Chapter 41

"Antone and Sofia Cloutier were found murdered in their apartment just outside of Bruges, Belgium, seven years ago," Mycroft read.

Sherlock sat propped up in his bed, eyeing his hospital lunch dubiously. John had vacated the chair when Mycroft arrived. Now he was leaning back against the wall, listening with rapt interest while Mycroft paged through the file he'd brought in with him.

"Antone was an enforcer for the gang de la Brise de Mer. In 1999, he was arrested for possession of an illegal firearm and held until his trial in late 2000. He agreed to testify against La Familie in exchange for a protection agreement, which was subsequently revoked by the prosecuting judge because Antone had omitted relevant information. Antone and his family disappear from official records at that point. It is noted that at the time of the murders, seven years later, La Familie publicly disavowed any responsibility for the action, while privately agreeing that it did rather neatly take care of a lingering problem."

Sherlock listened dispassionately, more focused on the unidentifiable lump of vaguely organic looking material that he was expected to eat for lunch. He was going to have to send John out for something edible. "No mention of the daughter?"

"Only that one existed," Mycroft said. "Her name is given as Aline Lucia Cloutier. The age matches, but I couldn't obtain a photograph of her from the time before her parents were murdered."

"I don't imagine they were much on family portraits, given their desire to stay out from under the radar of the Corsican mafia," Sherlock said. He pushed his tray away and settled for drinking his tea. "I have no reason to doubt her original story, in regards to her family history, at least. What else?" "

I am merely being thorough," Mycroft said. He flipped forward to another page in the file. "Eighteen months ago, Michael Richardson, an American expatriate and CIA-trained assassin, was reported as being seen in Abu Dhabi in the company of a young woman fitting Miss Cloutier's description. Their apparent attachment was described as one of a romantic nature."

John looked startled, but Sherlock only nodded. This he had deduced for himself, albeit belatedly. When Aline had come to him in St. Petersburg to let him know that she was done with the life, that she had 'found a place', he had gathered from her behaviour that what she really meant was that she had found a someone. She had never brought it up after her arrival in London, and he hadn't deigned to mention it himself. Because of course it had ended badly. Wasn't that how every romantic entanglement was concluded? God, would his presuppositions regarding love ever stop coming back to haunt him?

"She already knew who you were when she first encountered you in Barcelona," Mycroft said. It wasn't a question. It was a very good guess. Sherlock nodded again. He steepled his fingers together and let his gaze go distant as he flicked back through his memories.

It all made sense in retrospect, as things tended to do, hindsight being twenty-twenty, or so the saying went. Aline had saved him from Lucho Urbina in Barcelona because she had realized he could be useful to her. She hadn't been in the process of taking down Moriarty's criminal web when he met her. She'd been resuscitating it.

And he had helped her.

From country to country, from one obscure network cell to another, he had led her to each and every one of them. He had given her the remains of Jim Moriarty's criminal enterprise on a silver platter, and he had even gone so far as to help her clean out the dead wood. And then, as an added bonus, he had handed over every piece of information she needed to track down the people who had helped him.

And all because he had been a lonely fool on a mission. So desperate for the companionship that he insisted that he didn't need, he had thrown open the doors and invited the fox into the henhouse with open arms.

John's voice sounded strained. "Wait a minute. Aline and Richardson - they were together the whole time?" He shook his head as if trying to shake a thought into place. "But that means the injuries that she sustained - "

"Were self-inflicted, yes," Sherlock said, thankful for a reason to push his thoughts aside. "Or as good as, at any rate. I'm sure Richardson did the actual damage, but she let him do it."

"Oh my God." John looked suddenly pale. "But they were together? He tortured her, Sherlock. She was beaten and cut up for weeks…and she - she let him do it?"

"Added some rather creditable realism to her story though, didn't it?" Sherlock grimaced. He couldn't decide if it was comforting or disturbing that there were people whose concept of love was even more twisted than his own had been.

oooooOOOOOooooooOOOOOoooooOOOOOoooooo

Sherlock was released from the hospital three days later. He was still moving slowly and in a considerable amount of pain, but his physician cleared him to go home, citing her fear that one of the nurses might try to smother him in his sleep if he remained under their care any longer.

A subdued celebration had greeted his return to Baker Street. John had helped him climb the stairs to his flat. Mary, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Sargent du Crieff were all there to welcome him home. He was grateful for their well-wishes, but Molly's absence left a hole in his chest that ached far worse than the gunshot wound ever had.

