A/N: Hello, darlings. I so hope you enjoy the sequel to Always Molly. This was a joy to write. I think you might need to read the first installment to fully appreciate this one. This work is not for profit and I do not own these amazing characters. Thank the brilliant Doyle, Moffat and Gatiss for them. Feedback is welcome.

Molly Hooper has already imbibed an ample amount of champagne. She still pours herself a healthy glass of wine. Oh, the irony of it being one of the bottles of that Sherlock purchased for her. Out of concern for her tastes, mind you.

"Your wine is cheap, Molly. A doctor really should have better taste."

It really is a peculiar thing. Sherlock Holmes loves her. More accurately, Sherlock Holmes is in love with her. Possibly. Prospectively. It seems far more reasonable to say that he simply regards her romantically. Or perhaps it just feels safer. Probably both.

To be sure, it is not that she believes that Sherlock is incapable of being in love.

Despite his resolute assertions, she has always known that he does not meet the specifications of a sociopath, high-functioning or otherwise. She was always able to see past that particular brand of self-protective bullshit. Some might have labeled her naïve over her stance on the matter. She prefers to think of herself as astute. She is well aware that Sherlock is an intrinsically emotional creature. Molly does not disbelieve the notion that Sherlock is capable of being in love.

She simply finds it hard to fathom that Sherlock is in love with her.

That remains to be seen. Sherlock's scholarship on emotional engagement beyond friendship is still in its elementary stage. She is certain that his conclusion about having "fallen for her" must have taken him months after Sherrinford to name and accept. His experience with Eurus had branded him permanently. He might spend the rest of his life coming to terms with the things unearthed that day, his feelings for her probably being the least important of them. She wonders if Sherlock has shared any of this with John. She hopes he has.

The thought prompts her to think of Mary, beautiful and ferocious Mary who had eventually become one of her closest friends. She thinks of what might have been if Mary were still around. She probably would have asked Mary to come over and help her decode the complexity that is Sherlock Holmes. Mary had always been particularly adept at reading him. She would have brought over treats and wine and teased Molly relentlessly over this turn of events. Mary, in all of her wisdom and keenness, would have seen this coming. Maybe Mary did see it coming. Molly has no idea what to do with any of it, but Mary, Mary would be proud of him. Mary would know what to do.

That night, Molly weeps bitterly over her friend's absence.

Sherlock takes up a case that will put him in Sussex for at least a week. She doesn't mind. She has no expectations of either of their lives changing because of his admission. At least not right away. He would keep taking cases and she would go on with her life. He does text her to inform her that he will be away from London. Though his text is formal and to the point, it feels decidedly unlike Sherlock to feel compelled to let anyone know of his comings and goings.

Rather, it might have been unlike Sherlock prior to his ordeal with Eurus. A new Sherlock Holmes has been steadily emerging since he returned from Sherrinford. Though, as far as Molly is concerned, it really is inaccurate to classify it as a new Sherlock. Molly suspects that this is the man he was always supposed to be, the one he would have been if not for the world being a place where people are broken.

Sometimes she cries over the things he has endured, the things his family has endured. She never tells him this, of course. She never cries in front of him. She listens quietly when he feels like sharing. She allows him to be withdrawn when he can't find the words to say, which is often. She watches as he is lacerated by the shattered fragments of his identity. She looks on helplessly as he scrambles to reassemble the pieces. Sherlock does not know what to make of the man hidden underneath the decades of concealed trauma.

She thinks of him incessantly while he is away. She wonders if it is the man he was or the one he is becoming that loves her.

She visits John at Baker street while Sherlock is away. Rosie is sleeping on a pile of blankets when she arrives. John kisses her cheek in greeting. He makes her tea as she sits at the surprisingly clean dining table. They chat about work for a little while. He watches her as they talk. Sometimes his eyes drift to his sleeping daughter and then return to her.

In her estimation, John has always been perceptive, seeing things even if he never shares what they are. That quality has only seemed to increase since Mary's passing. These days, he gives the impression that he is wholly uninterested in anything resembling evasion. She can sympathize. Artifice certainly must lose its appeal when stacked against mortality and the possibility of never saying what is needed when it actually matters. She wonders what he might have wanted to say to Mary that he never got to. She muses on why her response to her father's passing was to shroud herself with an impostor.

"I'm listening," John says without preamble.

Molly laughs. Loudly. Her eyes widen. She clamps a hand over her mouth and whips her head to look at Rosie, breathing a sigh of relief at the still sleeping girl. She looks back to see John grinning.

"She's learned to sleep through anything. She does live with Sherlock after all. The tit."

Molly's giggle is softer this time. "He really is such a cunt sometimes."

"Is that what has you off? Sherlock?"

She looks absently over John's shoulder. "For the first time in a long time, yes."

His head tilts to the side. She can see him recalling some event or moment that has sudden significance. After a moment, revelation gleams in his eyes and he smiles. It is almost sly, but not quite.

"You know."

Her eyes settle on him. "Depends on what you think I know."

John plays along. Just barely.

"Alright then. What do you know?"

"How long have you known?" she asks instead.

His shoulders lift mildly. "I have never seen Sherlock lose control the way he did after that phone call with you."

"It was a unique situation," Molly offers.

"Nothing else on that island set him off like that, Molly. I started to piece it together after that. It all seems so obvious now."

Her forehead hits the table in defeat and she groans from somewhere deep inside her small frame. She realizes that she came so that John would dissuade her of the idea that Sherlock loves her. She was desperately hoping that he would tell her that he believes Sherlock to be confused, to be so scrambled over everything that Eurus brought about that he was mislabeling his feelings. There was a time when the reality of Sherlock not loving her back was painful, sometimes even devastating. How foolish she had been. It was Sherlock actually wanting her that was shaping up to be the most frightening thing she could imagine. John places his hand over hers knowingly.

"You don't owe him anything. I know that sounds strange coming from me because I should want him to be happy. I do want him to be happy. God, I do. Still, you don't owe him anything. Not after everything you've put up with, everything you've done for him. Even he knows you don't owe him a thing, Molly."

She looks up at him. "What if I don't love him the way I did before?"

"You don't have to. He'll be happy with a friendship. He'll feel like a cock for taking so long. He should feel like a complete and utter cock about it. But you guys will get past it. You always do."

She shakes her head. "This is a mess, John."

"Course it is. It's Sherlock we're talking about."

