"A man always finds it hard to realize that he may have finally lost a woman's love, however badly he may have treated her." Sherlock Holmes – The Musgrave Ritual

"Say something."

Molly stared at Sherlock, who seemed lost in thought; his gaze was blank, as if he didn't understand her. "Sherlock!" He blinked, finally looking at her. "Do you really have nothing to say to me?" Sherlock searched his thoughts. Molly had just told him something, literally seconds ago, and he'd thought very hard on it. Apparently he disliked the thought so he deleted it.

"What should I say?" he asked finally, deciding that was a safe enough response. Her eyes softened, as if she were about to cry.

Wrong answer

"You could say you'll miss me, that it will be hard to get on without me…we had good times…a lot of rubbish years, but…" she shrugged, trying to laugh as she wiped her nose. "Any of those things would do."

Ah. She was going on holiday.

"Well I've managed this far without you," he said nonchalantly. "I'm sure I'll be fine."

"Is-is that all you have to say?" she asked softly. "Seven years we've known each other, helped you through Moriarty's whole…everything and- and that's it?"

Sherlock was utterly confused.

"Yes?"

Slowly, Molly nodded. What had she expected, honestly? For him to get down on his knees and beg her to stay? She was nothing to him, at least not what she thought she was.

"Well, that's that then," she stepped forward awkwardly, hugging him. Sherlock was utterly befuddled. Perhaps someone in her family died and she was upset. Yes. That must be it. What do friends do when a family member dies? Oh, yes, hug. Sherlock didn't mind hugging Molly. She always smelled cleanly of the body wash she used, along with traces of formaldehyde that always lingered on her person. Molly was soft, and if he was honest, her shape was pleasing to him. He also understood friends displayed signs of physical affection, especially when a friend was upset, so he soothed her back. After a moment she let go, still sniffling.

"So…um…I'll be off then."

"Yes, I shan't keep you," he answered quickly.

"No," she murmured. "No you wouldn't."

He watched her retreating form, confused. She was being particularly ominous and he wasn't sure why. She did not display signs of depression.

Apprehension, sadness, defeat, weariness

A death in the family. That's what it had to be.

Next Day

"Did you see Molly?" Sherlock looked up from the microscope he was fiddling with to see John standing in the doorway of 221b.

"Last night after her shift."

"So she told you?" John asked. Again, he thought carefully. He recalled speaking to Molly last night, she embraced him and he returned it.

"Yes of course she did," he said at last. John seemed flabbergasted.

"And you have nothing to say to her? You're just going to let her go?"

"John, why should I stop her?"

"Why should you- why-" John looked positively apoplectic and Sherlock could not for the life of him understand why. "Molly Hooper, the only woman who has ever managed to pierce that bloody thick skull of yours, the one you claim mattered most, the only one who mattered, the only pathologist in the world you will ever work with, hands in her notice to St. Barts and you have nothing to say?"

"She what?!" Sherlock turned in his chair, startled. "What do you mean she handed in her notice?" John was at a loss for words.

"You-" he took a calming breath. "You just said she told you so last night."

"She told me something," Sherlock grumbled. "I must have deleted it. Was that all she told me?"

"How on earth should I know? I wasn't there!"

"Why is she quitting?"

"You really do beat all, you know that?" John came to lean against the counter, folding his arms across his chest. "The woman literally laid everything on the line for you, pulled you out of the gutter God knows how often, and you have no idea why she's leaving, what would make her leave."

"I don't know!" Sherlock snapped. "If you're so clever, why don't you tell me?"

"You know very well why she's left, Sherlock, I'm sure if you dig deep enough, you'll find the answer."

"I told you! I deleted last night's conversation; at least the parts I felt were not important."

"That seems like a rather stupid decision, are you sure you didn't delete them because you didn't agree with what she was saying?"

"When have I ever done that?"

"You want a list?" John gaped. "You deleted the fact that Molly once went to the hospital because you disliked seeing her in the ER-"

"It was distressing," Sherlock answered meekly.

