There was no time to be nervous. The toss of the phone was like a lone flute in a symphony, small and unassuming, but bringing about the entire event into a fevered pitch. Sherlock wasn't nervous as he sailed towards the rubbish truck, concentrating on landing and rolling onto the pavement. He knew the bicyclist would collide with John; the man had been waiting on the corner and watching the entire time. The orchestra was in full swing now. John had screamed his name as Sherlock flailed his arms for drama.

The landing was painful. Sherlock rolled onto the pavement and saw Molly thrust the needle towards his neck. She poured blood onto his ear, nose and forehead, then vanished. The sky was so blue. The overwhelming noise of screaming and yelling was fading into the background of the symphony that ended Sherlock's life as the world knew it. As he knew it. And everyone he cared for was safe.

####

Molly paced nervously in the doorway outside of St. Bart's. She knew what had to happen and had her role to play. But her mind was plagued by the "what-if's." Supposed he missed the truck? What if she couldn't inject him and get the blood on before anyone saw? As her mind raced, her heart felt so heavy. There was nothing that she would rather be doing than helping Sherlock. Except for today. She kept her eyes glued on the rubbish truck and felt sick when it moved towards her.

Her eyes flicked towards John as he screamed Sherlock's name. She didn't look up. She knew she couldn't. It would stop her dead in her tracks.

As she stepped up to the truck, he landed with a thud and a groan. She ripped the small bag of blood as he rolled off and laid it near his head. The needle had already been uncapped and ready, so she plunged it into his neck. Those blue eyes were on her as she took the last of the blood bag and touched his ear, nose and forehead with it and dashed it into her pocket. His breathing slowed and she nearly held his hand. There was screaming. His eyes were fixed beyond her, looking past her. It made it easier to leave knowing that he had no intention of looking at her. He never had before.

####

Molly sprinted inside the entry as a gurney pushed past her. She was sure John hadn't seen her and waited inside for Sherlock to be brought back in. She brushed her pathetic tears away with her sleeve just in time for the doors to bang open.

"He just jumped from the roof!" the orderly bellowed.

"Wait!" she ordered from the hall with as much authority as she could muster. This was her eminent segment of the symphony. She had to be the conductor and get everything in order, bring the different parts together to play the culmination. Molly whipped off her stethoscope and listened to his chest. Slow and strong, it beat. "He is DOA. Obvious massive head trauma. Let's not clog up the Emergency with this."

"Yes, Dr. Hooper," said the youngest orderly, who regularly brought bodies to her morgue from Emergency. She had checked the schedule earlier to make sure that he was working.

"I'll take him down and start the paperwork." The three orderlies headed back towards Emergency and Molly pulled the gurney into the lift and to the morgue. She quickly found a sheet and covered the man that she coveted.

Her breath was shaking as she quickly typed out the death report while unnecessary tears of sadness crowded her eyes. He was alive under that white sheet, but everyone would turn against him. She had just signed a printed copy of the report when the doors banged open and caused her to drop the clipboard. Greg Lestrade looked at the covered body and then back at her. His lips moved but the only sounds that came out were not words, but bits of words. Finally, he whispered, "Molly…"

Her tears unleashed. The man she had fallen in love with lay dead, as far as the world knew. They would follow, like lemmings one right after the other, off the cliff of the lie that Moriarty had laid for them to believe. Sherlock the imposter.

Greg was embracing her before she had time to react. Taking a huge gulp of air, she let go and picked up the clipboard. "Here is the report. I wanted it done quickly so that I could look after him before he is taken. I'm...I'm…I'm sure that his brother will make the arrangements."

"Molly, this really is too much. Don't do this to yourself."
"You see, Greg, this is just, just perfect. I will be able to say goodbye in my own way."

He nodded and took the report from the clipboard. "I can't believe it. What was he thinking?" He rubbed his forehead with his other hand. "God, John saw the whole thing." Molly's mouth turned into a tortured grimace at the thought. Thank God she hadn't looked up. Greg squeezed her hand and left after placing his hand on Sherlock's sheet covered arm.

After checking her watch, Molly stepped into the bathroom and returned to hospital management staff. She uncovered his face so that they could all gawk and whisper among themselves. The hospital director made some pomp and circumstance show of words and Molly only heard something like "Blah, blah, blah."

"Sir, this man was also my friend. If you have any questions, please refer to Inspector Lestrade or see my report, as filed. Thank you for coming, I'd like to leave for the evening now." Molly felt her heart start to race in anger. "Sir."

