Hi! I love Sherlolly and Soulmate AU's so I wrote one for them. This chapter has been updated. It was originally posted on Ao3 and the formatting was lost when I transferred it to this site. Sorry it took me so long to notice.

Molly Hooper didn't understand. She'd been waiting for colour for what seemed like her whole life. She grew up on tales of her parents fated meeting, colours blooming in front of both their eyes in large splashes as her father touched her mother's bare arm with a calloused palm. Her mother saw green first, her father's eyes, the collared shirt he was wearing, the freshly mown grass he was standing on. Her father saw brown, her mother's eyes and hair, the bark of the trees, her sensible shoes. They said it would have been love at first sight even if the colours had never appeared. They were married within six weeks of touching each other for the first time, her father six years older and unwilling to delay any longer to marry the woman he'd been waiting 26 years for. Her mother's parents hadn't been overjoyed that their daughter, still in uni, was willing to marry a stranger despite being soulmates. It took them two years to accept that Molly's father was not going to leave their daughter on a whim. Then Molly's brother had been born, and her mother had dropped out four classes short of a degree. She often told her children that she never regretted the decision, but she hoped that they would graduate before meeting their soulmates or settling down.

Molly's brother was lucky. He was sixteen years old when he ran, quite literally, into his soulmate. Karen was sweet and pretty and adored Dan Hooper from the moment she touched him. Molly had never bothered to ask for an in-depth retelling of the moment they'd first touched. To be honest, she was a little jealous. She was fourteen when her brother met Karen, sixteen when she acted as maid of honor, and expected to meet her soulmate at any moment thereafter. Her mother had been only twenty, her brother sixteen, her father twenty-six. Yet the years passed Molly by without any trace of colour flashing before her eyes. Her father and mother died in a car crash when she was twenty-five. They died happy, with three grandchildren from their son and daughter-in-law and Molly well on her way to becoming a pathologist at Bart's. Molly's only regret was that they would never get to meet her soulmate whenever she happened to meet him. The year after her parents died, Molly grew tired of waiting for her soulmate. She was lonely and sick of the jump of her heart whenever she touched someone that she was the least bit attracted to. She was sick of the hope that was slowly strangling her with each passing year.

The colours did not appear until she was thirty-one. She'd had her fair share of boyfriends by that time and determined to remain single until her soulmate finally decided to show up. It wasn't that she didn't like dating, or that it was any less lonely to go home to a flat empty save for Toby her cat. It was just that her last two boyfriends had left her the moment they met their soulmates. She was very tired of being left behind. It would be nice if she was the one to leave them behind for once.

The thing about colour was that it was a tricky thing, relying on contact to show itself. You could meet your soulmate, pass them by on the street really, without ever realizing what you'd lost. People had taken to clasping hands at every opportunity. It wasn't really a rule, but most people followed the practice just in case. She met Sherlock Holmes on her first day at Bart's. She was stricken with an awed sort of admiration from the first words he'd spoken. Molly was never more certain that someone was her soulmate than in that moment. Her heart dropped the moment she realized he was wearing a pair of leather gloves, a long Belstaff and scarf. No chance of an accidental touch then. And with each passing second, she realized with dismay that he had no interest in her and did not share her hopes.

Molly was irrevocably in love with Sherlock Holmes by the time she realized that he saw her as unattractive, laughable, and ultimately replaceable. He never touched her, avoided it at all costs, and her hope that he was her soulmate slowly withered into nothing more than wistful fantasy. It wasn't until their first Christmas party together after so many months of acquaintance that she found out the truth of the matter. He ridiculed her, insulted her, humiliated her, and then kissed her cheek with some facsimile of apology and regret. The first colours she saw were a mix of blue and green, with a dash of grey mixed in to make it interesting. It was his eyes, changing colour depending on his mood or the lighting. She despaired that the first colour he would see was brown. Mousy Molly with her brown hair and eyes, her drab clothing and too-thin lips, her inadequate breast size. She cringed every single time she considered what he thought of her. She was his soulmate and he couldn't care less about her, proving it as his phone went off with a sensual moaning that he rushed away to respond to. The Woman, someone John tried to avoid bringing up in conversation, someone Sherlock could identify without even looking at her face. Molly despaired of ever being anything but miserable. She wished some days that she'd never met her soulmate, but the wish wouldn't stick for long. Sherlock was everything she wanted, even if he found nothing in her to want in return. He deserved better than her, not that he seemed to care either way.

She'd tried after that kiss to initiate some conversation about the whole soulmates thing. Sherlock often scoffed at her stuttering attempts, his eyes narrowed in condemnation at her flushed cheeks and rouged lips. He never confirmed or denied her inane attempts at questioning if he saw colours. She asked John once if Sherlock saw colours. John merely laughed, clapping her shoulder in mirth with a muttered "That'd be the day Molly. Can you imagine Sherlock Holmes with a soulmate? He'd drive them stark-raving mad within an hour and drive them away by the end of the day. That's one person who is damn lucky to never meet him."

She wondered occasionally if having a soulmate could be one-sided. Sherlock didn't treat her any differently after he'd kissed her cheek, unless you considered that he was a little bit less of an asshole. She figured he'd finally opened his eyes to her infatuation with him and was simply trying to let her down gently in his own Sherlock sort of way. It made her heart ache to be near him after that, to see everything there was to see and yet have gained absolutely nothing else. Of course, she'd always wanted to see the colours of the world, but deep down it was the love that she'd wanted more than anything. The evidence of it saturating her entire life with her parents and brother so deeply in love that she cried at the unfairness of it all. What had she done to deserve this? Why did the universe hate Molly Hooper? Why couldn't Sherlock love her? Why didn't she count?

It was his death that was the catalyst for her future. She'd helped him fake his death, and then she'd sworn to move on from him and find some sort of happiness without Sherlock Holmes dogging her every step. She met Tom when Sherlock had been gone a year, the colours starting to fade into a diluted hue of their former selves. She considered it a good thing that the colours were no longer so bright, it surely meant that Sherlock Holmes would fade from her mind as they did from her sight.

Tom was a great guy. He was sweet and thoughtful, and yes, he did resemble Sherlock to some extent but that wasn't the reason she stayed with him, even when Sherlock made the occasional visit to her flat and spent the night. He never touched her, heaven forbid he need any sort of human contact, even from the one person he'd stayed in contact with after his fall. He slept in her bed, beside her but oh so careful not to touch any part of her. She respected the clear boundary he set. She didn't even pretend that he was anything but the man who stayed with her because everyone else he actually cared for was off limits.

No, she stayed with Tom because he'd lost his soulmate when he was in his early twenties. A pretty blonde whose picture he kept in his wallet, even after he proposed to Molly. Molly couldn't resent him for the small portrait because she knew that Sherlock would always hold a large part of her heart and devotion. It was just that her love for him was something he surely saw as childish or a hindrance. Molly set Sherlock aside and settled into the idea of her and Tom and their life together. Sometimes Tom would stare at her oddly when her eyes were captured by certain shades of green and blue, when she sighed in regret at the thought of what she would never have. He suspected she'd once been able to see the colours, a topic that wasn't breached but carefully tread around. She figured he was simply grateful that they each found someone who would never leave because there was no point. Their soulmates were gone and nothing about that situation would ever change.

When Sherlock returned from the dead he was different. More vulnerable in a way he hadn't allowed himself to be before. He smiled more, though it was always a little sad when he stared at Molly Hooper. Molly noticed of course, but chose not to react to the new Sherlock. She couldn't help the jab about her and Tom's sex life. (It really wasn't that great but if she believed hard enough, perhaps that would change) He seemed, at the most, visibly disgusted with the thought of her having sex. It confirmed her already held belief that he did not see her as a sexual creature, or an attractive woman. She cried herself to sleep more nights than not within the first month of his return. She 'admitted' to Tom that it was the anniversary month of her soulmate's death, which was true to an extent. It shouldn't matter that her soulmate had faked his death. He would never be hers either way.

