For the past three months, all of Molly he had seen was the back of her head as she walked away from him. Every time he entered the lab, she would smile at John, hug Geoff, and then turn away without so much as a glance in his direction, her hand waving him toward whatever experiment or results she had for him.

She would arrive at the Watson's for the weekly Friday night dinners and proceed to simply ignore any attempts of his at conversation by cooing over their goddaughter, her brown eyes wide and dazzling as the little spawn gurgled up at her in complete adoration. Sherlock resigned himself to glaring petulantly at her from across the room. And no matter how he tried to beat her, she always left before him, hugging John and Mary good-bye and slipping out the door. By the time he caught up, her cab would be pulling away, leaving him on the curb, staring after her in frustration. He took out his anger on the Watsons, resentful that they were the recipients of her affection while he didn't get so much as a smile.

Then, to his utter horror, he found out that she was great friends with his brother. At least twice a week, Mycroft sent a car to pick her up after her shift and bring her round for baking and a game of Operation. Of all the resentments Sherlock held against his brother, stealing Molly away was damn near unforgivable. But he found that he couldn't begrudge Mycroft his friendship with her. Molly was the kind of person who saw the heart beneath the icy exterior and made it her mission to make them see the goodness behind the greatness. And by the time they realized what she was doing, she'd snuck her way into the heart hidden inside and thawed it.

At least, that's what she had done to him.

So he tried the direct approach, texting her to invite her over to Baker Street for takeaway and experiments, all but explicitly stating that it was a date.

But she declined with a short, cold text. Sorry, busy. M

It wasn't the rejection that hurt the most, to his surprise. It was the lack of x's that she used to add every time she sent him a text or wrote him a note. When she had given them freely, he hadn't treasured them. And now he had lost them, the two intersecting lines that seemed innocuous, but held so much meaning from the petite pathologist.

But, being completely without personal precedent, Sherlock had no idea how to approach her, how to fix their friendship. And so he had waffled for 93 days, mentally working through every possible way to bring the old Molly back.

In the end, all it took was a call to his dear old brother and a deal with said devil, to get him and Molly in an escape-proof confrontation. Mycroft knew from his afternoon meetings that Molly's resolve to move on from Sherlock was weakening, but she was still very much hurt by all he had put her through. But he also knew that his socially-oblivious brother didn't realize that what he was feeling was jealousy of her friendships with others and love for the bloody woman herself, who was just as in love with him as she'd always been.

So, when Sherlock came to him for assistance, Mycroft easily hid the relieved smile behind a cool mask and sighed, acquiescing to Sherlock's demands with the condition that he now owed Mycroft several visits worth of parental babysitting, including all theatre horrors for the next six months. He wasn't heartless, but he also didn't become the British Government by passing by perfect, self-serving opportunities.

Now here they were, 94 days after Molly began giving him the cold shoulder, sitting in one of Mycroft's blacked-out cars. Molly had slid in with a smile when the car pulled up outside of Bart's, clearly assuming it was Anthea picking her up for another afternoon at the Diogenes with Mycroft. But as soon as the door shut behind her, she looked up to greet her friend and was met with the cold stare of the world's only Consulting Detective.

'Sherlock!' She exclaimed. Immediately, her surprise was shuttered by the cold, indifferent mask and she made to leave. But the handle refused to give and the car pulled into traffic. She pressed the intercom to the driver. 'Frederick, you let me out at once!'

'Sorry, miss,' his tinny voice replied. 'I've got my orders from both Mr Holmes', as well as Miss Jones. I'm not to let you out until we reach our destination.'

Molly huffed and slumped back in her seat, crossing her arms and glaring out the window.

'I apologize for the manner of your retrieval,' Sherlock said. 'But I didn't see an alternative. You have been ignoring all of my attempts to reconcile, let alone speak, so I had to sell my soul to Mycroft to get you here.'

'Where are we going?' She spat, still not looking at him.

'I considered Baker Street, but I'd rather you not have the bevy of medieval weapons I own at your fingertips should this not go the way I hope.'

