Inspired by a pintrest stuff, thingy – what do you call those? And since I can't recall Mofftiss ever seriously answering what Molly gave Sherlock that Christmas, I decided to play a little. Took me two hours to type this, it's bound to be riddled with spelling/grammar mistakes – un-BETA-ed, obviously. Leave me some love ;D

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Three kisses says romantic attachment. Expensive phone says wife, not girlfriend.
– Sherlock Holmes

Dearest Sherlock.
Love Molly xxx
- Molly Hooper

oo

"What do you know that I didn't?" Sherlock asked, closing the gap between him and Molly. He heard her squeak, it made him uncomfortable. It was as if he was a predator and she was a prey, and he didn't like it – he hated sounding or looking like a monster in her eyes.

"Wh-what do you mean?" Molly's barely brave voice shook him.

"Three kisses says romantic attachment. Expensive gift says wife, not girlfriend," He said, holding the Christmas card Molly had given him many years ago up for her to see.

He caught the crimson blush on her cheek. She was onto something.

"I - " Molly stammered, playing with the hem of her sweater.

"Don't lie, don't even try," Sherlock hissed, he was confused. He hated that he had missed something. It was John who pointed it out to him when he (John) had came across the card in the box of things Sherlock never threw out when he tried to clean the apartment out.

oo

"Three kisses say romantic attachment. Expensive phone says wife, not girlfriend," John had read from the card then to come to whatever strange conclusion in his head, but, Sherlock was too busy typing away on his (John's) laptop to notice the doctor was dangling the old thing in front of him.

"Is there something you're not telling me, Sherlock?" John had teased him lightly, stopping all his effort to make 221b, Baker Street more presentable if Elizabeth was to come and stay with Sherlock for a couple hours a day while Mary would get a bit of rest.

It was then that Sherlock looked up from the screen. His brows furrowed together and he was looking at John confusedly. "There are many things I have never shared with you John, could you please be more specific?"

John groaned, of course he knew that Sherlock held numerous secret, many he wished he never knew but knew now and many more he wished he would never learn of. But, this one, this card, he had to know.

"The card, you tit," John held out the piece of card that was still in relatively good condition except for a little browning around the edges.

Sherlock took the card, glanced at it for a moment before handing it back to John. "Is this supposed to mean anything?"

"You tell me," John was getting frustrated.

Sherlock frowned, "It was given to me by Molly Hooper during Christmas a few years ago, as to its significant, I cannot tell you if there was any to begin with,"

"Are you sure?" John pressed.

"Of what?" Sherlock asked boringly, not at all interested in the conversation. Then again, he rarely ever was.

John shook his head, "You don't remember, do you?"

"I don't remember what I ate for breakfast, but, from the crumbs I could deduce it," Sherlock replied, attempting to return to the task at hand.

"When we first met, a few years ago," John said, pulling out his mobile – it was a new model, Mary had gotten it for him last Christmas – but, he was trying to jot Sherlock's memory, "You told me, three kisses says romantic attachment. Expensive phone says wife, not girlfriend, and that was some expensive gift Molly gave you,"

That piqued Sherlock's interest, he studied John's face and then the mobile as well as the card that John held in one hand.

"Read the card again Sherlock," John said, handing the phone with the card. It was good that even for an assassin, Mary was pretty much like every other woman. She had had his mobile engrave in similar style as Clara did for Harry's.

Sherlock took the card again, along with the mobile. A beat, a long pregnant pause before he looked up at John.

"You always miss something," John said pointedly. He wondered what the story behind Sherlock and Molly was, but, he had always wondered why the young pathologist stuck around despite being treated horrendously by Sherlock. Perhaps there was a story that he was not in about. Perhaps there was something that even Sherlock Holmes forgot.

