Disclaimer: This fan fiction 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 LadyK1138, Poodle warriors, katya jade and Rocking the Redhead. Think this is the second last chapter, enjoy.

~ Things Born of Fire and Roof ~

The walk is so successful an experiment that it is repeated.

In fact, over the next month Sherlock ventures out with Molly no less than five more times.

They never go far, just circle the duck-pond. Occasionally they walk as far as the edge of Whiteleaf Forest, where Sherlock used to play as a boy. They don't talk much but sometimes, when she's crossing a particularly icy or marshy bit of land and she feels a little unsteady, Molly's places her hand in Sherlock's. Once he takes it, it has a tendency to stay there.

She never asks and he never mentions it, but that simple touch brings more comfort than Sherlock ever would have thought possible.

When Mycroft hears about this he returns to his parental home, heads up to Sherlock's room and demands that his brother walk out with him. (They have business to discuss, apparently. Cases to solve, dragons to slay, etc.) Sherlock however refuses point blank to go walking with anyone but Molly and his parents seem fine with that. In fact, Holmes Senior goes so far as to tell Mycroft to leave his brother alone, an event hitherto unprecedented.

This, needless to say, does not exactly go over terribly well with the man who is the British government.

It's the trouble with being important; one gets so used to having one's own way.

And such proactive parenting is not something with which Mycroft has had much experience. Since the age of eight Sherlock has been his charge and his speciality. He has been the one to understand and guide his brother, and his parents have said little in the matter. They have always instinctively understood that Sherlock is somehow his. His saviour in a world full of goldfish. His responsibility, his pride, his joy.

His only companion.

Rightly or wrongly, this has always been how their relationship worked. How their family worked. This is who they are, or rather, this is who they have always been, and Mycroft simply cannot understand why anyone might want that to change.

Maybe it's worry about their younger son's mental health however, or maybe it's anger at the trouble which dabbling in Mycroft's world has brought to Sherlock, but it seems that Mummy and Daddy Holmes are no longer willing to entrust their youngest boy to their eldest. The way things have always been is no longer good enough, considering his mental state when he returned to them. They barely recognise the man who's been living with them all these months. No, they feel that he's making progress now that nobody's poking and prodding him, now that Molly is with him, and if that's what he needs to get well than that's what he'll damn well get-

Mycroft is aghast at their words. Apparently they think that, "allowing the Infant Profligate to sleep all day and play kiss-chase with his little morgue mouse is by far a better option." Apparently they think that, "indulgence will help Sherlock," when indulgence will only hold him back. But Mycroft knows better. Or at least the fear of losing his brother makes him like to think he does.

Nobody is willing to listen to him however and he pouts like a martyr as his parents gainsay him again and again.

Sherlock sees all this as if from far away, outside of this family picture, and while he knows on some level that he should be hurt or worried or flattered or something, all he can really feel is a small, warm bubble of interest at the feel of Molly's knee pressing against his own on the bed. It's nice to be able to feel again.

She's curled up beside him, his boyhood copy of The Once And Future King in her hands. She's doing her best to pretend she doesn't notice what is going on and Sherlock is doing the same, blandly reading over her shoulder until Mycroft takes a step towards her, at which point he straightens. Moves to the fore. His much taller body is shielding her tiny one now, and he pretends he doesn't see the pointed look his parents share at this development. He's not sure he can take a discussion of sentiment right now.

Mycroft takes another step forward and Sherlock straightens further. The body language is older than speech or custom and does not require translation: Leave what is mine alone, it says.

His brother at least seems to understand its import.

He shakes his head then, disgusted, but leaves without further comment, stomping down the stairs like an angry teenaged boy. (Sherlock will hear Mummy whispering to him later on, telling him not to worry, that Sherlock still loves him, that Sherlock still needs him, but he will pretend he hasn't heard those words and he knows Mycroft will do likewise.

Their relationship will even out eventually and it will do neither of them any good to be able to recall that.)

