Hello, lovelies! So part 2 really did not get very much attention, but for some reason I just can't drop this story. Seriously, I think fanfiction writers are just subconscious sadists. Anywho, I might repost this chapter as a one shot down the road if it doesn't go far here. Enjoy, you few who have faithfully followed~

When he finally pushed her away, her whole body was shuddering uncontrollably. She weakly buried her face into a pillow to muffle the sobs seeping out of her throat. He traced his fingers along the scattered bruises and scratches around her back, skin shimmering under a thin sheen of cold sweat. Her shoulders shook with the increased intensity of her crying.

"Tears become you, my dear," he hummed, brushing her damp hair away from her neck so he could nestle his face against hers. "You should wear them more often."

When she didn't respond, he chuckled and kissed her shoulder.

"You are so beautiful broken. Never forget that."

And he meant it. All the hair styles, all the makeup, that dress at Christmas and she had never looked as stunning as she did now.

Sherlock shot out of sleep with a gasp, struggling for air as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to his chest. He stumbled into the bathroom and desperately splashed icy sink water over his face to wipe out any last traces of dreaming, yet he still heard a familiar voice in the back of his mind taunting, "How does it feel to know I still beat you? How does it feel to know even dead I could still destroy you?"

"Get out of my head!"

There was a loud shattering noise, followed by a sharp pain in his right hand. Shards of glass dripping with blood fell around him in a rain of pictures, some of him, some of Moriarty. The edges of the glittering pieces sharpened while the rest of the details of the bathroom dulled into mingled shades of light and dark contrasted only by the harsh crimson that seemed to be slowly taking over. It felt like dying all over again, but with more pain he couldn't distinguish between being real or psychosomatic. This was supposed to be over, but he was drowning in doubt, one of the few things he couldn't handle.

"Jesus, Sherlock! What happened?"

Molly's panic filled voice swirled around him like a warm mist chasing away the remains of Moriarty's ghost.

"Molly… Molly… Molly…" he breathed heavily, pulling her into a protective embrace, totally forgetting about slice in his hand that was gushing blood all over her back.

"I'm here," she assured. "I'm right here."

After a few minutes of tightly holding his fiancée, Sherlock finally came completely back to his senses. He thought he had moved on and they had put that night a year ago behind them. Molly stopped going to therapy, her nightmares subsided, and he no longer felt guilty every time they kissed. The logical side of his brain told him that it was the stress of their wedding being the next day that was causing it to resurface. The itching doubt, though, told him he wasn't ready to call her his own, and might never be as long as he could still remember in vivid detail how… real he felt.

Straightening up to his normal posture, Sherlock looked around the bathroom to take in the atrocious mess the broken mirror, running sink, and bloodied cut had made during his breakdown. Molly looked up at him with her eyes wide and fearful, vying for some sort of answer, but he could tell she was too uncomfortable to ask again.

"I'll get this cleaned up, you go back to bed," he said in as normal a tone as possible.

"Are you sure you don't want to talk about what's wrong?" she asked gently.

"Yes. I'm fine," he snapped harsher than he meant to.

When Molly's face sagged sadly, he quickly made up for it by kissing her forehead and giving her a light nudge back toward the bedroom. Mrs. Hudson would not be happy with finding yet another disaster in the bathroom. She nearly kicked him out last weekend when he used the tub as a chilling station for the bottom half of a corpse that had been cut in two by a katana, ranting about it would take days to wash out all the stains. There would be a merciless scolding even if it was his wedding day.

By the time Molly woke up again, Sherlock had already cleaned up and was off with John and Mycroft to take care of all the logistics. She had been surprised by how much the three of them took over the planning and execution of the wedding. She got to pick out her dress and cake, but that was about it. At first she was hesitant at letting them be in charge, but between John's romantics, Mycroft's bank account, and Sherlock's quick decision making they convinced her it was "just easier" to let them handle it. She smiled to herself, remembering the exasperated look on Sherlock's face when she spent twenty minutes picking out stationary for invitations only to have him walk in, point to one, and announce, "That one. Irises are your favorite flowers, you like the cream background over the white, and my brother is paying so just go for the imprinted font."

She stayed in bed for a few minutes, lying on her side to stare at the gorgeous white gown hanging on the outside of the closet. Though she and Sherlock weren't actually living together, she was spending more and more time at 221B. They were still trying to work out the details of how it would work, as John continued to spend most of his time there working on cases and Sherlock and Toby did not get along. She was scared to death he was going to drown him in a bucket of acid after he found the cat chewing on a hand he'd pulled out of the freezer. With some of her salary as a pathologist plus Sherlock's extra cases, they managed to rent C from Mrs. Hudson, almost entirely for the purpose of housing her stuff and keeping Toby out of the way. However, Mary and John spent their fair share of nights over. It was strange to think of actually having a married life with Sherlock… especially after last night.

