A/N: So here it is, the final chapter, appropriately enough entitled "Payoff." Enjoy, and as always your reviews and follows and favorites are appreciated. And also as always, thanks to Nocturnias for her general cheerleading and helping me figure out Sherlock's Revenge in the previous chapter. :)

"So I guess you, um, know what happened. Earlier. In the ladies."

Sherlock glanced down at Molly, not surprised that she had figured out the more obvious motive he had for staging that delightful little interlude with her two co-workers. He offered a careless shrug, as if it was of no matter and held her hand a bit more firmly in his when she seemed about to move away from him. "If it hadn't been tonight it would have been another night, Molly. Dr. Mortimer has been quite vocal about her belief that you 'stole' her promotion from her."

She dipped her head down in what might have been a nod if she'd looked back up again, and Sherlock frowned. His intention wasn't to make Molly uncomfortable; on the contrary, he'd rather hoped for an expression of appreciation from her that he could brush off – and then offer his own in its stead, for defending him.

Molly, however, did not seem to want to go along with his plan. As she finally raised her head and met his eyes, she gave a sad little smile and immediately ducked her head down again, mumbling: "You don't have to dance with me any longer, Sherlock. They're still arguing and wouldn't notice us if we were dancing naked."

She gasped, her eyes flying up to meet his as red suffused her cheeks in a very becoming manner. As she started to stammer out a retraction, he smirked down at her. The arm around her waist tightened a bit and he pulled her closer in his embrace. Lowering his head in order to murmur more intimately into her ear, he said: "And what if I asked you to dance because I wanted to dance with you, Molly, and not just to tweak those two?"

At those words, Molly, who had begun to relax in his embrace, stiffened and pulled herself out of his arms, eyes wide and cheeks once again red – this time, however, with anger rather than embarrassment. "Sherlock," she hissed through clenched teeth, eyes darting around as if to make sure none of the other couples on the dance floor were listening, "that's just – that's almost as cruel as what Shirene and Veronica just put me through! You promised you wouldn't…I thought we were friends, you know you don't have fake flirt with me to get me to..."

She broke off as if unsure what she wanted to say – which made sense to Sherlock, as he had no idea what she was going on about. Before he could say anything to defend himself (he hadn't been 'fake flirting', surely she could tell the difference by now?), she turned and made her way to the edge of the dance floor, clearly in full flight mode.

No, wrong. This was not how this scene was supposed to play out. He chased after her, cursing when he got caught between a couple that had spun away from one another and chose that unfortunate moment to come back together.

By the time he'd disentangled himself from the pair of them, Molly had vanished.

oOo

John and Mary were engaged in a very flirtatious conversation when Sherlock reached the table. They'd been leaning in for a kiss and separated with equally startled expressions when he slammed his hand down between them. "Have you seen Molly? Did she come by here?"

He looked and sounded as upset as John had ever seen or heard him. He glanced at Mary with a frown; now what had gone wrong? She'd filled him in on the details he alone had apparently not been privy to, of the four of them, but the last thing she'd assured him was that Sherlock and Molly were off to the dance floor and that things were looking quite, quite good between them. He groaned inwardly as Sherlock's eyes darted around the crowded room, clearing looking for Molly. "Christ, Sherlock, what did you do now? I thought you wanted to fix things up, not make them worse! And no," he added in belated response to his agitated friend's question, "Molly hasn't been by."

"She's left." It was a statement, not a question as Sherlock's gaze finally settled back on the table. "Her wrap is missing as well as her purse. Clearly she did come by and grab her things while you two were otherwise occupied." His lip curled in a familiar sneer, but he immediately spoiled the effect he was clearly going for as he raked his fingers through his hair, a lost expression covering his face. "I should go after her."

That was less of a statement than a question, but Mary beat John to the punch by saying: "Yes, of course you should, you git! And whatever it is you did this time, you'd best apologize to her properly!"

They watched as Sherlock grabbed his coat and rushed off without another word. John and Mary exchanged glances, then conspiratorial grins; this time, they both silently agreed, Sherlock wouldn't fuck it up. "Miss Morstan, our friends appear to have deserted us for the evening," John said after a moment.

"Why Dr. Watson, I do believe you're right," Mary agreed, glancing over at where her purse rested on the white tablecloth. "Would you like to stay or perhaps you're as tired – " She gave an exaggerated yawn and stretch, showing off her cleavage to advantage "—as I am?"

John's breathing was noticeably faster as he bobbed his head in agreement. "Why yes, Miss Morstan, I do believe I'm ready for bed. Nothing wrong with making an early night of it." Then he leaned forward and kissed her, a fervent kiss that said more than words exactly how eager he was to get her back to their small house on the outskirts of London – and shag her silly.

Which, as it happened, was exactly what she had in mind. With a wicked grin, she stood up and grabbed her belongings. "Let's go, Dr. Watson. I'm feeling in need of a thorough examination before bed tonight. Just in case I'm coming down with something."

