Inspired by an idea that came to me a looong time ago and wrote itself but left me a bit scared lol. Huge thanks to writingwife83, my beta & my tweak-er (Ooh another one haha), who masters the art of convincing people to write and more importantly how to make it better. She responsible for making me post this and I'm glad that I did. If you're at all moved by this, I would love it if you consider it for nominating for SAMFAs. All the mistakes are mine. Enjoy!

Molly settled the bundle of papers at the table, grasping the edges firmly when a severe head rush took over her. She took a seat nearby as she slowly proceeded to put her coat on. The staff room was very cozy and warm but she was still feeling cold. Luckily, today she was feeling better than last week and she was visiting the university despite the protests of her colleagues.

She had thought it to be a regular illness. The weather was, of course, changing and slight coughing was nothing to worry about, despite the fact that it was increasingly becoming regular. It wasn't till that one late night hour when she was going through Margie's assignment when she had an abnormally persistent coughing fit and soon after that a faint pang inside her stomach started bubbling.

"Miss Hooper, what you are suffering from is a type of cancer that runs within your family," her doctor had said to her. "The tumor isn't spread over a wide area but that doesn't mean there are no complications. There's still hope for you. Many people don't even come to know about cancer till it's in its final stage. You are very lucky that we came to know about it so early."

It felt as if someone had pulled the ground beneath her feet. But slowly, as the days went by, she had made peace with the fact that she's going to die the same death as her father, sooner or later. Molly was at peace with that. It was a severe blow, yes. But it wasn't as hard for her to endure as the one she had received nine years ago. Living a life in which there wasn't a man named Sherlock Holmes was a pain she was unhappily living with for past nine years.

"I'm much better now," she would kindly repeat to all who asked. But she knew that did not convince them. And why wouldn't they care? Molly was one of the best Pathology professors the university had. She was an experienced and expert doctor and she had gained a brilliant reputation within the first few months of her job. She had been associated with the university for years now and everyone was convinced that the woman not only has the brain of a scientist but also the heart of a saint. It was, therefore, a shock for everyone who knew Professor Molly Hooper. The news of her illness had spread like a forest fire among students, and of course to her confidant.

"How many times..?" He paced in front of her, hands on his hips. "How many times do I have to ask you? Hm?"

"Oh for God's sake, Mycroft!" she was protesting for what seemed like a hundredth time. " .fine."

He huffed at her stubbornness, watching her sink deep under the blanket.

"That's enough, Molly Hooper!" Mycroft's eyes flared with irritation. She looked away. "I had done everything you asked for, had I not? I stood with your every decision. I lied, I deceived for you Molly. I faked your marriage for you. Look at me."

He sat in front of her and turned her head to make her face him. "I've loved you, Molly. Do you realize how painful this is for me?" He glanced at her with the vulnerability that was only reserved for Molly. "I've lied to Sherlock, to everyone. Because that was what you wished but this… this is different. You can't fight this illness alone. Are you even listening to me?"

He begged her once more, hoping that maybe this time she'd change her mind. May be this time his visit wouldn't prove as fruitless as the last three. "Come back, Molly. Please, come back with me."

She stared at him, tears forming inside her now slightly wrinkled eyes. He dropped his head with frustration when she opened her mouth to speak.

"I can't." A tear slide down her cheek. "Y..you know that I c…can't."

Mycroft sighed helplessly. Sadness crept over his features when he peered into the eyes of the troubled woman in front of him. The one he loved as his own sister. Silently he flung his arms around her shoulder in helpless defeat.

"After all this time, Mycroft…" She was sobbing over his shoulder like she once did nine years ago.

"I'm sorry, Molly but I see no other way but to break my promise and let him know the truth." Mycroft finally said when he stepped out of Molly's grasp.

"Professor Hooper?" A man poked his head inside the staff room after an hour later.

"Yes?" she asked without looking up from her work.

"Dr Gallus has asked for you in his office."

"No."

"What do you mean, no?"

