Chapter 10: Of Three

"I've figured it out!"

Breathless and grinning, Molly appears at his elbow so suddenly, it makes Tomi choke on her wine.

"Solved the murder then, did you?" Sherlock asks, absently patting his fiancé's back as she coughs and sputters. "I'm assuming that's what caused your speech to derail there at the end. A case. We certainly did not practice that," he says, turning to tell Tomi again, as he wants no responsibility for the fiasco that was the end of a nearly perfect best man-woman-whatever speech.

Tomi nods absently, although it is clear that she finds the whole thing completely bizarre and mildly uncomfortable. Sherlock holds her hand as it seems like the sort of thing one does as a gesture of silent comfort and support. Molly is very distracted by this and cannot seem to stop staring at their twined together fingers.

"Molly?" he says.

"What did we do to her?" Tomi whispers. "Do you think she's finally lost it?"

"Molly!" Sherlock says her name a bit louder and snaps his free fingers in front of her face until she startles and blinks. "Was it a murder? Get it all solved up? Can the party commence?"

"What?" she snaps. "Oh. No. I mean, yes, there was almost a murder. Almost two, but no one died and the criminal was led away in cuffs. But that's not what I was referring too."

"What then?" asks Sherlock.

Beside him, Tomi sighs. Throughout Molly's rambling about murder that formed the impromptu end of her otherwise flawless speech, he caught Tomi looking at her the way she does her very young students, only with less kindness and patience.

Given everything, Sherlock supposes he can't really blame her.

"Mary and Mycroft," Molly says, radiating joy and buzzing with the joy of a good mystery solved. "Mycroft and Mary."

"You say that like there is a Mycroft and Mary," Sherlock says, completely skeptical.

"Well I do not presume to know every detail of their relationship but they've always been a team, haven't they? Both feeling the need to hover over my shoulder like a parent. Regardless of the details, they have most definitely fucked," Molly says as if it all very obvious.

Tomi squeezes his hand and lets out a scandalized squeak. Sherlock thoroughly shares her shock and disgust.

"Good lord," he says. "You really think Mycroft is capable of such a thing?"

"Being as Mary is clearly with child, I would say yes. Yes, Mycroft is apparently capable of such a thing," Molly says before rattling off all the evidence that proves her right.

Around the words with child a buzzing started in Sherlock's ears, so he can do nothing but gape. He is nowhere near capable of matching Molly's level of enthusiasm.

"Sherlock!" Molly shouts, stomping her foot and scowling up at him. "Do you not realize what this means? We are to have a niece or nephew! Isn't it brilliant!"

She then throws her arms around him, giving him a brief and awkward – Tomi still holds his hand – hug before darting off the share the happy news with Mary herself.

"Is it always like this with Molly around?" asks Tomi when she recovers.

Sherlock is still feeling rather queasy at the thought of Mycroft spawning and resolves not to think about this possibility until he absolutely much.

"Yes," he replies. "This sort of thing certainly seems to follow her around."

"I think I'd like a another glass of wine."

"Tomara Kane, you are a beautiful and brilliant woman. To the bar."

They make a stop in the seedy, underbelly of London, to Molly's flat or at least the hovel where she's currently staying. She doesn't allow him to come in with her, insisting that the cabbie will abandon them here, forcing them to take the tube.

Sherlock loathes the tube.

When Molly returns ten minutes later with a backpack, a duffle, and a little grey kitten wriggling in her arms, she is high.

Sherlock is a fool and Molly is a junkie and of course she shot up a final time.

"Mo," he says, voice breaking. He runs his thumbs under her eyes, grimacing over her blown pupils.

"This is Toby." Speech slurred and lazy, she thrusts the small creature into his hands.

"No more," he says, drawing small comfort from the warm, mewling thing now in his arms.

"I know."

"I'm checking your bags when we get home. You will not bring any narcotics into my flat."

"I'm sober. Why would I bring narcotics into your flat? Plus I remember the rule. The flat is a drug free flat."

She cuddles into his side and Sherlock wraps an arm around her. He holds the kitten and keeps his other palm pressed to Molly's throat. It is only the pulse there that convinces him that she lives and lives and lives.

They arrive at Sherlock's flat and he keeps Molly close, shouldering her bags, sticking the kitten in his pocket, and keeping an arm around her as he ushers her up the steps. Molly hisses against the lights he flicks on when he finally gets her into the flat. The bags are dumped on his sofa and the cat is set free.

