Chapter 3: What it Means

Thankfully Molly has the late shift today so she is able to sleep in till 8 and start a leisurely morning. She picks up her phone to scroll through the news of the day when she sees a picture of the charred windows of 221B. Who bombed Baker Street? It said. Soon she hears the ping of Sherlock's phone. A few moments later, another ping. And then another. He must be so tired that the text alerts don't wake him. He's usually attuned to his phone. So she picks it up to silence it. He needs his rest.

It's around 9:30 when Sherlock finally stirs from the couch. Apparently the smell and sound of bacon and bangers can make him rise from the dead.

"Good morning," she says pleasantly. "How'd you sleep?"

"Surprisingly well."

He reaches for his dressing gown and plops himself on the breakfast bar just as Molly puts down a cup of coffee followed by plates of a proper English breakfast.

"God bless you, Molly Hooper. I'm famished!"

They eat in comfortable silence as they wolf down the hearty meal. On his second cup, Molly remembers the internet rumors that his flat did not in fact have a gas leak but a bomb and the text messages that followed.

"Oh, and Mycroft is picking up you up in about 30 minutes."

"Ugh. Does he ever take a day off?" He rolls his eyes and reaches for seconds of everything.

Honestly, you'd think that after what they've been through, he would understand his brother more, she thinks.

"You've been getting pinged by everyone, I'm afraid. They must want a statement from you." She takes a sip. "That, or they're actually concerned."

As if on cue, that lascivious moan came on. They both look to see Sherlock's phone light up from where it was being charged. Apparently, The Woman's call overrides his phone commands. And she still texts him after all these years. Interesting. He tries to play it cool, but he's clearly flustered.

"Well, there you go. Someone came back from the grave to check up on you."

She knows their story. Knows that Irene Adler is supposed to be dead but isn't because of him. He told her, after all. So she gives him her best eyebrow waggle and teasing smile, one that belies the distinct stabbing pain in her chest. She swallows a mouthful of coffee, but the words that were forced out of her just yesterday are rushing back to mock her.

It's true.

It's always been true.

I love you.

He must sense her discomfort because he looks at her as she studiously avoids eye contact by gathering her plate and making a big show of cleaning up. She knows he wants to tell her something.

"Molly, I don't…" he says just as she opens her mouth to speak.

"Sherlock, me first." She holds up her hands to stop him. "I've practiced all morning so please let me say this."

She straightens her back and prepares for battle.

"I don't want to be a burden to you."

Sherlock starts to open his mouth to protest but she stops him again.

"I mean, I have never wanted this…*thing* to be a burden to you," she clarifies.

"I don't want you to feel like you have to be nicer to me as some sort of consolation prize. I don't want you to be meaner to me either to get me to move on. I've seen through your shit, and you know I don't put up with it. And yet, I …love you anyway. It's just a part of who I am now."

She takes a breath.

"What I'm trying to say is: Nothing has to change."

She pauses to gauge his reaction but he is unreadable so she continues.

"It's actually a relief now that I've said it. This way, you know that I know when you're manipulating me with your charms because I know for a fact that you know." She lets out a nervous giggle at the absurdity of that statement. She tries to smile but it stops short of her eyes. She's not quite done with her speech.

"I'm sorry. I truly am sorry about that thing I made you do." She's looking at her hands that are wringing the dishtowel. "It was petty, I know. God, I'm mortified that I added an extra layer of stress. I'm sorry."

She closes her eyes, and takes deep calming breaths to center herself. For a brief moment she hears him say it again, hears him say it first.

I..I love you.

And he says it again.

I love you.

"I won't lie. It was beautiful. Well done." She opens her eyes to look at him but finds his image blurry with unshed tears.

She gives him a smile, silently thanking him for not interrupting as she wipes her eyes. Then she reminds him that his brother is coming to pick him up in about 15 minutes.

"You better get ready." She turns her back to bring more plates to the sink.

But he doesn't move. He's looking at her blankly. She wonders if he was buffering the whole time she gave her speech.

"Sherlock?"

"I meant it."

"What?" She can barely hear him over the running faucet. She turns it off. She thinks he said…

"I meant it." He looks up despondently. And with panicked pale eyes, he adds, "I just don't know what it means."

Now it's her turn to buffer. Molly is…. Elated? Angry? Confused? Sympathetic? She laughs internally at her fate. With less than 15 minutes, there's no time to settle this. She just wants to scream!

"Wow. That's rather cruel." And then she thinks. She may regret being this nice but she says it anyway.

"However, I can understand where you're coming from." And she does.

He's openly abhorred any form of sentiment. But this year alone he has profoundly experienced the hopelessness of meeting death, the salvation of forgiveness, the miracle of life, and the surfacing of long buried family secrets. It's quite ridiculous to assume he'd be able to sort out romantic love from all that mess.

For her though, now there's hope. Just when she had finally come to accept her place in his life. She had just found peace. But now this. Hope, in this case, is not her friend.

She picks up his plate and tells him to take a shower. This won't be settled anytime soon and there is no point in hanging around the kitchen any longer.

Mycroft finally comes and she invites him in as Sherlock steps out of the bathroom and collects his coat. She gives the older Holmes a tight hug, and he awkwardly accepts. She wants him to know she understands him, too.

As she closes the door on the Holmes boys, she remembers something important and calls Sherlock back.

"Be nice to Mycroft. Please."

He looks confused.

"There are secrets that can bury men alive." She would know. But she only had to live it for two years.

"He isn't immortal, Sherlock. He needs you, too."

He nods in understanding and without thought, bends to give her kiss on the cheek. Then, with a swish of his coat, he's gone.

She closes the door and wonders if that's the last she'll see of him as the Sherlock Holmes she's known. Things are shifting around her, she can tell. Up until now, she was dreading the long flight to Mumbai, the crowds of a megacity, and the endless spectacle of her friend's grand wedding. They've planned, and she dreaded, this trip a long time ago, yet now she can't wait to escape to a different type of madness. Three weeks out of Bart's, out of John and Rosie's life, and away from Sherlock. Can life really change in three weeks?

Note: It may take a few more days before I update. I'm swamped and haven't found the time to write. But I really appreciate likes and reviews. It makes waking up at 5 a.m. to write worth it. Thank you!