A/N: This story was inspired by a song of the same title from the musical The Light in the Piazza by Adam Guettel. The song lyrics appear halfway through the story, but please listen to it too, the music is beautiful. The actions in the beginning and end of the story are taken directly from the show, because I found them so beautiful. Please enjoy this oneshot; I myself am quite proud of it, and a kind word would go a long way with me.

Say It Somehow

It was over. His mission was complete. The danger was gone. Moriarty's criminal web had been dismantled completely. He could come home for good now. He could reveal himself to be alive. He could have his old life back again.

But there was one part of that old life that he did not want, that he wanted to change.

If he were thinking with complete and cold logic only, his first destination would have been to the Diogenes Club, where his elder brother spent most of his time. Mycroft, along with Molly, had been one of the four people who had known Sherlock was still alive. Besides the two brothers, the other two who knew had been Molly Hooper and Irene Adler, who had proved to be an invaluable ally and resource. She owed her life to Sherlock Holmes, and it had not taken any persuasion to elicit her help in bringing down Moriarty's ring. In just a year and a half, the mission had been completed – after all, when three genius minds work in common cause to destroy an organization that is not nearly as lethal without its mastermind pulling the strings…one does not need to be a genius to deduce that it would not take years and years.

Now, their mission was complete. Miss Adler, wanting some glamour after such dark work, set off for the west coast of America to try her hand at seducing and blackmailing celebrities – in other words, her idea of fun. Sherlock was glad that she would not be returning to England again – each playful "dinner" request made his patience wear thinner. He'd never deny that her mind and skills were top-notch, but…she would never hold his once-hypothetical heart.

Sherlock moved swiftly and quietly down the streets of London. It was just after midnight, so there was still quite a bit of activity on the streets, even in the nippy November air. When he reached Molly's building, Sherlock picked the lock of the front door and climbed the three flights up to Molly's floor. Once outside her door, Sherlock bent down and found the spare key hidden beneath her "Welcome" doormat. Must remember to find a less obvious hiding place for the spare key.

He let himself in quietly, knowing that she would be home. She did not work the graveyard shift on Tuesday nights, and considering that her shift today had ended at 10 pm, he knew that Molly would be fast asleep from exhaustion by now, most likely after taking a cleansing shower. During the month he had spent in Molly's flat just after The Fall, he had learned her basic routines of each day. If Molly was anything, she was a creature of habit. The flat was freshly dusted and vacuumed, as he had expected (Mondays she had off and liked to tidy up). Toby the cat was curled up on his favorite sofa cushion, but he wasn't asleep. Feeling someone enter the apartment, the tabby raised his head. But when he saw the familiar silhouette in the dim room, he laid his head back down, purring. Sherlock couldn't help but smirk at that; that cat was crazy about him.

But now, his attention focused on the other occupant of this simple, modest flat. After shedding his coat, scarf and suit jacket, he slowly made his way to the door that led into Molly's bedroom. No lights came from the cracks around the door, so she was clearly asleep. When he reached out for the doorknob, he cursed his body for causing his hand to shake ever so slightly. But he grasped and, very slowly and very quietly, steadily turned the knob and opened the door.

For the first time in his life, the breath of Sherlock Holmes was taken away.

Molly lay on top of the comforters of her bed, clad only in her lilac dressing gown with her long, damp hair loosely braided. Clearly, she had taken a shower upon returning home, and must have been too exhausted to resist sleep after that. The moonlight coming in through her bedroom window cast a most appealing glow to her skin and hair. Her breathing was soft, regular and peaceful. Her scent filled the air in the room: her strawberry shampoo, her lilac soap, and her natural scent. Sherlock could not help the deep breath he took as he came into the room.

His silent footsteps carried him to his sleeping savior until he stood at the foot of the bed. For the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes was overwhelmed, from her smell, the sight of her, the sound of her breathing. In every fiber of his being, Sherlock Holmes could feel his entire world shift, refocus, change, revolve around one simple truth: Molly Hooper had always counted to him, but only now did he realize that she counted the most.

