A/N: Thanks for all the lovely reviews – they make me write much faster :-)
I hope the end won't disappoint.
Thanks for joining the ride! It's been my pleasure! ;-)

The backyard was enormous. There were a lot of trees and flowerbeds, always with flowers of similar colour. One could see that Mr and Mrs Holmes took a great joy in gardening. Then something in the middle of the garden caught Molly's attention. It was a marble bird bath. It wasn't that it wasn't pretty – it looked very delicate and expensive –but it didn't fit in the garden. The backyard looked like a wonderful organized chaos, but the bird bath seemed totally out of place. It would have fitted perfectly in the garden of a manor, but here…
Sherlock seemed to read her thoughts. "It was a gift from Mycroft."
"Yeah, that suits him." That made the consulting detective chuckle. Following Sherlock, who seemed to be heading to the back of the garden, Molly added, "I can imagine Mycroft has a giant set of marble chess in his garden." "Something like that, yeah." Molly wasn't sure if he was joking or not. It was hard to tell.

They hadn't put their coats back on, but it was not necessary. It was quite warm and the sun was shining. Molly was enjoying its rays on her face. It felt as if some of its glow went through her skin, warming her from the inside out.

They arrived at the far end of the garden. It was bounded by a hedge of all different kinds of bushes – some in bloom, some not. Sherlock walked over to the garden shed. "Wait there," he ordered. Molly looked at all the plants. Their different smells mingled in the air. She took a deep sniff. It smelled wonderful.

Sherlock returned from the hedge with a small shovel in one hand, still holding the ominous box in the other. She looked at him quizzically. He ignored her questioning gaze and walked over to the biggest shrub. It was in full bloom. He knelt in front of it and put the shovel and the box down. With a shake of his head he signalled Molly to join him. She did so and knelt down beside him, he reached forward to pull away some branches and behind them appeared a small wooden cross, which was stuck in the ground. It was clearly a grave.

Unsure what that was all about, Molly looked at Sherlock for clarification. Silently he told her to find out for herself. So she leaned forward hesitantly to take a closer look at the cross. The wood had already turned grey and there was a carved inscription. The writing was scrawly – clearly made by a child. The woman squinted to decipher it. REDBEARD.

Finally the penny dropped. She looked back at the blue box Sherlock had put beside him and at the small shovel. Could it be possible? She didn't dare hope. But first things first.
"Sherlock, who was Redbeard?" She looked at him. He stared right back.
"You saw a picture of him earlier."
"He was your dog." It was not a question, but Sherlock still nodded, not taking his eyes off her. "You said I wouldn't understand, but as a matter of fact, I do. I know what it feels like to lose a… friend."
Molly could feel her heart ache for him, because she was quite sure until John, Redbeard had been Sherlock's only friend.
"What happened to him?"
Sherlock's expression was calm, but the sadness in his eyes was unmistakable. Molly felt blessed to be one of the few he allowed to see it.
"He was hit by a car. His injuries were so severe that they had to put him down."
He averted his gaze, looking at the small cross with the fading inscription.
"We left his body at the vet, but I couldn't believe he was gone for good. I wouldn't accept it. So I sneaked out that night and broke into the animal clinic. Don't ask me what I was thinking. Resurrecting him, playing Frankenstein… children are dumb." He snorted and shook his head before continuing. "Mycroft had followed me. He found me sitting beside Redbeard's body crying. 'Oh Sherlock, don't be stupid!' he said and wanted to drag me away. But I refused. So after some quarrelling he took the cage with Redbeard inside and me by the hand. He brought me home. Mum and dad were out. Mycroft went in the garden with me, gave me a shovel and said, 'Get it over with.' I started digging a grave and Mycroft watched me. After we had put the dog in it, he wanted to help me – don't mistake that for him being helpful. He was getting impatient by then. But I wouldn't let him. Redbeard had been my friend. I owed him to do it on my own."

Sherlock paused for a moment and squinted, as if finding his way back from the memory into the present. Slowly he turned away from the cross to look at the pathologist again. There were tears in her eyes that were threatening to fall. His story had touched her deeply. The sight of it made him clearly uncomfortable. But he kept looking at her as he told her, "That's why I know how you feel. And I know that it's important to bury your loved ones, so you can put it behind."

Now the tears fell and Molly saw Sherlock flinch at that. To cover his discomfort, he reached for the blue box and the shovel. He kept his gaze fixed on the shovel as he handed it to her. She took it, but when she did, her hand closed over his. That made him look up at her. She was still crying, but there was a faint smile on her face speaking of gratitude.

