This is a followup to Things That Will Never Be. It's PAINFUL. There are a LOT of triggers in it. Self harm, depression, extreme possessiveness, angst, and a lot of other stuff. It DOES have a happy ending but trust me, it's painful for the vast majority of this.

I URGE YOU TO CAREFULLY CONSIDER WHETHER YOU WANT TO READ THIS OR NOT.

If you do, I'll see you on the other side.

A bang. A scuffle. A scream. A gasp.

Silence.

The door burst open and Molly nearly groaned with frustration.

She was ready, she'd accepted it. Why, oh why did he have to come swanning back into her life, fixing things that weren't broken.

Not her, he'd never fix her.

This. He had to fix this. It would have been over. A blink of an eye and Molly would have been no more. Few would have mourned her, and she was ok with that.

But no, the very reason for her pain and self-doubt had to burst through the doors and incapacitate her attacker, then take her into his arms in front of all and sundry before kissing her passionately.

Molly did groan then. An exasperated noise, not one borne of passion.

She pulled away from his, a wry smile turning up the corners of her too small lips at the look of confusion on his handsome face.

"No, Sherlock," she said, shaking her head at him, her hand on his chest to warn him to keep his distance. She stared at him, the brokenness in his eyes seeping into her core, freezing her heart.

She couldn't, wouldn't play this game anymore.

Molly turned on her heel and strode out of the morgue, past a flabbergasted John, Mary, Mycroft and Lestrade. She didn't speak to any of them.

She needed a drink.

She needed a drink and to not be home when he inevitably showed up, asking, pleading, begging for one more night.

She knew she'd never be able to resist him, that driving force of sheer will was stronger than the most insistent current, dragging her down to the depths of hell where she relished the burn on her skin and in her core.

Molly found herself in a pub, not far from her flat. She drank whiskey, reveling in the pain the back of her throat with each slow sip. It helped, it hurt. It dragged her far away from him.

"Can I buy you a drink love?"

"Whiskey."

She pulled him towards her flat, giggling when he pinched her arse and stopping every few seconds to snog him silly. He wasn't as good as Sherlock, but it didn't matter. It was rather the point. All that mattered was that he wasn't Sherlock.

She pretended she didn't see him, watching from across the street.

She pretended she didn't see the hurt and confusion etched on his face in the dim glow of the street lamp.

She pretended he wasn't everything and that she wasn't a fool for trying to tear her heart away from his grasp.

She lied to herself and slid into another man's eager arms, spread her legs for him and bit her lip to keep from crying. She didn't come.

It hurt. Her body, her head, her heart.

He didn't come to her; she knew he wouldn't.

She prayed he would.

"Hello Molly."

"Hello. Mrs. Richards, I presume?"

"If you please."

He was cool, distant, and so was she.

He left within minutes.

"Help me if you can I'm feeling down,

And I do appreciate you coming 'round.

Help me get my feet back on the ground,

Won't you please, please help me?"

It felt good to sing. To dance as she hovered the sitting room. To not worry that he would come bursting through the door at any moment, demanding tea, or space, or her body.

She ignored the gaping hole in her chest where her heart used to be.

"Molly," Mary looked nervous, twisting her hands in her lap. She never looked nervous. It was the first time the two women had seen each other since the birth of Anabelle, who was the picture of her father and the temperament of her mother.

Molly stared at the blonde woman in front of her, eyes blank, glazed over. She knew what was coming.

"Molly, he's bad. He's down, and every night is a danger night."

The blank expression didn't leave Molly's eyes as she smiled.

"Yes, Mary, every night is a danger night."

For me too.

She stared at the bottle. It mocked her professional knowledge. She put it away.

"Would you like to-"

"Solve crimes?" she said.

"Have dinner?" he finished.

"Ooh," she said, awkwardly. Funny how the shoe was on the other foot now.

"No, Sherlock. Not tonight."

He left. The ached intensified.

