A/N: Hello! Please enjoy this latest update. As always, thank you, thank you profusely for all of the reviews, favorites, follows. They give my day a little lift when I'm up to my elbows in diapers and dishes and can't see my feet for my full, bulbous, bowling ball of a belly.

Please be patient with Sherlock. He may seem a bit frustrating in the beginning, but I think you will forgive him by the end of this chapter.

The Long Path Home

"I'm not the man you thought I was, I'm not that guy. I never could be. But that's the point.

That's the whole point. Who you thought I was... is the man I want to be."

-John Watson, "The Six Thatchers"

John Watson may not be a consulting detective, but he doesn't miss the way Sherlock's lips curve up – the smallest bit – when Molly hugs him good-bye. It is a trifling look – one of satisfaction and maybe just a hint of triumph – but he sees it.

She's so quietly, exuberantly happy – wrapping them all, one by one, in a quick but heartfelt hug - that she doesn't notice - but John does. Because he's looking for it.

After Molly leaves, with Mrs. Hudson right behind her – John turns to the man across from him and crosses his arms across his chest. "Well?"

Sherlock raises an eyebrow and moves nonchalantly to his chair, picking up his mobile and beginning to flick through it. "Well, what?"

"It was you, wasn't it? You had something to do with…that." He nods to the closed door.

Sherlock gives him a blank look. "With what?"

John shakes his head in frustration. "With Molly's brother coming back around."

"No idea what you're referring to." He returns his attention to his mobile.

"Mmm." John sits, frustrated, and glances at the clock. Bollocks. Rosie's nap is an hour behind schedule, which means bedtime tonight will be later than usual, as well. He stares hard at his friend across the room, until about twenty minutes later, when Sherlock looks back up.

"That was risky, you know."

Sherlock puts his mobile face down on the armrest and crosses one leg over the other, making himself comfortable. "What was?"

"Getting involved with her brother. For multiple reasons. Addiction. Drugs. You could've been setting yourself up for failure, and there's no guarantee he'll stay clean, either."

Sherlock sighs, steepling his hands in front of his face. "I'm aware. Molly is a grown woman, however, and is also well aware of the nature of addiction. She's seen it in her brother, and in me, for years."

John raises an eyebrow. "So you're admitting to being…involved, then?"

Sherlock leans forward and rubs his hand across his face, shaking it for a moment. "I'm not admitting to anything. Just acknowledging that her brother could, one day, 'fall off the wagon'." He uses his fingers to make quotes, and pulls a face in distaste at the turn of phrase. "But I think…Michael has a better chance than most, and in Molly's case - even if he were to have a relapse, she would not regret the time she had spent with him sober."

John sits back. "Right. So you didn't do your whole 'predict everyone's lives to the minute' thing, here?" He waves a hand through the air for emphasis before crossing his arms in front of him again. "You didn't search her brother out and somehow…keep him sober? Convince him to go to rehab? See his sister again?"

Sherlock gives his friend a hard look. "You heard Molly. He saw a friend die, John. A year ago – before Sherrinford and my sister ever happened. I can hardly take credit for that. He chose this – sobriety – on his own."

He reaches for a newspaper and sits back, opening it to the classified sections to see if there are any messages from his homeless network.

"However," he adds from behind the paper, "he may have needed a little help finding a steady job." He lets the paper fall, just a bit – and though John can only see his eyes above it – he can tell his friend is grinning.

John shakes his head and sits forward. "I – knew - you bastard!" He says affectionately.

"Mmm. Unfortunately, my paternity is well-documented."

John laughs. "So, are you going to…you know…say anything?"

Sherlock drops the paper entirely. "Like what?" He asks flatly.

John's eyebrows draw together at the sudden change in tone. "I don't know. Mention you know him? I mean, won't her brother-"

"I specifically asked him not to."

John frowns. "Why?"

Sherlock sighs and lounges back in his chair, letting the paper fall loosely from the hand at his side. He stares up at the ceiling. "I don't know how to tell her…what – we're just – she's happy, now John. I don't want to interfere with that."

John nods, pressing his lips together after a moment. "Well, then. Why not just – start with how you feel?"

Sherlock snorts.

"Or, I don't know – properly ask her out? You've got to do something. I understand it's scary, yeah? But – you've got to tell her. Show her. Something."

Sherlock doesn't reply, instead, choosing to shift himself on his chair so that he is sprawled across it, head resting on one arm and his legs dangling off the other. His chin sinks into his chest and his fingers intertwine over his chest, and John sighs.

"Sherlock?"

No response.

John shakes his head and tidies up Rosie's things before retrieving the sleeping baby from her travel cot. She whimpers, and still, Sherlock remains lost in thought.

He pauses before the brooding man. "Let her know, Sherlock. I can tell you love her. And if you weren't trying so hard to hide it from her, she'd know, too. Don't – don't wait too long, mmm?"

John doesn't bother to wait for a response, knowing it will be a long time coming.

One day, he comes, and she's waiting patiently, a safe distance behind the glass. He brings an extra violin with him. He places it in the secure drawer and turns it to her before returning to his usual place, a meter so away from the wall of glass. He raises his violin to his chin, bow poised and ready to play, and nods in the direction of the gift.

She frowns and tilts her head.

He plays a short string of notes, and pauses again – waiting for her.

She's not entirely sure why – but it frightens her.

She's been safe – appreciating and holding onto his little gifts of light and warmth, and he's been safe, too.

And now – he wants her to play with him?

Communicate?

It's…intimate. Too intimate? She's not sure if she's ready.

He notices her hesitation. "Play with me, Eurus," he asks softly, and they are the first words he's spoken since she left him behind at Musgrave Hall.

He waits another moment, and then begins a tune from Bach.

Bach is safe. Bach is neither of them. It is perfection and beauty, a step separated from the two of them.

She swallows and nods, and retrieves the violin.

They lift their bows in synchrony, and again, they play.

Are you free Tuesday at 4? –SH

I need your help with something for my sister. -SH

Molly stares at the texts, blinking at her mobile in the locker room of Bart's.

It's a gift. Everything's fine. –SH

She lets out a breath she didn't realize she was holding and shakes her head, closing her locker door and sitting for a moment on the bench.

It's been nearly ten months since the Sherrinford incident, and though she knows Sherlock has been seeing his sister somewhat regularly, she still wasn't entirely sure of what those visits entailed. She wasn't sure she wanted to know.

Still, Sherlock has been making big strides in all of his relationships, and she's proud of him. It's bittersweet, but she accepts the new warmth to their friendship readily. She is also feeling particularly generous these days, since her brother's return.

Slinging her bag onto her shoulder, she types out a quick reply.

Sure. See you tomorrow. –xMH

She sends her reply before she realizes it's the first time since Sherrinford that she's signed her texts to him with an 'x'. She pauses for a moment, blinking - and smiles, tucking her phone away.

Sherlock knocks at precisely 3:58 p.m.

Although he's been to her flat a handful of times since Sherrinford, this is the first time it feels – normal, again, for Molly.

He takes off his shoes and hangs up his coat and scarf and she's surprised to see he's also brought his laptop, a file, and his violin.

"Thank you for agreeing to help me," he says, and there's something…nervous about his demeanor, and her smile is one of concern.

"It's – fine. No problem. I'm glad to help. But – Sherlock – I'm not – I don't really know anything about music. I'm not sure how I can help with that."

"You know how to enjoy it, don't you?" He asks, crossing to her entertainment center and laying out several pieces of sheet music.

She frowns and crosses her arms. "Well, yes, of course, but-"

"You have decent taste, as far as your musical preferences go, and you're intuitive. You can – tell me, if it's too – emotional."

"Oh." She's not entirely sure what to say to that.

He looks up at her, and hesitates before beginning to explain. He stands awkwardly in her living room, violin and bow hanging uncertainly in his hands. "She hasn't spoken since –that night at Musgrave. She asked me to visit her, and I have been – but she hasn't spoken. When I first started visiting her, she wouldn't even move – wouldn't face me, she never – made any acknowledgment that she was even aware of my presence. Aware of anything. I've been playing for her," he explains, searching her face, willing her to understand.

She doesn't, not quite yet – but she'll try. "So – music – helps?" She asks uncertainly.

