A/N: Last part now - deep breath - I would like to thank AussieMaelstrom because without her it wouldn't be possible. Secondly I would like to thank you dear reader for all your encouragement, either with your reviews, favourites, follows or anything really. Thank you. Thirdly - I've got nothing more to say, so better shut up and let you read now.

Eight

The street is busy outside her window; despite the wavering sunlight the volume of London is still loud, still alive. Molly would almost not believe she's on the phone, the silence stretching out longer than needed, and it's only when she can hear Mike rubbing at his eye that she knows he's still there. His glasses that are clearly hiked up at the other end of the line jolt up against the receiver, the scraping noise making her cringe, but she still hangs onto the phone, letting her eyes roam on the street below searching for some distraction.

Barking dogs, honking cars, vexed drivers, the occasionally sprinting jaywalker tempting the red lights. There is more life there than inside her flat, and it's not an unusual sight. Usually she'd have the telly on, except the images kept blurring into one in front of her, while she tried to avoid thinking altogether. To stop thinking, oh she'd wished for that long ago.

She already knows what Mike's going to say, it's obvious, the pause is too long, too tentative, like someone's warned him about her ringing him up, but she still lets her hands clasp at the phone desperately pressed against her ear, heating up the side of her face. "Mike?" she prompts in a small voice.

"I think it's best you stay at home today," he finally said, and her insides instantly falter, clashing against each other.

Work would have been good, she kept telling herself that. The mild headache would be nothing in the familiarity of the hallways and the work put before her. She would have a purpose at Bart's, and it would be easier to cope in a way, less time for her to think, to let things be mulled over again, and again.

"Why?" she said. Her tone is upbeat, a smile even manages to force its way onto her face, but the words tumble out faintly, the hitch in her voice visible in one single word. Her ability to put on a front today isn't there, not even on the bloody phone, and she can hear Mike breathe heavily on the other end, like he can read her emotions at the tone of her voice.

"Molly…you sound half-dead," he said, a tinge of concern evident in his voice, and it earns him a horrible attempt at a laugh, a laugh that gets bitten down when she begins to pace the carpet relentlessly.

She fidgets, her hand turning into a fist, before unclenching, and she stands her ground in the middle of her sitting room, trying to find the words to convince him she's okay, she'll be okay.

"I'm not – I'm not that sick," she said quickly, the urgency in her voice almost sounding convincing, but she can hear at the intake of breath coming from his end that he's doubting that.

"Most people would kill for a day off, you know."

This time her laugh seems real, a bit more convincing at least, and she serves a line to go with her good humour. "Well - I can't do the autopsy if I've killed someone. Favouritism would be bad." Mike groaned on the other end ("I walked right into that one, didn't I?"), while she bit her lip, almost beginning to pick on the tiny piece of loose skin on her mouth, wanting to busy her hands just for a little bit, but she puts the hand down, letting the sweaty palm slip over her grey trousers instead.

"Yeah, I think because of that joke you've just got the day properly off – you've got the weekend to look forward to after all ("That's why-," she tried to interrupt). I'll ring you if you're needed, but for now goodbye Molly. Have a lovely weekend, alright?"

He'd hung up on her before she could properly dig her heels in and quarrel her way back into Bart's. Usually when she asked for a day off she always worked anyway, but today her mobile phone had been eerily quiet.

No one was sick, except her, so she let her battery die.

She'd been staring at it too often, too frequently, her hands seeking purchase in the light weight, looking at the screen as if it would light up to tell her someone was in fact thinking of her, like she was of him.

As if someone else was going through everything that had happened, analysing every moment, blaming themselves, hating themselves, and just…She turned on the telly again, seeking something else - 'And then they win you over again, and you let them in, and you think things will change, but they don't."

Changing the channel quickly, she hastened away with a flick of the remote, not wanting to see the tearful confession of whatever female that was. None of the channels tempted her, but she stopped at Master Chef Australia, little pans simmering in the background, while beads of sweat dripped down the various contestants' faces.

Themes she wanted to avoid at the moment were unlikely to be brought up with huge swelling music in the background if only to rouse sympathy into the contestant's home life. She sprawled on top of the sofa, lounging properly, her cheek pressed into the soft surface of the settee, while the people kept chattering, contemplating each other, cooking aesthetically pleasing dishes.

