This is sort of an AU. Well, not really. I've just created a history between Sherlock & Molly that doesn't exist, then worked it into the canon (I hope I got everything right). Huge thanks go to MizJoely for her beta work and MrsMCrieff for Brit picking. You women are wonderful! Lastly (even though he won't be reading this), a big thank you goes to Mr Lil. He helped me with a ton of medical terminology and research. I'm a lucky girl. He's handsome and smart ; )

In this story we'll have Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Romance and Family Dynamics. There'll be sadness, but happiness too. Hang in there. I promise a happy ending! It is complete, though I am touching it up as I post. The rating will likely change.

Warnings: Medical stuffs, parental loss (past) and talk of autopsies.

I own nothing. Enjoy ~Lil~

Chapter 1 - Waiting -

The room was cold and quiet. And small, far too small, with its fading taupe walls and generic wall hangings. Sherlock wanted to leave and go have a cigarette but, of course, he couldn't leave- wouldn't leave.

"Do you know how long I've known Molly, John?" he asked his friend, looking for something- anything to make the time go faster.

"No, actually, I don't. I always assumed that you two met at Barts," John said, putting down the fishing magazine he'd been thumbing through and giving Sherlock his full attention.

"Technically, yes. That's when we met, but I've known her for far longer."

"How do you mean?"

"When I was fifteen I read in the local paper about a body that had been found in a culvert a few towns over. The death was ruled a suicide, but I knew instantly it was murder," Sherlock explained.

"You were fifteen and you figured that out from a newspaper article?"

"It was obvious, John. Anyway, I took the bus to, Reigate, the town where it had happened and found the victim's family. The woman was married, one daughter. Molly."

"Jesus."

"The husband was a mechanic, I checked him out first. I had to confirm my theory, of course. Then I found Molly. She was in a park, all alone. I'd never seen anyone look so sad in my whole life."

"Let's see, Molly's four years younger than you, so…"

"She was eleven the first time I saw Molly Hooper, sitting on a swing, crying by herself," he said, staring across the small space.

Sherlock lit a cigarette and watched the girl from a couple dozen yards away. She was clearly upset. By the dirt on her shoes and socks, he supposed that she'd been there for at least an hour, perhaps a little longer. Her mousy brown hair was greasy and unkempt; her face blotchy and red from crying.

He had spent just a few minutes observing her father, confirming that he had had nothing to do with the murder of his wife. No, her death was an unfortunate mistake.

Why he had needed to see the daughter, he didn't quite know. The chances that an eleven year old girl had anything to do with the woman's death were slim to none, especially considering his deductions. But he had sought her out nevertheless.

He was even more confused as to why he had stayed and watched her. He stayed for over an hour and watched the child cry in that small park. The girl moved from the swings when a group of older kids showed up. She walked slowly to a picnic table, crawled underneath it and laid on her side. It was shaded by several trees, tucked away from the main play park. Sherlock followed and watched. She fell asleep shortly after she lay down and Sherlock sat on the ground, keeping his silent vigil.

About a half hour later, the girl woke, banging her head on the table and looking around startled. When she got up, dusting herself off, Sherlock followed at a safe distance as she made her way home. Once safely inside her modest house, he turned and walked back to the bus stop, wondering what was so intriguing about the small girl and why she'd made him feel so sad.

"You said you solved it," John said, breaking Sherlock from his memory.

"What?"

"Who killed Molly's mother?"

"Oh, yes, it was a mob hit. Unfortunately, Molly's mother looked remarkably like a very bad man's wife. They also shopped at the same market."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" John gasped. "What did you do?"

"Phoned Mycroft. He contacted the local PD. Claimed an unnamed informant as the source to reopen the investigation. He also relocated Molly and her father, just in case."

"And then you just happened on her in Barts all those years later?"

"Well, yes and no."

"Elaborate…"

"I checked up on her... from time to time." That's putting it mildly. When he said it out loud it sounded rather stalkerish.

"What do you mean you checked up on her?"

"I just wanted to make sure they were all right. Mycroft gave me their new address and I'd go 'round just to make sure that everything was okay. Sometimes he'd… tell me what was going on in their lives."

"For how long?"

"On and off for a while," Sherlock answered vaguely. "I lost track of her when I started using heavily. But then Mycroft informed me of her father's illness. I watched her bury him just after she started university. She looked exactly like the sad little girl I saw in the park that day."