"Yes. She knows the schedule I keep, and she's waiting for me when I go, now. She's actually smiled, a few times. I gave her a violin, my last visit, and tried to get her to play with me. She's actually – brilliant, at improvising, composing, playing by ear – but – she refused to play anything but the classics. Bach, Mozart, etcetera. I thought – perhaps – if I could get her to play herself again – give her a song I wrote for her – maybe she'd – not speak again, exactly, but – be less resistant to visitors. Perhaps be open to a visit from our parents." He smiles ruefully. "I don't think Mummy would be very partial to a visit that only entails looking at her daughter's back."

Understanding washes over her and she nods. "Okay. So – what-"

He nods sharply. "Just – listen. Thank you."

"Okay." She sits on the edge of the couch, and waits.

He plays for the next hour and a half, stopping every few measures to rework notes – asking Molly what she prefers, if a section is too melancholy or too falsely cheerful; too angry or choppy or too intense – and though she is uncertain at first, over the course of their time together she ends up laying on the couch, eyes closed, comfortable with their stilted back and forth as he changes notes or tempo here and there, offering and retrieving snacks – and returning right back to her position on her couch.

He plays the entire piece through three times, and nods in satisfaction.

"Excellent. Almost done. Thank you, Molly."

She sits up lazily, warm and content, and Toby jumps off from his perch on her legs.

"Would you mind helping me record it?" He asks, already opening his laptop.

"Um, sure – what do I-"

"Just press record, here, when I nod, and stay perfectly silent through the song. Please."

She nods, and records the music for him. Surprisingly, it only takes one go for Sherlock to be satisfied, and after listening to it, he carefully packs up his violin. She takes this as her cue to clean up as well, and picks up their tea and biscuits and fruit.

When she returns to the living room, Sherlock has cleaned everything up except for his laptop, which is still open to the program they used to record his sister's song. He's moved the coffee table toward the bookcase, and shifted the couch and armchair so that there is a small open space the size of her area rug. He stands beside the laptop, as stiff and formal as she's seen him since John's wedding, and he shifts uncomfortably on his feet.

"Sherlock?" She asks uncertainly.

"There is – one more thing, I could use your help with," he explains, eyes darting around her living room, before landing on her. "It's – it's meant to be – a sort of waltz. I'd like to make sure it – moves correctly. Not just plays right – but – moves, as well."

"Oh?"

He takes a tentative step towards her, and holds out a hand, somewhat rigidly. "If it's all right – may I - have this dance?"

"Oh." Her mouth forms a perfect 'o' as she understands what he's asking. Swallowing down her apprehension – and the butterflies in her stomach – she smiles at him. "Of course. I'm not - much of a – waltzer – but – sure."

"It's all right. I can lead." He swallows as well, and his eyes move meaningfully from his outstretched hand back to her.

"Oh, right," she laughs nervously, and steps forward to take his hand.

He presses play, and the sound of the song they'd worked on together that afternoon fills her flat, and they begin to dance.

He pauses a few moments in to wordlessly adjust her positioning, giving her a small smile as he does so – and then he leads her around the small space, moving surprisingly gracefully.

"You're good at this," she murmurs, attempting to avoid staring into his eyes as they dance.

"Thank you. I enjoy dancing." He replies simply. "But – it works better if you keep your head up."

"Ah. Okay. Sorry." She takes a steadying breath and looks up at him, and he smiles at her again – that small, private smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes, and her shoulders relax more comfortably into the dance.

Something happens, then – a change in body language, a slight warming of his expression – she's not sure – but he pulls her just a bit closer – it's just for the dance – dance – dance – how nice, dancing with one of my best friends - she chants in her head, keeping time with the music – but her heart is struggling to agree.

Because it's not just silly or fun – they're alone, and it's private, and it's – not simply platonic. Not for her. Not yet.

When the song is over, they freeze in position where they stand for just a split second too long – and he gives her that smile again.

"One more time?" He asks, his voice low, and before she can convince her heart that it's not a good idea – she agrees.

He presses play once more, and they resume their waltz.

This time, when she meets his gaze – she moves closer to him of her own accord – because – there's – something – something there.

It's gone perfectly, the whole afternoon.

As they dance, he wants to tell her. He wants her to know – he'd spend a hundred afternoons like this, with her. A thousand.

It's like he can feel the words behind his lips, pushing against his teeth – and he takes a breath, and steps back so he can more properly read her reaction.

Her eyes are big and dark and searching, and he swallows.

He's said it once before – and then implied it again, when he said he meant it. Why is it so hard, now?

"Molly," he says, and her name is lovely on his lips.

She says nothing, just stares up at him, waiting –

-And then there is the sound of loud knocking on the door, and a voice unfamiliar to Sherlock –

"Um..Molly, we're here! Unless you've got company, in which case, we-"

"We're still here!"

The second voice is insistant, and much more familiar.

Molly pushes her hair behind her ears and gives Sherlock a questioning glance.

He looks away, and his arms fall to his sides as he quickly moves to his laptop and turns off his music.

The voices outside the door are arguing good-naturedly, now, though in quiet tones so that it's difficult to decipher what they're saying.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock watches her. She bites her lip and rubs her arms briskly for a moment, careful to keep her expression neutral – though he can tell he's disappointed her, somehow. He curses himself and the people at the door internally, but there's nothing to be done for it now. The mood and courage he felt moments ago is gone.

"I guess I'll get that, then," Molly says, smiling half-heartedly. "Sorry, I forgot Michael and Adri were bringing dinner tonight." She looks at the clock on the book shelf. "It is after six."

"Adri?" He asks, puzzled.

"My brother's girlfriend," she reminds him, and opens the door.

"Molly!" Michael enters first, giving her a bear hug and then removing his shoes by the door, giving Sherlock a look that Sherlock returns with a frown.

"Michael," she greets him warmly, and holds the door open for Adri to enter, as well.

"Hi, Adri," she adds, as Adri slips her shoes off to add to the pile near the door. Adri is carrying a pizza and a bowl with a large salad, and Molly quickly takes it and places it on the counter.

Molly turns to introduce her friends and blinks in surprise at the guarded looks Sherlock and Michael are giving each other. "Sherlock, this is my brother Michael – and his girlfriend Adri. Michael, Adri – this is my friend, Sherlock."

Sherlock and Michael seem to shake themselves from whatever mood seemed to have caught them. Sherlock gives both a strained smile, taking Adri in and finding nothing of importance - and quickly gathers the rest of his things.

"Oh, no – don't leave because of us. There's plenty, if you want to join," Adri says.

"That's – fine. Thank you. I really should get home. I need to – practice this piece a few more times."

"You wrote that?" Adri asks, clearly impressed.

"Yes," Sherlock shifts uncomfortably and darts a glance at Michael. "Molly was just – helping me with it."

"Hmm," Michael says, unimpressed. "Didn't realize slow dancing was a form of 'helping' these days."

"It's a waltz. A gift for my sister," Sherlock explains seriously, narrowing his eyes at the red-headed man. "I had to make sure the timing was right. She's…particular."

He glances at Molly, who is giving him a strange look – and smiles gently – reassuringly – at her.

"Thank you, Molly. I appreciate your help."

"Um – anytime," she returns his smile, opening the door for him as he exits.

She closes the door behind him, frowning for a moment, embarrassed and somewhat angry at herself for apparently misreading Sherlock's expression moments ago.

She sighs heavily before shaking it off and turning to face her guests.

"Thanks for dinner. I'm sorry I lost track of time." She gives Michael and Adri an apologetic look.

Adri snorts and winks at her, shaking her tight curls out of her face and moving around the counter to add dressing to the salad. "Oh, don't apologize. I'd lose track of time, too, if I was helping him write a waltz."

"What?" Michael asks, a disgruntled look on his face.

Adri laughs. "Oh, you've got nothing to worry about! You're the only man for me, Michael. But I've still got eyes, honey."

Molly laughs, and Michael gives them both a sour look.

He stands at the counter for a moment as Molly begins to set the table for dinner, and Adri finishes the salad.

"Excuse me," he mumbles, and Adri raises her eyebrows at him.

"I think I left my mobile in the - car," he explains, and is out the door before Adri can tell him it's in his jacket pocket.

"What the hell was that about, then?"

Sherlock sighs, and waves away the cab that just stopped at the curb for him. He turns to face Michael and raises his eyebrow. "What was what about then?"

"You – you let me believe you and my sister – were just – work colleagues. Casual friends. You just happened to hear about me – I should've known – you've been to her flat, seen pictures of me – how could I have been so stupid-"

"-most people are. You're one step ahead of most for realizing it. And really, you should give yourself credit. You think much more critically than the majority of the population, and that's with a history of drug use."

