All rights go to BBC, Moffat, Gatiss and ACD of course. While Mollock is not my OTP, it is the one of my co-writer, ladycorvidae, the Molly to my very surprised Sherlock. R & R, and no worries, there are many more chapters to come. Enjoy!

Chapter 1: A Piece of Shattered Glass

What would you say if I told you that Sherlock Holmes was a fake? - {unknown}

I believe in Sherlock Holmes. -MHooper

I don't know if that's an intelligent thing to do. - {unknown}

And why do you say that? - MHooper

Because what if he's not worth believing in? What if people believing puts them in danger? - {unknown}

He /is/ worth believing in. And people can choose to take that risk. I have, and I don't regret it at all. - MHooper

Thank you, Molly. You have no idea what that means to me. - {unknown}

Sherlock...? - MHooper

Hello. - {unknown}

Oh thank god. I was beginning to wonder if you had actually died while you were abroad. How are you holding up? - MHooper

Not very well. Molly, I can't live without John. - {unknown}

Oh, Sherlock...I'm...I'm sorry. - MHooper

Molly, oh God, Molly, please don't tell me he-he did something irretrievably stupid. - {unknown}

No! No no no. Nothing like that, I'm sorry for making you think that at all. He...John is married, Sherlock. He married a woman named Mary Morstan about three months ago. - MHooper

...What? No...oh God no.../Molly,/ I've lost him. - {unknown}

Sherlock... he's still your friend. - MHooper

Molly I-I fell for him. It took me a stupidly long time to realize it, but I did. And now I've lost him. He'll hate me if I come back now, even though now he's safe. - {unknown}

He won't hate you. Please...come back. -MHooper

I can try...how is it possible to do this?- {unknown}

You...you have to be happy for them. It hurts, I'm not going to lie, it hurts like Hell. But you have to try. I...I know how you feel. - MHooper

I know. You feel this way about me, don't you? -{unknown}

I...yes, Sherlock. I feel the same way about you. - MHooper

I often wondered. Sometimes I wish things could be simple and I could say I feel the same. But...John... -{unknown}

I know. You love him. I'm not going to try and change that; it wouldn't be right or fair. And love is never simple. - MHooper

No. It certainly isn't. I want to see him. But, I don't know if I can do it. -{unknown}

I can go with you, if you want. Moral support. Physical support, should you need it. -M

Perhaps. I can be at your place in one minute. -{unknown}

One minute? Sherlock...I thought you were across the world! - MHooper

No. That was yesterday. I finished my task. Moran is dead, and John is safe. The game is finally over. -{unknown}

Thank God. On both counts. - MHooper

Open the door. -{unknown}

Molly swiftly rose and went to the door of her flat, flinging it open, breathless.

"Hello, Molly."

She stared at the tall detective in front of her; he looked gaunt and worn and horribly sad. "Hello, Sherlock. Come in..." He followed her into the small flat, shrugging off his coat.

"Thank you."

"So...now what...?" she asked softly. They were now alike, no strangers to heartbreak.

"I-I don't know." Sherlock felt empty, worn through and exhausted. He glanced at her, tears in his eyes. She saw the tears and heard something inside her crack, going to him and, as if she was afraid she'd break him at the slightest touch, gingerly put her arms around him. Sherlock broke down, sobbing as he wrapped his arms around Molly. He hadn't cried since he'd told John good-bye.

"Shhh...I've got you...I've got you," she whispered, rubbing his back. She didn't say empty words like "It's all right" because she knew it wasn't. He knew it wasn't. She had to fight back sobs of her own. It wasn't fair; this just wasn't fair to either of them. Sherlock let her hold him, her words just washing over him as he cried, cried real tears. His knees gave out and she caught him, sitting him down; he didn't let go, clutching tighter like she was a rock in the storm. He shook and sobbed, and she leaned into him, letting him cry. She continued to hold him when he sank to the floor...she wouldn't let go, even if the world were ending. Sherlock cried until there was nothing left, his body shaking with empty, dry sobs.

"I-I'm too late," he whispered. She looked him in the eyes.

"We both were," she said simply.

"How were you too late?"

Molly took a deep breath. "In my case, I was always too late. I...I tried, so hard. For you. And you never noticed. You never...cared. Not for me. Never for me," she said. She knew she sounded bitter, and she bit her tongue to stop. "I'm sorry, Sherlock," she said softly, resting a hand on his arm.

