Six

"Knowing her, I'm sure she'll seek you out to talk at least once and see where you two stand with each other."

It took a month after Tom's death for John's prediction to come true.

When it did, the Watsons' dinner was interrupted by rapid and desperate knocking on their front door. Knowing that it could only be one person, John immediately rose from the table and rushed to the front door before his neighbors would call to complain or worry. Sure enough, there stood the world's only consulting detective on his front stoop. He looked absolutely terrified, and the first thing he did was to shove his mobile's lit screen in front of John's face.

It consisted of a single text message from Molly Hooper, sent some thirty-seven minutes ago:

We need to talk. Tomorrow, my favorite bench in Kensington Gardens, 7 AM.

After reading the text, John noticed that Sherlock's right hand – the hand holding up the mobile phone – was shaking. Letting out a huge breath, John pulled Sherlock inside. "Come on. Giving Emma a cuddle will calm you down."

Minutes later, Sherlock and the Watson family were gathered in the sitting room. Sherlock was holding Emma, who was happy as a clam since he was letting her play with and suck on his fingers. John was right in that the activity did calm him down. Well, physically at least. Though his body was now relaxed, his mind was still panicking.

"I can't make a mistake," he said to John and Mary. He kept his voice calm and hushed for the sake of Emma, but his eyes revealed how scared he was. "I've already made too many, much too many, and it's a miracle that she's even initiating contact with me after everything that's happened. Both of you, please tell me how to avoid that at all costs."

Under other, better, and less tragic circumstances, both John and Mary would be smirking like children at the sight of Sherlock actually asking – no, begging – for help. But neither one even thought of doing that now, because the both of them knew the potentially serious consequences of this conversation could be.

Unlike Sherlock, the both of them had been in frequent contact with Molly in the past month. Mike Stamford had very kindly told her to take as much time off as she needed, which Molly accepted with no hesitation. After all, when you lose the person you love the most, and your job mainly consists of cutting up corpses, one doesn't exactly want to jump right back into work. She'd spent the first week with Tom's parents in Northampton, and then she had returned home to London. Mrs. Hudson visited her frequently, checking up on her and feeding her at every opportunity. Greg Lestrade also supported her by taking her out to the pub some evenings to watch football; though she wasn't as big a fan as him, these outings were the perfect alternative to lonely evenings wallowing in her grief. And, of course, the Watsons were doing everything in their power for their friend. They visited her, she visited them, they went out together, she babysat Emma, Mary took her out and she took walks with John.

And through all of this, Molly still never saw or heard from Sherlock. Though Lord knows he wanted to, Sherlock followed John's words of wisdom and didn't try to seek her out. Her leave of absence from St. Bart's helped, as did the Watsons, but every day it grew harder and harder. But now this text had come, and he would finally see her and speak to her again tomorrow.

"Makes sense that she sent it tonight," said Mary, after a silence had stretched out its length. "She's going back to work tomorrow, and it's at St. Bart's where you two interact the most. So she wants to try and come to an understanding with you in order to avoid creating problems when your work paths cross."

Sherlock gulped. "So…that's the only capacity in which she wants to see me…for work."

John sighed. "I wouldn't be surprised, Sherlock. The relationship you two have had over the years has never been very well defined or even stable. Right now, she needs stability, and limiting her contact with you to just Bart's would do that."

Sherlock blinked, and sat back against the sofa cushions. Another silence followed before Sherlock broke it again, nodding to the baby in his arms as he caught Mary's gaze. "Could you take her, please? I'm beginning to lose the sensation in my fingers."

Mary gave a small smile and complied. Emma began to protest at the loss of Sherlock's fingers, and she chuckled. "I'm going to go upstairs and nurse her royal highness. Just stay here and listen to my hubby. He may not be able to deduce worth a damn, but in matters of the heart, he is an expert whereas as you are an idiot."

She ruffled Sherlock's curls before leaving the room. John gave her a playful glare and pinch as she passed him, but returned the kiss she gave him before she and Emma were gone. Left alone with Sherlock, John sighed and spoke. "Sherlock, look at me."

Sherlock did.

John continued. "The worst thing that you can do tomorrow is to go and see her without being clear or honest with yourself about two things: how you feel about her, and what you want from her. Have you figured that out yet? You don't have to tell me if you don't want to, but please tell me if you have or haven't."

Sherlock shut his eyes and sighed. That had been the other half of John's advice to him a month ago, and just as with the first half, Sherlock had taken it to heart. It took him a moment to answer, and when he did, his voice was filled with defeat and sadness:

"Yes, John, I have. But telling you or her will not do any good right now. I may be an idiot about these things, but I know that much."

Sherlock looked at John, begging him with his eyes to understand what he couldn't say. And John, wise man that he was, did indeed understand. Recalling what he'd told Mary weeks ago, he knew for sure now that he'd been right:

Sherlock was in love with Molly.

Nodding, John took a deep breath and spoke carefully: "I don't know what Molly's going to tell you tomorrow. She hasn't talked about you to either Mary or myself, beyond asking how you're doing from time to time. So…let her start the conversation and hear her out. Let her say everything she needs to say, and listen, really listen to her. Then and only then do you talk, and so help me God, think with both your head and heart before you do."