When she broke up with Tom, citing irreconcilable differences in life goals (earning a bewildered, hurt expression from poor Tom) Sherlock acknowledged the event with an offhand deduction and continued onto another topic. Molly resigned herself to a lonely life with the inevitable increase of cats, which was unfortunate for Toby considering he did not like to share anything. The colours had brightened once again with Sherlock's return. Molly considered it the only perk as the sunsets during that time of year were lovely. She didn't notice when Sherlock started to accessorize with items of clothing that brought out the alternating shades of green and blue in his eyes. She honestly wouldn't have thought anything of it even if she had. She was firmly of the belief that, no matter what Sherlock had stated (and gotten her hopes up in the process), she truly did not count when it came right down to it. She never had and she certainly never would.

If only Sherlock had been brave enough, let himself be vulnerable enough to disabuse her of the belief of her own insignificance. The day she died, the last thing she saw was the red of her own blood on the knife that stabbed her, repeatedly. Everything else was thrown into shadow in the dark alley she'd used as a short cut. The man's voice was unrepentant and almost gleeful at her demise. Molly's last thought was of course I die like this.

XXX

Mary Watson nee Morstan was woken up by pounding on the front door. John was sound asleep, snoring peacefully beside her, exhausted from attending Rosie Watson the last two nights. He was probably used to Sherlock being loud anyway. She nudged her husband, and resorted to elbowing him hard in the ribs when Sherlock's muffled yells woke up Rosie from what was going to be the first full night of sleep she'd ever had.

"Check on Rosie," Mary hissed at John, not waiting for his sleepy mumble to answer the door.

She yanked it open, fully intending to give Sherlock an earful about waking them up at three in the bloody morning, until she saw him. He looked absolutely wrecked, his curls a tangled mess, coat hanging wide open to reveal his mismatched outfit ending with slipper-clad feet wearing one green and one blue sock.

"I can't see them," he shouted brokenly. "Mary, I can't see them!"

She knew immediately of what he spoke, her heart dropping. She had known that Molly and Sherlock were soulmates even before she'd met the man.

John had no idea, but Mary could tell from the way Molly spoke of Sherlock Holmes. Not just silly infatuation as many assumed, but a deep, abiding love that showed just how selfless Molly Hooper was. It was confirmed when Molly slipped, talking of Sherlock's blue eyes, with hints of green in the perfect light. She had no idea how everyone missed it, Molly continuing without realizing she'd spoken of seeing colours she was not supposed to be able to see. It frustrated Mary that John and Lestrade could so oblivious when it came to Molly Hooper, only ever paying half attention to a truly remarkable woman. When Sherlock had made his reappearance, Mary had shot him not just for John, but for Molly too.

Any lingering resentment she might have felt for Sherlock Holmes dissipated with the knowledge that he'd lost the one person in the world meant for him, and it had clearly broken him.

"She likes my eyes but I can't see. I can't see what's green and what's blue. How can I wear her favorite colours if I can't even see what they are?"

When John had finally appeared, his eyes widening in alarm as he took in Sherlock's disheveled appearance, Mary had taken Rosie from him just in time for Sherlock to grasp at John with clutching desperation. "John, John, I can't see them. Where did they go? Where did Molly go? Where is my Molly?" John stared at her with open panic as Sherlock collapsed into his best friend with anguished sobs, his repeated sentence harder to hear as it was mumbled into John's shoulder.

"Shhh," John hushed Sherlock quietly, murmuring comforting words as he guided his friend inside the house. It was only when Sherlock was settled on the settee, his eye vacant, repeating the same sentence over and over that John looked to Mary for some explanation.

Mary was clutching Rosie, and squished her between them as she hugged John tightly. "Oh John, can't you see? He's lost her, he's lost Molly. She's dead. The colours are gone."

And John had stared at Sherlock with burgeoning devastation for the man who'd denounced sentiment as foolish. "Molly was his…soulmate? Molly Hooper?"

"Yes," tears of grief blinded Mary as she stared at Sherlock. "Molly Hooper was his soulmate, and now it's too late for either of them"

XX

She left him a letter. She didn't have a legal will, just a few pieces of paper that described her wishes in case of her death. It was probably written after the whole Moriarty incident, when each was reminded of their own mortality. She'd clearly written it as a 'just in case' and stowed it away in her side table to be forgotten. Mary found it when she was going through Molly's stuff with her brother Dan Hooper. She gave the papers with Molly's wishes to Dan, but held tightly to the letter clearly marked for Sherlock Holmes. Mary gave it to him the week after Molly's funeral. Sherlock almost burned it numerous times. It took him six attempts to open the envelope with shaking hands.

Sherlock,

Well this is odd. I suppose I should apologize for dying. I know it's silly. I know it's probably not my fault but it's surely not yours either and I know you'll blame yourself if anything happens to me. Not that anything will happen, but I thought I should write something just in case. Sorry for dying, and sorry that I'm not better at this. There are a couple things that I want to address. Most importantly, I guess, is the matter of us being soulmates. I'd nearly convinced myself it was one-sided. Is that even a thing? But you're being nicer to me now, and I seem to annoy you less so I figure that's as good a confirmation as I'll ever get. We're soulmates, and you'll try and find some way to blame yourself for that one too no doubt. Maybe you won't even read this. Maybe we died together. In that case, hi John. My parents died together in a car accident. I'm going to pretend you don't know this, that you didn't deduce this. I always thought that was a blessing of sorts. They died together and neither one of them lost the colours. I hope you aren't too attached to the colours. I don't want you to miss them.

I'm rambling, sorry Sherlock. Straight to the point then. We're soulmates and neither one of us was ever going to acknowledge it but it was something that I needed to get off my chest. I love you Sherlock. I would have loved you even without the colours or the soulmate thing. I guess I'm just unlucky that way. I've come to terms with our relationship, or rather, the lack thereof. I'm Molly Hooper, unimpressive in almost every way, while your brilliance astounds me every day. I don't mean to sound self-pitying. I simply wanted to tell you that I understand that I couldn't measure up to you. I know that I don't count to you. But from one soulmate to another, please don't feel guilty. And please be kind to John, to Mrs. Hudson, to Mycroft even, in my absence. I will miss you dearly.

-Molly

Sherlock felt no shame in drinking himself into oblivion. Molly wanted him to be kind. He would try his best in this one request. No cocaine, no heroin, nothing that would give him the sweet oblivion he craved. She thought she didn't count. She thought she didn't matter to him. Molly Hooper, the only woman he'd ever allowed himself to feel sentiment for, had died believing she meant nothing to him. He wished for a Hell that he could burn eternally in. He missed the colour brown most of all.

XX

She was an apparition come to torment him. Molly Hooper, wearing a favorite of his; drab, overlarge jumper, a pair of faded pants were inconsequential, it was her smile that he -dare he say it? - loved on her. The ache in his chest seemed to both grow and dissipate at her appearance, the colours returning in brief flashes that refused to remain permanent no matter how he wished it. Molly, his Molly as he might never imagine her again. She looked as tired as he felt, exhaustion deeply imbedded into the growing lines around her creased brow. He thought it fitting that this image of Molly seemed to haunt him, a mirror of his own tired existence. He'd considered suicide of course, quick, easy, uncomplicated if not for the people in his life that had come to rely on him, care for him. He'd promised to be kind after all, for Molly's sake. Such a nuisance, and yet a comfort against the yawning emptiness that Molly's death had awakened in him. She shouldn't affect him this much, he'd hardly cared when she was alive. Liar, liar, liar, his brain told him, even as he tried to lock the feelings away in his mind palace and throw away the key. But he couldn't, not when his Molly was standing in front of him. It occurred to him that she was now watching him with a wariness that did not suit her face, at least he'd hoped they'd gotten past that stage of their relationship. He would never intentionally hurt her, though he had done so, so often that he really couldn't blame her. He wished he could halt his mouth before his brain made the careless decision to speak, but he could not. Stupid, that he could hurt his soulmate so easily. It was a relief to admit after so many years of avoidance. Too late for Molly, too late to be anything but his most bitter regret.

Finally, he spoke, his voice hoarse from all the yelling he'd done, or was that the sobbing? Really, he needed to control himself better. "Molly, I can't wear your favorite colours anymore. I can't see them. They're gone." She flinched, curling away from him and he found himself reaching out for her in sudden desperation, unable to stand the thought that she would leave him again. "No, wait!" he pleaded, and he hated that tears threatened him now, that his voice sounded thick and broken and revealed the ache that was a constant reminder of her absence.

