It's a truth he has always known, but has pushed away, far, far deep in to the recesses of his mind. Kept under lock and key, hidden in a dark, unvisited part of his mind palace.

"You don't deserve her."

Four simple, harmless words but when strung together, even as drunkenly as there are, have a crushing impact.

Sherlock had heard the dragging, heavy steps trudge up the stairs. Tom had staggered around the flat, disorientated by booze and an unfamiliar surrounding. Sherlock watched him carefully, unmoved by his pathetic attempts to right himself.

Obviously Molly's former fiancé had finally worked up the courage, with the help of a fair few pints, to confront the man he thought responsible for his misery. Tom stumbles onto the couch, peering over at him with red rimmed eyes. "I loved her," He says, the grief, the deep longing for the past palpable in his ragged voice. Then as fists clenched, the anger came to the surface. "The only thing you ever do is hurt her."

Sherlock had sighed, weary of this exchange already. Tom had obviously been planning this for a long time, months in fact, and the detective was bored of him already. Sherlock sauntered towards the door, a dead eyed stare fixed on the drunken invader of his home and pointed towards the exit. "Well thank you for sharing your opinion. You can go now."

Tom heaved himself up, stumbling, but somehow managed to straighten himself enough to stare Sherlock down. There's no challenge to fear, Tom would be easy to incapacitate if need be. Their closeness allowed Sherlock to smell the heavy stench of beer that exuded with each exhale, to see the pain that even alcohol could not drown out. The detective had noticed the similarities between them on first sight; their height, their lean frames, the curly hair. Emerging now was a much more painful similarity; a love for the same woman and the dismal ache that they could not be with her.

Tom had not been the fool Sherlock thought. Not if he could recognize that the loss of Molly Hooper was a devastating loss. That to lose the brightness of her smile, the kindness of her smile, the sharpness of her mind would leave you with empty sadness.

"She deserves better than you." Tom slurred, head tilted, eyelids drooping.

Sherlock jaw tightened with ire. Tom still didn't understand after all this time and that was why he would never regain what'd he'd lost. Because of another simple truth. "Molly Hooper is perfectly capable of deciding for herself what she deserves."

One snowy November afternoon, he had made the same mistake that Tom had. Presuming he knew what Molly Hooper deserved. A happy- yet dull- life with the simple, doting husband, surrounded by children that Molly would adore and nurture.

That was evidently not what Molly wanted.

Only a fool would make the same mistake twice. Never again would he think himself qualified to distinguish what Molly deserved. That was her privilege.

The only course of action he could choose was to improve himself; to use his genius in less selfish ways, to be a better friend, a better man, to make up for his past mistakes. Not just to Molly; to the Watson's and his brother and parents. The list of people was endless, spanning across decades, longer than even his brilliant mind could contemplate. If Sherlock could ever comprehend the concept of Karma, he would know he had a lot of work to do. But he had to try; for the many he'd wronged, for the few he loved, for himself, for her.

It was deceptively easy to start with.

A thank you here and there to Mrs Hudson for all her efforts to take care of him. Not getting bullet-happy when he was bored and scarring his landlady's walls. No messy, smelly experiments that would make her stomach turn.

John and Mary were also treated with extra consideration. No interrupting their precious time with baby Elizabeth. Trying his upmost to ensure John was not put under unavoidable danger when working on cases. The doctor had a family to go home to, after all. A family Sherlock vowed he would protect for the rest of his life, no matter the cost.

His brother…well, he had attempted to reel in on the fat jokes. It was difficult because their relationship had always been tremulous. Faced with a looming adversary- like Moriarty or Magnussen- they knew they could overcome any hurdle when working together. They were brothers- bound by blood and by bond- and with that knowledge; there was no need for apologies, for gratitude or spoken expressions of familial sentiment.

Molly also provided a tough challenge for an entirely different reason. Nothing he did- in his own opinion- felt like it was enough. Bringing her coffee when he dropped into the lab. Complimenting her precision, her natural ability, her scientific brilliance that even he envied. Thanking her for her help.

Molly, aided by the wealth of her empathy skills, picks up on his strange behaviour. "Are you all right, Sherlock?" She asks, glancing sideways at him to gauge his reaction. The pen she's holding twirls nervously in her hands.

"Fine," He replies dismissively. Her eyes drop back to the blood samples before his mind realises the opportunity. He clears his throat while turning from his microscope to fully face her. "Why'd you ask?"

