Ok, this is one of those stories I feel I need to apologize in advanced for because it's kind of weird and cheesy (why am I such a sucker for cheese?). I like it but I don't so I figured why not post it and let you guys decide because I'm honestly not sure about it. Part of it came from a random prompt I found on the internet but I changed most of it and turned it into something I could fit Molly and Sherlock into so I'm taking a lot of creative liberties here. So please, let me down easy if it's terrible I promise not to be too upset.

Warnings for language mostly because there's actually no sex this time.

I don't own anything sadly, I'm just borrowing.

Can you lie next to her?

And give her your heart, your heart

As well as your body?

And can you lie next to her

And confess your love, your love

As well as your folly?

And can you kneel before the king

And say I'm clean, I'm clean?

-White Blank Page, Mumford and Sons

Eyes Wide Shut

Some say their story begins on the day that they met; a tall, dark, enigmatic man and the seemingly unimportant woman who would save him time and time again. It's safe to say the first meeting is anything but picturesque, but it's enough for the hopeless, unrequited crush to take refuge in Molly Hooper's mind and set off a chain reaction that would eventually lead to the 'death' of the most brilliant and beautiful mind she had ever met. In return Sherlock Holmes would learn just how much he relied on the one person who was able to save him from everything but himself but that doesn't mean it comes without loss (and that is something neither Sherlock Holmes or Molly Hooper are stranger to).

It's her first day on the job, the new pathologist who has no friends and only the warning from fellow co-workers to "stay away from the git in the long black coat," before they fling her into the middle of the battlefield that is Sherlock Holmes and despite their warnings she finds herself drawn to him as he towers over the body on one of her slabs, body rigid.

Molly clears her throat and pushes back a lock of hair. "Hello. Um, you're Mr. Holmes right?"

She can feel his eyes on her as soon as he turns, taking in her life story as if he was reading the words off a page and not her clothes, cats (three to be exact), dead father (the ring on the chain, too big to be hers, too old to be a boyfriends), top of her class (ok, he may have looked her up but he can't have just anyone handling his corpses and he needed to be sure).

It takes a moment and a few breaths for courage before she can look up and truly out a face to the countless names she's heard but when she does it's almost too late to stop the gasp from escaping her lips when she sees how beautiful this stranger is. His ice blue eyes are like daggers, her cheeks flushing as he continues to paint the picture of her in his mind without her need to say a word.

Finally she holds out a shaking hand. "I'm Molly. Molly Hooper."

Her friendly smile fades as he turns his back and offers a simple and seemingly bored 'I know,' but it's already too late for her. She is undeniably (and sometimes unfortunately) hooked on Sherlock Holmes and her heart is lost to a man who has no intention of caring for it.

There comes a time a few years later (almost four to be exact) for those who don't quite believe the beginning of such a tangled and frustrating relationship could begin with a stammered meeting and a cold demeanor. It's the first time Molly Hooper saves Sherlock Holmes, who seems to have the knack for making himself a seemingly permanent fixture in her life. In the morgue, in the lab (years later she will deem it his lab and when he jumps off the roof she will keep everything as he left it for the next three years), and even in her dreams. She knows about the early trips to rehab (he doesn't care enough to hide his scars) and the addictions to almost every hardcore drug she has ever heard of but she never stopped to think that he would fall off the deep end, nor did she think of herself as the anchor that was supposed to tether him to his sanity.

It's late when Molly is roused from a fitful sleep and hears the sound of someone pounding on the door. She doesn't remember even closing her eyes but after finishing a tiring shift she had come home and fallen on the couch, sore and irritated. It had been just hours after watching Sherlock being drug from the morgue, eyes dilated and brow thick with sweat by a few of Lestrade's men, a look of remorse and pity on the inspector's face.

"Sometimes he just doesn't know when enough is enough. I'll keep an eye on him until he comes down," he had promised her sadly. She would be lying if she said she hadn't been thinking about him since then but her common sense told her it was best to leave him be until tomorrow and she'd gone home trying to push the thought of him away.

Now dressed in her flannel pajamas and her hair tied up she trudges towards the door, missing the warmth of the couch already and she mutters under her breath angrily; whoever interrupted her night of peace had some serious explaining to do. Standing on her tiptoes she looks through the door's peephole to see a mop of dark, familiar hair and agitation (along with blinding worry) bubbles inside of her before she pulls the door open and Sherlock practically falls into her arms.