She wants to ask him something, but she hesitates. She is afraid of the answer, of what it will mean for her if she asks. She almost does, but Rosie stirs with a cry. She tells John to keep sitting and she goes to scoop up her goddaughter, who continues to fuss. Molly rocks her gently as she makes her way back to the kitchen. She coos softly to her as she rummages in the fridge for food. The cries turn into whimpers and Rosie stares up at her godmother in reluctant surrender. Molly places delicate kisses all over Rosie's face and her whimpers morph into giggles. John watches on happily and a bit mournfully. Molly notices.

She asks him about Mary, about how his heart is. He talks to her about his pain, his longing for his wife, and his fear over what it means for Rosie to grow up without a mother. It is not the first time they've had this discussion. She still listens with all the attentiveness of an empathetic friend. They will have this conversation many times. They have to because it will be healing for him. Their tears are steady and sometimes punctuated by laughter when Rosie does something silly and blissfully ignorant. Christ, she looks like Mary.

She never asks him the question that has begun to take shape in the forefront of her mind.

Things are normal when Sherlock returns from Sussex. They keep their routine and rhythms. They still see each other. He still solves cases with John and she does her work and spends time with her friends. She even adds research with a team from King's to her normal responsibilities. She loves it. Things are the way they were before his confession.

Mostly.

The lingering looks are a bit familiar to her. She noticed them occasionally before Sherlock admitted to having feelings for her. She has a hard time discerning if they are more frequent or if she is simply more cognizant of them now. They are never painfully long looks, nothing so obvious. He is still Sherlock, after all. Sherlock Holmes, when motivated, masters the art of subtlety and precision.

And, more astonishingly, there's the touching. For whatever reason, his capacity and desire for tactile connection increases. She can hardly feign apathy the first time his hand lingers on her lower back as he opens a door for her and gently ushers her through it. His hand remains there until they reach the counter of the coffee shop and then the weight of the hand is gone. She wonders if he even knows that he did it. He continues to touch her in different ways: a gentle brush of his arm against hers, sitting right next to her as they watch telly, his fingers ghosting over hers as he hands her something during experiments. He seems absent-minded about the whole thing, almost as if he never notices. He certainly never mentions it. She follows his lead and stays silent. It occurs to her that she never says anything because she worries that he will stop if she points it out. Her concern over such a thing can only be explained by one simple and complex fact: she likes it when he touches her. She likes it.

Yes. Their relationship is the same. Mostly.

Sort of.

Things take a surprising turn when she stops by Baker Street to grab her wallet, which she mistakenly left the night prior. To be sure, visiting Baker Street is not the strange occurrence. It really is rather ordinary. Furthermore, coming to Baker Street to find Mycroft sitting smugly in the yellow chair—her chair—is less common, but only just. Stumbling upon Sherlock and Mycroft facing off with John amusedly looking on with an equally tickled Rosie, also very normal. So, really, her coming into 221B to for her wallet and finding a tense, perhaps even uncomfortable, trio of men is her version of a Tuesday. There is nothing bizarre about it.

The abnormality lies in the fact that Irene Adler is sitting (quite) comfortably on the couch as all three men stare at her with varying degrees of wariness and incredulity.

Interesting.

Molly pauses in the doorway as she takes in the scene before her. She leans on the doorframe and the slight creak of wood prompts all three men to look in her direction. John is positively horrified to discover her standing there. Mycroft and Sherlock are far less surprised and certainly not horrified. Sherlock is curiously indecipherable. Mycroft is his normal sort of indifferent. Irene, in all of her beauty, is positively glowing with merriment at their expense. Her lips curl impishly and her eyes sparkle when she takes in Molly.

Molly realizes quickly that all three men might be foolishly worried about her reaction as if her dignity is something that can be upended by the sudden appearance of a woman Sherlock used to sleep with. It takes less than a second for the thought to infuriate her and no more than three seconds for her to decide that she has the power to surprise them. She always does. God, she loves being the wild card. Her face lights up as she looks at Irene and she glides into the room towards the couch. Irene stands up with an elegance that could put the Queen to shame.

"Irene," Molly greets warmly, "It's so good to see you again."

Irene wraps her arms around Molly. The embrace is a unique blend of familiarity and sensuality. She presses her lips to the corner of Molly's mouth and lingers for far longer than is decent. Molly allows it and places a soft kiss to Irene's cheek before pulling away to look at the woman's face, both still holding on to the other.

"Well, this is a very lovely surprise, Dr. Hooper," Irene purrs.

Molly smiles. "Indeed. You look well."

Irene moves back to look her over suggestively.

"And you are as lovely as the last time I saw you."

Molly raises an eyebrow. "Are you planning on misbehaving, Miss Adler?"

Irene steps back into Molly's space. The glint in her eyes is licentious.

"Would you like me to?"

"Well, you wouldn't be you if you were on your best behavior," Molly teases.

"This is hardly my worst behavior. I think you'd like my worst. I'm good at knowing what people like."

Molly laughs. "I'm sure."

Someone coughs loudly. Molly and Irene finally turn to glance at the men. John is dumbfounded. Mycroft watches Molly with a raised eyebrow. This is probably the closest he comes to being surprised. Sherlock gazes intently between the two women, his elegant fingers occasionally plucking the strings of his violin. Irene smiles roguishly and takes her place back on the couch. She pats the space next to her invitingly. Molly shakes her head with a smile.

"I only came to get my wallet. I didn't mean to interrupt," Molly says.

"You're not interrupting."

"You two know each other?"

Sherlock gives John a look that indicates how obtuse he finds him to be at the moment. John abandons his bewilderment for irritation as he glares back at Sherlock.

"Definitely not interrupting."

"Yes."

Molly and Irene respond simultaneously. They glance at each other and smile. Molly gives Irene a wink. She looks to Mycroft who has been silently watching the situation unfold.

"Hi, Mycroft," Molly chirps.

He nods. "Dr. Hooper."

Molly gives him a look. His smile is accommodating, conceding.

"Molly."

She nods. "Better."

Irene turns to Sherlock, who continues to watch Molly. He seems intent on staring a hole through her and pretending that Irene is anywhere except on his couch. She clearly revels in his peevishness.

"Sherlock, you naughty boy. Why didn't you tell me she was coming?" Irene demands with a pout.

"Well, I was not informed that you were coming, was I?" he drawls not even bothering to look at her.

"Don't want to share your pretty pathologist?" Irene asks.

