A/N: Here it is, the penultimate chapter. Thank you as always to all my readers and followers and reviewers, and to my lovely beta moonmama, she really helped give this chapter the punch it needed!

There was someone in his flat.

Mrs. Hudson was away for the week, visiting her sister in Leeds, or so she claimed. Actually she'd snuck off on holiday with her current boyfriend, the butcher with the not-quite ex-wife, and didn't want anyone to know about it. Not that Sherlock either cared or judged; the man's almost-ex was a serial adulteress a la the former Mrs. Lestrade and the divorce would be finalized by the time Mrs. Hudson returned. Either way, whether he politely accepted the fiction she'd given him or acknowledged the slightly sordid reality, Mrs. Hudson was not the person in his flat.

It wasn't John, either. He and Mary were very close to moving in together, judging by the amount of time he spent with her when not helping on cases or working at the clinic job he insisted on keeping. It would be an adjustment, having John move out, but Mary was clever and brave and all the usual specs. Her no-longer-secret past as a government assassin was only frosting on the cake as far as either man was concerned. Well, once John had got over his snit about her lying to him and almost shooting Sherlock during the Magnussen case (the only one that had, incidentally, been important enough to drag him away from his research into Molly Hooper's disappearance; had that delay not occurred, he might have found Smythe that much sooner and got her back home that much quicker)…

Irrelevant, beside the point; he pushed those thoughts aside, shoved them into a mental closet with something akin to desperation as he forced himself to focus on the present and not his recurring guilt over his part in Molly's disappearance. Someone was in his flat, and he was dithering on the stairs like some idiot in a spy thriller. The prudent thing would be to ease back down to the ground floor and call Lestrade or (last resort) Mycroft for backup, but Sherlock had never been prudent in his life, and judging by the quiet noises he was hearing, the person or persons unknown had settled into his kitchen to wait for him.

Right. Time to take the bull by the horns. He moved silently up the stairs and took in the wide-open door of his flat; not being subtle, whoever they were. Not trying to hide their presence. The sound of the electric kettle giving out its shrill whistle widened his eyes a bit; not subtle at all!

And not, he concluded, a threat. A scowl marred his features as he tromped deliberately up the last few steps and crossed the hall. "Mycroft," he snapped as he strode into his flat. "To what do I owe the plea…sure."

He fell silent, utterly flummoxed at the sight that greeted him. Not his busybody brother, but instead someone he hadn't expected to see for months, if ever.

Molly Hooper offered him a shy smile as she turned off the kettle. "I hope you don't mind." She groped for a chain he could just see hanging round her neck and pulled it from beneath her colorful jumper and even more brightly-colored blouse, pulling the dangling item it held out for him to see. "I used my key."

Two months. She'd only been in Sydney for two months, had only been back on her proper world for four months – well, 117 days to be exact. Not that he was counting. Surely that was far too short a time for her to be here, in his flat, taking advantage of his offer and his key and sending his mind spinning into confusion. He thought for certain she'd learned to hate him by now, especially after he'd taken the coward's way out and not called or texted her the way he'd half-promised John he would. It would have surprised him less to receive a melted key in the post than to see Molly Hooper, in the flesh and in his flat – and smiling at him, no less - as he was doing now.

Her smile was fading and he could see the increased tension in her face and body as she turned away from him. "I'm sorry, I should have called first, I'll just…I'll get a cab and a hotel, it's all right…"

"No." The word burst out of him before he could stop it, and Molly turned back to him, startled, wary, but with a definite hope shining from her eyes. He cleared his throat and clasped his hands behind his back for lack of anything better to do with them. "I mean, yes, I told you the key was yours and the flat…I want you to stay. If you want to."

The smile was back, small and tremulous, but there nonetheless, easing the tightening in his gut. "Thanks," she said simply, then busied herself with the tea things while he removed his coat and hung it on its hook by the door. Normally he'd check his emails and texts for cases, but tea with Molly was far more important than any case could be. Well, perhaps a ten…no, not even a ten, mentioning it or even thinking about it was a bit Not Good; he didn't need John Watson's mental voice chastising him to know that!

He wasn't good at small talk unless he was faking it for a case, and he had no desire to ever fake anything with Molly. Even thinking about how false he'd been toward her – coldly manipulating her for morgue access and coercing her help after her shift had ended, complimenting her hair and make-up with no actual interest in her as a potential romantic partner – made him squirm with unaccustomed guilt. So he sipped his tea in silence, nodding at her nervous chatter about Sydney and her brother and the grueling 23-hour flight she'd endured.

