A/N: This is for Babsi, who did not only share my opinion about the National Theatre, but my pain as well. Sweetie, I don't know how I would have survived the last 8 months without you. Here's your requested birthday present. Happy Birthday!

English is not my first language, so please bear with me! If you happen to find any horrible grammar mistakes please point them out to me, I'd be happy to fix them.

Disclaimer: If you will see something like that happening on the show, you'll know they're mine. Until then, they're not… All rights belong to their respective owners (and I'm not one of them).

"I have made the best and happiest ending that I can in this world, made it out of the flax and netting and leftover trim of someone else's life, I know, but made it to keep the innocent safe and the guilty punished, and I have made it as the world should be and not as I have found it." - Amy Bloom

Molly's POV

Two things always come to my mind when I stand on Waterloo Bridge: that the National Theatre is probably the ugliest building in London and this damn ABBA song, "Waterloo couldn't escape if I wanted to." How fitting…

Most days I can cope. Most days I can accept that I love Sherlock Holmes and that I can be happy by just being his friend. Most days I can tell myself that I can live with the occasional gentle word or touch – and there have been more of those since his return. But on some days I just can't. On those days my heart hurts and life seems unfair – like somebody up there is playing an evil trick on me, like someone is having fun seeing me suffer. And I don't want to be the pathetic girl crying on Waterloo Bridge at night!

There's this song from Maroon5, I can't recall the title now, but the line is: "One day I'll wake up and it won't hurt anymore." And since the moment I've first realized that I will never get a chance with Sherlock Holmes, I keep asking myself: when will be "one day"?

A silent tear glides down my face and at this moment I feel like the loneliest person on the whole planet. I know this feeling will pass, tomorrow the sun will shine again and all the other clichés, but that doesn't help right now. And everyone who has ever felt that way knows what I mean.

It's one of those nights when you know sad music will only make it worse, but you just need it. There's this masochistic part of you that just wants to indulge in all the pain – take a bath in self-pity.

I think there should be a classification in different stages of heartbreak – like the five stages of grief. And then there should be a playlist for those stages. You wanna know the Molly Hooper-playlist?

1st stage: self-pity and depression: Glen Hansard, James Morrison, James Blunt and Damien Rice (in case you wanna feel suicidal)
2nd stage: anger: "She f* hates me" – Puddle of Mud (of course can be altered to "He f* hates me…")
3rd stage: Love in general sucks: Maroon5
4th stage: acceptance: "love will keep us together" and other stuff where the lyrics are positive about love

It's not that I haven't reached the stage of acceptance yet, it's just that I fall back on earlier ones on a regular basis.
I've hoped that I could fix this with my relationship with Tom; when in reality this has been just another stage: denial.

I feel pathetic and I hate it. It feels like all hope has deserted me. I hate myself for not finding a way out. And God knows I've thought about moving (maybe to Antarctica? But I highly doubt that even the equator between us would alter my feelings…), getting a job at another hospital, becoming an ice fisher in Alaska, …

I am so fed up with feeling like this! Sometimes I wish I was more like Sherlock, more ignorant of my feelings. But then again, I know that this is a lie as well: I'm convinced Sherlock feels just like the rest of us. Well, maybe not exactly like the rest of us, but I'm sure he's capable of feeling just as deeply as I do. He has just decided to bury it somewhere deep inside of him, because somewhere along the way he's learned that feelings equal weakness and showing emotion means getting hurt. Well, look at me right now. I'm in no place to argue with that… Yet I know that he is wrong. Not all love leads to despair – or so I've heard…

No, I don't want to be so bitter! I think, what I mean is that I wish for Sherlock to find someone who will show him that love is neither a human error, nor does it automatically lead to getting hurt. And I don't deny that I wish I were that someone, because I know I could be. I know I should reconcile myself to the fact that I will never be that someone, but somehow I can't. Not if he acts the way he does lately. I've even caught myself wishing he would go back to be the insensitive bastard he was before the fall – before he's told me I counted, before he's asked me out to chips, before he's told me I mattered the most, before he has kissed me on the cheek and looked at me like… It has been like I could see this whole "what if" in his eyes.