"Molly…" he breathed very softly, unconsciously leaning forward over her and casting his shadow over her. When this happened, though, Sherlock felt a third sensation that night that he rarely felt: fear. Seeing Molly covered by his menacing shadow filled him with it, nice and cold. Also, all of the emotions storming in him frightened him, too. So, he turned around and made for the bedroom door and grab the knob.

"Who's there?"

Her voice was thick, a big groggy, and hoarse from sleep, but so sweet. Sherlock froze at the sound of it, and knew that he couldn't leave. So he closed the bedroom door gently with a soft click.

He couldn't turn back now.

Every fiber of Molly's being sensed Sherlock's presence when he came into her room, but it was when his shadow came over her face that she was pulled from sleep. However, sleep still clouded her mind when she woke, so she asked, "Who's there?" The fact that she felt no fear or panic rise within her should have given it away.

Molly rubbed her eyes and raised herself to a sitting position on her bed. Her eyes adjusted to the moonlit room, and fell on a figure standing at her bedroom door, his back to her.

Even without his signature Belstaff coat, Molly knew that silhouette anywhere.

"Sherlock?" she breathed, putting a hand to her heart as it began to pound. "Is that really you?" After all, she could be dreaming. Nearly every one of her dreams involved him. She got off the bed and slowly approached him, her shaking hands clutching her robe securely, which was all she was wearing. When she stopped a foot away from him, his scent nearly made her swoon. She'd missed that smell.

Slowly, Sherlock turned around and faced her. "Yes, Molly. You're not dreaming."

The tone of his beautiful voice was hoarse, just as it had been the night before The Fall, when he had told her she counted and that he needed her help. Immediately, she felt worried and frightened. "What's wrong? What do you need? Are you hurt?"

"It's over," was Sherlock's simple reply.

Her eyes widened as she took in what this meant. "It's…" Her voice faded when she saw the corners of his mouth turn upward just a fraction and the light in his eyes warm. "Oh, Sherlock, thank goodness!"

Completely on impulse, Molly wrapped her arms around his torso in a hug. He stiffened at the sudden contact, and Molly misinterpreted the action as one of repulsion, not surprise. So, embarrassed, she started to pull away, only to find in the next moment that she couldn't. His arms had wrapped tightly around her shoulders and were holding her to him firmly. Molly relaxed in relief and rested her head on his chest, closing her eyes and savoring this moment of reunion. A text of "alive" once a month could, in no way, compare to the real thing holding her to him now. He was home and safe, and everyone he cared about was safe now. He could have his old life back now.

His old life…and her old role in his life.

Needing some distance all of a sudden, Molly gently extracted herself from his hold and went to her bed. She slipped under the covers – wanting to protect her modesty – and sat up against the headboard, facing him with folded hands. "So, what's the plan? How will you make your grand return?" she asked, as casually and lightly as she could.

But Sherlock just looked at her in surprise and – dare she think it? – nervousness. "Why did you pull away, Molly? Did I do something wrong?"

"NO! Oh, goodness, no, of course not, Sherlock!" exclaimed Molly hastily, in shock of what he'd said. The last thing she wanted to do was push him away now, when she had been without him for so long. "I'm still a bit in shock, and only in my robe, Sherlock…" Her cheeks flushed, but determinedly kept trying to remedy the situation. She patted the space next to her encouragingly. "Please, come sit and talk to me."

Sherlock slowly walked over to the opposite side of the bed, his eyes locked on her. Both of them knew that, while her explanation was the truth, it wasn't the entire truth. But, thankfully, Sherlock did not inquire deeper for once. He sat down on the edge of the bed and removed his shoes before joining Molly. The young pathologist couldn't help but smile at that: try as he might, Sherlock could not completely stamp out the privileged childhood etiquette he had been raised with. When he sat against the headboard, his posture was somewhat stiff. Longing to make him feel at ease with her, Molly reached out and tenderly brushed a dark curl from his forehead. His head turned, and their eyes met again.

