Once, a very long time ago, a smiling woman with big brown eyes and a man with peppered grey hair that was once brown knelt in front of a little girl who stared back at them with vague interest.

The past winter had been the coldest that anyone in Manchester could have remembered. There was no snow, just bitter, raging cold that bit and stung with a passion. The sky was dark and the wind was chilling and seemed to cut right through the flesh of anyone who found himself in its way.

To this particular little girl, none of this mattered. At the moment, nothing mattered except for the shoddily wrapped gift that lay on the floor in front of her. It was no secret to this child that her family wasn't well off. Even at her delicate age, she knew what poor was and she understood that being this way often meant she wouldn't get Christmas presents or dessert or sometimes even any dinner at all.

However, now, on her fifth birthday, she got a present that would change her entire life.

It was hardly anything impressive, but as she pulled the paper off the small box, the child yelped in what could only be taken for joy.

"Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!" she exclaimed in delight, looking up at her parents with shining eyes. Something seemed to fade and her excitement died down. "Are you sure we can pay for this?"

The adults exchanged glances before the woman bent down and wrapped her daughter in a hug. Moments later her husband had joined in. "I don't want you to worry about that," the lady said to the small girl. The girl sighed with a heaviness that nobody, least of all a five-year-old, should have weighing on their soul. "Yes, Mummy."

The three of them stayed like that for a few seconds before backing away so the child could inspect her gift once more.

It was a small magnifying glass; nothing special, but they knew that to the child it would be everything. "Now you can finally be the little scientist you've got locked away in that mind of yours," the father joked, tapping the brown head that was inclined towards the object the girl clutched in her hands.

"Thank you so much," she said again, quietly this time, but there was no doubt to her parents that she meant it. "Of course, darling," her mother quickly replied.

"We love you very much, Molly," her father said. Molly looked up, her brown eyes meeting those of her mother. She said nothing, but the small smile on her face said it all to her parents.

Unfortunately, happiness like this never lasts. Molly's parents, Mr. and Mrs. Hooper, knew this. Molly knew this, as well. On days like this, however, when icy wind knocked at the shutters and it felt like Death himself was pounding at the door, it was necessary to pretend otherwise.

As she grew older, Molly learned more and more about the ways of the world. She learned what it meant to be picked on, and what alcohol could do to an empty mind. She learned how to live off of her mother's salary of £34 a month. She learned about loneliness and sadness. She learned how to hide scars from prying teachers at school, and why keeping her head down was often the best choice if she didn't want to get involved. She learned about lies and getting herself the help she needed.

Molly also learned about science. She found herself fascinated by the systems of the human's body. By the time she was thirteen years old, Molly had earned herself a scholarship to a private school by her success in biology. However, with her family's poor budget and her father's drinking problem, Molly knew that there was no way she could afford any of the materials for even one semester and neglected to mention the scholarship to her mother.

Despite this setback on her education, Molly made the most of her environment, studying the physical reactions of her peers. This helped improve her performance drastically, and Molly began saving up in the hopes that one day she could attend University and become a doctor or a scientist.

A few years later found Molly halfway through her second semester at the University of Oxbridge, where she was studying to become a biologist. Molly was a quiet girl, who shied away from social interaction. She spent nights and weekends studying as hard as was remotely possible, determined to get through as well as she could so as to not burden her mother more than necessary.

She met him in a cafe on Baker Street. Her roommate was throwing a party that Molly wanted to avoid, and she knew of the little shop from a website she had discovered while browsing the internet. The website said that the cafe was mostly empty because of its lack of publicity, and that anyone who remotely enjoyed the company of people shouldn't go to the little restaurant if they could help it. Unfortunately, Molly seemed to catch it on a busy night - there was a person sitting at a table in the corner. Molly avoided his curious gaze, but she could feel her cheeks exuding heat as he furrowed his brows towards her. A moment later she anxiously stared at the table in front of her; the young man had risen from his chair and was making his way towards her.

She hear the wood creak as the chair across from her was dragged back from the table. She tried to sit as still as she could, knowing he was scanning her. She quickly went over self-defense maneuvers in her mind, but before she had a chance to remember whether she twisted at the elbow or the shoulder the man had cleared his throat.

