A/N: Thanks as always to my wonderful beta moonmama for helping me make this chapter the best it could be. As always, you know I love your reviews and am happy that you're reading this and following the story. Thank you!

Sherlock regained consciousness first, rolling onto his back with a groan. His entire body ached, although of course his injured leg pained him the most. He would have to have that seen to; inconvenient, but necessary. Dying from blood loss or ending up with a permanent limp wasn't how he intended this little escapade to end. Grimacing, he pulled himself to his knees, holding very still as a wave of dizziness passed over him. Once he felt able to move without passing out, he checked on John and Molly.

Both were alive but still unconscious. He allowed his gaze to linger on Molly the longest. The surprising Molly Hooper, who'd managed to survive in a savage world with her soul intact. Molly Hooper who had shot a man in cold blood – a man who had raped and abused her for an entire year, true, but the Molly Hooper who had blushed and stuttered in Sherlock's presence had turned out to have a hidden core of strength one he'd never imagined was there, before these unfortunate events had unfolded. Lying there, she looked so young and helpless, vulnerable – and yet now he knew how deceptive those looks were.

Molly Hooper was, to put it simply, quite possibly the most astonishing woman – no, person – he'd ever had the privilege to know.

His mobile pinged, pulling his attention away from her unconscious form. The phone had been useless in the other universe, of course, and he'd reluctantly accepted the one Lestrade had provided, but now that they were home all the fretful messages Mycroft had left were making their existence known. He ignored them, opting instead to fire off a text. Home, safe, Miss Hooper is with us. Medical attention required at 221B, come quickly.

Once he'd hit send and saw that the message had gone through, he tossed the mobile onto the coffee table and returned to his contemplation of Molly Hooper's unconscious form.

Had she always been this fierce, intelligent person, or had this part of her been formed entirely in the crucible of the other universe? And how would this new Molly Hooper fit back into life here, in the world where she most definitely still belonged, even if he suspected it would take her some time to believe that of herself?

Her arm twitched, and her head lolled to one side, perilously close to John's foot. Close enough, Sherlock noted with a frown, that if his friend recovered first, he might accidentally kick her before he even knew she was there. With that in mind – and only because of that, he assured himself – Sherlock bent down and carefully lifted her into his arms, cradling her to his chest as he staggered to his feet. His leg shook and threatened to buckle, but he grimly fought for control, breathing heavily at the pain lancing through his body. Once he won that battle he limped over to the sofa, settling her there but refusing to give into an entire inexplicable desire to join her, to curve his body protectively around hers. Such attentions on his part would certainly be unwelcome, especially if she were to awaken, disoriented and confused, possibly believing herself to once again be a prisoner of his lookalike.

His gaze drifted over her recumbent form, and he found himself wincing at the sight of the dark bruise that marred her shoulder. The place where his other self had hit her with the riding crop that had been his weapon of choice when it came to forcing Molly to heel. No, lying down with her wrapped in his arms, no matter how appealing (why? What was so appealing about it, why couldn't he stop thinking about it even after having dismissed the idea?) was the wrong thing to do. Instead he simply stood and stared down at her, his brow wrinkled as he continued to mull over her transformation from timid lab mouse to…whatever it was she was now.

He was disconcerted to realize how very much he looked forward to getting to know the new version of Molly Hooper he'd brought home with him.

A Molly Hooper, he belatedly realized, who weighed practically nothing, who hadn't been much of a burden even with his injured leg to contend with. Had he really once snarked at her for gaining three pounds? She could gain thirty pounds in her current condition, and it would hardly be noticed. Well, by ordinary people. He would notice. He noticed everything about her, and had for the two years he'd known her before she'd been swept away by Professor Smythe's infernal machine. What that meant, he was still trying to figure out, although his recently-roused protective instincts, as he chose to characterize them, were certainly a clue.

He marveled anew at this woman, who'd not only survived such a horrific year in a universe not her own, where his other self had treated her so terribly, but had been unable to destroy who Molly truly was. 'Holmes' had bent, but never fully broken her.

Just as he himself had never managed to break her, in spite of his frequently cutting and unkind and – be honest, Sherlock – cruel words to her. Even having come to the realization that he'd said those cruel things to her at the Christmas party out of jealousy, believing her to have found yet another unworthy soul upon which to lavish her abundant love and affection, didn't excuse him. In his own way, he'd been as terrible to Molly as his other self.

