Alrighty you guys.

It's finally finished. I was pretty sure this was never going to end and I've been picking this apart for days trying to decide if it was good enough for posting. I'm a little worried it won't be as good as Down This Road but of course I'll let you be the judge of that. Not too terribly satisfied with the ending but I was desperate to get this finished. Hopefully it's not too terrible.

Major thanks and credit to MadAsAHatterJay for suggesting the idea and letting me toy around with it!

And I don't blame ya dear for running like you did all these years

I would do the same, you best believe

And the highway signs say we're closed, but I don't read those things anymore

I never trusted my own eyes

-Stubborn Love, The Lumineers

Take it All

The air is cold. Always holds a chill that makes him shake despite the sweater and coat he wears.

He wonders if it should scare him that he finds comfort inside the walls of a morgue, whose own walls lie inside a hospital. Surrounded by the dead who are surrounded by the sick. It's a morbid thought, but true nonetheless.

He swivels in the chair he's in, his hands shaking with the desire for nicotine that has been ignored for too long. With a sigh that echoes through the room he stands up and pushes past the big metal doors that scrape across the ground and squeal. The sound is enough to make him cringe.

In the cool air he finds a spot out of everyone's sight, pulls out a cigarette (his first in a long time) that he keeps in his pocket and catches it between his lips. The feeling is familiar and comforting, brings back memories he thought were buried and long gone. But deep inside he knows it's a lie. He'll never forget, never really wants to either. He takes a steady drag, blows a cloud of smoke in the air and watches the wisps as the breeze separates them and they disappear.

He closes his eyes but there's a quiet buzzing, his phone in his pocket ringing and they flash open as his hand reaches in and pulls it out. His eyes involuntarily roll when they read the name flashing but he answers it anyways. Tries hard to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

"Doctor, running late this morning are we?" his greeting is icy, somewhat taunting. He doesn't care. There's a gruff voice on the other end, labored breathing and a fit of hacking coughs make him scrunch his nose and pull the phone away.

"Mr. Holmes, already at the office I presume?"

He rolls his eyes. "Considering it's nearly seven, yes I am."

People are so dull.

Morons, he thinks.

"Yeah I'm sorry about that. Caught the damn cold that's been going around." There's more coughing and the sound of rustling, "It's like being hit by a truck. I know we were supposed to be getting started today but I'm afraid I won't be in. I do have someone else though; she'll replace me when I'm gone. She's nice, a young thing but knows what she's doing. You're welcome to work with her today or we can pick up when I come back."

Great, just what he needs.

More setbacks.

He sighs again, runs a hand over his face and realizes how tired he is. He throws his cigarette butt down, grounds it out with the heel of his shoe.

"I'll meet with them, can't afford to lose too much time." He shuts the phone without a goodbye. Turning on his heels he disappears inside, takes his seat once more and begins a waiting game.

His least favorite of all.

When she opens her eyes, the first thing she sees is sunlight. Bright, yellow beams of light flooding in through the window, splayed across the bed sheets. She sits up with a start and glances at the clock.

It's nearly seven, much too early in her opinion to be awake. She sends a glare to her phone, the reason for having her dreams interrupted as it buzzes against the wooden bedside table. She grabs it, flips it open angrily and flops back against her pillow.

"Hello?" she answers with a bitter tone, shutting her eyes that are still heavy with sleep.

She listens to the voice on the other end for a moment, sits up automatically and scrambles to get out of bed when she realizes who it is. She's still got the phone pressed to her ear, tugs a sweater over her head and lets it hang. Nearly two sizes too big and it swallows her tiny frame.

"Of course, I'll be there before eight. You feel better alright?" she shuts the phone as she runs into the kitchen, switches on the coffee pot and hopes it brews fast enough for her to ingest at least a tiny bit of caffeine.

She'll be needing it today.

Although on her way to becoming a full-fledged pathologist she feels trapped, drowning in a world that is content on holding her back. Even though she gets the spot at Bart's with ease (she's more skilled than she's ever given herself credit for and others take notice) there's a feeling that she lacks capability to be on her own. She trains under the best, learns from the best but she doesn't feel she is at her best.

Something is missing from her life that she can't seem to place. Something that's holding her back.

It's a disappointment if Molly Hooper has ever seen one before. But she pushes the thought away, gathers her things and jumps in the car.

