So this is somewhere between okay and massive faux-pas and the people I consulted had mixed views on it. At the end of the day if people don't want to read this because they're waiting for a different amnesiac!Sherlock story to update then okay, I don't mind. But I haven't read that story, so this is all coming from my own imagination of just what that would be like. I've also been getting some parallel fic feels for this story, perhaps from Sherlock's POV as he tries to figure things out on his end. Or something. It would be a fic relationship very much like My Medea/Shine With All the Untold was. Yes.

This chapter is kind of a prologue, showing them being happy. Because they can be happy.

Enjoy!

Molly had stayed with him through the terrible—terrible—ravages of his drug addiction. She was the one who coaxed him into going to family dinners with his brother's family. Molly attempted to keep him in, some nights, rather than letting him roam the streets. The flat they shared was spartan so as to make it easier for Molly to dispose of any drugs he brought home with him. She had endured it for five years, and endured was certainly the word. Sherlock always proposed to her when he was high as a kite, claiming to love her for all eternity. She'd always declined, saying that he wouldn't remember in the morning and to ask her again if he did. It was painful, more painful than Molly thought she could ever deal with.

Eventually he'd come to the family, saying that he needed help. He'd finally said to her and his brother that he would do whatever it took—Sherlock had taken her aside, even, and started to say something, something she knew he always meant to say when sober but apparently always forgot. Molly had shushed him, stroking a hand down his cheek. She told him he should save his words for once he was better—if he still wanted or needed to say something, he ought to say it then.

When he actually took her hand, just outside of the rehab clinic, and kissed it Molly's eyes had welled up with tears of surprise and gratitude.

"Molly, would you marry me?"

She'd giggled as he'd drawn her into his arms.

"As in ever? Or are you asking right now?"

Molly still doesn't know how or when he'd gotten his hands on the ring—and doesn't want to think of how painful it must have been to hear her constantly say no when he proposed to her with his head full of coke. All she knows is that it was midmorning, and Sherlock looked rather gaunt but a certain vitality returned to his eyes as he looked at her. Sherlock had proposed there, right out on the pavement next to the rehab clinic.

She'd said yes of course.

They'd gone to Mycroft's next, and been applauded. Mycroft's wife had even made Sherlock's favorite meal, just to celebrate so many happy things. Mycroft's children had come and hugged their uncle tightly, and at the end of the night Sherlock had tugged Molly into one of the guest bedrooms.

"I hope that it wasn't…too soon, or overwhelming." He was holding her close, stroking his fingers through her hair. Molly snuggled into his chest, completely content.

"You've been proposing for years, Sherlock, but today was the first day I could let myself believe that it was real. That you really meant it, that it wasn't one of your demons or whatever talking for you instead."

"Of course I meant it, I meant it every time—I mean it now. I want, for the next fifty years or so that we've got left, to live with you at my side. I don't want you to ever leave me—I understand if you have to, but I don't want you to."

"I won't ever leave, Sherlock, not ever."

"So, Doctor Hooper, I'm to assume that you mean forever?"

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