A/N: Hellooooo, it's me... and thank you for following me along this journey... and for your patience throughout. I feel like I spent much of it apologizing for not updating, so thank you for sticking around! I can't tell you how much I appreciate you reading, commenting on, kudosing, subscribing to, and bookmarking this little story.

It just so happens, it is nearly a month shy of the first anniversary of its inception via last year's Sherlolly Secret Santa fic exchange. (hooray, me!) There will be an epilogue to wrap up this fic, since I've officially run out of canon material to play with. Please enjoy!

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After four-and-a-half hours on the road, the SUV's tyres finally squealed to a halt. The street was quiet in the early hours of the morning, the car's engine the only sound as it sat idling.

John looked out the window, as if to confirm he was really home. His head still felt like it was in motion, inertia on a bit of delay. There was his house, with Rosie nestled snugly in her crib somewhere inside and Mrs. Hudson's red Astin Martin parked on his drive. It seemed like a lifetime ago when he first laid eyes on the vehicle, parked askew on his "therapist"'s pavement and an angry detective in its boot. In truth, in many ways, it had been a lifetime ago.

"All right?" he asked said detective, the first words uttered between them in past several hours.

Sherlock only nodded vacantly.

John slipped out of the car. His body relished being able to stretch out after the long journey. All he could think of was enveloping his beautiful Rosie in his arms and breathing in her baby-sweet scent. But before he closed the door, he leaned into the cabin. Instead of bidding him good-bye––they would probably see each other in a few hours again anyway––he opted to voice what was likely the theme that had Sherlock's mind preoccupied. "Tell her."

At this, Sherlock glanced up at him. He looked as worn as John felt, bone-tired and bleary-eyed. His lips formed a straight line, and yet, he nodded wordlessly.

John watched as the taillight of the Land Rover disappeared around the corner, silently wishing its passenger some luck. He was going to need it.

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"Dr. Hooper."

Molly turned her head at the sound of her name, the pile of paperwork she'd been willing herself to focus on for the past hour forgotten in that instant. The man standing at the doorway was the last person she expected to see at the lab so early in the morning, though he belonged to the same gene pool as the person who inconveniently beguiled her thoughts.

"What odd hours you keep," he observed pointedly, moving into the room. "One might deduce you're deliberately trying to avoid someone. Or something to that effect."

"Mycroft," she greeted. He was dressed as impeccably as he usually did, but something was a little… off… about him. A dark thought suddenly wormed its way into her mind. "Is everything okay? Did something happen to…?" she let her voice trail off, pushing the memory of that dreaded phone call as far as she could.

"He's fine. Relatively speaking."

Her alarm subsided, but worry took its place, biding its time just beneath the surface. She waited for him to proceed.

"You might recall the last time I dropped by, it was a matter of national security. This time, it's fair to say, is different. Certain events transpired this week, and we had reason to believe that your home had been compromised. A security team was dispatched to your residence while you were on your shift." Mycroft paused just briefly enough for a quiet gasp to escape her lips. "And a protective detail was also assigned to you to ensure that you are not under any threat. Just over an hour ago, you were given the all-clear. I wanted to personally assure you of your safety and your privacy."

"Thank you," was all she could think to say. Her brain struggled to process the information and the myriad of questions that sprouted, all of them fighting their way to the tip of her tongue, seemed inane.

"You haven't been to see him, I take it." She shook her head. "Dr. Hooper, you are by far the most…" he hesitated, waving a hand vaguely, as if searching for the right word, which Molly believed ultimately eluded him, "inconvenient out of all the persons with whom Sherlock has chosen to attach himself." She wondered vaguely if Mycroft was trying to give her a compliment, before he continued, "It would be a terrible shame for him to lose your presence from his life."

She looked at him for a moment, not knowing what to say. He began to move towards the exit. Molly had had enough experience with the elder Holmes brother to know that he truly thought cryptic bon mots were acceptable places to end conversations. She stopped him. "Mycroft. What did you mean, that this time is different? What's this about?"

"Family," he replied gravely. She swallowed and waited for him to elaborate.

It was then that Molly realised what was different about him. It wasn't a loss in inches per se, but Mycroft didn't seem to stand quite as tall as he normally did. His shoulders were slumped at an unfamiliar angle and his chin didn't have that imperious tilt as it usually did. It might have simply been a trick of the light, or the fact that she hardly slept at all the night before, in any case.

He turned again to leave again, but over his shoulder, he added, "When you decide to go to Baker Street, do watch your step." With that, he left.

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She liked to stake out the area around 221 Baker Street, in case her services were ever needed.

Over the years, she'd seen dozens of visitors of all shapes and sizes go in and out of the building, but the majority of them were one-offs. There weren't many regular visitors to her "employer"'s flat. In fact, the number of Baker Street regulars was so minuscule, she hadn't bothered to learn their names. (Except Mrs. Hudson, whom she knew lived in the ground-floor flat.)

There was the blonde-haired couple who no longer frequented as often as they used to. The man still came round, but she wondered about his partner. A police officer––a detective by the looks of him––would often stop by, along with various members of law enforcement. She mostly stayed away when they milled about. And the same posh-looking, nondescript town car would occasionally drive by, slow to a roll, but never actually stop in front of the building. She'd never seen its occupant through its dark, tinted windows.

Then there was the woman. She didn't come over as frequently as the others did, but when she did pay her employer a visit, he was usually more generous in his financial assistance for days afterwards. The first time it happened, she decided liked this woman.

She wasn't there when the explosion at Baker Street took place, yet she could tell from the rubble on the pavement below that it was substantial. She did not hear of any casualties, but after the explosion, she kept a watchful eye for anything that might be amiss, aside from the gaping hole on the second floor.

