His Own Heart Laughed

Chapter 4: Yet to Come

Sherlock didn't recognize the man standing in front of him. He quickly flipped through his mental catalogues, trying to place him in one of the many murder cases he'd assisted in solving. Nothing came to him.

The ghost's face was mature, but lacked the wrinkles of approaching middle age, and his caramel-colored skin was smooth and unblemished. A full head of black hair was unaided by a comb-over or any other sort of follicular subterfuge. If he were to guess, Sherlock would say the man had died in his late twenties or early thirties. He was dressed well enough to hint at some wealth, assuming his post-mortem garb was indicative of such things. He stood only an inch or two shorter than Sherlock, but was of a slightly heavier build.

From there, Sherlock was finding it was awfully difficult to deduce the lives of spirits. As far as he could tell, they were merely echoes of their former selves, and a lot of the details were lost in the ghostly translation. With Carl Powers and Jennifer Wilson, he'd had the benefit of having in situ information about their deaths. Not so with this mystery specter, and he was finding the blind approach added more trepidation for what was to come. The plunge in the room's temperature didn't help.

"I don't know who you are."

The ghost looked at him impassively for a moment. "The name is Ronald Adair. You're right. You don't know me," and at Sherlock's hand moving to his jacket pocket, "No need to Google my name on your mobile; you won't find anything. Or anything useful, that is."

"So, your death is unsolved?"

"Not exactly."

Sherlock wasn't fond of guessing games, but he peered at Ronald a moment before something whispered in the back of his mind; a murmur of words laying out the pattern established by the past two nights' events.

"Ah… You're not dead yet."

Ronald only watched Sherlock, not bothering to agree or refute his charge's words. His impassivity only ratcheted up Sherlock's nerves. In his usual fashion when he was out of his element, he dredged up some self-preservation tactics.

"Listen, Ronald, I know you're here to show me what's in store for me in the years to come. I really don't think that's necessary. I've been given some things to think on, so I'd better get started. Have a nice night. Here's an idea: Go visit your current incarnation and tell yourself to avoid getting murdered."

Really, he felt quite satisfied with his reasoning and thought he'd presented it compellingly. He contemplated the several birds he'd be killing with one stone if he succeeded.

If Ronald misted off, Sherlock would be free to go look in on Molly again (just to check that she remained undisturbed, that was all—he certainly wasn't wanting to see her for the sake of seeing her). From there, he could ruminate on whether he was going to make any changes in his life and his relationship with her. And with that final burst of genius, maybe he wouldn't have to solve some idiot solicitor's-or-whatever-he-was' death in the future.

Win, win, win, as far as Sherlock Holmes was concerned.

If there was one thing he'd figured out from these strange events, it was that he had no say what these ghosts relentlessly showed him or where they dragged him. That didn't mean that he couldn't try to assert some autonomy.

Sadly, Ronald was unmoved by the logic presented to him. He imperiously held out a hand to Sherlock and simply waited.

Briefly drumming his fingers on his thighs, Sherlock looked back at Ronald, debating with himself. Finally, he stood and complied with the silent command.

All Sherlock had to do was brush Ronald's hand with his fingertips. As he did so, he blinked. By the time he opened his eyes again, he found himself in the sitting room of 221B Baker Street.

Everything about the room was familiar. The furniture was the same. The books in the shelves were unchanged. The room sported its general clutter. The skull even graced its usual attitude and spot on the mantle.

The lone person in the room was more familiar to Sherlock than any other he'd seen so far.

Standing at the far window with a violin poised on his shoulder, looking down on the street, stood Sherlock Holmes.

Looking at his own profile from where he stood, Sherlock was hard-pressed to find many differences in his appearance between his true self and the man he was staring at. A few more lines around his eyes and mouth, perhaps, and some strands of silver in his hair. Beyond that, he looked relatively untouched by time.

Sherlock could only guess when this visit was "set", so to speak, but it couldn't be much further in the future from his current time.

The room was unlit, to the point that the blue-grey light coming through the windows was almost blinding. From what Sherlock could see and hear, rain was splashing down outside, creating an air of gloom about the place.

As he wrestled with the fact that he was, essentially, staring at a doppelganger of himself, heavy footsteps stomped up the stairs, and Sherlock was startled when a figure barreled through him and Ronald.

"Jesus, Sherlock. I didn't know it was possible to affect so much gloom without it being on purpose, but you've managed it. I thought Mrs. Hudson was going to ask you to decorate the flat a bit for the holiday? Cutting it a bit close, aren't you, since it is, in fact, Christmas day?"

