A/N: After many letters full of laughs, heartache and doubt we've finally made it: the reunion! Thank you so much for sticking with me 'til the end, for your support and encouraging words. A special thanks to those who reviewed every single chapter. I appreciate you spending your precious time on it. To say it with Franz Kafka, "May I kiss you then? On this miserable paper? I might as well open the window and kiss the night air."

And last but not least: A bear-hug, a kiss, flowers, chocolate, … to my fantastic beta Pipsis, who did not only help a non-native speaker get her grammar right, but also had some words of encouragement left. Thank you!
And here comes my turn on the infamous locker-room-scene. Enjoy!

London

"Reading your words, what you wrote, how you were lonely sometimes and afraid, but always brave; the way you saw the world, its colours and textures and sounds, I felt-I felt the way you thought, hoped, felt, dreamt. I felt I was dreaming and thinking and feeling with you. I dreamed what you dreamed, wanted what you wanted-and then I realized that truly I just wanted you."
― Cassandra Clare, Clockwork Prince

It was late and she was tired. Doctor Molly Hooper had just ended an endless seeming day shift at St. Bartholomew's hospital. It was a well-known and respected institution and had become even better known since the world's only consulting detective Sherlock Holmes had committed suicide by jumping off the roof of the pathology building almost two years ago. Molly was in that exact building right now, but some floors separated her from the place where the man with the long coat had stood before he had fallen into darkness. The petite pathologist was one of the few people who knew that the darkness was not a metaphor for death, but disappearance. His "suicide" had been part of an elaborate plan to bring down his arch nemesis James Moriarty. This plan did not only include a mission through Europe and other parts of the world to bring down Moriarty's vast network, but also the help of the shy pathologist.

Sherlock's "death" had influenced the lives of all of his friends (there was only a small group of them), albeit it brought out the most change in said pathologist, although or maybe because she knew that it had all been a magic trick in which she had been his assistant. Molly had always been an honest person – not only because she thought that honesty was important, but also because she was a terrible liar. But all of a sudden she had found herself in the position to not only keep Sherlock's secret (she had always been trustworthy), but to lie to her friends for an undefined amount of time. No one was to say if and when the detective would return from the dead. For playing her role in Sherlock's plan convincingly she had to get used to keep her feelings hidden from the others or mask it as grief over a lost friend. She had to change, to grow and in the process had to adapt her moral code more than once, but she never regretted her decision to help him. She had told him that he could have her, and she had meant it. But she knew he did not want her in the way she liked it to be. Yet still – probably without his knowledge – he had taken a part of her with him when he had gone away, and now she was constantly feeling torn. She knew it was not his fault, because she was someone who gave and he was someone who took, but she was tired of feeling that way.