Still, he had waited patiently until each of his friends had patted him on his good arm or given him a gentle hug, and then left so that he could get some rest. Then he had called a cab, struggled back down the stairs to the street, and gone directly back to the hospital.

Over the ensuing week, the ICU nurses quickly proceeded from sympathetic understanding to frustration to flat out fury before Mycroft managed to wrangle the necessary dispensation that allowed Sherlock to visit Molly's room. Then the entire staff had thrown their hands up in resignation and merely worked around him. He stayed away during the day when Mrs. Hooper was present, choosing instead to slip in after visiting hours were over. He was not yet ready to share either his grief or his time alone with Molly.

Mostly, he sat in silence. He was still not good with words - not the ones that mattered, anyway. But he had a plan. When she woke up - not if, when - then he would tell her everything he needed her to hear. He would find the words, or he would spend the rest of his life showing her - or both. Preferably both.

Occasionally, when the night grew long and the quiet became too heavy even for him, he read to her. The words filled the emptiness in the room, and for a time, eased the ache that accompanied the question that he felt with every breath - was she ever going to wake up?

Eleven days after the events at the warehouse, Sherlock was in his usual spot in Molly's room, sitting back in the chair next to her bed, reading aloud from a recent edition of Analytical Chemistry.

It was getting late and it was time he headed for home. The night nurse on duty was one of the more tolerant variety, but he preferred not to push her forbearance any further than was absolutely necessary. You would be proud of me, Molly, he thought with a wry quirk of his lips.

Sherlock touched Molly's cheek gently in farewell and then returned the chair back to the side of the room for Mrs. Hooper's morning visit. And then he headed toward the door. He was reaching for the handle when he felt a sudden, odd shift in his awareness. He froze with his hand partially extended, his heart suddenly thundering in his chest.

There had been no sound, no movement, no alteration in the frequency or tone of the monitoring equipment, nothing to explain it, and yet, somehow, he knew. He curled his fingers into a fist and closed his eyes, so very afraid that he was wrong. He spoke softly, imbuing the word with every ounce of hope he had ever felt. "Molly?"

In a voice as soft as a butterfly's wings, he heard her reply. "Sherlock?"

A shuddering gasp tore from his throat and he was at her side before his shocked mind had even made the conscious thought. He dropped to his knees by her bedside, hardly able to believe that his body was capable of containing so much happiness without exploding.

Molly's eyes were open. She was blinking heavily. Puzzled lines furrowing her brow, but she turned her head so that she could look at him, and even managed a faint smile. "Hi."

"Hello, Molly," he said. His voice was thick, his hands shaking

"I don't feel so great," she whispered. Her eyelids fluttered closed. Sherlock reached over and pressed the call button for the night nurse.

"You look beautiful." Her eyes went wide, and she fought to focus on him for a moment.

"Why are you crying?" She raised a hand as if to reach for him, and came up short against the tension of the IV lines. "Oh."

"You're going to be fine," he assured her. He took her hand carefully, clasping it between his own, letting the tears run unchecked down his cheeks. "You've been ill for a little while, but you're going to be alright now."

The night nurse entered the room and flipped the light on with an exasperated sigh. "Mr. Holmes, how many times - "

"She's awake," he said without taking his eyes off of Molly's face. He smiled down at her and then bent his head to kiss the back of her hand. "She's awake, and she needs you."

"Oh, that's wonderful," the nurse exclaimed. She began bustling around Molly's bed, pausing to put in a call to the nurse's station before she began checking vital signs. "Miss Hooper," she said as she leaned over to examine Molly's pupils. "Molly, my name is Nurse Mackenzie. Do you know where you are?"

The nurse spoke softly and calmly as she explained everything to Molly. Molly seemed a bit bemused to hear about the shooting and the eleven days she had subsequently lost, but she nodded in understanding.

Sherlock moved out of the way, but refused to relinquish his hold on Molly's hand. He wasn't willing to give up the sensation of her fingers curling around his own for anything. No doubt they would chase him out as soon as the doctor arrived, but until then, he needed to touch her, to see the life behind her eyes once again. And he needed to speak to her. There was so much that he needed to say.

When the nurse had concluded her preliminary checks and gotten the necessary responses from Molly, she patted her patient on the shoulder. "We're so happy to have you back with us," she concluded. "Now, I'm going to go see if the doctor is on his way." Nurse Mackenzie's eyes flicked up to meet Sherlock's and she smiled. "Be right back."

As soon as the nurse walked away, Sherlock leaned down and brushed his lips across Molly's cheek. "Molly," he began. "Molly, I - " He swallowed hard, trying to dislodge a lump as every word he'd never been able to articulate to her clogged his throat, all clamoring to be heard at once.

