"Irene has your heart, obviously, Janine got her revenge and a cottage in the Lake District, but what does Molly Hooper get? The unending appreciation of Sherlock Holmes, which he flashes about when convenient, when it's conducive, when dear little Molly might start standing up for herself." She grimaced, her mouth twisting into an ugly frown, her large eyes brimming with tears. "I'm not asking for jewelry, or fame, or a house, or even your heart, Sherlock, I know you well enough by now you're not capable of change, not when it comes to me. So I'm cutting you out from my life entirely," she raised the pistol, aiming it at his chest. "I mean, I deserve that, at the very least, yes? I've saved you oh-so-many times, why shouldn't I be the one to do the deed after all?"

The hammer clicked, and Sherlock sat bolt up in bed.

Heart pounding in his chest, he leaned against his headboard, covering his face with his palms. It was a bad dream, that was all. Dreams can't harm a person.

'They can just drive you mad' he thought bitterly. This dream was a familiar one, it had been cropping up every now and then since Molly Hooper had announced her engagement to Tom 'Meat-Dagger' Whatever-his-surname-was. Recently, the engagement had ended, so logically, the dream should have stopped coming. Instead it seemed to increase. It was easier to push his horror at the thought of Molly Hooper ever hating him aside when he was busy. The Magnusson case did a very good job of that, and then there was his exile, all four minutes of it. The return of Moriarty which turned out to be a fake kept him distracted for three more months. Now, though, life was settling back into the usual day-to-day cases ranging from four to six, and the occasional eight his brother would send his way. Mary and John were busy with their newborn, and Sherlock was left with his thoughts. The bad dream that once cropped up every few weeks now haunted him nightly, robbing him of sleep.

"You never had it out with her, you know." Sherlock, having had another night full of disturbing dreams where Molly pulled the trigger, looked blearily at Mary Watson. He scrubbed his face, sitting up on the couch.

"Mary. Didn't know you were coming," he got to his feet, heading to the door to bellow down to Mrs. Hudson for tea.

"Don't bother, she's gone out. I decided I'd come and look in on you while you were alone. You haven't answered me," she hoisted baby Ella up onto her shoulder, soothing her back as she swayed. "You never had it out with Molly, why?"

"What?" Sherlock asked. Mary gave him a look.

"When was the last time you saw Molly?" she asked pointedly.

"I…" he paused to think. "A week ago. To pick up a cooler of parts. She had a fresh supply from a John and Jane Doe. No family, so she said I could take them."

"Hmm. Nice of you to pick them up," Mary said.

"Yes, well, nothing important that day."

"Hmm, and you'd never bother with Molly unless there wasn't anything pressing," Mary's eyes bore into him. "Would you?"

"What are you driving at?" Sherlock finally snapped. He disliked that her words cut far too close to the words in his nightmare.

"She thinks you hate her, you know," he looked up sharply at Mary.

"Who? Molly?! What for? What have I done?" Mary stared, not quite sure if even he was that stupid (then again…) "Right…" he murmured, bowing his head. "Yes. Well. What would I say to her? What am I to say to her? I apologized that her engagement was off."

"Yes, and then you shot Magnusson, didn't tell her you were being sent away for good, and then barely notified her of your return. You know she'd be Moriarty's first target, if he'd been alive?"

"I know that!" he answered hotly. "But he's not, so she's not, and therefore does not need me!" He glared at the far wall, the bullet-holes in the wallpaper suddenly much more interesting than Mary Watson's gaze. "Molly Hooper does not need anyone, least of all me."

"She told you that, did she?" Mary asked. "Here," she handed Ella over and he took her. Mary headed into the kitchen and put the kettle on. The baby cooed, wrapping her tiny hands around Sherlock's thumb and index finger.

"Why does she hate me?" Sherlock asked finally.

"She doesn't hate you," Mary called from the kitchen. She came to stand in the doorway, frowning. "I never said she hated you, where did you get that idea from?" He looked up from Ella, startled. Mary was studying him in a way that he knew she was practically reading his mind. "Sherlock?"

"Nothing," he shook his head. "Obviously I misspoke. Why does she think I hate her?"

"No, go back to what you said before, you think Molly hates you?"

"Nothing, my subconscious playing tricks on me," he shrugged.

"Sherlock," Mary said, tone warning. He sighed loudly, rolling his eyes.