Molly had been in contact with Sherlock over most of the time of his mission. He had told her where he was and what kind of books he had liked as a child. He had told her she was ignorant, and he had told her she was not boring. He had written that she had atrocious taste in clothes and that she had nothing to hide. He had chastised her for thinking she could be happy with a dog person and he had sympathized with her when her cat was sick. He had told her she lacked confidence and he had told her she was strong. He had insulted her, and he had complimented her; sometimes even in the same sentence. Molly had always written back and had told him about her life and those of his friends. But she had always held something back. She had never told him how hard it was for her to keep it together, because she was a very empathetic soul. The pathologist had loved his letters, every word in them, even the ones that had stung, but she was confused by some things he said and carrying the weight of his secret had started to wear her down. Then, one Sunday evening, Molly Hooper had felt like the loneliest person in the universe and had done the only thing that would make her feel better momentarily: She had put all her worries and fears down onto the page. She had told him the truth. She had told him that she missed him. And then the letters had stopped. She had not gotten another one for months, and she had not only started to worry, but question her decision about telling him how she felt. Molly had become restless and tired at the same time. Finally on All Hallows' Eve – the day where the dead were allowed to walk on earth - the dead consulting detective had sent her two words. It had not been much, but it had been all he could give her at the moment. And had she known that, she would have felt different about it. But since she had not, it only had made her more anxious.
That was why Molly Hooper's step was weary when she opened the door to the women's locker room at St. Bart's. She did not know if she was glad to go home or if she dreaded the emptiness of her flat. She did not pay attention to her surroundings, but acted as if on autopilot: entering the room, taking out the keys, opening her locker, reaching for the hanger, and then she froze in her movement. There was something in her locker that did not belong there, something that had not been there in the morning. It was lying on the top shelf. Hesitantly she reached for it and pulled it out. It was some kind of ticket and attached to it was a piece of white paper with a message on it, "Everyone feels lonely at times."
Molly stared at it, because she had come to know the handwriting all too well in the last two years. It had been the reason for comfort and pain. With shaking hands she drew back the piece of paper to have a look at the two tickets that were attached to them. "Body Worlds" they read.
"Why else do you think I kept in contact with you?" The voice behind her made Molly jump. She spun around to see if her mind was playing an evil trick on her, making her hear HIS voice. But there he stood, materialized seemingly out of nowhere: Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective. He had resurrected and looked at her as if it was an everyday occurrence that he stood in the women's locker room.
Molly, on the contrary, wore an expression of shock and disbelieve. Her eyes were wide, and she did not dare to smile, still afraid that it was all a dream (she had had a lot of those in the last few months, in different variations and with different outcomes).
Sherlock shrugged his shoulders and said as a way of explanation, "I still owe you some answers."
This made Molly come out of her stupor. She hurled herself into his arms.
She knew he didn't like to be touched, but in this moment she simply did not care.
She embraced him fiercely. His entire body seemed to still and stiffen at the shock of their touch, but he didn't pull away, and she felt strangely vindicated. Slowly his arms sneaked around her small frame, and he realized that she was even more fragile to touch that he had expected. She had lost weight, and he had the sickening feeling that he was the cause of it. He dared to close his eyes for a moment and felt a modicum of tension melt from his shoulders and neck. Her grip was like iron, and he found that he was unconsciously trying to pull her even closer. As soon as this came to his awareness he let go, and his arms hung useless to his sides. He was venturing into uncharted territory here after all.
Molly felt that he had let go of her and forced herself to do the same. Reluctantly (and a little embarrassed by her emotional reaction) she stepped back hesitantly and wiped her eyes with the back of her right hand. Her left one was still clasping the tickets. She had not even realized that she had been crying. It looked like Sherlock hadn't neither, because when he got a glimpse of her tears he looked slightly panicked for a second. Molly smiled – in what she hoped was an apologetic way – and it made the corner of his mouth twitch. There was so much she wanted to say to him, so many questions she had to ask, but at the moment her mind was blank. Somehow she could not concur her vocabulary. All she could do was stare at him. His face was somehow stoic and painfully fragile at the same time. There was something there that she had never seen before, and she could not place it. She had missed seeing his face and since he did not seem to mind her staring she tried to find out if anything was different from what she remembered. Where there more wrinkles, was his hair longer? His nose was slightly red and there seemed to have been some blood, and he had a cut lip. Her eyes were fixed on that spot, and she finally found her voice again, "So, you've already seen John?"
He winced and pointed to his face, "Yes. He punched me three times, can you believe it?"
She chuckled and realized that she had not done that in a long time. "Actually I've expected it. I would have done the same thing if I were him, to be honest."
He looked at her with a contemplating expression on his face. "Two years ago I would have said you would never dare." He regarded her with unusual interest. "But now..."
Molly cocked her head to one side. "Now what?" She had meant for her question to sound playful, but it turned out way too breathless.
"You have changed," he stated.
"So have you."
"Is it so obvious?" Suddenly he looked as detached and bored as ever. She was not sure if he was joking or not.
"Well...," she did not know what she wanted to say; what he wanted her to say. She took a step back from him. Even after his long absence his presence made her feel nervous – or maybe it had even made it worse. She had asked herself a million times what their reunion (she had never given up hope that there would be such a thing) would be like. And now that it actually happened, she did not know if it went better or worse than she had expected. All she knew was that it was different from what she had pictured in her mind.