She sighed, and he understood that she hurt as much as he did simply from the way she said his name. "Sherlock." She didn't seem able to offer anything else but a part of him calmed at the sound of her voice. He'd missed it, more than the colours, more than anything excluding the feel of his lips against her cheek. He should have touched her more often, or not at all. Which was better, to never know she was his, or to have the memory of what it was like to touch her whenever he'd had the urge? He was drowning in wasted opportunities.

"Will you stay?" It was phrased as a question, but really a demand. He needed her, didn't she see that? Sherlock Holmes needed no one as he needed her.

"I can't," she said softly, with regret. "You know I can't."

"You must," Sherlock demanded. "I can't see the colours without you." He knew that he wasn't explaining himself properly, he could tell by her disappointed expression. Not good, John prodded him in his head. She thought the colours were important, they were, but not without her. He exhaled in frustration, his mind fuzzy from a lack of sleep, from hunger and pain and mostly from suppressed grief. "It's not about the colours," he tried explaining. "If I have the colours, then I have you. You are the one person that counts the most. I didn't understand, not until the colours were gone." His fingers twitched with the need to touch her, to reach out and assure himself that she was real. But he was afraid, afraid it was a dream and soon Molly would be gone. She needed to stay. "I can't wear your favorite colours, I can't remember what your eyes look like, I can't see you. Please Molly, stay. I promise I'll do better, I promise!" And he was pleading again, he hated it, but he hated the absence of Molly more.

He'd made her cry, he hated making her cry. "Sherlock, I can't, you know I can't."

"But why? Molly, you're here. Why can't you stay?" he demanded in sudden petulance.

Molly smiled at him sadly, deftly avoiding him as he reached for her again. A flash of brown, (her eyes, her hair) a flash of red, (the flush of her cheeks, the tear-stained skin that outlined her eyes) a flash of blue, (her jumper, the faded navy of her pants). Everything that endeared her to him, everything about her that was Molly, his Molly. "Why won't you let me?" he reached for her again, frantic for the feel of her under his fingertips. It wasn't about the colours, but they'd always been a balm when his thoughts were too frantic, an assurance that he was never alone. It meant quite simply that his Molly was alive and well. It meant that he hadn't failed her.

"Sherlock, please." She held her hands up, warding him away. "This is goodbye. I hate seeing you so sad. Please Sherlock, let me go. I'm tired," she sighed. "I'm so tired Sherlock. I just want to rest."

His shoulders slumped, and the colours faded before his eyes. He could feel the emptiness threatening to swallow him whole. His fists clenched, a low moan escaping him at the painful realization. He hadn't allowed himself to accept her death, had refused to attend her funeral and see the evidence that she was gone. But the fact remained, Molly was dead and she was never coming back.

"I'm sorry Molly. I'm sorry." Sherlock slurred in defeat, dropping his hands.

Molly tried to soothe him, her voice soft. "It's okay Sherlock. I forgive you, but I need you to do something for me. I need you to forget about me and delete me from your mind palace. I need you to move on, to solve cases, and watch over John's future children. I need you to find someone else. Someone better than me, someone who can make you happy. You never needed me, remember that when the colours return."

He bowed his head, shutting his eyes against Molly's tears, refusing to listen to her words. He heard a rustle of fabric, the padding of footsteps against the floor, felt the brush of Molly's fingers as she moved past him. When he looked up, she was gone.

"You never understood." Sherlock said to the empty room. "I never let you understand. I don't want the colours to return, not if you are gone." He stared at the place Molly had been until the first rays of morning brightened the sky, thinking bitterly of their short time together. Time he'd squandered selfishly.

The next morning John found Sherlock still sitting on the floor, hesitating before placing a hand on his shoulder in comfort. Sherlock looked up at him, his expression cold. "My brother was right." Sentiment was foolish.

John didn't need his cryptic statement explained, understanding that Sherlock was still coping with Molly's death in his own way. He helped Sherlock to his feet and turned away to prepare tea.

"I never want to feel this again." Sherlock said calmly. "I don't need a soulmate when I have the work."

John froze for a moment, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "If that's what you need?"

"Yes," Sherlock stated firmly. He'd needed Molly, but she'd left him. He would never allow himself to need someone like that again. "I don't need the colours."

XX

"How is he?" Molly asked, her eyes never moving from her perusal of the security footage Mycroft had obtained for her.

Mycroft smiled thinly. "Coping, drinking, working."

Molly frowned at his apparent disinterest with his brother's mental health. "The colours haven't returned?"

Mycroft sighed in irritation. "No. Luckily your blunder was not irreparable. You could have ruined everything simply because you wanted to reassure him."

Molly frowned at Mycroft's condemnation. "He's my soulmate."

"Who refused to accept you the entire time you were alive, Miss Hooper."

Molly flinched, but refused to rise to Mycroft's bait. Yes, Sherlock had spurned her at every opportunity, but she now knew that he had cared for her far more than she'd ever dare hope. His grief weighed her down with guilt but it made her fiercely proud that someone as brilliant as Sherlock could care for someone like her.

Mycroft's lips twisted, his nostrils flaring as if he smelled something unpleasant, before he sighed in resignation. "Don't underestimate yourself, Miss Hooper, or your own worth. My brother did not suffer fools, and would have cared for you with or without the colours."

Molly shrugged. Maybe he would have, now wasn't the time to speculate. Even if Mycroft's words were comforting to hear. "You're nicer than you make yourself out to be."

"Please," Mycroft waved away her almost-compliment. "Now, if we could get back to more important matters please?"

"You're certain Moriarty is still alive? And you're absolutely sure he won't target Sherlock?"

Mycroft scoffed. "He's quite enjoying Sherlock's descent into madness, why would he kill him now?"

"And John and Mary are safe? Rosie is being watched around the clock?"

Mycroft didn't even condescend to answer that one. Molly knew that he cared for John's family more than he let on. He did love his brother, though he was likely to go to his grave before he admitted it. And thus, he would never want his brother to experience undue pain. Molly's death was a miscalculation on his part, though it worked out in his favor. Moriarty thought Molly was dead, though she'd been resuscitated, because Sherlock believed she was dead. An odd little glitch in the dynamics of the colours. It didn't matter if you were brought back, once you died your soulmate lost the colours until contact was reaffirmed. Molly had almost ruined it when she'd so casually brushed Sherlock's head with her fingers. Luckily no skin contact had occurred and Sherlock was left with the belief that he'd experienced a very vivid hallucination that was the product of his recent binge drinking. It also had the benefit of influencing his decision to greatly restrict his alcohol intake.

"Are you ready to leave London behind, Miss Hooper? Moriarty's network is quite vast and intricate. Sherlock did not rid the world of as many of Moriarty's men as he'd assumed."

"Or as he'd been led to believe by his older brother," Molly remarked.

Mycroft scowled briefly. "Moriarty is quite resourceful it seems."

Molly nodded. "I'm ready Mycroft." She handed him an envelope. "Can you give this to him if I die, for real this time?"

"Another letter?" Mycroft inquired with distaste. The last one had nearly destroyed Sherlock.

"I just," Molly sighed. "I hate lying to him, to all of them."

"I will make certain it is delivered."

Molly smiled in relief. "Thank you, Mycroft."

Mycroft inclined his head in acknowledgement and gestured for Molly to proceed him out of the door. "One more thing Miss Hooper." Molly looked over her shoulder, an eyebrow arched in query. "You can still see the colours."

It wasn't quite a question but Molly answered anyway in a roundabout way. "I'd always hoped that I was the one leaving someone behind. Now, it's happened and I think that it's not fair. Not for him. He should at least get to keep the colours too, even if I died." Molly turned away from the screen that held the image of Sherlock Holmes, with John Watson by his side.

"Take care of him John." She whispered to herself. Mycroft heard her anyway.

