Disclaimer: I still own nothing and still live with my parents.

Summary: Molly prays to every God who has never answered her prayers to keep him safe. To protect him. To bring him home, preferably in one piece and alive. She's owed at least that.

Do I know where this came from? No. Just that it did. Hope you all enjoy! It's angsty and dramatic and has a little bit of humor. Any and all mistakes are mine and mine alone. I apologize if this story offends anyone. There is language and a bit of violence but nothing too graphic.


In the End

One-shot


He leaves her with a kiss on the cheek and a soft thank you for saving his life. She wonders if he knows that she would save it a thousand times if it means having him near her.

(Sometimes she thinks he doesn't know. Sometimes she thinks he doesn't care. Other times, she entertains herself by thinking that he does know but he's just to scared to do anything about it because he doesn't want to lose her. She goes with the former two before she can get caught up in her fantasies regarding the last one.)

She watches him walk away from the only life he's ever known and towards the black sleek car parked outside her flat. She stays by the window and implores him with her mind to turn around. It's all she wants. She just wants to see him one last time. She wants to memorize his blue eyes, his sharp cheekbones. She wants to imprint his voice in her mind so that his memory never leaves her (it never will, five years of knowing him and she hasn't forgotten one moment she's spent in his presence.)

He doesn't turn around.

(Molly Hooper feels her heart break.)


His funeral is a sad affair. Mrs. Hudson is crying. Greg (it's always been Greg, never Lestrade, they've been through too much together in regards to Sherlock to even contemplate calling each other by anything other than their given names) is wiping his eyes. John is weeping.

Molly feels like a fraud. She feels like she doesn't belong here. She feels like she doesn't have the right to be here. She feels cheap as the tears steadily stream down her face. She doesn't have the right to cry. Not when she knows the truth. Not when she knows that Sherlock Holmes is still alive and fighting to keep the three people he loves safe.

And oh…oh. It hurts. It hurts that even to a complete and total stranger (and that's exactly what James Moriarty was-a complete and total stranger) knew that in the grand scheme of things, Molly doesn't matter. She doesn't count. At least not to Sherlock Holmes.

No, the only people who count are the three huddled beside her and mourning over their lost loved one.

Molly doesn't have a right to be here. She doesn't have the right to mourn.

(Molly will never admit it but sometimes she feels like she has the right to mourn more than any of them. She knew him longer. She's loved (love) him longer. They're crying over a supposed dead man. Molly is mourning a perfectly live dead man.)

(This hurts more than anyone can ever realize.)


She'll never forgive Jim for what he made Sherlock do. For what he made her do.

She'll never forgive him for tearing their lives apart.

She'll never forgive him for making her fear her own shadow.

But most of all, Molly Hooper will never forgive herself for letting herself get close to Jim and thus allowing Jim to get close to Sherlock.

(Molly is the catalyst in all of this and sometimes, in her darkest moments, she feels like she's the one who pushed Sherlock off the roof, instead of saving him.)


She's getting on with her life, or at least she's trying to. She hasn't heard from Sherlock in three months and knows that she probably won't hear from him for longer.

She's on her way home, bag full of takeaway in her hand and she's contemplating whether it's a Billie Holiday or Louis Armstrong type of night. She's unlocking her door and stepping into her flat, turning around to lock the door again and toeing off her shoes when she hears a slight whish and then suddenly a hand is being clamped around her mouth. She drops the bag of takeaway in shock and then she starts struggling.

"Molly." He grunts. "Molly, it's me." At his voice, she calms down and twists away from him.

Even in her darkened flat, she can see him. She can see the outline of his body and his shockingly blue eyes. She can see everything. She can see him. And he's here, he's here in her flat and every worry, every nail-biting thought that has run through her mind disappears and she's left with her heavy breathing and his slightly hunched posture.

Hunched posture? Oh Christ-"where are you hurt?" Molly asks, her voice changes into doctor mode. (She works with the dead, but he's supposed to be dead, so she figures that it's technically the same thing.) She flicks on the light to her flat and bites back a gasp. He looks awful. His face is bruised and there's a bleeding cut on his forehead that worries her. He's favoring his right side and she can already see the bruising that is starting to form underneath his shirt. She pulls him gently to the couch and unbuttons his shirt.

