Chapter Four

Sherlock wandered aimlessly through London for hours, not really paying attention to where he was going. He was only aware of his mind spinning circles around itself.

"Sherlock's just scared."

"I mean nothing."

"Everyone dies."

"He doesn't know what he's missing."

"They'll be the last ones you'll ever get here!"

"Why is Molly any different?"

"What happens when he lets his emotions in?"

And Mary was right. Sherlock was scared, not only of what could happen to Molly but what would become of himself. For all of his adult life, he had shoved his emotions into a deep, dark corner of his mind palace, locking it away and throwing away the key. What would happen if he allowed Molly to open that door and let all those years of repressed emotions come flooding in? Would he even be able to handle it? Would he even be the same person?

Before he realized it, he had come to a stop outside St. Bart's Hospital. Sherlock stared at the front door, trying to keep walking along, but unable to budge. His mind was telling him to move on, but his heart was screaming at him to go inside. As a result, Sherlock stood frozen as his indecision nearly crippled him. Should he go in and wait for Molly to come into work? He knew showing up straight at Molly's flat would not end well.

Sherlock began to give in to his heart before that overwhelming fear washed over him again.

I can't… he thought as he frowned down at the pavement. I can't…

Sherlock turned around, running into someone. "Sorry."

He glanced up to see that the figure in front of him was wearing a long black cloak with a hood concealing his face. The man looked much like the Grim Reaper. The man turned slightly away from Sherlock, raising one arm and pointing down the road with what Sherlock realized was a skeletal hand—literally.

"Ah, you must be the Ghost of Love Future," said Sherlock.

The spirit made no response; he only kept pointing down the road.

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he started heading in that direction. "Not much of a talker, are you?"

Sherlock and his silent companion walked for what felt like blocks before the spirit suddenly raised his arm and pointed down an alley towards a pub. Sherlock glanced at the cloaked figure before heading towards the pub and opening the door.

As Sherlock stepped inside, he noticed that it was now open. He glanced out the window to see that it was daylight outside as well. As he made his way through the crowd, he glanced up at the TV, which was on a news station. The date displayed was June 15, 2021.

Sherlock moved through the crowd, coming to a booth in the back where John sat. Sherlock frowned at his friend, taking in his wrinkled, disheveled clothes and mussed-up hair. There were deep, dark bags under his eyes, and he appeared to be drunk.

Sherlock's eyes moved over to the person sitting at the booth with him and saw that it was Phillip Anderson sharing a drink with him. Sherlock blinked in surprise at the sight of the two of them. He couldn't think of two people less likely to go out for a drink together. Well, actually, that would be John and Sergeant Sally Donovan, but—

"Hello, all," said Donovan as she walked up to the table with Lestrade.

The two of them sat at the table as Sherlock's jaw dropped.

"What're we chatting about?" asked Lestrade.

"The bastard that let my wife die," John spat out.

The only thing that shocked Sherlock more than the news that Mary was dead was Donovan's next words.

"Ooh, Sherlock bashing," she said. "My favorite."

Sherlock's jaw dropped open even further. He let Mary die? Why would he do that? And "Sherlock bashing"? John was Sherlock bashing? John would never…What happened?

"Hey, he deserves it," John growled, pure loathing and malice radiating out of him.

Sherlock's heart ached at that. What terror could have happened that would have turned his best and most loyal friend against him like this? And as if hearing his thoughts, John responded.

"Mary gets kidnapped, I come to him for help, and what does he do?" John took on a mockingly indignant look. "'I'm busy, John.'"

"Well, he has had a hard time the past few years," said Anderson.

"That's no excuse," said Lestrade. "When a friend comes to you for help, you help."

"If you ask me, Sherlock gave up on us all a long time ago," said Donovan.

"Tell me about it," Lestrade grumbled. "He just completely stopped taking cases. You know it was his fault I got fired?"

Sherlock stared at the inspector. Lestrade fired?

