Thank you to everyone for the reviews, suggestions, and support! I really appreciate all of the feedback. I always try to reply to it. Thank you also to the guest and to Arcoiris for the reviews, and for pointing out that my summary needed an update. In all honesty, I hadn't re-read it since Chapter 3.

And now, the big reveal. :)

Chapter 19, In Which Love is Revealing

She wasn't there.

Sherlock had walked in, a mask of confidence displayed on his face. "Mol-", he began, and his eyes were met only with an empty bed and the quizzical expression of Inspector Lestrade, jotting some last minute information down in his pad of paper.

Greg smirked at the confused scowl on Sherlock's face. "She's getting her cast on, Sherlock. She's fine – she's nearly done - she'll be back in – maybe ten minutes, tops. How're John and Mary?"

Sherlock shook his head and replaced his confused expression with one of cool indifference. "Of course. Obviously. And – good. Fine. Or, they will be. I expect Mary is in a great deal of pain, right now."

Greg nodded, bemused. "Right. Naturally." Greg stood, stretched, and tucked his pad of paper into his back pocket.

Sherlock noticed, and deduced that he'd probably taken Molly's statement. Good. He should probably read it so he didn't have to ask her what she'd gone through. Probably wouldn't want to talk about it. And although he…held a deep regard for her…her tears were still something he wanted to avoid, at this particular moment in time. Now that the adrenaline was fading, he wasn't sure if he could react so…naturally and kindly to her tears, twice in one day.

"I need to see Molly's statement," said Sherlock.

Greg paused, raising a suspicious eyebrow.

"Please," Sherlock added, rolling his eyes, and holding out his hand expectantly.

Greg shook his head. "No."

Now Sherlock raised his eyebrow suspiciously.

"No, Sherlock – you can ask her what happened yourself. It'll…help her process everything. She needs to work through it. Physically, she'll be fine – just a broken thumb that'll heal-"

"-in approximately six weeks, yes. It will affect her work, but she should still be able to do lab and paperwork without too much trouble on her part-"

"For goodness sake, Sherlock! Are you really just concerned about lab access? Jeez-"

"No!" Sherlock protested, glaring at Lestrade. Of course not. He was thinking about Molly. Had he mentioned himself at all? No.

Greg studied his face, frowning, and sighed. "Answer's still no. Ask her yourself. Like I was saying, physically she'll be fine, but getting kidnapped, and blown up, and – all that – it'll take her a while to – well, to be herself again, Sherlock. She'll get there – she's already on her way." He shook his head and smiled to himself. "She's a strong woman. She'd have to be though, to be friends with the likes of us, eh?" He looked up at Sherlock, and his expression softened. "You did good out there, Sherlock."

Sherlock frowned. Of course he'd done good – everyone was alive, right? Well – everyone that counted. Jim and Janine were through with their scheming, weren't they? He just stared at Lestrade.

Greg sighed again. "Not just with the case, Sherlock. After. Rescuing her. Coming with Molly to the hospital. Couldn't have been easy for you – with…emotions, and her crying…I know…er…ah, forget it. Just…good job, right?"

Sherlock blinked and smirked in reply, but inside his mind suddenly sparked with Greg's comment - couldn't have been easy for you – but he was wrong – it was frighteningly easy to be with Molly in that moment – to hold her, and touch her, and comfort her. It was now – standing with Greg, waiting for Molly – that was difficult.

Greg rolled his eyes. "Aaand…now I'm feeding the ego. Are you going to wait for her, Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"Are you going to wait for Molly? Stay with her, for a bit? I've got some calls to make – Scotland Yard, and I'll phone Mrs. Hudson, since you probably haven't done it, and let her know Mary's here in labor, and everyone is fine. And the statements, and…well…Molly doesn't have anyone else here, Sherlock. She doesn't want to be alone, yet. Will you stay with her, at least until I get back?" He gave Sherlock a hard gaze.

"Yes." Sherlock answered simply.

Greg hesitated. "Right. Okay. You won't get bored and leave if she doesn't get back in the next five minutes?"

"No! I – I need to speak with Molly. Tie up loose ends of the case. Get her 'statement'." He said the last words with a mocking distaste.

