Cowardly.

This was not a word one would typically use to describe Sherlock Holmes. However, as he sat in the lab at St. Bart's, it was the only word that fit. He'd been in that exact spot for nearing twenty minutes, looking into a microscope, but never really seeing the slide he himself had placed there. The greater part of his focus was bent on the pathologist, one Molly Hooper, who had decided to dress up for work.

Beneath her white lab coat, she wore a simple yellow frock, without excessive embellishments or patterns, and with a modest neckline. The manner in which said frock hugged her every curve was decidedly not modest, at least in Sherlock's opinion. Nor was the hairstyle she had chosen for the day. Her caramel-colored locks had been twisted into an elegant bun at the back of her head, thus exposing the creamy skin of her neck. She had even worn jewelry—a pair of unassuming diamonds adorned her earlobes, along with a thin silver chain, bearing a similar diamond hanging at the base of her throat. She herself appeared to be sparkling, from the inside out. And every time Sherlock attempted to ask her why she had opted for such attire, the words caught in his throat.

Finally, after nearly twenty more minutes of painful silence, he managed to speak. "What's the occasion?"

He expected her to be ignorant, or to feign ignorance, and ask what he meant. Instead, he was met with a knowing smile, and a direct response. "One of my old school friends is getting married tonight. I won't have time to change before going to the ceremony."

"Ah," he nodded his understanding, then turned back to his cell samples. Perhaps now, with a sound explanation as to her manner of dress, he could at last concentrate.

But it was not to be so. Ever movement she made captured his attention, pulling his gaze back to her, and effectively ending his research. Frustrated, Sherlock jumped to his feet, not bothering to offer even the most rudimentary of excuses, and swept from the lab. He needed to go back to Baker Street, clear his mind, and return after Molly had left.

Once outside, Sherlock pulled his coat tighter around him against the February chill. The cab ride back to Baker Street seemed an eternity. When he arrived at last, he threw an unidentified sum of money at the cabby, not caring if it was too much, and raced up the stairs, ignoring Mrs. Hudson's greetings from her kitchen. He immediately discarded his coat and scarf, haphazardly hanging them on the rack by the door, and quickly assumed his usual spot on the sofa. Fingers steepled, he closed his eyes and retreated into his mind palace for some peace.

Unfortunately, the first face he saw was the very face he was attempting to escape. There she stood, wearing that infernal dress, looking up at him with something akin to disappointment.

"What are you doing here?" he asked angrily.

"You put me here," she stated matter-of-factly. "I'm inside your mind. And you're the one imagining me here now. Clearly there's something you want to discuss with me."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Such as?"

"Such as my appearance," she suggested. "I notice you've put me in my new dress."

"Because I just saw you wearing it," he growled.

She gave a small shrug. "Perhaps. Or perhaps it's because you like seeing it." Rolling his eyes again, Sherlock chose to ignore that comment. "Or maybe, just maybe, you want to discuss your feelings."

"I'll stop you there. I do not have feelings for you."

"Of course you do," she replied patiently, and he frowned at her. "If you didn't have some manner of regard for me, I wouldn't be in your mind palace, would I?"

His jaw clenched; she had a point, damn her. But he was not about to lose this argument. "Of course I care for you, Molly," he said dismissively. "Surely that's not a surprise to you. But the connotations of having feelings for you lead down a path that I refused to travel long ago."

She smiled. "And yet, here you are, walking that very path."

"No, I'm not," he insisted.

"Look around you."

Doing as she said, Sherlock was horrified to discover a place in his mind palace he thought he'd locked up tightly. It was a forest path, with a worn, wooden sign shoved into the ground on one side, beckoning those who came upon it to follow its lead. He dared not read it. He already knew what it said. He had created this place, after all, so very long ago. The sign bore a single word, a big word, a complicated word. A word he had never before used, even with those who merited its usage. He refused even to think it, knowing it would only push him further along this dreaded path.

"How did I get here?" he asked through gritted teeth.

"Don't you know?" His attention returned to Molly, who appeared to be wearing that disappointed expression again. "Oh, Sherlock," she sighed, taking a step backward. As she did, Sherlock's left foot moved of its own accord, following her, moving toward her, and further down the path. Sherlock's heart raced as he attempted, futilely, to step backward, but his feet were rooted to the ground. She took another step back, and his right foot followed in kind. He wobbled on his feet, struggling to remain upright, and still attempting to turn and run.

"Sherlock," Molly spoke again. "You've been at the edge of the forest for a very long time. You just refused to see it. Now, it's time to make a decision." Another step, and his left foot flung itself forward once more. "Either you follow the path and see where it leads, or you delete it altogether."