XX

It took a lot longer than she'd first imagined. Sherlock was raised in the shadow of his brother who was several years older. So, he'd had training and natural ability before he'd fallen to his death and went undercover to dismantle Moriarty's network. Molly was only ever what she'd seemed, at least she thought so. Training took months, so much longer than she'd imagined. Her body changed, there was no other option. Where she was once slim and soft, she was now lithe and muscled. She'd vomited the first time she'd killed someone. Cracking open the ribcage of an already dead person was one thing, shattering someone's ribcage with a shotgun blast and killing them by her own hand was quite another. Sadly, she grew accustomed to the killing, even if she threw up once she returned to her rundown hotel room. She received no updates on Sherlock, her brother's family, the Watsons, or even her old colleagues, Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson. It was deemed a distraction by Mycroft. No visits to Baker Street for her in the dead of night. She hoped Sherlock could forget her and meet someone else. Molly wasn't sure if she could return to her old life once everything was said and done. She felt dirty and empty and lost if she paused long enough to allow herself to feel anything. If Sherlock had cared for her before, how could he care for her now? She was a thief, and a murderer. Molly didn't recognize the woman in the mirror and she wished she didn't see the colours anymore. Her dreams were awash in a sea of blood, red and bright and drowning her until she woke up gasping. She couldn't remember what Sherlock's eyes looked like anymore.

Three years almost to the day she'd died, and she was finally done. She'd killed Moriarty herself, not trusting Mycroft to handle it. He was capable, but she needed to be sure. She'd taken no time to gloat, no time to say anything to him. She'd simply raised her gun as he began to smirk and shot him in the forehead. It was finally over, and very anticlimactic.

Molly Hooper was thirty-six years old when she returned to London. She'd asked that Mycroft meet her and give her the much-desired update on her family and friends. Her brother would be thirty-eight in a few weeks. He'd had another girl in her absence, her oldest niece already seventeen years old. Two boys and two girls. Seemed fitting since Molly was unlikely to have children of her own. She hoped her parents were, if not proud, at least forgiving of her wherever they were. John and Mary had one more child, a little boy who would turn two in the fall and was already a menace to his three-year-old sister (She could almost hear John's voice. Almost four, Rosie. That's right, four years old) Mrs. Hudson had retired south of London with her sister's family. She seemed happy was Mycroft's estimation. Lestrade had divorced his wife for good and had a new beau that was not a serial philanderer. Everyone was good.

"And Sherlock?" she inquired tiredly.

"He is the same as ever," Mycroft said softly. "He has had no romantic entanglements since your death, Molly."

Molly nodded, not really expecting different news. It had been so hard for him to accept his soulmate the first time. Had she really expected him to attempt to find one a second time? Still, she'd hoped. The colours were beautiful even if her dreams were filled with blood and tears.

"I notice that you can see the colours now as well Mycroft."

Mycroft simply nodded. "An admirable woman," was his only comment.

"And my flat?"

"Sold. I had kept the property under a pseudonym but Sherlock discovered it and was…angry that I dared keep anything of yours. A nice couple from Prague has been living there for the past year."

"I see. And Toby?" She hadn't thought of Toby in months, too focused on ending everything that had to do with Moriarty. Still, she missed him now. She hoped he was still alive.

"Quite curious," Mycroft commented. "He went to your brother's family as requested but the poor thing was terrorized by your youngest nephew. Sherlock took possession of him two years ago, and he now lives quite comfortably at Baker Street."

Molly swallowed hard, a lump forming in her throat. He'd taken care of Toby for her. If that wasn't some proof that he'd cared for her, she wasn't sure what was. "Have you told him?"

"Of your sudden rebirth? Of course I haven't. I'll leave that to you, Molly. I'd like all my limbs to remain on my person."

"He's going to figure it out," Molly chided. "I'm not the same Molly that he knew."

"You are," Mycroft insisted. "In all the ways that matter." Molly looked away from him. "to Baker Street then, Molly?"

"I don't think I'm ready."

"And you'll never be ready. Rip it off like a band aid, as Mummy says."

Molly sighed, knowing that Mycroft was right. The worst Sherlock could do was kick her out of his flat. And if she was lucky, she could at least give him back the colours that he'd surely missed before he did so. "To Baker Street."

Mycroft assured her that Sherlock was home when he dropped her off at the kerb. He told her to call him if it ended poorly. Molly nodded briefly in acknowledgement before he drove off, her attention focused on the door in front of her. She didn't bother knocking. Sherlock was sure to have heard the car she arrived in, and would probably be expecting his brother from the sound of the car's exhaust or something. The door was open so she entered silently, her footsteps soundless out of habit as she made her way upstairs.

Her was sitting with his back to her, his violin resting in his lap. She almost cried when she saw Toby, who shot to her the moment she stepped in the door. His familiar purr soothed her, even as her hands shook when she leaned down to pet him. Maybe he was being his normal affectionate self, but she chose to believe that he remembered her even after three years apart. She'd raised him from a kitten after all. She did not speak, even if Sherlock was aware of her presence. Molly approached him, reaching for his neck to touch him before he could react. She only had one goal tonight. Give Sherlock the colours back and leave if he so wished. His gloved hand shot up before she could make contact and he gripped her hand with bruising force.

"Who are you, and what do you want?" Molly's knees weakened at the familiar voice. Sherlock. An angry Sherlock.

"I wanted to give you back the colours," Molly admitted. She didn't feel like hiding anymore. It had been years of not seeing him, years without hearing his voice and she missed him.

He stilled, his hand still clenched around hers. "Not possible." He murmured. "You're dead."

"Obviously, I'm not." Molly whimpered in pain from him crushing her hand. "Sherlock, can you please let go? You're hurting me."

He released her and stood, his back to her as he continued to speak softly. "Molly Hooper is dead. She was stabbed seven times with a dull-edged knife in a back alley, less than a quarter-kilometer from St. Barts. Her funeral was a small affair, attended by her brother and his family, as well as a few select co-workers and friends. I did not attend. John assures me it was properly solemn and quite a lovely, if sad, send off. Everyone cried."

"Sherlock," Molly sighed in growing frustration. "I'm alive, clearly. Mycroft-"

"Mycroft?" Sherlock's voice wobbled. "Ah, of course." He turned to face her and she took in his appearance with greedy eyes. He'd lost weight. His cheekbones sharper, his face leaner with the lines around his eyes and lips and across his forehead more pronounced. He looked older, but held himself in much the same way as he always had. But his eyes were cold, empty of any affection he'd gained for her. He stared at her as he had the first time she'd met him, cool, detached, uncaring.

Molly wasn't sure what she'd been expecting. Not a declaration obviously. She hadn't expected him to suddenly realize his love for her in her absence. She knew he'd cared for her, the last time she'd had contact with him had always aroused conflicting feelings in her. Joy that she meant more than she'd thought, grief at how her death was affecting him, and guilt that he had to experience something so unnecessary if not for Moriarty's continued existence. So, no declaration then, as emotion was not something Sherlock expressed with ease. But she'd wished he'd at least acknowledge her return with more than his usual detachment.

"And where has Mycroft been hiding you for three years?" He shook his head before she could respond. "Never mind, it's inconsequential." His eyes skimmed her form, making deductions for himself.

Molly wavered under his gaze, not sure how to react to him. She desperately wanted to wrap her arms around him, to bury her nose in his familiar Belstaff and just breathe him in. She hadn't expected that he would allow her more than a brief hug, now she wasn't sure if he would allow her to touch him at all. His entire demeanor told her to stay away. She stepped forward carefully.

"That's quite close enough Dr. Hooper. Or have you chosen to give that up as well?" he asked with derision.

Molly flinched in disbelief. How could he even imply that dying had been her choice? "Sherlock, I died, it wasn't some vacation!"

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "That remains to be seen. You can see yourself to the door." He turned away from her.

Molly stared incredulously at his back, before marching towards him. He turned at her approach, his eyebrow raised in bored query. Her hand swung back to slap him, but either he was expecting the move or simply faster. He caught her wrist with a gloved hand and used her momentum to force her back. "Don't ever touch me. I don't need the colours. Whatever your noble intentions were, Molly, forget them. I've become quite used to the world in your absence. I don't need them, and I certainly don't need you." His brow furrowed as Toby meowed, sitting on the floor between them, his tail switching in agitation. "I'm certain my brother," he sneered as if the word disgusted him, "-will see to your future accommodations. He can inform me as where to send the feline when you are settled."

