He knew there was a word for it, there had to be. A word for this feeling that was bubbling in his gut as he watched Molly Hooper stare intently down at the paperwork before her, a look of concentration on her face that might be the most beautiful he had ever seen. He knew she had to be the one to help him, there was no one else., and not because everyone else was already in danger. No, Molly Hooper was the only one who could help him to die. Molly Hooper absolutely did count, despite the disbelief he saw on her face when he tried to make her believe it. She was the only one who could save his life by ending it. It had to be her.

She glanced over at him, probably feeling his eyes on her, and for once he didn't look away. He held her gaze, accepting the soft smile that graced his lips. He was rewarded with a similar one from her, her cheeks tinting to that most becoming shade of pink. She wasn't conventionally pretty; she didn't have the brightly coloured eyes and the big lips that society for some reason desired. But she was beautiful, to him if no one else. He hated himself for the cruel words that he shot her at that Christmas party in Baker Street. Each blow hit his heart as much as hers, and yet he couldn't stop himself. In hindsight, he could see that he was jealous. He didn't like the prospect of Molly Hooper dressing up to impress another man. Jealousy wasn't very becoming for him, and he definitely owed her more of an apology than he gave her in that room, but he didn't recognise that then. Apparently, he was quite inept at naming the feelings Molly Hooper instilled within him.

"You okay?"

There she goes again, he thought. Molly Hooper, putting his needs above her own. He supposed it should be him asking her that question, after the bombshell he just dropped. So, for the first time, he did.

"Fine, Molly. I've had a lot of time to think about this. You, on the other hand, have not. Are you okay?"

She looked so taken aback that he couldn't fight the dreaded guilt that gripped his heart like a vice. That was one emotion that he could name for Molly Hooper – guilt. He stood from his stool and made his way around to her, pulling the stool next to her from beneath the lab desk and sitting down so he was facing her. She seemed to feel compelled to follow suit, shifting so that she was facing him as well. He couldn't quite find the words to explain the electricity that flowed through him when their knees touched. She took a deep breath and finally met his gaze again, the hands that she had been looking at still fidgeting in her lap.

"I- yeah, I think I am. I mean, it's not me that's going to be throwing herself off of a roof now is it?"

Her voice broke on the last few words and Sherlock allowed himself to act without thought. He seemed to be allowing that a lot tonight. But in the dark of the lab, whilst the rest of the world slept, it felt like it was just him and her and something about that felt perfectly natural. It was perfectly comfortable, which surprised him given their somewhat tumultuous past. He reached for her hand with his and gave it a squeeze. She accepted the gesture, loosening her grip so he could let her hand go when he wanted to. He didn't. He felt … something as her hand fit perfectly inside his, and he didn't want it to go away. It was comforting, warm. It was nice.

"I'll be okay, Molly."

His voice was softer than he had ever heard it, but he supposed Molly did inspire a softness within him. She offered him an environment in which he could be wholly himself, even if he didn't take it, and that was more than he could ever ask for. Oh yes, he did not deserve Molly Hooper's friendship. Her voice was barely a cracked whisper when she replied.

"But how do you know that?"

He sighed, and it shook a bit because he didn't. He didn't know if he would be okay. He didn't know if he would make it home to London, home to his friends, home to John, and home to Molly. Her brown eyes were searching his, glassy with tears and shattering with sadness but somehow still so strong. He felt his heart swoop as a sudden gravity washed over him. Because he really didn't know, and he hated not knowing.

"I don't."

He watched her face morph into a look more painful for him to look at than the glassy-eyed one he had been staring at moments before. A tear escaped, marring her cheek with its wet stream of hurt. It was enough to break him and his heavy breath laced with a sob came as a shock even to his own ears.

"Oh, Sherlock."

Her voice was a bundle of worry, pain, and love as she moved her hands to wipe away the few tears he hadn't realised were falling. Her hands were soft and warm against his skin. That unnamable feeling of electricity jolted through him again and he jumped. She almost pulled her hands away when he did so, but his hands shot up to cover her smaller ones to keep them in place. He saw a split second of surprise flicker across her features and felt a slight tension in her hands before she gave in, cupping his cheek a little more than she had before. It was tender, domestic, nice.

"Maybe we don't know, we can't know. We can't know anything for sure I suppose, not really. But we can hope. And I will hope for you every single day."

He hiccupped another sob as she spoke to him, somehow injecting a courage he didn't know was possible when one was so upset. He could feel both of their slow tears dropping onto his legs as she leant forward. The traitorous few drops were flowing freely now, no thumb pads stopping their tracks. It was cathartic to sit and feel with her, with his … his friend. Though, that word didn't seem quite good enough to describe Molly. She was more than a friend, she was his … well, his Molly Hooper. There was no other way to describe her other than simply herself. She had a uniqueness that was unmatched.

He looked at her again, really looked at her, and it struck him that he didn't know how long he was going to be gone either. If he did make it, if he was okay and the plan worked, how long would it take him to do what needed to be done? How long would he have to be away from the people he cared about so dearly? From the one who mattered the most? Her brow furrowed as she must have seen something in his expression. It couldn't have passed over his face for more than a second, but she always saw him. She moved her fingers, stroking them into his hair and across his temples before settling them on the sides of his face again, her fingertips applying slightly more pressure than they had before. It was a solid reminder of her presence and it stirred a welcomeness in him that was unrecognised.

"I'll be right here when you get back." She said it with courage, an affirmation. Then she hastened to add, "We all will."

He raised his hands to her face then, burning the image of her leaning into his touch into his mind. Her room was getting quite full now. His hands settled more than comfortably on her face as if they belonged there. He shifted forwards on his chair and brought his forehead down to hers. He felt a tension fly from his body when their heads touched.

He had expected her to panic, to pull away and blush furiously, but she didn't. She seemed to understand that this was exactly what he needed and so she stayed. And as he sat there, with his forehead against hers and their hands pressed to each other's cheeks, he finally understood. He finally understood that feeling. The words he was looking for were there, emblazoned on the door to her room in his mind. A Japanese phrase.

Koi no yokan

a gentle, unspoken feeling that you are about to fall in love

He knew there was a word for it.