Hello! Apologies for the delay in an update. I really do have the rest of the chapters planned out, but toddlers are not very cooperative in providing me regular writing times, and so it looks like an update every 2 weeks will be about the norm. Hopefully the length of this one makes up for it.

Also, this one is still more of a transition chapter, but I think it was necessary.

Not So Very Far Off

"What I'm trying to say is that if there's anything...I can do, anything you need, anything at all - you can have me."

-Molly Hooper, The Reichenbach Fall

"Well," John stands, "Time to go, Rosie." He smiles at her, gathers her things together, and shrugs his jacket on, before reaching for his daughter, where she is perched comfortably on Sherlock's lap.

"Right," Sherlock says, looking him over, realizing he's going to visit Mary's grave, for the first time since the funeral, and so – Sherlock hands Rosie to John, and stands, moves to get his own coat – because that's what friends do, isn't it?

"Er," John says suddenly, shifting his weight from foot to foot, not quite meeting Sherlock's eye – "Er, I-" he clears his throat. "I'd rather…you not." He gives him an apologetic glance, and his face is twisted with a shadow of the grief he'd displayed days earlier, in this same room, in this same way, after Sherlock had nearly given his life to pull him out of his spiraling sorrow. "Just – not – this time."

Sherlock freezes for a moment, reading his best friend. "Oh." He waits a beat. "Right." He tries to sound understanding, but he knows he doesn't.

John sighs, and swallows. "I'm just – I need – to do this alone, first."

Sherlock frowns, thinking, and then – his face lightens, just a bit, and he focuses on Rosie. His hands move forward, just a bit. "I could – watch Rosamund. While you visit. If you need…time alone. Mrs. Hudson is downstairs, so really, it would be the both of us-"

"No," John says quickly, hoisting Rosie further up his hip, and she settles comfortably there. "No thank you," he amends, realizing he sounded a bit harsh. "I just – need more time. For that." He gives Sherlock a half-hearted smile. "But its – that was good, Sherlock. You're – we're good. I just – need to do this with Rosie. First."

A cloud passes over Sherlock's face, but it is nearly unnoticeable – a slight tightening of his mouth, and around his eyes. "It's all right. I understand." He offers John a small smile, and John's own expression warms in relief.

He squeezes Sherlock's shoulder with his free hand. "Thanks. Thank you."

Sherlock nods, his back already to John, looking out the window.

Her relationship with him has always been a series of mountains and valleys – same as her relationship with every other person in her life. His valleys may be lower than most – almost unbearably so – but his peaks, in return, are higher and clearer and more pure for it. It's remarkable, really, how predictably cyclical it is – like phases of the moon or ocean tides. The best of times, and the worst of times.

She has the advantage of being just on the outside of his rising and falling, always – and so her perspective of him, and her ability to see through him and his many self-protective layers, has been shaped by the singular fact that she is close, without being in the midst.

She feels like she's in the midst of it, most of the time, of course – but she tells herself that he sees her as an outlier – off to the side, a necessary anomaly. That helps her to distance herself, to stay a lifeguard – essential, but 'out of sight, out of mind' – instead of a participant in the mad relay of his life.

There are times, though, she jumps in after him – and when she pulls him to the shore - he is the one breathing life into her.

People often wrongly assume that she hangs onto scraps of Sherlock's attention, ever hungry for more, never satisfied with what he's given her – a lovesick puppy, hopelessly begging at his heels for something he is entirely uninterested in giving her –

-but if that were the case, her love for the man would have extinguished long ago, after his first blatant rejections of her interest, and long before he thought to come to her for help in faking his death.

She's not a masochist, but on the other hand - she's also not some sort of goddess of mercy.

He's come very close to depleting her stores of grace, in the past – but she continues to forgive him, because he continues to surprise her. He is oblivious to his own humanity, sometimes, but it has flared to life with increasing fury these past five years. That he not only allows, but seems to want her to experience it with him, brings her unparalleled joy and satisfaction.

She knows, of course, that he will never love her like she loves him – and he may never care for her as openly as he cares for John, or cared for Mary – but he does care for her, deeply and obviously, in his own way.

Love is in the little things, people say. In the tiny details. And so it is with Sherlock – his fondness for her is present in thousands of tiny gestures and words and looks. She just has to look a little harder than she does with everyone else.

He told her, once, that she was bread.

After he apologized satisfactorily for the drugs, and Janine, and his comments about the end of her engagement with Tom, he'd started to come again, to her flat. Not often, but enough. One evening before she had to cover the night shift - to keep them both entertained, she'd resorted to taking all of the trash personality quizzes in the celebrity gossip magazines. Sherlock liked to deduce what their results would be before she finished them. The most current was 'What Part of the Sandwich Are You?' Sounded a bit dirty at first glance, considering the article beforehand was on threesomes, but surprisingly, the options were innocent - three kinds of meat, two of cheese, a variety of veggies, and three condiments. Sherlock correctly deduced that he would be an onion, and Molly read the accompanying explanation – 'a strong personality that turns some off, you are an acquired taste. Nevertheless, those that enjoy your presence find that you linger in their thoughts long after you've gone.' Sherlock scoffed, and Molly laughed.

"Hmm," she hummed to herself. "Mostly B's, for me. That would make me…let's see…"

'Bread," Sherlock supplied curtly, brushing against her outstretched feet as he stood from his spot on the far side of the couch, tucking his phone into his pocket. Looks like that distraction had run its course.

Molly sighed. "That's not even an option, Sherlock."

