"We must develop and maintain the capacity to forgive. He who is devoid of the power to forgive is devoid of the power to love." ~ Martin Luther King, Jr.

Sherlock stepped through the open door a few paces before halting. He waffled on whether or not to take off his coat and scarf, but decided that should wait for an invitation. It was enough to be allowed inside, given the circumstances. There was a time Sherlock would not have realized a need to apologize, now he fully felt the gravity of his actions, forced though they were. Feelings really were a messy business. Being an emotionally engaged adult (or "a real boy" as Mary would have said), was as problematic as Sherlock has always assumed, but it was not something he could change now. Nor did he wish to.

Having emotional connections was one thing, learning to act on those emotions was something else entirely. It was damned difficult and, under different circumstances, he would not bother, but there were a handful of people worth the effort in maintaining those connections. Molly Hooper was one.

With a fortifying breath, he turned and spoke.

"I'm sure I'm the last person you wished to find on your stoop today, Molly, but I ask only that you give me a moment to explain. Apologize, actually. Yes, apologize but with an explanation. Not an excuse, mind you, but once you hear the explanation, I think you will agree that I did the only… Oh, bugger, I'm rambling." Sherlock turned away and back, cleared his throat and continued.

"I know our last conversation was difficult, particularly since it occurred on the anniversary of your father's death. Yes, I remembered. You don't speak of your father frequently, so I pay attention when you do, because that's what friends do, is it not? Friends pay attention. They see as well as observe.

They take risks for one another, as well. You took a risk on befriending me years ago, with very little in return, and yet you were still brave enough to risk fulfilling a very difficult, very… painful… request, with no context.

You are my friend, Molly. I meant that. My world has been knocked off its axis and these feelings of friendship for you and John are the only things I can point to right now as genuine truth."

Sherlock drew up to his full height and grasped his hands behind his back.

"We both know how arrogant I am, so I'm going to fall back on that arrogance and ask for your forgiveness in spite of the fact that I've done nothing to warrant it. I'm sorry, Molly Hooper."

Sherlock's speech was met with utter silence, broken only when John strolled into the kitchen of 221b Baker Street and said, "So got your speech to Molly worked out finally?"

"I think so," Sherlock said brightly, "I think I've achieved a proper blend of humility and contrition."

"Lots of grovelling, I hope," John said as he settled Rosie into the playpen set up in the middle of the parlor. "Grovelling is the only thing that's going to work in this situation. That or loads of alcohol." He stood and appraised Sherlock. "Seriously, mate. Don't mess her about." The anymore than you have already was left unsaid.

Sherlock responded with an annoyed look and asked, "Should I bring flowers? I'm given to understand flowers are appropriate additions to acts of grovelling."

"No," John chuckled, walking one of Rosie's stuffed elephants across the side of the playpen. "If you show up on Molly's doorstep with flowers, she'll think you're high."

"You're right," Sherlock strode towards the front door and started down the stairs. "Once more into the breach," Dr. John Watson, M.D. said in a high squeaky voice.

Most of the confidence Sherlock had felt leaving his flat had uncharacteristically evaporated by the time he arrived at Molly's neat, elegant home. She had inherited the house from her father, who had inherited it from his mother, and so on back to the Victorian Era. The Hoopers were a well-established family of booksellers whose patrons included literary giants, nobility, and PMs until Molly turned black-sheep and decided to study medicine.

Father a bookseller. Mother a research chemist. Grandmother a codebreaker at Bletchley Park. Alergic to peanuts. Amateur apiarist. Sherlock had managed to acquired quite a few facts about Molly Hooper over the years. None of which he deduced. All of which he inexplicably remembered.

Maybe not so inexplicable. He really did pay attention when Molly shared personal facts.

Exiting the cab, Sherlock was shocked to find his brother just about to enter his own chauffeur driven, government issue, luxury sedan with the obligatory tinted windows.

"Mycroft," Sherlock said with no little amount of annoyed outrage, "what the hell are you doing here?"

"Tea, of course," the elder Holmes said blandly, as though it were obvious, "it's Tuesday."

It took a moment for Sherlock to remember that Molly and Mycroft had a standing tea appointments on the fourth Tuesday of the month. They rotated between the Diogenese Club (Molly had become an unexpected favourite of the elderly former-spies-turned-pensioners), the morgue break-room, and Molly's flat. Still, he scowled in his brother's general direction, trying to decide if Mycroft's visit would affect the outcome of his own.

