AT LAST

Chapter 3

A/N: Full prompt from anonymous: Hello, I see you're accepting sherlolly prompts..would you do something about how everyone sees that Sherlock (including Sherlock) is in love with Molly but she's in denial? Thanks in advance. :)

The final chapter deals with the 'everyone' part of the prompt. It's not just Mrs Hudson teasing Sherlolly about our favourite pathologist sleeping over at 221B.

The companion story I'll Take Care Of You, which answers Molly's question at the end of the previous chapter, is the twelfth fic in my Piece By Piece ficlet collection.

Sorry it took forever! I hope y'all like this long final chapter anyway!

I own nothing. Everything belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, BBC, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss. If I owned Sherlock and Molly Hooper, then there would be a lot more Sherlolly in the show. All mistakes are mine. Reviews and constructive criticism are welcome.


Molly took a deep breath and knocked thrice on the Watsons' door. Taking a step back, she straightened the thin red ribbon wrapped round the white box in her hand. Peeking into the red gift bag in her other hand, she checked that the bottle of red wine was still intact. I think I look OK, she thought as she checked her bright yellow kitten heels for smudges and admired the sunny flowers on her shift dress. She looked up when she heard the door open and smiled when she saw Mary standing in the doorway. "Happy birthday!" she greeted her friend before kissing her on the cheek.

Mary giggled as she took the presents. "Thanks, Molls." She moved aside to let her in. "Come in, come in. We're just waiting for the boys."

"Oh, are they on a case?" she asked as she crossed the threshold.

"Yeah. Well, they've solved the case, so they should be helping Greg arrest the suspect right now. John will text me once they're on their way."

Molly waved at Mrs Hudson (on whose lap sat baby Hannah), Dr Stamford, Anderson, and Sally Donovan. She was about to take a step towards them when Mary seized her arm. "What is it?" she asked in a low voice, knitting her eyebrows in confusion.

"Why didn't you tell me that you spent last Saturday at 221B?" Mary whispered to her ear.

Molly sighed and glanced at the landlady, who was waving Hannah's little hand at her. "Oh, God. Does everyone know about that?"

Mary bit her lower lip and nodded. "Don't worry. We're all thrilled." She released her arm. "Why don't you join the others while I put this wine in the fridge? I'm sure they all want to hear the full story straight from the horse's mouth." She winked as she went into the kitchen, her laughter drowning out the pathologist's soft groan.

Molly kissed Mrs Hudson on the cheek and said hello to the baby. She smiled and thanked Anderson when he gave up his spot on the sofa for her. She exchanged pleasantries with Sally and Stamford as she sat between them.

"How are you, Molly?" asked the elderly woman. "It's been a week since you called round."

"I'm well, Mrs Hudson, thanks for asking. Yeah, I've just been so busy at work," she replied as she made faces at the laughing baby, who then stretched her chubby arms towards her. "For some reason, a lot of bodies ended up in my morgue this week. I actually just got off a double shift. How are things? And how is dear Walter?"

"Walter and I are just fine, thanks." Mrs Hudson giggled. "No wonder Sherlock's also been out on cases the entire week," the landlady remarked as she handed baby Hannah to the pathologist. "Have you seen him at all these past several days?"

The landlady's teasing tone was not lost on Molly––or on anyone else in the room. Hearing someone clear their throat next to her, she turned to Sally, who exchanged glances with the grinning Anderson. She caught Stamford's smirk and tried to cover her raised eyebrow by making faces at the babbling baby on her lap. She caught a glimpse of Mary, who still busied herself in the kitchen, and was unsurprised to see her grinning like a loon at the septuagenarian's words.

Softly sighing, Molly turned her attention back to Mrs Hudson. "Um, not much, actually. I did do the post-mortem for one of his cases. I last saw him the other day, when I showed him the body and gave him the cause of death. As per usual, he barely let me finish before he ran out of the morgue. I texted him the toxicological test results for his case, but I haven't heard from him since."

"No kisses, eh?" Mary teased as she set a glass of lemonade in front of the pathologist. The blonde woman pulled a stool from the breakfast bar and parked it next to Mrs Hudson's armchair.

"Nope, no kisses." Molly sat Hannah on her lap and wrapped her hands round the baby's belly. "Sherlock and I are just friends," she insisted, narrowing her eyes at her smirking friend.

"But what about Mrs Hudson's juicy little story?" Stamford asked.

"Yeah," Sally agreed. "She said you spent the entire day at his flat last week. Is that true?"

