Disclaimer: I own nothing but my mind, my dears.

Summary: Molly Hooper is glutton for punishment and her crime is Sherlock Holmes.

A/N: Angst. References to drug use. Other than that, it's pretty tame. Just angsty. This one is for Hummingbirds13 who mentioned something and obviously it got me thinking and then plotting, which turned into an attempt at writing it. Which turned out to be harder than I expected. Thank you very much for letting me use the idea Hummingbirds13, I sincercely hope you enjoyed it and I hope I didn't disappoint!

Thank you all so much for your constant love and support. I love you all more than words can possibly express.

Anything substantial in italics is a flashback. Any and all mistakes are mine and mine alone. Reviews, as always are appreciated and I love you guys so so so much. Thank you all for putting up with my crap. Hope you all enjoy! Also, the title is loosely based on the song below, which I kind of had on repeat. For the last week. I love it that much. It gives me such angsty Sherlolly feels.

We, the foolish ones

One-shot

Do you remember I searched you out

How I climbed your city's walls?

Do you remember me as devout

How I prayed for your calls?

I was a fool – Tegan and Sara

When Molly Hooper first meets Sherlock Holmes it's late at night. The sky is dark and the weather has turn bitter, making the morgue colder than it normally is. She's the only pathologist working that night, Doctor Saunier having gone home earlier, with a warning that "it's likely you'll meet Sherlock Holmes. He's supposedly a Consulting Detective for Scotland Yard. Mostly, he's just a bloody tosser. Keep an eye on out for that one. He's a right strange one. Oh and call security if he annoys you. I do it all the time."

She's well into the graveyard shift and going through paperwork when the doors to the morgue slam open and a tall man with curly black hair, piercing blue eyes and a rather fetching coat storms in. "Doctor Saunier, do stop indulging in the brandy hidden in your bottom desk drawer and actually be useful. I need to see…" he trails off when his eyes catch sight of Molly. "You're not Doctor Saunier."

"I should hope not." She laughs and hopes he doesn't sense the nervousness in her voice. Of all the things she's heard about Sherlock Holmes, the fact that he's gorgeous was never once mentioned. "I'm the-"

"New pathologist. Fresh out of medical school, top of your class, introverted, you're in a relationship. Break it off, he's embezzling money and I would probably return that bracelet, it was bought with stolen money. Older brother, lives in Edinburgh and your mother died when you were young," he cocks his head to the left, "twelve. You were twelve when she died. Your father-"

"Neat." She breathes out, a little bit stunned and a little bit uneasy about how he knows so much about her (even though he just met her) and she doesn't know anything about him. She gives him a small smile, "except, my brother doesn't live in Edinburgh. He lives in Cardiff and my mother died when I was fourteen not twelve. And Andrew is not embezzling money. He wouldn't…he wouldn't do that."

He lets out a petulant huff. "There's always something. And as for your boyfriend," he spits the word out as if it burns him, "he would and he has. Now, I need to see the body of Frieda Gonzalez Torturro."

She shows him the body (because she was told to by Mike Stamford and then reluctantly told to by Doctor Saunier, when she first heard of Sherlock Holmes), watches as he picks apart the dead woman's life and then leaves.

(She goes home that night and sees the way Andrew twitches and avoids questions about his job and the bracelet he got her. She breaks things off with him that morning.)

That night at work, she gets a call from a Scotland Yard telling her that she needs to come in for questioning because her very recently ex-boyfriend has been caught embezzling money from his job.

"I broke up with Andrew," she tells Sherlock over the body of John Wainwright. "You were right. About him embezzling the money, I mean."

"Of course I'm right." Sherlock tells her. "I'm always right."

There's silence before Molly takes a deep breath and gives him a small smile and ignores the pounding of her heart. "Thank you…for telling me the truth."

"I always tell the truth."

(This is lie number one.)

She doesn't normally wear dresses to work; instead she opts for loose fitting trousers and jumpers that she doesn't mind getting dirty because realistically, she works in a morgue. She works with dead bodies and corpses generally don't smell fantastic, so she saves her better clothes for better days. Except for today.

