Previously:

This time he was the one who took a step forward, his hands twitching slightly as if longing to reach out and touch her. Molly's heart fluttered as they held one another's gaze; just as he started to lean forward, just as she tilted her own head up and her eyes started to close...the clatter of someone coming up the stairs and Mrs. Hudson's cheerful "Hoo hoo!" caused them to jump guiltily apart.

When the housekeeper entered the room, bearing a heavily laden tea tray in both hands, Sherlock was seated at his desk, penning a message to his parents to accept their invitation, and Molly was seated decorously on the settee, reviewing her envelope of documents from Mycroft - and silently cursing the older woman for her extremely inconvenient timing.

Molly threw herself into her lessons in becoming a Proper Victorian Wife with a desperate enthusiasm worthy of any stage Eliza Doolittle. At least she didn't have to work on her accent, it being decreed posh enough - her words, not Sherlock's - to pass without comment by anyone except, possibly, his brother. However, if Mycroft had been inclined to expose their false relationship, wouldn't he have already done so?

Sherlock seemed to believe that was the case, but Molly wasn't quite so sure. If she wasn't entirely focused on passing for a true denizen of this era she'd probably have already had a meltdown. Or a stroke.

But Sherlock was a relentless taskmaster, and the next few days fairly flew by as she finally became an expert at inserting hat pins without drawing blood, donning gloves without tangling her fingers, and, as she wryly expressed it, "learning to walk and learning to talk like a real lady," not caring if she was misremembering the lines from the play or not.

In between those lessons, of course, was the far more important job of memorizing and refining the story they'd cooked up between them for that disastrous tea with James Watson and his fiancée; she was an only child whose parents had died (the literal truth); they'd met while Sherlock was abroad after his near-death at the hands of James Moriarty, wed in secret once they discovered that his most trusted lieutenant, Sebastian Moran, was on Sherlock's trail, and separated until such time as that threat had been eliminated.

Now it was time to flesh out the details, and that was where the two of them started butting heads.

They were seated at the small table in what had been 221B's kitchen in Molly's time and was now a sort of study. The table between them was littered with notes and treatises on various subjects, including a small pamphlet advertising the restorative properties of the Swiss Alps for patients with various complaints ranging from the physical to the mental.

It was Sherlock's personal experiences with such places that led to his first suggestion.

"You were a nurse at a sanitorium," he said. "I was there for a case, of course, and you so impressed me with your charm and intelligence - for not even my parents would believe me capable of being captivated by a merely pretty face - that I knew you were the woman for me. The only one I could ever love."

Those last words were spoken with a quiet intensity that made Molly's breath catch in her throat and her heart to beat quite a bit faster than it had been. If she hadn't known better, she'd have sworn he was saying it like he meant it.

As if he truly did have feelings for her.

Could it be true?

More importantly, did she want it to be true?

"A nurse?" she objected quickly, before she found herself in the same old quagmire of emotions she'd been working so hard to avoid. "Why not a doctor? I am one, after all, even if all my patients are dead before they reach my table. Can't your brother magic up some documentation for me saying I graduated from the Royal College of Surgeons or something?"

"If such a thing were possible, he'd have already provided them for you," Sherlock was quick to point out. "Nursing qualifications are much easier to forge, especially for someone who needs them for long-term use, rather than simply for immediate gain. But either way," he added before she could raise another objection, "I suppose it doesn't really matter, since you won't be practicing medicine in any form."

"What? Why not?"

"Because you are, in the eyes of the world, a married woman," he replied patiently. "And married women of our class, no matter how Bohemian, simply do not seek employment outside the home." He huffed out a bit of a sigh, and his expression turned regretful. "I fear I have done you a disservice in claiming you as my wife, but it seemed the most expedient manner of explaining your presence. Especially," he added, with a bit of pink at the tips of his ears, "as you were rather underdressed at the time."

"So what the hell am I supposed to do with myself?" Molly snapped. "I can't just sit around the house all day doing nothing!"

"Of course not!" he snapped back, then took what seemed to be a calming breath before continuing in quieter tones, "It may not be ideal, but I'm certain my brother has some scheme in mind for your future employment. Or," he added even more quietly, "when the time comes that you are prepared to strike off on your own, I'll have Mycroft draw up divorce papers to match our faux marriage papers, in order to facilitate your return to medicine, and set you free from this encumbrance."

Molly gaped at him in shock; was that what he thought, that she wanted to be free of him? After literal years of haunting one another's dreams, of sharing visions and catching glimpses of one another's lives in reflective surfaces? Or was it that he wanted to be free of her? Was that even possible, with the bond they shared - be it psychic, spiritual or something unquantifiable?

"No divorce," she found herself saying, even as her thoughts continued to churn. "Not now, not ever. Unless it's what you want. Like, if you wanted to marry someone else, of course we can get fake divorced, but not just so I can go out and get a job, especially if you think your brother already has plans or ideas for me."

