This is for Mizjoely... just because. Big thanks to MrsMCrieff for betaing this and pushing me to finish (I have issues with 'finishing' ; )

I own nothing. Enjoy ~Lil~

"Okay Sherlock, I'm here, on my day off, what do you need?" Molly said as she tossed her jacket on the chair next to her and sat across from the detective. It had been an odd request, to say the least, when Sherlock had phoned (not sent a text) and asked her to join him at Screaming Beans, her second favourite coffee shop, but she hadn't hesitated to meet him.

"Here." He pushed a large latte towards her before picking up his own mug and taking a drink. "How's our goddaughter?"

Small talk, really? Another oddity. "Amazing, perfect, beautiful. But I might be biased," she replied with a smile then took a small sip of her drink. She had been sitting with Rosie when he'd phoned. Saturday mornings were designated 'girl time' for her and her goddaughter. "So, what's this all about? John? He seems to be doing much better if that's what you wanted to…"

"No," he interrupted. "This has nothing to do with John."

That's when she noticed the contemplative expression on the detective's face. He looked like he sometimes did when he was working out the last bits of a case. She'd seen that face many times in the lab and morgue. Something about this seemed personal, however. "Sherlock, whatever it is, you know you can talk to me, right?"

Turning his focus on her, he stared like he was trying to figure something out, but didn't speak.

"Is it your sister? Have you just visited her lately?" Molly asked, trying to pry the information out of the man.

He shook his head. "No. No, it's not Eurus."

"Okay, but..." she was going to ask more questions, but suddenly his face changed from thoughtful to determined.

"You didn't know," he said.

I didn't know? Oh, my God… "Sherlock, are you high?"

He waved his hand and shook his head. "I'm clean, Molly. I promise. But something dawned on me this morning and I've been thinking about it ever since."

"What is it?"

Taking a deep breath, he picked up his coffee cup and drained the last of it. "It occurred to me that if you didn't know that, which I realised before, then you must not know everything else either."

Molly steadied herself; it was going to be one of those conversations. The ones where Sherlock seemed to know exactly what was going on, but she'd have to piece it together like a puzzle (or incredibly complex differential equation). Usually, when he was in the midst of one of these broken rambling discussions (using that word lightly, because her input was rarely needed) he was buried in a case; just working out the final component that would solidify his deduction. This was clearly different.

"Sherlock," she said, drawing his focus once again. "Do you want a refill?" She hoped that she could give him a moment to work out what he was trying to say.

"Please. And see if they have a decent looking muffin."

Molly rolled her eyes. "Blueberry?"

"Chocolate. Something chocolate."

Definitely not a case. She took her time walking to the front of the shop trying to shake the feeling of foreboding that was looming in the back of mind. "Coffee and two of these," she instructed, pointing to the decadent looking chocolate muffins behind the glass. "Do they have nuts in them?" She hated nuts. Well, not all nuts. Almonds were okay and she could tolerate the occasional pistachio, but...

"No," the ginger teenager behind the counter answered. "But they're not gluten free.

"O-kay. Um, I have no issue with gluten. How much?"

"Oh, that bloke in the coat opened a tab."

"He what?"

"I know. Weird, that one. But he wouldn't take no for an answer. Said that he'd be here for a while and would need… what did he call it? Oh right, fuel! Needed to fuel himself." He suddenly looked embarrassed. "S-sorry. I didn't mean to insult your boyfriend."

Molly laughed. "He's not my boyfriend and he's not weird." He handed her the coffee. "Well, he is a bit odd, I suppose. Just different. Incredibly smart, really. And..." She huffed. "Never mind. Can I have my muffins?"

The ginger had been holding them while she tried to define Sherlock's personality. It really was a lost cause.

"Sorry, madam," he said, his voice squeaking as he finally relinquished his hold on the pastry.

I hate getting madam'd, she thought as she made her way back to Sherlock. "Chocolate muffin. No nuts and plenty of gluten."

He wrinkled his nose at her joke, but let it pass. "You don't know about when I was shot," he said as soon as she sat down.

"If you're talking about Mary…"

"I'm not." He exhaled deeply. "I'm talking about what happened after I was shot. Just after, seconds after. I…" Reaching for the sugar, he cocked his head and looked at Molly for the first time since she sat back down. "I really didn't tell you this?"

"Tell me what?"

"That you were there, in my mind. You, Molly, were there with me." He added the sugar to his cup and waited for her reaction.

