A/N: Okay, I worked super-hard to get this done and to you. I hope there's enough groveling. Thank you again for all the reviews and reads. It really means a lot. I'm having a difficult time as a professional author right now, and you have no idea how much your kind words mean to me. HUGS

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

OoOoOo

The neighbors were starting to stare by the time Mary finally opened the door. She smiled and gave a wistful wave to John who was standing on the sidewalk, trying to look unbothered that his best friend was having a teenaged meltdown on her lawn. "Hello, Sherlock."

"I need to talk to Molly," he said. He was shifting from one foot to the other, trying to look past her and into the flat. He was more unkempt than she'd ever seen him. His hair was a wild tangle of curls, his clothes were disheveled, and his eyes were almost completely dilated. For a moment she thought he might be intoxicated, but he wasn't staggering. In fact, everything about him was ramrod straight.

Mary swallowed her sympathies and met his gaze with a fierce one of her own. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. She doesn't want to see you."

"Well that is neither here nor there. Tell her to come to the door."

Mary sighed. "I can't make her come down and talk to you."

"Fine. I bet I can." He started to push Mary aside, but John was immediately at his elbow, pulling him back gently.

"Easy, mate. Let's just go. She just needs some time…"

Sherlock jerked away. "She needs to listen to me!"

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I can't let you in right now," Mary said.

"Molly!" he shouted through the door. "Molly, come down here and talk to me!"

"You need to calm down," John said. His tone was full of warning. It wasn't often that John had to pull out his soldier's training on his friend, but he wouldn't hesitate if Sherlock did something stupid. "Step back and take a breath."

"Stop telling me to calm down!"

"Sherlock," Mary started. "Just give her a little time. Some space." She offered a sympathetic smile. "I promise if you go on like this, you'll just push her away further."

"She has to listen to me!"

"What she has to do is have some time on her own to think things through. So she can listen to you. Right now, she's just blinded by her own anger and sadness."

"That's ridiculous," Sherlock grumbled.

"That's the truth."

John tugged at Sherlock's arm again, pulling him toward the street. "Let's go, mate. Mary's right. Just give her some time."

Mary would mark this in her memory as the saddest and most dejected she'd ever seen Sherlock Holmes. As John led him away toward a waiting cab, Sherlock looked almost old. His shoulders were hunched and every ounce of that arrogance had been drained, leaving him hollow. He turned, looking back at the house.

"Come on, Sherlock. The cab won't wait much longer." John was casual as he walked around the other side of the cab to get in, but Sherlock hesitated.

"Molly!" Sherlock shouted up at an upstairs window. She was standing there, staring out and looking like an ancient spectre. "Molly come talk to me! Please! I just need to talk to you!" Now the neighbors really were starting to gather on their stoops. Mary wanted to disappear, sure that they were going to end up calling the police. And it was highly unlikely that Lestrade would be the one to deal with a domestic disturbance.

OoOoOo

Molly stood at the window, staring down at Sherlock as he shouted up to her. She could hear him even with the windows shut tightly, and it was breaking her heart. So fucking dramatic, she thought. Like goddamn Romeo pleading with Juliet. But then, he'd always been dramatic. Were his words true or was it just another show for her. Just one more thing to keep her on tender hooks?

God, she loved him so much. Her heart pounded painfully in her chest and for a moment she was certain that he'd won. That she was going to bolt from the room, down the stairs and into the street to have some kind of RomCom reunion. But it wouldn't solve the problem. It would only prolong the hurt. Oh sure, tonight she'd go home with him, and he would be a completely different person. Affectionate and sweet. They'd make love with the passion of soulmates and, like the sun, the rays of his adoration would be warm and bright. But then they would soon fade and leave her in the dark once again with only her loneliness for company. She loved Sherlock so much, but she couldn't just be some treasured object like that damn skull that he could take or leave as it pleased him.

And then there was Gabriel.

She felt so guilty for walking out. Gabriel was practically her own child! How could she abandon him this way? Would he think it was all his fault because their final fight had been over him? Molly couldn't bear the thought of not seeing him every single day. Not snuggling with him on the couch before bed. Not reading him his dragon story while he dozed beside her. Making him drink his juice and wash his hands with soap.

Molly reached out, drawing her fingertips along the windowpane as if she might be able to touch Sherlock's face. But there was only cold.