It was the telly or changing the sheets of her bed once more, which she'd done with quiet determination, practically ripping off the spotty bed sheets like they'd offended her the second she'd gotten in, or showering.

They were all half-arsed attempts, like trying to sleep, which despite the feeling of cleanliness could not be properly revived within her. Again the thoughts returned with fervour, examining his entry to her office with the offending list, until she indulged in protracting the moment she'd left his flat.

It would have been fitting if it had been raining when she walked outside, the streets bare for her to walk upon, but instead there was laughter, there was talk, there were families walking about. She had no money left, no oyster card, and a barely charged phone, clinging onto the last bar. It had been a dreadful walk, not that she'd been expecting a peaceful stroll back home either, tugging at her coat desperately and avoiding the occasional curious stare, like they could read on her face what she'd done.

Nothing had happened, nobody came running after her through crowded streets, nothing. She let her phone die out, and she let herself in her flat short of breath, the tears urging out of the edge of her eyes, while she pushed them back repeatedly not wanting them to spill.

She'd known what she'd gotten herself into, really she had, and it was her fault in the end. No, the blame went from her, to him, then the both of them, until it stayed with no one.

It had happened and there was nothing to be done, nothing to alter it.

Was there something wrong with being terrified? Being scared that the instant she allowed herself to draw for breath, slipping into a comfortable position against his chest he'd tentatively remove himself, and she'd feel like all the air had been punched out of her.

With that untangle the quiet heart-to-heart would appear. "I apologize if I've given you the impression that – I -," she could almost hear his voice, deep, slow in her head. Sherlock would be careful, he'd try to be, but she'd taken it away from him. Instead she'd walked away, perhaps not with the flair that Meena had suggested, but in an effort to be kind.

He would have done an appalling job; his kindness would be a mere consolation prize, a terrible one at that, which would sting ten times more. It would be like any other time, all the times she'd imagined more lulled into a false sense of security believing that there was something intangible somewhere in the back of his mind, like she had a real place there.

Not one where she counted because she was valuable to his work, or mattered because she'd done a job anyone with her degree could pull off. Molly knew it was more to those tender moments, she was his friend, and she was saving him like usual, saving him the pains in seeing her reap her own award for neglecting the fact that she was more than mere flesh and bone.

Molly had leapt so many times before, too many times – like when she believed her dad would recover, or Tom and her would work, or all those times when Sherlock had shown his heart one moment, but then turned cold another.

It just felt like she would be stepping into that same invisible trap, locking her into the same familiar patterns. Pretending she was fine when she wasn't, allowing herself to be brushed aside, letting all of those comments he'd throw at her seep underneath her skin, until she almost believed they were the truth.

They'd come too far for her to revert back into that, she didn't want to go back there again – risking everything and gaining nothing in the end, for all of it would make her turn cold, bitter and hard. She wasn't like that, she didn't want to be that, but she didn't want to be soft either, pliable, breakable.

Pretending she saw something in everything he had done lately was idiotic and wishful of her. But he'd mentioned – she turned up the volume of the telly, the remote listlessly in her hand. What of that really? She'd believed so many silly things, that there was something more than just friendly affection when he'd told her to be happy with Tom, that his compliments had meant something more than him just wanting something from her, that him apologizing to her was huge – large - and yes, it was, but none of that had meant – and this didn't mean that he…that he…

She let her eyes slip shut, pressing them tightly together, while she squeezed the bridge of her nose, re-opening her eyes to the sight of the colourful screen, the pastries, and cakes making her insides twist.

There – a tear dropped – then another – and another - until they finally paused, taking a tender break while someone spoke about their family on the screen. Letting her eyes wander, she was startled to see a piece of paper slide across the floor.

Molly jerked her head up in surprise, her hair slipping to her side, while she stared unblinkingly at the paper. It came from the door, and she looked towards it, taking in the crack at the bottom and the dark shadow behind it. Instinctively she knew, she knew who it was, even if she barely believed he'd show up. Reluctantly she slowly gathered herself off the settee and brought the paper up, recognizing it.

It was the list.

She almost threw open the door, intending to shout abuse, intending to say something, to call him several not-nice things, except her eyes landed on the unexpected number eight. The words hitching themselves in her throat, her eyes widening at a number and a word that hadn't been on the original list he'd handed her. Instantly she reached for the door, opening it up to a man who looked utterly torn.

