A/N: So yes, this is the final chapter, except for an epilogue that I am working on. But this wraps up the dangling question from last chapter and some other issues as well, I hope. Thanks for staying along for the ride!

Molly looked up from her microscope, startled, as the door crashed open. She jumped to her feet as Sherlock rushed into the room. "Sherlock? What's wrong? Has something happened?" Her breath caught as she asked, "Has Jim…"

"No, no, he's gone, Mary and Clara say it's for good and until presented with evidence to the contrary, we have no reason to doubt them," he said dismissively.

Relieved, Molly settled back into her seat, but kept her eyes on him. They hadn't seen one another since she'd brought him back to the flat, although he'd texted her at least once a day since then, and had even called and awkwardly asked how she was doing one memorable Thursday afternoon. She knew he needed time and distance to continue processing everything that had happened, and it had certainly helped her as well. Well, that and her therapy sessions with Clara.

"Then what's wrong?" she asked, repeating her earlier question, noting the signs of strain on Sherlock's face, the agitation in his body, and a new fear flashed across her mind, squeezing her heart in her chest and shortening her breathing. "Sherlock, please tell me you don't need to…to pee in a cup," she said, trying not to let the hurt and worry creep into her voice.

"What?" He stopped short in his pacing, staring at her incredulously. "Are you insane? Allow some foreign substance to take hold of my mind the way Moriarty did? I'd rather throw myself off St. Bart's roof for real!"

Relieved, Molly just nodded, accepting him at his word. "Then what," she said patiently, for the third time, "is wrong?"

He approached her slowly, warily, as if expecting her to jump and run if he got too close, but Moly just sat there and waited, trying to be patient with him. None of them were completely back to normal yet – she'd had her friend Meena stay over at the flat for a few days, just because she couldn't sleep, and had lied to her friend about why. She hadn't even felt guilty about it, knowing that without hard evidence to back up her story, she'd never be believed. Meena was great for girls' night out and gossip, but she had no patience for the supernatural or anything else she disdainfully classified as 'New Age crap'.

"Molly, did you…are you…what I mean to ask is, have you…" Sherlock stumbled to a verbal halt and Molly wondered once again if he'd taken something. But the haunted look in his eyes stopped the demand from passing her lips; instead, she waited as patiently as she could for him to spit it out. Under other circumstances it might be funny, seeing Sherlock stumbling over his words the way she used to around him, but right now all she felt was rising concern.

For his part, he took a deep breath, visibly took hold of himself – including straightening his posture and carefully folding his hands behind his back – before meeting her gaze and finally getting to the point. "Molly, have you had a pregnancy test since I – since Moriarty," he corrected himself quickly, "…since you were assaulted?"

She shook her head, oddly relieved to find it was something so normal and every-day that had him in such a strop. "No. No need to," she added when his brow furrowed in obvious concern. "I've a birth control implant, and I checked, it's still in place…Oh!" she exclaimed as her mind caught up with the reason behind his question. "Oh, no, Sherlock, it's fine, I'm not…no, there was no chance I could be pregnant, I promise! Nothing to worry about there, and we've already exchanged our medical information, so we know there's nothing else!"

She'd been clean, he'd been clean; test results from before and after the assault had been exchanged via emails, but she had simply not thought to say anything about her birth control implant, for the simple reason that it was included in her medical history – which she'd assumed he'd read, and not just the paperwork assuring him she hadn't transmitted any diseases to him.

When she reminded him of that fact, he scrunched his face up and looked at her as if she were speaking gibberish. "Molly, I didn't read any of that; once you told me I had nothing to worry about, I didn't. Worry about it, that is. I deleted the email as soon as I received it. I told you once that I trusted you, and that extends to every aspect of our relationship."

She'd been about to respond to his unexpected confession with a profound and sincere thank you, but that last word froze her tongue to the roof of her mouth and all she could do was stare at him. He stared right back at her, as if he, too, was stunned by his choice of word, then nodded sharply, as if coming to a decision. "Yes, I said relationship," he said, hands still tightly clasped behind his back. "And I know we're hardly in a position to begin any sort of a romance, but when you're ready for that sort of thing – and if you still feel as strongly for me as you once did – then I would, I think it would be good if, that is to say, I think I could say I l…"

Before he could continue to fumble with what sounded very much like a confession of love to her, Molly stood up, advanced, and placed her hands on his shoulders. "Sherlock, if you're saying what I think you're saying, then I strongly urge you to stop talk and start acting."

