((Hi, everyone! This isn't going to be a shipping fanfiction, so if you're into that, you should probably head off to one of the brilliant shipping fanfics on here! This one's Post-Reichenbach, very angsty, and I'm quite keen on it already! Leave a review if you wish, but thanks for just reading! ))

"Don't be an idiot. It's not blood." Sherlock responded to the mortician sitting across from him. They were sitting together in Molly's flat. He'd never been there before, although he had deduced earlier on that the light in her loo was out and she had a cat. That cat which, at that point in time, was bumping its head into Sherlock's leg insistently.

His eyes glanced down around the cat. He had fallen from a building just hours before, and he hadn't washed off all the fake blood from his face yet. Yet Toby was still asking to be petted, and Sherlock, awkwardly, reached down to stroke its back. Molly made a frustrated noise and reached over to wipe the blood from his face again. The glare that he sent her was so dark and annoyed that she sat back immediately, a subordinately concerned look on her face. "Right. Um. I'll just…leave you to your own devices, then. " She got up from her spot and straightened out her trousers, flicking her hair behind her hair. Sherlock noticed that, once again, she reapplied her make-up and put her hair in the way that she deemed most attractive.

She had saved him from actually having to die and she was still attempting to preen and primp for him. It made Sherlock smile at her, although he couldn't guarantee that, with the blood on his face, it didn't look gaunt. As she opened the door to leave, Sherlock raised a hand and caught her arm. "Thank you, Molly. Sincerely. I do not know what I could ever do to repay you."

Molly let out the brightest smile Sherlock had ever seen. It was so cheerful and so keen that Sherlock found himself returning it. "Oh! No, no, no thanks at all, Sherlock! I mean…if I hadn't, you would've died, and London couldn't lose Sherlock Holmes, could it?" With that, she withdrew himself from the room, and Sherlock was left alone.

Toby looked at him keenly from the bed, and meowed once.

Sherlock reached for the wash basin in the loo and started to scrub the drying blood off his face. He looked at himself in the mirror and he detested what he saw there. Of course it was selfless. The most selfless thing Sherlock had ever done, or likely, ever would do. And yet he felt sick at himself for lying to John. The entirety of London he could lie to. Easily. But John had looked at him with such an expression, visible even from the rooftop, and then they'd both been on the ground, and John…

No. He couldn't think about it now. It was impossible to know what would happen. All Sherlock knew was that he couldn't come back. John would never forgive him for what he had done. There was a plane scheduled tomorrow, and he fully intended to never come back to London.

That notion, understandably, frightened him. He'd always known London. London was his home, and he felt the most sentimental, pathetic feelings for the beautiful city. Not to mention that London had every person Sherlock Holmes liked. As he scrubbed away the last of the blood from his face, he felt a few tears roll down his skin. He didn't make a comment on it to Toby.

When Molly woke up in the morning, Toby was insistently butting his head against her arm. That was the normal morning routine, really. Toby woke her, she fed Toby, she got ready, she headed off to work. Bit dull, maybe, but who said things couldn't turn up? Crazier things had happened. She'd helped a bloke fake his own death yesterday, certainly she could get a boyfriend before she turned thirty.

Maybe.

"Sherlock, do you want anything? Did I wake you? Sorry, I don't know if-" Sticking her head inside the door, Molly was met with an empty room. Sherlock had left. The room was immaculate, as was the washroom. The bloody duvet was even folded correctly. Even though he had been a hospitable guest, Molly immediately missed his presence ( more than her silly schoolgirl crush would warrant, anyhow ). She wasn't exactly religious, but she prayed regardless that Sherlock would be okay.

The rest of the day was a tad bit like hell, or rather, what Molly imagined hell would be like. Yarders were swarming all over the morgue. Inspector Lestrade was absent, but Sally Donovan was boasting about a promotion. And everywhere, everywhere, there was talk of the fake, dead freak. Molly wanted to scream. They were poking about the dead bodies, inquiring her about her relationship with Sherlock, and worst of all, asking if it was true.

Was Sherlock Holmes a fake?

Sherlock had told her to say yes. So Molly said yes.

When her shift finally ended, Molly didn't waste any time in getting the hell out of there. The rest of the Yard remained, and probably would stay there until morning. It was the biggest case of the century, after all, certainly outshining the stupid Moriarty missing jewels case. Sherlock Holmes. Solver of cases for kings, politicians, and paupers alike. A fake. Worse yet, probably a criminal.