A few days after the flurry of activity dissipated, the woman appeared, alone. Still no sign of her employer.

She watched her disappear through the black lacquered door, her ponytail missing that familiar spring she had come to associate with her. Minutes later, the door opened again, and the woman let herself out. She was too far away to see, but she easily read the distressed expression on her face. She looked to be headed for the nearest Tube station, with her phone in her hand.

She half-wished she could give the woman some reassurance, but it wasn't really her place. Instead, she continued to rattle the cup, which held some change in her hand, at passersby.

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He was unsure of what drew him back to the scene of his sister's crime. But as her unwitting accomplice, Sherlock knew it was fitting that he put himself through the God-knows-how-many hours, sitting on the steps leading up to Molly's front door, absently watching pedestrians and making flash-deductions of them. The bitter cold only added to his penance. His muscles, which ached uncomfortably from the past week's physical toll, tensed when he finally saw her approach.

When she spotted him from a few blocks away, several emotions seemed to chase each other on her face. He was relieved to see, at least from a distance, that complete and utter hatred wasn't one of them. She did not let her eyes linger on his, dropping them to the ground instead. He was grateful she didn't turn around and walk in the other direction. His heart raced inside his chest and he stood abruptly, almost losing his balance, when she was mere feet away from him.

One would think that given all the time he sat penitently waiting for Molly to return home––not to mention the hours he'd imagined their reunion on the ride back into London––that he'd have worked out something clever to say to her. But, as usual when it came to many things concerning Molly, he was at a loss. Only a single syllable fell feebly from his lips, "Hi."

"Hi," came the guarded reply. She brushed past him, occupying a step above the one he stood on, while she dug into her handbag to look for her keys, seemingly intent on avoiding his gaze. "You could have let yourself in," she stated matter-of-factly, not even bothering to cast him a sideways glance.

"I know," he said quietly. "That's why I didn't."

Molly's hand halted its fruitless search, and she dragged her eyes up. The crease in her brow softened when their eyes met. "What's going on, Sherlock?"

There was a smudge of dirt right where her temple met her cheek. He quelled the urge to smooth his thumb over it. Then he noticed the charred smear of soot on the tip of one of her shoes. He took a step closer to her, entering her orbit. She didn't back away. He could feel warmth radiating from her. "You were at Baker Street," he murmured, the deduction falling from his lips before he could stop it.

She nodded.

"John or Lestrade?"

"Mycroft. Actually."

He did nothing to hide his surprise. An untimely chortle gurgled from within, but he managed to fight it down. Sherlock wondered what his brother must have seen in him, back in that room in Sherrinford, that compelled him to approach Molly himself. It must have been the same thing John had seen, he surmised. He thought back to his friend's parting words to him very early that morning. Tell her.

But Molly, whose face was at once indignant and yet more subdued than it was a moment ago, spoke first. "I know you don't owe me an explanation, Sherlock, but I deserve one," she declared firmly.

"I know. You deserve an explanation…" And so much more, he thought.

"Okay. So what are you doing here? Tell me the truth."

He could give her a dozen reasons why he should leave, break her heart for the thousandth time, or tell her it was just a game. But none of those things were true. Suddenly, Sherlock realised how tired he was. Not just of the physical exertion of the past week, but from years of wearing a carefully wrought armour. Lately, the armour he used to feel at home in felt more like a ponderous burden. No small part of him was glad of the fractures Mycroft, John––and, oh, dear Mary––must have seen through, past the face he wore for the world. The morbid part of him was even grateful to his sister, for breaking open a fissure. He had initially lamented its loss the day before, as he sat on the cold concrete, surveying the damage his two hands conducted on a wooden coffin.

But now he realised he went about it all wrong. Amidst the noise and the haste of the traffic on the street and the bustle of people rushing to their destinations, Sherlock only saw the woman standing in front of him, and he was ready to unravel, to rent himself completely in two for her.

"The truth is… I meant what I said, Molly," he blurted. "I came here to make sure you're okay, and to ask for your forgiveness, and to explain everything to you. But most of all, I wanted to tell you that I meant––no, I mean it. I love you. Really and truly."

He feared he might have ruined the words even more thoroughly than he'd done mere hours before, so he took her face in his hands––offering a silent apology for how cold they must have been against her skin––and leaning in just so, touched their foreheads together. It was as far as he dared to go, understanding that he had just shed everything he had spent so many years fabricating. He tried to fill the space between them with contrition and longing, but mostly, permission.

With the slant of her chin, she granted them all. Their lips touched, gently at first, like the kiss of the first snowfall. Then, without notice, the kiss deepened as if it had a life of its own. He ran his hands downward, lingering at her nape to pull her even closer, gliding down her back, and finally settling around her waist. Hers travelled upward, grazing the sides of his coat, bracing them on his chest and up his neck, and finding purchase as she raked her fingers tantalisingly through his hair.

Sherlock did not know which moment his eyes fluttered shut, but his senses stood in attention and all of them were tuned to Molly. His pulse buzzed under her touch, and he felt her warmth down to his bones. Kissing her was everything he thought it would be, and more, all at once. And he felt something inside him stir, like he was being rebuilt from the inside. It seemed impossible now that he had not already been kissing her before, and his heart leapt at the thought of all his future days filled with more.

They finally pulled away, if only because of the pesky habit of needing to replenish the oxygen in their lungs. Their eyes found one another's, almost shyly, and then Sherlock's face broke out into a grin at the same time a giggle bubbled from Molly. They must have looked a sight, he mused, standing in front of her door, snogging the breath out of one another. He found he did not mind the image at all.

It was Molly, again, who spoke first, having found her keys at last. "Would you like to come in?"

He smiled wider when he formed the word, the only answer to her question imaginable. "Yes."

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