Michael shakes his head, refusing to be dissuaded by his cool disdain and backwards compliment. "You fancy her, don't you?"

Sherlock doesn't answer; he simply stares neutrally at the man in front of him.

Michael narrows his eyes at the stubborn man across from himself. "Don't deny it. I saw you, through the window. Dancing. You deliberately mislead me. You lied."

Sherlock's expression does not change. "No, I did not. I told you I knew your sister from work. That is true. I told you I saw pictures of you in her flat, and that she missed you. Also true. Nothing I said was a lie."

"But you weren't honest with me."

"About what?"

"About your intentions."

Sherlock rolls his eyes in disgust. "Oh, please. She was helping me. With a waltz. For my sister-"

"-don't." Michael interrupts. "I've – I'm not stupid. I know what we saw. You were going to kiss her!"

"I was not." Sherlock insists vehemently, and honestly somewhat surprised – at Michael's observation, and his own reaction to it.

"Well, from what I saw - she thought you might. Or that she would kiss you. You can mislead me all you want, but don't mess with Molly." Michael retorts, and his voice raises in volume.

Sherlock pauses for a moment, thoughtful, and narrows his eyes at Michael. "You think – she was - we were going to kiss?"

Michael gives him a withering look. "You both looked like you might enjoy swapping spit. But if that's not what you want, don't you dare give Molly the idea that you'd enjoy it."

Sherlock runs a hand through his hair, frustrated – because it's none of her brother's business, but for some reason he feels like a fraud, denying his feelings toward Molly, now - and throws out a hand, questioning. "What - what is this? Are you going to ban me from her life? Forbid me from 'pursuing a relationship' with her? You don't exactly have a clean record yourself, and yet you seem perfectly content to bask in the light of…Addie?"

Michael sniffs and shakes his head again, never breaking eye contact with the detective. "It's Adri. And no. I'm not going to 'forbid' you from anything. Molly's a grown woman and she's quite capable of making decisions that I can respect. If she'll have you, you won't hear a word from me-" he hesitates.

"I sense a stipulation." Sherlock replies sarcastically.

"No, no stipulation. Just-" Here, Michael looks down, sighs, and meets Sherlock's eye again. "I know Adri is…on a different level than I am. I just want you to recognize that – Molly is, too. Don't - don't bring her down to our level." The last sentence is soft and somewhat wistful, but the warning rings through well enough.

"Noted." There is a steely note in Sherlock's voice.

Michael stares at him for another moment, and then nods. He turns to go back to his sister's, and Sherlock shifts, hesitating to leave.

"Don't worry," Michael adds, waving a hand behind him. "I still won't tell her you helped me. I don't understand why, but…I won't tell her. She'll notice eventually, on her own, anyway."

When he next comes, they start out with a nice piece from Beethoven. When it ends, however, Sherlock does not begin another straight away. Instead, he holds his instrument at his side, and looks at her, until she meets his gaze.

"I wrote something for you," he explains. "You don't have to join in – not yet. But – it's – for you. A little bit of both of us."

And she is flooded with nerves, and takes a step back from her usual place on her side of the glass, frowning.

"Just listen," he pleads quietly. He raises his instrument and looks at her, waiting for permission to begin. She shifts on her feet and then squares her shoulders, ready.

He plays.

She listens carefully – eyes closed for the duration of the first time through. She hears the last drawn out note fade away, and gives a sharp flick of her wrist to indicate he should play it again.

He does.

She opens her eyes after the first few measures, watching him – curious, now.

His eyes focus on her and he nods.

This time, she just listens.

The melody stays in her head when he leaves, and she replays it for hours and hours.

Next time, she decides - she'll play, too.

The summer goes quickly, as Molly co-authors a small research paper, Sherlock solves two large, media-frenzied cases and continues visiting his sister (she has begun playing and improvising regularly, again – and her first visit with their parents went surprisingly well), and John balances investigating with Sherlock and being a father.

Sherlock doesn't make – nor is he handed – the opportunity to tell Molly again.

Michael's conversation with him has not changed his feelings, but it has made him doubt his ability to convey them properly – and his ability to show them, in front of her, around others. He wouldn't want her to think he's – ashamed, somehow, of his feelings – or that he regrets them.

There is a small period of about two weeks, around the anniversary of Mary's death, when he retreats into himself and truly does begin to doubt if he would be able to make Molly happy.

And then Richard Handler, specialist in blood-borne pathogens, arrives for a lecture series and month-long mentorship program, before continuing on to his next destination in Germany.

He's not much taller than Molly, but he's got a way of carrying himself that makes him look taller and confident. His sandy brown hair is always sort of messy, even though it doesn't even reach the tips of his ears – it sticks up at odd angles and makes him look a bit like a mad professor. His green eyes are just a little too small for his face, but he could still be considered attractive. He smiles all the time, and he notices people – he thanks the janitors and compliments the canteen workers and tips imaginary hats to visitors in the halls. Somehow, it never seems fake. He's also actually pretty good at what he does. Not quite on par with Molly, of course – but his knowledge of his area of specialty is top-notch, and he's got a gift for explaining his subject matter in a way that is easy to understand. Sherlock prefers straight-forward science, of course – but he grudgingly admits the man is a good teacher. He's genuine and intelligent and kind and jovial.

Richard Handler also likes Molly.

The first time he observes their interactions, it's obvious. He's not flirty at all – very professional – but Sherlock can tell, because there's something in the way his smile changes when he's addressing her, and something in the way he gravitates toward her in their interactions.

Sherlock wants to hate him. He wants to tear Richard Handler down like he did Jeremiah Schmidt. He wants to obliterate him.

But the thing is – he can't.

Because Richard Handler is the real deal. He's genuine. He's worked for his knowledge and shares it well, and he's neither pompous nor falsely humble about it. He's even friendly with Sherlock. (Well, as friendly as one can get. Sherlock still hasn't spoken to him or returned a single greeting from the man.)

It's strange, really. He spoke to John about it once, and John said he was jealous, but it's not – (well, it is jealousy, a little bit) – it's more – a feeling of failure.

Here, right in front of her, is a man that is seemingly perfect for Molly.

And it's been almost a year since Sherrinford – and he can't seem to be anything more to her than a decent friend.

Since Sherlock can't seem to get it together enough to ask her out – and since she hasn't approached him since that night they were dancing – he thinks – maybe he's too late. Maybe she'd prefer a fresh start with someone else.

Maybe she doesn't want to be anything more than friends, now.

And so, when Richard Handler catches the lift to the morgue with him, Sherlock doesn't pretend to be deeply interested with his mobile. He slips the device into his pocket and presses his lips in a thin line in response to the friendly 'hello'.

He stands awkwardly in silence for all of six seconds after the doors close before he darts a glance from the corner of his eye.

Tapping absent-mindedly on the pocket that contains his mobile, lips twitching every now in then in the pattern of regular speech – he's going over something in his head – the frowning, the blinking, the nicer shirt than normal – he's even adjusted the pad of paper and pen that always sit in his lab coat pocket –

"Ask her," Sherlock says plainly, after a moment.

Richard blinks for a moment, eyes darting side to side, obviously wondering if Sherlock was addressing himself, or some other nonexistent person in the lift with them.

Sherlock sighs. "Don't bother with a round-about, rehearsed line of dialogue that leads to 'hey, I just realized -would you like to join me?'" He widens his eyes and gives a fake smile, the question falsely peppy in his voice. His expression quickly falls back to normal, and he turns his eye on the doctor beside him. "Just ask her to dinner. Or whatever else you were going to ask her."

Richard blinks, a half-smile hesitantly playing on his face. "Um – you – are you – talking about-"

"Well, you were going to ask her, weren't you? Molly Hooper?" He struggles to keep his tune neutral.

"Well, yeah, but-" Richard shakes his head incredulously.

"You've got several personality traits in your favor. There's a decent chance she'll accept." 78%, actually, but he won't get into that, now.

Richard stares at the doors before them, processing this strange first conversation he's having with the infamous detective. "Really?" He asks, but more to himself.

"Sure." Sherlock sighs impatiently as the doors open and Richard exits.

"Well – thanks. Thanks." Richard gives him a respectful nod and turns in the direction of the morgue.

Sherlock turns in the opposite direction and whips out his mobile, blindly scrolling through messages and emails and texts, attempting to distract himself from what is most likely happening down the hall – but unable to make himself witness it firsthand.

