Author's Note: Hello again! As promised, here's the final chapter. I'm sorry again it took so long to update. Between being on the road and having company at my place for the last two weeks, I didn't have much down time or energy to finish this last chapter until a few days ago. Hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

Don't Overthink

Chapter 3

No answer.

Finger still hovering over the buzzer, Sherlock debated whether or not he should go home and formulate a more solid plan before just charging in, but emotion won again in the end. He pushed the bell a second time and pressed his ear to the door when Molly didn't open it, but he couldn't hear much over the blood pounding in his skull. Perhaps the incident had been enough to push her over the edge. Maybe she wanted rid of him for good this time? A sickening lurch churned his stomach. He hadn't considered that, the possibility of her consistent affection dissipating into thin air just as he'd developed the capacity to reciprocate; he'd been too busy worrying about himself in the back of the taxi on the way over. He pressed the bell urgently once more.

Still, no answer.

Should he…?

The fledgling thought had barely taken wing before he pulled a pin out of his wallet and began picking her lock with a rekindled sense of urgency. Practically second nature to him from his stint as a dead man, he had the door cracked in seconds. He swung it open just shy of the point at which he knew it would start squeaking and slipped silently inside, closing it inaudibly behind him.

There was no sign of Molly in the sitting room or kitchen, and he didn't see anyone through her open bedroom door, but Sherlock quickly picked up the sound of running water and froze in his steps. Of all the scenarios he'd played in his head, not one involved a wet Molly coming out of the shower. He'd been so nervous about what to say that his usual attention to detail had failed him.

Any remnants of a plan he'd managed to organize immediately fled his mind. In a panic, Sherlock backed up toward the front door and prepared to make a hasty retreat, sincerely regretting his lack of forethought. What had driven him to such madness? He vowed he'd come back as soon as he let his heart and his mind come to terms with one another, once he could actually formulate something meaningful and convincing enough to –

"REOW!"

Sherlock stopped his backward tiptoe and spun around in a whirl of black and aubergine. In horror, he realized he'd trodden upon Toby's tail. The ginger tabby hissed angrily then leapt backward in fear and pain. His trajectory caused a collision with a floor lamp that promptly fell to the tiles with a deafening crash.

A few seconds later, the sound of running water stopped.

Now in full-blown panic mode, Sherlock floundered, realizing he was thoroughly screwed and without an excuse for breaking into Molly's flat. He heard his heartbeat in his ears again, breathing erratic, feet stumbling over themselves, sweaty palms… Never had he felt so out of his element (stealth in high-stress situations was usually one of his strengths, for God's sake). Then from around the corner tiptoed Molly Hooper, clad in an obscenely pink bathrobe and brandishing a… hair dryer.

"Sherlock?!" Molly's cosmetic implement clattered to the floor as she looked at him, stunned, hair wet and dripping.

The detective struggled to regain his composure, face rapidly reaching scorching temperatures. He looked like a small child who'd been caught hitting a baseball and breaking the neighbor's window. "Ah, Molly…" he began awkwardly, surprised to hear his voice sounded more or less normal despite the ridiculous, mid-escape half-crouch he was in. "Hello." He straightened up abruptly to regain some semblance of control.

The initial fear on Molly's face melted away to reveal an expression of pure anger. "Are you insane?!" But who could blame her, really? "I thought I was being robbed!"

"Oh. Well…" Sherlock said, clearing his throat nervously and fighting the urge to wring his hands. "Not a robber, as you can see," he concluded, unable to stop a sheepish grimace from making its way onto his face.

Molly, on the other hand, looked far from amused. "Normal people don't just break into someone else's house!" Although he had entered her flat uninvited in the past, she didn't need to clarify that under the circumstances, he was the last person she expected to see.

"Of course, I know, just…" The sentence hung heavy in the air. "H-how are you?"

"'How am I?'" Molly parroted in disbelief.