Once the elder Holmes leaves Molly smiles at Sherlock and he resumes their prior position, her glance going questioningly to his parents for a split second. Mummy smiles and Father gives her the most miniscule little head shake; Thus reassured, she turns her attention back to her book. She has not, apparently, caused irreparable damage to her hosts or the filial bond. Night falls and the wind howls outside, the sky turning grey, then silver, then ink black. Sherlock turns on his bedside lamp when the daylight dies and allows her to continue reading, curling up around her as she lies in the bed.

It is surprisingly peaceful to do so.

He can feel her knee, still brushing against his shoulder, and her breath is really rather lovely in the still, kind room. Every so often she shifts, stiff from sitting, and when that happens another part of her ends up touching him. When she flops onto her back it's her ankle, pressed gently against his bicep. When she sits back up again it's her toes, which she snakes cheekily underneath the small of his back, grinning at him when he notices.

"What?" she asks. "My feet are cold." She removes one pale little foot and waggles the toes at him as if to demonstrate. "See?" she says. "No socks."

Sherlock shakes his head, staring at that small foot. Staring at Molly. Truthfully he doesn't mind being used to warm her, though he doesn't really know how to tell her that without making it sound like something that it's not. But still… When she attempts to tuck is back under his body he takes her foot in his hands, wraps it around those little cold toes. She's right, they are freezing. It's unusual contact for them, skin on skin: The silence stretches out, her expression shifting into uncertainty the longer he holds onto her. The longer he looks at her the way he's doing right now. It would seem that she understands his misgivings, though she has probably miscalculated his reasons for them.

They do not speak of sentiment, after all.

Without warning though, without asking himself why, he pulls her to him using only her foot. She skids slightly along the bed, laughing in surprise, and despite himself he answers with a bark of laughter of his own. She comes to a halt, her bent leg now tangled with his. Her head within inches of his own. He's had to let go of her foot or risk injury- Well, awkwardness.

She looks at him and he looks at her and suddenly her laughter trails off. As does his.

He shifts closer and her brown eyes widen, lashes shivering open and closed as if something has set her aflutter.

She is very, very lovely, his Molly, is what he thinks.

Without his willing it to, one of the hands which Sherlock had had on her ankle slides up to her wrist. Closes around it. She cocks her head, leaning in, the invitation obvious. It's no accident her lips have ended up just beneath his chin, within easy kissing distance. No accident at all. Some part of him wants to respond, to reciprocate, but though the desire is within him, he finds that he cannot. Instead he pulls slightly back, lets go of her wrist. The moment, he knows, is broken, but then he always breaks things. It seems to be what he's best at. Molly sighs quietly and when he looks at her he can see she's forcing herself into smiling.

He pulls her wrist to his mouth and presses a quick kiss inside, against her pulse. It trembles with a butterfly beat, underneath his lips.

"Not yet," he says quietly. "I can't-"

"I know." When he looks back at her the smile is genuine. She shifts so that now her forehead's pressed against his shoulder. Her fingers are tracing idle little patterns against the skin of his thigh. It's reassuring. "And if you're never ready," she murmurs-

"I know," he says. Because he really thinks he does. Such patience his Molly has. Such wonderful, meticulous patience. It will be alright. It will be. We will make it so. Even if I'm never ready.

She nods and curls onto her side. When he looks at her, her eyes are closed.

She looks peaceful, no hesitancy in her, no worry, and for that he is awfully glad.

Slowly, hesitantly, he draws closer to her, wraps his arms around her. It's awkward- he suspects he's going to end up with a cramp in his arm- but as he does it she lets out the softest little sigh. It sounds like a click of a clue sliding into place inside his mind. It sounds like the traffic in Baker Street, murmuring in the night. It sounds like tea and John's laugh and making Mrs. Hudson smile and the knowledge, sure and definite, that the game is bloody well on. She's relaxed though not asleep and for the first time in a long time… He feels like he might match her. He feels like he deserves to.

He presses a kiss to her crown in the darkness and she sighs again.

"When I'm ready-" he murmurs-

"If you're ready," she answers.

The moon turns silver through the window and the wind outside croons like a wolf.

