Love is a Battlefield, chapter 21 by chibiness87
Rating: T
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to other, much more talented people than me

A/N: So. Here we are folks. The end of this particular love story. Thanks for sticking by me this far. To all those who have reviewed as guests whom I cannot respond to personally, my sincere thanks. I hope you enjoy this final chapter.

The argument is stupid. (Arguments with Sherlock are always stupid. But it's sort of become their version of, dare she say it, flirting, and she finds she likes the way the surge of adrenaline from standing up to him brings her, and because he is Sherlock Holmes and she knows he knows this, he makes sure they find a reason to do it often.) Honestly, she's not even sure what this particular argument had been about. But that's the way it is with them now. She knows it was annoying and petty and they had both used it as an excuse to hurl biting words to each other; the outpouring of frustration over situations outside of their control cathartic for both (Anderson, John, and a lack of cases for him; too much work, an unhelpful landlord, and Anderson for her). They know the lingering hurt of unmeant words will pass, and everything will be forgiven in, at most, a few hours (him) or a few days (her). It is not the first time they have used each other in this way, and she is sure it will not be the last.

Until a phone call from an unsuspecting Detective Inspector with the London Metropolitan Police Department ruins it all, and her earlier parting barb of, 'Well if that's the way you feel just get the hell out!' might just be the last thing she ever gets to say to him.

Molly barrels through the doors of the morgue, eyes wide and tears being held back by sheer force of will alone, the phone call summoning her there still echoing in her mind, when she sees him. She stutters, a cry forming in her throat; her hands flailing for something, anything to keep her upright, her knees failing her. She can't breathe, can't move, can't do anything except stare at his pale face; ignorant of the concerned looks the others in the morgue are shooting at her.

She only has eyes for him.

(She only ever has eyes for him.)

For once, he is silent (of course he is), a bruise forming around his eye that looks sickly green in the low lighting of the morgue, and there is a bloodstain on his beloved Belstaff coat. Her trained eye flicks to his hand at his side and yes, there are defensive wounds and bruises beginning to form there too. Despite being taken by surprise, (it is the only way someone could have gotten a hit to his face,) he had fought back. Her eyes fly back to his face again, as her brain tries to convey the image before her with the one in her mind. There is a roaring in her head that overpowers everything else, and she no longer knows if she's awake or dreaming.

"Molly? Hey, are you ok?" John is moving towards her, but everything other than him is a grey blur.

"Sherlock?"

Before she can fall to the floor (because really, it seems like the most sensible option open to her at this point), his arms are there, holding her, and her face is pressed to his chest. She is engulfed in his scent, and can feel his body heat, his heartbeat, and something in her crumples and breaks.

She feels Sherlock shift, raising his head to look over hers at the other men in the room, a fierce and dangerous glint in his gaze. "What the fuck did you say to her?!"

She gasps a little when he swears, but does nothing to move away from his warmth.

Greg at least has the consideration to sound abashed, if not slightly worried about her reaction. "I… Oh god, Molly, I'm sorry, I didn't think."

"What," Sherlock growls again, his deep tone making his chest rumble against hers, (it is oddly pleasing, reassuring, and soothes her like nothing else,) "did you tell her?"

She expects him to release her (she's surprised he has yet to do so actually) but instead she feels his arms tighten around her, keeping her close. Another time she might be embarrassed, but considering he is very nearly the sole reason she is still upright at this moment, she does nothing to move away from him.

"I just told her you were in the morgue, and she'd better get down here!"

Molly can't help it, she whimpers a little at the words. She feels Sherlock move his hand to press against her hair; feels as he draws in a tight breath.

"Words, Gareth. Your exact words. Now."

Greg gives an audible huff, loud enough that even she can hear it over her still racing heart, echoing in her ears, although it has slowed considerably since being in Sherlock's arms.

"I…"

Greg stutters, and Molly picks up the conversation. The words a quiet, all but whispered to his chest where she still has her face pressed.

"He told me you had been hurt. That you were… that you were here. In the morgue. I thought… he said in, and I thought…"

She trails off, and then finds herself being pushed to arm's length, and Sherlock's eyes fasten on hers. It is a deep, intense gaze, searching and probing, and she can feel herself falling into it. His eyes have always mesmerised her, and this time is no different.

"You thought I was dead." It is a cold, hushed tone, more statement of fact than question, his eyes still trailing over her face, widening slightly in shock. "Christ. Molly…"

A tear finally breaks free from where she had been so desperately keeping them at bay. Unable to speak, she simply nods her head.

Sherlock whirls around, dark gaze now fixed on the detective. "You made her think I was dead!"

He turns back to her, his eyes now wide and helpless, arms reaching for her once more. She falls into his embrace willingly, allowing his presence to continue to soothe her. (Later, she will feel embarrassed about how weak this whole episode makes her seem, but that's for later. Right now she's quite content to stay as close to him as possible.) She feels him rest his chin on her head, before he moves slightly, and then his lips find her hair, her crown, her cheek. "I'm here. It's ok. I'm ok. I've got you."

Greg and John stare at them both; Greg in shame, John with a small smirk on his face. It is the former doctor who dares to break the small spell of silence they have fallen in to. "So. You wanna let us know how long this has been going on for?"

Again, Molly expects Sherlock to at least pull away slightly from her, but she is again surprised when he does nothing of the sort. Keeping his arm around her, he turns to his friend. "Why is this a surprise to you? You were there when I told her I loved her. You saw the destruction I wrecked on that coffin, that room. Honestly John, I thought you had developed some observational skill in all the time you've known me."

Molly doesn't miss the way John's eyes flick to hers when Sherlock mentions the events of that terrible day a little over a month before. It is obvious to her that John knows nothing of the visit later that night slash morning when Sherlock turned up at her flat, battered and bruised and smelling faintly of damp, and had confessed all to her. With an almost ten year old all-but love letter to boot. (When they had eventually gotten the coffee he had offered, he had done nothing but reaffirm his statement to her; yes, he did love her. And yes, he did mean it. And no, he didn't expect anything from her after the way he had forced her own feelings for him out of her in the way that he had (fake bomb threat or no fake bomb threat). She had cried, and had yelled, and, because he is Sherlock Holmes and she is Molly Hooper and dear god but she loves him, she had kissed him. Right there, in the window booth of the little café around the corner from her flat, for all and sundry to see. And then, because he is Sherlock Holmes and she is Molly Hooper and dear god but he loves her too, (and this, right here, this is the important bit) he had kissed her back.)

This time it is Greg who speaks. "You love her."

Sherlock sighs, rolling his eyes. "Yes."

The detective shoots his gaze to hers. "And he told you this."

Molly grins, tears now dried. "Yes."

"And I, being the dumbass idiot I am, made you think he was dead."

This time, all Molly can do is nod.

"Well, shit."

John smiles at the pair of them. "You know, I hope you're prepared for the battle ahead. I mean, he's not exactly what you would call an easy person to love."

Molly blinks, remembering all the arguments, tiffs, and fights they have had over the years, and what the results of them all has brought them both. Looking only at the man at her side, she smiles. "No, John, you're wrong; I've already won the war."

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees John quirk an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

Still smiling, Molly turns to face him. "Loving Sherlock? It's the easiest thing in the world."

We are strong
No one can tell us we're wrong
Searching our hearts for so long
Both of us knowing
Love is a battlefield
Love is a Battlefield – Pat Benatar

End

Final thoughts?