Disclaimer: So not mine.
Nothing changed.
Sometimes, in her fantasies, she used to imagine herself helping him. Trying to be worthy of him. She would be the bold woman she thought he deserved. The one who could easily ask him out for coffee and provide that brilliant brain with the stimulation it needed and that little boy's titan-sized ego with the adulation he courted and the love he claimed he didn't need.
And when she tried to forget him – not forget his brilliance, never that – but just tried to have something/someone a little warmer, a little kinder for herself, the fates made her betrayal worse than ever. Consorting with a master criminal, bringing trouble in to Sherlock's life, endangering everyone with her pathetic need to be seen by someone, Molly didn't know if she could ever forgive herself.
And then the whole world turned against him. She had her chance to show Sherlock, to prove her loyalty and her love. He said she counted. His life was in her hands. But she wasn't bold. She wasn't daring. And if his mask had slipped for a moment – it was just for a moment.
Sometimes, in her fantasies, she would imagine Sherlock living with her. The joy of waking up with him beside her reached out from her daydreams and made her smile that little bit brighter as she gave him a cup of coffee or a slide. Briefly he had taken over her flat.
Nothing changed.
She still stammered and blushed. Helping him had renewed her purpose but had not transformed her into a new Molly Hooper. She worked hard as always, carried this secret always, and dreamed of him as she always had.
Sometimes those dreams were nightmares.
"And do you see yourself as some sort of acolyte? Your worship is so very obvious, Molly." Was it Moriarty or Sherlock who had said those cutting words in the horrific landscape she traveled as she slept?
It was definitely Sherlock who had snapped at her as he paced her tiny flat. And if she had counted, if she counted still, it wasn't enough.
Perhaps she was like a priestess of old, trying to find fulfillment worshiping a temperamental being. Perhaps her only chance to make a difference would come not from the scientific research she conducted in her spare time, but from acting as one more assistant to the shining brilliance of Sherlock Holmes. And again she wanted to apologize to her fantasy self – the one who was a bold modern woman. She had sidelined so many of her own dreams at the hint of Sherlock's call.
And yet it was still her choice to be nurturing. It was her choice to subsume her own needs to his. Surely that counted for something. Surely that meant she was not a puppet. Forgotten by Moriarty when she was no longer needed, dismissed by Sherlock when she had completed the necessary tasks, it was still her choice to support the detective, to believe in him.
Nothing changed.
He was married to his work. She was committed to him. Occasionally, she would very humanly rebel. Sometimes, she would think of meeting a man for coffee. But rarely now. She had given her heart to Sherlock Holmes and she didn't want to take it back.
Everything had changed.
It wasn't easy to leave his old life. It should have been easy to come back. He had devoted himself to justice and to saving them. They welcomed him back with punches and embraces and tears. But though Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and John were loyal, they weren't quite the same.
And then he returned to the morgue.
Nothing changed.
Molly Hooper wasn't any better dressed, or any calmer, or any less obviously in love with him. She still blushed. She still hung on his every word.
And when he tried to tell himself it was pointless sentiment, that nothing had changed, he couldn't. It wasn't reward for her devotion. He had had plenty of twisted, "devoted" fans. That sort of selfish sentimental projecting didn't concern him. But Molly, Molly loved him, loved all of him, had always loved him.
He hadn't truly known it until that Christmas. He hadn't truly realized it meant she saw him until that day in the morgue. He hadn't truly cared until he had spent years without his closest friends. And he hadn't acknowledged just what that caring meant, until he returned to his old life and saw.
Everything had changed. He wouldn't rest until she knew.