She's uncomfortable in her knee length black dress and small pumps. She's filed her nails and she's straightened her hair but she's left her face bare of any make-up. She's trying to look professional; she's not trying to hide who she is.

The faces in front of her are stern and serious, their eyes not holding any warmth and void of any emotion. Not that she can blame them. She knows that being objective is key in situations like this, but it's situations like this that she never thought she'd find herself in. Not that she regrets what she did, she doesn't. (Given the chance, she'd do it all over again.)

She takes a deep breath and folds her hands in her lap, her legs crossed at the ankles, posture straight as she looks at Mike Stamford who stands on the other side of the room. He gives her a small, reassuring and sympathetic smile.

"Do you understand why you're here, Doctor Hooper?"

Molly nods, "yes." And she does. She was expecting it even.

"Then you know it is policy that we take this time to examine your autopsies that you aided Sherlock Holmes with."

Molly nods, "yes, I know."

"We have no doubt of your professionalism and the high caliber of your work. Your colleagues and students speak highly of you, however; due to…circumstances, we cannot ignore the proximity in which you allowed Sherlock Holmes access to the morgue and bodies." The woman speaking takes a breath before she continues, "St. Bartholomew's Hospital has a reputation of being the best in London and the last thing we want is for this…incident to besmirch our reputation. Or yours for that matter."

Molly clutches her hands tightly, ignores the pain that sears through her fingers at her tight grip and nods, unable and unwilling to do anything else.

"You are hereby suspended without pay for the duration of two weeks."

Molly closes her eyes and accepts her sentence, willing herself to not feel any remorse. (It's not hard, because she doesn't. At least not really, because she knows these two weeks will mean nothing in the grand scheme of things. Because these people, they don't know half of what she's capable of doing and she'd do it all over again, if given the chance.)

"You are dismissed."

She gets up on stiff legs and makes her way to the door, head held high. Her hand is on the doorknob when she hears, "Doctor Hooper?" Molly turns her head around to face the woman who spoke, her stern face has softened and her eyes hold sympathy that wasn't there before, "for what it's worth, I am sorry for your loss."

Molly blinks and clears her throat. "Thank you." She says in a soft voice.

And then she leaves.

There is something wrong with Sherlock. She notices this immediately when he comes into the morgue. He's more…energetic than usual. His body humming with unrestrained excitement and…giddiness? (Is that the word she's looking for?) She notices the way his hands shake and the way his face is more gaunt and sunken in than usual. He has bags under his eyes, however; the most telling feature are his pupils. Large and dilated, hiding their unique color with blackness. "Sherlock?" She asks hesitantly, placing her hand on his forearm gently. "Are you okay?"

"Of course. Of course I am. I am fine."

"Sherlock." She tries again; a ball is forming in the back of her throat. "Sherlock, what have you taken?"

"Nothing."

(This is lie number two.)

"You were right." Molly says as she enters her flat and locks the door. "Two weeks of unpaid suspension." She turns on the light and stops talking.

Her flat is empty.

There is a ball forming in the back of her throat, a pit searing through her stomach and tears burning her eyes. "Hello?" She calls out softly. "Sherlock?"

She looks in the kitchen, in the bathroom, in the spare bedroom, in her bedroom.

Nothing. No one. (Which is odd because she knows when she left earlier, he was there, lying on her couch, blue eyes watching her and quietly promising her that no matter what happens, no matter the outcome he would ensure that she would still have her job and reputation and dignity.)

She sits on the couch, her hand reaching out to feel the empty spot that once housed his tall and broken frame. She looks around her flat once more, her voice feebly calling out to thin air, "Sherlock?"

(He doesn't answer. He won't answer for the next three years.)

Her eyes snap open as they adjust to the darkness. She glances at her mobile and frowns at the two-thirty am, that flashes brightly at her. It takes her only a moment to wonder why she woke up, when she hears it. Loud banging on her door. She sits up in bed, her hand blindly reaching for the baseball bat that her brother insisted on buying her when she decided to live on her own instead of searching for a flat-mate. She grips it tightly as she makes her way out of bed.

