A Vicious Motivator - Chapter Eight

[darnedchild]

Summary: Molly was happy with her life. She's got a job she loves, a nice flat, her cat, and she's even begun dating again (now that she's over her infatuation with Sherlock, mostly). Then Sherlock dragged her out for a few hours of dress up and undercover work, and everything started to go to hell in a hand-basket.

She agreed to accompany him to one more event, purely as a distraction; and in the process ended up with an unwanted house guest (Sherlock's ex Janine), the attentions of a vengeful stalker, and a return of those pesky feelings for Sherlock Holmes.

Rating: M (There will be smut in later chapters)
A/N - Written for the 2015 Sherlolly Big Bang. This mammoth fic is over 114k words and complete in seventeen chapters.

Chapter Eight

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

Despite her protests, Sherlock had spent the night on her sofa. Molly had studiously ignored him from the moment Janine had left (Picked up by another of Mycroft's minions, it would seem. Sherlock really must have had something good on his brother.), and refused to even offer him sheets and a pillow. Of course, that didn't stop him from getting them out of the linen cupboard himself. He'd still been there around five, when she woke up to the sound of his mobile ringing. She didn't catch most of the conversation, but she did hear him tell the person on the other end that he'd be there within the hour.

She'd been right; there was no way he would have been able to turn down a good case just to keep an eye on her.

The question was, would he be there tonight, too?

The dark Mercedes that picked her up after her shift pulled up to the kerb in front of her building. The driver was Mr Surly, again; which was sort of comforting, as it was nice to see a familiar face waiting for her after a long day of worrying about Chapman lurking in the shadows and Sherlock sleeping in her bed.

Before she even had a chance to remind him of her schedule for the next day, he turned toward the backseat and told her that he'd be picking her up in the morning. Molly couldn't keep the smile off her lips as she wished him a good evening. She almost made it out the door before she thought to ask for his name.

He looked at her for a moment, as if trying to figure out if she was serious.

"What if I need to ask for you, specifically? I haven't a clue what to call you."

He sighed, and looked as if he were already regretting making the concession to speak to her in the first place. "Anthea said if it should come up, I was to tell you to call me Soter."

"Soter? What does that even mean?"

He gave her a blank stare in response.

"Right. No problem. That's what the internet is for, isn't it? Again, have a good evening, Soter."

Soter gave her a sharp nod, then turned back to the wheel. "The same to you, Miss Hooper."

The Mercedes stayed at the kerb until Molly had the door to her building unlocked. As she pulled the door open and stepped into the foyer, the car merged into traffic and drove away. Molly bit her lip and hesitated in the foyer. Her curiosity got the best of her, and she pulled her phone out of her bag to look up the meaning of Soter.

It was probably Greek, since Anthea was involved, which helped narrow down her search.

She'd just had her hunch confirmed (Spirit of safety and deliverance from harm. Ha, very funny, Anthea.) when she noticed a lanky, unkempt man waiting in the open doorway of her building. His hand held the door open, and he appeared to be waiting for her to finish with her phone. As soon as she made eye contact he spoke, "'ello."

Molly screamed.

The man raised his free hand in a shushing motion. "Aw, don't scream, miss. We don't want the neighbours calling the cops. It's Bill Wiggins."

He said the name as if she should know it. More importantly, he made no move to come any closer, which reassured her just a bit. Molly stopped screaming, but she braced herself to charge the door and slam it into him if need be.

"And you don't remember me. Figures. How 'bout Billy? Does that ring any bells? We were never formally introduced, I suppose. I'm a, well, I guess you could call me a friend of Sherlock's. His protégé, if you will." He looked rather proud of himself.

He was vaguely familiar, although Molly had no idea where she'd seen him before. Just because he said he knew Sherlock didn't mean anything. Lots of people knew that she worked with Sherlock from time to time, especially the sort of people that might want to lull her into a false sense of security.

Billy sniffed and pulled a worn handkerchief out of his pocket to scrub at his nose.

He must have realized she was still suspicious because he rushed to say, "Just a cold. I'm clean, I swear it. I can show you, if you want?" He started to pull back the sleeve of his jumper.

"Stop. Please. Why-Why would you say that?" If he said he was clean and he was planning to show her his arm to prove it, that would imply former intravenous drug use. But why would he feel the need to tell her that?

"Don't want to get slapped, miss."