Future-Sherlock had turned from the window at John Watson's arrival, though he didn't move away from it. He pointed with his violin bow to a forlorn cardboard box of plastic garlands and tangled lights currently shoved between the wall and the end of the sofa.

"She did ask me. Something else came up."

On that pronouncement, he turned abruptly back to the window and began playing a weeping piece (Chopin, "Nocturne 20 in C Minor", Sherlock-the-observer noted with surprise—a composition he'd never bothered to learn, classifying it as "overwrought and overly self-indulgent"), all while studiously keeping his back to John.

His friend stared at him, looking a bit helpless, but he didn't interrupt the music. The less corporeal Sherlock took the time to observe John. He felt a spark of hope for the fact that, clearly, he and his friend were reunited. They were back in their flat, and everything was as it should be.

Surely, this meant that John would forgive him for his deceit and the ensuing silence, however long it had been.

Although, the cool air lingered, and Sherlock was starting to notice things that weren't in the flat, like John's laptop. Then there was the fact that John was looking at his friend almost if he were a stranger. Which reminded Sherlock—

"Ronald, when is this?"

The ghost turned slightly from the scene to look at his companion.

"Four years after we left Molly Hooper's flat, which was ten minutes ago, Current Time."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Clearly, Ronald Adair was taking his "Mysterious Spirit Guide" assignment quite seriously.

Movement out of the corner of his eye distracted him from replying. John was making his way further into the room, stopping at Sherlock's usual armchair. He frowned down at a postcard that had been thrown haphazardly onto the chair's seat.

The Sherlock at the window must have heard him approaching as he allowed the note he'd been holding to fade gracefully without continuing on with the piece. He continued to gaze out the window as he addressed his friend.

"Did you get one?"

John picked up the card, glancing at it before looking up at Sherlock with a furrowed brow. "Yeah. I did yesterday. Damn near threw Mary into hyperventilation she was so excited. Not even sure why, since she helped make them."

"What the hell is a 'Save the Date' anyway? And a year out, no less? Why not just send an invitation like simple etiquette used to teach us, a month or two in advance?"

"I didn't realize you were well versed in this kind of protocol, Sherlock," John said, glancing down at item in his hands, a small smile quirking his lips at whatever he was looking at—it appeared to be a picture of some sort, but of what, Sherlock couldn't see from where he and Ronald stood.

He continued, "I guess this is the popular way to do it now. Since so few people take a newspaper anymore, this is in lieu of a published engagement announcement. With the added benefit that it ensures whoever you invite has plenty of time to plan on coming."

"Waste of paper, if you ask me," Sherlock replied, keeping his concentration on the violin's tuning pegs, "Why put people through the agony of requiring their attendance at some archaic ceremony that's statistically bound to be for nothing?"

John squinted at his friend, barely disguising the sarcasm in his voice as he responded, "Oh, I dunno. Maybe something to do with wanting the people you care about to be with you when you pledge yourself to another human being for the rest of your bloody life. People don't typically start planning their divorces mid-wedding ceremony, Sherlock. It's a bit more hopeful than all that."

He slowly walked toward Sherlock, his brow growing even more knotted with confusion. "As for the why of wanting people you care for to be with you, a wedding is usually a pretty definite declaration of love. If you're proud of the person you love, then it's not uncommon to want those who are important to you to know how much you love her—because you want them to love her, too." He drew to a stop when came up beside the man at the window, and waited to continue until that man finally turned to face him. "Sherlock, why do you have this animosity toward something so happy as a wedding?"

It was an older, quieter Sherlock who gazed back at John impassively for a moment before speaking.

"I've always felt this way. In spite of the fact that you've been married for a year, and quite successfully it seems, I haven't changed my opinion on marriage as a whole."

John waved the postcard at his friend, saying, "And in spite of it, you will plan on going to this one, right? It's important."

Sherlock hoisted his violin back onto under his chin, looking down the strings as he spoke. "A lot can happen in a year. I'll wait for the 'formal invitation to follow.'"

And with that, he picked up where he'd left off on the Chopin piece.

John looked at Sherlock for a long moment before he exhaled deeply, dropping the card in discussion back on the chair and then making his way over to the box of Christmas decorations. He quietly began untangling and hanging them as his friend played his mournful, passionate music.

The two unseen men watched the activity in silence for a while, though Sherlock's quietness was more agitated than contemplative. Finally, he couldn't take it anymore.

"Ronald, the only person I know who'd be inviting me to a wedding for the reasons John mentioned is John."

The ghost regarded Sherlock, his face betraying nothing. "Is he, really? Because everything you've seen recently would point to that not being the full truth."