She hears fiddling with the handle and then cursing and she nearly drops the bat in surprise. Even through the wooden door, she knows that voice. It's slurred but the baritone is the same. She hurriedly unlocks the door and throws it open, startling the Consulting Detective on the other side. He gives her a lopsided smile that doesn't look quite right on his face. He has a cut on his cheekbone and his knuckles are broken and bloodied. He's favoring his right side.

She pulls him in and sits him on the couch, hands immediately pulling off his coat and shirt and wincing at the discoloration of his ribs. "What happened?" She asks even though she knows the answer. She's always known the answer.

He scoffs. "Don't try acting like you don't know."

She looks at him and notices the way his hands shake and the way his face looks gaunt and sunken in, she notices the bags underneath his eyes, but most of all she notices the way his pupils are dilated.

And then she takes a look at his exposed skin and notices for the first time, marks. Her eyes snap towards him. "Heroin." She says it in disbelief. "For Christ's sake, Sherlock. How long?"

"Years. On and off." He admits and then he laughs. "It shuts everything off. I turn off."

"By all rights," she mumbles, "You should be dead." (The thought of Sherlock Holmes dying terrifies her more than it probably should.)

"Mycroft makes sure I don't die."

(Mycroft Holmes. She met him once. He offered her a substantial amount of money to spy on his younger brother. Molly declined. Sherlock was angry when she didn't take the money and seemed genuinely confused when she told him that "friends…they don't do that to friends. It's not…it's not right. It's not who I am. Don't care much about money. Never really did." To which, Sherlock responded, "we're friends?" That question hurt her more than it probably should have.)

"Molly? I'm going to be sick."

She gets the rubbish bin under him just in time for him to vomit. And then she hefts him up, so that the majority of his weight is against her as she ushers him into the bathroom and sets him in front of the toilet.

She cleans up his bile and holds him as he violently comes down from his high.

(She's always imagined different scenarios in which she had Sherlock Holmes in her arms…this has never been one of them.)

His body has stopped shaking and he stopped throwing up an hour ago but they stayed in her bathroom, his face pressed against the cool porcelain of the toilet. He still doesn't look healthy to her and she gnaws at her thumb, watching him intently.

"Stop thinking." He mumbles, cracking an eye open to stare at her. "You always think so loud."

"You need to stop this." She whispers harshly to him, her voice breaking as she watches him take in a shuddering breath. "Because Sherlock, one day, I'm not going to be here and you're going to die. Do you understand this? You're going to die Sherlock and I'll be left alone."

"Everyone dies, Molly. You of all people know that. But I won't leave you alone." She knows he's probably still a bit delusional when he says this, but she still believes him anyways.

(This is lie number three.)

She meets John for tea at Speedy's one day.

He doesn't notice she's there until she reaches out and places a hand atop of his. She gives him a small smile that probably doesn't reach her eyes and he lets out a sigh, hand curling into hers and squeezing it tightly, as if terrified to let go. She can see the way the other patrons are staring at them, voices whispering and clicks on camera phones going off. She can only imagine the headlines and captions that will go with those pictures and wonders for a moment if Sherlock will see them (wherever he is, if he's anywhere) and what he'll think (if he thinks anything) of them. "How are you?" It's undoubtedly one of the stupidest questions she's ever asked, but she asks it anyways.

"Horrible." John croaks. "Miserable. I've seen death before, that's not…I mean it is…but I've been face-to-face with death before, it's…it's the aftermath. The headlines. The lies. The accusations. They're calling him a fake. He told me…he told me to tell everyone, to tell you that he was a fake and I…Molly."

She grips his hand tightly and she shakes her head vigorously, "I don't believe a word of it. We know him," she closes her eyes, "knew him. We knew Sherlock Holmes, John and everything he's ever said, everything he's ever did, it was truth personified."

"He was the best friend I ever had." John admits, his voice small and tired.

Molly's heart breaks and she almost (almost) tells him the truth. That everything is okay. He's alive. She doesn't know where but he's alive and it was all to protect you. Instead, she swallows the lump in her throat and nods, "I know. I know and you were his best friend."