With a sudden surge of self-loathing, he hobbled into his bedroom, scattering his belongings about as he searched for one particular item. Where had he put it? The dresser, no; under the bed, no – then where?

Ah, there. Floor of the closet. He hefted the black leather riding crop in one hand, studying it as if he'd never seen it before. He'd never used it on a living being except for self defense, but all he could see when he looked at it was the one Holmes had wielded against Molly Hooper's tender flesh. With a grimace of revulsion, he held either end in his hands, raised it up high, and brought it down hard enough to break it across his knee. The force of the blow needed to snap it in two was too much for his damaged leg; he collapsed to the floor, teeth clenched in his lower lip to stop more than a grunt of pain as he tossed the two pieces into the bin next to his bed.

A soft noise near the door alerted him to her presence; he turned, lips compressed in a tight line, and saw Molly standing there, leaning against the doorframe as if it were the only thing holding her up. "Thank you," she said. Nothing more, just those two words as he stared up at her. He gave a sharp nod, biting back the urge to explain that of course he hadn't done it for her, he'd simply wanted there to be one less similarity between himself and his counterpart. But it would be a lie, and they'd both know it, so why bother? Instead he simply allowed her to help him back to his feet and limped back into the lounge, where John was just groggily waking up, and waited for his brother to arrive.

oOo

"I see you decorated again, did you have another party this year?" Molly asked when the silence became too much to bear. Sherlock had collapsed into his chair; she was curled up on the sofa under a blanket that John had fetched. Lovely, kindhearted John, who was just coming out of the kitchen with the tea tray in his hands, unknowingly causing her to tense up. Tea, the universal panacea; she had to fight to retain her smile and forcibly remind herself that John and Sherlock would never drug her, that it was perfectly safe to drink what she was being offered.

John, it appeared, had heard her question, which Sherlock was ignoring, because after giving Molly her cup and taking a sip of his own, he gave his friend a sharp look. Sherlock, looking decidedly uncomfortable, made as if to turn his head away, only to have John pin him in place with a look. "Shall you tell her or shall I?" John asked.

Molly had no idea what they were talking about, and didn't care, to be honest. It was just so nice to be here, in this flat that was identical in layout to the place she'd been virtually imprisoned in for the last year, but so vastly different otherwise. She'd only asked the question to ease the silence, after all, but judging by John's question to Sherlock, there was some unknown significance to the Christmas decorations. She sipped her tea and waited, curious to see what the answer was – and who was going to tell her.

That, it would appear, was to be John, who sighed, took another sip of his tea, then turned to face her. He'd taken a seat on the opposite end of the sofa, one leg curled up beneath him, and she had the impression that this was the first time he'd felt truly relaxed since setting off to rescue her.

She could sympathize; this was the first time she'd felt relaxed in a year.

"These are the same decorations from last Christmas," John finally said, still darting glances at Sherlock. Who appeared to be extremely interested in the ceiling at the moment, resting with his head leaning against the back of his chair and his fingers steepled beneath his chin in a very familiar pose. "We never took them down."

Molly gazed at him uncomprehendingly. "Why not?" she finally asked, having tried and failed to come up with a sensible reason on her own.

"So that if you returned on your own, things would be exactly as you'd last seen them." That was Sherlock, surprisingly enough. She turned to gape at him, trying to fathom why he'd do such a thing. Why would it matter what the flat looked like when she returned? Sherlock finally moved his head, meeting her gaze squarely if a little uncomfortably. "It just seemed...right. To leave things that way, so you would return to a familiar sight. It was the only way you'd ever seen this place, after all."

Molly couldn't think of anything to say, just kept staring at him until finally his gaze shifted down to his fingers. He'd spent a year trying to find her, had unbelievably managed to make his way into another universe, a different reality in search of her, and had left his flat exactly as she would have remembered it just on the off chance that some miracle might return her. And then there was the riding crop; sure, it was possible he'd broken it just for himself, but her gut told her otherwise. "Thank you," she finally managed, willing him to understand that she wasn't just talking about the rescue and the decorations.

A slight quirk of the lips, a brief nod of the head, and his eyes closed, his face grey with exhaustion.

