Now I know she'll never leave me,

Even as she fades from view.

She will still inspire me,

Be a part of everything I do…


The dreadful, heavy silence that had descended upon Molly's flat was broken by the sound of her landline ringing. Molly walked to it and picked up the receiver. "Hello?" She listened for a moment, her expression a poker face, and then said, "Thank you. I'll be ready." Then she hung up the phone.

After a tense moment of silence, Molly walked back towards Sherlock, once again taking the position of standing over him. He just sat there in the armchair, for once at a complete loss for words, even as the razor-sharp terror of watching Molly leave him still pressed against his chest like a deadly weapon.

"My car will be here in fifteen minutes," Molly said calmly. "That's more than enough time to complete my 'healing process,' as you put it. You still have one more truth to tell me."

Sherlock hadn't been expecting that, and he desperately racked his mind for anything that he may have left out of his telling of all that had happened since Mary's death. But he couldn't think of anything that he had left out, even by accident. He really hadn't held back in telling Molly what had happened, even the part about him smashing her coffin to pieces in reaction to finding out how Euros had tricked him. What could she possibly believe he wasn't telling her?

And then, Molly's answer did what Molly so often managed to do where so many other failed: it shocked him.

"Tell me that you don't love me."

Actually, 'shocked' was a bit of an understatement right now. If Molly had just pulled a gun out of her dress pocket and shot him in the groin, he doubted he would be as completely gob-smacked as he was now.

"Woah, now don't you go taking a leaf out of my book and start giving her ideas!" warned Mary, still seated on the sofa.

Sherlock blinked hard a few times, hoping to make Mary go away (for quite frankly, she wasn't helping him right now). But Molly, of course, couldn't hear Mary. Seeing that Sherlock wasn't replying, the pathologist sighed impatiently and then continued in a strong, but quieter, voice:

"We both know that you didn't mean it, Sherlock. I knew that you wouldn't mean it when I asked you to say it. But if I was going to finally say those words, out loud, to you…I needed to be able to pretend that what I felt wasn't unrequited, just long enough for me to get those words out. But I'm done with false hope; it only hurt me in the end. What I need now, no matter how much I wish it were different, is the truth. So please…" With a resigned look on her face but the echo of great heartbreak in her eyes, she motioned with her hand for him to say the words she was asking him to say.

Sherlock opened his mouth – nothing came out. He tried again – still nothing. She'd made it clear what she wanted him to say, and it was not a difficult request…was it? The words were simple enough…when had he ever had trouble with words?

Not caring anymore how it would look, Sherlock looked at the Mary his mind was projecting into the scenario. The expression on her face held the only true answer he had: a perfect mixture of sadness and uncertainty.

Looking back at Molly, Sherlock was finally only able to get two words out, barely more than two breaths: "I…can't."

Molly's reaction was to turn her back on Sherlock, her arms coming up to hug herself tightly. But Sherlock caught a glimpse of the anger and hurt flooding her face just before she did.

Leaping to his feet but not approaching her, Sherlock began to plead for his life:

"No, Molly, it's not like that! I don't want to hurt you any more than I already have, truly I don't. But…I can't say that because I…I truly don't know if it's true or not. I'm not sure of anything anymore…"

He felt his throat becoming tighter and his eyes beginning to itch and burn with moisture, but he pushed through both.

"For years, I thought I had only an older brother. That I had a dog for a best friend who was put down. That sentiment and emotion were nothing more than inconvenient weaknesses to be pushed away permanently. Worst of all…that no matter what I did, what I said, what happened…you would always forgive me and be there whenever I needed you."

Molly didn't move to turn around or look at him. But she stayed where she was, at least. Mary, sitting on the edge of her seat on the sofa, looked at Molly with the same desperation as Sherlock. "Please hear him out, love," she said. "He's really trying."