"Are you hungry?" he asks.

Predictably, she shakes her head.

"Well, I am. You interrupted my dinner."

"I interrupted your whole life."

She trails close behind him as he moves to the refrigerator, removing leftovers. As he reaches for a plate, Molly wraps her arms around his waist from behind, her face pressed into his back. Earlier tonight she called him pathetic and it is true, because instead of pulling away, he turns to hold her in return.

After missing her for six months, Molly is really here, living, breathing, embracing him as if the last three years since she left him never occurred.

Except she is high and rank and in one moment she calls him pathetic while the next she is declaring sobriety as if it will be that easy.

She is so slight in his arms and Sherlock struggles not to weep. There will be time enough for that when Molly sleeps and he stays up through the night, hand on her pulse, ensuring that she lives.

"Sherlock?"

At the angry inquiry, he lifts his head to see Sally, loitering in the doorway to his bedroom, clothed only in a short, silk robe. For a moment he just blinks at her, unsure how she even entered the flat, but she'd left her phone here before dinner so when Sherlock ran off to Scotland Yard, he'd tossed her a spare key.

He jumps away from Molly, clearing his throat. With all the speed of a particularly lazy sloth, Molly glances about the flat, eyes narrowing when she gets his date in her sights.

"Ah, Sally." Sherlock steps between the two women in his flat, hoping to spare Sally Molly's observing, wondering if the heroin has slowed Molly to the point where deductions are impossible.

Although Sally is half naked, emerging from his room. It is all painfully obvious.

"I didn't think you'd still be here," he says.

"So it would seem." She glares at Sherlock, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Not what it looks like," he says. "This is my childhood friend, Molly. She needs a place to stay for a few days."

"I see," says Sally, sounding very much like she does not see at all.

Molly elbows her way around Sherlock, tapping her chin as she studies Sally. Sherlock is impressed that Sally does not so much as flinch under the intense gaze of an obvious junkie.

"Police officer. Aspires to be much more. Good at her job, but she must work very hard. It is all practice rather than natural ability. Probably knows our DI Morstan at the Yard, although Morstan would not know her for she is too low level. This was your fourth date although you've slept together since the second, no, first. It's been decent so far, although not spectacular. Don't worry, dear. He gets much better."

"Molly!"

"What the hell?" snaps Sally. "You told her all that?"

"He told me nothing." Molly is cold and cruel, eyes glassy, limbs barely able to keep her upright. Sherlock has a hand on her shoulder, serving the dual purposes of keeping Molly from lunging at Sally while also keeping her on her feet. "I simply observed. It is clear in your stance, your familiarity with Sherlock's flat, although he's never been to yours. Bit of a slob, aren't you, and a workaholic at that."

"Enough, Molly."

She shrugs his hand off her shoulder. "Fine. I'm off to bed." And she sways off to his bedroom, pulling her jumper over her head, revealing her completely naked back before disappearing through the doorway.

"What the hell, Sherlock?" demands Sally. She does stand like an officer, like she spends the majority of her time with a gun strapped to her hip. "You ditched me on a date to retrieve your junkie ex-girlfriend?"

He bristles, experiencing a latent instinct to defend Molly, but there is nothing that Sally's said that is inaccurate.

"She had a spot of legal trouble with DI Morstan and I had to pick her up."

"You know that's where I work. I could've gone with you. You could have explained properly."

Sherlock crosses the room, closing the bedroom door that Molly left open, despite her dramatic exit.

"You've met her, Sally. Four dates in and you want me to introduce you? To drag you to your place of employment to talk my… to get Molly out of legal troubles? I think not."

"Why is it up to you to get her out of anything?"

Sherlock sighs and does not have the words to explain. She's Molly. She's his Molly and there may come a day when he cannot endure the barrage of cruel words followed shortly by her demands for help, the constant fear that she'll finally succeed in killing herself or that she'll just disappear - but he is not near that point.

He is not near that point and it makes dating a fruitless, unfair exercise.

"We've been taking care of each other since we were ten," Sherlock says, shrugging.

"What is she, to you?" Sally asks. It's far too invasive for four dates in and Sherlock is antsy to get to Molly, to lie down with his fingers on her pulse, to prove that she is living and breathing.

