Epilogue.
"Ugh." Sherlock said, infusing disdain into his voice. "Must we?"
Molly suspected he was afraid.
"Sherlock," Molly said evenly, while holding down the upward curve of her lips. "I asked for one thing. Three years, I kept your secret. I took care of everyone. I had my heart broken for you. I saw him married, as did you. You know what I went through. You owe me this, dear. At least this."
Sherlock looked at her steadily for a moment before his gaze softened. "I know Molly, believe me… but this could… just… damage you."
Molly laughed wickedly.
"Sherlock. Just read the damn book aloud."
"It's so stupid. You know what this does for your brain?" he said exasperatedly.
"It's this or Glee, Sherlock."
He shakes his head, but obeys her. "Who am I? And how, I wonder, will this story end?
The sun has come up and I am sitting by a window that is foggy with the breath of a life gone by. I'm a sight this morning: two shirts, heavy pants, a scarf wrapped twice around my neck and tucked into a thick sweater knitted by my daughter thirty…"
Molly didn't care about what he was saying. She's read The Notebook so many times, she knows it by heart, but the sound of his voice outside the tin of a phone, the solidness of him, his company, that was her reward for enduring hell without complaint.
She closed her eyes. He was so close, seated at the foot of her bed. She was safe now.
…
Sherlock got up, glad that she was asleep so he could stop reading the damned fairy tale. He hated fairy tales, but Molly insisted. He could see that the damage was done to her. But if he was being honest to himself, he was very lucky that Molly believed in them. In him.
"Goodnight, Madam," he whispered, and quietly left the room. He was hoping he hadn't broken his promise to John never to hurt her again. He wanted never to hurt either of them again.
"How is that possible?" he wondered aloud, as he disappeared into the London night.