A/N: Thanks for your patience! And much love to Buttercup59 and MizJoely for looking over this chapter as it refused to be easily written!
The door shut behind Mycroft and his assistant, leaving Molly and Sherlock alone.
Molly's hands shook, hell, her entire body was trembling as she took in Sherlock's wide-eyed surprise. Clearing her throat nervously, she whispered, 'Hello.'
He didn't respond. She wrung her hands in the silence, walking over to the chair Mycroft had vacated and slowly lowering herself into it, Sherlock's eyes following her absently.
Sherlock's words rang loudly in her mind, the passion and sincerity she'd seen in his eyes as he spoke shook her resolve to the core. The heartstrings he'd so cruelly torn lifted in hope at his earnest admission, but her mind choked them in doubt.
Molly closed her eyes, trying to bring compromise between her doubtful mind and her hopeful heart. The silence hung heavily between them, neither knowing what to say. Sherlock hadn't done more than blink until the question burning in Molly's mind rushed forth and burst from her lips. 'Did you mean it?'
Sherlock flinched and his gaze shot back to her, the intensity shocking her to the core. 'I rarely say anything I do not mean.'
Molly looked down at her shaking hands, clenching them tightly in her lap, and trying to blink away the tears filling her eyes. 'You called me the 'puppet master of your heart.' Even I know that's not a flattering comparison.'
The handcuffs rattled slightly as he moved his hand across the table, as close to Molly as he could reach. She stared at the spread of his hand, wavering on that tightrope of uncertainty.
'It was neither a compliment nor an insult,' he said evenly. 'But if you prefer a different analogy, more fanciful, I will say that you are like an angel and I, your harp; you pluck my heartstrings in a beautiful melody. Beautiful, but frightening in its intensity.'
A tear escaped and curved down her cheek, her heart slowly beating to life once more. His eyes were open and his face, usually so stone-cold, was a study in vulnerability.
He turned his head away. 'I understand if I am not deserving of a second chance. But I am deeply,' he paused and took a deep breath, turning to face her once more. 'I am deeply sorry. In protecting my own heart, I broke yours. I was selfish and cruel.'
Molly watched him intently for a few minutes, choosing her words carefully, but unable to rein in her biting tone. 'I know that. I've always known that. You are a man who overthinks logic and undervalues emotions. Your ends justify the means, so if by breaking my heart you save yourself heartache in the future, then so be it. 'All lives end. All hearts are broken.' Isn't that the Holmes boys' motto?'
'No,' Sherlock spit out immediately, staring at her intensely. 'No, it's not. At one point, that may have been my philosophy and I refused to open myself to the inevitability of emotional pain.' His eyes softened and he lifted his hand as though to caress her cheek, but was halted by his restraints, letting his hand fall back in defeat. 'But now, I would gladly die knowing I had loved and been loved in return, rather than die alone and broken-hearted with not even the memory of being loved to hold on to, only regret for destroying it when it was offered to me.'
Tears blurred her vision at the quiet sincerity in his voice. The past few months passed through her thoughts, the pain and heartbreak, the bitterness and sorrow. All of it culminating in this moment.
'This is… I don't know what to do.'
Sherlock's eyes lit with a small flame of hope.
Lowering the mask she'd worn over her heart and her stiff upper lip failing, Molly stared back at him, letting him see all of the hurt he'd inflicted on her, no longer trying to shield him from her pain. 'If you loved someone with everything you had,' she rasped, 'unconditionally, and time and again that person tore you down with cruel words… before finally destroying that little bit of love that still beat for you… would you really expect her to accept your love?'
He blanched, but quietly admitted, 'No.'
Molly turned away at the brokenness in his voice.
'But I hope for it.'
Mycroft watched unashamedly from behind the mirror, his fingers twitching in agitation as Molly fell silent after Sherlock's quiet plea. He knew Molly had every reason to turn away, leave Sherlock handcuffed to the table, and get on the plane to Edinburgh, breaking his brother's heart. But he hoped, prayed, wished, pleaded that she would be willing to forgive him.
Every time he looked at Sherlock with his face lined in sorrow and pain and tentative hope, Mycroft's heart cracked a tiny bit more, remembering the little curly-haired boy curled around his dying dog, begging Redbeard not to leave him. Thirty years later, the words were caught in Sherlock's throat, but the fear was the same and it poured off Sherlock in waves.
Please, Molly. He's trying.
Molly twisted her hands in her lap. Sherlock could see her heartbeat pounding against her throat. 'Seven years. I waited, I pined, pathetically, apparently.'
Sherlock grimaced as she tossed his own careless words back at him.
