"I hate you!" Molly screamed, tears streaming down her face. She tore out of the flat, down the stairs and out into the rain.

Sherlock felt quite sick to his stomach. He'd been dreading Molly's homecoming all day. Toby had escaped, and it was entirely Sherlock's fault. The cat had done what he'd usually done, and gotten into Sherlock's laboratory (the flat below) and ruined a very precarious experiment that Sherlock had been working on for seven months. Anger getting the better of him, he'd booted the cat out into the rain while he cleaned up the mess left in the cat's wake. It took him all of two minutes to realize his horrendous mistake, the weather outside, and his wife's reaction to what he'd done.

He'd tramped up and down Baker Street, calling for the cat to no avail. Now Molly was following suit, hours later. Sherlock didn't need to do the math to figure out that Toby was, in all probability, dead. He'd been a country cat, and then a strictly indoor cat when Molly moved to London. He was old and partially deaf. He'd been with Molly through the hardest years of her life: namely her father dying, her years at university, Sherlock's faked death, his banishment, his substance abuse and a good deal more.

Hurrying out into the elements after Molly, Sherlock followed the sound of her voice.

She was in an alley, bending low, rattling boxes, shouting for the cat. The alley was a dead-end, more crates were piled up at the rear.

"Where are you, you stupid cat?" Molly sobbed. She turned, seeing Sherlock face awash with fear and tears.

Suddenly, there was a strangled 'mew'. She whirled around, searching. Another 'mew', and she knelt, seeing a crevice between two stacks of crates. She wedged herself in, ignoring the painful scrape against her shoulders, fingers striving for the scruff of Toby's neck. She must have grasped him, for her face alighted with joy and relief. Tucking the cat into her unbuttoned coat, she cradled him to her breast, kissing his soaking wet fur. Wordlessly, she moved past Sherlock and into the entryway.

He followed, shutting and locking the door behind them.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, keeping his distance, unsure of the mother bear standing before him. She took a towel from the bench seat, carefully drying off Toby.

"I'm sorry he wrecked all your work," she said at last, and when she met his gaze, he could see the honesty in her words.

"My actions were still inexcusable."

"They were," she affirmed. "But not unforgivable."

"Let me take him, please?" he offered. "My things are dryer than yours." She gently handed Toby to him then, stepping close to transfer the cat into his waiting arms. She watched for a moment as Sherlock gently dried the cat off, who was already purring in Sherlock's arms, beginning to clean himself.

Sherlock carefully changed into a fresh robe, exchanging the damp towel for the cat's favorite blanket, and sat on the couch.

He kept his eyes on the cat in his lap for a long time, quite touched at the cat's immediate ease in his arms despite Sherlock's cruel treatment only hours ago. Toby held no ill-will, merely happy to be home again.

Molly appeared in Sherlock's line of sight, and he looked up, she held out a cup to him and he took it, thanking her. She bent, kissing him gently.

Forgiveness.

Curling up beside him, she wrapped her arms around him, resting her head against his shoulder.

"Is there anything else I can do to make things right?" He already had her forgiveness, but the question still begged asking.

Molly was quiet for a moment. He turned his head so he could see her face, just in time to see her smile.

"I wouldn't mind having a look at the shelter tomorrow. If Toby had a playmate or two, he might not get into mischief in your lab."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. There was logic in her thinking. The only reason Toby was in his lab to begin with was because the cat yowled if the door was shut. Toby liked companionship, so Sherlock tried to be accessible on his days at home.

"I think that could be arranged," Sherlock agreed.

Molly smiled and curled up closer to him, reaching forward to stroke Toby's slightly-damp fur.

"I don't hate you, by the way," she said suddenly, very quiet, ashamed.

Sherlock fell silent, pondering her words.

"We both said or did something we didn't mean," he answered slowly. "Let's leave it at that."

She leaned forward, kissing him once more and he reciprocated. "Agreed."