"God knows what your funny brain was doing when she told you she was leaving," John grumbled, shaking his head. "She's leaving because of you, you dunce,"

"Me? What have I done?" Sherlock asked.

John's mouth hung open, fire in his eyes, clear disbelief at what his friend was asking.

"You- you- what haven't you done to her?"

Good God, had he assaulted her in a drunken rage? Sherlock thought carefully. No. The last time he imbibed was with John during the stag party. He looked up at John, who was still trying to gather his words.

"For seven years, William Sherlock Scott Holmes," John pointed a finger at him. "You used her for her ties to St. Barts, you treated her like rubbish- you effectively demolished each and every one of her relationships she's even attempted- she helps fake your death and you disappear for two years, and then you come swaggering and bragging back to London, insult her at almost every occasion you can, and you wonder why she's leaving?"

"I- she- I did apologize," Sherlock finally offered.

"Once," John said. "And for a while, Sherlock, I honestly thought you meant it. I thought you might have really felt something, respect or even friendship for her. Was there ever a time in your relationship with Molly you didn't use her?"

"I did mean what I told her," Sherlock spoke quietly; he set down the slide he'd been studying. "She does matter."

"Yeah? Well not enough apparently. She can't do this anymore, Sherlock," the consulting detective looked up, confused. John sighed heavily, shaking his head. "She came over to me and Mary's a month ago, told us what she'd finally decided to do. She loves you, Sherlock, loves you more than you can possibly deserve, and she's never expected anything from you, even let you behave like the arrogant prig you are. But she can't live like that anymore. She deserves to be happy; she deserves to be loved by someone who respects her, who won't forget she exists until it's convenient for them."

"I have never forgotten her," Sherlock was quiet, but his voice was fierce. "Do not presume to know my thoughts, John."

"You've got a funny way of showing you appreciate her."

"Ughh," Sherlock groaned, sinking low in his chair, rolling his eyes. "Why must relationships be plagued with constant signs of appreciation? If it's been said once, why does it need saying again?"

"Because that's what friends do," John ground out. "Repetition reinforces bonds, you great tit. How'd you master the violin if you didn't practice?"

"It's a simple calculation –"

"Molly is not a calculation!" John shouted.

The room was still after and John stepped back to take a breath.

"She's a human being, one of your supposed 'friends'-" Sherlock frowned at John's use of air-quotes. "Only she's the only one who's not being treated like one. No one deserves to be treated like garbage, Sherlock, and certainly not by someone who's claimed to care about them. She moved because it's too painful to be around you anymore. She's leaving to forget you."

She was leaving to forget him. Sherlock blinked. He wanted to forget that, but the pain in his chest was too great to ignore. Molly wanted to forget him. He didn't want to forget her. Molly Hooper saved him, numerous times, but his relationship to her went beyond that. Molly Hooper who was so very plain and yet dazzlingly brilliant at the same time, had been a constant in his life for almost a decade. His sensible side told him that of course she would not stay forever, why should she? He had given no indication that she ought to stay. She was probably expecting him to make a protest last night when she told him! No wonder he'd deleted the conversation last night. The thought of Molly telling him to his face why she was leaving was…awful. Too awful.

"But justified brother dear," Mind Palace Mycroft said. "Of all the people in the world you care for, who should speak their feelings to you more freely than her? You know exactly how you've treated her and now she's finally gotten up and left." He turned on his heel, swinging his umbrella as he walked. The walls began to shimmer, transcripts of conversations between him and Molly fluttered by him, and he could see every one of the awful things he'd ever said to her. "She can never be more lost to you than she is now," Mycroft called over his shoulder. "Unless..."

"Unless what?" Sherlock called after him.

"Why should I stay?" Sherlock turned again to see Molly hanging up her lab coat. She wouldn't look at him, she ducked her head, the loose bun she wore was coming undone.

"Because…you transfix me as no one has," he said. She lifted her head, but she made no move to leave, nor turn and face him.

When Sherlock finally came out of his thoughts, he blinked, finding his cheeks were wet. He gave a startled gasp, immediately turning to hide his face. John saw, but he said nothing, too surprised to even tell him he deserved to feel so hurt.

