The ride to John and Mary's clinic was a tense one. They couldn't risk bringing Sherlock to a hospital unless his injuries were too severe to be treated by the two of them. Mary hadn't had time to put together the false identity they'd decided to create for him once he declared his intentions - and why Mary was the one to do it, Molly had been hesitant to ask.

The only reason they chanced taking him to the clinic first was because of the fact that, despite the amount of blood on his body, Sherlock wasn't injured nearly as badly as Molly had feared. No broken bones except for his right wrist - dominant hand, John had muttered, and she supposed it was significant - probable concussion, bruised ribs, multiple cuts and contusions...and of course, the mangled parts of his shoulders where his wings had once been.

Molly held his head cradled in her lap, holding back sobs at the whimpers of pain Sherlock occasionally made in his sleep. She couldn't imagine how much it must hurt, nor could she imagine how he would react once the reality of what he'd done fully hit him.

"Was it like this for you?" she asked, unable to hold the questions back. "Is this how you became h-human, John?"

He looked over the seat at her. Mary was driving, but she flashed her husband a glance and nodded before returning her attention to the road. "It was very similar," John said. "Except the angel who was sent to remove my wings wasn't so angry at me that she was willing to leave me bleeding in an alley."

"Mycroft hates me," Molly said, her eyes on Sherlock. Watching him breathe as they sped through the city streets. The wounds left by the brutal chopping off of his wings were partially cauterized, although she doubt very much that Mycroft had intended that small bit of mercy. At least there was no chance Sherlock would bleed to death before they got him to the clinic.

She fought down the bitterness she felt toward the angel - how could anyone do this to their own brother, to someone they claimed to love? At least John had been shown more than just accidental mercy.

As if he understood where her thoughts were leading, John spoke again. "It's always someone close to you," he said, eyes focused on some unseen memory. "There are many more of us who've made this choice than Sherlock was willing to believe, although I tried to tell him. For me, it was my sister-angel, Harry. She was so sad to lose me, but at least she believed me when I told her that this was the right choice for me. So she did it, cut off my wings and brought me to Mary - then healed me. So I have no scars, nothing to show I was ever anything but John Watson."

"She made sure I saw him bleeding, though," Mary said tightly. "She wanted me to know exactly how much John was sacrificing to be with me. To make sure I appreciated it - and him. That's why Mycroft did it this way; he wanted you to see."

Molly closed her eyes, trying to banish the image of Mycroft standing over Sherlock's battered form, the fury in the angel's eyes as he glared at her. "This is entirely YOUR fault," she heard him say, over and over in her mind as her guilt threatened to eat her alive. "He blames me for this - and why shouldn't he? He's right, this is all my fault…"

"No." The voice was barely a whisper, but it was Sherlock's. Molly and John both looked down at him, and the tears that had been threatening finally began to fall as Molly met his gaze. His eyes were still beautiful, still an unearthly mix of blue and green, but they were human and full of pain. He slowly, painfully raised his left hand to reach up and brush her tears from her cheeks. "Not...your fault," he rasped. "My choice...and I'd...make it...again."

She caught his hand and held it to her lips as he lapsed back into unconsciousness.

"He's right, Molly," John said, fumbling in the glove compartment for some tissues. He found a crumpled handful and passed them over to her. "It's not your fault and you shouldn't ever blame yourself. Ever. Sherlock made a choice, a conscious decision, and his petition never would have been granted if his love for you wasn't deep and abiding. That sort of love is worth any sacrifice," he added. His words were fierce, but the look he gave Mary was tender. She smiled and squeezed his hand without looking or saying anything, but Molly could see how strong their love was.

All she could do was pray that Sherlock's love for her was just as strong, and that he wouldn't come to someday regret his decision.

oOo

Sherlock was sleeping. Molly watched him breathing as he lay on his stomach, his back bandaged, his wrist in a cast, the blood cleaned up and all other injuries - minor, as John had said, thank God for small favors - attended to.

When Molly had asked John how long it would take Sherlock to heal, he'd shrugged. "It's different for everyone, Molly, you know that."

"Are you sure? Is there any chance it'll go faster for him?" Molly had asked. "I mean, it's not like he's some ordinary bloke." She could hear the edge of hysteria to her voice, and she did her best to clamp down on it as she continued speaking. "He's special, there must be something different about him, even now…"

She'd fallen silent as she belatedly remembered who she was talking to - the one man that understood, that knew, exactly what to expect. And the sad sympathy in his blue eyes had told her before he even spoke what the answer would be. "No, Molly, sorry. Once one of us becomes human...that's it. No more special abilities. No more healing power. It's all gone. The only thing that I can do that's any different to a human is sense when an angel or one of the Fallen is nearby - and by nearby, I mean, in within a few feet of me. That's it."

She'd nodded while Mary had hugged her close. "I know how you feel, luv, I truly do," the other woman had said. "Never forget that - you aren't alone in this. We're here for you."

"Yeah, always," John had said. "Promise."

Molly had thanked them, deeply touched by their loyalty and friendship.

That had been hours ago. She'd tried to get some sleep, as John had urged her to do before heading to his office for a kip, but found herself startling awake at the slightest sound.

Sherlock moved restlessly in his sleep, a soft grunt of pain escaping his lips. She hitched her chair forward and laid a comforting hand over his. He groaned, his eyes flickering open. "Molly?" he croaked.

"Shh, it's all right, I'm here," she said, automatically pitching her voice low. "Are you in pain? Shall I get John?"

He gave a brief, negative shake of the head, and interlaced his fingers with hers. Molly's heart constricted at the sensation, and she couldn't stop a small smile from hovering over her lips. "How long?" he mumbled.

Molly fumbled her mobile out of her pocket and checked the time. "It's been about six hours since I found you, and about four hours since John treated your injuries."

"How...bad?"

She swallowed, hard, as he asked the question she'd been dreading. "Um, well, you have a broken wrist, that's why it's in a cast, and head trauma, and some scrapes on your left cheek. You also have a lot of, uh, cuts and contusions, and of course your...your back is…" She swallowed hard, unable to get the words out, blinking back tears. "Just let me, um, get John, he's sleeping in his office and Mary went home because their neighbor who was watching the children had to go to work - she works nights - and…"

"Molly." She fell silent as he spoke her name. "I know they're...gone." He gestured weakly toward his back with his (relatively) good hand. "It was the whole, the whole, ungh, point of this."

She waited while he panted through the renewed pain he was obviously feeling, her heart clenching in her chest. Fresh anger at his brother for being so brutal coursed through her, temporarily overwhelming her guilt and helplessness. "Let me get John," she tried again when Sherlock's breathing returned to normal, but he shook his head.

"No. But I need...I need to see." Unbelievably, he pushed himself up from the bed, leaning on one trembling arm to do so. Sweat beaded on his forehead and his entire body was shaking with the effort. Without thinking, Molly reached out to help support him, even though she ought to focus her efforts on getting him to lie back down.

"What the hell is going on in here?"

John's outraged voice from the door distracted her; Sherlock slipped slightly in her hold, her left hand pressed itself against his bare chest, directly over his heart…

...and the room exploded in light.

A/N: Sorrynotsorry for the cliffie. The good news is that I know exactly what happens next and how the next chapter shakes out. Stay tuned, and thank you as always for reading, reviewing and following!