Not that he isn't still a bastard at times, but he makes a real effort. Why has he been "nice" and not torn Tom apart? Why has he bothered with small talk?

The way he is now gives me hope where there is none – always this "if only…" between us. And because of this false hope I feel inwardly disintegrated; unable to move, frozen in place, lost in no-man's land (literally) – alone.

When he has taken me out on the case and we've parted ways at the end of the day I felt a stab in my heart, because for a split second I've thought it meant we've parted ways forever – that there was no turning back. We were going into different directions – not interfering with the other's life anymore. And that has scared me. It has been at that moment that I've realized I didn't want my life to be a parallel to Sherlock's line of life. I want my life to be a tangent – touching his line, and if only occasionally and not in the way I would like to.

But it has only been tonight that I've had the courage to explain that to Tom. Only tonight have I been brave enough to do the right thing and give him back his ring. And I'm so sorry for him, because it was unfair. And I deeply regret hurting him.

The wind blows my hair into my eyes and some strands get stuck on my tear-streaked face.
I don't even know why I'm crying, really. I mean, I've been the one to break it up with Tom. No, I know why I'm crying. I cry because everything is just too much. I cry because I don't know what to do anymore.

Statistics say that you'll need half the time you've spent in a relationship to get over it. So, where are the statistics telling you what amount of time you'll need if there hasn't been a relationship at all? How long does this take? Either way, even if there were such a statistic, I'd be the exception to it – for sure!

Sometimes I wish my life would be a romantic comedy or some sappy romance novel. Then this here would only be the moment of final suspense and I could be sure to get a happy ending. But this is reality. And in reality I often feel like a sidekick in my own life. Like I don't have any saying in it – no control at all.
Tonight I've been in control for once, and I know it has been the right thing to do, and I would lie if I'd say I don't feel as if a burden has been lifted off my shoulders. Yet still I feel sad. And only now do I feel the weight of my decision. Because now it feels like I have to start all over again.

At least I've made some kind of progress: I don't stammer anymore when talking to Sherlock. I still ramble at times, but I've managed to feel more confident around him. That's gonna count for something!
Unfortunately that thought doesn't help to cheer me up.
I let my head fall on my crossed hands on the railing and sigh deeply.
Oh Sherlock, I wish I did not love you anymore!
I hear a few cars and people pass behind me on the bridge and the stupid Waterloo-song comes back to my mind.

Suddenly I hear a deep voice behind me, "I hope you're not thinking about something stupid standing on a bridge in the middle of the night." Sherlock's gaze drifts from me down to the water.
"Like what?" I lift my head from my hands, but keep staring at the black river underneath us.
"Like an ABBA song."
"You know ABBA?" I'm so surprised by his statement that I turn to look at him.
"We all have our dark secrets." His tone doesn't give away if he's joking or not; neither does his expression.

He is standing slightly behind me, his hands behind his back. His Belstaff it buttoned up and his blue scarf warms his long neck. His curls dance in the wind. Now and then a curl graces his forehead. In the moonlight his pale blue eyes look luminous against his alabaster skin and generate an even sharper contrast to his dark hair than usual. He stands there totally motionless. If it weren't for his eyes studying my face intently, one could have mistaken him for a statue dressed in an expensive coat with a well done wig. That thought makes me almost smile. Almost.

I must be quite a sight myself, but in a negative way: My hair is matted from the wind and it gets blown into my face all the time. My eyes must be red and puffy from crying and my nose is probably red as well, and there are tear streaks all over my cheeks. Basically I'm the scarecrow to his Greek statue.