"Right." Greg looked at him, suspicious again. "Okay. Text me if you need to leave. Mrs. Hudson will probably come visit her, too, after checking in with Mary and John. All right?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes."

"Right then," Greg said, walking past Sherlock. He stopped at the door, turning to look back at Sherlock. "And…be nice to her, Sherlock. You might have recovered quickly – course you did – but she's still a bit shaken up. Don't…push too hard, all right?"

Sherlock turned his back in reply, muttering "Whatever you say, Grayson," and settled into the chair by Molly's bed that Greg had just left. Greg shook his head again, not bothering to correct him, and strode down the hospital hallway.

Greg was halfway to the canteen for a cup of coffee, after his many phone calls and a quick check-up on John and Mary, when he realized that his statement pad was missing.

Sherlock sat in the chair previously occupied by Lestrade and frowned at the statement pad in front of him. It had been extremely simple to pickpocket the detective inspector. Sherlock snorted. He'd tried to convince the Yard for years that pickpocketing performance and prevention should be a component of the academy, but had always met with scoffing and incredulous looks. Perhaps now George would listen to him.

As he looked over the notes, his frown lessened. Molly had done an admirable job at executing her escape. His lips twitched into a half-smirk as he read of her escape from the handcuffs, and sneaking out of her trainers, and her fight on deck.

After reading through Lestrade's shorthand once, he read through it a second time. Yes, her account lined up with his deductions.

But for some reason, he felt apprehension, as well as relief and pride. He was proud of her cleverness and ingenuity, of course, and happy she was alive…but she never would have experienced any of those particularly trying things, if it weren't for him. He frowned. Perhaps she would not want to attempt any sort of…experiment with him, after all. He had not considered that possibility before – that he might want her, but she may not want him.

Sherlock was brought from the dark path his thoughts had begun to take with the sound of approaching footsteps and a familiar voice awkwardly, repeatedly stammering thanks to the nurse escorting her back to her room.

He straightened in his chair, and prepared himself mentally for her arrival.

"Thank you, again," Molly smiled warmly at the slightly-past-middle-aged nurse who wheeled her into the room. The hospital staff had insisted she should stay wrapped in blankets for as long as possible, and so they'd collected her and brought her back in a wheelchair. As the nurse backed the chair into the room and turned Molly to face the bed, she started.

"Oh! Another visitor, dear!" The nurse smiled warmly at him, and Sherlock returned it with a cool gaze. He wanted her to leave, but was too busy cataloging Molly's reaction to his presence in the room to come up with a cutting remark or snide observation that would send her running.

When she first saw him, Molly's eyebrows rose pleasantly, and her lips parted slightly before forming a small, nervous smile. She coloured, just a bit, and allowed the nurse to help her into the bed, tucking the blankets in around her, as she greeted him.

"Hello, Sherlock."

So, she was pleased to see him. He could proceed. Relief – endorphins – buoyancy, again? He snapped the notepad shut with a sharp jerk of his wrist, and dismissed the nurse with a wave of his hand. The nurse stayed a moment longer, to ask if Molly needed anything, before leaving the room.

His eyes traveled clinically over her body, confirming that a broken thumb, now wrapped in a cast with the rest of her wrist and hand, was the worst of her injuries, and that she would be able to go home soon – tomorrow afternoon, at the latest, before his eyes came to rest on her face.

Her warm brown eyes met his for a full five seconds before her blush deepened and she looked away.

He was suddenly filled with a pleasant warmth and a feeling of quiet focus that usually only accompanied crime-solving or violin-playing. He moved to place the notepad on the little half-table near the hospital bed, and his motion caught Molly's eye.

Of course, she would recognize it as Greg's statement pad. "Did – did Greg give that to you, Sherlock?"

"No," he answered slowly, carefully cataloging the reactions his mind and body were experiencing – still buoyant – warmth – amazing focus – stillness – extremely…agreeable, watching her watch him from a nest of soft blankets.

"So…you…stole it?" She tried again, watching his expression soften. It was curious and beautiful – a relaxing of the skin around the eyes, around the lips, a slight slackening of the jaw – and his eyes. Oh, his eyes – they were so intensely focused on her, and it confused her. Why – why would he look at her like that?