"Your presumption that Molly belongs to me is imprecise. Though, if she were ever to be mine, sharing would certainly be out of the question."

His desire and intent are unmistakable, palpable. Something inside of Molly combusts with a ferocity that astonishes her. She stupidly wonders if she has caught on fire. A brief, and hopefully discreet, survey of her person assures her that, no, she has not burst into flames. She clears her throat and looks at everything besides Sherlock.

"Pity that," Irene says with a knowing look.

Molly turns away to search for her wallet. Sherlock stands smoothly and strides to the fireplace. She averts her eyes from him for reasons she would rather not think about. She moves to the yellow chair and amuses herself by poking Mycroft inelegantly to get him to help her look. He looks affronted by her gall. She pauses when her wallet appears in her line of sight. She looks up to see Sherlock hovering over her. She takes it, to the relief of Mycroft, and notes the way Sherlock lingers. The familiar sensation of warmth begins to inch up her spine again. She takes a few small steps away from him.

"Well. This was brilliant. Really. I'd better off," she says.

"You don't have to work," Sherlock says.

Molly receives it as an accusation.

"That doesn't mean I don't have other things to do, Sherlock."

Irene watches the exchange with glee. John just looks between Molly, Sherlock, and Irene. His eyebrows are drawn nearly to his hairline. Mycroft has grown bored and sits primly with his chin resting in his hand.

"Fascinating," Irene muses.

Sherlock cuts his eyes at her. She only smiles in return. He turns back to Molly with a retort, probably in an attempt to get her to stay. Though, she has no idea why he seems so insistent on it. She did just see him the night before. John clears his throat.

"Sorry. How do you two know each other?" he says gesturing between Molly and Irene.

Molly shrugs. "We had tea once."

"…Right. Yeah. Tea," John says slowly.

"Another one of your euphemisms?" Sherlock quips with a sidelong glance at Irene.

She smiles. "If only."

There is a quality to her voice that makes Molly pause. She looks past Sherlock to Irene. Examines her, really. The woman is dressed impeccably. Her makeup is immaculate. Her eyes are clear and sharp, but Molly can just barely make out the hint of fatigue. Irene Adler is tired.

"Are you in trouble?" Molly asks gently.

Irene straightens almost imperceptibly. The amused gleam in her eye dulls, if only a bit. She uncrosses her ankles only to cross them again.

"I specialize in trouble. Part of the trade, if you will," she says with a wave of her hand.

"Are you in danger?" Molly presses.

Irene smiles thoughtfully. "Clever aren't you?"

Molly looks to Sherlock who is still standing next to her, prompting him to shift his gaze from Irene to her. Then she looks to Mycroft, who raises an eyebrow, and back to Irene.

"What do you need?" she asks.

She can see, out of the corner of her eye, Sherlock remembering the night he sought out her help to fake his death. A smile, secret in nature, plays on his lips as he puts his hands in the pockets of his well-tailored pants. He looks briefly at Mycroft and receives a melodramatic sigh. Mycroft then looks to Irene.

"This is most inconvenient, Miss Adler," he says.

Irene smiles. "Well, I do have some information you might find helpful. What do you say to an exchange?"

Mycroft stands and buttons his suit jacket. "I'll be in touch shortly."

He nods to Sherlock and offers Molly and John a polite goodbye. Irene stands shortly after Mycroft makes his descent down the stairs. She saunters over to Molly and places a kiss on her cheek.

"It really is too bad about dinner, Dr. Hooper," she says with an alluring smile.

Molly returns it. "Tea was lovely."

Irene looks between Molly and Sherlock before her eyes settle on him. Without words, Irene and Sherlock seem to come to an agreement of sorts. Molly watches him dip his head respectfully and Irene nods at him. Molly feels like an intruder, almost like she is witnessing something not meant for her to see. Several things pass between the two and it occurs to her that this may be the last time that Sherlock ever sees The Woman. The sense of trespassing heightens and Molly begins to move away to offer them some semblance of privacy. She stops when his eyes purposefully slide to meet hers just as Irene steps away. She is bemused at first and inclines her head in question. He raises an eyebrow as if it should be obvious. She frowns at him before comprehension dawns on her. She understands.

Stay.

Sherlock is telling her that her presence is not an intrusion. He does not want her to turn away or to leave. He wants her to stay. So she does. Even after Irene leaves with a final (and amusingly indecent) farewell. Even after John begins to truly unravel the critical shift that has just taken place before him and begins reading the newspaper in a daze. Even though she really does have other things to do and Sherlock is lazily browsing emails to cases he can solve 'without leaving the flat'.

She stays for a while.

Sometimes Molly resents the fact that Rachel is her therapist. Not because Rachel is bad at her job. Rachel is brilliant at her job. Molly just thinks that Rachel would probably make a really good friend. Molly does not lack friends. Not these days. She completely understands the boundaries of her relationship with Rachel. She does. Still, every now and again, Molly imagines what it would be like to hang out with Rachel over a pint and chips. Rachel is annoyingly cool. Molly tells her this during a session and receives a flattered laugh in return. Rachel remarks about her kids not thinking so and Molly concludes that they must be complete tossers, to which Rachel responds with another laugh and wholeheartedly agrees. This is why Molly likes her so much.

Rather, Molly likes her until Rachel turns serious and she knows that the woman is gearing up to ask her a question equal parts provoking and irksome.

"So," Rachel says.

Molly sighs. "What?"

Rachel smiles. "Can we talk about Sherlock?"

A groan. "No."

"Lovely. Let's talk about Sherlock."

"Does no mean something different to therapists?"

"Just to me," Rachel says with a bright smile.

"I take it back. You're not cool," Molly deadpans.

Rachel only grins and settles into her chair. She foregoes saying anything else and waits. Molly frowns and looks out the window. She wonders how long she can sit silently before Rachel mercifully changes the subject. She knows Rachel will wait until she gets what she wants. Honestly, Molly is annoyed at her own dithering. She is usually forthcoming in therapy, even about Sherlock, though he only comes up occasionally. Rachel only ever seems to bring up Sherlock when Molly actually needs to talk about him and would rather not talk about him. She silently curses Rachel's intuition. She never told Rachel about Sherlock having feelings for her. She remembers trying to rationalize this with the fact that nothing had changed afterward. They were still just friends.