How to tell her how precious she was to him? How to show his appreciation for all that she had done, for all the times she had saved his life and all the ways she had saved it? How could he phrase the words in such a way that she would understand? His inadequacies plagued him, twisting in his gut. He had to get this part right. She had to know that she was loved - that he loved her. But how - "

I know, Sherlock." Molly's voice was barely a whisper, her breath warm against his ear. She slipped her hand from between his and reached up to touch the side of his face with her fingertips. He lifted his head so that he could see her. She was pale, and dark circles bruised the thin skin under her eyes, but she was looking up at him with a gentle smile on her lips. "I know."

The doctor arrived then, barreling into the room and launching immediately into introductions as he looked over the nurse's notes. Sherlock considered standing his ground and holding Molly's hand until they physically threw him out of the room, but the nurse came up behind him and tugged gently on his arm.

"Now, Mr. Holmes," she said, gently encouraging. "Miss. Hooper is awake, and that's a marvelous thing, to be sure. But she needs her rest. Let the doctor look her over and see where we're at, shall we?" Grudgingly, Sherlock gave Molly's hand a final squeeze and then allowed the nurse to tow him out of the room. And then, when he was alone in the stairwell, he sank down onto the top step and wept.

oooooOOOOOooooooOOOOOoooooOOOOOoooooo

"The doctor says I should be able to go home in a day or two." Sherlock looked up from the journal he was reading to see Molly giving him an expectant look from her nest of pillows. She was pale, but the dark rings under her eyes had diminished, and her cheeks shone slightly pink from the exertion of her daily physical therapy. He arched a dubious eyebrow at her, and she scowled at him.

"If the doctor says I can go home, you can't make me stay."

Sherlock looked back down at his reading to hide the smile he couldn't quite smother. Physician heal thyself, indeed.

It had been nearly two weeks since Molly had woken from the coma. They had been slow and frustrating weeks as she came back to herself only gradually, but the doctors had been thrilled with her progress. Her chances for a full recovery were excellent. She still tired very easily, but she was staying awake and aware for a lot more of the day now. She really would be ready to go home soon.

The thought pleased him, but at the same time, he couldn't help but feel anxious. Molly was safe here. He needn't worry about her well-being as long as she was cinched up tight in a hospital ward. There were so many dangers on the other side of these doors. And no matter how much he might want to, he couldn't protect her from all of them. It had all been so much easier when he hadn't had anything to lose. Now, suddenly, the hazardous nature of his profession gave him pause. There would be other James Moriartys and Aline Cloutiers. There would always be someone in the world that wished him harm. Quite aside from his abilities as a detective, he just seemed to have that effect on people. And with Molly in his life, she would forever be falling into the crosshairs of some megalomaniac with a vendetta.

He looked up at her through his lashes. She was sitting cross-legged on her bed with her hair piled on top of her head, her glasses perched on her nose as she paged through a forensics journal.

He loved her. The idea that he was capable of loving, much less admitting to it, was still new to him. He was still trying to get used to the concept. It changed things in more ways than he had anticipated. He wanted to protect her. Part of him wanted to argue that this was reason enough to push her away - to keep her safe by forcing her outside of his sphere. If you love her, keep her safe. But it was another part of him that was winning the argument - if you love her, let her decide.

Sherlock got to his feet and set his own reading aside. He noticed that his hands felt cold and his chest was suddenly tight. Good God, he was nervous. How utterly ridiculous. He shook the sensation off and went to sit on the edge of the bed. "Molly," he said, and then stopped to clear his throat.

Molly looked up from her reading and smiled. "Well, hello, Sherlock."

"Yes, hello." He tried taking a deep breath. "I was wondering something." She raised her eyebrows above the rims of her glasses.

"Oh? What's that then?"

Oh, go on and get it over with, you idiot, he chided himself fiercely. "What do you think of beekeeping?"

Molly's mouth formed a little 'o' of surprise and she blinked up at him. "What do I think of…"

"Beekeeping," he supplied. "Yes."

She seemed to try and start a variety of sentences before she finally managed to get out a complete one. "I don't really know, Sherlock. I mean, I've never really thought much about…beekeeping." She squinted at him. "Are you feeling alright?"

"Yes, of course I am." He waved the question away. "It's just, you see… I've been thinking about moving to the country to take up beekeeping."

"You've been what?" Molly exclaimed. Her eyes were shining with amusement. "Why, for heaven's sake?" He was starting to feel a bit self-conscious.

"It's safer," he said. "For you."