John counted to three in his head and before he even reached the number two Sherlock was up on his feet, fleeing the flat with John's mobile and the card along with him, his Belstaff which he grabbed from the hanger swooshing behind him.

oo

"What do you know that I didn't?" Sherlock repeated his question again. It always felt like something that was just not quite right with him and Molly. He had brushed her off, countless of times and yet he could always, always count on her. How did he know that he could? Humans change, he should know that. Very few people could handle the amount of abuse – yes, he could acknowledge that he had not been very kind to Molly. And yet she was loyal to him. Like John was loyal to him, like Mrs Hudson, like Mycroft – even when he hated to admit it and like Lestrade. They all had something to gain from him.

John was his best friend, Mycroft was his brother, Mrs Hudson was like his second mother and Lestrade could count on him to solve a crime. There had significant value in each other's lives. But, what was Molly's? Surely her affection would have evaporated by now.

"What have you been trying to tell me?" He asked, recalling the moments they shared together. He could always count on her and she had always mattered. Why had she mattered? What was her significance in his life?

"What am I to you?" He probed, grabbing her shoulder, harder than he meant to. But, he had grown frustrated by her silence.

She struggled, "You're hurting me,"

He didn't move.

"Tell me," Sherlock pressed. His eyes searched for answers in him. He had always taught her infatuation with him was nothing more than a crush and it would have faded. It always did, with everyone – saved for a few cases – the moment they knew what sort of a man he was. But, all he could see was love – love, he could recognize that, he had seen it in the way John would look at Mary and Mary when she looked at John. In Mummy and Papa's eyes, in Mrs Hudson's eyes. He might have been a cynic, but, he recognized the look all too well.

"You can't tell someone they love you," Molly conceded.

He blinked, but did not say a word, waiting for her to finish saying what was rolling off of her tongue.

"The first time we met, I was fifteen and you were seventeen," Molly began, she was calm despite the fact Sherlock's fingers were still wrapped tightly around her shoulder.

"I don't remember that," Sherlock said, there was a bitter taste of regret on his tongue. He hated not remembering it.

"You wouldn't, you deleted it," Molly replied with a sad smile.

He decided he hated that smile too, "Why?" He asked, "Why would I?"

"Because it hurt," Molly answered.

His hold on her loosen, his arm dropped to his side.

"I-I chose to forget you?" He was confused, lost, and unable to understand his reasoning. How could he even dare to forget Molly Hooper, his Molly, wait...

"I loved you," He said, it was not a confession, merely a statement of fact.

"You did, a long time ago," Molly confirmed it.

"Did you not love me back?" He was frantic, "Was that why I deleted you?"

Molly shook her head furiously, "No, no, I loved you back, I still love you," She didn't want to lie anymore.

"Why?" His voice sounded like a plea. He hated being vulnerable. There was a gap in his head, of things that he cannot remember. The drugs, the substance abuse he had done during his younger years had left gaps in his memory. He was always hunted by it, by not knowing what once filled the spaces that were now vacant.

It was Molly's turn to swallow. She gathered her courage and took the last step to close the distance between him and Sherlock to nil, her arms thrown around his shoulder, pulling him down to her, pulling him down into her embrace.

He inhaled her scent. The faint smell of formaldehyde and lemons filled his nostril. Without thinking, his arms sneaked behind her back, pulling her even closer to him and if he can describe the feeling in that moment, he would say it felt like coming home.

They stayed in each other's arms, not letting go, even when Molly started to speak. Her voice was down to a whisper, as if they were sharing a secret that were only theirs, "I was only nineteen and I didn't know what to do, I didn't want to loose you,"

"You haven't, I'm still here," He replied in a hush tone.

She sniffled away a tear.

"I died?" He guessed.

"For two minutes, you ODed," She confirmed.

"You left me?" He didn't sound angry, just sad.

Molly nodded.

He could feel the weight of her regret.

"I was with you the whole night, scared out of my mind and then Mycroft came,"

"My brother knew?"

It shouldn't really surprise him, but, it still did. Mycroft knew about him and Molly, he knew and yet he set up the whole charade.

