Disclaimer: I own nothing. Like nothing. Nada.

Author's Note: So, this is my very very very angsty fic. Like WHOA, angst, that I was talking about on tumblr. There will be a total, of, I believe six chapters. Maybe seven, but I'm aiming for six because, it's a good number, yeah? LOL. Seriously though, happy holidays everyone and I apologize profusely if this story makes you sad! It's just…the angst…it calls to me. Anyways, I sincerely hope you all enjoy it! Please, heed the warnings. The triggers are listed below and they are for all chapters. I have tried to encompass them all but I'm sure I've missed some, but please, heed the warnings.

Warnings: AU from Series 3, angst, smut (all sorts of smut, oral, fingering, hand-jobs, vagnial, rough sex, masturbation), coarse language, bullying, murder, talk of murder, talk of suicide, talk of autopsies, allusions and references to infidelity, violence, threatening one's life, drug use, mentions of rehab, induced vomiting, Sherlock being kind of a douche. There are more, I know there are, and I will add them as I remember them.

This is it. The final chapter. Errm…there's kind of smut in this? I mean it's there and it's described but nothing as explicit as before. But still there! Also….I'm just going to hide underneath a desk right now…you'll see why.

So yeah, I sincerely hope you all enjoy, as always, reviews are greatly appreciated and any mistakes are mine and mine alone. Title is taken from Bon Iver's Holocene

And at once I knew (I was not magnificent)

Part six

She's been to Manchester a few times in her life. Most of the times it was with her dad. It's exactly as she remembers it. She walks along familiar roads and familiar pubs, until she comes to a small café.

There is a man sitting at a table for two, the seat in front of him, empty. All Molly can see is his profile. His tall, lanky body too awkward for the chairs, his shoulders broad, his hair black and with a bit of curls, his skin smooth as porcelain.

(And even though she knows she shouldn't, her breath catches anyways and she thinks of another tall lanky man with broad shoulders, black curly hair and porcelain skin. She wonders if he misses her. She wonders if he notices she's gone at all.)

Molly walks in and stands by the door, the smell of coffee and cinnamon overwhelming her. She could leave. He hasn't seen her yet; she could still walk out the door and away from him. She could call Anthea and ask for a ticket back to wherever they are (wherever he is.)

She doesn't. Instead, she moves her legs forwards, apologizing as she jostles people out of the way. When she reaches the table, he's standing up, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He has a grin on his face (the same charming grin she remembers from so long ago) and his hands are by his sides, slightly trembling (she wonders, if she takes his pulse, what she would find. Would his pulse be racing? Thundering underneath her fingertips?) He leans forward and places a hesitant kiss on her cheek (she closes her eyes and tries to forget another hesitant kiss placed on her cheek during a Christmas that still brings back painful memories.)

"Hello Molly." He says, his voice is deep but not as deep and not as baritone as she would have preferred.

She smiles anyways (and tries to forget about the man countries apart from her.) "Hello Tom."

"Oh, I knew it!" Mary yelps into the flat. "So, how's this going to work? Are you going to Manchester every weekend? Is he coming to London? Are you meeting somewhere in the middle? Rugby, maybe?"

Molly snorts into her wine. "Mary, we're not…this…it's new."

"Molls, you've liked this guy since you were a child. This is not new. This is…this is years in the making. This is way past being new."

Maybe, but the last something that was years in the making ended up tearing her apart and destroying her. She feels bad and she knows she should feel worse about lying to Mary, John, Greg, Mrs. Hudson, Tom about where she's been and what she's been doing, but despite everything that happened, she still promised to carry his secret to the grave.

Sherlock Holmes may not have promised her anything, but she promised him everything and that…that means something. To her at least.

"What about you?" Molly asks her.

"What about me?"

Molly shrugs, trying to imagine all the different pictures and scenarios in her mind before settling on a smile. "I know this man. You'd like him. I know you would."

"Oh, Molly, please."

"His name is John Watson."

Tom is wonderful.

He makes her laugh. He makes her smile. He'll sometimes bring her an orchid (just one, always an orchid, never roses, because he knows she prefers orchids) whenever he's in London. He's smart and he never stops wanting to learn. He's not disgusted by her job and in fact is always willing to listen to her as she laments about her day.

