Just a little reflection on THAT scene in The Final Problem.

"Molly, please, without asking why, just say these words… I love you."

"Why are you doing this to me? Why are you making fun of me?"

Three small words. I love you. A simple phrase. People said it all time. Sometimes, they even meant it.

The trouble with Sherlock was that he never seemed to mean anything. Or maybe he did sometimes – maybe she was simply too dull to tell the difference.

"Your hair looks nice today".

Well, of course he didn't mean that – it was one of his techniques to get his way once again. Bypass the regulations, get the resources he needed to do his job. At first, she believed the compliments. At some point, she only pretended to believe them, because she wanted to. Wanted to imagine that he really had noticed the new hairstyle, the change of lipstick colour, the new top – whatever. She couldn't quite recall when she had stopped believing.

"For the sake of law and order, I suggest you avoid all future attempts at a relationship, Molly".

He didn't really mean that either… simply because Sherlock probably couldn't have cared less whether she had a boyfriend or not. Just as long as it didn't interfere with the Work in any way. But he did like making fun of her. She tried to forget that disastrous Christmas party, but the casual cruelty of his comments then still hurt. He had seemed sorry on that occasion, but it hadn't stopped him from continuing to make fun of the parlous state of her love life.

"Because the one person he thought didn't matter at all to me was the one person that mattered the most."

Ok, so maybe he did mean that. Because, in any case, it was patently true. If it hadn't been for her, the 'fall' would never have worked out as well as it did. And even Jim Moriarty had discounted her importance. She ought to be glad that she'd been so forgettable to that psychopath. But what did Sherlock mean by 'matter'? Did she matter merely as a usefully placed pathologist? Or as a loyal friend? Or as…something else?

And that was the trouble. He'd lied to her and manipulated her just one too many times. She'd reached the point where she could never be sure. Where she always had to ask and could never been certain that he was sincere.

"Please, I swear, you just have to listen to me… It's ... it's a sort of experiment."
"I'm not an experiment, Sherlock."
"No, I know you're not an experiment. You're my friend. We're friends. But ... please. Just ... say those words for me."

Experiments – oh, she knew all about them. She'd stood back and watched him do what any sane person would consider unspeakable. He had whipped dead bodies violently, simply so he could make deductions about bruising patterns. He'd treated people with contempt, to make them react a certain way. He'd abused his own body in God knew how many ways to get the high he considered necessary for the Work. He'd manipulated his best friend into witnessing his 'suicide' and then left him grieving for two whole years. Most people would have given up on him years ago.

But he'd changed when he came back – hadn't he? He'd seemed gentler, more mellow, more measured in his behaviour. Look at how well-behaved he'd been at John and Mary's wedding, against all expectations.

Which was why she'd been so upset when he'd got into the drugs again. But…then, that was some kind of experiment too, wasn't it? He didn't seem to be able to help himself…which was the usual problem of the addict.

Addicted to what exactly? Not just drugs. Not just danger; the thrill of the chase. Maybe just because… because he could push and push, harder and further than before. There seemed no limits to the length and the depths that he would go to. Just when you thought he could go no further…

But then… "You're my friend. We're friends." He'd never actually said that before. That they were actual friends. Before the fall, she hadn't even seen herself as a friend, at least not from Sherlock's point of view. More like some kind of stooge. A loyal dog. But since he'd returned to London, she'd been more hopeful. His behaviour seemed to imply some kind of fellow-feeling that might – just – be construed as 'friendship'.

And now he had admitted it…but why? Was it just another experiment?

"Please don't do this. Just ... just ... don't do it… I can't say that. I can't ... I can't say that to you."
"Of course you can. Why can't you?"
"You know why."
"No, I don't know why."

Did he mean that? Was he really so dense about human emotions that he didn't know? After all this time – after the many, many times she'd made a fool of herself for him? It didn't seem possible. Surely he could see…? Why else would she have done so much for him, if she didn't love him?

It would almost be better if he was that stupid. Because, if he did know that she loved him and was just pretending that he didn't, that would make him plain cruel. And she didn't think she could cope if he were. Not Sherlock. Not her Sherlock…

And hadn't she been doing that for years? Making excuses for his casual cruelty – labelling it ignorance, some kind of social disorder? She was a doctor; she'd read up on the variables of the autistic spectrum, and Sherlock did present certain characteristics. It was easier to think of him that way – to assume that he really couldn't help it.

What was 'love', anyway? Could she say with certainty that she was actually 'in love' with him? People said it all the time – I love you, and for various reasons. Usually aimed at a lover, a wife, a husband. Usually someone you were 'in love' with, whatever that meant. But sometimes friends said it to each other, didn't they?

She couldn't remember ever having said it to anyone – or hearing it said to her. Even with Tom, it'd been assumed rather than openly verbalized, and before him she hadn't had any serious relationship. Her mum or dad might have said it at some point, but she couldn't remember – they were loving parents, but again it was always merely implied.

"Please, just say it."
"I can't. Not to you."
"Why?"
"Because ... because it's true…. Because ... it's ... true, Sherlock… It's always been true."
"Well, if it's true, just say it anyway."
"You bastard."

She couldn't say it. She just couldn't. Not casually – not without meaning it with every molecule of her body. And especially not to him – not to the one person in her life that it might actually apply to.