She tries not to think about the fact that she's unbuttoning his shirt, but she can't because she's unbuttoning his shirt. His torso is a landscape of fresh and faded bruises and for some reason it makes her want to cry. She pulls his shirt through his arms and tosses it on the floor. She runs to the kitchen to get the first aid kit and takes her spot in front of him once again. She's pulled her table closer so she's able to sit on it and has easier access to his wounds.

She patches him up as best as she can and she doesn't even really care that he's getting blood all over her couch. All she cares about is him. All she's ever cared about is him.

"I'll get you some pills-" She stands up to get them but his hand clamps down on her wrist and she's frozen in place. His fingers are warm against her skin and she wonders if he can feel her trembling.

"No drugs." He says deeply.

She knows about his drug addiction. She lived through it (she'll never forget it.) "They're not drugs, they'll help you."

"No." He's stubborn and Molly is too tired to argue.

"Okay." She says. "Okay." She takes her place on the table and watches as his eyes drift close and he succumbs to sleep and pain.

(He doesn't let go of her wrist and Molly can't find it in her to let go either.)


He stays with her a total of five days. She still goes to work but when she comes home, she sees him on her laptop searching furiously, or sending messages to God knows who on his mobile. He has the television on some trashy show that she knows he's not paying any attention to. Toby, her cat, is purring contentedly next to him and there is a sudden pain that erupts in Molly's chest.

It hurts to see him here. It hurts to come home and know that his face will be the last thing she sees before she goes to sleep and the first thing she sees when she wakes in the morning. It hurts because Molly knows it won't last. Knows that it can't last. He still has an entire network to disentangle (he doesn't share anything with her and Molly doesn't pry, even though she wants to.)

It hurts because seeing his face before falling asleep and seeing his face when she wakes up in the morning, is like coming home.


On the fifth day he stays with her, John calls her and asks to meet her for coffee. She's ashamed to admit that she hasn't seen John in three months. Not since Sherlock's funeral. She agrees readily and meets him after her shift at the small café close to the hospital.

He looks worse for wear. He looks defeated and lonely and heartbroken. He looks like a man who just lost his best friend and Molly doesn't know what to do to make it better (well, she does but that's out of the question.) "Hello, John." She says, sliding onto the chair across from him.

He jolts and then smiles slightly. "Hello, Molly. Long day?"

"Glad it's over." She admits. She plays with her mug of hot tea that he ordered for her. "Are you…are you alright? Is there…can I…help you in any way?"

He's silent for a few moments and Molly contemplates repeating her question when he leans forward and lays his head on his outstretched arms. He looks up at her and Molly bites her lip to keep from making any noise. "They're calling him a liar. They're…Molly they're slandering him. I can't…it's too much."

She softly runs her hand through his hair and she can feel him shudder underneath her fingertips. "They're wrong, John. They're all wrong. They don't…they couldn't…they're wrong."

"You believe in him then. You don't believe the rubbish they're saying." He's looking at her so earnestly and pleading with his eyes for some kind of resolution.

"I'll always believe in Sherlock Holmes, John. Always."

(And she'll continue to believe in him, even if it breaks her.)


When she gets to her flat, it's late and she's tired and angry and sad. She's upset that John is breaking and all she wants to do is tell him that everything is going to be okay. That Sherlock is alive.

She ignores the man on her couch and walks into her room, not bothering to shut her door because she's not going to be in there for long. She grabs a few things and makes her way to the bathroom.

He's standing by the bathroom door, arms hanging loosely by his side as he takes her in. "You've seen John." He tells her, as if she wasn't the one who consoled his best friend for an hour.

"Yes." She tells him, her voice is a bit snappy and a bit judgmental and damn it, Molly, you have no right. "You don't…Sherlock, he's…you need to tell him. If you don't…I don't think he will ever forgive you." Well, that's a lie. John would be angry but he'd be so happy that Sherlock is alive, that he'd always forgive him. Always.

"It's too dangerous."