~ Serve, Wrapped In A Wolf-Skin ~

The letter arrives exactly nineteen days later.

Sherlock knows because he has started noting the passing of days and dates again, now that his Molly is here. This seems to please her.

Though he tries to suppress his old habits, one look at it tells him it's from Tom. The quality of the writing is scrawled, intimate, and it looks nothing like the handwriting of any of her relatives, or her colleagues at St. Bart's. It certainly isn't from John or Mary.

Sherlock doesn't mean to pry, but he can tell that whatever is in the letter has upset Molly, she says she's returning to London for the day as soon as she finishes it. So he reads it.

Its contents set something dizzying and terrifying clawing in his gut.

Because the letter says that Tom wants to see Molly again. Tom wants to meet her. He ended things so quickly, he says, and he wants to make amends. He wants Molly back. Sherlock's no fool, he knows how rare it is for a man so spectacularly dumped to come back, looking for more of the same treatment. Which means one of two things. Either Tom wants revenge- probably through the method of securing intimacy or sex and then throwing Molly's trust back in her face- Or else he wants something far worse.

He genuinely wants to try again. He wants Molly to be his again.

It's this thought which sets the full-blown panic going in Sherlock, and for the first time in a long time he wishes he were the man he used to be, if only so he wouldn't have to feel such tumult raking through his chest.

But he is not that man anymore, and he cannot become him again. Even if it would be easier. Even if it would be safer. Even if it meant he could just throw on his Belstaff and stride out into the night, looking for a case. He knows that when Molly finds out what he did she will be angry: Before the Moriarty Hoax, before all this started, she had been quite insistent about what she termed boundaries (apparently he hasn't any). And now, considering the intimacies they have shared, she will be even more furious. He knows he shouldn't have read it without her permission. But he couldn't- he didn't see- He just wanted to make sure that she was alright-

She's his responsibility, just like he's hers. She's his Molly. Tom can right fuck off and leave her alone, that's what fucking Tom can do-

And what if that's not what Molly wants? Mycroft's voice sounds silky- smug- in his head.

Maybe she wouldn't want broken little you and this broken little room for the rest of her days, did you ever consider that, brother dear?

Sherlock shakes his head viciously to himself, pacing. Shaking. Trying to deny Mycroft's words though he knows that he cannot. His heart is hammering, his insides snarled up in emotion. Sentiment. Mycroft was right, it is a chemical defect. It is to be avoided, something so unruly and explosive that it turns a man into a time bomb. Turns a man into a ball of need and stupidity and useless, animalistic feeling.

Feeling. Oh how he hates that bloody concept.

Every bad thing that has happened to him in his life is because of bloody feeling.

But he is in its thrall now, and he can't help it. He shakes his head again, harder this time. Sharper. Trying to clear it. Covers his eyes, his head, with his arms, as if not being able to see the outside world will somehow make it cease to exist. He doesn't seem to be breathing properly at all: He can feel his fingernails digging into his palms, trying hopelessly to centre him, to bring him back to himself through ten small pricks of self-induced pain. But he can't. It isn't working. Nothing is working. He's breathing so fast he's half afraid that he'll pass out. It feels almost like those evenings before he found Molly again, before she learned to hurt him and he learned the peace it could bring- He feels so lost-

For a split second Sherlock wants that oblivion so badly he can taste it. Wants to go to Molly's room and demand they begin again, if only so that he won't have to feel all this anymore. But he can't. Because how could he ask her to do that again? And with the prospect of Tom, of normal, not-fucked-up, not-Sherlock Tom, on the horizon? She'd be a fool to indulge him. She'd be a fool to accept him when she has a choice.

No, he needs to remind her of all the good things about him, not all the ugly ones.

He needs her to forget what he is now if she's to agree to stay.

So Sherlock does what he does best: He sheds his skin in the hope of gaining another. He cuts himself open and creates something new, entirely certain that this is what his Molly would want. That she has given no indication of dissatisfaction with him- or indeed with anything between them- doesn't matter.

