For Birch tree2. Please enjoy!

"You're wrong, you know. You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you."

"What do you need?"

"You."

In the quiet of a basement storage area beneath a London hospital, Molly Hooper stood over the body of Sherlock Holmes, and into his arm she plunged the needle that would restore his life. It was a moment she would always remember, standing there in the chill semi-dark, watching the colour flood into the broken face, hearing the breath rasp through dry lips as a too-slow heart finally found its natural rhythm again.

His eyes snapped open, bright circles of moonlight contracting and resetting, clouded with blood and confusion. His first words were hoarse, barely audible in the expanse of this basement, but as far as Molly was concerned, he might have screamed them: "Did it work?"

"Yes. Yes, it did."

"How long?"

"Just a day. Any longer and you might have died. For real."

"Molly."

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

Less than twenty-four hours later, Molly stood over Sherlock's motionless body again. This time, though, it was in the rather more cheerful quiet of her bedroom. Getting him here had been a nightmare, one that had taken nearly an entire night – and it had to be night, Sherlock had said, because they would require the cover of darkness to conceal their movements. After starting the awkward process, Molly could see why. With his injuries, moving from one place to another was extremely difficult and slow-going for Sherlock. Even with her help, the effort of the relocation took everything out of him, and by the time he tumbled from her arms onto the rose-printed duvet, he was pale, breathless, and sweating. It was a wonder he was even still sitting up, but he was. Feet firmly planted on the ground, spine curved as he directed an unsteady gaze at the carpet.

"You okay?" Molly whispered. As soon as she said it, she wished she hadn't. What a stupid question. What a completely, utterly senseless thing to say. She braced herself, waiting for the inevitable how stupid can you possibly be look from Sherlock.

It never came. Instead, he nodded wordlessly. Then he lifted his head, looked at her. Gazed about the room, taking it in. "What time is it?" he said finally.

Molly looked at her watch. "Three-thirty. In the morning."

"You should get some sleep." Then his eyes swept his surroundings again, and he frowned deeply. "This is your room."

Molly coloured and prayed the darkness was enough to hide it. "Y-Yes. I, um, I just think it'd be better if you had the bed, with your injuries and all, and I'll just kip on the Lilo in the – "

"Molly, in all good conscience, I couldn't – "

"No," Molly said firmly, surprising even herself. "No. You… You don't get to argue with me, Sherlock Holmes." She felt her face flush further. "Think about it. What if I were to have unexpected visitors? Suppose they saw you having a nap on my couch? I've thought this all out, Sherlock, I… Look: I've agreed to help you, so… so let me." She drew herself up then, feeling it was an appropriate time to do so. That's when people 'drew themselves up', wasn't it? When they'd made a dramatic statement and stood their ground? She thought so. She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin defensively, and tried to appear taller.

Sherlock was staring speechlessly, which was quite satisfying. He was still frowning, too, though, and he didn't appear to be in awe of her power - in fact, he looked like he might argue some more. Molly sincerely hoped he wouldn't. He took a shallow breath, opening his mouth as if to say something, and Molly made a decision to cut him off before he could begin.

"Alright then," she said. She closed the space between them and gently pushed him toward the pillows, delighted when he complied. "Rest, then, and um… Can I get you anything? Do you need anything?"

Sherlock's eyes had closed, but his brows were still knit together. "No," he said, "I'm fine. I…"

"Good, okay. Then… goodnight." Molly backed out of the room and shut the door. In the privacy of the darkened hallway, she pressed her forehead and the palms of her hands against the wall, steadying herself. There was a very long road ahead, and it hadn't quite hit her until now, until the two of them were actually here, talking, arguing. Tomorrow, Sherlock would have to start a round of antibiotics to ward against infection; at the same time, Molly would be tagging the replacement body and filing the final autopsy report. The day after, she'd be attending Sherlock's funeral with the full knowledge that the man they were burying was not who any of them thought. In more ways than one.

Yes, indeed, there was an extremely long road ahead. Molly resigned herself to it and slowly retreated to the sitting room. Nearly four in the morning; she had to get up for work in a couple of hours. She wondered if she ought to have tried to coax some painkillers into Sherlock before she'd left him. When she thought of it, she was surprised he hadn't asked for some. There were broken bones, lacerations, a skull fracture. It had to hurt. But then, maybe that was what he wanted. Reassurance that he was still alive.