"Everything is too dangerous." She says wearily. This entire situation is too dangerous. "I'm tired Sherlock. I want to shower….drink some tea and…and…God, I don't know, pretend none of this happened." She closes her eyes and leans against the door, her forehead against the cool wood. She opens her eyes and sees him staring at her. She fidgets (she always fidgets when he stares.) "I'm sorry. I'm tired…I didn't…please don't…" Don't leave. I love you. Don't break my heart any more, please, Sherlock. Please.

She walks into the bathroom and shuts the door behind her softly.

She stays underneath the water a bit longer than necessary and she uses water hot enough to leave welts on her skin. She almost chokes on the steam as she pulls on a pair of old pajamas. She walks out of the bathroom while towel-drying her hair. "Sherlock? Do you want some…" she trails off as she looks at the empty sitting room. The empty kitchen. The empty flat.

He left.

She closes her eyes and collapses on the couch, trying to take deep breaths. She only succeeds in making her chest shake. She sees a small note on the table and she reaches forward and grabs it. Thank you, Molly Hooper it reads.

The couch is still warm and she wonders how long he sat there, watching the bathroom door and waiting for her to come out. She curses herself now for taking too long in the bathroom. Maybe she would have had the chance to say goodbye. Maybe she would have told him that she loves him. Maybe they would have just drunk tea in silence.

(In the end, she just sits on the couch, the telly on some trashy show and she doesn't bother getting up to make tea.)

She falls asleep like this, inhaling his disappearing scent and trying to commit it to memory.


He visits her a few more times, mostly always to patch him up. She doesn't mind.

He doesn't say anything about what happens, about what he's done, who's blood she has to clean off of him and Molly isn't one to pry (even though she desperately wants to know) so she leaves it alone.


She's been on failed dates throughout his disappearance, which, really isn't anything new, so she's stopped trying to go out with men and has just started going out with the girls. They're much more fun.

She's had her core group of friends since Uni; Mary Morstan, Lily Coombs and Audrey Schneider and they all take pleasure in taking the piss out of one another. They all work in the hospital and Mary has just started at Bart's (finally, it's taken them three years to convince her to leave Manchester) so they're celebrating.

(It's been two years and some months since Sherlock jumped off the roof. It's been two years and some months since she's been harboring him and treating his wounds whenever he makes his way back to London. She hasn't told a soul. He's her best-kept secret.)

They're laughing and drinking and ignoring the men who stare at them and Lily snaps at the men who try to interrupt their conversation ("as if you cannot see that this is a girl's night." "No dicks allowed." Audrey hiccups. They burst into uncontrollable laughter.)

Near the end, Molly gets a message. If convenient, come to your flat.

A second one appears a heartbeat later. If inconvenient, come to your flat anyways.

She can't help the small grin that appears on her face and she gets up. Her friends follow her every move and Audrey's mouth hangs open. "You liar. Who is he then?"

"What?" Molly asks as she pulls on her coat.

"You're leaving us because you got a message. Obviously, it's a booty call." Lily supplies. "You're going to get laid tonight."

"It's not like that." Molly tries to tell them. Her face flushes. It's not like that, even though Molly has dreamed about it. God. She's pathetic.

Mary reaches over and grabs her hand and smiles brightly. "It's alright, you know. We weren't very…supportive of how you felt about Sherlock Holmes-don't say a damn thing Lils-but if you like this man and he treats you first rate, well then, that's all we ask for. As long as you're happy, we're happy."

She kisses her friends on the cheek and promises that she'll see them tomorrow.

(She idly wonders how disappointed they would be in her if she were to tell them that she's been lying to them, to everyone about so much more than just a boyfriend-that-really-isn't.)


She lets herself into her flat with stumbling hands (she's not even tipsy so why is she fumbling?) and finds herself pressed against the door, the weight of her body shutting it into place. Her heart starts thudding loudly and she tries to calm herself. "Sherlock?" She asks hesitantly.

His hands are trailing over her face, her body, her hands and he grips them tightly.

"Are you going to tell me what's happening?" He's not hurt, at least not that she can tell but he's acting strange. He's acting oh-so strange and it worries her.