"What was I doing?" she asked, not sure what he was trying to tell her.

"I immediately went to my mind palace, trying to… I was panicking, a little. You slapped me. Though that happened a bit later."

"Not hard to imagine."

"You told me how to fall." He smirked. "You're always there when I fall, Molly."

"Oh, she was in front of you," Molly said, instantly working out where Mary must have been standing. God, I can't even believe how casually we're talking about the fact that our friend shot him... "So considering the location of the bullet, if you'd have fallen forward…"

"It would have meant my death, most likely, yes. But you talked me through it."

She laughed, a little. All this talk about his near death (not to mention Mary Watson) was making her uncomfortable. "But it wasn't me, Sherlock, it was you. You had that knowledge, you knew how to fall."

"But don't you see? When I needed someone, someone to make me focus and help me remember… it was you my mind turned to."

"Sure, all right. Was I the only one there? Was John there too?"

He got a sheepish look on his face, a very odd look on Sherlock. "No. Not John."

For a man who loved the sound of his own voice, it was suddenly like pulling teeth to get him to talk. "Who else?"

He mumbled something under his breath.

"What was that?"

"I said," he started, a bit loudly. "Anderson." That part came out in a softer. "And my brother and a dog."

"So I had good company, then?"

"Molly, you're missing the point…"

"And what is the point, Sherlock? Why are we talking about all of this?"

"It wasn't the last time!" he said, a little more forcefully.

"I've been in your mind palace since the shooting?"

"And before. There've been...other...times." He shook his head. "But they don't matter. On the plane, you were there. You were a pathologist, in Victorian London."

"When you were high? When you nearly overdosed?" she asked, interested in what he was telling her, yet once again, hating the circumstances. "Not many female doctors in the 1800's, if my history's right."

"You were a man."

"Of course." She took a large bite of her muffin to keep the grimace off her face.

"No, I mean, you were you, but disguised as a man. John thought I didn't know, but of course, I knew. I created you."

"And you made me... a man?" Comforting.

"Only because you had to be. How else could I still have you as my pathologist?"

"Right."

"Also, you hated me and were part of a murderous plot."

"I was a murderer?"

"It's a bit more complicated than that. But, yes, you played your part."

Cleaning her hands off on a napkin, she said, "As fascinating as this all is, I'm not sure why you're telling me now."

"Anderson."

"Aaand we're back to Anderson."

"He had a theory. Did he ever tell you?"

"A theory? A theory about what?"

"He didn't believe that I was dead. He had my jump from Barts all worked out." He studied her for a moment. "You really don't know about this one, do you?"

Molly sighed. "No, Sherlock. Strangely enough, Phillip Anderson and I don't spend a great deal of time chatting. What was his theory?"

"It was surprisingly close to the facts. Oh, it was fanciful and overly dramatic. But he was convinced that you were involved."

"Hmmm," she hummed. "All right, colour me impressed."

"He said I used a bungee…"

"A bungee? And how would John have not seen a bungee?"

"Well, he's still an idiot." He laughed. "But he theorised that I crashed through a window…"

"Which John would have heard."

"...the window that you were watching from, no less - and… and…"

"And what?"

"I dusted the broken glass out of my hair then took you in my arms and kissed you... passionately."

Molly stared at the man across the table. Then she stared some more. How exactly was she supposed to respond to that?

"Molly, are you with me?" Sherlock asked.

"Ah, yeah."

"See, I thought you knew about all of this. And until that day, I thought you knew…" He sighed, obviously frustrated.

Shaking herself out of her stupor, Molly asked, "You thought that you had told me? Is that what you're saying?"

"Yes!"

"Why would you think that?"

Focusing on his half empty coffee cup, he looked almost embarrassed. "We had a conversation. This conversation, for the most part, in my head." He glanced up, briefly, then added. "But there's more."

"What, Sherlock, what else did you tell me?"

He licked his lips as he sat back in his chair. "I thought that you knew..." Running a hand through his hair, he said, "When we talked, when I told you all of this, you seemed to already be aware…"

"I already knew about telling you how to fall and that I was a murderous crossdresser?" she asked, thinking she was finally getting to the bottom of...whatever this was.

"No, the other thing."

She sighed. "Anderson's theory?" With an eyeroll and another bite of muffin she said, "Why would I care what…"

"No, Molly, the other thing. The important thing." He looked hurt and guilty.