"It's a bad dream is all…"

"Bad dream?" He looked small then, hesitating.

"Nightmare." Mary nodded then, eyes softened.

"Sherlock, she doesn't hate you, Molly would never, could never hate you. She loves you, loves you more than any of us, and that's saying an awful lot."

"Why?" he asked incredulously. "Why does she-" he shook his head, frustrated.

"That's a question you'll have to ask her," Mary replied. Ella was falling asleep against Sherlock's shoulder, absentmindedly, he stroked her back, soothing her to sleep.

"It's easy…not talking to her, not about anything other than work," he broke the silence finally. "Work was always the safe thing between us. No one could get hurt then."

"You mean she wouldn't get hurt." Sherlock looked at Mary, but said nothing. Mary suddenly clapped her hands over her mouth, suppressing her gasp of delight. "Sherlock Holmes-"

"Shsh!" he hissed.

"Sherlock," Mary's smile fell, and her expression was sorrowful. "Oh, you stupid idiot, how long?"

"Since the Reichenbach case, I think…I wasn't certain until it was all too late,"

"You mean when she was engaged." He nodded. "Well…Sherlock, she isn't engaged anymore,"

"I know."

"So what's keeping you? Everything's settled down now." Mary folded her arms across her middle, tucking herself comfortably onto John's chair. "She misses you, you know."

"Everything is different," Sherlock murmured. "It's all different."

"How?" Mary pressed.

"It just is!" Sherlock bellowed. Ella jerked awake with a start and began to cry. Mary's first reaction was to snap at him, but the look of horror mixed with shame at his actions made her anger at him moot. Embarrassed, he handed Ella back to Mary. She soothed her, and once she was settled again, placed her in her carrier.

"Sherlock, nothing has changed from this whole fake Moriarty business, except for your treatment of Molly. You've backpedaled in your relationship with her."

"What relationship?!"

"Your friendship," Mary supplied. "You hold her in very high esteem, Sherlock, as if she were some…innocent, untouchable being you aren't worthy of!"

"She deserves better," Sherlock huffed.

"Isn't that for her to decide?' Mary asked.

"Yes! No…" he scrubbed the back of his neck. "I don't know. Yes."

"I know this sort of thing is frightening," she said after a moment. "I think you were almost relieved, when she was engaged. It meant you wouldn't have to try to be worthy of her anymore, it meant that you'd be alone, but you wouldn't have to try and face the chance that you might wind up with a broken heart."

"It's easier this way," he said firmly. Mary studied him, his eyes were red, and he was doing his best to steel himself against whatever she was about to say. The door below slammed shut, footsteps could be heard in the entryway. "Up here, John," Sherlock called, and turned back to Mary. "I'd rather have Molly Hooper at arms-length, than broken-hearted at my hand. At least this way she's still a part of my life."

"Is that what you want, then?' Mary asked. "Is that truly what you want, just a professional relationship with her?"

"No!" he nearly exploded again, but remembered Ella sleeping. "No of course that's not what I want!"

"What do you want then?"

Sherlock turned with a start to see Molly standing in the doorway, clutching a foam cooler. One look and he knew she'd heard everything. She stepped into the flat, setting the cooler on the coffee table.

"Do you know what I think?" she asked, and Sherlock, frozen where he stood, numbly shook his head. "I think you want what I want," Molly sniffled, her brown eyes filled with tears. "We're both too chicken to say so,"

"Why say it, then?' he asked hoarsely.

"Because if I don't then I'll hate myself forever," Molly answered. Mary had very quietly slipped out from between them and into the kitchen (where she could still hear what was being said). Taking a deep breath, Molly shut her eyes, gathering her thoughts. She looked up at Sherlock. "I love you," she shrugged. "Plain and simple. I don't want just a professional relationship with you." He shook his head.

"Molly what I've done in the past-"

"Is in the past," she interrupted him. "I can't change it. But I'm tired of dancing around these feelings, I'm tired of telling myself I'll get over you, or that you'll never love me. What I need to know now is, what do you want?"

Sherlock stared at her. He blinked, trying to form words.

"I want…" his hands at least seemed to know what to do, he cupped her face, thumbs tracing the shape of her mouth (such a beautiful mouth) her lips were soft under his fingertips. He reached up, running his fingers through her hair (such soft, lovely hair, when he used her flat as a bolt-hole he used to braid her hair to help him think). She leaned into his touch, daring to smile. "I want everything to do with you," he said at last.