Recovering from shock and the accompanying adrenaline rush, Sherlock sensed Molly's own surprise abating and giving way to feelings of resentment and remorse. He mentally kicked himself. The question had come out like a reflex, a social norm he'd observed and picked up from his interactions with people at large gatherings, but he should've known it was usually only meant as a formality; in retrospect he realized his question sounded horribly insensitive. Ironically his attempts at being genuine were regressing more and more into the manipulative small talk he'd used in the past when he wanted something from Molly; her expression confirmed that for him. It was the exact opposite of how he wanted to sound.

In a desperate defense move, Sherlock's brain started deducing away for any clues that might help him save the conversation. Molly had clearly been crying and tried to ease some of the rawness of her eyes with the shower, but he saw that they were still slightly puffy. Dehydrated, sleep-deprived, unshaven… the list rattled off in his head. "No!" he practically shouted to silence his mind, remembering that John had warned him against it. The shout frightened both of them a little bit. "I mean…" He cleared his throat. "What I meant to say is… w-we should probably talk." That sounded reasonable, right? "About things. Things you probably have questions… about…" he trailed off hopelessly. Well, that was thoroughly botched…

Astute, observant Molly noticed immediately that something about him was… off. Her brow looked less furrowed, anyway, as she listened to him. The fidgeting and stuttering were one thing, but the sudden interest in talking… She raised an eyebrow, looking almost more curious than angry. He didn't do that when he was trying to get something from someone else. She was one of the few who could tell when he was being genuine, and he knew that she knew he was currently drowning in his own nervousness. "Are… are you okay?" she asked hesitantly, voice losing all traces of its former fury. For a moment she put aside whatever feelings she harbored and reappeared as the steadfast, supportive lifeboat who had shared in some of the most critical moments of Sherlock's life.

Sherlock looked at the woman before him in amazement. After all he'd put her through, she was already coming to his aid at the slightest hint of a problem. He'd never known such a beautiful, loyal friend. But there was no time to dwell on his admiration. He owed her an explanation and an apology. "Yes, yes – ah – I'm hoping everything will be fine soon, given time…" That seemed to ease her worry a bit, and she returned to looking annoyed. "Um… may I sit?" He gestured to her sitting room.

Molly looked at him with suspicion as she replied, "Fine."

Still feeling tense and incredibly afraid, Sherlock awkwardly made his way over to the loveseat and parked himself on one of the cushions. Her eyes followed him all the way, and when he looked at her expectantly, she crossed her arms and reluctantly shuffled over. With a flop, she sunk into her armchair, about as far away she could get from him without standing up and backing into one corner of the room.

At least he'd made it over that first hurdle; she hadn't kicked him out, in any case… Not knowing what had come over him, Sherlock patted the seat cushion next to him, hoping she'd accept his invitation and sit beside him instead. Perhaps it was just another one of those formality things people did when they wanted to talk, evoking some sense of security with closeness… or something. He wasn't entirely surprised when she shook her head, narrowing her eyes. He thought he saw her lower lip tremble slightly and knew that the angry face she was wearing was all that blocked the tears from falling.

He certainly hadn't landed himself in an easy situation.

"What are you doing here?" The question came out curtly, but the detective didn't miss the aftertaste of remorse and… something else following her words.

If he was honest, there were a lot of things he was hoping to accomplish by being in her flat: sorting out those pesky feelings, explaining himself and the reason for that horrible phone call, repairing what he could of their damaged friendship for a start… But the one that stuck out most to Sherlock when he found himself on the spot was, "I… I wanted to see you." And he truly did.

Molly looked back at him, her eyes glazed with exhaustion. She didn't even have the energy to look surprised or flattered. A bad sign, Sherlock decided. A sigh escaped her lips. "It's always about what you want, isn't it?" There it was again, that mixture of sadness and something else he couldn't quite place.

Sherlock blanched, though, realizing that his recent missteps probably caused every frustration she'd experienced at his hand to resurface with a vengeance. "If you'd just let me explain – "

Molly stood up, cutting him off with her thinly worn patience. He sensed she was at the brink, unable to handle having this conversation right now, especially with him beating around the bush like some directionless (and socially stunted) water fowl. Her body language screamed that she wanted nothing more than to retreat to her room away from him so she could let her resolve break in private. "Sherlock…" she said, looking pained, like she wanted to say more than she dared. "You don't have to – to put on an act to keep me around. You know that, right? You don't have to… pretend to care." He looked desperately at his despondent pathologist, trying to communicate without words that he wanted so much more than to "keep her around." "We both know that I'll always be here for you, but I need time. I know you feel bad about what happened. I get it, but right now I…" Her chin quivered slightly, and she turned her back. "I can't see you right now." Hazel eyes pleaded over her shoulder for him to understand, to spare her feelings just this once. She couldn't do games or tricks, not today.

