AN: Thank you to everyone who read, reviewed, followed and favorited this! This is the last chapter and it's shorter and a bit heavier on the romantic stuff. I plan on following this up with a story called "A Kindled Man", within the next one or two weeks. So look out for it!

When Molly finally showed up, everything he planned on saying about her date fizzled out of him like a snuffed candle. A colorful paper shopping bag dangled from her arm and her expression was pleased, at least until she noticed him waiting. It morphed into trepidation, so he tried not to dwell on why her smiles had been affecting him more and more, especially when he rarely felt like the one inciting them.

The bag swayed and he glimpsed some sort of dark blue fabric, probably soft and delicate. Probably a dress. Definitely a dress. The kind that a woman would wear to dinner.

"I really need a print out of that toxicity screening, Molly," was apparently the only thing he could say.

"Figured that's what you were going to say. Give me a minute, I'll meet you upstairs."

"I can wait here for y-"

"-I'll meet you upstairs." And she was through the door, leaving Sherlock to stand and stare at where she'd been, wondering if he'd done something wrong. Wondering why he cared if he'd done something wrong. Recognizing that he cared because it was Molly.

He should always be kinder when it comes to Molly. Why is that?

Sherlock went upstairs where he half listened to John's phone conversation with Mary while rifling through expired chemical solutions. Molly entered the lab quietly, a print out in her hand which she passed over to Sherlock.

"He tested positive for alcohol and barbiturates," she said.

Neither man were surprised. "The phenobarbitone in his briefcase," John confirmed.

Molly frowned thoughtfully. "Why would someone have barbiturates in this day and age?"

John looked around Sherlock's shoulder at the print out, saying, "Usually 'cause someone who needs them is allergic to benzodiazepines. I've had to write a prescription before."

"I'll phone Lestrade," said Sherlock, folding the paper into his coat in exchange for his mobile as he made for the door. "None of this explains why Mircoat was there and I intend to find out why."

John followed him out of the lab and they'd gone ten feet before Sherlock halted, Molly's face still in his mind. The flushed, pleased glow that she'd had at the thought of being romantically pursued was nagging him and he knew he'd be ripping it away from her very soon. It wouldn't be the first time. It shouldn't bother him, but it did.

John turned questioningly when he realized he was alone, so Sherlock waved him away. "Go on ahead of me, John. I ...forgot something. I'll meet you on Giltspur."

"You sure?" John asked. "Cause I can-"

"Yes. Go." And Sherlock went banging back into the lab, leaving John throwing his hands up and continuing to the main entrance.

Molly was idly examining the expired solutions that Sherlock had set out. She looked up at him, surprised and seeming at a loss as to his sudden reappearance. A deep smattering of yellow and faint mauve indicated her bruise was healing quickly. "Haven't you got a case to finish up?" she asked when he only stared at her.

What did he come back for? He'd wanted to speak with Molly, but he'd wanted to finish the case. Definitely wanted to finish the case, but he found himself wading in distraction, his mind caught in an undertow that pulled him in the direction of her and all her kindness and compassion that he'd abused so recklessly before. She'd always been kind, he knew that. She'd always deserved happiness and love and all of that romantic drivel, but she also deserved someone to watch out for her and that was something he could do. He could try.

"Sherlock?"

"I wanted to thank you."

Molly went still, eyes glancing around in a search of a secret audience, eyebrows bunched like someone had told a joke she was trying to understand. "Um, you're ...welcome?"

"I don't just mean the print-out. I mean for everything, and for putting up with much of my behavior." He took a breath, feeling horribly exposed. "I know I'm not an easy man to deal with and you deserve nothing I say that is ever cruel to you. And I know I've said things that are cruel."

She was looking at him like he'd spoken Greek. "Do you need something from me?" she asked, very slowly.

"No," he shook his head. After saying what he'd said, he should be content to walk away, let Molly take from it what she would, but her eyes were clouded with a mistrust that beckoned him closer. When he was near, he added, "I just wanted you to know."

I should kiss her cheek before I go, he thought.

She still appeared terribly nervous, which had become rather uncommon recently and was now more than unwelcome. Sherlock watched his hand reach up and brush gently along the outer edges of the yellowing bruise that marred her face. Molly flinched. "Does it hurt?"