(She won't know that life will never be the same again until after today).

He looks at the clock on the wall for the umpteenth time. Feels the agitation growing. He wants another cigarette. There's an urge to just get up and leave, crawl back into bed and sleep until the sun sets. He's getting old; it seems to be the only plausible explanation.

The longer he stays here the longer he regrets making the decision to dive back into work. He's too tired for this, the bags under his eyes no doubt giving him away. With every intention of getting as far away as possible Sherlock stands up as the door behind him opens. There's a moment of relief and agitation and he doesn't turn around at first until an uncertain voice is talking to him. Now he can't move. His mind is spinning in a million different directions.

Spinning on and on.

It makes him dizzy.

"Um hello. I'm Doctor Hooper… if you're here for Doctor Wright he's not in today I'm afraid. I could help you though if there's something specific you need." he doesn't answer the voice that's calling out, turns his head slightly to the side trying to catch a glimpse of her instead. It's been so long and he needs to see. He wonders if she doesn't recognize him anymore. Eight years is a long time.

Molly clears her throat, speaks up, "are you sure there's nothing I can help you with? Are you here for something certain?" Her voice stops as he turns in one fluid motion, her mouth still open. She's got eyes wide as saucers and she watches him as if he's beneath a microscope.

He can see years of pain and regret crossing her face, wonders if it's as overwhelming to her as it is to him. He takes tiny steps forward, feels like they're shattering the floor underneath them as he gets closer and closer to her. He stops and hears her breath hitch in her throat, she doesn't look up.

Sherlock clears his throat. "Hi."

Shit.

It could have gone worse, he supposes. He could have choked, or ran away.

She giggles at him all the same, the sound sweet even if it's filled with cold and calculating thoughts. He hasn't heard it in nearly eight years; it's like a drug running through his veins. Memories of happier times that weren't so complicated.

No one moves, maybe because they're afraid they'll shatter the fragile walls they've built around themselves. Maybe because they're afraid of a reaction.

But Sherlock takes a chance, the urge to have her close to him again so great he has no control. He reaches out and wraps his arms around her, pulls her in. She practically collapses into his chest, a vice like grip on his sweater as her fingers clutch the fabric and the knuckles turn a ghostly white.

She pulls back after a few seconds, looks at him and smiles. He hasn't changed, looks just like he did the last time he was standing in her living room. His skin still the color of alabaster; dark curls a startling contrast and bright green eyes that stare a hole through. He's beautiful and she feels so plain standing there in comparison.

"What are you doing here?" she breathes suddenly, wipes at her eyes in case the tears that were burning have decided to fall. It's like reality has suddenly caught up to and they're both headed for the concrete. She smoothes out the wrinkles of her lab coat and steps back. Assumes her position as a professional.

Sherlock huffs out a breath at the question and shakes his head. "I- it doesn't matter what I'm doing here right now." Molly folds her arms across her chest, raises an eyebrow at him like a child caught in a lie.

"Of course it matters; people don't just show up all of a sudden after years and years. Something brought you back. Besides," she says haughtily, "you're in my morgue."

He fights a grin. "Research," he answers simply, finding no reason to argue. "I'm surprised Doctor Wright hasn't mentioned it. You are second in command after all." She glares at his teasing but keeps quiet, sits on the edge of the desk and toys with the pen sitting there.

"That means you're writing again then? Been a while hasn't it?" his eyes flick up at her, look back down just as quickly as he nods his head.

"I've read them all you know, every single one of them. They're on the bookshelf at home." She smiles to herself and then at him but he seems lost, eyes focused on anything but her. She bites her lip and puts a hand on his shoulder, pretends he doesn't jump at the touch.

She decides to change the subject, asks him "so where have you been?" and soon realizes the question has the possibility for so many answers. Suddenly she's not sure if she wants to know.

But she watches him, his eyes flashing as he grins.

"Everywhere. It's amazing out there, all the people and the things to see." He reminisces, tries his hardest to smile and put on a brave face but he's never been able to fool her. He stands up and stretches his long legs and when he turns his back she speaks up.

"You don't seem happy." She states in a whisper, looks across to him and sees that he's now staring at her with empty eyes and a tired smile. "You've seen all these things and you've done what you've always wanted and you still seem sad." He manages a dry chuckle, walks to her and stops when they're standing toe to toe.