"It's complicated."

Sally is lovely and witty and sharp. She deserves far more than "it's complicated," but it's the best he can manage.

"I'd like my clothes, please," she mutters. "They're folded on your dresser."

Sherlock nods and slips into the bedroom.

Molly is laid on the floor for no apparent reason, playing with the small kitten on her chest. She's replaced her jumper with a button up of his.

"If you are planning on sleeping in my bed, you will bathe, Molly Hooper," he says as he collects Sally's clothes.

Molly gives him a dreamy smile and a salute.

Back in the main room, Sherlock turns his back as Sally dresses.

"Do you see it getting less complicating any time soon?" she asks.

Sherlock shakes his head.

"Then don't call me."

With her departure, Sherlock feels only relief.

He searches Molly's bags, surprised to find she did not lie when she claimed to have no drugs on her, and then digs up a can of tuna for Toby. He'll set out some newsprint for the cat in the bathroom tonight and hope he doesn't make too terrible a mess. His abandoned leftovers go back in the refrigerator and when he returns to his room, Molly is missing. Panic claws at his throat, but only for a moment until he finds her in his rapidly filling tub.

"Sherlock!" The smile is near blinding, her eyes too glassy, but he is warmed by her joyous tone anyway. She beckons him closer and he sits, resting his chin on the edge of the tub.

"Sherlock," she says, reaching out to play with his hair.

"Yes, Molly?"

"You are very pretty. It's the cheekbones."

"Last I saw you, you told me I look like an inbred horse."

"I would never."

"You did."

"Well, I lied. People do do that you know. Lie. You are the single most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Also the eyes. Otherworldly eyes. So bright. So blue. Like copper carbonate when it burns."

Sherlock chuckles, but it is a sad sound that hurts his chest. In some ways, these moments are worse than her biting cruelty, for he is presented with a torturous glimpse at the girl she once was, the one who loved him back.

"Have you ever seen copper carbonate burn? 'Course you have. Looks just like your eyes. Do you love me, Sherlock?" she whispers.

"You already know the answer to that."

She sits up in the tub, her breasts now visible above the soapy water. Her grip on his hair tightens. "Say it."

"I love you."

Molly hums with pleasure and her eyes flicker shut. "Guess what."

"What?" he whispers, breathless.

"I borrowed your toothbrush."

And he recoils. "Disgusting, Molly!"

At the reception, after he plays the waltz he wrote for John and Lestrade, unintentionally making Mary of all people weep, he keeps an eye on Molly. It is an old habit, as are most of his instincts regarding her, and if anything, her two year absence only made his need to know her exact location even more pressing,

The lights go down, the DJ starts up, and as he dances with his fiancé he glances at Molly every few seconds over the top of Tomi's head.

She is speaking enthusiastically with the newlyweds, but when the groom and groom look at each other, Molly appears sad. It is not the terrifying degree of which she hid her fears from John before the fall, but the melancholy is there. She's never been one for change. Sherlock hopes that she knows that she isn't alone now that her best friend is married.

"I love weddings!" Tomi shouts in his ear, pulling his face down to her much shorter level.

"Pardon?" Sherlock asks, dragging his eyes from the trio huddled in the center of the dance floor, smiling and laughing now.

"Weddings!" Tomi repeats, her lips at his ear. "I love them. Doesn't it make you want to plan ours?"

Sherlock nods without meaning it.

Then Molly is moving towards the exit, small and unnoticed by any but Sherlock. Without making any conscious decision to do so, he pulls away from dancing with Tomi, muttering a quick "just a tick," and dashing after Molly. By the time he catches up, she's pulled on the red jacket and is marching out towards the gardens.

"You better not be leaving the wedding this early, Molly," Sherlock calls out with the first stupid thing that comes to him, to keep Molly from fleeing. He continues to approach her as she stops, shoulders tensing. She slowly turns to face him, zipping up her leather jacket as she does so. The red clashes horribly with her lavender dress, but in the dark it hardly matters.

"What do you want, Sherlock?" she murmurs, staring intently at her feet.

She is so sad, so tired, and Sherlock decides he's had far too much wine for this conversation.

"You're not alone, Molly," he replies. That's what she's got to be worried about, with John moving out and married. She's got to feel replaced, abandoned.

She grimaces and turns away. "Piss off."

