A/N: This was written while listening to angsty songs like Maroon Five's Daylight (where I got the inspiration for this fic) and watching the kiss at the beginning of TEH countless times. Needless to say, this little plot bunny did have a mind of its own, but hopefully you'll enjoy ^.^
Disclaimer: Even though I'd probably still write fanfiction if I owned Sherlock, that's hardly the point.

Letting Go

"Congratulations, by the way."

Molly's conversation with the consulting detective resounds in her mind, as months later, she stands outside the well-known address of 221B Baker Street, unconsciously twisting the engagement ring on her finger, finding the courage to knock.

"I hope you be very happy, Molly Hooper,"

His voice, baritone, yet soft, echoes again and again, causing her to shake her head, trying hopelessly to get it out. She shudders again, just as she shuddered when he looked into her eyes that day, and she saw… pain and regret. Perhaps he just felt bad at her physical state; shaking like a leaf, eyes wide and fearful. Of course, there is a part of her that is still solemnly wishing it is the former. How he then proceeded to step so close, pressing a kiss so light on her cheek, she thought she imagined it had happened.

It's the night before her wedding. She encouraged Tom to go out with his mates, but refrained from having a Hen's night, since her friends were either males, or expecting a child. Neither parties being the required material for a girls' night out, Molly opted to spend her last night as an unmarried woman at home.

So what the hell is she doing outside Sherlock's flat?

"You deserve it."

She smirks sadly, knowing the git was well-aware of the fact that she isn't over him.

She takes another deep, shuddering breath, pulling her coat closer around her despite the warmer weather, then knocks meekly on the door. The air is still and silent, many other outdoor patrons having already called it a night and headed home.

But Molly doesn't leave, even though she knows it's best if she does. Footsteps travel down the hallway, and she sees Mrs Hudson's silhouette behind the door.

Molly tries, and fails, to plaster a smile on her face, but instead looks like she's grimacing in pain.

"Oh, Molly dear, what are you doing here? You should be out with your friends,"

Molly's face falters, and the kindly landlady pulls her inside, closing the door behind her. She smiles knowingly, but sadly, to the young pathologist. Like she knows why she's here. "You go upstairs, and I'll bring you both some tea," she tells her, ushering Molly up the stairs to 221B.

As they ascend, the music gets louder, and Molly wonders stupidly if Sherlock is composing a song for herself and Tom.

"It'll be all right," she whispers in her ear, before leaving her to make the tea.

Bottom lip trembling, Molly steps over the threshold. Sherlock stops playing the violin immediately, face twisted in a snarl, ready to yell.

He sees Molly standing in front of him, bent into herself, shaking slightly, very obviously trying to hold back tears, and his features soften.

"Molly," he acknowledges softly.

She runs her hands up and down her own arms, trying to sooth her frayed nerves, feeling guilty for standing in the presence of the man she actually loves. Her voice is hardly above a whisper, "I'm sorry Sherlock. I…. I shouldn't have come. Sorry,"

Very subtly, Sherlock's eyes search for her dreaded engagement ring. He finds it still on her finger. For an indiscernible second, the cold consulting detective's façade falters, and he looks disappointed and upset.

Molly doesn't notice at all.

"Do you want something to drink?" he asks her.

Molly shrugs. "Mrs Hudson said she was going to bring some tea up," she tells him.

He nods, then motions for her to sit down.

She perches on the very edge of the armchair, making no attempt to get comfortable. Sherlock makes no comment, but moves his own chair closer, so their knees almost touch. Fingers resting under his chin, he considers her lightly, knowing full well that she shouldn't be here, but also why she is.

While he is terrible at calculating human emotion, he can tell that Molly certainly does not want to be getting married tomorrow. The thought makes his heart a little lighter, but he can't tell why.

Sentiment is for the weak, his brother reminds him.

I'm not you, his mind replies.

If the last two years have taught Sherlock anything, it's that his friends and the people he love really do matter. Having people to count on matters.

But if Molly leaves him too, perhaps alone is the only thing that can truly protect him.

"I can't do this anymore, Sherlock," she tells him with a soft smile. "Pretending I'm okay with this," she adds.

He cocks his head slightly, and looks her in the eyes. "I wish I knew what to tell you, Molly," he replies.

Molly bites her bottom lip and stares past Sherlock to the windows that face the street. Lampposts illuminate the night at calculated intervals.

There is a brief interlude in the silence Molly and Sherlock sit in when Mrs Hudson brings their tea up.

"I got you some biscuits as well, dears," she tells them with a smile, before going back down to her own flat.

