A/N: Here is a non-frightening Sherlollyween I had in my head. Please forgive any spelling or grammatical mistakes, as it is un-beta-ed.

Disclaimer: All characters belong to their respective owners.

One of the advantages of being single, and relatively introverted is that you can take practically any shift you want. Molly Hooper is such a person to take advantage of that fact. She was willing to work the majority of holidays such as Christmas, New Year's, Boxing day, and etc. She managed to accrue many favors from her colleagues, as their last-minute emergencies arose. There was one holiday she absolutely refused to work at all, and that was Halloween. Being a pathologist, you would think she would enjoy other people having an interest in her work. But usually it meant that people would be extra stupid. People would try to sneak around the morgue to try and see and/or steal a dead body or scare people while performing idiotic pranks. One year there was a group of Goth kids attempted to hold a séance in the viewing room. What were they expecting? Re-animating corpses into zombies? The dead deserve more respect than that. Anyway, Halloween is supposed to be a day where the veil between the living and the dead thinned. There was only one place she would rather be.

Sherlock felt a hand shaking his shoulder.

"Get up. You need to get up now. Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock startled, the tired detective looked at the man who had awoken him.

"We need to get out of here…Now."

A quick superficial assessment indicated that this man was not an enemy. Sensing his urgency, the consulting detective gathered his bag containing his possessions and exited out the back way of the dingy hovel of an apartment. It was not a moment too soon, as three burly men with guns soon stormed the place. One came out the back and Sherlock got a good look at him while hiding behind the next building. Latvian enforcers. If they hadn't left when they did, he would be dead. He turned his head to address his companion, but there was no one there. He was gone.

Sherlock did not see the man again until he was in Russia. One of his meetings with his informants had been compromised, it had erupted into a gun battle. Sherlock was grazed in the shoulder, but the wound was bleeding out rapidly. His vision blurred as he attempted to keep pressure on it while he tried to make an escape. Cold puffs of air escaped from his lips as he attempted to regain his bearings.

"This way Mr. Holmes!" It was the voice of that man again. He felt additional pressure on his injury.

Sherlock followed the man through a maze of tunnels and archways. He noted that his hair was brown, and his clothing non-descript. He made it to the outside of his safe house. The detective winced in pain, and by the time he reopened his eyes. He was alone again.

His travels took him to Marrakesh, a city full of spices as well as spies. The man guided Sherlock out of a burning building, courtesy from a few Molotov cocktails.

"It seems you have saved my life again." Sherlock stated, his voice rough with smoke.

"A repeating theme." he said.

The detective looked at the man. The man's features were angular, his eyes were brown, yet somehow hauntingly familiar.

"Mycroft doesn't pay you enough."

"I serve a higher power."

Sherlock digested his words, he could not think of anyone within the British Government who liked him that much aside from The Queen maybe. He was on his guard, as only a select few were in on the secret of his life. Before he could interrogate further, he disappeared.

It wasn't until he was stumbling out of a bar in Caracas after a night of hard drinking in an attempt to infiltrate a drug cartel, that he found any information on his mystery man.

"Easy there." The man said while guiding him down an alley.

Sherlock slumped against the wall and sat down. "What is your name?"

"Martin." He answered succinctly.

Sherlock blinked slowly. If his vision blurred enough, the man started to look like Molly. He missed Molly, and John, and Lestrade, and Bakers Street. Heck, he missed putting down Anderson, though he would loathe to admit it to anyone aloud.

Martin helped him up. Sherlock lurched forward, until his nose was buried into Martin's leather jacket. He saw the letters MHH sewn into the leather. He noted the wedding band on Martin's hand.

"Your married." Sherlock stated boldly.

"Separated temporarily." The brown haired man answered.

"Mhm. Chasing after me isn't going to help that any." The both took small steps forward.

"Don't you have someone waiting for you at home?" Martin asked.

Images of his friends filled Sherlock's mind. Most of them were overtaken by pictures of Molly.

"Caring is not an advantage." The detective repeated Mycroft's words.

"I dunno mate, someone cared an awful lot to send me here."

The pair arrived at Sherlock's temporary dwelling.

"You're a good man, Martin." The detective hiccupped.

Martin set him down and the edge of his bed and leaned in close to his face. "Listen to me Sherlock."

Sherlock's head bobbed up and down, as it seemed he was fighting to stay awake.

"This is the last time I will be able to help you."

Sherlock didn't seem too bothered. He was almost done dismantling Moriarty's network, all he had left were a few cells in Serbia. He surmised that this agent was being recalled back to his country. He hoped it was England. He could find him have a drink with him. John probably would like him as well.

