From the Heart to the Page

"Molly?"

The young pathologist was pulled from her reverie to reality by the voice of her older sister, Liza. She stood in the doorway of her guest room, which Molly had been occupying for the past week. Their maternal grandmother had just passed away of natural causes, at the very impressive age of ninety-five. Her passing was not a shock in any way, not only because of her age, but because her husband of nearly seventy-years had passed away two months previously. The two of them had been true soulmates – no one who had known them would disagree with that – so the family felt no surprise or anger that she had followed soon after him.

When her grandfather had passed away soon after the new year, Molly had only been able to be in Northampton for the funeral and not a minute more. The entire return of Moriarty affair was going full-force at the time, and Sherlock had needed all hands on deck as well as all of his assets close around him. And I am nothing if not an asset to that man, thought Molly with more resignation than bitterness.

Thankfully, the entire affair was now over and done with, and Molly really wanted to make it up to her family. She didn't often get to travel up to see them, with the demands of her job and the demanding consulting detective. Now, with her grandmother's passing, Molly took this as a true opportunity to get away for a while and be in her hometown and with her family. So, for a month, she was a guest in her older sister's home in Northampton.

"Hm?" Molly replied, her eyes habitually traveling over her sister with the tiniest drop of envy. It had always been apparent, even when they were babies, which parent each daughter took after. While Molly was very much her father's daughter, in both looks and personality, Liza had taken after their mother in those ways. Her strawberry-blond hair, bright green eyes, and hour-glass figure were as stunning on Liza at thirty-seven, after marriage and three children, as they had been her entire life.

"Mum says tea will be ready in a minute," said Liza.

"Okay, thanks," Molly replied before turning her attention back to what had been captivating her before Liza had interrupted.

Her older sister, however, decided not to leave but enter the guest room and sit down beside Molly on the bed. She smiled when she saw what had captured Molly's attention so fully. "You really can't put these down, can you?"

Molly smiled sheepishly, knowing that she couldn't deny it. "They're just so beautiful," Molly said, fingering the aged stationary in her hands. "I mean, we always knew that they loved each other and they fell in love during the war, but that it's fully documented through these letters…that these letters were actually how they fell in love…"

"Mm-hm," said Liza, picking up another of the many letters that Molly had laid out before her. "Who knew that Nana and Pop were such poets? Although, I can only read so many mentions and longings for Nana's breasts without blushing."

Molly laughed as her own cheeks flamed. "Yep, Pop had no qualms about admitting that he was a breast man in these."

"That's just one reason why I understand that the two of them never showed them to us when they were alive," said Liza contemplatively. "Despite making no secret of their love, they were very private about expressing it to each other, and it's no wonder. Some things are too precious to share."

Molly nodded. "Finding these yesterday in her belongings felt like finding holy relics…" She turned to her older sister with a worried look. "You don't think they'd be mad, do you? I mean, they're both…they're both gone now, so it can't do any harm, could it?"

Liza smiled warmly, putting an arm around Molly's shoulders. "No, it couldn't now. As long as we keep these in the family, I don't think there's any harm at all."

Molly sighed, folding the letter she was holding and putting it back in its envelope. "Makes me wish that we still lived in the letter writing age. Communication is so instant now, and so much colder and electronic. Letters really allow the personality to shine through, in the handwriting, the stationary, the personal touches, the distance it travels, and the real feel of it all."

"I hear you," said Liza. "You may not believe it, knowing Michael, but I know that he would have been fantastic at courting me with letters…"

Molly giggled at her sister's dreamy expression. Her husband of eleven years was a solid, strong and quiet man, and perfectly balanced out her sister's bubbly and outgoing personality. "That wouldn't surprise me," teased Molly, leaning in conspiratorially. "It's always the quiet ones…"

As the sisters descended into a fit of giggles, a strong voice from the bottom of the stairs quieted them.

"Elizabeth! Margaret! Your tea is getting cold!"

Both sisters exchanged slightly exasperated but resigned looks – only their mother called them by their full first names.

"Having both of her daughters back in the homeland has regressed her back at least twenty years," chuckled Liza. "Don't tell me you're not relieved that her condo doesn't have a spare room."