"Lestrade's married, assuming that union's still intact. Mrs. Hudson, I suppose, but she's always saying she's done with marriage."

Ronald's expression was an eloquent with what he thought of Sherlock's purported intelligence.

Sherlock tried again, "Tell me. Whose wedding is that an announcement for?"

He didn't wait for a response. He skirted around the future incarnations of his friend and himself and looked down at the postcard, which John had set back on the chair.

In big, cheerful lettering across the top were the words, "Save the Date!" and "26 December, 2017" in smaller script beneath it.

The layout was rather simple. The words were arranged around a photograph of a couple surrounded by autumn foliage. The man was giving a piggyback ride to a small woman. He was smiling broadly as he glanced over his shoulder at her. She had her head thrown back in laughter.

Beneath their feet, in the same, swirly font as the words above, were their names.

Jonathon Whitaker and Molly Hooper.

Sherlock stared unblinking at the postcard. He couldn't understand. He forgot about the music still being played by his future self. He didn't notice John yelling at him because that same future self had removed several of the miniature bulbs from the strings of fairy lights for some reason or other.

All noises sounded like they were coming from underwater, until Ronald cleared his throat right next to Sherlock's ear. He snapped out of his stupor with a few, disoriented blinks.

"Sherlock," Ronald murmured to him, "Come with me."

Sherlock barely touched his hand to Ronald's and they left Baker Street far behind.

The room was one of those hotel affairs that were classified as "multipurpose". Today, it was decorated cheerfully with Christmas trees, lights and vases filled with sprays of red and white flowers throughout the room. Fifty or so chairs had been arranged in two groups, leaving an aisle up the center.

People were filing into the room, chatting cheerfully with each other as they entered. The general air was one of excitement. Sherlock overheard one elderly woman saying to another, "A Christmas wedding! I've been looking forward to this all year."

Of course. The setup of the room, plus the lack of a casket or urn at the front (not to mention the wholly un-funereal atmosphere), hinted what was in store. If Ronald had asked Sherlock to guess where they were going after they left Baker Street, he wouldn't have even had to pause before he named this impending scene.

But he had hoped he'd be wrong.

Sherlock absently rubbed at an inexplicable ache in his chest as he looked at the happy faces of the guests. He recognized all of those who were sitting on the left set of chairs, but none of those sitting on the groom's side.

But then, he'd never heard of Jonathon Whitaker until five minutes ago.

As if he'd read Sherlock's mind, Ronald began explaining.

"She met him five years prior to this day at the annual St. Bart's holiday party. He'd become a widower three years before that. He's an orthopedic surgeon with the hospital, considered excellent at his job both for his surgical ability as well as his bedside manner.

"He tried several times over the next couple of days to convince her to agree to go on a date with him, but she initially refused. She had a dead man living with her whose secret she was fiercely guarding. Not only that, but she was also trying to talk herself out of any heartbreak at that dead man's hands.

"She was reluctant to strike up a relationship with Jack because she didn't think it would be fair to him to have her pining for someone else who clearly felt nothing romantic for her, let alone someone who was ostensibly just a memory. Finally, though, that dead man said yet another unkind thing, and she decided her real life needed to begin, and she agreed to have coffee with the kind surgeon. She loyally kept the dead man's secret until the end, but in the meantime, she slowly found her way into love with Jonathon Whitaker."

Sherlock licked his dry lips as he listened to Ronald Adair's words, remembering how he'd barely registered her melancholy return to her flat after that party. If memory served, he may have actually asked her to run some errands for him before she'd fully come through the front door. He'd started to expect the feelings of shame that he'd experienced so often in the last three nights, but this time that feeling was compounded by that new, sudden ache under his sternum.

He looked around the room again in time to see John and his older self walking through the floor. John was looking rather cheerful, tapping the edge of his wedding program against his palm as he and his far less enthusiastic companion took in the scene they'd just joined.

Mrs. Hudson hailed them over to where she'd saved a row of seats. They shuffled in and each took a chair. Sherlock noticed that his future self purposefully situated himself on the outer-most spot, where he promptly sat and stared straight ahead. Sherlock walked the perimeter of the seating area to look down on himself. He didn't think he was imagining Future-Sherlock's rather ashy complexion or the reflexive way he was keeping his hands fisted in the material of his trouser legs.

More telling than anything else, however, was how very quiet he was being. Though he was known for his habit of not speaking for days, in a situation like this, he'd normally be spouting off any number of rude observations about the room, the decorations, the location, and, most of all, the guests.

And the spirit form of Sherlock was not the only one to notice this.

Greg Lestrade leaned forward in his seat from the row behind his friends, clapping hands on his and John's shoulders.