Quietly, Molly padded back to her room. She pressed her ear to the door and thought she could hear Sherlock sigh. Hesitantly, she balled a fist and knocked very softly, her bottom lip between her teeth. There was no answer. Molly assumed that to be an answer in itself, and went back out to the living room.

She slept fitfully that first night. Exhaustion had driven her to a place where dreams and reality blend into one another, and she startled awake every fifteen or twenty minutes, confused and disoriented. Her troubled mind repeated the events of the last few days several times over. She remembered a conversation with Sherlock, remembered him telling her that if she wanted to help him, she must keep his secret no matter what.

"Not a soul, Molly," he said gravely. "You are the key to a lock that must remain closed at all costs. Do you understand?"

"Yes," she said, nodding. "I understand."

"John will be upset. John will want to see a body. I don't know what's going to happen, but you can't let him do that."

"Of course not."

"No, Molly: look at me. He will beg, and he will push, and you mustn't let him get close. Hold fast. And when begging doesn't work, he will get mean, but you must stand your ground. With him, with Lestrade, with anyone."

"Sherlock, I understand. I do. I won't let you down."

The look he gave her then would be burned into her mind forever, to be sure. It wasn't quite admiration, it wasn't love, it wasn't even gratitude. It was something else entirely, and it made Molly's heart ache in a way she didn't expect and couldn't explain. Then he reached out a hand, and squeezed her shoulder. That touch, and the look, were gone, literally in the blink of an eye, and Sherlock was turning away, setting his jaw, saying, "Let's get started."

Molly woke with a gasp, eyes flying open to the unfamiliar setting of her own living room. Outside, the sky was turning grey as another dreary day opened over London. The clock on the stove read ten after six. No point lying back down, now. She gave up on sleep and got up then, hoping a shower might strengthen her for the day ahead.

When she emerged some twenty minutes later, she was surprised to see Sherlock perched on the sofa, intently watching the early news. It was an update on his own story, and the reporter was reciting the facts in a robotic voice as high-definition images splashed across the screen. Sherlock at a press conference, Sherlock in court, Sherlock dead. Then there was video of John, coming out of Scotland Yard with Lestrade at his shoulder, and John's eyes were red, and he was holding up a hand to insistent reporters demanding details about his deceased colleague and friend.

"Oh, god," Molly breathed, wincing as Lestrade snapped something rude at a journalist onscreen. "Don't watch this. It's nonsense, it's all – "

"No," Sherlock said softly. He sighed, his eyes lingering on the television for the brief space of time that John's face remained there, and then he turned it off. Slowly, he turned to face Molly. "No, it's exactly what I intended to happen. This is… the optimum result."

She knew that, of course, but it didn't mean it was any less painful, for anyone involved.

Sherlock gave another mournful sigh, and ran his fingers back through his hair. His hand came away bloody.

Molly's eyes widened. "Oh – hang on." She pulled her dressing gown more tightly around herself and trotted to the bathroom, emerging only a moment later with a first aid kit. She rounded the sofa where Sherlock sat frowning at his own bloody fingers, and arranged herself on the edge of the wooden coffee table, cracking open the kit in her lap.

Sherlock submitted himself silently to Molly's examination of his skull. She parted his hair with her fingers and probed a long cut on his scalp with her tongue between her teeth. "You must've scratched it in your sleep," she muttered at last. "If you can't leave it alone, I'll have to shave your head and stitch it up. Which I don't precisely know how to do."

"Mmh," groaned Sherlock, pulling a face. His eyes fell shut under Molly's ministrations, and he was very quiet for several minutes.

"He'll be okay, you know," Molly whispered.

Sherlock opened his eyes.

"John will, I mean." She swallowed hard.

"Yes…"

"I know that you, um, cared about him. He loves you. But he'll be okay. And… you'll come back, won't you? When it's over?"

"I intend to," Sherlock said guardedly. "But I don't know when, and it may be too late by then." He closed his eyes again, and they were both silent for a long time, until Molly pressed an alcohol wipe into Sherlock's fingers so that he could clean the blood from his hand. He didn't look at her as he asked, "Will you look after him?"

"Me?" Molly blurted.

Sherlock didn't answer.

"Well," she sputtered, "I hardly know what to… I mean, I don't really… I… I'll do my best. Of course. Yes. I'm sorry, what am I saying – yes. Yes."

"Thank you."

"No, don't, um, mention it." Molly wrung her hands. "I… have to go to work. Will you be okay? Do you need anything?"