The next morning dawned misty and cool. It being the month of April, the sun had risen by the time Sherlock and Molly were to meet, but it was having a hard time just barely peeking through the clouds and mist over London. Sherlock arrived at Molly's favorite bench in Kensington Gardens with a few minutes to spare; no way was he going to risk being late for something so important. The bench in question was one near the statue of Peter Pan in the park.

He knew that this was her favorite bench because she had told him so on the day he had enlisted her help in solving crimes. They had walked through Kensington Gardens on the way to see Lestrade's fake ripper scene, and she had pointed out the bench as her favorite spot she would come to with her father when he brought her here.

Sherlock sat himself down on one side of the empty bench and settled down to await her arrival. Thankfully, she arrived right on time so he only had a few minutes to stew in his own nerves. When she did arrive, she appeared slowly, due to the mist. First her form, then her silhouette, then Molly herself. She was walking at a leisurely pace and she had earbuds in her ears; the look in her eyes was far away.

Seeing her again after forty-two days, and with this newfound clarity about his feelings for her, Sherlock's heart twisted painfully when he saw her clearly. Judging from the hang of her already baggy trousers and jumper, she'd lost nearly eight pounds since he'd last seen her. The dark circles beneath her eyes weren't surprising; of course she wouldn't be getting many good nights of sleep in her grief. Her long hair was pulled back into a ponytail, but not the kind that she usually wore. Instead of one that was neat and high up the back of her head, this one was carelessly done at the base of her neck, a few loose strands tucked behind her ears.

Her usual sparkle, her Molly sparkle, was gone. And Sherlock felt his heart break.

When she came close to her bench, her eyes lifted and fell on Sherlock. She stopped short almost in surprise, but a little shake of her head pushed that away. Her mind, like her eyes, had clearly been far away from their scheduled meeting. Once Sherlock would have been vainly offended; now he couldn't really blame her at all. She took a seat on the opposite end of the bench, facing forward and folding her hands after removing the buds from her ears.

Though the distance between their bodies couldn't have been more than two feet, Sherlock felt that the distance could have spread over both the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans combined. How desperately he wanted to close that distance, but he wisely restrained himself and held his tongue. Taking John's advice thus far had proven beneficial and he obeyed it now by waiting for her to initiate the conversation.

Eventually, she did. "Thank you for meeting me here and now."

"Of course," Sherlock replied automatically. He wanted to say more, such as the last thing that she needed right now was him making her life more difficult (for that's really all he'd ever done for her, hadn't it?), but again he held his tongue.

Molly continued, looking at her folded hands rather than at him. "And thank you also for…well, giving me space…I'm sorry if this made it very difficult at Bart's for you."

Sherlock closed his eyes and winced. She was apologizing to him now? But he wasn't truly surprised. She may have lost her spark but she was still Molly: selfless to her core, even in her anger and grief. "Very difficult, no, Molly. And you have no reason to apologize at all. Considering our history and the way I am…it was the right thing to do."

Molly let a deep breath in and out. It was a shaky one, and Sherlock couldn't stop himself from asking her, "How are you holding up?"

Another shaky breath, this time accompanied by a slight shake of her head. "I feel like a live-wire, an unstable chemical substance, where just the slightest disturbance could make me go off. I never know what sight, sound or smell will bring back a memory and set me off crying. I know it will get better as time passes – it did with my dad – but knowing that doesn't make this time, right now, any easier."

Sherlock nodded. He could relate to that, thinking back to the time of Redbeard's passing. He also realized just how lucky he was when that was set aside. Both of his parents were alive and in good health; he had an older brother who, in addition to being a pain in the ass, was alive and cared for him; he had friends, true and good friends, who were there for him; and he was still alive, sober, and intact, which, in his line of work, was nothing short of a miracle.

And Molly…she had lost both parents, had no siblings or immediate family left, had few friends, and had just lost the man she loved and wanted to spend the rest of her life with.

Being a consulting detective – or having any kind of career in medicine, law enforcement or safety – meant that you saw horrible proof of the unfairness of life on a daily basis. None of those countless times compared to the one that Sherlock realized between himself and Molly now. Molly was so good, so selfless, so loving…and he was an emotionally-inept arsehole.

No. Life wasn't fair at all.

All of this passed through Sherlock's mind in the span of a minute, and the result was such a strong surge of self-loathing that he had to rub his face with his hands. He desperately wanted to speak more than ever, to apologize, to promise her all that he could give, and tell her everything in his heart. But then he looked at her, this time turning his head towards her to do so, and his tongue remained dead still. Her body language told him everything: eyes on her tightly folded hands, shoulders hunched forward, tense muscles…She still didn't trust him. She'd been hurt, she was hurting, and she didn't want to get hurt again.

So Sherlock kept his mouth shut, and waited for her to speak again.

Watching her, Sherlock could see that Molly was working out what she wanted to say, the reason why she had asked him to meet her here in the first place. He waited, terrified, not daring to even breathe too loudly. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Molly took a deep breath, turned on the bench and really looked at him for the first time in forty-two days. Though slightly bloodshot and without their lovely sparkle, her big brown orbs were full of a fire that was being reborn from the ashes.

