A Kiss is the Route to your Heart, chapter 6: A start, by chibiness87
Rated: T
Spoilers: 4.03 The Final Problem
Disclaimer: Not mine

A/N: Gah. Sorry for the massive delay in this chapter. I have spent the past two weeks trying to make what I have in my head come out in a way that is not completely shit. Hopefully I have managed.

Now a soft kiss, aye by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss – John Keats

The sixth time he kisses her, it is a start.

More precisely, it is a beginning.

Of everything.

The next few weeks progress in some sort of haze.

He is aware of getting up each morning, of the repairs going on around him in his flat. The workmen picking up his life while he sits in his Mind Palace, drowning in the new memories of Eurus. His sister. His sister, whom he forgot. And really, what does that say about him? If he can write a member of his own family out of his memories, what else has he forgotten over time? He can be in his mind for hours at a time, piecing together his past from the repressed memories now coming to the fore. When he comes back to the present, minutes or hours later, he takes in the progress of the ongoing repairs with a slow blink. His flat is returning to normal. His memories are returning to what they should always have been. A young boy in place of a dog, a sister in place of a mystery.

But none of this, his sister and his friend and his past, can distract him from the pain in his heart.

For when he is not rearranging his memories to assimilate the new with the old, or the old with the new, he is tracing the memory of her.

The top she was wearing and the way her hair was falling over her shoulder the first night they met. Her cherry cardigan she took to wearing when the air conditioning system in the morgue broke down in the on position and it was the only thing she had in her locker with some sort of warmth that would still fit beneath her lab coat.

The way Molly dressed up for him, hoop earrings and hair down, standing up to him even as he tore her down; and then later that same night, in her Christmas jumper, hair now in a plait over her shoulder. Make up scrubbed off, and emotions still raw.

The taste of her lip balm as he kissed her in a deserted room with only a dead body for company before having to leap to his supposed death. The way she didn't back down from him when he asked her to kill him.

The way she saved his life.

The way she always saves his life.

He tries to pin down the moment his feelings, (because yes, he can admit to having them now,) changed from affection of association to someone who was damned good at their job, to affection of her.

He's not sure.

And it is this, this uncertainty that has kept him from seeking her out.

Because, coward that he is, he has not seen her. Not spoken to her.

(What more could he possibly say, anyway?)

So when, three weeks after that night he gets a text from her, asking him if he's willing to meet her, there is only one response he can give.

You know where to find me. SH.

It is late when she comes to him. Someone, a workman or possibly John has let her in as they left for the night, because she is sat on his newly acquired sofa when he returns from changing from suit to pyjamas in his bedroom. That she has managed to infiltrate his inner sanctum should not shock him; but still, that she is here, that she has finally come to him, makes him blink.

"Hello, Molly." His words are soft as he crosses the room, sinking into his chair. Close, but far enough away so as not to crowd her.

"Hi." She gives him a small smile, and it makes his insides quiver in a way that only she can produce.

And then they just stare at each other. He tries to start a conversation, but barring asking if she has kept his cell cultures alive for the past three weeks, he's at a complete loss as to where to being.

Finally, it seems she notices his discomfort, because she takes a breath. "I owe you an apology."

Well. Of all the things he'd expected her to say, this rates quite near the bottom. Indeed, if anyone should be apologising, surely it is him. "There's nothing to be sorry for, Molly."

She holds up a hand. "No, Sherlock. Let me say this. Please."

And the way she is looking at him, begging him with her eyes, makes him concede to her wishes. "Ok."

"Ok." And then she stops again. Looks down. Hands fidgeting in her lap now, wringing over and over in her obvious distress and unease.

He is itching to approach her, but given if he gets within five feet of her he is likely to kiss her again, and does not want a repeat of their last fateful kiss, he holds his ground.

Barely.

Fingers digging in to the leather of the arms of his chair, and he's close to the edge of his control, to just approach her anyway, consequences be dammed, when she starts again. "I owe you an apology. For what I made you do that night."

He sits forward, trying with his words to make her look at him. "I don't understand."

But she is stubborn, and keeps her gaze adverted. When it comes, her confession is given to the floor, not him. "Mycroft came to see me."

Sherlock sits back in his chair, his breath escaping him in a long sigh. "He did."

It is not a question, but she answers it anyway. "Yes. A few hours after you did, actually." And now she does look at him, and the look of despair on her face is like a punch to his solar plexus, and he gasps, even as she continues. "Had quite the story to tell."

Still feeling as if he cannot breathe properly, (just what lies has his brother been feeding her?) it is all he can do to gasp her name. "Molly…"

She shakes her head slightly, gaze now fixed on his hunched form. "He told me what happened. About your sister. What she did."

Talk about Eurus is still so new, he still does not know how to process it. So this time it is he who looks down. "Ah."