"My answer is no, Mycroft. After all these years… that was the whole point of keeping away from…" Sherlock's voice trailed off. "Look, all I know is that she's happy with her life. She's oka -."

" She's not OKAY."

The cab was accelerating swiftly along the road. Everything around him was quite and calm. But the same could not be said about Sherlock. He was absent mindedly staring out the window, into the chilly winter night while Mycroft's words were still buzzed inside his head.

"Only you can bring her back, Sherlock. She wouldn't say no to you, I'm sure of it. She needs it, now more than ever."

Sherlock had returned from a long and tiresome case abroad and was surprised to see Mycroft already waiting for him at his flat. For the past few years, such cases had become frequent for the consulting detective. And for some strange reasons, he hadn't refused the British government every time a situation was raised that needed his expertise. Instead, he always welcomed every chance that could get him away from London for a brief time. In the struggle to continue the facade that his life was the same without her, the man had worn himself out over the years. The slight grey of his curls were the proof of it.

"She needs you."

"Stop the cab," he demanded suddenly. Without saying another word, Sherlock paid the cabbie and exited the cab. He was only a few blocks away from 221B, and he wanted to walk alone. His mind was racing when he walked down the footpath.

What had he not done to stop himself from remembering her? Really what had he not tried? Most days he'd worked sixteen to eighteen hours to keep his mind busy with his work. Not one day had he slept more than three to four hours. The constant activity had given him a bit of normalcy in those first few years. But when that too seemed to fail, he started taking cases aboard. All this was simply because he didn't want to ruin the chance of what he thought was her happiness.

He had indeed tried everything except for one. He didn't go to meet Molly. Nine years ago, when she had made a decision to move on, he had respected it. He had given her the best chance to be happy, but it was not with him and he simply accepted that fact when he let her walked away. Not a soul knew about the green velvet box clenched inside his hand when he stood in Bart's lab with hands buried in his coat when she announced her decision to him. Not a soul knew when he slowly slipped away from wedding, he now know was fake, before its completion. Except for the woman who he thought was then someone else's.

Sherlock yanked his scarf away and tossed his coat aside as soon as he had entered his flat. Everything played in front of his eyes, every second of it. He let his mind be deceived by the illusion of her as he dropped himself tirelessly in his chair. It had been years but he remembered it all too well.

He knew that was a mistake, a terrible mistake. He shouldn't have kissed her like that. Shouldn't have swept her off her feet like that but somehow that was what he felt craving for the moment they brought him back from the four minute exile. There was desperation and yearning in the act. He had known how she had felt for him. And yet, he had consumed her lips with his like this was the only thing he wished to do in all their years of association. Unintentionally so, but his secret revealed.

" I'll always want you, Sherlock," he remembered how she had whispered in his ear when his lips left a trail of intense kisses down her neck.

This was when everything went wrong. That look in her eyes…it hadn't let him sleep for nine years. That look…

The hurt building inside her eyes when he immediately stepped away from her as if she were a sickness without a cure.

If only he had known that he had stepped away from their only chance to be together…oh how he wished he had known. He had been afraid of his sentiment. Typical!

And then, she moved on. And why wouldn't she, he had been telling himself all these years. What choice had he given her? He had never given her anything to hope for. He wasted the time when he could go to her for an explanation. In those five weeks after that incident, he had an eternity really. But then, he kept pushing his sentiments away, and pushing her away. Pushing away the truth that he simply had to finally allow himself to act on those long repressed emotions and release the passion that was so often bubbling beneath the surface between them. Was it truly a surprise to him when she voiced the message his intimate expression had conveyed? Was she truly the one to blame?

Regret! Regret is like lava, it eats you from inside and no amount of time can completely pacify its burns. That, Sherlock Holmes, had learned when his consequences had finally separated him from his best part nine years ago. The part that used to humanize him; and it was called Molly Hooper.

And now, after nine long years, he was being given a second chance.

Molly softly knocked at the door before pushing it open. She could hear Dr Gallus, the Dean, conversing with someone.