"You are always walking away," he says, not expecting her to stop now. Since her return, he's made the deliberate decision to forgive her, to forget all she said when she left him last time, but the alcohol has brought it all back and suddenly he's angry. He's furious.

He doesn't expect Molly to acknowledge his words but she is turning on her heel again, with painful slowness.

"You never figured it out, did you?" she asks, shaking her head. "Oh, Sherlock," she murmurs, looking to the starry sky. "You beautiful idiot."

"Yes, idiot is an apt description, as even after all you said before you departed, how you hurt me, I welcomed you home like it never happened."

Molly chuckles. "I truly thought you would figure it not long after I left. I see now I overestimated your deductive abilities, which are lacking under ideal circumstances and nearly nonexistent where I am involved. Sentiment." For once she does not spit out that word with disgust. She simply sighs as if she is exhausted.

"Just stop insulting me and say what you mean."

"I lied, you daft git!" she shouts, storming forwards to glare up at him and poke his chest with a single, bruising finger. "I wanted you with me. I always want you with me, but Mycroft talked me out of the idea of you coming. It was foolish, Sherlock, to ask that of you. And then you just wouldn't listen to me, so stupidly stubborn and brave, you are. I hurt you with words, with lies, because you wouldn't take no for an answer! You wouldn't let me keep you safe. And I was so close to… Never mind. Ancient history. Doesn't matter."

"Mycroft?" Sherlock says. His eye twitches.

"Don't, don't, don't. He simply talked sense into me. I'd have got you killed, Sherlock. Gotten myself killed protecting you. It was a stupid, selfish idea and it didn't take long for Mycroft to make me see that."

"Oh," he says, feeling a bit like a deflated balloon. His head spins, not with alcohol but with information.

She gives him a watery smile, blinking back her tears and stretching up to kiss his cheek. Her heels make the whole thing easier and Sherlock sighs, eyes closed, breathing her in.

"Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes."

Again, Molly is walking away, footsteps quick, shoulders hunched. He watches her for a moment, completely stunned, before some sense snaps into him. He is done watching her walk away.

"Molly!"

She stumbles slightly, but doesn't turn and doesn't stop.

"You just said you always want me with you," he says, following. "So bloody well stop and let me be with you."

"Piss off, Sherlock."

"Molly," he says, walking right behind her as she stomps through the trees, rounding a crumbling stone outbuilding.

"What? I have things to do. A case! Yes, that's it. A case."

"You just solved a case. At the wedding, mind you. And another, if you count Mary, but I can't currently think about that without my brain exploding."

"Go away, Sherlock."

They are circling the small structure now, acting completely ridiculous.

"This conversation isn't over."

"It is."

"Isn't."

"Is."

"Mo—"

She whirls suddenly, her hair flying out around her as it is down for once, face red and furious. "You were supposed to wait for me!"

For the second time in a span of just a few moments, Sherlock's world once more is torn down with just a few words from this woman, who has always been so vital, too vital.

"You were supposed to figure out that my words were just words, designed to keep you safe, and you were supposed to wait for me to come back. I thought of you constantly and it kept me going through all the horrible, horrible things I had to do. I killed people, Sherlock, but thinking of you made me all right. And then I come home, to you, to John, and you are both fucking engaged! I was off killing, keeping you safe, and you lot were just fine!"

"He thought you were dead and I thought you didn't want me," Sherlock snaps, angered by her anger.

"Fine. Whatever. John is a hopeless romantic, so fine, but you." Again, she pokes his chest. "You were supposed to wait for me. I've been trying to figure out since the Irene Adler debacle how to be with you again, before really, after Moriarty's first appearance but I didn't want to admit it because you are the singular most terrifying thing to ever happen to me, and then you saved my life and then you went and got yourself bloody—"

There is only one thing to do with this combination of rage and elation so he kisses her quiet.

She returns the kiss and against his lips he can feel her anger, every bit as potent as his. It simply spurs him on, has him backing her into the side of the crumbling stone building and biting her lower lip, because she has no reason to be angry with him, not after all she's done.

Again and again she's ruined them. And Sherlock keeps letting it happen.

"No. No, no, stop!"

At the first no he releases her immediately, but Molly still feels the needs to shove him with all her strength, causing him to stumble.

She is red faced and furious. It is Sherlock's place to be red faced and furious, despite the absurd Molly logic that somehow makes him the party in the wrong for believing her when she told him – yet again – that she did not want him.