Eyes still adverted, he hears her shift on the sofa. It is only when the floorboard creaks that he realises she means to approach, and he looks up sharply. Something in his gaze must tell her to stay put, because she sinks back down to the couch, but closer than she was before. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. If I'd had any idea… I wouldn't have made you…"

He is shaking his head before she can finish her apology, not wanting to hear her apologise for something so completely out of both of their control. But, at the same time, needing to acknowledge the truth. "It needed to be said."

Molly nods, a sad smile on her face. "I… I know. Mycroft, he said there was a coffin, that people had died… that you thought I was in danger. About how I needed to say…"

He's shaking his head again as she tries to explain what she thinks he needs to hear. But she is wrong. So very wrong. "That's not what I meant."

Her eyes are wide when she glances up at him. "It's not?"

He shakes his head. "No."

"Oh." Her hands have fallen to her sides now. "So what did you…?"

Looking up at her sharply, he asks, "Did you know I lied to you?"

She sighs, looking away. "Sherlock."

But now he is on a roll, and is not about to give up. Not when they are finally being honest with each other. "No, Molly. You have always had the ability to read me. Did you know I lied?"

She still doesn't look at him. "I don't…"

Again, he doesn't let her finish. "Because I didn't."

At his confession, her head snaps up again, confusion written over her face. "Didn't lie?"

He shakes his head, desperate for her to see what he cannot find the words for. "Didn't know. Not until later." He sighs. "But by the time I realised, it was too late to say anything."

Molly shrugs. "Oh. Well, I mean, I asked you to lie, I mean…"

Oh. He should have realised she didn't follow his jump. He does that, sometimes. Leaps from point to point, and gets annoyed when the others, usually John and/or Lestrade can't keep up. But this is Molly. And he cannot find it within himself to be annoyed with Molly. Not over something as important as this. So he takes a breath. Tries to explain. "No. I'm not talking about… about that."

And now her brow is furrowed in confusion again. "What are you talking about then?"

He answers her with a question of his own. "Do you remember when we met?"

"Sherlock…"

He can tell she is struggling to follow him again. But he needs her with him on this. Needs to explain. "Please Molly, just answer me."

She shrugs. "Vaguely. I mean, it was years ago."

He gives her a soft smile. It may have been years, but he can remember it like it was yesterday. His gaze softens and turns slightly away as he recalls the memory. "I do. You had a dark top on, hiding in the shadows of the pub, wanting to blend in. And I was hiding from a suspect, and you were there. I told you I was sorry for kissing you. Didn't think anything more of it, really. I didn't even know your name when I left." Eyes clear, he stares at her again. "You infiltrated my Mind Place that night."

This makes her blink. "I… what?"

He nods. "Mmm hmm." He gives her a rueful smile. "Didn't realise it until the next day, of course. Not until you spoke, and then I was faced with two images of you at once, and I didn't know how it happened, but there you were."

Molly is still blinking owlishly at him in shock. "I was in your Mind Palace?"

The past tense bothers him, and he shakes his head. "No."

"Oh." She sighs. Looks away for a moment before turning back to him. "But you just said…"

Interrupting her, he explains. "Not was. You're still there. You never left."

"I am?"

"Molly," he sighs, a tenderness he never thought to expel before coming into his voice, "of course you are."

"But… But why? I mean, why me?"

He tilts his mouth in a half smile. "You know the answer to that."

"I… I do?"

He chides her softly. "Molly."

And he can tell when she suddenly realises what he is failing to tell her. Her eyes go wide, and her breath hitches. Standing suddenly, she takes a step back, eyes darting across the room. "But… But no. I mean, no."

He stands too, desperate to keep her here. Desperate to make her see. "Why not? Why is it so hard to believe that I wasn't sorry for kissing you, that I wasn't lying to you on the phone?"

"Because. Because, well, I mean, look at me." And her eyes fall away to land on the floor at his feet. Still unwilling (unable?) to meet his gaze, she asks softly, "What can you possibly see in me?"

He cannot help the small step he takes towards her at that, a need to hold her clawing at his chest. His heart. "What I always see, Molly. You."

She must sense his approach, because she takes a step back from him, her hand held up before her. "Sherlock. Please. Please, I can't…"

He stops. Freezes. Eyes tracing over her, he finally asks the question that has been drowning him for the past few weeks. "Why not?"

"Because what happens to me when you realise you don't want me anymore? How am I supposed to get over you then?"

Tears are welling in her eyes now, and the sight of them makes him take another step forward. He wants to growl in frustration when she takes another one away from him. So he gives her the only answer he has, regardless of how exposed it makes him. "How am I supposed to get over you now?"

A tear breaks free over her cheek, and she lets out a startled, "What?"