He stared at her blankly, then his sharp gaze swept her from head to feet; his eyes lit up the way they did when he'd come to a particularly pleasing conclusion, and then his hands were settled tentatively on her hips and he was lowering his head, watching her the entire time, until finally their lips met.

The kiss was brief, but so sweet that Molly wished it would never end. It wasn't a kiss on the cheek like he'd given her that one, horrible Christmas; it wasn't the hard, demanding kisses Jim Moriarty had abused her with. She resolutely put aside the tang of fear that memory brought up; Sherlock wasn't Jim, he was just…Sherlock. Himself. Kissing her. A soft, exploratory kiss. In a word: perfect.

Well, almost perfect, as she quickly discovered. The next kiss was even better, as was the one after that, the one where she swiped her tongue across his lips, encouraging him to open his mouth to her, and he opened so beautifully, bashful but somehow eager at the same time as the kiss deepened to something that could never be mistaken for anything but mutual passion.

When they pulled apart after that third kiss, both of them breathing heavily, Molly smiled and laid her hand on his chest, feeling the rapid thump of his heart beneath her palm. "That was…lovely," she said, just as Sherlock blurted out, "Amazing!"

They grinned at one another like a couple of teenagers, then Sherlock shifted his feet and slowly laid his hand over hers. "Molly, I want you to know that I don't…there are no expectations," he said in a rush. "We take this as quickly or as slowly as you'd like. I'm rubbish at relationships, always have been, but if I fuck up – and believe me, I will," he added with a wry grin, "then I expect you to put me right again. All right?"

He peered anxiously into her eyes, and she finally gave into an urge she'd had since about five seconds after meeting him, reaching up to ruffle her fingers through his dark curls. "All right," she agreed. "And if you change your mind or…or anything," she said, voice faltering slightly but steeling herself to say the words she knew had to be said, "then just tell me, okay? I'm a big girl; if it turns out this is just reaction to what happened and you realize your feelings aren't what you thought they were, just know that I'll always be your friend. No matter what."

She fell silent when he leaned down and kissed her again, cupping her cheek in his free hand, the other still resting warmly over hers. When the kiss ended, he pulled back and looked her straight in the eyes. "Molly, when I told you I trusted you, that I'd always trusted you, I didn't just mean I trusted you as a colleague or a friend, or even that I trusted you with my life or to keep my secrets. What I was really saying was that I trusted you with my heart. And I always will," he added in a husky near-whisper.

That was all Molly needed to hear to still her sudden doubts and fears; if he was admitting to feeling more for her than friendship since before Moriarty's unwelcome intrusion into their lives in spirit form, then she could believe in the depth of those feelings. "Then I trust you with mine," she said. "But I think you already know that."

The memory of what Jim Moriarty had done would always be a part of them, a figurative ghost that would never entirely be exorcised; Molly knew that, just as she knew that it would take a long time before she would feel comfortable enough to allow physical intimacy beyond the kissing and hugging she and Sherlock had just enjoyed. But no matter how long it took, she was confident that as time passed and the raw wounds started to heal, the two of them would be able to move beyond the damage. She looked forward to that day with an eagerness and lightness of heart she hoped that Sherlock shared.

For now, she was content to take what Sherlock was willing to offer her – and what she was able to accept. When she tilted her head up for another kiss, however, they were interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat. Loudly. Molly blushed as she and Sherlock turned to see Greg Lestrade standing by the door, a bewildered expression on his face. "How long has this been going on?" he demanded. "How the fuck did I miss it?"

Molly tried not to giggle, but couldn't hold it in when Sherlock gave the other man a withering look, wrapping his arm securely around her waist as he replied, "Really, Graham, you have to stop making such a habit of missing the obvious." Without pausing he turned to Molly and added, "I suspect the good Detective Inspector has a corpse for me to examine, isn't that right Gr…er, Greg?" he corrected himself as Molly gave him a disapproving look.

She rewarded him with a smile as she slipped out of his embrace. "Of course, Greg, we'll be happy to help out."

Lestrade continued to stare at the two of them bemusedly as they joined him at the door – and Sherlock swept past him, grabbing a smiling Molly by the hand as she shrugged apologetically at the police officer. "Right, dead body," he muttered. "We'll save the snogging interrogation for later then."

He followed after them, shaking his head and muttering to himself about never being able to figure out Sherlock Holmes if he lived to be a hundred – and grinning as he took several surreptitious snaps with his mobile of the joined hands of the two. Not for blackmail purposes, of course; just to show around to a few of the other members of the Yard – such as Sally Donovan – who would never believe him without solid evidence.

He couldn't wait to hear the story behind this development.