He doesn't say anything, instead, he places an open-mouth kiss on her neck, right on her pulse and she trembles. "You've been drinking." He states. "You smell like a pub."

"The girls." She breathes. "Just with the girls."

He pulls her away from the door and Molly blindly follows him as he leads her to her bedroom. "You should sleep."

"Stay." She blurts when she sees him make his way to couch. "With me. In bed. Well…in bed…not in bed. I would like that though…the in bed part. Would you? Have you? Bloody hell, `course you have…you're you. Stay." She may not be tipsy but alcohol has always loosened her tongue (she's thankful she left when she did.)

He doesn't move for a moment and then he nods. He shuts the door to her room and Molly takes that time to toe off her shoes and reach underneath her dress to roll her stockings down. She's not even going to bother to change. She's too tired, too exhilarated to change into pajamas (she'll just iron out the wrinkles later). She watches as he unbuttons his jacket and shirt and unties his shoes. He's precise in his movements and she can't help but watch.

She's in bed with her head buried in the pillow, when she feels the bed dip and the cool air hit her body. She shivers and moves closer to him. She feels him tense and she wonders if this is the first time that he's actually spent the night in bed with a woman. She sighs and props her head on her hands and looks at him. "You okay?" She bites her lip. "It's just…you only visit when you're hurt and…I just…I don't know, you're acting stranger than usual, so…are you hurt anywhere?"

"No." He tells her. His baritone voice echoes in her small room and Molly doesn't realize until this moment how much she really truly misses him. "I am fine, Molly."

She nods and closes her eyes. "Not that I'm complaining or anything…but why are you here?"

"I-" He takes a deep breath and exhales, "bored." He says simply.

She knows that's not it. She may not be as smart as him but she knows that's not it. He doesn't offer anything else as an explanation though and Molly has never been one to pry.

(She should have. Pried, that is.)


He's gone when she wakes up the next morning.

She's not surprised and it doesn't hurt as much as she thought it would.

Maybe this means that she's getting over him. Not bloody likely, she thinks.

So, instead, Molly prays to every God who has never answered her prayers to keep him safe. To protect him. To bring him home, preferably in one piece and alive. She's owed at least that.


Two years and six months after Sherlock Holmes jumps from the roof and effectively tears apart the lives of those closest to him, things start getting back to normal.

John isn't as sad anymore. He's dating now. (He's dating Mary. Molly, Lily, Audrey and Mary squealed over lunch.) Mrs. Hudson's hip is doing better. Greg has been reinstated and divorced his wife (something about finding her in their bed with another man, Molly isn't entirely sure of the story, just that Greg showed up at her flat one night, one drink shy of alcohol poisoning.)

And Molly? Life is good for Molly. She has her friends. She has her work. She has her health (she doesn't have her sanity because Sherlock Holmes took that from her when he left.) She hasn't heard from him since that night he slept in her bed and she's worried about him.

But it's fine, because it's normal for her to worry about him. She's always worried about him.

So, really, life goes on. Life is good for Molly.

(Until it isn't.)


It happens on a Friday. Molly is coming home from her shift, eager to slip into a hot bubble bath (it most certainly is a Louis Armstrong type of night) and eat some leftover takeaway. Her flat looks the same from when she left it that morning and she's stripping off her clothes on her way to the bedroom.

And then she stops. Because there, on her bed is a manila envelope that most certainly wasn't there when she left this morning.

With trembling hands, she takes it and opens it and then gasps. There are pictures of her, pictures of Sherlock, pictures of them in her flat. She feels a churning in her gut as one last piece of paper floats out of the envelope and into her lap.

The writing is smooth and masculine. Jim said you didn't count. I always knew otherwise. Let's play a game, shall we? – SM

She feels like she's going to vomit.


She barely has her dressing gown on when Mycroft Holmes knocks on her door and urges her to open. When she does, he takes one look at her, tells her to put on clothes and come with him. She doesn't bother arguing and she does exactly what she's told (what is with the Holmes brothers telling her what to do?)

