Hullo! Inspired by that sweet and surprisingly profound love between Sam and Kate in Louis Sachar's 'Holes'.

Apologies to followers expecting my little one-shots post-Parent-Trap – they are still coming, eventually….probably. I promise. I just couldn't get this out of my head, and so I had to write it, first. Also, I am expecting my first child in May, and between pregnancy and impending motherhood, I find my time for writing to be much more sporadic!

Hope you enjoy, nevertheless. Thank you!

Previously -

He watches his little girl; golden brown hair falling in wisps out of the braid her mother had plaited so carefully earlier that morning. It has darkened so much in the past year. He knows soon it will deepen into the same, slightly reddish-chocolate colour of his own hair. Her brown eyes sparkle mischievously as she looks down from her perch a foot above him, small hands grasping the rough oak with a sort of nervous confidence. The charming flush of her own still-chubby cheeks makes his own crooked smile straighten into a full-blown grin.

"Daddy-" she calls softly. "Daddy, if I go higher, I can see the sea." She giggles at her own clever little play on words. "Can I go higher?"

He places his hands on his hips and looks up at her with mock seriousness. "Well, that depends, Molly Margaret. Do you think you can?"

In response, she grins, and carefully, shakily, pulls herself up another foot. She clings to the tree as though she is more than just a few feet off the ground; as though falling would mean her certain doom. He stands below her and watches her vigilantly, his own concern carefully concealed.

After Molly has taken in her fill of the setting sun, she makes her way carefully down the tree. The last branch, she slips just enough, and scrapes her knee on the bark.

Though her toes are only a foot above the ground, his heart stops as she clings to that branch like a monkey and gasps "Daddy-"

-but he is already lifting her up and eye-balling her scraped knee with that look on his face he knows will make her laugh.

"Hmm." He grunts, and looks at her seriously, her eyes wet with a few unshed tears. "I think it's serious, Doc."

She blinks rapidly and tries not to smile. "How bads' it?"

"Hmm." He takes another look at her knee. "Might have to amputate. Too bad we're in the middle of nowhere. But I can fix it. Perhaps I'll just have to-" – he opens his mouth wide, poised over her knee – teeth flashing in the dim light - and looks at her.

She shrieks and pushes him away, laughing and scrambling to get down. "Put me down, Daddy. I'm fine. I'm fine!"

He obliges, and she takes his hand as they make their way back to the cabin where lights are blazing like a beacon in the dark and her mother is waiting with a snack before bed.

Before they open the door, Molly looks up at him. He raises an eyebrow at her. "And what do we say?" He whispers.

"Don't tell Mummy," she whispers back, eyes sparkling with this shared, innocent secret about tree-climbing in dresses.

And so it goes - in and out, crazy, innocent, just-enough adventures shared between a girl and her Dad. She often gets hurt, but not unbearably so – small scrapes in the grand scheme of things, and after all – he is always there to tell her – "I can fix that."

And it fills her with a quiet confidence and belief that no matter what happens – life or death, rain or shine – that things can be fixed. They can be made better.

Even when the man who taught her such things fades quietly and painfully away, she holds onto the belief that life is meant to be enjoyed, and that things can be fixed, and she does her part to make it so.

- And Present Day

It's a strange sort of fixing, Molly's work. Not the kind of fixing that most people appreciate – in fact, most people, when they meet Molly, do not appreciate her at all. But after the tears have been cried, and the fists have been shaken, and the body is buried and the prayers have been said, there is a peace and acceptance that comes, and it is because of Molly, and people like her. People who attempt to make some sense out of the messy and painful affair that is death – people who can offer a reason, an explanation, however unsatisfactory it may be at the moment – because it is the knowing the how and why that eventually gives those left behind that acceptance that is the first step toward mending.

Sherlock Holmes does not appreciate people like Molly, but for a completely different reason. He does not appreciate those in Molly's field because they are all 'incompetent, pompous arseholes with straw for brains who refuse to admit when they're wrong'. And they're almost always wrong. When he first meets Molly, he is sulking in a hallway in Bart's with a blueprint of the hospital he's swiped, because he is this close to simply sneaking into the hospital and acquiring what he needs in his own way on his own time.

When Molly Hooper first meets Sherlock Holmes, she's new to Bart's in London, though she's been a pathologist for several years already in other hospitals in the country – it's her first day 'on her own' here, and she is preoccupied with the list of names in her hands indicating the nearly absurd number of autopsies she'll need to complete as soon as possible. She doesn't see his long legs sprawled across the hospital hallway, and she steps on one. She is almost sure she hears a distinctive crunch in the split second before she realizes what she is doing and twists and trips to avoid actually crushing him.

She ends up sprawled across the floor, her bum sitting squat between his legs, and she twists clumsily to sit upright, her elbows - then hands - propping her up.

He hasn't moved, and she's actually afraid she may have killed him.

This is why I became a pathologist, she thinks, panicking, for a split second. To avoid situations like this. All my patients come pre-killed.

And then she blinks and scolds herself silently, because there's that morbid sense of humor she's always getting flak for.

She takes a closer look at her possible murder victim – she's already assumed he's some sort of bum, the way he was lounging about in the hallway, like that.

The first thing she notices is how well-dressed he is, for a bum sitting in the hospital hallway.

The second thing she notices is that he certainly isn't a bum.

Her eyes travel up his well-tailored button-up (designer, she thinks, fits perfectly - and you know that's not a handout) to his neck and face, and she freezes, a mortified blush creeping up her neck.

He is definitely not dead.

The scowl on his face, the haughty, insulted quirk of his eyebrow, and those eyes – he is definitely not dead.

Great Scott, if looks could kill, she would be dead.

And then he is touching her.

He's touching her hip and she thinks maybe she did just die in a freak tripping accident but –

Oh. Her face flushes again as she realizes he is pushing her rather unceremoniously off of himself, to reach the now-torn paper that was previously spread across his legs. He frowns mildly at it.

She realizes it's torn and crinkled because of her, and, ignoring her own mess (her papers did go flying), she immediately, clumsily leaps up, and stammers out an apology.

"Sorry – I'm – oh, gosh – sorry! Here-" she says, taking the paper gently from him, "-I know where there's tape – I – I can fix that."

She ducks into the nearest office and comes back, not thirty seconds later, with the blueprints (hospital blueprints – why would he need those?), and he's standing now, watching her with a gaze that can only be described as cool, uninterested, and definitely unimpressed.

She hands him the paper, and he takes it without a word of thanks.

Instead, he makes the brusque suggestion that next time she watch where she's going.

She smiles nervously at him. "Sorry, well - I… I did say - sorry," she reminds him. "And you – you were sprawled out across the hallway." She pauses. "Why are you even in here? Who are you? Are you – some sort of – architect?" That would explain the blueprints.

