After the Four-Minute Exile, a Truce of Sorts

Moriarty was (possibly) back. Sherlock's four minute exile was at an end, Magnussen was still dead (confirmed, body exhumed at Mycroft's behest, no sense in taking chances since very few people in Sherlock's circle seemed to stay dead for very long), and Molly and Toby were settling into Baker Street, where Sherlock insisted they stay until the newest threat against them was taken care of. It was at this point that Sherlock realized that he would likely never find the so-called 'perfect time' to tell Molly his feelings.

He'd tried before Christmas, only to be foiled by Toby "accidentally" knocking over his and Molly's wine glasses, spilling the dark liquid all over their clothes, the coffee table, the carpet, distracting Molly long enough for Sherlock's mobile to ring and send him dashing away, the words still unspoken. He'd planned it out meticulously, when to say it, what mood to set…everything, in fact, but the words themselves. He'd hoped they would simply come to him spontaneously that evening, and suspected it was just as well that Toby had ruined things, or else he might have ruined it himself.

Molly had gone to visit her sister's family in Bath for the Christmas holiday, but by then it was far too late; Sherlock had barely been able to leave her a good-bye message, lying to her as he had to John about the actual purpose behind his being chosen for MI-6's undercover operation: a death sentence he'd willingly subjected himself to in order to save John and Mary – and not incidentally a large group of other people – from Magnussen's particular brand of evil.

Telling Molly then, when he was knowingly going to his death, would have been cruel. He didn't need John Watson's mental voice inside his mind chiding him to know that.

And now, of all the incredible, least likely twists, Sherlock had been spared from that exile and death sentence by the unlikely (nearly impossible, although there were at least four explanations for how he might have survived eating that bullet on the roof of St. Bart's, and even more explanations if it wasn't actually a returned-from-the-dead Moriarty who'd hijacked the British airwaves) return of his arch enemy. A man who'd overlooked Molly before…but surely wouldn't now.

It was the very definition of the worst possible time to tell Molly how he felt, but if he put it off again, who knew when he'd have another chance? Sod it, he thought. Now or never. Molly was curled up on his sofa, her cat on her lap. Toby was purring and for once his expression seemed benign, eyes narrowed in contentment rather than contempt as he watched Sherlock approach the sofa. He sat down next to Molly, who was gazing unseeingly into the middle distance; she started a bit when he laid his hand on her arm, automatically moving to lift Toby from her lap when Sherlock surprised them both by stopping her. "No, let him keep it, he's comfortable. I just wanted to see if you were…all right."

That sounded lame but Molly seemed to appreciate his words; a warm smile touched her lips and her eyes focused on his face. "Thanks for letting us stay here, Sherlock," she murmured. "I know you'll get this all sorted soon."

He very nearly let out a disdainful snort at that assertion, but held it back; Molly's faith in him was nothing to hold in contempt or be sarcastic about, no matter how little faith he had in himself at the moment. Moriarty, or someone using his image, had held the airwaves of Great Britain hostage for a little less than five minutes, yet had caused a panic whose repercussions were still being felt, two weeks later.

Sherlock still hadn't told Molly that her temporary stay at Baker Street wasn't merely a precaution, that the computer-generated image of Moriarty chanting "Did you miss me?" over and over again in varying tones and frequencies thanks to a sophisticated voice modulator had also held a direct threat to her. It had taken Sherlock an hour to discover the hidden message and another hour to decode it – a half-hour sooner than Mycroft's team of government code-breakers – and he'd insisted that Molly move in with him as soon as he could make his way to St. Bart's to speak to her about it.

She'd protested at first, naturally enough, and why shouldn't she? Yes, it was unlikely Moriarty would overlook her a second time – if it really was him, which no one had been able to ascertain as of yet, much to Sherlock's disgruntlement – but she clearly found it difficult to believe that anyone would think her worth bothering with.

The sound of Molly hesitantly speaking his name brought Sherlock back to the present. He glanced down at her, wondering why she hadn't simply let him drift off into his own mind since she was used to him doing so, then realized it was because he'd left his hand on her arm. Was gripping it rather tightly, in fact, as if afraid to let her go. Which he wasn't, not in the least; he didn't need reassurance that she was still there, still safe in his flat with her detested cat purring away like a defective tea-kettle on her lap…Now or never, he reminded himself, then opened his mouth and let the words come out as they would.

"Molly, I think we should pursue a romantic relationship. I know this is a terrible time for me to say this, but it's been on my mind for quite a while now and it has finally dawned on me that there is no right time, not with the way my life is. There will always be someone after me or criminals for me to catch, cases to take up my attention, but the simple fact of the matter is that you…make me happy. And I want to do the same for you. If I can. I don't have much experience in that, admittedly, but I'm confident that you'll let me know if I'm doing it wrong, slap me if I need it…"

He was silenced by the unexpected whisk of Toby's tail across his mouth. The wretched beast was still occupying Molly's lap, but had raised itself on all fours and was stretching, front legs low and rear legs high enough for his tail to reach Sherlock's lips. Then he did something he'd never done before when Sherlock and Molly were seated in such close proximity: He looked up at the consulting detective, yawned widely…and jumped to the floor, sauntering away as if he hadn't a care in the world. Nor did he, of course, being a pampered housecat, but the attitude was almost patronizing. As if he'd knowingly ceded the fight for the day to his mortal enemy…but why?

Oh. Of course. Sherlock took advantage of Toby's absence and Molly's stunned stillness – she'd been gaping at him the entire time he was speaking, as if he'd suddenly sprouted a second head and was talking to her in stilted French – to take his pathologist into his arms and press a tentative kiss to her lips.

A kiss which it only took her seconds to respond to, slipping her arms around him and opening her mouth beneath his when he nibbled on her lower lip and tentatively swiped his tongue across it.

Molly's eyes fluttered shut, and just before Sherlock's did the same, he spared a second to glance over to his chair, where Toby had comfortably situated himself. He could have sworn the damned cat was smirking at him, but then his eyes closed and he was too busy snogging Molly to spare even a tenth of his attention for her cat.

Besides, doing so would be to concede that Sherlock had won only because Toby let him and that would never do.

A/N: Well, there it is, the final chapter in this silly little saga. Hope you enjoyed! Thanks for reading and reviewing, as always!