Sherlock stared at her door, unmoving. The minutes slogged by. Agonizing, his usual swagger stolen by emotion. He preferred his life ordered, predictable in everything but his cases. Molly was not a case. A friend. Yes, a friend. But then why was he frozen in front of her door, unable to even knock despite usually just sauntering in to stretch out on her couch. Her presence soothing.
Damn Moriarty. He'd known Sherlock's feelings. Used them as a lever to drag these emotions into the light. Useless. Confessing would only put her in danger. He walked down the stairs and back into the street. The last thing Molly needed was another complication. He turned to head to Baker Street when the visual of Molly standing unaware in her kitchen punched him in the gut. Replaying the moment he crushed her heart. I love you. The dam that broke inside him as he rode the blind rage. He saw only Molly's coffin, her small frame lifeless, her smile erased. Destroying it stripped away any pretense. Sherlock Holmes loved Molly Hooper.
Hearing her say those words to him, the relief he felt surprised him.
Sherlock paced the sidewalk in front of her flat. All he had to do was ring her. No matter how angry she was, she always answered. Molly loved him. Accepted all of him. He lifted his face to watch her window. The wind blew and his Falstaff whipped around him. Mobile in hand, unable to dial, paralyzed by the inferno blazing inside him.
He retreated to his mind palace, running up to her room. Up the spiral staircase, taking the steps two at a time, to the circular room full of light at the top of the house. A view of the countryside from every direction. Books of her lined the shelves that surrounded the room. Every smile. Every interaction. Every single time she'd helped him. He would take these new memories and inscribe them into the pages hidden in Molly's sanctuary.
He burst through the door. Emotional devastation surrounded him, only shreds remained of his meticulous organization. The windows blown out, the curtains hanging in strips. His memories of Molly in tatters, her warm brown eyes, her blush. Molly in the lab. Molly curled up in her favorite chair reading in a beam of sunlight. The damage irreparable.
He stormed up the stairs to Molly's before he knew he'd moved. Pounding on her door. He needed to tell her now how he felt before she slipped away from him forever, without even memories to sustain him during the drought. He'd kiss her and he'd walk away.
If she would only open the door. He pounded again and then listened. He heard...nothing. He'd forgotten his key so he withdrew his lockpick and made quick work. Opening her door, silence greeted him. Not even Toby padded out to inspect him. No signs of struggle and the absence of Toby added up to only one thing.
Sherlock waited too long. Molly Hooper was gone.
Molly leaned against the left side of the door. How long had they been standing with only the wall between them, neither able to take the next step? If he knocked, she wouldn't be able to stop herself from opening the door, but there was nothing left to say. The call between them shattered the flimsy barrier she'd erected against him. And look how that turned out. She balled her fists, digging her nails into her palms. No matter how much she wanted to open the door, she resisted. Nothing good would come of it.
She wasn't sure she would survive seeing the disdain in his eyes when he explained whatever case perpetuated the need to crush her so completely. The words would fall easy from his lips. Molly, you must understand. I am a man incapable of love. She could think of no reason to hear those words expressed aloud. No, better she protect the ashes of her heart.
When he left again, she gathered her things and moved them to the back balcony, avoiding any path that might give away her presence. Molly felt a bit bad about leaving the back way to avoid a possible run-in, but not enough to change her mind. Luckily, Toby never minded his crate. Though picky about the humans he liked, overall he was a mellow animal. Made transporting him anywhere much easier. Setting him next to her luggage, she checked over her flat one last time.
She was halfway to the back door when Sherlock started pounding. She stilled and wished she could risk goodbye. One last memory to savor. He pounded again, jolting her into motion. She couldn't let him find her here. Tip-toeing the final distance, she slipped out just as Sherlock picked the lock to her flat.
Unable to turn the bolt and lock up without drawing attention, Molly collapsed, sliding down the door. Hugging her knees, she held back her tears by sheer force of will. She'd done too much of it in the past day. No, she'd take a holiday and pull herself together.
Only after she heard the muffled thump of the front door did she walk away, a silent farewell left in her absence.