Here we go, she thought with a sigh. "OK, here's what happened: I went to my friend's hen party," she began as she resumed bouncing the baby on her lap. "Then I had this brilliant idea to walk two blocks to 221B in my stilettos while massively intoxicated. Thank God Mrs Hudson wasn't home when I picked the locks on the front door and on Sherlock's door. Anyway, I was too drunk to land on his sofa, so I ended up on his floor. He found me and helped me up to the sofa. But I conked out in the middle of our chat and woke up in his bed the next morning."

Mrs Hudson giggled, but the rest of her captive audience gasped dramatically and looked at each other with wide eyes.

"Oh, get your minds out of the gutter!" she protested, rolling her eyes as her friends lightly chuckled. "I passed out on his shoulder, so he carried me to his bedroom. I woke up with my clothes still on, so obviously all we did was sleep."

Mrs Hudson leant forward. "The next morning, after I got home from my cruise, I went upstairs to check on him," she added. "I found them in his bed!" She giggled. "And, you know, he had this look of contentment, as though he just had the best and most refreshing sleep of his life. Then he opened his eyes, panicked for a moment when he saw me and, just like Molly here, insisted they weren't involved."

"Because we aren't," she maintained, masking her frustration with a brief chuckle. "Anyway, once we finished the wonderful breakfast that Mrs Hudson prepared, I showered. I took a long nap, while Sherlock fetched some clothes and poor Toby from my flat. He ordered food from Angelo's, and then we watched crap telly until I felt a lot better. And, if you must know, I slept in my own bed last Saturday night." She drank some lemonade. "See? We're just friends."

"But you still have feelings for him, yeah?" asked Anderson.

"W-well... y-yeah," she stammered, her cheeks burning. "But Sherlock isn't interested in me that way. And I don't think he wants to, you know, date anyone unless it's for a case, and I respect that. We're proper friends now, and that's enough for me."

"Are you sure he doesn't want to date you?" enquired Mary before she sipped from her own glass of lemonade.

Knitting her brows, Molly stared at her. "What do you mean? Why would he want to date me?" she asked as she let out an incredulous giggle. "He's not in love with me. He cannot possibly be in love with me!" she insisted when Mary only raised her eyebrow in response. She glanced at the others' faces. "Is he?"

Mary sighed. "I know we haven't known each other for very long, but John has told me a lot about you and Sherlock. I've also observed your interactions with Sherlock, and I've noted some things. One, according to John, he can't remember Sherlock ever apologising to anyone––until you called him out for ruining that Christmas party a few years ago. That is a huge deal. Also, I've seen you give him a look when he's being an arse to anyone, and he immediately apologises. My God, you don't even have to say a word to let him know he has said or done something, as John would say, 'a bit not good'. Just one look, and he's chastised!"

Molly swallowed hard and stared at her blonde friend. Yes, she had noticed that. But she was sure she was not special, that John, Mary, or Mrs Hudson could make him apologise with a look as well.

"Two," Mary continued when the pathologist said nothing, "he's secretly amused when you joke about your 'patients' or their internal organs. I've seen this goofy little smirk on his face when you make your morbid jokes. He may not openly laugh, probably because he wants to maintain his cool façade, but I'm sure he loves your sense of humour.

"Three, he's been trying so hard to be kind, especially to you. I mean, he bites back his deductions and comments about everything, particularly your relationship with Tom. It would seem that Sherlock doesn't want to hurt you or upset you again, even when he knew that you were settling with Meat Dagger."

Molly winced before she burst out laughing. She shook her head at her friend, who smirked back at her, while the others howled in laughter.

"Four," resumed Mary after the laughter died down, "he could have stopped you when you slapped him. But he didn't. He endured them instead. Granted, he did mildly insult you after you demanded him to apologise. Even then, he didn't insult your intelligence or your appearance. He only made a completelyinaccurate comment about the ring that Meat Dagger gave you. Which, let's be real here, was a weak attempt to deflect your anger away from him. Why he chose to comment on your relationship status is beyond me." Mary waggled her eyebrows, making them laugh again.

"Also, when you're showing him a body and talking about the post-mortem or test results," Sally began, prompting the others to turn towards her, "he'd stare at you with this…" Her forehead creased in concentration, she trailed off and stared up at the ceiling. "This… fond expression and a bit of a smile, as if he's so impressed with your attention to morbid detail and your out-of-the-box thinking."

"Which he is," chimed in Stamford. "Once, I asked him why he'd demand for you every time a post-mortem is required. He said it's because you're the most competent pathologist and one of the most intelligent people he's ever met. Believe me, that's the best compliment anyone could get from a genius like him."