"Not really, not unless I sleep on it." She cleared her throat and, to his confusion, pulled away. His hand dropped back to his side.

He'd used that hand to ruthlessly punish a man. He'd been violent before her, offering a front row seat to his sudden moment of fury. Of course she didn't want to be near him.

Sherlock tried to smile, but he wasn't sure how it came out. He left as if he'd teleported, the time required to walk through the door somehow vanishing as if he'd never gone into the lab in the first place and he had to collect his bearings beneath the bright fluorescent lights that shone down on him.

Then he was with John again, climbing into a taxi, and then he was with Lestrade outside the building of Bethel Forrester and watching the arrest of Andrew Wellington with cold but victorious eyes.

In a gray NSY interrogation room, Sherlock sat with Lestrade across an uncuffed murderer who seemed rather resigned and unsurprised at having been caught. Then Sherlock asked him just how he'd slipped the phenobarbitone to Mircoat.

It was all very mundane. Wellington and Mircoat had gone for drinks. Mircoat had been caustic for much of the night before finally cornering Wellington about the missing funds, quickly and aptly accusing him of the misappropriation of thousands of others. That was when Mircoat demanded in on the scheme, demanding half of the money or else be acquainted with a jail cell.

They agreed to meet separately at Wellington's office that night while the world was still black, and the barbiturate was slipped in his drink before leaving. Of course, Wellington had gone home instead and gotten sleep, whereas Mircoat had gotten very dead.

The seed of a case always sprouted from one of two things: love or money.

"Tell the morgue bird that I'm sorry about dinner," Wellington had said. "She's a good girl. You're right to be in love with her."

The chair had toppled cacophonously to the floor with the violence of his exit. Lestrade had found him not long after and Sherlock conveyed through one look that words on that subject would never be shared and if you know what's good for you, you'd forget they were ever uttered.

That feeling. It was too new for him to comfortably brand it as love, but he'd no basis for comparison, not on this level. If he had to apply a word to it, he'd say it felt raw, but thus far was ineffable.

Molly appeared in another dream. They were working together, not in a lab, but in the kitchen at Baker Street, surrounded by flasks and cylinders and gentle wordless music from the radio. He pulled her close and kissed her lips like it was second nature, and when he woke in the morning, for the first time in his life, he'd reveled in the after feelings.

Tonight, Molly had a date with an incarcerated man. Seeing as that made a recipe for being stood up, Sherlock encountered two ways of solving the problem.

He could tell her everything and then watch her face collapse in disappointment as she contemplated returning the dress she'd been so pleased with. The fact that she'd been becoming involved with a narcissistic financier had nothing to do with said disappointment.

Or...

Well, he'd appointed himself as suited enough to look out for her, hadn't he?

That night, after a long shower and a close shave, Sherlock donned his best shirt and his finest suit. Coat wrapped around him like armor and feeling as if the world was his to conquer, a cab to Locanda Locatelli was hailed.

The lights of London glittered past like a fallen night sky. Tourists and locals milled along the expensive streets, many dressed in finery as they waited for a seat in their choice dining establishments while the sidewalks were washed with the warm glow of open businesses and street lights.

Sherlock hesitated at the entrance to the restaurant before re-steeling himself and going inside, giving the name of Wellington. As they took his coat, he saw her, sitting at a small table with her handbag in her lap as she fidgeted nervously. He couldn't understand why she'd be so self-conscious, not when she wore that soft indigo dress with her hair falling around her shoulders.

A large, flowery bow in the same shade of blue was clipped to the side of her head. It lessened the effect of elegance the dress would otherwise provide, but it added a quality of Molly-ness to it that was twice as beautiful.

He'd been so unaware of beauty until a time had come when he was no longer unaware of her.

The feeling in his chest caused his hands to ball. It was a far cry from the way he'd felt when departing from the flat. But, Sherlock Holmes was a creative man, and good at disguise, so he slipped through the dimly lit room of foodie connoisseurs to Molly's table and, when her head was turned, asked "is this seat taken?" even though he knew the answer was "no".

Molly turned so quickly she might've suffered whiplash. He lowered himself primly to the chair across her as she stared at him, mouth agape and quite stunned until she waved her hands in panic. "W-What are you doing here? You can't sit there, I'm waiting for-"

"-He's not coming."

