A/N: Well, here it is, folks, the final chapter in what actually was going to be nothing more than a 2-3 chapter smutfest and sort of grew into, well, this. I hope you enjoyed the ride and I look forward to your reactions. All the reviews I've received (well most of them lol) have made me so happy, I appreciate every single one of them, trust me. Wish me luck on finishing up one of my many other WiPs! (AND A SUPER SHOUT OUT TO QUARTO FOR HELPING MAKE IT BETTER!)

Panting with the effort it had taken him to mutilate the woman he loved, doubt and despair and self-loathing crowding into his heart and mind, Sherlock stared down at Molly. The sword, dripping blood, clanged to the floor, dropped from suddenly nerveless fingers, and he followed it, thudding to his knees as he reached out for her, then snatched his hands back as if burned.

He didn't deserve the comfort of touching her - and he damned well wouldn't be able to offer her any comfort. Not after what he'd just done.

He bowed his head, hands covering his face, but jerked back when he felt the softest, lightest of touches on his fingers. Molly's hand, her fingers entwining with his as she slowly, painfully raised her head and - smiled at him?

"Thank you, Sherlock, I knew you loved me enough to do this," she breathed.

He carefully gathered her into his arms, resting his forehead against hers and taking a moment to just breathe in the same air. The practical side of him soon reasserted itself, however, and he gently lowered her to lie on her side on the floor, jumping to his feet and dashing into the kitchen for a handful of tea towels with which to staunch the bleeding from the twin wounds in her back.

As he hurried back into the sitting room, towels tucked under his arms, he pulled his phone from his pocket, fingers poised to ring up John Watson and demand his help. The sight that met him as he left the kitchen brought him to a sudden stop, mobile and towels alike forgotten, allowed to fall from slack fingers to the floor as he took in the sight before him: Molly Hooper, standing on her feet, wearing the clothes he'd last seen her in – jumper, khakis, colorful blouse – all unbloodied and whole, staring at Mycroft with an expression of wonder mixed with confusion on her face.

There were no signs of the grievous injuries she'd just sustained, no signs of pain in either her expression or the way she held herself. Only his habitual attention to detail allowed him to further note that his sword had vanished, that Mycroft was staring back at Molly wearing his usual unreadable expression…and it was there that Sherlock's mind stuttered to a halt.

Because Mycroft's expression wasn't unreadable. Nor was his body language; even to Sherlock's stunted human senses he could tell that his brother was uncomfortable. Awkward, even.

Possibly even…alarmed?

"What? What's wrong?" he demanded as his feet finally unstuck themselves from the floor. He hurried to Molly's side, running his hands up and down her arms, her shoulders, her back (carefully!), his eyes anxiously taking in every detail. "What's wrong? What did you do wrong, Mycroft?" he finally demanded of his brother, his anxiety for Molly pitching his voice slightly higher than usual.

"He healed me."

Sherlock whipped his head around to stare at Molly. "He what?!"

Molly gave him a look, which he read even more easily than he had his brother – and which brought a stunned, tentative smile to his lips. "You healed her," he said, finally turning to face Mycroft again, the smile morphing into a suspicious frown. "Why?"

Mycroft shrugged. He actually made so human, so mortal-and-therefore-beneath-him a gesture as to shrug. "I'm…not entirely sure," he admitted, another first and one far more significant than any mere physical movement. Mycroft, the zealous warrior-messenger of God, the older brother who always knew best and never backed down, actually admitting to uncertainty? And voicing it aloud?

Surely it was the Apocalypse.

"Call it sentiment," Mycroft finally offered, before Sherlock could find a way to voice any of his incredulity and suspicion. "I neglected to perform my brotherly duties to you when you were turned human, and having lost that opportunity, I therefore chose to offer them via second-hand, as it were." He tilted his head toward Molly, not quite a nod. "It was far too human of me to take my anger at you out on your paramour – your girlfriend," he amended quickly as Sherlock glowered at him. His own lips quirked in a humorless smile. "And since one human in the family is one more than either wanted or needed, it would be foolish indeed for me to take on such characteristics."

"Thank you."

Mycroft stilled at Sherlock's simple, but heartfelt, words. Inclined his head. Flicked an unreadable (ineffable?) glance toward Molly.

Vanished without another word.

Sherlock and Molly stared at one another in his sudden absence, then both moved, reaching out, their bodies crashing together as they embraced one another, holding on as if for dear life.

