A/N: Well, folks, this is it, the penultimate chapter of this fic. Everything will be wrapped up in the next chapter, promise. Many thanks as always to moonmama for her invaluable betaing skills; I actually rewrote this chapter more than once but I'm pretty happy with it now and I hope you are too!

Previously: "No, you're dead, I killed you," she protested when she could finally speak, eyes tightly shut and body trembling. She'd started taking self-defense courses, but every lesson had vanished from her mind as panic overwhelmed her.

"Should've stayed longenough to make sure," he replied with another dark chuckle. Then his lips were on hers, forcing a kiss on her, his intentions more than clear as he pinned her wrists with one hand and began slowly, deliberately unbuttoning her blouse with the other. "You should know by now, Molly love, that evil never dies."

Evil never dies.

The words echoed through her mind, over and over again, until terror finally unblocked her voice, and she screamed.

Molly woke with a gasp, heart pounding as she clutched the covers. Eyes wide, she stared into the darkness of her brother's guest room – the bedroom she'd been living in for a month now – and tried to will herself out of the terror the nightmare had evoked. She wasn't sure whether to be relieved or sorry that her brother was spending the night at his girlfriend's flat; it would be nice to have some company right now, but at least she hadn't screamed him awake as well as herself.

She turned onto her side, shoving the covers off and swinging her legs over the side of the bed. It took a minute, but she finally felt able to stand, and shakily made her way to the en suite bathroom. She flicked on the light, blinking in the sudden brightness, and gulped down a cup of water before meeting her gaze in her reflection. "Well don't I look like warmed over shit," she pronounced as she took in her pale skin, the dark circles under her eyes, and the rat's nest her hair had devolved into during her restless attempt at sleep.

After relieving herself, she moved restlessly from the bathroom into the living room, the kitchen, roaming the house until she finally forced herself to return to the bedroom. She flicked on the nightstand lamp, and her gaze fell on her mobile.

She picked it up with shaking hands and hesitated a long moment before finally selecting the number she wished to call. As she waited for the person on the other end to answer, she tried to remember the time difference; it was 4:00 AM here, so what time was it in London? Would he be in the middle of work, on the tube on his way home, or…

"Hello?"

Molly started a bit, then returned the tentative greeting. "Hello, John? It's…Molly. Molly Hooper. Sorry to bother you."

"No, Molly, it's all right, it's no bother, it's good to hear your voice! It's been a while, yeah? How are you doing?"

He sounded nervous too, and Molly relaxed a bit, knowing it was mutual. "I'm good John, really good. Well, mostly good. I mean, there are days when I just…" She gave a nervous laugh and ran her fingers through her tangled hair. She'd had it cut and styled and colored a dark red just this afternoon, wanting to see something different about herself. It had been a heady feeling, making a change like that without needing to consult anyone about it – although afterwards she'd gone into a panic attack, terrified that somehow he'd find out and punish her for it. Which was probably why she'd had such a vivid nightmare, she realized now that she was calm enough to think about it rationally.

If only she'd done so before panicking and calling John; the poor man had his own life to live. Still, she had called him and owed him something of an explanation, or at least a pretense at rational adult conversation on her part. "I'm sorry to just call out of the blue like this, I know I haven't been very good at keeping in touch since I left, and I just…it's not because of you or anything you did, you know that, right? It's not because I blame you or Sherlock or anyone, it's just I…" She stumbled to a verbal halt, not sure what she was trying to say.

Luckily John seemed to understand even through all her rambling apologies. "Molly, it's all right. You've had a rough time, and then MI6 – who knew they had a secret division dealing with X-Files type stuff, yeah? – then they put us all through the wringer. You need to decompress, to have time to yourself, to figure things out. We all get it, I promise."

"Sherlock doesn't." Molly hated how small her voice sounded, and she reached automatically for the key hanging from a simple silver chain around her neck. She wore it all the time, that symbol of freedom, that puzzle Sherlock had handed her that she still hadn't quite figured out the meaning of. "He thinks I hate him. Doesn't he."

"He knows you don't," John replied, hesitating a moment before continuing, "but I think that confuses him, because he honestly believes you should hate hi…hang on, will you?" His voice was muffled for a moment, as if he were talking to someone else, then came back again. "Sorry, just letting Mary know…oh, you don't know," he interrupted himself with a self-conscious laugh. "Mary's my…we work at the same clinic, she's a nurse and we've, um, well, we've been seeing one another recently."

"And you're on a date and I'm calling just to…oh, John, sorry! Please tell her I'm sorry, I'll let you get back to whatever you were…just tell her I said sorry," Molly said quickly, feeling her cheeks heat up with embarrassment. Of course everyone else had lives of their own to live, without needing months of therapy and running away to Australia to help them heal. And John deserved to find someone nice to spend his time with, she hoped Mary was that woman, he'd had so many romantic disappointments in the past…

"Molly!" She tuned in again, hearing the concern in his voice and recognizing that he must have said her name more than once.

"Sorry," she said, wincing at the repetition. "John, I'm fine, it's all right, go back to your date."

"Mary says I'm to talk to you as long as we both need," he replied firmly. "She's gone to pick up our take-away and will be at least a half-hour walking there and back. So take your time. Tell me what's up. I'm sure you didn't call at, what, four o'clock, is it? Middle of the night, anyway, just to catch up a bit. Did you."