"He also killed his landlady," Donovan added, taking a gulp of her drink.

Sherlock's heart twisted even more at the news. Mrs. Hudson had been like a second mother to him, and now she was dead?

"Putting up with his shit all the time finally got to her," said Donovan. "Her heart just couldn't take it. But if you ask me, he might as well have stabbed her himself."

John shook his head. "You were right. You were right from the very start."

Sherlock gasped as he stared at his best friend—John Watson—agreeing with Sally Donovan. He had always hated Donovan's hateful statements all those years ago.

"One day, we'll be standing round a body, and Sherlock Holmes'll be the one that put it there."

"Well, good riddance," said Lestrade, raising his glass.

"Good riddance," everyone echoed as they raised their own glasses.

Sherlock frowned as he turned to the spirit. "What are they talking about? What do they mean 'good riddance'?"

The spirit lifted his hand, pointing towards a door in the back of the room, which looked like the door to his flat. Sherlock walked towards it, stopping as he reached it and slowly easing it open. The first thing he spotted was a pair of feet lying on the floor of the living room. From the looks of the skin and state of decomposition, this person had been dead for at least a week.

Sherlock's eyes traveled up from the feet, taking in the legs and then the torso with growing horror. Sure enough, when his gaze reached the face, it was his own staring back at him…literally. Sherlock's own body was lying on the floor, sightless eyes staring up at the ceiling of his flat.

What truly shocked Sherlock was the fact that his dead body had been lying in the flat for over a week. He knew that he had a tendency to shut himself up in his home, but his body had been in the flat for a week and no one missed him? No one came to check on him?

Sherlock's eyes moved down to his arm, where a syringe was stuck in the crook of it.

Overdose.

From the size of the syringe, Sherlock could tell that it had been intentional. He had killed himself.

"No…" groaned Sherlock, staring in horror as he circled around his dead body. "No, why…" He looked up at the spirit in the doorway, face twisted in terror. "Why?"

The spirit raised one hand and pointed towards the coffee table. Sherlock quickly crossed to it, looking down at a newspaper dated June 2, 2021. The headline read:

"HUSBAND BEATS WIFE TO DEATH"

Sherlock quickly began reading the article.

"Sunday morning, 39-year-old Molly Hooper-Granley was found dead in her home—"

"NO!"

Sherlock flung himself away from the newspaper, landing on the sofa behind him.

"NO!"

The headline glared at him, filling his whole vision.

"NO, MOLLY!"

His heart plummeted into the pit of his stomach, twisting and falling as his world crumbled around him.

"No…you were supposed to be safe…"

Sherlock buried his face in his hands as tears fell down it. This was the worst feeling Sherlock had ever experienced in his entire life. It felt as though his heart was being literally torn from his chest and crushed to pieces.

"Molly…no…"

He sobbed in grief as his breaths came harshly, his throat choking with the sorrow.

"I loved you, Molly…no…"

As Sherlock stared at the headline—HUSBAND BEATS WIFE TO DEATH—the grief slowly churned into rage. He sprung up from the couch, latching onto the spirit's cloak.

"Take me back!" Sherlock shouted, shaking the spirit. "I can fix this! I can fix this! Take me back!"

In the scuffle, the spirit's hood slipped off, revealing the face underneath: Jim Moriarty.

"No…" Sherlock gasped out, frozen in place.

"Long time, no see, Sherlock," Moriarty smiled at him.

"You…" said Sherlock.

"I finally burned you," Moriarty giggled at him. His giggle morphed into a snarl. "I burned the heart out of you!" He giggled manically into Sherlock's face.

"Take me back!" Sherlock yelled as Moriarty cackled insanely.

Moriarty suddenly collapsed, and Sherlock went with him, falling down onto the empty cloak and seemingly falling through the floor. He tumbled through space before slamming to a stop on his back. Wherever he was, it was cold, dark and silent. Sherlock raised his hands to find them obstructed by something metal a foot above him. He carefully felt around before deducing where he was.

