As the sun set in London, Molly Hooper entered her flat. She carried one grocery bag in her arms. After shutting the front door and kicking off her shoes, she carried the bag to the kitchen. The few items in the bag she placed on her kitchen counter. She then took a few more items out of her pantry and refrigerator, then lining them up on the counter beside the other items. After that, she took a few bowls, pans, and baking utensils out of various drawers and cupboards.

All of her preparation finished, Molly took her mobile out of her trouser pocket. After she typed out a text message, she looked at it for a long minute. The past twenty-four hours had made her feel so goddamn tired, especially emotionally tired. Looking at the time on her mobile, Molly realized that twenty-four hours had now passed since that horrible phone call. It felt both a lifetime ago and mere minutes ago at the same time.

She had to take a deep breath before she could hit the 'send' command:

Mycroft told me everything. I'm about to bake some gingernuts. You're welcome to have some. Molly

It wasn't much, but it was all that she could give the man right now. Even though she now understood the entire situation behind that phone call – hell, the whole reason behind Sherlock being the way he was – Molly had been hurt. After all, one can't move as they once did on a broken leg, even when the injury had been caused by an accident.

Molly snorted to herself at this analogy. At least physical ailments had clear timelines and guidelines about healing. Emotional ailments, on the other hand…who knew if they ever truly healed?

Having given all that she could give to the man who was both the love of her life and the bane of her existence, she set aside her phone. She then braided her hair into a single plait down her back, and began the task that she had set herself.

As she lost herself in the familiar process of baking – something that she'd always enjoyed doing for fun – the stress and strain of the recent past loosened its hold on her somewhat. It was quite therapeutic: the measuring and mixing, the spicy smell of the ginger, the knowledge that the end result would be delicious.

The calm atmosphere that Molly had created for herself suddenly broke as she was placing balls of the dough on the last pan to go into the oven. Her mobile phone had vibrated – quite loudly – on the kitchen counter. It vibrated only once, indicating an incoming text. Reflexively, Molly walked away from the pan and to the other end of her kitchen counter, where her mobile lay. She was able to read the text and who had sent it before her lock screen faded to black:

May I come in? SH

It was safe to say that Molly was completely shocked. She'd had no idea if Sherlock would even reply to her text, and if he did, she'd expect it to be a request to bring the finished biscuits straight to him. But now, he had not only replied to her text and come to her flat, but was asking very politely to come in. Sherlock asking politely for anything? Molly knew that he'd been through a shitload in the past few days – hell, years – but somehow, she'd thought that he would revert to his usual methods as a way of coping, especially since he now knew that she knew the whole story. He'd done so before (or tried to, anyways, like when he came back from the dead).

Again, her mobile vibrated with an incoming text, and she read it:

Please? SH

Oh, my goodness, thought Molly. This is serious. Molly then realized that she could neither reply to his texts nor open her front door: her hands were too sticky from the dough. So, she walked out of her kitchen and towards her front door. "Come in!" she called. Then, she retreated faster than a mouse to her kitchen and her task.

She knew that it was a cowardly action, but Molly had been taken by surprise, and she wasn't sure if her bruised and broken heart could handle whatever Sherlock had come here for. It would be foolish to think that he would come here only for gingernuts that he could easily buy from any store or bakery, or even bribe Mrs. Hudson into baking for him. And since he knew that Mycroft had told her everything that happened, then he could only have one good reason for coming to see her: to discuss that phone call.

And Molly was quite certain that she wasn't anywhere near ready to hear what she was sure he would have to say about it.

As she finished putting the last balls of dough on the last pan, Molly heard her front door open and close. As she wiped off her hands and set the timer, Molly heard footsteps walking through her sitting room and towards the kitchen.

Her heart was now beating fit to burst through her ribcage, her anxiety mounting with each passing second. Still desperate for an excuse to avoid the dreaded conversation, Molly went to her sink. Her hands needed a good washing anyway, now that the messy parts of her bake were finished. Even over the running faucet and her own thorough scrubbing, Molly heard him stepping into the kitchen and towards her with slow, measured steps.