Just like that, she recognized his face. He'd come in with John, Sherlock and the rest, the day she'd found out that Sherlock had been using drugs again. "Billy."

"Ah, so you do remember me. Good. Makes things easier, don't it? Mind if we step outside, miss?"

Perhaps she was an idiot for trusting someone she didn't know, but Molly followed him anyway. She checked to make sure there wasn't a nondescript van idling out front, or something equally ominous, before she stepped onto the stoop. "Why are we out here?"

"Sherlock's been called away on business for a bit. Not sure when he'll be back. I didn't want you to worry with him being gone. Thought it might be nice to let you know he's got you taken care of."

"He does?" What was that supposed to mean?

"Got your building under round the clock surveillance. Been on the job since this morning." Billy puffed out his thin chest and held his head high.

"Really." Molly wasn't sure if she were more amused or annoyed. Annoyance was probably going to come out ahead since Sherlock was involved.

"Yep." He popped the 'p' in the same affectation the annoying detective sometimes favoured.

"So you're just going to stand out here all night?"

"Until someone takes my place, yeah." He sniffled again.

"Don't you think someone will notice you? Call the police?"

"Nah." Billy jerked his head in the direction Soter had driven off in. "Them, people notice. They try so hard to be nondescript, they stand out, yeah? Us Street People though, other people don't want to see. They've trained themselves to look past the bum on the corner." This time he jerked his head in the opposite direction. Molly finally noticed a woman wrapped in a torn and dirty jumper, leaning against a brick building up the block. When she noticed Billy and Molly paying attention to her, she gave them a brief nod, then went back to digging through a battered grocer's bag.

"No one notices us. We're inconsequential." Billy carefully and precisely enunciated each and every syllable of the last word.

She'd done exactly what he suggested, ignored the less fortunate on the street in her hurry to get some place. Not just ignored, totally overlooked. Molly couldn't help but feel uneasy, how many other things had she missed because she didn't want to see. How many other people had been watching her without her noticing? "Are there a lot of you?"

"Here? Right now? Just a couple. A few more will show up once it gets dark. Sherlock's got a guy setting something up in the alley behind your building, where they can go to warm up if it gets too wet and cold. Good view of your fire escape, too."

Bill tucked his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans and looked up at the sky. "You better get inside, miss. It's gonna rain soon."

Molly looked up as well. He was right, there were storm clouds gathering. "Come in with me, Billy."

"I can't. Sherlock told me to keep watch."

"You can keep an eye on me just as easily upstairs, and out of the rain, as you can down here."

He took less than a second to mull it over. "Can't argue with that, miss."

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

There had been someone sleeping on her sofa every night for the last week. She'd barely managed any sleep that first night, worrying about having a relative stranger in her flat (she really should have considered that before she invited him up). The next night had been the woman from up the block. Her name was Georgie, and she had been a school teacher once upon a time. Then came Billy again. Another woman named Maureen, who had stayed two nights in a row. And last night she'd pulled a night shift at Barts, only to come home to find Billy begging for change from the people just starting their day. He'd given her a wink as she walked past, then asked if she could spare a few coins for a guy down on his luck.

She was starting to miss having Janine around, which was something Molly never thought she'd admit to. She had been a single, constant presence. Billy, Georgie and Maureen were all different, with different habits and quirks. Georgie liked to talk for a bit, Maureen barely spoke at all. It was difficult for Molly to get used to.

It wasn't as if they were any real trouble, though.

They would appear just after Mycroft's car had driven off, materializing near her side as if from thin air. She suspected the overhanging stoop in front of the building next door had a lot to do with that.

They were surprisingly clean for street people (and Molly felt extremely guilty for even having that thought); their clothing was worn and faded but not dirty. She wondered how much of that was typical, and how much came from the benefit of being part of Sherlock's network of people.

Molly had begun trying to pay more attention when she was out. She was starting to recognize some faces that she would have surely overlooked before.

The homeless man who had a makeshift shelter set up in the alley next to the Indian place was a constant. She saw him every time she left her building. He'd even begun to give her a short, friendly wave once he realized she had spotted him.

There was a mother and her toddler child, who sported perpetually dirty knees and a near constant grin. They often spent part of the afternoon playing in the park near Barts. Molly sometimes liked to eat her lunch on a bench out there, and they almost always showed up within minutes of her.

She'd spotted Georgie once or twice, talking to another member of Sherlock's seemingly endless homeless network.

