "Well, I had a feeling you weren't interested in getting back together with me," he confesses. "I did notice two women at the bar, a striking redhead who seemed to be chatting up the bartender, and a pretty little brunette in a red sundress...are either of them available?"

Mary briefly considers and then discards the idea of setting David up with Molly in order to light a fire under the (still scrummy) arse of a certain 'good-looking, famous detective'. David doesn't deserve to find himself yet again romancing a woman hung up on someone else. Not to mention that Molly, kind-hearted as she is, would definitely read her the riot act for doing so.

Instead, she tucks her arm through David's and says with a smile, "Janine has her eyes on the father of the groom and Molly is otherwise engaged, sorry. Let me introduce you to my cousin Meena, I know she's around here somewhere, how does that sound?"

"Sounds wonderful," David replies with a grin of his own.

Mary's smile widens; the more she thinks about it, the more the idea of introducing her recently divorced cousin to someone like David - a genuinely nice guy, unlike her arse of an ex - appeals to her. She squeezes his arm as they stroll toward the building. "Who knows, a holiday romance may be just what the doctor ordered!"

Chapter Text

"Danny! Danny!"

Daniel James Lestrade, aged 21 and a bit, turns and smiles as his fiancée comes running up to him. He's been swimming, relaxing and enjoying the day with his mates, enjoying their good-natured joshing about how he's giving up his freedom, but missing his Rosie as she runs about doing pre-wedding things with her bridesmaids. "I missed you too!" he laughs as she rushes into his arms and kisses him.

"Mm, yeah, missed you too but that's not - Danny, they're here! They actually came!"

He pulls back a bit, frowning. "They who?" he asks, then widens his eyes as the truth dawns. "Rosie, you mean you did it? You actually invited them? Why?"

It's her turn to frown and pull away. "You know why," she says lowly as she turns her gaze on the waves tumbling lazily onto the beach.

He's glad his mates have long since ambled off to other pursuits, preparing for his stag do later that night. He reaches out and draws Rosie back into his embrace, pressing an apologetic kiss to her lips. "Sorry," he says as he guides her over the rocks edging the bay. "Why don't you tell me about it, eh? Have you met them? Did all three of them come?"

They settle down onto a flat-surfaced stone, and he takes her hands as he makes sure to meet her eyes. They're a deep cornflower blue, just like her mum's, and her long blonde hair is blowing softly in the wind. She makes the same beautiful picture as the day he first laid eyes on her, on this very beach, near these very rocks. He'd been on holiday, setting up his towel near the pretty blonde he'd spotted, and she'd been busy tapping on her mobile but when their eyes met it was as if...as if destiny had chosen that very moment to bring them together.

He's not very good with words, but he'd shared that belief with her after their first night together and her radiant agreement had told him he'd made the right choice - in telling her, and, six months later, in asking her to marry him.

"Captain Ron picked up three passengers, guests for our wedding," Rosie says, sounding both nervous and excited. "He confirmed their names and I just - oh Danny, I couldn't believe it! They actually came, all three of them! David Greene, John Watson - and Sherlock Holmes." She's more than a bit starry-eyed as she breathes out that last name, which Danny can certainly understand; Sherlock Holmes and, to a lesser extent, his blogger John Watson are famous enough that he'd heard of them even before his recent reconciliation with his own father.

A reconciliation brought about in no small way by the beautiful woman sitting next to him. He knew she'd done it for her own sake as much as his own, but no matter what the motives the outcome has certainly been a good one.

So maybe, just maybe, this won't be the disaster he's been predicting it would be? "And?" he encourages her.

Her brow crinkles in a bit of a frown; uh-oh, maybe just a tiny bit of a disaster? He holds her closer as she continues, "I guess my mum was down at the pier to greet them and apparently there was, um, a bit of a row." She bites her lip, a habit she only slips into when she's really worried and trying not to show it. He's never told her about this particular tell, mostly because he'd rather know when she's hiding her concerns, and right now it just makes him want to hold her closer. To keep her safe, to protect her from harm and heartache - but in this case, there's nothing he can do to save her from the consequences of her own impetuous actions.

One Month Ago

Danny's working on the website for the Villa Rosa Hotel when Rosie slips into his room, closing the door quietly behind her. He turns and grins, expecting she's come for a bit of a snogging session, but her serious expression causes his grin to fade. "Rosie, you all right?" he asks, starting to his feet in concern.

She waves him back, then settles on his lap and twines her arms around his neck. "You know how I said I wanted to find my father?" she begins.

He takes her arms and pushes her back just enough to look into her eyes. "Rosie, we've been over this a million times!" he exclaims. "You don't need a father, you have a family!"

She raises an eyebrow at him, looking uncannily like her mother. "That's what you said about your dad before I talked you into letting him back into your life," she points out - quite unnecessarily, as he'd realized the moment the words left his mouth exactly what she'd say. "What's wrong with me wanting the same thing?"

"There's a difference between reconciling with a dad you haven't seen since you were ten - and finding out it wasn't because he didn't want to see you," he mutters, still more than a bit peeved at his mum for keeping them apart because she was afraid he'd prefer to live with him in England instead of with her in Australia. Which, he reminds himself, is all water under the bridge at this point. "There's a huge difference between that and trying to find a man who doesn't even know you exist. And how would you, anyway? You said your mum never talks about him, that you don't even know who he is -"

"That was before I found this," Rosie interrupts him, holding up a thumb drive. "I have to get this back before she knows it's missing. Can you copy it for me, please?" Her eyes are huge, blue, and pleading, and he's never been able to say no to her, even if he can tell this is a really, really REALLY bad idea.

Ten minutes later she's returned the stolen drive and borrowed his laptop in order to view the downloaded contents in the privacy of her own room - "In case there's anything super embarrassing on it," she says with a giggle. As if expecting to find no such thing from her mum.

Fifteen minutes later she bursts back into his room, this time not only closing but locking the door behind her. Then she rushes to the window, closes and locks it as well, and draws the curtains to boot. He's really concerned now; jumping to his feet he crosses the room to stand right in front of her. "Rosie? Is something wrong? What did you find out?"

Her eyes sparkling with glee, she says, "How would you feel if I had three men to walk me down the aisle at our wedding?"

"What?" he gapes at her, not understanding. "Who?"

"Where, when, why," she replies teasingly. Leaning forward, she kisses him. "My mum, I always suspected she had a bit of a past - I mean, how could I not?" She gestures at herself. "I'm here, mum's here, but no dad in the picture and she's always been very vague about anything to do with him - and now I know why!" She giggles again in pure delight. "It's because she doesn't know who it is either!"

Danny gapes at her again, this time understanding all too well. "So when you said three men to walk you down the aisle, you meant…"

"She was in love, but it turns out he was engaged to marry someone else," Rosie tells him. "So she dumped him and met another man, they had a wild weekend together but then he went off to rehab and she met a third man - in Paris, isn't that romantic? - but he was way more into her than she was into him so she left him and came here to spend the rest of the summer with my Aunt Meena and Aunt Ginny. Then she found out she was pregnant and it's just...wow!" she finishes in a rush. "Crazy, right?"

"Wow," Danny echoes, completely at a loss for words. "So," he tries after a few seconds of silence, "did she, ah, name names?" He'd seen that the files on the drive had mostly been a mix of docs and spreadsheets, but there had been a couple of video files as well. "Did she keep a video journal or something?"

Rosie nods, grinning. "Yup," she says, popping the p with relish. "And you're never gonna believe who two of my potential dads are!"

The Present

To say he'd been gobsmacked when she'd pronounced the names Sherlock Holmes and John Watson would be an understatement. At least he hadn't recognized the third name, that would have been way too much of a coincidence - and thank god his own father's name hadn't been one of the three! But no, if that had been the case, then Mary would have definitely put the kibosh on his romance with her daughter!

Rosie brings him back to the present with a sigh. "I was really hoping I'd be the one to meet them, but Captain Ron's radio was out again. Now Mum knows and I'm sure she's already figured out I stole that stupid thumb drive and copied it." This time she bites down on the edge of her thumbnail, a sure sign that 'worried' is turning into 'extremely worried'. "She's probably looking for me right now. Thank god I didn't tell Gwen and Stacy where I was going, she'd get it out of them without even trying!"

It's so very, very tempting to give her an 'I told you so' but Danny heroically bites his tongue. "Then maybe you should let her find you," he advises instead, pressing another kiss to her forehead. Her forehead is one of his very favorite places to kiss, right after her lips, cheek, ear, belly and...well. Other parts of her body. Which, he scolds himself silently, is NOT where his mind belongs at this moment.

"Yeah," Rosie agrees unenthusiastically. "I suppose you're right. But it's just…" She blows out another sigh and slips out of his arms in order to stand up and start pacing. "I had the image in my mind, you know? I'd greet them at the boat, and I'd know, just by looking at them, which one was my father, which one would walk me down the aisle at our wedding. Now I'm wondering if I should have just asked Aunt Molly to sneak some DNA samples from John and Sherlock for me instead!"

"My dad would call that water under the bridge," Danny reminds her. "And we both know what your mum would say," he adds with a knowing grin.

Reluctantly she returns the grin. "'It is what it is'," they chorus together, one of Mary Morstan's favorite sayings.

"Right," Rosie says, squaring her shoulders and glancing up the steep hill leading to the Villa Rosa. "Better get it over with."

Danny offers to go with her; she declines, as expected, and he kisses her good-bye and wishes her luck - and decides maybe he'd better talk to his father before he discovers the newcomers - and why they're here - on his own.

Chapter Text

I was an impossible case
No-one ever could reach me
But I think I can see in your face
There's a lot you can teach me

Molly watches as Mary escorts David across the terrace and out of view. They seem very chummy, so apparently their chat went well. As they head down the steps they pass Sherlock on his way up, who pauses briefly to speak to them. Mary laughs at something he says, David says something, then Sherlock smiles and steps aside so they can pass him.

As soon as they're out of sight the smile vanishes and he looks...sad.

Molly feels a pang of...she refuses to call it jealousy, even though she's a hundred percent certain Sherlock would never look sad about her for any reason. Does he still have feelings for Mary, she wonders? Is he thinking about the fact that he might be Rosie's father? Janine's right about their goddaughter not having any of Sherlock's looks about her, but that doesn't mean anything. Genetics can be tricky. Rosie's certainly very clever and observant, but so is Mary…

Shaking her head at the useless speculation into which she's fallen, Molly looks again at Sherlock. He's still standing at the top of the stairs, looking a little lost, at least to her eyes. She slips off her barstool, murmuring an excuse to Janine, who's too busy flirting with Ajay and the little semi-circle of admirers she's attracted to do more than nod an abstracted good-bye as Molly leaves the bar.

She threads her way through the growing crowd of hotel-slash-wedding guests to stop irresolutely behind Sherlock. Without turning around he says, "Problem, Molly?"

Of course he's noted her presence; he's Sherlock Holmes, noticing things is what he does. "Sorry, didn't mean to bother you," she begins, already regretting her impulse. "I'll just-"

"Just spit it out," he snaps, glaring at her from the corner of his eye. His fingers are twitching and she has a bit of an epiphany.

"I used to smoke," she blurts out, and he turns and stares at her. "Back in uni." She lets out a nervous titter, and gestures toward his hand. "You look like you could use - anyway," she hastily interrupts herself, "that's not what - I quit after my dad died. You're a bit like him." She closes her eyes in embarrassment. "No, sorry."

"Molly, please don't feel the need to make conversation," Sherlock says. "It's really not your area."

She feels herself cringing at his words - not that he's wrong - but soldiers on, determined to have her say. "When he was ... dying, he was always cheerful; he was lovely – except when he thought no-one could see. I saw him once. He looked sad."

She sees him tense. "Molly," he says warningly.

"You looked sad," Molly finishes in a rush. "Just now, after Mary left. Are you okay?'

oOo

Your smile, and the sound of your voice
And the way you see through me
Got a feeling, you give me no choice
But it means a lot to me

Sherlock manages to keep his surprise to himself. When had Molly Hooper become so observant? If she saw him (supposedly) looking sad from across a terrace full of people, what else might she have noticed about him?

It's not panic - he refuses to admit to any such sensation - that causes him to go on the offensive, or so he tells himself as he settles a scowl on his lips. "You never told me you knew Mary Morstan."

"I did so!" she insists, scowling right back at him - but allowing the change of subject. He's noticed that about her (one of many things he's noticed about her, he recalls uneasily) - she tends to stutter and stammer around him, and then, just when he thinks he's got her neatly categorized as timid and mousy, she reveals a backbone of purest steel. "Lots of times. You probably just deleted it or something. 'Do stop prattling about your friends, Molly,'" she says, voice lowered in a fair imitation of his most condescending tones. "'Unless this is one of them you're about to autopsy I can assure you I have absolutely no interest in hearing the tedious details of their boring little lives.'"