He had no idea how long he'd been sitting in his threadbare chair, legs crossed under him, elbows on knees, steepled fingers. A three patch problem. Where would Molly Hooper run? She ignored his calls and if John or Mrs. Hudson knew, they refused to tell him. Mycroft withheld the power of the British government just to find his "little pathologist." He'd punched him and walked out. Greg seemed unconcerned, which meant he knew, but wasn't saying. He'd checked with Mike Stamford, but he would only tell Sherlock that she requested a leave of absence and he couldn't see a reason to deny it.
Molly, for all intents and purposes, had disappeared.
She would return. Eventually. As long as she remained unharmed, he would respect her unspoken request for privacy. He would wait. Who knew what state he would be in by that time, but as long as the promise of her return existed, he'd fight the demon. She swore after his last relapse that she would never forgive him if he did it again. So he sat, utterly sober, recreating Molly's room in his mind palace. When he first built her sanctuary, it'd been scientific. Carefully cataloguing her idiosyncrasies. The sheer number of hideous jumpers she wore. The way she responded when he stood just a bit too close.
The memories stayed the same as he rebuilt, but now they filtered through their years together. Standing too close to her had been an exercise in will power. He could admit it now as he framed the image and set it on the bookcase, bathed in morning sunlight. He inscribed an entire book with variations of her leaning over the autopsy table, focused in concentration. How she chewed her lip when faced with a perplexing unknown. How beautiful she looked that Christmas in that ridiculous dress.
Mrs. Hudson came and went. Leaving tea. Bribing him with biscuits. John was a steady silent presence, never prying, always worried. Every second of that awful day scrolled by on an endless loop. Moriarty orchestrated the whole farce and Eurus played him like the Stradivarius. Stripped him of his armor. Left nothing but the love of his friends and family. John, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson - Molly.
Weeks passed. At John's prodding, he took cases for Lestrade, putting forth the effort even though none were above a six. Sherlock reasoned with himself. Molly did not want him to find her, but she kept her flat, so she would return. He walked the city at all hours, always passing her home at least once. Her window dark and empty each time. He slogged through the holidays without even the usual modicum of cheer.
Late one January night he caught a shadow passing by her window. He slipped up the stairs and into Molly's living room. When the young woman came out of the bedroom, Sherlock greeted her, leaning against the countertop directly in her way.
"Who are you?" Sherlock demanded, his voice quiet and icy.
The shorter woman with the blond bob squeaked at his question. "Oh! Excuse me." She composed herself while he waited, impatient, studying her. One thing stood out.
"You've been around Toby. Why?"
"Which question would you like me to answer first?" He narrowed his gaze at her. "Oh fine, you're no fun. I'm Melanie and you must be Sherlock. Molly'll be so disappointed, I was so careful. I didn't even turn on the light. I thought I was pretty sneaky."
He stalked towards her, but this time the woman wasn't cowed. "Melanie, you have thirty seconds to tell me exactly what you're doing here and where Molly is before I lose my patience."
"Well, Buster," she dared poke Sherlock in the chest. He stared, mouth agape, at her finger. "She wanted some of her things. And she doesn't want you to know."
Finally someone said it. She didn't want him to know. He folded in on himself and crossed over to sink into the chair he thought of as his. He tangled his fingers in his curls, "I've waited too long then." The scent of Molly rushed up at him as he leaned back heavily.
Melanie eased down onto the sofa, gentle as if afraid to startle him. "Oh, you poor sod. You're in love with her." Sherlock's eyes shifted away as she studied the hunch of his shoulders, the haunted blue eyes. "How long have you known?"
"Since the day I crushed her." Standing without forethought, he made to leave, turning his back on her. "Pardon me. I need to go."
Melanie smiled up at him and made herself comfortable. "Molly and I grew up next to each other. Wasn't til Uni that we didn't spend every day together. We stayed close despite moving farther apart. We haven't seen each much lately, so when she showed up at my cottage with Toby in tow, I knew something happened."