"I'm fine."

And then he looked like he was going to say thank you again, and Molly couldn't bear it, so she turned and went away to her bedroom to dress. They hardly spoke a word to each other before she went off to Bart's.

The fever started that night. It was nothing, Sherlock said, just a result of the stress his body was under. By the next morning, though, he was having trouble keeping down food or medication. Molly fretted, concerned, anxious, but Sherlock waved her off, even as he lay sweating and shivering on her sofa.

"Don't make a fuss," he said. "It's merely a reaction to the drugs, or a minor infection. There's nothing to be concerned about."

He was right, of course. She should have expected this. With the condition his body was in, and the drugs, and the stress of it all, why shouldn't he be under the weather? It made perfect sense, really. "I'll get hold of some stronger antibiotics," she promised. "That should do the trick, right?"

"Unnecessary," said Sherlock dismissively. He shook his head, eyes falling closed. "Don't you have a funeral to get ready for?"

Yes. Yes, she did. She supposed she ought to be relieved that he was so curtly dismissing her concern – it meant he was still feeling like himself, at least a bit. "Okay, fine," she said tightly, placing a tympanic thermometer on the coffee table. "But keep an eye on it while I'm gone. I'll only be a few hours. I'm not going to work after, so…" She chewed her lip, watching him. His eyes were closed, as if in sleep, but she could see the unnatural shadows around his eyes, the lines etched into his brow, the tense way he held himself. How much of it had to do with physical discomfort and how much with emotional pain? Sherlock was cold and Sherlock was mean and Sherlock didn't understand people, but he was not the machine he pretended to be. Molly stretched out a hand to brush the hair back from his brow, but stopped at the last minute.

Funeral to get ready for. She turned on her heel.

Molly was gone most of the day. The ceremony itself was private and short, but then there was a luncheon afterward that she knew she couldn't turn down with any appearance of propriety. Mrs. Hudson hosted it at a small hall near Baker Street, and even though Molly should have felt among friends there, she did not. In fact, she felt naked as she watched the goings-on of the small gathering of attendees. They are mourning a man who is asleep on my sofa, thought Molly incredulously. She wanted to shout it out, to hold a little meeting right here and now, to unburden herself of this secret and stop all the sad looks and Mrs. Hudson's tears.

She knew she could not. You are the key to a lock that must remain closed at all costs.

John was looking at her. Mycroft was looking at her. Molly pretended not to notice, but she could feel them watching her, calculating. She and John had fallen out over the right to see Sherlock's body, just as Sherlock had warned her. He had cried, and shouted, and threatened, and Molly had held her ground as promised. But, if anything, her efforts had heightened John's sense of suspicion. Mycroft, too, seemed to know something, but he did not share John's apparent venom.

When she was finally able to disengage herself from the others, it was five hours since she had left home. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson both had hovered near her, inadvertently cornering her with their combined grief and sympathy. She was grateful for the barrier that kept her away from John – not because she felt he would ever hurt her, but because she was afraid that his grief would break her resolve. She knew, though, that the sooner she left this party, the better. It was too much to witness this shared pain that she did not take part in. Or, more accurately, that was different from hers in ways she could never explain.

It was nearly dark when Molly returned home, tiredly kicking off her shoes and dropping her keys onto the little table by the door. To her surprise, Sherlock was pacing the living room when she arrived. She tilted her head. Surely his being up and about meant he was feeling better. "Um, Sherlock? I got you some medicine. Antibiotics, like I was saying earlier. Nicked it from Bart's," she admitted guiltily.

His limping path across the carpet had ceased as she spoke, and now he watched her curiously. "Molly Hooper," he said, sounding surprised to see her. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh – um, well, I didn't expect to be so long, but… Mrs. Hudson had this little do afterward, and I didn't think it would look well if I… um… What are you doing?"

Sherlock had crossed the room. He was grabbing Molly by the wrist, taking her scarf from her hands and placing it back round her neck. "We have to go," he said. "We have to go right now."

Molly's eyes widened. "What? Why?"

"Moriarty," Sherlock hissed. He wrapped his hand around hers and started to pull her toward the door.

"What? God, you're burning up. Sherlock, stop. Stop!"

Sherlock whirled to face her, moving much faster than he should have been able, and his eyes burned into hers. "Moriarty," he said again. "I've seen him. In the washroom. He was there, he knows we're here, we have to leave."