All Molly could say was another truth, and a very profound one: "I'm so happy your safe and home, Sherlock." Her voice was thick with emotion that she couldn't hide if she tried.

As her hand withdrew from his head self-consciously, his hand came up and grabbed her wrist, leading her hand back to sink into his curls. "Yes…" he said. "Home."

For the next few minutes, there was only silence. Sherlock let his head rest against the pillow propped behind him, his eyes closed as Molly's hand threaded lovingly through his curls. Both of them reveled in the feeling of being together in a bed again.

During the month he had stayed with her after The Fall, Molly had immediately given only bed to Sherlock, who needed it more than her in order to recover more quickly. However, Sherlock had refused to let Molly sleep on her couch, which he described as "only fit for a cat to sleep on." So, they had compromised by sharing, since it was more than big enough for the both of them. Both had resolved on the first night to stick to their sides of the bed come hell or high-water, but that had not lasted long. For Sherlock, when he did sleep, had nightmares of what had happened. They would wake Molly, and she would wake him and soothe him with innocent kisses and caresses until he fell back asleep. The method was always effective, and he never had a nightmare when in Molly's arms. So, after a week, strictly in order to not have nightmares he told himself, Sherlock would wrap his arms around Molly before falling asleep. Her arms always followed suit, wanting to banish all nightmares from him and make him stronger for his upcoming journey.

This nightly routine would prove to be a blessing, especially for Molly. For, as John Watson could attest, Sherlock was quite a challenge and adventure to live with. And that was putting it kindly, since the Sherlock that Molly had to house was a bit different than the one John had lived with. This Sherlock was:

1) Legally dead, so therefore could not leave the flat.

2) A little banged up with bruises and a fractured rib.

3) Quite depressed, having lost touch with the people he cared for most, who now believed him to be dead.

Combine that with how Sherlock usually was, Molly could safely say it was like living with a baby dragon: always lovely and interesting to look at, even adorable at times, but sprouted fire when having a tantrum which, being a baby, was quite often. His mood swings, his raiding her private space, and lashing out his frustrations at her tested Molly's patience and will every day. But every night, the conflicts would be resolved. For, by then, Sherlock would have apologized (yes, really apologized, for he knew he was unfair to her but just couldn't help it), and her arms would always be open to him with forgiveness and comfort. And, to his credit, as he healed and the weeks passed, his behavior and mood improved as plans were made for his mission.

When he'd left, she stayed strong, only shedding one tear that fell halfway down her cheek as she told him to be safe and come back. It only made it that far, because Sherlock had shocked them both by kissing it away in farewell after saying, "Thank you, Molly Hooper." His tone made it clear that those four words stretched a long way, and that was more than enough for Molly. And with that, Sherlock had left, and Molly had watched from her window as a disguised Sherlock drove away in Mycroft's fine black car.

Now, a year and a half later, he was back safe and sound, and both were in the place where they could be both the most vulnerable and most at ease with each other.

Finally, Sherlock began to speak, responding to her question. "Tomorrow, I'll go and see Mycroft. He's already begun work on those plans: tipping off the major tabloids, providing evidence that Moriarty was indeed real, reinstating Lestrade to his position as DI with Scotland Yard, et cetera."

"Good," said Molly, still playing with those curls she loved so much. "When will you go back to Baker Street?"

"Tomorrow," he replied, taking a deep breath. "Mrs. Hudson will faint, in all probability, so I will have to have a bottle of smelling salts on hand, but I know she will be happy to see me alive." A fond smile flickered across his face before his expression became quite somber. "John, on the other hand…"

"He will be thrilled, too," said Molly firmly.

"He'll pound me to a bloody pulp."

"I don't doubt he'll let a few punches fly. He's been through hell grieving over your death. But in the end, after you've explained everything and he can let out his anger, he'll be nothing but so grateful and happy that his dearest friend isn't gone for good."

