She knew something was wrong, deep down in the pit of her stomach. But for once, Molly Hooper was going to put herself first, ignoring her intuition. Everything about that phone call seemed off. When she had time to cool down and think about it, none of it added up. First and foremost, Sherlock had never lied to her. Not once. Yes, he had used compliments to get what he wanted at Bart's, but he never spoke a compliment he didn't sincerely mean.
Tears fell slowly down her cheeks, painting her pillows with sorrow. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. If Sherlock hadn't known she loved him before, he certainly did now. He was her best friend. Nobody else really knew how close they were, but she didn't really want them to. Neither did he, for her safety, of course. There were times that she had confided in him of her troubles, though it was rare when she did. He would hesitantly hug her or give her an awkward pat on the back, speaking words of encouragement in a soft tone.
After reminiscing over those couple of times, Molly realized that he would never hurt her intentionally. There had to have been some underlying reason that he couldn't voice to her. Not yet, anyways. Sherlock never went out of his way to be cruel; if he ever had a scathing remark, it would only be out of anger or simple misunderstanding of how others' minds worked. He had a good heart, though the infuriating man would never admit it.
Molly's thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. With a sigh, she heaved herself off her bed, slipping on her aubergine dressing gown, and dragged herself to the door.
"Sherlo—Mycroft?" she questioned.
"Miss Hooper," he greeted. "Sorry for the intrusion so late at night, but I had to get here before my brother. If I could just have a few minutes of your time?"
"Sure, come on in," she said after he had already stepped through the threshold. Mycroft took a seat on the sofa, looking rather uncomfortable at the fact that Molly chose to stay on her feet in front of him.
"I know I've no right to ask, but would you please consider reading this letter before you speak with my brother?" Mycroft asked. "He doesn't know I have it. It was found hidden in his flat when I last had it searched. I only took it because I knew he'd never give it to you himself and that it would one day clear the air."
"When was this written?" she asked, taking the envelope from his hand, her name written in Sherlock's scrawl.
"Just before he was being sent off to his inevitable death after the incident with Magnussen," Mycroft answered. "I have to tell you, I was witness to what happened over the phone earlier. I had been conditioning Sherlock for a long time that sentiment was a—"
"Chemical defect found on the losing side?" Molly finished. "You know, the funny thing is, though I have loved Sherlock all these years, not once did I ever expect it to be returned. I mean, he is Sherlock Holmes, for God's sake. I never expected a damn thing from him. All I ever wanted is for him to just know that he IS loved. That was it. I was satisfied with that. I don't know what the hell happened today, but from your haggard appearance, I know you must've gone through hell."
Mycroft sat still, not quite knowing what to do. He had never seen Molly Hooper speak so much in his presence, let alone rant. He never interrupted her, for fear she would discover that Sherlock had heard most of it, standing in the hallway.
"Sherlock is the most wonderful man I've ever known. He deserves to know he's loved, even if he has a hard time expressing the same to those he cares about. I wanted him to know by way of showing him, but I never and still don't expect for him to give me his heart." Molly stopped, wondering why the hell she felt the need to release her thoughts onto Mycroft Holmes. "I'm sorry, I've no idea why I just said all that."
"Miss Hooper, I think you know all the reasons why," Mycroft told her. "When I said I wanted to get here before my brother, I meant he would be here in just seconds, and I think a part of you knew that." His eyes shifted to Sherlock lurking at the edge of the room. "The sofa is yours, brother mine, though it is quite comfortable." He moved to walk toward the door. "Oh, and the cameras have been disabled."
"Cameras!?" Molly exclaimed.
"I bid you goodnight," Mycroft gave the best smile he could manage.
"I think you ought to read that…just in case you won't believe what I'm about to tell you," Sherlock spoke. "I don't know how Mycroft found it, and I was too cowardly to give it to you, but I want you to have it."
"Sherlock," she sighed, opening the envelope and sitting down beside him. "What happened tonight?"
"I promise I will tell you everything, but most importantly, you must know that I meant it," Sherlock said softly. Her eyes questioned him, but he nodded towards the letter. "If you don't believe I meant it, you should read that." Unfolding the letter, Molly began to read.
Dearest Molly,
As you may now know, I am dead. I do not wish for you to cry upon receiving this news, as I believe I am unworthy of your tears. The last time we spoke, you were cross with me, and rightly so. I have hurt you countless times, because I cannot express how I feel without putting you in danger. I was not exaggerating when I said that you were the person who mattered the most. The way I worded it may have led you to believe I was only talking in terms of our plan in faking my death, but that isn't the case.
Molly Hooper, forgive me for using my last words to you to be a selfish git, but you must know the following to be true. I wanted so much more with you. I nearly pursued it until news of your engagement stopped me in my tracks. I did not lie about wanting you to be happy. I still want you to be happy. I realize that I may not have ever been enough for you, but I know you would say otherwise. Move on, my sweet Molly. Forget all about me. Do not allow thoughts of me to keep you from the life you deserve. I am no longer here, though I know my memory will be kept alive. Be happy. Do it for me.
So many days unlived. So many words unsaid. I wanted so much more. And I know you did too, once. Thank you for being my friend, Molly. For everything.
Yours truly,
Sherlock.
"William Sherlock Scott Holmes, you utter arse," Molly was sobbing, realizing that she could have truly lost him for good. "You love me."
"Yes," he whispered, gathering her in his arms. "I do. I love you very much." He rocked her in his arms gently, pressing kisses into her hair. "I'm so sorry, darling." The new term of endearment rolled right off of his tongue seamlessly. It felt natural, right.
"I love you too," her voice was muffled from her head being buried against his neck. She lifted her head up, puffy brown eyes looking at him. She'd never seen his face soften so much. The usual stoic expression was gone in favor of looking at her as if she were the most precious thing to him.
"You have such beautiful eyes," he smiled, carefully wiping away her tears with his thumbs, holding her face in his hands. "I've been such a fool."
"But you're my fool," she smiled. "Tell me what happened."
"It's not a pretty story," he warned her.
"It rarely is," she replied.
As he explained everything, Molly listened closely to each word. She held him when it got to be too much, reliving the horrors of that day. They even cried together, both happy to have the comfort of the other. The situation was far from ideal, but they loved each other, and nothing would ever get in the way of that again. This was just the beginning of a beautiful future, brighter than this dark day.