"Just- well don't take this the wrong way..." Molly trails off, gnawing at her bottom lip. Brown orbs peer up at him, urging him not to misunderstand her. "You've been acting differently. Greg mentioned the other day you've been less... harsh with the officers at the Yard. You know.. like not calling them morons," Molly smiles, a shade too timid to be playful, but her eyes are large with concern. "With everything that happened with Magnussen-" The names sticks in her throat, her thoughts stalled by the vile man who'd almost succeeded in destroying him, who forced him to commit the most evil act in order to defeat him.

Sherlock worries for second that Molly has realised she's standing next to a murderer, who should not be able to bask in the warmth of her presence. His anxiety is short lived as his pathologist closes the small distance to place her palm on his wrist, resting on top of his suit sleeve, wary not to touch his skin. She's always careful not to cause him any discomfort.

"Then thinking Moriarty was back..." Molly says, her head shaking in an attempt to rid herself of thoughts of the madman they'd beaten together. Jim Moriarty would never be truly resurrected- not even by a now captured terrorist group who had been hell bent on terrorising Britain with his image.

"Molly," He says, the baritone of his voice deepening to pull her away from her dark thoughts. Sherlock lifts his arm out her grasp to tentatively place his hand over hers, a thumb stroking the ridges of her knuckles. "Both of them are dead and buried now. And I'm okay." He squeezes her hand, to comfort her, to rid her lovely face of any signs of worry. "I'm okay."

Molly nods her acceptance. "If you're ever not-," She begins, stopping to gaze at his expression. Under her intense scrutiny, he feels no sense of discomfort. She's his safety. His bolthole. His calm. "I'm always here."

It's then, with his large hand overwhelming hers, that at the very least; he wants her to be assured that that sentiment is very much requited.

"Oh thank god you're here," Molly sighs, and even for her, it is more enthusiastic greeting than he is accustomed to. She extends her hand impatiently for the coffee he's brought, humming happily as the steaming cup finds itself in her hands.

"As requested, extra strong with two sugars," Sherlock says, leaning against the chair on the other side. A lazy grin spreads as he watches Molly greedily gulp at the coffee, noting the tired lines around her eyes and the messy bun her normally styled hair has been tossed into. Reaching into his pocket, he throws a white paper bag on to her messy desk. "I may have also dropped by your favourite bakery."

Brown eyes light up when the peek into the package. "You, Sherlock Holmes, are certified saint," Molly says cheekily, a beaming grin brightening the small space of her office.

"I try," He responds with a wink, his expression mirroring hers. "Now, what else can I do for you?"

Molly is half way through a hearty bite of her beloved empire biscuit. As she swallows, she smiles gratefully and waves her hand. "It's all right," She tries to assure, but even those words are laced with exhaustion. "I'm just busy because Dr Walters and Sauiner are both ill."

"That's because they're shagging."

Molly reclines back into her chair, momentarily forgetting her gruelling workload, her giggles muffled only by her hand in front of her gob smacked face. "Are you serious?"

Sherlock nods, and casually deadpans, "At it in the supply cupboard."

To his delight, Molly's laughter grows in volume, her cheeks flushing an appealing cherry red. The stress melts out of her as she calms, a few chuckles still escaping her. "I'll never be able to look at either of them the same," Molly laughs, wiping at her eyes. "Thanks for that."

"No problem," Sherlock smirks, then stares at her seriously. "Really, if there's anything I can do..."

Molly smiles and it reaches all the way up to her expressive eyes. "You've already made my day ten times better. You've done more than enough, Sherlock," She reassures, lifting her tired limbs from her chair to stand next to him. Her hand confidently rests on his arm, squeezing his bicep. "Thank you."

Sherlock leans down to peck her cheek, his lips lingering against the pink skin. "Anytime."

There were times that he slipped up.

It was pretty pink lipstick, contrasting against her creamy skin and the lush brown of her hair. Her hair was dispensed into her usual prim ponytail, but it was curled, ready to be freed into billowing waves.

Molly Hooper was going on a date.

The deduction was akin to pouring an bucket of ice cold water over him. Foolishly, he'd thought he'd been making progress. They were spending more time together; in the lab, in his flat and hers. Binge eating delicious Thai while conducting experiments had become at least a weekly occurrence. He'd text her whenever he needed a companion to accompany him to a crime scene and she'd do the same when she required his help in the lab. Wherever they were-they'd exchange jokes, share laughs, enjoy a feeling of ease in each other's company- and there was an ever growing sense within him that he was getting somewhere.

Molly had obviously grown accustomed to his lips on her cheek as a greeting, by the look of disappointment on her face with a grumbled good morning from the detective.

