"There was too much to be thought, and felt, and said, for attention to any other objects."

Xxx

The flight was long. Or, rather it felt long. Because for the seven hours that she spent trapped in the vessel, she couldn't think straight. Her ears hurt from the change in pressure. Her legs hurt from the cramped seats. Her eyes hurt from the lack of sleep. Her back hurt from hunching over her mother's bed for days upon days, holding her hand.

But most of all, her heart hurt. The pain was unexplainable. It was as if someone had taken a knife to it a dozen times, but had no desire to kill her. To just inflict pain. But before the pain would become unbearable, someone would treat the wound, generously healing the gashes, filling her with promises of health.

How could he do this?

Molly had asked herself that question about a hundred times since Ellen finally confessed what, or rather who, had brought them to New York. And as Ellen recounted the tale of Sherlock and Mycroft arriving in Leeds, tears in her eyes, Molly sat, paralyzed.

She knew that Sherlock was capable of a lot. She knew that Mycroft was capable of a lot. But together, the brothers could overturn government decisions, skirt past miles of red tape, dish out money like it grew on trees, and stand to the side as spectators, watching as the lives of others were so deeply affected.

How could she pay him back? What would she say to him? How could anything she could possibly do for Sherlock make them even?

Her stomach ached as she considered the financial cost. She would have to pay him back. She couldn't, in good faith, let the Holmes' brothers foot the bill for the journey.

And money aside, how could she ever thank him for his selflessness?

As she trudged back into her flat, late on a Sunday night, Toby greeted her. She picked the cat up and brought him to her chest, closing her eyes as a new onslaught of tears attacked her.

What was she to do now?

Her mother was back in Leeds, recovering from the operation, and waiting for her body to fight back. Her brother and Ellen would return to their regular lives, finally able to focus on work and their marriage instead of visits to the hospital.

But Molly?

Well, she was again single, her heart just a fraction of what it used to be. And now, she lived with the knowledge that Sherlock Holmes had made her mother's fight his own, and went behind her back to pick up the pieces of her broken family.

She wanted to be so angry. She wanted to hate the deceit, and the concealment, and his disappearance when she needed him most.

But she couldn't.

Because he had given her mother a chance at life when her own government refused to.

As tears cascaded down her face, she wondered if she could finally reopen the locked chamber of her heart. It had controlled the organ for some startling eight years, only ceasing control when she finally convinced herself that her unrequited love would remain just that. Ignored. Disregarded. Unappreciated.

Until Sherlock showed up, confessing love and appreciation and a desire to be with her. But how could she possibly believe those words, when for years she was treated like a subservient maid, functioning as a science journal, a barista, and a personal punching bag?

How could that be the same man that dropped by her flat with her favorite ice cream, or crawled around on the floor because it made his goddaughter laugh, or took her on a holiday to Scotland or…

Saved her mother's life, knowing he would gain nothing in the end.

He loves me.

Can I finally let myself love him?

Xxx

Molly spent the week trying to determine how to approach Sherlock. It was possible he still didn't know that she knew, but he had yet to contact her since their trip to Scotland.

That was more than a month of complete silence from the man. Her heart ached.

But then again, when had it not?

She stood in front of the door to 221b Baker Street, willing herself to take a steadying breath. Her stomach was knots, her hands were sweaty, and she was honestly concerned she would pass out. But, sheer will won out, and she stood there, waiting after a calm knock, for the door to open.

A few moments passed before John Watson opened the door, smiling at Molly in surprise. "Molly! Hi. How are you?"

Molly swallowed and walked in, looking around the flat. She turned back to John. "I've been better. Is Sherlock here?"

John sighed and shook his head. "Nope. That's why I stopped by. I was hoping I'd see him. Truthfully, I haven't spoken to him in two weeks."

Molly collapsed into Sherlock's chair and shut her eyes. "Do you know where he is?"

"Well, he texted me. Said he was abroad dealing with a sex ring or something for Mycroft."