They get to a private airfield and she looks at Mycroft inquisitively. "Everything will be taken care of. Get on the plane, Doctor Hooper. You'll be safe."

She's not too sure of that but she gets on the plane anyways because she really doesn't want to make Mycroft agitated.

She falls asleep and when she wakes up, she's in a different country. A car is there and she gets in and watches the scenery as they drive by. They come up to a secured house and Molly gapes when she looks at it. Then she gapes at the man in front of the house.

Sherlock Holmes has his hands in his pockets and he's looking at her with clear blue eyes.

"Why am I here?" She asks, her voice croaking from hardly any use.

"Because you do count and Sebastian Moran has figured that out."

(There are times Molly wishes she never met Sherlock Holmes.)


He teaches her how to fight. Or at least, a few self-defense moves so she's not completely hopeless. He also teaches her how to use a gun. They got into a row over that. She doesn't want to use a gun. She doesn't want to know how to use a gun. He called her stupid and pathetic and told her that her knowing how to use a gun would help him because then he wouldn't have to worry about her blood on his hands.

It's by far the cruelest things he's ever said to her and he closes his eyes the moment he finishes, as if wishing he could take the words back.

She knows that she's lost color in her face and she says in a small voice "I'm sorry for being such a bother" and then flees to back where she sits on the edge of the swimming pool, her legs dipped in the cool water. He finds her there ten minutes later.

"I am sorry." He says and then he kisses her cheek.

(It feels like that Christmas all over again and it makes her sick to her stomach for a strange reason.)

She thinks it's because of this that she nods and then with all her strength (which albeit, isn't very much, but she has the element of surprise on her side) pushes him into the pool. He lands with a splash and he comes up sputtering, his designer clothes and shoes wet.

Molly is laughing until tears slip from her eyes and she wants to save this moment because Sherlock is laughing along with her. She doesn't think she's ever heard him laugh before. It's deep and it rumbles and the skin around his eyes crinkle and she's in love with him. Damn it. After all these years, she's still in love with him.

She's distracted and she knows he knows she's distracted.

Which is why it doesn't surprise her when, in a fit of obvious insanity (has she made him lose his mind too?) he pulls her into the pool with him.

(She almost kisses him then. Instead, she places her head on his chest, above his heart and listens as it beats thunderously. His arms grip her waist tightly, as if never wanting to let her go.)


In the end, he teaches her how to use a gun.

She doesn't like it. She doesn't want to know how to use a gun but she understands now, what he meant when he said all those cruel things. He didn't mean them to be cruel. He just wanted her to know that she counts. That she's just as important as Mrs. Hudson and Greg and John and he can't lose her. Can't bear the thought of losing her.

(He never actually says any of this, never confesses it but Molly just knows.)

So, she learns how to use a gun.

(All of his lessons come in handy a week later when she saves his life using that exact gun.)


He tells her that they're going back to London (they've been in Switzerland this entire time.) Sebastian Moran is there and he's waiting and Sherlock is determined to finish it.

He tells her that she's staying in Switzerland and she tells him no. She goes wherever he goes (because hasn't that always been the way of things?)

"Molly-"

"No." She snaps. "Listen to me, Sherlock Holmes…I killed you once and I saved you once. I…I will do it again. Over and over. I am coming with you because I…I love you. There…I've said it. For so many years I've tried not to but you…you're like poison and not the bad kind, the good kind…is there even a good kind? Never mind…you're like poison and by God, I'd drown in you given the chance. So, I'm going…because they're my friends too…London is my home too and I love you."

She probably shouldn't have done it, Lord knows her timing has always been horrible but he's standing there with his mouth open and his eyes wide and pupils just a little bit dilated and all Molly has ever wanted to do is taste him, so she does.

She kisses him softly, kisses him tenderly.

Until he realizes what she's doing and then practically slams her against the wall.

(They get a little bit more rough, a little bit more desperate and Molly finds that she wouldn't want it any other way.)


The confrontation, ironically (no, Molly thinks, not ironically, poetically) takes place in 221b Baker Street.

It wasn't supposed to, but Sherlock bounded up the stairs to 221b Baker Street with Molly in tow and Greg, Mycroft and John are inside waiting.