"I haven't really been happy in a long time," he tells her, "and when I look in your eyes I can tell the same is true for you too." She looks down but doesn't shy away from his touch as he cups her cheek, his thumb ghosting across her lips and making her shiver.

It's been too long since she felt it, now it's an addiction and she needs to fill it so bad she's ready to jump out of her skin. But she's a professional now and she has a job to do. Clearing her throat Molly pushes his arm away, walks back to the desk and picks up her files while she keeps her back to him. But the guilt and the fire burning in her belly is making it harder to think clearly.

She wants him.

Absolutely craves him.

"You never called." She blurts suddenly when the thought is too much to contain. The words leave her lips without warning, her voice shaking but she still doesn't look back. She curses under her breath at her own carelessness.

"I know," is the monotone response behind her. She feels her blood boiling.

"You could have, you know. I tried calling you but the number was never the same."

Sherlock groans and runs his hands through his curls, tugs on them in frustration. Molly only sees this when he can't find the words he needs.

"I wanted to come back for you Molly, I really did. But what was I supposed to do? You all but shoved me out of your life and I had no idea what to say or do to make you listen to me. I though the best thing for both of us was some time apart."

"And you thought making me wait eight years was the answer?" she fires back, voice rising.

She hears him exhale sharply, doubt clouds his jade colored orbs before he looks away. She wonders if she should have said anything. It's turning into a repeat of their last encounter and she silently prays to every god that's listening to her right now that she hasn't just made a mistake she can't fix.

Of course she doesn't blame him for running away, severing the ties between them. She was broken and confused when he found her, knew he was just trying to help but was so used to having to defend her choices that the brunt force of it all had come down on him. Sometimes she thinks if she was brave than maybe she would have run too, settled into a place where no one knew her and she was free to start over. A clean slate.

But she's made her bed and now she has to lie in it.

Whether it will be with or without him she's not sure.

Molly drops the conversation and tries to bury herself in paperwork as he sits at the desk, watching her out of the corner of his eyes as he scribbles on his notepad. With a heavy heart he wonders if they can ever repair the damage they've done to each other.

It takes Doctor Wright only a day to recover.

The next morning when the door swings open he hobbles through, Molly trails behind him and avoids Sherlock's gaze. For the rest of the day she watches from afar as the doctor and Sherlock discuss, take notes and make a schedule for his impending stay. She stands aside and watches like an outcast, doesn't feel as if she belongs in their world.

Lord knows she hasn't been a part of his in too long.

It goes on for another week and there's not much conversation between the two, just a hello every now and then and the touch of fingertips when he offers her a cigarette outside one day. Molly quirks an eyebrow and he just shrugs.

"Think of it as a peace offering."

She takes it, studies it before she puts it in her pocket and leaves him standing in a cloud of smoke. She feels it burning a hole in her pocket the rest of the day. Taunts her.

Molly manages to corner him before they leave that day and she crosses her arms and attempts to block his path. He's so much bigger than her, could pick her up and walks right past if he really wanted to but he stands still and waits.

"I don't want to lose you again," she begins quietly, piquing his interest and earning herself a soft smile. "You're not here for long right? I heard the two of you talking and you have six weeks to research and then you're gone. I'm not going to waste all that time dragging up the past, I want to start over. Please."

Her cheeks are flaming by the time she finishes and she wants nothing more to run away and hide because she can't read his expression. It's so blank and refuses to give away a single one of his thoughts; maybe she shouldn't have said anything.

But Sherlock changes her mind quicker than she thought possible, almost tackles her until her back collides with the wall, a dull thud sounding in the room. His lips are on hers, hungry and begging as his tongue forces her lips apart. She blinks rapidly in response, unprepared, taken by surprise. She quickly gains her footing though, kissing him back and letting her fingers tangle in his hair, tugging softly.

For that one moment things seem to be falling back into place.

But everything that goes up eventually must come back down.

Two weeks after the kiss there's a knock on her door. Molly groans, opening her eyes and seeing the sky outside is still dark and the clock on the table reads just after midnight. She mumbles under her breath angrily, wonders who could be at her flat so late.

She pushes the blanket away from her body, the chill of the air sinking in quickly and goose bumps cover her exposed skin. The oversized t-shirt she wears falls to the middle of her thighs, hides the shorts she's wearing underneath. Her socked feet softly thud against the wooden floor, the only noise in the quiet, dark apartment.