"Thank you." There words were choked, but that made them even more meaningful. Sherlock nodded and Molly had never seen such a warm expression on his face before. She took the shovel with shaking hands. Sherlock reached for the blue box. As he was about to open it, he hesitated. "Do you want to do it?" She shook her head. "No, please, you open it. I…" She snivelled. He nodded in understanding and opened the box. Molly leaned closer and looked inside. There he was: her beloved tomcat; looking as if he was only asleep. A choked sound escaped Molly's lips, and now she cried in earnest.

At first the consulting detective looked horrified. He gazed back and forth between Molly and the cat. But suddenly he seemed to know what to do. Maybe it was because he remembered what he had wanted Mycroft to do all those years ago, when he had sat there crying, or he was just acting on intuition. He leaned closer to the crying woman next to him and took her in his arms. For a moment she went stiff in his embrace, clearly not expecting the move, but as soon as he started drawing smoothing circles on her back with his fingers, she relaxed and buried her face in his chest.

After succeeding in getting Sherlock's purple shirt wet with tears, Molly had calmed down and had started digging the grave. He had watched her in silence, letting her know that he would take over if she had wanted him to. At the same time he knew that she would want to do it on her own – just as he had done back then. After finishing the task, Sherlock reached behind him and presented another wooden cross to Molly. It had an inscription as well. TOBY. This time the writing was an elegant scrawl. The woman identified it as Sherlock's handwriting.
"Where did you get that?" she asked incredulously.
"I made it, apparently."
"I know, I mean… Where does it come from? It can't possible fit into your pocket."
Sherlock put on a mysterious expression. "A man has to have his secrets. It's like with the ashtray from Buckingham Palace."
That made Molly giggle. "What?"
"Nevermind."

He sighed and his expression turned serious again. "Now, shall we?" Molly put on a brave face, took the cross and stuck it into the ground. She leaned back to have a good look at it. There it was: the grave of Toby Hooper, under a blooming bush right next to Redbeard Holmes. She couldn't have wished for a better final resting place.

Her eyes became glassy again, but she had to smile in spite of it. She saw Sherlock watch her intently out of the corners of her eyes. Molly couldn't resist and reached over to grab his hand. He took it without hesitation and squeezed it gently. She sighed deeply and leaned over to lay her head on his shoulder. So they sat there, leaning onto each other in total understanding.

Although Molly was sad, she had never felt so comforted before. She still couldn't believe what he had done – for her.
"So, you broke into an animal clinic again?"
"Seems like it."
A beat.
"How did you know about Toby's death? Did you deduce it when you were at the morgue that day?"
Molly could feel Sherlock's body tense and she took her head from his shoulder, but she didn't let go of his hand. She turned to look at him.
"Sherlock?"
He stared straight ahead.
"No, I did not deduce it. I thought you were upset about the end of your engagement. That's why I wasn't…"
"That's why you weren't...?" she pressed softly.
"John told me," he finally said.
She tucked at his hand and that made him look at her again. His eyes were a pool of emotions: confusion, frustration, sadness, excitement, conflict, kindness and so many other things Molly couldn't place. Only looking at them made her dizzy. She knew he wanted to tell her something, but somehow he couldn't. And the longer he looked at her like that, the more she became nervous, excited and afraid. Therefore she built up her courage and asked, "Why are we here?"
"I already told you twice: Because you're not okay."
"Sherlock, that's not an answer."
"You know why." His voice was low and his jaw tense.
Molly's voice was soft as she spoke, "I need you to tell me."
"For the same reason why you broke it off with Tom."
At first Molly wanted to say that this was not an answer as well, but there was something in the depths of his eyes that let her pause. There was uncertainty and fear, and could it be possible…? There was affection in his eyes – bright as day shining through.
She had broken it off with Tom, because she still loved Sherlock. So did he mean that he…

As usual he seemed to know her train of thoughts. He cupped her cheek tenderly with the hand that was not holding hers. Gently he brushed his thumb over her cheek where the tears had dried and Molly closed her eyes involuntarily at the contact.
Yes, she wanted him to tell her why he had done this for her, but she knew that was as much of the truth as she would get at the moment. And that was fine with her. It was more than she had ever hoped for.

She opened her eyes again to see him lean forward. And before she knew what was happening his lips descended on hers. He was sweet and gentle while cradling her head in his hand. She kissed him back just as gentle and tried to put all her feelings for him into that kiss.

All too soon he pulled away. She opened her eyes to see him staring at her in wonder. She smiled her typical shy Molly-smile.
She cleared her throat. "I really appreciate that you trust me enough to bring me to your parents' house. It means a great deal to me."
"Although they are not at home?" He had a teasing smile on his face.
"We'll save that for next time," she teased back, her smile even broader than his.

THE END