Then she kissed him, quite thoroughly, and led him away, the pair of them grinning like idiots the entire way home.

oOo

She was home, safely barricaded away from the outside world. When would she learn? Sherlock had been right, all those years ago, when he'd warned her about dating. She was shit at it, no question about it. Not that tonight had been a date, of course; it had just been two people who happened to be at the same place at the same humiliating time. With another couple who actually were on a date, just to rub it in.

Molly rushed into the bathroom, bent on scrubbing the stupid makeup from her face and getting herself out of the rubbish dress she'd bought to impress...who? Sherlock? The man who'd once again unintentionally but thoroughly stomped on her heart?

"Molly Hooper, you are a complete idiot," she said to herself as she furiously yanked at the zipper to her red dress, the one that was supposed to make her feel pretty and confident and not like a little girl dressing up in her mother's clothes.

"You're not an idiot."

Molly screamed and spun around at the sound of that unexpected voice coming from the bathroom door, reflexively hurling the first thing her fingers clutched at the intruder – a hairbrush.

"Ow! Molly! Stop, it's me!"

Sherlock. Her eyes and ears finally registered that the invader was Sherlock. What the hell was he doing in her flat...how had he gotten in, why was he here?

She glared at him, panting with a combination of fear and adrenalin alongside a healthy dose of anger as she screeched her questions aloud.

He'd ducked the hairbrush but she caught him squarely on the shoulder as she hurled the plastic pump jar of liquid soap at him when he didn't answer her right away. "What the fuck are you doing here?" she said again, her voice a bit more under control.

Before he could answer there came an almighty pounding on her front door. "Molly! Are you all right? Shall I dial 999 for you?"

It was her upstairs neighbor, Mrs. Linderman, and she gave Sherlock another glare as she shoved past him and stomped to her door. "I'm all right," she reassured the older woman – and inveterate busybody. At least Molly could be comforted in knowing that if she ever were assaulted in her flat for real, the other woman would hear every shout. "It's just...Toby," she finished lamely, not wanting to explain that she had a man in her flat.

Not that there was any reason for her not to have a man in her flat, but Mrs. Linderman would spread the gossip and then Molly would have to contend with well-meaning congratulations from the others in the building about her new boyfriend. And there was nothing more humiliating than explaining that no, she didn't actually have a new boyfriend.

After several more reassurances through the door – Molly had no intention of opening with her dress half off and what remained of her makeup a smeared mess on her face – and her neighbor had made her reluctant good-byes, she turned back to Sherlock, who had moved silently into her small sitting room and was just standing there, looking at her.

Sheepish, she'd call his expression if he were anyone other than the great prat who'd just picked her locks and snuck into her flat without so much as a text message to warn her he was coming.

She was about to demand, yet again, that he explain himself when he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his mobile, holding it toward her as if expecting her to take it from him. "What's this?" she asked suspiciously.

He gave her an impatient look. "It's my mobile, Molly. Obviously. Now take it and call John."

Molly crossed her arms across her chest and frowned at him. "If this is about a case, Sherlock, I'm really not in the mood..."

"It's not about a case," he interrupted her before she could work up to an angry rant. He stepped forward, somewhat cautiously, and his expression softened once again into something almost...beseeching. He gestured with the phone once more as he stopped a few feet away from her. "Please. Just call John."

He stepped closer to her with those words, invading her personal space in that way he did that set everyone off balance for different reasons. She was sure her cheeks were burning as she stared up at him – but no longer with anger. "Call John," he repeated, once again holding out his mobile, his eyes burning into hers, body fairly vibrating with...what? Energy? Impatience? She couldn't tell. "Call him, and ask him why I allowed myself to be dragged to that dreary party. I want you to hear it from his mouth, because I doubt you'll believe me if I tell you myself."

She thought about protesting further, then decided she could be quicker rid of him if she just gave in and did as he asked, no matter how cryptic he was being. After the night she'd had, she just wasn't in the mood. Why wouldn't he just say whatever it was he'd come here to say and leave? As if this night hadn't been enough of an emotional roller-coaster...With a sigh, she accepted the phone and dialed John's mobile.

"Hullo, John? It's Molly...yes, he asked me to call you," she said, glancing up at Sherlock, knowing he could hear John almost as clearly as she could. At least he'd taken a few steps back, folding his arms across his chest and watching impassively as she spoke to his former flat-mate. "He asked me to ask you why he agreed to come to the party tonight."

"Tell him to tell you the truth," Sherlock put in suddenly, for the first time looking almost as discomfited as Molly felt. "Not the rubbish excuse I told him to tell you, either."