"Sherlock Holmes," he answers, as thought that explains everything - and though she's only known him for a few minutes she knows the grin he gives her is Fake with a capital F.

"Oh," she nods suspiciously, a bit confused. "I'm-"

"Doctor Molly Hooper – yes, name tag - newest special registrar, graduated top of your class, most recently employed in Bristol, cat person though dear…Muffin, or some other awful pastry type name, I suspect – has recently died. And late for your first autopsy – a Gresham Manning. Double check his kidneys. I suspect their failure was not of natural causes."

"Oh…um…" She's collected her papers from the floor in the time he's rattled off all of those facts about her, but all she can focus on is his last statement about Gresham Manning. He is first on her list. "Thanks…you…work here, then?" Not an architect, obviously.

He rolls his eyes. "I do occasionally do my work on the premises. I do not, however, work here."

She opens her mouth to ask exactly what he does do, then, but he answers before she can get the question out.

"Consulting Detective. World's only."

He's already halfway down the hallway when she shakes her head in disbelief and mutters "Oh-okay…I'll…see you 'round, then?" under her breath, distractedly straightening the last of her papers.

"Doubt it," he calls cheerfully over his shoulder, "unless you turn out to be highly skilled in your field, in which case – you'd be the first such person I've ever met."

She stares after him in shock, eyebrows raised high over a mouth that is trying hard not to smile, and she doesn't know whether to yell after him to…to…well, tell him that that was rude, or laugh at the incredibly handsome man with the sharp tongue and quick mind.

She quickly learns that that particular question may never be answered.

The first time he remembers meeting her – properly – is in the middle of solving a triple homicide where the main suspect of the Yard is an unfortunate pet mastiff – she's made an observation about the corpses that proves the dog is innocent.

"Greg," she says softly, and Sherlock, frowning, looks up from inspecting the bite marks on the second victim's throat. He notices the small woman with brown hair pulled back tightly in a neat ponytail speaking with the Detective Inspector. "I don't think it was the dog, because look – the bite marks – they're a mirror image of the dog's mouth. That means-"

"- that it was, in fact, a person who took a mold of the dog's bite, created a very unique weapon, and used said weapon to murder these three victims," Sherlock finishes for her. "Judging by the dirt stains and detritus beneath the nails on this victim's left hand – notice the distinctive tobacco odor - it was the neighbor with those hideous half-dead flowers in the yard. Probably angry with the dog, and its owners, for allowing the dog to urinate on her property, thereby murdering the flora. Not…bad," he nods to the woman and wrinkles his nose. "You should work with this one more often, Gavin. She's actually got half a brain."

It might have sounded almost like a compliment if his tone wasn't so condescending.

He continues inspecting the bodies, noting various pieces of evidence that will further condemn the flower-growing neighbor. He is interrupted by the same soft, hesitant voice.

"Excuse me - but we've worked together…twelve times. Before now."

He glances up before refocusing on the victims, faintly surprised. "Really?" His voice is the epitome of disinterest.

"Really."

"Hmm," he grunts. He thinks for a moment, still not looking up from the bodies, and he does vaguely seem to recall half-deleted memories of a soft-spoken doctor who is slightly more accommodating than most.

"Molly. Molly Hooper." She straightens her lab coat, and there is a humble sort of self-assurance in her statement. He can read so much about her in the way she moves and speaks. She knows who she is, and though she is often worried about how people perceive her, she is never so worried as to feel that she needs to change herself.

If only she were a bit bolder, she may be someone worth working with. Because though he seems to judge her in that moment as capable and trustworthy, at least in the lab – he doesn't remember anything negative about her, after all - he cannot see wasting precious brain space to remember someone as drab and forgettable as the wallpaper in the waiting room. Twelve times?

"Regrettable." He sighs under his breath as he snaps his magnifying glass shut and slides it into his breast pocket.

"Wha – what?" She asks, blinking at him with large brown eyes.

"You. Forgettable." He explains, giving her a pointed look. He is so quick to judge, and so easily disappointed with the masses. He thinks that surely, Molly Hooper is no different. She will fade into the background like so many others he's worked with throughout his life.

The two men leave her - Sherlock, with a flourish - and Greg, with a frustrated shout to the man, a quick apology to Molly, and a knowing shake of the head.

The small, pinched look of surprised anger and frustration on her face slowly turns to one of determination.

"I can fix that," she whispers determinedly to herself, and snaps her gloves at the wrist as she wheels the bodies back in to their respective freezers.

"Fixing" Sherlock Holmes' opinion of her turns out to be a decision that alters the course of her life, though of course she couldn't have known that at the time.

Her amused, somewhat defensive sort of curiosity has morphed into affection, and then into a full-blown fall.

She's not sure exactly when she falls for him, though she can now list a million reasons why. It had started out as a challenge – a way to entertain herself, keep things slightly more interesting in the midst of a plethora of silent corpses; a way to prove to herself (and to the infamous, wildly divisive detective) – that she was someone worth remembering.

So she's done little things – keeping a supply cabinet stocked, just for him, in the lab – making sure no one else uses 'his' microscope, taking extra care with any bodies that come her way, especially ones the Yard has an interest in. And once, when he was moaning to Lestrade about the lack of body parts available for experimental use, she remembered the bag of toes kept in the freezer in one of the student labs. The class was over, and no one would need them.

"I can fix that," she'd interrupted quietly. "I mean – I have toes. That you can have. Not mine, obviously – um. In the student lab. You'll have to sign for them, of course – but – you can have them."

He'd looked at her with carefully guarded wonder, with those blinking blue eyes and furrowed brow, and clicked his teeth once, and nodded his approval.

Since then, he comes to her repeatedly with requests (and demands) for various body parts.

She obliges when she can, within reason.

He now remembers her name at least six times out of ten (which is still fairly abysmal, but it's more than he remembers Greg's).

And she realizes – that for all his odd, rude, eccentricities – she has fallen for him. Hard.

His looks certainly help, but it's not just that his eyes seem to see through to her soul or that his lips make her own twitch or that the way his shirt fits on his chest does funny things to her insides. She really likes him, in that schoolgirl-crush-I-can't-stop-blushing-around-you way. She likes that he can see a person's life history in the outfit they wore and what they had for breakfast. She likes that he has this almost-power to see what no one else can and that he uses his powers for good, and she likes thinking about what makes him tick – all of his mysteries and experiments and whatnot. Ever since her father died, taking his rakish, teasing charm and all the adventure and excitement in her life with it, she's had a hole in her heart. And she feels like it's mending – just a little – with the unwitting help of this crazy, endearing man she occasionally works with.