"Don't you think I'm trying?" he shouted as yet another step was forced on him.

She shook her head. "You can't do it in here, Sherlock. A decision has to be made out there."

He swallowed thickly. "I-I… I'm not sure I can…"

"You can," she insisted. "Find your courage. Take a chance. Or, you can walk away. It's up to you. But keep in mind, I won't wait around forever, in here or out there. We've been tiptoeing the edge for too long, Sherlock. It's time to move forward, or to move on."

Without thinking, Sherlock's eyes flitted to the sign. The sight of that word propelled him forward. But before he hit the ground, his eyes snapped open, bringing him back to Baker Street.

The flat was quiet. Even Mrs. Hudson didn't seem to be making her usual racket downstairs. Slowly, Sherlock sat upright, taking calculated breaths to calm his uneven pulse. He'd faced criminals of all types. Masterminds, serial killers, petty thieves, gang members, he'd seen them all. He had nearly died more times than he could count, and had been forced to pull those he cared for out of harm's way even more frequently. Yet in all that time, never had he felt so thoroughly shaken. There were times when he'd been frightened, obviously. He didn't count the drug-induced anxiety of Baskerville, as it hadn't been naturally occurring. This, however… this was what it felt like to be scared out of your wits. This was madness. This… he couldn't do this.

Love, he thought with a grimace. That blasted sign. He couldn't just ignore it, could he? Had to be human, had to be thoughtless, had to look at it. Now, there was no other option. She was right. He had to move forward, or cut her off entirely. The thought rankled; he couldn't do it. He couldn't remove her from his life, even if he wanted to. She was too important to him, in every respect. That left him with only one choice. And it terrified him.

He was an abominable coward. She deserved better.

But she wants you, a voice whispered in the back of his mind. She's always wanted you.

Sherlock knew this. He never understood why such a lovely, kind woman would stay to be tormented by a heartless wretch like himself. Tin Man, that same voice taunted him. And, he supposed, a bit like the lion. If he only had the nerve…

Find your courage, she'd said. How on Earth was he supposed to do that? His mind went to John, his best friend, and certainly a man he would label as courageous. How did John harness his bravery and accomplish seemingly unfeasible tasks? He stepped back into his mind palace, searching for John.

"How do you do it?" he asked him without pause.

John shrugged. "You just do it. There's no magical cure for being afraid. It's human nature. And you are human, though you don't always act like it."

Sherlock clenched his fists. "I don't think I can do it, John."

"You have to. Remember what the other option is. Can you live without her?"

A muscle in his jaw twitched. "I could still see her. She'll certainly be at Bart's for a long time."

"Are you really going to put her through that?" John asked. "Working with you on a regular basis, but knowing that's as far as it'll go? And furthermore," he added, "are you going to take the chance that she won't ever leave? What if she does?"

"She can't," he blurted without thinking.

John smiled. "There you go. I think you've got your answer."

Sherlock retreated from his mind palace, his resolve steeled. She couldn't leave. He wouldn't allow it. His decision was made. Hands no longer shaking, he pulled out his cell phone and sent a hurried text to Mycroft:

Find Molly Hooper.

"Congratulations, Beth," Molly smiled, hugging her friend tightly. "I hope you'll be happy."

Moving down the line, she shook hands with the groom, Charlie, and his family, then went to find her seat. To her dismay, she found her name card next to Deirdre Banning, a phlebotomist from Ireland who had been a dorm mate in university one unfortunate semester.

"Blimey!" she shouted, her voice piercing through the already noisy reception hall. "If it isn't Golly Molly!" Wincing at the nickname, Molly forced a smile and reluctantly took her seat. "How've you been, dear? Still poking around dead people?"

"Still drinking people's blood?" she shot back with a carefully practiced grin.

Deirdre only laughed and clapped her on the back. "Touché, Hooper." She sighed, taking a swig of her brandy. "God, I hate weddings, don't you?"

Molly shrugged. "They're not so bad. Worse when you're single."

"Oh, I liked them better when I was," she laughed. "So many opportunities. Now, I have to sit here with my husband, whenever he bothers to grace me with his presence, and pretend I want to be here."

Only half-listening, Molly let Deirdre prattle on and on about her woes. Fortunately, Deirdre had never been the kind of person who required a response. Molly was able to sit in silence, counting down the minutes until she could politely excuse herself due to a convenient phone call from "work" (thanks to a handy little app on her mobile).

As the waiter came to collect her dinner plate, a deejay announced that Charlie and Beth would share their first dance. Molly smiled as she watched the couple embrace and sway with the gentle music. Her smile faded, however, as other couples joined them, including Deirdre and the man she could only assume was her husband. Heart aching, she couldn't keep from asking herself, Will I ever have that?