"Are you alright?" he finally asks.
I can't help but point towards my face and snap, "What do you think?"
For a second I consider that I see him flinch. Maybe he is surprised by my harsh tone, maybe I'm just imagining it.
Either way, he nods. "You're right, that was a stupid question to ask."
He puts his hands in his coat pockets. I can't help but think that it looks like a nervous gesture, but since this is Sherlock Holmes it can't be.
I cross my arms in front of my chest. Partly to shield myself from the cold, partly to have some kind of barrier between him and my heart. He has bruised it enough already and I'm positive I couldn't stand anymore bruising from him tonight. There's only so much a person can take…

Since he decides to remain silent, I ask a question, "Why are you here?"
"I was looking for you," he states flatly.
"But why?"
"Because you're my friend."
"Am I?"
"Well, you've saved my life."
"Saving your life means becoming your friend?"
"Yes."
"So everyone who saves your life becomes you friend?"
"Yes."
I lift a single eyebrow.
He reverses his statement. "No… I mean…" He looks genuinely confused. He cocks his head to the side. "Why doesn't that sound as good as I thought it would?"
I decide to ignore it and ask, "How did you find me?" Before he can scold me though I shake my head, "I know: stupid question, you're Sherlock Holmes."
He just shrugs his shoulders. When he doesn't elaborate, I turn back around to look at the water again. Out of the corners of my eyes I see him take a step forward, so he comes to stand next to me leaning against the railing as well and looking over the water. Although he appears to be interested in the sight of London at night, I can see his gaze flickering to me from time to time.

It's so weird: On the one hand my mind is racing and on the other hand it seems totally blank. It's as if it is eclipsed by the shadow of his presence.
I don't know if I am glad or embarrassed that he is here. I don't feel so lonely anymore, but basically I don't want him to see me like that – the pathetic, petite pathologist – oh, what a nice alliteration…

"So, you've finally broken up with him."
It's a statement, not a question. I can see him glancing at my now empty ring finger. I feel the urge to cover it with my other hand, but refrain from it.
I have to stop myself from snapping at him again and asking him what the hell he means with 'finally'.
Instead I settle for a short, "Yes."
I'm sure he can detect how strained even this one word sounds. But if he does, he does not acknowledge it and says, "It was for the best."
This time I can't hold my tongue and spit in an acidic tone, "How would you know?!"
He knows that I'm trying to pick a fight to dump my frustration on him, but he wouldn't give me one. His brows furrow when he looks at me, but then he turns his head back to the Thames.

There's a pregnant pause as we both stare at the black water beneath us, partly illuminated by the reflections of the city lights.

I don't really know what to say. Yes, there are many things I'd like to say to him, but they are either inappropriate or beyond expression. These would be things he wouldn't want to hear, not now, not ever. And that's part of my misery.

So while the wind has dried my tears by now he asks in a low voice, "If you've been the one to break off the engagement, then why have you been crying?" His expression and voice tell me that he really is clueless as to why I behave that way.

It's ironic that I've already asked myself the same questions tonight. But I can't possibly tell him the answer I've come up with.

So I settle for another part of the truth, "I feel bad for doing that to Tom.I really hurt him. He doesn't deserve it."
"And you don't deserve to be unhappy."
"I tried to be happy, damn it!"
"I know."
"Why can't I be happy?!"
I start to cry again and kick the railing with my right foot in frustration. It probably hurts me more than the bridge, but the dull pain I feel in my foot is somehow comforting. I prefer the feel of physical pain to emotional one right now. Sherlock leans slightly away from the railing and looks at me for a long time.

"You always think about what everyone else wants. It's only about what you want," he finally says.
"I can't have what I want." I can't believe how bitter my voice sounds. I rub my nose and my eyes with the back of my hand.
"Are you sure?" There it is again: this damn "what If" in his eyes as he takes a step closer.
"No, don't… don't do that, Sherlock."
I retreat from him.
"Why not?"
I can see he tries to keep his expression neutral, but I can see the confusion and the slight anger underneath the surface.
"Because you don't mean it. You just do it to manipulate me. Maybe even because you feel sorry for me and want to make me feel better momentarily. Maybe you even think you're being kind, but leading me on is not kind Sherlock Holmes. No. It's downright cruel! And you have been doing it since you've been back. I don't want to blame you for doing it on purpose, but you do it, and… it breaks me."
No more time for pretences. I don't have the energy for that in me tonight. He's hurting me and I want him to know even if it might make him feel uncomfortable, and it might make me even more vulnerable. He's known for years how I feel about him. It's time for him to hear it as well.