That description caused him to focus more sharply on her appearance; instead of rumpled, travel-stained clothes, her simple blue jeans and the clashing jumper-and-blouse combo she was sporting seemed fresh, her face well-scrubbed and her hair slightly damp. He deduced that she'd taken full advantage of his bathroom, and a discreet sniff as he leaned across the table to grab the sugar bowl told him that yes, she'd used her own toiletries rather than his own. A vague disappointment, that; he wondered what it would be like if she smelled like him, then discarded the thought, although with a great deal of effort. What difference would it make if she had a slightly spicy, sandalwood scent, or the more delicate floral aroma she currently sported?

In a bit of a panic at the direction his thoughts were trending, Sherlock snapped out the first question that came to mind. "Why did you come back so soon?"

Instead of being alarmed or upset, Molly appeared unperturbed as she sipped her (heavily creamed and sugared) tea. "I didn't, actually," she said. "I mean, yes, originally I was going to come straight home a month ago, I thought I was ready after I spoke to John." She looked at him, straight on, no hiding behind her eyelashes. "Did he tell you I called? He said you were going to call or text or something."

Home. She referred to London (to his flat?) as home. Noted, filed for future examination, but currently irrelevant to her challenging question – and implied rebuke. "I was going to, but it never seemed the right time. Besides, there's nothing I could say that would change anything." The first was close to a lie and the second close to the truth, but it would only be entirely honest if he were to add because I was afraid.

Molly gave no indication whether she was hurt or upset by this lack of communication on his part, simply nodded her head and sipped her tea before setting the mug down carefully on the kitchen counter. The kitchen was small, but the table they bracketed, one on either side, felt a million miles wide – and was, he realized with a sudden flash of insight, the least of the barriers that stood between them. Molly had demolished more than one by taking the first step toward reclaiming her life in London, and he had thrown up another by not messaging her to check on her progress. Two steps forward, one step back as his father would put it. "Is there anything that I could say?" he asked, suddenly desperate to remove that extra barrier. "Anything that you'd want to hear?"

"You've already said you're sorry this happened to me, and believe it or not, I know you were sincere, that you really meant it." She offered him a lopsided grin as she added, "I've gotten really, really good at telling when people are trying to manipulate or use me."

"So, no more compliments just to get you to help me?" he said with a small smile of his own. "Although," he added quickly, "in my defense I never said anything untrue. My intentions may have been selfish and manipulative, but I never lied to you. Ever."

She nodded. "I know. I mean, I know it now, looking back, although I wasn't really sure back then." She took another sip of tea after groping for the mug and lifting it to her lips, then grinned nervously at him. "As for your question…I guess it's not so much what I want to hear from you as what I'd like you to hear from me. If you're ready to actually listen to me now, because I know you weren't really hearing me at my sessions with Dr. Manx. You were too upset, even if you don't want to admit it."

"I heard everything you said, it just didn't make the slightest bit of sense," he spat, flicking his wrist dismissively. "I'm not sure I'll ever understand why you didn't just wash your hands of me the moment we got back," he admitted, hating the feeling of helplessness rolling over him. "I'm a selfish bastard, Molly; you're far better off without me in your life."

The sound of her mug smacking down on the counter brought his gaze back to hers. He took in the tension of her posture, the slight tremor in her hands, and most of all the fury blazing from her eyes as she said, "You know, if there's one thing I've learned over the past year, it's not to let anyone else tell me what's best for me, or how I should feel. And if you can't understand that, if you can't see why I might still feel something for the man who worked so hard to save me, then…" She made a helpless gesture, her rage burning out as quickly as it had formed, leaving her looking tired and little forlorn as she continued quietly, "Then maybe I shouldn't be here. Maybe I should just stay at a hotel until I get the other parts of my life sorted out."

She hadn't said it; she may not even have thought it, but the comparison to his doppelganger was like a punch in the face nonetheless. ...not to let anyone else tell me what's best for me. He took a deep breath, briefly closing his eyes to try and center himself, then opened them and looked at her. "No. Don't leave just because I'm an ass who's no good at…this sort of thing. This is John's area – compassion. Feelings," he said the words slowly like he was learning to pronounce them in a foreign language. "I'm the one who pisses everyone off and that's actually the last thing I wanted to do to you."

He was rewarded for his frankness by the return of Molly's smile. "So does that mean the great Sherlock Holmes might actually be willing to listen for a change?"

"Yes." His response was unhesitating. "Because I still don't understand why you don't hate me. Do you want to…should we go…sit? Or something?" He gestured toward the sitting room. "I could, erm, make us more tea, see if Mrs. Hudson has any biscuits or those little cake things." He peered at her hopefully.