He winces a bit at that devastating bit of mimicry; John, he recalls, had scolded him quite harshly for it when Molly spun on her heels and marched into her office. Not because he'd brought her to tears; Molly wasn't the type to cry just because someone had said something crue-ah, a bit Not Good to her. However, he's positive she's never spoken about either a Mary or a Rose. "I thought her name was Meena, or Janine," he says with a frown.

"Janine is my other friend, the one Mary and I were sitting with," Molly replies patiently. "Meena is Mary's cousin, the one who got divorced from that cheating bastard Sebastian Wilkes last year, remember? John called it the Case of the Blind Banker," she adds, as if he needs reminding.

He bares his teeth in a savage grin. "Ah yes, the case involving my dear old uni pal." He hadn't been remotely interested in taking on Mrs. Wilkes' spousal infidelity case until she'd told him her husband's first name…at which point a 'one' had turned into a 'ten'.

Ugh, cases, he could certainly use one now - a real one. Lestrade had lured him away with the promise of one, only to turn around and grill Sherlock about his past with the mother of the bride. Word certainly had got around quickly, but then, gossip always did.

"Right, Sherlock, not a case but I knew it was the only way I'd get your attention," Lestrade had huffed when he'd demanded the details. "What's this about you an' John knowin' Rosie's mum? Rumor has it one of you might actually be the father of the bride, if you can credit it."

He laughs, as if inviting Sherlock in on the joke, but the laughter quickly dies when Sherlock doesn't offer the expected denial-and-deduction routine. "No," he breathes, staring at him. "You an' Mary, really? What about John, then? Didn't think you knew him back then."

"I didn't," Sherlock replies coldly. "But yes, apparently we are two of the three candidates for Rosamund's father, the third being a man called David Greene who arrived with us on the launch earlier today. I do hope you're not going to lecture Mary about her so-called questionable morals or demand your son call off the wedding because of this, Detective Inspector."

Lestrade's eyes had narrowed. "Ain't my business," he'd shot back. "Just tryin' to get my brain around the idea, is all." He'd let out a quiet little chuckle. "Always knew you were human, guess I just never realized exactly how human. Must've been a bit of a shock, yeah? How's John taking it?"

Fortunately they'd been interrupted by the groom-to-be, apparently in a rush to speak to his father about the very subject of their discussion. He seemed sharp enough; one look between Sherlock and his father and his expression had fallen. "Well, shit," he'd said. "How'd you find out already?"

At which point Sherlock had excused himself, leaving the two to their tête-à-tête as he went in search of the elusive Miss Morstan the younger.

Instead, he'd run into Mary and David, acting quite...chummy. He'd mentioned his desire to meet Rosamund, Mary had made some half-cheeky, half-exasperated comment that she, too, would like to speak to her daughter, David had added something Sherlock hadn't bothered to remember, and then...and then Molly had approached him and he'd realized that at least one of her boring friends had turned out to be not so boring after all.

Almost as not-boring as Molly herself, a sly voice (John's?) whispers in the back of his mind, almost drowned out by his brother's voice reminding him that caring wasn't an advantage.

Almost drowned out, but not quite. After all, he continues his internal debate, he'd never believed Molly was boring - nor, he insists to his inner Mycroft, was she someone he cared about.

Inner-John's voice blasts a loud "HAH" that makes him physically wince, causing Molly to ask if he was all right. "Fine, fine," he says. "Just...going over things in my mind palace."

Molly nods. "Right, that explains the buffering," she says cheerily. "Anyway, now you know who Meena is, and Janine, and Mary-well, of course you already knew Mary," she adds, once again flustered. Honestly, she's so inconsistent around him, no wonder he can never get to the bottom of her (his inner adolescent snickers and presents him with several lascivious images he does his level best to ignore).

"-want to talk," Molly is saying, oblivious to his internal discomfort, "I'm here. About cases, or, or Mary or Rosie - have you met Rosie yet?" she interrupts herself to ask.

"Not yet," he replies, relieved to be on somewhat safer ground.

Seriously? This time it's Lestrade's scoffing voice he hears. Talkin' about you possibly bein' a dad is safer than just admittin' that you find Molly extremely...

"Competent!" he practically yelps, then recovers, speaking in a normal tone of voice. "That's the key, must text Lestrade that the, er, perpetrator was definitely someone competent in their field." He plasters a pleased grin on his face to which Molly responds with a somewhat doubtful smile of her own. "Anyway, yes, Rosie, I haven't met her yet, just saw some pictures when I looked her up on MyFace or whatever boring social media site she uses."

His smile becomes fonder, more genuine as he recalls the laughing eyes and wavy blonde tresses of his maybe-daughter. In none of the pictures was she alone; always she was surrounded by friends or at the very least accompanied by Lestrade the younger. No pictures of Mary, of course, else he or John might have stumbled across their mutual ex's secret long ago. "She seems very outgoing."

"That she is," Molly replies with a laugh.

While they've been talking they've also moved away from the stairs till they find themselves at the farthest corner from the hotel itself, looking out over the ocean. Molly leans on the wrought iron railing (original, in sore need of repair as is much of the rest of the hotel; must make a note to Mycroft to deposit some funds in an anonymous account for Mary to access) and continues talking about Rosamund and the wonderful job Mary's done raising her.

Just as Molly is relating the details of the fraught night twenty years earlier when she'd delivered her very first (and only) baby into the world, the subject of said anecdote finally makes an appearance - and Sherlock is absolutely struck dumb at his first sight of her.

Molly, sensing his distraction, glances over her shoulder and greets her goddaughter with a smile and wave. "Rosie! Over here, there's someone who wants to - um, that I think you'd like to meet." She gives Sherlock's arm a gentle squeeze - of encouragement? He has no idea, but he appreciates the gesture. He watches with bated breath as Mary's daughter alters course and heads over to them, faltering a bit as she gets close enough to realize who he is.

Molly offers her the same arm-squeeze (definitely encouragement) as she wraps her other arm (protectively?) around the girl's slender shoulders. "Rosamund Mary Morstan, I'd like to introduce you to Sherlock Holmes."

Then she says something about...something and she's gone and Sherlock is finally face to face with the young woman he may or may not have fathered - and realizes with a feeling akin to panic that he has absolutely no idea what to say to her.

Chapter Text

He's the first of The Three (as she's taken to calling them) that she's actually met, and she's surprised at how nervous she feels. As if this grand mystery-adventure has suddenly become all too real. "Um, hi," she says as Aunt Molly gives her an encouraging squeeze and says something about seeing her later.

He seems to consider her greeting before repeating it back to her. "Hi."

They stand there in awkward silence for a brief moment before each speaking at once. "How was your trip?" "You look...well."

They both fall silent again, then make as if to speak and stop, Rosie with a grin, Sherlock with an 'after you' gesture. "How was your trip here?" she asks again.

Again he seems to consider his words carefully before answering. Again, he supplies her with a single word. "Eventful."

She cocks her head at this, purses her lips, and nods. "I'll bet. Wanna elaborate?"

This time he meets her grin with a reluctant one of his own. "Very eventful," he expands, and she giggles, not surprised in the least when his baritone laugh joins with hers. "So, Miss Rosamund Mary Morstan, may I ask what possessed you to invite such an unprepossessing trio as myself and my unwitting traveling companions to your wedding? Might you not have, perhaps, included home DNA tests with the invites?"

She can tell he's only half-joking about that, and immediately sobers, meeting his gaze square on. "I would have, but where's the fun in that? Besides," she adds before he can say anything, "I wanted to meet the three men who managed to win my mother's heart in such a short period of time. She hasn't really dated anyone since, you know."

He raises an elegant eyebrow. "No one?"

Rosie shakes her head. "Not since I've been old enough to notice, and Aunt Janine says she was too busy with me when I was a baby to even think about getting a leg o- uh, to even think about dating," she amends, winning another chuckle from Sherlock.

Sherlock Holmes. THE Sherlock Holmes, might be her father. He might not be at, say, Prince William level of celebrity but as far as she's concerned he's even better. Someone she'd actually like to get to know even without the potential genetic connection.

Right now he's giving her his undivided attention, scanning her - deducing her? Yeah, definitely deducing her, she recognizes the look from the descriptions in John Watson's blogs. Blogs she's only recently started reading (well, devouring) now that she knows what she knows about both men. "You're wondering about my relationship with John Watson," Sherlock says, and although she knows he isn't actually reading her mind, it certainly feels that way.

"Sort of," she admits with a shrug. Trying to look as if she doesn't care very much about that relationship, even though she really, really wants to know if any of the gossip is true. "I mean, not in the 'tell me what he's like' sort of way, because I'll find that out on my own pretty soon, but in the…"

"In the, 'it's really not my business but are my potential dads shagging one another' sort of way," Sherlock finishes for her when she falls silent, searching for the best way to express her thoughts.

He seems more amused than upset by his (correct, darn him!) deduction so she nods. "Yeah, that. So. Are you? Together? That way?"

"Although John would hasten to assure you that it's all good, he would also be the first to rather loudly and with a great deal of aggravation assure you that he's not gay and never has been. Nor am I," Sherlock adds with a shrug that indicates that no, he really doesn't care what anyone thinks about him. But he does care how his friend and flatmate is perceived, Rosie notes, because (reading between the lines) it's obvious that said friend and flatmate cares about such things a great deal. It's nice, knowing that they have the same kind of looking-out-for-one-another friendship that she and Gwen and Stacey have - and that her mother has with Aunt Molly and Aunt Janine.

"OK," is all she says. "So what else has the press got wrong about you two?"

He chuckles but obliges her by describing the life he and John lead together in London. She's always wanted to go there, to visit, but her mother has always steered their vacations away from England. She'd even encouraged Rosie to attend uni in Australia rather than anywhere in the UK. (Rosie still finds it ironic that she'd met Danny here rather than there, despite them both attending school in the same city.)

She tells Sherlock about that, fills him in on the broad strokes of her life so far, and listens greedily to the stories he has to tell about his own life. "Your mother was right never to contact me before now," he says abruptly, right in the middle of an anecdote about a giant rat. "I would have made a terrible father, Rosamund."

"What about now?" she asks, heart hammering in her chest as she meets his gaze.

He smiles at her rather sadly. "I'm afraid I'd still make a terrible father, even if I've been drug-free for well over a decade. I'm still a thrill seeker and adrenaline junkie, not unlike John, truth be told. Of the three of us, Douglas is probably the best candidate for fatherhood, at least as far as temperament and reliability go."

"David," Rosie corrects him, somewhat absently. "But does it really matter at this late date what kind of lives any of you lead? I mean, I've graduated uni and am about to be married, so it's not like I need a lot of parenting at this point."

"Are you sure about that?"

She gives a start but Sherlock simply smiles, as best she can tell in the near darkness that's fallen over them as they spoke. "Ah, John, there you are. Finally got that famous temper of yours under control?"

"Yes, no thanks to you, you arse," the newcomer - John Watson himself - says amiably. "I thought it might be nice to ask my - my maybe-daughter if she'd like to have dinner with me. With all three of us, actually, if I can find David to invite him to join us."

He smiles, and Rosie sees the charm that had attracted her mother to him, once upon a time. Oh, not that he's trying anything on with her, that would be gross, but there's an easy confidence in his manner that Rosie could easily see her mother responding to. "Sure, dinner would be great," she says. "But it'll have to be tomorrow night. Tonight's my Hen Night, and Danny's Stag Do - I'm sure he'd love for you to join in on whatever the boys have planned. Besides," she adds, sounding a bit guilty, "I really need to find my mum first. We, ah, haven't had a chance to talk yet. At all. Mostly because I've been avoiding her," she admits. "I guess I didn't think about how having all three of you here would affect her. Emotionally," she adds, as if they need clarification.

"Yeah, well, it's not an easy situation to find yourself in," John agrees with a wry grin. "So. Just tell us when and where, and we'll all of us sit down together and try to sort this out, shall we? Tell Mary - your mum - that she's welcome to join us if she'd like." The offer is made almost diffidently, as if it's an afterthought, but Rosie thinks she can see just how much he'd like to see her mum again. "You, er, might tell her I'm sorry about earlier," he adds and Rosie knows her assumption is spot on.

"I will," she assures him, then impulsively kisses each man on the cheek before saying her goodbyes.

Sherlock and John watch her go. Once she's headed down the stairs leading to the main part of the hotel, John says, "I suppose you'll want an apology from me as well, for earlier."

Sherlock shrugs. "Didn't you once tell me that you heard 'punch me' whenever I spoke? I suppose it's only reasonable that you finally acted on that."

John lets out a hefty sigh. "Christ, Sherlock, do you know how in love I was with that woman? She's still the one I compare every other woman I meet to."

"Yes, I knew there was someone in your past you weren't telling me about," Sherlock says. "And now that I know it's the woman I knew as Rose - well. Let's just say I completely understand."