He pulled a face, and began clanging about in her kitchen, pulling a small frying pan loudly and impatiently from the cupboard beside her stove. "It should be. Bread is the most important part of a sandwich. Who makes a quiz about sandwiches and forgets to include bread as an option?" He poked his head into her fridge and took out several kinds of cheese. "Idiots, that's who," he muttered to himself. "We're surrounded by idiots."

She smiled at him over her knees, from where she'd pulled them up in front of her on the couch. "And why am I bread, Sherlock Holmes? Careful with the cutlery drawer!"

"Because," he sighed dramatically, shutting the drawer much more softly than he'd opened it – "generally, everyone likes you, and you hold the rest of the sandwich together."

She blinked for a moment, the small smile shifting awkwardly on her face - as it always does when she thinks Sherlock doesn't realize he's paid her a compliment. "Mmm. So we're an onion sandwich. Don't think that's high on the list of anyone's favorites."

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he turned the burner on and slathered butter on bread. "No," he said impatiently, lips tugging into a smirk, "but in this poorly crafted quiz, John's obviously ham, and Mary's cheese – though bread would apply to her, too, if it was option, and Mrs. Hudson would get some sort of sauce as her answer, and Lestrade would get either lettuce or turkey, depending on whether or not he's reconciling with his wife for the fourth time. But none of us would make much of a sandwich without the bread, would we?"

Molly flipped the magazine closed, a pleased flush creeping up her neck, though she knew it was just a rare moment of silliness, for him, in that rare interlude where waiting is the only thing to be done with a case. "I think you've just got carbs on your mind," she teased. "Fancying a midnight snack, then?"

"Well," he said, tone clipped - "It's not midnight. But I am unreasonably fond - of them. Carbs. Pull those crisps out of hiding, too. You know the ones. The ones you've hidden behind the bag of flour in your pantry so I won't eat them. What sort of cheese on your cheese toastie?" He'd asked crossly, and she couldn't help but laugh softly with delight at how far they'd come.

So yes, his 'fondness' is in little things, like laughing over cheese toasties and sharing a weakness for carbs. It's in the way he values her opinion, both in a professional and social setting. It's the way he no longer shies from physical contact with her – he even initiates it, on rare occasions, now – it's the way he trusts her with important facts about himself, and remembers things about her, too - both important things and little things.

On nights he stays over (which are rarer than she'd like, if she's being honest - but they do happen), in the morning, if he makes coffee - he leaves her favorite mug out beside the pot, if she is still asleep in the guest bed before he lets himself out.

On the anniversary of her parents' deaths, he all but chases away any colleagues who have a probability of adding to her workload, that week. Doesn't do much else, but she values her space, then, and he makes sure everyone respects that – including himself.

There is a part of him that is gentler and kinder and more fiercely protective than the world would ever expect of him – it's more than he'd expect of himself, most days - but she sees it – and she sees it because he has trusted her enough to show her that part of him. It was unintentional, at first – but it is more intentional every day.

It's how he peers over her shoulder in the lab. He wrinkles his nose at her, often in distaste at having to wait for her to finish what she's concentrating on - and he smiles that diminutive, almost unnoticeable smile at her when she catches him looking at her.

I see you, it says. You are someone worth noticing.

He asks permission – and forgiveness, when he fails to accomplish the former.

He apologizes. Grudgingly, most of the time, but at least it's there.

He displays humility, on occasion, now – after Mary. And compassion – her waking up in John's chair to find he's covered her with a throw and propped a pillow behind her head.

It's how he lays a hand on the small of her back, to steady her as she walks up the stairs to his flat – laden with new materials for his experiments.

He holds doors and catches cabs for her, when her arms are full and they both happen to be leaving Bart's at the same time.

And that singular embrace, and gentle apology, when she looked as strung out as she felt, and was seconds from snapping like a brittle bone.

All of the little ways Sherlock has changed, how he has grown, the tiniest things – and some bigger things – he's done; they've all shown the effort he is making to be a good friend, and a better man – for John and Mary, for Rosie, for Mrs. Hudson, for Greg – and for her.

If no one else sees it, that is their problem, and it does not concern her.

Sherlock and his small circle of friends have just endured the lowest of valleys, and she knows they are due for a mountain, now. She looks forward to it – to rising up from stale, oppressive air and being able to breathe easily. She has had a lot of catching up to do, but she feels like balance is almost there – for all of them; they are almost to a point where they can move from mending things to moving forward, and the horizon is bright with hope. It has been nine days since Sherlock caught Culverton Smith and restored his relationship with John Watson – nine days of withdrawal, nine days of healing – and though he's still got a ways to go, the worst of the physical symptoms are over. She spent the afternoon with him, yesterday – the time of sharing 'shifts' with John and Mrs. Hudson over, now - and he was – himself. He was sarcastic and theatrically prickly and charming, making it just that much easier to love him, and just that much harder to be in love with him.

Which is why her mouth drops open in shock when he shows up on her doorstep, just as she is turning down her covers to go to bed, looking for all the world like a clean-shaven version of the drug addict who called her to his flat weeks ago.

His attempts at picking her lock are feeble at best. He has a key, but he only remembers it half the time - and the rest he picks her lock, to keep in practice. She hears him – and that scares her, because if he were all right – if he were truly all right – she wouldn't hear him.

The scratching and jiggling at her doorknob make her cautiously reach for a heavy book on the end table, and – phone in hand, fingers ready to dial emergency, in case it isn't Sherlock – she pads softly to the door and looks out the small decorative window near its top.

He is resting his forehead on the door, eyes closed, and her heart drops.

She unlocks and opens the door and he stands upright, hands at his sides, chin tucked into the collar of his Belstaff.

"I'm not high," he says abruptly - almost defensively - running a shaking hand through his hair. His body is tense and restless, and he clenches and unclenches his fists as he stands on her welcome mat.