A knock on the door interrupted her contemplation. She knew she didn't need to get up to open it, as Mary and Mrs. Hudson let themselves in regardless.

"Wake up, Mols! You have six hours left before you're officially Mrs. Holmes, don't waste it sleeping!" Mary chirped excitedly, literally throwing the blankets off the bed.

She had been suffering from extreme sympathetic bride-zilla, still riding the wave from her own wedding. Mrs. Hudson brought in a tray of fresh tea and started telling stories of her late husband while Mary started brushing Molly's hair, barely giving her the time to even rub her eyes. It was pretty stress-free, she figured, considering Anthea had been appointed to make appointments for nails, hair, and makeup at one of the most expensive salons in London. In fact, the only real problem she had was dodging the flack she continued to get from her parents for refusing to let them meet Sherlock before she walked down the aisle.

"So, any last minute jitters?" Mary pried as she put Molly's hair up in a clip. "This is you and Sherlock we're talking about after all."

"Not really. I've been in love with him for a long time so…" she trailed off, giving Mary and Mrs. Hudson time to "aw" over it.

She really wanted to say "Of course I do! Things were going well, so well, and then the night before our wedding he opens his fist on a mirror!" but she shoved it away. This was supposed to be the happiest day of her life. She wasn't going to let anything ruin it.

Just as she made the resolution, Toby hopped onto the bed and knocked hot tea all over her nightie.

"There you are, John! I need to talk to you," Sherlock said in a hushed and urgent tone, grabbing his best man by the arm away from the caterer and down the hall.

"For the last time, you have to meet your in-laws at some point," he groaned.

"I don't, but that's irrelevant. Again, I need to talk to you."

He threw open the nearest broom closet and shoved John inside, checking the hallway for stray guests or security guard before following and locking the door.

"Now people will definitely talk," John muttered exhaustedly. "Why are you hiding in a closet when you should be welcoming Molly's family?"

"Damn it, John, I'm scared!" Sherlock snapped, smacking his hands against the wall and making John startle.

It was difficult but relieving to finally say it out loud. The whole day his nerves had been on the edge of a knife balanced over a hotplate. Even with three nicotine patches he still managed to get in a few breaths of smoke before Mrs. Hudson snatched the smuggled cigarette away. Luckily, he had John and Mycroft to take care of the important things while he just signed for a few gifts, pointed decorators in the right direction, and paced until his pricey new shoes put blisters in the soles of his feet. He found himself jumping at every sound of footsteps, glimpsing around every corner, checking every face in case anyone unwelcomed decided to stroll in. His last straw was when Lestrade brought along practically the whole of Scotland Yard as his +one, including Anderson and Donovan. Supposedly because they were 'friends' with Molly, they deserved to allowed access despite being uninvited. They both had to leave, however. Anderson was unable to drive while he tended to a broken nose. Needless to say, that was when Sherlock needed his lifeline.

"Is that it? Trust me, it's totally normal," John chuckled, bringing him back to the present. "Everyone has-"

"Not what I meant," he growled and glared right into John's eyes.

At first he looked perplexed, but it only took a moment for him to understand. Though Molly wanted to keep it as secret as possible, Sherlock had no one else to talk to and trusted John more than anyone, especially some therapist who would have him thrown in prison regardless of the true story. He needed someone to listen and in whom he could confide. At first it had been incredibly awkward, borderline painful, with John not knowing how to respond, but he was an unbiased party. No matter how many times he talked to Molly, she was always too deep in his head. John could listen and be the voice of reason when the right side of his brain got the better of him. He needed that now.

"Oh… Sherlock, now?"

"Yes, now, obviously, or I wouldn't want to be lit up like a chimney and bring Anderson back so I can break his nose a couple more times!" he retorted irritably.

John held his hands up defensively.

"Alright. I'd offer you could break my nose but I doubt either misses would appreciate it. Tell me what came up."

Sherlock exhaled and slumped back against the wall, running a hand through his stress displaced hair.

"Last night I dreamed that we were back. I felt everything all over again for the first time in months. Even when I woke up Moriarty was still there." He dropped his head into his hands. "I don't understand it, John! She's the one who had the tremors, the nightmares, and the trauma. Why did she get better and I'm still stuck?"

He bit his lip when he noticed a shivering sensation crawl down his arms. John didn't say anything for a few minutes, sitting down next to Sherlock while his face curled under the pressure of coming up with an answer.