John uncurls his hand from hers and Molly pulls her hands into her lap. They sit in silence, ignoring the stares and whispers and the snapping of cameras.

"How long have you loved him?" John asks her. He gives her a sheepish grin when her head snaps up and she meets his eyes. "I've always been curious."

She gives him a sad smile and tells him the truth as she knows it, "I don't think there was ever a time when I didn't."

Sherlock goes into rehab for three months and the morgue, lab, hospital, London seem emptier without him.

She defends him to nurses, doctors and volunteers when they say snide remarks about him; Ethan Murphy, a neurologist once snapped at her, "You're only defending him because you're fucking him. Everyone knows you'd let him get away with murder, Hooper."

Molly was fully ready to come back with an angry reply when Doctor Saunier tore him apart. "You're just humiliated because she's declined your rather pathetic attempts for dinner, Ethan. And you'd better damn well call her Doctor Hooper because she is more of a doctor than you will ever be. And I will make it irrevocably known right now and I truly urge you to tell everyone you know, if anyone, and I do mean anyone, says anything untoward about Sherlock Holmes, I will ensure that you are suspended. If you doubt me, I dare you to try something. I have seniority, I have respect and unlike you Ethan, I have class. And if I ever hear you talk about Doctor Hooper like that ever again, I will hurt you. I'm a pathologist; I know things that you're neurological mind cannot even begin to comprehend. Are we clear?"

At their quick nods, Doctor Saunier escorts her out of the lounge and they make their way back down to the morgue.

"Thank you." Molly says. "You didn't have to. I know you despise Sherlock."

Doctor Saunier scoffs, "of course I do. The man's a tosser. A right twat if ever there was one…but, he's brilliant and it doesn't matter if I despise him. You love him." There's a slight twinkle in his eyes as he nudges her with his shoulder. "May whatever Lord there be have mercy on your soul."

At the end of his three months, Sherlock Holmes walks into the morgue as if nothing has changed.

Molly is alone, Doctor Saunier, having gone home hours ago and she looks up at him, her mouth dropping open. He looks better than she's ever seen him. He looks healthier. More alive. She gets up from her seat and before she knows what she's doing, she has her arms wrapped around his middle, her face pressed into his chest and inhaling the spicy scent that is completely Sherlock Holmes. "Please don't ever scare me like that again."

His arms wrap around her gently, hesitantly, his hands burning her through her lab coat and clothes. "I promise." He repeats softly.

(This is lie number four.)

It's been six months since he jumped off the roof of Bart's and she hasn't heard from him.

There is a mounting fear in the pit of her stomach, as each day passes and she doesn't hear from him. She doesn't want a long explanation. She doesn't want an exact dossier of what he's doing and what he's done; she just wants to know that he's alive. That he's okay. That he's thinking of them. Of her.

(Because she clings to the hope and memory that she counts and if someone counts than they deserve to know that the man they love and killed is still alive…that's not too much to ask, is it?)

She sits uncomfortably in the backseat of Mycroft's sleek black car. Anthea is sitting on the opposite side next to the window, her fingers rapidly typing away on her mobile, while Mycroft sits directly across from her, his eyes studying her. She takes a deep breath, "Have you…I just…is he okay?" Molly asks, her voice seeping with the worry she's tried hard not to let show.

"Doctor Hooper," Mycroft starts and it could be just her (but she knows it's not because even Anthea looks up from her phone when she hears the inflection in his tone) but his voice holds a bit of regret, a bit of something unnamable and the fear that consumes her entire being is suffocating. "My brother and I thank you for everything you have done however, it would be in your best interest-"

"I don't care about my best interest." Molly interrupts him. "I care about Sherlock."

"Caring," he says softly, "is not an advantage."

She fears tears burning her eyes. "I know." She says, "you told me this at Christmas." She (unfortunately) remembers that Christmas. (She tries her best to forget it.)

She feels so stupid. She breathes in harshly and looks to the side, her eyes catching Anthea's brown ones and she looks away quickly. "Tell…tell Sherlock…" she's mortified at the way her voice breaks, "tell him I'm here. Always."