Her hands trembled as she turned off the faucet and dried her hands with a towel, for now his steps had stopped, and she felt him standing right behind her. The towel dropped from her shaking hands when his own right hand came into her view. With infinite gentleness, his fingers wrapped around her wrist. The position of his digits told Molly clearly that he was taking her pulse. For a moment, Molly was baffled, but then she noticed two things:

One, his own hand was shaking, even as it held her wrist. He wasn't measuring her pulse rate - he just wanted to feel it beating.

Two, his knuckles were scraped and bruised, as they surely would be after what he had done to the coffin that had been built for her.

Like a tsunami through her mind, Molly remembered all that Mycroft had told her of the part she had played in the third Holmes sibling's cruel game. As hot tears blurred her vision, Molly lifted her left hand so it would gently cover his. In reaction to this, his left arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her to rest against him.

She closed her eyes, forcing the tears to flow down her cheeks, when she felt him rest his forehead against the back of her head. And it took all of her strength not to sob outright when she felt drops of moisture soak through her hair where his face was pressed.

For seventeen minutes, they stood like that, neither moving or speaking except to breathe and silently cry (Sherlock's grip around her waist would also tighten ever so slightly if her tears fell onto the hand still holding her wrist).

What finally made them move apart again was the sound of the timer on the oven going off, signaling that the last batch of gingernuts were finished baking. Molly let her hands drop to her sides; Sherlock also let his arms drop, and he stepped back from her so that she could complete her task.

After the last of the gingernuts had been placed on the cooling tray, Molly mumbled, "Help yourself." She still couldn't bring herself to look at him, because she had absolutely no idea what would happen or what she would do when she did. So, she kept her head down when she turned to walk past him and out of the kitchen.

But Sherlock was too quick: he sidestepped in front of her before she could, and gripped her shoulders to prevent her colliding with him. Molly's hands began shaking again, and she resolutely kept her gaze on the third button of Sherlock's shirt.

"Molly…" His deep voice was so soft yet so full of emotion. "Please…"

He was pleading, Molly realized. For what, Molly didn't know, but it certainly wasn't for the gingernuts that were lying out all ready for him to take. Now Molly's whole body began to tremble, and she shut her eyes, causing more tears to fall. She knew that it would take all of her strength to speak instead of cry now.

"Sherlock…I'm not angry with you about what happened. Mycroft told me everything, and I talked to John, too. I know that you weren't trying to hurt me, but to save my life, and you did. There's nothing to forgive, I promise. B-but, I'm not…I can't… I've given all that I can give today because I wanted to give you something after all that you went through. But this is all I can give right now. I'm sorry if it's not enough. I don't know when I can give you more…it will take some time for me to…just…p-please…"

The sobs were taking over, so she screwed her mouth shut as tightly as her eyes. She wanted nothing more than to be a turtle or a conch, to have a shell to retreat into until it was safe to come out. When his hands left her shoulders, Molly wondered if he would leave. But a few seconds later, she felt his hands rest gently on her waist.

Finally, her confusion overpowering her fear, Molly opened her eyes to look at him. But she didn't see him until she lowered her gaze – to find him kneeling on both knees before her.

Molly gasped in reaction to both this and his appearance. The man looked as though he truly had been through hell (and, according to what Mycroft had told her, he had). He looked as though he hadn't slept for days; his curls were greasy and limp; there was stubble on his cheeks and jawline. She'd seen him in similar bad states, like when he'd been using and just after the Fall. But now...those other instances paled in comparisons.

It was his eyes that made the difference. Not only were the whites bloodshot from the tears he had cried into her hair, but his cerulean irises held an absolute hurricane of emotions. The only other time Sherlock had ever looked at her like this was when he had come to her for help before the Fall. And even that time couldn't quite compare to now.

