A/N: This is a short chapter, but I wanted to keep the scene just between Molly and Sherlock. John and Mary will have their little comfort session in the next chapter, and then the story is nearly done. Thanks for reading and reviewing and being so patient!

Molly nervously sprang to her feet when the lounge door opened, just as she had the last two times, when family members of other patients had come into the room. This time, however, it was a familiar face that greeted her – the one she'd been hoping to see but not expecting.

Sherlock was scowling, but then, she doubted he'd wear any other expression when forced into a wheelchair. The nurse pushing him wore a look of exaggerated patience that told Molly more than words exactly how much grumbling Sherlock had been doing. "Here you are, Mr. Holmes," the older woman announced with forced cheer. She shook her head and made an exaggerated eye-roll as she added, "Dr. Hooper, he's all yours."

"Thanks, Florence," Molly called after the other woman as she finished pushing Sherlock over so that he was sat next to the low table covered with magazines. She waved one hand over her shoulder in acknowledgment, then the door swung shut behind her. Molly looked at Sherlock and tried a smile. "So. You're ready to go, then? Good, that's good, that's really good."

"I don't need to sit in this ridiculous contraption all the way to the hospital entrance, do I?" Sherlock asked, making as if to rise to his feet.

Molly was at his side in a shot, hand pressing firmly into his shoulder, forcing him back down. "Yes, actually, you do. You'll have enough of a hard time managing the stairs at Baker Street." She drew a deep breath before looking him squarely in the eyes and adding, "And who knows how you'll be after we get back?"

"Molly, you don't need to do this, and I shouldn't…"

"Sherlock," she said kindly as she took hold of the handles and wheeled the chair about so it once again faced the door, "just shut it for now. I want to do this; I need to do this. Because as much as I don't blame – and I don't," she added quickly when he craned his neck in order to give her a disbelieving look, "but as much as I don't blame you, I also need to confront it, the place where it happened, or else I might never be able to come back to Baker Street again."

"You'd be better off if you didn't," he muttered, but Molly chose to ignore him, knowing the spirit (she winced at her internal use of the word) in which his words were intended. Not as a rejection of her, but his own guilt still eating at him. Instead she simply wheeled him out of the room and down the hall to the lift.

They exited the hospital in silence, but Molly could sense the tension radiating off him as the cab she'd called pulled up at the curb. When she reached down to help Sherlock to his feet, he flinched away, and she bit her lip hard to keep the tears that threatened under control. She was the one who'd been assaulted, true, but Sherlock had been forced to witness his own body being used against him in so horrific a manner. Any reluctance on her part to touch him had vanished when he'd collapsed into her arms back at the hospice; her heart had raced and she'd broken out into a sweat as she wrapped her arms around him, but it had been as much out of concern for his physical well being as it was for her own.

When they reached the flat, however, the return of her racing heart and sweaty palms, as well a rising sense of panic, warned her that perhaps she wasn't as ready to face this particular demon as she'd thought she was. Sherlock seemed to feel the same way; he hesitated a long, long time before exiting the cab and determinedly making his way to the front door. Molly considering just staying where she was and instructing the driver to take her back to her own flat, but she knew it would just be delaying the inevitable if she did. The look Sherlock gave her told her that he understood exactly what was going through her mind as she hesitantly exited and shut the door behind her; she straightened her shoulders and offered up a forced smile as she joined him on the stoop.

oOo

Molly Hooper, Sherlock concluded as he unlocked the front door and entered the building, was the single most extraordinary woman he'd ever met. He watched her out of the corner of his eye the entire cab ride, while pretending to be absorbed in his own thoughts. He could see the tension rising in her the closer they got to Baker Street, noted her hesitation – matching his own – upon exiting the cab, and was impressed with her quiet resolve when she finally joined him on the pavement.

When the door clicked shut behind them, she jumped a little than gave an apologetic giggle and shook her head. "Sorry, just…sorry," she finished, as if she had no idea what to say.

That was fine; he didn't, either. What exactly was the protocol when escorting a woman you'd raped – technically and emotionally true even if she and John and Clara insisted otherwise – back to the scene of the crime? Should he precede her up the stairs or go with the standard 'ladies first' rule that had been dunned into him since early childhood?

Molly seemed to sense his hesitation; she took his arm and silently urged him forward. They traversed the short length of hall, then began the emotionally and physically uncomfortable walk up the stairs. They were wide enough for the two of them to go side by side, and as Molly seemed disinclined to release her hold on him, that was how they took the steps, Sherlock clutching the railing as his weakened physique betrayed him.

As soon as they reached the hall and were faced with the door to his flat, they stopped simultaneously, staring at it. Then Sherlock felt Molly's eyes on him, and turned his head to peer at her, to see if she'd changed her mind, if this was as far as she would go, but he read nothing but resolution in her gaze. She had always had a core of steel, his Molly (wait, his Molly?), and he was relieved to discover that Moriarty's actions hadn't affected that inner strength. He straightened his back, determined to face the scene of the crime with what he hoped would be equal dignity. Fishing the key out of his jacket pocket, he unlocked the door and escorted Molly inside.

oOo

It was terrible, being here again, was Molly's first thought. She felt her heart drumming in her chest, which tightened so that she felt as if she couldn't breathe. Sherlock seemed to be having a similar reaction when she forced herself to look at him and not at the spot on the floor where Moriarty had done such unspeakable things to her. Of course, his pale face and the slight tremor of his hands could be due to exhaustion as well; he really should have stayed overnight in the hospital but if Mycroft hadn't discharged him, he probably would have simply left on his own. At least this way he had a friend with him.

Of course, would a real friend make him go through such a potentially traumatic moment when he was still physically weakened? She knew it was ridiculous to feel guilty about it, but suddenly that was all she felt – guilt at making Sherlock do this right after being discharged from hospital…

"Molly, I do wish you would stop that," Sherlock said crossly, breaking into her thoughts. She looked at him in confusion, then realized she was digging her fingers into his arm. She let him go and stepped back, about to apologize, when he shook his head and spoke again. "No, not that, Molly, I barely felt it. No, stop blaming yourself for any of this. I needed to come back here and so did you; it wouldn't matter if I was fainting from exhaustion or at the peak of health. This is where Moriarty used me to rape you. And if we are to move past that moment, to find a way to not blame ourselves for what happened, then this is where we need to be right now."

"Agreed," she found herself saying. Then she reached out and offered him her hand, unsure if he would take it or if he would even understand why she needed to do it. But he surprised her, reaching out instantly and clasping her icy fingers in his own. They stood there, side by side, for a long time, looking down at the site where Moriarty had attempted to destroy their friendship, and began to believe that he'd lost that battle just as he'd lost the battle to remain on this plane of existence.