Ten minutes later, he's figured Doctor Handler has had ample time to ask, and so he heads to the morgue.

He's nearly smacked in the face with the door swinging open, and Doctor Handler moves to return to the lift, stride quick and purposeful and professional – he doesn't even register that he's nearly hit Sherlock with the steel doors.

Or maybe he does – because – Sherlock realizes, as he observes the man press the button to return to the upper floors – Molly turned him down.

Molly turned him down.

The relief rising up in him is quelled somewhat by his disbelief.

He enters the still-swinging doors, and Molly looks up from her stitching, giving him a smile and nod before refocusing on her work.

"You turned him down?" He asks, incredulously.

She looks back up at him, frowning and blinking behind her goggles. "You-"

"-deduced him on the way down. We shared a lift. Why did you turn him down?" He waves away her question before she can even get it out.

She places her tools on the tabletop and places a gloved hand on the waist of her already-soiled lab coat, her other hand gesticulating in front of her. "Because-"

"-because he – he was perfectly compatible. Two doctorates, similar line of work, capable of holding an intelligent conversation, decent teacher, well-liked, unnecessarily kind to just about every human being in existence…" he paces back and forth as he talks, mostly to himself, and Molly lets her free hand (and her mouth) hang in shock as he lists the gentleman's positive qualities. "He's adventurous, cultured, speaks another language, and though he's not the most attractive man, by societal standards, his physical features are balanced and not unpleasant…" he mutters on for a few more moments before freezing in place and turning a critical eye on Molly.

"Why did you turn him down?" He repeats for the third time.

She blinks and shakes her head, before returning his critical, peering gaze, raising an eyebrow in amusement. "You know," she says slowly, "he's probably just caught the lift, if you want to catch him. Since – he's so great. And everything." She suppresses a smile.

It takes Sherlock a moment to realize what she's implying and he quickly frowns, eyebrows drawn together. He shakes his head vehemently. "No! No. I am not interested in that. Anything like that -"

She smiles to herself, and picks up her tools again –

-but this time – this time – he adds just two simple words to his general disgust and refusal of relationships –

"-with him."

Molly looks up in surprise, but Sherlock is still frowning to himself.

"Well," she says softly – "neither do I."

It is Sherlock's turn to look up in surprise, and she is staring at him now, curious.

He holds her gaze, and his expression slowly – every so slowly – turns from one of bewilderment to one of relief. His lips turn up in a small, satisfied smile, and her heart beats just a little bit faster.

"I have no desire to start a relationship with a man who travels the globe for a living. I like London. I like my job, my friends…besides," she can't help but add – because now, she's beginning to suspect – but if he's not going to do anything about it, she's not going to dwell on it, either. She's done aching for him, and these two little incidents are enough to make her wonder and suspect he may be feeling something for her – but not enough to open that door herself, again. "Besides – even if it did ever work out with him, traveling all over the world, me staying in London – I couldn't imagine being a Mrs. Dr. Dick Handler."

She keeps a completely straight face until recognition flashes across his face, and then bursts into laughter.

She's got equal parts fog and light, now. And when the fog becomes too dense, she plays their song, over and over.

She's seen her parents. And Mycroft.

It wasn't – it wasn't like she thought it would be.

They were quiet, and observant, and radiated warmth (and in her mother's case, impatience.)

They've come a few times, and she doesn't mind their visits – but she likes the private ones, more. With just her and Sherlock.

She's gotten used to their routine – the playing – beginning with classical composers, and – if she agrees, if she's feeling up to it – songs of their own composure.

It's mid October when he plays a new song for her.

She frowns, because he seems nervous. Not about the song – but about her hearing it. It's – tentative. Uncertain.

So she plays opposite him. When he's playing in crescendo, she quiets herself. When he decrescendos – she plays loudly, in question. He's up, she's down. He's heavy, she's light.

'What is wrong? What are you hiding?' She challenges him through her song and expressions.

He stops playing entirely, and frowns, debating internally with himself.

Finally, he looks up again, and his gaze is deep and searching.

She stares back, unafraid, because though she still doesn't trust herself fully – she never will again – she trusts that she will not attempt to outwit and outmaneuver the safety measures in place to keep her from hurting him again.

He seems satisfied with what he sees there, and nods slowly, staring at his violin before looking to his sister again.

"It's Molly's Song," he explains.

Her eyebrows raise in understanding and surprise, but she gives him a nod, and her expression remains unperturbed.

He's afraid – afraid of her, of Eurus – that she'll somehow try to hurt Molly again, that she'll hurt them both – if he admits that she was right. He's also afraid of himself – that he will hurt Molly. And of course, he is afraid of Molly herself. Fear of rejection, she understands.

So she gestures for him to play it again, and he does.

Again.

He does.

Again.

By the third time, he is much less apprehensive, and some of him, and a bit of her – Molly- comes through.

It's nice.

Pretty, even.

But not beautiful.

Not perfect.

Not yet.

Again.

This time she plays with him, stopping him when she hears something not right. She helps him rework it – playing and offering several options – until he finds the one that fits just right for that part of the song.

They spend their next three visits working on Molly's song.

In early November, Molly bursts into 221B, distress evident on her face.

Sherlock and John are there together, Rosie with her daycare – and both men stand when she enters.

"Molly," Sherlock forces out, voice low and concerned.

"What's wrong?" John asks simultaneously.

It takes Molly a moment to calm down and catch her breath. There are no tears, but her expression moves between anger and worry.

Sherlock and John exchange troubled glances.

"It's Michael," she finally spits out, and throws her hands in the air in frustration.

Sherlock and John's expressions mirror one another – one eyebrow raised, lips pressed together – waiting expectantly, but not surprised.

She notices, and shakes her head. "It's not drugs," she says. "It's – he's lost his job." She snorts bitterly.

Once again, both men's expressions change simultaneously to one of slight confusion.

"He punched a colleague in the face for making - racist remarks about Adri -" she's still struggling to get her words out, in between deep breaths. "And he got – fired."

Sherlock frowns. "Really?"

"Yes, really!" She snaps. "And Adri was there, she was meeting him for – lunch, so he's not – making it up to cover up – drug use, or whatever – whatever it is you're thinking."

"No! No," Sherlock protests. "I didn't – it's – where does he work?" He asks lamely.

"For - for Walter. At a – some packing and shipping center. Warehouse. Thing." She waves her hand through the air. "Kryszke Brothers Shipping?" She squints, as though trying to remember. "I guess – the guy he punched was a – nephew, or something."

She pauses and looks expectantly to Sherlock.

He shifts uncertainly. "I'm – sorry," he tries. "That's…terrible? I think Michael was most likely justified in his protest."

Molly shifts herself, unimpressed.

"Is there – something you'd like us to do?" John asks uncertainly. "Because I'm not sure there's a case here-"

"No, there isn't," Molly agrees shortly. "But I came to ask Sherlock – you've got lots of connections, right? Isn't there – could you help him find a new job? Please? I know you don't owe him anything, and it would be a favor to me - but - "

Sherlock swallows, and something warms inside him – because she came to him for help. The first person she came to, when something was wrong – was him.

"Of course," he says softly, and she smiles beautifully in relief.

"Thank you," she says warmly, and wraps him in a quick embrace.

"Thanks John," she says somewhat apologetically. "I've got to get back to work, but – I'll see you both later, yeah?"

"Yeah," John nods, a smile creeping across his face. "See you later, Molly."

After she leaves, he keeps shaking his head knowingly and smiling shrewdly at Sherlock.

"What is wrong with you?!" Sherlock asks, annoyed, after catching that particular look for the fifth time.

"Nothing at all," John responds breezily. "Just wondering when you'd stop seeing and start observing that you two are bloody perfect for each other, and get around to actually asking her out."

Sherlock rolls his eyes and makes a half-hearted jab in return, but he can't help but feel frustrated with himself all over again.

Because yesterday, during his visit with Eurus, she'd implied the same thing.

She's waiting for him, violin poised to play, and as soon as he is settled – she begins with the opening lines of Molly's Song.

But it's not to help him write it – because they've finished with that, two visits ago.

No – it's a question.

Molly's Song?

He knows exactly what she's asking, but the answer is no.

He hasn't played it for her. He hasn't given it to her.

She gets almost angry for a moment, but quickly moves on to Chopin.