Before she even realizes it, Molly is telling Rachel everything. She tells Rachel about the conversation over chips, the talk she had with John and about Irene. She blabbers on for at least ten minutes before she notices the tears streaming down her face. Rachel moves her chair closer, hands Molly a wad of tissues, and rubs her back soothingly. After a while, Molly is no longer relaying information. She just continues to weep and has no idea why. Rachel sits next to her until she is utterly spent. Her throat feels raw and her head thrums with the promise of a migraine.

"I don't know why that happened," Molly says hoarsely.

Rachel hums. "Because it needed to."

Molly places her forehead on her knees and takes deep breaths. Rachel gets up and leaves the room. She returns soon after with a glass of water. Molly takes a few sips and savors the coolness. Rachel eventually takes her seat again and watches Molly thoughtfully.

"Why didn't you tell me about Sherlock's confession?" she asks.

Molly shakes her head. "I don't know."

"Is it possible that talking about it with me would make you confront some things you don't want to confront?" Rachel asks.

"Probably."

"What are you afraid of, Molly?"

"Still being in love with him."

"Are you in love with him?" Rachel asks.

Molly shrugs. "I never give myself enough time to answer that question."

"Perhaps you should."

Molly nods. "Seems the smart thing to do."

"What if there's another question? One that's bigger than whether or not you're in love with Sherlock?" Rachel asks.

Molly's brows furrow. "Like what?"

"I imagine the second question will come after you answer the first."

Molly believes her.

Molly is an analyst by nature. She is well-versed in the art of research and data analysis. The closure she provides for the family and friends of her patients is contingent on her ability to take the information presented to her and reach an accurate conclusion.

Molly has always been a scientist.

For this very reason, she takes a clinical approach to determining the nature of her feelings for Sherlock. falls on the quantitative or qualitative side of the spectrum. She finally decides that it falls somewhere in the middle. Her first step is to form an initial theory.

Hypothesis: She is in love with Sherlock Holmes.

Something in her immediately rallies against this hypothesis. It feels biased, if only because she has such a complicated and rich history of adulation for the man. Granted, a hypothesis is typically based on previous findings. She has seven years' worth of data to suggest that this theory might be true. However, something about this approach gives her pause. Perhaps the idea of a self-fulfilling prophecy frightens her. Or maybe she worries about mislabeling her feelings simply because of familiarity. She struggles to define her unease and tries to evade it, but there is a tenacious quality to it.

She decides to work in the opposite direction. It might be more judicious to disprove any lingering romantic inclinations for him. Indeed. This is smarter. No, not smarter, per say. Safer. This feels safer.

Amended Hypothesis: She is not in love with Sherlock Holmes.

Once she solidifies her hypothesis, she feels slightly lost on how to proceed. How does one go about refuting the notion of being in love with a man they have previously been in love with? She knows that one of her strengths is emotional engagement. She has always been acutely aware of her own feelings, particularly for Sherlock. Her feelings, though once amplified, have been indistinct and faint the past year. Nevertheless, her affection for him as a friend has increased exponentially. That only serves to make everything more difficult to qualify.

She can appreciate the irony of how Sherlockian her process is shaping up to be. when others might ignore it. She knows the indications of being in love. She knows the symptoms of being besotted with a person, with him specifically. She will have to disregard all previous evidence of affection: stammering, blushing, the momentary decrease in brain activity. Such behavior is foreign to her now and will be useless in helping her understand her sentiment. She decides to focus on other, broader demonstrations of romantic interest.

Exhibit A: Yearning

To what degree does she think about him when they are separated? She recalls periods where either of them is away from London for longer than a few hours. She does think about him. Sometimes, she thinks about the brilliant and new things she has learned and wants to share with him. She imagines his reactions and inputs and gets excited about talking to him. Other times, she muses on his family and the ways he struggles to recover and grasp himself after meeting his sister. She contemplates the man he is continuously morphing into, the emerging wisdom and compassion hidden beneath his genius. It makes her heart burst with warmth and affection for him. So, yes, she has a tendency to miss him.

She considers the fact that she misses other people too. She misses her girlfriends, sweet Rosie, John. She even misses Mycroft after a few weeks of skipped UNO games and tea, though he might be appalled to hear her say so. The question becomes whether or not she misses Sherlock in equal measure or more. Upon further inspection, she recognizes that the frequency of her thoughts about Sherlock surpasses her thoughts of anyone else.

This does not bode well for her hypothesis.

Exhibit B: Attraction

This is elementary. Sherlock Holmes, objectively speaking, is a beautiful man. Arbitrarily, he is arresting in every way. The past year has done nothing to quell his physical appeal. When she really thinks about it, his growing maturity has only served to make him unfairly handsome. His mind has always been seductive to her. Yet, there is something about the way his eyes shift under the weight of his blossoming humanity that is almost erotic. Acumen is engaging. Empathy? Arousing.

What's more, there is still the matter of the touching. The grazing, the brushing, the nudging. It drives her entirely mad when he touches her. His large hands have seemingly found a home at the small of her back. Sometimes, she swears he knows how sensitive that part of her body is. He probably does it on purpose just to watch her try to stifle a reaction. The wanker. She gets distracted at times watching his hands motioning about as he talks to her. She is always mesmerized by the way his hands caress his beloved violin and she wonders. She wonders because Sherlock Holmes is quick and observant and single-minded with the object of his interest.

She wonders.

Exhibit C: Commitment

Her interest in his life and person has not diminished. She still cares immensely about his health in every sense of the word. She is concerned for his family, for the reconciliation and healing that needs to happen within it. God, she cares. She finds that she is fiercely protective of him, formidable against anything that could possibly harm him. She knows that she cannot possibly protect him from everything. She is wise enough to know that some things she should not shield him from because enduring things is just what it means to be human. She is wholly devoted to their friendship, still loyal to him. The only difference is that now she esteems loyalty to herself in equal measure and that means that she can pursue what is good for her even when it inconveniences him. Though, his understanding of inconvenience is also being redefined. Gradually, yes, but changing nonetheless.

Fine.

She cares for him. Enormously. Profoundly. To be fair, she has a host of people that she loves. She really does. She is deeply connected to and invested in others. Apparently, just not the way she is with him.

Because Molly is an analyst by nature, she has an idea of what it all means. She probably should have stuck with her original hypothesis and saved herself the time.

Her unease remains.