Molly laughed and held up her hands in surrender. "Guilty as charged!" She loved her mother, she really did, but one could take only so many talks and lectures about her choice of career ("It's just so morbid, darling, aren't you worried it will warp your world view?") and her pathetic love life ("You really just need to buck up and put yourself out there more, dearie, won't you please let me take you shopping?")

"Come on," said Liza, getting up and pulling Molly up with her. "Don't want to keep the matriarch waiting."

That night, Molly couldn't sleep. After about an hour of tossing, turning, and counting sheep, Molly conceded defeat and got out of bed. Tugging on her bath-robe, her eyes fell on the box of her Nana's and Pop's letters from WWII, sitting innocently on top of the guest room's bureau. Hoping that they might lull her to sleep, Molly walked to the bureau and picked it up. But when she lifted the lid, Molly she didn't lift a letter from the box.

Looking at the vast amount of letters in the box, each written with so much love and hope, Molly couldn't help but compare her grandparents' love story with her lack of one. Oh, she was in love, she would never deny that, but it wasn't requited. On top of that, she and the man she was in love with were hardly on good terms. And she had more than enough good reasons for that.

From his drug relapse, to his fake engagement, to him being shot, then him murdering a man…that would be hard enough for anybody. But the fact that Sherlock didn't tell her he was being sent to a fatal exile…that was the hardest blow to take. She only found out after the Moriarty video had aired and Mycroft had been kind enough to tell her everything when Sherlock wouldn't. Since then, he'd barely spoken to her outside of a work-or-case capacity, treating her much the same as he had before John had entered his life (minus the fake flirting and compliments, thankfully).

Molly had, more than once in the last three months, wanted to confront him and give him a piece of her mind about the situation, but something had always held her back. First, it was the fake Moriarty scare; eliminating that threat and destroying that ghost had taken priority over anything. And after that ended six weeks ago…well, Molly never knew where to begin, especially since Sherlock never came near her unless he needed to anymore. While it seemed all she wanted was to clear the air between the, all he wanted was to disregard all that and soldier forward as always.

What a mess, Molly thought.

Looking at her grandparents' letters, Molly once again marveled at how free, open, and honest the language between them had been. No wonder their marriage had remained so strong and lasted until death parted them! Their relationship had started and began on complete honesty, even though they had been separated by distance and war, creating a foundation for a life-long relationship.

No wonder I'm so stuck with Sherlock, thought Molly with a sigh. He won't talk to me anymore, I don't know how to talk to him anymore, there are so many things that we've never…

And then Molly had an epiphany followed by an idea, which she immediately set about doing before she changed her mind.

Dear Sherlock,

I know that you will find this very strange and odd, to receive a letter from me in an age where no one write letters anymore and you prefer to text. You probably don't even want to hear from me at all, since you barely speak to me anymore. But if you have or have ever had any respect for me, or as much trust as you claim to have at least had for me, please don't disregard this letter and just read me out. I have some things I need to say in complete honesty, have tried to say and found that I can't, so I will write them down and hopefully you will read them.

Being here with my family and spending so much time with them has been the best thing that's happened to me in a long time. I didn't realize how my broken engagement, so many almost lovers, and my years with you have made me almost believe that I can't be loved. But that's what family is for, isn't it? Unconditional love and complete support. You may scoff at that, but we're both blessed to have that, and I'm glad I've remembered that. Being with my mother, my sister, her husband, my nephews and my niece have really cleared my head and made me realize what I need to do now. They want me to be happy, and they know that I haven't been for a long time.

I want that, too, and now I know what I need to do in order to make sure that happens. But if it's going to work, you're going to have to be as honest with me as I'm about to be with you. So here goes nothing.

I'm in love with you, Sherlock. Not a crush, or an infatuation, but completely and hopelessly in love with you. I'm sure you know that already, but I need to say it myself. I've been carrying it around like an incurable disease that everybody is aware of but think it would be to painful to me to address. And do you know what? I'm sick of it. I'm sick of being pitied by my colleagues, friends, and family because I love a man who thinks anything romantic is complete and useless bullshit.

I know that this isn't entirely your fault. No one can control love, how it happens or how it grows, as much as we would like to. I've also never confronted you about my feelings before, or made them clear to you, so how could you have really responded? Honestly, I never felt that I had to because I thought, to you, it was perfectly obvious. I've tried asking you out, I've dressed up for you, I've risked my job countless time by giving you lab access and body parts, and I've risked my life by ensuring you didn't lose yours. I've tried to move on, I really have, but as you know it didn't work out. It was almost a relief that you played no part in my engagement to Tom ending – that had everything to do with him shagging his co-worker. He tried to blame it on me by saying that I had never loved him as much as I loved you. Whether or not that was true, I told him to go to hell in several quite colorful ways.