But she knows he's not interested. It's obvious in the way he still studiously ignores her, and only says nice or flirty things when he wants something. He doesn't have to do that – flirt with her – in order to get what he wants. If he simply asked, she'd get it for him. But he doesn't ask, and she doesn't particularly know why, but she doesn't tell him off.

Ages later (is it months, or years, now?), she finally gets up the nerve to actually ask him out.

She puts on a bit of lipstick and asks him for coffee. Right after he finishes beating the daylights out of a corpse.

After all, she's the only one he'll trust to relay the results of his little experiments. That's got to count for something, right?

When she asks, he blinks at her for half a second.

"Black, two sugars," he commands. "I'll be upstairs."

She blinks and bites her cheek and holds her breath as he walks out the door.

When it clicks shut behind him, she lets her breath out dejectedly.

"I suppose I can fix that," she sighs to herself. "Black, two sugars." She feels just a little better mimicking his smug, indifferent tone.

She gives the corpse Sherlock was beating a dirty look.

"Don't judge me," she mutters.

John enters the picture, and things change.

She meets him the day Sherlock does, of course – when Mike introduces the two men, but she doesn't see John again for quite some time. She heard that John did accept the flat with Sherlock, but she doesn't see him very much, at first.

She still sees Sherlock as regularly (or more appropriately, as irregularly) as ever, but John only accompanies him twice in as many months.

A tiny part of her hopes that it's because Sherlock values her company – just hers – and that he wants to keep these moments of experimentation and investigation between the two of them.

But she knows better than to hope too much.

Sherlock notices when John starts dating that lady-doctor-nurse (?) whose name starts with an "S" and is most likely either Sarah or Sandra.

He does not notice that this is also when he finally begins inviting John to accompany him to Bart's (or demanding, depending on one's point of view).

It's a few months after John moves in with Sherlock that the two of them start coming around to Bart's together, and excepting the occasions when John is working, he's there all the time with Sherlock, now.

And Molly is not exactly jealous of the man who lives with Sherlock and accompanies him on all his adventures – she can tell he's a good influence on Sherlock, and Sherlock is happier with a friend. She's happy for Sherlock, and, she supposes, for John.

John is certainly a friendlier man than Sherlock, and balances Sherlock's coolness quite readily with his warm smiles and jumpers that could rival hers in the Hideous Yet Comfortable Department.

She just feels a bit sad that she's not the one who could make Sherlock happy.

She decides to attempt moving on from Sherlock, because she's long past proving her point that she is memorable. He almost always remembers her name, now (nine times out of ten), and she's the only person at Bart's he'll work with for more than five minutes. And she's the only person who'll work with him at all.

So when he sneaks up behind her in that startling and yet completely endearing way as she's in line in the canteen and requests to see two bodies, she makes her first attempt at denying him.

They're on her list, but the paperwork's gone through already, she explains apologetically.

And then – damn the man, he smiles at her and notices her hair (not even Meena noticed her hair today, for goodness' sake), and she finds herself thinking, once again – I can fix that, for you.

She bites her lip and tells him she'll make the arrangements.

She should have known better than to accept the attentions of Jim from IT just weeks after deciding for the umpteenth time that she was moving on from Sherlock Holmes. Jim was the first man to ever seek her out at work (everyone else was kind to her, but no one was ever interested in the cat lady with flowery jumpers and an odd sense of humor who cut up dead people for a living), and that should have been a red flag.

But she enjoys herself for the few days it lasts – until Sherlock ruins everything (but not really, because Jim playing her like a fiddle was not Sherlock's fault) and Jim ruins everything and then Jim turns out to be a criminal mastermind, to boot.

She's politely kidnapped by Sherlock's brother shortly after Jim's true character is revealed. They share tea and she tells Mycroft everything - though of course he already knows. Despite the 'knowing', he still lets her talk in that silently listening, silently judging way he has, and though he is studiously polite and carefully polished in his speech and mannerisms, she leaves feeling dejected and angry and sad and sorry – very, very sorry.

Sherlock avoids her for weeks afterward.

And she avoids him.

She's not sure if it's because he blames her, or himself.

She's not sure who she blames, either – (though Jim is certainly highest on that list).

She finally realizes that she's the one who'll need to fix this whatever-it-is-sort-of-friendship, and takes it upon herself to make the trek to his flat. She's been there three times before – just for work, of course – his work – and this time she brings a tongue and a kidney as a peace offering.

She's thankful John's not there.

Sherlock is stone still in his armchair, and does not acknowledge her nervous, overly-cheerful 'hello'.

She stands awkwardly in the doorway for a moment before deciding to put the body parts in the fridge.

When she's finished, she notices a subtle shift in Sherlock's countenance. He's no longer looking through her – he's looking at her.

She decides to try again.

"So – Jim," she says, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear and rocking a bit on her heels. "Not from IT, then." She grimaces because even to her, it is a terrible joke.

The corner of his mouth twitches – whether in amusement or annoyance, she's not sure. "No." He agrees. He's still looking at her, almost curiously.

She swallows. "I didn't know. I'm…I'm sorry." She studies his face for any signs of emotion, and finds none. But then she knew she wouldn't. His face is so carefully guarded when he knows someone is watching him. Luckily for her – and luckily for him - he's ignored her for so long that many times, he doesn't realize she is watching him. She's quite good at reading his subtle body language now. "I'm sorry about – all of it. Jim, and you, and John. Sorry," she says again, lamely. She's blushing again.

He nods once, averting his eyes. "I know."

She nods for three seconds, and then stops herself. He's getting irritated. Best to get to the point. "You didn't know, then, either? When…when I introduced him?" She asks cautiously, looking anywhere but at his face until she's done with her question.

Ah, there is a reaction.

He sits forward and for a split second, there is something akin to regret, or anger, on his face. It quickly settles back into mild irritation, and he graces her with a very disdainful gaze.

She presses her lips into a line to avoid smiling, because he's just given her his answer. His eyebrows quirk just a bit in confusion at her response. "Right…just…wanted to make sure," she explains awkwardly.

When he doesn't reply, she tries to explain again. "So – looks like we were both – fooled?" She asks hesitantly.

He doesn't like that either. "We were both cleverly distracted," he accedes, waspish. "And it won't happen again. To me, anyway. And with respect to Jim, I doubt it will happen again to you."

This time she allows her smile to burst forth, in all its radiant glory. That was rude, she thinks, but at least we've gotten that out of the way. "Right," she agrees. "And just…again…to be clear…if you ever notice anything…particularly off…about a man I'm dating…especially the 'he's a complete murderous psychopath' sort of off…that's the sort of thing you're allowed to tell me. Without…preferably without commenting on my weight gain."

This time, he allows his lips to form a half-smirk as well, though his eyes still haven't met hers directly. "If you insist," he drawls slowly.

"Um…okay then," she says. She nods, and makes to leave, awkwardly bobbing her head and making to pull on her coat.

