"Sherlock!"
It was atleast six years since she had seen him. And now he stood in front of her door.
"Come...come in." She stuttered out an invitation and moved aside as he passed her into the house.
As they sat across each other at the kitchen table, silently drinking their tea, Molly knew Sherlock would speak when he was ready; or he could also just leave. There was no telling. There was a time she was used to either, but now dreaded him leaving without saying anything.
"How are you Sherlock?" She decided to break the silence.
He was quiet for so long that she almost gave up expecting a response.
"Struggling." The words were whispered, looking at the cup in his hands. It looked like he was waging a battle with himself and the words escaped his lips.
He looked shocked and a bit deflated by his response. He opened his mouth to say something, but pursed his lips and looked away.
Shaking his head, there was desperation, some sort of anger around him though he spoke softly, his voice actually cracking with emotion.
"I…I miss you; every day… every moment of every day for these past years I've missed you. And I thought I could cope, but I am struggling. And its getting worse. Much worse."
His eyes were pleading as he looked at her.
"I don't know what to do."
"You do, you've always known!" He looked taken aback at her fierce tone.
"You've always known what to do, but chose not to act. Don't pretend…don't bother telling me anything else."
Molly was breathing hard; she almost yelled out the last part but she needed to get it out. This frustration at not having any say in whatever this relationship was, at not being able to let go, at letting him have so much control.
She was sick of it.
"If this is going to be some temporary slip on your part, you know where the door is, Sherlock and I suggest you leave right now. I will not act like some temporary nurse you need. I cannot, I will not deal with this again."
She reached out and placed her hand on his. As expected, he flinched, but did not withdraw.
She continued softly.
"I love you Sherlock. God knows why, I still do. But this has to stop. You cannot choose when to arrive and when to leave. This is my life and I don't want to deal with the mess when you leave. Not again."
She sounded tired at the end of it.
He was looking at her like he'd never seen her before.
Taking a deep breath, she asked him.
"So be honest for once and tell me. How can I help you?"
He pulled his hand from the table, stood up and walked to the door.
She didn't turn to look at him, resigned at his response to her ultimatum.
She waited to hear the door open; instead, she heard him going through his coat pockets. He probably found what he was looking for and sat at the table again.
It was a small box. He kept it on the table, eyes still not meeting hers. He pushed the box towards her when she made no move.
She opened it to find a charms bracelet. The charms were tiny but remarkably detailed; there was an anatomically correct heart, a key with tiny 221B marking, a violin, a dog and a question mark.
"That's me, right there. My heart, my home, my escape, my succor and what keeps me going, the mysteries. That's me, in your hand."
She got up and went around the table. He stood up as she approached. Without any hesitation, she put her arms around him and rested her head against his heart. He held her tight and close, his nose in her hair.
"This is home, you are home."