He and John exchange looks. "Right, then," John says after a contemplative moment of silence, "I don't know about you, but I could use a drink right about now. Join me at the bar?"

Sherlock nods, and they head into the light and noise of the early evening crowd.

oOo

It feels...odd, seeing Rosie in the flesh for the very first time. She's so much like her mother, but there's something else familiar about her eyes, the shape of her nose...but it's not until he's taking his first sip of a rather good whisky that it hits him, like a punch to the gut.

She doesn't have Mary's eyes or nose, she has Harry's.

In that moment John Watson knows beyond the shadow of a doubt that he's Rosie Morstan's father, and his earlier anger and hurt comes flooding back even as he downs the remainder of his drink in one gulp.

He can see Sherlock from the corner of his eye but simply shakes his head to indicate that no, he doesn't want to talk about it right now. So Sherlock shrugs and turns his attention to Molly Hooper, next to whom he's coincidentally (?) seated himself.

Wait, hang on; Molly Hooper? What the hell is she doing here? He leans around Sherlock, about to ask her that very question, when his flatmate says, "She's one of Rosie's godmothers, John, and no, she had no idea before today that either of us were invited - or that we each might be Rosie's father."

John must flinch or something, because Sherlock turns back to him with narrowed eyes. "You've figured something out, John, what is it?"

John shakes his head again, rising abruptly from his barstool. "I need some air," he says, or something like that. "I'll see you later."

Then he takes off before Sherlock can stop him, if that was his plan, walking rapidly down the stairs and out of sight.

He makes it all the way to the docks before realizing where he is, too lost in his thoughts - and, admittedly, his fury - to notice where he's going. The launch that brought them over is long gone, but the ferry is making the last run of the day and for a split second he considers climbing aboard and heading straight back to London.

He doesn't, of course; John Watson has never been one to run away from his troubles; if anything, he admits ruefully, he's more prone to running directly into them.

Even when - or is it especially when? - they're troubles of his own making.

Oh, sure, it was easy to blame Mary - or Rose, since that seemed to be her real name - for the mess they were all in at the moment, but deep down he knew exactly whose fault it was that she'd left him. Left him and found Sherlock and David to console her, apparently.

His heart clenches and his breathing goes a bit ragged as remembered outrage struggles with the (admittedly very small) part of him that knows he has no one to blame for this but himself. If he'd just been up front with Mary about Sarah, or tried to explain before he went back to London to break it off with the woman he once believed he wanted to marry…

"'It is what it is'," he says aloud, a reluctant, reminiscent grin briefly curling the edges of his lips. Mary'd been fond of that saying, back in the day.

Did she still say it now? Or had time - and, let's face it, Johnny-boy, a certain no-good, two-timing twat - caused her to lose her easy acceptance of whatever life threw at her?

Does she even care who Rosie's father is, he wonders, and if so, does she want it to be him, or one of the others?

He's rock-solid in his certainty that it's him, that Rosie is his daughter, but there's no point in announcing that belief - certainty - until DNA testing is done.

Sherlock, of course, has probably already figured it all out, but John can't muster the energy to care at the moment. Well, that's not entirely true; he does wonder how Sherlock feels about it all. And David, of course, mustn't forget Contestant Number Three, he thinks with a certain amount of bitterness. David seems like exactly the solid, dependable type that Mary should have settled down with, to act as father to Rosie and perhaps a brother or sister or three…

Nope, not going down that particular rabbit hole, he tells himself firmly. Whatever Mary did with her life after she left him was entirely up to her.

Besides, who would want him as either a father or a life partner, husband, whatever? He had a terrible temper and probably would have made a huge mess of things, alienating Mary and his daughter in the process. Would it have been better or worse to have known Rosie from birth and then lost her to his own demons?

He reaches up and ruffles agitated hands through his hair. "John Watson, you're a bloody fool," he says aloud. "You cocked this up twenty years ago and you're likely to cock it up even more, but…" He gives a firm nod, decision reached. "Time to try and mend a few fences."

Chapter Text

"Hi Mum."

Mary turns to face her daughter. "Well, well," she says lightly. "If it isn't Little Miss Buttinsky." Then she opens her arms and Rosie rushes into her embrace, obviously relieved that this hasn't turned out to be the final straw on her mother's already overburdened back.

"John Watson says to tell you he's sorry for earlier. He wants us all to have dinner tomorrow - not just me and him and Sherlock Holmes and David Greene, but you too if, if you'd like." Rosie gets the words out in one great, rushing breath, then falls silent as her mother continues to hold her. "I'm sorry too," she adds in a mumble, her face buried in the warm spot where her mother's shoulder meets her neck.

Mary kisses the top of her head, tightens her hug, then lets go and steps back to regard her daughter, studying her closely. Their eyes are the same color but Rosie's are wider, rounder, and not just because she's nervous.

There's nothing Morstan-like about them except for that cornflower blue shade of the irises, but there's nothing cat-like about them either. No signs of anything Sherlockian about her physically, but her mind is certainly more than clever enough to have come from a combination of his genes and hers. She's got a bit of a John Watsonish temper but so does Mary so that's no clue.

The only one she can't see any sign of, physically, emotionally or otherwise is David. Well, except for the blonde hair, but Rosie's is closer in shade to Mary's own white-blonde tresses where David's is a darker gold, now woven with fine threads of silver.

"I don't really look like any of them," Rosie says, accurately guessing (deducing?) her mother's thoughts.

"Not really, no," Mary agrees with a small smile. "I suppose it would have been easier if you did, or maybe it would have been harder. I'm not really sure what difference it would have made; would I have stuck to my guns to raise you myself, or would I have gotten in touch with whoever it was, let them decide to be a part of your life or not? I wish I could say, one way or another, but I can't. Sorry," she adds, not sure which part she's apologizing for but knowing she owes her daughter an apology nonetheless.

Rosie's next question is a bit more difficult for Mary to answer. "So why didn't you try to find out which one was my dad?"

Mary closes her eyes. "Because I didn't want you to think any less of me, and, well, I didn't want them - no, I didn't want John - to know about the other two," she admits, her last secrets revealed, to herself as well as to Rosie. "I told myself it was that I didn't want to be a burden, that it was to prove I could take a broken heart better than my mother had. That I could raise you on my own without any help from someone who might resent me, or worse - you. All of that was true, but deep down I always knew it was more about pride than anything else."

Rosie just nods as Mary continues, "I was a teeny bit selfish, too. Wanting to keep you all to myself."

They're in the small sitting room they share in their part of the Villa Rosa. Growing up, Rosie's room opened into it just like Mary's still does. The year before she started uni she'd asked to have a bit more privacy, and had moved into the larger bedroom just down the hall.

The old bedroom remains as it was, unused, although Mary keeps telling herself she'll turn it into a private study or office, a place for her to go over the books in private, away from the small office she has near the front desk. One of these days, when she has the time and the money…

Money, money, money/always sunny/in a rich man's world…

The lines from the song run briefly through her mind but it's not money she needs to worry about today. Her daughter's wedding is two days away and her daughter's potential fathers are here today. More than enough to occupy her mind. "So, Rosie-love, what do you think of them?"

Rosie shrugs. "I haven't really had a chance for it to sink in yet - and I haven't met David Greene yet. I did see him, but he was chatting up Aunt Meena - was that you?" she asks with a twinkle in her eyes. "She's ready for someone new after that horrible man she married in the UK." Rosie had always refused to call him 'Uncle Sebastian', not that Mary could blame her.

"Time will tell," she says lightly. "I've arranged for you to have a late breakfast with him tomorrow, if you're up to anything so weighty after your hen night!" She cocks her head to the side. "Have you told Gwen and Stacey about any of this? I assume you told Danny, since he's been conspicuously avoiding me this evening - twice I saw him see me and duck out of the way."

"Guilty conscience, yeah," Rosie admits. "He knew I found the thumb drive but he didn't know that I'd invited them until I told him they were here. Gwen and Stacey only just found out before I came here," she adds, looking a little guilty herself - at having kept them out of the loop, most likely, rather than for invading her mother's privacy. But then, she's already apologized for that, and Mary's not the type to demand multiple apologies for the same crime. Especially if the first one is as sincere as the one Rosie had voiced at the beginning of this conversation.

"Well, I can't say I don't understand why you did it," Mary admits. Time for her side of the confession-and-forgiveness session. "Once you were old enough, I should have explained things to you, let you decide whether or not you wanted to contact them and find out the truth."

They've settled onto the comfortably worn settee that had been a gift from Meena and her sister Ginny when Mary had announced her decision to settle permanently here. Mary's arms are around her daughter's shoulders, and Rosie rests her head against her mother's chest like she used to when she was little and in need of comfort. "So why didn't you?" she asks as her mother strokes her soft golden tresses.

Mary smiles softly to herself. "Because in my mind, you were never going to be old enough. You'll always be my little girl. Even after you went off to uni in Australia, even after you moved in with Danny and got engaged - even though you're about to get married, I couldn't stop thinking about you as my baby. I kept...putting it off, year after year, until I became too comfortable with things the way they are." She lets out a soft, semi-regretful sigh. "You'd stopped asking me about your father, so I just assumed you were happy with the way things were, too."

"I was, I am!" Rosie hastens to assure her, raising her head and looking her mother directly in the eyes. Offering her reassurances that, frankly, Mary wasn't sure she deserved. "But even if I stopped asking, I never stopped wondering. And, well, getting married is a big change, bigger than uni or even moving in with Danny." Mary notes with amusement the way her daughter primly avoids any mention or even hint of sex in this conversation. "So I thought, well, if one change is good, maybe another one could be, too."

"Having met two of the three candidates, do you still think that way?" Mary asks, gently prodding for a response to the question she'd put to her daughter earlier.

Rosie nods, resting her head against her mother's chest again after doing so. "Sherlock and John are both pretty amazing; they both seem open to the idea of being my dad. Which is, wow, absolutely the way I'd hoped they'd feel! I guess I got lucky there." In a small voice she adds, "It could have completely backfired on me, and I didn't even consider the possibility until John asked me to tell you he was sorry for whatever he said to you before. Was it awful?"

"Hurtful," Mary admits. "But…not entirely undeserved. Things were said, tempers were heated, he took a swing at Sherlock…"

"Sherlock?" Up comes Rosie's head, her eyes wide and curious. "Why?"

"Things were said," Mary repeats. "But it could have been worse. I told them they could stay or go for all I care but to be honest…" She tilts her head to one side, then nods. Decisively. "To be honest, I'm glad they stayed. It's given me a chance to get some closure, at least with Sherlock and David. Maybe with John too, although honestly, he owes me more of an explanation than I owe him!"

"The fiancée," Rosie says with a scowl. "Believe me, I plan to ask him about that tomorrow."

Mary smiles, a fond smile, at Rosie's fierce expression. "Hm, well, perhaps best leave that to me," she says. "You just focus on getting to know the man he is now, rather than the man he used to be, all right?"

"Mm," Rosie says, noncommittally, and Mary bites back a snort of laughter. That's my girl.

"So. Shouldn't you be getting ready for your hen party?" she asks, changing the subject - not abruptly, and not because the conversation's become awkward (how could it be any more awkward than it already was?) but because they've said all that really needs saying on that subject. At least for now; who knew how things would go after meeting David and then getting together for dinner?

Rosie gives her one last hug then jumps to her feet. "Yeah, I'm supposed to meet Gwen and Stacey down at the bar before we head off to the dance club. Are you sure you won't change your mind and come with us, you and Aunt Molly and Aunt Janine?"

"Oh no, you don't need us old biddies cramping your style!" Mary says with a laugh. "Go, get ready, have fun. I'll see you in the morning - but not too early!"

With a laugh of her own and a wave good-bye, Rosie takes off for her evening of fun. Mary knows that the hen party and stag do plan to meet up at one of the tourist island's many clubs on the southern tip of Kalokairi*, about an hour's drive from their own, more remote location. Let the young people have their fun; no need for the old fogeys breathing down their necks.

Besides, she thinks with a grin, the last thing Danny needs to see is his father being propositioned by Rosie's Aunt Janine.

*The name of the island has been stolen directly from Mamma Mia!

Chapter Text

Rosie's dancing exuberantly, arms flung wide, spinning in a circle to Dancing Queen while Gwen and Stacey spin right along next to her, when the Stag Do crashes the Hen Party. Only instead of joining in on the fun as originally plotted out by the two of them (why spend even one night apart when all they want to do is be together forever?), Danny grabs her by the hand and tugs at her. She stops dancing, Gwen and Stacey too caught up in the fun with their new partners - Danny's best mates Guy and Hal - to notice as Danny practically drags her from the dance floor.

"What's wrong?" she demands once they're outside, where the music isn't so loud and they can hear each other without shouting.