Molly shook her head and extricated her hand from Sherlock's, lifting it to press against his forehead. His skin was painfully hot, his eyes glassy. Evidently the fever had escalated while she'd been away; now she regretted not excusing herself sooner. "Moriarty's dead," she said gently, dropping her hands to her sides. "You haven't seen him. He… died right in front of you, two days ago."

For a few moments, Sherlock only stared, his eyes flickering over her face. He was trying to decide whether he believed her. He was trying to decide whether she was in cahoots with his nemesis. He shook his head mutely, swallowing several times, hard enough that his throat clicked audibly. "No…" he said vaguely, fighting with the memory. "No, that's not right…"

"It is. You're sick, Sherlock. You have a fever. You're just confused, that's all." She removed her scarf again and took his hand, tugging him toward the bedroom. She could feel his fingers quivering between hers as he hesitated, resisting her weakly.

"I'm dreaming," he stated.

"No. Not dreaming. Just confused."

"I don't get confused."

"You got confused just this once." Molly's fingers tightened around his before she thought better of what she was doing and placed herself next to him, slipping an arm round his waist in case he was about to bolt. "Come on."

Sherlock rubbed at his eyes. "I don't… I don't… Are you sure? Are you really sure?"

Molly nodded grimly, guiding her fevered charge toward her bed. He obediently sat down on the edge, but his eyes were on her, wide and pleading and so lost she nearly threw her arms round his neck. He looked frightened, something she had never seen before. She could feel her heart do a little stutter-stop in her chest as he fixed that look on her, and though she knew he'd hate it if he were in his right mind, she placed her hands on his shoulders and squeezed gingerly. "I'm really sure," she promised. "Jim – er, Moriarty's dead. He wasn't here."

"He has agents."

"They don't know you're alive. No one knows."

The breath went out of him. His head dropped forward, chin to chest. "No one knows but you."

"That's right. Lie down. You'll feel better in the morning."

Sherlock obeyed, but his lips moved in silent monologue for several moments after. She peeked at his bandages and wondered where this sudden illness had come from. Had he somehow contracted an infection already? He had a couple of nasty lacerations on his head and shoulders, but they were clean and dressed. Was there some internal injury she was unaware of? She'd checked him out at the morgue. Perhaps she'd missed something. Or this could be a reaction to the drug he'd cooked up to render himself nearly lifeless. He had said it was a volatile cocktail.

We didn't discuss what to do in this sort of situation, Molly realised as she rummaged in a trunk at the end of the bed. She pulled out a light quilt and spread it over him. Although, perhaps I'm overreacting. If it's just flu or something, he'll be right as rain in a couple of days. There was no telling at this point, though. The urge to quantify Sherlock's condition was overwhelming, though, and she quickly retrieved the thermometer from where she'd left it on the coffee table. Sherlock didn't react as she popped a cover onto the business end and slipped it into his ear. The reading beeped out a stark black-and-white message: 38.1. Not great, maybe, but far from life threatening. What he needed now was rest, Molly decided. She quietly put the thermometer on the bedside table and tiptoed out of the room, shutting the door behind her.

Two hours later, Sherlock was up again, appearing in the threshold of the kitchen while Molly was making dinner. This time, he had his shoes and coat on, and was holding Molly's out to her. "Let's go," he said gravely. "There isn't time to pack anything."

"No, no, no." Molly shook her head and abandoned the soup on the stove to go to Sherlock. She took her coat out of his hands and carefully pulled his from his shoulders, pushing him toward the sofa where she could keep an eye on him from the kitchen. "You're delirious. You're dreaming. Sit down."

This time, he didn't question it, but that strange forlorn look had returned to his eyes, and he sat staring, silent, rigid. Molly picked up the television remote off the arm of the sofa and clicked on the news. "Watch that," she instructed. All they had to do was wait, and his story would eventually flash across the screen.

Sherlock watched the news as Molly went back to tend the soup. She couldn't hear the reporter from the kitchen, but after a few minutes she saw the now-famous photograph of Sherlock's broken face as he lay dead on the pavement. Then a new photo splashed up behind the reporter's left shoulder: a glamour shot of so-called Richard Brook, presumably from his portfolio, with a banner that read BELOVED STORYBOOK PROGRAMME ACTOR DEAD. Afterward, they cut to a video clip: a pan across an underpass. In yellow spray paint, someone had written on the cement the words Moriarty was real. Beneath that, I believe in Sherlock Holmes.