Her tone was firm and confident, and she could see that Sherlock was relieved by that, for he knew that she wouldn't (more like couldn't) lie to him. "I will be glad to be back in 221B again…but if John needs some time, could I stay here until he can forgive me?"

Molly cocked her head and gave his curls a playful tug."Of course you can, Sherlock. I've told you before: you are always welcome here."

"Thank you, Molly," he said, closing his eyes again and pushing his head against her hand.

But speaking of getting his old life back made Molly think of something else. She withdrew her hand and faced forward again. "Sherlock?"

Not liking the loss of contact, Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at her. "Yes?"

"Is there anything else that I need to do?"

"Clarify that, Molly."

"I mean…I did your supposed autopsy, signed your death certificate. You coming back to life will show that I had a hand in faking your death…" She didn't say anything more out loud, but her thoughts and fears of losing her medical license and even being charged were loud.

Sherlock immediately assuaged such fears. "Molly, you will not lose your job or career. I've told Mycroft that Stamford is the first person he must speak to about the affair, to prove that your actions were all in the name of the greater good and you are not to be punished. He may not be the brightest of men, but his moral center is as strong as John's. I have no doubt he will understand. You will still be the best forensic pathologist at St. Bart's when I am in the public eye again."

Thinking about it, Molly knew that she really did not need to worry about her future. But she couldn't quite savor the relief as she thought about what this really meant. "Yes…must make sure your unlimited access to body parts and cadavers remain intact."

Sherlock's expression became taken aback and shocked, much the same way it had when Molly had told him she didn't count. "That is not…Molly, I've told you before: you count."

"Yes, when you need me for something," said Molly, looking sad and resigned as opposed to despairing and angry. "Body parts, cadavers, the use of the lab, someone to help you disappear…" She turned her head to look at Sherlock again, her eyes reflecting her tone, even with the small smile on her face. "And that's all right, Sherlock. You know you can always count on me when you need me. I learned my lesson a long time ago: to not expect things from you that you can't give."

But Sherlock did not have the reaction that she expected. Instead of looking satisfied and smiling, his eyes blazed in frustration and he got up to pace in front of the bed. "Molly, how can you be so stupid?"

Now her eyes blazed, and Sherlock immediately back-tracked. "No, I didn't mean that, I mean…" He seemed not to be able to find the right words, and began pacing faster. Molly's anger faded to concern as she watched Sherlock, having no idea what he was trying to tell her.

Finally, his pacing stopped and he looked at her with an expression she had never seen before on the consulting detective: complete befuddlement. "Why did you change, Molly?"

She raised her eyebrows. "Change? What do you mean, Sherlock?"

"The night I said you counted, and ever since, you don't stutter when you speak to me. You don't avert your eyes or blush as much. Your movements aren't as jerky or jumpy, and you aren't afraid to put me in my place when I hurt you. What made you change?"

His expression was identical to that of a child questioning something too complex for his young mind to fully comprehend. It touched Molly's heart deeply, so she tried her best to give him the right answer. "I…I'm not certain, Sherlock. I can only name two reasons that I am sure of. The first is…when you approached me that night you needed me, you did not overwhelm me. What I mean is…you didn't patronize me, you didn't condescend to me, you didn't speak to me as though I were a child or a petty lab assistant. You spoke to me as a friend, as an equal, as one human being to another, and you've continued to do so…more or less," she added, thinking of the childish and extreme mood swings he'd been prone to when staying with her. "By showing me the humanity I always knew was there…you let me be myself, not the shadow of a mouse you once made me feel like I was."

He stood there listening intently to this reason, drinking it in. When Molly was finished, she cocked her head again and asked, nervously, "Are you disappointed?"

"About what?" asked Sherlock.

"That I'm not that Molly anymore? She was, after all, very easy to manipulate when you wanted something –"

"No. Yes. Goddamnit, no!" Sherlock nearly shouted, beginning to pace again. He ran his fingers through his hair, but unlike Molly's fingers, the effect of his own just seemed to put him more on edge. He kicked the bottom of her wall. "Oh, God! This is why I despise sentiment, feelings, emotions. They cloud your judgment and your brain, and prevent you from saying what you need to say, what you really mean!" His fist pounded the wall by her window.

