Molly sighed in her sleep, cuddling closer to Sherlock as she turned on her side. He smiled in the darkness of their room, still astonished and humbled that she'd chosen to live her life with him after all that had happened to her.

Had it truly only been a year since she'd been taken from them, whisked off to an alternate reality where she'd been kept as a virtual slave by his evil alter-ego? The smile vanished from his lips as he remembered that terrible time and all the things that she'd survived.

Survived was the key word, he reminded himself as guilt threatened once again to overwhelm him. Molly had not only survived, but she'd triumphed over Holmes in the end. The image of her breaking that evil bastard's hand and then shooting him was one Sherlock would never delete; it gave him far too much enjoyment, although he was careful never to tell her that. She considered it a sign of how low she'd sunk while living in that horrible place, where he saw it only as a sign that she'd been bent but never broken by his other self's depredations.

"You're thinking too loudly," she murmured against the bare skin of his chest. "Stop it."

He grinned and kissed the top of her head. "That's my line."

"Not when you're the one doing the loud thinking," she countered. Yawning and stretching, she tilted her head so they were face to face. "What's wrong? The case?"

"Nothing's wrong," he denied, a little too quickly.

"Liar," Molly said, struggling out of his hold and sitting up. Leaning over to the bedside table, she clicked on the small lamp that was sat between her mobile and its charger, a half-eaten packet of crisps, and the notepad and pencil she always kept on hand. "Mary Watson's got nothing on me when it comes to sussing out your fibs, Sherlock, and you know it." Her teasing expression softened, and she reached up to run her fingers gently over his curls. "Please tell me what's wrong."

"I don't deserve you," he blurted out, quite contrary to what he'd intended to say. Not that it wasn't true; he absolutely did not deserve her, but he knew she hated it when he said things like that and had some superficial platitude to offer up. But instead, as always around her, the truth just sort of...happened.

Molly huffed out an annoyed breath and sat up. "Sherlock, we've been over this and over this! You have to stop beating yourself up over what happened to me and how you behaved toward me before that! We've both changed and grown and even if it took something horrible for us to get to this point, to be together...then it was...no, I can't say it was worth it," she interrupted herself with a shudder, "but we're past it now. At least, I thought we were."

Sherlock could have literally beaten himself up for causing that little hitch in her voice, the one that spoke of continued self-doubt and insecurity...or was he merely projecting his own feelings onto her? Molly loved him, and he felt just as strongly for her even if he couldn't quite manage to speak the words, and wasn't that all that mattered, in the end? "You're right," he said, gently wrapping her in his arms and waiting for her to relax before pulling her down on top of him. "I am sorry. Forgive me."

"Always," she murmured, tilting her head up for a kiss. "Always."

Interlude

He glowers at the screen, fury at the idyllic view of the two lovers settling like a heavy weight in the pit of his stomach. She's his, she's been his ever since being literally dropped into his life by Smythe's transporter. His sniveling other self had never wanted her before then so why should he have her now?

"No," he rumbles, the guttural noise briefly covering the sounds being made by the couple on the screen. His hands clench into fists, but he forces down the rage, the desire to smash the computer monitor and destroy the flat he's commandeered. Even if no one is waiting to rush in and sedate him as they would be back in his own universe, someone might hear the noise and complain and then he'll be forced to find a new hiding place. No, not a hiding place; he's Sherlock Vernet Holmes, dammit, he doesn't hide, not in any universe. This is just his temporary observation post, whose inconvenient occupant currently lay bundled up in a rug awaiting disposal.

He smirks over at the unseeing eyes of the man he'd taken such savage joy in tearing to pieces only a few short hours ago. "Sorry, Tom Bradley of Hampton Street, but your superior technology was far too useful to pass up. Nothing personal; you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time." He cackles gleefully, then forces himself to stop, slapping a hand over his face and taking several deep breaths. He has to keep the madness his brother had brought on him at bay, keep his wits about him until he accomplishes what he's crossed universes to do.

Ah yes, his dear, dear brother. He supposes he should be grateful Mycroft found a way to bring him back to life but gratitude has always been alien to him. He doesn't even feel gratitude toward the Mycroft of this universe, whose paranoia regarding his younger brother seems to rival even that of his own brother. He wonders if this Sherlock knows that Mykie has cameras inside every room of his flat, bed and bath included, then dismisses it. If he did, surely he'd have removed them by now, unless his other self isn't quite so noble and selfless as Molly seems to believe. What if he likes the idea of being watched by his own brother, what if he gets off on that sort of thing?

He enjoys that possibility for about five seconds, then shakes his head and scoffs. No, this weaker version of himself is too soft, too boring to have a kink that interesting in his psyche. It's obvious by the way he lets Molly dictate their actions in bed. The most he would probably do if he did discover that he and his paramour were being watched would be to demand that his brother stop.

He spares a further moment to fantasize about how HE would handle it: cornering Mycroft in his office, squeezing the life out of him the way he wishes he'd been able to do before leaving his own universe behind. He can almost feel the flesh giving beneath his fingers, the thorax crushing, hear the gurgles and whimpers, see the way Mycroft's face purples as he slowly asphyxiates...ah, what a lovely moment that would be. Perhaps he'll kill this world's Mycroft once he's disposed of his doppelganger and reclaimed Molly Hooper, rid himself of his brother by proxy…

The pleasant thoughts and images temporarily smother the smouldering rage that churns in his gut at the sounds and images coming from the screen in front of him. However, he grinds his teeth as he opens his eyes and sees Molly \straddling his doppelganger, her sweet body rising and falling in time with their mingled gasps and grunts and disgustingly happy little sighs of pleasure. Fine, he thinks, focusing on Molly's arse and the curve of her spine. Let them enjoy their time together.

If he has anything to say about it - and he does - it'll be their last.