"We both know Molly was the victim, but not the target, right? What Moriarty didn't expect was that she loved you enough to know you weren't the one to blame. I know you think he won, but that's not it, is it? Something is trying to save you, and you won't let it."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. John had his moments, and this was shaping to be one of them. He smiled at the inquiry in his face.

"You still don't understand? Sentiment, Sherlock! Moriarty – you even! – didn't calculate sentiment," he declared, laughing at the revelation he reached before his ever-so-clever detective did.

The spark finally jumped, catching from John's train of thought to his own.

"Sentiment," he started, looking up at his best friend with realization. "Not mine, no, that was the weakness; that was the flaw. All this time, John, we've been looking at the wrong variable. He was clever, yes, but he didn't take into account Molly. You're right, he assumed she'd break. She would break and I would follow because of my sentiment, but hers was stronger. Moriarty didn't win at all. She beat him!"

He jumped back to his feet, gripping John by the shoulders and shaking him with excitement.

"Doctor Watson, I could kiss you!"

He chortled nervously.

"Probably shouldn't, seeing as you're about to be a married man. Speaking of which, you have five minutes before you are supposed to be at the altar."

The ceremony, and most of the day in fact, seemed to go by in a sort of blur. Sure, she enjoyed being pampered well enough, but it was all very distant, almost surreal. Saying her 'I dos,' hearing Sherlock say them back, and even the kiss was all dreamlike. Their first dance felt more like walking through a cloud than waltzing on the tile of the hotel ballroom. Family gave her congratulations, tried (failed) to make conversation with new husband, and did everything she expected they would. She was afraid that if she looked too hard it would all fall apart and she would wake up back on her couch to find it all to have been another fantasy. So she allowed herself to be whisked along with the festivities, dancing, eating, drinking, and talking. By the end of the night she was so sore from her gorgeous heels and overworked leg muscles that Sherlock had to carry her up to their hotel room after all the good nights were said.

It was when he was walking through the door of their room with her wrapped in his arms that everything started to feel real. She would giggle every so often, to which he replied by smiling or tussling her hair. He gently put her own on the queen size bed, giving her time to take the remaining bobby pins and jewelry off while he splashed water over his hair to wash out the gel. With the world coming back to focus, Molly found it harder to contain her giddiness. It was their wedding night! As she observed Sherlock, though, he looked distracted, lost in his own thoughts.

"Sherlock," she called as sweetly as she could, reclining back and kicking off her shoes. "Can you please get the zipper on my dress?"

"Yes, of course," he replied, but was still in the bathroom, staring into the mirror.

She sighed and heaved herself off the bed to grab his arm, pulling his attention back to her. Grinning suggestively, she unknotted his bowtie and pushed his suit jacket to the floor.

"Please."

He nodded, putting on an obviously forced smile. Molly slumped her shoulders and led him back toward the bed, this time simply sitting. Taking his hands in hers, she leaned forward so their foreheads were touching.

"You do know this is our wedding night, right?" she asked sarcastically, but also with concern.

"Yes," he conceded, keeping his gaze down. "Molly, I want to make sure that… that this is what you want. I know you have said it before, but we have not…"

He trailed off and she knew it was coming back. John had nudged her at the reception with a warning that he had talked to him before the ceremony. It was so sad to see him still damaged. No matter what she did, he never seemed to come right back. It was eating him, even if he tried to hide it and tried to make believe he deserved not to feel anything. Maybe this was just what he needed.

"I know," she said and started unbuttoning his shirt. "Not since. I know how that must seem to you, but I just wanted it to be special, Sherlock. Our first time. Our real first time. You can understand that, right?"

"Yes," he replied softly, finally looking her directly in the eye. "I do."

"Good."

She sealed the word by pulling away the white silk shirt.

"Now, are you going to get this zipper?"

As she ran her hand up his chest, Molly could see something stir in his face. A bead of sweat rolled over his hairline. The skin around his eyes softened. The corners of his lips turned upward just enough to show bits of doubt melting away somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind. He slipped an arm behind her back and pulled down the zipper of her gown with his fingers lingering at points along her spine, sending visible shivers around her whole body. She wrapped her arms behind his neck, arching her back as the heavy dress slid to the floor, swiftly followed by the rest of his suit. She pulled him in to a deep kiss as he gently lowered her onto her back, his hands continuing to run in patterns around her skin that caused the strangest and newest sensations. When they briefly parted, Molly encased the side of his face so that he had to really look into her eyes.

"It's over, do you understand? We win."

"We win," Sherlock repeated.

She smiled and pulled him under the sheets.

2 in the morning and I'm done this time, I swear! Happily ever after (or as happily ever after as it gets in the Holmes family)! I've really enjoyed writing this, so I might stick to Sherlolly for while. Hope you liked reading this and much as I liked making it~