They play for the remainder of the visit, but as Sherlock packs up – she plays the first few bars of Molly's Song once again.

This time, it is not a question.

It is a command.

On December 22nd, Molly holds her hand to the knocker of 221B, presents for Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock heavy in the bag over her arm, and doesn't even have to follow through with the first knock before Sherlock opens the door, scarf wound tightly and Belstaff buttoned fully against the bitter cold.

"Oh!" She exclaims. "Sorry – were you going out – I was just stopping by to deliver your Christmas presents – yours and Mrs. Hudson's. I stopped by John's yesterday, since I'm going with Michael to Meghan's this year-"

"It's fine!" He interrupts. "More than fine. Not important. Come in." He holds the door open for her, and she stands in the entryway, stomping the slush from her boots.

"Thanks," she says. "Um – d'you mind, really, if I leave them both with you? I've got to go home and finish packing. We leave tonight, and I've got a cab waiting."

"Nope," he responds. " Don't mind. Wait here."

She waits uncertainly for a moment as he bounds gracefully up the stairs, and returns in a moment with a nicely wrapped box for her.

Molly assumes it's from Mrs. Hudson, until she sees Sherlock's familiar scrawl on the wrapping. She smiles, because it's the first time he's ever wrapped a gift for her.

He exchanges his gift for her small bag and pulls his present out of it, eyeing it carefully. He looks mischievously at her, eyes questioning, and she laughs.

"I guess we can open each other's now. But you make sure Mrs. Hudson gets hers."

He carefully opens her gift, and stares in shock at what she's given him.

It's a key.

A key to her flat.

He thought he'd never get another one, and he was – okay with that.

He's blinking, mind racing at what this gift might possibly mean – if it means anything at all – but he's interrupted by Molly's gasp of delight when she opens her gift.

"Oh," she breathes. It's an original copy of Margaret Costa's Four Seasons Cookery Book. Underneath is a thumb drive. She immediately lifts the cookbook from the tissue paper it is cradled in, and looks up at Sherlock with awe and appreciation on her face.

"My mum – she – my sister has refused to give me this one – how-?" She asks eagerly.

He shrugs sheepishly, but she's already turned to the thumb drive.

"What's this?" She asks.

"Music," he explains simply. "Some is classic, some is the violin version of…of popular songs I thought – you like, there's a few – originals on there – the song you helped me with for Eurus-"

He seems embarrassed, and his speech is stilted, but the cab driver gives an impatient honk, and Molly quickly places the drive and cookbook back in the box.

Before Sherlock even registers that that's what she's doing – she stands on her tiptoes and gives him a quick kiss on the cheek. Her lips are cold and he blinks at her, struggling yet again to decipher what it means.

She steps back and gives him a warm smile. "Thanks, Sherlock. I love them. I've got to go. We'll – I'll see you after the holidays, yeah?"

He nods, eyes still unseeing, and the door closes behind her.

He lifts his hand to his cheek, still tingling from the impression of her lips, and there's a war inside him – thrilled – because – she kissed him – and she's never done that before – and yet – dread - she seemed so unaffected by it. Surely, she's moved on?

Molly doesn't get a chance to open the thumb drive before she leaves for Edinburgh with her brother and his girlfriend. She leaves the book at home (no use taking it to her sister's), and quickly packs her essentials, along with her laptop and the thumb drive. She was going to bring the laptop for work, anyway, and hopes she'll have time to listen to the music Sherlock's given her on the way. She's not sure why, exactly, because his gifts as of late have been exactly the sort of gifts you'd expect Sherlock to give, were he truly dedicated to finding the perfect gift for a friend – but she still wonders, really, about him. About them. And she's starting to second guess her stance of staying quiet about it all.

She doesn't have time to wonder long, however, as she meets Michael and Adri at the airport, and then in Edinburgh, meet their Great-Aunt Nan, and travel to her sister's for the holidays.

Sherlock, for once, goes voluntarily to his parent's on Christmas Eve, and on Christmas Day, the entire family, including Mycroft, visits Eurus. It's a strange, new sort of normal – the same old bickering and eye-rolling and coddling, and then – pulling it all together and going as a family to visit a maximum-security facility on the Most Holy Day of the year.

Sherlock and Eurus play – classical tunes, a short melody composed by Eurus that encompasses each of her family members –

Mummy – she points with her bow – and plays a sharp, commanding tune – not foreboding, though – like a – swan, poking her cygnets into order.

Daddy – she points to him – and there is a slower, more leisurely refrain – like a flower blooming.

Mycroft – and this piece can only be described as grudging – angry at times, but at the end – an uplifting phrase. Forgiveness?

Sherlock – slow and sorrowful moves to a more upbeat melody, and she ends, looking questioningly at him, with the beginning refrain from Molly's Song. A question, again.

He takes a breath, and replies in confirmation – playing the entire thing for her, and then – moving into Eurus's Song. (She doesn't need to know Molly hasn't actually listened to it yet – but he has given it to her.)

Eurus lifts her chin and nods in grim approval before joining him for a round of Christmas carols to pacify their mother.

The holidays at Meghan's are – as Molly expected – somewhat strained, as Meghan can't help but watch Michael like a hawk, and ask thinly veiled questions about his job, habits, and 'rehabilitated' lifestyle.

But Molly deeply enjoys her time with Michael, Adri, and Aunt Nan, and even gets a few moments with her nephew, Nathan, to herself. When he's not so focused on being the image of a perfect son, he actually has a little personality, and Molly finds she likes joking with him about bodily fluids and the likelihood of St. Nicholas actually making it down their old chimney.

It's Boxing Day, and Meghan has reworked the leftovers from Christmas in a way that is both impressive and intimidating. As they sit around Meghan's dining room table, Meghan asks Michael yet again about his new job.

"I just really can't believe you lost your old one because of physical violence!" She says yet again, giving Nathan a look that says – see what can happen if you lose control of yourself like that?

There is a collective sigh around the table, and Michael takes Adri's hand defensively, placing a quick kiss on her knuckles before giving his sister an even, measured look, that says he's had about all he can take. "Like I said before, Meghan, I regret the violence, but not the passion of my reaction. I should've gone straight to the supervisor, and if it wasn't handled appropriately there, pursued other channels." It's the prim and proper response Meghan has been looking for, and she nods in sage agreement. "I love Adri, and will do anything for her. Especially stand up for her to racist nut jobs."

Adri smiles at him, and squeezes his hand affectionately. "Appreciated. But honey, next time – learn how to throw a decent punch, yeah?" She winks teasingly at him, and rubs her thumb over the scar on his knuckles from his adversary's teeth, that will probably be there forever, now.

Meghan frowns at her insinuation that perhaps next time Michael will also punch the daylights out of someone, and primly redirects the conversation toward Michael again. "So," she says, taking a sip of her wine, "tell me again how you managed to get a new job so quickly? For a – greenhouse, yes?" There is thinly veiled suspicion in her voice.

Molly sighs loudly. "For the third time, Meghan, I asked a friend to help him find a new job."

"Who?"

"Sherlock," Molly mumbles into her wineglass, knowing what is coming next.

Meghan shakes her head, eyes narrowed. "And everything is – good, there?" She asks.

They all know she's not asking about Michael's pay or hours or co-workers. She's been angling all weekend to see if the 'greenhouse' is actually a cover-up for a drug manufacturer, and is just itching to say 'Aha! I told you using a drug addict's connections to find work for another recovering addict was trouble! Come work with my husband! They're always hiring, and then I'll be able to know all your business, all the time!'

Michael sighs. "Yes, Meghan, everything is 'good'. This greenhouse is well-known in London, very reputable, passes environmental inspections regularly, owner is a beloved member of the community. No drugs. Nothing secretive or shady going on – unless you count the owner regularly donating his produce and profits anonymously to organizations and people in need."

"Well," Meghan sighs, "I'm glad for that. Really. I'm happy Sherlock Holmes has finally done something nice for this family. Though I'm sure he let you know in no uncertain terms it was a one time favor, and you owe him." She rolls her eyes good-naturedly.

Frowns grow on Molly and Michael's faces, and Adri just looks confused. "Not at all. I mean, he can be sarcastic, and has a really dry sense of humor – sure – but what do you mean? He's always been decent to Michael and I."

Now Molly looks confused. As far as she knows, Sherlock's only ever met Adri the one time at her flat – maybe twice, if he saw her when helping Michael get a new job.

