Author's Note: Inspired by e.e. cummings' sonnet.

Also, some nods to John's blog, as well as some canon characters. Thanks for reading. Feedback is greatly appreciated! Happy Finale Day. (send help!)

Sherlock was bored. John and Mary were still on their Sex Holiday––honeymoon, he corrected himself––and was desperately trying to stave off the desire to have a cigarette––or worse, call Mrs. Hudson up for a round of Cluedo. Nothing in his inbox to pique his interest.

It was a bit after noon when he landed on the decision to go to Bart's and see Molly. He hadn't seen her since the wedding, and that didn't really count, what with all the attempted murders to foil. Not to mention insipid fiancés hanging about.

Ever since his return to life in London, he found his mind flitting to thoughts of Molly Hooper. He dismissed it at first, of course, citing that it was natural to think of her intermittently. He concluded that helping him commit a fake suicide surely constituted a friendship between them, and that it was perfectly acceptable to think of friends every now and then. But gradually and all of the sudden, intermittence became rather more frequent of late. Not only that. He was aware that she had always existed in his mind, somewhere in the periphery, like a nebulous Molly afterimage. But ever since his first visit to her, appearing to her in the staff locker room, the Molly residing in his brain began to shift into focus. He saw her clearly now, and perhaps all too clearly––and he had to admit, a little uneasily, too––as his vision alighted on the ring on her finger during their crime-solving together.

He pushed these thoughts aside, and paid the cabbie. His legs, as if by muscle memory, carried him to the morgue. Sherlock peered through the glass windows of the door, and caught sight of Molly. Well, her ponytail and white lab coat, at least, fluttering about curiously. He swung the door open and pushed himself through.

"Molly––"

Before he could continue his inquiry, a blur of oddly mismatched colors in the shape of Molly had collided into him with a small "oof!", sending the files she previously held scattered in a circumference on the ground. Molly muttered an apology under her breath, but it didn't seem to Sherlock that she was terribly sincere.

He looked at her but all he could see was the crown of her head, as she was busy gathering up papers. "Everything okay?" He crouched down to help her pick up files, and as they both reached for the same file, his gaze lingered a bit longer on her left hand.

"Er, yeah, it's fine." Molly stood and distractedly swept an errant strand of hair that had fallen out of her ponytail away from her face. She must have anticipated his purpose for visiting because she apologized profusely, "I'm sorry, Sherlock, but I have to go," and disappeared through the doors.

Sherlock stared after her, vaguely wondering if this is how it felt when he disappeared himself from peoples' presence without explanation.

In any case, he now had something to occupy his day. But first, he needed to see Mike Stamford.

shmhshmhshmhshmhshmh

Sherlock returned to Bart's early the next day, eager to catch her at the beginning of her shift. He didn't even have time to reflect on the source of delight that bubbled in his chest in anticipation of seeing a smile on Molly's face, and more importantly, that he would be the one responsible for putting it there.

He held the small jewellery box in his hand behind him, as he swept into the lab. Munro, who owned the jewellery shop––no doubt misinterpreting Sherlock's intent––insisted on housing the ring in a box until it could be presented. Sherlock acquiesced, however, deciding that it would add to the theatricality when he revealed to Molly that he had found her missing engagement ring. He'd even scripted the snarkiest, most Sherlock-like line to deliver when she handed it to her.

He found Molly at her station, surrounded by test tubes, a microscope, and a centrifuge. He sauntered up behind her, and placed it on her work station, like a proud cat presenting its master with a dead mouse. "This isn't the ring I pictured you wearing, but..."

Molly looked up at Sherlock, perplexed. She stripped the cornflower blue latex gloves off her hands, and opened the clam-like shell of the black box. She let out a gasp, nearly losing grip of the box, as she cried his name, "Sherlock!" Her eyes were wide with disbelief, "Where did you find this? I've looked everywhere..."

"Not everywhere," he corrected. He went on, "You were rather distressed the last time I saw you. Then I noticed you weren't wearing your ring."

"How do you know Tom and I hadn't broken up?" There may have been a hint of a challenge in her voice and in the tilt of her chin.

"Have you?" He solicited, a bit too quickly than he liked.

"No." She responded even quicker. She paused, still looking at him expectantly.

Oh right, how did he know? "Balance of probability." There, that sounded clever enough.

"Where did you find it?" repeating her earlier question.

Sherlock took a deep breath. "I traced your steps yesterday, too. Your usual routine. Lab, morgue, lifts, cafeteria, and back at the lab. I eventually narrowed it down to your shift between eleven in the morning and one in the afternoon. You were in the morgue, so I thought I'd reexamine Mr. Stanley and Mr. Hopkins again, both of whom you worked on yesterday."