People said it all the time. Sometimes they even meant it.

But Molly couldn't. She had inherited her father's reticence, and while she might chatter on inconsequentially whenever she was nervous, she wouldn't discuss her personal feelings in that sense.

"Dearest Sherlock
Love Molly xxx"

Ok, so she'd written that on his parcel, but everyone wrote that kind of thing, didn't they? It was a common expression of affection, to a friend, a family member. You could get away with it in that scenario. He wasn't to know how carefully she'd written it, how hard she'd worked to get the wrapping exactly right. How, when she'd finished wrapping, she'd pressed a guilty kiss to the label in the privacy of her flat.

Since that awful night, she'd kept away from dangerous words like 'love'. Why was that?

Perhaps because she'd finally realized that it was just a little too close to the truth.

So, what was love? Was it purely romantic, fueled by dreams of passionate entanglements that could never come true? A fantasy that one day he'd spin around, long coat swishing, march over to her and take her in his arms? That his eyes would be focused purely on her as he bent his head to capture her lips…? The kind of love that would never exist – that he could never show her?

Was that love? Or was love in fact something far less selfish? Was it noticing the little things that other people missed? Seeing the pain and fear that he tried so hard to hide from his friend? Offering care and concern, when you knew you'd either be ignored as usual or be knocked back? Was love offering anything you could give, and not counting the cost?

Because if it was, then yes. Sure. She loved him alright.

Why would he force her to say something so personal and sensitive and…painful? Wasn't it enough that she'd sacrificed everything? Had even given up hopes of marriage and a family, because no one – no one – could ever match up to Sherlock Holmes.

When she finally admitted it to him…why couldn't he have simply said 'sorry' and meant it? Any decent person would have… but then, she couldn't expect Sherlock to be decent, could she? She felt the anger rising in her again at the memory. How dare he be such a selfish, self-seeking bastard!

"You say it. Go on. You say it first."
"What?"
"Say it… Say it like you mean it."
"I-I ...I love you…I love you… Molly?... Molly, please."
"I love you."

"Say it like you mean it". Sherlock was good at that, wasn't he? He could make her believe anything he wanted if he tried hard enough. Anything, no matter how ridiculous, illogical, foolish… She might even believe that he did love her, even while acknowledging the sheer impossibility.

Closing her eyes, she relived his words once more.

"I – I… I love you… I love you."

Tentative, unsure. Louder and a little more confident the second time, but still with a note of desperation that she couldn't interpret.

And she had lifted the phone to her mouth, to breathe the words in. Her lips pursed in an almost-kiss. Breathing out the tense breath she'd hardly been aware of holding.

She'd wanted to cherish them, because she'd known, even then, that she'd never hear them again from his lips. Not because he didn't mean them, but because they would never need to be said again.

Because, now he had said those three little words, she knew. Knew as certainly as the floor beneath her feet.

And then her name… "Molly… Molly, please." Deceptively light, but Molly knew him, and she heard the desperation he was seeking to disguise.

Because that was love. Knowing someone better than they knew themselves. Being prepared to put yourself on the line for their sake. And even if he had never said it himself, she would have had to - finally - acknowledge it.

So why not today?

A shaky breath in; a slight tremble despite her efforts to keep her voice steady. And, finally, the three little words:

"I love you."

She heard his footsteps approaching the door; she could always recognize his tread. Fast, impetuous, determined… he was on a case.

But even so, as he opened the door and saw her standing by the laboratory table writing up her notes, his pace slowed. She saw the sudden uncertainty in his face.

It had been five days since that phone call, and she hadn't tried to contact him, knowing that he would be back at Bart's in his own good time. She put down her pen and turned to face him, waiting for his response.

"Ah, Molly." He looked around, clearly casting for something to focus on; anything to avoid looking her in the eye. "I was looking for…something. I thought I'd left it here, but clearly…"

She continued to watch him silently.

"Anyway, I must…" He ran a hand through his hair, a clear sign of distraction, and then turned back to the door. "If John comes in, I'll be at the Yard."

She didn't reply, simply turning back to her notes and picking up her pen again.

He paused, his hand on the door handle. "By the way, there's something I meant to say," he said, keeping his back to her. "Um, that phone call. It was – well, it wasn't an experiment as such… It was…for a case."

She continued making her annotations, very calmly. "I thought it might be."

He turned towards her, his eyes seeking out her face to interpret what lay there. He was calmer now, more in control of himself. "I apologise for any… embarrassment."

She looked up at him, meeting his gaze without a qualm. "It's alright. It doesn't matter."

The silence hung in the air between them – tense, full of possibility. She sensed that the moment could have gone one of several ways.

He could have said: "Yes, it does matter. You matter."

He could have said: "I had to do it. I had no choice, otherwise I wouldn't have made you said it."

He could even have said: "I meant it. I do love you."

But his eyes shied away from her as his cheeks flushed slightly. His voice was sharp, a little abrasive in that familiar Sherlock style, as he threw a final comment in her direction while opening the door: "I didn't mean it, by the way. What I said."

She smiled at his back. "Yes, you did."

His hand stilled. He shot her a look over his shoulder; a quick flash of blue eyes. Just a moment of confusion, of uncertainty… Of possibility, even…

And then he was gone.