A/N: Ok, guys, this is it—the last chapter. A five-shot, I'm so proud of myself! I hope that you all have enjoyed it and that this is a satisfying ending to a fic that I thoroughly enjoyed writing. Thank you so very much for the reviews—Benedict-Addict Holmes, Doctor WTF, magicstrikes, whytejigsaw, Zora Arian, Guest, .758, MorbidbyDefault, Rocking the Redhead, Violette1415scs, hipkarma, and patemalah21. If it isn't too much trouble, I'd LOVE to hear your thoughts on this final chapter as well!

Thanks so much!

A moment beforehand, Sherlock had been determined that no possible diversion caused by Molly Hooper would wrest him from his microscope. For one thing, he disliked seeming in anyway dependent upon others' actions. For another, Molly had behaved in a way that was most…unexpected…and which had, at least temporarily, disrupted his ability to respond with cool disinterest.

He had vowed that he would appear completely unruffled, so as to deflect John's and Mrs. Hudson's judgments before they were even formulated…he had vowed to stay perfectly still, fixing his eyes again on the lenses that he pretended were so entirely fascinating. He had vowed—very hard indeed—not to care.

But when Molly had turned to go, with her ponytail switching over her shoulders, with a defiant tilt to her chin that at the same time exuded vulnerability, with the infamous DNA samples clutched in her thin, graceful (funny, he'd never noticed that before) fingers, something in him had risen up so quickly and formidably that his usual iron defenses were quite useless.

With hardly a thought as to what he was doing or why he was doing, he had kicked back his chair, strode out afterwards—ignoring John's eyebrows and Mrs. Hudson's perfunctory "tsk, tsks."

He went out the door of 221B, shutting it behind him, and called her name.

"Molly—wait!"

Her bold exit dwindled as she paused mid-step, snapping around to face him. Her face was pale, but the fire had not completely faded out of her brown eyes.

"What, Sherlock?" the words, meant to be a challenge, came out almost as a plea.

John's accusatory tirade floated back through his mind. "What you do to Molly is cruel."

Cruel?

He had discarded the very remotest possibility of such a thing when John had suggested it, certain that he was doing so because it—like almost all of ordinary people's petty problems—was foolish and insignificant. He had told himself that it wasn't true, and that it wouldn't have mattered if it had been.

And yet…

Don't waste your time explaining, your experiment is more important, he reassured himself, hoping that his rationalizations would prompt to step back inside and forget all about Molly Hooper and her sorrowful, angry, flashing eyes.

Instead, he found himself descending, at an almost hurried pace.

What are you doing?

The Mind Palace was under siege; for once, the actions of Sherlock Holmes did not have a rational explanation. He compelled himself to put all that aside and just say something.

…"It's cruel, Sherlock—the way you get her hopes up every time and then crush her down like she's nothing."

He locked eyes with Molly. "Have I hurt you?"

She bit her lip in that distracted, embarrassed way that he had noticed without caring so many times. Yet despite this familiar diminutive action, her answer was clear. "Always."

Always? He would not admit it—even to himself—but he was…astonished. He looked at her searchingly, trying to discern some reasoning behind her answer—if it was indeed true that he was a constant source of pain to her, what possible design could she have in tolerating him?

He looked deeply into her eyes and found not a design, but something deeper.

Oh.

She actually cared for him. Not a silly, superficial school-girl crush, as he had heretofore presumed, but with an actual, deep, sincere affection that burned steadily, unsatisfied, unnoticed, within her.

He had never cared for sentiment, but this…this struck him as almost—tragic.

"Unfortunately, I've never been interested in anything else about you other than your access to the lab," he thought of saying—it would be honest, but then again, he had a nagging feeling that it would be, in John's words, "more than a bit not-good."

So instead, he said, as gently as he could, "I did not know."

It was not quite so hard as saying that he was sorry, but it was…close. But at the same time, it was… it was good to see something in Molly's soul soften.

"It's alright," she said slowly. "You never asked, and I never told you."

"It was—it was not kind," he pushed forward. What is about these particular words that makes them so difficult? It's like speaking through cotton. Is this how it is for the rest of the world?

"No," she murmured—long lashes sweeping pale cheeks—"It wasn't." She looked at him. She had an unusually penetrating gaze, when she looked straight into one's eyes. "But then, at least you talked to me. Not for my sake at all, it's true. But I appreciated it—even though I knew it wasn't real—because nobody else talks to me. Not even to use me."

Just when he had decided that making amends was a trifling, foolish thing to do, her words took him by surprise again.

"Nobody?" He could scarcely conceal his shock.

Most women would be sniveling at his point, and therefore, irritating him, but there were no tears in Molly's eyes. "No one," she said, sweetly but steadfastly. "Working in a morgue and having a bad taste in jumpers don't do much for one's social life."

"I suppose not."

She glanced at her watch. "Well, Sherlock…um, I'd say it's been nice…but it hasn't been. So, well, I guess that I'll go?"

He marveled at how she had managed to be insulting and apologetic at the same time. It was—rather intriguing.

"I'll walk you out," he replied, a trifle woodenly. He had assumed—correctly—that despite her irritation, those hidden feelings were still strong enough that she didn't object to his company for a quick jaunt out into the frosty night.

Molly paused on the doorstep. He watched, silently, as her eyes roved over the brass letters on the door, the glow of the lamppost, and finally, back to him. She shivered a little. "Goodbye, Sherlock. I—I'm not angry now. Not anymore."

He knew that he should have tilted an eyebrow with bored skepticism, flattened her with a quip about the utter insignificance of her ire as far he was concerned, and otherwise showed her how little she mattered. Instead, he heard himself say simply, "Thank you, Molly Hooper."

She nodded, with the beginnings of a shy little smile that made her look like she always did, and turned to walk down the sidewalk.

He watched her go, with her slim shoulders slightly hunched forward, against the cold—with the wintry twilit breeze tousling her long brown hair.

He remembered—clearly, as he remembered everything—the fascinating balance of hope and despair he had glimpsed in her eyes.

For a moment, he wished that all his manipulative flirtations over the past months hadn't been a ruse, a game, a lie.

But then again—after all, perhaps they hadn't.

~FIN~