God, Molly wanted to cry or punch someone, and she wasn't sure which she preferred yet. She was under scrutiny, too – who wouldn't notice the mortician's stupid crush on the fake? But after putting on her best stuttering, mousy voice, Molly was sure that she was no longer a suspect.

She made her way back home and let herself in. Toby greeted her, as he always did, weaving about her legs as he requested a second meal. "No, Toby." She smiled down at him, leaning down to gently caress her head. "The vet says you're getting a little tubby. Can't have that, can we?"

And suddenly it became very, very evident that Toby wasn't asking for food. The cries became louder, the weaving about her legs grew to the point where Molly was sure that the cat was trying to trip her. Eventually, as she entered the kitchen, Toby just threw up his back and let out the first hiss she had ever heard from the feline.

"Toby, what's gotten-"

"No harm meant, doll. You just knew him." Suddenly there was a knife at her neck and a large figure standing behind her. "Now, I'm going to ask you real nicely. Where has the little bastard run off to? Come on, I know you know." The man's aftershave was overwhelming and Molly coughed out. Apparently, he took that as a sign of insubordinance. "Tell me, bitch!"

It wasn't that Molly thought of herself as a particularly weak woman. Hell, she dealt with Sherlock Holmes every day, or rather, had dealt with him. She did autopsies. She'd broken up with James Moriarty. She had faked a man's death. But she simply wasn't used to situations like this. Still, though, she figured she might as well play dumb rather than admit that he hadn't told her. It wasn't like it mattered. She'd be dead, anyway. "Sherlock Holmes is dead!"

The man gave a grunt and suddenly Molly felt the knife dig a light cut into her neck. Suddenly she was gasping out and crying at the same time, and she finally cried out, "I don't know! He didn't tell-"

Suddenly the man gave one of the loudest screams she had ever heard. It chilled her to her every bone. She immediately whipped away from him, falling against the wall. What she saw terrified her.

Toby.

Toby had jumped onto the man's back and was currently scratching the hell out of him. As the man whipped around, trying to get the hissing cat off his back, Molly saw the glint of dog tags.

So, a man who had fought in the war, but couldn't handle a cat? Molly smiled despite herself, but then reached underneath the sink.

It was never to be said that Sherlock didn't care about her. Perhaps he didn't feel anything for her, but he did care. And, one memorable birthday, he'd gotten her a nightstick and told her that, given that she knew him, there came a very real possibility one day that she'd need it. And she needed it now.

One swift crack to the back of his head. The man swore but didn't go down, instead reaching behind him and tossing the cat against the wall. He stared at Molly.

The look in his eyes was terrifying. Cold and dark, not unlike the certain flashes she saw in Jim from IT's eyes.

No. James Moriarty's eyes.

He ran out without another word.

The raw smell of blood tainted her nose, and she raised a hand up to her neck. The fingers came away bloody, but her concern was immediately drawn to Toby. She fell to her knees beside her cat and reached a hand down to pat the tomcat's head. "Toby? Toby, please, are you-"

There was a meow, and a purr. Toby, shaking off his temporary stun, struggled to his legs and butted his head against the woman's chin. Molly wrapped her arms around the cat and sobbed into his back, curling up so that her back was against the wall. Finally her fingers found the mobile in her pocket and she dialed the only man she could think of that could help. John would be grieving, still, and she'd never been on close terms with Mycroft, and Mrs. Hudson couldn't put up a fight if he came back.

"G-Greg." She sobbed into the phone, clutching the mewling cat closer to her. "Please come over. Someone's b-broken in and…I'm okay, Greg, I'm okay, but I just…I just need…and I can't trust the Yard right now. Not with this…Sherlock business. Please."

There was the muffled sound of swearing on the other side of the mobile. "Molly. I'm on my way over. Keep calm, yeah? Just keep calm. It'll all be okay. Yeah?"

"Y-yeah."

It seemed ages until Molly heard a car stop in front of her flat, and Toby was starting to wriggle uncomfortably in her arms. Molly finally let him go and brought her knees to her chest. She put her head down into her knees and sobbed as she heard Greg climb the stairs, and soon, there was a panting individual kneeling down next to her.

"Molly. God, Molly. Are you okay?" Greg's voice was calm and insistent, one thick hand going to rest on her shoulder. Molly didn't even hesitate. She threw her arms around the man's shoulders and squeezed him tightly. Her hands were desperate, clutching Greg against her so tightly that the man nearly fell forward. When it became apparent that Molly wasn't going to talk, Greg continued to. "It's okay. He's gone now, Molls. Everything's okay. I'll stay here with you for the night, how's that sound to you? It's okay. You're a brave girl, Molls, and Toby's a good cat. Everything's okay."

