RETURN ENGAGEMENT

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any of its varied characters. Sherlock is a copyright of Steven Moffat & Mark Gatiss. I am merely taking their characters out for a walk on the wild side.

A/N: This story has spoilers for Series 3 and is written with the understanding that the reader is familiar with all three of those episodes as well as The Abominable Bride. You have been warned.

"There was a time when love was blind
And the world was a song
And the song was exciting
There was a time ...
Then it all went wrong ..."

-Les Miserables

Chapter One: Sherlock Denied

It shouldn't have surprised Molly Hooper when Sherlock Holmes strolled into her morgue. After all, he was a consulting detective who solved complicated murders and regularly experimented on human remains in his spare time. Morgues were simply a part of his life, and, as such, he had been coming into hers for many years now. However, as he'd informed her two days ago that he would be leaving London for what he termed as his "foreseeable future," she believed she had a right to be a bit shocked by his presence.

"Sh-Sh-Sherlock?" she stammered helplessly. "What are you doing here? Weren't you leaving? You sent me a t-t-text—"

He gave her a condescending stare that did nothing but accentuate his astonishingly good looks and said, "Really, Molly, stuttering in my presence? I'd hoped we were quite beyond that unfortunate phase in our relationship."

She looked away, trying to get a hold of herself. One glance from him had all but reduced her to a puddle of goo. Honestly, she'd hoped she was beyond this phase as well. Taking a deep breath, she determinedly straightened her shoulders and prepared to ignore the fact that he'd just used the words "our relationship" when speaking to her. It was meant only in a colleague sense; she knew that.

Besides, he was right. She had managed to find even footing with him at last and she refused to budge from that. Looking up again, she stared at him head on. "You said you were leaving. You sent a text. I still have it. Did I misunderstand?"

The corner of his mouth quirked up into a devilish grin, which he quickly tempered—like he had a private joke he didn't wish to divulge. "No," he said, walking around her and approaching the slab she'd been performing a post-mortem on for a Mr. Jonas Conners only moments before.

No, he's not leaving or no, I didn't misunderstand? Molly sighed as her frustration built. He'd been arrested and held for murdering that Magnussen fellow. It was all very hush-hush and quickly dealt with, but John had filled her in. But, if that was so, how was Sherlock free and here now? It made no sense—even if he was Sherlock bloody Holmes. Sometimes, she wasn't sure what it was about that man she liked so much. He could anger her like no other. Then again, when it came to Sherlock, many people could claim that. She would simply have to be a little more patient—wait like she always did where he was concerned.

Molly moved to plant herself on the opposite side of the autopsy table. She'd learned physical distance was key in maintaining a semblance of control in times like this.

Peering down at the body a moment, he lifted his head and pronounced, "Heart attack."

"Directly correlated to smoking," she quipped, with a mild glare shot in his direction to let him know she'd smelled the lingering scent of tobacco clinging to him when he'd walked past.

He frowned a moment before his usual indifferent expression popped back into place. Molly used the pause in conversation to ask the question she'd been considering since he walked in.

"Is it because of Moriarty? The reason you didn't have to leave?"

He gave a stiff nod. "Very good, Molly."

"Is he really back?"

"I don't know. It's possible."

"How? You said he shot himself in the head. You saw it."

"Indeed. Two years ago John would have told you he saw me fall to my death from this building's very roof." He leaned in across the table towards her. "But we know otherwise, don't we?"

Molly bit back the well of emotion his words caused within her. Not only because it brought to mind the two very morose years she'd suffered with his absence, but because it reminded her that there had been a time when the mighty Sherlock Holmes had desperately needed her. No one else. Her. Her role in the faking of his death had been pivotal—he'd said so himself. She'd known it, of course; but having him acknowledge it like he had meant more than he could ever know, more than she'd ever admit to anyone—even him.

"What do you need?"

He seemed startled. She wasn't sure if it was because those were the same words she'd used with him that night so long ago or because what her use of those words meant in today's context. Yet, as Sherlock being surprised by her wasn't something that happened very often, she took a moment to savor the feeling, like a victory. She'd never be as brilliant as him or as fiercely brave as John or as respectable as Lestrade or as stunning and mysterious as that woman Sherlock favored, but Molly liked the idea that she could make an impression with the consulting detective just the same.