"Happy Christmas, boys! I'm glad you made it. How did you make it, by the way? Up until now I wasn't convinced John'd manage to drag you along, Sherlock. Although, from the way you're acting, you aren't thrilled to be here. Buck up! This should be a fun party for our Molly!"

John shifted around in his seat to exchange a firm handshake with Lestrade, seemingly unbothered by the stony silence of the man to his left. "Happy Christmas, Greg! I'm looking forward to this. A lot in part because maybe my own wife will regain some of the sanity she's lost in the planning. I don't remember her being this enthusiastic for our own wedding. Maybe it's because we didn't have to budge up the money for this one."

Lestrade and John continued to discuss the planning that had gone into what was hopefully going to be an elegant, low-key wedding. Apparently, it had been relatively painless, but John's wife, Mary, had decided to throw her not-inconsiderable organizing skills into it. Molly, who was nothing if not easy-going, had gladly accepted the help.

Meanwhile, Sherlock's future self remained completely silent, the only sign that he was listening to his friends' words was his ever-tightening clenched hands.

Lestrade, who seemed to be growing a bit concerned by his reticence, jostled him again. "It'll be over before you know it, Holmes. These ceremonies usually only last fifteen to twenty minutes. Then we can go have drinks and cake. Always a winning idea, in my book."

Future Sherlock spoke for the first time. Kind of. "Oh, boy," he replied tonelessly.

With that, he pulled out is mobile and began studiously reading something on its screen. Lestrade and John exchanged a glance.

"Molly was the one who finally convinced him to come. Not sure how she did it, but she did change his mind. Still, I nearly had to cuff him to the hold bar in the taxi on the way over here. Not sure why he's quite this reluctant. As you said, it'll be quick and painless."

Just then, a man whom Sherlock had only seen in that one, horrible, lovely picture came into the room with his best man. He grinned at everyone as they went and stood at the top of the aisle, taking time to shake hands with the officiate, who'd only just arrived herself.

A quiet settled over the room as soft music started to play. Everyone stood and shifted to get a view of the door and the aisle.

And then there she was.

Sherlock spared a quick glance at her attendant, who could only be John's wife, Mary. She was lovely, but he didn't feel he had the time or the breath to study her too closely.

He could only look at Molly.

She was beautiful.

She wore a snowy, white, satin dress. It was rather simple, really, lacking any frills—no lace or poofs of fabric to be seen. It fell from her bodice to the ground, and Sherlock noticed the way the material warmly caught the light with each step she took.

He couldn't tear his eyes away from her, noting the slight blush that was suffusing her cheeks.

And she only had eyes for the man at the end of the aisle.

Sherlock rubbed again at that sharp ache in his chest, frowning at it but otherwise ignoring it.

Molly and Mary finally reached the top of the aisle. The bride passed off her small bouquet to her friend and turned to her groom. They joined hands and grinned at each other as the officiate began to speak.

It was the standard "Dearly beloved" spiel that hadn't changed much over the centuries. But Sherlock couldn't have remembered what she was saying if he'd been held at gunpoint, he was so wrapped up in staring at the bride.

He did spare a gland at his future self, who seemed to be suffering a similar problem.

Then, it came time for the vows. The couple had elected not to write their own, so that portion of the ceremony seemed to be going without remark.

Until it came time for Molly's. She was midway through promising 'to have and to hold' Jack, when there was a quiet commotion in the congregation. Everyone turned to identify the cause of the disturbance.

Sherlock was surprised to find his future self standing quickly. When that Sherlock felt the gazes of everyone on him, particularly that of the bride's, he blanched.

"Forgive me… I'm feeling… if you'll excuse me." And with that, he rushed from the room.

Sherlock didn't hesitate to follow him out. He, himself, had watched the ceremony with helpless dread, and he was only glad he had reason to leave it.

The other Sherlock was bracing himself against a wall by the door, breathing deeply in and out through his nose, repeatedly rubbing a hand over his chest.

He stayed like that for several more minutes, until applause filtered out from the room in which the ceremony was being held. At the sound of cheerful clapping and hoots and hollers, his head dropped forward, and he suddenly stilled.

Not long after, the door to the room opened and John stepped out, concern evident in his brow.

"Sherlock, what's going on? Are you all right?"

"No, I don't… I don't think I am, John."

His friend looked startled to receive an honest answer with so little prompting, but quickly recovered himself. "What's the matter? Do I need to call for help?"