"Ah, there she is. Professor Hooper!" he said enthusiastically. "We were starting to wonder you didn't get the message, didn't we Mycroft?"

"Indeed." Mycroft rose from his seat and spun to face Molly, who seemed to be in one of her moods. "I just happened to be here for some official business and Charles told me about you."

Yeah, right. Molly huffed. She nodded but said nothing.

"Well, I won't take anymore of your time, Charles. We should be moving."

Dr Gallus nodded to his friend with a smile. "Of course, Mycroft. No pressure about the work, Professor," he added to Molly. "You can return whenever you are feeling well. We can always transfer you to London if you wish a permanent position there. No problem at all," he assured Molly who frowned and then it clicked.

"Mycroft! What do you think you are doing?" Molly whispered angrily to the man standing closely to her. "I thought we had already agreed to the point th-"

Molly froze like a statue. Words died at her lips. Something caught her breath inside her body when her eyes shifted to what was behind where Mycroft stood, and she realized for the first time that there was a fourth presence in the room. It was a sight that sucked the life out of her lungs or maybe pulled the life back inside her body, she wasn't sure. Time, it seemed, had flown back to her in that very moment. Memories. Had it really been so many years since she saw him last?

If it wasn't for the shock of gray at his temple and a peppering of the same color throughout the curls she would not have believed the fact that it really had been years. She saw him swallowing thickly when he slowly rose from his place and walked towards them so very slowly.

She looked up at Mycroft with shock, who simply nodded and whispered. "I had to tell him, Molly. You needed it." She stared at him, unable to control the tears that formed inside her eyes.

"Come," was all Sherlock's twisted lips uttered and Molly was shocked by her own feet when they moved forward, as if she hardly had any choice in the matter.

The journey back to London was a quiet one. Sherlock didn't speak a word during the entire ride. It was Mycroft who briefed Molly about her temporary accommodation. She looked almost afraid when he informed her that she'd be spending the night at Baker street. Afraid of her own sentiments and of…Sherlock's. Now that he knows everything… The cab stopped at Baker St and Mycroft helped Molly out. Sherlock purposefully lagged behind. He could hear a joyous cry of Mrs. Hudson erupting from the doorway no sooner the door opened and he couldn't stop from smiling slowly.

Mycroft glanced at his watch before getting up with some difficulty. He was, after all, not as young as he used to be and the journey had in fact made him tired. And sitting in the chair that faced Sherlock, when he looked across at Molly he could deduce her weariness too.

"I should get going now, Molly," he accounted, which made Molly's heart race wildly.

"Forgive the lack of conformable arrangements. I'll take care of it in the morning. Don't you worry," he whispered when approaching her, and kissed her forehead with brotherly affection that was only reserved for that woman.. "Or we can simply leave things be, if you would prefer." He didn't wait for her reply, and merely smiled down at her when he straightened up. "You look tired. Have some dinner and some rest," he instructed. He then turned to his brother who wordlessly followed him downstairs. When they finally stepped out on the pavement, Mycroft slowly spun to address Sherlock.

"I'll send for Anthea in the morning."

"There's no need for that. If you doubt that I've changed my mind then I can assure you that it's not the case. Molly is staying here, Mycroft. At Baker street…with me." The concealed pledge in Sherlock's tone didn't surprise his brother. "I would personally like to take care of all her. I would attend her medical needs and make sure she doesn't tire herself or ignore her health situation." He looked at him expectantly before slowly adding.

"That is, of course, if she wishes to stay here." Mycroft stared at him, pursing his lips.

Finally, he puffed the air out as if released from a very long mental torment. Picking the sides had honestly worn him out over the years because he was losing either way.

"But is it what you want too, Sherlock?" He asked him like he had asked Molly nine years ago.

When Sherlock returned, he hastened to order them some take away from Molly's old favorite Chinese place nearby. She tried to insist she wasn't terribly hungry but he got her regular order anyway, arguing that she could always enjoy the leftovers the next day.

