Chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes was dead. It was on everyone's lips, every TV station, and every front page: "Suicide of fake genius – Fraudulent detective takes his own life." His friends were mourning, his enemies were rejoicing, and the press was having a figurative field day.

Then there was Molly Hooper – 31 years old, forensic pathologist at St. Bartholomew's Hospital, single, and one of the few people who knew the truth: Sherlock Holmes was alive.

She not only knew it, she had ensured it.

When the world's only consulting detective, longtime friend and love of her life came and confessed that she mattered to him, that she was trusted (who knew?) and requested her help in faking his suicide, could she have refused? No. She couldn't have. When the man of her dreams gave her such an important task, that he could give to no one else, literally putting his life in her hands (legal implications aside), she would not (could not) deny him her help.

But that was who she was, wasn't it? Molly Hooper liked helping people, she enjoyed being nice. Doing good made her happy.

Then she would remember her mother's words: "You are a fool, Molly. Being too kind is not an asset, it is a disadvantage, and sooner or later, it will always come back and bite you in the arse." And most of the time, it did. And she would suffer. But Molly Hooper, despite being a kind fool, was also a strong woman. Whenever she would trip and fall, she always got back on her feet, brushed off the dirt and kept on walking.

But at the moment, she was wondering if walking on was actually possible anymore.

She was sitting in her small apartment, on the sofa she had inherited from her mother (horrible shade of green, but comfy as all hell), her feet tucked underneath her thighs, a hot cup of tea (milk, two sugars, as always) in her hands, staring at the telly, but not really seeing the screen. She was replaying the events that had occurred in the last couple of weeks since the "death" of the world's only consulting detective.

Right after the Fall, Molly had had to face Sherlock's colleague, Dr. John Watson, look the man in the eye and confirm the death of his best friend. Crying wasn't difficult, she had wanted to cry; luckily (sarcasm) the need to sob uncontrollably into poor John's chest while screaming "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!" was overwhelming enough to not necessitate any real acting on her part, though the meaning behind the words was different than what he had probably imagined.

She hated lying. To John, to his and Sherlock's kind, motherly landlady Mrs. Hudson, to Detective Inspector Lestrade, to anyone who would ask – she had lied to them all. She had lied at the morgue, she had lied at the wake, and she had lied at the funeral.

But Molly had to, didn't she? She had promised him. The great Sherlock Holmes had trusted her with this task. The love of her life had finally asked for her help. What else could she have done? It was these thoughts that kept her going: It was all for him.

And now… now he was leaving.

Earlier that day Molly had received a text from Sherlock, announcing his departure from London, the time and location for their final meeting, and a set of instructions on how to arrive at said meeting. He had taken extra precautions in ensuring that no one could be able to trace anything back to her, making sure that she would remain safe when he would no longer be around too look after her. It made her want to cry. He may not have had romantic feelings for her (and probably never would), but he cared, and coming from him, that meant quite a lot.

Molly looked at the clock on the wall – 9:45PM. It was almost time. She placed the barely touched cup of tea on the small coffee table that was located between the sofa and the telly, put on her jacket, and left the flat.

The location of the meeting was Holland Park, and the time of was 2am. The instructions said she was to switch between various modes of transportation, making a few quick stops at various shops in between. Basically, she had to roam around all of London for 4 hours so as not to draw attention to herself – she wasn't looking forward to it, hell, she didn't even know why they were meeting in the first place, but it wasn't like she had any say in the matter.

4 hours later she was at the entrance of Holland Park. The darkness and total lack of people made Molly considerably nervous, but Sherlock had assured her that he had had his Homeless Network keep an eye on her at all times, so that she wouldn't get into any unforeseen trouble. She smiled to herself and looked into the darkness; she could see neither hide nor hair of him, or anyone for that matter, but she knew she was not alone. She bravely stepped forward, entering the deserted park.

Molly walked around the park for a while, admiring the scenery as she went along. Even though it was a cold spring night, the skies were clear and a beautiful half-moon was illuminating the path before her. Had the circumstances been different, she would think it a very romantic setting.

