A/N: I was supposed to save this for later this week, but I couldn't help myself. I must get myself a Beta at this point to slow down the process. Hopefully a very strict person with fantastic eyesight, since I have neither. This is more or less the reward to those who've reviewed and favourited. I adore you all and would hand you a napkin if I could. I didn't want to make people cry, it's usually not me thing - at all. Some of you are about to get some answers, most likely with loads of questions to follow those answers, most likely. I hope you enjoy, since I'm usually never this fast.

He had done some things throughout the years that he did not look upon with pride, especially concerning Molly. Mary might have addressed her friend's sudden change of behaviour after his return from the dead, but he knew with a heavy heart why that was.

Sherlock wished he could have taken his actions back of course, as he knew now that he had been slowly struggling with his own budding realization, unfortunately the circumstances had made him retaliate like a frightened animal before fleeing.

If anyone was an idiot it was he and not Michael.

She'd been tossing and turning repeatedly in bed that night, replaying his face in her head, which caused her to throw away her pillow in the end.

Molly had ever only briefly mentioned it.

She liked to believe it wasn't significant really that Sherlock had lived with her for three years on and off. She had told Michael that he came and went when he was supposedly dead - but she never gave him, or anyone for that matter the full details on the subject.

She had almost not allowed herself to think about it.

He didn't come and go, as much as he stayed for weeks on end – back when she'd overanalyse everything, "You do count." Those were the days she cared so much, worrying herself almost sick when he disappeared off to do what he needed to bring Moriarty's collective down. The days where she carried his secrets for him, lying to everyone, just so they'd be safe. She didn't even know how safe she was, or not, but she hadn't cared for her own wellbeing. Then one day, after having gotten so used to the routine of having him there, having him seem so much warmer than she was used to, telling her for once his feelings regarding the battle it was for him to hide away – he left.

No note, no text – not a single word was given, and then five months later; he was alive - he was Sherlock Holmes again. It would have been fine, but he never acknowledged her helping him – or apologized. He seemed to pretend like everything was as it was right before it had all happened.

That had torn her apart in every way imaginable.

Those five months of not knowing whether he was alive or dead had hardened her in such a way, that every thought turning to him was fuelled with anger, even if she knew somehow he was keeping her safe, yet he never said anything about it when he returned.

Their small domestic life with her spending most of her time with him was ignored - brushed aside like nothing - and so she knew – she was perhaps just another pawn, like she'd been with Jim. Of course he'd take advantage - for she wouldn't ask questions, she wouldn't say no, and then luckily she met Michael finding herself happy for once.

Then Sherlock had denied her that happiness; even now he was somehow doing it with those eyes of his that looked haunted. Molly turned the lamp on her nightstand on, settling herself upright in bed – was this his way of trying to make her not marry Michael? Because he thought Michael was rubbish, and would distract her from assisting him?

She didn't know.

A small part of her wished to believe he was being sincere, but then again she'd wished that when he had stayed with her.

Molly had believed that there was more to it, that all of what happened meant something in the end – that he'd be different towards her when the time came, but he hadn't.

He'd been exactly the same, trying to flatter her so she'd work with him, and when it became apparent that there was no proper change – she had shed many tears. She didn't want to waste another she told herself, as a lone tear slipped out of her eye, causing her to turn off the lamp again to lie down on her bed.

He had left her, and for her – he hadn't really returned.

Of course she couldn't ignore the way he was being, resurfacing in a way, that she tried her best to ignore, but she could see them being friendlier at least. She could see him be many things really, but in love with her – no, no he wasn't. Her own feelings had been burrowed so deep, that she was never quite sure what she now felt herself, and of course it was simple to say that she saw them not as friends. But she remembered too well that she had loved him – why she'd loved him too. She didn't want Mary to tell her more about what she thought of his feelings, as she knew that would certainly awaken hers.

She was engaged - she was getting married - and she needed to let that go. She couldn't still be in love with him anyway, "No," she said whispering it repeatedly into her mattress. Molly's eyes however caught sight of her something new hanging inside a plastic bag outside of her closet, "Oh God." However much her mind told her that it was illogical to have him help her with her wedding - she found she couldn't.

He had not once brought it up himself, the one thing that if she were questioned upon she would flatly deny, but in the state she was in – if someone asked her now if anything had ever happened between the pair of them – she would say, "Yes."