And because she can't deal with her humiliation any longer, because she can't deal with the hidden pity and sympathy in Mycroft and Anthea's gazes, she practically throws the door to the car open and runs through the busy streets of London.

She fumbles with her keys, tears blurring her vision and she practically sighs with relief when she finally manages to open her flat, slamming the door shut and locking it behind her. She slides against the wood and sits on the floor, legs curling underneath her as the past six months (seven years) of heartbreak and lies crash into her rapidly.

She's never hated Sherlock Holmes more than she does in this moment.

(And then she cries harder, because she doesn't hate him. She could never hate him, even when she wishes she could.)

She's sniffling, trying to hold back the sobs that are burning her throat. It doesn't help, so she presses the sleeve of her lab coat against her mouth and muffles the sound of her crying.

She should really know better. She should…she should stop hoping against all hope. She should stop the jolt her heart makes when he compliments her, when he presses his body an inch closer to hers than necessary. She should stop pretending that one day (one day) he'll notice her. He won't, because she's Molly Hooper and he's Sherlock Holmes and they both belong to two very different worlds.

She isn't stupid. She knows she's not, but Sherlock makes her weak in the knees. He makes her heart beat faster, he makes her blood burn, he makes her feel things that she's never felt before with any of her other boyfriends.

And then he insults her and reality comes crashing down around her.

She hears the door to the women's loo open and she wipes her eyes, takes in a shuddering deep breath and walks out of the stall she hid herself in. She stops dead when she sees the reason for her weeping standing in front of the stalls and leaning against one of the sinks, looking as if he belongs in the women's loo.

His eyes snap towards her; they study her. Scrutinize her. (She wonders what he sees; does he see someone weak? Does he see a sentimental little girl who can't control her emotions? Does he see anything? Anything at all? Probably not.) She turns her head away from him and walks to the sink at the far end. It's not far (close) enough. There's only one sink separating them. She's wiping her wet hands with paper towel when she hears him clear his throat.

"I have hurt you." He says, his baritone voice echoing in the empty loo.

"You always do." She tells him softly. Her back is facing him as she continues to dry her hands until the paper towel in her hands falls and rips into pieces from excessive use. She can feel him shuffle closer and while she doesn't turn around to face him, she does turn her head to look in the mirror and she sees his right hand come up, his fingertips grazing the back of her lab coat, his eyes narrowing at his fingers, as if they're betraying him.

She sees the way his body shudders with a deep breath. There is a moment of silence before he speaks again, "I am sorry."

She doesn't say anything but she feels a fresh wave of tears prick her eyes.

"Molly?" There is another beat of silence. "I won't do it again."

(This is lie number five.)

One year after Sherlock jumps from the roof of Bart's, she visits his tombstone even though she knows he's still alive somewhere (anywhere; she's left in the dark) out there. She knows she shouldn't be here, knows she doesn't have a reason nor a right to be here, but she can't help it. She needs to see it. She needs to see something to remind her that no, he's not dead. He's just ignoring her (a huge fearful part of her thinks he's deleted her entire existence from his life and that thought hurts more than it probably should.)

It's misting out, little droplets of rain falling on her, encasing her in dampness. "I miss you." She says softly. "And I'll always believe in you, even if you've stopped believing in me."

(Molly Hooper is glutton for punishment and her crime is Sherlock Holmes.)

"How come you didn't know?" She asks him. Her voice is breaking and she doesn't even bother hiding it. "You knew about every other guy, how did you not see him? See this?"

"Did he hurt you?" He asks her, his voice tight and for the first time, Molly recognizes it as fear. "Molly, did he hurt you?"

"This entire situation has hurt me, Sherlock." She cries out, her voice rising, mounting with hysteria. "He was…Jim-"

"Moriarty." Sherlock snaps, his voice growing hard, his eyes narrowing. "His name is Moriarty."