My hands are slightly shaking, partly from the cold, partly from my emotional distress. My head spins and hurts from crying. Luckily the tears have subsided. I grip the railing for support with one hand. I'm facing Sherlock and he takes a cautious step towards me and puts one of his hands on the railing as well – close to mine, but not touching. His movements are deliberate, but slow – as if he's afraid of scaring me away. His eyes are fixed on mine and there's a determination in them I've never seen before. It's different from the determined expression he normally wears when on a case.

He's standing close now, but not so close that I would find it intimidating. And I know that's a deliberate move on his part as well. He usually wants to be intimidating, but now he chooses not to be – for my benefit. It would be a lie to say it doesn't warm my heart.
I close my eyes for a few seconds because I find it hard to stand his mesmerizing gaze.
It helps me to calm down a little bit, and when I reopen them, he starts to speak while his eyes once again hold me captive, "There's been an incident in my life when I wanted to do the so called right thing. The thing that was expected from me by social norms. For the first time in my life I wanted to do it not out of ulterior motives or as part of a manipulation, no, I wanted to do the right thing for you. And you did the same. That day in the hallway, I didn't tell you that you wouldn't be happy with Tom and how I hated the idea of the two of you together. No, I told you the right thing – and that was wrong. Isn't that ironic that for once in my life I do the right thing and then it's the wrong one?"
He chuckles bitterly.
"But I couldn't bring myself to lie to you and so I settled for another truth: I hope you'll be very happy. You deserve it. We both knew that day that Tom wasn't the one to make you happy. No matter how hard you wished he would."
"But why not?" My question is choked up and desperate.
Sherlock reaches forward and brushes a strand of my hair that's got stuck on my cheek away and tugs it gently behind my ear.
He smiles sadly as he answers, "Because he's not a sociopath."

My eyes widen and whatever I've planned to retort flees my mind. I can only stare at him while his expression becomes tender and his cold blue eyes turn warm. He takes another step towards me. He closes the small gap between our hands on the railing and gently lays his over mine. It is warm and his fingers start to entwine with mine. My head snaps to our hands on the railing, because it feels so surreal. I observe how my hand turns on its own accord and gets itself wrapped up in his.

"Molly?" The way he says my name makes me shiver. He gently cups my chin with his other hand and makes my head turn to him again. I follow more or less willingly, because I'm so paralyzed by his actions that it's impossible for me to move on my own.
In his eyes I still see the determination, but also uncertainty and that's what it finally takes to make me smile shyly. The insecurity leaves and is replaced by a gleam of happiness. And before I can think of anything else, I feel his lips pressed against mine. His kiss is gentle, even hesitant at first, but as soon as I kiss him back and lift my hand to his chest, he deepens the kiss, burying one hand in my hair while the other one squeezes mine harder on the railing.

After some time we have to break apart for air. I bury my face in his coat and he enfolds me; unassertively at first, but after a few seconds I feel him relax and he rests his chin on the top of my head. I breathe in deeply and his typical Sherlock-scent calms my racing heart. I hear his heartbeat as well and the fact that it's beating just as erratically as mine makes me blush.

I guess Sherlock lets his gaze stroll across the bridge and the river again, because I feel the vibration of his voice when he mumbles, "Waterloo, couldn't escape if I wanted to..."
His voice is absent and low, so I probably wasn't supposed to have heard him. Still, I can't resist continuing, "Waterloo, knowing my fate was to be with you."

THE END

A/N: The Maroon5 song Molly quotes is: Makes me wonder – Maroon5 Writer(s): Jesse Royal Carmichael, Adam Levine, Mickey Madden Copyright: Universal Music

Waterloo – ABBA Writer(s): Benny Goran Bror Andersson, Bjoern K. Ulvaeus, Stig Anderson, Gustav Winckler Copyright: Union Songs