A/N: I realized as I started writing this that it's a bit like my story "A Study in Ink" but what the heck, decided to finish it anyway instead of dumping it into my Fic Graveyard over on AO3.
Even if it's a lie
Say it will be all right
And I shall believe
- Sheryl Crow, I Shall Believe
Come to me now
And lay your hands over me
Even if it's a lie
Say it will be alright
And I shall believe
It's been six months since he leapt off the roof of St. Bart's and embarked on his lonely, self-imposed mission to rid the world of Jim Moriarty's spiderweb. Six months since he's been in London. Six months since he's laid eyes on anyone he knows - John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, his brother, his parents...Molly Hooper.
She's been amazing about this entire situation, so steady in her faith, making sure to execute her part of the plan with scrupulous attention to detail. It goes smoothly in large part because of her. Yes, he and Mycroft could probably have managed without her, but if you can take that one extra step to ensure success, why would you skip it?
He winces inwardly as he realizes he's just thought of Molly as an asset rather than a friend. She's not just an asset, even Mycroft agrees that she's more than a step above the average goldfish, and Sherlock needs to remember that, always.
Especially now, when he's breaking into her flat, covered in bruises and bleeding from a split lip.
He doesn't really need medical attention, but he knows she'll offer it to him. She'll fuss over him, she'll demand to know why he's in London, she'll worry and fret and offer him her bed so he can rest, which is the real reason he's here.
Not, he tells himself resolutely as the lock clicks open and he slips into her flat, because he misses her.
I'm broken in two
And I know you're on to me
That I only come home
When I'm so all alone
He comes back three months after that first, surreptitious visit, once again picking the locks and slipping inside while the tenants of the neighboring flats are at work. She's at work too, but due home soon.
He's not injured this time, has no excuse to visit whatsoever except the gnawing loneliness gaping wide in his - spirit? Soul? Emotional words, concepts he'd normally scoff at, but times like this he desperately needs a friendly face. He's taken down a huge chunk of Moriarty's network in France, the UK and parts of northern Europe - not bad for nine months' work - and deserves a rest. That's what he tells himself and it's what he'll tell Mycroft if his brother finds out he's slipped back into London again.
Seeing Molly that last time had made an incredible difference; he'd gotten sharper, more focused, and he knows seeing her again will be just as helpful as it was last time. That alone makes it more than worth the risk.
He allows himself a moment of wishful thinking; would it really be so bad if he were to contact John, let him know he's alive and what he's doing? He's wanted to reach out to his friend so many times, but he doesn't. He can't; what if John lets something slip, what if he accidentally gives something away that could put them both - all of them, Molly included - in danger? 'Loose lips sink ships' as his mother (and Mycroft) are so fond of saying, some old war motto that applies so well to John. John's a good man to have by your side, a crack shot, absolutely dependable in a crunch...but he blogs. He has a therapist and a sister who drinks. He doesn't like Mycroft (who does, really?) and it's not a far stretch to imagine him getting into a shouting match with him where someone might overhear.
No, he can't reach out to John. Nor to Lestrade; he's an officer of the law, and Sherlock is still a fugitive suspected of murder (although Mycroft is, slowly and methodically, working to correct that mistaken perception). Mrs. Hudson can hold her tongue but there's no way she'd be able to keep anything this important from John. Especially, Sherlock thinks with a fleeting smile as he settles down on Molly's sofa, considering that she's always insisted on believing the two of them to be involved in a romantic relationship.
"Couldn't be farther from the truth," he mumbles to himself as he sinks down into the plush cushions of the sofa. He longs to kick off his shoes, curl up and rest, but he can't. Not until Molly gets home, to act as an extra pair of eyes for him.
Funny how safe she makes him feel, he muses, fighting his body's need for rest. There's no way she could actively protect him should anyone come after him, even with her kickboxing lessons and the self-defense courses she's been taking in his absence (she'd be mortified that he knows about them, but it's there to read in the gym bag peeking out from under her bed, the hand wrap tape packaging in her kitchen trash, the newly-opened DVDs on karate and aikido wedged between the unused Pilates and other fad exercise discs).
Still, there it is: Molly Hooper makes him feel safe, no matter how ridiculous the concept, and he makes sure to tell her that when she arrives ten minutes later.
Her shy smile and flushed cheeks tell him how pleased she is to hear that, and he resolves to remind her more often in future how much she counts, how much he trusts her.
Come to me now
And lay your hands over me
Even if it's a lie
Say it will be alright
And I shall believe
That resolution is put to the test when next he sees her, a mere two weeks and three days after he leaves. This time he's bruised, battered and possibly even broken; two of Moriarty's former enforcers had discovered him in Belfast and attempted to make their dead bosses' last wish come true. Luckily for him he knew a trick or two that they didn't, and Mycroft had been anonymously informed that there was a bit of a cleanup needed in an abandoned warehouse kilometers from where Sherlock Holmes' ghost was actually supposed to be.
He'd endure a lecture on that matter, undoubtedly; part of the deal he had with his brother was to keep him informed of his general whereabouts in case he needed assistance.
She stops in the door to her spacious, almost impersonally decorated flat, seeing him sprawled on her sofa, then with a soft click the door closes behind her and she's dropping her coat and handbag and keys on the floor as she hurries to his side. She drops to her knees and looks at him with sympathy and pain in equal measures. "Oh, Sherlock," is all she says, but it's enough.