"Did she say where she was going?" Sherlock finally asked, his voice hoarse.

"She's taking a much deserved holiday, I believe your brother had something to do with it, and then she'll probably be finding work somewhere up north."

"Yes, but where?"

"Ask your brother," John said. The Consulting Detective was on his feet, shutting off the microscope. He placed the cover over it before throwing off his dressing gown, dashing down the hall to pack an overnight bag. "Sherlock, where are you going?"

"To find her, obviously-"

"Sherlock- no- she doesn't want you to go after her."

"Says who?" he poked his head out the door before ducking back inside.

"Says- well…" John was at a loss. Molly hadn't said she wanted to be left alone per se. "I say so," he said suddenly. Sherlock stopped putting things in his bag, straightening.

"You say so?"

"Yes, Sherlock, she's feeling probably not the best right now, she doesn't need you running after her, making all sorts of false promises, saying whatever you will to get her to come back, only to have you turn right around and keep on treating her as you have."

"John, I have treated Molly terribly, I admit it, probably- definitely worse than she has ever deserved, but not once have I promised something to her that I did not mean." He zipped his overnight bag shut, slinging it over his shoulder. "Now where is she?"

John Watson, for only barely clearing Sherlock's shoulder-height, could be very imposing when he wanted to, and Sherlock was quite certain he could incapacitate him if he was so-inclined. Folding his arms across his chest, John fixed Sherlock with a steady glare.

"Look me in the eye and tell me you don't love Molly Hooper." Sherlock frowned, clearly that was not the demand he expected John to make.

"John- I-"

"Sherlock Holmes, you told me you were married to your work, and your work will go on with or without Molly Hooper."

"John I – can't."

"Can't what?"

"I cannot – I will not- I love Molly," he burst, flustered. John blinked, taken aback. "I love Molly," he repeated. "She must know, at least before she leaves for good."

"You tell her, and that's all," John said. "Don't go trying to drag her back. She makes any kind of protest-"

"I am the last person she deserves," Sherlock interrupted him. "But she deserves to know the whole of it before she makes her decision, yes?"

John heaved a sigh.

"She's in France," he said at last.

"Where?"

"You're the genius, you figure it out." With that John grabbed his jacket and left, leaving Sherlock to dig through his pockets for his phone. There was a tracking chip in Molly's phone, put there ever since he faked his death so Mycroft could keep an eye on her. He used to look it up from his disposable phones while he was in hiding, one of the few links back home that kept him going. Now, seeing the small dot blinking across the screen of his phone, he felt keenly as if he were watching his home slip away from him.

Hôtel de Crillon - Paris, France

Molly felt out of place. She shouldn't have let Anthea book this hotel. Of course, Mycroft was good enough to foot the bill, and Anthea was an absolute dear for going shopping with her to see that her clothes for dinner were Paris-ready. Molly still felt she was dumpy and awkward next to the line of models lingering around the front desk. They had to be models. No one looked that good unless you were one.

"Here you are Miss Hooper," the man at the desk smiled lightly. "Your room key, the porter will fetch your bags, is there anything you require?"

"Um…well a restaurant…or oh café," she fumbled with her words, feeling more and more awkward, digging through her purse for the list of restaurants Anthea had given her. "Cafés Richard?"

"Not very far," the desk clerk smiled. "After you've settled in, come back down, I'll see a man fetch a cab for you."

"Thank you." Her relief was only temporary; at least people at the hotel spoke English. God knows what she'd meet up with when she actually got out into the city. Still, it was an adventure, and hang it all she was going to enjoy herself!

If only her reason for going wasn't so painful.

God dang it why'd she tell Mycroft she wanted to go to Paris?

'Pick a more romantic spot, Molly Hooper! Why not bloody Venice, and book a gondola ride for one!'