The detective looked truly distraught, but he shook his head. "I'm breathing fine. My pulse seems to be normal. I just… couldn't stay in there. I have this ache, right here," he indicated the left area of his chest, "I've noticed it on and off, but it's been getting worse in the last few days. When Molly came to talk to me last night, I was actually worried I was suffering from an embolism or something. But I feel absolutely fine otherwise. I just feel it when… when I look at Molly. It's more than I can bear. I had to get out of there. What is this?"

John looked at his friend with an expression of dawning realization. His own head bowed forward as the pieces all seemingly fell into place. Dropping against the wall next to Sherlock, he sighed before he turned his head to him.

"Do you want my professional opinion? I think I know what you're suffering from."

A bit of the old Sherlock came through, enough that he looked annoyed that his friend was pussyfooting around just saying what it was.

"Yes, tell me."

"Sherlock, all signs point to a broken heart."

Both Sherlocks stared at John.

"Broken hearts are a figure of speech, John. And that is most certainly not my problem."

John's face didn't register any shock at Sherlock's vehement denial. "Sherlock, where do you think the term 'heartbreak' comes from? It's a very physiological response to emotional distress. Your cortisol levels are spiking, which makes your muscles tense up. It's diverting all that blood flow away from your chest and stomach. You probably feel a bit nauseous, too, yeah? Same reason."

The distressed man stared at his friend, though his gaze was probably more fixed on something in his head, maybe sorting all of this data in a way for them to make sense. Finally, he blinked and was once again focused on John Watson.

"You've just proven so many of my earlier points, John. A physiological response. Love: Nothing but a ridiculous cocktail of dopamine, norepinephrine, and—most damning of all—oxytocin. People choose to dress it up with pretty hearts and flowers. But in the end, humans are just a mishmash of dictating hormones and firing neuron impulses. No thanks, I never have been and I never will be 'love's' pawn."

John drew back, surprise etched on his face. "That's what you think, is it? Then tell me, Oh Wise One, why are you out here instead of back in there, watching Molly hold and kiss her new husband? Why aren't you in there spouting off your theories about love and its foolishness to her?"

Sherlock jerked his head to face forward again and it took him awhile to reply. "I'm not an idiot. I recognize that this would not be an appropriate time. She can have her day."

This didn't appear to be a comfort to John.

"Oh, how good of you. And what of me? And Mary? We're newly-wed, too. So this is what you think of us? Pawns in a biological game of chess?"

Sherlock was busy rubbing that same spot on his chest, listening to the sounds of merriment in the room beyond them, but he still, of course, had something damning to say. "Pawn was not the right word. What you are, John, is human. You cannot be blamed for falling prey to these evolutionary impulses. I am just saying that you can't be surprised if those hormones that are controlling you recede and you find yourself stuck in a legal contract with a woman you can't stand. And then you're left with that physiological discomfort that is touted as 'heartbreak.' But I'll leave you to it and hope, for your sake, that you are one of the few success stories."

Standing by hallway's opposite wall, Sherlock and Ronald watched the two men speak, and Sherlock felt himself honing in with a hyper-focus on John's next words, hoping his friend would offer some sort of absolution, not just for the man he was speaking directly to, but also to his past self.

He remembered all too clearly how often he'd said similar things to John rather than offering his support to his friend. His friend who'd saved his life as surely has Sherlock had saved John's.

John Watson did not choose to ignore that remark. He did not choose to overlook just one more social gaffe on his friend's part. He drew up his all of his military bearing, standing straight, face expressionless. "A woman I can't stand…. So, that's what you think of us. I'll have you know that I admire Mary so much more than I can say. So much more than I ever admired you, before you found even more stores of bitterness in that mind palace of yours."

Sherlock opened his mouth, possibly to protest, but John bowled him over.

"Mary's smart. She's brave and she's kind. And above everything else that I am finding makes her better than you, is the fact that we know—we know—that we will love each other with our dying breaths, whenever those are. Even though she and I have both seen awful things in our lives, we haven't let it kill our hope.

"So, you know what? This is it. Maybe this will be easier, because you came back to life a changed man, and not for the better, Sherlock. Something happened to fill you with antipathy, or, maybe even worse, apathy. Whatever it was, I am done with it. You've tried to poison everything I believe in with your bad opinion for the last time. You're hurting and confused right now, but you've just driven away the one person who was trying to give you some comfort during a hard time."

John turned abruptly and walked back to the door, pausing to turn back to the man he was leaving behind.

"I think you should go, Sherlock. I'll make your excuses, but I don't want you saying anything that could ruin the day for any of those people in there whose happiness used to be important to you.

Sherlock's future self looked at John Watson, then turned and walked down the hallway, alone.