"Really?" Trembling, relief that he'd finally said it, he nodded.

"Truly. I'm…I'm not good at saying…" he glanced awkwardly at their feet. She reached up, resting her forehead against his as she wrapped her arms around him.

"I know," she smiled. "You forget I know you all too well, Sherlock Holmes," her eyes twinkled up at him.

"But you know I do though, don't you?" he asked. She closed the distance between them, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still. The endless information and data that constantly plagued his mind slowed. When Molly Hooper at last kissed him, there was nothing in that moment but Molly in his arms, and he deepened the embrace, bringing her flush against him.

He would have happily continued on that course, but a cough startled them, and they pulled apart.

"Sorry," Mary apologized from her place in the doorway. "Thought you'd like to stop before you remembered too late I'm here, as is my infant daughter." Sherlock's arm remained around Molly's waist, fingers squeezing her hip affectionately. Sherlock Holmes might not have been able to say 'I love you' yet, but already he was thinking up ways to let Molly know how he felt. He needed her to be sure of his feelings for her. Molly smiled, kissed him swiftly, and then stepped away, wiping her eyes.

"Thanks, Mary," she gave a watery laugh. "I brought um…some more cadavers for you, Sherlock. Stamford gave me a half day and I was cleaning out a couple cold-storage shelves," she couldn't seem to stop smiling, and Mary couldn't blame her.

"Thank you," Sherlock answered, quite sincerely. Hands in his pockets, he strode over to where Molly stood now in the kitchen, watching her unload the cooler. "A half-day?" he frowned suddenly. Molly nodded, still beaming as she turned to him. "That's odd, isn't it?" She shrugged, handing him a couple of ziplock bags full of slightly freezer-burned livers. He took them, thinking carefully. Molly was never given half-days. She had to ask for them. Unless…

"Well, I'll be off, Sherlock, always nice to visit," Mary's suddenly chipper voice broke into his thoughts. He dropped the freezer bags, whirling upon Mary Watson who stood in the doorway of 221b, baby carrier on her arm.

"Mary Watson," he said.

"Sherlock Holmes," she replied.

"You-" he began. Then glanced at Molly who was making room in the freezer for the new cadavers.

"Would I do a thing like that?" Mary asked innocently, knowing exactly to what he was referring.

"Yes."

"As it happens," Mary replied, nose in the air, "It was your brother's doing."

"Mycroft?" Sherlock repeated, incredulous.

"And me," she nodded with a shrug. "And Mike had to be told, obviously, why Molly needed a half-day. Once he knew, he was all aboard, he sends his best regards, by the way. Oh and this is from your brother," she dug through the diaper bag on her shoulder and handed him a small box. She smiled up at him as he stared at the parcel, already deducing what was inside. Mary stepped forward, squeezing his hand as she pressed his cheek. "Don't make her wait too long, Sherlock." With that she called her goodbyes to Molly once more, and the pathologist answered with her own. The door shut, Sherlock studied the box, his back to Molly. Opening it, he found what he'd already guessed it contained: their great-grandmother's emerald engagement ring, the gold band chased with forget-me-nots and ivy leaves. A slip of paper was folded in the lid. In his brother's neat script it read:

'For God's sake you know her worth now stop shilly-shallying around you git'

Crumpling up the note, he shut the box with an audible 'snap' and pocketed it.

"Molly?"

"Hmm?" she answered absentmindedly, busy labeling the bags on the table. He came to stand behind her, arms about her slender frame. What a relief it was, having their feelings in the open, it made giving in to his urges to show her physical affection so much lovelier.

"Would you like to-" he paused, and then they both spoke at once:

"Solve crimes?"

"Have dinner?"

Both leaned back, to study the other, frowning. Sherlock was thoughtful.

"Well I suppose we could do both." Molly laughed, nodding.

"Both is good," she agreed and kissed him. He responded in kind, deciding he could just as well propose after solving crimes and take-away as he could over a table of cadavers. "As for what you have in your pocket," she said, and a look of alarm crossed his features. "I'll let you ask, when you think the time is right."

"Now," he blurted. "Now is the right time." Molly giggled, eyes shining up at him, surprised evident on her face, but her smile gave him confidence.