She reached an area covered by large trees when she heard the sound of footsteps coming from behind. She stopped and waited until the person halted just a few meters away from where she stood. Molly could recognize him even by his footsteps now. (Wow!)

This was it. Maybe the last time she would ever see him again. She didn't want to turn around just yet; she wanted to prolong their time together even if just for another minute; she was selfish that way.

"Molly – " his deep baritone voice echoed in the empty park; it gave her goosebumps.

Knowing she could avoid it no longer, she took a steady breath and slowly turned to face Sherlock Holmes.

And there he stood. 6ft tall, slimmer than ever (he had lost weight again), dark curls which fell just above his eyes – his crystal-clear light blue eyes that she loved so much – dressed in his typical suit and long coat. Christ, he looked beautiful in the moonlight.

"Sherlock –" she breathed out, any other words eluding her; not like that was anything new, she couldn't remember a time when she could actually make a coherent sentence in front of the man. She cursed herself and her stupid insecurities.

"I see you've followed my instructions, well done. See anything interesting at that pound shop in Hoxton?" he asked nonchalantly.

Molly almost asked how he knew where she'd been, but then remembered who she was talking to; he probably deduced that from her trainers or something. She merely smiled; damn her insufficient grasp of the English language!

Luckily he didn't wait for an answer and continued, "I shall be leaving London in a few hours' time. Do try to keep a low profile for a while. Don't take any more holidays, it might cause suspicion, and if possible, avoid meeting John, Mrs. Hudson, or Lastrade for the time being." He paused for the briefest moment, but immediately resumed his speech, "I'll contact you if the need arises. Any questions?"

Molly gaped at him. That was it?! This was why he had brought her here? That was all he had to say, after everything that had happened?! It's not like she had expected a heartwarming goodbye or anything, but he could have at least tried to be a little less...himself?

She asked the first thing that popped into her mind. "W-where are you going?" And with minimal stuttering, good job Molly!

"America, Los Angeles, I'm meeting someone there who will be extremely helpful in assisting me with my plans to bring down Moriarty's criminal web."

"Oh." Molly hadn't known he had friends in America ('friends' was probably a strong word, though). "Who are you meeting? I mean, if that's okay, you don't have to tell me anything if you don't –"

"Irene Adler" he answered simply.

She froze.

Irene Adler?!

The Woman?!

THE Woman?!

The one woman who had ever managed to get under Sherlock Holmes' skin, the one woman who had managed to crawl her way up and touch, if only slightly, this man's heart?! She had read John's blog and also heard some of the details regarding her case from him, so she knew exactly what Irene Adler was, and what she was capable of.

Molly felt sick to her stomach. It was bad enough that Sherlock was going to be almost 5500 miles away from her, but he was also going to be there with The Woman. She felt her eyes burning, tears threatening to fall. She was jealous, sad and disappointed.

Fixing her gaze on the ground, so as to at least try to hide her shining eyes (though she knew hiding anything from Sherlock Holmes was next to impossible), Molly asked the one question she felt was the most important and also the most terrifying: "Will I – will we ever see each other again?"

She still wasn't looking at him, but he could feel his gaze upon her.

He took a deep breath. "I… don't know."

And she lost it. She felt her whole body start shaking, fear and anguish shooting through her entire being, and tears – big fat tears falling from her eyes like rain. Why? Why was he so cruel? How could this man so easily break her heart into a million pieces without even being aware of it? It wasn't fair. He wasn't fair.

"Molly?" she heard him call out, a hint of confusion and alarm in his voice. "What's wrong? Why are you crying?"

She lifted her head and shook it, managing to whisper a weak "I'm fine."

Sherlock furrowed his brows. "I find that highly unlikely, Molly Hooper. You are clearly upset. Though, I honestly can't imagine why. You should be happy; you will finally have your boring life and dull routine back. Of course you'll still have to hide the fact that I'm not dead from every person you meet, but after a while I'm sure people will forget and you won't be forced to – "

"SHERLOCK –" Molly blurted, anger slowly bubbling up within her. Ignoring the fact that he had just called her life boring(not that she could disagree, but it was rude nonetheless), him assuming that she would be happy about him leaving infuriated her. He was an idiot. A fucking idiot is what he was! "Fucking idiot..."

