Two Years Later

Two years. The longest two years of his life, even worse than the two years right after uni when he was in and out of rehab. But he was home now; clean-shaven, hair properly barbered, wearing his own clothes – well, new clothes since his old ones no longer fit comfortably – and shrugging into his beloved Belstaff. His injuries had been tended to, he'd been debriefed, and now he was off to reclaim his life, confidence oozing from every pore.

Mycroft had seen the name written on his forearm, of course; and although he'd kept silent about it Sherlock had seen his lips twitch with disapproval. As if his little brother had done something shameful, turning out to be just like every other ordinary human being on the planet. Well, Mycroft could go fuck himself, as far as Sherlock was concerned; his elder brother had tried to convince him that forgoing human contact – literal, physical human contact as well as emotional contact – was for the best. That they were above such petty inconveniences as loneliness and sentiment.

That they neither wanted nor needed a Soulmate.

There were times when Sherlock believed that the only reason his brother bore no name was because he was so careful not to touch anyone unless he had to. And there were other times, when he was feeling less than charitable, that he believed he bore no name because he'd simply never proven worthy of whatever poor sod had the name 'Mycroft' etched into his or her flesh.

When he was feeling more kindly, however, Sherlock sincerely hoped that Mycroft would one day understand that neither sentiment nor Soul Names were chemical defects found on the losing side. That caring was an advantage. That being alone didn't keep you safe – that it only kept you, well, alone.

After two years of that, Sherlock Holmes had more than had enough. He missed his life, his friends, his landlady…and most of all, he missed his pathologist.

No matter how insouciant a front he'd presented for Mycroft and his PA and other underlings, Sherlock was both excited and nervous at the prospect of taking up his lost life again. Of seeing the faces who had come to mean so much to him – Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson. John. Molly.

He only hoped that they would be as happy to see him as he was in anticipation of seeing them.

Two years. The longest two years of Molly Hooper's life, with the exception of the two years during which her father had been diagnosed with cancer, ultimately succumbing to it. Two long, lonely years of watching John Watson drift further and further away from the life he'd made as Sherlock's best friend and blogger. Two years of visits with Sherlock's landlady, who inevitably got teary-eyed about her lost boy, the son she'd never had. Two years of after-work pints with Greg Lestrade and Sally Donovan and Phillip Anderson before he became too lost in his guilt and grief and began obsessing over a dead man that wasn't actually dead.

Two years of keeping two secrets hugged close to her heart; one she could share with a select few people – standoffish Mycroft and his parents, the loveliest people ever – and one she kept to herself.

Molly was careful never to show her forearm to anyone. Luckily she worked in a job where keeping her arms covered was not only expected but encouraged, and unfortunately there wasn't anyone in her life to see her the few times her arms weren't covered. No boyfriends, no casual lovers – how could there be, when her flesh bore a Soul Name? Her friends tried to set her up a time or two – there was a sweet young man named Tom who might have been worth a date or two – but she gently discouraged them all, claiming it wasn't the right time in her life for romance. They chalked it up to grief at losing Sherlock, even as they urged her to move on. Tom, she knew, had been particularly disappointed when they shook hands; he'd shot a quick glance at his forearm and his expressive, open face had shown a flash of disappointment before his easy grin had reappeared.

That had been six months ago. Sometimes Molly wondered if she should have just gone out with Tom, had a few dates and maybe something more. Something to ease the ache in her heart, the loneliness and worry she lived with on a daily basis. She knew Sherlock was alive, but that was all; Mycroft kept her informed on an erratic basis, but she didn't need his reports to know that Sherlock hadn't been killed. The letters written on her forearm remained just as dark and strong as when they'd first appeared, with no signs of fading as they would have shown had something…fatal…happened to him.

No man might know the hour of his own death, but every person on Earth knew the hour of their Soulmate's last breaths. Knowing he was alive steadied Molly whenever she felt overwhelmed, and gave her the determination to get on with her life in spite of not knowing when or if Sherlock would ever return to London.