There was a long pause before John spoke again. "Then… Barts."

"Indeed. You can imagine my surprise." Fucking Mycroft!

"You cared for her even before you knew her, Sherlock." His friend paused, obviously thinking about all their encounters with Molly Hooper. "But there's something I don't understand. When we first met you treated her horribly."

"I did."

"Why?"

Sherlock sighed. Well, I started this, I suppose. "She'd only just been hired the month before you showed up with Mike. I was still dealing with the fact that this girl - because the last time I'd seen her she'd just been a girl, maybe eighteen or so - was suddenly a woman and a doctor and…"

John smirked. "You liked her."

"Shut up, John," Sherlock growled as he stood. "How long do these sort of procedures usually take, anyway?"

"It really depends, Sherlock. Mostly on how much swelling they're dealing with."

"She's not going to…"

"No, of course not. She'll be fine. I'm actually more concerned about her hand. Most of the bones were crushed. They'll have to operate. Pins and what not."

"As long as she lives, we can work with that."

After another short pause John said, "So, I assume you never told her."

"Why would you assume that?"

"Because it's something you'd do."

"No, I didn't," Sherlock admitted.

"Why?"

"I don't know," he said, sounding defeated even to himself. He had tried many, many times to tell Molly what he had done. But it just never came out. Then it became this huge... thing. Impossible to explain.

"You always know, Sherlock."

"Not this time."

"And," John said. "Why are you telling me this now?"

"I have absolutely no idea, John."

The older man stood. "Look, I'd like to stay, but I've got to get Rosie from the sitter. Will you be all right here alone?"

"I'll be fine. They'll let me see her, won't they?"

"You're her emergency contact and she has no living family. They won't really have a choice," John answered. "Keep me updated?"

"Of course," Sherlock answered.

A little more than an hour later, a doctor came into the private waiting room. Sherlock immediately stood up.

"Mr. Holmes?" the man said. "I'm Dr. Masterson. I was the lead neurosurgeon on Dr. Hooper's procedure."

"Yes?"

"I understand that you're Dr. Hooper's… well, I'm not sure what you are to the patient."

Sherlock paused, unsure how to answer the question himself for a millisecond. "Molly's my friend."

"Of course. Please sit," Dr. Masterson motioned to the chair that Sherlock had just vacated. After they'd both sat down, the doctor spoke again. "We've significantly reduced the swelling, but we left the tube in to let it continue draining. She's doing much better."

"How did you reduce the swelling?"

"Are you familiar with Ventriculostomy?"

Sherlock winced. "Let's pretend that I'm not."

"We drilled a small hole in, Molly's skull. Inserted a tube and drained the Cerebrospinal fluid," he explained.

"There are medications that are just as effective, correct?"

"Yes. But in Molly's case, due to the amount of trauma she experienced in the crash, we needed to remove the fluid quickly to avoid any further damage."

"Brain damage?"

"Correct. But we are confident that we've avoided that with the preemptive surgery. She's actually doing quite well and we're going to attempt to wake her tomorrow afternoon. At that point we'll be able to assess the damage, if there is any."

"I want to stay with her," Sherlock said.

"She's in a medical coma, Mr. Holmes. She won't wake up until we allow it and even then it might take some time."

"I'll not leave her alone. Are you aware who my brother is, Dr. Masterson?" he asked, sounding mildly threatening.

"Indeed. I wasn't going to deny you. Just making a suggestion that you go home and get some rest. Molly has a long road ahead of her."

"May I see her?"

"She's in recovery now, but will be moved to a private room within the next hour. I'll make sure there's a comfortable chair for you. I believe you'll need it."

Sherlock sat in the chair, staring at the woman in the bed. He didn't recognise her. She looked nothing like his Molly. This woman was battered and bruised. She had a tube in her mouth, one coming out of her skull and several attached to her left arm. Her right hand was wrapped in multiple layers of bandages and a stabilizing splint. The orthopedist wouldn't be in to assess it until she woke from the coma. Both of Molly's eyes were black and blue, her nose was broken. A bloody line severed the tender flesh of her bottom lip.

She lay almost completely motionless. The only movement was the rise and fall of her chest and that was caused by the ventilator tube down her throat. He wanted to rip it out, close his mouth around hers, push his own breath down her lungs and breathe for her.