Dear life indeed, Sherlock thought dazedly as he held Molly in his arms, the last coherent thought he would have for many, many hours.

He had far too much time to make up for to be bothered with such inconsequentials as mere rationality.

Their kisses were fevered, passionate, sloppy and full of joy. Tears were shed - although later he would remember his dignity and deny any such thing, at least to John and Mary (damn her knowing grin!) - and clothing was removed.

Not that either one noticed, not when they were far too intent upon one another to care whether Molly's bra landed on the bison skull, or how long it might eventually take them to hunt down her knickers (behind the untidy stack of books in the far corner of the sitting room) and his pants (behind the bookshelf nearest the window, wedged between Shelf One and Shelf two and hidden by the messy stack of chemistry books).

They only had eyes - hands, lips, entire bodies - for one another.

"Missed you so much," Molly gasped between kisses as Sherlock grappled her to the floor.

"Missed you more," he groaned as he landed with a grunt, twisting to make sure she came to rest atop him.

"Impossible," she responded with a giggle as she stroked him into full hardness. "I was an angel, remember? Therefore infinitely capable of missing you more...ungghhhh," she added in a moan as his impatient, greedy mouth found her breasts.

Neither one spoke for many minutes after that, Sherlock entirely preoccupied with sucking, licking and otherwise worshipping her breasts, and Molly too busy moaning and gasping her pleasure at being so worshipped.

When Sherlock began to concentrate on moving down her body, impatient to truly taste her, she surprised him – happily so – by shoving him onto his back, straddling his knees, and lowering her head to take his rigid, straining cock into her mouth.

He nearly came from the sheer overwhelming joy of feeling Molly's lips and tongue on his body, but heroically held back by forcing himself to recite the periodic table of elements in his mind. Well, half of it. Well, almost half. A quarter? Dizzily he gave it up as a lost cause and simply closed his eyes and tugged at Molly's tumbled locks, freed at some point (when?) from the pony-tail in which it had been bound.

Thankfully she took the unspoken hint; with a giggle she popped her lips from around his cock and slid up his body, capturing his mouth in a joyful, sloppy kiss. He held her close, so close, feeling the points of her nipples against his chest, her hot quim resting against his belly, and knew only the most primitive, desperate need to be inside her.

Now.

Even as the word reverberated through his mind, her beautiful, brown, entirely, mundanely - and therefore gloriously - human eyes shone with love even as the emotion spilled from her lips. "I love you, Sherlock, I love you so much I knew I could never, I could never leave you, I had to find a way back and that loophole, it was the only way...it had to be someone who loved me to make that final symbolic blow, cut off those wings…"

"Hnnfff," Sherlock rather inarticulately replied, far too focused on sheathing himself inside Molly's hot warmth, so desperately missed these two long years, to offer up anything more intelligible.

"Ahhh," she groaned in apparent agreement as she settled herself on him, leaning forward so that her hair hung down and brushed against his chest. Another sensation he'd missed - all of Molly surrounding him, loving him, giving of herself in every possible way.

"Love you," he gasped out, belated response to her previous declaration or simply the only words he could form at the moment. True, so true, either way. His love for this woman, who'd given up immortality for him, who'd gifted him with herself over and over again, was the only thing in his heart and mind and soul.

She dug her nails into his chest as she moved above him; he held her hips so tightly there would be finger-bruises to match the crescents in his own flesh. He felt the moment she came, her head arching up and her cries of pleasure filling his ears until all he could do was hold her, hold her and follow after, tumbling joyfully into the abyss, confident they'd rise together safe and whole on the other side.

The Present

All they told John was that Mycroft had had a change of heart and decided to heal Molly before leaving. The rest he figured out on his own - and wisely opted not to ask for details he knew Sherlock would be all too happy to share, if only to tease a becoming blush from Molly's cheeks.

As he left the flat, bursting with the need to share the good news with Mary and the children (well, the ones old enough to understand, anyway), something he'd once said to Sherlock drifted back into his mind, and he paused on the doorstep of 221B, smiling up at the two silhouettes standing so closely together in front of the window. "Mysterious ways," he murmured to himself.

Mysterious ways indeed.

God moves in a mysterious way / His wonders to perform

William Cowper "Light Shining out of Darkness", Olney Hymns, 1779