"Might I have this dance?" a voice asked nearby. Assuming it was intended for someone else, Molly didn't make any movement or response. Then, that voice said her name, and it donned on her that the voice was a familiar one. Slowly, she turned her head, and looked up into the face of Sherlock Holmes.

"Dance?" he asked again.

Her jaw dropped. "What on Earth…?"

He didn't speak, merely extended a hand toward her. Dazed, Molly accepted his hand, and allowed him to lead her onto the dance floor. He pulled her into a standard position, their entwined hands outstretched, while his other hand found her waist, and hers rested on his shoulder. His movements were deliberate, practiced. He obviously knew what he was doing, and she followed as best she could, just praying she didn't accidentally step on his feet.

"What exactly are you doing here, Sherlock?" she finally asked.

"I'm dancing with you," he stated.

She rolled her eyes. "Well, obviously. I meant here, at my friend's wedding."

His mouth twitched into a small smile. "Later," he said simply.

"But—"

"Later," he said again, his voice low. "I promise I'll explain later."

Sighing, she nodded, and focused again on the dance. Her eyes wandered to the other couples around them, spying Deirdre and her husband locked in an embrace that was not entirely appropriate for such a public affair. She blushed, and averted her eyes to an unknown pair, who were chatting merrily. Another seemed to be a father-daughter duo, and a pang of sadness prodded her heart.

"You're sad," Sherlock pointed out. "Why?"

She sighed; damn this man who always read her like a book. "Just… thinking of Dad."

He remained silent, probably unsure what to say. He wasn't good with emotions, she knew. It was a rare occasion indeed when he allowed them to show, and even rarer for him to actually talk about them. She had always known this… but she also knew he felt deeply, even if he wouldn't admit it. She knew how much he cared for John and Mary, and Mrs. Hudson, and even Mycroft. He didn't put forth as much effort to conceal his love for his parents, mainly because they wouldn't allow it. The only mystery she couldn't seem to unravel was how he felt about her.

Moments like these, when he surprised her, she could almost believe he truly cared for her. Just before the Fall, he had told her she'd "always counted," hadn't he? And she couldn't forget the way his heart had raced when she'd put her hand over it, declaring that she knew he could feel. Then, of course, there was his uncharacteristic concern for her after he'd saved her from a dangerous situation. And then she'd caught him staring at her earlier today, obviously surprised by her attire, and it had taken him more than half an hour to ask her about it. But other times, he could be so cruel, so thoughtless, and worse… indifferent. Her stomach still twisted at the thought of that horrible Christmas. It was always such a roller coaster with him, one she was not entirely sure she would be able to ride for much longer.

"Molly?"

She started as she was pulled from her thoughts, and looked up at Sherlock. He seemed to be closer now, just a few inches from her. Even more startling, though, was the warmth in those piercing blue-green eyes. He'd never looked at her like that before.

"Yes?" she managed at last to squeak.

His mouth curved, and he leaned in closer, resting his cheek against the side of her forehead. "You look lovely," he said, his breath tickling her ear.

Good Lord, what is this man doing to me? She was about to confront him, when someone tapped her shoulder. She turned to see a young woman she recognized from her table. "Excuse me, miss," she said politely, "but I think your mobile is ringing."

Molly blinked several times; she'd forgotten about that bloody app. But before she could formulate a proper response, Sherlock was ushering her toward the table. Dazed yet again, Molly methodically rifled through her handbag, and retrieved the device. To most onlookers, the flashing lights and chipper ring, along with the word "Work" emblazoned across the screen, would seem legitimate. But judging by the smug look on Sherlock's face, he knew better. Still, he quickly grabbed her coat, and held it up for her to put on. "That seems important," he said with an urgent tone. "We'd better get going."

She licked her lips. "Yeah, we should. Let me say goodbye to Beth."

"Of course," he nodded, handing over her bag. "I'll wait by the door."

Molly watched him for a moment as he deftly maneuvered his way through the crowd, stopping, as promised, by the exit. She turned before he could catch her staring, and with significantly less aplomb, wove through the still-dancing couples, to Beth and Charlie. "Just wanted to congratulate you again," she said with a forced smile. "I've got to go, unfortunately, just got a call from… work," she finished lamely, thinking of the conversation she was sure to have with Sherlock.

Beth was understanding, as was her new husband, and Molly left with a sick feeling in her stomach. She was most certainly not looking forward to this. As she approached Sherlock, he held open the door for her, and she had to stop for a moment. He gestured out the door, and she forced her feet to move. The interrogation would have to wait.