"It's fine. I kept everyone out. I saw but did not observe," he said bitterly. "Amusing how my own gift turned on me."

She had nothing to say to this, because really, what could she say? The man she loved was suffering from a broken heart, and she couldn't fix it.

"How can I make this stop," he whispered. "This pain in my chest...Molly I love him, I miss him, and he's moved on." She took another deep breath.

"You have to move on as well. He's happy. You can still be friends, though. And...it's hard. It is. And it hurts. It never really stops hurting, here," she said, placing a hand over his heart. "But it gets better with time. Or so I've been told."

The tears almost started again.

"But...but I don't want to move on. He's-he's the only one, Molly." She wanted to yell at him, 'How do you think I feel? There's only you. There will only ever be you,' but she couldn't. That wasn't what he needed...but what he did need is a wake-up call.

"Tough, Sherlock. You move on or you stay stagnant. Adapt or die, as the saying goes. And don't you DARE die," she said fiercely. She didn't lie to John for three years just for that lie to become the truth. Sherlock took a deep breath.

"Then take me to him, even if just for a moment. I need to tell him that I'm sorry."

She nodded and managed to lift him off the floor. They staggered and stumbled, both of them worn out by grief and disappointment, but eventually managed to make it to the door of the flat and out, en route to John's house. Sherlock didn't speak on the way there, trying to figure out what he would say to his friend. As Molly took him up to John's flat, he felt panic rising.

"He won't want to see me," he whispered, Molly holding his hand tightly.

"He will. But...don't expect a warm welcome. To him, you've been dead for three years," she whispered back. She rang the bell and could hear John and Mary's voices inside, happy and laughing. It stung, rubbing salt into a reopened wound. Sherlock fought panic and tears as the door opened and he saw his army doctor, his John. The detective froze, eyes wide, shaking. Molly squeezed Sherlock's hand. "Hello, John," she said softly. Sherlock's mouth wouldn't move. He couldn't seem to blink, his eyes fixed on John's, watching the laughter he'd just heard die and be replaced by shock and confusion and anger and, and-

"Hello, John," he managed.

Molly watched the happiness in John's eyes slowly die, replaced by confusion, shock, disbelief, anger. She saw him wind his fist back and was too late to stop the blow to Sherlock's jaw; the detective crumpled, and she had to catch him again.

"What. The. Fuck. Is. This?" John said, each word carefully controlled but furious. He glared at Molly. "Is this your sick idea of a joke?" he demanded of her. She looked up at him.

"It isn't a joke, John! It's really Sherlock," she said, pleading with her eyes for him to believe her. Sherlock saw stars as the blow landed, crumpling into Molly's arms for the second time that hour. He was unaware of the tears as he looked back up at John, massaging his jaw.

"I'm so sorry," he murmured. "It really is me, John. I'm-I'm not dead." His voice broke on the last word as he used Molly to help him stand again. John was still angry, but it faded slightly. "Oh my God...you're alive..." he whispered. He stared at both of them before he wrapped his arms around Sherlock. "You fucking git, you're alive...!" he said, tears clogging his voice. "How...?"

Molly spoke up. "I helped him fake his death..." she said, trailing off. She felt horribly isolated; this was a scene where she wasn't wanted, wasn't needed. Again. Sherlock squeezed her hand before letting go, burying his face in John's shoulder, still crying silently.

"Don't be mad at Molly," he said, voice thick with tears. "The only way to-to keep you safe was for you to-to think I was-I was..." He couldn't finish, hugging tighter.

"Moriarty had three snipers; one on Lestrade, one on Mrs. Hudson, and one on you. He...he had to, or else all three of you would have been..." Molly swallowed hard. Three snipers, three bullets, three people she loved. Sherlock held tighter to John, breathing deep, memorizing his smell.

"I came back after making sure you were safe, making sure none of Moriarty's men could hurt you...I'm sorry it took so long." John clung to him for another moment before a woman's voice called to him from inside.

"I have to get back to Mary...she's my wife," he said, smiling up at his best friend, not knowing the damage he was causing. "I'll tell her about you, and then you can meet her...once I have the chance to wrap my brain around this," he said, chuckling slightly. Molly smiled weakly at him.

"Give her my best," she said, and John started. He had forgotten she was there for a moment.