He was mumbling, words slurred and Molly couldn't understand what he was saying as she tried to drag him across the room before letting him fall on the couch as her anger melted away and was replaced by sheer panic. His skin was flaming beneath her fingers as she pushed the hair from his face that was soaked with sweat. She grabbed his face with both hands, making her look at him.

"Sherlock, what have you taken?" He answers with a moan and he thrashes around desperately and his limbs are flailing against her attempts to hold him down. He turns his head toward her and his lips part slightly.

"Molly, I think I'm going to be sick." She tries to move quickly enough towards the kitchen to grab the rubbish bin but she hears him retching before she even makes it there and she brings back a few things and drops them on the table next to him before she grabs the phone and simultaneously tries to roll Sherlock onto his side.

Her heart is pounding and it takes a moment to realize she's feeling fear and it's constricting her in a way she's never experienced before. She vaguely remembers recalling Sherlock's condition to the operator who keeps telling her to stay calm and all she wants to do is tell them to go to hell because the man in front of her is dying and she can't do a damn thing.

What she does remember is stroking his hair and whispering in his ear, trying to keep him here with her until help arrives and when it finally does she prays to every god she can think of and watches them carry him out of her flat and past a bewildered neighbor whose eyes suddenly fill with pity when they look at her. Molly promptly slams the door and presses her back against the cool wood, sliding to the floor and choking on tears she didn't even know she had left and they fall with mercy as she buries her head in her hands.

That was the first (but definitely not the last) time she saved Sherlock Holmes and he has never forgotten it.

If you ask Sherlock himself he'll tell you Molly Hooper is the most important woman in the world. Apparently faking your death is harder than it seems but it is not as hard as living with the aftermath and lacking the ability to break your cover and reassure every single person who you've left a grieving and broken mess that it's alright and you're not actually dead, which is why he is grateful for Molly because she understands even after you've managed to convince yourself that no one ever could. Despite the underestimation regarding her worth to him Sherlock knows he owes everything he has to her and not just his life (his sanity, his patience, the list goes on).

He makes his first reappearance three months after he sneaks out of her flat in the middle of the night and leaves a note on the back of an old bill envelope and places it on the pillow next to her head. She had only stirred slightly when he tiptoed from the bedroom before she curled closer to Toby and sighed sleepily. He ignored the guilt weighing him down like a stone and carefully lifted the window, jumping out onto the fire escape and leaving into the night.

Now he was standing in the middle of her living room and there was a trail of blood leading back to that same window, staining the edge of the counter and following him across the wood floor. Molly had already dropped her keys when she saw him the first time, as if he were a ghost but as she took in the sight of his injuries she shifted gears and ordered him onto the couch and he practically fell back thanks to exhaustion and pain while she dashed around the kitchen.

In the end he has twenty stitches going up his right side and a deep purple bruise marring his jaw while the other cuts and scrapes took up space along the rest of his body like paint on a canvas. Molly slumps back against the couch when she had tied off the final suture and dumped out the bowl of water that was now colored red, wiping sweat from her brow as she brushed hair from his face that was also sticky with sweat. He was barely conscious but he was alive thanks to her (it will always be thanks to her) and he cracked one eye open just as he felt her weight shift off the couch. He reaches out one shaking arm and gripped her wrist, the skin cold against his fevered own.

"Thank you Molly. For everything." She looks slightly taken aback but blinked once as if to recover and flashes him her trademark smile (it fails to hide the sadness in her eyes) before she walks away without a word.

After that he had shown up six more times with knife wounds, dislocated shoulders, and broken noses and every time she would silently heal him, give him the couch until he was fit enough to fight once more and the next morning she would find a note on her pillow and the window in the kitchen would be unlatched. It went on for three years until one night- tonight he comes back sans injuries and he shuffles up to her and gives a grave smile (she tries hard to ignore the blood on his hands that was obviously not his) and tells her it's finished and things can go back to the way they were before Moriarty came into their lives.

"I'll be out of your way and you can go on working at Bart's and I'll still come in when need be."

He expected a smile at that, a hug even because it was over and he would have gladly accepted it in that moment but all he got was a scoff and an angry glare.