Molly sniffled and just nodded, her gaze locked on the carpet, which desperately needed a cleaning. John swallowed and watched his friend.

"You want to talk?" He asked cautiously.

She shut her eyes and took a deep breath, wondering why she had even shown up. "I broke up with George a few weeks ago. He was going to propose and I… I just couldn't do it."

John just nodded, continuing to watch her, knowing she wasn't finished.

"And my mother is recovering from an operation that could save her life. One that she wasn't supposed to get. One that I recently discovered Sherlock was the mastermind behind."

John swallowed and looked down, unsure of what to say.

"Why did he do it?" She managed to choke out, her brown eyes leaking tears, "Why would he go through so much trouble for my mother? For my family? For me?"

John managed a small smile, for once sure of Sherlock's feelings on something. "Isn't it obvious, Molly? He loves you."

Molly shook her head and wiped her eyes. She took a shuddering breath and looked over at John. "I want to let him in, John. I really do. But I'm so scared he's going to hurt me again."

He nodded, his smile fading. "I know. I understand."

"What do I do?"

They stood in silence, staring at one another, both unsure of the next step. John sighed.

"My suggestion? Talk to him."

"I can't do that when he's not here," she whispered, perhaps with a bit of an attitude.

John couldn't help but laugh. "But he'll be back," he paused and sighed, "Eventually."

They remained in silence once again, John entertaining himself by looking over some of Sherlock's books, and Molly picking at her nails, the tears drying on her cheeks. Finally, John spoke up.

"So, will I see you at Greg's wedding? Can you believe how quickly they've knocked out this relationship? Dating for six months and the wedding two months after the engagement?" He laughed and replaced a book, looking back over at Molly, "I reckon after the first marriage failed, he just wanted this one to be quick and easy."

Molly forced a smile and nodded. "Yes, I'll be there. Alone," She sighed and stood up, "Now I only have two weeks to find a gift and a dress."

"I haven't told anyone yet but I…" He bit his lip and looked down, his cheeks turning a shade of red, "I have a girlfriend."

Molly couldn't help but whimper, happy to see John finally moving on. "That's wonderful, John. Will she be your plus one to the wedding?"

"I haven't asked her yet, but I sure hope so. Jane is just wonderful."

Molly smiled and nodded. She moved forward and hugged John, his scent comforting her like only Sherlock's could.

Because his smell reminds you of Sherlock. And Rosie. And all things that make you happy.

"Is it wrong for me to be so cautious with my heart?" She asked him, still in his embrace.

John just shook his head, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek. "With Sherlock, you can never be too cautious. But this time around, I promise you, everything will be right in the end."

With that, they exchanged goodbyes, before Molly disappeared from the flat. John cursed and glared at the skull on the mantle, his own heart aching after seeing Molly.

"Dammit, Sherlock. You've finally got her in your grasp and you just up and bloody disappear!"

The skull stared back.

John cursed and pulled at his hair.

"I'm becoming him. Talking to the bloody skull and all. What's next?"

He shook his head and grabbed his jacket, before also disappearing from the familiar flat.

Xxx

He was in Serbia. Or Slovakia. Or was it Slovenia?

All he knew was Mycroft requested his assistance, and Sherlock jumped at the opportunity to clear his head. To stop worrying about the outcome of the procedure. To stop worrying about how Molly was taking her mother's illness. To stop worrying about her pending engagement to George. To stop worrying about his sure to be permanent broken heart.

He cursed and took a whiff of his cigarette, dropping his head against the brick wall of the warehouse.

Since when do I worry?

As he moved to re-enter the warehouse, where one bullet stood between freedom for eighteen women, his mobile vibrated. He took the device out and quickly read the message.

You have two weeks. Don't fuck this up. – JW

Sherlock sighed and tucked his mobile away. He pulled out his gun and strolled inside, knowing other things would need to be accomplished first.

Sentiment. How awful.