Molly smiled again and shook her head. "No, don't bother your landlady, Sherlock. But yes, more tea." She glanced wryly at the mug she'd set down with such force. "If I haven't cracked the mug. Then we'll sit down and talk."

"Yes," he agreed, even as his stomach clenched in apprehension of what she might say. "We'll talk."

oOo

Molly was quite frankly bowled over by everything Sherlock had just said, how raw and honest he was being with her. She wasn't bluffing when she told him she could spot faked emotions; that sort of ability had helped her keep her sanity more than once. Like when that world's John Watson had tried to feign sympathy for her plight just to get into her pants. She'd almost let him, if only to spite Holmes, but knowing that he'd inevitably find out and punish both of them – John potentially fatally and most likely while she was forced to watch – had made it easy to turn the man down. She only hoped her own open honesty wouldn't scare Sherlock off; there were things she needed to tell him – and, yes, hear from him – that she hadn't been able to speak of in front of any of her therapists.

The Christmas decorations, as she'd noted upon her arrival this afternoon, had finally been cleared away, the flat a cheerfully cluttered mishmash of furniture and Victorian wallpaper, piles of papers and other clutter on the desk by the windows, eclectic and utterly Sherlock. So different to Holmes' flat, which had been as sterile and soulless as the man himself.

No. No thinking about him; he would be part of the conversation soon enough.

As soon as they settled onto their respective seats – Molly curled up into the corner of the sofa nearest the desk and windows, he in his own black-leather chair – she started speaking. "I have nightmares. The one I had when John called…he was back." She knew she didn't need to clarify who 'he' was. "And panic attacks, I have those too, but Doctor Manx and my therapist in Sydney both think they'll pass with time. And if they don't, it's something I'm learning to deal with. I don't sleep as well as I used to, but that could change too. A lot of things I'll just have to wait and see how they turn out."

Sherlock nodded when she paused. He was leaning forward in his seat, elbows on his knees and fingers steepled in front of his lips, his eyes clear and fully focused on her. Sherlock's undivided attention could be disconcerting, but right now it was exactly what she needed from him. "That's – that's partly why I used that key you gave me," she said, looking down at her hands and the well-bitten nails at the ends of her fingers. "To see how things would turn out. Between us. Not-not that I have any expectations or anything," she added hastily. Wanting to reassure a man who generally needed no reassurances. "But I just…I want you to know that I think of you as a friend, Sherlock, before anything else. I've liked you ever since I met you, even when you were…"

She paused, searching for the right word, when Sherlock leaned back in his chair and gave her a rueful grin. "When I was being a complete arse?" he suggested. "When I was rude and manipulative?" The ruefulness disappeared, replaced by a quiet intensity as he added, "When I pretended not to know what you meant when you asked me out to coffee? When I took out my frustrations about the Adler case on you at that Christmas party?" His voice lowered; she could barely hear him when he finished, "When I tried to pretend I wasn't insanely jealous of whoever it was you'd dressed up for that night?"

Molly blinked and clutched her mug as she tried to process Sherlock's entirely unexpected confession. "You were jealous," she said slowly, once she felt able to speak again.

"You can hardly blame me," he said, crossing his arms defensively. "With the hair and the makeup, wearing that dress – and don't think I missed how Gavin reacted," he interrupted himself with a scowl. "Or John. Idiots, both of them, goggling at you as if they'd never seen an attractive woman in a dress before."

"You were jealous," Molly repeated, still unable to believe that he'd admitted any such thing. "But I thought…I thought you and that woman, the moaning phone thing…"

"Client," he said succinctly, and Molly bit back the question that loomed in her mind: what sort of 'client' would he have assigned such a personal ringtone to? And the way he shifted in his seat…very suspicious. No, not suspicious, just, erm, interesting; she had no right to be jealous of anyone in Sherlock's life, certainly not in the past. Still, she couldn't help but wonder if there was some connection between Sherlock's moaning phone and the one she'd seen him trying to x-ray in the lab.

"Right, okay, client," she said instead of the million questions she wanted to ask him. It was times like this she envied him his ability to delete info from his mental hard drive; how much easier would her life be if she could do that? She'd ask him to show her how, to try to teach her, but had the feeling her brain just wasn't wired that way. "So you were jealous. Because you thought I had a new boyfriend." She made sure to meet his eyes as she asked, "Why?"

His expression said 'caught'; his body language said 'about to bolt', and Molly, who'd spent a year feeling nothing but trapped and helpless, almost took the question back, almost changed the subject to what she'd meant to tell him. To try and impress upon him why, exactly, he needed to stop feeling guilty for his part, such as it was, in her kidnapping. Instead, she kept silent, waiting and watching as a series of emotions flitted across his expressive features: indecision, a hint of fear, calculation…too many to quantify in too short a period of time.