"Don't be angry at him," Molly pleaded and Sherlock felt like he was not in on another secret.

He sighed, "I'm not, tell me what happen,"

"Mycroft appeared that morning, you haven't regained consciousness," Molly spoke, softly, "He brought me to get a cup of coffee and we sat in silence for about fifteen minutes and then he told me he would help, but, I would have to let you go, for a little bit,"

"Why?" Sherlock asked, curious. Mycroft had preached to him that caring was not an advantage for years, why would he had gone the extra length to show his concern?

oo

The morning was cold, Molly held herself together even closer. The beeping sound emitting from the machine gave her little comfort as it only confirmed that Sherlock was still breathing. Whether he would survive, it was still a matter of debate. He died, his heart stopped for two minutes flat, and she had to watch the paramedics struggle to bring him back.

She just wanted him back. She just wished he could talk to her, whatever his problems were, whatever his worries were. She just wanted him to tell her. She could – would share them.

She moved to tuck a loose hair behind his ears and barely sat back down when she caught a glimpse of his older brother. She knew, of course she knew who Mycroft Holmes was. Sherlock rarely spoke of his brother or family, but, she knew them well enough from rumours and hearsay.

Mycroft Holmes, he did look as regal as they said he would. He was young, only twenty-eight and Molly knew this because Sherlock had mentioned that his brother was older than him by seven years. And Sherlock had just celebrated his twenty-first the week before.

A curt nod was all Mycroft Holmes needed to beckon her to join him. She knew that the dreaded talk was due. She shuffled as quietly as she could, gathering what little things she had with her, leaving Sherlock, still unconscious, parting with a chaste kiss on his forehead.

He was terrifying, Molly had to admit that, still, Mycroft Holmes had the courtesy to purchase her a decent cup of coffee before they sat and he spoke his first word.

"I think you know why I'm here," He was warm, Molly remembered this most when she met him again years later.

"Yes," She stammered.

"You need to leave him," His face remained unreadable as he delivered his sentence.

Molly reminded herself to breathe.

"For a little bit," He added.

That she did not expect.

"I'm sorry?" She struggled to get the words out. Hell, she struggled to form a coherent thought.

Mycroft pursed his lips together, "I don't agree with my brother quite often, Molly. May I call you Molly?"

Molly nodded, not trusting herself with words.

"I don't agree with him often, but, that does not mean I do not care for him. We never see eye to eye and I do believe I have been at fault most of the time. I am older, I should have found a way to speak to him instead of commanding him," Mycroft spoke; Molly noted his carefully chosen words.

She nodded again.

"I understand his feelings for you and you him, but, if he is to survive, for now..." He looked regretful for once, "You have to leave him, for a while,"

"If I leave him, it would be forever," Molly said, finding her voice. She was angry and it showed. She knew that if she were to disappear, Sherlock would forget her.

It would not be a romantic notion. He would not wallow. He would hate her and he would delete her.

"It wouldn't," Mycroft sounded so sure.

"You believe you know your brother well, Mr Holmes?" She challenged.

"I do," Mycroft was certain of his beliefs.

"What if he were to forget me?" Molly pressed.

"I would do everything in my power to assist, but, I trust you are an intelligent enough woman to remind him of your importance, Mrs Holmes,"

oo

"Mrs Holmes," Sherlock's eyes lit with interest. Picking up on what his brother had called Molly from Molly retelling of the very first encounter of her and Mycroft Holmes.

Molly stiffened in his embrace. They had not let go. Neither wanted to let go.

"We were married?" He inquired.

His question was met with silence.

Regretfully, he loosen the embrace, pulling away just enough so that he could look into her eyes.

"Molly, we were married?" He asked again. His heart was beating fast in his chest, waiting for her denial or conformation to answer his question.

She nodded.

He breathed, exhaling the breath he didn't know he was holding as he waited for her answer.

"When?"