Meghan snorts. "Sarcastic? More like purposefully insulting. Have you even met him? I mean, aside from a short introduction in a hallway or something?"

I'm wondering the same thing, Molly thinks.

Adri raises an eyebrow, and her voice. "Yes, I have met him. We see him regularly – a few times a month, at least – he comes by to check up on Michael all the time, has been for months – since before we were dating, at least – I'm not always there, but I can tell you he's a pretty good - ow!"

She stops suddenly and turns, confused and angry, to her boyfriend. A what the heck was that? expression is painted on her face, and Molly can tell he's kicked her, not so subtly, under the table.

Meghan is oblivious, and laughs outright. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure you're confused, Adri. Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes!" Adri replies defensively. "I'm-" she finally breaks away from holding her own against Meghan's imperial stare and takes in the looks passing between Molly and Michael. "He's – he's not bad. He-" she looks at Michael, slinking down his chair, a hand rubbing vigorously over his forehead. "What am I missing, here? Was this supposed to be some sort of secret?"

At that one word, Meghan leans forward, like some predator having just caught the unmistakable scent of prey. "A secret? Michael – you're keeping secrets about meeting Sherlock Holmes regularly?"

"Michael," Molly says quietly – and her voice cuts through Meghan's like a knife. "Explain. Now, please."

Michael clears his throat, and straightens, and explains.

It takes nearly ten minutes, and a few clarifying questions from Molly, but eventually, it all comes out – how he was close to relapsing, and Sherlock caught him in front of the drug house and offered him a job – over a year ago, now, with the caveat that he not mention his involvement to Molly. And that he's been visiting several times a month, to make sure the job is still holding his interest enough to dissuade him from drug use – not that he needs a check-up, now.

"I don't think I even really needed him to find me a new job," he explains gruffly to Molly. "I mean – I appreciate you asking for me – it did help speed things up a bit, having a record and history of drug use, and all – but – I think I'd have been fine without his help. I haven't even – thought of – you know." He shrugs – "in quite a while."

"So," Molly says slowly, dazed – trying to work through everything that her brother has just told her. "Sherlock found you last November."

"Yes."

"And…helped you…with a job. To stay clean."

"Yes."

"And he's been – checking up on you? For – the whole past year?"

"That about sums it up, yeah."

"Why?"

She's looking at her brother, eyes wide and searching, wondering – and yearning to hear – she's not exactly sure, what.

Michael swallows and looks at his plate. "Well. I think you'd probably know better than I would."

"Wha-?" Molly asks thickly, but she can't seem to get anymore questions out, and chooses to retreat into herself, seeing every interaction with him – since Sherrinford, since their conversation at John's house, afterward – from an entirely new perspective.

"What?!"

Several voices exclaim at once. Meghan is looking very sour, and Adri looks as though a brilliant realization has just overtaken her.

"He – did it for her?" Adri asks, voice in awe, a smile breaking out on her face. "Michael Hooper, you're telling me that catch of a man has been in love with your sister for a whole year and you haven't let me in on it?!" She smacks him good-naturedly on the shoulder, and he grimaces. He doesn't get a chance to explain, however, because his other sister chooses that moment to explode.

"You're…you're…bl…er…joking. That's ridiculous, Michael. We all know what a – an insufferable – git he's been to Molly over the years! He's used her position and feelings to – to – do things – for himself! To make things easier for him! He's – he's immature and doesn't care one iota about anyone but himself! He's selfish and messes about with drugs and – and bad characters – he's using you too, Michael, I can guarantee it – this will end badly, I know it! Molly – this is – this is on you, too – because-"

"Hush, child." Nan's voice is strong and commanding, and the way she straightens in her chair is reminiscent of a queen rising.

Meghan stops mid-sentence and turns to her aunt in surprise. "Aunt Nan," she says patiently – just a bit desperately. "You don't know him like I do. He's – he's - "

"-brought your brother back to the family, helped him find a job, stay sober – apparently been a good enough friend for your sister to continue their friendship this long - and this is how you talk about him?" She gives her eldest niece an incredulous, imperious look. She then turns to Adri. "Adri, dear – kindly use your mobile to show me a picture of the man."

Adri eyes Meghan warily. "Well – I know we – we're not supposed to have them at the table, but-"

"Oh, we've all snuck them on us, somewhere, child. I prefer a nice game of Candy Crush or Pet Rescue over talks of lacrosse myself."

"Aunt Nan!" Meghan hisses, looking wounded.

"Well, then," Adri pulls out her mobile and quickly pulls up a recent picture of Sherlock from a news site, passing the device to Nan. "There you are. Sorry Meghan."

She doesn't sound sorry – not one bit.

Nan pulls out a pair of reading glasses from the pocket of her blouse and adjusts them on the end of her nose. "Ah – oops! I think I hit the wrong button – no – ah – swipe – there we are. Hmmm. Oh, he's the detective." She exclaims in recognition as she looks over the picture, and then smirks over the mobile at Molly, who is still blinking in shock at the remnants of ham and potatoes on her plate.

"Well done, Molly dear."

"Wha-?" Molly asks dumbly.

"What?!" Exclaims Meghan. "Well done? He's a drug addict, Aunt Nan – he's manipulative and rude and takes advantage of Molly and he's-"

"We must know two entirely different Sherlocks, because he's never been any of that around us-" interrupts Adri –

"Well, he can be a little rude. Sometimes-" Michael admits –

"A little rude?! I met him once – once! – and he told me I was an overbearing control freak who smothered the intelligence and personality out of my husband and son, and that it was lucky Molly escaped when she did-"

"Actually," Molly says softly, "-it was more like he said you were trying too hard to replace our mother, when you should focus on being yourself and letting other people be themselves, too-"

"-You just saw it like that because you were in love with him! Are you happy now? After waiting around for him like a sad little puppy for years you might finally get what you wanted – apparently a – a - facsimile of a relationship with a-"

"Enough." Aunt Nan's voice is commanding enough to quiet all the chatter at the table at once, and she takes several seconds to give everyone a severe look before continuing calmly. "Michael," she begins serenely, her wrinkled lips pressed into a fine line and a hard look down her nose reminiscent of Maggie Smith. "I am glad to see you are a man of your word, although next time you're sworn to secrecy, perhaps you'll think twice before agreeing to it when it involves the potential well-being of your sister."

Michael opens his mouth to argue, and then seems to think better of it, opting instead to nod and sigh "Yes, Aunt Nan," before swallowing nearly the entire contents of his wine glass.

Aunt Nan then gives Molly a small smile before turning to her eldest niece once more. "Meghan," she begins, and sighs. "Your sister has just learned that a man she has loved for years may, in fact, return that love. He may be a despicable, selfish, scheming man-child, as you have so described-"

Meghan straightens, a look of self-satisfaction growing on her face – but it is quickly wiped away with Nan's next words.

"-or he may, in fact, in the past several years your sister has known him, have grown to be a man of strong character, and wisdom to accompany his intelligence, who loves your sister enough to seek out and help her family, obviously neither expecting nor wanting anything in return. Your protests do nothing but make you sound petty and jealous. As you have not-so-subtly preened at Molly for years – she's chosen her life, and you have chosen yours. There is nothing wrong with settling down early, marrying and raising a family, and enjoying a quiet life in the suburbs. There is also absolutely nothing wrong with pursuing an exciting career and making friends who turn out to make grand gestures, the likes of which I have not personally heard of since reading about how Mr. Darcy sought out and returned Elizabeth Bennett's disgraced sister in that Austen novel. If you are proved right in this matter, you may feel free to tell us 'I told you so', though be warned it will only make the majority of us resent you. If you are proved wrong – which I highly suspect you will be - then you will be very foolish to say anything more on the matter."

Meghan's mouth snaps shut at that, and she breathes angrily through her nostrils, tears welling up in her eyes. "Excuse me," she mutters under her breath, and escapes from the table with little protest from the remaining occupants.

"And as for you," Aunt Nan continues serenely, turning to Molly once more. "Your sister may have been acting the fool tonight, but you dear, will be in competition with her if you remain at this table much longer."

This seems to startle Molly out of her reverie, and her own mouth finally closes completely. She licks her lips. "What – what do you-"

"Oh, come now, girl! You help solve bloody murders on a daily basis, surely you can piece together what you should do now. Go talk to Sherlock Holmes."

"Oh," Molly breathes. "Oh!" She pushes back from the table, dropping her napkin on her plate, and then hovering, hesitating between clearing it to the kitchen or turning back toward the bedrooms.