"Yeah, will do, Molls. Thank you, for everything," he said to her, sincerely. She gave a strained smile and nodded as John closed the door, leaving them in the cold.

Sherlock stood there, trembling before leaning against the wall and sliding down to the floor. He didn't think it was possible to cry anymore, but the tears just wouldn't stop.

"I-I'm br-broken," he sobbed, wrapping his arms around his knees. He didn't think he could keep going, not like this. Three years of knowing he had John to come back to, three years of hope shattered in a few seconds, his world tumbling down around his ears. Molly lifted him to his feet.

"Come on, let's get you home," she said softly, walking him back to the cab. The journey back to her flat was horrible; Sherlock was still sobbing brokenly, and she felt hollowed out and dead. "'Lord, what fools these mortals be,'" she murmured. The line from "A Midsummer Night's Dream" popped into her head and struck her as sharply befitting. Sherlock chuckled darkly.

"'And by a sleep to say we end the heartache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished,'" he quoted back. Hamlet, of course. She looked at him.

"Don't you dare even think about that," she said, quietly but with bite. She knew the subtext of that monologue all too well; the last thing she wanted was for him to commit suicide. He glanced at her.

"'Love is blind.'" Fine, he could put on a brave face for her.

"Thus conscience does make cowards of us all," she quoted back. Her flat was finally in view and their walk back up to it was silent and strained. She had no idea what to do from here.

"I don't know what to do, Molly," he murmured as she let them back into her flat. "'Nymph, in thy orisons be all my sins remembered.'" She closed the door behind her and went over to him, taking him in her arms again.

"Neither do I," she admitted softly. He rested his head on hers as she stroked his back. "You've been kinder than I deserve, Molly Hooper." She sighed.

"And I'm afraid I only have so much to give," she said. "I...I'm far from adequate." Sherlock pulled back, tilting her head up to look at him.

"You are brilliant," he said. "You helped me to disappear, you just helped me come back, and I owe you so much." She moved her face away. It hurt to look at him. She still loved him, and she knew he didn't (couldn't/wouldn't/would never) love her back. She rested her head on his chest to hide her tears. The sting was still there, buried deep; it never went away, not really. He kissed the top of her head, genuine affection for her spilling through as he led her over to the sofa. They sat and he held her now, rocking her gently as she sobbed.

"I'm sorry..." she keened through her weeping. She grieved, loud and long. It wasn't fair. It wasn't FAIR. It hurt, it hurt so bad and so much.

"Don't apologize," Sherlock whispered, kissing her hair again, going with what instincts seemed to be presenting themselves. He rubbed her back, just existing for her, aware of the pain his presence caused.

Finally, when her tears had slowed to occasional whimpers and sniffles, she pulled back.

"I'm sorry," she whispered again, her voice hoarse. She knew she looked like hell, her eyes puffy and red, her hair mussed. She kept one hand fisted in the fabric of his shirt, like she was loath to let go.

"I said don't apologize," he whispered, taken aback by her raw energy and beauty; two broken souls trying to find their way. He stroked her hair away from her face gently. She shivered at his touch and resisted the urge to lean into it. She was tired now, so damnably tired.

"How fragile we are," she said, almost to herself. Sherlock wiped away her tears with his thumb, laughing softly.

"Shattered glass, the pair of us" Half out of instinct, she turned her face into his palm and pressed a kiss there. She froze; she shouldn't have done that. She'd ruined everything now...damndamnDAMN.

"Shattered glass," she choked back. Sherlock smiled.

"That was-nice," he whispered.

She looked at him. Trance-like, she took his hand and brought it to her lips, kissing each fingertip before she placed it on her left breast. This wasn't a sexual gesture; she let him feel her heartbeat. She let him feel the soft thudding that occurred under her skin, and she wondered why it hadn't stopped yet. His breath caught in his throat, the touches so gentle and caring. He hadn't touched anyone except in hate in three years, but this-this was different. Her heartbeat was strong, pounding out a slightly erratic rhythm. Curious. He watched her eyes, stroking her chest with his thumb, almost unconsciously, feeling and hearing her breath hitch as he moved his thumb across her skin, brushing from the top of her breast to her sternum. She fought back a flare of want. This wasn't the time nor the place, and it was unwelcome as she so keenly knew. Sherlock noticed everything, knowing what would happen, how it would hurt them both but not caring about the consequences. He leaned in, brushing his lips against her cheek, an echo of the same kiss three years before at Christmas.