"Christmas Eve, I was eighteen, you were twenty," She answered, her voice was too low.

"Mycroft knew?"

"Yes,"

"My parents?"

Sherlock was sorting, cataloguing everything as he asked one question after another. He vowed not to forget this time. He cannot afford to forget.

Molly shook her head, "No, just us, Mycroft, the minister and two city hall clerk which I am sure Mycroft paid off to keep their silence,"

"Of course," Sherlock chuckled, pulling her back to him.

"H-how did you guess... Or find out in your case?" Molly dared to ask.

Sherlock laughed. Really laughed for the first time in years. And Molly remembered the laugh well. He sounded so free, so unburdened by responsibility and expectations. His body shook against her and she tentatively started to allow her worries to fade.

And then he let her go, stepping out of her personal space. She watched as he dug into his coat pocket, pulling out a card and a mobile before handing it to her.

She took it, reading the words over carefully before looking back at him, confused. "I don't understand,"

Sherlock smiled the same smile that was reserved for her, the one she thought was lost when he deleted her.

"John reminded me today," Sherlock started, "The day I met him, I told him something about himself from his phone that actually belonged to his sister,"

Molly kept her gaze on him, not speaking.

"Three kisses says romantic attachment. Expensive phone says wife, not girlfriend," He said easily.

Molly did a double take, reading what was written on the card and what was inscribed on the mobile that she knew belonged to one John Watson.

"Are we still married?" Sherlock found himself asking the question. He worry, anxious that the answer was no. He didn't want it to be no.

He watched Molly blinked a couple of times, her cheeks reddened just the way he liked it.

"Yes," She answered honestly.

He smiled; he just had a few more questions.

"Were you really going to marry meat-dagger?" He shouldn't be jealous, but, he was.

"Who?" Molly was confused for a moment, "Tom! No, God no." She added quickly. "Mycroft suspected that he had something to do with Moriarty and asked me to help,"

"Mycroft put you in danger?" Sherlock fumed.

Molly shook her head quickly, "I was never in any real danger, not even Jim – Moriarty, knew I was gathering intel for Mycroft,"

Sherlock was dumfounded. "You were helping my brother?"

"Only when he needed the help, and he never once risked my life," Molly confirmed.

"He came back, he could have killed you!" Sherlock protested, suddenly realizing the horrifying possibility of what might have happened to Molly if he had not stopped Moriarty the second time last year. He had worried about her then, not knowing she was his wife and now he learned the truth, it nearly paralyzed him. He nearly lost her, he very nearly did. Moriarty had her at gunpoint and if Mary had not shot the bastard, if, if Mary had not defy Mycroft... Molly could have died.

"You could have died," He found breathing quite difficult.

Molly reached for him, soothing him with her touch. "Shhh..." She said, as if she was comforting a child. She pulled him close again, "I'm here, I'm still here, and you haven't lost me,"

He let her; he found comfort in her embrace.

"You could have died and I would have never known, I wouldn't have been able to mourn you as your husband," He mumbled.

"I knew I wouldn't, I knew you'd always keep me safe," Molly stroked his back, trying to brush his fear away.

"I didn't, it was Mary who killed that bastard," Now he sounded like a child, exactly like a child and Molly couldn't help but giggle.

"I know, she couldn't look me in the eye for a week before she finally told me, who knew she was a good shot," Molly joke.

"She was an assassin, you know," Sherlock complained, disclosing Mary's former profession before he could stop himself.

Molly laughed, really laughed that her body shook, "I know,"

The fell into a comfortable silence for a moment, that was until Sherlock broke it.

"Molly," He said.

She hummed in respond.

"Would I be enough for you?" He asked, "Am I enough for you?" He added another question before she could answer, "I am not a good man, I would hurt you by saying all the wrong things and I would most likely disappoint you, but, I do love you and I would try to be better, would I be okay?"

He could feel her smile.

"Yes,"

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A/N : Zzzzzzz... Bed...