Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to Indigomyst00, likingthistoomuch, Sara Dobie Bauer, incomprensibile, Andristasia Grey-Darcy, Bekah1218 and my two guests. Hope you enjoy.

PROOF OF LIFE

She's sitting on the bed when he finds her, tilting her face this way and that as she peers into a broken shaving mirror.

There's blood at her lip, her nose, the clear impression of fingers against her cheek and throat.

Her skin is pale, her eyes dark as she takes in her injuries, and the sight of it makes Sherlock's hands clench themselves into fists.

He does not say anything though, merely picks his way into the room. The safe-house is a shambles, furniture thrown everywhere. Bullet casings and broken glass glittering on the floors. A single window illuminates the space, the glass rattling in its loose, wooden frame and making the wind whistle-

When he gets near enough he clears his throat.

Molly stills. Looks up at him.

She seems… She seems oddly young, for a moment. Oddly fragile.

He's not used to letting himself think of her as fragile.

"Sherlock..?" she says and she frowns, looks back at her reflection in the mirror before looking at him once again.

She appears to be trying to figure out what he's doing here.

He opens his mouth to speak but nothing comes out. He takes a step closer and she puts the mirror down suddenly, frowning.

She tries to stand. Tries to straighten her clothes, her hair. It's somehow difficult to look at.

He closes the distance between them, puts his hands at hers. Stills her fingers, so they're no longer pulling at her clothing.

She frowns, confused perhaps, and he tilts her face up to his with a hand to the back of her head, strokes his gloved hand across those warm, soft tresses.

Their eyes lock, a tumult of emotion in her expression, and as he has done so many times since the destruction of Baker Street, he touches her. Tries to tell her with his hands what he's feeling because he knows damn well that if he tries putting it into words then he'll make things worse. So his fingers stroke across her hair, then down her back, across her shoulder. He's just so bloody glad she's alright. He takes her cheeks in his hands and tilts her head up to meet his eyes again, making sure to keep his grip light. Tender.

He doesn't want to make her feel any more fractious than she already does.

He doesn't want to spoil things.

And he mustn't, because after a moment she relaxes into his touch, steps in closer. She tucks herself under his chin and lets her arms reach lightly around his waist. It's almost an embrace but not quite, and he finds himself wondering whether she's hesitant to get too close, even after all this time. Even after his explaining what her touch means to him.

"He had a gun," she says in a small voice, and Sherlock doesn't need to be told which "he," she's referring to.

The fact that the bastard is now in a body bag- thank you, Mary- doesn't make any difference to how helpless he feels knowing he didn't protect her.

"Mycroft said as much," he answers and then winces, aware of how clottish that sounds. Of course she knows he's talked to Mycroft. "He also said that you're the reason John managed to get Anna to safety…"

"Someone had to do it."

She shrugs, eyes downcast. Body language turning self-conscious. Defensive.

It makes her seem even smaller and Sherlock feels her arms tighten around his waist.

"I pushed the bed in front of the door to slow them down," she says into his shirt. "I was afraid- They said they were looking for the baby. They said they were going to take her away with them. I was scared that if I went with her and they caught up with me then I wouldn't be able to stop them, so I told John… I told John…"

"You told John to go and you stayed behind with Mary to get shot at."

At the sharpness of his words she winces and he feels a flash of annoyance at himself: He hadn't meant to speak harshly to her, he's just… She could have been killed. She could have been tortured or raped or beaten and left for dead. She could have been taken from him, just like that, without a word- Without warning- And he'd never have told her, he'd never have said-

He finds the thought unbearable and just like that there's a sharp, bristling ball of rage in his throat. It makes speech impossible. Though he knows he's being unfair- That he's angered her- He can't seem to get any words of comfort or apology out. Instead he tightens his grip on her, pulls her closer, and after a moment she acquiesces. Goes soft in his arms.

They cling together like that, not speaking, not moving.

After a moment he realises they're breathing in time and it feels rather… lovely.

"Forgive me," he manages finally. "I was-"

"You're a git: I knew that." But there's fondness in her tone now. A warmth. A clarity, as if she's coming slowly back to him from whatever place her experience had sent her.

It's as if she's somehow... present in his arms, now, and that makes him glad.

He feels a wash of relief at that thought and without even thinking about it he pulls back and looks at her, presses his lips to her forehead; Her skin feels very cold. She freezes and once again he curses himself. Curses his own wayward tendencies where she's concerned. Curses the fact that he knows she's hurt and he knows he's taking advantage- He's always taking advantage-

"I'm sorry," he says, "that was-"

"Did you want to do it?"

Her voice is small- tiny, really- but she's staring at him very hard. Her eyes are luminous and brown and unreadable. Her arms have tightened around his waist, her breath held.

His first instinct- his perpetual instinct- is to lie, but he won't. Not to her. Not about this.

There's been honesty between them for so long, he will not betray it now by being a coward.

So he steels himself. Nods. Swallows and then, in case she didn't understand, tells her, "Yes. Yes, I meant it. Yes, I wanted to-"

"You wanted to kiss me?"

Again he nods. He can't quite read her tone; it sounds… Puzzled? Hopeful? Some mixture of the two? "I always want to kiss you," he answers and it's only when the words come out of his mouth that he lets himself understand how true they are. How long they've been true for.

There are some people whose touch he'll accept, but none of them hold a candle to his Molly or what he feels for her.

The fact that he's only realising this now really is a shocking lapse on his part.

For a long moment she stares at him though. Frowning. Calculating, it looks like. And then very slowly, very deliberately, giving him plenty of time to pull away… She reaches up and presses her lips to his. The kiss is gentle. Sweet. where her forehead was cool her lips are warm. He can feel the raised welt against his mouth, can taste the salt from her bloody lip; He hears her slight hiss of pain but though he tries to pull back, she doesn't let him. No, she follows him, one hand curling in his hair, the other at his hip, pulling him to her.

When they break apart he reaches out and slowly, hesitantly, he tucks a strand of soft, dark hair behind her ear.

She leans her forehead against his chest and her hands finds his. Their fingers twine together.

They stand there for a long time, just breathing, in the wreck of the safe-house bedroom and then, hand in hand, they make their way out into the waiting car.

When Mycroft finds out, there'll be hell to pay; He'll claim Sherlock's being reckless. In the coming months the detective's feelings for Molly will draw a giant target on her chest.

But in the here and now, there is peace, and softness, and the sound of Molly's breathing. The sweetness of her kisses, and her acceptance.

Sherlock will wrap his arms around the woman he's slowly realising he's in love with, and he will find himself as close to happy as he believes someone like he can be.