"Mind if we walk?" Sherlock asked. "Baker Street's not too far from here."

"Fine," she agreed.

They walked silently for several minutes, until Molly couldn't stand it any longer. "Why did you come?" she asked bluntly.

Sherlock didn't answer at first, but eventually, he said, "I have something to discuss with you."

"Okay…" she frowned. "Is it about a case? Because, I really think that could have waited—"

"It's not a case," he interrupted.

She waited a moment for him to explain. When he didn't, she prodded gently, "Then what is it?"

He remained silent, and she mustered up the courage to look at him. To anyone else, his face might seem impassive, but she could see the subtle twitch of a muscle in his jaw, and the tightness in his eyes. Whatever it was he needed to discuss with her, he obviously didn't want to bring it up. She was tempted to tell him to forget it, but her morbid curiosity got the better of her. So she waited.

When he stopped abruptly, it took her a few steps further before she caught on, and turned to face him. His eyes roamed over her, and he chuckled softly. Molly felt herself frowning, and he gave an apologetic smile. "Sorry, just… had a bit of déjà vu."

"Erm… Sherlock, you're making me nervous. What is it you need to talk about?"

He watched her another moment, then at last, he spoke. "I find myself at a sort of crossroads, Molly. There are two direct paths for me to choose, one forward, one behind me. Though the safer and more logical choice is undoubtedly behind, I find myself unable to take that path. Which leaves me with no choice… but to move forward."

She blinked. "I don't understand."

Sherlock took a deep breath, looking down at his feet, as if he were trying to force them to move. Or, perhaps he was fighting the will to move. Either way, when he finally took three slow, calculated steps toward her, the look on his face was triumphant, if still a bit uncertain.

"John was right," he murmured. "You just have to do it."

"What—"

She was cut off by a pair of lips—Sherlock's lips, to be exact—attaching themselves to hers. There was a split second of utter shock, then her insides tingled and burned with the realization that she was being kissed by Sherlock bloody Holmes! Her eyes fell closed, and she returned the kiss with a fervor she hadn't known she possessed. She pushed her questions and insecurities to the back of her mind, burying them in a layer of I don't give a damn, and focused on enjoying the moment she'd fantasized about for nearly ten years. It was everything she'd dreamed it would be. His kiss was both strong and gentle, and, like everything he did and said, completely deliberate. He was certain of every touch, every pull and caress of his lips against hers. Her back arched as she melted into him, begging for more.

When the kiss ended, their foreheads met, and they stood a bit breathlessly, neither daring to speak for fear of ruining the moment. After several moments, Sherlock finally said, "It appears I have fallen in love with you, Molly Hooper." Her eyes shot up to meet his, and her mouth fell open. He went on, "I apologize for the blunt delivery, but I couldn't think of any other way to go through with it. And I had to, Molly. I had to, because the alternative was walking out of your life forever. And the truth of it is… I can't live without you."

Tears blurred her vision, and she closed her eyes, attempting to force them back. "This is a dream," she muttered. "It has to be a dream. This can't really be happening to me."

His hands cupped her face, and his breath fanned out over her as he whispered her name. The way he spoke was like a caress, tender and caring, and so full of adoration. A tear made its way out, sliding down her cheek, and she felt him catch it with his thumb. "Please look at me," he requested. How could she deny him when he held her this way? Slowly, she opened her eyes, and found his. They were wide and hopeful, and more vulnerable than she had ever seen.

"I know I've treated you abysmally in the past. I would certainly understand if you wanted nothing to do with me, but I hope you'll be able to see past my mistakes, and forgive me. Please..." he trailed off, his voice rough. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed, and he tried again. "Please tell me I'm not too late."

The tears were falling freely now, but she laughed through them. "Oh, you stupid prat!" she exclaimed, before throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him. He staggered for a moment, but recovered quickly, and drew her closer into his embrace, eagerly returning her kiss. Pulling away, she moved to whisper in his ear, "I love you, too."

Sherlock's entire being flooded with relief, and he tightened his arms around her. This is what feelings feel like, he mused, and he decided he rather liked it. Every cell in his body was attuned to the incredible woman in his arms. He took in as much of her as possible—the scent of her skin, the softness of her hair, the sensation of her body pressed against his—and he memorized it, filing it away in his mind palace to be kept forever. Just as he intended to keep her.

A/N: This ended up being way longer than I thought it would be. Not that I mind. I'm very happy with how this turned out. The other to Wizard of Oz stories felt so unfinished, I just needed to wrap them up somehow. Hope you liked it! Please leave a review!