A/N: Wow! New fanfiction! I'm excited. This is shaping up to be a bit longer than my other Sherlolly bit, as I'm already forming little ghost chapters in my head. Also maybe not so much fluff but then my plans for that always fail so whatever. If any smut comes about in any of my stories, which is unlikely but hey, I've started a Sherlock/Irene one so maybe? It will go under the author 'mademoiselle anthrope.' Original, I know. Again, this is all un-beta'd. Anywho, love you all very much. xM
Disclaimer: All rights to BBC and its writers etc., where due. I make no profit.
"I'll be out of your flat by morning." Sherlock assured Molly. "I'm sorry. For all of this, and for dragging you into it."
Molly shook her head. "It's fine, really. You would have died, and that wasn't an option. Obviously." Her voice was warm but she looked exhausted; the circles under her eyes matched the bruise on Sherlock's cheek. "We'll talk more in the morning, okay?"
He gave her a weary smile, but didn't respond. She handed him sheets for the sofa and went to her own room.
Molly tossed and turned before falling asleep, and when she finally drifted off, her dreams were illed with Sherlock falling, falling, falling...
When she awoke and went to make a cup of coffee before work, she found the flat empty, the sheets on the sofa nearly folded, and Sherlock's coat gone.
Five months later, the former consulting detective had dyed his hair blond and wore it slicked back. Gone was the blue scarf and fashionable black coat; instead he wore dark jeans and a hooded sweater, the hood pulled up, casting a shadow over his face. He was back in London after chasing one of Moriarty's henchmen through most of America and part of Italy. He sat on the tube, trying to look as if he wasn't paying attention.
Affair, asthma, software designer, dying (cancer?), Bart's (pathology?)...
At that last deduction, his head snapped up, sending the hood of his jacket flying off. He managed to shove it back over his head, but not before Molly had seen him. She stared for a moment and then quickly averted her eyes, looking steadily at something just over the asthmatic man's head. Her expression was calm, but Sherlock could feel her yearning to look at him again.
Two stops later, Molly got off the train and checked to see if Sherlock was following her.
He was, of course.
When they finally reached her street, darker and narrow, she stopped to wait for him.
"You came back." She said, sounding breathless, when he finally reached her. "And you're blond. With glasses!"
Sherlock nodded and pulled off the rectangular, prescriptionless frames, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I've got to disguise myself."
"It's not very good." Molly said, eyeing him critically.
He frowned. "Well, it's not as if anyone is really looking for me. People don't look for dead men." He followed her into her flat. "But still, it wouldn't do to have people see me walking around."
She nodded and dropped her purse on the sofa. "So, you're back in London. Does this mean you're coming back for real?" She gave him a hopeful glance.
He shook his head. "Soon, maybe, but not yet. I've still got one more of Moriarty's men to take down." His eyes flickered to the corner of the room. "Tell me, Molly, have you been seeing anyone lately?"
Molly frowned at the abrupt change of topic. "Yes, we met at Bart's a few weeks ago. He's lovely."
"What's he like, other than 'lovely'?"
"Tall, clever – not as much as you of course – nice... Why?"
Sherlock didn't respond. He was already climbing up onto a chair and shifting things on a shelf.
"Could you please not mess up my books?" She requested, irritation creeping into her tone.
"Break up with that man, Molly." He told her, stepping off the chair and holding a small, black object he had pried from behind a picture frame.
"Sorry, what?"
Sherlock tossed her the object, a miniscule camera.
"He's one of Moriarty's people. And now he knows that I'm here, and that you're assisting me, so we should go. How far is his flat from here?"
Molly's eyes widened. "Twenty minutes by foot, fifteen by cab." She stammered and Sherlock gave her a curt not.
"Pack a bag, Molly, we've got to leave." She didn't question this, but ran to her room and began to toss things in a backpack. On a whim, she threw in the cherry cardigan he had despised and the lipstick, which he had once complimented her on.
Twenty minutes later, they were at a train station, Sherlock paying for two Eurostar tickets to France with a wad of money he had pulled from his bag. Credit cards were too easily traced.
Only when they were securely seated on the train did Molly dare to speak. "Where are we going?"
Sherlock smirked. "To see an old friend."
A/N: Can you guess who it is? I can! Hope to update soon, love you all.