"Oh!" interjected Mrs Hudson. "I'd come up to give Sherlock his tea and find them hunched over their experiments in the kitchen. She probably doesn't know this, but I sometimes watch them work together. They would look at whatever is on those little glass slides and then compare notes or something. Sometimes he wouldn't agree with her observations, or vice versa, and they'd argue about it. But, for the most part, they'd prove or even add to each other's results. They work really well together."

"Actually, I've noticed that," Stamford concurred. "They're efficient together too."

"He asked for your help when he needed to fake his suicide," Anderson pointed out, causing Stamford to stare at Molly. "He could have asked anyone else, but he didn't. He trusted you to help him outwit Moriarty and his snipers." The newly reinstated forensic scientist beamed when the rest nodded in agreement with him.

"Here's the thing, Molly," Mary began. "Quite honestly, Sherlock treats you better than he does almost everyone else. He respects and admires your intelligence. He likes––actually, prefers––working with you. Since he realised how much he's hurt you, he has tried to do better and treat you with more kindness than he has shown most people." Smiling, she paused as she leant forward. "Has he emotionally manipulated you into forgiving him?"

"Well, no, he only needs to apologise and be sincere about it. He may flirt with me to, um, expedite things, but I don't think you could call it 'manipulation' if I knew exactly what he's doing."

"Good. Has he drugged you without your consent and knowledge?"

"Um, no, I don't think he's drugged me or anything. He'd better not, because I can and will get his morgue and lab access revoked."

Mary nodded, amidst light chuckles from the others. "You stand up to him, and he'll actually listen to you. You know when he's trying to manipulate you, and you can tell him to stuff it. And—"

"When I do decide to help him, it's because I actually want to help out."

Mary smiled at her words. "Exactly. Speaking of which, you've shown him that caring for other people is not a bad thing, that it's not a weakness. You've proven that he could trust you with his life. You've been his friend even before he met John and a constant presence in his adult life. And perhaps he'd like to, you know, add a bit of snogging—or however else he defines romance—to your existing relationship."

Molly took a moment to process what her friends said, as Hannah stared up at her and babbled something. "All right. So a romantic relationship between us wouldn't be such a bad idea. But I'm still not convinced that he has feelings for me."

"Who has feelings for you?" a familiar deep baritone asked.

Molly turned towards the front door and saw Sherlock, John, and Greg staring at her. "Nobody!" she answered, while the others gave a similar reply. She struggled to keep her hold on Hannah, as the baby stood up to greet her father and uncles.

Mary rose from her chair and placed her hands on her hips. "John, you were supposed to text me once you're on the way!"

The former army doctor frowned and stared into space for a moment before making his way towards his wife to kiss her on the lips. "Er, I did." He said hello to their guests before he took Hannah from Molly, kissed his giggling daughter on her face, and told her how much he missed her.

Mary furrowed her brows as she pulled her mobile out of her taupe cropped trousers' back pocket. She mouthed a curse as she checked her messages. "Yes, you did," she conceded with a sigh. "I'm sorry." She glanced at Molly. "We must have been having so much fun that I didn't hear my phone buzz." She smiled as he narrowed his eyes at her.

"That's fine. It's not a big deal," John replied with a small shrug. After asking Greg if he wanted a bottle of beer, he headed for the fridge with his daughter in his arm.

Sherlock, on the other hand, slowly advanced towards them and stuck his hands in his coat pockets. "You aren't talking about me, are you?" he asked, prompting Molly's heart to thump hard in her chest.

"Why would we talk about you?" Sally asked, smirking and raising her eyebrow at him. "Our lives don't actually revolve around you, you know?"

He locked eyes with Molly, uncharacteristic apprehension in his gaze. He cleared his throat before shrugging his shoulders. "Could be any reason, really. But your collective and individual reactions to my presence gave it away."

"Why? Do you have feelings for Molly, Sherlock?" asked Mary with a knowing smirk.

John briefly chuckled before he swigged at his beer. "Subtle," he remarked with a sly wink.

Greg leant back against the breakfast bar. "Of course he does," he stated with a matter-of-fact shrug.

Nearly everyone stared at him in shock.

"What do you mean?" Mrs Hudson was the first person to recover.

The detective inspector glanced at each one and swallowed. His eyes lingered on the consulting detective. "Would you like to...?" He trailed off and gestured towards the pathologist.

"What are you on about, Graham?" Sherlock growled.

Greg sighed. "Did you delete it already from your mind palace?" He shrugged when the younger detective said nothing. "Well, he's been humming a certain tune since he came back from his four-minute exile. Back then, I reckoned it's just one of those obscure classical songs, so I didn't think much about it. A few months ago, I heard him hum the song while watching Molly examine the corpse in the pub near Barts. When I finally asked him what song it was, he wouldn't tell me at first. I thought, 'What's up with that?' So I bugged him about it every time we saw each other. Only—"

"Molly, um, could I see you upstairs for a bit?" Sherlock blurted out. He then strode towards the stairs and held his hands behind him as he waited.