"Is that all you think of me Sherlock? I save your life, let you live in my house, lie to my friends and in the end everything returns to normal and I'm suddenly on the back burner again?" Her tiny fists are shaking but Sherlock brushes it off.

"Please Molly, of course I appreciate your help but why wouldn't everything return to normal? We aren't together nor are we on the brink of being together. The only thing that has changed is me and sadly it isn't for the better so I'm terribly sorry if this is upsetting but it's just the way things are."

There is no comeback, no tears or even a trembling bottom lip because all Molly does is shake her head and turn on her heels toward the bedroom where the door slams and he is now alone.

Sherlock doesn't understand, isn't even sure if he wants to and simply slips out the door this time without a note or a goodbye to the woman who saved his life.

John punches him in the face and Mrs. Hudson sobs into his shirt, John's fiancé Mary simply stands in the doorway and folds her arms across her chest with a slight smile because John eventually breaks down and pulls him into a hug and for a moment things are alright. They let him take his bedroom for the night but it feels cramped and unfamiliar after years spent on Molly's couch or the safe houses Mycroft provided. All his things were as he left them, equipment and books, clothes and the few mementos he's saved over the years but it feels strange to be surrounded by things he hasn't seen in so long.

Eventually he does find sleep, strewn across the bed haphazardly with his suit still on and the blood on his lip from John's fist drying, black against his skin. It's restless and uncomfortable and he can't stop thinking about Molly but after he forces his mind to slow down and let him breathe (she will be alright until the morning) he finds his eyelids fluttering his breath evening until he's blissfully unaware of anything going on around him.

Morning comes with little sunlight, the sky is dreary and grey but it's not much of a surprise in late spring. Sherlock's muscles ache and his head feels pressurized as he sits up and rubs sleep from his eyes, curls flopping down and covering his eyes. Resting his head against the pillows he sighs and realizes this is not a normal morning because he is alive and soon the world would know he had falsified a suicide and Lestrade would know it wasn't his fault and hopefully things would return to a slight degree of normalcy. For now though he can't push Molly from his mind, not even in the safe haven of his dreams was he able to rid the look on her face (Molly Hooper rarely frowned, unless he was around of course).

How does it feel to be the only one who can wipe the grin off of her face?

He tells his mind to shut up, shoots to his feet and grabs his coat off the back of the chair where he threw it last night and decides he can't stand to brood over her much longer. John is already in the kitchen brewing tea and from what he can tell Mary has already left and they are the only ones here. As he breezes past the doctor he stops when John calls out, sounding uncertain.

"Wait a minute Sherlock, you've just gotten back. Where are you headed?" he slides a cup of tea across the counter and the detective takes is gratefully.

"I'm going to see Molly," he says through a piping mouthful.

He watches John's face sort of crumple at that while his head cocks to the side in what Sherlock can only describe as confusion. Had he really damaged John more than he thought? It doesn't take long for him to grow agitated at the prolonged stare.

"What?" he snaps and John suddenly abandons his cup and comes to stand in front of Sherlock.

"Did you meet someone on your last case?"

Sherlock snorted. "What? John please do stop with your nonsense. I'm going to see Molly. Molly Hooper? Pathologist at Bart's? The one who's been over here to check on you for the last three years while I've been gone?"

He notes (and promptly ignores the look in John's eyes) and pulls away from his friend's grasp but John just steps closer and lowers his voice as if there was someone else who could overhear.

"Sherlock, I don't know what's going on with you but I think you're confused. No one named Molly Hooper has been here before and you were only gone on your case for three days."

He contemplates this and ignores the creeping suspicion that something isn't right.

"What about Moriarty?"

John raises an eyebrow. "Moriarty hasn't been in touch in months Sherlock. There's no need to worry about him right now I think we need to focus on you."

Sherlock blinks and his mind is spinning while he tries to grasp onto what John is saying and looks around the room, noting for the first time that the flat is suddenly void of the feminine touches that came from Mary moving in and the doctor looks suspiciously calm for a man who is seeing his best friend after believing him dead for three years.

Something was wrong. Very wrong.

Shrugging his coat on the rest of the way and abandoning his tea on the counter his legs carry him towards the door and he ultimately shrugs off the fact that John is still yelling at him and Mrs. Hudson doesn't even look twice in his direction or attempt to hug him when he passes her on the stairs although the red flags seem to be popping up everywhere he looks.