"You don't get to be angry!" he replies. "It's your fault we are like this. You were the one that stopped caring."

"I never did! I never could!"

"You are the one who has been jerking me around for years, wanting me one moment, calling me pathetic the next. After all that, how could you have possibly expected me to understand that when you didn't want me this last time, before you left to do your horrible, horrible things, you didn't mean it!" He is shrieking, hands buried deep in the pockets of his trousers.

Molly's answering smile is the most tragic thing he's even seen. "I don't," she murmurs, staring at her feet. "I can't."

That tragic smile and her admittance of defeat burns out the last of Sherlock's rage. "I would have waited, you know. If I'd known."

There were so many ways Molly could have explained. She could have left a letter, contacted him at a later date when she was out of the country, or left instructions with Mycroft to make her great confession. Sherlock knows he would have been quite irritated both with being lied to and that Molly took away his choice, but he would have understood and forgiven her. He would have waited.

"I know," she replies to the ground.

"But now..."

"It's for the best," she says. Keeping her back to the crumbling stone building, she shuffles away until Sherlock is no longer blocking his escape route. "You have whatsherface. It's better. She's better. She's what you need."

This time when she makes to leave, Sherlock lets her go.

"Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes," she says, without turning around. His name is a whisper on the wind and Molly disappears into the night.

In the morning he wakes before Molly.

Sober Molly functions on only a few hours of sleep a night, and it was not rare to wake alone or with her watching him, back in the day. Now he watches her, watches the shallow rise and fall of her chest and the fluttering behind her eyelids. In the morning light, she looks so sick. What was bad last night is worse now.

Sherlock gives himself no more than five minutes to watch her face and weep a bit before sneaking from his bedroom with his mobile.

"Mycroft?"

"I was expecting this phone call hours ago, brother-mine."

"She was tired. I was tired."

"I see."

"No," Sherlock says, voice getting a bit too loud. "No, you do not see. It wasn't like that. It was late, Mycroft. That's all."

"And how is our wayward girl?"

Sherlock sinks, sitting on the sofa with his head hanging between his knees. "She's so small, Mycroft. Skinny and sick and—"

"Strung out," murmurs Mycroft. "I believe stung out is the phrase you are searching for."

"She says she's done. That she'll clean up."

On the other end of the line, there is silence.

"Mycroft, I don't know what to do. She's never tried to stop before. Rehab, yes? We've got to get her in rehab."

"Tell me exactly what she said."

So Sherlock explains the situation with Detective Inspector Morstan and Molly simple declaration to clean up in order to get involved in cases.

"Truly?" Mycroft asks. "She truly said all that?"

"Yes, Mycroft. I may be the stupid one, but I remember a conversation that took place a few hours ago. And I don't honestly think that the DI was saying she'd give Molly cases if she cleans up, but that is Molly's interpretation and I'm not going to argue with her about it. Not when she's talking about stopping for the first time ever."

"I'm on my way, Sherlock. Do try to hold it together until then."

"No," says Molly. She shakes her head vigorously. "No, absolutely not."

"You claim that you will stop this!" Mycroft yells. Sherlock is unsure if he's ever heard his brother yell, but his voice is raised now and his face is red and splotchy with anger. He is pacing around the living room. Molly is curled up on the sofa. Sherlock retreated into the kitchen for tea, but really he simply watches Mycroft and Molly argue circles around each other.

"This facility if the best there is," says Mycroft, yet again. "If you truly desire to clean up, this is where you do it."

"No rehab! How could you call him, Sherlock?" She glares at him. "I trusted you, came to you, and you call him? He wants to lock me up!"

"You did not come to him," snaps Mycroft, still stalking around. "You were arrested and needed him to talk you out of trouble! You lied to him, left him, pop in demanding something from him only when it is convenient for you! No doubt you drove off his latest attempt to have a normal relationship, no matter how pathetic it might have been. You are family and we will help you, Molly, but I will not tolerate this claim that you are somehow the betrayed party."

For a moment Molly turns redder than Mycroft, and Sherlock braces himself for a fresh round of even louder yelling, but then she lets out a breath, deflating like a popped balloon. She pulls her knees to her chest.

"You must do this, Molly," Mycroft says. "You must allow us to help you."