Molly swallowed hard as Sherlock stalked to his bedroom, the door clicking shut behind him in finality. She stood in shock, staring at the door that hid Sherlock from her. She listened as he started to destroy his room, glass shattering and wood snapping as he seethed. She hesitated, wavering between trying to explain and letting him vent. He roared, a noise twisted with equal parts rage and despair. Molly could not stay. A sob erupted from her throat, and she moved quickly to escape from his flat. There was no way she was leaving Toby behind. He meowed in protest when she scooped him up and held him too tight in her desperate exit. She sent a text onehanded as she went down the stairs. His car arrived less than a minute later, the back door opening as it stopped in front of her. Molly slid into the backseat without a backward glance.

Mycroft eyed Toby with distaste, but he'd become slightly more sensitive in the year since he'd accidentally touched his soulmate. As soon as the door of the car closed Toby squirmed free and Molly collapsed onto Mycroft's shoulder, her body shaking with sobs. Mycroft didn't offer any inane reassurances, simply wrapped one arm around her and let her cry against him. He nodded to the driver to leave and watched the door of Sherlock's flat with a grim expression until they were out of sight.

XX

Sherlock paused in his destruction when he heard the crunch of tires. He caught sight of the tail end of Mycroft's personal car as it was taking Molly and Mycroft away from him, where it was safe. Safe for whom, he couldn't say. He was fighting a battle against a surge of emotions he hadn't been prepared to deal with tonight. Anger that Mycroft and Molly had deceived him so expertly and so easily. Grief that reemerged at the sight of Molly after so long. A spark of hope that he hated himself for at the clear evidence she was alive and well. He felt joy, he could not deny it, but it was followed by a sort of familiar emptiness. Molly's rebirth ultimately changed nothing. She'd left him and he hadn't lied when he'd told her that he was used to her absence. He'd built up his walls thicker and stronger in her absence. He'd gone through a period of grieving as all soulmates must. He might be a sociopath, high-functioning or not, but he was also a human with the same weaknesses in biology as anyone else. Molly's death had nearly destroyed him and, despite his self-promise to be kind, had nearly destroyed his relationships with John and Mrs. Hudson, with Lestrade and Mary.

Yes, it was better if he set the boundaries now, drawing his line in the dirt. Safer to treat her as any other inane person that demanded his attention. He'd cared for her, and it had brought him nothing but turmoil. He promised to never make such a foolish mistake again. An unfortunate side-effect of having Mycroft as her confidante, was the realization that Molly could not be simply pushed out of his life. His brother had become positively domestic after he'd made the mistake of touching Anthea without gloves on. He'd been oddly in support of Sherlock's refusal to seek out companionship when John, Mrs. Hudson and even Lestrade had urged him to. Now Sherlock understood. The man had known that Molly was alive, and that she would return to him.

He frowned. No, Mycroft had shown no signs of deception whenever he commented on Molly Hooper. Always in the past tense, always delicate whenever she was brought up by acquaintances. No, he hadn't known Molly would return to him. Sherlock brought up the current image he had of Molly. The lighting had been admittedly dismal, but the differences in her appearance were clear. She was thinner, though not in a concerning way. She gained weight in muscle, and she'd clearly had some training courtesy of MI-6. Her skin was still milky white, but visible freckles had sprouted across her cheeks and backs of her hands due to an extensive time spent under the sun. Her eyes, now a faded grey devoid of any colour as they'd been when they first met, were harder, echoing an emptiness he shared. She'd killed then, and by Mycroft's direction.

The anger returned threefold at the thought of Molly in mortal danger. It did not matter that she'd died already. Mycroft had somehow resuscitated her, falsified her death certificate and spirited her away for some reprehensible purpose. He'd taken the colours far away to where Sherlock did not know to follow. Sherlock paced, his mind cataloguing Molly's appearance without the colours to aid him. She'd expected something from him. Words of love perhaps? A gesture of affection? He could no longer offer anything of the sort. The Sherlock Holmes that had been so desperate for his Molly three years before had been shut away.

But she was alive, a voice that sounded sneakily like John's whispered to him. Sherlock scowled in frustration, his fingers trembling in need of a cigarette. She probably hated him now, Sherlock decided. She'd been trying to give him the colours back, and he'd rejected her soundly, responded to her with arrogance and detachment. He closed his eyes and played back the moments in his mind palace. He could blame his reactions on his shock, on his confusion but that would be a lie. He'd lashed out like a child. Molly had stolen so much from him and he'd simply wanted to pay her back with pain that still could not equal the amount he'd felt.

What to do now? He paused at the eerie silence of the flat. He'd grown accustomed to Toby's presence and had used the cat as a crutch in his worst moments, clutching him desperately when he felt Molly's absence most. The cat was never entirely quiet, snoring or purring when he was resting, his soft paws padding across the floor as he moved around the apartment. It was well past his feeding time and Toby had learned to be loud in his distress at being starved, at least it appeared so to the plump, overfed cat. He searched around the flat, careful not to stare at the spot Molly had occupied such a short time ago. He even called the cat, clicking his tongue and shaking his bag of treats. It was no use. Molly had clearly absconded with his cat.

"Not my cat," he reminded himself plaintively. Molly's cat. But Toby had felt like his, after so many months of getting used to each other's presence and adjusting to each other's idiosyncrasies. Although, that was mostly Sherlock adjusting to Toby's demands. Cats were surprisingly demanding creatures.

He was more clearheaded now, in a better state to hear what had kept Molly away for so long. He had his suspicions, and despaired if they were true. Molly, sweet Molly Hooper had always been intended to be kept from the darker side of things, despite her odd fascination with death. She was too pure, too kind and sweet. And Mycroft had thrown her to the wolves. He could not have orchestrated her death. Sherlock would have ended him if he had, blood relative or not. No, he'd simply taken advantage of a situation he could use to his benefit, at the detriment of both his brother's mental health and Molly's life. Molly could not be kept from fault. No matter Mycroft's persuasive methods, he would have given her a choice. She'd clearly chosen to maintain the fiction of her death. She'd seen the consequences of her death, had stepped away from his frantic reach and walked away from him in his one moment of need. She'd known that she could fix everything with a simple touch and she'd chosen not to.

You would do the same, John's voice prodded. You've done the same, it accused. And he had. His fall had resulted in his temporary death. He did not consider that the colours had been taken from Molly too at one point. She'd felt the sever of their bond and had been struck with the same inconsolable grief. But he'd been quick to end her pain, to grasp her hand the first chance he could to ease some of the pain she must have been feeling. She never mentioned the loss of colours. He'd started wearing more green and blue after that, noticing that she had gained a fascination with those particular colours. He did not need to deduce why, though it pleased him that she could never stop herself from staring at him when he was in the room with her, even if her ex-fiancé was beside her.

What to do. Molly had the unfortunate fate of being his soulmate. He'd never wanted a soulmate, had fought against the idea all his life. Even after he'd touched Molly for the first time and stared into her brown eyes with fascination, (cataloguing every colour, and subsequently that entire moment, into his mind palace) he'd refused to let her talk of it. He knew he'd hurt her, but he was convinced that her infatuation with him would fade in time if he refused to reciprocate her sentiments in any way. And Molly Hooper had surprised him, clinging to her feelings even when it was made clear to her that he found her…inadequate. Never inadequate, perfect in every way, John's voice sing-songed in his head.

"Shut up John," Sherlock muttered in exasperation. "Molly Hooper is far from perfect." And that was true. She wore very unflattering clothing, stuttered and blushed excessively, not to mention her physical attributes he'd previously disparaged. Liar, liar, liar, John accused him gleefully. "This is getting quite ridiculous." John wasn't even here and he was still acting as Sherlock's emotional guide to all things sentimental. Not that he could disagree with John's voice in his head. Obviously, it was his own thoughts and truths that acted as influence. He'd found Molly physically desirable even before he jumped off the roof of St. Barts. He found her stutter and blush quite…adorable if he were to label it, and was quite satisfied that she wore clothing that brought less attention to how pleasing her figure was. Less competition.