The morgue is still cold and the lab is still set up the way he left it but the looks he gets when he breezes through the door and his coat flaps behind him are different. While he was used to the people here being annoyed by his constant presence they never said anything aloud or showed any disdain when Molly was around (she is actually very intimidating when she wants to be). He passes a few of the interns whose faces he recognizes and a few officers who look ready to be sick before he breezes into Molly's office only to stop dead when he sees the person standing at the desk.

"Who are you?" he barks and the older man rolls his eyes and picks up his clipboard.

"I really don't have time for your antics today Mr. Holmes, I'm a busy man with a heavy workload and please correct me if I'm wrong but Inspector Lestrade hasn't put you on a case today."

Sherlock scoffs. "Inspector Lestrade is the least of my concerns. I'm here to see Doctor Hooper." He put his hands on his hips for emphasis but all it does is earn him a look identical to the one John gave him in the kitchen this morning and before he can listen to the snarky answer he breaks out of the office and bursts out of the side entrance.

Pressing himself against the wall he shuts his eyes. So far all he's found is that John was right and Molly Hooper is a ghost haunting the halls of his mind palace, unknown to everyone else who once held her in high regard. On top of that the last three years are gone, he was never dead and John never suffered and as much as he wants to think of this as something positive he can't push away the fact that Molly is gone and everyone seems to think of him as crazy (or crazier than he already was).

He's not sure how it happened or why it was her but Sherlock Holmes knows he isn't going to stop until Molly Hooper is back where she's supposed to be because out of everyone in this life who has doubted, shot down or betrayed him he knows he can always count on her and he owes her that much.

When he gets back to Baker Street, John is gone but there's a note on the counter and a Tupperware of food in the fridge but Sherlock bypasses them both and retrieves John's laptop from his bedroom before he collapses into his chair (he's not shy to say he's missed it) and pulls up the search engine. It's a long shot he knows because there could be dozens of Molly Hoopers in Europe alone but he still types in her name and holds his breath while he hits search.

The first dozen hits are a dead end, four of them have already passed away and at least five are from America and slowly Sherlock is becoming discouraged. He's gone through at least three cups of tea and for a moment he thinks about calling Mycroft who could find anyone he wants but the last thing he needs is his older and extremely control brother thinking he's lost his mind and throwing him into a nuthouse (again). He's just sifted through another three women when something near the bottom of the page catches his eye and he recognizes the name although the face is new to him.

It's a young man, in his mid-thirties at least with auburn hair and dark chocolate eyes and the picture looks like part of a magazine or newspaper article and the caption at the bottom reads Robert Hooper. Molly never talks about her father, the first time he had heard any mention of the man was when she was telling him how only she could see the real Sherlock Holmes and that the one John saw was the one the detective wanted him to see. He knew he had died of cancer when Molly was fairly young and in university but anything other than that was new information. He pulled up the article that ended up being from the newspaper sometime in the late eighties and telling the story of how one Robert Hooper had been involved in a serious car accident while taking his daughter to the city. Suddenly Sherlock can't breathe and he lets his eyes skim further down the article until he finds the words he's dreading.

One victim, Molly Hooper, aged twelve.

He promptly shuts the computer, stumbles to the bathroom and empties his stomach of what little was actually there before slumping to the floor and burying his face in his arms.

The house is rundown and dirty and Sherlock doesn't like it at all. He wraps his coat tighter around himself and taps his knuckles against the door three solid times. There's shuffling coming from the other side and then it opens slightly and an aging face is looking at him.

"What do you want?"

He puts on his best façade and sighs. "Robert Hooper?"

The man nods but his guard stays firmly in place. Sherlock almost growls in annoyance but decides this matter (so incredibly delicate and dare he say sentimental matter deserves the honest truth).

"I want to talk about Molly."

Even though she keeps memories of her father close, Sherlock has only gotten her to open up once. It comes after another nasty knife wound this time across his shoulder blade so he is bedridden for at least a few days until Molly says otherwise. He is sprawled across her couch with his feet in her lap so she can sit down as well, a sitcom flashing on the telly. He's not sure why it's been bugging him, he never worries himself with tales of people he's never met but the last three times he's been here he has come across the photograph of a man in uniform sitting on the mantle.

He knows who it is without asking but he still ends up pointing to it when Molly is stitching him up with one lip caught between her teeth.