She meets his family (again and they still remember her as the quiet and shy girl from childhood) and they welcome her with open arms and warm smiles. They're funny, sarcastic and a rowdy bunch. There's so many of them, aunts, uncles, cousins, brothers, nephews and nieces. Sometimes it's a bit overwhelming and when she feels like she can't breathe, when she feels like she's suffocating, somehow, he's always there, hand grasping hers and holding on protectively.

He gives her space when she's busy and she doesn't call when he's in the middle of a case (a different type of case, she reminds herself, but a case nonetheless), but when everything is done and over with, he'll come to London (or she'll go to Manchester) and they'll fall back into the same pattern of laughing and talking and kissing and learning each other's bodies.

Tom is wonderful. Truly, he is.

(But she can never see herself giving him her entire heart. Partly because it's with another man halfway around the world. But mostly, because even if said man halfway across the world, gave it back to her, it wouldn't be whole. It'd be in shattered little pieces, almost impossible to put back together.)

The first time Tom and John meet, it's on a double date. Molly does her best not to smile smugly at Mary with her correct assumption that Mary and John would be perfect for one another.

Tom is late, though they knew he would be. Her back is to the door and John is talking to her, regaling both she and Mary about an incident in the A&E, when he suddenly stops and pales.

Mary frowns and puts her hand on his forearm and Molly calls out his name. It's not until a shadow falls across Molly's chair, and a familiar hand is on her shoulder, that she realizes why John has paled.

(She thinks she should have warned him beforehand.)

"John. This is Tom. Tom, this is John Watson. And you already know Mary."

John, for his part, is shaken out of his reverie and he smiles (though not as wide) at Tom.

A little while later, Tom gets up to get drinks and Mary nearly jumps out her chair, scrambling to help him, shooting Molly a knowing look.

"I should have warned you." She says to John when they're alone, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." He says, his voice drawn. "There are…there are lots of tall blokes with black hair." He shoots her a look and then shakes his head, a small grin playing on his lips. "Though now, it does make more sense, why Mary told me, you obviously have a type." They're both silent, Molly drumming her fingers on the table when John reaches over and grasps her fingers. "He seems like a nice bloke. He's good, yeah? He treats you well? He…does he make you happy?"

Molly turns her head and sees Tom at the bar with Mary talking with a few other guys, friendly smile on his face. His eyes turn upwards and when he sees her staring, he winks at her, shooting her a beaming smile, so full of tenderness, it makes her chest burst with feeling. "Yeah…I really think he does."

"Good." John says, leaning back in his chair. "That's good. You deserve it. To be happy, I mean."

"You too." Molly echoes the sentiment. "Mary is…Mary is wonderful and you are one lucky man, John Watson."

"I am." He agrees. "I truly am."

The months start to blur together for Molly. Each passing day a new one, making it easier for her to breathe.

She'll often wonder how Sherlock is. How he's doing. (In the darkest part of her mind, she wonders if he's replaced her with another, with the Woman and she deludes herself into believing that she's fine if he did. Because men like Sherlock Holmes don't belong with women like Molly Hooper.)

(This is what she tells herself.)

Tom leaves his firm in Manchester and moves to a firm in the heart of London.

He moves in with Molly and they make a weekend of it. Moving his stuff into hers, repainting the walls, which leads to varnishing the cupboards, which leads to cleaning out closets and buying new things.

By the end of it, they collapse in bed, hands intertwining with each other until she doesn't know where he begins and she ends. She turns her head, lips seeking out his and nibbling on his bottom lip. "Welcome home, Tom."

One day, Tom comes across an old clipping of Sherlock.

He's staring at it when she comes home, Thai in her hands. She puts the food down gently and stares at him, wondering when (if) he's going to say something (anything.)

His thumb brushes against the grainy photo of Sherlock's face and he looks up at her. "He's important to you, isn't he?"

She blinks at the use of present tense and she wonders just how transparent she is when it comes to Sherlock Holmes. She doesn't lie when she answers him, finds that she can't lie (won't lie) to him. "Yes. He is."

He nods, accepting the answer for what it is and then kisses her, mumbling against her lips that he loves her.

"I love you too."

(She only feels a little stab in her chest when she says the truth she's known for quite some time now.)

When they have sex, Tom likes going slowly. He likes drawing her orgasms out, until she's digging her nails into his back, pleading and begging for more, please, Tom, God, please.

He kisses and worships every inch of her and his fingertips trace I love you's on her skin. His grip hard but steady, anchoring her to him.