Luckily Detective Lestrade was there to fill the awkward silence, prattling on to Molly about his little girl on the journey to the morgue.

Only when they were all peering over the body did Sherlock finally address Molly. "Poisoning?"

Molly gives a jerked nod in confirmation of his question. "I can't find any marks on the body to suggest it was injected into her system. Mostly likely she ingested it, but there's no sign in her toxicology report."

Sherlock hummed in agreement. "A rare poison then. Not easy to get a hold of."

While Sherlock retreats to his mind palace, Molly turns to the detective inspector. "It would have been slow acting so you may need to go back a couple of days."

"So it took days to kill her?"

"Yes. A slow, inevitable conclusion." Sherlock says irritably, his eyes still snapped shut. "Bit like your divorce, Lestrade."

He doesn't need John Watson at his shoulder to confirm to him that that was 'a bit not good.' As soon as the words spill out his mouth he is aware of the error he's made. His detective inspector friend has done nothing to provoke such casual cruelty. This is what happens when he feels like he's on a cusp of losing; the urge to lash out, to wound someone else to disguise his own vulnerability.

A pair of ice blue eyes blink open to find a shrunken looking detective and a frowning pathologist. "My apologies," He stumbles out awkwardly. Over the past few months, he'd attempted to keep any insults to the detective light- hearted, and they've been developing playful banter between the two of them.

Greg rubs the back of his neck but manages a small smile. "Don't worry about it," He dismisses. "We should get going. Murderer to catch."

"Yes," Sherlock agrees. He trails behind the pair as walk back to the lab, fearful that Molly will throw him a scornful look despite his heart felt apology.

"Thanks for your help, Molly," Greg throws behind his back as he makes his way towards the lab exit. The police inspector turns when he does not hear the click of Sherlock's leather shoes behind him, spinning back to find an uneasy looking detective and a confused pathogist.

Sherlock clears his throat. "You look very beautiful," Sherlock states to Molly, not to placate her, or to gain her favour, just because it's the honest to god truth. He places a sweet kiss on her cheek to rectify his earlier failure to complete his usual greeting.

The painted lips twitch up into a shy smile. "Thank you," She whispers, her cheeks flaming and eyes shifting to where Greg Lestrade stands smirking at the pair of them.

As he leaves St Barts that evening he feels slightly despondent, but in his own unhappiness, he would never wish upon Molly any more heartbreak. He has no wish to disrupt her life any more than he has already done so. These bleak emotions, he figures, are a just retribution for all the times he made her feel like she didn't count, caused her to feel dejected or dispirited.

Under the pretence of worrying he could justify fawning off DI Lestrade, follow Molly to wherever her date was, coming up with some ridiculous excuse to whisk her away from a man he would deem unworthy. But he's chooses instead to focus on his case, trying, but failing not to think of her and her pretty pink lips.

Because it was her life, her choice and his love for her did not mean he had the right to make those decisions for her.

Sorrowful music fills Baker Street for days. Mrs Hudson brings him tea, nagging him to eat something, to no avail. There were no cases (the poisoning had been solved within hours-the jealous older sister- how dreadfully cliche) so all that was left for him to do was to stew over his own thoughts for days.

"Sulking doesn't suit you."

Sherlock's eyes flick up to the source of the feminine voice, unclasping his hands, and relaxing back into his chair. "I have no idea what you are referring to."

The woman laughs in return. "What'd I tell you about fibbing?" Mary teases, strolling forward with her baby daughter safely tucked into her carrier. Mary lifts the chubby girl out, depositing her trustingly into Sherlock's arms.

"Thought she might help cheer you up," Mary explains, departing to the kitchen to stick the kettle on. "Or at the very least, relieve Mrs Hudson of the constant violin music."

The sharp retort on the tip his tongue dies as soon as his attention is drawn to the little girl that has been thrust into his arms. He adjusts her to allow him to hold her with one arm, and to caress her pillowy cheek with his free hand. Elizabeth Watson wriggles under his touch, her mouth stretching into the most adorable yawn. Involuntarily, Sherlock's gloomy mood begins to lift as snuggles the Watson child closer to his chest.

The only other person that could have this much of an effect on him is- "Molly!"

Mary's exclamation causes Sherlock head to reel upwards, clapping eyes on his pathologist for the first time in days.