Sherlock had witnessed so many of Molly's life changing moments, usually from afar, but this was like an out of body experience.

She had almost died.

He had almost lost her.

This woman who had been part of his life since he was a teen had nearly been taken away from him before he could say all those things that had gone unsaid for years. She didn't know the effect that her eleven year old self had had on him. She didn't know that he had watched her, making sure she was safe. She didn't know that she'd been in the back of his mind, even when he was at the height of his addiction, wondering if she was happy, if she was in love, if she was thriving at university. Molly Hooper had no idea that she had taken his breath away when he saw her in St. Barts that first day. That she had made him a nervous wreck and that he decided then and there to keep her at a safe distance and never tell her the truth.

The unthinkable happened shortly thereafter. Although Sherlock could deal with his own obsession by internalising his feelings, Molly, he realised, was instantly attracted to him. It drove him mad.

In the years between drugs and settling into a life of solving crimes, Sherlock had put a cap on all things sexual, all things of an interpersonal nature. His obsessive nature wouldn't allow for causal relationships. John Watson was a bit of an eye opener, but they worked well together, feeding off each other's needs. The former army doctor needed the rush of danger, and Sherlock needed a partner in crime, so to speak. That and he loved to show off in front of an audience. John was a good fit for him, he hadn't had a real friend for… well, ever and suddenly he needed one.

But Molly, where did Molly Hooper fit into his new life? She was a very competent pathologist. This didn't surprise him in the least, he had always known she would be successful in anything she attempted. And now he had the opportunity to watch her success up close, no longer relegated to the shadows. That didn't mean he could let her in, however. So he kept his distance emotionally.

Some of the time, of course, he didn't even realise he was being unkind; he was simply being himself. His offhanded comments about her appearance? His dismissal of her invitation to coffee? He really had just screwed up there. But Jim from IT? The Christmas party? Pure and unadulterated jealousy. He could admit that to himself now, if not at the time.

She had been instrumental in his Fall. Molly Hooper was his rock that night and he carried that knowledge for two years whilst he slowly worked on dismantling Moriarty's network. In the darkest hours, when he felt like giving up, when he felt so completely and totally alone and nearly defeated, he'd call up the memory of her lovely face the night he asked her for help. Her watery eyes, her trembling lips… but above all, her sheer determination when she spoke the words, "What do you need?". He had barely been able to speak his reply. Sherlock needed Molly, because he had always needed her, and never more than on the day he was to die.

Coming back and finding her happily engaged to some random bloke put a pit in his stomach that stayed there for months. In the end, however, Tom proved to be a very good distraction when Magnuson came sniffing around. Sherlock was certain that his secret would come out during that whole debacle because there could be no greater pressure point than Molly Hooper. But once again, she was overlooked. Thank God. Or should I be thanking someone else?

Having his feelings put on display at Sherrinford had nearly broken him completely. That was why he'd destroyed the coffin. Years of pent up frustration - of hiding his emotions, his feelings - came out in the form of rage. John thought it was all about making Molly say those words, no doubt. But it was so much more than that. Mycroft knew, of course. His brother was well aware of his near lifelong obsession with the woman. He also knew, though they'd never spoke of it, that Sherlock indeed loved her and had for a while.

Sherlock's life was one adventure after another. Sometimes endangering those around him, even Molly, as his sister had proven just a few months ago. But a car accident proved to Sherlock that he could just as easily lose her to something as mundane as a lorry driver running a red light.

Two weeks after Sherrinford, Sherlock had sat Molly down and explained everything that happened that day. He never denied that he meant those words; he simply let her draw her own conclusions. The coward's way out.

A lie by omission.

But now… He was tired of fighting it.

He was tired of pretending.

He was tired of lying.

When his Molly woke up, he'd tell her everything. He'd tell her about her mother, about keeping watch over her, about purposely pushing her away. He would also tell her that he loved her and hope that she could find it in her heart to forgive him.

"Please forgive me," he whispered to the sleeping woman.

Okay, there's chapter one. Please let me know what you think. I know I've been awful about responding to reviews lately. I have no excuse other than being a jerk! I am very sorry. I'll try to get back to all of you. Thank you so much for reading. ~Lil~