Sherlock continued in a softer voice that was no less desperate to the back of her head. "Molly…if you or anybody asked me right now whether or not I'm in love with you…I wouldn't be able to give a definitive answer. I'm sorry. It's all so raw right now…my mind and heart have been vivisected these past forty-eight hours. But one of the few things that I can be sure about is that I care for you much more than you believe that I do. You are one of the very, very few people in my life that I can absolutely trust, that counts to me and that I can count on…But I can see now that…you can't say the same about me…"

And Lord, that made him feel sick. "You've no one to blame but yourself for that," said Mary, with all of the disappointment he knew that everybody felt in this situation.

He took a deep breath. Each word was getting harder and harder to say, because they consisted of truth that he had yet to voice aloud until now.

"I've said that I won't stop you leaving, and I will keep my word about that. I see now that trying to keep you here would mean hurting you even more than I already have. You may not believe me, Molly, but…the last thing I would…want is for you to…regret knowing me…"

He heard Molly take a deep and shuddering breath, the kind one takes when they're doing everything in their power to keep from crying. When she spoke again, her voice was so soft that Sherlock had to strain to hear. "I think I started doing that yesterday, Sherlock…I don't know if that's still true, but…I know that I still hate myself..."

Nothing that Molly had said or done since he'd seen her today hurt his heart as much as her last words did. He looked at Mary, who leapt up from the sofa looking every bit as horrified as he felt now. Her expression told him to do something now; he didn't need to see that to know that.

"Molly, no," he said – no, pleaded. He couldn't help but take a step closer to her now, making sure not to get too close. "Please, no, Molly! Tell me what I can do, there has to be something I can do. Please, Molly, what can I do?"

Mary folded her hands and pressed them to her mouth, looking at Molly in terrified anticipation, just like Sherlock. For a minute, Molly didn't move; she still stood with her back to Sherlock and as tense as a piano wire. Then, she turned about ninety degrees clockwise, so Sherlock could at least see her profile now. Her face was pinched in deep and conflicted thought (he knew that look well enough from personal experience), and Sherlock barely breathed as he waited for her to respond.

"Just be glad that she's thinking it over," Mary tried to reassure. "At least she didn't say that there's nothing you can do…then again, she still may once she's thought it over…"

Not. Helping. Sherlock thought this as loudly as he could.

Finally, Molly spoke softly, more to herself than to Sherlock, with her eyes closed. "I'm going to regret this…"

"You won't," Sherlock immediately replied in eagerness to prove himself and relief that she'd thought of something that he could do for her. He didn't even care what it was that she would propose!

Molly turned another ninety degrees so that she ended up facing Sherlock. When she looked at him, her expression was both steely and wary. "You said that Baker Street won't be all fixed for at least a few weeks?"

Sherlock nodded, not daring to hope that Molly was suggesting what he dearly hoped she was suggesting.

She took a deep breath that ended in a sigh. "I'm contemplating letting you stay here, but there would be critical conditions."

"Name them," Sherlock immediately replied, his heart lifting at this chance to prove himself.

"Aww," Mary chuckled. "Shall I compare you to a little boy or a little puppy?"

It was a testament to Sherlock's desperation that he didn't give a damn what Mary would choose and completely ignored her taunt.

"It goes without saying to just about anybody else, but I'll spell it out for you: this flat had better be spotless when I come back, let alone still habitable for a human being to live in. You also will not give my neighbors any disturbances or grievances with things such as playing your violin at all hours or conducting experiments in here that would create loud noises or nauseous smells. In other words, if I let you stay here, you will behave like a good, respectful and responsible adult and tenant."

"Wow, doesn't she sound just like your mother when she's cross!" exclaimed Mary with great admiration and humor.

Again, Sherlock ignored her, his sole focus being Molly. He really couldn't blame her for spelling that condition out for him, considering his own history of treatment with his own flat. He nodded and said, "I understand." He meant it, too.

Molly seemed to sense that, even if she was wary about fully trusting it. She took a small step towards him, her gaze becoming intent on him. Sherlock knew that, whatever she would request from him next, this was of the most paramount importance.