I'm partly to blame as well. While I certainly tried in many ways to make you feel more for me, perhaps I never made it clear. Sometimes I think I've done everything except tell you my feelings flat out or pounced on you and see what happened. I certainly don't have the courage or the personality to do the latter, so I will have to settle for the former.

I've given up all but a drop of hope that you could ever feel the same for me. I base this conclusion on what you have said about romantic attachments, the way you have kept me at the perfect distance to both string me along and keep me away, the fact that you never interfered or objected to my engagement, the fact that you never even said goodbye before leaving for what would have been your death, and the fact that you are so cold to me now.

That drop I still have consists of the memories I have when you gave me hope, even if it was false. You can't deny that you did, thinking you needed to be sure I would do anything and everything for you, and be a convenient tool that you could use whenever you wanted. I need to let that go, and for that I need your help.

When I return to London, we are going to talk. You are going to tell me, in all honesty and in no uncertain terms, what it is you feel for me, what you want from me, and what we are to each other. I don't care if you think it is obvious or it doesn't need to be said, and I don't give a crap that you hate talking about such sentimental drivel as feelings. I need to hear it from you, and to be absolutely clear. Only then can I move on and build a happy and fulfilling life for myself. One can only live on false hope for so long; if I don't get something more substantial very soon, I won't have any hope left at all.

Whatever happens, Sherlock, I hope that we will be on good terms with each other. At least part of my heart will always belong to you, and I could never forget you if I tried or if I wanted to. And I do not. I never want to regret you, Sherlock, but I know that I will if we continue on the way we're going now.

So, please, Sherlock: do this for me. If you're as smart as you believe you are, you'll know that, after everything I've done for you, it's the least that I deserve.

I love you,

Molly

It was all over and done with in an hour.

The moment the idea had come into her mind, Molly had set about accomplishing it. From her bag she had pulled out a notebook she used at work and a pen, then sat down on the bed with the notebook on her lap and wrote by the light of the bedside lamp. At first, she had been afraid that it would be as hard to write out what she had to say as it had been to speak it. But once she started writing, the words flowed out like water from a faucet. And what a relief that was!

Once she had signed it, Molly had tiptoed downstairs while her family slept. She had then stolen an envelope from a kitchen cupboard and a stamp from her sister's purse. After addressing it, she had then slipped on her coat and shoes to post it right away. She practically ran to the mailbox on the corner of the block, slipped the letter into it, and ran all the way back to the house.

Molly knew that her idea was very good, but also the definition of a big risk. So she wanted to do it as quickly as possible, and not give herself a chance to change her mind.

Thankfully, when her head hit the pillow of her bed in the guest room, she was out like a light. She had made the right decision.

The next three weeks passed with very little stress in Molly's mind, which only confirmed that she had taken the right risk. Molly spent her days taking advantage of her hometown and her family, from taking long walks through her old neighborhood to playing with her nephews and nieces. All of these activities further built up her self-esteem after weeks of Sherlock's cold shoulder, and really reminded Molly of who she was and where she came from.

Her only moments of stress came on a few nights before falling asleep. Molly could only imagine Sherlock's reaction to what she'd said in her letter, and each day Molly prepared herself for her return to London and the possibility of Sherlock Holmes pushing her out of his life. Once the very thought would have caused her to fall into despair; the Molly before the Fall, or even before the Magnussen and Faux Moriarty affairs, would have, for certain. Now…this wiser Molly knew that it would certainly hurt her deeply, but she would survive and, with time, heal and make the life that she wanted and deserved.

However, a few days before she was to return to London, the very last thing that she expected to happen happened.

It was the afternoon, and Molly sat at the kitchen table with her twin nephews, helping them with their science homework. When she heard her sister's footsteps approaching the room, Molly looked up. The footsteps were coming at a jog, which meant that something had happened.

When Liza came into the kitchen, her face was flush with shock, excitement, and apprehension. She had the mail in her hands. The five words that came out of her mouth absolutely floored her younger sister.

"Molly, you have a letter."