Molly tried, she really tried to understand what the hell he could be talking about, but she simply could not figure it out. "Sherlock, I'm sorry, but I don't know what the other thing is."

Shaking his head, he closed his eyes, put his fingers to his temples and mumbled under his breath. He opened his eyes, looking a bit more collected and said, "When I asked you to say the release code…"

"Stop!" She held up a hand. "Release code? Sherlock, this may be another perceived conversation."

"Didn't John tell you about Sherrinford?"

As uncomfortable as the shooting and Anderson's theory had been to discuss, this was not a topic she was in the mood to rehash. "No, Sherlock, he didn't. Actually, he said that I needed to ask you about it myself. Then I told him to bugger off."

He smiled. "Of course you did." After a moment he started in. He told her about his sister, her visit whilst he was high, the drone and explosion at Baker Street. She knew about the explosion, but not the details and had gotten only bits and pieces about his sister. For her part, she'd been waiting for Sherlock to come to her and fill in the blanks, and bring up (or never bring up) the things they'd both said. He told her about going to Sherrinford, and all the games Eurus made him play. Molly wasn't a coward and she knew that this whole thing had to be dealt with at some point, but that didn't mean she was enjoying it or what was coming next.

"Then we were in a room with a coffin." The pained look on his face nearly broke her heart. "It was yours."

She nodded, almost expecting those to be the next words.

"There wasn't a name, just three words etched on the plaque."

"The release code," she confirmed.

"I had to get you to say it or…"

"I'd be killed."

"She said your flat was set to blow up in three minutes and the only way to stop it was to get you to say...that."

"Your sister sounds like a real treat, Sherlock."

"You have no idea."

Clearly, there was more that he wasn't telling her, but she tried to focus on the matter at hand. "I'm glad you finally told me, but what does this have to do with your mind palace and Anderson and…"

"You asked me to say it first. You asked me to say it as if I'd never said it before."

She sucked in a breath. No doubt the look on her face was pure shock because he spoke again quickly.

"It took me until today, this morning, to realise that the first time I said those words to you, it was in my mind. Then I realised that we'd never had the conversation about all the times you've been in my mind palace. I hadn't actually told you, the real you. See? You didn't know."

Still stunned silent, Molly just waited for him to continue.

"I know what John and Mycroft thought, well, Mycroft might have figured it out, but John certainly didn't. He never quite gets…"

"Sherlock!"

"Sorry. I was tired of playing her games and...and then she made us expose ourselves, like that… Then I realised, whilst she was taunting me, that you had had no idea. You didn't know. It was brand new information. But it wasn't, it shouldn't have been. It took me until today to figure out the rest. I've been a bit… preoccupied." He paused, licking his lips and taking a deep breath. "John didn't understand. He thought I lied. He thought I was upset for hurting you. But that wasn't it. It was..." he trailed off, looking very uncomfortable.

"What happened next, Sherlock?" He didn't answer, so she pressed further, "What happened next?"

"I may have lost my composure, a bit."

"Lost your…"

He suddenly looked angry. "Complicated little emotions, she called them. As if it all meant nothing! Some kind of experiment to see how far she could push me before I snapped!" he growled, his voice rising.

Molly looked around the café, other patrons were starting to stare. Reaching across the table, she closed both of her hands around one of his. "Calm down, Sherlock. It's over."

"Is it? Now we're having this conversation, like this," he emphasised the last two words with frustration while motioning between the two of them. "Instead of ignoring it like we have for years. It worked for us, Molly. It always worked for us."

Still holding onto one of his hands, perhaps a little harder than she should have, she asked, "What worked for us?"

"You see, in my head, you'd never returned the sentiment. I knew, Molly, I knew how you felt. But I couldn't make you say the words, even in my mind. I honestly didn't think you ever would. You just looked at me and smiled. Never actually said it." He paused. "Feeling something and admitting it outloud is very different. Don't you see?"

She could not disagree with him on that point. Having actually spoken the words to the man himself had been one of the most painful moments of her life.

"I suppose that's why I told you in my mind. It was safe there, and we wouldn't have to face it all and...

"And what?"

He ignored her question. "But sometimes I spend too much time in my own head and things get muddled with reality. Though, it might have happened after Mary died and I was… using."

She didn't realise that she was crying until a white linen handkerchief was inches away from her face.

Several more moments passed until Sherlock finally said, "Molly?"