Sherlock could tell she was replaying the dialogue between them over and over in her head as she stared dejectedly at him. "Molly, wait!" he exclaimed, certain she was on the verge of throwing him out of her flat. "I…" He wasn't sure how to end that sentence, realizing he was at a do-or-die moment in their conversation. He dropped the arm that had unknowingly reached foolishly toward her as Molly glanced back at him over her shoulder. Her closed body language and the empty expression on her face suggested that a misplaced comment could potentially wound her irreparably, and that was the last thing Sherlock wanted to do to her. It all hinged on him saying the right thing. "I… don't want to make this about me." His voice had calmed to a normal volume again, but the urgency was still unmistakably present. "I came here because at the very least I owe you an explanation for what happened during…" He hesitated. "When we last spoke, but I understand if you don't believe me." He expected an interruption part way through but continued when the pathologist said nothing. "If you want me to leave, I'll… I'll respect your wishes and leave."

Molly stared at him for a good long moment, arms folded defiantly to accompany her frown, before her face started to soften when they made eye contact, hazel meeting steely blue. He had her, he realized when she emitted an exhausted, exasperated breath. She flopped back down onto the armchair, looking a little more deflated than the first time she sat down. Sherlock saw immediately how defeated she appeared, how numb she tried to make herself when just below the surface bubbled a cauldron of emotion. He hated knowing that he was the one responsible.

"Explain it how, Sherlock?" The voice that came out sounded hollow and resigned, almost weary enough to not care what the answer was. "How you were okay doing… that to me?" Molly's eyes shone with unshed tears as she looked into his face, feelings of betrayal etched clear as day into her expression. The eye contact was apparently too much for her, however, as she averted her gaze a second later.

Sherlock felt a pang in his chest. Guilt, most probably. That selfless, wonderful woman had never looked more downtrodden, and it was all his fault. Emotion took the wheel again, and without thinking, he scooted over on the couch to get closer to her, enfolding one of her small hands in both of his own. Slightly pink in the face, she tried to pull her hand out of his grasp, but he didn't let go. Her eyes met his stony gaze again, and she realized just how urgently he needed her to listen, even if she didn't want to see him ever again afterwards. "Please," the uncharacteristic utterance sounded desperate. "There are some things I need to say, but if at any point you want me out, I'll go." Molly gulped nervously; she could expertly handle crabby, insensitive, selfish Sherlock, but the detective sensed that the recently acquired softness – and physical contact – was off-putting for her. Nevertheless, she nodded reluctantly for him to continue, though everything else about her screamed at him to leave her alone.

He now needed every ounce of delicacy he possessed to come through for him.

"How to start…" he mumbled, briefly glancing at the floor. "Well, what do you know already?"

Molly sighed, clearly trying to fortify herself for a long, difficult conversation, and Sherlock found himself amazed by her resilience. It had suddenly gotten so easy for him to recognize all the little traits about her he'd previously taken for granted; he now realized just how much he appreciated those things about her. "Mycroft mentioned briefly a long, lost, genius sister…" Molly's voice brought Sherlock back to the present. "And that she put the two of you and John through some sort of… test, or something…" she trailed off. Sherlock could tell that if the story involved anyone else, she would have found it impossible to believe.

The detective clenched his teeth, wondering if it would even be worth telling her the truth if she wouldn't find it credible. But he continued, knowing the outcome – losing her from his life – would be worse if he didn't at least try. So, he began, "Until about five days ago, my sister, Eurus, had been locked away in a high security facility. Sherrinford, it's called. She was sent there when we were all very young, and I had forgotten all about it until... that day." And the whole story came out. He recalled each of Eurus's tests in turn, deliberately leaving the most relevant one for last.