After Danny lets go of her he starts pacing, running his fingers through his hair, and she really starts to worry. She grabs his hands, forces him to stop and look at her. "Babe, what's wrong?"

"We stopped by your Mum's place on our way here so Hal could get that green shirt he likes, you know the one, he calls it his lucky shirt?" he says, looking a little dazed - and a little sick. "Anyway, I thought I'd peek in and see how my dad was doing, and maybe check on your mum, and there they were, the two of them, kissing!"

"My mum and your dad?" Rosie gasps in shock.

"What? Oh, no, not your mum - your Aunt Janine!" Danny exclaims, still looking shell-shocked - and no wonder! "She and my dad were outside his room, they didn't see me, at least I don't think they did, I just sort of backed out the way I'd come. I just...wasn't expecting that." He shakes his head. "I mean, I know people hook up at weddings all the time, but he's my dad!" He lets out a deep breath, then looks at her, as if he's just now realizing who he's talking to. "Sorry, love, that's not what I dragged you out to tell you."

"But it bothered you, seeing them like that," Rosie says, reaching up to caress his cheek in a gesture of both sympathy and solidarity. "I'm sorry, Aunt Janine's just sort of…"

"Oh, I'll be fine, don't worry about me!" he rushes to assure her, taking her into his arms and pressing a tender kiss to her lips. "It was just - I wasn't expecting it. I'll be fine once I can wrap my head around the idea." He grins. "D'you think I can get away with calling her Mum next time I see her?"

Rosie giggles, relieved that he seems to be getting over the shock of it. After all, it's not like his parents are together, or have been for a long time. She knows that Danny was way past hoping for something like that since long before she'd even met him. "So if it's not that, then what?"

He steps back a bit, takes her hands in his. "After...that...I sort of wandered off in a daze and ended up near our room. I was about to go find Hal when I saw the door to your mum's sitting room open, and she came out." His hold on her hands tightens a bit. "Rosie, she wasn't alone." He gives her a sober look. "John Watson was with her."

Earlier That Evening

When Mary opens the door to her bedroom something brushes across her face; instinctively she bats it away, cursing as she flicks on the light with her other hand. She ducks and turns to see what she's run into, and her cursing takes on a more colorful tone when she realizes a roll of wrapped condoms has been taped up over her door, designed to unroll when it opened. "Janine!" she grumbles, shaking her head but unable to keep back a smile at her friend's somewhat questionable sense of humor.

She pulls out her mobile and brings up Janine's number.

We used protection, you stupid cow, she types affectionately. It just didn't work. Obviously.

Seconds later she receives the response. Well use more this time round less you want Rosie to become an older sister instead of an only child.

What makes you think I'm going to have sex with any of them again? Mary shoots back.

Woman's intuition.

Mary laughs - but puts the condoms into her bedside drawer instead of binning them.

Her mobile dings a different tone; it's Molly this time. Joining us for dinner?

Thought I'd make an early night of it, Mary types back. Been a busy day, tomorrow won't be any easier.

Ding. You can't avoid them forever.

Mary sighs. Molly's always been too damned perceptive for her own good. While she dithers, her mobile dings again. Seriously, you need to join us. Janine's half in the bag already and putting the moves on Ajay. Says it's practice for Greg.

Mary laughs out loud at that one. Typical Janine! But even without that incentive she knows Molly's right; the Gruesome Threesome can't be avoided forever.

As she heads out the bedroom door and passes through the sitting room, her fingers are busy on her mobile. Maybe you should have kept the condoms for yourself, she types to Janine with another grin. Leave my bartender-cum-front desk clerk alone, you shameless hussy!

Janine's response is short and cheeky. Come and make me!

With a laugh, Mary starts to do just that - only to find herself face to face with the one man she's yet to have a heart-to-heart with today.

"Hi Mary," John says.

And all she can do is say "Hi" back to him.

oOo

Janine frowns at her mobile. "Mary's stopped answering. She usually keeps up the text banter till she's about two feet in front of us. Something's wrong." She starts to stand up, but Sherlock Holmes shakes his head at her. "What?" she demands.

"John hasn't returned," he says, as if that explains anything.

"So?"

"So he doesn't know anyone on this island except me and Molly, Mary, Danny, and Lestrade. And Rosie, of course," he adds consideringly. He holds up his hands, one with all fingers extended and one with just the thumb, the others curled together. "Danny's at his Stag Do." He closes down the thumb. "Rosie's just left for her Hen Party." The opposite thumb is closed. "Molly and I are here." Two more fingers close. "Lestrade has just come up looking for us." He closes down another finger and nods at the figure making its way through the crowd to join them at the bar. "That leaves Mary. And I think it's obvious to all of us that he's very keen on talking to her alone, before we all sit down to dinner tomorrow night."

That last bit is news to Janine, but before she can say something, Molly speaks up. "He knows David, or at least he's met him," she objects. "What if they're off getting drunk together or something?"

"David is currently sticking his tongue down that woman's throat," Sherlock responds with distaste, this time nodding at a couple on the opposite side of the terrace. Molly and Janine both turn in surprise, and are even more surprised to see Mary's Cousin Meena very enthusiastically snogging - yes, it's David.

"That still doesn't mean John's with Mary," Janine continues to object. "Or that she doesn't need rescuing from that lyin', cheatin'…"

Molly lays a hand on her friend's arm. "Come on, Janine, this is Mary we're talking about. She'll be fine, I'm sure. John's a good man, there's nothing to worry about."

But Janine can't help but notice the nervous glance she darts toward Sherlock, as if seeking confirmation. Nor can she help recalling the gossip she'd heard from Ajay and others at the bar about the little shouting match at the docks after the three men arrived on the island.

Greg Lestrade joins them just in time to hear Molly's last sentence. After giving her a kiss on the cheek and nodding a genial hello to the rest of the small group, he throws in his two cents. "John Watson? Hell yeah, one o' the best." He gives Sherlock a hearty clap on the shoulder. "Keeps this one in line. Why, who's worried about John?"

Janine gives him her most dazzling, flirtatious smile. "No one, if we can take you at your word, Detective Inspector. Are you a man of your word, then?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes and rises abruptly to his feet. "Dance, Molly?" he asks/demands, holding out his hand as the live band finishes their tuning up and starts playing something fast and upbeat.

Molly looks startled, then blushes a bright pink, biting her lower lip as she nods a rapid "yes" and accepts the hand Sherlock's offering. Janine watches them move to the part of the terrace that's been cleared out for a dance floor, grinning and giving her friend a double thumbs up when she glances back at her. Hmm, maybe Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Oblivious isn't as oblivious as Molly thinks.

"Bout time," Greg mutters, and Janine gives him an inquisitive look as he settles onto the bar stool Molly just vacated. He nods at Sherlock, who's busy showing Molly the steps of the - samba, is it? Damn that man has the hip-thing down! If that isn't flirting then she, Janine Layla Hawkins, has never seen flirting in her life.

"They make a cute couple," she allows. "But I thought he was gay or something? Wasn't there something about it in one of the tabs, about him and Johnny boy being a couple?"

Greg shakes his head in an emphatic 'no'. "Nah, not John, he's always been a ladies' man. Sherlock, well, he's never shown any interest in either the ladies or the lads - least, not til Molly started workin' at St. Barts," he adds with a grin. "Thought maybe I was just imaginin' things til just now. Could've knocked me over with a feather when he confirmed he was in the runnin' for my son's future father-in-law." He shakes his head again, then fixes his gaze on Janine, his expression turning from bemused to what she'd have to label 'interested' as he says, "But enough about those two, eh? What about you?"

"What about me?" she asks coyly, knowing exactly what he means but always willing to make the interested party work for it.

He laughs, flashing those gorgeous pearly whites at her. "Well, I'm too old for game-playing, Miss Hawkins. We might have only met a few days ago but something tells me you might be willing to give an old flat-footer a chance to show off his moves. If I'm wrong, feel free to tell me to shove off and I will, no hard feelings." He leans just a bit closer, holding her gaze as he plants one elbow on the bar. As if by magic a pint of beer appears near his hand (Ajay really is good at both his jobs) and he grabs it and takes a sip without breaking eye contact with her. "So. Any chance of me showing off my fairly limited dance moves to you?"

If she wasn't already interested in getting to know the detective inspector a little better already, that little speech certainly would have done the trick. Especially the formal, sort of old-fashioned 'Miss Hawkins'. Janine smiles and reaches for his glass. He allows her to take it with a quizzical smile, then laughs out loud as she chugs it down and smacks the empty glass back onto the bar. Wiping the back of her hand across her foamy upper lip, she jumps to her feet. "Come on then, DI Lestrade, show me what ya got, then!" She gives him a cheeky wink. "Gotta practice for the reception, after all!"

oOo

As Sherlock practically drags her to the dance floor, Molly squeaks out, "It's okay, Sherlock, you don't have to do this just to get away from Greg and Janine. I'll just go -" she gestures vaguely towards one of the few empty tables. "And you can go do -" she gestures even more vaguely, at a complete loss as to what he might find to do to pass the time.

In an utterly Sherlockian way, he manages to both insult and flatter her at the same time. "Don't be stupid, Molly, if I just wanted to -" he flutters his hand in a fairly accurate mimicry of her own gesture "- then I would have just left. I enjoy dancing, I don't know why everyone seems so surprised to find that out, and I know you've taken lessons, there's a definite lightness to your step and a certain sway to your hips that wasn't there before. Preparing for the wedding, I deduce. Well, nothing like getting in a bit of practice before the reception, right? Right." He stops, taking both her hands in his and pulling her up close. "So. Salsa?"

Without allowing her time to answer - not that she can find the breath for doing so since he's fairly knocked it out of her both with the dragging-to-the-dance-floor and with the rapid-fire deductions and comments - he swings her in a small circle that ends with them in the classic salsa pose - and then they're dancing.

She stumbles a bit at first, but quickly finds her rhythm. Judging by Sherlock's approving nod, she's actually not that bad. Possibly even as good as her dance instructor has been telling her, not that she'd believed him until now. She's not used to being the best at anything except, possibly, cutting up corpses. And research, she does love a nice juicy research project…

She loses the beat, just for a second, and Sherlock pulls her close in order to whisper a command in her ear. "Stop thinking, Molly, and just move." Then they whirl back into the dance and just when she thought he couldn't possibly get any sexier he moves his hips just so and she's positive she can feel her ovaries exploding.

When he pulls her close again, his big hands wrapped around her waist, she does something utterly spontaneous, something she'd only done once in her dance class: She holds him by the upper arms and bends into a backward dip, rolling her hips and coming upright to find Sherlock staring at her with something like astonishment. Then he smiles and laughs and pulls her into a series of small spins that end with her backside pressed firmly against his frontside and his hands on her hips - hips that are shaking at near-Shakira speed and absolutely in sync with his until the music comes to a stop.

She's so caught up in the moment and the movement and, frankly, Sherlock, that she doesn't realize until that very second - as applause and cheers and a wolf-whistle or two burst out from the crowd - that there's no one else on the dance floor except the two of them. Everyone else is standing in a circle around them, clapping and cheering; she sees Janine, fingers between her lips as she lets out a piercing whistle, and there's Greg next to her, clapping and grinning and she feels the blush creeping up her neck until her face feels like it's absolutely aflame and with a sudden surge of panic she bolts, pushing her way through the crowd until she fetches up against the railing overlooking the sea.

She hears Sherlock coming up behind her, knows it's him by the sound of his footsteps or the scent of his aftershave or some sixth sense; whatever. She knows it's him. She waits for him to join her at the railing, which she's clenching tightly in both hands, before she speaks. "Sherlock, what the hell was that all about? And if you try to pawn it off as just you liking to dance, I might scream, or, or -" Inspiration strikes. "Or revoke your privileges in the morgue when we get back to London." She gives him her best shot at an intimidating glare. "You know I can do it, too, Mike'll listen to me."

Then she waits, panting with a combination of overwhelming emotional turmoil and pure physical exhaustion, for his answer.

Chapter Text

Earlier That Night

Mary looks at John; John looks at Mary. He fidgets a bit. "You were on your way out, sorry! I'll just…" He steps back, jerks a thumb over his shoulder. "We can talk tomorrow, if that's -"

Mary opens the door wider and steps back inside. "Come in, John, I won't bite." Better to rip the bandage off all at once rather than by slow, painful increments.

He enters slowly, glancing around the sitting room as if just checking out the decor, but Mary sees the way he notes the locations of the two other doors and the windows that lead out to the balcony. The wind blows her curtains; his eyes pause there before settling back on hers. "It's...very nice," he announces.

There's something about the way he's just surveyed her room, the way he still wears his hair militarily short, combined with the way he's standing at a very formal looking parade rest that brings Mary's vague suspicions about him into focus. "You've spent time in the military." It's taking a stab in the dark but she can't help asking, "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Afghanistan," he says automatically, then blinks and looks at her - really looks at her this time. "How did you...my blog? No, Sherlock, it was Sherlock, wasn't it."