"To you. But to me…to me…he was Jim from I.T. and he was nice and he was kind and funny and he…he…liked me. He held me and made me feel special and then…then…I find out he's a criminal mastermind who almost killed you and strapped bombs to people, to John and oh God, where's John? Is he okay?" She leans against the counter, the cool metal seeping through her lab coat and clothes.

Sherlock ignores the question as he moves closer to her, their bodies mere inches apart. "Molly, did he do anything to you?"

She shakes her head. "Nothing. He did nothing to me. I'm just…I'm just a big fool. You were right about me all along."

She moves from her spot and goes to walk by him, eager to get away from him. She doesn't want him to see her shame. She doesn't want him to see her humiliation. She doesn't get far, his hand wrapping around her wrist and stopping her in her place. He drops her wrist a second later, eyes blinking, shaking out his hand as if the mere touch of her skin burned him. "You are not a fool." He says quietly.

She almost believes him.

(This is lie number six.)

Two years after Sherlock falls off the roof of Bart's, she meets John at the same Speedy's they met at the first time, two years ago. He looks better every time she sees him. There is a brightness in his eyes that wasn't there before and Molly can't help the small smile that stretches across her lips at the sight of his boyish face.

(He tells her about a woman; her name is Mary Morstan and she's a teacher who brought her nephew into the clinic after he got into a scrape with some other boys.)

"Is it…is it horrible?" He asks her.

She doesn't bother asking for an explanation. She knows exactly what he means. She shakes her head. "No." She answers him. "It's not horrible. It's inevitable."

"I'll never forget him, its just…it hurts less and less every day…but you know that."

No, actually, she doesn't. In fact, if anything, it hurts more and more every day. But she doesn't tell John this. Instead, she just smiles lightly and asks him to tell her more about Mary.

(She wonders if he'll still confide in her after he finds out that she's been lying to him, to all of them, for all these years.)

Molly feels sick to her stomach at that thought.

"You're wrong you know. You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you."

Because she loves him, because she would do anything (and she has, she really has) for him, she believes him.

(This is lie number seven.)

Two years and three months after he dies, she starts to forget his face, the shape of his cheekbones, the way his curls frame his face and the color of his eyes. She starts to forget the sound of his voice.

She starts to forget him.

(And this…this terrifies her.)

"Sherlock." She says, her voice shaky and wrought with emotion.

He turns around to look at her, his body weary and tired from what he's (their) about to do. "I believe in you, Molly Hooper."

(This is lie number eight.)

Three years after Sherlock dies, Molly walks into the lounge at the hospital with the intent of getting a cup of coffee and then immersing herself in paperwork. There is a large crowd of doctors in the lounge and Molly frowns as she struggles to make her way into the kitchen area.

"You must be happy, yeah, Molly?" Ethan Murphy remarks snidely to her. He's ignored her ever since Doctor Saunier threatened him, all those years ago, but since Doctor Saunier retired, he's started taunting her again, it's only gotten worse since Sherlock died and was disgraced.

"I'm sorry?" Molly asks confused.

Ethan frowns and then he laughs. "Oh God. You don't know. That's priceless. Your lover boy isn't dead after all. Guess you just weren't important enough to him."

Molly forgets to breathe. The cup in her hand clatters into the sink, coffee streaming down the drain as she watches the television with wide brown eyes when she sees Sherlock frown and pushe his way past cameras, his left cheek blooming with an ugly bruise and a relieved but obviously angry John Watson following behind him. She can see Greg in the background, trying to calm the media frenzy down and she can vaguely make out Mrs. Hudson's figure off to the side.

They're all there at his homecoming.

(Everyone that is, except her.)

"Molly?" Denise Horton, an oncologist who has always been nice to her, stands next to her, eyes glaring at Ethan. She places a hand on her forearm, "Molly, you okay, love?"

"No." She croaks. "No, I don't think I am."

"You'll be in pain for a few more days." She tells him softly, her fingers running through his curls. "I need to…they want to see me…at the hospital, I mean."