Molly listened attentively through the whole course of the retelling. "I'm so sorry Sherlock," she said sincerely when he got to the part about Redbeard's true identity. All traces of anger had left her at that point. "That must have been just... awful…" She gave his hand a comforting squeeze, studying him. "Really, are you all right?" If he wasn't mistaken, Sherlock sensed an implied Do you need anything from me? at the end of that sentence. She didn't press him to explain himself or the phone call that took place, even going so far as to sound guilty for not considering the stressful time he must've been having. All she cared about was how he felt. How selfless, how typically… Molly.

Sherlock assured her that, despite the traumatic situation he'd found himself in and his shaken nerves, he was recovering fine. "I could have predicted how I'd behave in all those scenarios… except for one. I didn't truly appreciate her genius until then." A questioning stare from Molly prompted him to continue. "There was one more test Eurus had for me." He gave her a meaningful look. "In one room she'd set up a screen with a feed into a kitchen, and in the center of the room, there was a coffin… Your kitchen… your coffin, Molly. Eurus told me she'd rigged your flat with explosives, and she gave me three minutes to – She said she was going to blow up your kitchen with you in it if I didn't get you to say…" he trailed off and looked at Molly's face, which had lit up with shock and understanding about the back story of the phone call that had caused so much damage.

There they were, on the precipice and poised to address the issue they'd been dancing around since Sherlock showed up at the flat. Still engaged in the story (or maybe to avoid the discussion altogether), however, Molly responded, "Well obviously… you beat her test then. Since I'm, well, still here?" It came out as more of a question than anything.

Sherlock shook his head grimly. "No… she beat me. There were never any explosives. It was all part of a game Eurus set up to break me. After she hung up the phone on you, I knew I lost you," he said, not realizing his words echoed the very worry harbored in Molly's own mind. "And I... couldn't handle it, I'd never felt anything like it before. I smashed that coffin to bits. I'm so sorry, Molly. I know I'm not the best at handling sensitive situations, but even I know that – "

"Sherlock," Molly interrupted, beginning to get choked up; the conversation was quickly approaching discussion of those three painful words despite her trying to steer them away from it. "It's okay, you don't need to say anymore. I get it. You'll never lose me, I'll always be here for you." Yet, she gently pulled her hand free of his. "And… thank you, for looking out for me." She gave him a watery smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, still trying to maintain her composure. She sounded… guilty? A choked, dry laugh broke the pause. "I'm sorry for acting so rude earlier, I guess I was just feeling sorry for myself. I think… I'll still need some time, you know? For things to get back to normal between us." Something in her voice, though, told Sherlock things were never going to be normal between them again if he didn't act quickly. Though unsaid, he could tell she still saw herself as a pawn to him, something small he could occasionally use to his advantage.

"Molly, you don't understand," he said hastily, miraculously sensing where her logic was heading. "Eurus observed me – and you – for years, learning all she could, predicting my every move, every reaction… She truly is an intelligent woman. She studied my relationships with others down to the subtlest of signs, and she targeted the people closest to me: Mycroft, John… and you. You've always been an important part of my life, Molly Hooper, but Eurus knew something about me that I didn't realize until it was too late. Not until days after I destroyed that casket. She understood how strongly I try to suppress and deny the complicated emotions I have rather than deal with them, but they're still there." Sherlock's heart was pounding out of his chest. "Eurus set off a chain of events that she knew would lead me here, all because she understood the depth of my feelings… for you."

It took a moment for the words to sink in, and Molly responded with a sharp intake of breath. Her eyes widened in realization, but she was clearly too wary to ask the confirming question out loud, lest her hopes get dashed yet again. "Sherlock…"

"I… hope you can begin to understand why it took me so long to come to you." He had returned his hands to his lap and folded them. He tried to appear calm but felt overly warm and anxious.

Molly looked into her own lap, unsure of what to say. The silence stretched interminably until, "I want to believe you, but…" The whispered thought trailed off.