The young pathologist blinked like an owl and then said stupidly, "What?"

Liza held out one of the envelopes of the mail that had just come, showing a simple white envelope with one stamp and handwritten addresses. Molly didn't need to look at the return address to know who it was. She had seen that crisp and angular handwriting too many times on post-it notes left on the experiments and tests she had helped him with.

With a trembling hand, Molly reached out and took it. Then, desperately trying to keep her voice even, she turned to her nephews and said, "Um, boys, I have to go upstairs and, um, read my mail, so if you have anymore questions, just ask me after supper, okay?"

They nodded, and Molly got up. Liza took her hand and caught her sister's gaze. Molly had confided in her what she had done the morning after writing and sending the letter, so she could guess what was going on. In return, Molly squeezed her hand, silently conveying that she needed to be alone for this and that, either soon or later, everything would be all right.

So Liza let her go with a hug and kiss, and Molly disappeared upstairs.

Once shut inside the guest room and seated on the bed, Molly could only stare at the letter in her hands. The last thing she had expected was for him to send her a snail-mail reply! If he were to respond at all, surely it would have been a text saying in no uncertain terms that their relationship was nothing more than impersonally professional, period. It took her a good twenty minutes before her hands stopped shaking enough to open the envelope and pull out the letter.

Her last thought before reading was, Here goes nothing…

Dear Molly,

You are right – I was taken completely by surprise when Mrs. Hudson brought up my mail and a letter from you was amongst the usual boring drivel. But you are also wrong when you say that I did not want to hear from you at all. If I have learned anything about you, Molly Hooper, it is that you are and always will be a far more courageous person than I am and will ever be.

I will not deny that receiving your letter both shocked and terrified me, for I have been nothing short of a coward in regards to you during the past months. And I became a coward again when I received your letter. For two weeks I avoided it, and the only thing I accomplished was nearly going mad. This letter that you are reading now is my sixty-fifth attempt at a response. Only now am I taking John's advice on the matter (do not worry, only I have read it, I only gave him the basic idea of its contents): don't think, just write. As you can well imagine, I at first thought it was terrible advice. But so far, this is going far more smoothly than my many failed attempts, so I will keep to it.

I hope that this proves to you that I do not disregard your letter, and will try my best to give you the complete honesty that you want and have given me.

First of all, I am pleased that your time with your family is as fulfilling and good as you say it is. I never expressed my condolences when your grandparents passed away, which I'm sure did not surprise you considering that I never do such a thing (though in your case, I should have). More than anything, I am grateful your family is able to give you what I have always refused to give you – though I hope, in the near future, you will allow me to change that.

If there is a true statement to be made, it is that you are the first person to deserve happiness. I will also be the first person to say that, if anything or anybody has stopped you from finding it, that reason lies with me. I see that now quite clearly, thanks to your letter and the Watsons' strict lecture they gave me after I received it. If this letter at least starts the long process of making up for that, then I will put everything I have into this letter, no matter the result.

Oh, Molly…are you really? Can you truly? I knew, over the years, that you had some regard or attraction to me…but I never allowed myself to consider the possibility that your feelings could run so deeply for me. However, though your word is more than enough, thinking over everything you have done for me since I've met you only confirms it in my mind. Certainly no one can control love if you feel that for me, for I am the last person in the world who deserves your love. I should have realized it before now, but I always miss something, don't I? A very important something, indeed, and it's not the only thing I have missed.

You have asked me what you wish to hear from me, and I intend to answer you in all honesty. But first, I must clear a matter that you have come to the wrong conclusion about. I will not deny the way I have always felt about romance and sentiment, and I will not deny that I have treated you abominably, more as a tool than as the person who counts and matters the most to me. I will not deny that I kept my true feelings about your engagement to myself, and I will not deny that I have pushed you unfairly away ever since the Magnussen affair.

But you have gotten my true reason for all of my actions wrong. You say it is because I do not love you. The case is just the opposite, Molly.

For I am in love with you, too. And that terrifies me, and always has. You can understand that I refused to admit those feelings for a long time, and the way I refused was treating you as I did: close enough for you to be useful to me, but far enough away that you couldn't get too close. You know me, Molly, and how I felt about such things. I've locked those parts of myself away for so long that I only recognized them when I could no longer avoid them. My walls broke down slowly, and my more than one force: you, John, my death, your engagement, the Magnussen affair, and nearly being sent to die. By that time, I could barely afford to acknowledge my feelings for you, so I unjustly shut you out. Finally your letter came, proving your bravery, and I knew that I must now be brave, too. Please forgive me for taking so long, and for making you believe that you could never be happy.

