A/N: Was literally drying off from my shower this morning when this little bit of K+ rated angst came to me. Had to dash into the bedroom and scribble it down. The title comes from the time I wrote it and also from when I've decided Sherlock goes to Molly's flat after getting back from the trauma of Sherrinford.
He comes to her, bruised, bandaged, broken, begging forgiveness, words tumbling, trembling from his lips like fractured, flawed gems.
Explanations and apologies offered, she embraces him, gently tells him there's nothing to forgive, now that she knows the truth of his lies.
Not lies, he protests, eyes pleading for her to understand this truth; though it be plain it is far from simple.
She takes his hand, draws him into her home, her heart, her soft, sweet welcoming self, and he is content to follow where she leads, always, always.