Sherlock Holmes had a hand in building their relationship and in that case it must be broken. Flawed. Badly in need of repair.

His recollection of the next hour or so is… hazy. He's fairly certain that he doesn't leave the house, but when he comes back to himself his room is a mess, clothes torn and thrown everywhere, the mirror above the sink askew. He rights it, looks at himself and as he does so, he realises with a groggy start that he's wearing one of the suits Mycroft brought him from London. It feels… It feels wrong on him, too tight (even though it hangs loose and it's not buttoned up properly) and as he looks at himself in it, his chest constricts. Again he feels as if he can't breathe. As if he'd never been able to breathe in such a garment but hadn't ever let himself notice. This is clearly nonsense though.

Ill-fitting and loose as the suit is, it's who Molly would want. It is who he is meant to be.

He'll give her what she needs, just like he did for Mary and John.

He hasn't managed a tie but he has shoes. Socks. In all outward appearances he is Sherlock Holmes, the clever detective who faked his own suicide. The man who killed Magnusson, who saved his friends from a lifetime of fear and servitude, the dragon slayer clad in Saville Row. So why doesn't he feel better? Why doesn't he feel comfortable in this skin anymore? This is the person Molly wanted originally, this is the person she took so many risks for. If he's to keep her for himself then he'd best become him again, but looking in the mirror he isn't sure he can do and that thought brings a whole new wave of panic churning in his chest. So he leans back against the wall beside his window, trying to control his breathing. Trying to recover. He can feel a dull ache at the back of his head, can hear a faraway tapping, and it belatedly occurs to him that he's rapping his head slowly, methodically against the wall.

He's surprised at how much it hurts.

He wants to stop but he's not sure he can and even if he does, what good would it do anyway? What good will anything do?

He's broken everything. He's broken everything, just like he always does. He's broken him and Molly.

There's a click of a door opening then. The feeling of fingers cradling his skull, there where it's been tapping against the wall. His eyes drift open and he sees his father staring at him, a kind, quizzical look on his face.

He does not scold Sherlock for doing something so stupid. He does not scold him for the mess he has made.

No, Father just smiles and nods, his big, veined hand wrapping around Sherlock's elbow. "That's enough of that, son," he says softly.

His tone does not invite argument or demand explanation.

At his gentle tugging Sherlock finally steps away from the wall.

"Molly's going to leave," Sherlock blurts out, and it's the oddest thing but he doesn't recall deciding to say that. The words just flow out of his mouth. "She's going to leave and it's still broken and I can't- I can't-" I can't, I can't, I can't-

If the last nine months had had a motto this would be it, Sherlock thinks disjointedly.

But Father just nods. Pulls him a little closer, a little further away from the wall. When he's near enough he wraps his arms around him and it's an odd thing, to feel so close to someone. To feel protected when you know rationally that you're by far the stronger and smarter of the two. But Father's not afraid and he's not surprised, he's just there. Just calm. Just present in holding his son together. Sherlock knows on some level that he should be ashamed of needing that, grown man that he is, but he's really too far gone to be able to sustain the emotion.

And if he has to be in pieces, he could do far worse than place those pieces in his father's hands.

He doesn't cry, he is fairly certain of that. Or if he does it is dry, tearless. Hopeless, wracking breaths taken in and forced out because finally he's with someone who is safe enough to withstand his falling apart. Someone who, no matter what he does, has to continue to care. He could never do this in front of Molly, he'd terrify her. He could never do this in front of Mycroft, his brother would never understand. He could never do this in front of Mary, or Mrs. Hudson, or Lestrade, or even John, because then they might know what protecting them has cost him-

And he loves them all far too much to ever allow them to contemplate that.

His father holds him, still standing, for what seems like hours, and when he finally gets his breathing under control, he brings him downstairs and makes him a cup of tea and a piece of toast, sets it before him and then pulls up a chair at the table.

"Your mother's out for the day with Gladys," he says, "she won't be home until nightfall. Molly says she's staying overnight in London too, so it'll just be the pair of us. We'll get through this together, ok?"

