I've had so much fun writing this—thanks to all of you who have taken the time to review and share thoughts with me, I truly appreciate it.

Enjoy this last chapter!

VVVVV

Chapter Five

Ever just the same

Ever a surprise

Ever as before, ever just as sure

As the sun will rise

Sound.

That's what came back first.

But he couldn't distinguish any of it. A river of nonsensical noise bubbled and swam all around his head. Deep, hurried voices answered by brisker, tenor ones. Metallic slamming…

Then motion. Swaying, lifting up and down…

Lights flashing overhead, like camera bulbs…

Finally, stillness. Then deep, surrounding darkness. For what seemed like a long time.

Then…

A high, soft, steady beeping. Off to his right somewhere. He felt warm. He was lying on his back upon softness. His right hand felt constricted, as if bound up…

His head suddenly head swam. A vivid image rose up before him:

A caped woman striding out into the London night, bearing death in her right hand.

His mind thrashed. But his body wouldn't respond. He could feel the whole of it, all the way down to his feet, but he couldn't seem to even move a finger.

But he had to. He had to.

He had to open his eyes, he had to find out where he was…Where she was…

The beeping seemed to quicken. Then, his eyes moved beneath his lids.

Open. Open, open!

At last—they flickered. Light flooded his vision. But it took seven seconds for it to focus.

A small white room. White sheets and a blanket on top of him. His right hand wrapped in white, too. A man standing at the foot of the bed—wearing far too much white. He was talking.

Talking to a woman.

A woman who sat in a chair to Sherlock's left, right beside his bed.

She wore a sweater with a dizzying, colorful pattern. Her soft, straight brown hair back in a ponytail, with curling wisps loose beside her temples. Her delicate-featured profile cut against the stark background of the room; her long eyelashes, graceful neck, quiet mouth, warm brown eyes…

Sherlock stared at her, fixed on her as she spoke to the man. His breathing unsteadied. He blinked, over and over…

The man in the too-bright coat said something final, turned and left the room.

The woman watched the man go, then glanced down at the sheets, absently working a hem between her fingers with both hands. Dark circles haunted her eyes. Her lower lip trembled.

A powerful ache traveled up through Sherlock's chest. Pressure built around his heart, fighting up through his throat, trying to form upon his mouth…

"M…" he breathed, making no sound—a titanic effort writhing through his being, his eyebrows drawing tight together. He managed to draw in just enough breath…

"Molly?" Faint, broken disbelief. Followed by a short, desperate gasp.

Her head came around. Her ponytail swung over her shoulder. She saw him. Her brown eyes flashed.

Sherlock's brow twisted.

He tried again, but he could only mouth it this time, and his thumb twitched.

She quickly scooted closer to his head.

"Sherlock?" she said—his name, in her voice, out loud, into the silence—

Needles of pain danced all down his arms and across his chest.

"Are you okay?" She rapidly searched his face, taking hold of the sheet in both hands and squeezing it tight. "The doctor says you…you were injected with ketamine—it's a temporary paralytic which doesn't usually do much damage, but it can cause nausea and psychosis, are you feeling okay?"

"M…" Sherlock choked, his brow knotting. He gasped again, fighting with all his strength…

His left hand slid an inch.

Her eyebrows pulled together too, and she dipped her head.

"They found you in your flat with your hand cut apart—I'd been almost to the train and I heard someone was shot at Baker street and I hadn't heard from John or anybody…" She lifted her face, and her eyes shone as they met his. Her voice lowered to a shaking whisper. "Are you okay?"

"Molly," Sherlock's throat latched closed as his vision clouded and his breaths became rapidly uneven. Hot tears spilled from his eyes and raced down his temples.

Molly blinked. A bewildered tear of her own cascaded down her cheek.

Suddenly, Sherlock's will overpowered the paralysis, and his hand blundered into her arm. She jumped—

He caught hold of whatever bit of her he could, wrapping his fingers through her sweater sleeve—he reached and fumbled—

Fresh tears streamed down his skin as his hand ached to feel her warmth, the soft material of her shirt.