"Sherlock, there are so many things I'm unsure of now and that I'm having to reevaluate, especially my life. Do I want to stay in London and at Bart's or really consider some of the offers from different institutions that come my way? Do I want to continue my work in practicing pathology or should I consider focusing on teaching or research instead? And my personal life…I still want to have a family someday. Should I start planning for that alone? Will I ever be able to fall in love again or will I have to live with this fear forever?" She managed a hollow chuckle. "See? I've got a lot to question and make decisions about as it is. Which is why I need to know who I can count on and who my friends are."

The consulting detective had the impulse to pull her to him and say over and over that she could count on him and he would be whomever she needed to be. But because he knew that she would push him away and say she didn't believe him. So he kept still (by the skin of his teeth) and let her continue with baited breath.

"I'll be honest with you, Sherlock: You hurt me deeply, I'm still furious with you, and I don't trust you as I once did anymore. But I hope that can change someday…because even after everything, I still care about you…and I'm not ready to lose another person that I care about."

That did it. Sherlock turned on the bench to fully face her as he spoke. "You won't, Molly. I know I've taken you for granted, and I've treated our relationship abysmally. You have always helped me, been there for me, and if it weren't for you I wouldn't be alive today. I know you won't believe me when I say this…but I care for you too. I don't just see you as a tool in the lab or a fool I can manipulate for my own means. I've done a terrible job of showing that, but no more. I'm a very intelligent man with friends who more than make up for the sentimental qualities that don't come naturally to me. So I know that I am capable of doing better, of being better, for you. Please, Molly, give me that chance. I swear to you…I will do everything in my power to deserve your friendship and earn your trust back."

The moment Sherlock was finished, he feared that he had gone too far. And it was no wonder, because Molly Hooper looked absolutely gob smacked. At least, that was a term that John or Mary would use to describe a comical-looking shocked and speechless expression. Normally, Sherlock would use a much less juvenile term, but no suitable alternative came to mind.

Her gob smacked expression only lasted a few seconds, though. It then turned into something else entirely: an expression of intense focus and searching. Her eyes looked into his, and Sherlock found that he couldn't move. Her gaze was almost deducing, but it wasn't the same as what he usually did. His own deducing gaze took in everything on the outside; the gaze she was giving him now seemed to look right into his soul. And he knew what she was looking for: any sign of a lie, a deception, false emotion or empty promises. All Sherlock could do was hold her gaze, and hope that Molly would remember one essential fact:

She could see him.

Finally, after an eternity of a minute, Molly blinked, turned away and stood up. But before Sherlock's heart could sink too deeply into his stomach, Molly faced him again. She looked at her watch, and then she looked at him.

"I have forty-five minutes until my shift starts," she said. Her tone was quiet, neutral, but strong. "It doesn't look like it's going to rain, and it's not too cool, so I'm going to walk." She paused, giving him a hard look again. "You can join me if you want…but only if you're willing to talk to me about what happened since John and Mary's wedding. I never heard your side of it, there are questions I need answered…and if we're ever going to move forward, the past needs to be settled right."

Then, Molly held out her hand to him.

For a moment, all Sherlock could do was stare at it as his heart rejoiced. She saw me! She's helping me! She's giving me a second chance! He quickly snapped out of his shocked and joyous stupor though, and gladly took her helping hand.

But his heart grounded when, the moment he was standing on his own two feet, she pulled her hand away from his and shoved both hands into her coat pockets. Her posture became alert and guarded, and she took a step back from him.

She may be giving him a second chance, but he still had to prove himself as a true friend to her. And that would take time, possibly a very long time, and a lot of hard work on his part. But Sherlock refused to be intimidated or back down, as he may have once done in a different time before he'd known her or John. Molly was too precious to him – the most precious person to him – and he would never forget that again. So now, he would be whatever she needed him to be, even if that meant letting her go in the future if she decided her life belonged somewhere else…even, one day, with someone else.

However, those were fears for the future, and all that existed and mattered was now, what she needed this moment now. And of course he would give it (even if the Watsons got mad at him for revealing somethings), for she could be trusted completely and deserved to know everything that happened which had caused her hurt.

So, Sherlock put his hands in his pockets and said, "You are a wise woman, Molly Hooper. Ask me anything you wish, and I will answer with the truth."

Molly nodded, her facial expression remaining neutral but her shoulders relaxed just a bit.

So the two figures began to walk side-by-side down the garden path and through the thick mist. Each had a long road ahead of them, one of grief and one of redemption. But now, at least, there was hope that the two of them would not only conquer their paths…but that their paths would end by crossing and merging together.

The End… (for now)

A/N: You really think I would make this the final ending? I ship Sherlolly, not "almost Sherlolly". This tale will be continued in another story that I will start in the near future. I have a Mollcroft story to finish first though, but that one has only a few chapters to go. So review here and review there to keep me motivated and the sooner we will see this two find the happiness they deserve in each other.

BTW - the title of this story comes from the song "The Hardest Part of Love" from the musical "Children of Eden". Fair warning: it may make you cry, especially if you're a parent.