Once in her room, the porter tipped and sent on his way, she flopped onto the bed, sighing heavily. Honestly, what had she expected when she told Sherlock she was leaving? What had she believed he'd do? She'd hoped he'd tell her not to go. But then that's why she was leaving, wasn't it? She had to break out of the unhealthy rut she was in. She couldn't keep forever hoping that Sherlock would fall in love with her. Someday, if she was very lucky, he'd realize what he'd let slip from his fingers. If Sherlock Holmes wanted her, he could just bloody well come after her. Not that it would happen, but she was tired of hoping and wishing for something that clearly wasn't going to happen. She deserved more. She shut her eyes, Mary's voice echoing in her head:

"What do you want?" Mary asked gently. John fetched a box of tissues, handing them to Molly as she cried.

"I don't know," Molly sobbed. "I want- I want someone who will be monogamous, who's nice to his mum, who genuinely loves me, even when I'm old. I want someone I deserve!"

"You couldn't ask for less, and you'd better not accept anything less," Mary replied.

"That's just it…I think…I think all this time I've been hoping and wishing he'd see how much –" she stopped then, looking into the middle distance. Biting her lip, she swallowed the words she dearly wanted to say. "It doesn't matter. I'm leaving. I have to."

Molly opened her eyes, finding them stinging with tears. There were times she was sure Sherlock felt something for her, she could feel it in her gut that he was on the edge and if he'd just take that leap, everything might fall into place. Four years she'd been waiting for everything to fall into place, waiting for him to get down off his high horse. She couldn't wait any longer.

"Bollocks," she grumbled, rolling over onto her back, reaching for the tissue box on the nightstand. Hang it all. She was in France for the first time in her life and she was going to enjoy herself. She sat up, then flopped back down, kicking aimlessly at the air.

Get up!

Forcing herself up, she boosted herself off the mattress before she could lie back down. She ran the shower, stripping out of her travel dress. She laid out her cosmetics bag and took out one of the new cocktail dresses Anthea helped her find. In a few moments, freshly clean and smelling of whatever nice body wash the hotel stocked their bathrooms with, she put her hair up in rollers, finding the blow-dryer.

She returned to the hotel foyer, feeling more up to speed with the Parisian fashion sense. Her shoes were designer, her dress was the sort of dress Mary said ought to be worn in the rain, and Molly couldn't disagree. It billowed around her knees with every step, the color complimenting her rather than washing her out. It was a little more form-fitting around the bodice than she was used to, but then it's marvelous, feeling so delightfully attractive in such a beautiful city. The receptionist saw her coming out of the elevator and waved her over with the crook of his hand. He'd drawn out a map for her, nudging one of the porters to have a doorman fetch a cab.

There was some awkwardness, eating alone in a beautiful café in the most romantic city in the world in the middle June, but Molly did her best to ignore it. With Mycroft seeing to everything, she indulged and ordered a bottle of champagne, toasting her moving forward.

"Hooray for spinsterhood," she muttered over the rim of her glass with a wry smile. While waiting for her food she fussed with her purse, pretending to be absorbed in looking for something rather than staring at the couple who were just barely keeping things at first base at the table opposite. That only worked for so long before she finally pulled out her phone and downloaded a book to read. She had to the pass the time somehow, she may as well try and pick up a few French phrases while she was here. She lingered over dessert and coffee, she felt one ought to when they were on holiday, especially if they were in Paris. The bill already paid for, the waiter told her there was no rush if she wished for another cup of coffee, but she politely declined, knowing her corner table was probably being coveted by the couple waiting at the hostess stand. Tucking her phone into her purse, she smiled her thanks to the wait staff before heading out into the warm summer night. Paris was beautiful, Molly was sure at any time of year, but everything was so very green and warm, Paris must be best in the summer time. She resolved to take a leisurely stroll across the city the next day before setting out to do any serious tourist stops. Not that she was one to do that sort of thing. She'd rather mosey through a city and find little out-of-the-way places, cozy book stores and little mum-and-dad cafes.

"My god there are lot of people kissing in this city." She thought before directing the cab driver to stop. She was only halfway back, but she'd rather stretch her legs. The fresh air couldn't possibly hurt her, and anyway she could use the distraction. Making sure she paid him the proper amount, she climbed out, not quite hearing him call something to her. She didn't speak French so she just thanked him and kept on walking.