His thoughts were interrupted by a brisk knock at the door and Sherlock almost yelled at Mrs. Hudson to answer it when he remembered morosely that she'd retired to her sisters a few months previous. He sighed, fully expecting it to be John come to check on him after Molly's reveal that she was alive. He opened the door with a disgruntled greeting halted at the sight of his brother. Sherlock glared at him, his fist clenching at his side. Mycroft rolled his eyes and moved to push past him into the flat. Sherlock wasn't quite sure what came over him and he was swinging his fist before he really understood what he was doing. There was a satisfying thwack as his fist hit Mycroft's cheek and grazed his nose, snapping Mycroft's neck back. Sherlock almost laughed at the shock and disgruntled pride that showed on Mycroft's face. He yanked a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed at the blood leaking out of his nose.

"If that's it?" Mycroft gestured for Sherlock to proceed him. Sherlock almost hit him again, but he wouldn't get a second hit in.

Sherlock followed him petulantly, scowling darkly as Mycroft seated himself in John's chair. "You've come to apologize." Sherlock stated bluntly.

Mycroft's lip curled in displeasure. "If that's what you need?"

Sherlock snarled, reminded of his brief conversation with John three years previously. "What I needed Mycroft was Molly Hooper alive and still at St. Barts for the last three years where she belonged."

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably, "Yes, well, I wasn't expecting her to be gone quite so long." He sighed at Sherlock's expression. "Believe whatever you would like Sherlock but it was for your own good."

Sherlock grabbed the closest thing to him and threw it at Mycroft's head. Clearly, he'd been expecting some sort of reprisal to his words and he ducked it easily, wincing as the vase shattered behind him.

"Yes Sherlock, I mean exactly what I said, even if you don't want to hear it. You were never going to do anything about Molly being your soulmate and we both know that. You were breaking the poor girl's heart repeatedly with every rejection and every refusal to just admit she was yours, whether you meant to or not. I was simply doing her a favor."

"By placing her in harm's way?" Sherlock thundered.

Mycroft's gaze flickered away, a clear sign of his guilt and discomfort. "I never forced her to do anything she wasn't willing to. I never pressured her into anything, quite the contrary. I was willing to set her up with a life far from London and far from you. I'd assumed that you would discover my deception sooner rather than later and the decision was left up to you to follow her…or not." At Sherlock's dissatisfied expression he continued. "Things did not go per plan. You did not go to Molly Hooper's funeral, your soulmate's funeral and discover that her closed casket was, well, empty. And Molly did not want to settle somewhere and simply do nothing when she was apprised of the situation regarding Moriarty."

"What situation?" Sherlock asked tiredly, finally moving to sit down in his own chair. He felt this was something he would need to sit for, Molly's hardened eyes a reminder just how he'd failed her. To think he might have prevented this.

"Moriarty did not die." Mycroft said bluntly. "Whatever you thought you saw was faked."

"Impossible!" Sherlock insisted.

"Not impossible Sherlock. I discovered that he was alive and well, still plotting and rebuilding his network while you remained completely unaware. And I knew that you had people that you now cared for, too many to squirrel away until he was taken care of. And I knew that if you remained unaware of Moriarty's plotting that he would leave you in peace until he was ready for another confrontation. And then Molly died. A violent thief that chose Molly over any number of alternate targets simply because she walked into an abandoned alley." Mycroft rubbed his temples, a clear indication of a growing migraine. "The man who killed Molly was tortured and murdered quite gruesomely by a fellow prisoner who was serving three consecutive life sentences with no chance of parole. I did my best to avenge Molly, though she was not grateful for it."

Sherlock nodded. Molly would not see anyone tortured, no matter the circumstance. She believed, quite naively, in the justice system. Or she once had. "I can't forgive you." Sherlock spoke candidly and Mycroft nodded in acknowledgment. The last three years had been torture on his psyche to the detriment of the work. John, Mary, Mrs. Hudson, and even Lestrade had watched him with pitying expressions for months after Molly – he couldn't even think it, despite the passage of time. Even with the revelation that Molly was here in London, alive and well. And he still had no idea what to do. It wasn't as simple as touching her to gain back the colours and continuing as they had three years previous, which had been Molly's intent. He wouldn't be able to survive the loss of her again.

"I can't tell you what to do," Mycroft said, clearly reading his conflict. "But Molly Hooper has always been more than you've realized, more than anyone could have imagined. Forget the work, forget the past three years if you need to. I will do my best to keep her safe for the rest of her life, and she would never leave you again willingly. She's been waiting three years to return to you, knowing all along that everything she worked for might mean nothing to you, always believing that you would reject her. As much as your last meeting dispelled some of her fears, she has never truly believed that you love her." Mycroft raised a hand to halt Sherlock's protest. "It's apparent to everyone but Molly Hooper that you love her. I would ask that you don't waste this opportunity again. Very few people have been given second chances, much less third ones."

Mycroft left him to think, the door clicking shut as Sherlock lost himself in thought. It wasn't until much later that Sherlock snorted in sudden realization. Mycroft hadn't even apologized.

XX

Molly had left Toby with Mycroft, who'd assured her that he would be well taken care of. She was sure that Toby would be allowed in her hotel with Mycroft's exerted influence, but she'd known she wouldn't end up there, at least not right away. She wasn't sure what to expect as she knocked on the Watsons' door nervously. Their reaction to Sherlock's sudden rebirth had been less than favorable, Sherlock's black eye and his near-death experience had been equal parts hilarious and frightening. She still hadn't completely forgiven Mary for making the colours flicker in and out, no matter how briefly. She'd almost lost Sherlock twice.

John answered the door with a huge smile, holding his youngest in his arms. Molly's heart skipped a beat at the adorable toddler with his thumb stuck in his mouth. John's smile dropped at the sight of her, his eyes widening in disbelief. John was always so easy to read, even without Sherlock's ability of deduction. She could see the confusion and anger that flickered across his features as he put his son down and shooed him back into the house before closing the door firmly behind him and folding his arms over his chest.

"Does Sherlock know?"

Molly nodded, swallowing hard at the evidence of the passage of time. John's hair was completely gray now, and she'd never met the boy he'd pushed inside. "I'm sorry." She really didn't know what else to say. How could he forgive her when he'd already been through this once already? They'd never been close like he and Sherlock had obviously, but he'd had to deal with the outcome of her death. He'd been there for Sherlock while she had not. It didn't matter that she'd been trying to protect Sherlock and the people that she'd held dear. She remembered how inconsolable John had been, and could imagine how irascible Sherlock had become after she'd gone away. Sherlock was difficult to deal with on a good day, and John was a saint for taking care of him in her absence. It seemed he would have to continue to do so, now that Sherlock had made it clear he wanted nothing to do with her.

To Molly's horror, she erupted into tears. "He hates me, no worse than that, he feels nothing for me."

She was enfolded into John's arms and took comfort from his warm embrace and soothing words. She had no idea why she was here instead of at the hotel Mycroft had arranged for her, or even heading towards her brother and his family who she missed dearly. She didn't regret it as John ushered her inside, holding onto her as she sobbed all over him. Mary's sudden gasp only made Molly cry harder. It felt surreal to finally be back, to see her friends after so long. After everything she'd done, she couldn't imagine that she deserved to be here, with John and Mary fussing over her. She was half-carried to one of the children's rooms and found herself tucked into bed. John gave her one last hug, and Mary kissed her forehead. Molly was too exhausted to reply as they told her they would talk in the morning.

Her dreams were void of color, of the fear and anger that had been so prevalent in them for the past three years.

Molly was awoken by shrill giggles and John's laugh. She was disoriented for a moment, taking in the muted blue walls with a frown of confusion. John's voice sounded again, the words spoken too low to be deciphered. Still, Molly smiled tremulously, almost overcome by tears again as she took in the room she'd woken up in. It was blue, the walls covered with crayon clearly drawn by a child's hand. The bed she was in was narrow and short, her feet dangling off the side. The blanket that covered her had smiling engines in different colors. Molly rolled to her feet, wincing as her bra wire dug into the skin under her arm. She was still fully dressed, her clothes rumpled.

She made her way into the hallway, walking towards the kitchen and inspecting the house she'd never really seen before her death. It was surprisingly homey considering Mary's previous work and John's daily exposure to murder and the general chaos that came with working with Sherlock Holmes. But she could see how the pair of them would need an escape from whatever ghosts had previously haunted them. As she got closer she realized that John and Mary were speaking about her, their children chattering from another room in the background.