"Tell her that I miss her too...and that I approve." Martin said firmly.

Sherlock didn't understand what he was supposed to tell who. He laid down on the thin mattress. Already his head was throbbing. He was going to have a hell of hangover in the morning.

"Take care, Sherlock Holmes." Were Martin's final words to him.

When Sherlock was captured and tortured in Serbia, it wasn't Martin who rescued him that final time but Mycroft.

During his shave and debriefing, Sherlock asked if Martin, the agent who followed him, was reassigned to England. Mycroft tilted his head slightly, and furrowed his brow. He did not put anyone with Sherlock. Sherlock figured he was lying, in order to protect some government secret.

All the pieces seemed to resurface in Sherlock's mind palace suddenly now. His mind was awash with memories of the man, yet still a lot seemed too non-descript about him. From things like clothing, he could normally deduce a lot about a person's life. But in this case, his conscious mind was not cooperating in recalling the details. All he could remember was the brown leather jacket with the "MHH" inscribed on it. Sherlock gathers the bits of information about Martin and concentrated his thoughts to containing them into a mind palace object. In this case, it was a brown leather jacket which hung behind the door containing his memories about dismantling Moriarty's network. It would have to be revisited another day, as he had other things to focus on.

The bright, dead leaves crunched under Molly's feet as she walked in the graveyard. It was the morning of Halloween. Molly's shift just ended and as per tradition, she took a small bouquet of flowers and a cup coffee.

"Hi. Dad." She said.

She removed a few stray leaves, wiped down the headstone with the end of her scarf.

"There much better. How are you?"

Silence followed, only the breeze rustling through the trees answered her.

"I'm…ok."

Molly paused to take a sip of her coffee and prevent a wave of sadness from overwhelming her.

"I miss you a lot." She exhaled.

"Things at work have been alright, People are still dying. Job security like you always said." She chuckled.

Molly sobered up. "Sherlock is back. It's been two years. I thought I would be over him. Now, I know he has his faults, but then again I'm far from perfect either. But Dad…I really love him. I don't know what I am supposed to do. "

She teared up. "I really do miss you dad. Wish you were able to give me some advice."

Molly leaned over and left a kiss on his headstone. "Goodbye Daddy."

"I'm sorry I had to call you in on your day off." Lestrade said to Molly. "I know his nibs, won't accept anyone else. "

"It's alright Greg. As long as I can perform the autopsy tomorrow, I don't mind helping out on the prelim." The pathologist said.

"I hate Halloween. People think that it's cute making the yarders, run around like chickens with their heads cut off."

Molly gave him a sympathetic pat on the arm.

"It's accidental." A low baritone interrupted. "Really Lestrade, I had hoped the incompetence of Scotland Yard would never sink to such depths. Apparently I'm mistaken. This was barely a 2 at that."

"Now see here Sherlock—" Greg was getting rather riled up.

Sherlock turned his back to the detective and started walking away.

"Oi! I'm talking to you!" The Detective Inspector yelled after the consulting detective. "Bloody self-righteous git!" Lestrade murmured to himself.

Molly sighed. "I'm just about finished Greg."

"Go on Molly, thanks for the help."

Molly nodded and lifted the crime scene tape to pass under it. The sun was turning orange it would be night soon. She adjusted the strap of her bag and started walking.

"Share a cab?" A baritone voice said next to her ear.

Molly was startled. "Jesus Sherlock! Don't do that!"

The consulting detective just smirked and raised his arm to flag a taxi. He opened the door for her to get in, before climbing in himself. The ride was relatively silent. Molly was too nervous to relax, only occasionally turning her head slightly to steal a look at him. Sherlock gaze remained focused on his phone. When they arrived outside her apartment building, Molly shot off her seat and ejected herself out of the cab, mumbling a thanks to the detective. She didn't notice Sherlock also getting out and paying the cabbie.

"Could use a cup of coffee." He said by way of explanation.

"Sure." Molly responded as they both entered her flat.

"Make yourself at home." She indicated, turning to go put her kettle on.

"Molly." His voice made her shiver.

Sherlock grasped her head in his hands, his long, slender, fingers weaving into her hair. Molly's eyes were saucers.

"This is wrong." He said out in an exhalation. She could feel his breath over her forehead. Whatever he was going to say, it was clear he changed his mind. Molly couldn't hide the expression of confusion and hurt from her face.

Sherlock looked away. "I…" he started.