"Yes," he confirmed, watching with a bemused expression as she floundered to find a space to focus her gaze on. He assisted her by taking her right hand in his own, lightly, carefully resting her fingers on his palm and grazing his thumb on her knuckles. It worked. She stared at their hands, eyes wide, blinking rapidly. Not an experiment, Sherlock justified to the scowling Mind John, merely observation and data collection – and oh! Sensations and tingling and pinpricks where the pads of her fingers met his palm – curious! "I needed to know what happened. To you."

"Oh," she breathed, and looked back up at him again. "You – you couldn't just ask me? Or…or 'deduce' me?" A teasing smile crept up.

He smiled, just a bit, at her, too. "You weren't here, at the moment."

She blinked and looked back at their hands. Sherlock's other hand now covered hers – her good hand was sandwiched, quite pleasantly, between his. She barely dared to move. "Right," she whispered.

Why – why was he doing this? Everyone was safe – she was safe – was this – was this another thank you? For what? For not dying? Or maybe – an apology? For not – for not choosing to…save her, first? For arriving, late?

Whatever the reason, it felt…nice. Too nice. Oh, her heart!

Molly swallowed nervously. Sherlock noticed the shift in her expression – from pleasant surprise to nervous confusion, and acted accordingly.

"I'm very glad you're alive, Molly Hooper." His voice, normally formal and detached, was attempting to be warm and sincere, and was just a little hesitant, and caused her to meet his eyes. His lips curved into a small, genuine smile, and her breath caught in her chest.

"M-me too," she exhaled, and smiled nervously.

They sat, in slightly awkward silence, and she could feel Sherlock tense, in his hands and in his face, as she bit her lip and tried to work this experience through.

He doesn't – doesn't need to apologize. I mean…he…it's not my fault, and it's not Sherlock's fault, it's Jim's fault, and well…he'd know that…is it a thank you, then?

And Molly remembered, belatedly, that she meant to thank him, for saving her life, on the boat.

"Thank you!" She blurted out suddenly, turning to look him full in the face. Sherlock started a bit at her outburst, and his grip on her hand loosened.

"For what?" He asked, confused.

She pulled her hand away from his, waving it through the air for emphasis. "For…for the lessons. Self-defense. You…you saved my life, Sherlock. I…" she blushed again, looking down at her other, broken hand. "I never would have…escaped, if it weren't for you. The…handcuffs, the fight…it was you who taught me. I…remembered. It was like…you were in my head." She mumbled the last bit, then looked at him again. "So…thank you."

He cleared his throat before answering. "You're welcome."

Nearly all the signs – her wide eyes, increased heart rate, flushed skin, indicated that she enjoyed his presence, and this… 'hand-holding'. And his own slightly elevated heart rate, paired with the warmth and acuity of his senses, indicated that he also enjoyed it. So why did she pull her hand away?

Sherlock frowned, and very gently, very deliberately took her hand back in between his own. Ah – sensation of emptiness – too light, without – her hand, warm – in his. Interesting. He watched her face for signs of acceptance or rejection.

She blinked in confusion, but didn't pull away. "Sherlock," she said slowly, eyes on their hands, "what is this about?"

Her heart pounded in her chest, and she did her best to squash the hope rising in it. Don't be silly, Molly. Don't be – don't be -

And the words Sherlock had planned so carefully, about chemical reactions and synapses and neurons and experiments, failed him temporarily. He had two choices – pretend it was nothing – a thank-you, a comfort, as a friend - or open himself up to her. He frowned at their hands, unsure of which to choose. He looked up, to gather data from her face and expression, and was met with the sweetly furrowed brow of his pathologist – his Molly.

She was confused, yes, but – her eyes, and lopsided smile, and earnest countenance – they all served to encourage him. He could tell she wanted to understand, she was open to listening, to hearing him out.

"It's…about…" he swallowed once, a sharp prick of uneasiness in his stomach catching him off guard.

There is nothing to be nervous about. If she…doesn't…want this, then you're just back where you were before. No worse off. Nothing lost. In fact…might be better, that way. But…only one way to know, for sure.