"I don't know what to feel, Mary. You saw Sherlock!"

Mary sighed in clear exasperation. "And whose fault was that? Certainly, not Molly's. She died John. It's not like she had a choice in the matter."

John huffed and Molly could imagine his petulant expression. "And she waited three years to announce she was still alive?"

"John, I'm sure Molly has a good explanation," Mary's voice grew louder, "Isn't that right, Molly?"

Molly shuffled into the kitchen, her face flushed in embarrassment at being caught eavesdropping. "Umm…good morning?"

John avoided eye contact but he offered her a weak smile and a mumbled reply. Mary strode to her, enveloping her into a tight embrace. "It's good to see you Molly. You don't know how we've missed you." Mary pressed a quick kiss to her cheek and ushered her to sit down at their table.

Molly bowed her head, picking at a loose thread on her jumper and eyeing John from her peripherals. He looked uncomfortable, avoiding glancing at Molly as he sipped his tea and pretended to read the paper. Mary bustled around, preparing Molly a cup of tea and placing it in front of her with a sympathetic smile. "I'm sorry for John, Molly. He's just trying to process things in his own way. You know he's only thinking of Sherlock's well-being."

"Yes, well…" John coughed and glanced up from his paper. "I know you must have had a good reason Molly, but Sherlock did not handle your death very well."

Mary rolled her eyes. "Isn't that an understatement." She squeezed Molly's shoulder. "Sherlock was unmanageable in your absence. Damn man almost killed himself and John numerous times with his recklessness."

"Hey!" John protested.

"Hush John. Molly, why don't you tell us what you've been doing the last three years. If you're allowed to of course."

John's eyebrows raised in query, his eyes moving back and forth from Mary to Molly in confusion.

Molly frowned, "I'm not actually sure if I'm allowed to say anything or not. Mycroft didn't say."

"Mycroft?" John asked in surprise. "Mycroft knew you were alive?"

Mary made a silencing gesture. "Well how else did you expect Molly was able to hide it from Sherlock? And Molly, if he didn't say you weren't to tell us, then I'm sure it's fine. I'm absolutely certain that he knows where you spent the night."

Molly nodded, almost expecting Mycroft to appear around the corner and steal her away or something. She squared her shoulders and sighed. "Moriarty didn't die."

"What?!" John choked on his sip of tea and Mary started slapping him on the back as she gestured for Molly to continue with clear curiosity.

"I killed him," Molly stated bluntly, feeling a little concerned as John's faced turned an interesting shade of red. "It took longer than I'd hoped."

"And you're leaving quite a bit out in-between," Mary observed with a raised eyebrow.

"It's not important," Molly murmured with a shaky voice. She was still trying to forget everything that came in-between. She really did not want to explain the rest to John and Mary. Their opinion of her was already low enough.

"Wait," John yelled. "You can't just leave it at that. You killed Moriarty?" His short interrogation was interrupted by the matching outburst of tears from his children, who'd wandered unnoticed into the kitchen to investigate their houseguest.

Mary hustled to them, scooping their daughter up with a pointed nod towards their son. John moved to pick him up, the atmosphere heavy as they worked to calm their children with soothing croons and comforting words.

"It's okay, mummy was just talking to our old friend Molly. Remember she's uncle Sherlock's Molly from the pictures?"

Molly watched Rosie as she scrutinized her with a child's open curiosity. "Moll?"

John smiled as if Rosie had said the most brilliant thing ever. "Yes, Rosie. That's Aunty Molly!"

Rosie grinned, reaching for Molly eagerly. "Moll!" Mary passed her to Molly with a wide smile at her daughter's enthusiasm.

Molly took the girl, blinking tears away as the little girl chattered to her about seemingly nothing. Her brother hid his face against John's shoulder, peeking at Molly bashfully.

"We've been showing them pictures of you." John offered, bouncing his son in his arms. "Rosie seemed to instinctively recognize you right from the beginning. But then, she's smitten with Sherlock too." John's ears turned red, and he coughed in embarrassment.

Molly pressed a kiss to Rosie's head, tears dropping into her hair. "But why?" she asked. "I was dead."

"Because you're our friend, part of our family even if you were gone. I'm just sorry we never showed you how much you meant to us when you were, well, alive."

"Thank you." Molly whispered, squeezing Rosie just a little too tightly. Rosie squirmed in her arms, ready to be put down. Molly set her down with another quick kiss to her cheek.

John put his son down, the boy shooting Molly a shy smile before chasing after his sister into the den.

Molly swallowed hard as she thought again of all the time she'd missed. If she'd stayed, then maybe their son wouldn't be so shy. Maybe she'd have her own little girl or boy right now. She shook off the wistful image of a little boy with Sherlock's dark curls. "I really should be going," she sighed. Toby was probably driving whoever was watching him crazy.

"You haven't even had breakfast." Mary protested.

Molly waved her off. "I really couldn't eat right now. I need to meet with Mycroft and figure out where I'm going to live and work."

Mary nodded, pulling Molly into a tight hug. "Okay. But whatever happens with Sherlock, promise me that you'll stay in touch. I would love for you to get to know the kids."

Molly squeezed her back. "Of course," she whispered. "I'd love to."

John tugged her away from Mary and hugged her, if a little stiffly. "It's good to see you Molly. I mean it."

"You too, John." She wiped her tears away with an embarrassed smile. "I'll let you guys know as soon as I do what's happening."

XX

Molly left the Watson's feeling a little lighter than she had when she'd arrived. She had their support, even if Sherlock was unable to forgive her. She hadn't realized just how much she'd been counting on their support. Her life back in London would be a lot emptier without them and the children she already adored. She alerted Mycroft that she was ready to go and a car arrived soon after. She slid into the backseat with a sigh. Mycroft sent his apologies via text that he was unable to meet her in person but he'd sent a driver that was familiar to her. She smiled at him, his name escaping her and requested he drive her to the address that Mycroft had sent her. A quick Google search turned up no hotel results so she assumed it was her new flat. She hoped that Toby was there to greet her. The area was known to her, even if she wasn't particularly familiar with it. It was in the opposite direction of her former flat and in an area that had previously been way out of her paygrade. But working for the government had its perks, even if most of the work she'd done for them had strictly off the books. She'd still been compensated generously for her "services" and she suspected that it was all Mycroft's doing. She couldn't make herself feel too guilty about it. The last three years had been a perpetual mixture of Purgatory and Hell on Earth and if she gained a bit of a financial cushion to fall back on in her search for a new job then all the better.

The flat was on the seventh floor and she felt a little giddy looking up at her new home. It was utilitarian and chrome and glass and despite the lack of Baker Street charm, she was ready to love it. The driver gave her a set of keys and a flat number before he drove away. Molly watched the retreating car with a sense of trepidation. This was the first time she'd truly been alone in London since her return without a chaperone or Mycroft beside her. She was sure there were people watching the flat but she refused to fall back into familiar patterns of hyperawareness and suspicion. She was finally home on British soil and she deserved a break.

She unlocked her door, taking a moment to stroke the metal numbers adorning her door. She was greeted by a plaintive call for attention. She was barely two steps in the door when Toby was winding his way through her legs, purring loudly and being a general nuisance. She laughed at his antics and scooped him up despite his immediate yowl of discontent. He hated being picked up but surprisingly didn't immediately squirm out of her arms, rubbing his face against her cheek with a rumbled purr. Molly forced back a sob, burying her face in his fur as she carried him to her new living room. She sat down, placing Toby carefully on her lap and smiled at him as he immediately began circling around, trying to find a perfect spot. It was nice to see evidence that he remembered her. He was friendly but never comfortable enough with strangers to have them invade his space so indiscriminately. He preferred to show affection on his own terms. She thought of touring her new home, noticing that much of her stuff had already been placed around to provide a sense of familiarity despite the new environment. Pictures of her parents were resting on the mantle of her new fireplace alongside updated pictures of Dan and his family, as well as John and Mary's small family.