His eyes locked onto shelf that contained many of Molly photo frames. He could not believe what he was seeing.

He reached out and grabbed a frame. His eyes searching over it, intensely.

"Sherlock what is it?" Molly asked behind him.

"Who is this man?"

Molly took the frame from his hands, noting that they were shaking slightly. In his mind palace, the jacket hanging behind the door of his Moriarty Mission room fell to the floor.

"That's my father."

The photo was of Martin. The details were the same, down to the leather jacket with the initials "MHH" on his chest.

"Sherlock what's wrong?"

He didn't answer her, his mind was working in overdrive. He had to get out of there.

"Sherlock? Sherlock!" Molly called after him.

But the detective was long gone.

Sherlock had no memory of how he arrived back to Bakers street. His mind was so full of other things.

"So you figured it out." A familiar voice said, leaning into the back of John Watson's chair.

"You said you were separated." Sherlock sat in his chair, and indicated for the man to sit across from him.

"Temporarily. Life and death has a way of separating us all. It's on nights like tonight, that sometimes there may be a chance of crossover. Eventually, all people would be reunited on the other side. My wife and Molly included." Martin said.

Sherlock did not want to think of Molly being dead. There was a question that plagued him about this man since Sherlock returned.

"Why?" Sherlock asked.

"She loves you. Honestly and deeply. When you're a father, there is nothing you won't do to protect your child. My Molly has suffered so much."

"So I am indebted to you to take care of your daughter as you have saved my life so many times?"

"No!" Martin rose from his chair agitatedly. "It's not like that!" Martin paced in front of the fire. Once he calmed down he re-sat in his chair. "You are free to do as you wish Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock looked at the man with an unwavering gaze.

"I know all about you. As a father who worries, how could I not?"

"And you approve….me as a choice for Molly." The detective said slowly.

"Yes. Yes I do." The man said determinedly.

Sherlock stood up and turned his back to the man.

Sherlock froze upon hearing the words. "I know you love her."

Martin continued. "Despite your many many faults, you want to love her and protect her. Always."

"I am unworthy of her." Sherlock's head dropped as the words escaped his lips.

"That we can both agree upon. My Molly deserves so much more than what either of us can give. But she is determined to love you, wholeheartedly, despite how much you may push her away."

"I only ask, as her father, that you make your choice about what you will do about it soon. Please do not let her suffer needlessly. My daughter does not deserve to be alone."

Sherlock turned around and offered his hand to Martin, who stood and looked as though he was reaching out to clasp it. "No matter what choice I make. I won't allow that to happen."

"Sherlock? Are you alright? What are you doing?" Mrs. Hudson's voice from his doorway drew his attention.

Sherlock turned back to look at Martin, but all that remained was Sherlock's hand hanging in mid-air.

He dropped it. "Nothing, Mrs. Hudson. Nothing."

The next day Molly was finishing up the autopsy on the accidental death from yesterday afternoon. She had just filed away her report when she was shocked by unexpectedly seeing Sherlock's form appear in front of her.

"You really need a bell or something." Molly's heart was pounding in her chest.

The pounding didn't dissipate when the consulting detective moved forward closer to her. It reminded Molly of the way he was yesterday at her apartment. Sherlock's gaze was intensely focused on her eyes.

"Your father…" He said.

"What about my father?" Molly's body language became slightly defensive, as if she were expecting him to attack him.

"I'd like to see him"

Molly's face was filled with surprise.

"Please." He added.

Another surprise.

Molly nodded. Unsure what he was up to. "We can go after my shift. It ends in a few hours."

"I would like that very much." Sherlock said.

True to her word the pair made their way down to rows of headstones before coming to the correct one. It read:

Martin Henry Hooper. (1953-1996)

Sherlock pulled a lily from his Belstaff and laid it in front of the headstone. As he stepped back he took ahold of Molly's hand.

Molly felt the need to say something. "He would have liked you."

"I know." Sherlock said.

He gently squeezed her hand.

"Why did you want to come?" She asked.

"Because I made a promise." He cupped her cheek, tilting Molly's head so he could kiss her forehead.

"Sherlock…" Molly's voice trailed off, full of emotion.

"I love you, Molly Hooper."

She couldn't believe her ears.

The detective gave her his trademark half-smile. He pulled her close and gave her a reverent kiss on her forehead again, before burying his nose in her hair, taking in her scent. The proper kisses could wait, like when they were away from the graveyard.

Sherlock wasn't worried about impropriety in front of her father though, after all, he had his approval.