Almost two years ago

She'd been trying to get into the rubbish book for the last half hour, finding herself groaning every time words were used again and again, as the author definitively needed a dictionary. Molly felt herself become more purse-lipped by the second; the further she got into the book.

Bad - that's what it was – every shade of terrible really – not the definition of erotic, and she couldn't believe she was openly reading the soft paperback on the comfort of her sofa. Since the likelihood of Sherlock stepping in while she was scrutinizing the pages was quite large. He did enter at rather inconvenient times, either while she was in the shower, or dancing to herself in the kitchen in her nightie.

He always seemed to walk in while she wasn't properly dressed too, and she should of course have learnt to be prepared, but she couldn't always be on her guard in her own flat after all.

It was her flat, but it didn't stop her eyes from flickering towards the door in sheer dread. She could of course fling the book aside, but he'd be drawn to the cover, and she'd rather he not be. Feigning complete ignorance would be a better alternative anyway, and so she read on snuggling deeper under her blanket, as the rain splattered on her windows.

It had been a dreadful grey day at best – windy, and with the occasional drum of thunder. She didn't bother with going out exactly, as she had the day off, which was a relief really. She hadn't been properly on her own in ages.

Sherlock had been making such a mess lately experimenting with her personal items that she was somewhat pleased he had to go out for a bit, however long that would be, but of course it was now past midnight. Every time he ended up being longer out than necessary she'd find herself lying awake, which was why she'd given up going to bed early. For once she tried to keep her eyes glued on the book Mary had borrowed her instead.

The book wasn't a good distraction though, despite its supposed suggestive theme. Molly snorted while she tried to read on, only to hear the front door thumped open.

She swiftly threw the book aside out of sheer instinct, knowing fully well it could only be him, but when she saw him - all that worry over the book evaporated.

He was leaning his hand on the doorknob looking soaked to the bone, his coat seemed heavy, so did the rest of his clothes, even his curly dark hair was flattened by the rain, as long tendrils were practically glued to his forehead.

"Are you alright?" she said startled.

His expression was worn, almost unreadable, as he released the doorknob staggering into her flat. He barely seemed to manage to shut the door closed, as he unconvincingly bit back, "Yes," in a rather hoarse voice.

He'd usually never make such an entrance; ordinarily he'd slip inside so carefully that's she'd shriek in fright over his sudden unexpected presence. There was something terribly wrong with him. She was quick on her feet intending to check him for injuries; regularly he'd appear with a bruise or a cut lip, but nothing to worry about. Perhaps tonight would be different.

The minute she neared him he snapped, "I'm fine." His hand was held out demonstratively, so she would keep her distance.

"Are you sure?" she said not believing him for a second, especially when he seemed to lose his balance – at which she ignored his previous command throwing his arm over her shoulder to keep him up.

He was surprisingly heavy, though he did not protest, but it was quite clear by the look of abject irritation on his face that he wasn't happy about it.

He gave a great sigh, while she attempted to move towards the sofa with him, but he would not budge. She looked up at his face, surprised to find his brows knitted at her. He was staring at her unblinkingly, continuing with his ragged breath, which made her rather nervous.

"What's happened?" she said breaking the silence, but he only shook his head in reply.

Though the answer to that came easily in the air that surrounded the man, as his breath reeked of alcohol and faded cigarettes, almost hidden under the smell of rain in his clothing, which might have explained his reluctance to divulge another word.

"Have – have you been drinking?" she said trying not to sound too worried, as she was. She knew he had dabbled in darker substances before, but obviously something had gone rather wrong to initiate this to begin with.

"It was a substitute," he said.

It could have been worse is what he meant obviously, and that did not in any way make her feel any easier about it all. Unlike regular people he brought himself to such a state that he was unable to keep himself level, which obviously could not compare to what the actual drugs would do.

He was still leaning on her, almost causing her pain, as she hurriedly said, "Oh – right, sorry – do you need a lie down?"

What followed that happened in such a speed that she squealed in surprise; for he tore himself out of her grip, until he stood quite solid on his own feet.

Molly half-smiled at that, since he was apparently rather determined to stand alone, but she was surprised to find his hands on her face all of a sudden – his palms tenderly holding her cheeks.

Her face naturally heated up at the contact with his cold hands, while his thumb slowly grazed her bottom lip, "What's – what's wrong?" she stuttered, as he leaned closer – beads of water sliding from his hair to her forehead.