'What changed? Why now?'
'You.'
'That's not an answer,' she growled through clenched teeth.
'Yes, it is.' He swallowed thickly, trying to find the words to convey his thoughts, to make her understand. 'You changed my mind. You showed me that love isn't just an emotion, it's a promise, it's a choice to care for someone in spite of all their flaws; strength in weakness.'
Molly's eyes flashed and she leaned her arms on the table, clenching her fists and nearly snapping at him. 'Your flaws, everything you think that is wrong with you… those are the things that make you amazing. You hide behind cruel deductions, but I see the heart yearning for acceptance. You say sentiment is a weakness, but you're really afraid that you're not good enough to be loved. And I spent seven goddamn years telling you that you were! Until I believed that I was the one who wasn't good enough!'
Slapping her hands loudly on the table, she jumped up as she shouted the end of her speech and turned her back on him. Every word pierced Sherlock's aching heart. He stared at her back in stupefaction as she sniffled and brushed away angry tears.
Several minutes passed as Molly composed herself, but she didn't turn around, not even looking at Sherlock's reflection in the mirror. He held his breath in the silence, his heart thundering in hopeful anxiety, even as the ache in his gut grew at her pain. In the mirror, he could make out the fear on her face, the doubt swallowing her whole. But beneath all of the confusion and despair he'd masterfully wrapped her in with his cruelty, he could see the remainder of her love for him, simply because she was still in the room. There was still a chance she would act on that small smidgen of feeling she felt for him.
Molly crossed her arms over her chest, but still refused to look at him, keeping her gaze low as she sighed. 'I'm not the ninny everyone thinks I am. My track record with boyfriends leaves a lot to be desired, but I know…' She took a shaky breath and a tear trailed down her cheek. 'I know I'm worthy of being loved…I know it, but I don't believe it.'
Sherlock damned the cuffs locking him to the table. The defeat in Molly's stature and tone shattered his heart and all he wanted to do was pull her into his arms and hold her until she was his Molly again; his Molly who was sunshine and optimism, who was brave and strong and wore her heart on her sleeve and who loved him with an unconditional love that made him believe that sentiment was the winning side.
'Molly,' he croaked, reaching out as far as he could, beckoning her to look at him. 'Molly, please look at me.'
She shook her head as her shoulders began shaking, tears falling freely now.
'Molly, you are worthy of someone who will love you as unconditionally as you once loved me. If you can't believe it yourself, please, believe me. ' His voice broke as his heart clenched at each tear that fell from her tired eyes. 'You are far more than I deserve. Forgive me for making you believe you weren't good enough.'
She finally turned to face him. 'What do you want from me?' She asked in defeat, dropping her hands limply to the side. 'You treat me so cruelly, push me away, and break my heart. Then you tell me you love me when I decide to leave, expecting me to fall into your arms in gratitude. And then you tell me all these things and I… I…' She trailed off hopelessly.
'I want you. I love you, Molly. I'm selfish and I won't stop fighting to convince you that you are loved. But if I've ruined whatever chance I may have had, I'll accept the consequences and let you move on with your life and find someone who is worthy of you. But just one word from you that I haven't…'
His heart pounded in fear as she stared at him in the silence following his plea. He could see the war she was fighting between doubt and hope. She bit her lip and looked away in deliberation, her brow creased.
Sherlock swallowed against the lump in his throat. Sweat dripped down his back and somewhere outside muffled footsteps interrupted the silence.
She turned her gaze back to him and sighed. 'I still love you… but I can't forgive you.'
His heart stopped.
'Not yet, at least.'
It started beating again, double time, as he released the breath he had been holding.
Molly took a step closer and wrung her hands together. 'I'm willing to start over, though.'
A flutter of hope reverberated across his heartstrings. 'What about Edinburgh?'
She shrugged one shoulder and glanced down. 'Perhaps I can give London another chance.'
A smile slowly spread across his face and an unfamiliar feeling swept over him. This must be what relief and joy feel like. He felt light and hopeful, his heart skipping a beat when Molly gave him a timid smile in return.
'May I take you to dinner tonight?'
'I'd like that.' She offered him a soft smile and pulled the key Mycroft had given her out of her pocket.
Behind the mirror, watching as Molly released Sherlock from his handcuffs, Mycroft smiled proudly. Anthea sidled up to him and slipped under his arm.
'Are all you Holmes boys poets at heart?' She smiled coyly up at him. 'Because I seem to recall a certain haiku you wrote for me about my being the salvation to your devilry?'
Lowering his voice, Mycroft brushed his lips against her hairline. 'Oh, my dear. We both know who the devil is in this relationship.'