The bigger distance between them gave him the chance to look her up and down. Molly felt the usual tingle as if he was X-raying her.
After taking in her appearance he scrunched his nose in disapproval, "I thought you bought new clothes?"
"I did."
"Then what are those?" He gestured towards her cardigan and the blouse with blue and green flowers on it that was at least one size too big for her.
She shrugged. "Old ones I've kept."
"Why?" He sounded almost scandalized, and Molly had to roll her eyes at that.
"I don't know. I just could not throw away everything. Had I know that you would turn up today, I would have worn something different," she said carelessly.
Now it was Sherlock's turn to cock his head to one side. "You would have?" Although his face was impassive, something in his voice spoke of seductive excitement, and it made Molly's mouth turn dry.
"Yeah," she contributed unhelpfully and hated herself for always feeling so tongue-tied in his presence. He was silent, regarding her with such intensity that she felt as if he were trying to bore a hole into her head.
To break his stare she cleared her throat, "So, have you told John how you did it?"
"You mean how we did it?"
She smiled shortly, nodded and unconsciously started fumbling with the tickets in her hand.
Sherlock continued, "Well, he was not really interested in me explaining how we pulled it off. He was rather more interested in the why." The detective sounded as if it was the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard.
The pathologist sighed. "I see." She had expected something like that. And she was pretty sure it had taken Sherlock at least one punch until he had figured it out too.
All of a sudden he looked apologetic, and Molly realized how strange that expression looked on his face. "But I had to tell him that you helped me and that you knew."
She nodded. She had suspected as much. The only way John would forgive Sherlock was that he would be totally honest with him from now on.
"I told John not to be mad at you," he stated as if he was proud of himself.
Molly shook her head and held back a chuckle. "Sherlock, you can't tell people what to feel or not feel. I would understand if he were angry at me. He has a right to be." She threw her hands in the air, "Hell, I've lied to him for two years!"
Sherlock regarded her with a darkened expression. He did not understand. So she tried again, "How should one be able to tell someone else what to feel if one is not even able tell oneself what to feel. If that worked I…" She stopped in the middle of her sentence, because she realized with horror what she was about to say.
"If that worked, then you would have stopped writing to me a year ago," he finished the sentence for her in a calm voice while regarding her with a thoughtful expression gracing his features.
She looked down onto the floor, ashamed. It was useless to contradict him.
"I am glad you didn't."
Her eyes snapped back up to meet his, and suddenly she realized that what she had said before was true: She was not the only one irrevocably changed.
When Molly looked back at him with her warm brown eyes, he suddenly felt the urge to look away. He had always stubbornly refused to get involved with his emotions, and now he was stuck in a kind of over-intensity, a superabundance of impressions. That's why he had tried to stay away from it, away from sentiment, from feelings. And then he had started this letter-thing, and everything had gone out of hand, out of control. He suddenly had had to reorient his view of certain aspects of his life.
He had come here tonight to give her the answers he had refused her for so long, and he was determined to do it. Therefore he decided to get on with it.
"You would have known."
She looked at him confused, not knowing what he was talking about.
"About my death. Mycroft had strict orders to let you know first-hand in case of my demise. And since I knew you would have been sad, I insisted on bringing the news to you gently and give you a hug to console you."
Had Molly had something in her mouth at the moment, she would have chocked on it. "You've told Mycroft to hug me?!" She shook her head in utter disbelieve. "I know you didn't say it on my behalf, but to mock him. Still, I appreciate the thought."
He regarded her with a boyish grin, because she had seen him through. She could not help but mirror his smile. It was a rare thing to see. And it made her happy to know that she had caused it.
Slowly his smile faltered, and suddenly he looked at her in earnest. Molly did not know what had brought about this change in mood, but she started to feel nervous again.
"Did you really mean it?"
"What?" It seemed like he was talking in riddles today and jumping from one thought to another.
"That I am a good man." He looked at her with his perceptive gaze, as if being ready to see something that would betray her dishonesty.
Regardless to say that his search was in vain. Molly stated with absolute conviction, "Of course."
"You have no idea what I have done in the last two years." His voice was almost inaudible and Molly felt her heart break.
In a moment of bravery she reached out and brushed her hand over his upper arm. He did not acknowledge the gesture, but did not step back either. "I have a vague idea," she reassured him.
He looked for something in her eyes. She did not know what it was, but he seemed to find it, because he exhaled a long breath and nodded.
"When I went on that mission, I was sure I knew what awaited me, but then..." His voice trailed off and his stare became somehow vacant, as if remembering something. "I was not supposed to be the one who's lonely."
Molly was not sure if he was even aware that he had said that out loud. She regarded him silently, waiting for him to come back to the present. He did so after shaking his head to clear his muddled thoughts. He looked at the petite pathologist in front of him, who had done everything he had asked of her and more. She had told him he could have her, and he wondered if that was still true. He had always been a man who had looked on women pathologically, as a source of motives, clues and yet he had kept the photograph of Billy she had sent him and all her letters. He had told himself to throw them away, because they were useless, sentimental baggage, but he could not bring him himself to do it.
Molly felt like there was something he tried to tell her, but was not sure how. "Sherlock, I..."
He interrupted her, "There are still some questions I did not answer." She closed her mouth and silently signalled him to go on. It seemed like he had planned on what to say to her. She did not know if that was a good or a bad sign. All she could do was wait and see. And she could do that. That's what she had been doing for almost two years now.

