Once they had both bathed to their satisfaction, they redressed in clean clothes. Molly had to keep reminding Sherlock not to use his arms, which was making him annoyed. The prospect of resting his arms for weeks was extremely irritating. Molly was able to successfully placate him with a light kiss. He was clearly growing eager for more, but she sternly reminded him that she still needed stitches and they both needed to rest.

"Besides, we still need to discuss what happened at the Floating Market, Sherlock" she said a little sadly.

He looked away from her, ashamed of how he had treated her. He was once again struck by the terrifying thought that perhaps she hated him. However, even though he was no expert on women, he felt reasonably sure that the fact that she had given him a few brief kisses was proof she didn't hate him. He felt some dim memory trying to surface, but was unable to recall it. It bothered him that he couldn't remember something. Molly walked past him and opened the door to the sitting room. She squeaked in surprise and Sherlock rushed to see what had startled her. The Marquis de Carabas was currently sitting in Molly's armchair. Sherlock was about to shout at the man when he saw Ingress peer from around the other side of the chair.

De Carabas held up some of Molly's first aid supplies. "Come along, let's see to that shoulder of yours, haven't got all day you know."

Molly was skeptical. "Why are you so eager to put me back together? I'm not sure I trust you with a needle and thread."

"You wound me, Molly. I watched you stitch the many gashes on my own chest, it can't be that hard. Besides, I'll have Sherlock here to oversee everything and threaten me should I put one toe out of line," the Marquis reasoned.

Molly sighed, she didn't have much choice. She returned to her room and removed her shirt, wrapping a sheet around her upper body. She returned to the sitting room where the Marquis was setting up his work station. Sherlock sat on his armchair, Ingress perched on his lap. Molly watched in amazement as the little girl leaned over to whisper something in Sherlock's ear.

"Ingress! You're speaking! That's great," exclaimed Molly. The little girl smiled shyly and buried her face in Sherlock's neck.

"She was the one who came and told me you were in trouble" explained Sherlock.

"Yes, and do tell Molly where Ingress found you and what lead you to that sorry state" smirked the Marquis.

Sherlock glared at him. Since he was unable to fold his arms across his chest, he settled for leaning his head back and looking bored. "I was partially incapacitated due to a minor mishap during an experiment."

De Carabas snorted. "I believe it is more accurate to say you were knocked out on the floor due to accidentally stabbing yourself with one of the cave children's darts."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "How did you know about that?" he hissed.

"I have my ways" smiled the Marquis as he unpacked his materials.

"Boys! Can you two please stop this bickering and get back to fixing me? Please?" begged Molly.

The Marquis bowed to her and began cleaning off her shoulder, carefully cleaning the knife wound. He sterilized the needle and threaded it. He slowly and precisely stitched the wound closed. Sherlock was lurking close by, scrutinizing his work. The detective was a little unhappy that he found nothing to criticize. The Marquis finished the stitches and cleaned off her shoulder once again. Now that everything was finished, he gathered up Ingress and left Molly and Sherlock to their much needed discussion.

Sherlock sat back warily in his chair. Molly's eyes were closed as she felt her bandaged shoulder. Her whole body hurt and she was exhausted. All she wanted to do was sleep, but she needed to do this first.

"How are you feeling? Do you need anything for pain? I might have something in the other room" she asked.

He shook his head. "Are you alright? I know firsthand that receiving stitches without any anesthetic is very painful. Do you need anything?"

"No I'm okay." She paused and tried to collect her thoughts. "Okay, um, Sherlock, I would like to say some things first please, and when I'm finished, you can say whatever you need to. Is that alright?" He nodded; it was strange how careful and formal they were both being. He hoped that they would be able to return to the comfortable relationship they had once shared.

Molly took a deep breath. "I know that you are a very private person Sherlock, and I respect that. I don't mind that you dislike public displays of affection, they make me nervous and shy a lot of the time anyway. But you really hurt me when you yelled at me because I was touching you." She stopped speaking, tears were threatening and she halfheartedly tried to wipe them away.

"I just wanted to help, and you could have told me that you needed to be alone or something. Um, it's alright if you don't want to keep up this relationship or whatever the hell we have been doing. You told me that it wasn't really your area, and maybe we gave it a good try, but I guess it's foolish to keep trying to force something to happen." Tears were streaming down her face now. She stared at her hands that were tightly clenched together in her lap. She spoke in a whisper now.