"I thought you wanted to solve crimes and then get dinner?" she asked.

"Why can't we solve crimes and get dinner while we're engaged?" he asked.

"Sort of a celebration?" she offered as he dug through his pocket to retrieve the box.

"Why not?" he asked quietly, eyes quite serious despite the shy smile on his face. He slipped the ring on her finger, holding his breath. He could've deduced her answer, but when it came to it, he found at this moment he wanted to hear her say it, and he ignored the answer that was already in his head, waiting for her to speak. She held her hand, admiring the ring on her finger. Her head was bowed, and he could see her chewing her bottom lip. She sniffled, and for a moment, he felt himself panic. "If…if it's too soon, of course we should wait, I'm sorry-"

"Don't you dare be sorry," she lifted her head, tears streaming down her face as she smiled beatifically up at him. "I'm certainly not."

"So?" he bounced on his toes. She had to say it. He needed to hear her say it…

"Yes, you silly, silly man-" he kissed her then, quite unable to keep himself from doing so, and she didn't seem at all to mind. They parted at last, foreheads together, and Sherlock bent, capturing her mouth briefly just once more.

"So…crime solving…dinner…"

"Do you have a case?" Molly asked. At that moment, Sherlock's phone pinged and he tugged it from his pocket, scanning the message. "Seems we do now. Come on, if we hurry, we'll just beat traffic." Hand in hers, he tugged her to the door.

"We should figure out what we want to eat too," Molly said, looping her scarf around her neck.

"Thai, obviously,"

"Ugh, I've had Thai all week," Molly made a face. Sherlock finished buttoning his coat, checking his pockets for his gloves.

"Curry, then."

"Hmm," Molly made a face, pulling the door shut behind them. Sherlock paused on the stairs, looking back at her.

"Italian?"

"Hmm…pasta sounds good." He tapped out a quick text, then pocketed his phone.

"Angelo will have a table for us whenever we're ready."

"Angelo?" Molly asked as he flagged down a cab. "Let me guess, someone else you saved from imminent death?"

"Sort of," Sherlock replied as a cab slowed to a stop. He opened the door for her. "Proved his innocence in a murder charge, he was across London stealing a car at the time."

"Huh."

As the cab pulled into traffic, Sherlock took Molly's hand, lacing his fingers with hers. Both of them tapped out messages on their phones, one to Barts, the other to Lestrade on details of the case they were heading to, each wearing respective smiles. Finished with his messages, he sat back, shutting his eyes to think for a while. In his Mind Palace, he studied the Molly from his nightmare. She was almost faded now, but he decided rather than delete her, to keep her tucked away, to serve as a reminder of what he had with Molly, of what he might have been left with, if the day's events had not happened as they did.

"You are wrong on many accounts," he said to her as she seated herself in the empty room set aside for her. Nightmare Molly looked up at him, her expression less hateful, more calm. "The largest being that Irene Adler never had my heart."

"Didn't she?" Nightmare Molly asked, raising an eyebrow.

"No, You do. It was always you." She stared at him, color bloomed in her cheeks and tears filled her eyes. The gun sat in her lap, and it remained untouched.

"Sherlock?" Molly squeezed his shoulder. He opened his eyes with a start. "We're here."

"Oh, thank you," he climbed out, and then waited for Molly to follow. Instead, he was surprised to see her hang back, clutching the strap of her purse. She was waiting, he realized. She was giving him the opportunity to keep his feelings for her a secret. She was giving him an out.

"There you are!" Lestrade waved him over. Sherlock, without another thought, took Molly's hand, lacing his fingers with hers.

"Apologies, Lestrade, we were in the middle of getting engaged when your text came."

"What?" Greg's eyes bugged out. "Really?"

"Really, really," Molly's blush deepened, and Greg let out a 'whoop', pressing her cheek and hugging Sherlock outright.

"Greg," Sherlock said, warning, and suddenly the DI let go, realizing where they were.

"Not good."

"Bit not," Molly and Sherlock answered together with a nod.

"Right, come on you two, tell me what you see." Approaching the crime scene, Sherlock studied the body, rattling off deductions. He paused only for a moment to smile inwardly as Molly squeezed his hand affectionately before releasing it to take out a notebook and pen from her bag.

"Go on," she said, clicking the pen. "I'm right behind you."