"Tea," he states, raising an eyebrow in her direction.

She freezes, mid-sleeve. "Sorry?" She asks, because Sherlock Holmes does not invite people to tea.

"It is my experience that when one is peckish, one indulges in a cup of tea and some biscuits. You obviously haven't eaten breakfast this morning. You came straight from Bart's with the tongue and kidney – the tongue is acceptable, by the way, but the kidney is sub-par and veritably useless – but my point is that if you truly desire tea, feel free to help yourself. Even anything here is better than Speedy's." He nods to the frankly frightening grimy countertop, where the tea things sit, and she suppresses a shudder. She is hungry, and she does fancy some tea, but…

"Sherlock, even if I wanted tea, I'd have to clean-" she stops herself mid-sentence, and notices his impish smile. She blinks owlishly for a moment too long before she realizes that's what he intended.

Instead of scolding him for being a manipulative tosser, she laughs. It is not her natural, free-falling, throw-her-head-back, belly-shaking sort of laugh – she's not comfortable enough around him to do that, yet – but she is comfortable enough, and relieved enough that they are back to their version of normal - to laugh delightedly, an open-mouthed, toothy sort of laugh, and she grins at him as he gives her a tense, almost genuine smile.

"I," she sighs, after a moment. "I can fix that, I suppose. Two sugars?"

She misses the look of surprise on his face as she sets about scrubbing the countertop and preparing the tea.

Sherlock takes her up on her offer.

The next time she starts dating – someone from work again, a man named Mark with dirty blonde hair, a soft jawline, and warm brown eyes – he notices something 'off' about the man immediately.

He tells himself the fact that seeing Molly honestly enjoy herself with the man has nothing to do with the acidic feeling in his stomach and everything to do with the fact that Mark has a string of ex-lovers with ruined credit and broken hearts.

So he tells her.

It's the way he tells her that makes Molly suspicious of his own feelings.

He's…she would almost say he's nervous about it. And he's never nervous about showing off his incredible skills of deduction, no matter whose toes he steps on in the process. Except…apparently…possibly…hers.

No John around this time to ease the blow of his dating deductions, and he startles her again as she's studying a sample under her own microscope.

"Molly," he says softly, and she jumps just a bit.

She lets out a breath and turns to face him with her trademark small smile. "Sherlock? Need anything?"

He swallows and stares at her for a moment. A moment that slowly turns into a socially unacceptable length of time, and Molly stands there, fidgeting under the scrutiny of his all-seeing gaze and twisting her lab coat in her hands.

"Don't…" he begins, and then pauses. He seems to be rethinking something.

Her smile falters, and she blinks. "Don't…what?"

And then he's smiling at her, in a sad, pitying sort of way, and her heart beats faster and she's not sure where this conversation is going, but it seems important to him.

His next words come out in a mad, clipped rush. "Don't make any more plans with Mark Burns unless you'd like to spend the next three years living out of a damp studio flat and eating beans three times a day. He's a serial credit killer and has a long string of broke and broken-hearted lovers behind him. All the signs are there - you'd be better off flushing your paycheck. Really, Molly, your taste in men is appalling. You're much better off focusing on your work."

(Which, of course, to Sherlock, means focusing on him, but neither of them realize that in this moment.)

During the course of her speech, her heart plummets and soars and plummets again. She realizes he's doing what she asked – warning her about anything 'off' in the men she dates – but the way he's saying it…at first, he seemed almost sorry – but then - you'd think it was her fault in the first place for attracting the scum of the earth. Which apparently encompasses him, if she includes him in that statement about her 'appalling taste in men', but she doesn't have the opportunity or gumption to tell him so, because he's gone as soon as the word 'work' is out of his mouth.

He comes back a moment later to steal the petri dish with part of the sample she was observing, and her eyebrows are still furrowed somewhat and her mouth is still hanging open.

He smirks and takes the petri dish carefully in one hand, and with the other, he gently closes her mouth. Something in his face changes almost unnoticeably, and his fingers linger just a moment on her face, his thumb trailing just beneath the outline of her lower lip.

The look is soon gone, however, and he gives her another trademark smirk and leaves her silent and wondering how on earth she's going to move on after that little display.

It is Christmas, and for the first time in a very long time – Sherlock Holmes is wrong.

He's not sure exactly why seeing Molly dressed to the nines in his flat irritates him – though he accedes it probably has something to do with the fact that his mind has been a little too focused on one of his transport's needs, with this Woman case.

And he thinks he really doesn't have time to deduce another one of Molly's ill-fated lovers, on top of everything else, and if she'd just stop dating and focus on her work like a good little pathologist it would make everyone's lives easier.

Mainly his.

He doesn't stop to consider why it would make his life easier, because though he often makes wry barbs at the expense of Lestrade and John's love lives, he's never been so against them having one in the first place.

And so, despite the warning words and glances of every other guest in his flat, he deduces her.

And he is wrong.

He plucks the perfectly-wrapped, offending gift off the top of her pile of presents and peeks at the tag, and he actually feels his entire face fall when he sees who the gift is for.

Sherlock.

It's for him.

Molly Hooper is…romantically interested…in…him.

He knew, of course, that she'd been fond of him. That she liked him, and put up with him, and that flirting with her would occasionally result in her acquiring more suitable cadavers…

Oh, no.

And then she's talking.

She's calling him out in front of everyone with that sad and angry and hurt little look on her face that he's only ever seen twice before, and he knows he's gone too far.

"You always say such awful things, Sherlock. Every time. Always." Her voice rings clear and condemning despite the slight tremor.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he thinks – I can fix that. He's not sure where the thought comes from, but he realizes that he does, in fact, want to fix this. His…something…with Molly Hooper, whatever that entails – is important to him. She is valuable to him, and he wants her in his life.

He is not such a fool to think that any replacement pathologist would be as accommodating or understanding or…good, as Molly.

So he does what social conventions deem appropriate and necessary, when one party has offended the other.

He apologizes.

"I am sorry. Forgive me -"

That would be enough, he thinks – except – except –

It's not enough.

Almost without thinking, he leans forward and kisses her chastely on the cheek.

It is a bad idea.

It is a terrible idea.

It is the worst idea he's ever had.

She is too soft and too warm and too fluttery and too…pleasant.

He mumbles a hasty "Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper," before pulling away in a state of well-masked panic and confusion.

Luckily, the Woman interrupts, and he escapes to his room and a case that will take his thoughts far away from Molly Hooper and everything she may or may not mean to him.

He doesn't escape for long enough. She's there, as he identifies the Woman's body. It is disappointing that Irene Adler is dead – to be sure – if she really truly is – because she was incredibly exhilarating. She outsmarted him and he'd have liked the chance to outsmart her, among other things. She was thrilling…

…but she was not, and is not, pleasant.