Greg sees her first and grabs her around the waist and hugs her tightly. "Fuck, where the hell have you been?"

"Finally, divorced, then, Lestrade? Wonderful, how's the clerk you're shagging?"

"Not a clerk. Audrey. A doctor."

"There's always something." Sherlock grumbles.

"Audrey? My Audrey?" Molly asks.

"We were going to-wait just one fucking second." Greg head turns comically and gapes at Sherlock. "You're dead. We buried you. We mourned you. I was suspended because of you."

"And then reinstated, without much difficulty." Mycroft states, "do stop holding grudges. It's are unbecoming."

"You knew?" Greg asks Molly. "Oh, of course you knew. You've been with him then, while we've been sick with worry?"

Molly looks over at John who is staring at Sherlock with rage in his eyes. "John." Molly says hesitantly, reaching out for him, "please understand-"

She's not able to say anything else because John flies forward and punches Sherlock straight in the face. She winces. Greg winces. Mycroft does nothing but sigh.

"I'll admit, I may have deserved that."

"You deserve more than that." John snaps and then his arms are wrapped around Sherlock's waist and he's sobbing. Gut wrenching sobs that makes Molly's heart hurt.

Not that they can really comment on the reunion because shots resonate through the room and shatters the windows.

Molly is closest to Greg and he covers her head and pulls her down to the ground. There's glass everywhere and Molly is sure that her palms are bleeding.

"Who the fuck is shooting at us?" Greg yells.

"Moran." Sherlock snarls.

"Who?" John asks.

The shooting has stopped and the ringing in Molly's ears subsides.

"Moriarty's right hand man. He's had snipers on you, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson all this time."

"Christ." Greg groans and he gets up slowly, "Sherlock, you've some serious explaining to do."

The door to 221b Baker Street bursts open and the room three men dressed in black come barging in.

"You know," Mycroft says with a bored voice, swinging his umbrella around, "I haven't been in a good fight for years."

"You've never been in a good fight." Sherlock responds.

"Anthea, I'm sure will be displeased at the dry cleaning."

During this time, Greg has been pulling her towards the hall and tells her to stay put. She argues with him. "I don't think you understand. If anything happens to you, Audrey will kill me. Mary will kill me and Lily will tear me apart. Also, I'm certain that Sherlock will ensure my body is never found. By the way, we need to talk about this." He pulls out his gun. "Have you used one of these before? Here's-"

"I have one." She tells him. Her heart is beating rapidly. She pulls out the gun Sherlock gave her. "I'm rather good." She smiles at him and hopes that he doesn't see the terrified look in her eyes.

He eyes her warily. "Right. Yeah. We're so talking about this later."

And then he locks her in the closet.


It takes Molly all of five-maybe six-minutes to get out of the closet. She resolves to beat some kind of sense into Greg because as much as she appreciates his protectiveness, she can take care of herself (she's still oddly flattered though and full-heartedly approves of his and Audrey's relationship.)

She's hears John's yelp of pain, hears Greg roar his name and she knows that John's been shot.

She can hear fists pounding and grunts of pain; she can hear tables collapsing and things breaking. She can hear sirens in the distance and she sees Sherlock slam a tall blonde man against the wall. Sherlock looks furious and the blonde man slumps to the floor, eyes closing. Sherlock rushes to John's side and he's yelling madly in Greg's face. Mycroft is dusting himself off as he steps over the men on the floor.

Some of them are dead. Some of them are not.

Like Sebastian Moran. The tall blonde man that Sherlock was certain he took care of. Except, now he's rising like Lazarus and Molly can see him grab his gun.

There is something feral that rips through her body, something protective, something that screams at her to fight because this is her family. This is her life and Jim already wrecked it once and she'll be damned if beyond the grave, he has his henchmen wreck it again.

She cocks her gun, points, takes a deep breath and shoots (just like Sherlock taught her.)

The gunshot surprises everyone and they all look at her.

John's head is tipped towards her and she can see that he's bleeding from a deep shoulder wound and large gash on his side. "Did Molly Hooper just kill someone? Oh God. I need drugs. Mary's going to kill me. Mary's going to kill you. Hell, I'm going to kill you and Molly Hooper just shot and killed someone."