He recovered quickly. "Mycroft is going to have you taken to a secure location until this is over. In the meantime—"

"No."

Sherlock was startled again. This time she knew why. His eyes narrowed. "No?"

It took every bit of gumption she had to maintain his stare. "No."

"Don't be ridiculous. Moriarty is a demented killer who will stop at nothing to get to me."

"Exactly. As long as he's free, innocent people will be hurt. I want to help. I can't do that if Mycroft has me stored in a safe house somewhere in the country. Besides, I refuse to be a prisoner. I've done nothing wrong."

"You helped me. That makes you a target."

"John'll be the target. He's the one who counts."

"We've been over this before," he grumbled. "You count, Molly. You've always counted. This time, however, Moriarty knows it."

She rolled her eyes. Sometimes, he truly was obtuse. Time to make her point in a more drastic manner. "Do you love me?"

For the third time in twenty minutes, she had the pleasure of seeing the usually unflappable Sherlock Holmes startled. This time, with the way he was gulping and seemingly unable to utter nothing more than series of strangled grunts, she was also fairly sure he'd swallowed his tongue. It would have been funny had it not proven without a shadow of a doubt that the consulting detective harbored no such sentimental feelings for her. That knowledge stung a bit, but not as much as it would have in the past.

"Exactly my point. But you do love John."

He got ahold of himself enough to arch a haughty brow at her. "He's married and by the way, not gay."

She arched a brow back at him. "You're the one who assumed I meant romantic love. I did not. In terms of people you truly care about, however, John is your lynch pin. Anyone with half a brain knows that. You told me once that Moriarty threatened to 'burn the heart out of you.' If he's back, if this is him, it's John he'll come after. John's death would be key to your undoing. Not mine."

"I'd rather not have either of your deaths on my conscience, if you don't mind."

"You're a sociopath. Sociopaths don't have consciences, remember?"

His mouth quirked briefly with a smile before smoothing out into his typical bored sneer. "Mycroft won't take no for an answer."

"Are you sending John away?"

"No."

"Then I'm not going either."

He sighed. "It's not the same."

"Why? Because John is a man?"

"What? No!"

"Because he was a former soldier? That hasn't stopped him from being kidnapped and nearly killed on more than one occasion from being around you."

"That isn't it either. Although we both know John is able to handle himself with a gun."

"So can I."

His eyes narrowed and scanned over her body as he took this information in. No doubt, he was trying to find something to substantiate or deny her claims. After two seconds, he said, "Target shooting on the weekends is not the same as protecting yourself in the middle of danger."

She hated how he could even know that based on a cursory inspection. Worse, she hated how much his knowing that after a cursory inspection turned her on. It was decidedly inconvenient at a time like this.

"If it's not that, then why not?" she asked, deciding to push.

He paused, as if searching for a suitable answer.

"Well?" she prodded.

"John has Mary," he blurted.

That stopped Molly short. "She's eight-months' pregnant. How is that going to keep him safe from Moriarty? If anything, that makes John even more of a liability."

A range of emotions flickered across his face. She was able to read frustration, anger, and a slight bit of unease before his customary mask of indifference returned to the surface. He took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. From the way he clasped his hands behind his back and began to walk around the table towards her, she knew what was coming. The game was afoot. The sincere-looking smile softening his features as he closed in confirmed her suspicions.

Sherlock was intent on getting his way.

Bracing for the full impact of his significant charm and acting prowess, Molly hated herself for her weakness for him. What good did it do to know he was manipulating her if she always gave in anyway?

"Molly," he started off pleasantly, gazing at her as if she were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. "Your safety is my primary concern."

He shouldn't have started off with a lie. Usually, he knew better than that. In this case, Molly counted it as a stroke of luck because it made her just angry enough to withstand the rest of his deluge of charm.

"I can't focus on bringing Moriarty to his knees if I'm worried about what is happening to you." He moved in for the kill, leaning in with that puppy dog look of his. "Will you do this for me?" He gave a slow blink, widening his eyes ever so slightly. "Please?"

"No."