"You are beautiful, Molly Hooper," he whispered. "And I'm sorry that I've hurt you." She could feel her heartbeat stutter, and she had to clench her hand into a fist to fight crying again. Damn him and his words and his apologies. She took a deep breath.

"I forgive you," she said, lifting her other hand to his face and caressing his cheek. He closed his eyes, leaning into her touch.

"I don't deserve it," he said quietly, "but thank you anyway." He opened his eyes and stared at her, their faces inches apart. Molly's brain shorted out and she forgot to think, she only felt. She closed the distance and pressed her mouth to his in a kiss. He stopped breathing before tentatively pressing back, his hand coming back up to hold her face. Her breath left her in a rush, and she moved the hand on his face to wind through his hair. She could hardly believe this was happening, and she wondered when she was going to wake up. Sherlock moaned softly as she tugged on his hair, cupping her face in both hands as he kissed her, learning quickly as he went.

The noise he made shot straight down her spine to rest in her lower belly. If his hand were still on her heart, he would have felt it speed up like an engine. She gently nipped his lower lip and soothed the small hurt with a quick swipe of her tongue. He gasped.

"Do that again." She complied eagerly. He moaned again, kissing her harder. Sherlock could feel her heartbeat in her lips as he gently slipped his tongue inside her mouth, curious. Molly made a noise in the back of her throat as Sherlock's tongue twined with hers. He tasted like cigarettes and rain and mint. She arched her body into his, and he pulled her closer, wrapping his arms around her back, finally pulling her onto his lap as he continued to kiss her. She smelt of flowers, of lavender and roses. She tasted of tears. She was vaguely aware that she was now straddling his lap and that his arms were around her back. Her hands were in his hair then moving down the back of his neck to dig her nails slightly into his shoulders and back. This was all she ever wanted, and it was bittersweet.

"Molly," he finally gasped, breaking the kiss because he couldn't breathe, eyes half-closed as he looked down at her. "I-I want-" he hesitated, watching her carefully. "I think I want-more..."

She looked at him, his head tilted back, eyes half-lidded, pupils blown out almost all the way. and he said those words, those words that she thrilled to hear: I want more. She nodded and lowered her hands to the hem of her shirt and lifted it up and off, tossing it behind her. He watched, curious, observant as always, shrugging out of his coat and undoing the buttons on his shirt, finally slipping that off too, feeling self-conscious for the first time in his life. She reached out a hand and ran it from his collarbone to his sternum and back up before she unhooked her bra and flung it aside as well. She had to fight to keep herself from crossing her arms over her now-bare chest.

He shivered slightly at her touch, unblinking as she removed her bra. He reached out a hand and traced a finger around her left breast, feeling her heartbeat jump. His lips twitched in a smile. She gasped as he touched her, biting her lip. She leaned down and placed a trail of kisses from his shoulder to the hollow of his throat, marking the last with a quick bite. Her lips were like fire on his skin, her teeth like ice. He brought one hand to the back of her head, holding her in place as she kissed and nipped his throat, eyes fluttering shut. She vaguely felt his hand holding her in place and bit a little harder. Her hands started descending but stop, hesitating at the waistband of his trousers, tracing it lightly like there was a barrier that stopped her from going any lower.

He pulled her away from his neck slowly, breathing heavily.

"I'm new at this," he murmured, tucking her hair behind her ear. "Do-do you want to move or-or stay here?" She looked at him, knowing that her eyes must look almost black because of how wide her pupils were. She got off of him and gently took him by the hand, leading him to the bedroom.

"Come..." she said softly, watching him, studying him. He followed silently, standing awkwardly by her bed as she shut the door. The sun was setting, casting a warm, golden rose light into the room. Sherlock could feel his trousers constrict as he watched her, her hair falling in waves down her back as she pulled out her hair tie. Molly shook her hair out, letting it fall loose around her. She undid her own trousers and slid them off her legs, kicking them aside, now clad in only her knickers. She walked over to where Sherlock was standing and embraced him, pressing the bare skin of her torso into his. A thrill went through her as she felt a bulge in the front of his own pants, and she couldn't resist the temptation to rock into it, gently.

Sherlock gasped, the friction of his jeans and boxers stimulating every nerve ending there. "Molly," he whispered and leaned down to kiss her again, undoing his trousers and dropping them before pulling her close in an embrace, holding her tight as they snogged.