Molly takes a sip of her tea, wincing at the heat, and not tasting the liquid as it slides down her throat. "That day wasn't just about saying thank you, was it."

It's not a question, but fact, something she knows, or feels, is true.

He smiles at her sadly, very similar to the way he looked at her before kissing her on the cheek and making his leave. "I was going to tell you," he begins.

"Why didn't you?" she asks, tears forming in her large eyes. "You knew I was reconsidering, so why didn't you just tell me how you felt?"

"Purely for that reason, Molly. You deserve to be happy. I wasn't going to ruin that for you,"

She laughs darkly. "You really don't know do you?"

Agitated, he ruffles his hair. "Molly," he states, swallowing thickly, "I cannot make you happy the way you think I can. I've caused you far too much pain to even have a chance with you,"

To hear the man she has tried to get over for years imply what he has causes Molly's heart to start racing. "Why're you doing this now, Sherlock?" she asks, voice high, trying to fight back the tears.

He reaches over and puts a hand on her knee. "I'm sorry," he murmurs, unable to look her in the eye, because she is staring at her hands.

She puts her hand over his, clutching his fingers tightly. "For two years, I've tried… so hard, to get over you Sherlock. Tom's good to me, he really is," she glances down at their hands, a sad smile tugging on her lips, "but he isn't you, Sherlock."

He runs a finger over her knuckles, taking a thoughtful sip of tea with his free hand.

Her laugh is watery as he realises what she has accomplished. "Have I really made the famous Sherlock Holmes speechless?" she asks.

He smiles softly, making her knees tremble slightly. His grip tightens.

No, she realises. I can't marry Tom.

"It's not an arranged marriage, you know," he tells her. "You… you don't have to do this."

He lets her notice the fear and hope and longing in his eyes, because she truly sees him.

Her breath catches in her throat, and tears spill down her cheeks. "God Sherlock, you're such an ass,"

His laugh rumbles lightly, and Molly doesn't speak, fearing she will become the stuttering mess she has always been around him.

"I can't do that to him, Sherlock."

"I said that you deserve to be happy. And I can see that you aren't going to be happy in this marriage, Molly."

"Stop changing your bloody mind, Sherlock Holmes. First you say I'd be happier with him, and now you're telling me I'm not going to be,"

He smiles ruefully. "I'm still getting used to this… sentiment," he tells her.

And the fact that you should be with me and not that git you're supposed to be marrying tomorrow, his mind adds.

To anyone else, the statement would seem silly.

But for Molly, it's one of the greatest things anyone has ever told her.

He glances at the clock on the mantelpiece and frowns.

Molly follows his gaze, and her heart sinks. In just a few hours, she has to make a life changing decision.

Sherlock sets both their teacups down on the coffee table and joins her on the armchair, lack of room meaning they are close together, heat emanating off one another. It's comfortable though.

Molly runs a hand down her face, sighing loudly. Her bottom lip trembles noticeably.

"Just let it out Molly."

He isn't even looking at her. She doesn't ask how he knows, but allows the tears to fall silently down her face.

To her immense surprise, he shifts slightly, arm wrapping tightly, possessively, around her narrow shoulders.

She doesn't notice the single tear that runs down his own cheek. Doesn't realise how hard it is for him to stay quiet, to not be the man up there on the altar waiting for her. Doesn't comprehend how much he actually loves her.

Of course, she has suspected something ever since the day he asked her to solve cases with him. But, she always put it down to the crush on him she could never seem to shake off. She's known she loves him for a while, and it's more than a crush.

His unexpected return proved as much.

Sherlock shifts again, so her head falls on his chest. The crisp fabric of his shirt feels surprisingly soft on her cheek. She gathers a fistful of it in her hand, trying to be as close to him as possible. His other arm goes around her, cocooning her in their embrace.

Sherlock glances at the clock again, then to the woman who is so obviously fighting sleep in his arms. He feels tiredness at the edges of his vision, but refuses to give in, determined to store this entire night in his mind palace. Fighting to stay awake also. Not wanting to waste another moment of the short time they have left together. He naively wishes for the sun to never come up, for the night to never end.

Of course, it's a scientific inevitability, but he hopes, nonetheless.

He bows down to press a kiss to her forehead, before resting his chin on the top of her head.

Why the hell did he wait so long to do this?

"I'm sorry Sherlock."

"I thought you were asleep," he mumbles.

She shakes her head. "Can't," she simply replies.

"It should be me apologising, Molly Hooper," he says with a small smile that shifts her hair.