There hadn't been a word from Sherlock, other than Billy's brief updates that Sherlock had been checking in on and off; to make sure his people were still doing what he'd asked of them. He never had a message to pass on to her.

As she got ready for bed, after making sure Billy was settled in for yet another long night on her sofa, Molly tried to tell herself that Sherlock's absence and silence was no different than any of the other multitude of times he'd disappeared. She missed him, obviously, but surely not anymore than usual?

Right?

She hadn't made the mistake of attaching any real significance to any of the things he'd said and done over the last few weeks. Had she?

Deep in her heart, she knew she had.

She threw herself onto her bed and pulled a pillow over her head, shutting out the insidious glow from the streetlights that found its way through the curtains.

Tomorrow would be a new day, and a new start. Tomorrow she would tell Billy to call off the guards, and she would go back to her normal life.

That resolve lasted for all of a minute and a half before she rolled over and sighed.

Tomorrow she would offer Billy breakfast, which he would refuse as usual, and then she'd get in the car Mycroft continued to send out for her. She'd go to work, do her job, periodically wonder where Sherlock was now, and try to figure out at what point--exactly--she had lost control of her life.

They would talk when he got back. She'd stand firm. He'd make those endearing 'I just want what's best for you' type noises. She'd fold like a house of cards simply because he'd say something that made her believe he really did care.

And the process would repeat again and again, she thought as she drifted off to sleep.

Hours later, Molly snapped awake. She tried to keep still, ears straining to catch any hint as to what had disturbed her sleep. There was a quiet sound near the bedroom door, then a muted thud as something hit the carpet. Another thud, and then the bed dipped.

Even before she could draw enough air into her lungs to call for help, she opened her eyes and saw him. Molly softly gasped his name.

Sherlock stretched out on top of the covers. He was still wearing his shirt and trousers, stubble darkened his jaw. She could just make out the paleness of his bare feet in the barely lit room. His hands were folded together on his stomach, and there was a pillow's width of space between them.

"Billy's on the sofa," he offered, as if it were an explanation for why he was in her room. In her bed.

Her mind come up with and rejected so many things to say. Was he all right? When did he get back? Why was he here and not Baker Street? Why was he here, in her bed, specifically?

He must have known some of what she was thinking; it seemed as if he'd always been able to read her, since the day they'd first met. "Go back to sleep, Molly. You can ask your questions in the morning."

For some strange reason, she did. The last thing she saw before sleep overtook her once more was Sherlock's face; that soft, boyish, barely there smile that he reserved for a chosen few was aimed at her. The tension she'd been carrying around in her chest for the last week started to loosen.

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

She was curled against something solid and warm, nothing like the pillow she usually found herself wrapped around in the mornings. Rather than the usual fragrance of fabric softener and traces of her shampoo, Molly picked up hints of tobacco, leather, and a familiar musk. She took a deep breath and held it, instinctively recognizing the scent she would forever associate with Sherlock Holmes.

Molly rubbed her face against his chest like a cat, then froze as she realized just what she was doing and to whom. Her eyes snapped open as she took stock of her surroundings.

She was still under the bedding, and he was still on top; but she'd moved in the night, and managed to curl around him. She'd tucked her head under his chin, her cheek pillowed on his chest. Her arm was draped loosely across him. Surprisingly, he had one of his wrapped around her, holding her close against his side. His chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm. Molly was surprised that he was still asleep. She'd fully expected him to be gone when she woke, regardless of what he had said about answering her questions in the morning.

Yet again, she wondered why he had come to her place rather than sending a text from Baker Street. Was there something important he needed to tell her? Whatever it was couldn't be that urgent, he had told her to go back to sleep last night.

She realized she'd been idly playing with one of the buttons on his shirt while she thought; her fingers gently twisting and turning it, her thumb sliding against the smooth outer rim.

"If you're not careful, it will come loose."

Molly jerked away, rolling to the edge of the bed and nearly falling off the side before she managed to catch herself. She finished scooting off and stood, trying not to look as embarrassed as she felt at being caught groping him.

Rather than being upset, Sherlock appeared to be amused. He stretched, and tucked the arm that had been holding her under his head. He seemed to be in no hurry to get up.

"I-I didn't mean . . ." She trailed off, having no idea what to say.

"It's fine, Molly." He watched her fidget for a moment, then gracefully sat up and got off the bed. "You work today, correct?"

All she could manage was a nod in response. Her tongue felt thick and unwieldy in her mouth, making it nearly impossible to speak.