"You opened up––"

"––Mr. Stanley and Mr. Hopkins to find your ring, yes," he finished for her. "Once I knew who your patients were, it only took me a few of hours. It was in Hopkins, by the way. I found it in his chest cavity, between the diaphragm and right lung. I took the ring to a jewellery shop for cleaning, of course. The owner owes me a favor."

Molly's expression was unreadable. He couldn't help but feel disappointed that she wasn't a bit more impressed, or at least thankful. He watched her, and she looked as if she was fighting the inclination to laugh and cry at the same time.

She remained silent for some time, pinning her arms against her stomach. And as he watched her, he was almost certain her skin was becoming more pallid.

"I am a terrible person," she confessed resolutely.

"What? Why?" his eyebrows drew in confusion. "I found the ring. Good as new. Better even."

Molly was unconvinced. She seemed to debate whether she should continue or not, and looked at him imploringly, as if willing him to understand without her having to voice whatever it is she was meant to say. When his brows knitted in concern, she relented, and in a defeated voice she continued, "I think…" she bit her lip, unable to bring her eyes to meet his, "this might be the first time I'm actually, truly touched to see that ring."

"Oh?"

"Ever."

"Oh." Oh.

In his pursuit of Molly's happiness, Sherlock had somehow managed to compartmentalize the weight of the small object he had been carrying in his coat pocket, which now sat in a velvet box between them. Right. An engagement ring meant that Molly was to marry another man. A smaller, but not inaudible voice in the deep recesses of his mind clarified, another man not him. And an insufferably dull one at that. But, wait, did she just say this was the first time––

Her voice broke through his racing thoughts.

"What did you mean earlier?" she asked quietly. She was looking at him now, not accusingly, but with delicate sadness that tugged at his chest. "When you said this wasn't the ring you pictured me wearing."

Sherlock didn't expect her to bring that up again, and he embarrassingly stumbled about for the right words. "It's a bit garish on you." Rather unsuccessfully. "I think… could get snagged on… it's… not the ring I would've…" he trailed off and let the rest of the sentence hang between them.

Mercifully, Molly didn't let him finish. Either that, or she didn't want to hear the rest. She calmly, and with a note of wistfulness, explained, "It belonged to Tom's gran. Family heirloom." She smiled at him weakly, her gaze dropping down to to the box. She took the glittering thing out. "I still haven't gotten it properly resized." She slipped the ring on her own finger, but she twisted it on and off again with relative ease to illustrate her point.

Sherlock trained his gaze on her, and closely observed the features of her face. He knew he wasn't an expert at matters of the heart, but credited himself through personal experience in being able to tell when it wasn't there.

"Molly…" He moved towards her, closing the space between them. He asked, with hopeful dejection steeped in his voice, "Are you happy?"

"Thank you for finding the ring, Sherlock."

And for the second time in two days, Sherlock was left standing in the middle of an empty room, wondering what just happened.

shmhshmhshmhshmhshmh

Later that evening found Sherlock lying on the sofa at Baker Street in his second-best dressing gown, mobile in hand, blankly scrolling through his inbox. He had just opened up an email from John and Mary––it was a photo of them, in full tourist garb, gleefully pointing at a sign that read, "No Working During Drinking Hours"–– when his ears detected the sound of footsteps stop at the threshold. He craned his neck to find Molly standing at his door.

He swung his legs off the sofa and drew himself up. Before he could say anything––an apology seemed appropriate, although for what, he wasn't quite sure––she spoke first.

"I thought I was happy."

"But you're not." He finished for her, though he was unsure if it was a question or a statement. He wanted to tell her he still believed she deserved a bountiful share of joy the universe deemed for to allot. And he saw now that he wanted to be the one to help make it so.

His gaze traveled to the hand gripping her bag on her left shoulder, and noticed the absence of Tom's gran's heirloom ring. He looked at her, questioningly.

"I didn't lose it this time."

He opened his mouth to reply, but not knowing what to say, he simply nodded and returned to have a seat on the sofa, leaving space for her next to him, an implicit invitation. She followed wordlessly, sitting close to him. He could feel her arm just barely grazing his. They remained in silence for some time, as were wont for two people who have much to say to one another. Molly began fidgeting with her hands as they rested on her lap. He surprised both of them by reaching over to still her moving hands, covering them with his.

Sherlock looked down at their joined hands, and found a perfect fit. He decided from now on, her hand should always be adorned this way. Someday, he would find the words to tell her. But something told him she already knew.

end.