Sherlock winces at the mention of Molly's absence, picturing her meeting Tom in his mind, picturing her smiling at him, whole and good and kind and not a murderer. Not someone who asked her to hurt him and kiss him and hate him. Someone normal, because normal is what she needs.

Maybe some of that shows on his face because Father shakes his head, takes a sip of his tea. He pats Sherlock's hand, just the once, and it should feel patronising but it really doesn't. "I don't think you have to worry about her leaving Sherlock," he says quietly. "If she stuck around this long, I doubt she'll disappear."

Sherlock shakes his head. "There are things between us-" He can't say it, he can't say that out loud. "I made things bad," he says instead, "I- I made things complicated for her-"

To his astonishment his father chuckles. "You're Alexandra Holmes' son, I don't doubt it," he says. Again he smiles, that grin which his younger son inherited. That grin which reminds Sherlock so much of simplicity and love and home. "But you are also living proof that complicated isn't necessarily a bad thing-"

"This is bad." Sherlock says the words to his cup, unable to meet his parent's eyes. "I was bad. I did… I have done some very bad things, and I must be punished for my part in them."

His father's expression turns shrewd. "And is that why you believe Molly will go away? To punish you?"

Sherlock shakes his head, eyes still on the cup. He can't make eye-contact right now. "I don't think she'll want to punish me. Molly isn't like that; She wouldn't hurt me just so that she can play judge. But- But…" He sighs. Shakes his head. What can he tell his father of his relationship with Molly? "The man she was engaged to wants her back," he says finally. "That's why she headed back to London today."

"And you think she'll say yes." For once, his father isn't asking a question.

Sherlock nods, painfully aware of how uncomfortable he feels admitting this. The worst of the panic may be over, but he can feel it beginning to claw at him again as he says the words out loud. "Tom is kind. Stable. Reliable." He laughs mirthlessly. "Would any of those epithets fit me?"

Holmes Senior shrugs. "No. But again, they wouldn't always describe your mother either. Not when I knew her first. And yet, here we all are."

And he smiles again, his eyes clearly seeing another place and time entirely.

There are few constants in Sherlock's life but his father's love for his mother is one of them.

The silence stretches out then. Watchful. Waiting. For a moment Sherlock lets himself believe that that will be the end to his and Father's discussion. Allows himself to believe that that's all there is to say. But though he might think that- might want it, even- he should have known that Arthur Holmes wouldn't just leave things hanging.

He's not a fan of doing things the easy way, just look at who he married.

"I'm not going to lie to you, Sherlock," he says eventually. "Molly might go back to this Tom bloke. Especially if the bond is already there, and especially if you and she are- Well, if you and she aren't what she wants."

Sherlock blinks, startled by the honesty, but his father merely shrugs. "If it happens, that's nobody's fault and nobody's punishment," he says. "That's just the way life works out. And better that you know now than a few years down the line, or heaven forbid, when there's kids involved. But you'll still be alright, even if that does happen. You'll find a way, I know you will."

Now it's Sherlock's turn to shrug. "You saw how I was before she came here," he points out quietly. "You- You saw what I just did at the thought of her going away-"

His father nods. "Yes. And you may wreck your room several more times, or have several more relapses before you get back to this place, Sherlock. But you will get back here. I have no doubt that you will." He stands, lifts his cup and puts it in the sink. He has to speak over the sound of the running tap. "Molly might make things easier, but she's not only a crutch, and how you feel isn't only an injury," he says, his voice quiet and certain.

He turns back to Sherlock and ruffles his son's hair- So like his mother's, his only trait inherited from her.

Sherlock sips his tea and stares into space, trying to sort out his feelings. Hoping against hope that his assumptions are wrong.

Molly arrives back the next day to find any evidence of his episode cleaned up and Sherlock sitting calmly in the kitchen and waiting for her.

She doesn't realise at first the import of their being alone together, but within moments she understands how serious this might be.

A/N There now, as I said, second last chapter there, hope you have enjoyed. The chapter headings come from The Call of The Wild by Jack London and Journeybread Recipe by Lawrence Schimel.