Hi guys! We're just getting ready to go watch His Last Vow! This chapter is a bit angsty and stuff goes down. We hope you enjoy. :)


Sherlock watched her retreat with emotion fresh on his beaten face. John felt slightly unnerved. This was the most emotion he'd ever seen the detective communicate through his features. If he weren't angry enough to beat him up all over again, he thought he might feel sorry for the man.

"I did this to her," he said, his voice little more than a faint whisper.

"What do you mean?" John asked, confusion knitting his brows together.

"I broke her. She's in that chair because of me," Sherlock explained and leaned heavily against the door.

"Sherlock, you were 'dead' for months before she was in that accident," John said, not knowing why his friend was blaming himself for Molly's misfortune.

"I stayed with her for those months. In her spare room. She is the reason that I am standing here today. I was able to take her with me to a few of the places where Moriarty's web still lingered, but when we went to meet with Mycroft, he said she wouldn't be able to accompany me to America. She looked to me to disagree with him, but I couldn't. Molly's never be one to be able to lie to those she loves. She knew if I left it would be even harder to spit out lies day after day. I knew it would be too dangerous for anyone else but me to go. When she saw that I was going to agree with Mycroft, she ran out, not knowing she was running straight toward the street. I tried to catch her, but it was too late..." he trailed off. The memories seemed to be washing over him in a wave, as sharp as the day they were created. It was probably one of the curses of having such a vivid memory, John supposed.

There was a pregnant pause before John said anything. He had taken a moment to process the information imparted to him. There was so much. He took a deep breath, dragging a hand through his hair to collect his thoughts before he spoke. "So she knew you were alive this whole time?"

"Clearly, why else would she be so upset to see me?" Sherlock responded with his voice and attitude becoming normal once again. As glad as he was to see the slip in composure pass, John's anger at the man was growing in intensity again.

"And Mycroft?"

"Who better to inform than the British government?"

"Who else knew?" John folded his arms tightly across his chest. He was beginning to feel as though he might be the only one in the world who didn't know about Sherlock not being dead.

"Some of my homeless network."

"How many?"

"Oh, no more than thirty." Sherlock had the decency to look at least partially ashamed of that fact.

"Then why," John asked, rage seeping into his voice, "couldn't you tell, oh I don't know, your best friend?!" He threw his hands in the air in a physical display of the confusion he was feeling.

"For that exact reason, John. You are my best friend and if I had told you I would be standing alone today because Moriarty would've killed three people. The three people he thought I valued the most. He was right about all of them, except there are four. Can you guess them?" Sherlock asked, knowing that the doctor would not know the last person just as Moriarty hadn't.

"Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, me, and..." his voice trailed off as he searched his brain. Who else had Sherlock allowed into his coldly closed-off life?

"Molly. Doctor Molly Hooper. The one person he thought didn't matter at all to me mattered the most."

OoOoOoOoOoOo

Molly pulled away from the door to her room sharply, as if it had burned her. Or rather, the words that had floated through the thin piece of wood had been what burned her. She buried her face in her hands for what was probably the hundredth time that night. It was all beginning to become too much for her to take in.

Sherlock cared about her and thought she mattered? And she had been the one who mattered the most? It just didn't make sense, stacked up against all that had happened prior to his departure from London.

Sherlock Holmes didn't have emotions. But wasn't he just caught crying? Part of Molly's brain argued back.

Could she have mattered? Could she really have mattered?

There was only one way to find out. To face the man who had caused her so much heart ache over the years.

Slowly, Molly pulled open the thin door. She took a deep breath and rolled herself down the hallway. Molly could hear soft voices speaking over the pounding in her head. It felt like her blood was running a marathon through her brain, resulting in a pounding headache. With one last push, she found herself at the end of the hallway and in the spotlight.

Mary ran over and threw her arms around her longtime friend. Molly returned the hug and pulled away before wheeling over to where Sherlock still stood.

When she was a yard away, she spoke up. "Sherlock, it wasn't your fault. You didn't get in that car and hit me."

