Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. This is the last instalment- I hope that you all like it. Many thanks to everyone who has reviewed, and all who have read. I hope this doesn't disappoint.

ALCHEMY

Spring comes back to London- to he and Molly- as Sherlock had hoped it would.

Days turn into weeks and weeks into months, and before he knows it the one year anniversary of his ordeal in Sherrinford has arrived and he is surprised- utterly surprised- to find that he is still here.

Still alive.

Still with Molly.

Still, in fact, going out with Molly.

She still hasn't tired of him, and she still hasn't sent him away, and that, more than anything, makes him unspeakably content.

He, John and Mycroft mark the Sherrinford Anniversary by meeting for a drink and toasting, as they always do, the people they've lost and those that are still with them. To Mary's memory too, since her anniversary came up not long before.

The sit in Mycroft's house, sharing war stories and ribald jokes; Watson teases the elder Holmes mercilessly over his love-life. (Turns out Lady Smallwood and Mummy Holmes get on like a house on fire, a fact which surprises nobody other than Mycroft.) Molly, on the other hand, is left well out of any discussion, Sherlock's tetchiness and protectiveness towards her being something with which his entire family is now familiar-

Shooting one measly wall during one measly family dinner had been surprisingly efficacious, in that regard.

It's a good night, a night for friendship and thankfulness and remembrance, and when Sherlock stumbles home to the newly-rebuilt 221B he's humming softly. Pleasantly inebriated. He finds Molly asleep in his bed and climbs carefully in, tries not to wake her.

She frowns in her sleep, murmuring a drowsy, soft, "You're cold…I'll Make y'warm… " before falling back into unconsciousness. Curling her body more tightly around him, her little arm hooked around his waist like an anchor.

Though the nightmares come again that night, for once Sherlock doesn't awake screaming and for that he is grateful.

The next morning he wakes her gently and tells her he loves her. He loves her so much.

She blinks at him, surprised by the words, but then…

"I love you too," she says.

Unsurprisingly, perhaps, everyone but John says they're surprised when they see the evidence of he and Molly's relationship with their own eyes.

The notion of the so-called "Morgue Mouse," having finally snagged the object of her longtime affections is, apparently, rather a lot for the chattering classes to wrap their heads around.

So there are snide comments. Whispered hisses of disbelief. Faux-friendly bits of joshing from from faux-friendly acquaintances about how it's sweet that Sherlock lowered his standards. (Yes, he often thinks tartly when this comes up, a former heroin addict with a murder under his belt is obviously debasing himself by taking up with a brilliant, kind, beautiful professional who owns her own home and is at the top of her field).

Rather than saying any of this when it comes up, however, he usually glowers at the speaker until they go away.

Either that or he deduces them mercilessly, which has the same effect.

The only person who doesn't act like a dolt about he and Molly is, unbelievably, Sally Donovan. On walking in on the two of them kissing in the Morgue she merely cocks an eyebrow, informs Sherlock that if she decides to shoot him she knows the system well enough to get away with it, and then leaves.

"Lock the door, the next time," she tosses over her shoulder as she goes- "And, congrats."

This is, by far, Sherlock's favourite reaction to his newfound relationship, and when he tells Molly she laughs. Nods.

"I always did like Sally," she says.

"If she's willing to defend you," he says, "then clearly she has better taste than I had given her credit for."

And he nuzzles into her shoulder, a bit ashamed of how little he had liked Sally when they met, merely because she had the audacity to stand up to him.

Molly hums soothingly and holds him in her arms, and though she doesn't say anything, he suspects she understands.

It becomes a familiar thing, holding hands whenever they go out, and Sherlock finds that he likes it.

It becomes a familiar thing, kissing and touching with such tenderness, and Sherlock finds he likes that too.

What does not become familiar, or less nerve-wracking with time, are their experiments in intimacy. Nearly a year into the relationship they… do things now, things which anyone else would consider tame and vanilla but which to Sherlock seem unutterably, terrifyingly nerve-wracking. Wonderful. Brave.

It's always too much, too hot and wet and loud and good and Molly, Molly, Molly, and he finds himself utterly overwhelmed every time in a way which he can't even begin to explain.