He's an attentive lover, aware of her needs but he's always fun. He likes laughing and cracking jokes at the most inappropriate times and Molly can't help but laugh loudly, innuendos echoing off the walls, as their laughs turn into moans and keens wails.

At the end, he always pulls her to him, wrapping himself around her, kissing the top of her head and asking her how her day was, as if he didn't just give her multiple mind-blowing orgasms. (She'll answer him truthfully. She always does.)

(Sometimes, when he's sleeping, and she's brushing hair from his face, she can't help but compare Sherlock and Tom, in the darkest part of her mind, she imagines they're one and the same.)

She's at dinner with Mary and John when she sees a familiar face outside the window.

His blonde hair glints in the darkness, his eyes piercing and mocking and one side of his face has silver remnants of where her nails clawed him on that hot day in Madrid. He gives her a salute and winks at her, before walking back into the shadows.

But tell Sherlock dearest that Seb can't wait to play and this time, his death won't be fake.

She starts, hand clambering after her phone and she shoots off incoherent apologies as she stumbles off her chair and into the loo, where she slams the door shut and locks it. She fumbles with the number and gnaws at her thumb.

Anthea answers on the second ring. "Molly?"

"Sebastian Moran is in London. I just…I just saw him." She blurts out, her voice rising.

"We know." Anthea says, "so are we."

Molly blinks. "What?"

"We're back in London." She pauses and then adds, "Sherlock is back in London."

(Molly hangs up the phone and slides down against the door, head pillowed on her knees. She breathes deeply and then stands up, squaring her shoulders and walking back to the table. She deflects their questions but her heart is still hammering inside her chest.)

Sherlock Holmes is back in London. (Molly should feel elated and she is, knowing that the lies will come to an end soon, but there's also a part of her that feels dread in the pit of her stomach.)

(She was just learning how to get along with her life without him.)

The night when she and Tom go home and Molly is already shedding her clothes as she walks into their room, she comes to a complete standstill when she sees the small velvet ring box on their bed.

She grabs the box with trembling hands and stares up at Tom as he walks in, slowly, hesitantly, as if afraid of her reaction.

"I love you." He tells her as he kneels before. "Molly Hooper, I've loved since we were children and my biggest regret in life was standing around and doing nothing about it. I love you. And if you can…I would love to…what I mean to say is…oh bollocks..."

She laughs through tears that are stinging her eyes and she throws her arms around him, her heart rattling and thundering in her chest. "Yes." She whispers in his ear. "Yes. Yes. Yes."

She squeals when he picks her up and spins her around, their laughter echoing through their flat.

The next morning, just as dawn is breaking across the sky, Molly's eyes open. She frowns and turns her head to Tom, who is sleeping soundly. She listens intently, closely to her flat. The hairs on her body rise, skin prickling and there is a tingling in her spine. She pulls herself gently from Tom's arms, eyeing the ring on her finger, and pulls on her dressing robe.

She grabs the baseball bat on her way out of the room and shuts the door gently behind her. She walks slowly, carefully to the sitting area and jumps back, hands fumbling to catch the bat before it falls and trying to set her heartbeat back to normal. "Fuck." She curses when she sees the tall figure occupying her sofa, lingering in the shadows of the flat.

She knows who it is, of course she does. She flicks on the light and she bites back a gasp when she sees his face. One side is black and blue, his lip is busted and his left eye has a bruise. He looks like he's just been in the fight of his life (and Molly has no doubt he probably was.) It doesn't take long for instinct to take over and she's flying to the kitchen, grabbing ice and bandages.

He doesn't take them. Instead, he flinches away from her touch. She recoils back, as if slapped. When he meets her eyes, she wants to cry at the restrained emotion (anger, betrayal, hurt.) "How long have you been here?" She asks him, her voice hoarse and dry.

His eyes flicker towards the ring on her finger and then to her robe, where in her haste to get ice and bandages, the strap across her waist has loosened, showing brief glimpses of bare skin. "Long enough."

He gets up, his movements stiff and tense. "Sherlock," she says (she's ashamed to admit, there is a bit of pleading), "please, just let me…let me help you." Let me heal you.

"You've helped enough." He snaps, his voice cold and hard.

And then he leaves out the front door, slamming it hard behind him.

Molly shudders, tears stinging her eyes and then she puts a hand to her mouth, crying out when the cool silver of her ring meets her lips.

(It's how Tom finds her, curled into a ball on the sofa, hands around her knees, telly on, as pictures of "Sherlock Holmes Alive" flicker across her face.)