"You heard that? O-okay, then. Why did he..." Molly fell silent as she listened to John, darting disbelieving glances up at Sherlock as she listened. "Are you sure? Really? Well, um, thanks, John. Tell Mary I said good-night and thank you again for all her help, will you?" Another pause and another glance at Sherlock. "Yes, I'll tell him. Good-bye!"

She pressed the button to end the call and handed the mobile back to Sherlock. "He said you'd better not be giving me a hard time – but the other thing, what he said...you told him to say it. Didn't you?"

Sherlock's expression could best be described as disdainful. "I can assure you, Molly, John will do a lot of things for me, up to and including both taking a bullet and putting one into another person's head, but he will never lie to a woman for me. Especially not you."

Molly felt the overwhelming urge to sit, and so she did, groping for the nearest chair and dropping into it heavily. "O-okay, then," she said, somewhat at a loss for words. Not an unusual circumstance where Sherlock was involved, but this time was something so very, very different than anything she could have imagined it was going to take her some time to gather her thoughts.

Sherlock, it would appear, expected just such a reaction, since he turned, removed his jacket, and hung it on the hook next to hers. He then proceeded into her tiny kitchen, where she heard him rustling through her cabinets and making noises that sounded very much like he was putting on the kettle for tea.

That jolted her out of her temporary paralysis; it was so normal, so much a part of the routine into which they'd fallen when he'd been hiding out in her flat in the first few weeks after his fake suicide, that she found the energy to rise from her chair and follow him into the kitchen.

She leaned against the doorjamb and just watched him puttering about, completely at home, and for the first time since she'd entered the ladies' at the party, felt a genuine smile blooming on her lips. "So, if John isn't lying, then the reason you came to the party was because of me? Because you wanted to, to spend time with me?" God, she hated how she stuttered around him even now when they'd become friends, but it always came back whenever she got emotional. And if what John had told her was true, well, then she was about to get very, very emotional.

And if Sherlock didn't like it, too bad. Because it was all his fault.

He'd hunched his shoulders a bit as she spoke, then straightened them and turned to look at her. "Yes."

Just one word, so simple, so straightforward and honest...so utterly life-changing.

"And when you did what you did to Shirene and Veronica, that wasn't just to show off how clever you are? You were...defending me?"

A nod. "They'd upset you with their idiotic opinions of us. If you're expecting me to apologize to them..."

Molly shook her head and took a few steps into the kitchen. "No. They deserved it, even if they didn't know I was listening to them in the ladies. Which I shouldn't have been," another couple of steps, "because eavesdropping is rude."

Sherlock reached behind him with one hand and shut off the kettle, which hadn't even begun to boil, then he, too, took two steps forward, until he was once again deep inside Molly's personal space.

Close enough to touch.

Close enough (if she were daring and brave) to kiss.

Luckily for her lips, tonight just happened to be the night that she decided to feel daring and brave. Especially after the emotional upsets at the party. She hadn't felt daring and brave since she'd helped Sherlock fake his death, and she had to admit that she'd missed feeling that way.

Luckily for her, Sherlock seemed inclined to return her kiss.

When the kiss ended – breathing, after all, being a necessity from time to time – Molly found herself gazing up at him in some bemusement. "Tell me," she half-asked, her hands resting on his chest (when had they settled there, should she move them, no, leave them, be brave, Molly Hooper).

Sherlock looked uncomfortable, flicked his eyes to the side before once again meeting her gaze. "I suppose I've known all along," he finally admitted, his voice low and deep and meant for her ears only – no more interference from well-meaning neighbors, Molly thought with an internal (and only slightly hysterical) giggle. "All those times I deduced your dates and commented on your body and hair...even at that Christmas party, it wasn't actually because I was annoyed at John for having the party in the first place, it was because I was...well." He sucked in a breath, let it out, and lowered his eyes. "I suppose I was...jealous."

"Jealous," Molly repeated disbelievingly. "Of what?"

"Of whom," he corrected her, his hands moving from her hips to grasp her upper arms (oh, why hadn't she realized his hands were on her hips, what was wrong with her?) and giving them a gentle squeeze. "I was jealous of whomever it was you were going to meet up with after the party, of course. Whoever it was you'd dressed up for and taken such care to wrap a present for."

She digested this confession for a long moment, fingers curling unconsciously into the silky fabric of Sherlock's dark grey dress shirt. Then she smiled, first to herself and then up at him. "What?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow toward his hairline.

"What, what?" she echoed and asked. "Can't you deduce me, Sherlock?"

Her response was a slow smile, a smoldering look of passion, and another kiss that left her even more breathless than the first one they'd shared.

As she felt Sherlock's fingers tugging her dresses' zip the rest of the way down her back, she reached for his buttons and began undoing them. This was real, this was happening, and not a moment too soon as far as she was concerned.

And when the two of them moved toward her bedroom, she smiled again as Sherlock leaned down to murmur in her ear: "You're far from an insipid prig, Molly, and I am most definitely not gay."