"Go!" Adri encourages her with a smile. "I'll take care of the mess here." She looks down at the table, and a slamming door from Meghan makes her grimace dramatically. "Well – I'll do what I can. Go get yourself a man, Molly." She winks.

"I'm not sure that's – that's not exactly-"

"Oh for goodness sake just go talk to him!" Nathan exclaims, rolling his eyes and slouching back in his chair, with all the theatrics his pre-teen limbs can muster. "This is boring. Can we talk about something else?"

"Manners, Nathan," his dad corrects absent-mindedly, already standing up to help Adri clear the table himself.

Molly doesn't notice. She's already halfway to the bedroom to grab her things, and she's caught the earliest flight possible from Edinburgh to London.

On the plane, she opens her laptop to check her email – trying to – she's not sure what, exactly. Calm her racing thoughts, her racing heart?

And at the bottom of her laptop bag, her fingers brush against the thumb drive.

She pulls it out, and after running her thumb over the smooth plastic for a few moments, plugs it into her computer.

The files quickly download, and she scrolls through the list of fifteen or so songs, observing their titles, until her eye catches on one in particular.

Molly's Song.

Sherlock sighs internally at the amount of refuse placed on the curb on his way home from John's. Torn wrapping paper, poorly dismantled cardboard boxes, and even a tree that was bought too early in the season and watered poorly overflow the rubbish bins and spill into the street.

Snow has started falling a day too late to contribute to holiday cheer, and the small flakes have begun sticking to the sidewalks just enough to leave clear footprints in their frosty wake.

As he comes upon Baker Street, he stops for a moment, his eyes drawn to his lounge window.

A light is on.

He is absolutely certain he did not leave a light on, and Mrs. Hudson is not due back until tomorrow. It won't be Mycroft, because although he's most likely back in London by now – he should be in his own home, having had his fill of 'family time' and 'brotherly love' nonsense by now.

He approaches his door carefully, but there are no signs of forced entry. He pulls out his magnifying glass to assess the keyhole, but there is not even a scratch to indicate his locks were picked. Since he's just left John at his own flat, that rules out three out of the four friends who own a key to his place – and it leaves Molly.

He swallows uneasily, because she isn't due back for two more days, and if she came back early – something must have happened.

He slams the door shut behind him and takes the stairs two at a time, throwing open the door to his flat. "Molly?" He calls, breathing just a tad heavier before.

It is her. She's lit a fire and wrapped herself in one of the blankets near the couch, knees up to her chin, staring - absorbed in the flames.

She looks up to him, startled, and quickly sits up, feet to the floor and straightening her back. Her eyes are wide and searching, and he can't quite place the emotion on her face.

"Ah," he sighs, catching his breath fully and brushing the snow from his coat, never breaking eye contact. "Molly," he repeats in greeting.

"Why did you do it?" She asks quietly, her voice steady and expectant.

He freezes halfway through unwinding his scarf, but blinks and quickly continues through the motions of removing his outerwear. "Why did I do what?" He asks evenly, confused. He runs through the list of cases he's taken the past two months, but he cannot for the life of him think of doing anything Molly would disapprove of.

Well, anything she'd disapprove of enough to leave her family holiday gathering and confront him about.

"Why did you help my brother?"

His back is to her, hanging up his coat and scarf, and his chest immediately tightens, though he's not sure why.

Actually, he does.

He's a bit terrified, if he's being honest.

"Because you asked me to." He turns back to her and takes a few steps toward her - drinking her in, as she is taking all of him in. Shadows play on her face, the single lamp and fire giving the conversation a surreal feeling. He is filled with equal parts fear and longing, but he's not ready to confess yet – not if that's not what this is leading to.

"No," she corrects him patiently, and shifts so that she is leaning more fully toward him. "Why did you help him the first time? Why did you find him and get him a job and…check in with him?" Her eyes and voice are serious, and he has the strongest urge to kiss her forehead.

He swallows, frozen to the floor, and he knows it's time. "Because…" he starts, but his voice is a bit too raspy for his liking.

She shifts, and he catches the grip of her hands on the blanket beside her, and the way the artery in her neck is fluttering nervously, and the way she is biting her cheek.

"Because I love you," he admits, and his voice is clearer, now.

She blinks at him for a moment, and then stands suddenly. She looks at his feet, at the fire, at the window – crossing her arms and exhaling abruptly. "You – what?" She asks, and her voice is barely a whisper.

"I love you. I helped your brother because I love you and I knew…I thought it would make you happy."

She stares at him for a moment, not incredulous, but not - smiling and running to him, not acting like some heroine in a romantic film – not like he had – well, he can't say he'd expected anything. But he'd hoped.

"You – love me?"

He tries not to let his heart sink, and makes an effort to explain further, his words leaving him in a rush, before he can fully filter everything he's saying. "I love you. I – think – you're – beautiful. You're incredibly intelligent and use it in a way that helps others. You're professional in the face of – complete -" he pauses here, thinking that perhaps 'arseholes' is not the best word to use, in this situation – "idiots, and you're an excellent friend and sister – and godmother. You're forgiving and - kind, even when others don't deserve it. You're generous with your home and time. You-" he pauses again, gesturing through the air at her. "You are yourself, delightfully so, no matter what anyone else says about your – your clothing or – jokes – or – career path."

Molly crosses her arms a bit more tightly and tilts her head at him at that, and he rubs a hand over his face, frustrated. "And you are – here." He points to his head for a split second before running a hand through his hair, slightly embarrassed. His face feels hot. He swallows again, darting glances at her. "You are always here. I – when I'm solving a case, or visiting Eurus, or experimenting – when I'm composing or – showering or – eating – I – you're just – there. Sometimes its distracting-" he spits out – "-but – sometimes – a lot of the time – it's not. Its – welcome."

He looks at her desperately, and her expression is guarded and sort of…wondering, and he concludes lamely – "You're always here. And the thing is…I like it." He swallows again. "I want you here. I'd like you here…" he gestures to her again – "more."

It's like she's been holding her breath for the entirety of his speech, because she inhales deeply and suddenly, looking everywhere but at him. "You'd like me here – more?" She asks breathily. It's not quite a laugh, but it hints at disbelief, and he forces himself to stay where he is.

"Yes."

She looks up at him then, full in the eye. "You love me."

He returns her scrutinizing gaze as bravely as he can. "Yes."

"You're – in love with me."

To his credit, he does not hesitate when he answers. "Yes."

She exhales in a breathy laugh again, and falls back onto the couch behind her. She stares down and fiddles with the cuff of her blouse for a moment before looking back up at him, but this time – her expression is gentle, and a half-smile pulls at the corner of her mouth. "And – you're – okay with it?"

He frowns, his confusion evident. "I – don't - want to change it," he replies, and he realizes that it's true. Even if she does not return his feelings – he would not want to change how he feels for her. It makes him…better. Fuller. More alive. "Even if I did, I doubt I could."

Her smile grows, just a little, and she nods at him – but her eyes are still searching and serious. "Sherlock," she says softly, and he blinks at her tone. "What do you want?"

His eyebrows draw together, perplexed. "What – do I-?" His expression suddenly clears, and he quickly tries to stifle the feeling that the floor is dropping out from beneath him. He crosses the room quickly, and sits tentatively on the edge of the couch beside her, careful not to invade her personal space.

"I don't want anything," he says, voice strained.

Molly's expression changes with his voice. "Nothing?"

He looks up at her, surprised at the slightly hurt tone in her voice. Her expression has become harder once again, as well. He attempts to give her a small smile, but it falls short. "I understand your feelings have changed," he says softly, and his throat feels thick, for some reason. "I don't – expect anything to change. Between us. But – you asked, and you deserve to know the truth. The tables have turned. Getting a – 'taste of my own medicine'." He gives her a half-smile that is sad, more than anything. The look passes after a moment, and he shakes the expression away, giving her instead an insincere smile that doesn't quite meet his eyes. "But again – I don't expect anything."

Understanding softens her features, and Molly sits back and takes him in, relaxing her grip on the blanket beside her. "No, no-" she shakes her head slightly, eyes never leaving his face. "Not – what do you expect. Sherlock – what do you want?"

He blinks at her, chest constricting. "I – don't-"

"Best case scenario," she says, smiling at him strangely. "What do you want to happen?"