They were left in only their underwear; Sherlock holding her tightly to him and kissing her breathless. In between kisses, she moved her hand to cup his manhood, surprising herself with her own boldness. Sherlock moaned, her fingers hot, everything marvelously intriguing.

"I'm ready," he whispered. She nods and slid both his and her underwear off before she sat on the bed. She lay back, opening to him, guiding him to where he wanted to be...where he needed to be. Sherlock hovered over her, straddling her hips, biting his lip as he looked down at her. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," she breathed and rocked up to encourage him.

He shifted slightly and slowly entered her, gasping and moaning, shutting his eyes.

"Oh...oh my god..." She felt like she couldn't get enough air into her lungs as he slid into her.

"Ah...yes..." she gasped, taking him all the way in. Sherlock forced his eyes open, looking down into hers, rocking against her gently, getting the feel of it, leaning in to kiss her. She kissed him as he rocked gently, but she needed more. She picked up the pace. She wasn't a china doll, and she NEEDED him. Taking his cue, Sherlock began thrusting harder, learning, tweaking as he went, his thoughts about no longer being a virgin flying from his head as he heard her moan his name.

"Sher-Sherlock...! Nnh..." She linked her ankles around his hips and drove him home, losing her breath as he bottomed out, in her all the way to the hilt. She was tight in every sense of the word, including her tight grip around his hips, more courageous and determined than he'd ever seen her.

"Beautiful," he panted, really going at it now. She keened as he started going harder and faster, building her up to that peak, winding the coil in her lower belly ever tighter. She knew she wasn't going to last much longer before she fell off the edge.

Her voice, her feel, her smell, Sherlock could feel something new, a fire in his gut, burning him as he went faster, stealing his breath until he was almost dizzy. It only took a few more thrusts from him and she broke; she shattered beautifully, coming with a cry of his name, her careful rhythm dissolving into a frenzied bucking of her hips. Sherlock's vision narrowed and he saw stars, screaming Molly's name as he came, his rhythm erratic and unpredictable before he collapsed on her in a tangle of arms and legs, barely able to breathe.

She came back slowly, gasping, to the real world, her vision fading from white back to the colors of the sunset that dyed her room, her limbs tangled with Sherlock's. He was still buried inside her, and she could feel both of them twitching with the aftershocks of their thunderous pleasure. He was aware of her breathing and heartbeat as they returned closer to normal, but he couldn't move yet, the release of 38 years of tension and anxiety more than he knew what to do with, his muscles stubbornly liquid. She held him close to her, feeling their sweat drying on their skin, and she let the three words she had never dared say to him before slip from her pleasure-fogged brain.

"I love you," she whispered.

He heard them but couldn't respond, his tongue thick in his mouth. He kissed her gently as he regained movement of his head, his body finally starting to collect itself. He finally managed to pull out and move just to the side, laying on his side and looking at her. She turned to face him and felt his essence begin to leak out of her. She didn't repeat the words; she felt as if it would cheapen them, and she didn't know if anything had changed. Stupid Molly...of course things had changed. EVERYTHING had changed.

He stayed silent for several moments, his brain restarting as he read her face, her eyes.

"We're not the same as we were before," he finally whispered, breaking his silence. "Everything is-different." He blinked, exhaustion sweeping through him as he re-examined his thoughts and, more surprisingly, his feelings. "I-I truly, deeply care for you, Molly, I just don't know yet if it's love." He felt so sad. "I think that's the best I can do for now." He looked so tired; and she felt it too.

"I understand," she said softly, and she did. Even if he didn't love her, even if he couldn't love her, she would have this moment and this memory. It would be enough. She moved closer to him and rested her head on his clavicle and wound her arms around him; partially for the warmth, partially for the need to be near him, touching him. He took her in his arms, a single tear falling from his eye. Sherlock rested his head on hers, sighing deeply, suddenly freezing cold, the heat of the moment suddenly gone and Molly's lovely warmth not quite enough.

"I'm cold," he said quietly. She nodded and drew the blankets over them, huddling into him. She could feel the chill as well; she wiped the tear from his face and held him tightly, as tight as she could manage.

"Thank you." He held onto her tighter, trying to hold himself together as much as her, still feeling like a piece of shattered glass in the setting sun.