Most importantly, he was talking to her, imploring with her. Not with words, but with those blood-shot, tear-filled, and multi-colored eyes. For both of their sakes, Molly allowed herself to see him, to listen to and understand what he was trying to tell her. And when it clicked, the heavy boulder that had been resting on her heart for the last twenty-four hours crumbled into the finest dust.

She cupped his face with her hands, and breathed what she had rightfully heard him tell her without words:

"You meant it…you mean it…"

Sherlock's shoulders visibly relaxed as his hands tightened on her waist. His gaze didn't leave hers or lose any of their intensity, as though he wanted to make sure she didn't start second-guessing him. But she reassured him a moment later that she wouldn't by kissing him on the forehead. Only then did Sherlock's eyes close and more tears fell down his cheeks.

In the next moment, his arms had wrapped around her middle and her face was pressed against her belly. Molly's fingers ran through his greasy, limp curls, and she kissed his head when she felt a new drop of moisture soak through the fabric of her shirt.

Sometime later, the silence was broken by the sound of Molly's phone vibrating on the kitchen counter. The both of them jumped a little bit, breaking contact with each other. More to stop that intrusive sound than anything else, Molly hurried to the counter and picked up her phone. Her lock screen said 'Private Number,' but there was no doubt who it was from.

Answering it, Molly said calmly, "Hello, Mycroft."

"Molly, is my brother there?" His usually cold and distant voice was tinged with worry and hope. "He's turned off his mobile."

The pathologist looked at Sherlock, who was slowly standing up, in shock. Sherlock turned off his mobile before coming inside? "Yes, he's here."

"By your invitation?"

"Yes."

A sigh of relief. "Good. He told me that he wouldn't approach you unless you reached out to him first. Will he be staying in your home tonight?"

Still looking at Sherlock – who looked just like a little boy lost on a deserted island – Molly replied without hesitation: "He's welcome to stay here if he wants to."

Upon hearing this, Sherlock stepped towards her, took her hand, and pressed his lips to her fingers.

"Well, then, please tell him that I will pick him up at 10:00 AM tomorrow from your home. Both of us should greet our parents at the train station."

Trepidation and sadness tinged Mycroft's tone of voice, and Molly could certainly understand why. She wouldn't soon forget the image of the man when he'd knocked on her door early that morning. He carried that air of sad and humbled defeat while a government car had driven them around London; he'd told her the whole terrible story while his best forensics team had swept her flat and removed the surveillance equipment that had been hidden there for over a month. She'd never really believed Mycroft to be "the Ice Man" before today, and now she never would.

"I'll tell him, Mycroft," she said as reassuringly as she could.

"Thank you, Molly." And from his tone, he was certainly thanking her for much more than her passing a message along.

Both ended the call, Molly set her phone back on the counter, and she turned to Sherlock. She told him what Mycroft had asked to pass along, and Sherlock nodded in response. He still held her hand between both of his, and he let out the tiniest of gasps when she gently extracted her hand. But he relaxed again when she gently cupped his face, as she had done minutes ago.

"I still have your spare toiletries and a spare set of clothes in my bathroom closet. Why don't you have a shower or a soak in the tub? While you're doing that, I'll make some supper for the two of us to eat before we get to these gingernuts. Ok?"

Sherlock stepped closer to her and pressed his forehead to hers. "Thank you, Molly," he breathed.

A little overwhelmed by two such substantial 'thank-yous' from each Holmes brother, Molly raised her lips and tenderly kissed his scruffy cheek. After giving him a reassuring smile, she turned him around and gently pushed him out of the kitchen. He obeyed, and a minute later she heard the washroom door open and shut.

When she heard the sound of the shower going, Molly turned to the task of making a simple, warm and delicious meal for two.

Nearly an hour later, Sherlock came out of the bathroom and rejoined Molly. She was not in the kitchen but in her sitting room. In front of her sofa, Molly had set up two TV-trays that each held a plate of roasted chicken and vegetables. The smell was truly comforting and mouth-watering.