"I need you to promise me something, Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded, already willing to jump off the St. Bart's roof if that was what she wanted him to do. "History doesn't need to repeat itself, love," muttered Mary.

"What is it, Molly?" asked Sherlock softly.

Molly's gaze suddenly opened, her large brown eyes getting brighter, allowing herself to be just a bit vulnerable in front of him. Such was the importance of her request.

"Sherlock…I'm in love with you. And I want to be loved in return, and someday have a family of my own. That is how I feel, and that is what I want. Those two facts won't change when I come back, but hopefully I will be stronger and better when I do. You say that you honestly don't know what you feel for me and what you want from me right now; just that there is something there. By the time I come back, I need you to be clear in your mind and heart, be honest with yourself and with me, about what you feel for me and what you want from me. Can you do that?"

The detective knew that what Molly was requesting wasn't in any way unreasonable. If anything, it was what she had deserved from the very beginning that he'd been unwilling to even try to figure out. Just as he was committed to help his family's situation with the truth, he knew that he would do that to help this situation with Molly. "I will do my best, Molly," he replied sincerely.

Slowly, Molly nodded, accepting his answer. "I need the truth, Sherlock. No matter what it is. So, I'll tell you another truth: if it turns out whatever you feel for me, whatever you want from me, isn't the same as what I feel and want from you…then you can't be in my life anymore. If it turns out that what we feel and want from each other isn't the same, then I need to be able to move on and find what I want. If you care about me at all – which is the only thing you can say for sure right now – then you'll do this for me both while I'm away and when I come back."

All Sherlock could do in response was nod, hold her gaze, and hope that Molly saw him now as she had always seen him: clearly.

Then, a knocking on Molly's door broke the intense moment between them, causing both to jump a bit. Molly immediately composed herself, walked to the front door, and opened it. A middle-aged man with a kind face stood at the door, a driver's cap in his hand. "Hallo, ma'am. You ordered a car to take you to –"

"Yes, thank you," Molly interrupted, but with a smile. "You're right on time."

"Any baggage I can take out for you?"

Molly pointed to the Samsonite suitcase next to her landline. "Just this, thank you. I'll be out in a minute."

"Very good, ma'am," said the driver. He nodded at Sherlock after taking the suitcase. Once he had left, Molly picked up her purse and slung the strap over her left shoulder. Looking at Sherlock, having said everything that she needed to say, Molly could now only say, "Well…you know where the spare key is. I'd prefer you use that rather than pick my locks. Please don't make me regret this…Good-bye."

Molly walked to her front door and opened it.

"Molly?" Sherlock called her name, one last plea and his most desperate one. At first, he didn't know what he wanted to say. He only knew that he didn't want the last words spoken between them to be 'good-bye.'

Molly stopped and turned her head to look at him, clearly saying 'what?' with her eyes.

His own eyes burning, it finally hit Sherlock that nothing would ever be the same with Molly again. She had always been a rock for him, a rock that he wasn't even aware of most of the time, but one that he was losing because he hadn't let himself be the same for her. Truly realizing this now, Sherlock could only ask one final question:

"Can you ever forgive me?"

The weary exasperation on Molly's face melted into a sad understanding. She slowly walked to him, holding his gaze, and Sherlock hardly dared to breathe. As she saw him, really saw him, Sherlock caught a glimpse of his Molly in those large brown eyes. Then, Molly lifted her hand and lightly touched his cheek. Sherlock didn't realize that he'd shed a tear until she brushed it away. Finally, Molly replied with one word:

"Someday."

With that, her dark eyes became shuttered again. Her hand dropped, she turned walked through her front door and shut it behind her.

Sherlock stood there in the middle of her sitting room, for how long he didn't know. Eventually, he raised his hand and touched the spot on his cheek where the tear had fallen and her fingers had brushed it away. The spot burned, and blood was rushing in his ears. He finally looked at Mary again, who gave him a sad smile as she shook her head.

"You don't need me to say what you just figured out, do you?"