"Sherlock!" she cried, beginning to get a little frightened now; she'd never seen him so keyed up, and that was saying something. "Please, try to calm down. Take deep breaths, sit back down, and talk to me. You know you can talk to me about anything. I won't judge you or make fun of you."

He looked at her and listened to her, approaching her and sitting back beside her on the bed. After taking a few deep breaths, he turned to her fully and said, his voice almost pleading, "You know much more about this area than me, Molly. Please – tell me how I can tell you…what I feel I have to tell you or I will…I don't know what…How can I make you understand what it is I feel for you? That you are more than just someone I can always rely on for human parts and deceiving the world?"

Molly Hooper would never pretend to be as smart as a Holmes, but she did have a very beneficial gift: she knew and could feel, without a doubt, when a Holmes lied to her. And Sherlock Holmes, whose whole attention was focused on her and whose eyes shone as brightly as the moonlight they reflected, she knew without a doubt, was not lying to her now. Right then and there, Molly knew what she had to do in order to help him.

She could not turn back now.

Why don't you trace it on my hand,

Or make a song? Do anything!

Say it somehow; I will understand.

I know you…you are good.

Slowly but surely, Molly reached out and gently took Sherlock's hand with hers, making herself keep eye contact with him. "The first thing you should do, Sherlock Holmes," she began, her voice quiet, but firm and full, "and I'm surprised you haven't by now, is ask me to tell you the second reason why I changed."

Sherlock gulped and squeezed her hand unconsciously. "What is the second reason that you changed with me, Molly Hooper?" he asked obediently. Under other circumstances, Molly would have giggled at the great Sherlock Holmes obeying her without question. But now was not the time.

"The reason is that, when you asked if I would help you, even if you weren't all that you and others thought yourself to be, I realized I did not have a crush on you. And I never really did."

It both surprised and broke her heart to watch Sherlock's face fall at that confession. Staying strong, Molly reached out her other hand, cupped his cheek, and turned his face back to look at her again. She needed him to see her when she told him this, terrifying as this was.

"What I felt, still feel, and I think always will feel…Love. I know you hate that word, but that's what it is. I realized in that moment that I would do anything and everything for you, and that only happens when you love someone, really love someone."

Sherlock's only reaction to this was his eyes widening slightly and his gaze intensifying. Molly gulped and took a deep breath before continuing. She couldn't stop now, she just couldn't, even if this would push him away forever. So she spoke from her heart and, when looking back, was amazed at how eloquently and clearly her words came out.

"Don't be surprised that this changed me for the better, that it made me stronger. It did, because I accepted it without question. Because I don't see love as a weakness; I see it as a great strength, if you let it be. I know you were raised to and have always believed that love is nothing more than a chemical weakness that clouds the mind, but if you truly want me to help you understand what you are feeling, you cannot think like that. Don't confuse a crush, infatuation or obsession – things that certainly cloud the mind and good judgment – with love. For love doesn't weaken the mind – it strengthens you as a whole person.

"If you do that, Sherlock Holmes, you will understand. What's more, in whatever way you tell me, I know that I will understand."

The sound inside you, this I know.

It's like a melody, like there you go just now.

Say it somehow, somehow you can show me.

Say it somehow, any way you can.

You know me…you are good.

When she finished speaking, the strength and emotions in her eyes threatened to overwhelmed Sherlock, so he looked down at their hands, hers still holding his own. Her hand that had been cupping his cheek fell away, but he grabbed it and looked at their hands, turning her small ones over and memorizing them with his long fingers. As he did this, he allowed all she had said to sink into his being.