"It's about…" he closed his eyes, exhaling sharply, focusing on the feel of her hand in his and the warm clarity he'd been experiencing just moments before. And so, after a moment to regain his composure, Sherlock Holmes made his choice. When he opened his eyes, he did not attempt to hide himself – his thoughts, his emotions, his feelings - from Molly. It was a subtle thing – but he trusted that Molly Hooper would notice.

She did.

The moment he let his guard down, she noticed. She'd been watching him think, and when he opened his eyes – it was like an unfolding – like a falling away. It started in his eyes – a slight relaxing of the lines around his eyes, a slight dilation of the pupils – and then the tension in his shoulders fell away and the hum of nervous energy that usually accompanied him lowered an octave.

It was a lovely gift, and in an almost unconscious reaction to it, Molly let her guard down as well. She relaxed, and it may have been the mixture of exhaustion and the rush that comes from surviving a near-death experience, but she just didn't care anymore about squashing the hope in her chest, or convincing herself that she could never have Sherlock, or protecting her heart from trauma. At that moment, she opened herself up to the possibility that perhaps, someday, Sherlock Holmes could love her, and perhaps tomorrow, or the next day, or even years from now, she'd regret opening her heart again, but not tonight.

They stared at each other – reading each other silently – and for once, there was no winning or losing or intimidation on either side – it was just intimate and honest communication without talking.

And then Sherlock broke the silence. Molly might have called it a magical, or miraculous moment, the one they'd just shared – but Sherlock would have scoffed at either of those sentimental words – he was still a man of science, after all.

"When I thought you had died, it was extremely unpleasant." His voice broke Molly out of her reverie, and she refocused on listening, a small smile twitching at her lips.

Ignoring her amusement – why on earth would she find that amusing? – Sherlock continued. "I found that my heart rate was increasingly irregular, my fine motor control was lacking, my respiratory system found it difficult to function…I felt dizzy, weak…and…my mind - " he cleared his throat – "I found it nearly impossible to concentrate on anything, except the fact that…you were dead. Obviously, you weren't, but at the time, the probability indicated that you were. The affects your apparent death had on my physical, mental, and emotional state were immediate and adverse."

He looked up at her, and found that her expression had changed to one of intense concentration and sympathy. Before she could apologize for causing him grief – because she would apologize for that, he was certain – he continued. "It was obvious at once that you were an important part of my life, and that your loss would be missed immensely. And when you appeared, clinging to the ladder of the boat, I was…not angry, but…concerned. Not angry you were alive," he corrected quickly, noticing her confused, slightly hurt expression, "but angry – concerned - that I had allowed you to become such an…important part of my life. Of me."

He focused a very serious gaze on her face, and held her, breathless, with his eyes. "It was apparent to me that I was on very dangerous ground, Molly Hooper. Loosing you was…extremely detrimental to my mental acuity. But the moment I pulled you onto the boat, and you…we were together, every adverse physical reaction ceased nearly immediately. My heartbeat became regular, I quickly regained control of my faculties, my mind cleared, and I was able to focus."

Sherlock ran a hand through his hair, sighing. "As a rational man, I should have seen to your safety and pulled away, distancing myself from the affects of…of this physical-emotional connection. I almost did. But I also reviewed past interactions, and realized that although…this…connection to you could be extremely dangerous, I also realized that it has been very beneficial, to myself, in the past. Countless times you have helped me, Molly Hooper, and on more than one occasion, you have saved my life. You know of at least two occasions, of course – the fall, and the time I stayed with you, after the fall. There were more times, when…" here he paused, embarrassed.

Molly nodded, encouraging, lips parted slightly and eyebrows raised in a sort of shock. She was still processing, silently, everything that Sherlock was telling her. Confessing.

Did she suffer a concussion in the blast? Is she in a coma? Dreaming? Asleep? She thinks she must be.

"…when you helped me…much in the same way I helped you escape Moriarty's boat. Knowledge, advice, imparted…internally, at a moment of crisis. I have come to realize through John, Mrs. Hudson, Mary, and yourself, that…caring, about others, is not necessarily a disadvantage. It can be, but it doesn't have to be. You have all been…better to me, more to me, than I deserve. And I may not acknowledge it, often, but…you all matter, immensely, and I am…grateful for your care."

He paused again, still holding her gaze with his own. "I…I…have a deep regard for you, Molly Hooper."