Mycroft owes her a few rounds of UNO. She bakes scones and brings them to his work. She asks for Anthea first. She misses her friend. They greet each other with kisses on the cheek and head to her office. Her friendship with Anthea began during the two years Sherlock was abroad. It had only grown deeper since. They, surprisingly, have many things in common, closeness to a Holmes brother being one of them. That had been the start of their commiseration, but not the extent of it. Anthea, like Molly, knew the grief of losing a parent and navigating a male-dominated field. She knew what it was like to be so consumed by something that the self could disappear almost entirely. They have much in common, indeed.

"These are amazing," Anthea says with a slight moan.

Molly slides another scone towards her. "Half of them are for you."

"You are so lovely." Anthea takes another without even a hint of shame.

Molly laughs. The two spend some time catching up. A "potential national crisis" has kept Anthea busy, effectively imposing a temporary hiatus to their standing bi-weekly dinners. Anthea talks of work in as much detail as is allowable, which is tantamount to not almost no detail at all. Molly sees that her friend is absolutely knackered. She knows that soul weariness intimately.

"Come with me on holiday," Molly says.

Anthea pauses. "What?"

"Holiday. California. Come with me. Next month."

Anthea looks at Molly as if she has gone absolutely bonkers. She laughs in amusement and starts to say something. Molly shakes her head firmly and the look she gives Anthea is focused, telling.

"There will always be reasons why you shouldn't. Why you can't. Just come with me," Molly says.

Something shifts. Because without even meaning to, they are talking about more than a week away from work. Suddenly, they are talking about priorities and identity and the fact that personhood always seems constrained by the need for success and achievement.

"Come. Just be Anthea."

Anthea watches her thoughtfully for nearly a full minute. Eventually, she nods and leans back in her chair. Molly flashes her a triumphant grin and Anthea rolls her eyes but smiles too. She mutters about how annoyed Mycroft will be. Molly thinks she can easily convince Mycroft to give Anthea a week off without much trouble. She moves to get up and go to Mycroft's office when Anthea stops her. Molly anticipates an attempt to back out of coming with her to California and she glares. Anthea sighs.

"It's not about California," Anthea says pointing to the chair Molly has just evacuated.

Molly raises an eyebrow and sits down. She becomes a bit nervous when Anthea shifts into the no-nonsense woman that Molly first met years ago. Her gaze is penetrative and Molly feels tempted to shrink underneath the weight of it.

"You love Sherlock," Anthea says.

Molly hates that her jaw slackens. She starts to protest, but Anthea stops her.

"You love him, Molly. You're in love with him. I understand why that might be scary for you after everything that's happened. Still, you can't avoid your feelings forever. So confront them and do something about it, whatever that something is. But do stop hiding, Molly. You don't hide anymore."

Anthea gives her no time to recover. She stands up with a folder and moves to her door. Molly follows her out of the office silently. Anthea takes her to Mycroft's office and tells Molly to send her the details of their trip. Molly nods and watches the woman disappear around the corner. She startles when Mycroft opens his door before she can knock. He ushers her into his office and she raises an eyebrow at the cards already dealt on his desk.

"I would ask how you knew I was here, but that seems a silly question," she says.

He smiles. "Silly, indeed."

She hands him the basket of scones and his smile grows just a tad. He motions for her to sit down and she does. Mycroft sends for tea and they play in silence for the first round. She has always appreciated that Mycroft never tries to fill the silence. He knows how to exist in it well. Probably too well.

"Do you regret anything, Mycroft?" Molly asks.

He is taken aback by her inquiry. He looks at her. She lets the question hang between them instead of offering further explanation. He clears his throat and becomes increasingly interested in the cards before him.

"I regret many things."

"Like what?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Feeling introspective today?"

"Perhaps I want to know you."

"There isn't much to know."

She meets his eyes. "I beg to differ."

Whether it is her look or her response that moves him to silence, she does not know. He leans back in his chair and folds his hands in front of him. He regards her intently, but she gets the feeling that his gaze is actually pointed inward. She busies herself with quietly buttering a scone. She is just raising her cup to her lips when he speaks again.

"My brother's foray into…relationships…has brought to light my own failings in connecting well with others," he says hesitantly.

He even frowns after he says it as if surprised that it came out of him. He almost looks betrayed by his own admission. Molly nods in understanding and takes a sip of her tea.

"Has it always been hard to connect with people?" she asks mildly.

The trick with the Holmes brothers is to approach their uniqueness as casually as the situation allows. She has learned not to demonize the ways that they deviate from normalcy, even when their idiosyncrasies might need to be lovingly confronted. Her skill lies in her ability to challenge, not condemn.

"I have always found it difficult to relate well to normal people."

"Do you want to? Connect, I mean. To anyone. Not just to normal people. Whatever that means."

He thinks for a moment. "There is a certain isolation that I feel on occasion."

"You don't like it?" Molly presses.

He shrugs. "It is very familiar."

"Amazing what we can condition ourselves to get used to," Molly says.

He takes a sip of his tea and does not respond. Molly slides a scone towards him and he slathers a bit of jam on it.

"Do you feel connected to Sherlock?" she asks after a few moments.

He blinks. "I understand him in ways others don't."

Molly can concede to this. "You do."

"Connection is another matter entirely," Mycroft says.

"You care for him very much."

"I worry about him."

She smiles. "Yes, because you care for him. That's how that works."

"You would be the expert on caring, Miss Hooper."

She smirks. "Yes. I suppose I am predisposed to care deeply about things. I'm just not convinced that you aren't built that way too."

He grimaces. "Is that so?"

She nods confidently.

"Yes. I think you care deeply, but because of your intelligence, you have always been different. It hurts to be different. Trust me, I know. So in order to not feel pain, you taught yourself how to do without human connection. Now you regret it because you find that despite your best efforts, you're lonely."

Mycroft smiles. "Have you ever been accused of indirectness, Molly?"

"Shy, yes. Bad at small talk, once, courtesy of your brother. Mousy? More times than I can count. All are wrong conclusions, but not indefensible given that I presented that way for a very long time."

Mycroft contemplates her words. "Wrong conclusions, indeed."

"Do you regret what happened with Eurus?"

His answer is immediate, sure and remorseful.

"My dealings with Eurus pain me more than anything else ever has."

Molly is almost thrown off by his willing candor over his sister. She can usually get information out of him if she presses hard enough, but his reluctance to talk about his sister has been something she treads lightly around. She hesitates to ask him more, but he seems uncharacteristically willing to share.