Molly couldn't hold back her tears as she took notice of the latest edition of a younger Sherlock and Mycroft, Sherlock with an expression of perpetual boredom and Mycroft wearing an insincere smile. Despite the severity of their expressions, Molly giggled, overcome by an overwhelming bout of hysteria. Her giggles erupted into full-belly laughs, and Toby jumped from her lap with a disgruntled meow before settling somewhere to her right. She tried to focus but her body betrayed her, laughs turning to weeping too easily as the entire situation finally caught up with her. She wasn't sure if Mycroft meant to torment her or reward her as she stared at Sherlock's image, but it was too much either way. She got up and placed the picture flat against the mantle, unable to look at the man she loved a second longer. He no longer cared for her, and she didn't need the reminder just then.

Toby gave a mew of greeting, jumping from the couch as if he were still a kitten and bounding happily to someone behind her. Molly froze, panicked at the thought of another confrontation so soon when she was still feeling fragile and ready to shatter.

"Please Sherlock," she paused uncertain how she wanted to finish that sentence. Please don't break my heart again. Please allow me one day to pity myself before I have to pull myself together and pretend that it didn't hurt to see him.

"I came to apologize," his deep voice, full of something bordering contrition made her shiver.

"There's no need Sherlock. I understand that my return must have been a shock." She closed her eyes and wished and wished that he would just leave. She couldn't stand kindness from him, not now

"I shouldn't have reacted the way I did."

Molly shrugged jerkily. "At least you didn't punch me," she said humorlessly. She froze when Sherlock's hand was placed on her shoulder very carefully. His fingers were so close to touching her neck, so close to what she'd offered him before but had been rejected so harshly.

She stepped away from him and turned to face him with a closed expression. She wrapped her arms around her stomach and knew that Sherlock was taking every movement, analyzing everything from her stance, expression and even her rumpled clothing. Whatever he saw made him wince, and he looked away with a guilty expression. Molly refused to feel remorse and lifted her chin in defiance. "So apologize if you're going to apologize Sherlock. I don't have the energy to deal with a lengthy interrogation right now."

"Is that what you think I came here for?" Sherlock asked with a bewildered expression. "You're my soulmate Molly," he announced heatedly.

"And I've been that since the day we met, since the Christmas party where you ridiculed me once again in front of all our friends. I don't see how that changes anything." Molly sighed, rubbing her temples in an attempt to dispel the sudden migraine that was threatening her. "If you want the colours back Sherlock, you need only ask. I'm not vindictive enough to deny them to you."

A multitude of expressions crossed Sherlock's face: confusion, anger, fear, sorrow. She didn't know how to respond to what she saw, and yet she found she could still feel hopeful after all these years. "I don't need the colours, Molly," Sherlock insisted in frustration.

"Then what do you need Sherlock?" Molly asked, remembering their conversation from three years ago. "Tell me."

"I need you, Molly Hooper. I'd live the rest of my life without colour if it meant that I had you." Sherlock stepped forward, watching for any signs of rejection and finding none. He pulled her against his chest, nose buried in her hair as he breathed her in.

Molly clung to him, crying messily into his Belstaff. "I need you too Sherlock."

XX

EPILOGUE

Sherlock watched Molly perform the autopsy with appreciation of her attention to detail, the clean and precise cuts and the furrowed concentration as she focused on her work. John stood beside him and looked uneasily between Sherlock's smile and Molly's slight form.

"Please don't tell me you're thinking inappropriate thoughts about Molly while she's cutting open a body, Sherlock." John whispered exasperated. By Molly's quick snort of amusement, he realized that he wasn't exactly as quiet as he hoped.

"Then I won't tell you," Sherlock murmured, still focused on Molly.

John shuddered, grateful that Sherlock had found someone that was as fascinated with dead bodies as he was. At least he no longer had to worry about body parts sitting innocuously beside the carton of eggs in the fridge. "I'm heading to the canteen. Anyone want any coffee?"

"Black, two sugars for me," Sherlock offered, without looking away from Molly "And milk and sugar for Molly, thanks."

John threw up his hands in exasperation. "I better not find you two snogging when I get back," he warned Sherlock as he walked to the door. But he couldn't help but be pleased that Sherlock had managed a thanks without even thinking about it. Molly was good for him.

"You better take the long way back," Sherlock called after him.

John sighed, secretly delighted by the marital bliss displayed by Sherlock and his new wife Molly Hooper-Holmes. Who knew they would have reached this point when Molly was dead only a few years ago? He winced at his own thoughts.

"Good, he's gone." Sherlock announced to Molly.

"And I still have an autopsy to perform," Molly reminded him with a smile hidden by her mask.

"He's dead, it's not like he's in a hurry to find out how he died." Sherlock offered flippantly. He tugged the mask from Molly's face and pulled her closer.

Molly's smile widened but she escaped from his grasp, walking away from the cold body that awaited her inspection. "I already know how he died Sherlock, as you very well know. But his family is insisting his heart attack was really a conspiracy to commit murder." She threw her gloves in the garbage and removed her apron as she walked towards the door. "Their insistence might have something to do with his newly changed will that cut everyone but his daughter out," she murmured.

"Well of course it does," Sherlock said in dismissal. "I say it was good that he caught on to their greed before he died. His daughter was the only one that truly cared about him. They tried to hire me, but it would have been useless."

Molly shook her head sadly. "Poor fellow."

"No, poor Sherlock," he positively whined as he waited for her to wash up. "I've been here for hours and I've yet to receive any attention from my wife."

Molly laughed, finding his sullen attitude endearing. They were still in the honeymoon phase after all and he was surprisingly demanding of her time in and out of the bedroom. "What am I going to do with you?" she wondered as she cupped his face in her hands.

Sherlock smirked, turning his face and kissing her palm. "I have a few suggestions. The broom closet did star in one of your fantasies, if I'm remembering correctly."

"Sherlock!" Molly looked around for John and blushed. "What if John was here?"

"What?" he asked innocently before lowering his head and tilting her chin towards him. He silenced any further objections by kissing Molly. He gave a pleased growl as she conceded eagerly. He lifted her easily and set her down on the closest surface, stepping between her legs while tugging on the hairband that kept her hair out of her face. He loved when her hair was down, sinking his fingers into it as her arms smoothed up his chest and wrapped around his neck.

He pulled back for air, admiring the flush on Molly's cheeks. "So beautiful, Molly" he murmured. "I love you."

Tears threatened to fall as Molly returned the sentiment. "I love you too Sherlock." She still wasn't used to hearing the words so easily from him even after two years properly together. She pulled him down for another kiss when they were interrupted by an exaggerated cough.

"Please don't tell me you were about to defile that counter." John pleaded, holding two cups of coffee in his hands.

"I told you to take the long way back." Sherlock said with a frown.

"I did," John insisted. "I wasted at least 5 extra minutes."

Molly giggled at Sherlock's disgruntled snort and pushed him away so she could hop off the counter. "Thank you for the coffee John. I appreciate it." John preened as she took the cups from him and kissed his cheek in thanks.

"You're welcome Molly." John shot a dirty look at Sherlock.

Sherlock pouted as Molly handed his coffee to him. "I don't have any pending cases," at John's eyeroll, Sherlock amended his statement. "I don't have any interesting pending cases. Nothing above a six."

Molly shook her head at his impatience. "And I'll be off as soon as I've completed this autopsy, and not a second sooner Sherlock."

Sherlock glowered at John's snicker. "You can go home John. I'll wait for Molly."

John looked like he was about to protest, ready to remind Sherlock about the case they were currently working on. Sherlock waved his hand. "I solved the case while you were gone to the canteen. I'll text the details later."

John sighed in exasperation but was pleased to be going home so early in the day. "I'll be heading off then. It was good to see you Molly."

Molly was already back to work and she mumbled a distracted reply, waving her forceps in goodbye. Sherlock nodded at John as he left, focusing once again on Molly.

When she finished a short while later, Sherlock waited for her patiently as she changed and put away her equipment. Molly offered him a bright smile as she pulled on her coat. "You didn't have to wait Sherlock."

"I wanted to," he said simply, smiling back at Molly with affection.

Molly blinked away tears at his sincerity. Sherlock frowned in confusion. "Molly?"

"It's nothing, it's just…I'm happy." She kissed Sherlock's cheek, linking her arm through his as they walked out of St. Barts.

Sherlock nodded in understanding. "So am I."

They walked out, surrounded by the brightness and depth of colour.

Thank you for reading!