"I will always be your friend and I will always help you when you need it. But I can't keep up the, um, kissing and so on, it's too hard. Because I meant what I told you on the rooftop. And I always will, but it hurts too much knowing you don't feel the same way. I'm not mad, I forgive you, please don't think I'm angry, I guess we should try and just be friends."

Her voice was wavering as she finished her speech. A steady stream of tears ran down her face and she reached out to pick up an unused bandage to wipe her face. Sherlock sat back in his chair, stunned. Then the memory of Molly leaning over him on the roof came flooding back. He remembered with perfect clarity looking up into her face as snowflakes fell and stuck in her hair. As he lay there, shocked at having survived, she leaned over and whispered "I love you." As the memory washed over him, he shuddered. Other memories came unbidden. He remembered the cruel look of satisfaction on his father's face as he told his youngest son that he would end up the same, a psychopath, never to be loved. He remembered the taunts of his peers, the whispers of his teachers, and the jeers that he was a freak. He remembered how he had fought against his mother's unconditional love, certain that he did not deserve it. He remembered how he had wrongly deduced Molly at the awful Christmas party, how her carefully chosen and wrapped gift had been for him. He remembered how willingly Molly helped him, always. He remembered the first time they kissed. He remembered the secret smile on her face as he entered her. He gasped as the memories overwhelmed him.

Molly was looking at him, waiting for his reply. He was trembling, tears gathering in his own eyes. "No" he whispered hoarsely. "No, I don't want to be your friend Molly. Because I love you. And I know I have been cruel and hurtful, and I know that I don't deserve, that I have never deserved all that you have given me. But I need you Molly. I don't want to stop kissing you, because I love you. I know I can never be a perfect partner or even a decent boyfriend, but please don't give up on me. Please stay with me" he pleaded. His voice wavered slightly as he finished speaking. He studied her face, it was alarmingly blank. His whole body shivered as he waited for her to speak.

Molly was having difficulty comprehending the words that Sherlock has just spoken. Had he really said that he loved her? She turned the words over in her mind. She looked at his face. There were tears in his eyes, his body trembling. He was so open; he had laid himself bare before her. She knew what a gift it was that he had given her. He had shown her his true self, the vulnerability he had hidden from the world. She stood up shakily and walked to his side. He looked up at her, his eyes pleading. She reached out and stroked his hair and bent to kiss him softly on his lips. "I love you too Sherlock" she murmured. His eyes lit up and he tried to reach out his hands for her. She laughed and held his hands. He pulled himself closer to her and kissed her passionately. He always wanted to be able to do this. He hummed happily as she kissed him back with equal passion.

It took some doing, but Molly was able to convince Sherlock to rest after they finished their discussion. She was weary to her very bones and felt on the verge of collapse. She knew Sherlock needed to rest as well, they had both suffered greatly in the past few days. In addition to his arms, Sherlock had serious bruises all along his legs and numerous scrapes on his face. It was a minor miracle he hadn't broken his nose when Jim tried to pull him off the rooftop. Molly knew they both needed sleep, but Sherlock was wide awake, delighted that she loved him.

Molly was stunned that Sherlock had said he loved her. Never in wildest dreams had she imagined him proclaiming his love for her. She was more than a little overwhelmed at this development. She knew that they still had much to discuss, boundaries to figure out and more if they were going to continue their relationship. But it was hard to worry much when Sherlock was eagerly kissing her. She finally succeeded in getting him to lie down in bed and curled up close to him. She stroked his hair while he chattered excitedly about random thoughts and ideas. The last thing she remembered him talking about before she fell asleep was a plan to improve his chemical analysis of the cave children's darts.

It was near dinner time when Molly woke up. She was famished. How long had it been since she had really eaten? She wasn't sure. She sat up and looked for Sherlock. He was standing in the doorway, smiling at her. She tried not to laugh, the splints for his arms made him look like a raggedy puppet. Somehow, he still managed to look incredibly gorgeous. She crawled out of bed and stumbled across the floor. Door was waiting in the sitting room. She jumped up and ran to hug Molly.

"Hey! I thought I better check and make sure you both were still alive. Are you hungry? Because the kitchens have been sending up a lot of food" said Door.

"Oh God I'm starving," moaned Molly. She eagerly walked with Door and Sherlock to the door.

Portico, his wife and all his children are seated at the dining room table. Door is seated next to her mother, who is holding a squirming baby, Ingress. Door tries to make faces and distract her baby sister, who is refusing to eat. Their mother manages to shove a spoonful of green baby food in Ingress's mouth. She makes a face and promptly spits the food out, spraying her sister Door's face. Arch howls with laughter at his two sisters.