Molly swallows, frowning, dismay worming its way into her chest. "I didn't say you were." She holds the door open wider, motioning for him to come in.

He steps in, and for a split second, both are preoccupied with trivial things – he wipes his shoes and steps to the side, and she closes and locks the door.

His hands are in his pockets now, and he looks uncertain. He hasn't moved to remove his shoes or coat, and Molly worries her lower lip, taking him in.

He glances at her face, briefly, before attempting to focus on any number of things but her. "I'm not high," he repeats –

-and she closes her eyes in understanding. "But you want to be," she says, attempting to keep her voice even and non-accusatory.

He lets out a shaky breath in confirmation.

When he doesn't move to stay or go or clarify, she prods him gently. "What happened?"

He looks at her quickly again. "I'm a recovering drug addict, Molly. This is all par for the course, isn't it?" His voice has a bitter edge to it.

"Mmm," she hums noncommittally, her gaze on him unwavering. He is deflecting, and they both know it. She waits a beat, and then asks again, softly. "So what happened?"

He shrugs his shoulders, but it is more out of discomfort than a dismissal of her question.

"Well," she says, resigned, holding out her hand. "Come on then."

He looks up at her peculiarly, not understanding her cue, and she smiles awkwardly at him.

"Your coat, Sherlock. And your shoes. I'm tired and I'd rather not have this conversation in my doorway. Water? Tea? Coffee? Juice? Biscuits? Leftover pad Thai?..." She rattles off refreshment options like she's a hostess listing specials at a chain restaurant. He hands her his coat almost absent-mindedly, and she hangs it carefully in her front closet.

"Just – water." He mumbles, slipping off his shoes. "Please."

She pauses, tilting her head – he never asks for water, unless - he meets her gaze, and confirms. "Bedroom. If – if-"

She smiles, understanding. "It's still okay." She fills him a glass, adding ice (water is the only beverage allowed in the bedroom, now, where she's just had new carpet installed, after over-nights with Tom and his dog ended, last year) – and he follows her, pensively, to the master.

Molly stands just off to the side of the door, waiting for him to enter. He takes a seat in the armchair between her window and closet, and she hands him the water before sitting on top of her turned- down covers. She draws her legs up and wraps her arms around them, resting her chin on her knees – and waits.

He takes a few long sips of water, and closes his eyes, leaning back in the chair. He stays that way for a moment – limbs splayed, one hand clutching the sweating glass of ice water, his head thrown back on the top of the chair.

His face is half in shadows, the only light coming from the lamp on her nightstand, and his throat is exposed. She can see his Adam's apple bob as he swallows again, and his vulnerability causes a pang of longing to pierce her heart. Oh, how she aches to smooth the hair from that forehead, to comfort him - to climb on his lap, and kiss that throat, and that jaw, and those lips –

But she squelches that thought, and shoves it down deep inside her, because he is her friend, now, and it is a friendship that has been hard-won for the both of them, and she will not ruin it with feelings and desires that he has made very clear he thinks are beneath him. She has gotten very good at suppressing those feelings, though they still jump out at her in times like this - when he allows those smallest, most fragile parts of himself to be exposed.

So she presses her lips together, and waits.

After a few moments, his eyes open to stare at the ceiling, though he makes no other move.

"He didn't want me to come," he says.

She waits patiently in the dim light for as long as she can, growing dangerously drowsy before asking "Who-"

He sits forward suddenly and downs the rest of the water, before placing it carefully on the floor beneath his seat. He then leans forward, and rests his elbows on his knees, placing his head in his hands, so that his face is obscured by hair and shadows.

It causes Molly to sit up a little straighter. She doesn't like it when he sits like that, because it's harder to read him when she can't see his face.

"John," he sighs deeply. "It's – stupid." His head moves, just a fraction, and she can tell he'd glanced at her.

"No, it's not."

He snorts. "You don't even know what happened. It was nothing. I'm being illogical. I shouldn't – it's – stupid."

Molly frowns, adjusting herself so that she sits cross-legged on the bed. "John didn't want you to come with him? Where? -"

Sherlock's shoulders sag slightly, and Molly closes her eyes for a moment, groaning inwardly. "To see Mary?" She asks softly.

He shrugs a shoulder in response.

She sits for a moment, before pondering aloud. "I don't think he's been to her grave since the funeral."

"I know!" He groans, working his fingers through his hair. "I know! It's – it's perfectly – well, not logical - "(and she can hear how desperately he wishes it was) – "but – it is predictable. He should see her grave alone, first, if that's what he needs to do. But I knew he was going, and went to go with him, and…" he sighs angrily, and it is directed at himself.

Molly blinks, biting her cheek, and waits for him to continue.

"When he didn't want me, I offered to watch Rosamund." He rubs his face with his hands, and sits back in the chair again, tapping out agitated rhythms with his fingertips on the armrest.

And Molly grimaces.

"I know," he spits, frustrated. "I'm not even two weeks clean, of course he wouldn't let me watch her, even with Mrs. Hudson downstairs – I've never even wanted to watch her, still – don't, really – I wouldn't know -" he cuts himself off abruptly. "I'm an idiot."

"No, you're not."

He stretches uncomfortably in the chair. "Mmm," he shakes his head, disagreeing. "Pretty sure I assumed, without even bothering to observe him, that John would want me to accompany him. And a recovering junkie offering to babysit?" He lets out a short bark of laughter. "Why would I do that?"

Molly picks at a loose thread on her comforter, eyes downcast. "Because you're a good friend, Sherlock."

He snorts, disbelieving.