He swallows again, and his Adam's apple bobs in the shadows of the dying fire. "I want…" he stares at her – the fall of her hair on her shoulder, the smooth skin of her neck and jawline, her questioning, penetrating expression. "I want – more. Time with you. Best case scenario – breakfast. Dinner. Meals. Coffee. Whatever - whatever you're feeling, that day."

That same strange smile is still pulling at the corner of her mouth, and he feels like it's tugging at his heart, as well.

"More – discussion. Of cases, my cases – your cases – interesting cases we read about – experiments. More experiments. Together. More – ridiculous games. Scrabble. Cluedo. More taking Rosie for – trips."

"I want – kisses. Sharing – beds. And couches. And – more." It's ridiculous to stumble over the words, the idea – but it's a bit embarrassing, putting it into words, and he feels his face and ears warm, all over again. He clears his throat. "Sex. I want to sleep with you," he clarifies. "Both literally and figuratively." He avoids looking at her face, but notices the faint blush now creeping up her neck, as well.

"I want – you. Just – you."

He hazards a look at her face, then, and though her hands are twisting the blanket in her lap like mad – her face gives him hope for the first time in ages. She's looking at him with awe and a bit of hope as well – and the half-smile is quickly growing to a full one. Soft – but full.

She opens her mouth, but a surge of sudden bravery pushes him on to clarify, just a bit further.

A lopsided smile blooms on his face, and he takes her hand, running his thumb over her knuckles. "Our professional relationship would remain largely the same," he mumbles, looking up from her hand. "With a few minor changes."

She raises her eyebrows questioningly. "Oh?" She asks, and she looks as though she's bracing herself – perhaps for requests for round the clock lab access or unlimited body parts.

"Yes." He swallows again, and straightens, moving just a bit closer. "When you assist me with lab analysis for a case, I could do this -" he hesitates just a moment, before kissing her quickly, feather-light, on the cheek.

He blinks at her for a moment, reading her response. When she makes no protest, he continues. "And – when you provide me with samples for my own personal use, I could do this-" he kisses her on the other cheek.

"When you check through week-old files and paperwork to help Lestrade collect evidence because I was in too much of a hurry to solve the case to bother with such trivial things, I could do this-" he lifts her hand, still in his, to his lips, and kisses her knuckles gently.

"When you allow me access to the morgue, even though the body I require is not on your particular list, I would gratefully do this-" he kisses her forehead, and then brushes his own forehead against hers, not fully retreating, as he had the last few times.

"And-" he concludes, "-when you provide the means for a breakthrough in a very interesting, very important case, I would very happily do this."

He brushes his lips over hers, a chaste kiss - and then pulls back slightly. Her breathing is shallow and her eyes are wide and dark, staring yet unseeing. He swallows the urge to pull her into his arms and gives her time to process what is obviously quite a shock for her.

After a moment, her eyes refocus and meet his, and her mouth closes and curves slightly upward. She reaches up to brush a stray curl away from his forehead, and then trails her fingers along his jawline and brushes her thumb against his cheek. Her other palm comes up to cradle his face, and she sighs.

"Careful, there," she says softly. "It sounds awfully like Mr.-Married-to-His-Work is looking for a long-term relationship." Her words are serious, but her mouth and eyes are smiling at him.

He laughs breathily, barely moving – afraid of losing her touch. "I may have been – and still am, in many ways – completely and utterly blind, when it comes to matters of the heart – but I am not so blind that I cannot see that this is it for me. You are it, for me."

"What do you mean?" She blinks in surprise, brushing her thumb tenderly along his jawline again. Her eyes move from his to his lips and back again, and he blinks rapidly in response.

He looks down and smiles ruefully at his hands, now balled into nervous fists in his lap. "Taking into account my age, general demeanor and reputation, along with the effect my past may have on my lifespan – I seriously doubt, in my lifetime, I will ever find another woman who…would..." he swallows. "- who would be willing to accept me, my lifestyle and career, my interests and hobbies – let alone one who shares them. And I know I will never find a woman in the world that would care for me enough to kill me. Fake my death," he clarifies as an afterthought. "And keep my secret for two years. I will never trust and care for another woman like I do, you." He puts it simply, but his heart is racing – still racing, at what her response will be.

He shrugs half-heartedly. "You are it." He chances a glance at her face, and relaxes at what he sees, there.

"You're in love with me." She clarifies, once more – sliding her fingers deeper into his hair.

"Yes," he confirms patiently, suitably distracted by the feel of her fingers threaded through the curls at the nape of his neck.

"You love me."

"Yes."

"Mmm." She pulls them closer together, then – pressing her lips to his in a kiss that is both searching and passionate.

It is more than he anticipated.

The overwhelming of his senses – it's just a kiss – but her hands are in his hair and on his skin and she tastes like spearmint gum and her lips are chapped and she's warm and it's glorious.

He responds in kind, deepening the kiss and pulling her onto his lap and wrapping his arms around her, trailing his thumb up her spine so that she shivers into him and it's all at once too much and not enough.

There is no Baker Street. There is no London. There is absolutely nothing else that exists in the world at that moment but Molly and the things her kiss is doing to him.

His kiss is both her death and resurrection.

He tastes like gingernuts and rum and is somehow both hard and soft, textured and smooth - Molly's pulse tilts up exponentially as he trails sparks of hope wherever he touches her, igniting the smoldering coals of love in her heart to a full-on blaze.

Her hands move carefully, wonderingly - stroking curls and broad, shuddering shoulders, and when he shifts, pulling her down and tucking her in between himself and the back cushions of the couch, she moves with him willingly.

His fingers brush through her hair, and his arm curls up and under her waist, pulling her flush with him, legs entwining with hers. She returns his embrace, moving her fingers from his hair to trail down his cheek and neck, shoulder and chest, his pulse erratic beneath her touch. He is taut, every muscle tense with nervous energy.

"I love you," he breathes, pressing kisses to the corner of her mouth, her jaw, her neck, her shoulder. "I love you," he whispers, and he pauses, trembling, his forehead pressed to hers, his eyes closed. "Please - believe me."

She realizes that she has not yet made clear how she feels, herself – and that he is overwhelmed, and he does not trust his own reading of her body language, right now.

"I love you," she whispers in a rush, pressing a hard, fierce kiss to the corner of his mouth. "I believe you - and I love you, Sherlock Holmes. I still love you."

His whole body relaxes against hers, and he shifts, so that she rests almost on top of him, her head comfortably resting on his shoulder, his shirt soft beneath her cheek. She hears him swallow, and feels his heart beat, strong and fast, beneath hers. They cling to each other in silence, eyes wide, breaths slowly becoming deep and even.

"How long have you been trying to – to show me, now?" She asks into the darkness, some time later.

She feels him smile awkwardly, his lips pressed to her hair. "Consciously? Since I realized – mmm. Shortly after our conversation. At John's." His voice is still weary with relief.

"Mmm," she murmurs in the back of her throat, emotion threatening to well up and steal her ability to speak. After a moment, she raises her head to peer at him in the dim light. "Is that what the coffee has been about?"

"Mmm," he hums noncommittally. "I owed you that at least, as a friend - no matter how I felt."

"And…the…dance? With your sister's song?"

"I…meant to tell you, that night. I regret my cowardice, now." He presses another kiss to her hair.

"Michael?"

"For you."

Molly smiles against his shoulder. "I liked my song," she says softly, after a pause.

He moves his arm to wrap around her waist more comfortably. "I'm glad."

The lay beside each other as the fire dies down and the radiator hums, content to just be – there, together. They both grow sleepy, and the lull between their responses to each other grows as long as the shadows in the room.

"And unconsciously?"

He makes a sound of confusion from somewhere deep in his throat.

"You said – you've been trying to show me consciously, since our conversation. Is there an unconsciously?"

He doesn't answer for a moment, and when he does, his voice is pensive. "I hardly know. I've only recently acknowledged that I have a heart. I'm still trying to figure out what it's been up to all these years."

He trails his hand along the arm she's thrown over his torso until he reaches her hand, and brings her fingers to his lips.

"Apparently, it's been in the kindest and most capable of hands."

She returns his tender smile, and presses another kiss to his lips – long and loving.

The clock chimes two o'clock in the morning, and she rests her head on his chest again. "Should I-?"

"Stay," he whispers, wrapping her fully in his arms again.

And so she does.

A/N: Thank you again for your support! I hope you enjoyed this update. One more to go, before we are done with our story!