"I have made many mistakes concerning my family. I am beginning to recognize that my attempts at sheltering them were ill-advised," he says.

She allows the truth of that settle around them for a moment before she responds.

She smiles sympathetically. "Would you like to know what I think?"

He gives her a look. "As if you would refrain from telling me."

Another smile. "I think you get to start over. The story keeps going."

"Seems that a story so rife with errors can only end tragically, Miss Hooper."

"It can end in love if you let it. And Eurus may never leave Sherrinford, but her story can still include the love of her big brother," Molly says.

"Yes, well, Sherlock has always been the more emotional of the two of us."

Molly looks at him pointedly. "Not who I was talking about."

Mycroft sighs. "No, I suppose not."

They play another few rounds before Molly has to leave for work. Mycroft offers to have her driven to Barts. She declines and tells him that she enjoys taking the tube. He gives her a look that tells her he expects as much. He stops her as she leaves.

"I suppose you think my brother's story will end in love as well?"

Molly pauses. "Of course."

Mycroft smiles. "Would you say that my brother knows all the ways that he is loved?"

Molly turns to him, eyes narrowed. "Most people don't."

Mycroft steeples his hands under his chin, looking eerily like his brother.

"Of course not. Perhaps one might need a…reminder, of sorts."

That familiar uneasiness returns. She nods to him and leaves without responding. She is halfway to work when she gets a text from him. Her lips spread in a small, victorious smile.

Your accommodations have been upgraded. Enjoy your holiday with Anthea. – MH

Sherlock is always preoccupied after visiting Eurus. Always. Sometimes, she is able to enter into it with him, talk him through it. He often comes to her place afterward. Other times, he is far enough away that she cannot reach him. He never goes into the guest bedroom for isolation, but he can hardly string words together enough to give her any insight. When it worries her she pushes him on it. At times he needs that. Most times, she allows him space and just exists in his general orbit until he reemerges. She remembers what it was like after her father died. It was well over a year before she could even begin to describe what she was feeling. She knows, in some ways, what this type of pain is like.

She is surprised to find him standing outside when she comes home from a night out with friends. He leans against the wall with his head tipped back, eyes closed and hands in the pockets of his coat. He seems calm. They have an agreement that he can let himself in if he texts her first, which leaves her wondering why he decided to wait for her. His eyes open as she walks up. He gazes down at her and it takes very little time for her to understand that he saw Eurus earlier that day. She opens the door without a word and lets him in. He hangs up his coat and toes off his shoes silently as she watches. He meets her gaze steadily. She inclines her head towards the bedrooms. He briefly looks in that direction before raising an eyebrow at her.

With a roll of her eyes, she leads him down the hallway. He watches as she opens her bottom drawer and pulls out some clothes for him. Then she takes the clothes into the bathroom. She places a towel and flannel on the sink. He leans against the doorframe.

"Is this your way of implying that I have an odor, Molly?"

"This is my way of implying that showers are relaxing."

He hums noncommittally and continues to watch her. She lets him. They do this on occasion. Stare each other down. Lately, she finds that she gives in first. Being under the full weight of his scrutiny does things to her sometimes, makes her heart race. This time, however, she has to stand her ground. She can never back down on days like this. He needs to know that she is with him, that she will stay even though he is damaged and floundering. And despite his suave posture and piercing gaze, he is floundering. She is not afraid of his woundedness. There Is something that frightens her, but this is not it.

Without warning, he smoothly undoes the buttons of his jacket. Then he deftly loosens his cuffs and removes it. He reaches for his belt and she takes that as her cue even though he seems unbothered by her presence. He does it all while looking at her, which entices something in her. She steps aside so that he can move further into the bathroom. She closes the door behind her and heads to the kitchen to make tea. He stays in her bathroom for nearly half an hour. She is wrapped in a blanket on the couch when he finally emerges. Toby is perched strategically on the arm of the sofa, ready to pounce on Sherlock as soon as he sits down. Sherlock anticipates this and scoops up the cat before sitting down. He lets Toby curl up on his lap while he steeples his hands under his chin. Molly repositions so that her back is against the opposite arm and she can watch him.

"You saw Eurus today."

He nods and keeps his eyes on the fireplace. She nudges his leg with her foot. His eyes slide over to her in question. She motions to the cup of tea sitting on the table in front of him. He takes it, if only because she told him to.

"How is she?" Molly asks.

He shrugs. "More or less the same."

Molly nods and takes a sip of her own tea. Sherlock takes a sip of his own.

"Did you play today?"

"I did."

She smiles. "What did you play?"

For some reason, his lips raise in a small smile. He briefly looks at her out of the corner of her eye before resuming his fixated stare at the fireplace.

"A new piece I've been composing."

She finds herself intrigued. "A new piece? Is it for Eurus?"

"No, not for Eurus."

"May I hear it sometime?" she asks.

Again, he looks at her fleetingly.

"When I finish it."

It confuses her that he hesitates to let her hear it unfinished, but plays it for his sister, who apparently is even more skilled than he is. Then again, it is his sister. She wonders if it was a show of vulnerability to let her hear something he feels is imperfect.

"Did she play too?"

"Not today."

The silence that follows is undemanding. After a while, she builds a fire and stretches out on her blanket. She rests her cheek on her folded arms and watches the way the glow of the fire plays across the definition of his cheekbones. His eyes occasionally rest on her before drifting back to the flames. At some point, she jokes about him being too far away to have a proper conversation. He rolls his eyes but comes to lie down next to her with his hands folded over his stomach and eyes cast to the ceiling. She reaches out to gently trace the dark circles she is just noticing. He breathes in deeply, steadily.

"You're not sleeping," she observes.

"You are well aware of my erratic sleeping habits."

She continues to lightly slide her finger under his eye and then moves to his cheek.

"Obviously. You're sleeping even less than normal."

He slightly turns his head into her touch. "Nightmares."

"About?"

"Victor Trevor. My sister."

"Do you want to talk about your dreams?" she asks.

He remains silent. She changes tactics.

"You need to talk about them."

He smirks. "Clever woman."

She resists the urge to flick him squarely in the forehead and waits. She re-adjusts until she is cross-legged. She motions for him to put his head in her lap and he does. He knows where this is going and she knows he won't complain about it. She runs her fingers through his hair soothingly. He sighs.