"Sorry, what?!" Sherlock looked taken aback. "Did you just call me a – ?"

"I did," Molly replied, not bothering to let him finish. She looked him in the eyes, her own were still stinging, but she was no longer crying.

Seeing the looks of shock, then confusion, and finally anger settle on Sherlock's face made Molly feel slightly proud of herself. He was clearly trying to figure out why anyone in the world would think him an idiot (he probably thought it absurd, the arrogant prick).

Before he could ask anything else, Molly, suddenly fueled by an unexpected surge of audacity, took a few steps forward, stopping in front of him at arm's reach.

He was clearly puzzled by her behavior, but did not stop her.

"Sherlock?"

"Molly?"

"Can I kiss you?"

The look on Sherlock's face was, for lack of a better word, priceless. His eyebrows had shot a mile up, his eyes had become as wide as saucers, his mouth slightly opened in shock and his whole body became as stiff as a board. He blinked several times, in rapid succession, closing his mouth, opening it to speak, and then closing it again.

"W – Why?" he finally asked.

Oh, look who was doing the stuttering now.

Molly thought about what to say for a few seconds. She knew she had entered No Man's Land, and the way she would go about this would either make or break their relationship forever, but she was feeling braver than she had ever felt before, so just for this one last time, she would dominate the conversation. "Because you owe me," was her answer.

Let's see how you respond to that.

Sherlock furrowed his brows, his eyes darting over her, trying to no doubt deduce if she was joking or if she had finally lost her mind. "I don't understand" he forcibly replied.

"Of course you don't." Despite herself, Molly grinned at his confusion, screwing with him was a lot more fun than she had imagined. "You owe me, Sherlock Holmes! You owe me a goddamn lot! And not just for helping you with the Fall, but for every time I went behind my boss' back to give you access to the lab, for the dozens of times I broke protocol and allowed you to muck about with the corpses in the morgue, for each body part I gave you without permission, for all of the extra hours I spent helping you with your bizarre experiments, and for every fucking cup of coffee I went out of my way to get you. Every. Fucking. Day!" She had become genuinely angry by the end of her tirade. Who did this bastard think he was, treating her like that?

"I – " Sherlock tried to reply, but shut his mouth almost immediately. He didn't look at her; apparently there was something very intriguing about the pebbles underneath his feet. After about a minute of the most awkward silence, he finally spoke. "I am sorry, Molly" he said weakly, "I didn't think I was that much of a bother to you. I sincerely apologize." He looked like a little kid apologizing for eating candy before supper. It was annoying, yet somehow incredibly endearing.

And now he was making her look like the bad guy – great, just great. Damn him for making her feel guilty for finally standing up for herself. "Listen," she added, more gently this time, "I am willing to forgive you, for everything, if – if you just do this for me, if you just let me kiss you."

"Molly, I really don't see how me kissing you could possibly – "

"Oh for the love of God, Sherlock!" Molly was becoming exasperated, and she felt her eyes burning up again. "Please! Please, just give me this. You're leaving, I might never see you again, can't you just do this one thing for me? Just –" she broke off, tears once again falling from her eyes, "just let me have this. Please!"

He looked at her for what seemed like decades, probably trying to comprehend what the hell was going on, but he also had an odd look in his eyes, it looked a bit like sadness, but you could never know with Sherlock Holmes. He removed his hands from his pockets where he had kept them for the duration of their discussion and placed them behind his back, his body straightening awkwardly. "Very well, if… you insist."

Molly's eyes widened and she gulped. Shit, he was actually going to do it. 'Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit! NO! Don't falter now Molly Hooper, you'll probably never get another chance like this ever again!' she thought. He looked so uncomfortable it was painful to watch, but it was already too late to back down now. She inhaled deeply and slowly began closing the distance between them.