"Nope, deduced it on my own," she replies, dropping to sit on the settee and gesturing toward the worn armchair directly across the antique trunk she uses as a coffee table. "He's not the only observant person in the world, you know."

He gives her a rueful grin as he sits down. "Not to hear him talk about it." He glances down at his feet, then back at her. "You look good, Mary," he says softly. Fondly, almost.

"What do you want, John?" she asks, cutting off the pleasantries before they can turn into flirting and who knows what else. She knows he can't see how fast her heart is beating and she's glad she's able to keep her breathing as calm and steady as her gaze. "Last we spoke you were yelling at me; nice to see you've calmed down a bit."

He reddens, but not in anger - no, that's pure, unadulterated embarrassment she reads on his face. "Yeah, well, sometimes my temper gets the better of me. Sorry about that. Did, erm, did Rosie-"

"She told me you apologized, and that you wanted us all to get together for dinner tomorrow. She's having brunch with David, since she hasn't had a chance to actually meet him yet," Mary informs him, only a tiny bit spitefully.

He purses his lips but says nothing, only nods. She waits for a beat, then continues, "She seems to have had a very interesting conversation with Sherlock as well. You've all made quite the impression on her. But I should warn you," her innate sense of fair-play prods her to add, "she's probably going to ask you about Sarah."

John flinches, only the littlest bit, then nods. He leans forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped and says, "Right, yeah, can't blame her. I'm sure you have some questions for me too, about Sarah."

Mary shakes her head, confident in her remembered righteous indignation. "What's there to tell, really? Especially now? It's all water under the bridge."

"Maybe," he acknowledges, "but I'd still like to set the record straight."

"What, by telling me how you weren't looking for a summer fling, it was just something that happened?" In a poisonously sweet voice she asks, "Then, what, you felt guilty? So you went trotting back to London, maybe to confess all and throw yourself on your fiancée's mercy, maybe just to feed her a pack of lies before coming back to bed with me…"

John's face has gotten redder and redder, his hands tightening around each other with each word, until he jumps to his feet and bursts out, "I wasn't going to do any of that! I went back to tell my girlfriend - girlfriend, not fiancée, we weren't engaged! - that I'd met someone else, that it was over. To apologize to her and then, when I got back to Brighton, the idea was to tell you everything and throw myself on your mercy!"

Mary's heart sings with joy at this unexpected confession, but only for the briefest of moments. So what if he'd meant to come back to her and tell the truth? That didn't negate the fact that he lied to her - a lie of omission, true, but still a lie. "You could have told me that before you went back to London," she points out, keeping her voice calm, emotionless, in deliberate counterpoint to his shoutiness. "You could have told me before we had that first official date, or before I let you kiss me, or before we, I dunno, slept together."

Welp, so much for calm and emotionless; her eyes have narrowed, her hands have fisted by her sides, and the last few words come out in a furious hiss.

"Fine!" he growls, throwing his hands in the air. "Fine, you're right, I'm a complete arse, I cocked things up royally! But I tried to make it right, I honestly did. If you'd just stuck around, let me explain and apologize - but no, you had to go running off to - hang on," he interrupts himself. "Where did you meet Sherlock and that twat David? Sherlock told me he was already in London during his twenties, did you follow me there?"

"No!" Mary snaps. "I went to London so I could start my trip to Greece, here, to visit my cousins. But yeah, that's where I met Sherlock. Then I stopped in Paris, and that's where I met David. Then I finally came here, where I found out I was up the duff, but was lucky enough to meet Molly and Janine - and no, I didn't sleep with either of them, sorry, completely different relationship to you three blokes."

She doesn't mean it to be, but her words bring a huff of laughter from John's lips - and, surprisingly enough, she finds herself laughing as well. When she catches her breath, their eyes meet, and she instantly sobers. "Look, John, we both handled things badly. I guess it would have been more mature to wait for you to come back and have this shouting match back then instead of just running off without a word."

"Oh, I wouldn't say you left without a word," John reminds her, but with surprisingly little heat. "Sarah thought it was funny, me losing my mobile again - yes, it had happened a couple of times before, wasn't used to carrying the bloody thing with me till that summer - and told me all about the nice girl who'd promised to turn it in at the Lost Property window at the railway station in Brighton."

"Not my finest moment," Mary admits. "But it seemed the lesser of two evils: if I stole your mobile and it turned out I was wrong, then I could pretend it really had been an accident that the two phones were switched and you'd never know I'd suspected you of lying to me. We could just go on as we had been, and see what the future brought."

"Which was a baby," John said softly. "Maybe - possibly, hopefully - our baby. Guess Molly's going to run the DNA samples at the hospital tomorrow afternoon, at least, that's what Sherlock said." He gives Mary a searching look. "Would you change what you did, if you knew for sure I was Rosie's father?"

"I...might," she says. "But only if this hypothetical do-over included the absolute assurance that you're her father. And before you ask, yes, John, I used protection with David and Sherlock. Condoms, just like you and I used - from the same box, matter of fact."

She doesn't mean it as a barb, but the involuntary jerk of his shoulders tells her it's a hit nonetheless. "John, I wasn't trying to-"

"I know, it's fine, it's all good," he says, even though she can tell he's lying. "Your aunt, did she ever tell you I came looking for you?"

Mary looks at him in surprise. "You did? When?"

"As soon as Sarah told me about the call she'd received from my mobile number, I knew I had to get on the next train to Brighton. I'd planned on staying the night, after working out the best way to break things off with her and then checking in on Harry and my mum, but I just couldn't let you think the worst of me - all right, yes, even though the worst was, not incidentally, also the truth - but I wanted to explain right away."

"Poor Sarah, what did you do, dump her right there at the station?"

"Actually, yeah, I kind of did," John admits, sounding as guilty as if he'd just done it today instead of over twenty years ago. "She called me a few names, told me to go to hell, then stormed off. I haven't seen her since, which is probably just as well. I spent a few hours leaving rather desperate messages for you on my own mobile which, incidentally, no one seemed to have turned in at the Lost Property window -"

"I threw it in the ocean," Mary volunteers.

"Not surprised in the least," he replies with a shake of his head. "So I hotfooted it over to your aunt's hotel only for her to tell me in no uncertain terms just how despicable a human being I was, how badly I'd broken your heart, that you never wanted to see me again, and absolutely refused to tell me where you'd gone. She really never told you any of that?"

Mary shook her head. "Not a word. So. Then what? You know what happened with me: I tried to mend my broken heart twice over and failed rather spectacularly, then ended up here with my brilliant, gorgeous little girl, two new best friends, and a brand new life."

John straightens, perhaps unconsciously resuming his parade rest stance. "After moping around a bit, I did what any rational person would have done; marched myself to the nearest army recruiter and signed up on the spot."

"Ah yes, exactly what any rational person would have done," Mary deadpans. "Don't know why I didn't think of doing it myself."

"Fortunately for me they wouldn't take me until I'd finished my medical degree, and after that I probably could have gotten out of it if I'd wanted to, but honestly?" John shakes his head. "I didn't want to. I'd proven I was shit at relationships, so why not get some real life experience under my belt before trying again?"

He falls silent; they just look at one another until he lets out a sigh. "Like I said, Mary, I'm sorry. I wish I'd handled things differently, but it is what it is and I'll just have to accept that. Will you - do you think you could stand having dinner with our sorry arses tomorrow?"

"Yes, actually I do," she replies. "I even think I can put up with your sorry arses for however long you want to be in Rosie's life, no matter how the tests turn out."

There's something in John's eyes; his lips part, but instead of saying whatever it was he'd been going to say, he just shakes his head and turns to leave. As he reaches the door he hesitates, then digs into one of his pockets. He pulls something out, walks back to her, turns her hand up and drops it into her palm. Her fingers curl around it automatically and she realizes it's an old mobile phone.

She looks up at him in astonishment; he smiles softly and nods. "Yeah, it's your old phone. I kept it as a memento of the best thing that ever happened to me - and how I ruined everything by not being honest with you from the start."

Mary stares at the phone, then up at him as he starts to walk through the door. Through the mist of sudden tears she calls out, "John, wait!" and runs to catch him by the arm.

He turns, a question on his face. She throws her arms around him, still clutching the mobile in one hand, and does the last thing she'd expected to ever do with this man again: She kisses him. She kisses him and kisses him and kisses him, until they're forced to pull apart in order to catch their breaths, until they're both flushed and staring wild-eyed at one another.

"I can't believe you kept it all these years," Mary whispers, wiping away an errant tear. When had she started crying, before the kissing or after? During, maybe? She has no idea.

"It was all I had of you," John says simply. "Well, besides some truly incredible memories."

They lean towards one another, but a noise interrupts the tender moment. They both look up in time to see the backside of someone - Danny, Mary realizes - disappearing around the corner. "Oh dear, I wonder how much he saw," she murmurs, touching her fingers to her lips.

John takes her words exactly the wrong way; he stiffens, steps back. "Sorry, didn't mean to embarrass you."

"Oh don't be an arse!" she says crossly. "It's just that I'd rather be the one to tell Rosie that the two of us are thinking about taking up where we left off!"

His face lights up. "Really? Is that what we're thinking about doing?"

She shrugs. "It's what I was thinking about doing, but not if you're going to be so prickly!"

He chuckles and puts his arms back around her, hauling her close. "Are you kidding me? You're the one who got away, Mary, the only woman I've ever truly loved." There's no laughter in his voice now, only raw, naked honesty that takes her breath away. "No one could ever match up to you," he says softly. "So if you'll have me, then yes, I would very much like to take up where we left off, no matter who Rosie's father turns out to be."

This time he starts the kiss, and Mary finds she can do nothing but kiss him back - and pray that the two of them can make it work this time.

Chapter Text

"Actually," Sherlock says with his best cheeky grin, "I really do love to dance."

Molly stares at him for a long moment, then her shoulders sag and she turns away. "Fine, be that way," she snaps, her attempt at sarcasm just as weak at his own attempt at casualness.

Stop her, you idiot, his inner John berates him. Tell her the truth!

But what truth? Sherlock finds himself paralyzed with unaccustomed indecision. No, not simply indecision: he's paralyzed with complete and utter panic.

As Molly walks angrily away from him another voice pipes up: "Go after her, you fucking idiot, and apologize for whatever ya said to piss her off!"

It takes him far too long to realize the voice isn't coming from inside his head, but from the man standing next to him. He gives Lestrade his best haughty, "what are you talking about" look, but the detective inspector ignores it in favor of scowling at him. "You don't dance like that with an attractive woman an' just, what, ignore her afterwards." He nods emphatically at Molly's rapidly-disappearing form. "Go after her an' apologize!"

"You heard the man," a new voice pipes up. He rolls his eyes: fantastic, now Mary/Rose's other friend, the one whose name he can't recall, is trying to give him advice. Just what he needs - NOT.

But she goes a step further by planting herself directly in front of him and jabbing her finger into his chest as she speaks. Her cheeks are flushed with anger, her brown eyes fairly flashing with the intensity of the emotion; looks like Gavin will have a rollicking good time when they get back to his room later. "Molly Hooper is one of my best friends in the world, and for whatever reason she not only wants to climb you like a tree, but she actually likes you. Greg's right; dancin' like that with her was cruel if you're not interested in followin' through with things. So you either apologize like a man and let her down as gently as you can, or you man up and let her know you really are interested in her as a woman and not just some lab assistant only good for fetchin' coffee and texting you experiment results!"

His rising indignation at this utterly unwarranted interference in his personal relationship - professional relationship, he hastily corrects himself - with Molly Hooper instantly transforms into outrage. "Molly is a Specialist Registrar, not a lab assistant!" he corrects her so-called 'friend'. "She offers to bring me coffee, I've never once asked her to do so! As for texting me results of extremely important experiments that I conduct to help save lives, I don't simply give out my number to just anyone! Not only that, but I trust her to send me those results after correctly interpreting the data, also not something I trust anyone else with! She's more than merely competent at her job; have you ever seen her perform an autopsy? Her scalpel work, the flair with which she uses a chest-spreader and her handling of a bone saw is second to none! Yes, her coffee is rubbish, because I've had her home-made brew as well as the slop they serve at the hospital canteen and trust me, she needs to work on that particular skill, but in all other ways she's per…"

He comes to a halt mid-word, eyes wide as he realizes exactly what he's saying. Mortifyingly, he can tell by the grins Gavin and - what's her name, Jane? - have on their smug faces that he's given away far more of his feelings than he'd meant to.

Feelings, ugh, here they go again, how can he resist them? Stop that! he commands his thoughts irritably; when they spin into song lyrics like that he knows he's in trouble.