She was looking at him with that something in her eyes again, but Sherlock couldn't figure out for the life of him what she was trying to tell him. Maybe he needed some sort of… push. There they were, dancing around some unspoken, writhing ball of feelings, and the serpents clearly needed some prodding. If he could reaffirm how she felt… would that help him understand his own unregistered emotions, voice them, display them, whatever he needed to do to convince her that he…? He needed confirmation, he realized, only growing more nervous as he comprehended the potential disaster that could arise from asking, "Molly, you still love me, don't you?" The tension in the room immediately ascended to unprecedented heights.

The pathologist's eyes widened in response to the sudden invasive – and seemingly unrelated – question. Sherlock saw fear washing over her like a wave as she looked to be reliving that phone call yet again. "Why are you doing this?" she asked despondently, voice low. She'd been able to accept the situation for what it was when Sherlock had put into context the dangerous predicament he thought she'd been in. That was simple, straightforward. Couldn't they just leave it at that and let things settle? She didn't have the energy to be strung along again.

Sherlock sensed her palpable devastation but wouldn't drop it, suddenly finding himself desperate for an answer. At that point she'd stood up and started to exit the room, but Sherlock followed her and caught up with a couple long strides. "Molly… do you?" He reached for her hand again and met with no resistance. Her steps stopped, he gently drew her around to face him, and the gap between them closed as he leaned toward her.

Her expression was one of complete distress as she tried to look anywhere but at him. "Sherlock – "

"Molly, please." He realized he sounded exactly like he had when he'd pleaded Molly so urgently to say those words to him over the phone, but this time for a completely different reason; they both needed it, he realized. "I… I think I need to know." He looked into her eyes, eyes full of fear, sadness, doubt, and… that thing he still couldn't quite place. He reached out a tentative, pale hand, fingers lightly brushing her cheek, eyes pleading her for an answer and begging her to trust him just one more time.

Molly closed her eyes, allowing a tear to finally escape the thin barrier of her resolve. She let out a shuddering breath, looking completely resigned. "Yes…" The word came out barely above a whisper, but Sherlock didn't miss it.

The simple response tied together all the scattered pieces that had been floating around in Sherlock's head, her hesitation, her fear, her doubt, all mixed undeniably with want. She wanted to believe him, to trust him… she wanted him, and for once he could empathize with how it felt to want someone. But she had endured too much to be able to handle another trick. He finally understood the question she'd been asking him so earnestly with her eyes since he met her and forced her to endure various intervals of neglect, and what she'd been currently posing to him as they sat together in her sitting room in the aftermath of that twisted phone call: "What am I to you?" She still didn't know. He'd never once convincingly articulated her importance to him, but on this new journey of self-awareness, he thought he had an answer.

"Eurus knows me better than I know myself," he said. Molly's shining eyes opened to meet his. "She learned years ago how I feel about you, and even if you don't believe me now, I've got the rest of my life to prove it to you."

Tell her you love her, you fool, John's voice scolded him in his mind. But Sherlock couldn't bring himself to say it. When Molly confessed it, the words had weight, seven solid years of consistent affection and sacrifice behind them that lent meaning to those words. But when Sherlock said the same words several days ago, the results had been disastrous. With Molly in such a vulnerable state, how would saying them again help now? She needed more than that.

His mind continued screaming at him to tell her how he felt, to voice the emotion that had erupted within him in the last few days, but his arms, as if knowing he could show her much more easily than tell her in his own clumsy way, reacted before his brain had time to process a sentence. Before he knew it, he had Molly's face cupped in his large hands. His thumb grazed her trembling bottom lip. As his own face descended upon hers, he saw her eyes widen and her mouth part slightly in a silent gasp. His eyes slid shut as he pressed their lips together, and he felt her jump in surprise against him as he drew her closer.

Sherlock was by no means an expert, and the kiss only lasted a few seconds, but it was just long enough for Molly's hesitation to melt away as she gave in to years of repressed feelings for the detective. Sherlock angled her head slightly, one hand coming around to bury itself in the damp hair on the back of her head and the other resting on the small of her back. Her slim, bathrobe-clad arms came up to encircle his neck as a soft moan escaped from somewhere in her throat. It was a delicious sound.

