A/N: Wall of Story-Abandonment Shame, I know. It's been pretty much a year now, and I realize I abandoned this fic. But with as long as the BBC is dragging it out too in finally filming season 3, I doubt it matters much at this point, so I've decided to come back and finish it. Thank you so much to all of you who commented and subscribed. I had a bout of a Sherlockian Phase this last week, and I'm determined to go back and finish this bad boy and call it done.

In so doing, I wasn't happy with the direction it was going, as my original direction had been pretty much cut and dry and I sort of wrote myself into a corner with the original chapter 3, so I'm changing this chapter pretty much entirely. Thanks once again for all of your kind comments.

Sherlock and Molly fell into a routine of sorts over the next week; she was rotated as the head pathologist on the graves shift, so while she worked, he more or less slept and set his plans in motion (what plans those were he was keeping mum about), and she slept while he nearly unearthed her entire home during the day, reading all of her books, making use of every imaginable object, and growing increasingly agitated. With his name and face still fresh in the papers and enquiries being carried out, it was still not safe for him to leave the flat.

She'd heard John mention Sherlock's banalities when he wasn't on a case before, but witnessing it firsthand was a different game entirely. He'd even resorted to demanding she perform the bells for him one evening before she set off to the morgue, which she did reluctantly, but after warming up to it, Molly even taught him to play a sketchy "Ode to Joy". She planned to somehow procure a violin (if not his violin) in the next week so that he could vent his frustrations; she knew he was beginning to go stir crazy, so she hedged carefully around him, accepting his daily throw away insults, organizing a respectable head and shower usage, and doing her best to keep him fed and happy as he lay low.

One morning at Bart's, Molly was relieved by a fellow pathologist at the end of her shift after a particularly long and grueling night; Greg LeStrade had come in with a few colleagues over a murder case of a particularly brutal nature, and she had to endure his lascivious leering and obvious insinuations about how he and his wife had split up and he was currently very single, whilst trying to maintain the integrity of the victim's privacy during the examination. With little so much as a verbal toss towards Sherlock ("It's really too bad about what happened, eh?") and a sympathetic frown, he'd immediately segued his way into charming her with his toothy grin while she worked. She knew LeStrade was harmless, but on top of the victim looking remarkably like herself and being brutally murdered and violated, then having to skirt around LeStrade's inappropriate come-ons, she was in an outwardly polite, inwardly really foul mood, and her neck, shoulders and feet were beginning to hurt. There was no way she was going to be able to deal with any mood swings Sherlock might be having at the moment.

Molly hailed a taxi as she stepped out of the hospital, but was stopped by a familiar voice calling her name several feet away on the path. She turned, and there stood John Watson, salt-and-pepper hair a little tousled, his normally kind and cheerful face haunted and gaunt and street clothes a bit wrinkled and spotted with stains.

"John," she gasped.

"Hi, Molly," he smiled sadly, and gave her a hug. She heard the tell-tale crinkled of a brown paper bag in his hand, and upon seeing the thin cylindrical shape of a bottle within, she began to wonder if he'd actually gone home that night yet. And she thought she'd had a rough night.

"How-how are you?" she managed, waving the taxi off after his embrace.

John shrugged, pulling his coat tighter against the chill of the morning. "I'm… here. You know, I'm surviving." His eyes glazed over a bit, and he looked off to the side.

He smelled strongly of alcohol, and she felt a surge of emotion for him, knowing how much he missed Sherlock.

"Did you just get off for the night?" he asked.

Molly readjusted her purse on her shoulder. She always made it a point to wake herself up a bit before going home and refresh, so his being here could not be just coincidental. "I did. How did you know?"

John held up a familiar looking black mobile. "Sherlock always kept a link to your Bart's schedule in his phone, just in case we needed to come in for your help. I promise I'm not stalking you," he said congenially, and Molly smiled gently back at him, thinking yeah, right.

"I'm surprised it wasn't destroyed when he… you know."

John lifted a haggard eyebrow. He really did look years older, and it had only been weeks. "I was, as well. Apparently it was cushioned and miraculously survived. He'd be pleased. This thing was practically an extra limb."

Sherlock would be pleased, she thought, especially since it went down with Moriarty's body.

John shifted his balance on his heels, looking earnestly at her. "I just wanted to check in and, you know, make sure you were doing okay. I think he'd want me to. I know you… cared for him," he said carefully. The dark circles beneath his eyes were pretty much the physical manifestation of how Molly was actually feeling at the moment.

She rubbed her forehead softly. Sherlock was probably on the sofa in her flat right now, probably drinking tea in his dressing gown, bored out of his mind waiting for her to come home and deduce everything about her night before he showered. "I'm just sort of taking it one day at a time," she murmured. John nodded empathetically.

"Yeah… yeah." He paused a moment, and handed her Sherlock's phone. "Here."

Molly's eyes widened in surprise. "Y-you're giving me his phone? Why?"

"I just… I've been holding onto it and I feel like it's time to let it go. Too many memories of too many cases. I know this is strange, but I thought you might want it."