Sherlock looked much better than he had when he'd arrived. He now wore the gray t-shirt and blue-plaid pajama trousers that he'd left here years ago. His curls were damp, and his face was cleanly-shaven. When Molly motioned for him to join her on the sofa with a warm smile, he gladly accepted the invitation.

Both of them ate in companionable silence, while a marathon of "The Great British Baking Show" played on the telly. When both supper plates were bare, Sherlock took them and the glasses to the kitchen before Molly could. She smiled to herself as he did the washing up, her heart growing warm. When he returned, he carried the tin that Molly had put all of the gingernuts in before making supper. They each ate a couple as they continued to watch telly.

Eventually, when an episode ended, Molly turned off the telly and turned to Sherlock. Taking his hand in hers, she said, "You're more than welcome to have the bedroom to yourself. I can sleep here if you'd prefer –"

"No!" Sherlock's response was immediate and visceral. She saw fear come into his eyes again. His grip on her hand was tight as he said in a choked voice, "I'd…if you would…I would rather not be…alone tonight…anymore, really…"

She gave him an understanding smile and nodded. "Me neither." She caressed his cheek with her free hand, and then she stood up, pulling him up with her. "Come on, then."

Still holding his hand, Molly led Sherlock to her bedroom. After leading him to the side of the bed that he would occupy, she said, "I'm going to use the washroom. Get settled in and I'll be back in a few minutes."

Sherlock responded by kissing her forehead and reluctantly letting go of her hand. With a reassuring smile, Molly grabbed her pajamas (which were haphazardly folded on the end of the bed) and left the bedroom.

Molly didn't linger in the loo: she brushed her teeth, washed her face, brushed out her hair from its single plait, and changed into her pajamas (purple plaid bottoms and a bright yellow tank top). She yawned more than once during her routine; her exhaustion from recent events was clearly catching up with her. The fact that she didn't have to work tomorrow, and the fact that she wouldn't be sleeping alone tonight, were great comforts to her.

When she returned to the bedroom, Molly found Sherlock lying under the covers on his side of the bed (she knew that she would call it his side from now on). He lay on his back rather stiffly, his eyes open and staring at the ceiling. Upon hearing her close the bedroom door, his eyes found her, and his body seemed to relax. Molly blushed under his intense gaze as she walked to the bed.

Not knowing what he would want her to do, she slipped into bed and mirrored his position by lying on her back. Once she did, Sherlock turned his head towards her, and she did the same. The expression in his eyes was so vulnerable that her heart ached. Her hand automatically reached out and caressed his cheek.

"Molly, can I…" he began, not quite sure what to say. "Can we…"

"Do you want to be closer?" asked Molly gently.

He nodded, leaning into her touch.

"Let's try this, then," said Molly before she turned onto her side so that her back was to Sherlock. She reached behind her and, thankfully, he understood what she was silently proposing. Once his body was cozily spooning hers, she interlaced their finger under the covers and softly asked, "How are you feeling?"

She felt Sherlock's warm breath on her neck as he responded. "I want to sleep…but I don't want to dream."

Molly squeezed his hand and said, "I wish I could keep your nightmares away."

His lips brushed her neck in a gentle kiss, and Molly felt both a hot jolt and the urge to cry. "I know you do, Molly…I feel so safe and warm with you…like I'm home…"

Now a tear did fall from Molly's eye at his sleepy words. After kissing his fingers, she said, "I'm glad of that, Sherlock. And if you do have nightmares tonight, I'll be right here for whatever you need. You can even wake me up if you need me; I promise you I don't mind, Sherlock."

She felt him take a deep, shuddering breath as he held her closer to him. His lips brushed against her ear as he breathed, "Thank you, my Molly..."

Kissing his fingers again, Molly's only reply was, "Always, my Sherlock" before she shut her eyes.

Sleep took them both soon after that, their hearts beating in sync to each other.