He is struggling as Molly unzips the body bag, her freshly washed and dried hair hanging in soft waves around her shoulders, the scent of Christmas baking on her reindeer jumper.

And Mycroft knows. He knows something is up, though he may not know exactly what – or whom - Sherlock is struggling with.

"The only one that fitted the description. Had her brought here…your home away from home," Mycroft says, inclining his head toward the body. The slight inflection as he accentuates the last four words indicates that he's subtly attempting to deduce exactly which woman's presence is causing Sherlock's discomfort.

"You didn't need to come in, Molly," Sherlock says, and it comes out both too roughly and too softly for his liking.

"That's okay," she shrugs. "Everyone else was busy with…Christmas. The face is a bit – sort of - bashed up, so it might be a bit difficult," she apologizes, and he knows she is watching him carefully.

He swallows. This…pleasantness is not something he can succumb to. He is convinced that it would ruin him. It would ruin his work. And, to be quite honest…it terrifies him. He will not allow this passing sensation of pleasure to destroy everything he stands for.

He has just learned of the depth of Molly's…infatuation for him, and he quickly deduces the best way to push her away.

"Show me the rest of her," he demands.

Swallowing uncertainly, she unzips the bag further, revealing the perfectly formed body beneath the bashed in face.

He stares for a moment, comparing measurements, and then – "That's her."

He turns and walks away as he sees Molly's eyes widen and her lips turn downwards, just a hair.

He congratulates himself on successfully evading sentiment once again. But even to him, it's a congratulations that has a heaviness attached to it.

He accepts the cigarette Mycroft offers him…if not for the exact reasons Mycroft offers it.

Molly only sees Sherlock a few times after that Christmas, before her 'naughty ex' James Moriarty causes their worlds to twist and collapse before them all.

And she sees that Sherlock is crumbling – there are holes in his façade, and she can see through them with ease. She's had years of experience, now.

So when he demands her help - even though she's never cancelled a lunch date for Sherlock before – she does cancel this one.

He bought her the crisps she likes.

He never buys anyone anything.

He is flailing.

His holes are showing.

So without so much as a second thought, she texts her friend and cancels their lunch date, and sets about helping Sherlock identify substances that will lead him to a kidnapper.

And as they work, she can see more and more how ragged he's become at the edges. He's muttering under his breath and darting glances at John across the room and practically begging the unknown mystery compound to reveal itself.

It widens the hole in her heart that's been healing for a long time, because this is how her father looked in his last days - the well-masked panic and nervous bursts of energy and frustration and just…the unbearable sadness that comes with knowing that what is coming is completely out of one's control.

And she finally can't stand it any longer, because though she knows he may shoot her down or ignore her, as he has so many times before, she feels as though she has to say something. Because the hole in her heart is growing larger with every hole she sees him desperately trying to patch over in himself.

"Are you okay?" She asks. "Because…you look a…bit like my dad…"

He is shocked when she confronts him.

Shocked when she sees him, in a way that no one else has truly seen him for as long as he can remember, with the exception of his parents.

But her seeing, he finds, is much less demanding and much less critical and much more welcome.

He is shocked when she sees him, and then, in that quick, self-deprecating turn-around that Molly Hooper has become famous for (at least in his mind), she quickly assures him, and herself, that though she may be able to see him, she 'doesn't count'.

He finds that her quick dismissal of her position of importance in his life opens a door that he is hesitant to walk through.

It is a door that may save them all, but it is also a door that, once entered, can never be exited.

It is a door that, if entered, will permanently cement the importance of Molly Hooper in the life of Sherlock Holmes.

He wonders, based on the previous unpleasantly pleasant experience he's had with Molly Hooper, if he does decide to trust her – if he places the life of himself and all he holds dear in her small, steady hands – if this will change his perception of her. If he will still be capable of looking past her and rejecting her advances with seemingly careless ease.

In the end, his decision is made for him.

He cannot do this without her.

He cannot survive without her.

He cannot fix any of the mess he's made, without her.

And for the first time, in a darkened lab, he is completely honest with her.

When he tells her what he needs her to do – find the look-alike body, perform his autopsy, fix the records so that no one will suspect there were two bodies similar in physicality to Sherlock Holmes – and that the lives of several of their shared friends ride in the balance, along with the lives of all those who will be affected should James Moriarty be allowed to continue his little games - she nods bravely.

"I – I can do that. I can – find the body. Fix the records. I can do that."

Something stirs in him at her fiercely determined expression. He tells himself it is gratitude – that is all he can afford it to be, right now – and continues on setting up the rest of his brilliant plan.

After the fall, she sees him a few times before he leaves the country. He's in and out of her flat for a month before rumors die down enough for him to leave without too much trouble.

Once, during that month he was staying in her bedroom (because the spare wasn't 'spacious' enough for him and his big fat head) he'd gotten himself into a scrape (minor stab wound on his left side; avoided any organs but still a bit too deep for a simple bandage) and she catches him trying to give himself stitches, nostrils flaring in pain.

She watches, biting her lip – "Sherlock-"

He doesn't acknowledge her.

"Sherlock – I can fix that."

He grunts half-heartedly, his normally steady hands trembling a bit as he grits his teeth.

"Sherlock. Let me fix it." Her voice is stern and he looks up, studying her face.

Whatever he sees there apparently tilts the odds in her favor. He allows her to come close and hands her the needle and thread.

He diligently ignores the way her gentle, intelligent hands fix something more than the wound in his side.

He always prided himself on his lack of need for human companionship, but this month away from his…friends…away from John, and Mrs. Hudson, and even Lestrade and the Yard and the cases…it has been mentally stimulating but physically and, admittedly – emotionally – draining.

Every person he's taken down, and the knowledge of the long road ahead and the countless number of people he will need to take down before the road ends, and the knowledge of the people he is leaving behind, widens a hole somewhere in the heart he never admitted to having before.

He feels empty and he's not quite sure how to fill himself back up, because cold facts and logic aren't quite doing it for him, anymore.

He is disturbed when he feels full and whole again in his chest as she gently, gently fixes him up, her eyes moving carefully between the gash in his side and the expressions on his face, and her own face alternating between shadows and light as she washes her hands and sanitizes everything else.

As he washes his own hands, she smiles and asks him if he'd like some tea. "Or something stronger," she half jokes.

He stands, still shirtless, and rests his hands on her shoulders. He thinks briefly that he'd like to pull her to him and…embrace her, and his lips twitch into a sort of rueful half-smile at the thought.

Instead, he squeezes her shoulders and mutters his acceptance of the tea and sweeps out of the room to dispose of his bloody clothing and to prepare for his departure in two days.

He thinks of leaving without saying goodbye. The 'old' Sherlock certainly would have done so. But 'old' Sherlock is dead and buried.