Molly emerged with two steaming bowls of soup and sat down next to Sherlock. "See now?"

Slowly, Sherlock nodded. Molly pressed a spoon into his hand.

They didn't talk much after that. Molly tried to make conversation, but there was very little she could say, and Sherlock hardly seemed to be listening. He choked down a few bites, swallowed the pills she gave him, and barely made it back to bed before his eyelids closed of their own accord. Molly did the washing-up and checked on Sherlock once before heading to bed herself. Her findings were not reassuring. The fever had climbed to nearly 39 degrees, and his sleep was restless. He shivered despite the obvious heat of his skin, murmuring insensately during the brief, rare moments of wakefulness. "It's okay," she whispered helplessly, running her hand along his back. "Go to sleep. You'll be fine in the morning."

He was not fine in the morning.

In fact, when Molly woke around seven to get ready for work, she found Sherlock much worse off than he had been last night. His temperature was steadily rising toward the 40-degree mark. When she woke him to eat, he was completely incoherent. He didn't know where he was, couldn't remember her name. He pushed her helpful hands away and fell back into bed with his back to her and she couldn't convince herself to try to rouse him again. She wasn't sure she could, anyway.

Molly called in sick to work and stood hovering in the bedroom threshold, unsure what to do. It was becoming clear now that Sherlock's condition was as far from 'nothing of concern' as it could get. She remembered him telling her not to worry, saying it was just the stress of injuries sustained, and she silently scolded herself for believing it. He must have contracted an infection. She'd tried to tell him, hadn't she? Back when all this was starting. Morgues aren't sterile enough for this, Sherlock. This is very dangerous, Sherlock. Something could go wrong, Sherlock. She had said those things, and he'd dismissed her, as usual. They hadn't even discussed a contingency plan for this sort of thing.

By midday, Molly had pulled a chair into the bedroom beside Sherlock and hardly left it. She sat a vigil there, with an endless supply of cool cloths and soothing words, all of which went unnoticed and unheard by the sick, shivering thing in her bed.

"You didn't tell me what to do if you got ill," she said, swallowing past the lump in her throat. She pressed a damp flannel against his forehead and watched the water trickle down the side of his face. There was no help available to her – if she deviated from the plan and took him to hospital, the whole game would be up. Sherlock would never forgive her for that. But if he should die, what then?

Oh, don't be ridiculous, she thought, and her inner voice sounded oddly like Sherlock. He won't die from fever. That just wouldn't happen. Would it?

Dehydration, on the other hand, was a real concern. Sherlock would need fluids and food and probably a trip to the loo, but he was out cold, hardly moving, still as death. Molly went to the kitchen and filled a glass with icewater, then sat on the edge of the bed and took one of his hands in hers and tried to wake him. She rubbed his hand between both of her own. "Sherlock," she called softly. He didn't even twitch in response, which frightened her and made her redouble her efforts. She closed her hands round his shoulders and shook him gently. "Sherlock, wake up. Come on, you need to drink some water. Just sit up a little, I'll help you."

No response.

"Please?"

Still nothing. Molly bit her lip. "Sherlock…"

His eyes opened. Just barely, but they did open, staring blearily up at her from behind the veil of fever. He shuddered and sighed and tried to speak, but all that came out was a crackle from deep in his throat.

"Um… Can you hear me?"

This elicited a grunt, and Sherlock's eyelids began to waver closed again.

"No, don't go to sleep," Molly pleaded. She reached toward the glass on the bedside table and fished out a small ice cube. This she pressed against Sherlock's lips, which parted as soon as the frigid wetness touched them. The ice slipped in, and Molly thought she heard him sigh as it melted on his tongue. She ran her thumb over his lip, wiping away the water that lingered there. Then his eyes opened again and met hers and she felt herself turning very, very red.

There was no doubt in her mind that Sherlock would not remember this when he recovered, but that in no way calmed the relentless hammering of her heart, which was beating against her ribs like a caged thing trying to escape. She forced herself to look away – at the carpet, at the window, at the closet, at anything that wasn't Sherlock's pale, wet lips or that glass of icewater.

It's not like that, she thought as she reached for the glass again. She swallowed resolutely and let a second ice cube slide from her fingers into Sherlock's mouth, watching his jaw and throat work as it melted. I can't very well lift him, can I? So this is the only way I can get any water in him. It's perfectly clinical. That's all it is. A third ice chip, and this time she had to run it across his lips twice before his tongue flashed out to admit it. If her fingers lingered longer than was absolutely necessary, well… He certainly didn't notice.