Some weeks ago

He drew his bow over the strings in one swift movement, letting the instrument whine loudly in something resembling a long drawn shriek. Grinding his teeth he plucked at the strings, furrowing his brows, until he growled in his seat, placing the instrument aside before he felt like hurtling it against the wall.

Annoyed, very annoyed.

That's what he felt, and why – why should he feel annoyed? There was nothing to be annoyed about. Her opinion on the article didn't count, and he didn't care of her opinion. Except a little voice in the back of his head, eerily sounding like John said – 'oh yes you do' with the usual gruff scoff, like he was the ignorant one in this situation.

From the moment Mrs Watson decided that getting his head out of his arse was a good idea, he'd been burdened by a sequence of irritating people he didn't see fit to talk with or deduce, their lives and thoughts so apparent on their ignorant shoulders that he hadn't felt a twinge of irritation about the piece of twaddle, but Molly's head wasn't supposed to be vacant.

Perhaps her understanding of him had dwindled throughout the years after his disappearance, after all, after all… "God, why do you care?!" he shouted out to the emptiness of Baker Street, his hands thrown up in the air in annoyance.

He hadn't cared about Tom, hadn't cared about the slaps, and hadn't cared when she'd told Mary about the bolthole, but now – now he chose to care.

No, he did not choose to care.

He sighed, rubbing at his forehead, his fingers tapping against his skull, while he tried to think. Truly think of why her opinion on him being sexually ignorant mattered.

"It's fake, isn't it? The interview?" she said her lips pressed together, poorly concealing the smile blossoming there. Sherlock turned his head briefly, letting his eyes shift into her direction, before he resumed twisting the knobs of the microscope, having a more intent stare at his specimen instead.

"That's a yes, then?" he could see her biting her lip, a tiny giggle slipping out despite her attempt at stilling it.

He cleared his throat slightly, hoping that would be answer enough. This line of questioning he wouldn't deign with an actual reply, especially since she should know better.

"Okay," she said and now she allowed her laugh to escape, before she walked off burdened with files in her slim hands. He soon lifted his eyes narrowing them at the shut lab door, releasing a huff.

She 'should' know better. Why didn't she know better?

It wasn't his area; she knew it wasn't his area, yet she'd still asked. Why did she ask? Was she expecting something? He frowned, the frown deepening before he almost rang up Mary to shout abuse at her. It was her fault after all, her assumptions of his 'feelings', feelings he didn't own, or – 'more like don't want to own' said the inner-John – "Shut up!" he snarled standing up from his chair, letting his hands ruffle through his hair, until he suddenly froze.

He could learn - learn the essentials - understand the concept, and then of course say – 'Not my area' as it wasn't.

He could do that.

Maybe he'd truly understand the concept better if he had some information too, and he'd – he'd ask – 'Oh you're going to ask her for help, are you? Real shocker there' Ignoring the voice in his head, he got his laptop, furiously typing quick helpful searches, and as he wrote them down, he halted when he'd unintentionally added number eight.

His eyes almost fell close at the word - a simple word, yet so complex.

The one subject he was wholly ignorant of, the one subject he had come to somewhat grasp for a while, the one subject he'd often used against others, the one thing that was more indefinable than anything else he'd come across, and he smacked his laptop shut.

Sherlock took a deep breath, closing his eyes.

His eyes turned to John briefly, his ex-flatmate, his friend, he should tell him – what was there to tell – there was nothing to tell – no no no – "Why are you here?" he bit out, his fingers drumming on the arms of his chair, eyes narrowed at John who raised his eyebrows in return.

"You rang me, remember? Said it was important."

"No, I didn't!" he said derisively, his rather restless demeanour perhaps a hint toward the activity going on in his mind.

John let out a breath. "Okay, then – right – what's this about?"

Sherlock stood up from his chair, slung off his robe, and threw his coat over his clothes, whirling around on the spot. "I need to go."

"What?" said John gaping, "I just came here!"

"Well - then you'll still be here when I return," he said smoothly, pulling on his gloves, before he left for Molly's for their scheduled meeting.

She'd explain, and then it would put an end to that.

He walked out of the door short for breath, his fingertips seeking the pulse point at his neck, feeling the thundering beat, as he shut his eyes trying to drown out the thoughts reeling through his head.

It was his suggestion and his problem.