He stared at her, and she could see his brilliant mind whirring at the speed of light in search of an answer. He was speechless. That was new. Molly might've found it funny if she hadn't had so many conflicting thoughts of her own.

Finally, Sherlock opened his mouth to speak. "I know I was not, in the literal sense, the physical cause of your accident," he said, clasping his hands together behind his back. "However, I was, or rather my words were, the reason you ran in the first place."

Molly decided to be blunt. She heard him say she mattered to John: would he say it to her, now that they were face-to-face? She had to find out. "I thought I didn't matter," she said, forcing herself to look him straight in the eye. "You were making it seem like I was insignificant."

"Do you still believe that?" asked Sherlock, genuine confusion beginning to show on his face.

"Well, considering you haven't told me otherwise and haven't given me any other ideas that you think differently..." Molly trailed her thought off purposefully. She knew she was being bitter again, but she couldn't seem to help it. All the memories and feelings she had had were coming back with alarming intensity.

"I assume you didn't read the letters," he said quietly, knowing if she still thought that, it must have been true.

"Uh-"

"All of those unmarked letters that you shredded were from him?" Mary questioned, astonished.

"And still you say you don't blame me," Sherlock said coldly.

"I did. Who wouldn't?" Molly answered hotly. "All because of that one damn car, I can never walk again! For Pete's sake, Sherlock I'm still a young woman with a life ahead of me. Now I have a life with no legs. I don't think it's your fault now, but I did then. Happy? You're right. I did blame you. However, I don't anymore."

Calmly he said, "if you would've read the letters, you would've known that you mattered to me. Mycroft informed me that you were not reading them so I discontinued writing them."

"And I never started reading them."

Mary and John then joined. John shouted, "One of you leave the room now! You're acting like an old married couple."

Sherlock cocked his head looking at his friend. "When would I ever marry Molly?"

Molly's heart was numb enough by this point that the comment didn't even make much of an impression. She stared up at Sherlock with eyes devoid of emotion. "That's good, then. I can't think of a time when I would marry you either."

Mary chose that moment to intervene. "Mr. Holmes, I believe you've caused enough damage tonight, don't you?" she inquired forcefully. She placed a firm hand on Sherlock's back and all but shoved him out the door. He didn't seem to protest much and she was able to get the door shut behind him without a struggle.

Once the door was closed, an obnoxious silence reigned for several minutes. Mary leaned against the door and massaged her temples with the tips of her pointer fingers. John had once again slumped to the couch and was staring at the scuffed toes of his shoes. Molly fought the urge to twist her fingers together and instead lifted Toby into her lap from where he was playing with her shoelaces. The many unsaid comments seemed to be louder than anything that could be spoken.

At last, Mary spoke. Clapping her hands together briskly, she said, "That went... well."

John mustered half of a chuckle for the benefit of his fiancée. Molly, however, was unsure whether she would laugh or cry if she opened her mouth and made the decision to keep it shut. Mary saw the internal scuffle going on within her friend and spoke again. "John," she said, "I think we could all go for a cup of tea after all of that, would you-"

The fraction of a knowing look that bounced between the two of them didn't escape Molly. "Oh, yeah," he said. "Molls, top left in your pantry, yes?"

She confirmed it with a nod of her head. As soon as he disappeared around the corner, Mary approached her. "Do you want to talk about what just happened?" she asked, her expression indicating her ears were open and willing to listen.

Molly bit her lip and took her time in answering. "Not really, Mary," she said. Seeing the protesting look on her friend's face, she added, "Maybe tomorrow, but not tonight. I need some time to think. A lot of time, really."

With a reluctant nod, Mary patted her shoulder with a kind hand and followed her husband-to-be into the kitchen.

The real question is, Molly mused, how much time will I need to be able to speak to Sherlock again? And will he ever speak to me again?


How was it? Bad, Sherlock! How dare he not want to marry Molly! Anyway, our story shall be back soon, but it may or may not have a bit of a time gap. We can't decide if we want to write about what happened in between or just go straight to the wedding. Maybe there will be a bit of both! Also...

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