Molly smirked and he could see the spark of interest in her eyes. Yes, Baker Street would have been a bad idea.

'So, where, then, are we going?'

Sherlock hesitated. 'It's a surprise.'

'It better not be far. The minute this car stops, I'm hailing the first cab I see and I'd rather not spend a fortune getting back home.'

'Is it so awful being with me?'

He hadn't meant to ask it, but the venom in her voice was like a dagger to his heart. When had her anger and hate for him overshadowed her love and compassion?

Molly flicked her gaze to him and he saw her resolve waver at the openly vulnerable look on his face. She sighed and dropped her eyes.

'Molly, what can I do? How do I fix… us?'

She frowned. 'There is no 'us.' There has never been an 'us.' It's been you and what you want, and if I happen to be a means to achieve your end, then you see me. And when my usefulness comes to an end, I'm back in the dusty corners of your mind once more.' She clenched her hands tightly in her lap, but her long-withheld words were strong and she spoke with resigned indifference. 'I don't want to be that anymore. And since I'll never be more than a convenient asset to you, I've decided I won't be anything to you. Because being around you is like being dragged into a black hole of deluded hopefulness. You keep my hopes kindled with flirting and compliments, but I'm not an idiot. I know you'll never see me the way I see you. So, I'm giving up on you.'

She shrugged and turned her gaze back to the window.

Sherlock didn't know what to say. His heart ached at the defeat in her voice and the façade of indifference she put on. He had done that to her, made her believe she didn't count to the point where she decided to actually give up on him. Unbuckling, he moved to slide into the seat next to her.

'You are more than an asset to me, Molly Hooper. You are my friend. And I do not say that lightly. Cultivating and maintaining a friendship is difficult for me. As you know, I am a difficult man, without regard for the feelings of others, and most find me unbearable after the first five minutes. Besides John and Mary, my parents, and Mrs Hudson, and on occasion Mycroft, I do not have anyone in my life who cares about me unconditionally.'

Molly's shoulder curved down almost imperceptibly when he failed to mention her name. Sherlock reached over and traced a long finger along the ridge of her thumb.

'But you, Molly, love me. And not like the others. Your love doesn't just make me feel accepted and comforted, it inspires me to be a better man… a good man.'

Her eyes softened as she looked up at him uncertainly. 'Sherlock…'

He covered her hand with his and lowered his gaze. 'And I know I don't deserve your love, though I do want it…' He paused and heaved a deep breath. 'But above all, I want your friendship. Without it, my life has been… lacking.'

Molly sat completely still for several minutes, the only movement the jostling of the car as they twisted and turned down a country road. Then, slowly, she turned her hand over and, to his astonishment, threaded her fingers through his. Her thumb caressed his and she smiled softly.

'You'll always have my friendship, Sherlock.'

He felt his lips twitch in a relieved smile. 'Good. That's… that's good.' He paused. 'A-and the rest?'

Molly took a deep breath and pursed her lips. 'I don't know.'

Before Sherlock could say any more, the car pulled to a stop. Molly tore her gaze from his and looked out the window in confusion. The locks popped up and she eased the door open. Sherlock followed her out and stood beside her as she stared in mute surprise at the buildings around her.

'How did you know?' She finally whispered.

He simply smiled and held out his hand. Without hesitation, she placed her hand in his and let him lead her down the cobblestone road to the village she'd grown up in. As they wandered through the main stretch, Molly grew more animated as she regaled him with story after story of her childhood. He grinned as her smile grew brighter and he felt the tight band of loss around his heart ease when she beamed up at him, having let go of the anger and hurt she'd harbored.

She had told him once, long ago, that she never visited her home village. It wasn't for any particular reason, just that she didn't want to make the trip alone, that no one there even would remember her, so going back would be a waste of time. This was his way of telling her that she mattered to him, that he wanted her to share a part of her life with him.

He may not have won her heart back, but he had her friendship. And that was enough for now.

And when they visited again the following year, their smiles were brighter and their hands were clasped tightly as they strolled along. The sparkling diamond on her finger, engraved with three x's, spoke for itself as to how their friendship had grown and deepened their love.