The pulse only quickened – stress – obviously, the way her soft lips had felt against his, the way she had felt against him, her small shape sliding against him so – "Oh for God's sake!" he said softly, rolling his eyes, darting away from her door before she heard him talk loudly to himself, a thing reserved for her nosy neighbour.

He needed to end it - the exit - she was getting confident. Sherlock snorted, she'd always been confident – "We're having lots of sex," he mimicked loudly in a sweetened voice.

The sheer idea made his skin crawl, his hair stand on end, and an ache appear in his head. No – no – no – "You're not – you've never – stop it!" Mind over matter, he thought, mind over matter!

He would leave, he would end it, he would send an appropriate text, and the whole thing would fall into shambles, he would not execute another thing on the list.

And yet the number, the last number loomed over him like a dark cloud, like a reminder, a flimsy thought, a silly one – glaring at him from the distance.

One word.

"Love?" it's barely audible, her gape seeming larger than the volume of her voice, the paper shaking in her hand, unable to be kept still. "You mean – you – that – this has been – what?" Her voice is brighter than she intends it to be, bordering on hysterical, the paper quivering in her hand, shaking like a leaf.

He looks ordinary, briefly unsure, his mouth opening and closing, like he's still trying to figure out what to say. She certainly doesn't know what to say, staring up at him before her in confusion.

Was she angry?

She didn't know.

Was she happy?

She didn't know either.

Too many emotions were battling it out, her insides trying to resolve them all in his persistent silence. What if? Maybe she'd fallen asleep then, her eyes drawn towards her settee, before they returned to him slowly, her gaze almost hungrily taking in the sight of him just standing there, even if it was silently.

Sherlock finally drew for breath, his eyes fixed on her face, bordering on solemn. "No," he began, and her nails dug into the paper. "No – not – I mean – originally – I am – I am sorry it took – I – took so long to get here – I-," and she realized he wasn't talking about how late he was at her flat, how dark the streets had become.

Molly's eyes turned to the list in her hand, letting a small quavering breath. "I just got home," she said blinking at her own silliness, it's not what she meant, or what she wanted to say, or – she wasn't sure really.

She didn't know what to say, or how to say it, so many words available to her at the moment, but they were too big, or too small, too complicated or too simple for the moment taking place.

He pursed his lips, blinking. "May I-," he started gesturing carefully with a gloved hand at her flat.

He never asked when he came round, never like this anyway, and she stepped aside gingerly, the paper still in her hand. Molly was afraid to crease it, as if her crumbling it would make the moment lessen in meaning.

She kept her eyes trained on him, on his careful walk, as he slowly whirled around to face her, his hands clenched at his sides, his eyes almost unable to meet hers, flickering up and down, blue hues indecipherable. "I am sorry-," he began, brows furrowing. "I didn't – I didn't think – didn't consider how you'd – when it should have been what I thought of first…"

Blinking she tried not to let any tears spill, lest she confuse him or scare him away, he'd never seen her like this, not properly anyway. Swallowing she tried to fill the silence, tried to ask the questions she wanted to pose, to talk – "But the in the lab…you said-," she began, swallowing the ever growing lump in her throat, shaking her head a bit.

When the words were barely out of her mouth she realized that she should have stayed, she should have listened, should have eavesdropped more, but she'd been used to hearing them talk about her, used to the fact that John would berate him for walking over her, like he had a tendency to do in the past.

But that was the past.

"You - heard?" he said, his voice ragged, sounding almost horrified, and she met his gaze guiltily, the scrap of paper the only thing keeping her on her feet.

"I – I-," she began perplexed, blinking furiously. "I thought-,"

Sherlock took another breath, clearly steeling himself, like she already was, her nails digging into the paper for support, as she watched him closely, trying to pick up his expressions, trying to understand.

He bowed his head a little; his dark curls inching down his forehead, as a glimmer of a smile etched itself on his mouth. "You didn't hear it all then."

"You should talk to her, you know, sort it out."

"Don't be naïve John, I think the thought has crossed her mind."

"I know you pretend that you don't know how she feels about you, Sherlock, but I think you need to be honest with her - before this whole thing blows up in both your faces."

"When we've finished the list, we'll have that special 'heart to heart' – yes – fine – now – can we get back to the case? We need to prove the man's guilt."

John snorted. "Could you at least bloody pretend like you care?"

"I think I've already done enough caring-,"

"Wait – what list-,"

There it was, he had said it out loud, and he blinked furiously, hoping John had no inkling of what he was talking about. "I didn't say anything about a list-," he mumbled, focusing on the microscope before him.