Laughter from the room increased in volume as Mary ducked through its doors, going to her husband, who was still standing at the door. As it swung back shut, Sherlock glanced into the room in time to see the beaming bride and groom lean in and kiss each other sweetly, to the cheers of everyone in the around them.

He barely felt Ronald's hand taking his.

People who have experienced near-death events have often reported seeing strange things in those moments out of time between living and dying.

Sherlock wasn't certain he was dying, but he was certain he seeing his whole life flash before his eyes. And not just his life up to his current thirty-five years of age.

The images he saw weren't like a slideshow; nor were they like those horrid, overly sentimental film montages he so loved to mock to anyone who would listen. Instead, they felt like second-long glimpses that inexplicably had chapters'-worth of context without Ronald saying one word.

He saw Molly, smiling at him kindly when he walked into morgue. He was about to tell her about a case whose conclusion he thought she'd be interested to hear. But then the fluorescent lighting caught just so on her wedding band, and he changed his mind, and instead nodded curtly and walked silently over to a microscope. He was alone.

He saw John Watson and his wife smiling at each other as they walked hand-in-hand down a rainy, dirt road. They were walking to the new house they'd bought in the country, with the intent of starting a family.

He saw himself, standing at his window, playing that same Chopin nocturne, over and over again. He was alone.

He saw Greg and Margot Lestrade sitting together on their sofa, his arm across her shoulders as they watched some awful reality show. They'd been going to a councilor for several years and were easing into contentment with each other.

He saw himself, standing over a grave that bore his mother's name. He was alone.

He saw Jack Whitaker putting a squalling baby into a sweaty, exhausted Molly's outstretched arms as she wept and laughed at the same time. They named her Catherine.

He saw himself, standing against a wall. He was at some party the Lestrades were throwing. He'd gone when he thought the quiet of his flat would drive him insane. But as he watched all the people he used to know, he realized he'd never felt so alone.

He saw John, weeping as his wife's ashes were handed to him in a box. But when he left the room, so many of his friends and family were waiting for him, waiting to embrace him.

He saw himself, looking at a cache of cocaine, debating, debating. He was alone.

He saw Molly hugging her teenaged daughter as they helped her move into her university housing. Catherine was eighteen, and she wanted to study medicine.

He saw himself, consulting on a murder case, but he wasn't finding the same satisfaction he used to with his old successes. And, yes, he was alone.

On and on these glimpses came. He saw each of his friends as they carried out their full lives.

He saw each of their deaths, leaving him feeling more and more torn apart. But with each death, he saw how they each were surrounded by people who would miss them. Who would always love them.

Finally, he saw himself, old, lying on a hospital bed in an empty ward. He watched the frail, old man he was to become. He watched himself whispering, over and over again, "Molly. Molly. Molly."

He watched his wheezing breaths slow and diminish and finally stop.

He was alone.

And then the images stopped coming. Sherlock was still standing in that silent, empty hospital ward, looking down on his own body.

His chest and eyes burned as he whipped back around to face Ronald Adair. "What is the reason of showing me this? Is it to torture me for everything I could have done but didn't? Is it to show me everything I'll eventually lose? Or can I change this? Because, please believe me, if I can, I will."

Ronald remained silent, merely watching Sherlock.

"Please. Tell me. Am I damned to this life you've shown me?"

Silence.

"I have lived my whole life being afraid of love. Being afraid of weakness. Being afraid of loss. But I want to try to learn now not to be afraid. I want to learn to be everything I thought I couldn't be. Please. Please. Tell me. Can this be changed?

So desperate was Sherlock to get an answer from the silent specter, he actually reached for the man's lapels, hoping to shake an answer from him.

Instead, when he gripped the material, his forward moment carried him through Ronald Adair's ghost, and then he was falling.

And when he finally stopped, he was lying on Molly Hooper's settee in her tiny sitting room.

A watery, wintry daylight was streaming in the window, illuminating lazy dust motes in the air. Molly's cat was sitting on the table in front of the sofa, regarding Sherlock with a look of mingled disgust and curiosity.

Sherlock dove for his phone, which was perched precariously on the table's edge. Pulling up the lock screen, he stared in a wonder as he realized that it was Christmas Day. The strange events he had been witness to had happened all in one night.

Of course they had. Metaphysical apparitions could do whatever they liked.

Sherlock looked around the cozy flat, realizing that it and its inhabitants were very dear to him, and he couldn't think of another place he'd rather be on a cold, Christmas morning. A snowy, cold, Christmas morning, if the fluffy white drifts on the building across the street were anything to go by.