Standing on her tiptoes she looks through the peephole on her door and sucks in a breath. A head of dark curls can be seen, only one person they could belong too. She undoes the lock and slowly opens the door, sees Sherlock's face looking back at her. The first thing she notices is the blank stare he's giving her, the tear tracks on his cheeks that are still barely visible and nearly dry.

Reaching out she grabs his arm, pulls him inside and grabs his face with her hands. His silence is scaring her, the trembling of his lips makes her want nothing more than to make whatever's the matter disappear. She gets him onto the couch and when she stands up to go turn on the coffee pot he speaks in a hoarse voice.

"He's dead…My father. He had a heart attack this afternoon… didn't make it out of surgery." Molly stops with her hand outstretched towards the machine, instantly retracts it and shuffles back to the couch to see the fresh tears building in his eyes.

Sitting back down beside him she grabs his hand, holds tight so he knows she's there. In a reaction that takes her by surprise he pulls her into his lap, buries his face in her hair and sobs quietly, shoulders shaking. She's never seen him cry before, it terrifies her but she knows she would be doing the same.

A moment of weakness, she thinks as she holds him tightly.

She feels her own throat swell with sadness, runs her fingers through his hair and hums softly as his body begins to relax and he's able to look up at her. Red, puffy eyes and a watery smile make her stomach clench, she doesn't know what to say or do. But like always, he does that for her.

"I need you Molly." She shifts in his lap, wipes his cheek with her thumb.

"I'm right here; I'm not going anywhere ok?" she sits up with him for what seems like hours until he falls asleep, his body curled around hers on the tiny couch. She listens to the sound of his breathing, counts his heartbeats.

Her heart breaks for him in a way she understands. Not long after she completed school had her father been diagnosed with cancer, lasting only a few short months before passing away. The loss had hit her hard and for her mother it was harder. Back then she had been on her own though, having no real friends or anyone she could cry with.

She's thankful Sherlock has her.

The funeral is small and quiet; takes place in the cemetery just across from Sherlock's childhood home, a single deep brown casket with a picture of a man molly has never had the chance to meet sitting on top staring at them. An aging woman with eyes identical to Sherlock and long brown hair weeps silently next to it and Molly assumes this is Sherlock's mother.

Standing straight and tall beside her is a man older than Sherlock with piercing eyes and a mouth set in a straight line. His brother. Sherlock is beside her, gripping her hand so tightly it hurts but she doesn't dare ask him to let go.

She feels uneasy here, out of place surrounded by the finely dressed people who eye her in suspicion. Swallowing thickly bows her head when the pastor begins reciting a prayer but Sherlock keeps his eyes on the casket, makes Molly uneasy as he doesn't even blink.

He says goodbye to his mother quickly, barely acknowledges his brother before he has her hand in his again and they're running. They tear across the grass and away from the swarms of people, ignore their stares and the pointing. Molly gasps for breath but doesn't slow down, not until Sherlock finally does and eventually comes to a stop.

It's a quiet little stretch of woods they're standing in, the trees concealing them as best they can and letting them know that they're alone for now. Sherlock releases her hand and Molly aches for his touch almost as soon as it disappears.

"The last thing I told him was that I never wanted to see him again. He was complaining about my work and I got so fed up… that's the last thing he'll ever hear from me." He tells her, wiping away more tears. He winces as he speaks, throat dry and scratched from crying and yelling the past few days.

He's been out of control and he should never have let her see him like this. He slides down to the ground, resting against the trunk of a tall tree and patting the ground beside him. Molly ignores the dirt that's no doubt staining her dress, sits down next to him and rests her head on his shoulder so he knows she's still there and she won't let him mourn by himself.

She'll never leave him alone.

They both call in sick one Monday just five days after the funeral.

Molly takes him around the city and shows him every shop and café and hole in the wall place she's visited since moving. He listens with an interest that he doesn't normally feel, because people are boring but Molly is utterly fascinating to him.

He listens, hangs on every word that leaves her mouth and barely mutters any of his own. She kisses him under the shelter of a red awning when he tells her she's beautiful and her skin is slick with rain.

Sherlock smiles his first real smile in a long, long time.

He spends the night at her apartment a few times a week, doesn't like the hotel he's at. It's lonely and quiet and the bed is too big for just him. There's no sex, just nights spent with their bodies wrapped around each other talking about what they've missed.