They sat together at his kitchen table, ate in mostly silence, and then Molly made the move to gather their plates to clear. Before she could get up though, Sherlock stopped her with a question that she'd been expecting since they left the university.

"Are you going to be ok?"

She exhaled slowly, letting go of the plates she'd been ready to move before meeting his gaze.

"For now it seems I will be," she answered simply.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, clearly trying to read between the lines and deduce what 'for now' really meant.

"The treatment is gone well so far," Molly continued. "I'm relatively young and the prognosis is pretty good. Of course I'll basically never be rid of it- the chance of it being a problem again, I mean. Especially considering it's hereditary. It could still be that eventually this will be what kills-"

"Don't say that."

His request was unapologetically firm, but also naturally a bit heartwarming for her to hear. Though, it gave her pause. Apparently the idea of her life being at risk was painful, even for him to think about. Her heart ached at the thought that he might suffer emotionally because of her illness. Things looked pretty good now, but…what if?

She picked up the plates and carried them to the sink, speaking with her back turned.

"I'll um, eventually want my position back at the university," she stated as evenly as possible. "So don't worry, I won't be back here in London forever."

"That wasn't worrying me," he replied, and she could hear that he'd gotten up from his seat.

"Though of course, if that's what you want, I won't stop you from returning to your life there. Only when you're well enough of course."

Molly was pretty sure she could hear him quietly advancing toward the sink and she felt her heart beating a little faster as she tried not to think about why he'd be coming closer. She finished washing the two plates and set them aside with hands trembling a tiny bit now.

She was quietly washing her hands when a deep baritone voice rumbled intensely behind her. "Do you have any idea…how many days, weeks and months there are in nine years, Molly Hooper?"

There was a coolness in his voice now that set fire to her body. The way he softly uttered her name drove such uncontrollable thrill through her veins that was almost making her daze. Biting her lip, Molly screwed the tap off. He was standing behind her. So very closely that if she had tried turning, Molly would definitely bump into his chest. She didn't dare to turn, now feeling his soft low breaths against the back of her neck.

He was now waiting for a reply that she didn't have. Holding the edges of the sink, Molly kept staring at the last drops of water that fell from the tap.

"Have you never, for once, thought about me? About Sherlock Holmes?"

His questions were getting difficult, too difficult for her to answer. Once again she remained silent.

"I've seen you everywhere in this flat…" he continued in that dreamy voice. "For so many times that now when you're finally here, finally in front of me, my mind refuses to believe it." He paused for a moment. Not knowing what else to do to stop the tremor of her hands, Molly gripped at the edges of the sink with a firmness that was turning her knuckles white.

"It's as if I'm dreaming." He whispered. "If I opened my eyes…" He stopped. Molly closed her tearful eyes. "Then everything would be here…everything except you. I feel… I feel that even If I would close my eyes again …I wouldn't be able to return to this dream. You wouldn't be there anymore." Molly couldn't hold back the tears anymore, so she let them fall freely. "I'm afraid of touching you, Molly. I fear that if I… if I reach out, everything will disappear, dissolve…like a reflection in water."

He was standing so close to her that if he had bent just for a fraction of centimeter, his lips would surely kiss her hair but he didn't want to touch them…unsure and afraid that he might still be dreaming about this whole thing.

"Who are you, Molly Hooper? An illusion? My dream… or a reality? Should I tell you… should I tell you that… that I…" His voice trailed off as he tried to say those words.

He fell silent. The tears falling from Molly's eyes dripped down her chin as they damped her face. Oh how long she waited for him and to hear him say that? She did not know why he stopped. But she never before in her life had she felt silence so unwelcoming. He remained silent for long. For long enough that she was compelled to turn around and as she did so, Molly finally realized why he was silent. Sherlock's face too was also tear soaked, just like hers. His gaze locked with hers for the first time.

Standing so near, they were seeing each other for the first time in their lives. Really seeing. So near that they could see each other's reflection in each other's eyes. Then Sherlock averted his gaze, stole his eyes from her. He lowered his head as to clean his face with his one hand.

