When Sherlock, hesitantly, used his key to Molly's flat, and stepped inside, he was surprised to find her already looking at him as if in waiting. The only lights emitted from the sitting room where she lounged on the sofa, a nearly-empty wine glass in her hand. She only had the floor lamp on its lowest setting, and the telly displayed a talk show with the volume down too low to make any sense of it.

"I was wondering when you'd come 'round." Molly broke the silence with the soft lilt of her voice.

"Yes, well, I felt the need to explain myself," he replied simply, already welcoming the clinical façade like an old friend. He needed to remain stoic if he was going to get them both through this unscathed. "What happened tonight was an experiment, but it wasn't mine." He took a deep breath. "The threat was dealt with, but I do need to search your kitchen for cameras." He watched patiently as she took her last sip of wine. "My sister, whom I just recently learned existed, is who was behind all of it; the phone call, the various murders I saw tonight, everything."

Molly showed no emotion, but only asked, "And, how does that make you feel?" The question threw him off. She knew he was using his usual façade, but she needed him human for this conversation.

"High functioning sociopath," he remarked, as if it were obvious. Sherlock knew from the change of expression on her face, that it was a bit not good. He jumped as he heard the shattering of the wine glass on her hardwood floor.

"Damn it, Sherlock!" she shouted. "You need to let yourself feel something completely for once in your life! I cannot be having this conversation with you if you're not on my level, here. I know you feel things; I've seen glimpses, but I'll be damned if you're going to be all cold, and unfeeling about what happened tonight!" Molly was crying now, out of anger rather than sadness.

"You're not mad at me about the phone call? Only that I won't allow myself to crumple before your eyes? Do you really hate me enough to want to see my pain!?" His voice betrayed him, shaking as he spoke.

"Hate you? Sherlock, I've never, nor could I ever hate you," Molly sobbed. "I've loved you for so long, and I've known you love me too, but we're never going to heal from this if we don't cut ourselves open for the other to see. I never like seeing you in pain, but you need to stop shutting me out every time we start to get close." Her legs shook, and she felt unable to stand any longer. Luckily for her, Sherlock rushed over in time to catch her. When she looked up at him, she saw his own tears silently rolling down his cheeks as he carried her to the sofa.

"I'm so sorry," he spoke breathily just before pressing his lips to hers lightly. He continued to whisper against her mouth, every word he felt she deserved to hear. "I love you. I have for a very long time." Then he kissed her again, firmly this time, and she reciprocated, matching his passion. It was a kiss that even Cary Grant would approve of. Molly held onto him tightly, relishing in the warmth of his embrace, and the comfort of his kisses. "I'm a wreck, Molly."

"Then let's be wrecks together," she laughed softly. "It feels bad now, but it's gonna get better; you'll see."

And it did. Each morning, they woke up feeling a little bit better than the day before until they were just simply happy. Every night, they talked for hours about anything and everything; about the hard stuff, and the easy stuff, and everything in between. All of their friends noticed the change in him. He was still his usual self, but he was softer in some ways. He no longer carried himself as if the weight of the world were on his shoulders, but as if he held the world in just the palm of his hand; and he did whenever Molly's hand was in his.

Author's Note: So sorry it took so long for me to post this. I had it going in all different directions until I decided on this one. I hope y'all enjoyed it!