OoOoOo

The days had passed so slowly in the two weeks since Molly had been gone. At first Sherlock had been angry. He just continued working as if nothing much were going on, keeping quiet. Unless other people mentioned her and then he'd breathe fire, as Greg Lestrade had found out rather unexpectedly. He'd made the mistake of mentioning that he hadn't seen Molly around Bart's in a while. Sherlock had quickly deduced the state of his sex life in front of several other investigators. His temper was short and no one had been spared, not even poor Gabriel. When the child spilled his milk on the coffee table, Sherlock had gone up in a blue flame. He ranted about Gabriel not taking food out of the kitchen if he was going to have these random spasms, and sent the boy off to his room until dinner.

As if Gabriel weren't already upset enough. He was quick to cry and harder to console. Even Katie couldn't lift his spirits. One afternoon while they were playing, he'd slipped on the stairs and scraped his knee. He went to pieces and wailed like his leg was broken. When Mary tried to help, he slapped her away and sobbed that he wanted Doctor Molly. At school he'd started lashing out at other kids. Even going so far as to bloody one of his new classmates' noses for stepping on his foot in the hallway. Sherlock, so wrapped up in his own pain, was completely oblivious.

"Is he all right?" Mycroft asked John over a cup of tea at the café.

"He hasn't brought any drugs into the flat, if that's what you mean," John replied. "Yet."

"Do you fear he might?"

John shook his head. "I don't know. I would hope not, but… I've never seen him like this. He was so angry, but now he isn't even that. He just lays there on the sofa, reading a book or neurotically checking his inbox. He barely engages with Gabriel except to scold him for being too loud."

"And Miss Hooper?"

"Mary says she won't even consider going back to work. The hospital's been great about it, but they won't hold her job for long. It's clear that they're miserable without one another, but both are too proud to admit it." Mycroft nodded and sipped at his tea, saying nothing. John watched, waiting for some kind of response, but Mycroft was stoic. "So what should we do? They can't go on like this."

"There's nothing to be done. We shouldn't meddle in the affairs of others…" John snorted, but Mycroft ignored him. "Sherlock has always been a beastly sort of man. Ill-tempered and arrogant. Even as a boy. I'm surprised that his relationship with Miss Hooper lasted as long as it did."

"He loves her! And she loves him!"

"That makes no difference whatsoever, Dr. Watson. Perhaps they're just not able to be together. Sherlock will never be an emotional, touchy-feely type that wants to sit by the fire and snuggle. And Molly is never going to be satisfied with Sherlock's bristly, no nonsense approach to life. Perhaps it's best just to let them follow their own paths…"

"No!" John exclaimed, pounding his fist on the table and scaring the other diners. "I won't accept that. Those two are supposed to be together!"

"And what exactly are you basing this opinion on?"

John took up his teacup and swallowed the rest of it as he stood and shoved his arm into his jacket. "Nothing. It's a gut feeling. You know, both of you can be so… stupid!"

OoOoOo

Sherlock stared down into the wok where the vegetables sizzled. He was wondering exactly how long one was supposed to fry the stir fry. And how much stirring? He realized he wasn't very good at this cooking thing, but John and Mrs. Hudson had ganged up on him earlier and explained that he couldn't just shut down. Gabriel was depending on him. So here he was, trying to make Gabe's favorite dinner.

"Gabriel!" he shouted over his shoulder. "Come and set the table. The food's almost done… I think."

"I'm not hungry!" Gabriel shouted back from his position kneeling in front of the coffeetable.

"I don't care!"

John stood up and nudged Gabriel. "Come on, mate. You have to eat something." Gabriel heaved himself to his feet and stomped on dirty socks to the kitchen. It was obvious that he was peevish. The little boy had always been very susceptible to Sherlock's moods. If his father was unhappy, Gabriel was unhappy. John handed him a stack of three plates, and he began slamming them down on the table. "Oi! Be careful with those."

"Sorry," Gabriel mumbled.

Sherlock turned, the oversized wok in his hand, and scooped a portion of the stir fry on to Gabriel's plate. The child looked at it and up at his father. He didn't say anything, just sat there and stared at it while Sherlock and John helped themselves and started eating. After several minutes, Sherlock looked up and noticed that Gabriel wasn't eating anything. "What's wrong, Gabriel? I thought this was your favorite."

"It's not the way Doctor Molly makes it," Gabriel said.

Sherlock took a deep breath, gripping his fork tightly in his fist before answering. "Well of course it isn't. Doctor Molly didn't make it."

"She picks all the onions out of mine. I hate onions."

"Just eat around them," Sherlock replied.

"I don't like when they touch my food."