She stopped directly in front of him, they were so close she could smell him, and Molly noted he had started smoking again. She looked up at him, admiring those stunning blue eyes and her gaze briefly settled on his lips, before quickly returning to his eyes once more. "Bend down" she whispered.

He blinked. "Sorry?"

"You're…too tall. I – I can't reach." She was breathing heavily now, the weight of the situation finally catching up to her. Molly felt her whole body grow warm, and her heart was ready to burst out of her chest. She was nervous, but also ridiculously excited.

Before he could oblige, she took him by the lapels of his coat and gently pulled him down towards her. He was a breath away from her, and he was so beautiful; she felt weak, yet strangely empowered. She cocked her head, stood on her tippy toes, and closed the remaining distance between them, touching his lips with her own.

The kiss wasn't a passionate one; no tongue, no biting, no licking, she didn't even move her lips. It was the most innocent kiss Molly had ever given, yet it was by far the most intense. Neither had closed their eyes, they just stared each other in the eyes, lips locked, her hands moving from Sherlock's lapels to rest on his chest, his remaining firm behind his back. It was awkward, but it was also oddly sweet.

After who knows how long, Molly gently broke the kiss. She looked into his eyes for another moment before fixing them on her hands that were still resting on his chest. She slowly removed them and took a few steps backwards.

Her whole being was in complete disarray. She still felt the tingling in her lips and fingertips, her heart was beating erratically, she was shaking like a leaf, and the need to burst into tears was almost overwhelming. Molly tried her best not to show how disheveled she was, so she smiled.

"Thank you, Sherlock" she managed weakly.

He had since then straightened up, his hands still behind his back, and his face as expressionless as ever. His eyes however, told another story. She had never seen them like that before. The way he looked at her was almost all-consuming; it seemed like a strange mix between confusion, anger, sadness and mirth. It was the oddest thing ever.

"You're… welcome." His voice was still steady and calm.

Of course it would be.

"Well, I guess I should get going then, you probably still have lots to take care of before you leave." Molly was still smiling, even though she was a right mess inside. She just wanted to get away from there as fast as possible.

"I do, actually. Apparently leaving the country incognito is not something one does with substantial ease. Nothing particularly arresting, mind you. A fake ID, a bit of extra money, some very willing participants and all done; to use a term adequate to our current location: it was a walk in the park. "

This time she smiled genuinely. Sherlock trying to make jokes was definitely different, as one would expect. But she thought that maybe he was trying to ease her mind a little, in his own odd way, and somehow that made her hurt even more. She needed to leave.

"Well then…" she slowly began walking backwards, her smile as wide as ever, "I guess this is it. I hope everything works out for the best, though knowing you, I'm positive it will." She looked at him one last time, burning the image of him as he was at that moment into her mind forever; her eyes were already stinging with tears – again – and in a broken voice she uttered the dreaded final words.

"Goodbye Sherlock Holmes."

She immediately did a 180 and broke into a light jog, not capable of withstanding the pain any longer. She could faintly hear "Goodbye Molly Hooper" from behind her, but she didn't stop. She couldn't stop. Molly was running by the time she reached the park entrance, and without bothering to check her surroundings for anything suspicious, she hailed a taxi.

She jumped in and practically forced the address to her flat out of her mouth. The driver had asked her if she was all right the moment she stepped into the car, and understandably so. Molly was huffing and puffing as if she had been running a 10 mile marathon, her hair was in complete disarray and her tear stained face didn't help either. Molly quickly dismissed the man's worries. She forced herself not to cry anymore, she rubbed her hands, she bit her lip, she grinded her teeth, and shed not one more tear until the taxi dropped her off.

Molly fumbled with her keys, barely managing to open the door; she hadn't noticed her hands were shaking so badly. When she found herself safe inside the comfort of her living room, she finally broke down. She fell on her sofa and she cried. She cried like she had never done before. She cursed herself and her stupidity, she cursed her overwhelming love for the world's only consulting detective, she cursed her weak heart, and she cursed the kiss they shared.

The stupid fucking kiss!