"We attend school together."

Molly lifted her head briefly and immediately recognised the boy across from her. It wasn't hard to forget the person who sat silently in the back corner as he was profusely praised for some brilliant paper he wrote distinguishing tobacco or something like that. This was Sherlock Holmes

She knew his comment deserved a response, so she curtly nodded at Sherlock. He raised an eyebrow and smirked. "I would have thought you would be attending the 'bash' tonight," he said, leaning forward slightly. Molly must have looked confused, because out of his pocket came a crumpled piece of paper that he slid across the table towards her. Molly reached out her hand and ran it across the white flier.

"TONIGHT," it said, and underneath, her dorm number. Molly stared at it for a moment before sending it back towards Sherlock. "I don't do parties," she mumbled, looking down into her cup of tea. "Neither do I," said Sherlock.

A tiny smile grew on Molly's face. "I'm Molly," she told Sherlock. "I know," he replied immediately. "Molly Hooper. I'm Sherlock." Molly's smile stretched out as she looked up. "I know," she said. Sherlock paused for a moment before a smile appeared on his face, as well.

"Well, Miss Hooper," he said, then paused. Molly could have probed him to finish his sentence, but instead she found herself caught in silence, waiting. "I believe there is only one logical step from here."

"Yes?" Molly heard herself saying. "What's that?"

Another pause, but this one seemed to stretch out for years. "Would you care to study with me?"

The friendship between Miss Hooper and Sherlock was an interesting subject to several people, for more reasons than one. Sherlock was a genius and hated everyone, always impressing people as he insulted them. The fact that Molly had actually formed a positive relationship between him was quite fascinating. He was also a drug addict. Little Molly Hooper, who, even by the time of college, hadn't come out of her shell, was fast friends with a drug addict.

Rather than his habits rubbing off on her, Sherlock being around Molly had quite the opposite effect. Molly had a strong influence on Sherlock. All it took was one glance from her to get him to shut up, smile more, stop slouching, or to "stop being a prick, Sherlock." It took a little more from her to get him to stop with the drugs, but, to her, it was well worth the effort.

Molly couldn't be there for him all the time, though. Her mother grew old and could no longer support herself, and Molly took temporary leave to go and help pack as her mother left her childhood home. Despite her efforts to stay in contact with Sherlock, in the month that she was gone he stopped contacting her. When she finally returned, he was nowhere to be found.

She had gone back into her dorm, only to find a dusty note on the bed that read:

My dearest Molly,

Do not try to find me. Hopefully, you will understand the importance of this step in the plan and not try to find me. If you are reading this, then nobody there has noticed my absence in the last month, which is excellent. I have left college. Do not try to find me.

Fondest memories, Sherlock Holmes

She had, of course, disregarded his warning and gone off to find him. It took her a while, but eventually she was able to drag him out of the drug den he had apparently been living at for the past several weeks and get him cleaned up. He had been furious when he regained enough sense to know what was going on. He spoke a few choice words to Molly and then left her alone in the biology classroom, fully intending to never speak to her again. During this time, Molly suffered tremendously.

Years passed. Sherlock and Molly both graduated. Molly began working at St. Barts as a forensic pathologist, and Sherlock started his own business as a consulting detective. Of course, he never spoke to Molly about this, but she followed him in every way short of outright stalking - just to make sure he was alright. Molly's mother died when Molly was twenty-three years old, and all she had left to leave her daughter was a tiny silver magnifying glass. Molly's father had left Mrs. Hooper when Molly had been only seventeen years old, refusing to stay "in this shithole with an old lady and a psycho kid". Molly, now entirely alone, dated around a little bit but never got into a serious relationship. She remained quiet and sad. Sherlock remained a prick. He faked his own suicide, and during that time she got into a more serious relationship and then got engaged. Sherlock came back, and, within two months she was single again. Mixed signals came from every angle, and she stood straight and tall without a word.

She was terribly depressed, but wouldn't have admitted it for anybody's world. Not a person saw through her. Nobody tried to help her, or accept her. Nobody loved her, and nobody would have noticed her if she disappeared. Nobody knew what she had gone through. Nobody except for one person.

And that's where our story begins.