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He listened as her slow, tentative footsteps sounded on the stairs to 221B.

Sherlock closed his eyes, drinking in the sound that he'd been afraid of never hearing again. Molly was home. His brow furrowed; where was everyone else though? He was sure that John had told him they were going to accompany Molly back to Baker Street to make sure she made it alright. He peeked out the window just in time to see Mycroft's car round the bend of the street.

Hmm…

He turned his attention back to the doorway as Molly appeared, grimacing in pain and panting a bit. Sherlock dashed across the room, scooping her up in his arms and gently depositing her in John's old chair, before plopping down in his own.

He was nervous, afraid of what he knew he needed to tell her. So nervous, that he didn't take the time to properly look at her stricken face.

They were both silent for a moment, before Sherlock spoke.

"It occurs to me that you would want an explanation for my absence from your side during your recovery," he said, as if the idea was really just coming to him.

He took Molly's silence for an affirmative and launched into his carefully prepared speech.

"I apologize for my absence, I had some loose ends to tie up."

Liar.

He winced at his own internal voice berating him but plunged ahead.

"I feel that you will think that I owe you an apology which I will gladly give, after you hear me out."

She stopped him then, simply holding her hand up. Sherlock finally looked at her, really looked, and his eyes widened. She looked tired, but more than that, she looked defeated. It was then that Sherlock realized what a grave miscalculation he had made.

"Molly," he began, desperate to repair his horrendous mistake in not being by her side throughout her recovery.

"No, Sherlock," she stopped him, her voice quiet but strong.

She sighed, her body seeming to pull into itself, as she made herself even smaller than she normally was by pulling her legs up and absentmindedly rubbing the area where her wound was still healing.

"Do you know?" she whispered, not meeting his eyes. His brow furrowed, not following her train of thought. After a moment, she clarified, still in that small voice. "Do you know what he did to me?"

Sherlock's hands tightened on the arms of his chair, his knuckles turning white. He didn't know beyond the obvious. The fresh bruises that day on the rooftop told him some things but he wasn't privy to everything that she'd told the therapist, even though Mycroft had been in the room with them for some reason. He wasn't really sure he wanted to know.

She took a deep breath and spoke quickly. Sherlock got the impression that if she didn't get it all out at once, she wouldn't be able to, so he was silent as she spoke.

"When I left here, I went to the café. I needed to clear my head. Not long after I got there, Daniel walked in. He spotted me and came over and said that I looked a wreck and was I alright? I told him no but didn't explain anything and he offered to see me to my flat. I told him yes and he hailed a cab. I gave directions but the next thing I knew, the driver had looked back at me and it was him. Moran. I recognized the scar and I screamed, but Daniel put something over my face. I suppose it was a chloroformed cloth."

Sherlock hmm'ed his agreement with her, not bothering to mention that he already knew that part from when he met Moran in the underground carriage.

She took another breath and plunged back in, twisting her hands in her lap as she recited her ordeal to the quiet detective.

"When I came to, I was tied to a chair. And my, my shirt was gone, and my trousers, but I still had on my bra and knickers. I was so scared," her voice broke and she sniffed a little, and Sherlock could see her basically willing the tears to not fall. They didn't and he was amazed again by the strength hidden behind her soft demeanor. "I was so scared that he would hurt me like, like Jim did."

Sherlock's grip tightened on the arm of his chair once more and he could hear the crack of his knuckles.

"He didn't though. He didn't." She paused to collect herself. "Daniel… Daniel came in while Moran was out. He told me he was so sorry and started untying me, and said I had to get out of there. And I asked him what would happen to him if I went, but he didn't get to answer me because Moran came in and hit him with the butt of a gun. I think I screamed, because Moran looked at me then and grabbed my shoulder and forced me to get up. He, he shoved the gun in my hands and pointed it at Daniel and pressed my finger down."

She choked back a sob, her voice shaking.

"It took three shots, because he couldn't aim very well using my hands. After he was… gone… Moran told me that he really did have a little girl and that now that he was dead, no one would take care of her. It's my fault the little girl is an orphan now."

Her face was forlorn as she gazed into her lap.

"I killed him, I killed Daniel and not the therapist, nor your brother, can convince me otherwise."

Sherlock's gaze narrowed as she mentioned Mycroft comforting her. He opened his mouth to ask exactly what the British Government had said to her, but she began talking again.

"Then Moran was gone and they just left me with Daniel's body. There was someone else watching me, but from outside the room. He left for a long while and when he came back he said he'd gone to see you. He said that you were," she paused. "That you were happy that you had a case and it didn't matter that it was me that was missing. That you hadn't shown any signs of caring at all."

Sherlock began to protest but thought better of it. He needed to wait until she'd finished.

"He hit me then. Over and over. He called me names and said that it was my fault that Jim was dead. That if Jim hadn't liked me then it would be you who would have died. That you would never love me the way Jim had. That I wasn't good enough for either of you."

Now, her face had lost all the emotion of a few moments before and once again, the blankness dominated her expression. Sherlock hated it. Hated the robotic movements where once there was such a beautiful smile and a light in her eyes when she looked at him.

"After a while, I guess I passed out. The next thing I knew, they were throwing my clothes at me and telling me to get dressed. And he told me I was going to have to make a choice, but he wouldn't tell me what it was."

Sherlock interjected then.

"Molly," he searched for what he really wanted to say. "Molly, why did you?"

The love in her gaze nearly broke him.

"I couldn't let you fall," she replied simply, and he knew she wasn't only referring to the rooftop, but everything she had done for him since they met, all those years ago.

She looked away then and he knew that what she had to say next wasn't going to be good.

"I'm not here to move back in, and continue on as before." She stopped, obviously searching for the right words and Sherlock waited, praying he was wrong about where her thoughts were headed.

"But," she gulped, looking down at her hands. "I thought it would be wrong of me to go without giving you my reasons why."

"No, Molly." It escaped him, a quiet, pained whisper, pleading for her to stop, to let him hold her, to tell him that she forgave him and still loved him. He wasn't even sure what he was asking for anymore.

"You know this won't work." She shook her head, her expression full of pain. "We won't work. I am a distraction, a hindrance to you, nothing more. The work is all that matters." She parroted his words back to him.

He wanted to correct her, tell her that she was the only thing that made his life worthwhile. But he didn't. Sherlock waited, knowing that he would accept her decision because she was right, though not for the reasons she was citing.

He didn't deserve her. After all, he grimaced as a line from a long forgotten musical his parents had dragged him to came to mind, 'a bird may love a fish, but where would they make a home together?'

And he loved her. He truly, deeply, loved her. But she was too good for him. He didn't deserve her unconditional love and devotion. He wasn't a good man. Not good enough for her.

He sat in silence, watching her face, drinking her in for the few moments he had left with her. She looked to be waiting for him to respond, to do something, anything, but Sherlock was frozen in his spot, unable to move. Not to run, or to comfort the petite woman in front of him.

Finally, she sighed and stood.

"I'm done, Sherlock. I'm not going to let you kill what little part of me that I have left." She shrugged slightly and began painstakingly making her way to the door.

Sherlock panicked, not knowing what to do to make her stay. His voice was strained as he called out to her.

"No, Molly, please, I can't lose you."

Please, please don't leave me. I love you so much.

She paused, her hand on the door and looked back over her shoulder with tears in her eyes.

"You already have."