oOo

Molly stood on the sidewalk outside the restaurant while Sherlock paid the driver, staring at the front door and hoping she didn't look as petrified as she felt.

It wasn't just the fact that she and Sherlock were officially embarking on a (committed, exclusive) relationship; no, it was the fact that she was coming face-to-face with three people she'd just spent the last three years lying to.

She'd pretended to grieve for Sherlock, when all she'd really been doing was mourning his need to place himself in harm's way in order to save his friends, the people he cared for. She'd listened to Mrs. Hudson sobbing quietly at the graveside ceremony, watched John Watson leaning heavily on his cane, his face stoic but his pain plainly etched in the new lines around his mouth and eyes, and felt her heart ache when he and Lestrade nearly came to blows over his part in Sherlock's downfall – the fact that he'd been proven innocent of the charges that he'd been implicated in even before the funeral hadn't helped, not one bit.

She'd seen them on and off over the past three years, Lestrade in a professional capacity, John Watson whenever he needed a friendly shoulder to – well, not exactly cry on, but certainly when he needed a friendly face over a few pints. He'd even propositioned her once, although she'd never told Sherlock – and never would. John had been so incredibly drunk at the time that she doubted he even remembered it. He'd certainly never mentioned it afterwards, not even to apologize, so she assumed he was either too embarrassed or had, indeed, been to drunk to remember.

Either way, it was done, it was over with, just like all the lies she'd been forced to tell – well, not tell so much as refrain from telling. Lies of omission were her biggest sin, once Sherlock's "body" had been safely bundled off to the funeral home and his very much alive self (although slightly the worse for wear) had been removed to her tiny flat.

After that, after he'd disappeared through her parlor window and down the fire escape, it had all been "Yes, it's awful" and "No, I don't believe it, he's brilliant and always has been" and "Of course I miss him, too" and similar platitudes. None of them lies, but all of them burning her on the inside with guilt and shame; she knew he was alive, no one else did (well, except for Mycroft, she knew that now and had suspected it at the time but really, that didn't help at all), and she was a horrible, horrible person for keeping such an enormous secret…

"No you're not."

Sherlock's voice, sharp and annoyed and very close to her ear, made her jump. She stifled a yelp before swiveling her head up so she could glare at him. "Yes I am," she hissed, not bothering to ask how he'd known what she was thinking – or to even confirm that he was, indeed responding to what must have been her obvious thoughts. "I've lied to these people, kept things from them, pretended to grieve your 'death' – how can they not hate me? I hate myself for it," she blurted out.

Sherlock went very still, processing her words, no doubt, and she flushed under his continued regard. "You only did it because I asked you to," he finally said, his voice curiously flat and unemotional. "If you should hate anyone, it should be me."

Oh, she'd gone and screwed things up, hadn't she. She'd made him feel…well, not necessarily guilty, she supposed, but something like that, and that hadn't been her intent at all. Not that she had anything as organized as "intent" when she spoke; impulse and her own guilt had motivated her, removed the filter from her tongue and allowed her to say what was in her mind instead of keeping it as much to herself as she could manage when Sherlock Holmes was involved. "I don't hate you, you know that," she finally said as she forced herself to once again meet his eyes.

He continued to examine her, some unreadable emotion flaring and quickly vanishing in his eyes as he said, very softly: "But you should. For so many reasons. I am…grateful…that you do not."

She stood up on tiptoes and kissed him, a quick peck, nothing passionate about it, but nothing that could be misconstrued as simply "friendly" by anyone watching – or by Sherlock himself. "I love you," she said simply. "You know it, I know it, so there's no point in not saying it. Now." She smiled brightly at him, her mood inexplicably lightened even though they'd both just waded into some rather heavy emotional waters. "Let's go see who figures things out first, shall we?"

A/N: Hmm, it seems this story will have short, choppy chapters. Shrugs. Not intentional, just seems to be the way its worked out. Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy!