Chapter One

Sherlock Holmes sat in the black leather armchair in his flat at 221B Baker Street in London. He had not moved since he had arrived home two hours ago; he couldn't bring himself to. It was over. It was all over. He had nothing left. Sherlock had just spent the last two months working the most important case of his entire life, and now that it was over, he didn't know what to do.

Two months ago, serial killer Daniel Masters killed Bart's Hospital's own Doctor Molly Hooper. She had been beaten so severely that they'd had to call Sherlock in to identify the victim, since her purse, phone and all other identifying possessions had been taken. Sherlock remembered that night more vividly than he would ever wish to.

Sherlock climbed out of the cab, his friend and crime-solving partner Doctor John Watson right behind him. The two men marched up to the crime scene, where a few officers stood at the yellow tape, nodding as they spotted the consultants and holding the tape for them to pass under. Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade stood between them and the body with his two colleagues Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan and Doctor Phillip Anderson.

"Standing around staring at the ground?" Sherlock said as he walked up to them. "No wonder crime doesn't get solved without me."

"Just wanted to warn you," Lestrade told him. "This one's a bit gruesome."

Sherlock gave a single nod and moved around them to see the body.

John let out a gasp next to him. "Jesus…"

The body belonged to a petite woman with brown hair, but beyond that, there was nothing recognizable about her at all. Her face was very nearly smashed to pieces, and from what they could see of her arms and lower legs, there was not an unbruised inch on her body. She had obviously been repeatedly beaten and maybe even stabbed, what with the amount of blood on her chest and abdomen.

"Who would do this?" whispered John.

"A monster," muttered Sherlock as he knelt next to the body, his eyes moving over it. "Woman in her mid-thirties, approximately five foot three…" He narrowed his eyes at her clothing. "Well-educated…" He cautiously picked her hand up to turn it over and look at it. "Medical profession…" He turned the hand over again. "Works around chemicals frequently, most likely—" He came to a stop as he stared at the woman's hand.

John looked at him as the detective looked at the body and back at the hand. "Sherlock? What is it?"

"Nothing," Sherlock brushed off, putting the hand back on the pavement. "Worked in a lab. Possibly a chemist or… pathologist." He reached into the pockets of the woman's torn coat that lay crumpled next to her. He pulled out a key card, his fingers beginning to shake. "An access card for Bart's Hospital." He hastily dropped the card and began digging in the other pockets.

John frowned at his friend's almost hysterical actions, very obviously distressed about something.

Sherlock pulled a set of keys out of the pocket, staring at them in horror. "Oh, please, no…"

John stepped towards him, concerned. "Sherlock—"

Sherlock dug into the pocket of his own coat, pulling out a set of keys. He flipped through each set before holding up a key from his set against a key from the woman's set. "Oh, God…"

John knelt next to him. "Sherlock, what—"

Sherlock snapped his head over to the doctor, brandishing the matching keys. "A key to 221B, John, a card for Bart's, a doctor…"

John's eyes widened as he looked at the body. "Oh, my God…"

Sherlock's anguished eyes moved back to the body. "Molly…"

"Are you sure?" John asked in a quiet voice.

Sherlock nodded stiffly. "Positive."

Tears began to form in John's eyes as he placed his hand on Sherlock's arm. "I'm so sorry, Sherlock."

Sherlock stared at Molly's battered and broken body for a moment longer before he abruptly got to his feet and bolted to the corner of the alley, bracing himself against the wall and emptying his stomach.

Lestrade eyed Sherlock with concern as he stepped over to John, who stood. "What's wrong?"

"It's Molly," John told him quietly.

Lestrade's gaze moved to the body, his shoulder slumping. "God, no…"

"Yeah," muttered John.

Sherlock opened his eyes, coming back to the present. No matter how hard he tried, his mind just would not delete the image of Molly laying battered, broken and dead in that alley. And he knew why. It was the same reason why he had refused to listen to the multitude of clues telling him it was Molly until they couldn't be ignored: love. Mycroft had always told him sentiment was a weakness, and Sherlock had never truly believed him until now. Even after his sentiment towards a friend had gotten Victor Trevor killed, he had never really viewed it as a weakness. After all, his mind had found a way to deal with that trauma, hadn't it? Why couldn't his mind warp his memories like it did with Redbeard?

Because it's Molly.

His mind could never erase Molly, because his heart wouldn't let it. Molly was different, one of a kind. And he had never gotten to tell her.