Sherlock did not know what those two discussed when he wasn't around, but it most certainly included him to some degree. Given the fact that Mycroft was an unwitting audience for the phone call, it stood to reason they may have discussed the situation. Was that good for Sherlock or not? It saved him the trouble of trying to explain Eurus, Victor, and, well, everything. That was good. It also meant that Molly's first impression of the circumstances surrounding the call were determined by Mycroft's version of events. That was bad. Well, potentially bad. Mycroft could have been trying to mend things between Sherlock and Molly or trying to warn Molly away for her own good. It could go either way.

This line of thought took him up the walk and five steps leading to Molly's front door. He rang then knocked, per usual, and waited the seven seconds it usually took Molly to answer. The door didn't open. Sherlock hesitated and tried again. Seven seconds came and went. He was contemplating whether to leave or try again when the door swung open.

"Sherlock?"

"Molly."

Silence.

He had a plan when he got in the cab, but damned if he could recall any of it. There had been a speech, a good one if he did say so himself. He was fairly certain his plan didn't involve him standing on Molly Hooper's threshold staring mutely at the tiny dancing lemons on the cloth of her blouse.

"Come in," Molly said with a sigh. She stepped back, pulling the door open in invitation, in spite of the clear hesitation in her voice. She closed the door and looked up at him expectantly. This was his cue. He was much better at catching social cues than he had once been, but, just at that moment, knowing he was supposed to say something wasn't enough to force the words our. Molly's lip quirked and she walked past him towards the kitchen.

Sherlock followed at her heels and stood just inside the doorway. Unlike 221b, Molly's kitchen was always, always pristine. He was never, ever allowed to experiment in said kitchen, there was a sort of lab set up in the garage for that. The one time Sherlock ignored that rule resulted a disruption in his supply of body parts for almost a month.

"Why are you still wearing your coat?"

"Ah, you haven't invited me to take it off?"

This was met with the look of a person who had had to pick aforementioned coat off the floor, chair, cat, or wherever else it landed when thrown haphazardly-and without invitation- by its owner. "Mr. Holmes, please take off your coat and make yourself comfortable."

Sherlock sheepishly complied, resisting the urge to drape the coat over the back of a chair and instead hanging it on one of the decorative hooks lined up neatly by the back door. He turned and steeled himself as he paced forward.

"Molly-

"Would you like some coffee? I was just starting a pot."

"Yes, thank you. Molly-"

"I'd offer tea, but Mycroft and I just polished of the last of my stash."

"Coffee is fine. Molly-"

"Your brother can drink tea like a fish drinks seawater."

"Fish don't actually- ahem. Molly-"

"He explained a few things. Updated me on recent events."

Sherlock opened his mouth to try again, but stopped.

"Go have a seat. I'll bring it in."

Sherlock paused, gave a jerking nod and marched off to the small room off the kitchen that Molly called a breakfast nook. It was larger than his bedroom at Baker Street. While he waited, he managed to mentally reconstruct the brilliant speech he had devised. By the time Molly walked in carrying two coffee mugs, Sherlock had managed to get himself back on schedule.

"Molly-"

"Here you go. Two sugars, no cream."

"Thank you. Molly-"

"I don't know how you can drink your coffee with sugar but no cream."

Sherlock grit his teeth. "Molly-"

"Sherlock."

The quiet forcefulness of her tone made Sherlock start. He looked up and caught Molly's gaze. Her eyes were red-rimmed. There was tension around her eyes and her lips were practically nonexistent, she had them pressed together so tightly. After a moment, Molly reached out and placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. As he searched her face, Sherlock saw the tension abate and her lips quirk into a very tiny smile.

"Drink your coffee."

Sherlock stared into the inky black liquid as his plan evaporated. Words weren't really going to repair anything. Maybe nothing could. Perhaps his best hope was to rebuild something out of the pieces.

"It's not poisoned," Molly said with a giggle. Sherlock realized he had been staring at his coffee for an inordinate amount of time. He took a quick sip and said, "Of course not. You wouldn't be so dull as to use poison."

"Too obvious," she agreed.

"If you were to set your mind to murder, it would be truly spectacular."

"And completely unsolvable."

"Well, not completely," Sherlock said with a touch of smugness.

"Completely. Unsolvable."

"Oh, really? Then how would you go about it?"

"If I told you, it wouldn't work. I'm holding that in reserve for emergencies."

"You don't have to relate the disposal method, just the, let's say, weapon of choice."

Their coffee discussion continued over a dinner cobbled together of a variety leftovers, a game of cards, and round of sharing photos of baby Rosie. By the end of the evening, Sherlock had added a few more Molly Hooper facts to the already infinite list:

-Molly Hooper cleans out her freezer on Tuesday evenings.

-Molly Hooper likes artsy photo filters a bit too much.

-Molly Hooper is an extraordinarily forgiving person.

-Molly Hooper is a cheating cheater who cheats at cards.