Mamma mia! Here we go again! that same internal voice warbles at the back of his mind; in desperation he blurts out, "Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side" but neither that inner mocking voice nor his current audience of two appear to be convinced; the one blows a distinct mental raspberry at him and the other two just...keep grinning at him.

In fact, Lestrade has the temerity to reach up and pat him on the shoulder. "Yeah, I thought so," he says, somewhat cryptically. "Go after her, mate," he urges again, in softer, less accusing tones this time. More sympathy, just what he doesn't need. "Tell her how you feel. Let her know she's not alone in this thing, whatever it turns out to be."

"Tell her you like her as much as she likes you, then take her back to your room and show her exactly how much that is," the friend - Janice? - urges with a suggestive waggle of her eyebrows. Lestrade chokes on what sounds suspiciously like a laugh, but nods his agreement when Sherlock glances at him through narrowed eyes.

"I don't even know where she's gone," he protests, knowing how weak an excuse that is even as he speaks.

Lestrade raises both eyebrows and gives him a disbelieving stare. "Right. The great Sherlock bloody Holmes can't find a woman he knows an' works with on a tiny little island like this. That'll be the day." He jostles Sherlock's shoulder with his. "Do it, man, find her. Or regret it the rest of your miserable, lonely life." Then he turns and offers...Janet?...his arm. "Care to dance?"

"Love to," she replies, linking her arm through his. They vanish into the crowd, leaving Sherlock to contemplate his next move.

Should he go after her? Of course he can figure out where she's gone; in many ways Molly's an open book to him, always has been. In other ways, of course, she's a complete mystery, but in this particular case he knows there are only four possibilities for where she's gone (a bar, the beach, to find Mary, her own room).

It's what happens after he finds her that he's concerned about. There are so many possible outcomes that he can barely organize them in his mind: she might slap him and tell him to leave her alone; she might be (he shudders at the thought) crying and in need of comfort he's not equipped to offer no matter what his supposed feelings are for her; she might be coldly angry and follow through on her threat to get him banned, at least temporarily, from Bart's; she might -

She might drag you into her room, strip off every stitch of your clothing, throw you onto the bed and shag you into a puddle. Which you, incidentally, would love from start to finish.

That's John's voice, this time definitely inside his head, although he darts a quick glance around to make sure of that before withdrawing into his mind palace to try to make sense of everything that's just happened, from that spontaneous, heated dance to Molly's demand for the truth, to Lestrade and...Janine's interference.

When he emerges a few minutes later, blinking himself back into awareness of his immediate surroundings, the music is slow and sensuous, the couples swaying together look as if they're trying to meld into each other, and Lestrade and Janine are nowhere to be found.

Good. Better they should concentrate on their own love life rather than his and Molly's. Which of course, is an impossibility, since he is who he is and she is who she is, and once she realizes exactly how unsuited they are, surely she'll be able to settle back into her place as 'professional colleague who lets me get away with things that aren't technically legal' instead of this muzzy, confused, emotionally tumultuous, seductive, dancing temptress she's inexplicably morphed into…

"Sod it," he mutters to himself, and marches across the outskirts of the dance floor and down the stone stairs that lead to the hotel proper.

Time to get this sorted once and for all. Molly will understand; she always does, even when he's at his worst.

oOo

Molly ignores the knock on her door; she's in no fit state for company at the moment, not even for tea (or, more likely, booze) and sympathy from one of her dearest friends. "I'm fine, Janine, go back to the party," she calls out as she continues undressing.

She's down to her bra and knickers and freezes in the act of removing the former when she hears a very unexpected baritone call out, "Molly, it's me. I can pick the locks but I presume you'd rather let me in yourself."

Oh, that man! Gritting her teeth as hurt and anger vie for dominance, she strides to the door, wrenches it open, and glares up at him, never mind her state of undress. He's as much as told her he's not interested, so what difference does it make? "What?" she snaps out as he stares down at her, eyes blinking rapidly as he takes in her lack of clothing.

"I actually do love to dance, Molly." She just about stamps her foot in frustration, but there's a note of something - she almost wants to call it desperation - in his voice that keeps her from following through with her desire to slam the door shut on him. "But what I should have said was that I was just, that it was only -"

"It was only what?" When he remains silent she actually does stamp her foot. "Go away, Sherlock. I got the message, loud and clear. Tonight was just some kind of a, an experiment." She practically spits the last word out. "The information has been duly noted, thank you for your feedback!"

She steps back, just about to slam the door (very satisfactorily) in his face when he speaks again. "I should have told you that I especially loved dancing with you, and I want to keep dancing with you."

She gapes up at him, utterly flummoxed, as his expression morphs from cool and aloof to bewildered, as if he'd surprised himself as much as her with that confession.

"What are you saying, Sherlock?" Molly asks in a quieter voice, the fact that she's standing in her open doorway wearing only her knickers and bra completely forgotten in the wonder of the moment. Does he mean what she thinks he's saying? Or is he just...her expression hardens as she considers the possibility that he's just trying to sweet-talk her into not revoking his lab privileges. "I swear to you, if you're just trying to manipulate me…"

"No!" he says loudly. A couple passing by give them a wary look, and the man steps forward as if about to offer help if Molly needs it. She waves him away with a shake of her head and a forced smile, then grabs Sherlock by the arm and drags him into her room, closing the door behind them.

"I'm not trying to manipulate you," he says, in a slightly quieter voice, pacing a bit while she watches through wary eyes. "I do, I want to dance with you, I mean. Not just here, but when we get back home. I'm rubbish at relationships, just ask John - I mean, not that John and I were ever romantically involved," he rushes on, the words seeming to just flood out of him as he pauses in his agitated movements to give her an anxious look. "Please don't tell him I even implied such a thing, he's incredibly touchy about what he perceives as slights to his masculinity, but what I meant was that even though I'll make a terrible boyfriend or whatever title you choose, I'd like - I'd like to try."

His eyes widen and his mouth opens in an 'O' as if, once again, his own words are surprising him. "I'd like to try all of it. Dancing and I suppose dinner and trips to the cinema if that's what you really want, even though they haven't made a decent movie since the 1950s, at least not here in the UK or even in America, although some of the more recent Bollywood productions are actually quite-"

Molly, heart racing and not even bothering to try to repress her joy, reaches up and gently places her hand over his mouth. "Breathe, Sherlock," she advises him, and starts to pull her hand away.

He reaches out and catches her by the wrist before drawing in a rather shuddering breath and letting it out again. He waits a beat before speaking again. "Apologies. I hadn't realized I was holding all of that inside." He blinks, clears his throat, blinks again before continuing, "I really am rubbish at relationships, always have been, but since we first met I've noticed that I have been paying rather more attention to you than anyone else since John became my flatmate and then my friend and then my best friend."

"So does that mean we're...friends?" Molly asks when he falls silent.

He nods, once again looking surprised. "Friends, yes, of course we're friends, but that's not what I want. I've certainly never wanted to dance with John or, well, anyone else. Not in years."

He brings her wrist slowly, carefully up to his face so that the back of her hand rests on his cheek. Once there he turns his face and presses a soft kiss to her palm. "I'm sorry I froze and got flippant with you, back there." He cuts his eyes up at an angle that she presumes is in the direction of the dance floor. "I didn't mean to hurt you, and I can't guarantee I won't hurt you again, but if you're willing to take a chance on me…"

"Honey, you're still free?" Molly asks, unable to resist the urge to tease him a bit, even if he's unlikely to get the reference.

It's her turn to be surprised when his lips curl in an appreciative smile. "If I put you to the test, if I let you try?" The smile turns into a smirk at her astonishment. "My parents' taste in music is decidedly retro."

"My, my, how can I resist you?" Molly murmurs as she allows him to take her in his arms. Yeah, it's the wrong song but who cares when she's about to snog the breath out of the man of her dreams?

The kiss is soft at first, but once her fingers tangle in the soft, luscious curls at the back of his head it turns heated, passionate, all she'd ever dreamed a kiss with Sherlock would be.

As they fall onto her bed the last thought that drifts through her mind is a single, joyful word.

Finally.

Chapter Text

"Wakey-wakey!"

Rosie groans and rolls over, one arm over her eyes. "Go 'way," she mumbles.

Instead of doing as she asks, her tormentor, the man she once believed was the love of her life and the only person she wanted to spend her life with, throws open the shades and allows the bright morning sun to come pouring into their room. "No can do, sunshine," he says, far too cheerily for a man who is about to be left at the altar for his unutterable betrayal. "You're meeting David for brunch, remember? And," he adds, leaning over and planting a kiss on the small part of her cheek that shows, "we have our parents to torment as well. Well, my dad, your mum, your Aunt Janine and Potential Dad No. 3, although I suspect your mum would want him moved up the list a bit, especially after -"

"Last night!" Rosie cries, memory returning in a rush. She sits up, flinging the covers off of her legs and attempting to stand.

Fortunately Danny, the darling, darling man, redeems his earlier sins by being there to help steady her when her legs turn out not to be quite up to the job. "God, how many of those Tequila Sunrises did I drink?" she wonders aloud, knowing the only possible answer would be 'one too many' should Danny choose to treat it literally rather than rhetorically.

"Yeah, last night was some kind of record breaker," he agrees, guiding her gently to the adjoining bathroom. "There's coffee waiting for you on the sink, some paracetamol and your robe," he announces as he nudges open the door with his shoulder. "Once you're actually awake and aware, we can talk strategy."

The lovely, wonderful, amazing man! How could she not marry him after taking such loving care of her? "The wedding is back on," she tells him, seeing by the amusement in his eyes that he actually understands what prompted her words. She kisses him on the nose - well, fairly close - and stumbles into the bathroom, following the sweet, sweet aroma of the finest cup of coffee she's ever had in her young life.

After a steaming hot shower, the rest of her coffee and the paracetamol, she emerges far more awake and alert from the bathroom than when she'd entered it. Danny - oh, lovely, lovely man! How could she ever have doubted him! - has more coffee ready and waiting for her.

She throws herself into his arms, peppering him with kisses in between mumbles of gratitude, then sinks into her recliner, cup of the god-like brew in her hands, and looks at her fiance. "So. About last night," she begins, and spends the next several minutes outlining exactly how much mischief they're going to get up to today.

oOo

David rises to his feet as Mary, Danny, and Rosie approach the table where he's been nervously fidgeting for the past fifteen minutes or so. He'd been early, they were a few minutes late, but it was all good now. He smiles at Mary, shakes hands with Danny, and stares wordlessly at Rosie for longer than is probably polite, but he can't help it. She looks so much like her mother at that age, bar a few minor differences. Most strikingly, they share the same bright, beaming smile and he knows that, blood relationship or not, he'd have been so happy raising her as his own.

Before she came into his life it was ordinary, even a bit dull, but now? It's as if he'd never seen the sun before. If only...

Ah well, no use crying over spilt milk, as his Gran always said. They enjoy a lovely brunch together, although Mary seems a bit distracted. He understands why when, just as the meal is ending and he's decided that Rosie is the most brilliant young woman he's ever met and he'd happily die for her, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson stroll up to the table and greet them.

He can't help the pang of regret he feels when Holmes stoops down to greet both Rosie and Mary with kisses to the cheek, and shakes Danny's hand. He expects to be ignored but to his surprise Holmes actually acknowledges his presence with a nod, while John shakes his hand and says something about what a fine morning it is.

With a glint in her eyes that makes him feel more than a bit wary, Rosie leans forward, elbow planted on the table, rests her chin in her hand and says, "A very fine morning indeed, John. How did you sleep?" And she raises her eyebrow with a mischievous grin that tells David the question might not be as innocent as it sounds.

"Rosamund!" her mother exclaims, her cheeks going a bit pink. She turns her accusing gaze to Danny. "So you did see us, you brat!" But she doesn't sound angry, only amused, which further confuses him. What the heck is going on here, exactly?

Before he can voice that question, Holmes let out an annoyed huff. "Isn't it obvious, Mr. Green? No?" He nods at John and Mary. "Her mother and John reconnected romantically last night, Danny witnessed that reconnection, and Rosamund - having inherited what I can only call her mother's pawky sense of humor - has decided she approves and to show that approval via teasing."

Oh. OH. David feels his eyes going very wide indeed. So much for his belief that it was the famous Sherlock Holmes for whom Mary still had left-over feelings! "Well, that's, that's very nice," he manages to stammer out. He'd thought he'd accepted the inevitable - and had been making some very nice progress with Mary's cousin Meena and hoped to continue to do so - but still, discovering absolutely that someone you'd once loved very much loved someone else was something of a blow.

"Buck up, Green," Holmes says encouragingly. "There's still a chance you're actually Rosamund's father, and if you end up marrying Mary's cousin - either way you'll still be part of the family."