"You are!" She protests. "You're only an idiot for thinking for a second that you're not! How many times, now, have you jumped into life-threatening situations, figuratively or literally, to save John? You've proven quite soundly that you'll do pretty much anything for him, and that includes being there for him when – when he's sad, even though it might make you uncomfortable. You were being a good friend, Sherlock, and yeah – not letting you watch Rosamund while you're still recovering – that's just – good parenting, understandable, but it's – it's okay that you're hurt that he didn't want you to come visit Mary's grave with him. It's also okay that he didn't want you to come, but it doesn't mean he's taken back his forgiveness. He just – needs time."

Sherlock sags against the back of the chair. "That is what he said." He looks deflated.

Molly sighs. She shifts slightly, and pats the comforter beside her. "Come here," she says. "You can have the bed, tonight."

He looks at her, uncertain for a moment, but then stands and reaches the bed in one long stride. He lays down, on top of the comforter, legs crossed at the ankles and hands clasped over his chest. His black eye is almost gone, now, and she can tell his ribs are nearly healed, as well. She smiles, still sitting near the foot of the bed herself.

"You've been a better friend to him, this past year, then he's been to you," she whispers, smile lopsided - and he frowns at her, eyes darting to her face before returning to the ceiling - but she presses on. "And that's not bad – it's a good thing, in general, friends – carry burdens for each other, at different times - but - really. It's ridiculous, sometimes – the lengths you've gone to – I mean, I know he's – he's done wonderful things for you Sherlock – he's a good man, and I'm so grateful you met, and you've been through so much together – but – look at what you let Culverton Smith do to you, just so he could 'save' you. It's really – it – Mary loved you, too, Sherlock. I really don't think she intended for you to go quite that far-"

But she stops, because something in Sherlock's expression alters, just a bit, when she mentions Culverton Smith. "Sorry!" She exclaims, cringing and wrapping her arms around herself in self-reproach. "Sorry, I didn't mean to mention – that – just – I'm glad he's caught." She laughs nervously. "Though I can't believe he got away with murder for so long, not giving you injuries like that, the pathologists at that hospital must be brain dead to explain away injuries like-"

"My injuries were not from Culverton Smith." Sherlock interrupts stiffly. His body has suddenly gone very tense and very still, and it takes her a moment to process what he's just said. Her words peter out, and she suddenly feels very anxious, and very off.

She breathes, in and out, evenly for a moment, but he does not look at her. He blinks once, at the ceiling, and she looks away, hugging herself tighter, as if she's just been hit by a blow to the gut.

If it wasn't Culverton Smith, then who…?

In the silence, they can hear Sherlock's mobile ringing from his coat pocket in the front closet.

Molly shivers, and she remembers, with a sick feeling in her stomach, a quote she'd caught from a news report, flipping through stations. What was it Smith had said? When Sherlock had 'attacked' him with a scalpel? 'Thank goodness Doctor Watson was there, to stop him'? Something, something like that –

"Sherlock," she whispers, and licks her lips, staring at a rainbow shooting star on her pajama pants – she doesn't want to ask, but now that the thought's entered her mind, she has to ask - "Sherlock, were they from John?"

He breathes evenly – in and out, rise and fall – she watches his chest, and his hands, completely still, on top.

She wants him to scoff – to laugh at her stupidity – to ridicule her for even thinking such a thing.

But he does not deny it, and she wants to cry. Her sinuses tingle with an incoming of tears, and she blinks rapidly, squeezing her hands into fists.

"Molly," he says softly, and it makes her attention snap toward him, because – because his tone is so gentle, and how can he possibly be attempting to comfort her, when his best friend beat him to pulp when he was only trying to save him from drowning is his grief, and how could he and how dare he and they are, both of them, complete bloody idiots –

"Molly," he says again, and she forces herself to focus on him. "He thought I was high as a kite – and I was – and he didn't know it was for him – and there was- " he swallows " – something I missed, in my deductions. I do miss things, occasionally." One corner of his mouth twitches. "I had a scalpel, and though of course my aim was not to kill Smith, John had no way of knowing that. He stopped me from attacking Smith, as I intended him to do."

She is not buying it.

"You intended for John to give you a black eye so severe he nearly detached your retina? You intended for John to nearly break your nose? He almost fractured your ribs, Sherlock!" Her voice is harsh, and she is trembling with rage and betrayal, because John is her friend, too, and she did not know he was capable of such a thing.

"I'd killed his wife, Molly," Sherlock says softly, still cool, still detached, still calmly explaining, as though this mess wasn't the very reason he'd come to her, in the throes of withdrawal, pain driving his mind and body to crave an escape.

"Bollocks!" She hisses, and presses her hands to her face, muffling an infuriated scream, and falls backwards on the bed. "Why do you keep saying that?!" She raises her hands to the ceiling, imploring. "For such a brilliant man, you are infuriating, sometimes, Sherlock!"

She turns and shifts so that she is looking at his profile, her face even with, and a few inches away from, his shoulder. "You did not kill his wife, Sherlock. You did not kill Mary. You don't think Greg told me everything? Vivienne Norbury killed Mary. Not you. Not. You." She presses a finger to his shoulder to accentuate her point.

She lifts her head enough to see that his lips are twitching into a sort of grimace, and then plops her head down again.

"John said that, too. The day I was released from hospital." His voice is barely a whisper.

"Good. He should. Because it's the truth. He never should've blamed you in the first place."

"He said I broke my vow. The day Mary died. And I did. That's the truth."

She can't look at him, because if the sound of his voice is breaking her heart, if she looks at him – she will be done for. "The vow you made at their wedding?"

"Mmm."

"And would you have broken your vow if she'd been hit by a car on her way to work?"