No, not 'if', never 'if', she chastised herself as she ended her shift and trudged down to the locker room in the basement of St. Bart's. She would run a comb through her hair, maybe refresh her lipstick, gather up her belongings and head back to her flat. An evening of Chinese take-away, wine, crap telly, and her cranky tom-cat, Toby, eventually purring on her lap might not be anyone's idea of an ideal night, but it was what she was looking forward to after a long, hard day filled with autopsies and paperwork.

She sighed and stretched, then reached up and pulled open her locker door. The mirror she'd fastened inside caught her reflection…and that of another person standing silently behind her. With a gasp, Molly recognized the gently smiling face of Sherlock Holmes, and turned to face him.

At first glance two years might not have passed at all; his hair as it had been when she'd last seen him, the beloved planes and angles of his face exactly as she remembered them, his eyes shining a bit bluer in the harsh light of the overheads…but a closer examination told the real story. Unconsciously she stepped forward, reaching out to place a gentle hand on his left cheek, tracing the zygomatic bone with her thumb. His eyes fluttered shut, but not before she saw the warmth and tenderness he hadn't bothered to try to hide, along with the weariness and uncertainty he had. Her fingers brushed the back of his neck, urging his head downward, and he acquiesced, leaning until his forehead rested on hers. "I've missed you," he said quietly.

Molly said nothing, feeling her breath catching in her throat, her heart pounding in her chest as she pulled back and stared steadily at him. His brow furrowed, but as he parted his lips to ask the obvious question, she stepped away from him, dropping her hands from his head and shrugging out of her lab coat.

His expression went neutral, but his eyes were scanning her every move, and came to rest on her forearm as she rolled up her right sleeve and showed it to him, as she'd longed to do for the past two years. She heard him breathe out a sigh, then watched as he mirrored her earlier movements, shrugging out of his Belstaff and laying it carefully on the nearest bench, along with his suit jacket. He returned to his position in front of her, carefully unbuttoning his left sleeve and slowly, excruciatingly slowly, rolling it up until she could see his own forearm…and the name it held.

"Molly," she said aloud, then said nothing else as she tried to grasp the fact that it was clearly her own signature he bore on his flesh.

"It's been there since I first met you," Sherlock confessed, and Molly's startled gaze flew up to meet his. He nodded grave confirmation of his words as she gaped at him. "Not five seconds after we shook hands I felt a burning sensation, just here." He reached out and lightly stroked his fingers along her name, and Molly shivered as if he'd touched her body instead of his own.

"So, you've known, all this time you've known, but you never said anything," Molly said, trying not to sound hurt or disappointed and knowing she was failing miserably.

"Because I knew my name hadn't appeared on your arm," he replied swiftly, reaching out and catching her wrist as she started to turn away. "It certainly wasn't there the last time I actually saw your bare arms. That…Christmas," he added, his voice lowering. He looked away, and Molly thought…no, could he really look…ashamed?

Well, why not? He'd apologized to her almost immediately that night, showing that he damn well knew he'd been in the wrong. Perhaps that was why his brief kiss had triggered his own name appearing on her arm. "That's when your name showed up, after I'd gone home," she confessed quietly. "Even though you were so awful to me, something else triggered it." She smiled suddenly and gave into her desire to brush his curls from his forehead. "You were a bastard, but you apologized right away…and meant it. I guess that was enough for whatever force it is that causes these to appear." She gestured with her free hand to her own forearm, then gave into another impulse. One that she'd been fighting for years before the name 'William' was writ in her flesh.

She kissed him. She kissed him and he kissed her back, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her flush to his lean form. She twined her arms round his neck and let him feel exactly how desperately she loved him, and felt his own emotions in the fervency with which he returned her kiss.

"I still don't think I deserve you," he said when the kiss ended. "But I will do my very best to remain as worthy of you as fate or God or whoever seems to think I am."

Molly smiled up at him. "Oh, Sherlock, don't you understand? It's not up to Fate or God or anyone else to tell me who I deserve. It's up to me, and in my mind, you've always been worthy."

They kissed again, feeling each other's heatbeats, breathing each other's breaths, content in the knowledge that they'd finally found one another.

A/N: Welp, there it is, a two-parter posted in two days. Thanks to everyone for their enthusiastic support of this little story...truly, I'm a bit overwhelmed by the number of reviews and favorites for this! Thanks to everyone and I hope you enjoyed the conclusion.