Rosie's smile has completely vanished by the end of that little speech, and both she and her mother are giving Holmes the same narrow-eyed, disapproving stares. Belatedly David realizes that 'encouraging' wasn't exactly the right way to describe Holmes' words - 'false heartiness' might be closer to the mark. Surely not mocking, though?

As if his thoughts had been broadcast aloud, a scolding voice says, "Sherlock, don't be mean!"

It's neither Rosie nor Mary speaking, however, but his ex's pretty little brunette friend. She gives him an apologetic smile before continuing to lay into the famous detective - who takes it with surprising humility. He even goes so far as to apologize, which raises more than a few eyebrows.

Including that of John Watson. "Will miracles never cease," he marvels, eyeing Molly with more than a little respect. "How did you manage that? What's your secret?"

It's Mary who responds with a return of her lovely grin. "Hm, seems that John and I weren't the only ones who had a romantic night together! Good on you, Molls!"

"Good on Molls for what?" This time the new voice is that of the redhead he knows is Mary's other close friend. She stops at the little table, which is feeling a wee bit claustrophobic what with the growing crowd she and the father of the groom have now joined.

Rosie and Danny share delighted grins and turn to face the newcomers with matching sickly-sweet expressions on their faces. Danny bounces to his feet, embraces his father, then turns to Mary's friend and kisses her on the cheek, hugging her just as warmly as he had his father. "Dad! New Mum! Glad you could join us!"

'New Mum' looks startled, then breaks into infectious laughter. "Oh, good one, you!" she exclaims, taking the elder Lestrade's arm and resting her head on his shoulder. "New Mum, I like it - but I doubt your real mum will, so can that crap while she's around, all right?"

Rosie gives her a look of wide-eyed innocence so phony that even David recognizes it for what it is without needing to play catch-up. However, she addresses her next words to her mother. "Now you two, please tell me you used protection? I'm far too old to be saddled with a younger sibling!"

Holmes rolls his eyes and answers before Mary can say anything, if she'd planned to. "Sorry, Rosie, but your parents haven't shagged yet. But I can promise that Molly and I used protection, in case you're also averse to your godmother and I having a child. Perhaps in a few years, when Molly's more established in her profession," he muses, ignoring the varied reactions his words receive.

Well, ignoring all but Molly's reaction, which is a squawk of indignation and bright flush across her face. "Sherlock!" she hisses, clearly mortified by his casual revelation of how they spent the previous night.

"Bit not good, mate," John advises. His face is equally flushed but Mary is all dimples and sparkling blue eyes.

Fortunately for David's nerves, Meena shows up just then and drops a kiss to the top of his head. "Hello, this is quite the brunch party! I thought it was just for the prospective dads?"

Something Holmes said finally percolates through David's befuddled mind. "Hey, wait!" he objects, staring at the detective whose expression is decidedly smug. "You called John and Mary Rosie's parents! Why? Just because they're together now?"

Holmes shakes his head. "Nope," he says, with an obnoxious pop of the p. "It's because John realized something last night, only I was a bit too distracted at the time to deduce it. Something that made him believe that he was Rosie's father. Something about her physical appearance, I take it?"

He has everyone's full attention now, not least of all Rosie and Mary's. "Is this true, John?" Mary asks even as her daughter demands to know what he thinks he sees in her.

"It's not definitive," John says, holding up his hands defensively and glaring over at Holmes. "I was going to wait until we had our DNA tests this afternoon and got the results back before I said anything."

"May as well spill the beans now, John," Holmes drawls. "It's not the color of her hair or shape of her mouth, those are all Mary. Her relatively short height isn't any kind of a giveaway either, or her build -"

"Eyes and nose," John blurts out, looking instantly as if he wishes he hadn't allowed the other man to annoy him into saying anything at all. He looks over at Mary, then at Rosie. "You have the same eyes and nose as my sister Harry," he says, more softly this time. "It could just be coincidence…"

"As Mycroft likes to say, the universe is rarely so lazy," Holmes says, his tone of voice brooking no argument. "As for the DNA tests, we might as well get the formalities over with, shall we?" He pulls out his mobile, taps away at it for a moment, then holds it up. "Mycroft's made all the arrangements for Molly to run the tests at the local hospital. Shall we?"

Looking more than a little dazed, Rosie nods and rises to her feet. Danny joins her, laying his arm across her shoulder in a comforting, supportive gesture. Mary, eyes blinking rapidly, nods as well, taking John's hand in hers. Meena gives David an encouraging peck on the cheek and a warm smile. "Go on then, you lot," she says. "The rest of us have wedding things to do while you're across the island. We'll see you later."

And off they troop - David, Sherlock, John, Molly, Mary, and Rosie - to go through what apparently is only a formality now. Of course, the great detective and his blogger could both be wrong, but somehow David suspects that they aren't.

Only Holmes' teasing words about David still being part of the family if he and Meena continue to hit it off keeps his heart from breaking. At least Rosie will still be a part of his life in some small way, he consoles himself.

As if sensing his melancholy mood, Rosie hangs back a bit, walking by his side as they continue down the hill toward the harbor. "Don't feel you have to marry Aunt Meena just to stay in my life," she says, taking his arm and smiling up at him. "Now that I've gotten to know you all, I really hope you'll stick around, maybe come back and visit or let Danny and I visit you. I've never been to England."

He smiles back down at her. "You couldn't get rid of me if you tried," he promises. "Manchester may not be as glamorous as London, but you and the rest of your family are all welcome to visit me there anytime you like."

"Thank you," Rosie says, her voice and expression utterly sincere. "I know I haven't said this before, but thank you for being a part of my mum's life. You made her happy and I know she made you happy, too."

"She did," David replies, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. "But you know what? Just knowing you makes me even happier."

They continue walking together, his heart infinitely lighter.

Chapter Text

"That's the last one," Molly declares, stripping off her nitrile gloves with far more grace and efficiency than when she'd donned them. (One day, she vows, one day she'll manage it without looking like a total plonker. Today, unfortunately, is not that day.) She carefully places the last of the buccal swabs into the container provided by the lab and hands it off to the tech that's been assigned to help her. The results will be flown (!) via helicopter (!) to the testing lab and they'll have results by the morning at the latest, or so Sherlock's brother has apparently assured him.

She smiles a soft, private smile at the thought of how her relationship with Sherlock has changed, literally overnight. The smile gradually devolves into an anxious frown; what if this is just some version of a holiday romance for him? Something not to take back to London? Yes, he'd said he wanted more but what if, what if…

"Breathe, Molly," a voice rumbles softly in her ear, and she looks up to see Sherlock standing very close behind her; when had he even moved? "I told you I'm willing to try," he murmurs, "do please attempt to believe me if you can."

She offers him a tremulous smile and tries to shrug off her aberrant little panic attack but he's observing her so closely she knows she can't hide anything from him.

Nor, unfortunately, from anyone else still in the room, which turns out to just be Mary and John. David had already headed down to the cafeteria after a preliminary blood typing test officially eliminated him from the running, and Danny and Rosie had gone with him to keep him company - and commiserate with his obvious disappointment at that outcome.

Molly scolds herself for getting so caught up in her own drama that she'd actually forgotten the point of this little exercise in cheek-swabbing and blood-drawing. "Sorry!" she says. "Just got a little caught up in my thoughts." She gives an unconvincing laugh. "You know how it is!"

John shoots Sherlock a hard look and Mary comes over to hug her. "You'll be fine, love, I promise," she whispers, and Molly hugs her back gratefully. "Just don't let this one call all the shots and you'll be more than fine!" She gives Sherlock a stern look. "Consider this your 'treat her right or we'll come after you' talk, understood?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes and gently but firmly pulls Molly out of Mary's arms and into his own. "No need for threats, Rosamund Mary Morstan," he says loftily. "I've already stated my intentions quite clearly, right before Molly and I had se-"

"Right, that's enough!" John says loudly, while Mary merely grins. He jabs a finger in Sherlock's direction. "What Mary said, eh? Remember, I'm a doctor, I can name every bone in your body before breaking them!"

Molly's regained her emotional equilibrium, partially due to the comforting feel of Sherlock's arm encircling her shoulders as well as his admonition to 'breathe'. "I'll be fine," she assures the other two, then gives Sherlock a sidelong grin. "Remember what I do for a living; if he gives me any grief I won't have any trouble hiding the body!"

Their shared laughter fills the air and they leave the room, ready to join David and the others and make their way back to the hotel.

Wedding preparations still need to be finished, after all, no matter what else might be going on.

oOo

David's fairly quiet on the ride back to the hotel, but not so much that he makes the others uncomfortable. After all, Rosie'd asked him to be a part of her life no matter what the truth of her actual parentage, and there's Meena waiting for them when they arrive. Even though a tiny part of him wistfully lingers on the might-have-beens, the larger part of him is just happy to have found a woman who's as interested in him as he is in her.

Meena continues to show that interest at the family dinner that night, and he's more than happy to just enjoy the moment.

The next day he and the two men still in contention for fatherhood are shooed off, along with Danny, to prepare for the wedding (read: stay out of the womens' way). This involves a great deal of smoking, friendly joshing, and several admonitions from Danny's father and John for Sherlock to keep any deductions he might have at the wedding to himself.

"Please," he scoffs, rolling his eyes as he sips his whisky and takes a long, slow puff of his cigar, "I've already deduced everything worth knowing about the guests and the wedding party, including Rosie's pregnancy."

His self-satisfied smirk fades and vanishes, and a puzzled line appears between his eyes at the dead silence and wide-eyed stares that greet this comment. "I mean, it's obvious, isn't it obvious? Did you really not know?" His gaze settles on Danny. "Surely you knew! Her nausea at the clinic, her slight faintness when our blood was drawn, her general lack of appetite and obvious exhaustion?"

Relieved laughter fills the room, and John slaps Sherlock on the shoulder. "That's called a hangover, mate. Sometimes they last for a couple of days, as I'm sure most of us have learned to our regret!" He glances at Danny as if for support.

The groom-to-be is quick to offer it. "Oh yeah, we all overdid it a bit," he agrees with a grin. "But she'll be all right by this evening." His eyes take on a faraway glow. "I can't wait to see her in her wedding gown, up on the headland with the sun setting behind her and all our friends and family gathered round to watch while we exchange our vows."

The good-natured joshing he receives for his sentimental dreaminess continues without mercy for most of the afternoon, until they all disperse to prepare for the imminent ceremony.

oOo

Rosie makes a face at the wine she's just sipped from. "Ugh, I can't believe I chose this one," she complains, setting it down on the dresser. "What was I thinking?"

Gwen sniffs the discarded drink, then sips from the other side of the glass. "Tastes fine to me," she says with a shrug. Stacey nods her agreement.

Mary laughs. "When I was pregnant with you," she says, stroking Rosie's golden hair, "anything with alcohol tasted horrible. Didn't make me sick to be around, not like the smell of cooking hamburger - oh, I couldn't eat hamburgers for a year after you were born, remember, Meena?"

Meena laughs and nods, sipping from her own glass of wine. "Oh yeah, what a temper that put you into! You practically lived on hamburgers before that!" The sound of the door opening catches their attention; Molly walks in, carefully carrying the dress with her and hanging it on the hook on the back of the door. "Here it is!" she says proudly. "Fixed that zipper good as new!"

It had torn when Mary tried to zip up the dress. Cursing the dressmaker for cinching the waist in too tightly at the last fitting, Mary had ordered her daughter back out of the dress and thrust it into Molly's arms. "You're the best with a needle and thread, Molly, can you make it right?"

As always, Molly had come through. She points out the small tuck in the waist she'd had to unstitch - "I told that woman not to make it so tight!" Mary grouses - and proudly shows off the newly repaired zipper. Rosie and her bridesmaids crowd around her, oohing and ahhing, praising her for fixing the problem so quickly, and sharing relieved smiles with the other women.

This time Gwen and Stacey insist on taking Rosie into the adjoining room, so they can help her finish putting on the gown and veil. "Gotta have a dramatic reveal for Mum!" Gwen carols as she and Stacey shove her good-naturedly ahead of them, having carefully taken the dress down from the hook. "See you in ten minutes!"

Mary nods her agreement, and the older women settle down to finish their wine and discuss the evening's schedule. They're laughing and enjoying one another's company when the door opens again, and Rosie reenters with Gwen and Stacey on either side of her. She looks radiant in her simple white gown, holding a bouquet of mixed wildflowers in front of her and the veil rippling behind her as she does an impromptu spin. "How do I look?"

Mary approaches her with tears in her eyes. "Like the little girl I raised has grown into a beautiful, confident woman," she says.

Rosie's eyes are a bit damp as she hugs her mother, but the laughter quickly returns when Janine quips, "And like Wedding Day Barbie, with that gorgeous hair an' white dress!"

Sooner than seems reasonable they're making their way up to the headland, where Ajay and the local carpenter they've hired have erected an arch. It's covered in white satin and white carnations, and Father Todros is waiting for them when they arrive. Mary confers with him while the guests settle into their seats and Rosie paces nervously back and forth while Gwen and Stacey do their best to help settle her nerves.

