UPDATE ALERT!
I actually went back and made some revisions to the end of the previous chapter (chapter 7), because I was worried that I hadn't done justice to Sherlock's state of mind, and ended up making him into too much of a bastard! You might want to read before you move on to this one :-)
And as for this one, I have never written and re-written part of a fic quite so many times - it completely drained me this week!
Thanks so much to Seymourthedog for being my beta on this. Hope it has come out okay :-)
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He understood now why she didn't want to say the words, why she couldn't. It was the same reason he had found himself repeating them for the second time. Emotional context was everything. When the words were true, they had the power both to destroy and to redeem.
His sister knew. She knew that Molly wouldn't take that from him – too much had passed between them for her to just yield to it, to him. Genius though Eurus was, however, it wasn't her superior intellect or deductive powers that brought her to this understanding: she had the video evidence. Not from Molly's bedroom – thank God – but seeing and hearing their other interactions was clearly enough. She'd observed a deepening friendship, increased affection, a growing desire…and his betrayal.
Eurus Holmes, the child unable to express her yearning for love, had shown him how badly he had misunderstood – and feared - his own feelings, too.
It was after ten and he was standing outside Molly's house. No lights were on, and for a second he was terrified that she had gone away - just dropped everything and abandoned her life as it currently was. Or perhaps couldn't bear to be there once she knew there had been eyes on her (on them) for god-knows-how-long.
And she would know now – it should have been Sherlock's explanation to give, but he knew he couldn't do it with any coherency, not when his mind and his heart were preoccupied by one thing only. Instead, Mycroft would have given her the headlines; the facts without the emotional context.
All evening - between briefing Lestrade, speaking to his parents, working out a course of action with Mycroft - Sherlock had tried to compose a text, to at least tell Molly…something. But each one felt like an insult to her, and made a coward out of him.
Molly Hooper held his heart – if he ever wanted to reunite it with the rest of his body, he would have to go to her.
She didn't reply when he knocked.
Molly, I'm outside. Will you see me? – SH
Even in the middle of the night, she had been known to respond to his messages within seconds, but not tonight. He could easily believe that she was done with him this time, that he'd finally taken too much and she'd cut the tether that had always kept her near.
Looking through the letterbox, he saw Toby prowl through the hallway, the cat's head turning sharply at the sound and motion. If Toby was there, so was Molly.
Given that Molly's pet had yet to be trained to operate a five-lever mortice deadlock, Sherlock reached for his keys; he knew hers by touch alone. But just as he was going for the lock, the door opened.
For the very first time, he was standing before his friend in the knowledge that he loved her, and his whole body knew it; his heart raced, he had rocks in his stomach – and he felt like the lowest wretch of a human being.
She wore the same t-shirt, the same pyjama shorts. Hair still tied up as it had been when he'd made the phone call. Bare feet, but the nail polish was gone.
"Molly…" he began, feeling his breath hitch. He longed to hold her, for his body to feel the evidence that she really was okay, but her arms hugged her middle in a defensive posture.
"What do you want, Sherlock?" she asked, her voice weary but calm. At one point she had been crying, but not now. "If you've come to explain, there's really no need. I spoke to John, and I even had the honour of a phone-call from your brother, which I suppose was only polite, seeing as there were twenty of his people outside, waiting to turn my house upside down. I know what you've been through, and although I can barely understand, or, or believe it…I do understand that none of it was your idea, that you were only trying to protect me."
She took a breath.
"It feels like I should be grateful for that."
"Molly…"
He shook his head, tried to speak, but it turned out he had no response.
"You can't do this, Sherlock," she said, her voice quiet but measured. "I'm sorry about everything that's happened, about your friend, about all of those people - I'm so, so sorry and…and at some point maybe I'll be able to help you again, but you don't get to do this. Not tonight, not so soon."
Sherlock frowned, feeling himself start to panic.
"I…Molly, I don't want anything from you. I haven't come here-"
"Then why did you come?" she asked, and this time he heard a crack in Molly's voice that made direct impact with his heart.
He looked at his feet because he was cowed by her gaze.
"You made me feel like an experiment, Sherlock," she said, swiping at her eye. "Not just today, but…everything, all of these weeks and months. It felt like you tried something, but the results somehow weren't what you hoped for, so you threw them away."
"After everything that happened," Molly continued, pinching her lips together as though to compose herself. "You know, the one thing that I held on to, the one thing that left me with a shred of dignity, Sherlock, was that I didn't say it to you that night. I wanted to, so much, and it was right there, but I thought it might scare you and…and I needed some sort of…just something to hold back for myself. But you have that now, Sherlock – you took the last piece of me, even if you didn't mean to. So, if you've come because you want something from me, I'm sorry, that's it, I've got nothing left to give."
Sherlock felt the first prick of tears in the corners of his eyes.
"Molly, I love you."
The words came tumbling out of his mouth before he was aware that his brain had even formed them. But his brain was apparently no longer in charge.
He saw Molly blink, take a sharp breath.
"I didn't know it then, but I know it now," he said, trying to hold her gaze. "I know it's no excuse, but I didn't understand what it was - or perhaps I understood, but couldn't fully acknowledge it, because it didn't fit with what I knew about myself. All of this time, Molly...I know now that I was falling in love with you - but at the time all I could think about was how afraid I was. Afraid of giving myself over to something that I couldn't control, but also something that I couldn't live up to, and that I could very conceivably lose. Molly...you make me want to give you everything, all that I am – but the more I allowed myself to give you, the more convinced I became that it could never be enough."
Molly sniffed, used her thumb to flick away a tear.
"I never wanted anything from you that you weren't willing or able to give, Sherlock," she said. "I just…I wanted you. Because of who you are, not in spite of it. You don't love someone because you wish they were something else."