"Tell me about your father," he says and the thread jerks against his skin and makes him hiss.

Immediately she flushes and begins to stutter. "Oh gosh, so sorry. Just um-"

"It's alright. I've probably startled you."

She laughs. "You seem to have a habit of doing that… why do you want to know about him?"

He would shrug but there is a needle and a knife wound in one shoulder and he's currently lying on the other while he faces her couch.

"Curious," is all he says, and it seems to be enough.

"Well, he was a soldier for a bit but after he married my mum he decided he'd done enough and he became a doctor in the town. He would travel quite a bit too when it was needed and he'd always bring something back for me, always a new story to tell or something to show. He was smart, which is why you reminded me of him although he wasn't as keen on flaunting it but he was brilliant all the same."

He scoffs.

"Is that why you're a doctor?"

He's not aware but a smile spreads across her face. "Yes. He always encouraged me to do what I want but in the end medicine became a love for me."

Sherlock feels her tug the needle through one last time and sighs. "He sounds like a good man."

Better than me, he thinks.

He is more surprised than the old man himself when the door opens and he's able to walk inside. The house is mostly empty but the few things that are there are thrown around haphazardly. The one thing that does catch his eye are the photos on the television stand, all of a little girl with long auburn hair and the brightest smile he's ever seen.

Molly.

He sits down after Robert, keeping his hands folded in his lap while his eyes roam until he hears a throat clear and he looks back up.

"Why do you want to know about Molly?"

Sherlock freezes. He wants to say he's known Molly for years, that she has saved him more times than he has deserved and that she is the most important person in his life but that would mean he would be insane. He thinks about trying the old friend excuse but Molly died (he shudders at that word) when she was twelve and why anyone would wait twenty years to learn what happened to a friend is beyond him so he settles for something that is as close to the truth as he can.

"Tying up some loose ends for Scotland Yard. I just want to verify some statements you made regarding the accident."

Robert raises an eyebrow. "It was nearly twenty years ago."

"Yes, well, you can never be too careful can you?" He smiles but it is forced and borderline painful.

He is almost expecting rejection, anything other than the understanding look that overtakes this still grieving man's eyes as he sits back and runs his hand through his graying and thinning hair.

"Molly was my world," he sighs, "she was my wife and I's only child so we were a tad harsh on the coddling and nurturing but I couldn't help it. She had a brilliant mind and she was always so curious, that's why I decided to take her to the city that day despite her mother's protesting. I had taken her to the museum, let her run wild and get her fill of facts for the day but I had to stop at the shop on the way home for a few things." He trails off but Sherlock doesn't have the heart to hurry him.

Eventually he swallows and continues but his voice is much quieter than before. "It all happened really fast, Molly was talking and I turned my head for just a second… they said it was instant for her and I suppose that was supposed to make me feel better but…" He wipes at his eyes roughly and Sherlock looks away.

"And your wife?"

Robert sighs mournfully.

"After the initial shock things just seemed to get worse. Dianne and I were constantly fighting, I knew she blamed me. Hell, I blamed me but after losing Molly things just weren't the same and I knew they never would be. She left me and moved away, settled somewhere in the city but I couldn't bear to leave. She said it reminded her too much of Molly but I guess that must be why I stayed. I was so afraid of forgetting her…"

Shaking his head Robert looks back at Sherlock and blinks solemnly.

"Is there anything else you need to know?"

He wants to say everything because Molly Hooper is a mysterious creature and everything he thought he once knew about her is suddenly melting away and he doesn't think he can take it. He settles for a quiet "No" instead and let's himself out of the house as quick as he can.

He gets a cab and thinks the whole way home and every thought is jumbled and mangled and so fucking confusing that he ends up with his face pressed against the glass and his nails digging into his palms.

It's dark when he gets back and John looks irritated. Sherlock doesn't care enough to make a comment and stands in the middle of the living room instead as if a thought had just escaped him and he was desperately searching for it. He's nauseous and can feel a migraine coming on; he's exhausted despite the full night's rest he got and dammit all to hell he needs Molly.

He doesn't want to admit it because for as long as he could remember he needed no one and then she waltzed into his life, a young stuttering mess who waited on him hand and foot, who took endless amounts of crap from him because she liked him and all he did was toss her aside when her skills were no longer needed.

He is a selfish bastard.