Two minutes later Mycroft Holmes and a team of government types descended on them, and Molly, Sherlock and John were whisked away for medical attention and debriefing.

Two Months Later

"So? What do you think? Will it do? Comfortable enough for you?"

Molly smiled at her brother's anxious questions, giving him a reassuring nod as she set her overnight bag down on the foot of the bed. He'd already deposited the rest of her luggage against the wall nearest to the dresser. "It's perfect, Kev. Thanks." She walked back to the doorway, where he was standing, and placed a reassuring hand on his arm. "For everything, baby brother."

He awkwardly leaned forward and hugged her. They'd not been particularly close since their parents died, each content to live their own lives with only the occasional phone call or visit in between weekly emails to one another, but Kevin hadn't hesitated to invite her to stay with him after what he still – and always would, God willing – believed to be a simple kidnapping.

She returned the hug, patting him on the back and smiling up at him when they pulled apart. He cleared his throat and let his eyes wander around the room before speaking again. "Right, okay, then. It's your for as long as you need it, Molls. I mean that – no pressure, okay? You stay as long as you need to, and don't worry about paying rent or any of that crap – I'm good, you're good, and…Christ, I sound like an idiot, don't I?" He gave her a sheepish grin and scratched his head. "Sorry. I guess I'm not good at things like this."

"Nah, it's okay," she reassured him with another smile. "It's not exactly a normal situation. I just need some time to get used to being – well, to being able to come and go when I please, all that stuff the therapist told you. Everything else – we'll just play by ear."

Even though her therapist had advised Kevin that Molly might need as much as six months living with him – to which he'd unhesitatingly agreed – his sister privately doubted she'd be able to stay away from London for that long. It would feel too much like running away, from hiding from her fears, if she was gone more than a month or two.

Besides, she had a job to get back to eventually. She'd need recertifying in some areas, have to work under supervision when performing autopsies until she could show that she'd retained her skills, but that was the one thing she most looked forward to doing – and couldn't do while hiding out here.

As Kevin headed to the kitchen to prepare dinner for the two of them, she sat on the edge of the bed and wondered at herself. She was supposed to be taking this time to reacclimatize herself to being free and back in the world where she belonged, not feeling as if she were ducking out on responsibilities long put on hold through no fault of her own!

And yet that was exactly what it felt like. Intellectually she knew she needed this adjustment period – to simply try to jump back into the life she'd been torn away from would be the height of folly. No matter how capable she thought she would be of handling whatever life threw at her, she knew from painful experience that she was still far more emotionally fragile than she'd care to admit. The panic attack she'd suffered when Mycroft had shown up in person to escort her, John and Sherlock to their initial debriefing – and the even stronger one she'd suffered upon entering the examination room for her physical – had been proof of that.

The debriefing sessions she'd endured had been intense, but detailing everything she could about that other world – both how she'd arrived and how she'd left – had been therapeutic in itself. Especially since Mycroft's team focused less on her personal traumas and more on the political situation, the differences in worldview, all the ways in which England itself differed from home. Her personal experiences were left in the hands of the team of therapists who'd eventually been winnowed down to just one, the one who'd recommended Molly take some time for herself, to go visit her brother – or go anywhere else in the world she wanted to, for that matter.

To help drive home the fact that she could, indeed, do just that.

Sherlock had been, surprisingly enough, part of Molly's therapy – unnecessarily so, as it turned out. At first none of the therapists or psychiatric team could accept that Molly held no residual fear or hatred toward him, either because of his otherworldly twin's treatment of her, or because he was the reason she'd been stolen away in the first place.

Nor, she thought, did Sherlock seem to believe it, which had hurt, but she thought she understood; how could she possibly look at him, hear his voice, and not remember the one who'd done so much damage to her?

It had been difficult to verbalize, the sea-change she'd undergone when Sherlock had appeared in that other Baker Street flat. Even though Molly had spent a large part of the last year unable to fully separate both men in her mind, once the real Sherlock had appeared it was as if a world of nothing but dreary black and white had suddenly blossomed into living, vibrant color, forever changing her outlook on the two men. Sherlock was Sherlock and Holmes was Holmes and nothing would ever make her see them as the same ever again.

