A/N: So, guess who started watching Sherlock this year? And guess who became completely obsessed? Ha. So, anyway, this is my first Sherlock fan-fic. I've tried to get my facts straight as possible, but this is an AU, so I suppose it doesn't matter that much. Sorry for any screwing-up of characters, this is just how I've interpreted them. So, that being said, please enjoy, and let me know what you think!

The Story behind the Story: You know those really sad, angsty fics set between TRF and TEH that focus on everyone moping, etc.? Well, I was reading one (Dianne's I Think I'm Going to Die') when it was mentioned about Sherlock being a ghost. So I got curious. Then I started reading something about Molly and Moriarty, and well, this happened.

Summery: It's been two years and Sherlock's back, except everybody thought he was dead. Not even his brother knew of his survival. Molly herself had run the autopsy. So how is he still here?

Molly tries not to worry. After all, it's not the first time a dead person has come back to life…

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock; the BBC does. Also, thank you to Ariane DeVere on livejournal, who's transcrips of the episodes are highly useful. Quotes may be taken from the actual episodes.

Chapter One

The Absence of You

"Will you marry me?" John watched as Mary's smile grew even wider, and she nodded.

"God, yes!" she agreed, laughing. John grinned, and slid the ring onto her finger. It looked right there. It was about time things started looking right again. For the past two years, things had been so wrong.

Molly stood by the window, peering through a crack in the curtains. She stood just slightly to the side, so that if anyone looked up, they wouldn't see her. In the yellow glow of the streetlight, she couldn't yet see His dark silhouette. She looked up at the clock. It was only eight o'clock. He would be a while yet.

She stepped back a bit, glancing around the darkened flat. For the past two years she had moved around a lot. First she had lost her job, and then He had found her. She'd been downgrading, going from small, grotty places to even smaller, grottier places. She didn't pay the electricity bill, and unless she lit a candle, it was always dark.

This flat had only three rooms. There was the kitchen, the tiny bathroom, and the bedroom, in which she stood now. Her bed was small and single, covered in a simple white quilt and a beige blanket. The wardrobe was made of flimsy wood and cheap plastic, and barely large enough to contain her clothes.

Sometimes she would look back to the life she used to lead and wonder how she ever could have lived that way. How she could have worked happily among corpses, having now seen what she had. How she could have looked at Sherlock Holmes and admired him. He had been genius, but a genius who had put her down. Who had made her feel insignificant.

He was right.

She still admired Sherlock, but not in the way she once had. She respected him, but she wouldn't dare step near him. No, she'd learned her lesson. He claimed to be a sociopath. Maybe he wasn't, maybe he was. She didn't care. She knew now to stay away from people like that. People with no regard for human life.

There was a knock at the door. Taking a deep breath, she pulled on her coat, walked through to the kitchen, and pulled back the bolt. She pressed down on the handle and pulled it towards her, looking down meekly before glancing up at His face.

"Are you ready?" he asked her. She nodded, and followed him outside, not caring to lock the door.

Mycroft Holmes woke early. He lay in bed for a moment before deducing that he would never get back to sleep now that his brain was fully awake, and pulled himself out of it. He pulled on his dressing gown, slipped on his slippers, and headed from his bedroom into his private sitting room.

He called a maid to make some tea and sat down in his favourite armchair, getting out his laptop and answering his emails. The tea was placed on the table beside the chair, and he periodically took sips from it. Aside from the glow of the laptop screen and a lamp stood behind the chair, the room was dark.

When he felt a sudden chill, Mycroft looked up. The windows were closed, the curtains drawn. So where was that draught coming from? Probably the chimney, he summarized, before seeing something that made him go paler than paper.

Sherlock Holmes smiled at his brother as he stepped into the dim glow of the lamp. "Hello, Brother Mine," he greeted. "Long time no see."

Molly lay in bed for a long time, staring up at the ceiling. She hadn't slept all night. She often didn't on nights like these. He didn't always show up, and they weren't always out for long, but she could never sleep afterwards. Her brain was always far too awake, replaying images of the evening. Images she'd rather forget.

It had been a graveyard tonight, she remembered, without even meaning to. The same one where they'd buried Sherlock. There had been some kids playing there, barely out of college. They'd been those strange types, the ones who thought they were witches. He'd made her watch as…

No. Not wanting to stay there, alone with her thoughts, any longer, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and got to her feet. There bare floorboards were freezing cold, but it was November, and the heating system in the building wasn't the best. She made her way to the kitchen and put the kettle on to boil. She remembered how she used to spend the mornings. She'd watch the news on telly before going into work at Bart's.

Well, those days were over now. She prepared her tea, which was only ever lukewarm.

Mycroft sat watching his brother, who had refused tea or coffee, and his offer of food. He looked unchanged from the last time they'd met; same curly hair, hard blue eyes, pale skin and skeletal frame. Sherlock was glancing around the room, no doubt deducing what he could.

"So, you're alive," Mycroft said, trying not to sound distressed. Sherlock turned his head slowly towards him and raised an eyebrow.

"Is that not obvious?"

"Where have you been these past two years?"

"None of your concern, Mycroft," Sherlock replied, his tone clipped. "I'm only here to let you know I'm back." He stood up from his chair, making his way over to the door. "I'll be off to Baker Street now. I think I'll surprise John. Jump out of a cake; who knows?"

"Baker Street?" Mycroft said with a frown. "He's not there any more. He's got on with his life."

Sherlock sniffed, affronted. "What life? I've been away. Where is he now, then?"

"What makes you think I know?"

"So you don't know?"

"No, of course I know!" Mycroft snapped. Sherlock smirked. Mycroft sighed and told his brother the address. Sherlock nodded.

"Well, I'll see you later," he said. "Goodbye." With that, he turned and stalked through the door. Mycroft blinked a couple of times, before shaking his head.

No, his brother didn't just walk through a closed door. He was mistaken. It was dark in here, after all…

"The famous blog, finally!" Mary exclaimed, grinning at John. John sighed, rubbing his damp face with a towel.

"Come on, that's-"

"Ancient history, I know." Mary's smile drooped slightly as she placed the iPad down on the bed. "Don't worry, I won't read it."

"That's a wise choice. John does tend to over-dramatize things. I doubt that half the stuff on there is even true." Both of them jumped, their heads snapping towards the living room where Sherlock Holmes stood in front of the open window. He looked just like he used to, in his coat and scarf, and that smug, superior expression on his face.

"Hello, John," he greeted, breaking the spell of silence cast upon the room.

"Hello, Jenna," Molly greeted. Jenny, the other secretary, was big and brawny, and thus made everything in the office look incredibly small. Including Molly.

Molly sat down and logged onto the computer, fixing the headset to her head and waiting for someone to ring. She enjoyed the sound of the keys on the keyboard being tapped by her trembling fingers. It chased away the thoughts from her brain. As did her mundane job. Nine til' five, five days a week. Typical. Usual. Simple. Boring.

Perfect.

"Look, let's get out of the flat, okay?" Mary said, later that afternoon, when the tension in the room became too high to be bearable. "Let's go for a walk. Some fresh air will do us all good."

As John moved to get up, he didn't move his gaze from Sherlock. His best friend. The man he'd believed to be dead for the last two years.

Alive again.

It was a miracle, but it also misfortune.

After the two-year absence of Sherlock Holmes, it would be hard to welcome him back into life again.

A/N: So, tell me what you think. Good/bad? Anything you want to happen? I have about three chapter of this written so far, so I'm open to suggestions. Well, have a good day or whatever :)

-Invisi