This went on for some time, until the glass was nearly just water and Sherlock turned his face away from her. Molly breathed a sigh of relief that she'd at least gotten him to do this much. Clearly it would be impossible to rouse him enough to eat or take medicines. She wiped excess water from Sherlock's pale face and returned to her silent vigil.

Things did not improve from there. The fever continued on its upward path. Nightmares came and went, and Sherlock cried out in his sleep like a frightened child. At one point Molly was certain the neighbours would hear him. What then? She ran her fingers through his hair and softly assured him that he was only dreaming, but he was very far away from reality and didn't hear her words.

As evening approached, Molly's resolve was giving way to fear. Sherlock's condition was deteriorating rapidly with no end in sight, and her clinical expertise was being tested to its very limits. Give her a dead body any day – Molly Hooper could do an autopsy in her sleep, upside down, with nothing but a spork and a plastic knife. But this? Sherlock could very well be dying here, in her bed. Where was the line between The Plan and a life-threatening situation? What was Plan B?

"Oh hi, John," Molly said to the bathroom mirror as she filled a bowl with cool water, "yeah, it's Molly Hooper, I was just calling because Sherlock's actually alive and he's in my flat, and well, you see, he's fallen ill, and I don't really know what to do, and I think his fever is around 40 degrees, so if you could please come and help, that'd be super." Her reflection glared at her judgmentally. Suppose John didn't even want to help? Suppose he felt too betrayed by her and by Sherlock? Suppose he just called her an ambulance and Sherlock got sent to hospital and recovered and then everyone important to him died and he hated her forever?

Suppose that!

Molly clutched her mobile in her hand and stood over Sherlock and tried to talk herself into a decision. "What do you want me to do?" she asked the unconscious detective. "What would you want me to do? You never said. You only told me not to tell anyone you were alive, no matter what, but is it really no matter what or only if you're about to die for real?" She breathed a tortured sigh and crumpled into her chair by the bed, elbows on knees. She clasped her phone between her interlaced hands and pressed it against her forehead.

Sherlock's life, or The Plan? Molly didn't understand The Plan. She didn't understand the details, didn't see the danger of going off plan. She didn't quite get why John had to think Sherlock was dead in order for The Plan to work. What she could see, however, was that she was completely out of her depth. Whatever was wrong with Sherlock, it wasn't something she could deal with on her own. She needed help. And the only person she could call was John, because letting just one person in on The Plan seemed better than letting the whole wide world in by dragging Sherlock to A&E. John loved Sherlock. John wouldn't out him. John might be angry, immeasurably angry at them both, and Sherlock might not forgive her for letting John find out about all this, but… that she could live with. Sherlock dying of fever or infection in her flat, that she couldn't deal with.

Molly came to this decision sometime after midnight, as Sherlock lay still as the grave before her, failing to sweat out the fever that ravaged his body. It seemed rather simple, when it came down to it: her desire to see him alive and well was far greater than her desire to help him catch some criminals. So she sat up and started flicking through her contacts list, searching for John's number. "I'm sorry, Sherlock," she said, as she clicked through the alphabetical menu. "I'm really, really, very sorry."

"Sorry for what?"

Molly nearly screamed. As it is, she dropped her phone and leapt to her feet in one movement, startled by the sudden voice from the bed. Her mouth fell open. "You scared me to death."

Sherlock winced and reached up to peel the wet cloth from his forehead with shaking fingers. "I… apologise…" he said, but it was clear he was saying it only because it was appropriate. "Why are you sorry?"

"Um. Are you… How are you feeling?"

In response to this, Sherlock frowned, pushing himself up gingerly. Molly sprang forward to help, pushing a couple pillows in behind him so that he was slightly more upright. He seemed to breathe easier as she did, and he blinked rapidly to clear his vision. "I… had a very strange dream."

Molly glanced down at the floor where her mobile lay. Then her eyes went to the water glass by the bed, as if magnetically attracted there, and she blushed deeply. "You, um… you've been ill."

He nodded weakly, shutting his eyes as he collected himself.

John's number glowed on the floor between Molly's bare feet. She had not pushed Send yet. All it would take was a button press. Her fingers twitched, but she reached for the thermometer instead. She popped a new cover on and pressed the little blue power switch.