She says nothing and Mycroft retreats to the kitchen, nodding at Sherlock and silently tagging out.

Sherlock takes a deep breath and joins Molly on the couch.

"Mo," he murmurs, rubbing her back. "You know we're right. The withdrawal alone could kill you."

"I can't," she whines, turning her head to frown at him. "I can't. I'll be trapped there. And they won't understand and I won't be able to explain and they'll think I'm crazy and they'll lock me up forever."

"You aren't crazy," Sherlock says with enough conviction to have Molly sitting up straight and dropping her feet to the floor. "Right now you are sick and high. Before all this you weren't crazy either, and you won't be after we get through it. And really, do you think Mycroft would let them lock you up forever?"

She squints at Mycroft, tapping her chin as she considers. He rolls his eyes.

"No," she finally says. "But I don't need rehab. I just need to stay here with you, Sherlock. I jut need to stay with you."

Looking at Molly's earnest, pleading face will surely have Sherlock crumbling to any and everything she wants, so he looks at Mycroft instead with his tough love philosophy. His brother's face is hard, but Sherlock is reasonably certain that there is something close to heartbreak in his eyes. This reassurance that Mycroft truly does care is the reason Sherlock listens when Mycroft simply shakes his head once.

"You can't, Molly," he whispers. "I'm sorry, but right now you just can't. After you go through rehab, then you'll have a place here if you want it. But not now."

With hands on his cheeks, Molly forces Sherlock to look her in the eye. She studies his face intently and whatever she finds there makes her sigh, obviously resigned.

"Can you keep Toby?" she asks, hands dropping to her lap.

"What in god's name is a toby?" demands Mycroft.

"Of course," say Sherlock. He runs his thumbs over the dark shadows under her eyes.

"Okay," she murmurs. "Okay."

Mycroft immediately places a call. Molly kisses Sherlock for a moment before excusing herself to use the toilet, to clean up a bit and pack a bag.

Five minutes stretch to ten and the Holmes brothers realize simultaneously that the flat is too silent. In the bathroom they find only an open window and a message written on the mirror with pink lipstick.

Forgive me.

"You've been awfully quiet," murmurs Tomi. She kicks off her heels by the front door and hangs her coat on a hook.

Sherlock grunts in response as he makes for his violin. At the last moment, he recalls his fiancé's distaste for the instrument and he ends up standing aimless by the sofa, not sure what to do with himself.

Molly's given him much to process and he does not know how to do this serious sort of contemplation without his violin. It is not a question of believing her. Although she's skilled in withholding the truth, there was no lie in Molly. All she told him was not a careful manipulation but a verbal explosion, marked by her frustrations, fears, and disappointments.

Molly loves him. Molly has always loved him, even with her brief preoccupation with The Woman. She's simply spent years at a loss for how to navigate back into a relationship when so much has changed since the last time they were together.

Her words were confirmation of what Sherlock has spent years trying not to think. Despite Mycroft's insistence that Sherlock must move on, despite Sherlock's own desperate attempts to do so, there has always been a part of him – hidden, perverse, disgracefully stubborn – that believed that eventually she would find her way back to him.

And she's been trying. Since John came into her life, since after the incident immediately following Moriarty's first attempt on their lives.

The question is now, after all she's put him through, if Sherlock is really willing to spend the rest of his life tangled up with Molly.

She is the complicated path, the one marked by moments of heartbreak and frustration and supreme, sublime joy. For the rest of their lives she will wake him up at odd hours when she is hungry. She will disappear for days on cases and he will worry. She will forever be demanding body parts from his mortuary and – if on the off chance he ever manages to convince her to agree to such a thing – she will wear a hideous jumper to their wedding.

For the rest of their lives, Molly will smile at him and wipe tears from her eyes when he plays something particularly moving on his violin. Dead bodies will be acceptable dinner conversation and Molly will be able to tell by just looking at him if it's been a particularly terrible day. She will curl up next to him and stay silent if that's what he needs. She'll drag him on ridiculous adventures if that is the remedy for his mood.

But when he thinks on the way she spoke to him before she disappeared for two years, he gets angry all over again. His rage chokes him and although she explained her (stupid) behavior, it still hurt and he is not sure if Molly is worth the risk.

Because it could most certainly happen again.

Either way, with or without Molly in his life as a romantic partner, this whole thing is horribly unfair to the woman he's promised to marry.

