AN: Hello my lovelies - here is the fourth and final chapter of this little fic.

For those curious, here are the two pieces of music (instrumental, violin) that I was listening to when writing.

Bifu – Somei Satoh & Hillary Hahn & Memories – Michiru Oshima & Hilary Hahn

I hope you enjoy! Thanks so much for reading!

Molly gathers her courage for almost three hours before she has enough to carry her to 221B. It helps that she has his coat and scarf, an anchor for her feelings when she wavers at the main entrance.

Mrs. Hudson is not there, but the door has been left unlocked, and so she lets herself in. Stepping lightly past the ground floor unit, she slowly climbs the stairs, slowing with each successive step.

He's playing his violin.

It sounds different than usual, but its not just the instrument; she knows his belongings were burned in the fire that engulfed their flat. The song is unfamiliar.

Knowing him as she does, she has heard countless compositions wrought from his fingertips. Some are renditions of famous pieces, Bach mostly, but he has also been known to create his own. John received a piece for his wedding to Mary, and though they never spoke of it, there was another tune he played every so often that made her wonder if Sherlock had once suffered a broken heart.

This time however, the meaning, the feeling behind his work is harder to identify.

Leaving the coat and scarf on the free coat hook in the hall, Molly creeps through the side door into the kitchen, saying nothing to interrupt him.

Ad so he continues to play.

Low and soothing, the violin is not an instrument that naturally lent itself to such deep tones, but in Sherlock's hands the sound seems to swell like a deep ocean wave. Gradual, building with that inevitable tidal pull, Molly closes her eyes, leaning against the doorway as the music moves through her.

Up and up it carries her, and with it the undercurrent of something there just beneath that ocean wave. It is not the heartbreak of his other song, the emotion is not nearly as sharp, the edge not as keen. But neither is it a light and airy note.

There is a weight, a power to that undertow, one that has come from realization of that power, of what the wave can do.

Still, Molly allows it to carry her off, to crash around her ankles as if she were at the beach and follow it further down the shore, each time edging just a bit further from the safety of the sand towards open water.

Lapping at her legs, drawing her further in, it is an eternal dance, and though it is one that shifts, it never works against her. There is a restraint there, as if it knows its own strength and has tempered it through that current which lies beneath the surface of the wave.

The song, the waves, continue to flow around her, supporting her up until that final refrain, and when she finally opens her eyes, she finds that she has moved towards him over the course of the song.

Now there is nothing between them.

"New composition?" She asks as the last note fades away, unable to handle the almost mournful quality of it as it hangs in the air.

"Two weeks." The answer is short, uneasy, and he does not look at her, "I wrote it, composed it, two weeks ago."

Then, because he cannot help his curiosity, he asks, "How did you know?"

"Know what?" Her brows furrow.

"This song, it's new, but only Mycroft can tell which ones are actual songs, compositions, and which ones are just me...thinking."

He turns to look at her when she remains quiet for a while.

"Molly?"

"I suppose I just know you better than most." She says after a time, and there is no apology in her voice now, no excuses for the affection she has kept in safe harbour close to her heart.

"Any idea about what I should call this one?" He asks.

"Don't you have a name for it already?" She wants to know, "Something practical."

"Not yet."

Again, short. And she glances from him back to where she's left the coat and scarf hanging in the hallway.

"I think that was the first time you've ever run away from me." She says after a moment, "Maybe we should call it, 'When Roles Reverse.'"

"No." He wrinkles his nose, shakes his head as he sets the violin down, "Too flowery."

"Song for Sherlock's Thoughts?" She ventures.

"Closer, better." He sighs, running his hand absently through his hair as he thinks, "And I was not running away."

Her brows rise, "Oh?"

"It was a very carefully considered action. I wanted you to come here, and the coat and scarf seemed a reasonable excuse. You've always been polite that way, waiting for an invitation."

He looks at her then, blue eyes bright and arresting, "You do not need an invitation Molly Hooper, and yet I could not think of how to offer you one until just then."

"Why?" She asked.

"Because we're friends, but we could be more than that. Maybe."

He looks lost then, as lost as she feels, and Molly steps closer to gently take his hand, to squeeze it in support.

"I don't need promises or declarations from you, Sherlock."

"My declaration from earlier, from the call, still stands." Sherlock says sharply, "I'm just not clear on the rest of it. I may need time."

"I'm very good at being patient." Molly responds, "Better than I should be, actually."

It is Sherlock's turn to gently squeeze her hand in support.

"I know."

Not a second later, other words follow.

"Partita for Molly Hooper."

It takes her a full second to realize what he's saying, that he's finally settled on a name for his piece, on her name.

"I'm going to have to look up what a 'partita' is, Sherlock." She warns.

He shakes his head, dismissing it in an instant, "The other part is the important bit."

She smiles then, sensing that their discussion is done for now. Their relationship was not built in the course of a day, the new road they walk will not be crossed in one either.

"I'm glad we were able to talk, Sherlock." She says earnestly as she takes a step back to leave, "Feel free to ring me if you need anything. I promise I'll be there."

Turning to go, she's stopped by his hand on her arm, his rough sound of protest.

"Don't feel like you need an invitation." He says quietly, thumb brushing the tender skin on her wrist, "Come by the flat whenever you like."

"Even when you don't need my help to solve a case? Molly said with a teasing smile, turning towards him when he makes no move to release his gentle hold on her.

"Whenever you like, Molly Hooper. I meant it."

He swallows hard but doesn't say more, makes no mention of the very specific grammatical error he's allowed himself to make. Rather his expression grows increasingly more serious until Molly's own lips quirked into a tender expression.

Raising her hand to cup his cheek, she nods, "I understand. I will."

His own lips ease into a smile then, and with just a slight tilt of his head, he turns to kiss her open palm.

"Thank you."

The words were spoken on a sigh, a happy sound that matches the easing of tension in his shoulders. And in response she laughs, a light and breathless thing that is carried easily by her own happiness, so bright she feels as if she might burst.

And so they both promised to try.