Work continues, Sherlock makes progress that he's actually fond of. Things aren't as bad when Molly's around, she understands him and watches him work sometimes before Doctor Wright will scold her gently and she scurries off in search of something to busy herself with.

Things are better, not back to the way they were, but better.

He has two weeks left.

She doesn't realize it until she glances at the calendar one day and sees that they've already spent three weeks together. More than half of his time already down the drain. A lump builds her throat when she thinks about him leaving, jetting off to who knows where to put his book together. He tells her most of his publishing team is based in Liverpool where he had settled not long after he left, trying to get away.

Her heart shatters when she thinks about the distance in her head.

One night over a dinner of takeout and cheap wine Molly brings it up, tries not to sound heartbroken at the possibility that she'll be alone once more. Sherlock chews his mouthful of food carefully, wipes his mouth with his napkin and toys with it in his lap.

"I have to go back. Everything for the story is coming together and I have to be there to get everything sorted."

"Maybe I could go with you. I've always wanted to travel, all I've ever known is London; it'd be nice to see something else for a change." Her offer is tempting; But Sherlock finds his heart growing heavy when he thinks about how it's just not possible. He would never allow that.

He shakes his head. "No. you've worked too hard building a life here to throw it all away and believe me Molly I'm not worth it. I don't want you to have to keep picking up my messes anyways." It comes out harsher than he intended. He sees the hurt flash across her face, damns himself to hell.

She bites on her bottom lip until she tastes blood, can't hold back the tears anymore and dissolves right in front of him; shoulders shaking as she sobs and tries to bury her face in her hands. He pushes his chair back and stands up, scooping her into his arms and taking her to the bedroom.

He waits on the bed when she disappears into the bathroom, returns wearing nothing but her bra and panties with the delicate black lace that draws roses on her pale skin. He should stop this before it goes too far, she's upset and he's feels that if she were thinking clearly they wouldn't be in this situation.

But Molly inches closer and closer to him until she's straddling his lap and pushing him back where he falls against her pillows. Her lips are like fire against his skin as she kisses his neck, his throat. Her hands work their way under his shirt, tosses it on the ground while he sheds his pants on the floor.

In a turn of events and the fire that now burns in his veins he flips her over on her back, towering over her and kissing every inch of her. Sherlock memorizes every line and scar on her body, commits every moan and intake of breath to memory as he grinds his hips frantically against hers and they are so close to the edge that he can't see straight.

She comes with a scream, his name thrown out into the room and echoing around them. He buries his face in the crook of her neck and breathes deeply, the smell of sweat and sex wafting in the air. She cries again and he wipes her tears, wraps an arm around her and waits for her eyes to shut.

And when she tells him she loves him, he says it back.

It's the day before he's set to leave and Molly can't focus on anything.

She doesn't have to work today, Doctor Wright calls and tells her things are slow and there's no need for the extra help. She's almost upset, was counting on work taking her mind off of things and the man lying next to her. His hair is ruffled from sleep and sex, eyes wide and watching her closely.

He turns on his side and runs his fingers through her long hair; chills make their way down her back at the sensation. "This is the last one Molly, I promise."

Molly furrows her eyebrows together and tips her head back to look at him, questions burning in her eyes.

"This is my last book, and then I'm done. I can't stand to give you up one more time so after this is done and published I'm coming back."

She's speechless, her mouth hanging open in disbelief and confusion.

"You're just going to give it up? Everything you've ever worked for, for me?"

"You are the only reason I even started this, I had nothing before I met you but you pushed me father and farther to do what I love. I've had enough success for one life time. All I need now is you."

She cries tears of joy as she succumbs to him once more.

The station is busier than she though at five in the morning.

People rush by, hug loved ones and talk on their cell phones around her as she clutches Sherlock's hand tightly. He gives her fingers a reassuring squeeze, kisses her forehead lightly. The intercom above them buzzes, a voice calling for his boarding time and suddenly she doesn't want to let him go.

Sherlock pulls her into a bone shattering hug and she melts into him, the smell of aftershave and cigarettes assaulting her senses. She pulls back and offers him a small smile. Filled with hope, love. Everything she is.

"See you soon?"

He kisses her roughly and mutters into her lips.

"See you soon."

The End