Sherlock groaned, cracking open one eye to glare at her. "Is that necessary?"

"Yes," Molly said firmly. She placed the thermometer and waited anxiously for the telling beep. It blinked out in black and white: 38.5. Down from before. Molly was seeing spots. She put the thermometer on the table and collapsed into her chair. "Oh thank god."

"Better?" Sherlock asked, blinking languidly at her.

"You have no idea."

Epilogue

Two weeks later, Sherlock was himself again, or as close as he was going to get. Fractures had mostly healed, lacerations had become scars, and the infection was completely cleared up. They never talked about those first three days after the Fall, and Molly couldn't look at a glass of icewater without turning a lovely shade of rose, but Sherlock seemed to know that Molly had been on the brink of some big decision on that third day. In a strange gesture of respect, he did not ask what it was.

For a little while, they lived a life together that could almost be called normal. Sherlock spent the entirety of it at her flat, but Molly couldn't help imagining that marriage must be something like this. Sherlock was there when she woke up in the morning, and he was there when she came home from work in the evening. They took their dinner together (when Sherlock did eat, which was decidedly rare), they watched the same television programmes (when Sherlock deigned to do something so commonplace), and they had normal, everyday conversations. Sherlock did not ask about John or Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson, and Molly did not bring them up. They discussed the weather, the rent, the news. They occasionally talked about Sherlock's plans to take down Moriarty's network of criminals. On week-ends, Sherlock took over the dining table with plans and charts and maps.

So, all right, fine, perhaps it wasn't exactly like wedded bliss, but Molly figured it was about as domestic as Sherlock got. He even did the washing-up when his injuries permitted it.

Then, one day, Molly came home from work to find every trace of Sherlock Holmes erased from her flat. The Lilo had been packed into a closet, the sheets washed, the plans and books and men's clothes spirited away. There was only one set of dishes in the sink, only one set of shoes by the door. Molly felt her heart capsize. A door closed in the back of the flat and Sherlock emerged from the darkness of the hallway, wrapped up in a cheap trench coat and black woolen scarf, a small suitcase in his left hand.

"You're leaving," Molly said, shedding her coat and dropping her keys onto the small table by the door, just as she did every day. She regarded Sherlock mournfully, and even she had to admit he looked fit enough to travel.

"…Yes," Sherlock said slowly, his deep baritone ringing through the flat for what would probably be the last time. "I have a lot of work to do."

"I know." She sighed sadly and clasped her hands. "Where will you go first?"

"I can't tell you that." It was not a rude remark, not meant to sting. It was meant to protect her. "But I do intend to return."

"When?"

"I don't know."

Molly nodded knowingly. She hadn't expected him to know. The not knowing was the worst part, though, really. Nevermind that he was going god-knows-where to do god-knows-what… She would never even know if he got killed in the process. She could never know. He wouldn't let her, because it was far too dangerous.

Sherlock set his case down on the floor, and it thudded dully against the carpet. He took Molly's hands into both his own, and his fingers were cold against her skin. "Thank you," he said. "Truly. Thank you, Molly Hooper, for everything you've done for me."

To say the least, Molly was taken aback. She couldn't find her voice, and wouldn't know what to say even if she could have done. So instead she nodded, and squeezed Sherlock's hands, and let him pull her into the only embrace they had ever shared.

Before she knew it, he was gone. One hand on the door, suitcase in the other, a swirl of dark trench and wiry scarf. "Goodbye," he said.

"Goodbye," Molly echoed. She watched him go down the hall and listened to his steps fade in the stairwell before she shut the door.

The silence was deafening. It hadn't been quiet in her flat for weeks, and somehow she was expected to go back to the way things had been before. She wasn't quite sure how, but then – things weren't like they were before, were they? Not really. They couldn't be, never would be.

Molly fished her mobile from her pocket and sank down onto the sofa as the sun set outside the great big windows of her sitting room. She opened her phone's menu and scrolled through the options until she came to the gallery. She clicked it open, and thumbed through photos of friends, relatives, and work until she came to the most recent photograph. She opened it, and watched it fill the screen.

The photo was of an overpass in the East End. It was blurry, and the light wasn't good, but a person could make out the subject if they knew what to look for. In the centre of the photo, on the cement beneath the bridge, were spray-painted the words I believe in Sherlock Holmes in bright yellow. Molly sighed, and smiled sadly at the picture as it glowed brightly on the screen.

I believe in Sherlock Holmes.