"For me?" She reached out a hand and laid it on his knee. "You've thought about moving to the country to take up beekeeping, for me?"

"It's safer," he repeated. He picked her hand up in his own and examined the fine blue lines that ran just beneath her pale skin. "I want you to be safe. I will do anything it takes to keep you safe. And if it means that we leave London behind and live in a cottage in the country with only the bees for company, then I am willing to do it for you - for us." He hesitated and then went on. "Besides, I find bees fascinating."

"Oh, Sherlock," Molly said tenderly. She put her hands on his cheeks and pressed her forehead to his. "That is the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me." She laughed and kissed him firmly on the lips. "But, no. You don't need to move to the country and take up beekeeping for my sake." She looked thoughtful. "Not yet, anyway. Maybe one day." She tilted her head to the side and regarded him seriously. "What's brought this on?" "

Well, the thing is," he said. "You're going to be going home soon." He recaptured one of her hands and held it firmly in his own. He swallowed hard. "Where is home going to be, Molly?"

"Wherever you are, Sherlock," she replied at once. "I want it to be wherever you are." She smiled at him. "But whatever you want is fine. The details don't matter. I can go back to my flat, and we can be like we were before. I'm not asking anything of you that you aren't comfortable with giving. I just want to be with you when I can."

Sherlock swallowed again. It felt like his heart was climbing up his throat. But this is what he had been working up to, and there was no point in waiting any longer. The words were stuck, but he could show her. With trembling fingers he reached into his jacket pocket and produced the tiny black box he had purchased weeks ago. It was amazing that something so small could carry the weight of all his hopes. He held it in the palm of his hand and tried to remember to breathe.

Molly had gone wide-eyed. She sat completely frozen with her left hand still clasped in his right. "Sherlock?" she said after a moment. Her voice was high-pitched and breathy.

He placed the box in her hand and and wrapped her fingers around it. "I'm not good with words. I never have been. Some things I am better at showing." He looked down at her small, capable hand clasped within his own and smiled. "But some things do need to be said. And what I'm saying, Molly Hooper, is that I love you." He released her fingers and sat up, hoping that it had been enough.

Molly sat looking at the black box for a long time. Then she reached out a tentative finger and brushed it across the velvety surface of the lid. She looked up at him, her dark eyes swimming. "Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure," he said. "When am I ever not sure about anything?"

Molly slowly opened the box. She drew in a breath. "Oh."

Sherlock swallowed hard. "So, is that a - "

She laughed. "Yes. Of course, yes."

He kissed her then. It was sweet and lingering, a gentle pressure of lips to seal their newly-minted contract. But more than that, it was their new beginning - two lonely lives ending in order to make way for one new, shared existence. A life together - what an extraordinary concept.

That he now cherished the idea he had once scorned was a testament to the innumerable changes that Molly had so gently wrought in his life. She had changed his perception of what it was to love through her own quiet constancy and steadfast nature. She had shown him how much more there was to love than what his senses could tell - that all the facts and figures and information and data in the world were no match for the powerful truth of the heart.

They had come back from balancing precariously at the edge of death and been given another chance to do something important with their lives. It was a chance few were given, and Sherlock knew exactly what he was going to do with his.

Sherlock Holmes was going to devote every bit of the rest of his life to solving the problem of Molly Hooper.

The End

A/N: Wow. I can't begin to tell how strange it feels to write those two words. Sherlock and Molly have been keeping me company nearly every day for more than a year now. It is going to be very hard to say goodbye.

Please allow me to honestly and wholeheartedly thank every one of you who has stuck with me throughout the writing of this. I have cherished every comment, private message, favorite and follow. Each one of you played a major part in keeping me going. Your kind words and encouragement have been the best part of this entire experience for me.

And to my dear friend, Katie F - There isn't the slightest chance that would have finished this if it weren't for you. Thank you for wielding your mighty grammar hammer like an Asgardian thunder god, for talking me down off of innumerable ledges and out of ridiculous plot points. Thank you for listening to me rant and rave about this and for encouraging me to keep going even when you knew it meant that you were just going to have to listen to me rant and rave some more. Your patience, tolerance and ninja-like beta capabilities have been so very much appreciated. You're the best, Astro:)

The original point of this exercise was so that I could get some practice under my belt before I tried my hand at writing a 'real' story. I promised myself that when I finished The Science of Perception, I would then focus on completing a work of original fiction, so that is what I am going to try to do. I will never be far away from fanfiction, either reading or writing, but I will be taking a little bit of a break from it while I make the effort to try and turn my hobby into a career.

Thanks again,

Tallulah