Molly glanced back at Door, she was smiling wistfully. She no longer became overcome with sadness when she saw memories of her family when traveling between rooms. The table was indeed laden with an array of serving dishes. Richard was sitting there, along with Ingress and the Marquis. Molly rushed to sit down, her mouth was already watering. Door started serving, passing plates back and forth. Sherlock was actually eating without having to be threatened by Ingress. As long as Molly cut his food up for him, he could manage to spear bites. The Marquis was dying to say something snide about Molly cutting up Sherlock's food, but mindful that she had recently saved his life, again, decided not to.

He did have one surprise for them though. He had scampered back to London Above to procure a newspaper earlier in the day. He'd been certain that their escapade on the roof would be in all the papers and was correct. As everyone ate, he waited for an acceptable dramatic moment to unveil it. However, likely due to widespread exhaustion, there was an unfortunate lack of drama. Well, making his own drama was just one of the many things that the Marquis did well.

"Ahem." He modestly adjusted his lacy cravat while everyone turned their attention to him. "Our little affair last night was so interesting, I felt it must have attracted the attention of the press, and lo and behold, I was correct, as always." He paused and unfurled the newspaper from one of the numerous pockets hidden in his black coat. Molly groaned and put her head in her hands, she remembered the last time the Marquis had surprised them with a newspaper. De Carabas slid the newspaper across the table towards Sherlock. There was that same, freakishly grinning picture of Jim Moriarty on the front page. This time the text was a little different. Now the headlines screamed the lurid details of the death of the criminal mastermind. How had he hidden in plain sight for so long? Was Sherlock Holmes wrongly maligned? Sherlock was reading the newspaper intently. He was smiling slightly, but Molly was still worried. She was afraid that the newspaper would upset him. Even though they had defeated Jim Moriarty, they were still no closer to figuring out how to get back home. And Molly wasn't completely sure she wanted to go back.

Sherlock was surprisingly grateful to the Marquis. He poured over the whole newspaper, drinking in every detail. He picked up the newspaper when he was finished and then stood. "Thank you for fetching the newspaper. I would greatly appreciate it if you could bring me the newspaper for the rest of the week" he asked.

"What shall I receive in return?" asked the Marquis.

"De Carabas!" hissed Door.

"Oh fine, I wasn't really expecting anything, we'll just have to consider it a favor. One that possibly shall be repaid at some unknown point in time" said the Marquis. He stood and made a florid bow before departing the dining room.

Later that evening, Molly was becoming anxious; she kept waiting for Sherlock to ask about returning to London proper. She had been certain that that would be the first thing he asked about once he defeated Moriarty. Yet he seemed content to relax in bed with her, rereading the newspaper while she read a book. When he didn't mention it the next day, she grew more worried. Other than casually reading the newspapers the Marquis brought him, he said nothing about Moriarty. Days passed and she worried more.

Sherlock was behaving strangely. He was sleeping soundly through the night. He actually was obeying her order to rest his arms. And he was eating heartily at meals. Molly was starting to fear that he had suffered a stronger blow to the head than previous realized during their adventure on the roof. Molly was getting more paranoid by the minute. It would make sense. Of course Sherlock had said he loved her, he had sustained a personality altering head injury! She could practically feel herself getting crazier. Molly forcibly reminded herself to not be insane, but her strength was wavering.

It was three days after the death of Jim Moriarty that Molly finally lost it. Sherlock had found a handsome leather bound copy of Treasure Island on the bookshelves. Excitedly, he told her it had been a favorite of his in childhood. He even revealed that some of his fondest memories were of Mycroft reading the book to him. Molly couldn't remember Sherlock ever volunteering such personal memories. And she was certain he had never said anything remotely nice about his brother. That night, Sherlock wanted to read out loud to her. He snuggled up next to her and began to read. After twenty pages, she started to squirm. Sherlock didn't seem to notice and kept reading with his beautiful voice. His long fingers turned each page with a soft caress. Molly kept wiggling and Sherlock kept reading, oblivious to her distress. Finally she leapt out of bed with a shriek.

"Sherlock!" she screeched.

He calmly marked his place and closed the book. He looked at Molly with concern. "Yes? What has gotten you so agitated Molly?" he asked.

"You!" she screamed. "You, you're not you! You keep sleeping and eating and not doing awful experiments and other normal things! It's weird! And you haven't said a word about going back. I thought…" she trailed off. She was suddenly very tired. She felt herself deflate.