"I dream of hearing him crying and never being able to find him. I'm stuck in this room and Eurus is on the other side of the door. She won't tell me where he is and she sets the room on fire. That's typically when I wake up. All of my dreams are some variation of trying to find Victor and Eurus trying to kill me."

Molly tugs gently at his curls. He turns so that she will get the spot just behind his ear. He likes that.

"Do you worry that what happened to Victor was your fault?" she asks.

He seems to really weigh his answer before giving it to her. Though, she imagines, he must have thought about this a thousand times over already.

"No. I was a child, even if an abnormally intelligent one. His death was solely the fault of my sister. I feel shame over having erased him from my memory completely. He spent the last hours of his life alone and afraid. Most of my life until this point has been spent falsely believing he was a dog. It seems that the least I could have done is remember him."

She hums. Not in agreement, of course. She hardly thinks Sherlock can be blamed for suppressing such a horrendous memory, especially with his intellectual abilities. This says nothing of the fact that his memory of Redbeard as a dog was affirmed by his family for over three decades.

"Have you thought more about seeing someone?" she asks.

He scoffs. "Forgive me for being hesitant after my sister impersonated a therapist for weeks. Plus, it's not exactly my style."

"You mean vulnerability isn't your style."

"I mean talking about my life to strangers isn't."

"One, you've had a therapist before. However brief that was. Two, there was a time friendship wasn't your style and here you are with loads of them."

"You're a scientist, Molly. Don't exaggerate."

"Coming from the Drama King himself."

"Life is boring without a touch of drama", he says with a wave of his hand.

"Listen. All I'm saying is that there are professionals who are good at helping people process trauma. Stop being an arrogant sod and go talk to one."

"I wonder if Rachel is taking on new patients."

"She's mine. Stay away," Molly says firmly.

Sherlock smiles. Molly moves his head out of her lap so that she can get more tea. Toby looks up at her movement and meows softly. When she returns, Sherlock has returned to listlessly gazing at the ceiling. She reckons their conversation has run its course and they'll either move to talking about something else or just spend the rest of the evening in companionable silence. Molly contents herself with drinking her tea.

"I can no longer differentiate between the parts of my person that are veritably me and the parts that I have created in an effort at protection," Sherlock says.

Molly freezes. His words exhume the thing that has been creeping just under the surface of her ability to put words to it.

"As much as it pains me to admit, I find that I am having a crisis of identity."

She actually leans closer to him because she is irrationally afraid of not being able to hear what he says next. The need for him to keep going seizes her. The thing that has been bothering her non-stop lately feels close enough to grasp.

"I am no longer confident in what it means to be Sherlock Holmes."

Several things click into place for Molly in that moment. The uneasiness that has plagued her for weeks finally takes full shape. It takes the form of the second question, the more important question. It had never been about whether or not her feelings for Sherlock were the same.

She is in love with Sherlock Holmes. Many things have shifted in the past year, but her feelings for him have not. It makes sense why she needed to really explore that question again. None of them could really afford to be flippant or cocksure about anything these days. Not everything that had happened.

However, she understands that her primary concern lies elsewhere. Rachel was right. She always is. The second question is far bigger, far weightier than the first question. She had thought long and hard and had struggled to put words to her consternation. It was only through hearing Sherlock vocalize his own disjointed understanding of his identity that enabled her to name it.

Can she love him and still be Molly?

For many years, her love for him had superseded anything else, everything else. Sherlock had overshadowed her very person. And only because she had allowed him to. She had willingly acquiesced to his enigma and manufactured charm thinking that it would somehow draw him out. She never harbored fantasies of saving him. She didn't believe that people saved other people. That didn't stop her from hoping with an incredible abandon that the man she saw underneath all the theatrics would someday materialize. The problem is that all of this came at the expense of herself. For far too long she had abandoned Molly. So much so, that any movement on this front towards Sherlock, even this new Sherlock, might end up feeling like a betrayal to herself.

"Molly?"

She startles. Sherlock regards her with drawn brows. She has come to recognize this look as one of worry and curiosity. She realizes that she has paused with her cup halfway to her lips. She blinks dazedly as she tries to recall what he was saying before she zoned out.

"Oh. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to disappear on you."

"Where exactly did you disappear to, Molly Hooper?"

She shakes her head. This conversation is not happening right now. She puts down her tea and wipes her hands on her blanket.

"I'll tell you some other time."

He frowns. "That's hardly fair considering I just bared my bloody soul."

"It's not a never, Sherlock. Later. Kind of like the song you're composing that you don't want me to hear yet."

He glares at her in defeat and flops back onto the floor. This was the more mature version of his familiar tantrums.

"I heard you, though. About not knowing which parts of you are actually you. It's scary and frustrating," she says.

"It's boring."

"It's normal."

"Yes, boring, like I said."

She throws a pillow at him. He catches it easily and tucks it under his head. They remain sprawled out on her floor, both tucked away in their own thoughts. Eventually, Sherlock puts out the fire and tells her to go to bed. She wakes in the morning to find Sherlock sleeping on her couch with Toby curled up on his chest. She covers them with a blanket and goes back to bed.

Her holiday in California with Anthea is precisely what they need. They stay tucked away in a lovely mountain resort because neither of them is interested in anything other than fresh air and plenty of sun. Wine too, of course. All initial attempts to convince Anthea to stop working fail so Molly convinces a concierge to hide her phone. Molly endures the scowling that comes her way until Anthea realizes that she feels free without it. They spend hours reclined in chairs talking, reading and sleeping.

She periodically gets selfies of John and Rosie that make her smile. Sherlock makes it two days before finding different reasons to text her. She giggles softly at his silliness but mostly ignores him. She muses about their relationship as she looks out at the mountain range before her. Anthea nudges her once when she is swept away by her thoughts for too long.

"Figured it out yet?"

Molly smiles. "I think so."

Anthea raises her glass and Molly does too.

Sherlock and John are busy with a case when she comes back from holiday. She gets caught up with work and research and doesn't get to see Sherlock until more than a week after her return. He shows up at Barts right as her shift is ending. She gives him a tired smile as he leans in the doorway of her office, eyes on his phone. She lets down her ponytail and sighs in relief.

"Hello, Sherlock."

"Molly."

"Are you here for a case?" she asks pulling on her coat.

"No. Fancy some dinner?"

She smiles. "Are you buying?"

"Indeed," he says and offers her his arm.