Slowly, pulling her hands back to herself, her expression hardened. "Why?"

"A murder charge and monetary theft, among other things."

The horrified look on her face lasted all of five seconds, which was good, because Sherlock hadn't wanted to bear the unfortunate news to her in the first place. She slumped in her seat, sullen, before bringing her hands up and covering her face with a wretched sigh and Sherlock was ready to panic if any tears were produced.

A few people looked over.

"Molly?" Sherlock reached over a moiety of the table before she composed herself, the makeup used to conceal her bruise dusting her palm.

"It was Marcus Mircoat, wasn't it?" she asked glumly. "Did you know it was Andrew who did it?"

"Yes."

"You knew as soon as you saw him."

He wanted to lie. "I had a ...hunch."

Molly snorted derisively. "You don't do 'hunches', Sherlock, you either know or you don't. Why didn't you tell me after you'd spoken with him?"

"It was obvious when we first met. He evaded questions I didn't even ask. How did you not notice?"

"Was sort of on my phone at the time," she replied angrily. "The only thing that's come out of your mouth since the body rolled in was 'got those tox screens, Molly?' Well, it's not as if you'd care I was dating a killer anyway, not like it's the first time, right?"

"Of course I'd care," he shot back, offended, because if only she'd known the thoughts of her that had been propagating in his mind, he'd prove that he cared, indeed. "You could have told me you'd been seeing someone," he added.

"It was one lunch date and none of your business!" she countered vociferously.

More people looked over and Molly, embarrassed, quickly became distressed by the attention. Sherlock smoothed his jacket as he tossed a pugnacious glare at the collective, saying loudly, "Haven't you people got food to eat? And you, just hurry up and propose, she's obviously been waiting several years..."

A few gasps from the audience.

And Molly... Molly had buried her face in her arms, glued to the table like she was trying to disappear into the cloth, shaking silently.

Congratulations, Sherlock. You can add this to your many failings in relation to Molly Hooper.

A loud snort erupted from the nest of her arms and Sherlock realized that she was not, in fact, crying. No, she was laughing. She was laughing raucously and wailingly. The table shook with the force of it.

She raised a red-faced head up to look at him, tears dripping at the corners of her eyes and all Sherlock could do was begin chuckling along with her. "Oh," she wiped at her eyes, "Someone's coming over..."

Which was true. Staff were approaching. "Well," said Sherlock, "If they're coming to take our orders then it's about time, but I have experience in being removed from these sorts of establishments, so..."

"We're being kicked out."

He made a confirming noise before they burst into another round of inappropriate giggles.

Later, after getting into a cab with the intent to see Molly home, Sherlock had changed his mind and they'd found themselves at Angelo's instead. It was a far more comfortable atmosphere and the portions heftily dished, thank goodness, because Molly really was hungry and Sherlock hadn't eaten in three days despite the case's conclusion the previous afternoon. It would be lying to say that their dinner was easy and full of conversation, because the truth was that they'd been too ravenous to string five words together.

"Are you very upset about your date?" Sherlock asked as they walked in the direction of Molly's flat, the world around them quietly colored in black, blue and gold reflections.

A long quiet suspended in the air as Molly contemplated. "Not really. Honestly, it's been a while since Tom, and I haven't had a date so it seemed like a good idea. New flat, new me, all that stuff. But I wanted to dress up and be treated like...I don't know," she sighed.

"Like?"

"Like I was wanted. Sorry, that sounds stupid." Molly laughed awkwardly, hands bunched in her coat.

Sherlock wanted to say that she was more wanted than she knew, but he couldn't bring himself to say it. The feeling of wanting was still so fresh and new for him that he'd barely realized the feeling was there at all.

"I mean, it was stupid," Molly insisted. "I didn't even like him."

She'd also never know just how pleased Sherlock was to hear that. He knew Molly had the probity to see through the ridiculous facade of a man like Wellington and call it, or at least, she was certainly being a better judge of character than previous romantic exploits.

"I'm learning to enjoy not being in love," she added. "I think I'm quite done with men."

That...was not what Sherlock wanted to hear. He had to remind himself to continue walking, lest he grind to a noticeable halt. "Are you?"