"I'll go speak with Billy while you get ready, shall I?"

"Yeah, that would-Yeah." She kept her eyes down, purposely not looking at him as he came around the bed toward her. He stopped to put on his suit jacket, which had been laying across the small table that held her laptop and jewellery box. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him pick up his shoes, then silently slip out of her bedroom in search of Billy.

Twenty minutes later, she had dressed and pulled her hair back into a ponytail. After a moment's hesitation, she went ahead and added her favourite jumper. Sometimes her cardigans and jumpers served as comfortable knitted armour, an extra shield against the harshness of the world, in addition to another layer of warmth in the coldness of the morgue.

The sitting room was empty. Someone had thoughtfully folded the sheets Billy had been using, and left them on the sofa. When she looked into the kitchen, only Sherlock was sitting at the table.

"He's gone home."

"Pardon?"

She didn't make eye contact; focusing, instead, on what she could put together for breakfast. There was no way she would be able to concentrate enough to cook anything, not this morning. Perhaps a bowl of cereal?

"Billy. You were wondering where he is." Sherlock shifted, and tucked his legs under the chair and out of her way.

"And now you're wondering what sort of home he has to go to. It's a small place, only a single room, really. Space for a bed and a hot plate, communal bathroom down the hall. Step up from the drug house where John sprained his arm, so . . ." He caught sight of her expression and trailed off, as if he'd just remembered how his past drug use was a very touchy subject with Molly. "Anyway, now that Billy's whereabouts have been settled, coffee?"

She'd actually opened the cupboard and reached for the box of coffee filters before she realized what she was doing. Molly dropped her hands to the counter and hung her head for a moment while she regrouped. After a deep, calming breath, she turned and finally looked directly at Sherlock. "I'll stop and get some on the way to work."

He tilted his head to the side like a confused puppy. For a moment, she wanted to give in. She knew he probably thought she was being irrational (and she may very well have been), but there was only so much a girl could take before she'd had breakfast and a proper dose of caffeine.

"I'm not Mrs Hudson," she explained, as if talking to a child. "I'm not making you coffee."

"I didn't ask you to," Sherlock countered, mimicking her cadence and tone. He pointed to the to-go cup sitting on the table in front of him. Then he shifted his finger toward the identical one waiting on the placemat in front of the other chair.

"Oh." Somehow, Molly felt even more wrong footed and embarrassed, which she hadn't thought possible. Her grudging thank you made her sound ungrateful, and which only served to make her feel guilty in addition to everything else.

He smirked, as if he knew what she was thinking. Which he probably did. Arse.

"Billy fetched them before he left."

"Then I'll have to thank him next time I see him. Assuming?"

Sherlock nodded, some of the smugness disappearing from his expression. "No progress on the Chapman front, I'm afraid."

"And Mrs Barrett?"

He grumbled, "A bit. I've got a few theories." Molly got the impression that he was a little disgruntled at how long it was taking him to solve the case. "John went with me to inspect her office. Mr Smythe was very helpful as far as getting me access." He gestured to a brown paper bag on the counter behind her. "Bagel."

As she turned to look, he clarified, "For you."

She pulled a cinnamon raisin bagel out of the bag, and groaned in appreciation. "My favourite," she hummed in approval after the first bite; then reached for her coffee. It was exactly the way she liked it. She should have been surprised that he'd remembered, but she wasn't. Not anymore.

One thing she'd learned since this madness started was that Sherlock had been paying a good deal more attention to her than she had been lead to believe.

"I'll definitely need to tell Billy thanks."

"The bagel was my idea."

He sounded so much like a little boy seeking praise that Molly had to hide her smile behind her coffee. "Then I'll thank you, for the bagel."

Sherlock looked away as if he were uncomfortable.

Neither one of them spoke for several minutes while she continued to eat her breakfast and he sipped his coffee.

It wasn't a comfortable silence. Not like when they would work in the lab sometimes; he on his experiments, and she running tests for the hospital or assisting him if she wasn't busy. True, she'd try to make small talk from time to time, and he'd often shut her down; but once they'd settle in, they were a well oiled machine. No need for unnecessary words, they anticipated each other's needs, harmoniously sharing the same space without bumping in to each other.

This was nothing like that.

They were both on edge, waiting for the other to speak first.