They walk the few blocks to their favorite ramen shop. They talk about what they've separately been up to. He never brings up his most recent visit to his sister, though she knows he saw Eurus when she was in California. She makes a note to ask him about it later. Instead, she sticks to asking him about the cases he and John solved while she was on holiday. Despite her fatigue, he has her laughing in less than a minute. After dinner, they take a walk. Their silence is easy-going like always.

"I was working on an experiment a few weeks ago," she says casually.

"Do tell."

He sounds interested but keeps his eyes forward as they walk.

"More of a study, really."

"The subject?" he asks.

She smirks. "You."

He pauses and his face scrunches up. He blinks a few times before turning to face her. A man angrily avoids colliding into Sherlock and mutters something not nice. Sherlock completely ignores him.

"That sounds…fascinating."

"It was interesting," she says.

His gaze takes on a new intensity. His hands find their place behind his back.

"What was your hypothesis?"

"That I'm not in love with you."

His face remains smooth, almost blank, save for his eyes moving rapidly back and forth. She knows the signs of him cataloging information in his mind palace.

"Your intent was to disprove your previous feelings for me?" he asks slowly.

She shrugs. "I just needed clarity on how I feel."

He nods. "What evidence did you gather?"

She puts a finger to her chin in thought.

"Well, I had to disregard previous signs of being in love with you. The stammering and the blushing."

"I do miss the blushing," he mutters.

"I went with more generic signs of being in love. Do I miss you when we're apart? Then there was my level of attraction to you— "

"Naturally."

"—And if I was deeply invested in your life. Those sorts of things."

"Anything else?" he asks.

"That covers it."

He seems to hesitate before asking his next question. He clears his throat and steps closer to her.

"What was your final conclusion?" he asks.

She meets his eyes. "That my hypothesis was wrong."

She sees relief flicker in his eyes, but he subdues it because he's Sherlock and he can tell when there is something else.

"I see. But?"

She smiles. "I was asking something more important than whether or not I was in love with you."

"What were you asking?"

"If I can be Molly and love you at the same time."

His head tilts to the side as he regards her curiously. He retreats a step backward as he tries to understand her meaning.

"Before, you always came first. I didn't know how to hold Molly in tandem with loving you. That can't happen anymore."

He nods slowly, soberly. She does too. It would be foolhardy for her lessen the impact of this for him or even for herself. They need to own the myriad of ways they had both been so negligent. He grimaces and she wonders what awful moments he is recalling, moments where he used her feelings for him to his advantage. He takes another step away from her as if dismayed by whatever memory has come forth. Finally, his eyes dip to meet hers. She meets his gaze steadily.

"Do you understand why I needed to ask myself that question?" she asks.

"I do," he says.

She exhales slowly. "Good."

She reaches out and grabs his jacket. He looks down at her hands with interest when she pulls him closer. She waits until he looks back at her face.

"This can work with us. I want it to. But you have to see me and I can't worship you. I'm not asking for perfection. I'm asking for healthy."

He nods in complete agreement and his large hands slide down purposefully to encircle her waist. He draws her even closer and tucks her hair behind her ear. She feels her face warm at his touch.

"There's the blushing," he whispers.

"I'm not blushing in embarrassment."

His grin is wolfish. "I know."

"Naughty boy."

"Does that surprise you, Molly Hooper?"

She slides her hand up his neck until she can grab a fistful of curls. He hums appreciatively.

"Not in the least."

"Good."

She smiles and he returns it. She gives his hair a gentle tug.

"I need you to go to therapy," she says.

He rolls his eyes. "Do keep up, Molly."

She frowns. "You have a therapist?"

"Indeed."

"I'm not talking about John, Sherlock."

"What do you take me for, Molly?"

She raises her eyebrow in response.

"Fair enough. Yes, a real therapist."

She nods in acceptance. That was far easier than she had anticipated it being.

"Now what?" he asks.

She laughs. "You ask me on a date like a normal bloke."

"You know my opinion on normality."

"Then come up with a creative date, Detective."

She can tell by the way his eyes light up that he accepts her challenge. She almost tells him that a murder does not count as a date. Instead, she tells him that she is open to solving crimes with him provided she gets a nice meal and some proper TLC afterward. He is unsurprisingly confused by the acronym and she promises to play Michael Jackson for him at some point. She is floored when he reveals that he knows the entirety of the Thriller choreography.

A few weeks later, she and John stumble upon him performing for an enraptured Rosie Watson. Sherlock stops mid-motion. Rosie continues laughing delightedly and clapping along to Thriller. John just stares. Sherlock stares back. Molly guffaws. Sherlock huffs and cuts off the music. John continues to stare. Rosie giggles and reaches for him happily. He scoops her up and looks between her and her godfather.

"So. That happened," John says.

Sherlock moves to sit primly in his chair, flushed skin and wild hair making it nearly impossible for him to look even remotely elegant. He clears his throat.

"I can't help it that your spawn needs to be entertained."

John is unfazed. "Just admit you know the dance."

Molly continues laughing hysterically to Sherlock's obvious displeasure. She walks over to him and places a tender kiss to his lips. It works to remove his frown. She places another to his temple and he places one on her wrist before letting her settle comfortably in her chair. She easily tunes out Sherlock and John bickering back and forth as she makes silly faces at Rosie. At some point, she starts reading a book she brought with her while John is occupied talking to Rosie and Sherlock looks through emails.

"I've been meaning to ask you what this is," John says from the fireplace.

Sherlock barely looks up. "Do be more specific, John."

"If you looked up for more than five seconds you'd see what I'm talking about."

This prompts Molly to turn around and look. Her brows furrow in confusion for a brief moment and then she feels her face breaking into a wide and rapturous smile. She covers her mouth to hide it and turns back around just as Sherlock spares a glance in John's direction. His eyes lock on the item in question before moving to her knowingly. His lips quirk at her reaction. He looks back to his phone.

"Surely you know what a crown looks like John."

John groans in annoyance and waves a hand at the intricate crown settled, lovingly, next to Billy the Skull.

"Yes, but when did it get here? Was it a gift from a client?"

"I purchased it."

John blinks in confusion. "For decoration? Not that it isn't nice. It is."

"Fitting don't you think, John?" Sherlock asks.

John tilts his head to the side to regard the skull and the crown side by side.

"Yeah. Oddly enough. Is it supposed to be a crown for a princess or something?"

Sherlock looks up from his phone once again and Molly meets his gaze. They share a knowing smile. He winks at her.

"No, John, not for a princess. For a queen."