"Yes. Maybe I've finally outgrown the hopeless romanticism. I'll wait and if someone comes along, maybe it'll happen, but I'm tired of looking and hoping and thinking that I feel something when maybe I really don't. I'm tired of hoping for something when it turns out I'm not worth much, after all. All the heart break ends up feeling self-inflicted. S'not worth it. Here's my new place."

They stopped in front of an old building (what wasn't old in London?) of perhaps six flats, the steps few, as they led to the front door. Molly was digging for her key and hopping up the steps in her short heels when she said, "Perhaps I should be a little more like you, huh?"

And then he was on the stairs, reaching the top in two strides and holding Molly by the shoulders. Her neck craning back to see him, and he said, "Don't. Don't stop being you, Molly. Don't ever stop caring. Despite what you say, you're worth far too much to ever be unloved. You're worth..."

Her eyes blinked owlishly at him. Very gently, he touched where he knew her bruise to be and she sucked in a breath.

"You're worth far more than you'll ever know. So, don't. Don't let anyone say otherwise, not even me. And if anyone, anyone, ever lays a hand on you again, you tell me. Or tell someone. Do you understand, Molly?"

Frightened would be a good word to describe her right now, Sherlock thought, but perhaps that had more to do with his uncharacteristic surge of tenderness than her believing him capable of harm. Of course he wouldn't harm her. That would be terribly conflicting with what he'd just told her.

His thumb grazed over the little pink scar on her cheekbone where the makeup still wouldn't stick, and he leaned down and pressed his lips there. "Goodnight, Molly."

For the rest of the night, an alternate scenario played in his head, one where he'd kissed her on the lips instead of her cheek, where he'd followed her upstairs to her flat. There'd still be boxes of her possessions scattered and stacked and he'd help sort them and alphabetize her books while drinking coffee.

He'd been mistaken, surely. Molly wasn't the one frightened; he was. Because suddenly there was a whole host of things he wanted for himself that he'd never wanted before, things he'd been closed off to. Things he might've still been closed off to if it hadn't been for two long years of loneliness and another year and a half of watching his friends moving along without him as the centerpiece in their lives.

He'd learned that he needed friends. Now he wanted more.

What a wonderful, terrible feeling that was. Wonderful because it was new. Terrible because it was frightening.

Terrible because it seemed Molly had given up on him. Worse yet, Molly had given up on him long ago, time enough to choke the embers that had once been flames burning for him, when he'd foolishly thought himself so exalted that those flames would never be extinguished.

A CCTV camera mounted on a building across the street watched him. Sherlock looked stonily at it before he yanked on his coat collar and walked away.

Since that night, Sherlock rearranged his mind, his priorities, and his feelings (now that he could admit to having them). Days went by. Long hours on the sofa drifted with the waning of sunlight through the windows, a myriad of colors creeping across the floorboards. Mrs. Hudson puttered around him, as evidenced by the tea tray lingering beside him and the lemony scent of furniture polish on the table.

Eventually, he went for a long walk along the Thames. A bench faced the murky length of water and he sat, looking like everyone else, like any normal man puffing on an overdue cigarette and needing to succumb to a long think. Except he'd been thinking for days and thinking months' worth of thoughts.

A black car without so much as a speck of dirt on its undercarriage pulled over behind him. Sherlock took in a deep breath through his nose, sucking in the air as fuel for the strength to deal with, argue, and/or otherwise engage his older brother who was surely curling his lip at being out in public amongst normal people, car door slamming behind him.

The wooden planks of the bench creaked as Mycroft sat beside him.

"Don't you want to wipe the seat down first?" Sherlock asked drily, bumping the ash off his cigarette. "I hear even homeless people sit on these things."

"The suit will be dry cleaned accordingly," was Mycroft's matchingly arid reply.

The silence stretched, and Sherlock would bet that he could keep it going until they were both obstinate skeletons. The downside was the prospect of sharing an afterlife with his brother, but he persevered.

"You must know why I'm here, Sherlock," Mycroft said. "I've heard of your recent dalliances with Molly Hooper and-"

"-Dalliances?" Sherlock scoffed. "If I were doing any sort of 'dallying' as you say, then please elucidate as to the relevance of your opinion on it. We both know what you're going to say."

"Oh, no need to get snappy about it."

"No need to stick your nose in my business every day of my life. I've been pardoned, fully. Why, I'm even allowed to stay outdoors after dark!"