Just as soon as it started, it was over, as Sherlock pulled away and opened his eyes in time to see Molly's own eyes fluttering open and staring back at him. They stood, just looking at each other, breathing rate slightly elevated and pulses – as Sherlock was pleased to note – slightly rapid.

Then, to his immense relief, he saw the beginnings of a smile on Molly's face, a face that now looked pink with desire. The smile broke quickly into a grin and blossomed into a choked laugh. The tears were flowing again, and Molly drew back an arm to dry her eyes on the sleeve of her bathrobe.

Meanwhile, Sherlock looked stricken, unsure of how to interpret the laughing, crying puddle she'd just become in his arms. "Was – did I mess up?" he asked, voice full of genuine concern. It wouldn't have been the first time he'd misinterpreted social cues. His arms became rigid around her; he didn't know whether he should withdraw them or use them to pull her closer.

It didn't help when his question just made Molly break into a full fit of giggles; she had to use both fluffy sleeves to muffle her jubilance. A look at his panicked face caused the mirth to subside enough for her to respond, "No, that wasn't bad at all," she sniffled. "I didn't know you could be so romantic." Sherlock looked a bit miffed by her joke, but she cupped the side of his face in one hand and stroked the skin of his cheek with her thumb as a reassuring gesture. Her smile returned, beautiful and brilliant, and Sherlock felt himself breaking out into a grin as well, amazed by his luck. "But… what happens now?" She still sounded tentative.

The detective frowned, unhappy with himself for still giving her reason to doubt him. He pondered for a moment, distracted by the scent of shampoo radiating off her damp hair. "Well… first I was thinking dinner, if you're interested in that sort of thing." He snugged up the arms he'd circled about her waist.

"'Dinner?'" she echoed in disbelief.

He faltered. Perhaps he'd messed up again, but the last woman he'd been involved with had constantly wanted dinner… He blushed, only now realizing that Irene Adler's definition of "dinner" had been a euphemism for something else entirely. "Molly, forgive me, I've never done this before. I don't know how I'm supposed to act, or if you even want to do this – "

"Do what?"

"This." He gestured between the both of them. "You know, a – uh – relationship, I guess you'd call it."

Molly blinked, flabbergasted; an hour ago she'd been prepared to watch their friendship wash down the drain, and now she found herself not only in Sherlock's arms but kissing him. "You?" she sputtered in disbelief. "In a relationship with… me?" It came out as a squeak.

Sherlock pursed his lips slightly, not used to being questioned. "Unless you don't want to. It's your choice."

Suddenly she grabbed him by the collar of his belstaff and tugged to bring his face down to meet hers. He felt his cheeks flush, surprised by her forwardness. "You'd best start making good on your word. A lifetime, you said, to prove how you feel?" A smile spread slowly on her face, and Sherlock knew he was in the clear.

"It'll be messy," he warned, their noses almost touching. "You know how I am, socially inept, abrasive, blunt… I don't understand 'love' the way most people seem – "

Molly cut him off with a soft peck on the lips. "Don't overthink it, Sherlock. All you really need to ask yourself is, do you want to try?"

Sherlock promptly shut his mouth. The whole humbling ordeal had stripped him of his brilliance and the cool calculating logic that sometimes made him seem inhuman. It had reduced him to the man he supposed he always knew he was deep down, a man capable of adoring the woman he now held in his arms. And despite everything he'd put her though, she wanted to try? She wanted to try with him? He'd never felt more alive. Sherlock nodded, not even needing to consult his mind palace for the right answer. "More than anything." He grinned and dipped down to kiss her again, one of many more to come.

Author's Note: Whew! And done! I hope you guys enjoyed the read. This was by far the hardest chapter to write. Sorry it's so much longer - splitting the chapter in two just felt unnecessary, but at the same time I didn't want to rush the conversation too much. Doing so wouldn't have fit in with my attempt to slowly let Sherlock come to terms with his feelings. He's such a fascinating character, but getting in his head and writing from his perspective while trying my best to keep him in character was incredibly difficult. Anyway, thank you again to all those who read and enjoyed the story. Until next time!