She was summoned to a crime scene. Not a first, but not the norm either.

"Hey Molls."

Lestrade greeted her warmly, as he held up the tape for her to pass under. He moved to embrace her and a low growl sounded from nearby. Molly turned her head to see Sherlock, who was glaring menacingly at Lestrade, his eyes locked on where the older man's hands intersected around Molly's slim frame.

She smiled brightly at the Detective Inspector as he pulled away but dropped it when he frowned and caught her chin in his hand.

"Christ, Molls, you look like a ghost!" he exclaimed, turning her face towards the light of the lamp set up to examine the dark crime scene. It was late, nearly one am.

She knew, of course. Knew that she'd lost weight, that her skin was almost translucent, that her eyes were dark and her lips cracked and broken from too much worrying.

"Haven't been sleeping well," she murmured apologetically, catching the stiffening of Sherlock's spine in the corner of her vision.

He knew, of course. Knew of the constant stream of men and alcohol. Probably even knew of the diagnosis of depression and the medication.

He wasn't any better.

She could see the signs. The twitch of his hands, the nervous bouncing, the rubbing of his arms. She was surprised that John didn't see it. But then again, he'd never seen anything that he didn't want to see.

Molly examined the corpse, pulled from its watery grave at the bottom of the Thames.

34 years old. Female. Long brown hair, pale skin, blue with oxygen deprivation. Slashed wrists. Pregnant, but too early to be showing, possibly too early to know.

Molly choked back her nausea. It had been a long time since a body had made her feel nauseous. But this, it hurt her to her core. The woman could be her twin in almost every way. Age, appearance.

It was how she'd go if she had to. Not that she would but she had thought about it.

(She tried to not let the frequency of those thoughts alarm her.)

Sherlock rattled of the conclusion to the case, sounding more like a robot than she'd ever heard him.

Suicide. She'd split from her lover, not knowing that she was carrying his child. Distraught, she'd cut her wrists and jumped into the river, trusting that she'd either bleed out or drown.

He was gone with a swirl of his coat, leaving Molly, Lestrade and John standing over the body of the woman.

She breathed out a sigh of relief, leaning back against her door. Lestrade had kindly offered to take her home, and to notify Mike that she'd been at a crime scene all night and therefore couldn't work the next day. She was looking forward to taking some sleeping pills and dropping into bed, allowing the sweet bliss of sleep to overtake her.

A movement caught her eye, just before the lamp switched on.

There he sat, still in his Belstaff, his scarf still wound around his neck.

He eyed her, expression inscrutable, the silence stretching on and on. She crossed the room and headed into the kitchen, filling the kettle and setting it on the stove to boil. She didn't realize that she was staring blindly at it until it whistled loudly and she jumped back, landing directly against Sherlock's torso. She whirled around, her eyes meeting his chest as his arms enveloped her and she fought him halfheartedly, pushing against him with her small fists. He held on though, pulling her against him until she quieted, her chest heaving with panicked breaths.

"You're mine, Molly, why do you fight it?" his deep voice rumbled, his chest vibrating against her cheek as he spoke. She stiffened in his embrace.

"You don't own me Sherlock," she spat bitterly as she attempted to duck out of his arms. They only tightened around her and she lifted her head to glare at him. "You never have and you never will."

He chuckled, smiling down at her with as much fondness as he'd shown the day he took her solving cases.

"Oh, Molly, you don't really believe that."

She glared at him, raising her chin defiantly.

"You'll never have me again, Sherlock," she said, twisting away and out of his arms. He let her go and merely set a hand on the countertop, leaning over her, blue eyes dilated and boring into her chocolate ones.

"I'll win you, Molly Hooper, don't doubt it. It may not be tonight, or tomorrow, or this week, but I will win you."

He smirked at her involuntary gasp of shock and took the opportunity to lean over and plant a kiss on her lips. Before she could react though, he pulled back and turned on his heel, his coat billowing behind him as he let himself out, the door to her flat clicking closed behind him.