She nodded, and smiled gently, but her heart fell, just a bit, at his words. Just a thank you, then. A lovely, lovely, platonic thank-you. "I…I have a deep regard for you as well, Sherlock." She blushed, and broke away from his gaze.

"Yes – no," he looked away for a moment, frustrated. "I mean…with all of my…with all of you – you have all helped me in different ways, and I acknowledge and appreciate that help. My regard for all of you manifests itself in different ways. And…Moriarty knew what he was doing. He knew that hurting those close to me would…have a negative affect on my abilities. And everyone's pain – it did affect me. But yours – yours affected me – it affected me the most. What does that mean?"

She blinked, blushing again. Platonic…platonic…friendly love…she reminded herself. "I-"

"No – rhetorical question," he said quickly, "I've already formed a hypothesis on that. With everyone else – well, with those literal handful of – well, all of you-"

"It's – s'okay to call us friends, Sherlock," Molly said softly, smiling again at his reluctance to admit that he had friends.

"Right…with my literal handful of friends – I enjoy limited amounts of their mental and occasionally emotional company. But with you, I also enjoy…" he swallowed, closing his eyes once again (Was he ashamed? Embarrassed? Doubtful?) and opening them a moment later. "I enjoy this." He gestured to his hands holding hers. "I enjoy your physical presence as well."

"Hmm?!" Molly made a small, startled noise in her throat, and blushed again, more readily.

"Not sure when that particular phenomena began, but…I also find the sight of you and your scent quite stimulating."

Her eyes widened, and her face was lovely shade of tomato. "My…scent?"

"Well, not right at this moment, obviously…still smell like river water and oil, but generally speaking your everyday scent is quite pleasing. To me. I'm not speaking for the general populace."

And now Molly closed her eyes, thinking. Not platonic…not…what? "What…what does that mean?"

"Come now, Molly Hooper. Ignorance does not become you." But his voice was gentle, and…nervous?

And she was hesitant to answer. "You…love me?" And it was barely a whisper, and she stared at his hands, still entwined with her own, unblinking, afraid to hear the answer.

"I…," Sherlock began, but though he'd admitted to himself that he very well may love her, he could not bring himself to say those words aloud – not yet. "You count – you are the only woman, ever, to count - and maybe…with me – maybe that's the same thing."

He looked at her, pleasantly surprised at the way her gentle grip tightened as she pressed her palm to his and even more pleasantly surprised by his reaction to it - all of his energy focused on that single point of connection - willing her silently to lift her face so he could study more of her reaction, when the loud voice of Mrs. Hudson in the hallway interrupted their quiet conversation.

"Oooh, Greg! It's a girl! A lovely little lady! You'll have to come see her, when you're ready – and he did what? He – your statement pad? Well that is Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson paused as she and Inspector Lestrade reached the doorway.

And Sherlock's gaze darted between the doorway and Molly's now startled face, and his shoulders tensed and once again he was Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective, cool and indifferent to the world. But - he hesitated, for a fraction of a second, looking uncertainly at their hands.

And Molly - bless her heart - it was a testament to how well she knew him, her own gentle and patient and selfess nature - she smiled at him, squeezed his hand knowingly, and released him. "You...you count, to me too, Sherlock. Always have -"

Sherlock returned her smile with a quick, tight one of his own, before the door opened, and he turned to deduce Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, tossing the statement pad carelessly towards the Inspector and making a comment about the ease with which he'd been pickpocketed.

And Molly thought silently to herself, as Sherlock made an excuse to leave the room..."-always will."

And Sherlock paused suddenly at the doorway, turning to give her an almost imperceptible nod, and a small, knowing smile, before resettling his features into something more akin to the nonchalance and boredom he usually displayed. His mind was whirring, however, with the success of his conversation with Molly and what it might mean for the future. He had many scenarios to relive, rework, and test in his mind palace, and a conversation or two he needed to have with John.

Molly's face was positively radiant for the remainder of the evening, and her own heart was overflowing with love given and received.

Well...what do you think?

It's not over yet, folks...there are still a few lessons Sherlock needs to learn in regards to romantic love, especially. :)

Please let me know what you think. Thank you again!