"You and I, Sherlock…what could we hide from each other? Don't we know everything about each other already," Molly said in a low whisper, her voice a bit choked. Sherlock stopped his hand at this and lifted his head.

"I'm not hiding anything, Molly." He looked at her face intensely, as if trying hard to make himself believe that she was indeed there. "I'm clearing my eyes so that you're no longer wrapped up in mist anymore."

He glanced down and looked at her hand. The fake ornament he had seen there years ago was now gone. "I've never thought I'd be standing so close to you again, talking to you…like this." He smiled slowly but with wet eyes. Molly stood there watching as the smile gave his cheekbones an adorable lift when he did so. His smiles had always caused this effect and this used to attract Molly in a strange way many years ago and she blushed at the thought that it still hadn't lost its charm. She was so wrapped up in her thoughts that Molly's heart skipped a beat when he lightly brushed his finger around her now ring less finger.

"I never thought I'd be touching your hand like this and you…" He was now lightly lacing his fingers through hers but seemed hesitant from completely intervening them. His eyes left their hands and met her eyes again. "…and you wouldn't just slap me."

For a moment there Molly looked up at the dead serious detective in disbelief. There was no hint of smile on his face. The next moment she was laughing uncontrollably, her wet face turning red because of laughing. Sherlock looked confused. "You still remember those slaps? She managed to say between her laugh.

"It was just an angry knee jerk reaction, Sherlock."

Molly was now wiping her face with the back of her free hand. He chuckled once more. The cheekbones lifted again. Molly saw his shoulders relaxed after that and felt her own racing pulse slowly returning back to normal. A moment of humor considerably dissolved the tension in the air between them. Very slowly, he slid his fingers up through Molly's and their hands finally connected. A contented sign escaped Sherlock's lips as their palms meet. They stayed like that for a moment when Molly spoke again.

"Do you want to know where I've been all these years? What I've been doing? Anything about me?" Molly asked, now desperately wanting to give him something, sooth him somehow.

He shook his head while taking her both hands and settling them upon his chest.

"I don't want to. I don't need to know anything. It's enough for me that you're here in front of me. Here with me, Molly. What more do I need to know?"

Molly's hands were buried under Sherlock's on his chest. The water had chilled her hands. She knew why he was resting her hands on his chest. Unconsciously, he was trying to warm them. Standing there, with her hands on his chest she could feel his heart beneath his jacket. It was unsteady…fast…excited…saying something…trying to say something. That was when she realized she had indeed reached his heart, and there was no doubting it now.

This man loved her…why? There was no answer to that question. The man in front of her himself would be unable to tell her why he loved her. Nor did she even ask him that question. Sherlock's eyes were peacefully closed but she could no longer see…feel the hesitation in those eyes even if they were opened. His eyes not only held what they were missing nine years ago, but they had also lost what stood in the way of his and Molly's happiness. Hesitation.

So very slowly, Molly withdraw her hands from his grasp. Sherlock immediately opened his eyes at this. She can recognize the emotion that appeared in his eyes in that split second. Worry…restlessness…fear… Something from the three, or the mixture of them all.

"Molly…" he said with a bit shaky voice.

Molly looked at his face for a moment and then her gaze travelled downward and she saw the turned down collar of his Belstaff. Without saying anything, she reached for the heavy fabric around his neck. Sherlock looked at her in confusion. Slowly she turned his collar up.

"There! I like my detective being all mysterious." His eyes never left her face as she did this. Molly then circled her arms around his torso and rested her head at his chest as she closed her eyes, slowly inhaling his scent.

Sherlock froze at his spot, momentarily unable to process the flames that had begun burning anew inside him. But then slowly, he responded by gathering her into his arms. He leaned down and slowly kissed her closed eyes. "Welcome home." Molly heard him whisper as he dove down, and finally the desperate lips were reunited in a melodious harmony. When Sherlock lifted her up in his arms and carried her down the hallway, all while never breaking their kiss, Molly was convinced that this was about to become the best night of their existence.

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