That one word and everything dropped. His expression flattened, he moved back, and his arms crossed in front of his chest. She would have sighed in relief, but she didn't want to give away that she knew what he was about. Sherlock already knew too much about her and her thoughts as it was.

"I don't require your consent, you know. One phone call, and you'll be gone."

"Sherlock Holmes, threaten me again and the next body part I hand you will be your own."

That left him stumped, but not for long. "What about Meena? Do you really want to put her life in danger because of your recklessness?"

He had her there and, from the smirk on his face, he knew it. She didn't bother to ask how he knew she was living with her best friend—had been ever since she'd ended it with Tom and moved out of the joint flat they'd found.

"There, now," he said, popping the collar on his coat as he did whenever he got ready to sweep from a room.

Honestly, it always reminded her of a little boy flapping his play cape behind him when he did that. Sherlock Holmes had a superhero complex. Not that she ever planned to share that particular theory with him.

"Glad we could see eye to eye on this, Molly. If you'd like, I can have Mycroft have your friend taken with you. It'll give you some company while you're away." With a regal nod, he turned and headed for the door.

Her brain scrambled for ideas. A crazy one came to mind. He'd never agree to that. She knew it. In fact, she didn't agree with it. It was the most ridiculous idea ever.

In the end, it was that coupled with the fact that he was leaving which made her blurt it out.

He stopped short and flipped about. She noticed his mobile was already against his ear. "I'll ring back," he barked into the phone before closing the distance between he and Molly. "What was that?"

"I could live with you."

"Live … with me? You?"

Any meager hope that had been holding on in her heart that the man in front of her harbored any kind of romantic notions towards her was crashed like a ship against rocks in a storm. Still, this was about her freedom, not him. He'd never agree to this, but he also wouldn't be sending her packing to the nearest no man's land either. That was a win enough for her.

His eyes narrowed, their ethereal glow taking her in in a way that always left her feeling naked. Once, just once, she'd like to do that to him. Let him know how it felt.

"You don't mean that," he finally pronounced.

She gave a half-hearted shrug. "I can stay in John's old room. Mycroft has your flat under surveillance. You've complained about that to me more than once. Seems like it would be the safest place for me to be while still being able to maintain a semblance of my life. It's not ideal, but it'll get the job done."

"Molly." He took a step towards her. "I'm married to my work. Always will be."

That felt like a slap in the face. As if she didn't know exactly how much he didn't return her feelings. As if she needed the reminder. As if she didn't see it in every conversation they had, in every look he didn't return, in every opportunity he had had all these years that he'd never taken. She'd made her peace with the fact that Sherlock would never love her. She'd been determined to move on. In the two years he'd been gone, she'd worked hard to do just that. In her relationship with Tom, she'd thought she'd succeeded. Its demise, however, said otherwise.

She hated that the most. How unfair was this? How long would she be tortured this way? At what point would she fall out of love with this man? Maybe living with him, seeing him day in and day out would be the key to finally breaking that particular spell. At this juncture, she would do anything.

She cocked her chin up at him. "Me, too."

"You're married to your work?" he asked in disbelief.

"Absolutely. Do you have a problem with that?"

He slowly shook his head, still gazing at her, uncertain.

"Then we have a deal, don't we?"

He nodded.

"Good," she said. "I'll move in tomorrow. You can go now. I have work to finish." She turned her back on him for good measure. Something in the rude gesture left her feeling surprisingly good.

As she removed Mr. Conners' heart and set about weighing it, she felt Sherlock's presence in the room. Lord only knew what he was thinking. No doubt, he was studying her and trying to figure out when she'd gone certifiable. Molly told herself she didn't care, but she did. It was only when he finally swept from the room and she was left alone that she allowed what she'd just agreed to do to really sink it. Panic swiftly followed.

"Dear Lord, what on earth have I done?"

A/N: I hope you enjoy this and will hang on to what will likely be a wild ride into Sherlolly sentiment. I will also warn you that I have read very little of the Arthur Conan Doyle books. I do know the canon of the show and will try to keep it to that, but this story is never going to be as good as anything the spectacular Moffat and Gatiss could come up with. Moreover, I don't particularly like writing thrilling action sequences and murder plots; so forgive me for any less-than-stellar stuff in that area I happen to include here.