Step out with me into the great unknown.
The world's at our feet, let's make it our home.

-The Beginning by Alice Peacock


You know those romance movies? There's usually this pivotal scene where after a huge fallout, the love interests see each other again after a while and it's like the whole moment is in slow motion. Well, that's what happened to Molly Hooper a month after the most heartbreaking phone call of her life. She was walking the streets of London, a cup of coffee in her hand. Her eyes glanced over to the park across the street and that's when she saw him.

Sherlock Holmes stood near the tall bushes on the opposite street. Their eyes meeting for the first time in weeks stopped them in their tracks. He looked surprised to see her at first, his face quickly softening its expression. Her heart beat faster at the tenderness of his gaze. It was then that Sherlock ran across the road, nearly getting run over, to get to her. She stifled a giggle from the honks he received from annoyed drivers.

She didn't know what to expect when he made it over to her, but Molly certainly didn't see this coming. He wrapped his arms around her in a warm embrace, saying her name in a sigh of relief followed by three little words…

"I missed you."

"I missed you too," she half sobbed. Molly hadn't avoided him on purpose—well, not at first. The longer time went on without him, the more worried she became if there was ever a chance of seeing him again. Mycroft had given her the whole story, also telling her that Sherlock did not put him up to it. He had a soft spot for the pathologist in a brotherly manner and felt he might be able to salvage her friendship with his little brother. The thing was, Molly never hated him. She didn't hate him when he relapsed or shot Magnussen. Nor did she ever blame him for Mary's death like John did. She didn't hate him after that Christmas where her heart was shattered and she didn't hate him now. No matter what, she loved him fiercely.

Sherlock Holmes was her best friend in the whole world. They did experiments together, solved crimes, examined corpses, and they both had a terribly morbid sense of humor. There were nights he used her flat as his most secret bolthole where they would usually order takeaway and watch films or play board games. Studying cold case files and deducting things together was also an activity they did together. He used her bedroom to sleep or to read, but he never kicked her out of it. Instead, he took to cuddling with her or she would end up cuddling with him. The first night it happened, he had been reading with a book light and she just slowly inched her way over in her sleep, resting her head against his abdomen. He didn't stop himself from brushing her hair with his fingers, which made her snuggle him more.

After the phone call, Sherlock had dealt with the familial aftermath with his brother and parents. He and John restored 221B with some help. Sherlock had avoided taking any cases or doing any experiments, hence having nothing that would ever bring him to Bart's. He had wanted to go to Molly the same night they returned from Sherrinford, but he allowed John and Mycroft to talk him out of it, saying to give her space and let the dust settle. The longer he waited, the more he became afraid of seeing her again. He never wanted to see her give him a look that would break him, though he felt he deserved to feel that kind of pain. So, when he saw her across the street, he was done waiting. All he wanted to do was hold her.

"I'm sorry I haven't visited," he told her.

"I'm sorry too," she replied, her voice muffled from her face pressed into his chest. "I wanted to see you, I did, but I just—"

"I know," was all he said. They had both been afraid of seeing each other again after that phone call.

"I was wondering…"

"Would you…"

"You first," Molly laughed lightly.

"I was hoping, if you weren't busy, that you'd like to go for chips?" Sherlock asked.

"I'd like that," she smiled.

"Let's go then," he smiled back, holding her hand.

"Right now?" she asked, giggling.

"Yes, of course," he replied.

"It's a date," she smirked.

"I was hoping you'd say that," Sherlock admitted as they happily walked toward Marylebone Road.