So instead, he sits on her sofa and stares at her cat for what feels like seven hours until she emerges from her guest bedroom and blinks at him.

" 'Morning, Sherlock," she mumbles, rubbing the sleep from her eyes and sighing. "I didn't think you'd still be here. Not that I mind," she quickly amends, "You're just usually…not here. When I get up."

He smiles at her again, and she immediately sees, in his smile, why he stayed.

"You're leaving." It is a statement, not a question, and she takes a few steps, so that she is standing in front of him.

He nods, averting his eyes from the way the old T-shirt she's wearing slides off of her shoulder and the way her hair frizzes at the top but still frames her face in a pleasantly chaotic manner. He doesn't like the way she is looking down at him, so he stands, too.

"Off to haunt the living," he says lightly. "In several different countries. All hush-hush, of course. So I won't be in touch." And then, because of the sad way she is smiling up at him and the way her touch filled him the previous night, he closes the distance between them and pulls her to his chest.

He's not sure what he's doing, but he knows why.

He needs to commit every bit of this – every bit of her - to memory, so that he can pull it out and replay it and it can refill him and mend his holes when his soul is leaking out and his unwanted but newfound heart is cracking in the coming years.

It's awkward at first, because her arms are smushed against his chest, but she gently slides them out, and wraps them gingerly around his waist – avoiding his recent stitches - and leans her head against his chest.

He can feel her heart beat through her T-shirt and through the ratty hoody of his disguise, and there is something warming in the thought that she can feel his as well.

It takes him only seven seconds to catalog everything about the embrace – the way her warm hands feel pressed against his back, the way her chest presses against his lower ribcage, the way her cheek rests on his sternum, the way her heart beat thrums against him, the way she feels and looks and smells – but he finds himself waiting longer than necessary to pull away.

He allows himself ten extra seconds of Molly before dropping his hands to his side.

She quickly follows suit, and takes a step back, eyes lowered. He can tell she is trying not to cry.

"I…" he clears his throat. "Thank you," he says softly.

And then he is gone.

Sherlock is gone for two years.

Molly doesn't know how long he'll be gone, of course.

After three months with no news, the secret is slowly tearing her apart.

If he dies, she thinks, how will I know? How will I grieve?

She pays a visit to Mycroft, who assures her Sherlock is alive. Mycroft also assures her that she must never attempt to visit him again, especially at his little Diogenes Club, lest she raise suspicions.

She tries to be angry with him, but she sees the stress and sadness in Mycroft as well as she saw it in Sherlock, and she finds it easy to forgive him.

And so, a year after Sherlock has left, she moves on in the best way she knows how.

She throws herself into research and bumps into romance along the way.

Oh, they didn't meet through work – no. But her new research partner, Ginger, introduces them at lunch one day, and she does a double-take. And then quickly shakes herself out of it, as she realizes that even in disguise, Sherlock would never grin at her like that – like she's the sun and moon and stars all rolled into one.

She's no fool. She knows to throw herself into a relationship with a Sherlock look-alike will only end in trouble. So she is polite but distant for a month.

But their groups of friends intertwine often, now, and he is charming and kind and the polar opposite of Sherlock in regards to personality, and she begins to see him as his own person (though in the right light, and in the right clothing…she still fights hard, the pain in her chest).

When he asks her out two months after meeting her, she agrees.

She is happy for the first time in over a year. In years, if she's being honest. She is happy, but she is not…whole. He fits nicely into her life, but he doesn't fill her.

She tells herself she's being ridiculous, and that he's a real catch. When he proposes, she accepts. She ignores the slightly…leaking feeling she has every day afterwards.

The floodgates fully open one day in November when she looks in the mirror in her locker after work and sees the face of Sherlock Holmes.

It's not that he thought London would be frozen in some sort of time-warp while he was away – he is a logical being, after all – but the amount of change that has occurred in two years is almost mind-boggling to the great detective.

John is engaged (or about to be) and no longer resides at Baker Street. He is also furious at Sherlock, which is something that sends Sherlock into a sort of self-protective 'ignore it and maybe he'll come around' mental stage.

Mrs. Hudson has started taking 'herbal soothers' again, and has renovated 221C. Luckily, Mycroft has kept anyone from actually letting out the place.

Greg is still a DI, but his old team has been scattered. Donovan still works with him, but is applying for a position higher up. She'll get it, soon, too. Anderson is gone. Sherlock's a bit relieved that at least some of the changes are positive ones.

And finally – Molly is engaged. He's not sure why – but this seems like the hardest thing of all for him to wrap his head around. It's not – it just – it surprises him that she's moved on. From him. Apparently. And it surprises him that it surprises him because really, it's just logical that she would move on – she didn't know when he was coming back, if ever. And it irritates him that it bothers him, because for the past two years he's been replaying memories of her – her reading him; trusting him completely in the lab as the media was bringing his reputation down around them in a flaming, dirty heap; stitching him up; wrapping her arms around him – but of course she wouldn't know that. And it's stupid of him to be bothered by that. It's not as though he was pining for her – she just – anchored him to London in a way that the others couldn't, because she knew he was alive, and so – she was still holding on to him. In a way. At least – he'd thought she was.

Well…to be fair…in a way, she was holding on to him, or at least holding onto herself.

She is still kind, still accommodating, still eternally patient and quirky, and she welcomes him home with relief and a smile, and only a fraction of the emotion that the others do. She kept his secret very well, after all.

He just thought – no – if he's being honest – he doesn't know what he thought, exactly.

He ignores the pain from all this change the best he can, and throws himself into cases and planning weddings. He finds that this helps with the change with John – it restores their relationship back to how it almost was before the fall – but it does not help with Molly.

Spending extra time with Molly – trying to be more human with her – it only makes him hurt worse. Their relationship seems to be better than it was before – he's kinder, and she stands up for herself more, and is happier around him – teasing, even – but for Sherlock, it's as though there are holes being slowly drilled into him every time he sees her. He doesn't understand this, and so he does his best to ignore it.

But it still hurts.

The night of the wedding, after seeing her dancing with Tom and after leaving the reception early - he falls asleep on the sofa and dreams that he is in his chair, playing the violin. Everything in his flat is completely normal, except him – he seems to be – pixelated, somehow.

Every time he draws his bow across the strings in a mournful melody, bits of color leave him. He is slowly fading, turning from color to black and white. He is draining himself, but he can't stop playing.

Suddenly, Molly comes to him and leans over him. "Stop that," she says sternly, but there is a gentle, pained smile on her face.

He feels extremely grateful for her presence, but he shakes his head. "I…can't. I don't know how."

She smiles again, and gently takes the violin out of his hands. She sets it beside him on the table and kisses his forehead chastely, and then presses her forehead to his – "I can fix that," she whispers, large brown eyes staring tenderly into sad blue-grey ones.