"What is it? What can I do?" Molly sniffed, more tears tumbling—

He snatched up at her red collar and held on, and then his right hand—bound up in bandages—finally responded. He brought across him, trying to catch at her wrist, her hand—

"What's wrong?" Molly asked urgently.

"I…I broke your…" Sherlock stammered, tears scalding his eyes and trailing down. "I broke your magnifier. At Christmas. You gave me…I broke..."

She looked at him in confusion, then shook her head.

"It's okay," she gasped quickly. "That's okay. I don't—"

He tugged on her. Surprised, she fell forward—

He leaned up, searched for a wild instant—his nose bumped her chin—

Then he brought her head down and her mouth onto his.

It wasn't graceful—he couldn't breathe, and the whole earth tilted sideways. But he clenched her collar with white knuckles while his palsied, lacerated right hand tremulously came up to touch her ear, the side of her neck…

Her mouth was soft. Just like it looked. And he could feel the warmth of her radiating into his cold skin. The real, living warmth.

The muscles in his neck gave way—he had to sink back to his pillow—but he held on tight to her, tasting salt, making his hurt right hand slip behind her neck…

Sherlock broke free to gasp in a breath, his ribs panging. His shaking grip still bound her there, his lips ghosting across hers. He could feel her trembling.

Again he leaned up, though he could barely manage it. He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his forehead to hers, and his nose to the side of hers.

He felt her fingers run through the curls at the side of his head—and he yearned toward her.

"Stay?" It was all he could get out. His strength failed him, and he fell weakly back, searching helplessly for her face…

It clarified before him. Solemn and tear-stained. She nodded hard.

"I will."

"Promise," he breathed.

"I promise," she said, unsteadily stroking his hair away from his brow. "Always. Always, always."

Sherlock sighed. His eyes drifted shut. He felt her lean over him again, felt her lips brush his eyebrow.

"I love you." He sensed the words press soundlessly against his skin—and burn a familiar path down to his heart.

Then he sank down into a peaceful abyss, Molly's fingers interlaced with his.

VVV

John Watson almost dropped both cups of coffee.

"What—he shot her? Irene Adler?"

"Right through the back of the head, apparently," Mycroft stated, gesturing on ahead of him as he walked. John forgot how to make his legs work for a moment, then hurried after Mycroft down the long hospital corridor.

"And this was while he was drugged," John realized. "So…shemust have done this to him."

"Of course. You told me yourself that she'd used this particular debilitating concoction on him before," Mycroft glanced over at him. "The question is, what would have driven Sherlock to do this to her? As you well remember, Irene Adler became the focal point of an obsession on my brother's part—enough that her loss had the both of us fearing that he would spiral into another series of potentially-deadly decisions."

"Sherlock has shot people before," John pointed out. "Magnussen, for one."

"And what was his incentive then?" Mycroft raised his eyebrows.

"He was threatening Mary," John answered. "And when that American man attacked Mrs. Hudson—you remember. He threw him out a window."

"Yes, I do remember," Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"And we both knowthat's the only reason Sherlock would do a thing like this," John insisted. "To protect somebody he…"

John trailed off as the two men stepped into Sherlock's hospital room…

To find Sherlock asleep. And Molly Hooper sitting in the chair beside him, resting her upper body on the bed—also sleeping. Her forehead pressed to Sherlock's temple, her nose touching his cheek. And Sherlock's left hand laid upon hers—on his heart.

Both of them had been crying.

"Good lord," John whispered, a slow light dawning in his mind. "Molly."

Mycroft didn't say anything. John finally tore his attention from the two on the bed and glanced over at him…

To see what looked like the faint traces of a smile upon Mycroft Holmes' mouth.

"Brilliant deduction, Dr. Watson," he replied, just as quietly. "And of course, if you have made it, then the secret is truly out."

John turned back and considered his friends again, watching the way Sherlock breathed deeply and evenly in time with the heart monitor, his features free of tension; his long, strong hand covering and resting upon the gentle fingers of Molly Hooper.

Tale as old as time

Tune as old as song

Bittersweet and strange

Finding you can change

Learning you were wrong

I truly hope you enjoyed this story! Let me know what you think!