"That's ridiculous. Eat your dinner." Sherlock poured himself a large glass of wine and took a long pull. He hoped that John wouldn't notice that the bottle was practically empty. Then he'd be nagging him that he was drinking too much. The notion was ridiculous. Sherlock could count on his fingers the number of times he'd been intoxicated with alcohol. And it wasn't as if he were drinking whiskey or bourbon. It was a fairly expensive bottle of red wine that had been sitting there for ages. Molly had purchased it at a street fair over the summer. She said she was saving it for a special occasion. And what occasion could be more special than Sherlock's first attempt at cooking an actual meal?

"So Gabe, how was school today?" John asked, trying to be cheerful.

"Fine."

"Learn anything new?"

Gabriel shrugged, still pushing his food around with the tines of his fork. "My teacher this year isn't as smart as Miss Winslow."

John nodded. "Maybe she's just smart about other things."

"No. She's just stupid. She makes us look at ourselves in the mirror when we read. And she only lets us read these baby books about teddy bears and birthday parties."

John chuckled. "Well you just started. I'm sure it will get more interesting."

"I hope so. Right now it really sucks."

"Gabriel!" Sherlock snapped. "Don't use that expression. You know how I loathe it."

"Why?"

"I just do."

"But why? It's not like a swear or something…"

"Gabriel—"

"And besides. You swear all the time."

"Just don't do it!" Sherlock shouted, letting his fork drop to the plate with a loud clang. "Because I'm your father and I'm telling you not to use that expression!"

Gabriel started to say more, but John nudged him under the table, shaking his head. The three fell into a heavy silence once more. Gabriel continued pushing his food around his plate, making little piles of rice, chicken, and vegetables. After several minutes, he piped up, "I don't like my food. Can I be excused?"

Sherlock looked up. "What's wrong with it?"

"It doesn't taste like Doctor Molly's. She always tosses the rice in the wok with all the juice. I don't like plain rice. And I don't like onions and mushrooms. And Doctor Molly always makes it with beef, not chicken…"

Sherlock jumped up and shouted, "Well Doctor Molly isn't here to make it, is she?" He reached out and grabbed Gabriel's plate and threw it at the sink. Gabriel flinched as it shattered against the counter. "There. It's gone now."

"Sherlock…" John started.

"You're so mean," Gabriel whimpered. "You're the meanest dad in the whole world! You made Doctor Molly leave!"

Sherlock whipped around, all of his anger at the whole situation ready to explode. The sort of rage that made him blind and cruel flashed in his head. In a sharp moment of clarity, that little voice in his head screamed that none of this was Gabriel's fault and the child didn't deserve the words that were right there lighting on the tip of his tongue. "Just go," he said finally. "Leave the table."

Gabriel looked from his father to John. It was obvious that he wanted to say something, but the words wouldn't come. "Dad…" he sobbed.

"Go!" Sherlock roared, sending Gabriel running up the back stairs and into his room. Both men winced as his door slammed hard.

"Well good job, Sherlock. You know, your problems with Molly aren't his fault! You might try not taking it out on him."

Sherlock went to the door, pulled on his coat and left without saying one word.

OoOoOo

Molly was lying in her bed in the guest room, staring up at the ceiling. It was pretty obvious that tonight would be no different than the thirteen other nights she'd spent here at Mary's flat. According to the clock it was nearly midnight, but it felt much later. As if she'd been awake for a thousand years. All of her questions and conundrums bounced around in her head so vigorously she was sure that she could hear them clanging against one another. It had been two weeks. Soon she would have to decide what she was going to do. Should she start looking for a flat of her own? She was going to have to go back to work, or seek employment elsewhere. She had some friends in Manchester that could help her find a job and a new place to live. Maybe that's what she needed. To get out of London and make a new life for herself. All that was much easier said than done. The truth is, she didn't want to. She wanted Sherlock. She'd hoped that the distance would make things easier. That she would wake up from this dreary nightmare where everything was in shades of gray, but it hadn't happened yet. It still hurt just as much today as it had the night she left. She still cried herself to sleep every night. She still sat up all night watching reruns of Crime Watch on the telly, hoping to catch a glimpse of Sherlock. Earlier when she'd slipped into her pajamas, she caught a light scent of Gabriel all over the shirt and it nearly stopped her heart. She wanted to go home, but was it even possible anymore?

She was so busy going over these dark and distressing thoughts that she almost didn't hear the light tap on her window.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

"What can that be?" she sighed, getting up from the bed and going to the window. She looked out and there was nothing but the streetlamp below. "Probably just a moth," she said to herself. Then what could only be described as a boulder flew through the window and slid across the floor. She threw up the window and leaned out to see Sherlock standing in the bushes below. Her heart fluttered and for the first time in two weeks, she wanted to smile.