"Help!" Sherlock shouted, banging his fists and feet against the interior of the morgue drawer. "Someone! Help!"

The confines of the drawer echoed with his punches and kicks.

"Let me out!" Sherlock yelled, the grief, fear and heartache nearly choking him. "Help!"

The ceiling of the drawer in front of him finally gave way, and Sherlock stumbled into an empty pub, falling to the floor. Sherlock took a look around, recognizing the pub he had stood in not ten minutes ago. It was the same one, but it was closed.

Sherlock took in the morning sunlight streaming in through the window before he pulled his phone out, glancing at the date and time:

August 3, 2015

8:12 a.m.

The relief that flooded through Sherlock was immense. Only a single night had passed since his talk with Molly. He was back.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. "Molly!"

He jumped to his feet, tearing out the pub door, not bothering to close the door behind him. It wasn't too late. He could take all of this back.

Sherlock allowed himself to delve into his mind palace as he ran, watching with a smile as Molly kicked at the locked door in his mind palace and shattered it. But surprisingly, there was no sudden flood of emotions, no crash of feelings. It felt more like a blindfold being lifted. Sometime in the past few months—possibly even years—that door had apparently sprung a leak. His emotions had crept back into him, lying in wait for him to lift his façade. And now, the blindfold was gone, and he could see.

Sherlock's face erupted in a smile as he reveled in his newfound joy, comfort, love, compassion and—yes—even fear. It had been so long since he had allowed himself to feel anything beyond trust and friendship; it was almost overwhelming. Almost, but not quite.

Sherlock finally reached St. Bart's Hospital, and he tore through the front door, racing through the halls and stairwells until he reached the doors of the lab. He threw them open, coming to a halt just inside.

Molly looked up from the bag she had just put down on a lab table, her coat still on and scarf still in place. She rolled her eyes and huffed in anger. "Sherlock—"

Sherlock stepped away from the doors and headed straight for her as she spoke.

"—I told you yesterday," Molly went on. "You are not welcome here anym—"

Molly was cut off as Sherlock placed his hands on either side of her face and leaned down, kissing her passionately. Molly stood in frozen shock for a moment before her hand came up onto his chest and shoved him roughly away from her.

"No!" Molly told him firmly. "You can't just waltz in here and charm your way back—"

"I'm an idiot," said Sherlock quickly.

Molly froze, frowning in confusion.

"I'm a jerk, a manipulative bastard and a fool," Sherlock went on. "I pushed you away, hoping you would move on and be safe from me. Everyone I come up against will be after those I hold close, and I couldn't bear the thought of losing you." He lifted his hands and placed them on her arms.

Molly stared at him, her mouth hanging open.

"But I lost you anyway," Sherlock told her. "I was so scared of you being hurt that I didn't realize I was hurting you. But above all, I was terrified of what this new side of myself would do to me. I was scared of letting go."

Molly had tears in her eyes at this point.

"I don't deserve you, Molly," Sherlock told her, brushing his palm over her cheek. "I am a horrible, arrogant man that puts himself before all else."

Molly leaned her face into his hand.

"But no more," breathed Sherlock. "I'm sorry." He leaned his forehead against Molly's, his voice a whisper. "I'm so sorry."

Molly took several deep breaths as tears fell down her face, placing her hands over his on her face. "Say it, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked into her eyes as a tear fell down his face.

"You need to say it," Molly whispered, clutching his hands tightly.

"I love you," Sherlock told her. "I love you so much."

Molly laughed through her tears as her hands wrapped around Sherlock's neck, and in a surprising blaze of courage, she pulled Sherlock down for a breathtaking kiss. Sherlock froze in shock at her sudden brazenness before he, too, dove into the kiss. He wrapped his arms around Molly, one at her shoulders and one at her waist.