He has, after all, never discerned a way to keep himself safe when he and Molly are pressed together, naked and warm and breathless. There is no way to maintain an adequate emotional distance, he suspects, when one feels for one's lover as he feels for his. And so, though he enjoys their forays into love-making and physical affection, he finds he cannot become entirely comfortable with them. Though he loves them- loves her- he finds that their interactions always unsettle him: The human heart, is, he suspects, simply not built to hold this much feeling- Or maybe it's merely his that is not.

It worries him sometimes, the idea of his being so set apart and, and alien, but one look at Molly's joyous, satisfied reaction to his attentions is enough to offset it- Usually.

Usually.

Given how he feels about her however, Sherlock feels "usually," will have to do.

He just wishes that making love with Molly wasn't the one reliable trigger for his nightmares about Sherrinford.

Sometimes, he dreams he's crushing Molly's heart in his hands.

Sometimes he smashes the coffin apart, only to find her inside, already dead at his hand.

Sometimes he dreams of her, locked at the bottom of that well that Eurus had left both Victor and John trapped in, and those are always the worst nightmares, always, always.

You see, in those nightmares he's put her there. He's standing beside his sister and staring down at Molly, hearing Eurus tell him how proud she is of him now that he's finally accepted what he really is…

Who loves you? That voice he never recognises asks him and in his nightmares the only answer he can summon is, family. Only family.

Afterwards he always rises and has a shower; he tells himself it's because he sweats so much during it but he knows that's not it.

No, the thought of his sister being right, the suspicion of how alike they might turn out to be, it makes him feel unclean. Horrid.

Afraid.

He's getting so tired of being afraid of what he might do to Molly.

If she's awake he always pulls her into the shower with him when she comes to check on him. Makes love to her with a fierceness which he never musters anywhere else. It makes no sense; the shower's spray should be one stimuli too many, the sort of thing which finally overwhelms him and makes him unable to act on his feelings for her. It should make him feel even more out of control than being with her normally does.

It seems, however, to have the opposite effect- Or maybe he just needs to prove to himself in the aftermath of such a nightmare that he is still capable of making her happy. That his need for her- his love for her- isn't merely a thing which can cause her harm. So he kisses her. Brings her to climax. In the aftermath she's always tender. Gentle.

She towels him down and winds him in her arms, strokes her fingers through his hair and kisses his temples.

He finds that he loves it.

"I'm sorry," he tells her one night, when the dreams had been particularly horrible and his need for her had been particularly intense. "I wish I wasn't like this…"

"Hush." She kisses him sweetly on the lips. Takes his face in her hands and tilts it up until he's looking straight at her. The look of love in her eyes is enough to make him flinch.

"You spent your whole life trying not to feel anything, Sherlock," she says softly. "You recently discovered that feeling too much may have driven your sister mad.

Nobody in those circumstances would expect you to be good with emotions, not if they'd a brain in their head." She kisses his forehead. "And I've certainly got one of those, haven't I?"

Her words are so intent, and so honest, and so, so her, that Sherlock finds himself nodding along with her. Pulling her closer.

They lay down on the bed together, face to face, their hands twined together in knots.

They don't sleep, and they don't speak much, but the feeling of sheer… rightness is something Sherlock won't even attempt to put into words.

When Molly comes home from Bart's the next day though, he's written out the Molly Tune and left it for her, along with a recording of it for her phone.

The day the thing between he and Molly stops being terrifying and starts being normal is caused by, of all things, a London black cab (or rather, a collision with one). Given the state of her finances- and given 221B's nearness to Bart's- Molly has taken to cycling into work and home, the better to spend more time in bed with Sherlock and less time being squashed on the tube.

The fact that cycling in London traffic means she's actually awake by the time she gets to work merely sweetens the deal.

On the day in question, Sherlock gets a phone-call from Mike Stamford, asking him to come into Bart's and have a word with Molly. Turns out she's had an accident- she was knocked off her bike by a cabbie- and they think she's being a little irrational because of it.

She is, apparently, refusing to go home.

Mike's barely got the word, "accident," out of his mouth than Sherlock's got his coat on, his feet lodged impatiently into his shoes. His footsteps thud on the landing as he rushes out of 221B and immediately flags down a cab, imagination already going into overdrive as he runs through possible scenarios of Molly's injury, each more lurid than the last. Could one of his enemies have found her? He wonders. Could it be a message to him from some new nemesis? Had Eurus decided to make a move, to nudge the woman he loved a little and see how she would react to it..?

By the time he gets to Bart's he's a wreck, ready to fight a dragon or call a solicitor or even, perhaps, put Molly over his shoulder and damn well carry her safely home…

As it turns out though, not everything is about him.