Sherlock had been informed by the desk clerk at the hotel that Molly had gone to dinner. By the time he arrived at the restaurant, they informed him she'd left, and asked for him to leave as well, as they were closing. He took out his mobile again, bringing up the tracker in Molly's phone. Ah. She wasn't terribly far!

Sitting on the lip of a fountain, Molly swung her feet. She should be distracted by the beautiful masonry of the buildings, or standing in line to get a ride on the Ferris wheel. She should be thrilled to the teeth that she was in Paris, that she was really, finally, and truly moving on. She was happy. She was glad she was in Paris, surrounded by so many wonderful things. It was easy to forget to feel bad when there were lovely things to study and good food to eat and beautiful people to stare at (while they kissed, God is that all anyone did there?) She turned to look at the depictions on the fountain, deciding to pull up her guidebook on her phone. She was rather absorbed in the history of them when she heard someone behind her say:

"The south fountain commemorates the maritime commerce and industry of the country, while the one to the north is for the navigation and commerce on the rivers."

No.

This wasn't happening.

Why would he follow her?

Heart pounding, taking all the strength she could to force down the hope blooming in her chest, she slowly turned. There he stood, hands in his pockets, his bloody stupid (lovely) curls tousled by the light June breeze.

"What about the obelisk?" she found herself asking as she lifted her chin.

"It came from Luxor, Egypt," he answered, speaking over the noise of the fountains. "Louis-Phillipe brought it here. It was a gift, I believe." Slowly she nodded, tucking her phone into her purse. "You couldn't have picked a nicer place to take a holiday," he continued. "Paris is very beautiful, though you don't strike me as the tourist type."

"What are you doing here, Sherlock?"

"You left."

"That doesn't answer my question," Molly felt herself trembling all over. She was mad, how dare he follow her when she was trying so very hard to start over! How dare he show himself when she was having such a difficult time trying to forget him!

"I don't want you to go," he said, taking a step closer. "You- left and have every right to, but I wanted you to know-" he heaved a short sigh, angry at his loss of words. "I want you to know that I don't want you to leave."

"Why?" she murmured.

"Molly," he tried to scoff.

"No," she poked him hard in the shoulder. "You know what I think? I think you just want me to come back so you can keep on using me the same way you always have. Good, dependable, mousy Molly Hooper. Molly Hooper who can't get a date to save her life, Molly Hooper who's so desperately in love with you, she'll just do anything you ask, so long as you smile and compliment her! Well I'm through! I can't do that anymore Sherlock, I can't, to see you every day, pretending I don't exist, that I don't matter, ruining my chances at happiness every time some nice man shows me any interest, and I'm not just talking about Moriarty!"

"I wasn't going to mention him," he answered.

"I want to be loved, Sherlock, I deserve to be loved, to be cared for, and be happy, I want to be happy, and I can't, not with you always there. I can't move on if you're…" she put up her hands before weakly dropping them to her sides. "It's you, and it isn't you," she said at last. "I don't expect you to change your feelings for me, I hope you do. But I can't ever make myself move on if you're always there."

"I know," he said. "And if you intend to do so, then I won't stop you, but I think it only fair you hear what I have to say before you make your decision." He paused, thinking carefully. "I am not…I was not told to say anything to you, I am not trying to convince you to come back, unless you truly want to come back."

"Why are you here, Sherlock?"

"Because I love you." He answered simply. She tried to laugh.

"What?"

"Because I love you!" he said, a little louder over the noise of the fountains. "You…you are anything but mousy or plain, Molly Hooper," the corner of his mouth quirked into a smile. "You are fussy over your tea and biscuits, can man-handle even the most corpulent of corpses, and wield a scalpel with such precision I sometimes do fear if you were to come after me they would have a time finding my remains." This earned him a smile from her, along with a roll of her eyes. "You are brave, and far stronger than I had once believed. You are clever, and wise in your discernment. You see me for who I am and have never asked or expected anything less than what I am. You…for the first time in a very long time, Molly Hooper, you made me want to be a better version of myself, and I think you know that that has not often happened. People rarely strike me so, but you are one that I have honestly tried harder for, I know it doesn't seem like it, I'm not very good at it, but I do try," again he took a breath. "You do deserve to be loved; I want you to be happy. I am selfish, I admit it, and I would like you to be happy with me."