"How?" He asks, after a moment.

Her gaze doesn't falter, but she doesn't answer.

"How?"

She backs up and smiles again, large and almost pitying - but his own panic at what he knows her response will be wakes him. He gasps awake and his heart is thundering and he really doesn't know what to do.

Yes, he does. He just doesn't know if he wants to do it.

So, as he always does, he throws himself into his Work.

This time, the Work involves a certain Lady of high standing in the British Government, a blackmailing newspaper mogul, and drugs.

It's the drugs that lead him to Molly next.

He groans when John announces they're going to see her. He's done so well at avoiding her; so well at squashing any feelings he's been having – and now, it will all come roaring to the forefront when he sees her again.

It comes roaring...but not in the way he expected.

Molly's face is dangerously neutral as she takes the cup of urine he hands her, and her lips are pinched as she performs the various tests and announces him 'clean'.

He is five seconds from congratulating himself on escaping the situation without much interaction from the woman he has come to both respect and fear (and possibly even adore), because of the power she has to fill him with something other than anxiety and irritation.

And then she stops in front of him, and gives him that hurt, angry look he saw years ago at Christmastime, and she calls him out again –

-and then she slaps him.

He knows she is going to slap him – he can see it in the way she her right arm tenses and in the spread of her feet, but he lets her slap him anyway.

The sting in his next words reflect the sting on his face and strangely – strangely – the stinging, pounding sensation in his chest.

"Sorry to hear your engagement's over, though I'm fairly grateful for lack of a ring."

The next few moments of interaction pass in somewhat of a blur for Sherlock, because – she doesn't have a ring. His remarks to John are off-handed, irritable, and distracted, at best. The text notification on his phone finally brings him out of his singularly focused state and back to his mission at hand.

In the hallway, off the phone with his network, Sherlock ponders his words to Molly – and realizes that they have a double meaning.

Not necessarily, he defends to himself. She doesn't have a ring, and thus her rather impressive slaps did not cause as much pain.

But he still cannot ignore the fact that a place in his chest stung and lifted and dropped as she slapped him as well – because he is glad the fool Tom is gone; he is glad she is alone.

Glad she is not anyone else's, but his.

Wait – what?

He frowns at himself, shakes away the startling realization plaguing him, and refocuses on the Magnusson case. But she is always there, in the back of his mind – a once-fuzzy picture that is slowly coming into focus.

Of course, of course when he is shot - Molly saves him. The fact that his mind – the piece of himself he values more highly than anything else – his own mind trusts her completely – gives him another piece of evidence that the sentimental, "foolish" feelings he has been pushing away for years may not be entirely foolish or entirely wasteful or even found exclusively on the losing side.

He has plenty of time to wrestle with his subconscious and the fact that it's Molly – it's always Molly Hooper that makes him whole, and gives him hope – during his hospital stay.

It takes him four days to realize that she has not been in to see him when he is awake.

He knows that she has been in to see him, at least once, because the particular mixture of human and cat hair left behind on the seat of the chair closest to him only belongs to Molly.

He does not have time to ponder on this until his second admittance to the hospital, after John and Mary are at odds and the steady stream of visitors he once had trickles off into a routine: Mary in the morning, before work, Mrs. Hudson for lunch, John in the evening, after work (never with Mary, anymore…) and occasionally, Greg.

And Molly, twice more, when he is sleeping. And it irritates him, that she plans her visits when he is sleeping, because he cannot avoid sleep so easily on the numbing drugs.

And so he begins to attempt to sleep through the others' visits, instead, so that he can catch her in the visiting act, one day soon.

He's not sure why – he has nothing to say to her, after all, nothing he can think of that he needs to discuss with her at this exact moment in time (he's still coming to grips with the idea himself that he may…want her, as more than a friend and pathologist, and that there may be the possibility that he may actually have her, with Tom out of the picture).

He waits, and one day, the rustling of her coat and khakis and bag as she makes to leave wakes him enough.

"Wait," he calls, his voice still gruff with sleep.

She hears him and stiffens, her back to him, and slowly turns. It is dark, and he cannot make out her face, though he is blinking, rapidly waking, now.

He's not sure why just seeing her gifts him with the sudden surge of adrenaline, but he will take it.

"Molly."

She sighs and walks back to him, sitting stiffly beside him, and staring at the IV in his hand. A small smile twitches at her lips, but it does not reach her eyes. "I'm glad you're alive, Sherlock. You frightened us all."

He swallows, and shifts slightly, grimacing at the brief spasm of pain as he attempts to turn to see her better. "Molly – I need - " there is apology in his voice, and exhaustion, and she hears it, he knows she hears it, because that's what she does.

But this time, there is no 'whatever you need', Sherlock. There is no 'you can have me'.

"No," She says, shaking her head. "No, Sherlock. This – all this – it's your turn. This time – you fix this. You…" she takes a shaky breath. "You obviously don't want my help, or you would've asked…before. John might be married, but he is still your friend. Mary, Greg - why – why not us? You don't – you don't hurt people like this, Sherlock. Janine – not – not that she's particularly upset over it all, but you also – you just…"

She takes another breath. "You don't hurt your friends like this, Sherlock – lying, and making everyone think – everyone worry – that you'll go and do something as utterly stupid as…" she sighs forcefully and looks up at the ceiling, unable to finish her sentence, though it's obvious to him she's referring to his stint at the drug house. "Just…stop. If we haven't proven by now that we can be trusted, I have no idea how we'll ever prove it." She looks at him, jaw tense.

She is never particularly eloquent when she's this emotional, but he finds that for once, she doesn't need to be. She has given him so much – they all have - fixed his mistakes, and filled his holes – and what little he has done in return is not working. They don't know. She doesn't know. How much – how much I trust them. How much I trust her. With my life, and my mind, and my entire being.

He watches her, face neutral and his own jaw clenching and unclenching at her outburst, unsure of what to say, and sees her eyes fill with tears.

"Well then," She nods and blinks rapidly, and pats his hand. Again, contact with her is unpleasantly pleasant, but now - now it is unpleasant because he wants to enjoy the comfort she brings, but he finds that he cannot, when she is so unhappy. She pauses for a moment after she stands, trying to discern something in his features before turning and walking away, and this time, he doesn't stop her.

It's a strange thing, but he feels like she takes a little bit of him, with her. He is determined to get that piece back. And for once, he is completely all right with the fact that getting that piece of himself back may mean getting a whole Molly with it.

He tries.

Lord, he tries to fix things.

He starts with the most immediate mess – that of the Magnusson case, and John, and Mary.

However, his solution to said case ends in murder and exile – a problem not even his dear older brother can 'fix'.