Sherlock had never been so in awe of anybody. Was this really Molly Hooper, who once could not utter an entire sentence without stuttering or blushing in front of him? The Sherlock he had once been would definitely have preferred the stuttering and blushing Molly, but he wasn't that Sherlock anymore. That was before John had come into his life, and oh so subtly taught him the importance of humanity and morality. Before Moriarty had shown himself and forced Sherlock to play the role of a hero. Before he had to risk and sacrifice everything for the sake of those he…dare he say it…loved.

But awed Sherlock the most about what Molly had said was that…logically, she was absolutely right! Emotions so many people mistook for love – that he had mistook for love so many times in his ignorance – those were the culprits that clouded thinking and judgment to the point of making one weak. It was why Moriarty had not considered Molly a threat or of any importance: because, like Sherlock and even Molly, he had misinterpreted and underestimated her feelings for the consulting detective. And in Sherlock himself…he would be dead if he did not love! He would not have outwitted Moriarty, would not have faked his death, if he did not love. And he certainly would not have succeeded in his plan and mission were it not for the help of the woman who loved him…

…The woman that he loved in return.

The epiphany came over Sherlock, not in a sudden, frightening and horrible wave, but like Molly's embraces when he'd had nightmares: strong, warm and safe, like your favorite childhood blanket, giving one a sense of peace and contentment that only good sentiment could.

Oh, you are good, you are good to me!

I know the sound of touch me.

I think I hear the sound of wrap your arms around me.

Ah! Shout and dance, it rings!

When all of this had settled within Sherlock, he found that the hands he was still holding were beginning to tremble ever so slightly. Looking back up at Molly, he saw that her eyes were closed, as if waiting for something that could be either pleasant or unpleasant, but definitely important.

Despite his epiphany, the right words just could not form in his mind. But perhaps words were not the right approach. Molly had shown her love in her actions over and over again, to the best effect. Now he must try to do the same. His scientific mind decided to start with the first idea that sprang up.

Gently, he took one of her hands and pushed her fingers to his wrist. This caused her to open her eyes in curiosity. "Sherlock, what…"

"Do you feel that, Molly?" he asked, guiding her fingers to the right position on his wrist. "I know you have more experience with things that no longer have this, but how does this feel to you?"

Molly looked down at how he had placed her fingers on his wrist. Sure enough, she felt his pulse not just running beneath her fingers, but leaping and dancing. "It's…it's elevated…" she whispered, hope beginning to give way to joy in her heart.

"Yes," he breathed. "Now, look into my eyes."

She did, and nearly gasped at the fact that he had leaned in quite close to her now. She could feel his warm breath on her face. She lost the ability to speak, and thankfully, Sherlock did the talking for her.

"Though the lighting is minimal now, I know that this is not the only reason my pupils are fully dilated right now."

"Oh," she breathed, her heart now pounding like a bodhran drum.

Scientific deductions of the chemistry of love…a truly dark game to play, as he knew only too well. In that moment, it was the best he could do. He'd followed her advice, and this was his first result. "Do you understand?" he breathed, leaning his face in just a millimeter closer to hers.

Thankfully, Molly knew Sherlock Holmes as only someone in love can know the person who holds their heart. She couldn't really speak at that moment, so she nodded her head vigorously, blinking back the tears of joy that threatened to escape.

As she did, her robe slipped slightly off of her right shoulder. Sherlock noticed this immediately, and the sight immediately made his blood run a little hotter. But before that could carry him away, something he saw there cooled it in fear. "You didn't have that before," he said, pointing to a small scar there.

Surprised, Molly looked down to where she was pointing and her mind cleared. She blushed self-consciously. "Oh, that…it's nothing."

"Molly…" he said. "Are you going to make me find out myself?"

"All right, all right," she said, looking in her lap. "It was three months ago. I was walking home from the graveyard shift, and when I passed the alleyway a block south of the hospital, a mugger grabbed me, and threatened me with a knife in order to get my purse. I managed to kick him between his legs and weaken him before knocking him out, but not before his knife slipped and poked me. No major damage, just a knick really. I was lucky."