Mycroft gave him a dirty look. Sherlock sucked in through his cigarette, pointedly glaring at the Thames.

In perfect, practiced unison, they said, "Caring is not an advantage," although Sherlock's voice may have been higher in rude mimicry.

"Why must I be forced to remind you of that?" said Mycroft, burdened.

"You're only forcing yourself, as you've been doing for last thirty years." Sherlock dropped the butt of his cigarette and stamped it beneath his shoe as he stood and faced him. "But then I started to wonder. What's more important – really, truly important - advantage or want? Better still, if I want something, would it not be advantageous to obtain it?"

Mycroft's level gaze told him to stop being a child. "I'm sure when you wanted to get high it was remarkably advantageous for your liver."

"Much like baked goods are advantageous for your waistline. Now," Sherlock buried his hands in his pockets, the sadness at not finding another cigarette overriding the pride in his restraint at not bringing two. His voice lowered. "Let's stop pretending that we're not talking about Molly Hooper. I have managed to admit to myself that I care and while it may not be, as you consider, 'advantageous,' pursuing that feeling is what I happen to want. Think of it as an experiment, if that lessens your disgust."

"She's not a drug, Sherlock."

"Oh, like you care what she is," he snarled, suddenly feeling a wave of years' worth of unaddressed animosity cresting over him. "You've criticized me for my occupation, my interests, my friends -yes, I have them- all the while harping about the evils of getting involved, telling me what's good for me since I was a child. You've been holding the stupid period I delved into drugs over my head so that I'd be what? Complacent? Content to remain as miserable as you?"

It was much like talking to a wall, Sherlock realized as he glared at Mycroft's impossibly straight face. His brother blinked very slowly, pulled in a deep breath, and stood.

There might have been a small twitch beneath Mycroft's eye. "I'm not miserable Sherlock. Neither am I quite as dramatic as you," he informed, dripping enough superiority that Sherlock hoped he'd drown in it.

"Oh, I beg to differ." Sherlock glanced pointedly at the immaculate, expensive vehicle behind his brother.

"You are serious, then?" Mycroft inquired in disbelief. "You have intentions towards that woman which are, in fact, genuine?"

Sherlock hesitated, not because he wasn't sure, but because admitting it to Mycroft (to anyone) was still so alien. "Yes."

"And these feelings would be ...sentimental?"

A smirk developed in that upturned side of Mycroft's mouth that Sherlock wanted to punch. Mycroft was playing a game with him, goading him. He turned away. "Go home, Mycroft," he growled over his shoulder.

"What will Doctor Hooper think of romantic attempts by Sherlock Holmes, I wonder?"

Sherlock whirled around on his heels and stalked menacingly towards his brother until their faces were inches away, Mycroft's eyes betraying only slight alarm but refusing to back down. Sherlock really wanted to hit something as he hissed, "I know you, Mycroft. You will leave Molly alone. You will not visit her, you will not call her, you will not spy on her and you will not interrupt her existence in any way. If you stick your nose in her life the way you do mine, Mycroft, I promise you the incident with Magnussen will be an inkblot compared to the catastrophe I'd make of your reputation in your career and I would devote my life to that."

Mycroft still had that goddamned imperceptible smile, inclining his head ever so slightly. "As I thought," he drawled. "Sentiment."

Sherlock pushed away from him and stormed off, strides long and purposeful and angry along the Thames, refusing to deign a glance over his shoulder to see if Mycroft was leaving or not, but he didn't care. No. He didn't care what Mycroft thought. But it was hard, he understood, to shed the years of unacknowledged control that had been planted in his skull.

It was frustrating.

It was also liberating.

Because now Sherlock could admit that he cared in a way that was entirely new and maybe a little thrilling and a lot terrifying. And if ever there was a time to secure the affections of Molly, it was now, before anyone else decided to sweep in and carry her beyond his reach.

The biggest issue, he knew, was how to assure her of his honesty in this. Sherlock was good at lying, but in this raw feeling, he was honest if nothing else. He would have to be slow. He would have to be patient. He would have to be aware of his behavior. He would have to be kind to her.

Sherlock Holmes was meticulously scientific, but surprisingly creative with his experiments. This was not an experiment, but if it were, then he couldn't wait for the results.

The end, etc, etc. And thank you for your time!

Next up: A Kindled Man