A couple of raised eyebrows later, they shuffled out and Molly bolted the door and turned off the lights. She pulled the gurney out of sight of the viewing window, to the room where she performed dissections. A smile tugged at her lips as the sheet moved near his mouth. Lemmings, every last one of them, had failed to catch that. In the dark, she retrieved the duffle with the clothes that Sherlock had asked her to purchase, along with hair dye.

"I'll just get you cleaned up," she talked to her unconscious desire. "It would be horrible to wake up covered in blood." She uncovered his face and washed it carefully, as if he would break from her touch. She laughed out loud at the thought. "Dr. Hooper," she said in her best Sherlock impression voice, "I would neither break nor wish to be carefully washed. Just finish and I'll be on my way." She stopped, the washcloth rested on his cheek. "You know, Sherlock, I may see you but you still don't see me," her small voice echoed in the room.

Suddenly, his eye flicked open and then closed. "Sherlock!" she whispered. Then he tried blinking and arms and legs started thrashing. With no option to tie him down until sedation wore off, Molly found herself prostrate on top of the consulting detective. He finally stopped squirming and lay still.

"Molly."

####

Even after The Woman had sedated him, Sherlock still hated the sensation. His eyes wouldn't open. Nothing would cooperate. What was worse, he kept fading in and out of consciousness and couldn't do anything about it. And he hated being out of control. Then something made him grab ahold of reality and try. Laughter. Then more talking. Why was his face warm and being rubbed?

Then he heard Molly's voice. It was so far away at first. Like an inpatient child interrupting a conversation, he understood halfway through her sentence. "But you still don't see me." Whatever did she mean? He saw her all of the time.

Nonsense. He was determined to get up. With all concentration he could grab, he willed himself to open his eyes and get up. "Sherlock!" He heard her whisper at him, like a point of discovery. How odd. She knew that he would come out of sedation. His arms felt so heavy, as well as his legs, and they kept falling, when suddenly he was warm and covered, being weighted down. Pinned down, was more like it. It took him longer than it should have, but he attributed it to the drugs. "Molly."

####

"Oh, God, Sherlock, I'm sorry but you were thrashing about and I had no restraints!" She scrambled off of his body and gazed at the floor after locking onto those blue eyes and feeling guilty about the whole idea. "So…so…so you're probably needing some water now." Her cheeks were burning red in the dark as she scampered into her office to retrieve a bottle of water without waiting for an answer. "And good, you're able to move without all that thrashing about," she blurted out when she came back and found him rubbing his forehead and eyes, as if waking up from a dream. Probably a bad dream if I was on him she thought, thrusting the bottle towards him.

"Would you mind helping me sit up?" His voice was even deeper from the sedation.

"Of…Of course. I'm sorry. Should've thought of that." Like always, Molly felt flustered and tongue tied, even as she helped his drug filled body sit up. "Here you go. Drink the whole thing. I'm sorry, of course you know that."

####

The amount of talking that Molly Hooper could perform in such a short amount of time was somewhat of an anomaly that Sherlock understood as nervousness. He ascribed it to the fact that she had just helped him pull off the accomplishment of his death to the world, her attraction to him, coupled with having just lain on top of him. It was a good idea, though, to stop his thrashing. He smiled into the bottle so that she wouldn't mistake it in any other fashion.

"You will need to help me change into the clothes you brought." Sherlock knew without looking that Molly's face had plummeted to a shade of red again. "Please. I am too drugged to do it myself, as you well know."

"Yes, Yes, of course, Sherlock. I can help you with that."

####

Molly could feel the heat radiating from her face as she unbuttoned his shirt and slid it off of his arms. Oh God, if this was in some other way… She wasn't sure, but thought it would be a better idea to look at the ceiling tiles or floor than at Sherlock in any way when changing his trousers.

"Sherlock, it's safe now for a little epinephrine." Molly had seen that over thirty minutes had passed and she needed to get him away from the hospital.

"Hair first."

Had she not been desperate now to leave, she would've enjoyed running her fingers through his hair as his head was tipped over the sink. The blonde didn't quite turn out as light as she had hoped, but turned his locks into a brassy, light brown color. It was rather a shock to see his face paired with the color. "Perfect disguise, Sherlock."

"Of course it is, Molly. I am dead."

"Oh. Yes. Well, you are."

####

A little epinephrine later, she feigned holding onto the crook of Sherlock's arm as they left. Truth is that he leaned heavily onto her. The epinephrine waged war with the sedation and it was a small riot act inside his body for control. The non-prescription glasses and football jacket made him as ordinary as he wanted to be. He allowed her to hail a cabbie and slid into the seat next to her as she rattled off her address to the driver. Equal parts of him wanted to fall asleep on her sofa or run up and down the flight of stairs after they had arrived at her flat. He consumed more bottles of water and settled on taking a shower before proceeding with anything else.