"Are you crazy? What are you doing?" she shouted.

"I'm sorry… just… listen to me!"

"Mary is going to hear you! Not to mention the neighbors! And you broke her window!"

"Just… can I come up?"

"No!"

"Molly, please. Please let me come up and talk to you. Don't make me say it down here!"

"Say what?"

He made a noise that sounded a bit like a growl and pushed his fingers through his hair. "Just let me come up."

"Fine. Just… hurry up before someone sees you."

He stood back on the sidewalk, looking to make sure no one was around, then got a running start and jumped up to the brickwork around the window. Just above was a pipe that carried rainwater from the roof. He reached up and grabbed it, using it to gain purchase on the top of the window. He pushed himself up and grabbed the rail across Molly's window. She stepped back as he hoisted himself over the rail and in through the window. He wasn't expecting the radiator and stumbled over it until he just kind of slid into the floor.

"You could have just used the door, you know," Molly said.

"Hardly," he said, coughing and trying to hide just how much effort he'd had to expend on that little death defying feat. "Your guard dog wasn't going to let me in." He straightened his clothes and stared. Molly could tell that there were a thousand things on his mind, but he wasn't sure where to start. He wasn't fidgeting and that was a little scary. Usually in situations like these, he was twitching. But this time he was utterly still. "So. Molly. How are you?"

"I'm… well."

"Are you?"

"Sure. Why wouldn't I be? You didn't think my whole life would fall apart because I wasn't sleeping with Sherlock Holmes did you?" She took great delight in watching the confusion cloud his eyes. But Molly wasn't going to make it easy for him. If she did, they'd be right back here again.

"I… I wasn't suggesting…"

She sighed. "Just say what you need to say, Sherlock. I'm tired."

"You know… I've been trying to think of what to say. In fact, I've been walking around London for the last five hours trying to figure out what to say and coming up short. I'm not really good at this sort of thing."

She stared at him blankly. No help there.

"Look Molly, I'm not going to lie and tell you that I'm absolutely sure what I've done wrong. You know I can't be bothered to catalog all those things. I'm not… good with emotional… things."

Molly shook her head and turned away. "No. It isn't good enough, Sherlock. Your charming ignorance of all things human isn't going to work this time. You have to try harder."

"What do you want me to say, Molly? That I love you? That I can't live without you?"

"That would be a start…"

"That every second that you've been gone has been like a red hot poker being stabbed slowly into all of my major organs? You know, I used to always think that love was one of those things that would distract me from my work. That I can only do the things other men can't because I never let anyone close to me. Lovers are a liability. But now that it's happened… when it goes away, it's all I can think of. Now, one would think that I could shove all memory of you away and get back to the unfeeling machine that I was before, but it doesn't quite work, does it? My every waking thought has been of you and the endless, searing pain that has been my reality since you left."

Molly's voice quavered and she cleared her throat. She couldn't bear to cry now. He'd know she was folding. "What are you saying?"

"That I don't care what I have to do. I will do whatever you ask. Just come home." He knelt down before her and took both of her hands. This time she didn't pull away or turn away. "I need you, Molly Hooper. Not because I need you to care for my child, though he's beside himself and hates me when you aren't there…"

"Oh?"

"Oh yeah… we nearly came to blows because I'm rubbish at making stir fry."

Molly's laughter broke through her tears and it was such a relief to hear it. For a while she thought she'd forgotten for all time how to laugh. "You tried to cook? Is Baker Street still standing?"

He smirked. "Molly, I love you. I need you. I am utterly… lost without you. And I swear to you that I will do anything you need me to do."

She sniffled. "Take fewer cases? Be home at night?"

"Done."

"Make time for just the two of us? Just for us. No cases, no Gabriel, no Lestrade or John… just us?"

"Whatever you want. But does that mean we can't dissect corpses together?"

"Not at all."

"Then yes," he said. "Whatever you want. I swear to whatever mythical creature that lives in the sky that you choose—I will give you whatever you want." This time he wrapped his arms around her waist and she let him. He pulled her tight against him, and she sank to straddle his knee, bringing herself down to his level. "Tell me you'll come home with me. Now. Tonight." He kissed her lips, gently at first and then more forceful as she relaxed into him. He used his mouth to force hers open and let his tongue slide against hers. He kissed her as if he might possess her, body and soul. "Say it," he said, pulling back. "Say you'll come home."

"Mmmhmm…" she mumbled, trying to kiss him again as if he were her only source of oxygen.

"Say it," he said.

"I'll come home. Right now." She nodded. "Yes."

"Good girl," he said with a wink.