He can rest a little easier, knowing he's safe in Molly's small, capable hands.
He falls asleep half-way through her deft ministrations, waking only when she shakes him gently by the shoulder. "Whuzza?" he mumbles, opening one bleary eye to look at her.
"I said come with me now," she repeats, patient with him as he never deserves her to be. "You'll be more comfortable in my bed."
She blushes, and he finds it rather endearing that she can still be so shy around him, so uncertain. Hasn't he proven to her how much he trusts her, how much she truly counts? "Yes," is all he says, for fear of saying something cutting or hurtful by mistake.
She slips a shoulder under his arm and he doesn't hesitate to lean on her. If anyone can manage his weight, it's Molly Hooper.
(Her ability to handle heavy corpses is useful in more ways than one.)
Open the door
And show me your face tonight
I know it's true
No one heals me like you
And you hold the key
He won't return to London for another year after that; too dangerous, now that he's so close to the end. Too dangerous for her, too dangerous for their friends, too dangerous for him. But before he leaves he kisses her. Not a friendly kiss on the cheek or forehead, no; he kisses her like a lover parting from his loved one. Even if he doesn't say the words, he silently urges her to understand what he means by that kiss.
By the starry look in her eyes when he turns to give her one last look before slipping out of her door, she understands.
Good. He doesn't want to come home to find her dating some idiot, or worse - engaged, married, pregnant.
He wants her to have those things, of course, if that's what she truly wants, but he shies away from admitting, even to himself, that he wants her to have them only if she has them with him.
Never again
Would I turn away from you
I'm so heavy tonight
But your love is alright
And I do believe
This time he takes a greater chance, but he has to see her, now, today, before heading off to eastern Europe and the real possibility of not coming back alive.
He's waiting in the locker room, watches from a dark corner as she walks toward her locker, frowning and rubbing her shoulder (heavier corpse than usual, he deduces). He waits, ever the drama queen, until she's opened her locker before stepping closer so she can see his reflection in the mirror. She gasps and spins to face him, a smile on her lips, and he pulls her close and kisses her. Kisses her with all the desperation, all the emotion he still can't quite bring himself to name or say aloud, he feels.
She responds, oh how she responds, and he finds himself backing her against the lockers, pressing himself against her and then suddenly alone as she slips from beneath him.
He starts to say something - to protest, to apologize? - but remains silent as she hurries to the door, peeking out and down the hall, then shutting and locking it. Then she's back in his arms and yes, it wasn't quite what he'd intended, but they make love for the first time while lying atop his beloved Belstaff on the lino of the woman's locker room nearest the St. Barts morgue.
Grimy, grotty, but somehow appropriate, he thinks somewhat dazedly when his mind comes back online. Molly is snuggled up against him, skin glistening with sweat and a somewhat goofy (endearing) smile on her lips. "Well, I wasn't expecting that!" she exclaims happily. "Does this mean you're back for good, then?"
The answering smile on his lips fades, and he sees the same dimming of happiness on her face as he reaches out and strokes his fingers down her cheek. "I'm not actually back, Molly. I'm leaving for eastern Europe this evening. Mycroft doesn't know I'm back and he would have my head if he found out." He sighs, ducks his head, then looks back at her. "But I had to see you," he finally admits. "I had to be sure that, that we -"
"That we're still good," she finishes for him with a knowing nod. She still looks unhappy, but puts on a smile for his sake. "It's all right, Sherlock. I understand. Just…try to stay safe, okay?"
She doesn't say 'for my sake' and he knows that even if she did, it wouldn't be the truth. She wants him safe for his own sake; she's always been unselfish that way, and he holds her close and makes love to her a second time, stretching these stolen moments longer than he should. But when he leaves, when she's redonned her clothes and lab coat and redone her hair, he can't find it in himself to regret it, any of it.
He makes his flight, just barely, a charter from a small airfield in Fitton, the young captain reminding him vaguely of someone, but once in the air the only thing he can think about is Molly - and once they're over the Channel, he carefully locks his feelings for her, his memories of the time they just spent together, into a safe place and forces himself to focus on doing what he needs to do in order to return to her.
That not everything is gonna be the way
You think it ought to be
It seems like every time I try to make it right
It all comes down on me
Two years and three months after he'd first fallen from the roof of St. Barts, he returns to London - battered, bruised, beaten but unbroken. When he imperiously demands the return of his coat from his brother, the small, capable hands that hold it up so he can shrug into it aren't those of Mycroft's PA, but those of another, far dearer woman.
Dearer to him, that is. He's known about Mykie and 'Anthea' for years now, how despite his brother's outspoken and loudly pronounced 'beliefs' on sentiment and goldfish, he's never been able to keep this particular woman at arm's length.
But that's Mycroft, and he dismisses his brother and his brother's PA as he spins to face the smiling face of Molly Hooper. Her eyes are shining and her hands tremble just the tiniest bit as he clasps them in his. "Did you miss me?" he asks.
She gives a little giggle-snort and nods. "I knew you'd come find me, in the dead center of town, but I wanted to be here. So when Mycroft called, I dropped everything and, well, here I am."
Uncaring of the other two people in the room, he sweeps her into his arms. "I do believe, Molly Hooper," he whispers before covering her lips with his own, "that I can honestly say I'm more than grateful that you never gave up on me."