She reluctantly took it from his hand, which was cold. "Erm, thanks. But we were never anything more than-"

John held up a hand. "I know, Molly. I know. But, well… I've never seen him apologize, sincerely apologize to someone the way he did to you, that night at the Christmas party."

Molly put the phone in her bag and let out a laugh, covering her eyes. "Oh God, please don't remind me about that horrible-"

John chuckled, pulling her hand down. "No, just hear me out. I think the reason why he reacted the way he did when you came in, was that he wanted it to be him you were dressed up for."

"Oh yeah," Molly laughed, looking around sarcastically. "Right. That's why he took off right afterwards."

"No, that had nothing to do with you," John put his hands in his pockets. "Look… Molly, it's cold and you're undoubtedly tired, so I won't keep you. But Sherlock… well, he was complicated."

Molly nodded. "That he was."

"Still… I do believe he had feelings for you. What those were I'll never know, but he did care, Molly. He mentioned you specifically before he jumped. You, me, Greg, and Mrs. Hudson. No matter how he acted or what he said when he was just being Sherlock, you have to believe that you did matter. You… counted to him."

A memory stirred of a conversation she'd had with Sherlock, and she felt tears sting behind her eyes. She saw another taxi approaching in her peripheral vision, and leaned up on tiptoe to kiss John's cheek. With a whispered thanks and a promise that they would keep in touch, she got inside, muttering the address to her flat and watching John look tortured and tired as the taxi pulled into the street.

What a mess this whole thing was. She had faith that Sherlock would sort it all out as he always did, but to see his best friend suffering so greatly at the thought of his "death" was too much to bear.

Molly quietly unlocked her door, and slipped inside. She didn't see Sherlock right away, but he had tidied up a little to his credit. She set her briefcase and purse on the floor, hung up her coat, and put his phone on the coffee table. Taking her hair out of its ponytail, she carded her hands through it, massaging her sore scalp and upper neck. She toed off her shoes, and walked further into the flat. Sherlock was still deep asleep beneath the covers of her duvet in the bedroom. She paused at the doorjamb, watching him for a moment, then deciding she'd had enough, changed into a top-and bottom light blue pajama set in the bathroom and lay quietly down next to him. She was pretty much out the moment her head hit the pillow.

If she dreamt, she couldn't recall what it was about or how long it occurred, because the next thing she knew, she was looking at her digital alarm clock on the nightstand, which said 5:01. So she'd slept the whole day then. She rolled over on her back so she could stretch her hands over her head, and realized she was pretty much in Sherlock's embrace, and that he was wide awake, looking down at her and impossibly close, so much so that she could feel his body heat.

She gulped, blushing. "M-morning."

Sherlock smirked, touching her long hair that was spread, fan-like across the back of her pillow. "Molly," he muttered gutturally.

She felt his large hand on her hip. He seemed happier and livelier than he had in ages. "It's afternoon, incidentally."

"Oh. Right." Why couldn't she just sound like the smart, capable pathologist she was in his presence? Just for once?

His hand moved from her hip, and she realized he had been holding his mobile phone in it. Molly knew she should probably start moving at some point, but she was still pretty out for the count and just relaxed against her pillow. "I ran into John. He gave it to me," she said softly.

Sherlock nodded, his eyes scanning her f ace. "I surmised. This is a spectacular development, Molly. I'd hidden things on this, encrypted information that may very well help us."

She smiled. "Oh, Sherlock, that's good. That's brilliant!"

Sherlock let out a hearty laugh, and he actually looked happy, which was also slightly frightening. "Yes," he breathed. He laughed again, and kissed her quickly, lightly on the lips in his jubilance. "Yes!" Before she could register what had even happened, he rolled off the bed and grabbed her dressing gown, walking over to her side and holding it open for her. "A bath should make you feel better after your long day. I've drawn you one."

Molly sat up slowly, then stood as he helped her into the sleeves. "Thank you," she whispered, her lips still tingling from the brief kiss. His lips had been so warm and full, gentle but firm pressure on hers. "How did you kn-"

Sherlock stood before her and lifted her chin with his long fingers, his gray eyes glittering with amusement. "Molly, do you really need to ask?"

She laughed softly. "Oh. Of course not. Thank you for the bath." She could feel his energy in the air, like a certain kind of static or electrical current. This was the most energized she'd seen him since his "death", and it had to be a good sign.

Sherlock held the bathroom door open and smiled broadly, flirtatiously like he used to do when he was using her for access to bodies or the lab equipment at Bart's. She could feel herself blushing, and kept looking at him, his penetrating gaze fixed intently on her up until the last minute when she shut the door.

The bath proved to be heavenly. He'd poured some lavender oil in the water and lit a few candles, leaving some folded clothes for her on the closed toilet lid. After cleaning herself off, dressing and brushing her hair, she felt well rested and better than she had after her shift. She cleaned up, brushed her teeth, and realized she wasn't nervous for the first time ever with Sherlock. Quite the opposite, actually. When he'd kissed her lightly (was he saying thank you? Expressing his happiness at being reunited with his mobile), it had felt good, right, like a pair of comfortable old slippers with the excitement of a nice piece of lingerie all together.