Slightly confused, Molly stood up and walked towards him. She knitted her eyebrows and stared at him. "Sherlock, what is Greg talking about?" she asked under her breath.

"We'll be in the spare bedroom," the consulting detective threw over his shoulder before placing his hand on her back. "I'll tell you in a minute," he replied. "You look lovely in that dress, Molly."

She gave him a bashful smile. "Thanks."

"You're welcome, Sherlock!" Greg exclaimed before chuckling.

"Why don't you take the spot that Molly vacated and ask Donovan to dinner already, eh, Geoff?" he retorted as he opened the safety gate for her.

"Sherlock!" she hissed, glaring back at him.

"What? I'm just returning the favour!" he hissed back.

She stared at him for a moment and then shrugged. "Fair enough," she muttered to herself.

She could feel his gaze on her back, as they ascended the stairs. Was Greg implying that Sherlock wrote me a song? She glanced at Sherlock once they reached the landing and shook her head. It's not possible. He didn't write a song about me or for me... did he?

She entered the small bedroom/office and watched him close the door. She stood by the sofa bed and folded her arms across her chest. "What's the song called, Sherlock?" she asked before he had had the chance to face her.

He sighed and ran his hand through his curls. "Nothing. Just ignore Gavin." He ducked his head and refused to look at her.

"It can't be nothing. Otherwise, Greg wouldn't have said anything and you wouldn't have asked to talk to me up here," she pointed out. She cradled his face in her hands and gently lifted his head, so she could look into his eyes. "Sherlock?" she whispered.

He gave her a resigned look. "The sonata is called 'Molly,' all right! And, yes, it's about you," he answered in an exasperated tone. He took a deep breath. "I started composing it after John and Mary's wedding. But I only finished it once that Moriarty twin business was over and you were safe." He flashed her a soft smile. "Would you like to listen to it?"

She returned his smile. "I'd love to, Sherlock. But why did you compose it? And what do Mary, John, and Greg know that I don't and probably should know?"

"What did Mary tell you?" he asked, knitting his brows.

"I asked you first," she countered with a smirk.

"Fine," he growled. He heaved a long-suffering sigh. "I presume they've been wondering if we were dating after you slept over last week?"

"Yeah, they are. I've been denying it, but I don't think they believe me. They even tried to convince me that you're in love with me." Giving a wry laugh, she moved her hand down to his neck. "Is Mary right? Mrs Hudson? Greg?"

He took her left wrist and pressed his fingers against her pulse point. Slipping his fingers between hers, he gazed at her with an affectionate look in his eyes. "Gabriel's right," he admitted. "So are Mary and the others." He took a deep breath before he took her other hand and held her palm to his heart. "I am in love with you, Molly."

Her eyes widened and her jaw dropped. "You are?" she asked after a beat. "But h-how?"

To her surprise, Sherlock chuckled. "Haven't the faintest idea how. But I wrote the sonata to help me deal with my feelings. I tried to hide it, of course, but Mary caught me giving you what she referred to as 'heart eyes' exactly 42 days ago. So she grilled me until I admitted that I am indeed in love with you and that I fear you don't feel the same way anymore." Tenderly gazing at her, he stepped closer until he was all she could see. "Do you still love me, Molly?"

Her heart hammering in her chest, she swallowed as she stared at his lips. She searched his face for any hint of deception. Finally, she smiled and sighed in relief when she found none. "Yes," she whispered. "Oh, God, yes."

His mouth curved into a genuinely happy smile and his cheeks turned an endearing pink. He squeezed her hands, and his flush deepened. "Would you like to skip this party and go to my flat instead?"

She giggled and shook her head. "I doubt Mary would like that. It's her birthday, Sherlock!"

He rolled his eyes. "It's only a party. Her actual birthday is on Monday. She won't mind if we left."

Crinkling her nose, she shook her head again. "I can't leave until I see her reaction to my other present!" She bit her lower lip and grinned at him. "We could go to your flat after the party."

He sighed. "All right, fair enough. Would you spend the night?" Hope shone in his eyes.

"If you get me drunk enough," she replied with a wink.

"Oh, no, that wouldn't do." He released her hands, and his arms wrapped round her waist. "I need you completely sober for what I'm planning for our first official night together."

She gasped in mock outrage. "You haven't even kissed me yet, you naughty man!"

"Would you like me to?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave.

She raised herself on her tiptoes and slung her arms round his neck. "Yes, please."

An Etta James song began playing in her head as their lips touched.


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