She blinked again, and Sherlock saw the tears starting to fall. At the same time, he felt something in his core pull him towards her – but he stopped himself. You don't have the right.
"Love isn't easy, Sherlock," she said, smiling wryly through the tears. "Falling in love is wonderful but it's also bloody terrifying– especially when you first recognise it for what it is. Believe me, I should know."
She laughed, swiping at her cheek again.
"And…sometimes accepting love is even harder," she added, looking at him knowingly. "I just…I just wish it hadn't happened this way, that you could have told me…how you felt."
"I had all of the symptoms," Sherlock said. "But I couldn't come to the right diagnosis."
Molly laughed again, softly – and she smiled at him with a fondness that gave him hope.
"You should have seen a doctor about that," she said, biting the corner of her lip. "I happen to know one who knows you pretty well."
And with that, Molly did something unexpected. Taking a step forward, she reached up to cradle his cheek in her hand. Sherlock held his breath as she looked up at him; he hadn't fully realised that he was crying until her thumb caressed away a tear.
Stepping back from him for a moment, she gently pushed the front door closed.
"I think my neighbours have seen enough for one evening," she whispered, coming back to him.
"You…you don't want me to leave?" he asked, never for a second anticipating that there would be an alternative outcome.
He felt her fingers reach for his, taking his hand gently.
"I…I know I should probably be asking you for some space, some time to think this all through," she began. "And we can't fix this – anything of this – tonight. But somewhere in the middle of this shitty day, I think we might have confessed that we love each other…and that's not an end point, Sherlock, it's a beginning. I mean, if-if that's what you want."
Sherlock almost felt his knees go from under him – the trauma, the evisceration, the exhaustion, and now…this.
He closed his eyes and took the hand that held his, bringing Molly's knuckles to his lips before placing both of their hands against his heart.
"I hurt you, Molly," he murmured, feeling another tear escape. "You trusted me, you gave me everything, and I hurt you in the worst way imaginable. For that I am so very, very sorry. I can…I can never forgive myself."
She brought her free hand to his cheek again.
"Then that's where we'll start," she smiled. "Because you have to forgive yourself. Not just for this, but for so many other things. That's what I want for you more than anything. And this is an easy one, Sherlock – because I forgive you…and all I want from you - if you really want to make it up to me - all I need from you is honesty. If you can give me that, then…then we'll be fine."
"I want to marry you."
He'd said it before he realised, but this was what it meant to be led by your heart.
Before he could bring himself to properly look at her, he took another breath and relinquished control to his heart again.
"I asked you if you wanted me to leave," he began. "But the truth is, Molly, I never want to leave. If you'll have me, if you'll take me and be patient with me, then I swear to you, Molly, I will never leave. I will try to be your strength as you've been mine, I will try to give you as much as you've given me, I will take care of your heart as you've taken care of mine, I will do all that I can to be the man you deserve. Did…I did I tell you that I want to marry you?"
This time, he heard Molly give a tearful laugh. The hand on his face moved lower, her thumb stroking his jaw.
"You did, yes," she smiled. "But, um, I think we should get through tonight first, don't you?"
Sherlock felt himself nod quickly, still shocked by the force of his own emotions. Molly was right, of course. Too fast again.
But then he felt the hand he held at his chest squeeze his, and she peered up at him until he met her eyes.
"That, um, that isn't a 'no', by the way," she smiled, a little shyness in her voice. "I just…I just think we should give ourselves a break tonight. Let's…I don't think we should make any promises."
Again, Sherlock nodded – but he had, and they were promises he had every intention of keeping. Watching Molly's expression, gauging it, he bent his head to touch his forehead to hers - he was overwhelmed, humbled beyond words, by her capacity for forgiveness. Everything he thought he'd irrevocably lost – either through his own cowardice or through his sister's interventions - was still here. He felt Molly's arms reach up and her fingers weave through the curls at the back of his head, holding the two of them in place. He took her face in his hands.
"I love you."
It was a benediction, a vow, a statement of intent. He could now own the words and their power, and give them freely to the woman he loved.
He felt Molly's breath at the corner of his mouth, heard her inhale just as she had done during the phone-call.
"I love you."
She placed a soft, brief kiss to his chapped lips – it was gone too soon, but it was more than he could ever have hoped for when he arrived at her door. Even if that was all she would ever give him, he would hold it, keep it, remember it always.
She took hold of his hands, studying them, thumbs stroking across his knuckles.
"There was a coffin," he said, understanding her implicit question.
"I know," Molly replied, softly. "John told me. There's… there's still a lot to tell, but if it can wait until the morning…I really think we both need to sleep."
He showered, changed into pyjamas, sent texts to John and his mother, and sat on the edge of the bath while Molly knelt in front of him, applying antiseptic and steri-strips to his knuckles. Sherlock watched her expression, a mixture of concentration, compassion and – he couldn't ignore it – sadness: she hated that he'd hurt himself over her. Now that the shock and the adrenaline had worn off, his whole body ached with fatigue, and Molly practically had to walk him to the bed and help him into it.
When she got in beside him, Sherlock could sense that Molly was being cautious, and he couldn't help but think about how physical contact between them had become so easy and natural and right-feeling – and how he would do anything to get it back. But he understood her hesitancy, how being near him right now must go against all common sense and reason.
But in spite of all this, after a few moments had passed, he felt Molly moving towards him, stopping once they were a few inches apart, face to face. Slowly, she brought her hand up to lay it flat on his chest. Equally slowly, Sherlock brought his own hand up to cover hers. She was giving him his heart back – not because she no longer wanted it, but because she now trusted that he could take care of it himself, that he could follow its lead, and be good to it and share it with her like she needed. He hoped that in the days and weeks and months that followed, she would be able to trust him again with hers.