Sherlock froze, hand reaching for the door handle. He owed Molly honesty. "I happened. Doesn't matter that I faced an impossible situation, I ruined any hope of repairing anything between us. Do give her my best." He turned back to face her before walking out of Molly's home for the last time. "Thank you."
"She still loves you," Melanie's whisper followed him as he closed the door, echoing through the London streets.
Molly sat in the cool sand facing the bitter wind coming off the sea. She never planned on hiding away this long. Two months had passed since his last call. She couldn't answer. He'd apologize and mean it, but it would change nothing between them. Once those three words left her lips, nothing could take them back. Wouldn't do it even if she could. She could let go of him now. Move forward in her life. Without Sherlock.
Mel draped a blanket over her shoulders. "Here's your book."
"Thanks, Mel." She tucked the book behind the blanket, feeling its worn edges in her hand.
"I saw your Sherlock." Mel glanced sideways at her friend, watched her stiffen.
"He's not my anything. We were colleagues, nothing more. We've gone over this." Molly corrected and then paused before asking, "How did he look?"
"Sad." Mel started to shiver and Molly opened the blanket. She tucked underneath. "I don't really know your bloke, but he seemed pretty broken. Blames himself for you leaving. Thinks he's ruined everything."
A lump formed in Molly's throat. She swallowed hard. "Oh for crying out loud." She shrugged off the blanket and began pacing, little puffs of sand displaced by each of her steps. "Mycroft explained everything. He didn't have a choice. Eurus manipulated the situation to her liking. Didn't care who she hurt along the way." She planted her feet and assured her, "I didn't leave because of him."
"Mols, listen to me," she stood and held a hand up to stop her friend's denial, "and hear me out before you deny it. You are in love with this man and you most certainly ran away from him. I've known you since you were three, I know how you act when your heart is broken. I remember Scott when you were 12. And Jesse when you were fifteen. Philip when you were twenty. Should I go on?" Molly couldn't argue. "You told me you left the day after he told you he loved you."
"He didn't mean it. I told you, I forced him to say it." She turned to her oldest friend, tears in her eyes. "I just wanted to hear him say it once."
Mel wiped the tears from Molly's cheeks. "You may have forced him to say it, But I'm not convinced that that makes it a lie. Go home, Mols. He'll turn up soon enough, I wager. Give him a chance to explain. In his own words, not through his brother."
"And if you're wrong?" Molly gave her a smile tinged with hope.
"Then you can come right back here and I'll buy several pints down at the pub and you can curse his name and mine. Then we'll open up a B&B and call it Mel and Mol's. Alright?" She slipped her arm through Molly's. "Now let's go send that hellion you call a cat back where he belongs."
Molly smacked her shoulder. "Hey! Just because he doesn't like you…"
"Your cat is the devil, admit it." They laughed together and Melanie worried a little less about her friend. As long as Sherlock knew what was good for him.
Mike Stamford hugged her for a full forty-five seconds before demanding she never leave him again. Apparently, George, her temporary replacement, didn't know a scalpel from a microscope. Molly chuckled, pulled on her lab coat, and tied her hair back. After three minutes back in her lab, it became obvious that she'd have to reorganize. George had indeed been incompetent. Well, no use standing around griping about it. She got to work.
The hours passed. Once she got everything sorted she decided that it'd be best to also scrub down the lab itself. Just in case. Of course she was sitting on the floor cleaning a cabinet, her messy bun halfway to falling out, when Sherlock walked in. Oblivious to her presence, he shoved his gloves in his pockets and whipped off his scarf, hanging it on the rack. His coat followed after.
She stayed there, just taking him in. He looked thinner, his cheekbones more pronounced. Still impeccably dressed despite his jacket hanging looser than the last time she saw him. Mel had been right, he looked sad. Coming around the center table, he hesitated as he passed by her space and then moved to his. Before sitting though, he stopped and noticed the reorganization. Spinning around, he finally saw her sitting on the floor.