We'll see about that, Sherlock Holmes.

Demons. They haunt her. They're in her blood, screaming for a way out.

She ignores them. Tries for a sense of normalcy. But they're always there in the background, waiting for the right moment to strike. She knows. He knows.

She's sure he knows when she comes in late one morning, her eyes red, her stomach churning. She bets he was at the bar when the man wouldn't leave her alone. He has to know, he knows everything.

It's all her fault. She shouldn't have ever put herself in that situation.

She's knows somewhere in her logical brain that it isn't her fault. That not being able to prevent him from harassing her doesn't make her weak, that he was the one who did something wrong, but it doesn't help the sick feeling of guilt that settles in the bottom of her belly, making her listless and snappy, biting off the heads of interns left and right.

She hates herself.

She hates Sherlock for making her hate herself.

He takes to spending all his free time in the morgue or the lab. He scares off any potential suitors much as he used to, but with added venom. He smirks at her after tearing each one of them apart.

He never insults her, intentionally or not.

She's filthy, so filthy.

She claws at her arms, leaving livid red scratches down her pale skin. Sometimes she draws blood, sometimes she doesn't.

She feels blissfully numb. Her body tingles and goes cold, her mind completely blank. It's a wonderful feeling, but harder to attain each time.

Every time there's more scratches, they're deeper, she finds skin under her nails.

She stops cooking for herself when she finds herself in the kitchen one day, staring at her knife set.

She throws it out.

It started slowly. A few too many pills each night after work. A few too many drinks when she's off the next day. It's gradual, her friends don't even notice the difference. She wishes they'd see under the bright smile she plasters on her face each morning, as much a routine as painting on her makeup and brushing her teeth. But they've never been too bright, and the only one who is intelligent enough to catch on has the emotional capacity of a thimble.

So she took a few too many hydrocodone tablets to chase away the ache in her body from hunching over the autopsy table examining a body or straining her neck as she filled out paperwork. She took the diphenhydramine capsules to help chase away the rushing thoughts that plagued her in the dark of the night, as she lay alone in her bed, kept awake by the sound of her own breaths and the oppression of her own shattered dreams.

She knows she's not supposed to take so many, or both at the same time. It's not good to lower her respiratory rate so much. She ignores her inner medical mind.

The alcohol was her feeble excuse for the drugs, convincing herself that she was responsible because she didn't take the pills every night, just the nights she wasn't imbibing in her favorite red wine or throwing back whiskey at the local pub as she faked being interested in the football game so well that she almost believed she really liked it.

She didn't even realize it was a problem. Not until the morning she awoke to Sherlock sitting in the chair across her bedroom, his long fingers wrapped around empty pill bottles.

"Molly," he said, looking up at her, his eyes rimmed red, and cheeks paler than his normal ivory tone. His full lips trembled with emotion, and Molly's fogged mind stumbled over his uncharacteristic display. He was normally so distant, so remote, wearing his hate for emotion like a suit of armor, warding off any wounds that sentiment might deal him. Molly knew better though. That armor had its chinks, gaping holes even, that left him raw and exposed when the right button was pushed.

John. Mary. Greg. Mrs Hudson. Even Mycroft mattered.

Molly didn't, no matter what flowery phrases he uttered on cold winter afternoons, in the privacy of empty halls.

Molly sniffed, blinking rapidly as she forced her mind to clear.

"Sherlock? What are you doing here?" she asked, sitting up, acutely aware of the blanket falling from her upper body to pool at her hips, exposing her thin camisole. Her nipples hardened as the cold air around her seeped through her thin top and she shivered.

Her eyes darted to Sherlock in time to see his tongue dart out to sweep across his full lower lip. They stared each other down, until he stood and slowly crossed the room to kneel by the side of the bed.

"What do you need?" he asked, and Molly's eyes welled with unshed tears.

You.

"Nothing, Sherlock. Nothing."