He takes another step towards her, helpless to do anything else, and when she doesn't step away from him he lets hope build in his chest. "I did love you." Her eyes widen again, her hand coming up to brush against the tears, a protest forming on her lips, but before she can voice it he continues. "I'm sorry I never told you." He gives her another sad smile. "It took me a while to realise, and once I did I thought if I never said it you would be safe. You needed to be safe."

"Why?" The question is whispered, like it escaped without her permission. But he hears it.

"Because I couldn't, can't be the reason you die, don't you get that?" He takes another step towards her. "I cared about you too much to put a target on your head too. Even when you made it clear I was too late. So yes, I did love you. And I still…" He sighs again, looks down for a moment. "Only I was too blind to the truth that I didn't realise it really was love, because it was more than love, and wasn't just some stupid feeling in my stomach like everything else."

"Sherlock…"

And now he does look at her, piercing her with his gaze, all walls down, letting her see. "You have my heart, Molly Hooper."

She gasps. "I…"

But he is too close to the truth to let her interrupt now. "You have always had my heart. But if you don't want… if you can't…" He stops, chocking slightly on his words. Taking a breath, he tries again. "If this is it, if what you said is true and you can't, I would very much like to have it back, please."

Her reply is instant, and the small bubble of hope in his chest expands at her words. "You can't." She takes a breath, before asking, "I, I mean… How long?"

"Molly." He sighs. "Does it matter?"

But she is stubborn. Daring. "How long, Sherlock?"

He sighs. "I don't know. Since I met you sounds too cliché, but it's the best I can offer."

"Oh."

Slowly, he takes another step to her. There is less than three feet between them now. Softly, gently, he explains. "Eurus, my sister, she may be many things. Dangerous things. But she was always observant, and she got one thing right."

"Sherlock…" His name is a soft protest; one which he ignores.

"She knew what I would do to save you. She knew, more than I think anyone could ever know, how much I love you."

"I…"

"Because I do, Molly." His eyes trace over her features, committing them to memory once more. "My life changed for the better the day I met you. And even if you don't love me anymore, even if you can't, you deserve to know that." And then he does the hardest thing he has ever done in his life. More than jumping off a building, more than diving into hell. He turns and starts to walk away.

Only to be stopped by the feel of her hand grabbing at the sleeve of his dressing gown.

"Wait. Where, where are you going?" Turning back, he is shocked to see she has started crying again.

"Molly?"

And then she is chocking out against her own sobs, "I didn't lie."

The bubble of hope grows again. Barely more than a whisper, he asks, "What?"

Molly swipes at the tears that are still forming. "You said you, you said it was true. What you said." She takes a breath. "I just, I didn't lie."

He can't help the smile that is forming on his own lips now, nor the slight sigh of relief. "You didn't."

She shakes her head. "No. No, Sherlock, I didn't lie." And then, always the brave one, she takes a step towards him. "And you can't have it back. Your heart. You can't…"

He can feel his heart swelling with hope again. "I can't?"

She shakes her head. "No."

Suddenly, he is unsure. He needs the words, needs the proof. "So you. I mean, you want… with me?"

Molly nods. "Yes. And I'm sorry." She takes another stop towards him, and there is less than a foot between them now. He is completely fine with that. "I'm sorry I pushed you away. I'm sorry I got scared."

Gently, he reaches for her face, letting his finger trace the outline of her jaw. Softly, he says, "I'm sorry you didn't believe me."

Molly doesn't move back, but simply shakes her head in his palm. "That's not it."

He quirks an eyebrow. "It's not?"

She ducks her head slightly, her eyes dropping. "It's not that I didn't believe you, Sherlock." And then she raises her head, and meets his questioning gaze with her own shy one. "It's that I was terrified you would take it back."

He shakes his head, the hand not cradling her face coming up clasp her fingers. "Never."

Molly gives him a shy smile. "Oh. Ok, then."

Sherlock tilts his head to the side. "Ok… what?"

This time, her smile is more sure. "Ok. Ok as in yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes." And she nods.

His voice is a whisper, even as he leans closer to her. "Molly?"

Her own voice is not much louder. "Yeah?"

"I'm going to kiss you now."

And he gently covers her mouth with his. This kiss is soft, sweet. He traces the contours of her mouth slowly, learning her. He can feel the joy and relief seep through him, and he feels he can breathe for the first time in weeks. Possibly years. He pulls back slowly, taking in the way her breath hitches as he does so. He smiles, and sees her own lips begin to tilt up in answer, before he is leaning back down to her. The sixth kiss is quickly followed by the seventh. Then the eighth. Ninth. Tenth.

When they come up for air briefly, many minutes later, before he leans back down and kisses her yet again, he gives up counting.

(He's lost track, anyway.)

End.

Final thoughts?