He holds her and murmurs sentiments in her ear and Molly cries harder because while men like Sherlock Holmes don't belong with women like Molly Hooper. Molly Hooper doesn't belong with men like Tom.

(Tom's too good for her. He's too pure. And she'll ruin him.)

She tells Tom the truth. She owes him that at least. It's the better part of the morning. She tells him about when she first met Sherlock, eight years ago, she tells him about when he came to her high out of his mind, she tells him about all the time between, she tells him about the fall and how she helped him (at least somewhat, that particular part isn't her story to tell. It never will be) and how she didn't take a leave of absence, at least not really.

She's crying when she tells him about the extent of her relationship with Sherlock and when she saw him and Irene Adler in Berlin.

"And then I came back and you were-are-you are-everything I ever wanted. Everything I need…" she sniffles and wipes at her face. "I understand…if you…if you don't want to…if you want to take back…I get it…truly I do…you just…I need you to know…"

Tom looks at her, with a little bit of betrayal, a little bit of hurt, a little bit of pity and a little bit of pride, "do you love him?"

"I think…" she says softly, slowly, "that part of me will always love him. I can't stop it. No matter how hard I try. There's just...there's so much there."

"Do you love me?"

"Yes." She doesn't hesitate in her answer, her tears coming anew.

He walks towards her, leaning down and placing his forehead against hers, "Molly, I love you. I want to be with you. I want to marry you."

And without knowing what else to do, Molly sobs and throws her arms around his neck.

(Her heart is breaking and trying to piece together the shattered little pieces and Molly doesn't know what to do with it.)

"I made him a promise." She tells John softly. "I wanted to tell you. So many times, I wanted to tell you. To just…ease your pain…but I couldn't because Moriarty had snipers on you and Greg and Mrs. Hudson."

"I know." John says stiffly, his knuckles bruised and cracked. "He told me." He looks up at her, his eyes narrowing. "Those eight months you were gone…"

She nods and sighs. "He needed me."

John nods, accepting the answer. "What about you?" He asks after a moment.

"What?"

"You said, he said, everyone said, snipers were on me, Greg and Mrs. Hudson. But what about you? You. The woman who has been by his side for eight fucking years. What about you?"

Molly swallows hard, her chest rattling, and she blinks, her vision suddenly blurry. "I don't count." She says, her words familiar as they echo in the space between them. (Maybe, the darkest part of her mind tells her, you never did.)

(You're wrong you know. You do count. You've always counted. And I've always trusted you.)

"I asked Mary to marry me." John blurts out. "She said yes." He sighs, rubs a hand over his face and cracks a smile at her, "she's going to kill me. She wanted to tell you first."

She laughs, the first genuine laugh since Sherlock re-entered her life and blew it to pieces. "Congratulations!"

They talk for a bit longer about everything and nothing and it almost, almost seems normal.

"John asked me to marry him." Mary blurts out as soon as she sees her.

Molly tries to act surprised, really she does. "Congratulations!"

Mary's face goes blank. "He told you didn't he? My God, that man is worse than an old woman."

Molly laughs and holds up her hand, ring glittering in the light. "Looks like we're both getting married."

Mary shrieks loudly and Molly laughs and laughs until she starts crying.

Sherlock still comes into Bart's. He still demands body parts. He still works for the Yard. John still accompanies him on cases.

And Molly…Molly is still there, always (always) helping when needed.

Everything is back to normal. Back to how it used to be before Moriarty. Before the fall. Before the two years in exile.

(Somehow, this normal feels wrong.)

Mary and John's wedding is beautiful. The sun is shining. Mary is radiant.

Molly cries.

Sherlock doesn't stop staring at her, eyes boring into her until she fidgets and looks away, unable (unwilling) to be scrutinized.

(She wonders what he sees. Does he see the woman who loved, and still does, love him? Does he see a different woman? Does he see her strengths? Her weakness? Does he see her at all?)

As maid-of-honor and best man, they're required to dance together.

So, they do.

They gravitate towards each other. Her hand finding his. Her other hand finding purchase on his shoulder. His arm around her waist, pulling her tightly, swaying to the song crooning from the speakers.

(It feels like they've been dancing together since they met those eight years ago. Maybe, they have.)

When they part, when she turns and leaves, her feet finding Tom as he sits and is talking to Greg, grabbing his hand and pulling him out to the floor, his mouth stretching into a familiar charming grin, she risks a glance at Sherlock and sees him still standing in the place she left him.