"Oh hello!" Molly greets, clearly pleased to see her blonde friend. Her eyes dart back to Sherlock and Elizabeth, as if for some bizarre reason she hadn't expected him to be here. As is proven true by her next words. "Wasn't expecting anybody to be in because I hadn't heard anything from you in a few days," Molly says, and Sherlock feels guilt bloom in his chest at the slight frown on her face. She too had clearly felt the absence of their regular texts. But she manages to force a weak smile in his direction. "I brought you thumbs," Molly tells him, raising the bag in the air before securing it in the section of the fridge Mrs Hudson had deemed far enough away from food products to be sanitary.

Before he even has a chance to pipe up a thank you, she turns away to chat with Mary, embracing the women in a way that evokes a bolt of jealousy in the detective. Sherlock tries very hard to resist the urge to pout and retreat back into his dark mood.

"We have to have a catch up soon," Mary insists as they pull away from their hug.

"We should!" Molly enthuses. "In fact, I went to this great Mexican place on Friday with some old friends from uni. You would love it. They do the most amazing cocktails."

A cheeky grin spreads across Mary's sunny face. "I'm sold."

It takes a moment for Sherlock's brain to grind into gear. "Wait- Friday... when you were wearing the lipstick... you were going out with friends?" He stutters out the question, his eyes falling to his goddaughter- who is absolutely no help because she's drifted off into the warmth his chest- leaving him feeling completely out of sorts.

"Yes," Molly drawls out, her brows knitting, altogether unaware of the importance of her answer. "I really have to get back to work," She realises, her attention shifting as her eyes glance at her watch. The pathologist smacks a quick kiss on Mary's cheek and reaffirms their promise to catch up soon.

The tilt of her feet suggest to Sherlock she will rush off out the door with hurried goodbye and a half smile for him. But instead she steps towards him, Sherlock counting every step until she's infront of him. Bent against the arm of the chair, her head descends to brush a soft kiss on Elizabeth Watson's forehead, swiping a thumb over her fair hair.

Sherlock's free hand snatches her wrist to keep her in place, not ready for her to depart just yet. He'd missed her sweet scent swirling at his nostrils and he wants to soak it in as long as he possibly can. "Come over tonight," He blurts out, his dexterous fingers feeling the quickening thrum of her pulse. "We can use the thumbs. I'll order Thai. If you're not busy, of course."

A fear zaps through him; of possible rejection, despite the fact this is Molly, his Molly, who's never once let him down.

Her lips spread into an unreadable smile. "I'm not busy," She answers, her eyes dancing across his features- searching- for what, Sherlock is not sure. Whatever she finds, or observes, causes her to shift forward- careful not to squish the sleeping Watson- to bestow a kiss on his cheek. Just a fraction to right of his mouth, so close his breath puffs out onto her cheek, so close that his mind blanks for a moment. Molly withdraws, her dark eyes on the curve of Sherlock's parted lips. "See you tonight then," She says, a low sensual whisper, before whirling away from him and out the flat in a flurry of movement.

Mary's high pitched laugh rings out of the kitchen, undoubtedly at the dazed, longing expression he has on his face, but he cannot find it within himself to be embarrassed by the visible affect Molly Hooper has on him.

"I didn't think breaking into other people's flat was your sort of thing."

Molly's eyes flick to the doorway, finding a rain-soaked Sherlock Holmes. "That's more your style," Molly teases with an amused grin. "And it's not breaking in if you have a key."

Sherlock sheds his skin of the sodden wool of his coat, leaving Molly behind in the living room to change in to more comfortable attire. He shouts to her from his bedroom. "So do you do this everytime I go away on a case?"

"No!" Molly denies. "I came over to see Mrs Hudson actually. But then it started raining and I didn't fancy getting soaked on the way to The Tube."

Sherlock swans back into the room, dressed in a set of pyjammas and one of his dressing gowns. His signature blue one was unavailable, currently wrapped around Molly Hooper's tiny frame. "So you thought you'd watch crap television and eat my food?"

"That's what you do when you break in to my flat," Molly retorts defensively, tugging the silk of the dressing gown so it clings tighter to her skin. "Plus I thought you weren't supposed to be back from Manchester until tomorrow."

Sherlock moves closer to the couch as he smirks. "Got Mycroft to send us a car."

"Didn't fancy slumming it on the train?"

"No," Sherlock says, finally slouching back into the couch. He suddenly looks nervous, hand fidgeting at his dressing gown, then moving to muss his damp curls, as if he is unable to stay still. "John wanted to get back Mary and Elizabeth. And I wanted to get back to..." Trailing off, his blue green eyes fix on her intensely; hoping she feels as safe, as assured under his gaze as he does hers.

You.

That's the word that's trying to claw up his throat, what he so desperately wants to express.