He jumped up from the couch and ran to the window. Sure enough, several inches of snow now blanketed the street with very few tire tracks marring the pristine white. He found himself smiling as he remembered the snowball fights he used to get into with his brother when they were young. In fact, he hoped he saw Mycroft sometime before the snow melted off. He might enjoy putting a handful of snow down the back of his brother's shirt when they met.

His scheming was interrupted by the sound of a chair scraping on the floor in the kitchen.

Suddenly, Sherlock was overcome with nerves. He knew what he needed to do. He just hoped he could say what needed to be said in a tactful way and not exacerbate any tension that he'd managed to create in his relationship with Molly over the years.

But he reminded himself that this was possibly the most important wrong that needed righting. Taking time to brush some of the wrinkles from his clothes, he slowly walked into the kitchen.

Molly stood at the sink, staring out of her window at the fat flakes of snow still falling from the sky.

If Sherlock had felt any doubt over what he had seen and learned the night before, his misgivings would have been allayed when he saw Molly wearing that same, pretty jumper and jeans that she'd worn to the Lestrades' party during his time with Jennifer Wilson's ghost.

Sherlock felt like that scene had happened years ago, and only five minutes before, all at once.

Molly must have heard Sherlock ease his way into the kitchen, because she turned her head slightly and said, with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, "Good morning, Sherlock."

Sherlock Holmes had never had anything so bourgeois as an anxiety dream where he found himself standing naked in front of his classmates. But he suddenly felt he must know what those dreams felt like. He shifted from one foot to another, before clearing his throat and speaking.

"Good morning, Molly."

She was clearly trying to set aside her hurt feelings from the night before, but failing. She ducked her head and returned her gaze to the window, and Sherlock watched her start fiddling with her cuffs. He smiled as he remembered her doing the same at the Lestrades.

He only felt more certain that what he was doing was right.

He slowly approached her, watching with a clinical eye at how she remained oblivious at first, but then started to tense the closer he got. It was only when he stopped no more than a foot behind her, but didn't do anything else, that she relaxed.

Sherlock had no clue what he was doing. He only hoped he wasn't making everything worse. Unsure of how to proceed, he stood still, watching the winter light catching Molly's hair, bringing out the different colors of each strand. Without even realizing he was doing it, Sherlock reach forward and lifted a lock of her hair. He began curling it around his finger over and over, marveling at its softness.

When Molly became aware of what he was doing, she stilled. He could hardly even see her chest rising and falling with each breath.

As if she was afraid she would startle him away, she whispered softly, hardly more than an exhale. "Sherlock, what are you doing?"

He shuffled several inches closer, leaning down and nuzzling the back of her head, smelling the sweet scent of her shampoo.

He'd studiously avoided any intentional contact for most of his life, and had not had any to speak of since his fall six months before. Breaking that fast, he gloried in her proximity. He felt like he would never tire of even this small contact, where just his fingers and his nose had any connection with Molly Hooper.

She abruptly turned toward him, startled in spite of herself at just how close he actually was. He still hadn't spoken since his initial greeting, so she gazed searchingly into his eyes.

Finally, he sent up a small prayer to any deities or ghosts who might be listening, and began speaking.

"Molly, I owe you an apology."

She deflated a little, but smiled up at him nonetheless. "For last night? It's alright. I know you were just distracted. I'm used to it by now."

"The fact that you have to be used it is exactly what I'm apologizing for. Not just what I said last night, although I am sorry for that. I'm sorry for every time I've made you cry or made you unhappy. Which I have come to realize is more often than not."

She opened her mouth to deny it, but he quickly shook his head and continued. "It's occurred to me in the past that I really haven't done anything to earn or deserve your affection. But I had a lot of time to think about you last night, Molly, and think about the fact that you give and give, but never expect anything in return.

"And it shouldn't be that way. You deserve someone who will love you and spend every day glorying in the fact that he has your heart. Your father knew that you deserve someone who can recognize just how extraordinary you really are, and that anyone who didn't see that was just a waste of your time."

He tentatively reach forward and lifted her right hand. He admired her thin fingers as he gathered his resolve once more.

"I will be the first to admit that I have done enough damage in the years that we've known each other that you should, by all rights, be running screaming from me. Instead, all you've done is work more assiduously to make sure I know that I'm in your heart."

Molly was staring at him as he spoke, her expression growing more and more alarmed. "Sherlock. What happened? Were you attacked last night? I think I remember hearing you racing around at one point. You should have told me!"

She began running her fingers through his hair, trying to identify some subdural hematoma or something equally dire. It actually felt rather nice, but he figured he should reassure her that he was unharmed. "No, no, I'm fine. Like I said, I just had time to think. About you. About me. And everything."