(He's the saddest she's ever seen him and she buries her head in Tom's shoulder.)

(You look sad. When you think no one can see you.)

The day before her wedding, Mary is at her flat, going through last minute details.

When all is said and done, Mary sits next to Molly, grabbing her hand and squeezing it, her eyes seeking out hers. "Molly…" Mary trails off, unable to finish her sentence.

Molly gives her a smile and squeezes her hand back. "It's okay. I'm okay."

Mary nods, slowly, hesitantly, and then leans down, until her head is resting on her shoulder, fingers still intertwined until Molly doesn't know where she ends and Mary begins.

"I love you." Mary breathes, "and I'll always support you, no matter what. So, if you want to marry Tom, I will be right next to you. If you want to run off and join the circus, I will attend every single show. If you…" she takes a deep breath, "if you decide to call this wedding off and…I'll support you. You know that right?"

Molly swallows the lump in her throat. "Always."

"Always."

The night before her wedding, Molly can't sleep. Instead, she gets up and curls on the sofa, watching crap telly when she hears a knock on her door. She goes up and looks through her peephole, unchaining the locks and letting him in.

His black hair is wild as he shuts the door. His Belstaff coat billowing around him. His eyes are wide, his hands trembling, shaking.

"Sherlock?" She asks, his name tumbling from her lips.

It's an instantaneous reaction. His hands reaching for her and pulling her close, lips searching hers out. He tastes the same. A little bit of nicotine and something else, something entirely Sherlock. His tongue enters her mouth, relearning the contours and every dip. His hands struggling with her dressing robe and she gasps, goosebumps erupting across her skin as his cold bare hands come in contact with her warm skin.

She feels and hears him moan into her mouth, holding onto her tightly, pressing her back against the wall and pressing his body close to hers, getting lost in the feel of her.

He grabs her by the back of her thighs and pulls her up, wrapping her legs around his waist as he holds her up, his erection pressing into her.

Her eyes snap open and she wrenches her mouth away from his, panting heavily. His mouth trails over her jaw and neck, mouth burning a path over her body. "Sherlock." She gasps. "Sherlock. Stop." She pushes at his chest as she unwinds her legs from his waist, "Stop." She frees herself and creates distance between them. "Why are you here?" She asks, her voice trembling, shaking, just like his hands were.

He looks at her, and steps forward, he continues to step forward, until her back hits the wall again. He doesn't kiss her; instead, he drops his head down to the crook of her neck (and she's taken back to nights just like this, when they were in bed, bodies entwined together), his mouth ghosting over her pulse point. "Molly. Molly." He murmurs. "Molly."

"What do you want from me, Sherlock?" She begs, her voice pleading, unable to control her emotions. "What more could you possibly want from me?"

He pulls his head away from her neck and looks at her, eyes wide and endless is their changing colors but most of all she sees how haunted they look, "why did you leave?"

She sucks in a deep breath, her chest rising and falling and instead of answering the question, she replies with one of her own. The question that has been plaguing her, haunting her. "Did you sleep with her? Irene Adler. Did you sleep with her in Berlin?"

The way he drops his head and the way silence reigns is all the answer she needs. She feels her heart shatter, she feels the way her throat closes up and she doesn't realize how in denial she was about it until this very moment, with the truth slapping her in the face. She swallows hard and ignores the burning sensation in her throat. "That's why I left." She says, her voice surprisingly calm, despite the turmoil inside of her. "Because I stopped counting to you." (She isn't looking at him, instead, she's staring at the floor and she misses the way his head snaps up. She misses the way his eyes narrow in disbelief. She misses the way his eyes hollow and she misses the way regret and sorrow line his face. Molly Hooper misses everything.)

(But this is it, this is the crux of the matter, the truth she's always known but has never wanted to acknowledge. She is there when he needs her, she is there because she is his, always, she is there because she is the one who saved him and who continued to save him, she is the one who counted…until she didn't anymore.)

"You should leave."

He takes a deep breath, hands still trembling at his side, eyes still wide and through her blurred vision, she sees a little bit of pleading, a little bit of desperation. "Tom-"

"Don't." Molly snaps, "don't start. I don't…I don't care. Whatever you have to say about him, I don't care, because he's already a better man than you." She regrets the words as soon as they fly out of her mouth.

He looks shocked, hurt, betrayed by her words and she wants to take them back, she wants to tell him that she's sorry, that she's so sorry that this is all fucked up, but she doesn't. She doesn't say anything. Finds that she can't say anything.

