Molly was in the lab recording data from the specimen she was studying when Sherlock burst through the doors.
"Sherlock, hey, I think you might—" she stopped short when she saw the t-shirt, sweatpants and hoodie clad man before her. "Oh God, please tell me you aren't—"
"High? No. But this is what I wore when you were most disappointed in me," he explained. "I know these recreated moments were your idea, but I wanted to at least take this one into my own hands."
"Okay, I'm listening," she told him. Sherlock reached across the lab table and placed his hand atop hers.
"This is my way of telling you that I've been clean since the Culverton case, which is another instance where I hurt you terribly because I was hurting myself," he elaborated. Tears began to well up in her eyes from the memory of how close to death he came. "It is also my way of telling you that I plan to return to a rehabilitation center. I'm not being forced into it this time. I am choosing to get better because I want to; not only for myself, but for those I care about too."
"Sherlock," Molly's voice broke. "I'm so proud of you. God, look at you. I'll be there for you every step of the way."
"Thank you, Molly," he smiled. "That means a lot to me." Sherlock lifted her hand to his lips, kissing the back of it. "I'm so sorry I put you through that entire trauma. I'm sorry that I harmed myself in horrible ways."
"It's all over now," she said, a tear falling down her cheek. Sherlock moved to stand beside her and enveloped her in a comforting embrace, his fingers brushing through her ponytail.
"Yes, darling, I promise you that it is," he spoke softly. "I even allowed Greg and Anderson to search my flat."
"Wow," she laughed. "I must be dreaming."
"Nope," he said, popping the 'p.' They held on to one another a few moments longer, as it was tough topic to approach. Before she realized what was happening, Sherlock pressed his lips to hers, finally. He kissed her slowly, wanting to savor the taste of her lips. Molly allowed him to control the kiss, as she didn't want to push too far, but Sherlock had other plans. His tongue met with hers and he took his time running it across her lips and meeting with her once more.
"I love you," Sherlock whispered.
"I love you too," she replied. Things would only get better from here, of that, Molly was certain.
Two months passed, and Sherlock had been doing quite well with rehabilitation. He would often stay with Molly on the weekends unless there was a case to solved. This was one of those weekends, and when he arrived, he was surprised to see Molly cooking in the kitchen. She baked often, but he had never once seen her cook anything. They would usually have takeaway on these weekends together.
"Smells good," he told her, wrapping his arms around her waist. "What's the occasion?"
"No occasion," she replied. "I just thought a home-cooked meal would be nice for a change."
"Mm," he sounded as he pressed his lips to her neck.
"As nice as that is, I need you to let go so I can get into the oven," Molly told him. He obliged and began to set the table. She brought out the roast chicken along with green beans and mashed potatoes.
"This looks delicious," he smiled. "You didn't have to do all of this, though."
"I know. I just wanted to cook something for us this time," she explained. "Eat as much as you want, I made more than enough."
"Trying to feed me up already?" he chuckled.
"Silly bugger," she remarked, rolling her eyes. Sherlock noticed that Molly had gained three pounds, which reminded him of an earlier interaction between them. He was trying to give her a compliment, but it was rude in the way he had voiced it. Of course, he knew that he too had gained a couple of pounds recently.
"You know, domestic bliss does truly suit you, Molly," Sherlock told her. She was practically holding her breath at that remark. "It suits me too." He watched as she exhaled softly.
"It does," she agreed, eating a scoop of potatoes.
After dinner, they cuddled up together on the sofa whilst watching Doctor Who, as was tradition. Sherlock would never admit to anyone else that Molly got him interested in such a program, but he enjoyed it. He was lying on the sofa beside her, with her head on his chest. His fingers traced her skin where her tank top rose up.
Sherlock began to wonder why in the world he ever felt repulsed at the idea of sharing his life with someone romantically. He couldn't imagine his life without Molly and he never wanted to find out. There were still a few things he felt he needed to make up for, but right now, he was perfectly happy with having his honeybee in his arms.
Author's Note: Sherlock's showing some growth on his part by wanting to help recreate these moments with her. Thoughts?