"Very well," he said after a long pause during which she groped for something more to say. "We shall table the question of your future employment until after we've determined the most believable story for my parents. Agreed?"

Molly nodded, trying not to read too much into the fact that he didn't seem unhappy about the fact that she didn't want a divorce. Together they hammered out the details of her former employment at a fictional Swiss sanitarium - as a physician rather than a nurse, she was adamant about that! - until both could flawlessly recite dates and places and such details as any married couple might be expected to share with their family.

Family. Molly had another attack of nerves as she realized she'd soon be part of a family again. She was an only child; her father had died while she was in medical school, and her mother not long after her graduation. And here she was, with a husband and brother-in-law and parents-in-law and who knew how many other relations outside of them.

What the hell had she let herself in for?

Wishing she could settle her mind as well as her emotions, she forced herself to focus on the remaining details to be thrashed out, including her choice of purported medical specialty. "There's no way I could pass myself off as a psychiatrist," she asserted when he broached that possibility. "Even to people who don't have any knowledge of the field. Let's just keep it simple, right? I'm a former GP - general practitioner," she corrected herself. Drat, there she was using modern vernacular again. Inspiration struck. "Unless - would a Swiss sanitarium have a morgue?"

"Even if they did, I'm afraid there's no possibility of you having ever been employed in such a capacity, more's the pity," he said, effectively killing that particular hope. "No, we shall claim you were a general practitioner, as you prefer."

"I'd prefer to work in my chosen career," she muttered, and his expression turned instantly to one of sympathetic understanding.

"I, too, would prefer that you were able to once again take up your former occupation," he'd said, going so far as to lay his hand over hers.

She forced a smile before gently sliding her hand out from beneath his. One of the things they both had to get used to was touching one another and making it seem both natural and comfortable; the problem was, she found it a little too comfortable. The only saving grace was that Victorians weren't exactly into PDA; the most anyone would expect from her would be a small peck on the lips or cheek when greeting her 'husband', and taking his arm when he was escorting her in public or from room to room at his parents house.

Speaking of PDA, Molly had no idea what to do about The Kiss. The one neither of them had spoken of yet. That passionate, wonderful kiss that had been cut short by Mycroft's arrival. Had it just been a way for Sherlock to try to distract her from her anger and embarrassment at having done such a poor job at lunch with John and his fiancée? Or had it been something more?

Was it possible that this Sherlock, unlike the one from her own time, actually wanted her the way she wanted him?

And if that was the case, how the hell did she broach the subject when he shut down any efforts she made to bring it up?

"Mrs. Holmes!"

She jumped a bit at the sound of his sharp tones. "Sorry, woolgathering," she apologized, avoiding his gaze. "But hey, at least I answered to it, right?"

He sniffed. "If you flinch every time you hear it, my parents will have some very hard questions for me, so I would appreciate it if you could refrain from doing so in their presence."

It was irrational, but Molly felt herself getting angry at him. He was right; if they wanted to pull this false relationship off, if they wanted to convince his parents and presumably other family members that they actually were married, then she needed to school her reactions.

The problem was, right now, she didn't care if he was right or not; she just wanted - no, she needed - an answer. "Why did you kiss me?"

The words escaped her lips before she could stop them, and judging by the shocked expression on Sherlock's face, he absolutely had not deduced that they were coming.

"I, it was simply a result of our argument," he finally stammered out, and wasn't that a first! Sherlock Holmes, stammering. Write the date down, Molly girl! "You were, ah, clearly overwrought, and my, erm, less than gentlemanly instincts came to the fore. I, ahem, assure you, Doctor Hooper - Mrs. Holmes - Molly," he corrected himself hastily, "it won't happen again. And I, ah, apologize for any discomfort I may have caused y-"

Molly had never in her life shut someone up by kissing them. Until now. And since Sherlock was kissing her back with what felt like an equal amount of passion, she made a mental note to do so as often as possible.

The fleeting thought that she should have tried this with 'her' Sherlock crossed her mind, but was dismissed almost immediately. As confused as she still was about her feelings for him, it was the Sherlock in this time who she was with, now and forever.

And if she were being honest with herself, she thought somewhat hazily as Sherlock pulled her into his arms for an even more thorough kiss, it was always this Sherlock who she really wanted.

Who she loved.

With a gasp she broke the kiss, staring wild-eyed at the man whose lap she currently occupied. "Oh my God," was all she could say as she stumbled to her feet, then turned and bolted for the stairs and the questionable safety of the second storey bedroom.

Once there with the door bolted behind her, she began pacing, worrying at a cuticle on her thumb as she tried to come to terms with that sudden, devastating realisation.

She loved Sherlock Holmes. The one she was with. The one she'd shared visions and dreams with.

The one who appeared to be just as attracted to her - at least physically - as she was to him.

The question was, what was she going to do about it?

A/N: Many thanks to Nocturnias for reading this over for me. And many thanks to you, my faithful readers, for sticking with me. I love your comments and look forward to hearing what you think of this chapter!