Sherlock reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket, pulling out the gift he had never been able to give: a diamond engagement ring. After almost a year of dating, Sherlock had been planning to propose that Friday night. But late Wednesday night, he had gotten that life-altering text for help on a crime scene.

He had then spent over a month hunting Masters down. The last two weeks had been grueling, as Sherlock and others were called to testify in his trial. And, finally, this afternoon, Masters had been found guilty on all charges and received two life terms in Pentonville Prison. And now, the one thing motivating Sherlock, the only thing keeping him going, was gone. It didn't matter that he had caught Molly's murderer and brought him to justice. Nothing would ever bring her back.

Sherlock flung himself out of his chair as he clenched his jaw, starting to pace between his chair and the coffee table.

What was the point, then? All these crimes he had solved over the years, all the murders, all the burglaries—all he had ever accomplished is solving the puzzle and catching the criminal. He had never thought about the fact that what's done is done; solving the murder never brought the victim back. So, what was it all for? His life's work, everything, was useless. He spent all his time solving murders when he should have been preventing them. He should have been saving them. He should have saved them. He should have protected them. He should have protected Molly—

Sherlock suddenly grabbed the music stand perched next to the table, pushing it to the floor in a rage. He snatched up the end table next to his chair, flinging it towards the sofa. He let out a yell as his hands latched onto the pile of condolence cards people had sent him sitting on the coffee table, sending them flying through the room. He grabbed the next object within reach and froze. He held in his hand a framed photograph: he and Molly at the London Science Museum, laughing as they mixed a concoction together at one of the chemistry activity tables.

Sherlock stared at the picture as his rage suddenly let go and the grief hit him. A howl of misery left him as he dropped to his knees, clutching the picture frame close. The tears fell as he let himself finally feel the pain he had held off for two months.

What seemed like years later, he finally looked back down at the picture. It had been taken just four months earlier. They had been so happy together, Sherlock having finally gotten his head out of his arse and confessed his feelings.

Why hadn't I done it sooner? All that wasted time because I was worried I would hurt her.

His eyes moved to a card lying on the floor next to his leg. He reached out and turned it over, recognizing it as the one Mike Stamford had sent. Every one of the cards people had sent after the funeral were full of empty assurances.

"The moment you feel like giving up, remember all the reasons you held on for so long."

"The ones that love us never really leave us."

"Hope is the little voice you hear whisper 'Maybe' when it seems the entire world is shouting 'No!'"

"It takes a minute to find a special person, an hour to appreciate them, and a day to love them, but it takes an entire lifetime to forget them."

"It's the possibility that keeps you going, not the guarantee."

"When someone you love becomes a memory, the memory becomes a treasure."

"Whatever you do, hold onto hope! The tiniest thread will twist into an unbreakable cord. Let hope anchor you in the possibility that this is not the end of your story, that change will bring you to peaceful shores."

No matter how well they meant, no amount of words would fix anything. She would always be gone.

He looked down at one card, which was a blank one, and inside was written:

"The strongest people are not those who show strength in front of us but those who win battles we know nothing about."

That one didn't even make any sense. Where did people find these quotes?

Dropping the card to the floor, he pulled himself to his feet and shuffled towards the table, pausing when he spotted the case file lying open on it.

Name: Molly Anne Hooper

Died: April 3, 2017

Cause of Death: Blunt force trauma

Sherlock placed the frame onto the table and picked up the file, holding it gingerly in his hands. A photo of the crime scene was paperclipped to the top, displaying that horrific event for all eternity. Closing his eyes, he folded the file closed and slowly dropped it onto the table. He raised his hand and wiped at the drying tears on his face.

I must pull myself together, he told himself. Molly wouldn't have wanted me to fall apart. I must keep living my life. For her.

Running his hands through his hair, he took a deep breath and let it out again as his eyes feel on the picture frame. He reached down and placed it upright up on the tabletop, a reminder to him of happier days, a reason to keep going. His fingers lingered along the top of the frame before tracing over Molly's smiling face. He would not forget her; he would live in honor of her.

Sherlock's hand fell to his side as he slowly turned away to head into the kitchen. As he turned around and his gaze moved to the flat's doorway, his steps froze halfway across the room. His jaw dropped as his eyes widened, the shock hitting him full-on.

Standing in the flat's doorway, with a dark traveling cloak fastened about her and tears in her wide, anxious eyes, was Molly Hooper.