They're waiting with Molly and Janine around the bend; the winding path leading up to the headland breaks into two directions here, and the men have been instructed to stay on the left side. Every footstep makes Rosie start and swear, and finally Molly takes her hands and orders her to sit on the nearest flat rock, draping her cheery yellow cardigan over the stone and sitting next to her.

"But your dress!" Rosie protests.

Molly hugs her. "Hush, it's fine. You're the one everyone will be looking at, not me! If there are any marks I can't brush away then I'll just wrap my cardigan round my waist and be done with it." She presses a soft kiss to Rosie's temple, and feels the younger woman relax just a tiny bit.

A few minutes later Mary joins them, a radiant smile on her lips. "They're ready, love. Are you?"

Rosie stands up, but not before giving Molly a grateful hug. "More than ready," she assures her mother, but her hand rubs at her stomach before she takes the bouquet Gwen's been holding for her. "Not sure about my butterflies, though!"

They walk up the leftward path, Molly and Janine slipping away to their seats. As arranged, John, Sherlock and David are all waiting to escort the bride to her groom - but it's Mary whose arm she takes.

The music, a simple instrumental recording of Rosie and Danny's favorite song, 'Unchained Melody' by The Righteous Brothers, starts playing. Gwen and Stacey give her a quick thumb's up, then start their measured pacing down the makeshift aisle. Mary and Rosie follow, and then the three men who've become so important to her. One of them is her dad - either Sherlock or John - and Rosie's positive that whichever one it turns out to be, she's the luckiest daughter in the world.

Then she sees Danny, smiling so wide his cheeks must be aching, and all thoughts of her potential fathers fly right out of her head. She barely notices as her mother squeezes her shoulders and kisses her cheek before taking her seat in the front row between Molly and Janine.

The ceremony is short and simple - not at all a traditional Greek wedding as Father Todros laughingly points out - and, in Rosie's mind, absolutely perfect. She and Danny exchange their vows, the rings are placed on each other's fingers, and suddenly the joyous sounds of Katrina and the Waves' 'Walking On Sunshine' burst from the CD player as she and Danny lead a cheering, happy crowd back down to the hotel.

(At the reception, John takes her aside and asks where she got her taste in music from; when Rosie grins and points at Mary, he smiles and shakes his head. "I should've known. I do remember her having an ear for the oldies!")

oOo

While Rosie and Danny are dancing their first dance together ('Thinking Out Loud' by Ed Sheeran), he holds her close and tells her he loves her. "Love you too, idiot, or I wouldn't have married you!" Rosie says with a laugh.

"Are you sure you're not just marrying me because of the baby?" Before Rosie can respond to that astonishing question, Danny laughs and kisses her. "Just kidding! It was something Sherlock said while we were all staying out of your mum's way, that you were a bit green around the gills at the lab earlier today which of course meant you were pregnant."

"My dress was too tight," Rosie says, rather faintly, not joining in the laugh as Danny clearly expects her to do. She lifts troubled eyes to meet his as they continue to automatically sway to the music. "Aunt Molly had to let it out a bit. And the wine, it tasted funny, and Mum said she couldn't drink wine when she was pregnant with me and oh, God! Danny! I drank so much the other night!" She raises a hand to her mouth, coming to an abrupt stop smack in the middle of the dance floor. "What if it's true?"

Danny, bless him, doesn't skip a beat. "Then we'll deal with it, just like your mum dealt with it when she found out she was pregnant. Only you won't be alone, cause you'll have me, Til death, remember?" And he raises her beringed finger to his lips and places a tender kiss on its tip. "We'll stop at the chemists tomorrow and get a pregnancy test and find out for sure. For tonight, though, can we just be the two of us?" He grins and takes her back into his arms, once again moving to the music. "Especially if that's all going to change in eight or nine months!"

She nods and manages a smile, and puts the idea out of her mind. She's never been one to brood, and Danny's sensible attitude and reassuring words certainly help.

She sees her mother watching them, somewhat anxiously, and gives her a nod and a smile, letting her know that everything's okay. And it is; with Danny by her side - til death! - she can face anything.

From across the room, Molly and Sherlock watch them dancing. Hearing Molly's wistful sigh, Sherlock glances down at her. "Wishing it was you in bridal white?"

She shakes her head firmly. "No, actually. Just wishing I could take off these shoes. I should have worn flats, but these make my legs look longer and match my dress so well I couldn't bear not to wear them!" She giggles, a delightful sound to his ears. "What's that old saying about vanity?"

He shrugs. "No idea. But if your feet are bothering you…" With a wicked grin he swoops her into his arms, which causes the giggles to increase as she wraps her arms round his neck. "We've done our part," he whispers in her ear. "I'm happy to let John and David dance with Rosie once young Lestrade lets her out of his hold. If you don't mind, I'd much rather take up where we left off the other night, wouldn't you?"

Still giggling, blushing like a - well, like a bride! - Molly nods and they slip away from the festivities with no one the wiser.

Except, of course, Janine and Mary, who make kissy faces at her over Sherlock's shoulder and wiggle their fingers in good-bye as they leave the room.

A few minutes after that, John somewhat bashfully asks Mary to dance; Janine is pulled onto the dancefloor by Lestrade Senior, and Meena and David join them to the strains of Elvis Presley's 'I Can't Help Falling In Love With You.'

Chapter Text

Two Days After The Wedding

Rosie and Danny, newlyweds and expectant parents (when will people realize, Sherlock thinks disgruntledly, that he's rarely wrong in his deductions?) have left for their honeymoon. Lestrade is somewhat dazedly trying to come to grips with the idea of being Grandpa, with Janine happy to both console him and very enthusiastically help him demonstrate his continued youthful vigor. The ex-wife, whose name Sherlock has never bothered to remember, is already on her way back to Australia, happily planning baby showers and adding a nursery to her house for future visits.

The question about Rosie's parentage has been resolved, exactly as Sherlock had also deduced it would be: John is her father. He's over the moon, as is Mary, and it's no surprise when he announces that he's going to be stopping in Greece for a while. "So Mary and I can get to know each other a little better," he tells Sherlock just before he and Molly are scheduled to fly back to London.

With a little finagling, Sherlock's managed to not only get them on the same flight home, but sitting next to each other as well. First class, of course; only the best when it comes to using the credit card he'd nicked from his brother during his last visit.

His feelings are decidedly mixed, which is something he's not used to. On the one hand, it's probably for the best that he isn't Rosie's biological father, but on the other hand, he's oddly disappointed in that fact. On the other other hand, as Molly herself would put it, his new relationship with his pathologist fills him with elation bordering on giddiness at times.

Oh, he'll do something to muck things up, he always does, but until Molly ultimately gets sick of him and leaves, he's determined to make the most of it.

He tells her that, quite seriously, when they're seated on the plane and each holding a glass of wine.

Her reaction's unexpected, to say the least: she laughs. "Sorry, I'm not laughing at you," she rushes to assure him, placing her hand over his and squeezing lightly. "It's just, you know, relationships. They have their ups and downs, and who knows what the future might bring? I mean, it's possible you'll just wake up one day and think, all right, the experiment's over. I've been in a relationship, time to move on to something else. Or you might just get bored. Who knows? But you mustn't start off expecting the worst, not this early on! Or it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy."

Her smile falters a bit. "Unless, of course - you're already having second thoughts, now that we're on our way home, back to our real lives? I wouldn't blame you if you were, I understand completely if that's the case, of course I do, it's all right…"

Before she can work herself up any further, he leans over and kisses her. Quite thoroughly. "Not changing my mind, Molly Hooper. Just trying to be…"

He hesitates, and Molly says, "Kind?" just as he says "Realistic."

"Well, let's save the future for the future," Molly advises him. "Let's just enjoy what we have now, and see how things go, shall we? Instead of second guessing ourselves this early in the game?"

Sherlock fixes her with a serious look. "It's not a game, Molly, I promise you that much. Not a game, not an experiment, not me making fun of you or pretending I feel something for you just so I can get better access to the labs, nothing like that. It's just me and my…feelings."

This time she starts the kiss, and they spend the rest of the trip home holding hands, sipping wine, snacking on cheese and crackers, and planning out the next set of actual experiments he's been mulling over.

Her enthusiastic participation in those plans remind him exactly how right she is for him. Maybe he won't completely screw things up between them after all. Only time will tell, and in this case it's best to leave the future to the future.

The past, on the other hand, requires some of his time - and a visit to a certain busy-body of a family member shortly after they land is definitely called for.

"Try not to give him too much of a hard time," Molly urges him as he helps her into her cab, after he explains why he needs to see his brother right away. "I'm sure he just did what he thought was best at the time."

Sherlock hums noncommittally, kisses her good-bye and watches until the cab vanishes from view. They'll be meeting for dinner tomorrow night, so they have some time to settle back into their normal lives (as normal as their lives ever get), and he knows that Angelo will be thrilled that he's bringing an actual date to the restaurant for once.

He settles into his own cab and off they go, back to London proper, stopping outside the Diogenes, where Sherlock pays the driver and tips him a tenner to wait for him.

Mycroft is in his office, obviously waiting for him. "And how was Greece?" he asks.

Sherlock ignores the question, dropping into the chair opposite his brother's desk. "I know you already knew," he announces, somewhat ungrammatically.

"Knew what?" Mycroft asks, as if he didn't already know the answer. Of course he does; he's Mycroft Holmes, he always knows.

"That I'm not Rosie Morstan's father."

"Oh, that," Mycroft replies with a dismissive flick of the wrist. "Hardly worth mentioning."

"Which is how I knew you knew," Sherlock says. "You didn't even blink an eye, just got Molly set up to run the DNA tests and expedited the results without demands for explanations or attempts to use the request as leverage to get me to work on one of your boring government cases. So you already knew it wasn't me."

"Yes," Mycroft agrees. "Well deduced, little brother." His tone is only mildly mocking.

Sherlock folds his arms across his chest and glares at him. "Why?"

Mycroft considers asking 'why what' but decides against further antagonizing his younger brother. "Because I had to be certain, once I was alerted to Miss Morstan's 'interesting condition', that there were no arrangements to be made. Financial arrangements, that is, as you were certainly in no position to take on familial responsibility for either a wife or a child at that time. And after a certain number of years had passed with no signs that Miss Morstan intended to pursue any inquiries into her child's parentage, it seemed unnecessary to inform you of the situation."

"I trust you'll be able to keep your nose out of my current relationship," Sherlock says after taking a few seconds to digest that response.

He's gratified to see Mycroft's eyebrow lift in what (for him) passes as an expression of surprise. "Have you impregnated Miss Hooper already?"

Sherlock scowls; so much for the surprise. Mycroft's just playing him now. Just like always. "No," he grumbles. "Deduced our relationship from my request to have her run the tests, did you?"

Mycroft shakes his head, leans back in his chair, his expression quite smug. So smug even the thickest idiot could see it. "Not at all, brother mine. I knew before you left on your impromptu vacation to Greece that you were starting to develop 'feelings' for the good doctor." He wrinkles his nose in distaste as he speaks the word both brothers once disdained. "Sentiment, Sherlock, is not your friend."

"What would you know about friends?" Sherlock shoots back, on firmer ground with this familiar argument. "You've never had any."

"Thank goodness for that," his brother replies. "Having witnessed how much of a problem they can be…" He gestures at Sherlock's cheek, where the fading bruise from John's punch still shows.

Sherlock waves it away. "One day, Mycroft, I sincerely hope you'll discover how empty your life is, with only your work and the mild irritants that are your family to keep you company."

"My family," Mycroft says firmly, "are hardly 'mild' irritants. But," he concedes, "they are important to me. All of them." He looks Sherlock squarely in the eyes, and his brother nods acknowledgement of the truth of those words. "That now includes Miss Hooper, in case you were wondering."

"I wasn't," Sherlock says, then pauses and adds, "but thank you." He jumps back to his feet, ready to leave as abruptly as he'd arrived, then pauses as Molly's words come back to him. "Thank you," he says again, reaching across the desk so his brother, visibly startled, can shake his hand. "I mean it, Mycroft. Thank you."

"You're quite welcome," Mycroft says, and smiles. The brothers will always have their moments of irritation with one another, but perhaps…perhaps they needn't be one another's nemesis any more? Only time will tell. "Save the future for the future," he murmurs with a soft, reminiscent smile, then turns on his heel and heads out.

Why wait until tomorrow to take Molly to dinner, when all the settling in he needs to do has been taken care of? He smiles as he texts her, and smiles even more when she sends back her response: 'Yes' followed by about a half-dozen exclamation points, a smiley face, and a heart.

Without even thinking about it, he sends a heart back to her, hops into the cab, and sends it to Molly's address rather than his own.