"Tomi," he says, clearing his throat. He's never before been forced to break it off like this before. Molly usually does that for him.

Tomi sighs heavily, collapsing on the couch. "I'd been hoping I was wrong."

"Pardon?" he asks, blinking down at her.

"Sit down, Sherlock."

It is a commanding tone he imagines she uses on the school children in her class. She leaves no room for argument and Sherlock sits.

"Have you been shagging her, then?" she asks, studying the floral print of the fabric of her dress.

"What?" he asks, eyes narrowing. "Absolutely not."

Tomi offers her dress a wan smile. "Notice you didn't ask who I was talking about."

Again, Sherlock blinks at the woman who, only several months ago, he fully indented to spend the rests of his life with.

"My former girlfriend returns from the dead, breaks into my flat at all hours, and doesn't get along with you," Sherlock replies, shrugging. "Wasn't much of a leap."

"When Molly left the wedding tonight, you followed her." There is a quiver in her voice now and Sherlock feels the first twinges of guilt.

Admittedly, he should feel more than a twinge.

"I did."

"Why?"

"I was concerned for her. With John married, she's scared of being alone."

"So you went to reassure her that she isn't alone? Because she has you," Tomi says, head snapping up to glare at him. Sherlock tries to keep from flinching.

He runs his hands through his hair and slumps back against the couch. "I haven't been fair to you, Tomi. Not since Molly came home."

Tomi sniffles. "You've loved her this whole time, then?"

"It doesn't mean I didn't love you."

She closes her eyes and shakes your head. "Don't know what I've been doing, these last long months. I should have ditched you that first night, when she came for Toby. It's so obvious. I didn't really know you, still don't. Before, you weren't really you, I don't think. Not until she came back."

"I don't follow."

"I thought I knew you before she came back but then here she was and how you changed! I thought you were just naturally quiet and a bit sullen and serious. But then she shows up and you're laughing all over the place. Seeing you two in the same space... if it weren't so depressing and disgusting I would find it very romantic. It's as if you're both more comfortable when you occupy the same space."

Sherlock genuinely has no reply for this accusation.

"In a world without Molly Hooper, would there be a shot for us?" she whispers.

It is not even a scenario Sherlock needs to imagine. For two years he lived in a world without Molly Hooper. Tomi made the whole thing bearable.

"Of course, Tomi. I really am so sorry."

Tomi makes a pained sound and cries a bit more. She gratefully accepts Sherlock's handkerchief.

"Well," she says, clapping her hands and steeling her resolve. She attempts her typical bright smile but can't quite manage it. "Best to just pack up what little I have now. Don't want to have to come back, drag the whole thing out."

The whole of Tomi's possessions kept in his flat fit in a pair of reusable grocery bags. This sight more than anything seems to change Tomi's resigned sadness to anger.

"It's going to be so easy," she mutters, scowling down at her packed bags. "For you to erase me from your life."

"Tomi, that was never what I wanted."

"Don't you say it, Sherlock Holmes. I am not capable of merely being your friend so don't you even say it."

Sherlock nods and is suddenly beyond exhausted.

"It makes sense now, why you were so hesitant to make any sort of wedding plans. I commend you on your foresight."

"Tomi—"

"No, no. I won't be bitter. I would rather end this on a positive note. I'd rather you remember me happy and bright and how I normally am."

That brightness and happiness really was good for him, grumpy git that he is.

"Of course I will," he murmurs, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He is somewhat surprised to find himself still wearing the suit he wore to the wedding. He is somewhat surprised to realize that the wedding was only several hours ago.

All and all, it's been a very long, trying day.

"And I shall remember the best of you," she says, turning to look at him.

There are tears in her eyes once more and Sherlock will have to live with the knowledge that he's done this to her, convinced her that she would have a loving, devoted companionship for the remainder of her years before abruptly taking it all away.

"So smart and witty," she murmurs, reaction up to cradle his jaw and run her thumb over his cheekbone.

He carries her bags to the curb and waits with her for the taxi. Before entering, Tomi gives him one more lingering kiss.

"Good bye, Sherlock Holmes," she says.

"Good bye," he replies.

Watching the rear lights of the cab disappear around the corner brings him nothing but relief.

Everyone is so lovely about this story. Monica is the best of all betas and you all are the best of all readers.

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