She knew it would end up like this, she knew, yet she ignored her own instinct. It was the biggest mistake of Molly Hooper's life. The kiss with Sherlock Holmes had damned her forever and she felt like her life had, at that moment, completely ended. She could no longer walk on.

Sherlock sat placid in his passenger's seat aboard a very posh and absurdly expensive personal jet (Mycroft had certainly outdone himself this time). Apparently, even his apathetic older brother was not immune to the guilt trip he was subjected to by his revived younger sibling; he made a note to himself to milk that cow for all it was worth.

'Flying is boring' he thought after a while.

He looked out the window and all he could see was the never-ending sight of the Atlantic Ocean (if he had measured correctly, they should be located at approximately 51.37 degrees latitude and -18.89 degrees longitude… approximately). Sherlock hated the ocean; it was just so horribly dull and never-changing. To him it was a constant… and Sherlock hated constants.

He averted his gaze from the horribly uninteresting mass of blue, to concentrate on the more important things in life – himself.

He was feeling unexpectedly low. Lower than he had been in weeks. As low as on the day of the Fall. Leaving London was more difficult than he had anticipated. Abandoning everything he knew and… cared for, he guessed... was causing him terrible anxiety and dismay. He would no longer be able to directly protect the people in his life, and although Mycroft had more than graciously assumed the role of safeguard for them, Sherlock was still uneasy.

John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade. He cared for these people more than anything, and yet he was a danger to their wellbeing. They were his friends, his family, his world, (and he would deny this to his death) they were more important to him than anything else, even himself, as he so courageously (stupidly?) proved it.

And then there was Molly Hooper, who knew his secret and who risked her career, maybe even her life, to help him pull his little magic trick. She had been so brave during the whole endeavor; he had been genuinely surprised by her, in a pleasant way. Her loyalty to him was also quite unexpected. He was very aware of the nature of her feelings, but he had never imagined they were at such a level, he was secretly quite flattered.

He absentmindedly brought his fingers to his lips, but caught his mistake and quickly removed them, firmly placing his hands on his lap. He had tried not to give much thought to the incident in Holland Park from several hours ago. To be perfectly honest, it had been one of the most shocking and unnerving experiences he had ever encountered; it would be beneficial if he just deleted the whole thing for good… beneficial, but in a way selfish on his part.

For all he was and had said, Sherlock was very aware of how indebted he was to Molly Hooper, and he couldn't fathom how a simple kiss could possibly be considered repayment for everything he had put the woman through. It was a bit stupid, if you asked him.

However, he couldn't deny that the act in itself was somewhat… endearing. And passionate. And… something else. Something that had made him not want to stop. He remembered his hands unclasping behind his back and slowly moving towards her, wanting to pull her close. Fortunately she had broken the kiss before he had been able to make what would surely have been a very terrible mistake.

He remembered her face after kiss had ended. She looked broken and on the verge of tears, and the way she had run from him like he would bring her nothing but pain and suffering upset Sherlock more than he himself would like to admit. After she had gone, Sherlock cried. He could hardly believe there had been tears falling from his eyes at that moment. The only other time he had cried for real, since becoming an adult, was as he had said his goodbyes to John from atop the roof of St. Bart's.

For the two weeks he had been in hiding after the Fall, Molly was something of a lifeline to him. The only person that knew he was alive (well, he had told Mycroft after several days, but he obviously didn't count), the only one he could confide in, the last remaining link to the world of the living. Saying goodbye to her made him feel wretched and more alone than ever, but that was probably what he deserved. He had selfishly put Molly at risk by having her meet him one last time, and he didn't even know why he had requested this from her. It couldn't be… sentiment? Oh God, he was getting softer by the day. Or maybe it was some kind of closure, like officially ending a chapter in one's life, needing to tie up all loose ends. Yes, that sounded about right. Let's go with that.

Whatever the reason, Sherlock didn't regret having this one last encounter with Molly Hooper. He closed his eyes, letting the image of Molly and their kiss fill his mind. As the jet kept flying towards America and his new life, deep down inside him, in a place he had closed off from the world ever since his mother's death, something had begun to stir.