"He'll make you happy." Sherlock says, not heeding her previous warning. "And you, Molly Hooper," his voice wrought with unrestrained emotion, far more than she has ever witnessed in the eight years she's known him, "deserve to be with someone who will make you happy."

He walks to her door and looks back at her, giving her one last glance, one last chance to say something (anything.)

She doesn't and he leaves.

(On the night before her wedding, Molly Hooper can't sleep. So, instead, she slumps to the floor and weeps, sobs wracking her body so intensely, she feels like vomiting.)

(Sometimes, she wishes she never met Sherlock Holmes.)

The wedding is beautiful. The reception even more so and as Tom takes her by the hand, spinning her out across the dance floor, and pulling her towards him, she smiles.

Her eyes search over his shoulders and she smiles at Mary and John, Mrs. Hudson and Greg. Her eyes turn left and she catches sight of Sherlock. Her breath hitches and she buries her face in Tom's shoulder.

(He's still the saddest she's ever seen him.)

The hospital is quiet, but it always is quiet in the morgue. No one but dead bodies, waiting to be collected by loved ones, to bear witness to their conversation.

It's intricate and relies heavily on everything happening according to time. The devil, she thinks, isn't just in the details, it's in minutes and seconds. (If they don't do this right, if she doesn't do this right, then he dies. It's as simple and convoluted as that.)

Her knees become weaker and she leans against the metal slab (where in hours, Sherlock will be placed) to hold her up, for fear of falling.

By the end of his explanation, he looks at her, his breath puffing from his lips, his Belstaff open and hanging loosely from his frame. His eyes are wide, haunting in the way they stare at her, imploring her to say something, anything. "Sherlock…" she says and trails off, sucking in a deep breath and returning his stare. "Do you…you do realize what you're asking me to do. You're asking me to kill you."

He's silent, fingers moving as if aching to reach out for something (someone) and he tells her in a quiet but strong voice, "there's no one else I trust, Molly."

She closes her eyes, images flashing of everything to come but even her mind can't conjure or imagine the tragedy that will become her and them. And because she will do anything for this man, because she will undoubtedly follow him into the deepest pit of hell where he will carve out her heart and burn it and because he asked, Molly lets out a deep breath and opens her eyes. Brown meeting a storm of green-blue, she nods, "okay."

It starts, like all things in Molly Hooper's life, bound to a tragedy waiting to unfold, with a fall.

I cannot thank you all enough. You have put so much faith and stock in this story. You have followed it from beginning to end and words cannot express how deeply thankful I am. Your words of encouragement have been amazing and I just…you're all amazing and wonderful. Thank you all so much. HUGE SHOUTOUT: Renaissancebooklover108, Rocking the Redhead, readxme, whytejigsaw, steelvenommum, Guest, Doctor WTF, SherlockSteph, Calicar, 7levelsoftheworld, Rubbish Robot, Misssarahspeaks, Katya Jade, Alethnya, xxEscapethestars, RaveclawPianist, AdaYuki, daisherz365, Empress of Verace, varjaks, Time Reviewer, MegHolmes, Viraeve, NalSweetheart and Get Sherlocked. From AO3, Maya, strangedazey, Adi_mou. IF I MISSED ANYONE I AM SO SORRY BUT I LOVE YOU TREMENDOUSLY.

HUGE SHOUTOUT to everyone who has read/followed/favored/kudos'd/bookmarked this story. Words just…you guys just blow my mind. Okay?

*peers from over the desk* This being said, Before pitchforks get thrown at me, I've had this ending written before I even had the first chapter written. And I wanted to change it. I really did. I wanted to make this a happily ever after for Sherlock and Molly, but I just…I really liked my Tom. And as we don't know anything yet about Tom in show, if he's nice and wonderful and loves Molly full-heartedly, then I think I'll be okay. I mean, I ship Sherlolly like hardcore. They're my babies, but I just really really want Molly to be happy. And also, I wanted to give this a shot, you know, where I write something where Sherlock and Molly don't end up together. Which, let me tell you, it was the hardest thing in my fucking life to do. Seriously, it burned and rest assured that I probably will continue to put them through angsty rides but give them closure. Because oh my God, it's like "my babies, I'm so sorry!"

But seriously, thank you thank you thank you a million and one times. You are all amazing.

MAD LOVE AND RESPECT,

BB