He doesn't respond, but his hands are no longer perfectly still. He keeps scratching his finger with his thumbnail, pressing hard and trembling into the skin.

"What about if she'd gotten cancer? If she died in childbirth? This was an accident, Sherlock. Well – murder. But – not one you committed. And, somehow - she anticipated an early death, didn't she?-" and that is a whole other can of worms that no one has bothered to open in front of her, yet, though she has her suspicions, but she's off track, now, and she's not making much sense, even to herself - "With that disk she made you…her life before John wasn't like her life after, was it? And her choice to save you does not mean that you broke your vow. John was in shock and grieving and he shouldn't have said that." Her words are hard and bitter.

"He didn't need to," Sherlock responds. "I'd already thought it myself."

"Well, you are wrong. You didn't. You didn't kill her and you didn't break your vow and you didn't deserve any of this, Sherlock. You didn't deserve to have the responsibility of saving John thrust on you when Mary couldn't have known that the circumstances of her death would make it nearly - impossible to do so -"

"Improbable, but as you know, not impossible-" he attempts to resurrect a glimmer of pride, somewhere in his voice, and closes his eyes –

"-and you shouldn't have turned to drugs to do the impossible, and you didn't deserve John's misplaced anger and blame and you did not deserve his – you – you didn't deserve what he did to you." Her voice looses its edge at the end, and she shivers, face hot from the effort of not crying.

She bites her lip, and when she exhales, she can't seem to do it evenly.

They lay in silence for a moment, Sherlock's worrying hands the only indication that he is not sleeping. Molly is curled toward him, tense and shuddering, her own hands clasped in front of her, breathing deeply through her nose.

Sherlock's voice breaks the quiet, and his voice is small and low, as he opens his eyes to the ceiling. "Please don't hate him, Molly. He – has done so much for me. Forgiven me for so much. I can forgive him this. I have forgiven him. He asked, but he didn't need to." He turns to his side to face her, and shimmies down, just a bit, folding himself up on the bed so that he can look her in the eye. Hesitating for just a moment, he reaches out and brushes a stray lock of hair from her face, his touch feathery; barely there - and lays one hand over hers. "But I don't think I could bear it if you hated him."

She closes her eyes, because she cannot stand the sadness in his.

"I don't hate him, Sherlock," she whispers, after a moment, because the lump in her throat is too big to talk around. "But I-" she exhales loudly, and clears her throat. "Lord, I miss Mary. I miss her so much. She – she always knew just what to say, and I don't – I don't know what to say to him. I can't not say something to him."

Sherlock nods and releases her hand, turning and straightening so that he lies on his back again. "I know," he says softly, and she knows he means it. "Just – avoid slapping him. Might send mixed messages about your feelings on physical violence."

And his eyes widen and his muscles stiffen momentarily as Molly flings her arm around his waist and draws herself close to him, burying her face in his shoulder. "I'm sorry," she murmurs guiltily. "I'm so sorry about that. There are a hundred other ways I could've - expressed myself, and I let my – my brother - affect it. Me. My reaction. I'm sorry."

He frowns. "I know. I've forgiven you that, ages ago. You could probably murder me, after all I've done, and I'd still forgive you." He feels her smile against his arm, and he relaxes. When she doesn't immediately release him, he hesitantly rests his free hand on the arm Molly still has wrapped around his waist, and he peers into the shadows on the ceiling, perplexed.

They hear Sherlock's phone ring again, and then – two minutes later – Molly's, from its charger on the kitchen counter. Sherlock sighs. "They've realized I'm not at home," he murmurs, making no effort to move. "Probably Mrs. Hudson."

And Molly releases her hold on Sherlock and props herself up, hurriedly brushing a few escaped tears from her cheeks. Molly's phone rings again, and then receives two text notifications. Sherlock frowns. "That'll be John, now."

Molly swings her legs over the edge of the bed, but Sherlock's hand travels with her arm as it leaves him, and he grasps her fingers. "Where are you going?"

Molly turns and laughs, short and breathy. "To text Mrs. Hudson and let her know you're here. And then I'm calling John."

Sherlock narrows his gaze at her. "Why call?"

Molly stares him down. "Because I'll forgive him, but part of my healing process will be telling him off – and that's not the sort of thing you do in a text, and I'd like to go to sleep sometime before my next shift."

"You're telling him off?"

"Not for – not for the grave thing. But for everything else. He's been an arsehole. And-"

"-that's my bit?" Sherlock tries a grin on for size, and it's been too long, because it suits him marvelously, Molly thinks.

She snorts. "No, that's not your bit. It's not anyone's bit to be an arsehole. I was going to say – friends don't let friends be arseholes."

He smiles. "I must be exhausting, then."

She returns it. "Sometimes. But not tonight."

He still has her fingers in his hand, and he releases them - almost reluctantly, that traitorous voice in her heart says to her. "You'll come back afterwards?"

She smooths out the comforter, because he's never asked her to stay before - ever. "Sure. I'll come back. It is my bedroom, after all." She gives him a half-smile.

He rolls onto his back. "I suppose I can share the space for one night."

It doesn't mean anything, she tells herself over and over, as she walks to retrieve her phone. He's hurting and so are you and it's comforting and it doesn't mean anything more than that.

When she comes back half an hour later, he is asleep, still fully dressed, only under the covers. She crawls in beside him, and then turns to face away from him. She is nearly asleep herself when she feels him roll over and throw his arm around her, and - for that lovely, dream-like span of moments before she falls unconscious, she thinks that perhaps – perhaps.