In fact, as it turns out, this is not any sort of Vatican Cameos scenario at all.

For when he reaches her, he finds her sitting in Stamford's office and nursing a cup of tea, and all those thoughts go out the window. She's clearly calm and alert; though her face is a little bruised and her foot elevated it's clear that she's more irritated by not being able to stand than anything else. That, and all the people hovering. She hates people hovering, if they're not him. BUT-

She is not screaming.

She is not hysterical.

She is not in the grip of some sort of trauma, the only thing with which Sherlock realises with a start that he feels himself qualified to deal.

She's alright.

She's alright.

When he enters she looks up at him and scowls, throwing an irritated look at Stamford. "You didn't need to worry him like that, Mike," she says pointedly. "Look at how upset you've made him: He's not even dressed-"

It's at this point that Sherlock realises two things: one, he's not dressed and is, in fact, still wearing nothing but his shoes, coat, boxers and his dressing gown, something which makes his unusual difficulty in flagging down a cab a little more explicable.

And two…

Two is that Molly is alright, and she's more worried about him than he is about her. She's afraid that he's been upset, and she's trying to prevent it from happening even though she's the one who's been hit by a car. A rush of tenderness overwhelms him, and with it fondness, amusement. Relief that things aren't more serious. Relief that she wanted him here. She looks up at him, holding her arms out in welcome and it comes to him then, a… clicking into place. An understanding.

It's not nearly so loud and impressive as the coming together of clues in a case, but then it's so much more momentous than that.

For this… This is affinity. A sense of homecoming so strong it nearly floors him. There's something in the person before him, he thinks, something that … matches something in him. A jigsaw piece of sinew and psyche.

It reminds him, oddly, of that first time he met John and the weird, immediate connection they had.

He doesn't know why it happens in that moment, or what prompts it, but he feels a… lightening somehow. As if something has been literally lifted from his shoulders. As if something in his Mind Palace has altered its shape. Become more amenable.

So he he strides into the room and kneels down in front of Molly. Gives her a cursory inspection, scowling in annoyance when he feels her slightly swollen ankle. "I got his plate number," she tells him quietly. "I already sent it to Greg; it's not his department but he said he'd pass it on."

"You're damn right he will." Sherlock nods, turns her head this way and that as he examines the bruising and gashed skin on her cheek. All her other injuries have been looked after. "It looks worse than it is," he hears her murmur and he nods absentmindedly. Hooks his hands under her knees and then, with only a small grunt of effort, straightens up and goes to carry her out.

"Sherlock!" she says, embarrassed. "Sherlock, I'm fine, I can work-"

He looks at her, one eyebrow cocked. "You can't stand and your jaw needs ice: Don't forget who you're dealing with, Molly."

She opens her mouth, about to snap an answer, and he leans in. Lowers his voice.

"Let me take care of you for once, alright?" he says quietly. "Just… Trust me to do this for you."

She frowns at him, surprised perhaps, and intrigued, he can see that. For a moment she opens her mouth, clearly about to ask him something, but at the last moment she thinks better of it and nods. Leans slightly into him. She presses a kiss to his cheek.

"I wouldn't want anyone else," she says softly, and he knows she's not only talking about his ice-pack placing abilities.

He carries her out to the pavement and hails a cab; It's only later he realises she left her bag behind but he doesn't say a word.

He sleeps that night. He dreams that night.

He dreams of the Sherrinford coffin.

This time though, when it appears he doesn't recoil. Doesn't smash it. Instead he pushes the lid off gently and when he sees Molly inside, he smiles.

With a soft kiss to her lips he climbs in. Lies beside her. They turn so they're on their sides, face to face. Eye to eye. The coffin rocks slightly, as if borne by gentle waves, and when Sherlock looks up he sees blue skies above him. Hears the whisper of a gentle day at sea.

When he looks back at Molly her hand is curled inside his chest, holding his heart.

"Go ahead, love," she says quietly, "It's alright: I promise."

He presses his hand to her chest and feels bone and sinew give way until he, too, is holding her heart in his hand. It's warm. Comforting. Its beat is so soothing.

"So this is alchemy, not vivisection," he says. "I rather think I shall like it."

And with that he lies back in his coffin and lets the wind and the sea and these two beating hearts take him where they will.

THE END OF THE BEGINNING