He left.

Sherlock went out of town on a case. The Moriarty problem had been at a stand-still until recently, when Sherlock had gotten wind of some goings on in Scotland. He'd been off like a shot, not even bothering to tell Molly goodbye. He hadn't taken John, on account of the baby.

She was walking home late in the evening, when she passed too close to an alleyway, and hands reached out to grab her. She let out a muffled shriek as one hand descended to cover her mouth, and she felt the prick of a needle in her arm just before everything went blessedly dark.

"Look what I found, Sherlock!"

I know that voice, where do I know that voice from?

A huffed sigh from somewhere beyond her blindfold.

"Ugh, this is getting ridiculous. What possible reason would you have for taking Molly?"

"I told you I'd burn the heart out of you. Took me a while to find it though."

"I've been reliably informed that I don't have one."

"You're repeating yourself now, worried?"

"Not in the slightest."

A gunshot.

She counts, one, two, three, and his large hands are on her, ripping the blindfold off, worriedly brushing over her body, counting the bruises as his jaw clenches. Moriarty is dead on the floor next to her chair and the look Sherlock gives the body when he sees the bruise on her jaw suggests that he'd like to kill him again.

She hurts, and distractedly thinks that there must be something wrong with her ribs.

There is, and she goes to the hospital. Sherlock refuses to let go of her until a male nurse literally peels the detective off of her and escorts him out.

They keep her overnight to watch her, and bind her ribs up nice and tight. There's just some bruising but someone has made sure that she's unable to leave that night (probably Mycroft.) Not much can be done about it though so she insists on going home the next day.

She wakes once in the middle of the night to see her detective curled up in the fetal position in the chair by her bed, his handsome face relaxed in sleep. She smiles, then grimaces at the pain in her cheek, before going back to sleep.

He's gone in the morning.

He's never there in the morning.

She gets home from the hospital late the next night to find that her key doesn't work in her door. She wearily trudges down to her landlord's door and knocks, giving a tired smile when he opens.

"Oh hi, Molly, your boyfriend got the last of your stuff out of the flat earlier this afternoon. I changed the locks already."

She stared at him, bewildered.

"What are you talking about, Mr. Levasy? I don't have a boyfriend."

"'Course you do. Tall bloke, dark curls, blue eyes? I recognized him, he's been coming 'round for years."

Molly sighed heavily.

"Of course, how could I forget?" she said tiredly.

She slammed the door behind her, and trudged up the steps into 221B. Sherlock was sprawled out on the couch, looking like sin itself in his pajama bottoms, tee shirt and dressing gown. She didn't miss the smirk that lit up his face just before she threw her coat at him, hitting him in the face.

"What the fuck, Sherlock?!" she yelled, vaguely proud of the confused look that crossed his face. "You had no right! None!"

He slowly stood, and crossed over to her, towering over her petite frame, but she refused to cower. She was done cowering in front of Sherlock Holmes. He brushed his hand across her cheek experimentally, looking for signs of pain. She clenches her jaw and refuses to wince.

"We both know you would end up here eventually. This is just more expedient, don't you think?"

She narrowed her eyes at him.

"No, I don't. Now, if you'll get out of my way, I'm going to change clothes, I have a date tonight."

Sherlock stiffened and glared at her.

"You can't," he said angrily, grabbing her shoulders. "You can't, you're mine."

She twisted free and slapped him full across the cheek.

"Not anymore!" she screamed, and immediately regretted it when he turned back to her slowly, fire in his eyes, and his fists clenched.

"You are mine," he repeated, his voice a deadly quiet. Molly lost it then.

"You think you are so much better than everyone else, but you're not," Molly said, her voice trembling with barely controlled rage. "You're so below all those people you look down on. At least they know how to love and don't spend their lives being bloody machines who couldn't ever really care for anyone other than themselves!"