"You don't want to face it," she said, realising that even if he did actually love her (mind still in the process of being blown over that revelation), he'd just admitted for all intent and purposes, that he didn't want to love her.

"Well," she said as she picked up her jacket. "This has been… interesting, confusing and the bits about your sister, frankly disturbing. But I really need…" She stood up.

Sherlock, quick as lightning, stood and reached for her wrist. "Where are you going?"

She swallowed. "I'm not sure what else there is to say, Sherlock."

"You're angry."

"I'm just... " She shrugged. "What was the point of telling me all of this? I mean… why?"

"Because… because it's true." His face was awash with emotions: hurt, hope, fear and most of all, vulnerability.

Molly opened her mouth to try to respond, but how? How was she supposed to respond to that? He had just dumped a shedload of information on her, culminating with his sort of confession of love, and she was supposed to what? Be happy? Ecstatic? Slap the hell out of him again?

Letting out a frustrated sigh, she pulled her hand free. "The way I see it, we're at the same place as we were thirty minutes ago. The only exception being that I'm now aware that you may feel the same way about me as I do you. But there's a caveat, isn't' there?" With a bitter laugh, she added, "You don't want to feel this way."

"I didn't say that."

She smiled sadly and said, "Yes you did. And trust me, I know the feeling." Then she walked out of the shop.

Molly hit the pavement and turned left, not really caring where she went as long as it was away from Sherlock Holmes. How dare he? She had purposefully (and very nearly successfully) pushed away that phone call and what it all meant for three solid weeks. Telling herself that he had his reasons and piecing together the events from what John and Mrs. Hudson had told her. Now she had to think about the reality of those words and Sherlock's ambivalence toward his own feelings. The bastard was right; it was better not knowing.

Her love wasn't unrequited, it was completely unwanted. This is so much worse. He could return it, but he'd chose to ignore it. And for how long? Just how long had he known?

She kept walking, arms wrapped around her middle like she was holding in her emotions with the appendages until she looked up and realised that she had walked right into a dead end. "Fuck!" Turning, with every intention of going back out to the main street and finding a new route, she found the very person she was trying to avoid standing about three meters away. She stood her ground, not moving.

Hands in his pockets, he appeared much more composed than he'd been in the coffee shop. It seemed they'd switched places, emotionally speaking. "I wasn't finished," he said, his voice calm and steady.

"I was. That's why I left. For future reference, when someone practically runs away from you, it's a subtle hint that they don't want to be in your presence."

"You're wrong. I never said that I didn't want to love you, Molly." He stepped a little closer. "I told you in my mind palace, remember?"

"You never told me!"

"But I thought I did. And you didn't say it back." He looked almost impassive but there was a hint of something more there. "Even though I knew how you felt, I couldn't make you say it."

"Why does that matter?"

Shaking his head. "Until Sherrinford, until my sister made us say it, I thought… I- I just knew…"

"What did you know?!"

"That you didn't want to love me, Molly!" he yelled, his composure slipping once again.

"What?"

"You tried to move on. And I don't blame you, I gave you no indication that I wanted… anything more from us. But I genuinely thought that you were happier this way. I thought I was too late. I thought that love wasn't enough." He walked forward. "Is it?"

Molly shook her head. "I don't know."

"I don't either." He huffed a small laugh. "I don't know anything about this sort of thing."

"Jesus. We're hopeless." She laughed.

"I have no idea where to begin," he admitted. "But…"

"But what?"

"I love you," he whispered. "And if that's enough if you want to love me…"

Molly stared at him. He was hurting, that was for sure. She had learned a lot about Sherlock Holmes in the last seven years and she knew when he dropped the shields and let himself feel. He didn't do it often. The real question was could she trust him, this emotionally stunted addict, this beautiful, brilliant man, with her heart? He loved her and she actually believed him. But was that enough?

"Molly?"

Of course, it was.

"Don't break me, Sherlock," she pleaded. "I want you, but I don't want…"

"I'll do my best, Molly. Promise." He stepped closer. "May I hold you? I've never done that outside my mind palace."

She smiled and nodded. Sherlock's arms enveloped her, holding her close, burying his face in her neck.

After a couple of minutes, Molly said, "Ah, Sherlock? What else have we done in your mind palace?"

He pulled back and cupped her face with his hands. "It'd be much more enjoyable to show you," he said before lowering his face and kissing her sweetly.

Hope you liked it Miz! And of course everyone else. Let me know. Thanks so much for reading. ~Lil~