She chuckles slightly. "Well, I am sorry for getting your shirt wet," she says with a frown, sitting up slightly, but still staying in his arms.

His laugh rumbles again, this time making her shiver. "That's the least of my worries at the moment, Molly."

She moves her legs to rest beneath her, leaning heavily against Sherlock's lean form. He exhales contently.

She breaks the silence several minutes later. "I don't know what I'm going to do, Sherlock."

He unconsciously tightens his hold. "I'm afraid I can't help you anymore, Molly."

"You could've maybe not let me in tonight," she says, smiling into his shirt.

He considers this. "But then you wouldn't know if you were happy or not, with your decisions," he replies, somewhat naively.

She sighs, frustrated, but doesn't reply.

She realised weeks ago that Tom has never once told Molly that she's the person who matters the most. He has showered her with complements over the two years that they've known each other, the two years Sherlock was absent from her life, but has never told her that she counts, that she's always counted, and he needs her.

Almost reading her thoughts, or at least reading her, which he has always been able to do, Sherlock rests the side of his head against hers, dark curls feeling impossibly soft, mingled with her own hair.

She speaks out on a whim, knowing his answer could be the total opposite of what she wishes, "What would you do if I called the engagement off Sherlock?"

Sherlock tightening his hold on her answers her question. "You know I can't answer that Molly."

"Why? Why can't you, Sherlock? It's your damn fault that I'm in this mess anyway!"

He shakes his head. "No, it's not. I'm sorry to break it to you Molly, but Tom is like some hideously sad stand in for myself," he looks down and sees her pouting, obviously trying not to cry. "I don't want to affect your decisions any more. I'm not good for you. The last several years that we've known each other have proven as much."

"Humour me then."

He sighs. "I don't know what I would do,"

XXX

A cursory glance to the clock, then to the window confirms both their fears; the night has reached its peak, and will soon brighten.

It's usually described as one of the most beautiful moments to be experienced. Sherlock is dreading it.

Sherlock's eyes roam the room, looking for something that he can drape over the both of them. His beloved belstaff is lying over the chair he was previously sitting on, so he reaches over, careful not to disturb Molly too much, and covers the both of them with it.

The first thing she notices when she is covered with Sherlock's coat, other than the fact that it's a long forgotten dream come true, is how comforting it is, and how she feels completely lost in its scent.

An engaged woman certainly should not be having those thoughts.

A happily engaged woman wouldn't, her mind adds.

She knows she can't marry Tom.

She knows that it's a risk, breaking off the engagement, especially when it mightn't work out with Sherlock. Hell, he hasn't even told her what he would do if she did break up with Tom.

"I'd be very happy Molly."

He doesn't say what he would be happy about, but she knows.

Sherlock is irresponsible, and maddening, but he's brilliant and intelligent, and can be so kind, and she loves him, loves him so much that it eventually hurt being with Tom, who, she admits, did become a substitute to the real detective.

Sherlock has known for years how Molly has felt about him, and has exploited those feelings in the past for his own benefit. He's mocked her, insulted her, used her, and yet she's stayed so loyal, and she sees him. And she counts. She really does count.

And unfortunately for him, for the both of them, he's waited a beat too long to do anything. He's known for months that Molly is to be married, but he's been too stubborn, too stupid, to do anything about it.

Molly has fallen asleep against him, obviously far too tired to deal with the emotional strain he has on her.

Why can she just not see that he's no good for her? Recently, since his return, he's started wishing that he did deserve her, could make her happy the way she thinks he can.

The sun continues its agonisingly slow ascent across the horizon, but it still isn't slow enough. Sherlock knows that caring is a disadvantage, but he couldn't care less about the fact that he's grown to care about a specific group of individuals.

XXX

He makes up his mind a few hours later. Knows what he has to do, even if it hurts her. With a steady hand, he brushes the hair from her face. "Wake up," he tells her. "It's time for you to go home,"

She is awake instantly, stringing words into incoherent sentences. "Sherlock, I still don't…"

He interrupts her, pulling her to her feet, but keeping hold of her hand, leading her down the stairs. "I'm going to make this easy for you, then."

"Sherlock, what do you mean?" she tightens her grip on his hand. "What are you doing?"

Sherlock continues to lead her down the stairs of 221B, stepping outside the front door.

He bends down to her height with a small smile. "I'm letting you go," he tells her, before capturing her lips with his own.

He wipes the tears from her cheeks, kisses her forehead, and pulls her into his arms once more. "Goodbye, Molly Hooper," he whispers as the sun stretches across the concrete, brightening the grey, dusty dawn. "I hope you be very happy."