They glared at each other, both breathing heavily, great gasping breaths borne of their mutual fury. Sherlock's eyes narrowed, and Molly barely had time to wonder what thought had crossed his mind before he was pressing her back against the wall, his lips on hers, his hands holding her to him. Her lips parted as she gasped in shock and arousal, and he seized the opportunity to thrust his tongue into her mouth. His hands grasped her arse, pulling her core against his burgeoning erection, grinding their hips together as she gasped for breath and his lips moved down to her throat.

He busied himself sucking a dark mark of ownership where her neck and shoulders met, and her arms came up to clasp around his shoulders, as she clung to him for dear life, swept along in the rising tide of their need for each other. She completely forgot the pain in her side and cheek as he claimed her, too busy reveling in him.

With a growl, Sherlock grasped the back of her thighs and hoisted her up, supporting her weight between his thrusting hips and the wall. She wrapped her legs around him and clung to him as one of his hands slid between their bodies to rub at her through the fabric of her trousers.

She knew she shouldn't, that she should be pushing him away, not letting him own her fragile heart once more but she couldn't lie to herself; he'd always own her.

His sheets were soft and they smelled of his crisp, masculine scent; tobacco, the woods after a rain, some heady cologne that she couldn't name.

He moved in and above her and she clung to him, moaning and writhing, pleading with him to push her over the edge into bliss the way that only he could.

She fell apart when he lifted her bum, clutching her body to his as he thrust into her, whispering her name into the soft skin of her neck, a possessive pronoun preceding it.

One more night, my Molly.

She runs as soon as he falls off of her. He reaches for her but she bolts out of his room, locking herself in the bath, dressing with shaking hands, trying to block out the sounds of his muffled pleading from beyond the door.

She waits until he leaves and sneaks out, packs a suitcase and runs from everything.

It takes him five days to find her in the cottage that her family visited every summer when she was a child.

She is startled when he bursts through the door, eyes wild with fear and desperation.

"Molly," he gasps, breathing labored, body sagging with relief.

She watches as he wrenches command of himself, pushing away his obvious fear, and wonders at the sentiment she sees so clearly written on every part of his lean frame.

"What do you need?" he asks again when he's finally regained some semblance of control.

She takes a deep breath. She's been preparing for this for days but the words are suddenly stuck in her throat. She wants nothing more than to whisper 'you' and sink into his embrace once more but she knows that she can't. So she tells him.

"I need space, Sherlock. I need time away from you to think, and to figure out how I really feel without you popping to mess with my emotions all the time."

He waits silently, letting her speak, and she's grateful for the small blessing.

"If you want me, if you really want me, not just for one more night, but really truly, then let me have this. Let me come to you. Or not."

He nods, and offers her a ride back to London, since he's going. She accepts and packs her small suitcase. He tells her that Mycroft had secured her old flat, and that he can take her things back there if she wants. She does.

He kisses her cheek at the door and she almost crumbles. Almost, but not quite.

And then, he's gone.

Lestrade complains that Sherlock is refusing any and all cases. They're stumped and he has apparently taken up beekeeping, spending days at a time out of the city.

He doesn't come to Bart's.

Molly misses him.

Spring turns to summer, and still he doesn't come.

She wonders if he's given up on her but there are flowers on her desk every Monday morning when she comes in. She blushes every time she sees the new bouquet and desperately hopes there's never a time when she comes in to an empty desk.

She throws out the pills and the alcohol. She needs to think and she knows she's using them to avoid her problems. She stops going to the pub as often, goes back to being a social drinker.

She doesn't take anyone home with her.

She buys herself a new set of knives and some cooking lessons to go along with it. She never knew she had the knack for it before.

She takes up painting too. At first, the colors are dark and swirled, a vortex of pain and fury in them. Her instructor gives her odd looks. Gradually she chooses lighter colors, begins to paint things that her beautiful.

She remembers what it's like to feel clean.

It's early fall when she is finally ready to see him again.