The next thing that happens surprises even Sherlock himself and the stinging in his hand is almost unbearable. The mirror in the hall is now shattered, bits of glass stained with blood now tinkling against the hardwood as Sherlock breathes heavily and just stares at it. There's the thundering of footsteps and John appears in the doorway.

"What the bloody hell Sherlock?"

"She's dead John." It's a whisper but John hears it (because John hears everything).

"What? Who's dead Sherlock?" He suddenly looks worried and for some reason it pisses him off.

"It doesn't matter," he spits through his teeth, chest heaving in anger, denial, once again the list goes on but John just won't shut up.

"Of course it matters Sherlock. Who is it?"

"No one John, it doesn't matter because she is gone and she won't be coming back! She puts up with everything and gets nothing in return but she doesn't care because she is better than everyone… even me."

John gapes as Sherlock brushes past him and towards the bedroom and when the door slams he just sighs and looks down at the mess he has to clean before Mrs. Hudson sees.

Some would call it a fit of rage; he likes to think of it as grieving. Everything in his room is smashed or broken, tossed about or simply lying on the ground and it takes all the power he possesses not to scream. His knuckles are bloody and his migraine is full blown, nearly blinding him but he doesn't care. There is nothing left to care about.

Defeated and on the edge of a full-blown meltdown he lets himself curl onto his side in the middle of the bed, not caring that John has probably called Mycroft or that his experiments are all over the floor and instead closes his eyes and tries to think of every time Molly Hooper has touched his life because memories are all he has left.

He wakes up to someone shaking him and yelling his name.

This time the sun is out and there's a thin streak across the blanket as he blinks and John comes into focus. He looks concerned and he shakes Sherlock once more for good measure.

"Thank goodness," he breathes, "you nearly fell out of bed you were struggling so much and all your yelling woke Mrs. Hudson."

Sherlock sits up and rubs his eyes, throat dry and aching. He exhales sharply and ignores the doctor, glancing around the room to inspect the damage from last night but his breath hitches when he sees everything is in perfect condition and his room is once again spotless.

All the beakers are on the dresser, whole and sparkling while his clothes are hung in the closet and the pictures that were on the nightstand are looking back at him without shattered frames. He also notices for the first time that there's someone else in the doorway whose looks equally worried for his wellbeing.

"Mary," he says and she blinks in surprise.

"Hello," she says softly, "Are you alright?"

Her blue eyes are warm and comforting and Sherlock has never been so happy to see this woman in his life.

"Where is Molly?" he demands, never taking his eyes off the blonde.

She blinks again but her eyebrows are knit together in curiosity. "At work I would assume, it's well past noon already… why?"

There is no answer, no curt explanation that only Sherlock would understand because he is out of bed and down the hall before John can even call after him and Mrs. Hudson can complain about the noise.

She is back.

She's just sewn the body back up and peeled off her gloves when he throws the door open and she nearly jumps out of her skin. His face is flushed (a rare sight) and he seeks her out immediately. Molly rolls her eyes and starts marking something on the paperwork.

"I'm busy Sherlock, I can help you later but it will have to wait until I meet with Lestrade." She is not surprised when he ignores her but she is shocked when he knocks the pen from her hands and takes her face between his own calloused ones and brushes her cheek softly.

"Sherlock what's the matter?" she has now noticed his eyes are moist and that in itself in a terrifying sight.

He shakes his head and laughs, humorlessly and it sends a shiver through her. "I need you, Molly. I just…"

He presses his forehead against hers and tries to breathe, taking in the scent of vanilla body wash and disinfectant that is suddenly intoxicating. Molly's eyes are wide but she doesn't pull away shake him off and it's not even because Sherlock Holmes is touching her or because he has once again confessed that he needs her.

"It's okay," she whispers, clutching the lapels of his jacket with shaky fingers. "You're alright."

Her lips are so close that he can feel them brush his own (he wants to taste them, badly) and he doesn't anticipate the gasp she gives when he captures them with his own, nipping at them gently as she tugs at his hair and his hands are now on her hips before moving to explore her body.

She is heaven, he finds out.

Molly pulls back first, lips now red and swollen as she looks at him with thousands of questions in her eyes that he knows he can't answer so he says the one thing he can think of.

"I don't want normal. I want you."

And this, he ultimately decides, is where their story truly begins.