She just shot and killed someone.

She, Molly Hooper just shot and killed, Sebastian Moran.

She'd laugh if she could breathe. Instead, she just slides down next to Greg and whispers soothingly to John that everything is going to be alright and yes, I know Mary is going to kill me.

(It's all she can do because if she doesn't do that, she'll cry. And Molly isn't going to cry. Not over people like Sebastian Moran and James Moriarty.)


Mary is livid, Audrey is pissed and Lily starts laughing.

"John's going to be fine, Mary." Molly tries to tell her.

"I know he's going to be fine." The blonde snaps at her. "For fuck's sake, we thought you were dead. Gone. Disappeared and none of us had a damn clue."

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Molly chokes.

"Can we talk about the more important thing?" Lily asks.

"Like how Molly killed a man?" Audrey suggests.

"No. Well, yes. I mean about Sherlock Holmes not being dead and how our little Molly is shagging him."

(In the end, they don't really talk about any of that. They just huddle in the waiting room, hugging each other and crying.)


Mrs. Hudson bemoans about the state of the flat but she's too happy at Sherlock being alive to stay angry.

John is still in the hospital.

Greg is living with Audrey.

Anthea, eyes her boss with a slight roll of her eyes.

And Molly? Well, Molly's life goes back to normal.

Mycroft tells her that she'll be reinstated without any difficulty. She's also told that she won't be charged with killing Moran. So, she nods tiredly, realizes that she hasn't slept in nearly forty-eight hours and goes home.

She's tempted to draw up a bubble bath, but she's almost certain that she'll fall asleep and drown, so she just resolves to change into clean pajamas and slip into bed.

Only to find her flat occupied with one Sherlock Holmes.

"What are you doing here?" She asks.

"Mary kicked me out of John's room and he let her." He pouts like a child and Molly can't help but laugh. He looks at her and stands up; his hand latching around her wrist and Molly knows that he can feel her trembling. "Are you alright?" He's serious this time; his eyes inquisitive and just a little bit worried.

Molly shrugs. "I don't know." She answers truthfully.

He pulls her to her room and watches her as she undresses and slips into an oversized t-shirt and slides under her bed sheets. She watches with wide eyes as he strips down to his boxers and follows her lead and slides into the bed with her. "You saved me." He says, hands folded underneath his head and staring up at her ceiling.

"And John and Greg and Mycroft and quite possibly Mrs. Hudson."

He shakes his head and turns around on his side. His arms curl around her and pull her body against his. She lifts her leg and wraps it around his hip, her t-shirt bunching up around her waist. She can feel him against her and bites back a moan. "Sherlock." She wants to tell him she's tired and sleepy and that her emotions are all over the place and that she loves him so much and she would do this a thousand times over if the result is him laying next to her and holding her but she doesn't, because he presses an open-mouth kiss against her neck, right on her pulse and she whimpers.

"I know." He says. "Molly, I know."

They're slower this time. A little bit more gentle but just as desperate and Molly grips his hands and he holds her close and just as tightly, as if telling her that he won't let her go. He won't let her fall.

She's drifting off to sleep when he bends his mouth to her ear and repeats the words that set this entire thing in motion. "You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you."

"I know." She mumbles. "Sherlock, I know."


In the end, he's there when she wakes up the next morning.

And the morning after that. And the morning after that.


So, this is obviously what happens when you pair insomnia with prescribed drugs and a healthy dose of life fucking you over. Jesus Christ. I had fun writing this. Really I did. Because Molly is a bit of a BAMF but still adorably Molly and I just really really really hope you all enjoyed this too. I've mad love and respect for ALL OF YOU.

SERIOUSLY I LOVE YOU ALL.

Also, I've got one major ass angsty/drama one-shot about Jim/Molly/Sherlock coming up soon. It'll probably be on AO3 because I am not risking it on FF. But yeah…obviously, I'm a sucker for angst. But this one has a happy ending! Yay!

I hope you all enjoyed!

Thanks again and much love,

BB