On her day off, she stands in front of the mirror, idly gazing at herself as she wonders what to wear. It's nippy outside, so she opts for a fitted pair of jeans and an oversized jumper with cheerful pink and cream colored stripes. It falls past her bum and she has to roll the sleeves up, but it's warm and comfy and her absolute favorite. She wears a plain brown tee shirt underneath, one that hugs her curves more than her usual wardrobe, one that she only wears under her jumpers.

She doesn't bother with makeup, she hardly ever does. He'll notice, of course, but she looks healthier now, and she knows she is. Her skin has regained its glow, her face no longer has the pale pinched look and the circles under her eyes are gone.

More than that, she's centered in herself. She knows now, knows what she wants, and if Sherlock Holmes can't (won't) give it to her, then there isn't any hope for them.

(She prays that there is.)

He's there when she knocks. He looks tired, but he lights up when he sees her. His boyish hope melts her heart. They smile at each other like dorks for a long moment before she gets a grip on herself and says what she means to say.

"Sherlock, I need to know if you are willing to be what I need you to be."

He cuts her off.

"Anything Molly, anything!" The words tumble from his mouth. "I'll do anything. I need you, I need you here with me."

She's left speechless by the vehemence in his words and the conviction on his face.

"All right, Sherlock. I'll be here."

He begins to move towards her but she holds up a hand.

"But," he pauses, one foot still in the air, "you have to show me that you can be what I need."

He cocks his head to the side.

"We're a bit beyond dinner and a movie, don't you think?" he says, the words weighted with all their past, all their pain, all their desire.

"Yes," she agrees, but shakes her head at the same time. He's confused.

"Sherlock, you have to show me that you can respect me. I'm not anyone's property, you don't own me. You have to treat me like I'm important to you, like I matter."

He begins to protest and she holds up her hand again. Miraculously, he subsides.

"I mean it. No more taking advantage of my feelings for you. No more showing up in the middle of the night and using me then leaving after. No more treating me like your play toy. I am my own person, and if you care about me," she chokes, "if you love me, then you have to be better."

He stares at her for a long moment, and she's terrified that he's going to throw her out and tell her she's not worth the trouble. She's surprised when he finally does speak.

"Teach me," is all he says.

She smiles.

Is it sunnier outside or is it her imagination?

"Do we have to?" he whines, and she grins at him over her popcorn.

"Yup," she replies, popping the 'p' at the end with a smirk.

He whines, but dutifully follows her to their seats. She loves the circus and even (especially) him deducing anything and everything doesn't ruin it. Sometime after intermission she realizes that she can't open her bottle of water because at some point their hands have become intertwined. She deals with the thirst because the feeling of her tiny hand in his is like water in the desert.

The press get wind of their relationship not long after John and Mary figure it out.

Sherlock tells John they've been involved for years and gets punched again. Molly gives him a pack of frozen peas to hold on it but for the next week she grins every time she sees the bruise.

Molly gets kidnapped by Mycroft but refuses to say a word about her long history with Sherlock. She knows he respects her for it, even as he's subtly threatening her.

Sherlock escorts Molly to and from work, shielding her from over-zealous reporters. It's sweet. HE'S sweet. She wonders when it will all fall apart.

It doesn't.

All the pain, all the trials, all the missteps, all the miscommunications and fights and sleepless nights and haunted hours fighting the darkness that threatened to overwhelm them. Clawing at the demons beneath their skin, desperate to be clean.

It's all worth it the day Molly walks herself down the aisle. Sherlock is waiting for her at the other end. She trips at the last minute because she can't take her eyes from his face to watch the steps.

He catches her.

They always catch each other when they fall.

Yeahhhhhhh... Sorry about that. Like I said, this is more of a cathartic thing than anything else. I'm honestly not expecting a whole lot of people to like it. It's too real, too painful, and too emotional for most and that's ok. We read and write fiction oftentimes to escape reality, not have to pushed into our faces like this. And that's ok, that's perfectly fine.