Once she'd put it that way, Dr. Manx had understood and been able to find the words Molly had been groping for. "It was something of a defense mechanism," she'd said, and Molly had nodded eagerly. That had been it, exactly. Allowing herself to recognize or dwell on any similarity between Sherlock and her captor in the other world had been simply a defense mechanism, a way to cope that she'd no longer needed once Sherlock and John had come to bring her home.

Even if that rescue had failed, she would never have been able to see Holmes through the lens of her confused emotions ever again. She just wished Sherlock believed her; even though he'd accepted her assertions once Dr. Manx had helped her to clarify them, she could still see the doubt in his eyes when he thought Molly wasn't looking. But that was for him to work out; she couldn't help heal him of his guilt when she needed to focus on herself.

She smiled softly, her hand stealing to the pocket of her trousers and curling around the flat piece of metal hidden there. She pulled it out and stared at it, turning it this way and that, still marveling at the gift Sherlock had silently presented her with before she and Kevin boarded the plane and left London – temporarily on her part – behind.

A key. The key to Sherlock's flat, to 221B Baker Street. Such a small thing, but such a powerful symbol. Holmes had never given her her own key, had refused her even so small a freedom. What harm could it have done? There was always a guard at the door, and Mrs. Hudson; Molly had never been alone, ever, so it wasn't as if she could have used the key and snuck out of the flat. No, refusing to give her a key had been just another way of controlling her – and her Sherlock had understood that so very well that he'd made sure to give it to her as she took another step toward freedom: being able to go where she wanted, when she wanted.

She remembered it in vivid detail: the somber expression on his face, the feel of his hands as he carefully closed her fingers around the small piece of metal. "You don't ever have to come back to Baker Street," he'd told her when she looked up at him in confusion. "You don't ever have to do anything with this key except own it. But it is yours, with no restrictions – any time you want to, you can unlock the door. You can come and go of your own free will, and I promise you Molly, your presence will always be welcome." Then he'd leaned down and kissed her on the cheek before turning and walking away, leaving her with her rather confused-looking brother.

Her own flat had long been let to a new tenant, her belongings relegated to storage by Mycroft Holmes and his efficient government team. Her cat, Toby, had been given into the care of her elderly upstairs neighbor, and had settled in so well with Mrs. Lynderson that it seemed cruel to try and take him back after all this time, especially since she still had no true home of her own. Mycroft and Sherlock had both assured her that if and when she decided to return to London, that was one thing she wouldn't have to worry about; any flat she wanted, even a house, would be provided for her at the expense of the government, as a form of compensation for her year-long captivity.

Everything was settled for the moment. Everything except Molly's heart.

Yes, she'd made all the choices; every decision had been hers, with little to no pressure from anyone (Kevin didn't count, he was family) – but part of her was still worried that he would find some way to drag her back. That he wasn't actually dead, that Lestrade hadn't actually destroyed Smythe's machinery, that some part of his work survived and could be recreated by Mycroft or Sherlock Holmes' scientists. She had panic attacks, coming at odd hours and never triggered by her actual thoughts or emotions, but seemingly at random. She had nightmares too, although they'd eased up after the first few therapy sessions, but she understood it was a fear she was bound to live with for the rest of her life. She might no longer be trapped on that world, but who could blame her for being terrified of the idea of ever returning to it?

Whenever the fear became oppressive, or the panic attacks sent her heart pounding and flashes of heat from her core outward; whenever she woke shivering in the night, sweating and shaking from some unremembered nightmare, only one thought could help center her and bring her back to herself. Or rather, the thought of one person. Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective.

She loved him, and that love for him was the one certainty she'd held onto no matter what happened to her. Oh, she hadn't said as much during therapy, either with or without him, but she was sure everyone knew it by now. It wasn't just some simple schoolgirl crush, hadn't died during her imprisonment, wasn't merely hero worship. She loved him, the impossible man, and knowing everything he'd done to try to save her had cemented those emotions. Even if he could never feel the same for her, she knew to the very core of her soul that she would take her last breath loving him.

The sound of her brother's voice calling her snapped her out of her reverie; she slipped the key back into her pocket – perhaps she'd buy a chain to hang it round her neck while she was here – and stood up. "Coming!" she said as she stepped into the hall, closing the door softly behind her.