Trying to decide how to handle this new development, Molly opened the door and strode into her bedroom, only to be grabbed around the waist and held close against Sherlock, her back to his chest. She let out a little squeak.

"I've decided," he muttered in her ear, his voice dropping a notch as he walked her toward the bed, "That enough is enough." Molly could do nothing but focus on her breathing as he pushed her down gently on the bed, crawling above her and dragging her head up to the pillows.

"W-what do you mean?" She asked, though she had a good idea what he meant. There had been far too much sexual tension between them the last several weeks, enough to ignite an inferno.

He settled her against the pillows, tracing the side of her face with a long, white finger. "I need you."

Molly furrowed her eyebrows. "But- I'm helping you. You're here, I'm doing what I can to help you. How can you need me anymore?"

Sherlock gave her a very pointed look, and Molly's eyebrows took off for her hairline. "B-but I thought you didn't… after Christmas, I thought you only-"

Sherlock lowered himself, now pressing intimately against her. Every hard and supple edge of him was letting her know just exactly how he needed her.

"-wanted… erm, that is, needed…"

He was tracing the side of her neck now, running the whisper of his fingertip against the line of her collarbone. "When did I ever say I didn't want you, Molly Hooper?"

A memory surfaced, and it was like cold water being thrown in her face. "At the lab, that day when I offered any help you might need. You said, wh-"

"'What could I possibly need from you', yes," he muttered. "Well, let's just say that after a very hard and very long fall, now I know."

She searched his eyes. She'd envisioned this scenario possibly hundreds of times over if she was being honest, but if this was going to happen, she wanted to be sure this was coming of his own accord, and not from some imaginary slight or owed payback for all the help she'd given him.

"A-and what made you realize this?" she asked carefully, her hand on his toned, broad chest as he kept tracing the contours of her collarbones. It was impossible to ignore the increasingly pleasant shivers coursing through her body.

"This," he said, holding up his mobile phone. He searched through a screen quickly, and pressed an illuminated PLAY button.

Sherlock's deep voice. "Would you give me a moment, please? A moment of privacy?"

The day of the Fall. Molly remembered this conversation. Her soft voice sounded a moment later.

"You can do this, Sherlock. Just finish it, and the rest is taken care of. Everything is in place."

They both listened to the shaky intake of breath Sherlock had taken that day on the edge of the building.

"And anyway," Molly's tinny voice continued from the phone that had actually gone into Sherlock's earpiece, "The rotter deserves to die. Aside from being a murdering monster, he was the world's worst kisser. I swear he had the most manky halitosis in the world. We sat there watching 'Glee' on our last date, and when he started singing along with the show I about died with how bad his breath was. My God, Sherlock, do the world a favor."

Sherlock began chuckling through the phone until it became a full on laugh, and she remembered watching him through her binoculars, happy to have given him that moment of reprieve before he jumped down and began circling Jim for the final time.

Sherlock switched off the mobile recording, and placed it on the nightstand, pressing into her once more. "It's there, Molly. Every snippet of the entire confession, everything Moriarty said. I can send this in, explain it all and clear my name. I thought it'd been destroyed in the fall, but it's all there."

"Sherlock!" Molly wrapped her arms around his neck, drawing him down for a hug. "That is amazing!" She pushed him back a moment later. "But wait. John-"

"Obviously listened to everything, recognized your voice, and that's why he sought you out, because he obviously knows I'm alive," he ripped out enthusiastically, and he kissed her once more, this time slowly. She found she had a million questions bouncing around her head, but all she could do was kiss him back, moaning as his full, soft lips traveled to the side of her neck, below her ear.

"W-what did you mean - mm- when you said, 'now I know?'" Molly murmured.

Sherlock found her lips once more, his hands caressing her stomach, ever so lightly unbuttoning her blouse. "I could tell you," he said grouchily, kissing his way down her neck to her collarbone, continuing to unbutton her, "But I'd much rather show you."

Molly ran her hands down his back as he explored her. "I thought you were… that is, I thought you didn't-"

"Molly," he placated her, giving her a very Sherlockian look that made her break out into a genuine smile. "That's the problem, isn't it? Don't think. That's my department."

They looked at each other, and something passed between them in that moment that pretty much made her realize he'd cared for her all along. "That works for me," she smiled, drawing him down to her.

He proceeded to remove her clothing, item by item, and taste, touch, and explore every inch of her before properly claiming her body as his own. It had been nice with Callum… with Sherlock, it was fire and magic and science and Christmas all together. Sherlock took her to heights she knew she would never find with another living soul. Whatever he'd made people think or guess about him; his disregard for human interaction, his ignorance of people's feelings, was nothing compared to what he was actually capable of, how he could make her feel.

In the long hours that followed, Molly knew herself to be well and truly lost to Sherlock Holmes, and there was no going back. Perhaps that day when she'd said, "You can have me," part of her subconscious knew what it was doing, perhaps not. But one thing was certain, she was his, and always would be.

THE END