There were plenty of times when she had felt extremely awkward around Sherlock over the years, and while this wasn't the worst of them, this morning was right up there. It wasn't as bad as the infamous Christmas fiasco that would have made her curl up at home and refuse to leave for days if she hadn't been called in to the morgue for Sherlock to identify that woman's body. It wasn't even close to the day he told her that her new boyfriend, who was starting to make her feel like a giddy schoolgirl in her first throes of love, was gay. Although, in the long run, he'd done her a bit of a favour with that one, as Jim turned out to be a homicidal criminal mastermind and all that, but still . . . He could have handled that one a little better, perhaps put a bit of effort into being slightly tactful.

Finally, Molly couldn't take it anymore. "Look, Sherlock. I've been very patient-"

"No, you haven't."

She scowled at the interruption. "I have, too. I have been very patient with you, and with this."

Now it was his turn to scowl. "This? What this?"

Molly waved her hand at him, then at the flat and the world as a whole. "This. Billy. The others. The cars driving me around as if I'm some visiting dignitary. You threatening to camp out in my bedroom, in case the Bogeyman decides to break in through the window or some other nonsense. It's ridiculous." She shoved her half eaten bagel back into the bag and dropped it on the counter. "You're overreacting, and it has to stop."

"I beg to differ."

"Of course you do." She sighed, utterly uncertain as to what she could do to make him understand, and took another sip of her coffee. It took her a moment to notice the way he was slouching, and the sulky expression on his face. Somewhat incredulous, she blurted out, "Are you pouting?"

"I don't pout." Sherlock crossed his arms and managed to look even more petulant.

"Oh my God, you are!"

He glared, his foot tapping against the floor in agitation. "I don't see why you keep harping on about my being in your room. I've spent plenty of time in there, and you've never complained before."

"That's what you chose to focus on out of everything I've just said?" Molly shook her head, exasperated with him. "I believe I have complained many, many times. And when you've stayed before, we weren't sharing. This is completely different."

His eyes narrowed and he leaned forward, going in for the kill. Even before he opened his mouth, she knew whatever he was about to say was going to be bad. Sherlock disliked being argued with, and he had an almost supernatural ability to find just the wrong thing to say.

"It's not as if you've got any other prospects beating down the door to get into your bed, is it?"

And there it was.

She expected to feel stabbed in the heart by the cruel dagger of his words; to crumble up and stammer and run away to keep him from realizing how much his taunt had hurt her. She'd done it plenty of times in the past.

Instead, she blinked and shook her head. Rather than cry or get angry, she softly said, "You've got the emotional maturity of a child."

He jerked his head back as if she'd slapped him. "Do not."

"No, you do." How had she not seen it earlier? "You are an overgrown child, Sherlock Holmes. You constantly crave outside stimulation; and when you can't get it, you turn to destructive outlets for amusement, just to see what will happen." She took a step closer to him, her words becoming more sure and confident as the comparison solidified in her mind.

"You get jealous if people don't praise you and offer reassurance that you're the smartest boy in the room. The minute someone starts to pay attention to another person, or you don't get your way, you turn nasty and pout and say horrible, horrible things."

She took another step closer, and suddenly she was looming over him. "I imagine if you ever really liked a girl, you'd . . . you would pull their pigtails and run off." The last was spoken as if Molly had just experienced a great epiphany.

For a second, she thought he was going to panic. Then he sneered and popped out of the chair; nearly causing her to tumble backward as he pushed past her into the sitting room.

Molly slowly moved into the kitchen doorway, not wanting to spook him by following too fast. He stopped in the middle of the room. She could just see enough of his face to know that his eyes were closed, and his lips were silently moving.

Eventually he smirked, and turned to face her fully; replying to her as if the conversation hadn't come to a complete standstill for over a minute while he thought. "I like Janine, and I never pulled her proverbial pigtails."

"Oh, Sherlock." Molly's indulgent smile did little to mask the hint of sadness in her voice. "You like her, but did you ever like like her?"

He frowned, apparently not grasping the distinction. "What do you mean?"

"Do you love her?"

It was a simple enough question, yet he continued to look confused. She sighed and tried again. "Are you in love with her?"

"Of course not," he scoffed. Sherlock began to pace around the small sitting room.

Molly settled against the kitchen doorframe and watched him.

"I don't feel love. Sentiment is a weakness. Caring is-"

"Not an advantage. I've heard." She'd overheard Mycroft say it once. Both brothers seemed to actually believe it, which was tragically sad in her opinion.