Even John had noticed in the duration of their excursion to Manchester that his mind was hundreds of miles South. That he'd cling to his phone- eagerly awaiting a buzz to indicate a message from Molly- just so he'd have a snippet into her day. But it was fear that was his true distraction. An absurd, paralyzing fear that perhaps she wouldn't miss him, that there wasn't that same dull ache in her chest that would spike every time her thoughts were drawn to him. That, and this was the most agonising of thoughts, she would be better without him there.

"You really love her."

John had broken the easy silence between them that had lasted almost entire car ride home, just as they break into the heavy traffic of central London.

Quickly, he follows the statement up with, "You should tell her. She loves you too, you know."

John is his best friend in the world, the man he trusts with his life, and in this instance, his fear. "I fear I am unworthy of her love."

"I never thought I'd see the day when Sherlock Holmes develops an inferiority complex," The army doctor is incredulous in the face of his bare faced vulnerability. John has never had talent for articulation, but he thinks for Sherlock Holmes, for Molly, he will try his best. "Do you remember when I found out about Mary? Do you remember what you said to me?"

Sherlock knows immediately, of the all things he'd said that night they'd had a domestic in his flat, exactly what words John Watson is referring to.

When he doesn't respond, John continues, "At least tell her. Let her decide for herself."

That's what he planned to do. To head over to her flat, blurt it all out in spew of words, but it's so much harder in reality. His traitor mind distracts him with an analysis of her eyes, waxing poetically of the depth of the colour, the sparkle, the soulfullness.

Those entrancing brown orbs look upon him seriously. "You wanted to get home?"

"Yes," He murmurs truthfully. Just not the one she expects.

Lines crinkle at her eyes, as she smiles shyly. "I didn't really come here to see Mrs Hudson," She admits, glancing up at him. "I missed you and I miss you less when I'm here. Don't really know why, but I do."

At her words, Sherlock shifts closer to pull her into his arms, savouring the feel of her warmth for the first time in days. The ache his chest finally recedes. "I think I may have a solution for that." He informs her, his lips curling into a smile as they press into the silk of her hair. "Stay here. Permanently."

Molly pulls away a fraction so she can stare in the blue depths of his eyes. Her lips tilt the tiniest degree upwards. "Okay."

Sherlock is now the one that is surprised. He'd formulated a lengthy list of reasons for the rationale of his offer. Baker Street's nearness to St Bart's, Mrs Hudson's delightful cooking, the finanicial benefits. The truth is much simpler and is fuelled by emotion and sentiment. "I missed you too, you know."

Molly hums as she snuggles into Sherlock's chest. She knows what that means, missing someone when they're not there. And evidently, so does he.

"Living with me will not be an easy feat. I might drive you crazy," Sherlock cautions.

Molly breathes out a laugh. "You already drive me crazy."

"I play the violin at three in the morning."

"I'm a heavy sleeper."

"I know. Sometimes I will decorate the walls with crime-scenes."

"I do post-mortems, Sherlock."

"I know," Sherlock repeats softly in her ear. "I just want you to know what you're getting yourself in for," He continues, and both parties become aware they're not just talking about their recent decision to cohabitate .

Molly lifts her head, reaching out instead to caress the sharp cut of his cheekbone. "I know what I'm getting myself in for. I always have."

"I'm a difficult, unreasonable man."

"Don't I know it," She laughs, pinching his cheek as she smiles. Her eyes are dark and alluring as they flick over his face and Sherlock can feel the sweat collecting in his palms. "Nothing is ever going to change how I feel about you, Sherlock."

Sherlock throws one last desperate warning, because he wants her to be sure, free from any doubt about the life she's venturing into. "I don't deserve you, Molly Hooper."

Molly tips her face forward, trapping his face in both her hands. "I think that's for me to decide," She says, closing the rest of the distance between them finally.

Her lips are soft and supple as they connect with his, neither hesitating in taking exactly what they want. Molly's hand slip into his dark curls, as one of Sherlock's ascends to the back of her neck, the other at her hip, trying to pull her ever closer. It's utterly surreal, feeling her sigh into his mouth, equally captivated by the taste, the blissful feel of each other.

As they pull away for breath, his mind replays a nagging thought, one that's been tugging at the edges ever since his conversation with John earlier.

It's words that were said by his friend more than a year before, in a different context, that echo in his conscious. What have I ever done, my whole life, to deserve you?

But it's Molly's voice; reassuring, rousing, loving, that retrieves him back, strengthens his resolve to do all he can to ensure this woman is by his side eternally. Everything.