But Sherlock's expression had frozen into cold and frightening anger at her story. "Did you call the police?" he asked in a controlled voice.

"Yes, and your brother," said Molly. "He was apprehended, and is serving his time for assault."

"And he wasn't…more than a common mugger?" asked Sherlock.

"Mycroft told me several days later that, after strong interrogation – I don't want to know what that means remotely – it was clear that he was no more than that. I was just in the wrong place and the wrong time, nothing more. And, when you consider the circumstances, I was very lucky."

Sherlock still looked at the scar, but with a pained look now. "Why didn't Mycroft tell me this? I asked him – no, ordered him – to tell me if anything happened to you while I was away."

Molly smiled at this admission, but said quite soberly. "I ordered him not to. Your focus had to be on the mission, Sherlock, and like I've said before, it really wasn't a big deal."

But Sherlock, though he didn't comment, disagreed. The thought of someone hurting his Molly, threatening her with a knife, was a very big deal. He made a mental note to ask Mycroft of the prisoner's details so he could pay a secret, personal visit.

His eyes returned to the small scar, which he knew would heal and become nearly invisible with time. Even still…she had been hurt and he had not been there. His hand reached out and his fingers touched her skin there, tracing the scar and caressing it in silent apology.

Or say it silently. Tell me things!

Oh, we'll play a game of trace it on my skin.

Do it any way, but let's begin.

Do it somehow, somehow you can show me –

I know that you know me.

A shudder of pleasure went through Molly's body at this intimate contact, and she smiled softly. When Sherlock looked back at her, she saw his eyes were overbright. "What is it?" she whispered, her thumb now rubbing his cheekbone. "Talk to me, Sherlock."

He took a deep breath, and spoke his next words slowly and deeply. "I would kill anybody who threatened or tried to hurt you, Molly. I would do anything and everything to make you safe and happy. But…this is all still so new to me, Molly. I have hurt you so many times, even after you changed…so I can't promise that I will not hurt you again." He stopped because his voice felt choked.

He didn't notice a tear had fallen until Molly gently wiped it away. "Oh, Sherlock…I know you never meant to hurt me, even before I changed. Each time you hurt me…I can't deny the pain I felt, but I understood why it happened and I never felt qualms when I forgave you. Answer me this: Do you or will you ever desire to hurt me?"

"No, Molly, never!" was his immediate and sincere answer.

"And when you do – and I know it's bound to happen, even after this, you are who you are – will you see it, acknowledge it, and try to learn from it, as you did when you stayed with me?"

"Yes, Molly, I promise to do so."

She smiled and cupped his face in both of her hands. "That's all I need to know."

Sherlock continued to stare at her, this woman who was extraordinary in a way he had never before known someone could be. "How can you have so much faith in me, when I can't find it in myself?"

Her eyes filled again, but she blinked them back. Her hands slid from his face, down his neck, to the top buttons of his purple shirt that she loved so much on him. As she deftly unbuttoned them, she looked right in his eyes and replied, "Because I know you, Sherlock Holmes, and you are good."

Her eyes lowered to her task, and Sherlock waited with baited breath, knowing he was safe in her hands but not knowing at all what was going to happen. When she'd undone all the buttons, she untucked the shirt and opened it to fully reveal his chest. Her hands slipped beneath the purple fabric to rest on his warm shoulders. She then lowered her head, and kissed him over his heart, which was pounding as strongly and right in rhythm with her.

Overwhelmed in the sweetest way, the consulting detective closed his eyes and softly groaned. His hands raised to her hair as she slowly kissed her way up his neck, her robe slipping off both shoulders now. He undid the loose braid and weaved his fingers through her long, slightly damp, auburn locks. Their faces became level again, and only for a minute did their foreheads rest against each other before their lips met for the first time. First gentle, then eager, then exploring, then all consuming as arms wrapped around each other tightly, rejoicing.

After that, as only true love is capable of doing between two souls, everything that was said, spoken or unspoken, was understood completely.