He snapped his head around to briefly glare at her, searching her face for any sign that she was mocking him. Apparently satisfied that she wasn't, he returned to his pacing.

While her love for him was unrequited, at least she had been blessed enough to know what it felt like to love someone with her entire being, faults and all. Although it hadn't been quite the same, she'd fallen in love a second time, with Tom. She knew the feeling of love; knew the ups and downs, and the bittersweet joy. Did he?

"Sherlock, how do you know? I mean, are you sure you'd even be able to recognize it, if you did feel it?"

He froze in place, his back to her, head bowed. She wanted so very much to approach him, but Molly instinctively knew that he needed space to work through his thoughts on his own. If she came too close, pushed too hard, he'd run. She had no doubts about that.

She sipped her coffee and watched him roll his neck. She could hear the cartilage crack and pop from across the room. He moved closer to her window and pulled the curtain to one side so that he could look out at the busy street below.

"I don't know," he finally replied.

Molly took a deep breath and pushed away from the doorframe. She took a hesitant step forward, and then stopped when she saw his shoulders tense. "Tell me what you feel for your parents."

"Why?" He sounded weary and suspicious.

"Mental exercise. Humour me. Think of your parents, and tell me what you feel."

"Indulgent affection. Which even I know isn't what love is supposed to feel like."

"It can, for some people; but we're not talking about what love is supposed to feel like right now. We're talking about what you feel." She dared to ease a little closer so that she could put her coffee on the table in front of the sofa. "What about Mycroft? Affection, again?"

His nod was sharp and brief, and Molly would have given anything to see his expression at that moment. "In a way. Mostly tinged with irritation. Respect. Grudging admiration. And if that ever gets out, I will know exactly who to blame."

She smiled at the threat. "Noted. And John?"

Sherlock turned his head just enough that she could see his profile silhouetted against the morning light from the window. "Tolerance. Amusement, it's always so amusing when he tries to figure things out on his own. He pushes me out into the world, instead of letting me lose myself in here." His hand fluttered toward his head. "But I know he'll be by my side to pull me back if it becomes too much, if I can't stay grounded. I feel . . . safe, with him."

She'd thought as much. "And affection?"

"Yes. I . . . yes." Sherlock turned to face her a little more. He was frowning. She suspected that he was uncertain as to where all these questions were going. If it weren't about emotions and feelings, he would have figured it out already.

"Mrs Hudson? Affection, again?"

His lips actually tilt upward for a fraction of a second as he considered his landlady/not-his-housekeeper. "Yes."

"Mary?"

Sherlock nodded slowly, hesitantly.

"Baby Bethany?"

This time his nod is quick and sure. He turned to face her directly, and she could see from his expression that he was apprehensive about whatever name she was going to throw out next. Molly briefly wondered who it is that he was worried about, but she was ready to move on to the next line of questions.

"Are they in your thoughts more than you'd expect them to be; more, perhaps, than you'd prefer? Do you see them in your mind palace, even when you haven't necessarily sought them out?"

His frown returned, and he looked at her with a hint of suspicion. "How do you know that?"

She ignored his question and continued. "Do you think they care about you?"

He shifted his gaze to a collection of framed photos she had grouped on her wall as he gave his answer careful consideration.

Even without looking, she knew the faces he'd see. Her parents, young and vibrant and so in love it hurt to look at them. Graduation with just her and her mum. A candid snap from John and Mary's wedding; the happy couple and Sherlock, all three smiling. One of her and Meena, slightly tipsy and laughing like loons. There used to be another, just her and Tom celebrating at their engagement party; the nail was still in the wall, waiting for another picture to be hung.

"Yes," Sherlock's voice was clear and confident.

She was surprised at how candid he was being. She had expected him to prevaricate much more than he was, or outright refuse to answer her questions. "Do you care about them?"

"Yes." He took an equally long time to answer, and he didn't sound quite as sure this time. Sherlock threw himself into the chair. "How much longer are we going to continue this absurd 'mental exercise'? Don't you have a job to go to?"

"Do you think they'd protect you if they could?"

His fingers began to twitch, tapping out a quiet rhythm on the arm of the chair. "Bethany is only a few months old. What could she possibly do to protect me?"

Molly rolled her eyes. "Fine. Other than Bethany, do you think the people who care about you would protect you if they could?"

His fingers stilled when he answered, "Yes."

"And would you protect them?"