So…now that's cleared up, I come to what you have asked me to give you. What do I feel for you? I have said already: I love you, more than I thought I was capable of feeling anything at all. What do I want from you? I want your heart, your body, your mind, and everything you are for the rest of our lives. I can't define what we are to each other now, but I hope to define what we will be to each other in the future, if that is what you want as well: friends, lovers, partners, husband and wife, mother and father, grandmother and grandfather, forever linked after we've passed on.

There are your answers, Molly, given in the complete honesty that you asked for and as clearly stated as I can write. I understand if you do not believe me – God only knows that I've done nothing to give you a good reason to believe me – but I hope that you will give me a chance to prove myself. The last thing I want is to let you go, but if I've hurt you too deeply, if that's what you need to have a happy life…I will do it, though it will hurt more than the pains of withdrawal.

But what would hurt even more than that is if you indeed grew to regret me, and I promise to do everything in my power to keep that from happening. That is the very least you deserve.

I love you.

Sherlock

P.S. I never knew what ended your engagement until your letter, but just say the word, and he shall be punished by either my deductions, John's fists, or the British government himself.

P.P.S. While I would have been initially shocked, I can guarantee that you pouncing on me would have been in no way unwelcome and quite enlightening.

Fifteen minutes later, Liza and her children froze in their actions by the sound of footsteps running, nearly flying, down the stairs. They looked even more shocked when their sister and aunt appeared in the doorway with a flushed face, tears sliding down her cheeks, and a bright smile on her face.

When Liza saw that her little sister was holding a folded piece of paper in her hand that could only be one thing, she too smiled and said, "Put your things away and get your coats on, children – we need to drive Auntie Molly to the train station."

The sun had set when Molly arrived at 221B Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson led her in with surprise and delight, telling her that Sherlock had been in his flat playing melancholy music all day. With her suitcase in one hand and his letter in the other, Molly hurried up the stairs to find the door to 221B open just a crack. The sound of heartbreaking violin music floated to her ears, and Molly knew that this was indeed the moment of truth. Now she would find out if she was truly dreaming or not.

With a deep breath, Molly opened the door and saw Sherlock. He was playing by the window, his eyes closed and his face drawn and pale, wearing his blue dressing gown over ratty pajamas. Her heart overflowing, Molly stepped inside, set down her bag, and shut the door behind her firmly.

The sound made Sherlock stop playing and his eyes open. When they landed on her, they grew wide, and he nearly dropped his violin but managed to place it on John's chair. Her heart pounding, Molly slowly walked towards him, and he walked towards her. When they were less than a foot apart, they stopped, drinking each other in completely.

Molly had never seen Sherlock look so vulnerable, nor had she ever seen his eyes so full of emotion. Any doubts that Molly had flew away forever. Remembering one of her Nana's letters, Molly knew what to do now.

With steady hands, never breaking eye contact with him, Molly took off her jacket and draped it over Sherlock's chair. She then, with steady hands, unbuttoned her blouse. Sherlock audibly gulped. Molly then took one of Sherlock's hands, which were trembling, and raised it to her chest. She slid it through the open folds of her blouse, under her simple cotton bra, and placed his warm palm over her left breast.

Feeling her heart pounding so strongly seemed to ignite the fire inside of the man she loved. His free hand lifted to cup the back of her neck, pulled her to him, and captured her mouth in a searing kiss, which Molly returned with everything she had.

Before they moved to his bedroom, Molly managed to put the letter Sherlock sent her on Sherlock's desk, right beside the one she had sent him. And as Sherlock showed her just how true his written words had been, Molly knew that those letters would forever be kept safe and sacred, as her grandparents' letters had been, for they were the heralds of a true, lifelong and beautiful love.

A/N: This story was inspired by the beautiful WWII love letters between Chris Barker and Bessie Moore. There is a book out now of them called "My Dear Bessie," and online, you can find great clips of Benedict Cumberbatch and Louise Brealey reading them. Wish I could be at Letters Live this week to watch them read them again. The letters are beautiful, and they are adorable.