He was clearly out of sorts, or maybe not for the reason she thought. She didn't dare hope, even if the state he was in was certainly seeking company, "Sherlock?" she said in a small voice trying to revive him, but his eyes only flitted over her face puzzled.

He continued to sweep his eyes over her rather uncertainly, a sudden tug upwards in the corner of his mouth, as his gaze landed on her lips. She only held herself still, almost not able to breathe in wonder, whereas he slowly swallowed. They only stood there breathing, his hands still on her face that had started to prickle, as he certainly made her feel nervous.

She had never seen him like this – so – she had no proper word for it, and intended to try to step out of his grip. The minute she started to shift his mouth landed on hers with such ferocity that she could only gasp in response. Her gasp fuelled him instead of scaring him off, as he quickly brought his hands down to her waist gripping her closer to him. There was no uncertainty in the kiss, only need – hunger even, as he pressed upon her making her cling to him to keep her balance.

The rational part of her mind wanted her to shove him away – to talk – to discuss what he was doing, but her mind went blissfully blank at the contact of his full lips. His mouth coerced hers open causing her to let out a breathy moan, as he deepened the kiss making her feel giddy.

With all reason gone she started to reciprocate by pulling him closer by his lapels, her hands soon wrapped in his sodden curls.

He started to force her to go backwards towards the sofa, arms still tangled around her, as he pushed her down. It was a collective of limbs clashing together as they lay down; her legs half wrapped around his waist. The kiss only intensified from that, as he teased her with his hands playfully slipping underneath her top caressing the top of her brassiere, skirting carefully down to the buttons of her trousers.

He smirked pulling back from her swollen lips, soon direction his attention to her neck that he bit lightly into causing her to sigh in pleasure, while droplets of water drizzled on top of her.

It was the apparent bulge in his trousers that awoke her, even if her body tried to argue, while he left small trails of kisses on her neck.

"Sherlock," she said interrupting the moment that she had long dreamt of, for at the pronouncement of his name he stilled his administrations on her neck.

His entire body froze on top of her; she could see the furrows in his brows, as he took to breathe deeply several times, whether out of frustration or relief she did not know. Then he pushed himself entirely off her, leaving her cold on the sofa.

Sherlock looked upon her with a stony expression on his face, like he was trying to conceal his thoughts from her. He shook his head slightly, as if he was trying to remove dirt from his clothes, while she slowly sat up in the sofa.

The face she was met with was neither filled with regret, nor with confusion – no – it was filled with venom. She had never seen him like this, perhaps worse than when he asked for her help. Though his face was not lost asking for guidance in the dark – it was not at all alike that man she'd seen.

Sherlock would never surrender to such acts if something bad hadn't happened, for not once had he touched her like that, and she felt her skin almost tender with the contact.

She knew they'd be fine if they only could sit and talk, so he could calm himself down, to relieve himself in a way without using her, for this was definitively not a thing he'd do soberly - yet the look in his eyes made her unsure of what to expect from him.

He started pacing, his head constantly whipping towards her, as his hands were bunched into fists. Sherlock didn't say anything, though she could see that he had much to shine light on, because he soon stopped. With his lip curled upwards he said, "Aren't you going to ask me if I'm OK, again?"

She blinked, "Sorry?"

"I'm fine," he snapped, turning silent once more, but it was obviously not the end of his rant, "You always keep asking that question, when the answer should be quite obvious to you."

He's not really angry with me, she thought biting her lip, as she sat there feeling agitated. It was obvious that it wasn't her that was the problem at the moment, and she didn't want him to do something he'd surely regret.

"Isn't this what you've always wanted? Isn't this why you have been watching me from the corner of your eye? Why you have been living with me, to begin with?" he said rather heatedly.

She could hardly breathe, while he stood there accusing her for wanting him. Molly tried to blink away the tears that were threatening to spill out of her eyes out of the sheer coldness in his voice.

"Isn't it?" he said raising his brow in distain.

"Why are you – you're not OK - please don't – Sher -," she said standing up in anguish, but he only scoffed at her removing himself from her vicinity by heading to her front door.

It was with a cold expression that he opened the door, "I am fine," he said with a sneer, promptly storming out. He slammed the door so roughly behind him that a picture frame fell to the floor.

Molly stood there for a second in defeated silence, till her feet sprang into action bringing her out of the flat crying his name out in the rain. She ignored all the curious people in the street, trying to catch him in his stride, but unfortunately in the end it was only her alone on the pavement amidst the rain that blended with her salty tears.

He was gone.