"With you?" she tried to appear nonchalant, and felt she was failing miserably. He nodded, daring a step closer.

"I want-" he hesitated again. "I've never wanted a wife, I've never wanted anyone before," he studied her in the way he often did; only there was something gentler in the way he did this time. "I think I've wanted you for a very long time, and I never considered that I may lose you. You…little unassuming Molly Hooper, you capture me in a manner I did not believe possible." He seemed in awe of her, and Molly felt she couldn't look away from him. She felt something wet splash on her bare arm, then another, and another. It was beginning to rain but neither moved.

"And…" she swallowed thickly. "And that's what you wanted me to know?" He blinked, the moment gone. Woodenly, he nodded.

"Yes. I wanted you to know. You may do as you wish now."

"You're…you're not going to try and convince me to stay?" she asked. There was hope in her voice, but he did not know how to take its meaning.

"I want to, very much," he said. "To lose you would be unthinkable, but if you want to go, I won't stop you."

"Tell me you don't love me."

"What?" he stared at her, shocked.

Heart pounding, Molly repeated what she'd said. Sherlock wouldn't dare tell such a lie to her face. He would not be so cruel as to pretend he loved her when he knew how she felt. In a flash, she had a horror he was pretending to say those lovely things the same way he'd pretended with that PA of Charles Magnusson's.

Sherlock simply couldn't believe in the space of two days, two very different people were demanding he lie about his feelings for Molly!

"I won't," he answered stoutly. "I certainly won't lie to you, that's ridiculous. I love you Molly Hooper, and I won't take it back, not for your comfort, not to appease your mind so you may move on or whatever other ridiculous notion you've got in your head." There was a twinkle in her eyes, and he suddenly turned, studying her carefully. "Is this a trick?"

"You love me."

"Yes, I've stated it several times, I am in earnest, what will you have me do to prove it?" he asked, more out of annoyance than actually requesting a task.

"Will you kiss me?"

His lips were on hers before she could ask again.

Good grief, kissing in the rain, in Paris, in the middle of June. It was the stuff of Jane Austen, the sort of thing Molly watched and secretly dreamt of, never, ever believing it would happen because God, who does that really? Except now she and Sherlock were absolutely snogging in the rain and hang her if it wasn't as lovely as it looked on television (she half-wondered if she could convince Sherlock to take off his jacket so he'd look like Mr. Darcy after he went for a swim).

The skies rumbled overhead and soaked to the skin, Molly pushed her hair out of her eyes as they pulled apart, laughing at the sight of him. He was smiling rather devilishly, admiring her in the dress that Mary said ought to be worn in the rain. Molly looked down and realized Mary's meaning, for the fabric clung to her like a second skin.

"Will you come home now?" he asked. She smiled up at him, pressing another kiss to his mouth.

"No."

He frowned.

"No?"

"No," she confirmed. "I've still a week in Paris, and I want to see the rest of the city."

"But after?" he asked.

"After, I will come home," she promised. After a moment's hesitation, she continued, "You could stay in Paris with me…if you wanted." He looked around the Place de la Concorde, now mostly empty of people since the downpour.

"If you like," he said, turning back to her. "Of course you know if a case comes up I'll have to go, and naturally, with your being on holiday, that ridiculous pathologist-" she gave him a look and he shut up. "Will simply have to do," he said. His gaze was warm, and when he tugged her into the circle of his arms again, Molly felt as if he was trying to convince her all over again of his love for her. "I'm not very good at saying it all the time," he said after, still holding onto her. "But I will try to say it more often. I promise."

"I'll hold you to it." She murmured and pressed another kiss to his warm mouth, to which he happily complied.