He's already been staying at her flat since he jumped off the roof of Bart's three days ago to protect John, Mrs. Hudson and Greg. She's taken care of him. She's taken those three days off and no one questioned her about it, but now she's being called back and she knows why. It's to be expected. He warned her about it, that night, when he asked for her help. He told her what to expect and he told her this morning how to act, what she should wear and she knows better than to argue with him.

She stands up and smoothes down her black dress ("for mourning," he says quietly, "make them believe you're in mourning." She doesn't have to make them believe anything, she is mourning) and stands up. She grabs her coat and purse on her way to the door and turns her head to glance at him, lying on her couch. "I'll see you when I get home, yeah?"

He looks at her then, his blue eyes swarming with something so intense and unnamable it leaves her breathless. He's silent, as if hesitant to answer her, "yes."

(This is lie number nine.)

She asks Mike for the rest of the day off.

He doesn't hesitate in obliging her.

She takes a cab back home and all her cabbie can talk about is Sherlock Holmes' resurrection.

"And I thought this shit only happens in films, yeah? Can you believe it?" He asks excitedly.

She lets out a hollow laugh that sounds bitter and foreign to her ears. "I've always believed in him." She tells him. "Not that it ever mattered."

Her cabbie falls silent as she leans her head out the window and watches as London passes her by.

When she gets into her flat, she locks her door and slides against the wood, settling onto the floor, legs curling underneath her. She leans her head back against the door and sniffles as tears slide down her cheeks. "Oh God." She mutters to herself.

There is a creak on the floor and her head snaps up as she sees a shadow standing by the window. Bright blue eyes are staring directly at her, studying her, scrutinizing her. She gets up on shaky legs and sheds her coat as she wipes at her eyes. "What are you doing here?" She asks him tiredly, wearily.

"I came to see you." He tells her.

She almost sobs with relief at the sound of his voice because she's forgotten the way it sounds. (She's forgotten everything about him and seeing him again after three long years of nothing is sensory overload.) "Why?" He doesn't say anything; instead he just comes closer to her, his right hand wrapping around her wrist and pulling her closer to him, until their bodies are mere inches apart. "I waited for you for three years…you just…you left. You didn't say anything…I didn't know whether…whether you were alive or safe and I just…you…"

"I have erred grievously in my choices, this I know, but Molly, I had to."

"Why?" She asks, her voice breaking and she doesn't bother hiding her desperation for an answer. "Why didn't you come back? Why didn't…why didn't you let me know you were safe?"

He breathes in and exhales, his head bending down until his forehead falls against hers, his hand letting go of her wrist, only for both of his hands to cling to her hips. She can feel the way his hands dig into her, as if reassuring himself that she's real, that she's here (she wants to tell him that she's always real, always here.) "Moriarty thought you didn't count. I couldn't risk anyone finding out you do."

She lets out a choked sob as she wraps her arms around his middle and presses her face into his chest, inhaling the spicy scent that is completely Sherlock Holmes. "I love you." She says into his shirt. "I didn't…I wasn't…I love you."

She feels his arms tighten around her and she can hear the way his heart pounds desperately against his ribs. There is a moment when she feels him take in a shuddering deep breath, "everything I have done, everything I have ever done would not have been possible without you."

(This is his truth.)

There is still so much she needs answered. Still so much that she wants-needs-to know but she doesn't push him. She won't ever push him. And because she loves him and because she would do anything (and she has, she really has) for him, she believes him.

She'll always believe in him.

(This is her truth.)

You know what I hate? When you think your writer's block is finally going away, only to be hit with the mother of all writing blocks while trying to write something. Regardless, I churned this mother trucker of a story out. Finally. This has been a week or so in the making and it's been done around three times, so I'm hoping that it came out okay.

Hummingbirds13, I know this is probably not what you had in mind and honestly, I wanted to go on a different track but obviously, that didn't happen. Lol. I do hope however, that you enjoyed this story! Thank you so much for allowing me to take your idea and (kind of) run with it. So, darling, I hope you enjoyed it!

I hope you all enjoyed it! You are all so awesome and I adore every single one of you. Your support means the world to me and believe me when I say that you are all the reason why I continue to write when sometimes, I just feel like chucking this damn laptop out the window.

Much love

BB