He wakes in the morning, and his arm is asleep, because Molly's head is resting on top of it. His other arm is wrapped around her, and he blinks for a moment, as perplexed as he was the night before – because it feels okay, it feels welcome, even with the messy emotions attached to it, from last night, and this – prolonged casual touching - has never felt okay before, not with – anyone.

He presses his lips to her hair – not exactly a kiss – more of a desire, on his part, for more sensory input – an awakening - before he disentangles himself, careful not to wake her. He sits up in the bed, and moves the blankets so that they trap the warmth close to Molly.

He sits on the edge of the bed, and stares at her for longer than he intends to, face unreadable - because something is different, but he is not sure what, exactly, it is.

Still, the urge to find a fix has passed, and he has the fleeting thought that Molly was his fix – but he shakes his head and straightens his clothes, and picks up the empty glass from its spot on the floor.

He places it quietly in the dishwasher before he leaves.

Molly stirs slowly; aware she is waking before she fully does - like a bubble settling, for a split-second, on grass before popping. She blinks, and her socked feet are propped on her coffee table, partially finished tea cooled and forgotten beside them. Some ambiguous game show is now on the television, the show she was previously watching long over. She stretches, shifting her cat off of her thigh, and Toby rolls over to give her a disgruntled look for disturbing his sleep. Despite the uncomfortable position, this spontaneous nap has done a lot to help restore rest to her system, after her shift at work and the rather unexpected, but not unwelcome, emotional events of the night before.

Molly smiles, lopsided, to herself. This - this sharing a bed – it is yet another thing – a little thing, for Sherlock – he probably doesn't consider it any more intimate than the hug he gave her, the other week – but it is a quite a substantial thing, for her. It has blurred the lines, for her, and she knows she needs to re-define them, for her own sake. Still, she treasures it.

Someone knocks firmly on her door, and Molly realizes that it is not the first time.

She sighs and stands, stifling a yawn, and adjusts her clothes and hair as she shuffles to the door.

She checks the window, first, and then opens it in surprise. "Oh, hello, Trish." Her neighbor stands on her doorstep, basket filled with biscuits and tea and other goodies in hand, smiling uncertainly.

"Um, hello, Molly 'Ooper. How are you?"

Molly opens the door fully. "Good, thanks. I'm well. Doing – very well." She returns Trish's smile encouragingly. "How are you?"

Trish brightens a bit at that. "All right. It is a bit tiring, caring for Grandpapa alone. His recovery is…progressing, but-" she sighs. "it is wearing, you understand?"

Molly nods sympathetically. "Mmm. Yeah, I – know how it is. Do you – do you need something?"

And Trish looks uncertain again. "Well, you see-" she shifts from one foot to the other, and looks down at the basket in her hands. "I do not really know many people in the area, and – I – thought, since we hadn't really – talked, yet – perhaps, you might like-"

Molly bites her lip, a bit embarrassed at not having been more welcoming when Trish first moved in to help her grandfather, several weeks ago. "Oh, of course! I mean – please come in, would you – like to have tea, now?" She looks over her shoulder for the clock in the kitchen, relieved to find that it is an appropriate time, for tea.

Trish hesitates. "I would not want to impose-"

"No, no!" Molly shakes her head and steps aside for Trish. "Please come in. It was very thoughtful of you to bring tea. And snacks! I should have done this for you weeks ago. I'm sorry. I haven't even stopped by to check on Mr. Girard. I'm not always this – this isolated. It's just – it's been-"

Trish waves off her apologies. "Oh, there has been a death recently, yes? I understand. I did not expect you, and really – Grandpapa would probably prefer not to have any visitors. Still a bit-" she smiles wryly and steps into Molly's entryway – "unhappy with his situation, you know."

"I'm sorry to hear that. I know recovery is slow at best, if it happens at all." Molly stops for a moment, mortified. "Oh, gosh – I'm – sorry-"

Trish shakes her head. "Do not apologize for speaking the truth, Molly 'Ooper." She hands the basket to Molly, taking off her shoes and jacket. "It is refreshing."

Molly gestures to a seat at the table, and places the basket on the counter, beginning to rifle through it. There is an excellent selection of crackers, and crisps, and a box of her favorite biscuits. "Please, make yourself comfortable. This looks lovely – thank you! I'll just put on the kettle."

"Mmm," Trish hums, and settles down at the table, sitting back in the chair and looking about the flat. "You have a lovely place. So clean and fresh. Must be excellent sex, to keep your boyfriend so – cooperative, in keeping it so?"

Molly nearly drops the kettle in the sink at that, and turns to face her neighbor, ears and cheeks burning. "What?"

"Oh, forgive me! That was – too blunt, yes?" Trish runs her palms carefully on the tabletop and grimaces before meeting Molly's eyes, apologetic. "I saw the man leave your flat this morning, very early. He's very handsome, is he not?"

Molly realizes she is referring to Sherlock, and though that does nothing to ease her blush, she recovers quickly enough. Dismissing her relationship with Sherlock is something at which she's reached expert-level status.

"Oh," she breathes, settling the kettle on the stove. "That's – that's not my boyfriend. That's Sherlock. We're friends." She finishes brightly, and begins gathering the rest of the supplies, for tea. "Cream and sugar? Lemon? Honey?" She asks her guest, already slicing a lemon for herself.

"So, no sex?" She sounds a bit disappointed.

"No, never."

"Pity. Milk and sugar, please, if it is not too much trouble."

Molly obliges, and settles on opening the biscuits and arranging them on a plate. She chats briefly with Trish about the weather and London traffic, and feels relieved that Trish went so willingly with the change of subject. She sets the tea things on the table and sits across from Trish, and she realizes she was far too grateful, far too soon.