Sherlock's voice brought her back from her thoughts, "Yes, I originally meant John, when I wrote that I missed one fixed point in a changing age. But I am not so sure if that's still true."
"What do you mean?"
He had little experience of saying what he felt, but he wanted to try.
He swallowed and his eyes went to look at the ceiling before settling back on her face. "Well, I have come to the conclusion that I missed you." Molly's eyes widened, and he hastily tacked on an addendum, "...professionally." The detective held her confused gaze for another second, then went back to stucco-gazing.
Molly was at a loss. She did not understand what was going on here. Her palms were sweating and her heart pounding wildly in her chest. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. It was less a necessity than a nervous gesture. She felt like when she had been reading his letters: She was confused. He obviously wanted to tell her something – she could read between the lines after all – but she did not dare hope that he was really trying to tell her what she thought it was, because she feared she was suffering from female over-interpretation again.
A few feet away from the pathologist stood the world's only consulting detective who was clueless for once in his life. In his head this whole conversation had seemed so easy. He had managed to dismantle Moriarty's network and fake his death and now he would fail because of a fragile woman who barely reached his shoulders? He drew a frustrated hand through his hair, because he could not quite word his own admission as succinctly as he would have liked, and looked back down from the ceiling. And that was the moment his eyes fell on the object that was still in the hand of Molly Hooper. This was the clue Sherlock Holmes had been looking for. He drew a breath, slowly took a step forward, attentively reaching for her hand. He enveloped her diminutive hand in his firm grasp, and when he did so she looked at him with doe's eyes. He let his thumb graze her hand, and she did what he wanted to achieve with this gesture: She loosened her grip so he could take the tickets from her. They were a bit rumpled, because she had clutched them tightly, as if holding onto something. Her gaze followed his hand as he took the tickets from her and he asked, "You know what those are?"
"Tickets for Body worlds?" She had meant to say it as an answer, but it came out as a question.
"Obviously, but you know why I gave them to you?"
Molly's eyes nervously danced between the tickets and his face, finally settling on the former.
"Because it is a thank-you-gift?" she guessed.
Sherlock had to hold back an exasperated sigh or – even worse – an insulting comment. Instead he breathed in and out and then explained, "In one of our letters we were discussing the nice, boring Tom, and you asked me where I would take you on our first date. Well, that's where I'll take you."
A silence followed that seemed endless to Sherlock. He had expected her to throw herself into his arms, to start to tear up, to smile, to laugh, to... but not to don't show any reaction at all. Just as he was about to ask her if she was alright, he could see her blink rapidly and then lift her eyes from the tickets to meet his gaze. He could read the maelstrom of emotions laid bare all over her face.
"But, but... you said we would never go on a date. You don't even think me attractive."
Sherlock cleared his throat. "I've never said 'never', and apart from your hideous clothes, your appearance is quite appealing."
The moment the words had left his mouth he realized that it had probably been the wrong thing to say, but when he wanted to set it right, he saw an amused expression on Molly's face.
"Is that meant to be a compliment, or a mere statement of facts?"
That was what he had meant when he had written that they were not so different after all. She understood him. "Two years ago you would not have dared to defy me."
"Two years ago you would not have paid me an honest compliment." There was a slight trace of hurt in her voice, but he could not blame her. She was right, and she saw it on his face. That made her turn her gaze onto the floor again. It seemed to him a bit like dismantling Moriarty's network: one step forward, two steps back. But he had two years of experience with that problem. He could deal with it. He knew he just needed to say the right thing: the truth, just once. The one thing he had wanted to tell her since he had read her last letter in which she told him her truth: that she was lonely and that she missed him. And her truth was his as well.
Her head was down, showing nothing of her face. "Look at me... please," he said and was careful to let his voice sound gentle.
Molly reluctantly submitted. Not because she wanted to, but because of the way he had asked. Sherlock didn't usually say please.
When her eyes finally met his, she was not greeted with his usual closed off expression, but with open vulnerability that almost shocked her. He took her hand that he had been holding before again – the tickets between them – and said, "You are everything I didn't know I needed."
Molly made a sound between a laugh and a sob and the next thing she knew was that she was kissing Sherlock Holmes. Neither of them knew who had initiated it, but neither cared. It was a desperate kiss that made them cling to each other. It made them forget everything around them for a few moments. Molly Hooper did not think of being conscious about his cut lip and Sherlock Holmes did not feel any pain or realize that he was practically crushing the tickets in his fist while burying his hands in her hair.
When both drew back for air and Sherlock was reminded of his hurt lip by a stinging pain, both were smiling. They remained close, their foreheads touching and both breathing heavily. Sherlock was the first to break the blissful silence after running his tongue experientially over the place where John's fist had collided with his lip.
"I should warn you: I am not a nice man."
Molly arched her eyebrows and retorted in an amused tone, "I should hope so."

For most people St Bartholomew's hospital was known for being the place where the world's only consulting detective had died a lonely man, but for a small group of friends it was known for being the place where Sherlock Holmes had been born a good man with the help of the truth in the letters of Molly Hooper.

The End

A/N: "Who knew paper and ink could be so vicious?" - Kathryn Stockett
I could relate to that, because I was at some points a bit frustrated with my epistolary-style-project; especially with the last chapter, because I wrote it at 4 o'clock in the morning, and it turned out quite differently than I had expected (style-wise) – and way more sappy.
And to A-M: sorry for the happy ending ;-)
Still, I loved exploring new writing-territory (I hope you feel the same) and hence I'd like to end it the way it began, with a quote:

"Letters are no matter of indifference; they are generally a very positive curse."
― Jane Austen, Emma