Molly didn't knew what drew her to start talking about Sherlock. Hell, she should've been thanking Greg. Greg was being so nice, and so kind, and she had no doubt that the man was grieving, too. "I…he wanted me to tell him where…where Sherlock was, and I…Greg…"

"H-hey." Greg's voice broke a bit when Molly mentioned Sherlock's name, and suddenly, she was being squeezed tighter against him. "Don't worry about what he wanted. All that matters is that he's gone now, yeah? And we've got to pick you up, that's all." He leaned away from her and gave her a wide smile. "We can't all be Johns and Mycrofts, can we? Calm and stoic, all the bloody time? Sometimes we've gotta admit we need help, yeah?"

That was about when Molly realized that Inspector Lestrade was crying along with her. Molly cleared her throat and nodded, detaching herself from Greg's arms. God, Greg was a brilliant man. "Y-yeah. I suppose. But…Greg, I should've been able to stop him. Sherlock would've been able, John would've been able, even Mycroft would've…"

"Are you mad? You did stop him, Molls." Greg gestured to the night stick on the ground and smiled at her again. "I bet you gave him one hell of a concussion, too."

"Y-yeah, but they've…they would've been able to hurt him…I didn't even kill him, Greg…they would've been able to do it without losing themselves like t-this." Molly sobbed into Greg's shoulder. All the stress, all the worry, all the panic that had followed Molly after the past few days eventually just came out of her. "I'm a mess. I'm pathetic. I don't know what I've gotten myself into. Mousy little Molly…"

Greg shifted so that Molly was suddenly pulled into his lap. She got the strange feeling that Greg had little sisters, and that this was similar to how he comforted them, too. "Don't say that, Molly. We've all been under a hell of a lot of pressure the past few days, what with Moriarty and then…well, Sherlock. And frankly, I'd rather prefer you not being a ruthless killing machine like the others. It's nice knowing that some people still think sentiment, that caring, is an advantage." One thick hand was going through her hair, smoothing it.

Although her eyes were shut, she could sense when Greg's eyes fell to the thin ribbon of blood around her neck. All of the air left him in a hiss, and his arms tightened around her. "We'll get you cleaned up. Come on."

Then Molly was being carried by Greg, and she looked up at him with a mixture of surprise and mild fear. He smiled down at her reassuringly, and soon, she was sitting on the edge of her tub. Greg was on his knees in front of her. "This might sting. Put a bit of alcohol on it. I don't know what sort of knife he was using on you, don't want to be too careful, eh?"

Molly's fingers tightened on the edge of the tub as the alcohol stung her. "He…he was in the Army. Had some…dog tags. Probably…he probably knew Moriarty, that was why he wanted to know where Sherlock…ah!...went. Maybe Mycroft w-would know?"

"Look at you. Guess you learned a thing or two from…" Greg's smile vanished off his face, and he shook his head once. "Yeah. I'll go get Mycroft tomorrow. We were supposed to head out to lunch, anyway. This entire thing's a mess, Molly. An entire bloody mess, and I swear to God it seems like London's gone to shit in a day because of it."

"H-how do you mean?"

"I've been put on temporary suspension for helping out Sherlock, but that's not the worst part. The news has been having a bloody ball with it, and it's only gone worse now that John's refused to give any sort of statement on him. Won't even post on his blog anymore. And it seems like half the royalty of the entire bloody world got something from Sherlock, and Mycroft's been running ragged because of it, not even getting into that it was his bloody brother that offed himself. And Mrs. Hudson's acting like she lost a son, and…it's shit, Molly. It's proper shit."

Molly stared mournfully up at him, and she made a decision, right then and there.

To hell with Sherlock. To hell with what Sherlock wanted, to hell with what Sherlock asked her to do, to hell with Sherlock's orders. People cared about him, and they were all going to be in danger because of him. They deserved to know.

As Greg finished cleaning up her neck, Molly sniffed and finally put herself together. "I…Greg, I just…"

"I miss him, you know. Didn't think I would, but…I do. I properly miss him."

Molly shook her head. "Greg, he's not…he's…"

"And I know I wasn't his best mate. I can't even imagine what John's feeling right now, or his brother, or Mrs. Hudson…Christ."

And then Molly told him.