Trish spoons sugar into her tea, stirring slowly and methodically. "So your handsome friend often stays the night?" She asks, feigning disinterest.

It's none of her business – it's never been anyone else's business – but Molly has found that straightforward, simple answers are usually the way to go. "Only once in a while, when he needs to, for work." The last bit is a white lie, but it is true on most occasions, and so Molly feels no guilt over it.

Trish smiles conspiratorially and brings the cup to her lips, her breath causing the steam to puff away from her. She takes a long sip, and gives Molly a pointed look over the cup. "And what does this friend do for work?"

Molly, uninterested in gossiping with this virtual stranger about Sherlock, scolds herself for inviting Trish in to avoid seeming unneighborly. She takes a small sip of her tea, but finds it too hot for her liking, so she takes a biscuit instead. "He's a detective."

"Mmm. For the police?" Trish takes another sip of her own tea.

Molly smirks. "Not so much. But he helps them, sometimes."

"Helps the police? I did not think they asked civilians for help." She sounds amused, and Molly finds herself suddenly irritated.

"No, not usually." If Trish is going to insist on this topic of conversation, she is not going to get any noteworthy answers.

"But they ask him? Why?"

"All the time, actually. Because he's – brilliant at it." Molly catches the note of defensiveness in her voice, and frowns. "But anyway, we're just friends. What about you? Do you have anyone?"

"'Anyone'?" Trish sets her tea on the saucer before her, and trails her finger around the rim of the cup. She sighs. "Anyone is such a broad term, Molly 'Ooper. I have people that I…converse with, regularly, but – no. I do not have a anyone, boyfriend or otherwise. Or any family that pays me any mind, for that matter."

"Except your grandpapa?" Molly offers her a tense smile.

"Except for Grandpapa," Trish agrees, and then returns to their previous topic, full circle. "And I am sorry -"

Not really, thinks Molly, pressing her lips together –

"- but I cannot believe that you have a man like that stay the night at your home, and you are both completely uninterested in pursuing the-"

"Well we're not." Molly interrupts firmly. "We're not interested, and we never will be."

Trish leans back, and if it weren't for the sad downturn of her lips, Molly thinks she would almost look smug. "Ah, so final a pronouncement, 'never'! So it is something you were interested in, at one point. Someone turned down the other's advances?" She tuts sympathetically. "Unrequited love – so painful, yes?"

Molly presses her lips together. Why did she invite her in? She never seemed this nosy before – but then again, Molly has never been the kind of woman to gossip about her love life with acquaintances. "Oh, no. That was a long time ago," she says, and she wishes her voice sounded more lighthearted.

Trish tilts her head and studies Molly piercingly for a moment. Molly takes another sip of her tea, and it has cooled enough so that it no longer burns her tongue. She wonders briefly how Trish has finished over half her cup already, but reasons that she must've put more milk in than she originally thought.

"Forgive me," Trish says softly. "It is just – I have a soft spot for romance, you know? We can talk about other things, now. I will not prod your sore spot."

Molly blinks, about to protest that it's not a sore spot, but thinks better of it. If this will get her to change the topic, then she will gladly indulge her that thought.

To her pleasant surprise, they speak easily of books and music for only another fifteen minutes, before Trish finishes her tea and politely takes her leave.

Molly locks the door behind her, and lets out a frustrated huff. It's been a while since anyone has actually talked to her about her relationship with Sherlock, and she feels off-kilter. One of the things she appreciates most about her small group of friends is that - out of politeness at first, and then a growing love for her – they never mention her feelings for Sherlock. Even when painfully obvious – she rubs her hand over her face, and thinks of Tom –they respect her. Her feelings have changed, so much – from a heady crush to the strong, steady love that she knows she will never feel for anyone else. She is grateful for their continued silence on that particular subject – because being rejected by a crush for coffee is so, so different than being rejected by the man whom she has come to alter her life for, out of a love so deep and all-encompassing that she knows she will never love anyone else in the same way. And she is all right with that, because he counts her as one of his few friends, and she loves him enough to be happy for him, as long as he is happy with what they have.

It is also the reason she has never kissed him – never kissed his cheek, as he's done to her - and never told him lightly, as she'd told John and Mary and so many other friends – that she loves him.

Because she's afraid that in doing so, her love would bubble up from the place where she's so carefully concealed it, and that not even Sherlock would be able to miss it.

The next time she visits him, a few days later, she doesn't even have time to wriggle out of her jacket before he swings his coat on, and he's already halfway down the stairs as he calls up at her.

"Keep it on," he says, giving her a short smile. "We're going for a walk."

"Oh," is all she can say, and turns to accompany him, closing the door behind her. "What-"

"It's a nice day. Thought we'd take a walk," he says, but there is something hesitant in his voice, and something in the way he pauses for her.

"Okay."

They walk for a bit – for a long while, actually – Sherlock making quick turns and crossing at pedestrian lights that are dangerously close to turning red. Sometimes they walk in silence, sometimes discussing John, or Rosie, or cases or work – until they come back around to the bus station at Gloucester Place. The bus is just loading, and Sherlock hops on, and Molly, surprised, pays their fee.

He stands just inside the door, bracing himself against the nearest pole for support, and she stands beside him. He doesn't usually do busses, and though the bus seems like it's a spur-of-the-moment thing, she knows better. And the walk – it's as though he were building up courage, for something –

And then it clicks.

The bus route.

Kensal Green Cemetery.

They're going to visit Mary.

He notices the expression on her face, and looks away. "I thought," he says quietly, and she strains to hear him over the hum of the engine, and the people, and the whine of the brakes – "I thought that you've – been so involved with John, and Rosamund, and work, and – me - " he whispers the last word, and then presses his lips together for a moment, and she thinks that's all she going to get.