However John could not be deterred eyeing him with a great deal bemusement. "I was talking about Mary – who were you talking about?"

"Umm-," he'd hit a blank, "Wait – what about Mary?"

"I thought – oh – OH - ," said John wide-eyed with a grin – "Oh my God - that's what she bloody meant – Jesus – you're talking about Molly, aren't you?" said John who faltered a tiny bit at Sherlock's silence. "Are you?"

"And you were talking about the article…" said Sherlock squeezing his eyes shut with a grimace.

John smirked. "So…apparently that worked then."

"Shut up."

"Mary kept going on about getting your head out of your arse, and I thought she just meant in general."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Well – obviously – I did."

"Are you two-,"

"Not yet, John, no," said Sherlock trying to ignore that infernal badgering from the real John, as well as the one in his head.

"Well…have you told her?"

"Told her what?" he said, his eyes up again.

John gave him a look.

"I intend to," he conceded, a lightness expanding itself over his chest, making that constriction he'd been feeling lately elevate ever so slightly.

"Oh God - just don't do that thing!"

"What? What thing?" said Sherlock annoyed, turning to look at his friend.

"That thing when you ignore the fact that people actually have feelings."

"Yes, yes, fine, I know - now -,"

"What's the list then?" said John with a raised brow, grinning cheekily at the man who groaned in response.

"You don't want to know."

"Why wouldn't I want-,"

"It involves sex," he said smirking the instant his friend's eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. "Just what I thought – you do get quite English about it, don't you?"

"Says you?" said John with a slight gape.

A lone tear falls across her cheek, a confusing smile on her face, while she closes her eyes briefly, her teeth gnawing into her lower lip, fullness appearing to her quickly reddening lips. "And then I just left you-," she said the regret so achingly visible in her voice.

"Twice," he said with a chuckle, his hand twitching to touch her, but his hand urges only upwards briefly, letting it fall to his side instead. "Not that I – I was any better – when I should have told you to begin with, I just – I suppose I wanted to see first – if that makes any sense?" He identified he must have looked as confused as she seemed to be, her expression one of mild irritation, like he'd pulled a stunt of some kind.

Well.

"By - making a list?" she said laughing, and it's a relief to hear her giggle burst forward. "A sex list?"

He let his eyes narrow briefly in mild contemplation. "There was kissing too - though – no – not spectacularly clever, though I thought you understood."

She frowned at him. "No, you were sort of clear that it wasn't about-," she let out a breath, huffing, her brown eyes seeking out his face, taking it in, it seemed, in what way he didn't know. He wouldn't hide from her gaze, allowing her to see it all, but he could not tolerate the silence.

"Yes - I am terrible at romantic gestures, aren't I?" he said softly, his mouth curling upward at an attempt at humour.

Her inspection of him is cut short, as she groaned into her hand. "Oh…Sherlock – why didn't you just-,"

"You didn't ask," he said taking a tentative step toward her, his hands folded behind his back. "I was consumed with the idea that it was just friendly - that I wasn't risking anything - that I wasn't already – I – Molly - if I - loved you less… I -," no words could put it right in the way he wanted it to be, nor would he ever have the right words for every occasion, hoping she'd understand, hoping she'd see. "Just – see me - I know you can."

The tears came again, and he had no idea if they were good, but her hand dropped from her face. "Oh…"

A beat passed.

"Oh?" he repeated trying to look annoyed. "That's what I-," and he felt relieved the instant he felt her throw her arms around him, dragging him down to meet her, the paper crunched against his back.

He could feel her laughter against his coat, and her smile, or so he hoped. Resting his chin on top of her head, he took slow breaths, steadying himself, willing himself to be patient, his hands unwilling to be pulled away from her, but he knew they would have to move.

"Am I forgiven?" he whispered, a slight tremble to his voice, unable to be shielded by humour, by sarcasm, by anything. She was there in his arms and he wanted to keep her there, but she broke away, stepping back, her brown eyes on the floor, a grimace on her face.

"No."

"No?" he said and he could not hide his fear, his alarm. "Molly – I -," she met his eyes, but she did not speak. "I will do – anything…"

"Anything?" she said quietly, eyes wide.

"Anything."

She stared at him, the once serious expression dropping from her face, a large grin replacing it as she giggled. "I've got a list."

THE END