"Molly, you're home." Sherlock bent down, extending his hand to help her up. When her delicate hand slipped into his, his heart hitched in his chest. Her skin soft, he traced his fingers over her palm in wonder. Sherlock felt his heart pounding against his chest. "Molly...I…"
He backed away, couldn't breathe, couldn't think. What was happening to him? He placed his palms on the cool of the countertop, closed his eyes, tried to calm his racing pulse. He felt too hot, his skin stretched thin across his frame. Molly laid her hand on top of his. Her touch silenced the questions.
"Sherlock?" Sweet brown eyes turned to him, concerned. He fell into them, swimming in a sea of Molly.
Without thinking he confessed everything. "Molly, I don't know what love is. Besides John, no one ever suffered me long enough to love me." His fingers wound through hers. "I am adept at the cruel and cutting. Emotion is uncomfortable at best and agonizing at worst."
Molly stopped him. "You don't have to, Mycroft explained everything. I understand."
"Mycroft…" A wave of surprise rolled over his features. "Of course he did. But no, Molly, I would like the opportunity to explain, if you'll be patient with me as I fumble my way through it. I owe you at least that much. Even if you walk away from me forever."
"Why would I? You don't owe me anything, Sherlock-"
"Yes, I do, Molly. I owe you everything. You, who've stood by me no matter what I did. No matter what I said or how I acted. I've treated you abominably and I don't know why you haven't given up on me. You should have walked away that first Christmas, yet you didn't." He lifted her hand and rested it over his heart. "I never knew love until the day I thought I would lose you. Those two minutes were the hardest of my entire life, Molly. Saying those three words - to you - nearly broke me. I tried to deny this desire, thinking it weakness."
Unsure, he traced a finger along a strand of hair, trailing down her jawline. "My life is dangerous and I told myself you were safer without me. I told myself any number of pretty lies. But the prospect of losing you without ever telling you…"
He stumbled over his words and she leaned into his hand, her cheek warming beneath his fingers. She could hardly breathe, terrified, but she had to see this through. "Telling me what, Sherlock?"
Blue eyes searched her face, drawn to her lips. He slid his fingers into her hair, releasing it so that it fell to frame her face. If he drew back now, he'd lose her forever, he knew it.
"I'd make a rubbish boyfriend." Still, he moved a fraction closer.
"I'm well aware of that." Molly slipped her hand under his jacket, feeling the pounding of his heart.
Her hand on his chest eased the panic. "Do you think it's something you could come to accept?"
"I've learned to accept a great many things about you in the time of our acquaintance." She ran her fingers up and over the hollow of his throat.
Sherlock surrendered to his Molly, crushing her against his body. His mouth claimed hers with years of hidden longing. "Home," he breathed against her lips, "You are my home, Molly Hooper."
His lips confessed while his hands begged forgiveness and she absolved him, fingers in his curls, mouth opening to him. Noticing a clear spot on the table, Sherlock lifted her, feeling her legs wrap around him and he lost himself. Lost track of where he ended and Molly began. He memorized her breath against his neck, her lips along his collarbone, her fingers teasing the edge of his waistband.
He thought he understood desire. Nothing had prepared him for this.
"Get your coat."
Molly knew what he wanted and was not of a mind to disagree.
"John?" she asked.
"Gone this week. Coat. Now."
He couldn't stop touching her, his eyes raked her with a wildfire that promised the flame and the heat and the unquenchable thirst. In the cab she taunted him and it was exquisite. They barely made it up the stairs and the door was kicked closed. She found herself backed against the wall, Sherlock's body pressed to hers.
Her jumper fell to the floor, followed by his jacket. Sherlock's long fingers mapped her body as they left a trail of clothes behind them.
Sherlock lay awake long after Molly fell asleep in his arms. He never thought to feel such peace. Her legs tangled with his, her hair draped over his chest, the moonlight cascading over her skin. How long it had taken him to get here, this place that quieted his mind? All from the surprising woman curled into his side. Forever. He needed forever with her.
He leaned his face down and kissed her softly, not wanting to wake her. "I love you, Molly Hooper and I'll spend the rest of my life proving it to you."
Molly blinked up at him, her brown eyes hazy with sleep. "I love you too, Sherlock Holmes. And I'll hold you to it."