The shower cleared his mind palace. He appreciated the small bottle of men's shampoo that she had obviously just recently purchased and perched in the corner, opposite her own toiletries, along with a razor and shaving cream. His reflection was a bit off as the hair color wasn't what he had envisioned, but it would suffice. Sherlock recalled Molly's earlier words as he combed his hair with the comb she had set out on the sink. "Perfect disguise, Sherlock." She was correct. No one would be looking for him, let alone with lighter hair and glasses. But he remembered his curt answer and it reminded him of the previous year's Christmas party. Sentiment he thought. She was complimenting me.

The telly came on in the other room. He couldn't hear what the announcer was saying, but Molly answered back and turned it off again.

####

"And in other news, the man known as the world's only consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes, jumped to his death today, following on the heels of the news that his cases had been fraudulent."

"Oh sod off!" Molly griped at the telly before she flicked it back off again. She melted onto the sofa out of exhaustion and disbelief that the stories had started so soon. Her cellular vibrated in her pocket; she had completely forgotten it was there all day. John just wanted her to call.

"Hello, John," she said as he answered the phone. He didn't reply, but she could hear him weeping. "John…I, I, I just want you to know that he didn't suffer. He… I, I was able to clean him up and make sure that he was well cared for at the end, John. Oh God, John. I'm so sorry." She wept into the phone for Sherlock's friend. Best friend. His only friend whose heartbreak was evident by the lack of sound on the other side of the phone. "I'll ring you tomorrow. Try to get some sleep."

Her head ended up lying on the arm of the sofa, with her eyelids shut. She couldn't comfort John by telling him that Sherlock was alive. Funny enough, he was in her shower. No, seriously, John, he's in my shower. Molly rubbed her tired eyes and chuckled at the thought of saying that out loud.

"It cannot be that funny that I died."

####

Molly had not even seen Sherlock observing her phone call to John. Sherlock felt guilty for having to leave John in the dark. But he was committed to John's safety, as well as to Mrs. Hudson's and Lestrade's. Molly rubbed her eyes and then chuckled out loud. It perplexed him. Why would she laugh after crying with John on the phone? Was she experiencing a nervous breakdown?

"I cannot be that funny that I died." Sherlock hadn't planned on saying it out loud, but it happened. Her eye shot open and she nearly fell over trying to stand up.

"Oh, I, I, I didn't see you there, Sherlock."

"Obviously. You had your eyes closed." Seriously, how could she say such things out loud so often? She was a doctor. And a good one.

"Right." She walked to the kitchen and called out, "Tea?"

"No. Water." He just needed to finish clearing the rest of the drugs out of his system before setting the next phase of his plan in motion. Molly didn't know about this phase. It was part of the plan that she never know so that she could never wonder.

####

"I'm off to bed. If, if you need anything, just let me know."

"You'll be asleep, Molly."

"Okay. Well, then, good night." Nothing like a Sherlock sarcastic remark to put you in the mood to sleep, she thought as she used the last of the hot water for a shower. The heat relaxed her muscles and embraced her exhaustion. Molly dressed herself in pajamas least likely to offend Sherlock and almost immediately fell asleep.

Her dreams felt like a curse; blood and screams and feeling like she was falling. She jerked awake in bed and saw that it was just after 5 in the morning. As quietly as she could, Molly brushed out her hair and tip toed to the living room. Sherlock wasn't on the sofa, so she turned into the kitchen, which was empty except for a napkin next to the sink.

####

Sherlock stared at Molly as she slept. Without her, he would have lost everything. She had somehow deduced his concern, his worries and offered herself to him with no ties or conditions. Her allegiance to him was steadfast. Had he recommended that she kill herself, he was sure that she would have agreed to it. And that amazed him. Other than John, there was no other person that he would trust with his life with than Dr. Molly Hooper, who lay sound asleep in front of him.

"Sherlock, no," she whispered fervently. He was used to hearing John mumble while he slept, but had never imagined a woman saying his name. His mind palace scrambled before calming and sweeping it under the rug of sentiment. "Please…oh God, please," Molly whimpered in apparent sorrow. Sherlock found himself suddenly grateful that Moriarty had not figured Molly into his plans.

There was a time and place for everything and Sherlock needed to start with his next phase. This death symphony was complete and revenge waited in the wings. With one last glance at Molly, Sherlock placed the napkin that he had been holding in his hand next to the kitchen sink, where she was sure to find it. He left with no other possessions than the clothes on his back and silently shut the front door.

####

"Thank you, Molly Hooper."