He jumped to his feet, as if whatever he was feeling was too much to be contained and needed to be paced out; he moved rapidly around the room, touching papers on his desk, pausing at the fireplace to peer at the skull sat next to a knife stuck into a pile of what looked like correspondence, before finally stopping behind his chair and laying his fingers on its back. She looked up at him expectantly, and was surprised when he frowned – not at her, but at the chair, even biting back what sounded like a curse as he walked deliberately around it, stepped up on the low coffee table, and then back onto the floor in order to stand in front of her. He started to sit, paused, raised an inquisitive eyebrow, and only took the seat next to her on the sofa when she nodded.

"I meant what I said before, this isn't my area, never has been," Sherlock said. "But for you…for you, I could try. Maybe." He reached up with one hand to ruffle the hair on the back of his head. "This isn't what you wanted to talk to me about, I know. Or," he peered intently into her face, eyes narrowing in concentration, "maybe it is?"

Molly pulled her feet out from under her and turned so they were fully facing one another. "I wanted to try to make you understand that I really don't blame you, that you have nothing to feel guilty about. I wanted to let you know that I still care about you – quite, quite a lot, actually – and try to make you see how important you are to me, how amazing it is to me that you came after me."

"You shouldn't have been taken in the first place," he muttered.

He clearly had more to say on that point, but Molly, cut off any further comment by lifting a finger and placed it over his lips, smiling as he obediently shushed. "Yeah, no arguments from me on that." She raised her left leg and set her foot on the sofa, then reached down and shifted her trouser leg up and tugged her sock down so he could see the faded scars barely visible on her pale skin. "This was how desperate you were to keep me from being taken, Sherlock. This is why I could never hate you. You tried to save me, and in the end, you did. You told me I had no reason to blame myself for anything; the same is true for you."

"You really don't hate me," he said, and she nodded, allowing her trouser leg to slide back down and settling her hand on her knee. He shook his head, clearly still not understanding how that could be. "It makes absolutely no sense at all, but everything about you tells me you mean it: your body language, the tone of your voice, the dilation of your pupils and steadiness of your gaze..." He shook his head again. "I suppose I have to believe you."

Molly let out a huff of laughter; that was so typically Sherlock, making it sound like a chore to accept that he wasn't actually unlovable. "If you can manage that, then I guess I can try to not feel guilty about what I had to do to survive there. But it's hard," she said frankly. "Hard not to feel…dirty…for letting him, for not stopping him…" She shuddered and turned away. God, the shame she felt, she doubted it would ever leave her, no matter how many times her therapists assured her that nothing had been her fault, that she hadn't done anything wrong.

"You didn't do anything wrong."

She looked up; Sherlock's words, echoing her thoughts, had been firm, ringing with conviction. He'd told her that before, when they were still on that other version of Earth, and she still wasn't entirely convinced, but maybe one day she'd finally believe it. Logically, she knew it but her emotions continued to prick at her with suggestions of 'if I'd only done this…' would things have been different? Maybe someday it would stop. For now, she'd take as much external reassurance as she could get. "Neither did you," she reminded him. "So let's both try to remember that, yeah?"

He responded with a curt nod and a shrug that spoke volumes: he might as well have shouted the words I'll stop feeling guilty when you do. Still, it was a dialogue, a conversation they'd needed to have, and she no longer felt uneasy about having come back to London, to this flat. His unexpected confession of long-ago jealousy, his admission that he wanted something more for the two of them…her heart was singing, and she couldn't stop smiling.

Impulsively she leaned forward to press a soft kiss to his cheek, but he moved his head at the last second, and their mouths met. She reached up reflexively and put her hand on his arm, and felt his hand settle on her knee.

She pulled back almost immediately, an apology on her lips, but this time Sherlock was the one who silenced her with a finger, not quite touching her, simply holding it up in front of her mouth. "Don't apologize," he said. "It's something we both wanted. Right?" His gaze narrowed and his body stilled; only his eyes were moving, flickering over her face, studying her – deducing her.

Yet there was a question in that gaze, and she instinctively knew what it was. "It's all right, Sherlock," she said, reaching up and resting her hand on his cheek. He blinked and went very still at the contact. "I don't see him when I look at you. Ever. Never doubt that."

"I don't," he said quietly. "I won't ever doubt you again, Molly Hooper. You are one of the most extraordinary people I've ever known." Then he leaned forward, waiting for her smile and tiny nod before drawing her into another soft kiss, one that held a world of promise for the two of them.