"Tell me about Mary." She was avoiding the real reason for her call, but at the same time, she did want to know about John's girlfriend and life in London. She missed it, all of it, missed the city and her friends and her work. She wanted it back, but first she had to know what she would be coming back to.

Besides, the more John spoke, the further the nightmare receded from her consciousness.

He, however, wasn't going to be deterred. "I'll send you an email with all the details, after I get the whole thing written down, the Magnussen case part of it, but Molly, please, tell me why you called, what's wrong?. Because clearly something's wrong, and I won't let you distract me with my own ego." John sounded stern, but cajoling at the same time.

"I think it's time for me to come back to London," she blurted out, the words forming before she'd actually thought them through. But once she said them, she felt a sort of peace settle over her, and knew it was the right thing to do. "I need to stop hiding here. I've been talking to my therapist about it off and on, but yeah, I think I need to come home."

There was a short silence, then: "Are you sure? You've only been gone a month, only been back here for three, are you sure you're ready? I mean, it's up to you of course, your decision, but…what brought this on, exactly?"

Sherlock might call John an idiot, but the man was a shrewd judge of human nature. Molly sighed. "A nightmare. I have them, probably will do for a long time, my therapist says – both of them, actually, the one here and Dr. Manx in London, she's still consulting and will take back over when I do come home. And that's what I want to do, to come home and start living my life again," she said in a rush. "Take my competencies, get recertified, find a new flat, maybe even get a new cat…see everyone," she finished quietly. "You and Greg, Mike and Sally and…"

"Sherlock," John said the name when she hesitated. "I think…if you're sure that's what you want, then Molly, I think that's a fantastic idea. We've missed you. Especially Sherlock, even if the git thinks you're better off without him mucking up your life. Which is ridiculous, since it's obvious to anyone with eyes that he misses you and…" He took a deep breath, and Molly could practically see the indecision on his face. When he spoke again, it was in a hushed voice, as if someone might overhear his words, and Molly found herself leaning forward as she would if they'd been in the same room. "Look, you didn't hear it from me, but Sherlock actually admitted that he wants you to come home."

Stunned, Molly found her fingers clutching the key hanging from her neck. "He did? I didn't think he…that's good to know, thank you for telling me!" Then, half to herself, she said, "That means he actually meant it when he…um, John, did you know he gave me a key? To 221B. My own key, to use or, or not use, whatever I want. Do you…do you think he actually wants me to use it?" She hated sounding so unsure of herself, but she needed to hear it from someone else, that it wasn't just wishful thinking on her part.

"I think," John said, "that Sherlock never does anything without a reason. Sometimes it's not a good reason or one us mere mortals could understand, but in this case…yeah. I think he wants you to use it. The question is, do you? Want to use it?"

"Yes," Molly replied quietly. "I do."

"Good." John sounded happy, even gave a small chuckle as he added, "Let me know, and I'll give you a ride from the airport. To Baker Street or anywhere else you want to go, OK?"

"OK."

"And if you do decide to stay over, it'll give me an excuse to sleep at Mary's for a few days," John said cheerfully, then sucked in a breath as he realized what he might be implying. "I mean, not because I think you'll…I just meant so you can borrow my room and not have to kip on the sofa…"

Molly laughed, the first time she'd done so without any bitterness behind it in ages. "No, John, it's all right, I understand. You just meant so Sherlock and I could have some privacy to talk about things. Things maybe we need to say to each other without a therapist or anyone else listening in."

"Yeah," he agreed, sounding relieved. "Right. Good, then, glad that's sorted."

They chatted for a few minutes more, but Molly couldn't stop thinking about what John had told her about Sherlock, and she soon said goodbye, promising once again to call when she came back to London and feeling much lighter in spirit.

She curled back under the blankets as she set her mobile on the nightstand, the key warm on her chest as she tucked it back beneath her nightshirt. Sherlock's words from when he'd given her the key replayed in her mind, as clearly as when he'd first spoken them. 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.

She remembered the soft kiss he'd given her, a farewell and a promise, and wondered what it would be like to receive a real kiss from him. Oh, it might never happen; just because he missed her and wanted her back in London, didn't mean he was in love with her or anything like that! No, that was just her projecting her own feelings onto him. But he did want her back, and even if friendship was all he was prepared to offer her, well, she was a grown woman and could learn to accept that. At least now she knew for certain that she hadn't just been a puzzle to be solved, which warmed her heart and set her mind further at ease.

That much settled, she turned to fretting over the other things a return to London would involve. Did she actually have the courage to do it? What if she failed her recertification? What if there wasn't a place at Bart's or any other hospital for a woman who'd vanished from the face of the Earth for a year? What if Mycroft wasn't able to help her find a flat, what if there weren't any cats with the right kind of personality up for adoption?

"What if the moon crashes into the Earth and kills us all in a month's time?" she muttered to herself, exasperated at her continued dithering. Yes, it was reasonable to be concerned about her future, but she'd learned to recognize the lurking panic, and refused to allow it to overcome her. Not twice in one night.

Holmes was dead, she reminded herself firmly. She'd shot him, watched him fall to the floor, blood flowing from his chest as he gaped up at her. Even if she woke from nightmares of his return every night for the rest of her life, that was all they would ever be: nightmares, products of her subconscious, with no ability to harm her in the real world.

Keeping that thought firmly in mind, she clicked off the light and settled back into bed. Tomorrow she would break the news to Kevin, maybe even buy her ticket, and begin the journey back to London.