And so, the attempt of one Sherlock Holmes to fix his relationship with his best friend succeeds (marginally), and the attempt to fix his relationship with Molly Hooper, the Woman Who Fills and Fixes, is dead on arrival.

He does not want anyone to tell her. He is all sorts of struggling inside, and can't seem to decide on whether he is ashamed, or angry, or completely and totally full of regret, in the case of Molly Hooper.

But Mary finally tells her, against Sherlock's wishes - a mere hour before he is to be exiled - and as Sherlock is being released into the custody of his brother to make the drive to the airport where he will leave his country forever, he stops in horror, a well-dressed guard near each of his shoulders.

She is standing in the doorway, just beyond the metal detectors. He can tell how quickly she came after she heard the news – her hair is disheveled, and one pant leg is tucked into her boot, while the other not. She still has her Bart's ID badge sticking out of her front pocket. She obviously changed quickly out of her lab attire before making her way over to him.

Her own mouth is open a fraction, until one of the guards places a firm hand on Sherlock's elbow. "Let's go, sir," he says stiffly.

"Wait-" Sherlock replies.

Molly grips her oversized messenger bag and swallows, staring at him from across the room.

The guard sighs, and waves Molly through the metal detector. "You have one minute, and we are staying right here."

Molly nods nervously, and turns her gaze to Sherlock. It is questioning, and anxious, and hopeful.

He stares into warm brown eyes, and any thoughts as to whether or not he has a heart are soundly answered once and for all. He knows he has a heart, because in that moment, it is breaking.

He swallows. "Mary?" He asks. She's the only one he can think of who would have told Molly – the only one besides Molly who could consistently read him well enough to know that what he wants is often what he insists he doesn't.

She blinks. "Yeah."

He sighs, and looks to the side. Molly's knuckles are white, they are gripping her bag so tightly.

"It should have been you," she blurts.

He looks up at her in surprise.

"You should have told me," she explains simply, without anger, because there is not time to waste on anger, anymore - and he nods.

The guard beside him straightens up. "Time's up, Mr. Holmes."

Molly's look of panic mimics the sudden anxiety Sherlock feels.

"I'm sorry, Molly," he says suddenly. "I – tried. But I can't – I can't fix this."

She blinks rapidly, though her eyes are thankfully dry. He's not sure if he could stand seeing her cry. "It's okay," she nods, her voice a whisper.

He is nearly to the doors when she calls out again. "Thank you. For trying." She flashes him the bravest grin she can muster.

He offers a small smile in return. "All you had to do was ask, apparently."

She stifles a half-hearted laugh. "Maybe I shouldn't have asked." Her voice is mournful and he stops, despite the firm guidance of the guards at the door.

"I am glad you did." Sherlock surprises them both with the fervor in his voice. "All of the people in my life who matter," he continued, more quietly, staring intently at her, "deserve to know exactly how much I care for and trust them, and I am sorry I ever made you doubt yourself."

He nods good-bye as the guards guide him out the door and he seats himself regally in the back seat of the car, as if being chauffeured to a meeting with the Queen and not being sent into exile.

Molly breathes quietly in and out as she watches the vehicle drive away, before tears blur her vision for the entire duration of her trip back to work.

Molly's day goes from bad to worse, as Moriarty's face clouds all of London's television circuits and it appears that the villain is back from the dead, and the hero is never coming home.

She attempts to finish her shift, but finds she cannot stand the sight of Sherlock's microscope in the lab or his set of goggles in the morgue, and retires to her office in an attempt to file some paperwork so that if asked, she can at least say she did something productive.

She stands near the tall cabinet, resting her forehead on its cool exterior as tears cloud her vision again and drip salty splatters onto the file in her hands. Her shoulders tense when she senses someone standing in her doorway, though she can't be bothered to turn around and see whom it is. If it is a co-worker, they will surely hear her pathetic sniffles and leave her in peace, and if is Moriarty, well, he can wait until she's had a good cry first.

The person in her doorway moves into it, and she sighs sadly, prepared to turn and face the worst. Before she can even lift her head from the side of the cabinet, however, the person speaks.

"I can fix that," he says softly, uncertainly.

She swallows and blinks rapidly, slowly turning to see Sherlock Holmes standing in her office, slightly disheveled himself.

"Fix what?" She asks thickly.

He takes a few tentative steps forward, until he is standing beside her. He watches her intently and moves slowly, as though afraid she might startle if his movements are too sudden.

She finds herself trembling as he lifts first one hand, and then the other, to gently cup her face.

He brushes her tears away with the pads of his thumbs, and moves one hand to push a strand of hair behind her ear.

Another tear escapes, and he leans forward tentatively, and kisses the place on her cheek where it fell.

"This." He pulls away, but barely – his breath still warm on her skin.

She feels her lips turn up into a half-smile, and gently, hesitantly turns her face so that the next kiss he bestows is on her lips.

He kisses her lightly, still uncertain, and she leans into it, wrapping her arms around him.

The encouragement helps, and he pulls her close, stealing one more kiss before she buries her face into the soft fabric of his shirt and lets out one last shuddering sigh.

He closes his eyes and rests his own cheek on her head. "Better?" He mumbles into her hair.

Her small laugh is muffled, but she turns her head to the side and sighs, this one much more content than the last. "Much better," she whispers.

After a moment, she swallows and adds quietly - "But, it might take a bit more of this to be…all better."

He chuckles, and feeling the gentle rumble of his voice through his chest fills her just as much as the sound of his voice and the kisses he bestowed on her moments before. Fixing and filling take time and the participation of both parties, and now, it appears that she has plenty of both.

"Just a bit more?" He asks, his voice full of mock skepticism. "I know I'm a fast learner, but you understand that this is new to me. I will make countless more mistakes for you to fix."

She pulls away and raises an eyebrow, but he is grinning at her, and she knows he is teasing.

"Fine…perhaps…for us to fix?" He amends.

She nods in approval. "Well," she sighs. "I suppose the best place to begin fixing messes is with this whole Moriarty fiasco. Where are we going to start with this one? Apparently this is on both of us, because you saw him kill himself and I double-checked his autopsy."

He can't help the grin the spreads across his face. "Yes, we're quite the guilty party, here. But I have a few leads. I'll need access to all records on Moriarty and all John Does brought in and out the week before and after his death."

She nods again, and moves to get him the necessary files. "And..." he swallows uncertainly. This is new for him, and his voice is soft as he adds his admission. "...the assistance of a woman I have learned is entirely invaluable to me."

She smiles then – with her whole face, her whole being – and he finds that once again, her presence, combined with her trust and love, give him a boost of endorphins better than any case or drug ever did. And he finds himself believing, like the woman in front of him, that mistakes in life are not only fixable – but very much worth fixing.

Please review. Thank you for your time!