"No…" Sherlock breathed, for just like that, everything had become clear to him – how he felt and what he wanted.

In the next moment, he was bolting for the front door and throwing it open. "Molly!" he called out as he went up the steps to the sidewalk.

But there was no car there. No driver. No Molly.

It was too late. They were gone.

She was gone.

"She's not gone forever, Sherlock." Mary had followed him outside, and put herself in his line of sight. "You hear me, Sherlock? She's not gone forever. Come back inside before you attract attention, ok?"

Like a zombie, Sherlock obeyed her. Before going back inside, Sherlock bent down and took the spare key from under her cheery welcome mat. After shutting the door behind him, he slipped the key into the pocket of his coat, which was still hung up with his scarf on the coat rack. He decided to stay here for a while, and be here when Lestrade came by with his tech team.

When he re-entered the sitting room, his eyes found the kitchen, and the two items on the kitchen counter: a broken mobile and a pink rose. The fact that Molly had never noticed its presence could only mean that she had both consciously and sub-consciously been avoiding her kitchen like a crime scene. Sherlock's heart saddened even more.

He walked to the kitchen counter, and made to pick up both items, but paused. That mobile wouldn't do him any good, and not only because it was broken. It was a reminder of why Molly had to go, and Sherlock didn't need an extra reminder of that. So, he only picked up the rose and walked back into the sitting room.

Sitting on the sofa – where Molly had been sitting – Sherlock stared at the rose. It was nearly fully bloomed, and barely a flaw could be seen on it. His fingers were aware of the thorns on the stem and avoided them. As he looked at the rose, a memory of Molly flooded his mind from years ago…

He'd been sitting alone in Baker Street, having just dismissed a potential client for not having an interesting enough case. Suddenly, he heard the sound of light footsteps hurrying up the steps to his flat. In the next moment, Molly appeared in the open front door, wearing her cherry jumper and without a purse. He hoped that this meant she had discovered something on her shift, either with a cadaver or in the lab, that she thought was intriguing enough to grab his attention. And he was right. A moment later, the both of them were rushing with absolute excitement out of 221B and back to St. Bart's…

Again, Sherlock's eyes burned as he realized that he may never experience pure moments like that with Molly again. He didn't have enough of them in his memory…he hadn't allowed himself to have nearly enough…

Without really making the conscious decision to do so, Sherlock went through in his mind various instances when he had denied her, and himself, the chance he so desperately wanted now. With each new memory, Sherlock plucked a petal from the rose and let it flutter to the carpet. Memory after memory, petal after petal…

The only thing that stopped him was the sound of his mobile ringing from his coat pocket.

"I'll bet that's my hubby," said Mary, sitting beside him on the couch. "I'm sure he's worried about you after you rushed out like that."

With that, Sherlock was pulled out of that headspace of hopelessness. His situation was not hopeless, he told himself as he set the rose down on the coffee table and got up from the sofa. As he walked to his coat, he reminded himself that these last forty-eight hours had given him the chance to prove himself a good man in the future: to his family, to his friends, and to Molly.

He didn't know if he would succeed, but he would try. And he would start by answering John's concerned phone call.

As he answered the call, Mary gave him a small, proud smile and vanished with a reassuring wave.

The rose on the coffee table had just one pink petal left.


Wasting in my lonely tower,

Waiting by an open door,

I'll fool myself she'll walk right in...

And as the long, long nights begin...

I'll think of all that might have been,

Waiting here for evermore…


A/N: So that's the end of this story - glad I managed to get that image of Molly in the ending TFP scene in there. I'm sorry that the updates took a long time; I spent a lot of time trying to get it just right. I wanted it to end on a sad but hopeful note; after all, Beauty and the Beast doesn't end with "Evermore," does it?

Again, the song itself belongs to Disney, Alan Menken and Tim Rice. Listen to either the Dan Stevens recording or the Josh Groban cover; both are brilliant. And someday, if I get enough reviews for this little story, I just may write a follow-up that resembles the end of this beautiful fairy tale.