As Sherlock pulled Molly close to his chest, he ran his tongue along Molly's lips, which she instantly parted. As their tongues tangled deliciously together, Molly's hands surged up into Sherlock's curls, tugging at them. Sherlock's hands gripped onto the back of Molly's coat, pulling her ever closer. After keeping her at arms' length for so long, he couldn't seem to get enough of her. Molly was warm and beautiful and gentle and—

What is that taste? Strawberries?

Sherlock had never felt so complete in his whole life. Molly was his other half—his better half—that made him whole. He had never understood that term—a better half—until this very moment. His entire world in that moment consisted of Molly and Molly alone: her smell, her touch, her taste—

The doors burst open behind Sherlock, who froze and pulled away a little from Molly.

"Thank God," he heard John say from the doorway. "Sherlock, we've been looking everywhere for you. No one's seen you since last night at Scotland Yard."

"And you weren't looking too good then," said Lestrade.

Sherlock smiled down at Molly, who also stifled her giggling. With the way the two of them were standing—Sherlock's back to the doors and Molly hidden in front of him—they hadn't yet spotted her. Even Molly's hands on Sherlock's neck were hidden by his coat's popped collar.

Sherlock subtly eased his grip away from Molly as he turned towards the two men, clearing his throat. "Something you need?"

"Oh, hi, Molly," Lestrade greeted with a nod before turning his attention back to Sherlock. "We need you to check out some evidence and a crime scene. We can't seem to figure how he did it."

"But you do have him in custody," Sherlock stated.

"Yeah," said Lestrade.

John frowned at Sherlock. "Is that lipstick?"

Sherlock quickly reached up and wiped the faint smear of Molly's lipstick from his mouth as Molly held a hand over her mouth. "What time did you arrest him?"

"Little after eight last night…" Lestrade answered, now staring between two of them as well.

Sherlock shook his sleeve back to check his watch. "Then you have another thirty-five hours and thirty minutes in which to hold him without cause. I'll be in touch this afternoon." He began to wrap his arm around Molly's waist.

"Hang on," said John. "You're procrastinating? On a case?"

"Something far more important has come up," answered Sherlock as he wrapped his arm around Molly's waist. He smiled down at her as he began leading her towards the exit. "You, Miss Hooper, are taking a sick day."

"Oh, is that so?" smiled Molly, wrapping her own arm around him.

"Mm-hmm," muttered Sherlock. "And I'm prescribing bed rest. Lots and lots of bed rest."

Molly giggled at his low, seductive tone, and Sherlock swept in for a kiss as they reached the doors and pushed them open.

"Hang on," said John.

Sherlock and Molly turned to look back at them. John and Lestrade were watching them in shock.

"You two?" asked John.

"Yes, us two," answered Sherlock, tightening his grip on Molly.

"Since when?" asked Lestrade.

"Since five minutes and twenty-three seconds ago," replied Sherlock. "Now if you'll excuse me, Molly and I have a long-overdue date."

"Huh…" muttered John, still in a daze. "Mary was right…"

"Yes, she was," said Sherlock. "And don't worry. Arianna's first word is more likely to be 'idiot' than 'bored.'"

John stared at him in shock.

Sherlock started to turn towards the doors before stopping himself. "Oh, and John?" He looked back at his friend with a smile. "Hell just froze over." He turned and walked through the doors with Molly.

"How did you know all—never mind," muttered John as the doors swung closed. "I don't want to know."

Sherlock pulled Molly closer as they hurried towards the front door of the hospital. As they got into a cab, Sherlock wrapped his arms around his pathologist.

"Your place or mine?" asked Sherlock.

"Yours is closer," replied Molly.

"221B Baker Street," Sherlock told the cabbie, pulling Molly in for a kiss as they pulled away from the hospital.

When they parted for breath, Sherlock smiled at the flustered and breathless Molly in his arms.

"I love you, Molly," Sherlock told her.

"I love you, too, Sherlock," said Molly. "Whatever made you change your mind?"

Sherlock's smile morphed into a deep chuckle. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

Hope you all liked!