Sherlock wrinkled his brow and made a face. "You're unhappy because I'm doing what you asked me to?" he asked. "Molly, I realize that I have very little practical experience in relationships, so please forgive me if I am confused. Is this the sort of thing women do where you say that you want me to do one thing, but mean something else entirely? I sincerely hope this is not the case and would like to formally request that you not do so in the future. I have enough trouble trying to behave myself properly as it is" he said. He slowly stood, wincing as he hit a sensitive spot on his arm. He walked closer to Molly.

"Oh God, I am being crazy, it's just… I'm scared" whispered Molly.

He wrapped his arms around her slowly, holding her as close as his aching arms would allow. "Why are you scared? Moriarty and his associate are dead. We have established the fact that we wish to be together in a romantic relationship and have taken measures to do so in a fashion that is mutually beneficial. We have both sustained some injuries, but nothing that will have a lasting impact. I don't understand what there is to be afraid of, Molly" he said.

She bit her lip and tried to relax into his embrace. She sighed and looked up at him. "I'm scared because I know you want to go back to your old life. I keep waiting for you at ask me when we can go back, and I don't know if we can. I don't want you to hate me because we can't go back to our old lives."

"Molly, while I was initially unhappy at this unorthodox move, I know that you brought us here with the best of intentions. You kept both of us safe and were correct in your instincts about Moriarty. While I would prefer to return to London Above, if we had to stay here …" he paused, breathing deeply. He rested his chin on her shoulder and lightly kissed her neck. "It wouldn't be the worst thing, if we had to stay in London Below. I have you and my violin, the rest would work its self out." He stroked Molly's arm, he could still feel how tense she was. Something was still wrong. "You're still worried, what is it Molly?" he asked.

She looked up into his beautiful eyes. They were full of love and concern. She couldn't bear the thought of him no longer looking at her like that. When she thought back to how he used to look at her in the morgue, like she was irritating child, her heart broke. "Sherlock, if we do go back to London Above, will we still be together? I don't want to go back to how things used to be. I couldn't stand it." She shuddered as she envisioned that sort of a future.

"Molly, I assure you, should we be able to return, our relationship has permanently changed. I have permanently changed. You have helped me to be better, Molly. You make me want to be better." He hugged her closer, till his arms ached so much that he had to drop them. He thought more about her concerns. He missed his work, John and Mrs. Hudson, his Baker Street flat and even, maybe just a little, Mycroft. He longed to return to these aspects of his life. Yet he knew he couldn't go back to being alone, wanting to be alone. In truth, he had never wanted to be alone. He realized now that while caring for someone was a risk, the reward was worth it. He felt slightly nauseous at the thought of a life without Molly in it. He cleared his throat. "Tomorrow, we shall find out how Richard was able to return to his former life and if it is possible to return the same way he did. We're not going anywhere tonight, so I suggest we return to bed" he said.

Molly gave him a shaky smile and nodded. She returned to bed and snuggled under the covers. Sherlock soon joined her. She watched him to see if he would start reading again. He turned to study her, and then asked, "Would you like me to keep reading? I thought that was what was distressing you."

She giggled a little. "No, I could listen to you read the phone book." His eyebrows shot up in surprise at this. "Oh please, you know you have a sexy voice, it was your favorite tool in wearing down my resistance to your requests for body parts." Sherlock tried to protest but Molly wouldn't let him. "That and your puppy dog eyes."

"I do not have puppy dog eyes!" snorted Sherlock.

"You do when you're trying to get me to do something I don't want to" retorted Molly. Sherlock looked at her with the exact sad little puppy dog eyes she was describing. "See! That look right there, those are your big sad puppy dog eyes" she said.

Sherlock huffed and burrowed under the covers. Molly reached out to run her hand through his hair, the only body part currently visible. "Anyway, I guess I was getting freaked out because you've just been so relaxed and … and…" She tried to select the right word. "Domestic. I thought you'd be chomping at the bit to get back to Baker Street and serial killers. I wasn't prepared for you to start reading novels and so on."

From underneath the covers came a muttered complaint. "I can say with complete certainty that I have never chomped at a bit."

Molly pulled the covers off his face and kissed the tip of his nose. "No I suppose not. Are you going to keep reading to me? I want to know what happens. Please."

Sherlock gave one last wounded sigh and then rolled over and picked up the book once more. Molly snuggled up next to him and laid her head on his chest. He ran one hand through her hair and resumed reading till Molly fell asleep.