But then the bus stops, and they exit, and his hands are in his pockets. He walks briskly again, and she really has to push her legs to keep up with him. "You said you missed Mary," he continues, just as softly – but now, at the cemetery, she can hear him much more clearly. "I thought you might like a visit."

And there he is, breathing life into her again.

They stand before her grave in solemn silence.

Molly bites her lip, and looking at him sidelong, takes his hand in hers.

He says nothing when the tears begin to stream down her face, and after a moment, he pulls his hand away from hers, and puts an arm around her shoulders, drawing her to his chest.

She says nothing of the tears in his eyes.

When they are both satisfied, emptied of their grief for the time being, they share a generous order of chips.

It is dark by the time they share a cab, and her home is the first stop – he briefly slides out of the cab so that she will not have to exit into traffic. He stands by the door, and kisses her cheek after she thanks him, his face lingering beside hers for a split second longer than would be appropriate for friends – and it feels like her heart pauses in her chest, for the length of it.

"Sleep well, Molly Hooper," he says.

And she does.

The day after the visit to Mary is the day Molly receives a gift, and it is the day before everything goes spectacularly to hell.

She comes home from work, and as she is unlocking her door, there, again – is Trish.

She has a small bag in her hands, and smile on her face.

"Hello, Trish," Molly says warily, not wanting a repeat of their visit the week prior.

"Hello, Molly 'Ooper," Trish says, and she tilts her head in that peculiar way Molly noticed the last visit, as though she is taking Molly's measure, and has found something interesting, there.

When she doesn't speak, Molly shifts her work bag further up on her shoulder. "Um-"

Trish blinks once, slowly, like a cat – and then smiles. "I am sorry. I just wanted to give you this-" she holds out the small gift bag, tissue paper peeking out the top – "and to say thank you, for bearing with me."

Molly looks between the bag and Trish before bending down to allow her work bag and purse to rest at her feet. She takes the bag, and she knows she should be smiling and thanking her warmly, but she just feels – off, still, after their last visit, and so her smile comes off awkward and forced.

"Oh, um-" Molly takes a breath. "Thank you. You really didn't need to -" and she opens it, and it's surprisingly lovely – a colorful beaded bracelet.

"Oh," she breathes again, and her smile is much more genuine, now. "Thank you, Trish." She frowns, placing it gently back in the bag. "Why-?"

"Oh, my work here is almost done," Trish says pleasantly. "I have one more appointment to make, tomorrow, and then I must return home. This is good-bye, Molly 'Ooper. You have been most helpful."

And though Molly hasn't really done anything helpful for Trish at all, she thanks her again, and wishes her well, and promises to check in on Mr. Girard, and apologizes for not having anything for her.

Once again, Trish waves her off. "Non, non mon ami – you have given me plenty."

Trish turns to walk away, and Molly unlocks her door.

"And, Molly?" Trish calls, turning to walk backward a few steps – and Molly lifts her head. "Molly 'Ooper, you were right. I saw him kiss you, last night, before the cab. He is just a friend, is he not? Do not waste your time with that one."

But Molly, confused, doesn't have a chance to reply before Trish disappears into her flat, three doors down.

"Come on, then," John says gruffly, after barging into Sherlock's living room. "We're going to visit Mary."

Sherlock blinks. "Don't – you – have – therapy, today?" He drawls out slowly, haltingly, eyes darting from the clock on the fireplace to John.

"Yeah, not until three. I missed the last two weeks, what with the Culverton case and Rosie's ear infection. I can stand to be a bit late to this one, too. Something more important's come up."

And so the two men walk slowly toward the grave of the woman they both dearly loved, in their own different ways – their first journey, together, to this solemn marker of the lowest point in their friendship.

Sherlock's brows draw together as they near Mary's headstone. It has changed, since his visit with Molly. Name, birth and death dates, 'Beloved Wife, Mother, and Friend' – all the same; but beneath the 'beloved' epitaph – a new plaque – applied – this morning?

They stand, elbow to elbow, before it, and Sherlock trembles as he silently reads the words that John has deemed important enough to add to his late wife's gravestone.

"Greater love has no one than this: that one should give up one's life for one's friends." John 15:13

"I-" Sherlock stops, pressing his lips together, eyes blinking rapidly.

"She loved you enough to die for you," John says quietly, emotion making his voice gruff. "And I'd have done the same. For both of you. Still would, actually."

Sherlock exhales through his nose, air leaving his lungs in a rush. He draws it in just as quickly.

John turns toward him, shame of his past actions and grief for his lost wife intermingling freely in his expression. "And I'm sorry, Sherlock. For being – the biggest, most unforgiveable arse. Mary would have – she'd have shot me for the way I've been, lately. You're – you're still my best man. My best friend." He finally looks Sherlock in the eye. "Always will be."

John turns back to look at Mary's grave, and glances up, surprised, when Sherlock presses lightly against him.

"And," John adds, after a moment, "I hope, one day, I can-"

"You already are," Sherlock says quickly. "You still are."

The two men lean against each other, words unnecessary.

It is what it is.

A/N: Thank you for reading, and for your reviews, follows, and favorites! They are always appreciated!

Edited 3/12/19 - Dear Guest reviewer, I apologize. I have edited this chapter to take out the reference to 'the French', as you are right, and it was an unintentional stereotype. I did not mean to portray the French people incorrectly or offensively. If you continue reading, you will see why 'Trish' is the way she is, and that it is not because she is French. I hope this edit will reach you, because I would have liked to apologize in 'person' with a message. Thank you for sharing your opinion!