"Everything?" she asked, looking a little mystified at this strange, Sherlock-shaped man standing before her.

"Yes. Everything. Prior to last night, I'd found myself thinking about you a lot. And then, after I upset you for the umpteenth time twelve hours ago, all I could do was think about you even more, and what I was doing wrong."

He took a deep breath.

"So here is what I bring to the table: I've spent my whole life avoiding any sort of relationship that might become a dependency. I have an addictive personality. I figured one less aspect of temptation would keep me alive, would be what separated me from the mortals who spent their daily lives fighting because of love.

"But I look at you, and I know that that isn't what's kept me alive. You've kept me alive. Literally. So I have decided that there is little difference between you physically hiding me and caring for me and the care you give me by loving me, and working your hardest to make me happy."

Sherlock tentatively put his hands, which were feeling a bit clammy, on Molly's hips, but kept his touch light.

"So what I'm asking you, Molly Hooper, is for you to give me the chance to care for and love you for a change. I can promise you that there will be some major setbacks and probably some false starts. I am entering this completely blind. Or blind to everything other than the fact that I want to be someone who deserves your heart."

He leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers.

"I'll still be an oblivious idiot a lot of the time. I'll probably never say the right things. If you are beside me, I think I'll have even more fervor to bring down Moriarty's network, but it will still be something that grabs my attention at inopportune moments. And once that is done and I am able to come back from the dead, I don't see that aspect of my personality changing much. But I am hoping that you'll take me in spite of it."

Molly remained quiet as he finished speaking, and he felt a flicker of unease in his belly. He leaned back slightly so that he could see the whole of her face.

Her eyes were shut and silent tears were streaming down her face.

He ineffectually wiped them away with his fingers, only for more to fall in their place. "I'm… I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. If you want me to go away, I ca—"

He was cut off by Molly emitting a watery laugh as she flung her arms around his neck, hoisting herself up onto her sock-clad toes, and pressing her mouth against his.

When Sherlock came back to himself, he found he'd lifted Molly up onto her counter. His arms were banded almost too tightly around her torso, and she in turn had her legs around his waist, her feet hooking behind his thighs.

He grabbed her hand again and lifted it, pressing a soft kiss to the inside of her wrist as he looked into her eyes. She grinned goofily back at him, and he couldn't help but return with a stupid smile of his own.

"Happy Christmas, Sherlock," she whispered.

"Happy Christmas, my sweet Molly."

Sherlock was better than his word. Yes, he would sometimes wander off mid-sentence or mid-intimate interlude with some idea that had struck him. But where he previously would have said he didn't possess a fanciful or romantic bone in his body, he thought he did alright for himself.

Though he did sometimes slip up and say hurtful things, all in his hyper-honesty, he was quicker to realize his mistakes and sincerely apologized without prodding.

Sherlock Holmes could never explain what exactly happened that night, and he never tried to describe the impetus for his Great Change to Molly. But not long after he found his way into her arms, she asked him how he'd known what her father had wanted for her, and he had simply replied, "Any man who raised someone like you would only want that for his daughter."

It seemed to satisfy her.

When he was able to return to public life, Sherlock endeavored to live his life with the same spirit of love and care for all of his friends that he did for Molly.

It was said of him that he finally achieved what his friend, Greg Lestrade, had hoped for him: Not only was he a great man, but he was also a good one.

And while his wit and sarcasm and brain were still razor sharp, Sherlock was more willing to forgive people for laughing at the newer, sentimental side he exhibited for his lover and his friends. For his own heart laughed at how much happier he was.

Sherlock never saw James Moriarty (and good riddance to him) or any of the other three spirits again. But every Christmas, he paused to think of the strange events that had led him to where he was; which was a far happier and less lonely place than he could have ever imagined.

And though it is said often enough, to all of us let us remember the words of Sherlock Holmes and Greg Lestrade:

"Meretricious."
"And a happy New Year!"

The End

Author's Note: And that, as they say, is that. I can't properly express just how much the interest in his story has meant to me. Everyone's enthusiasm was what kept this from being some ¼ completed story languishing in my cache

Thanks again, so much, to you all for favoriting, following, and reviewing.

Special thanks to my mom for betaing this so enthusiastically and not laughing in my face when I admitted I was writing it. I really appreciated your input and encouragement, even if I didn't take every piece of advice you offered (such as changing Future Sherlock's name to "Futurelock", though that might have made it a bit clearer, actually).

Allow me to borrow a line from Gonzo the Great in A Muppet Christmas Carol and say, if you like this story, you should read the book!

Thanks again, everyone, and happy New Year!