"Of course." No hesitation this time.

She'd had no doubts that he would. As she'd recently reminded John, Sherlock had thrown himself off the damn roof of Barts to keep his friends safe. She'd known it, but she had needed to make sure that he was aware of it, and what that meant in terms of his relationships with his friends and family.

"You'd sacrifice yourself if it were the only way to save one of them."

It wasn't meant as a question, but he answered anyway. He squirmed in the chair, and she got the strangest feeling that he was trying to hide something from her. "Yes."

"All of that?" Molly shrugged and held out her hands at her sides. "That's love."

She could see him begin to process all the new data she'd thrown at him. His gaze lost focus. She fully expected him to be gone for awhile. Molly settled onto the sofa near his chair, and watched her cat flop down in a ray of sunlight from the window. He was quiet long enough for her to begin to grow drowsy. Her eyes drifted shut, and she told herself she was just resting them for a moment before she had to leave for work.

"But what about . . . sex? Isn't that part of love?"

Molly kept her eyes closed, even though the question had been unexpected. Her lips pursed as she tried to puzzle through the hesitant nature of his query. The man had engaged in frequent and well publicized sex with his ex girlfriend, it wasn't as if he were a virgin. So what could he . . .

Oh. Someone--John or Janine, perhaps?--must have tried to shame him for sleeping with Janine when he didn't love her. As if John had room to talk. And Janine, well, if she'd thought Sherlock had real feelings for her when they'd started . . . doing that sort of thing; then Molly could definitely see where hurt feelings could have come into play.

Molly thought about how best to answer him.

"Do you want to have sex with Mycroft?"

She could practically hear him shudder with revulsion. "God, no."

"Then sex isn't necessary for love." Molly cracked one eye open and looked at him. "You can love someone, without wanting to sleep with them. Just as you can want to sleep with someone, without loving them."

She opened her other eye and sat up straight. "Sometimes, with the right person, you can do both."

Molly's smile was sad, but heartfelt. She wished she could make things easier for him, but this was something he needed to figure out for himself.

"Just so you know, there is nothing wrong with any of those options. No matter what you've been led to believe." He was watching her, studying her face and body language, looking for something. Acceptance, perhaps? Did he think she wouldn't understand or accept him, just as he was? She'd loved him unconditionally for years; and that wasn't likely to change, no matter what happened in the future. "Or none of them, if that is what will truly make you happy."

Molly leaned forward and briefly touched his knee. "Don't let anyone, including me, try to push you into something you don't really want, Sherlock. Not when it's as important as loving someone."

Sherlock opened his mouth and then closed it. He looked so lost and unsure.

She knew that if she stayed any longer there was every chance that she'd end up crying, or worse, trying to hug the poor man.

Molly stood up and moved to the door to grab her bag. She draped it across her body. "I've got to get to work. Have a good morning. Don't forget to lock up when you leave."

She nearly made it out the door when Sherlock finally found his voice. "Do you love me, Molly?"

What was she supposed to say to that? Her hand tightened on the door knob, clenching so hard it hurt.

"Sometimes, I think you do; but then you don't look at me the way you used to, and I'm not sure what I see in your eyes anymore. I wish . . . I can't be what you need, what you deserve. You know that, don't you?"

Her eyes closed. She rocked back on her heels for a moment, swaying as his words engulfed her, overwhelmed her. They pressed against her chest as if they were a tangible thing, smothering her. They both knew she loved him; but she'd never said the words, and he'd never openly acknowledged it in front of her before.

Turning around and looking at him, seeing the expression of pity that was surely on his face, was not an option. She continued to stare straight ahead. "I've never asked you to be anything but what you are. You don't get to shut off caring for someone just because they aren't everything you'd hoped they'd be. That would be far too easy. What I feel or don't, it's not important. It never has been."

She could hear him move, pulling himself up out of the chair. "Molly-"

Far too brightly to be genuine, Molly quickly offered, "I'll send a text if anything interesting comes through the morgue today."

Then she pulled the door shut behind her and hurried down the stairs, desperate to get out of the building before the threat of tears became a reality.

It wasn't until she was at work, mindlessly staring at the mountain of paperwork waiting on her desk, that she realized they'd never finished arguing about the continued need for her babysitters. The thought of going home that night and finding Sherlock waiting for her, possibly in her bed, made her shiver with apprehension (and, perhaps, something else that she refused to acknowledge).



Part 1 / Part 9