Quantum Entanglement: When particles such as photons or electrons interact and then become separated, but are linked in such a way that they make the exact same movements, no matter how far apart they become.

Departure

CRACK.

Molly's eyes flew open as her room was bleached in white light. Then, it was gone as quickly as it had come. In the stillness, she could hear raindrops falling onto the roof and splashing on the pavement far below. Sighing in the dark, she turned over to stare out the foggy window. There was almost no one moving on the streets, and she could just make out a pinpoint of light that was a faraway streetlamp. A distant rumble of thunder came again, and she pulled the cool sheets tighter around herself.

Thunk.

What was that? It definitely wasn't thunder, too close for that. It sounded like someone was moving around in her living room. It was probably Sherlock, she realized, as it was his turn to sleep on the old sofa. Still, it would be disastrous if someone and broken in and seen the allegedly dead detective.

Her feet hit the cold floor, and she crossed her arms tightly. Padding across her bedroom as quietly as she could, she inched open her door. Then flung it open.

"What do you think you're doing?" she asked.

Clothing was strewn around the living room, interspersed with maps covered in highlighter and sharpie. In the middle of the maelstrom was the detective himself, shoving everything haphazardly into a ratty black suitcase. "What does it look like?"

"You're leaving," she stated quietly.

"Yes." He continued packing.

"Were you planning on waking me up, or were you just going to… leave without saying goodbye?"

"I would have left a note." At her silence, he looked up, searching her face. "That was apparently the wrong answer. Why?"

Man, his eyes were intense. "Um, because you're my f-friend, and-"

"Why am I your friend, Molly?" For once, the detective looked completely lost.

"S-sorry, what?"

"I've insulted you and used you and hurt you, and yet you risked your safety to help me fake my death. Why?" He folded up a map and stuck it in the suitcase's front pocket.

Because he was Sherlock. Were these impossible questions going to become a habit now that Sherlock couldn't contact John, his moral compass? "Because, even though you can be… harsh… sometimes… well, a lot of the time… I know you have a good heart. Even though you try to hide it. You cared enough to die for your friends. Well, I mean, I know you didn't actually die, but it looked like you did."

"I have a good heart?" His nose wrinkled in confusion.

Ignoring this (with great difficulty), Molly continued, "And because you're my f-friend, I wanted to see you one… l-last time, because I probably won't see you again for a while."

"Molly," Sherlock stood and looked at her solemnly, "you should know that it might not just be a while. There's a large chance that I won't be coming back."

The pathologist bit her lip. "I know," she said quietly. Looking at him, she realized this could possibly be her last chance. She took a deep breath. Then, she ran forward, throwing her arms around the detective.

Well. Sherlock was certainly not expecting that. However, the sensation of being hugged was not altogether unpleasant. He looked down at the pathologist, wondering what John would have done in this situation. Sentiment was always more of his area. After several seconds, he opted for awkwardly patting her on the back.

His touch seemed to startle Molly back to herself. She jerked back, blushing fiercely. "I-I'm so sorry. That was s-stupid; I shouldn't have-"

"Molly." He mercifully cut her off. "It's… fine."

He was being oddly understanding. "I-I don't know what got into me."

"Do stop apologizing, Molly. It's unbecoming."

There was the Sherlock she was used to. "S-sorry. No, no, I didn't mean-"

"Molly. Be quiet."

After looking at each other in awkward silence for a couple seconds, Molly bit back her embarrassment. "You are wrong, you know."

The detective's eyebrows shot up. "I'm wrong? About what?"

"You are going to come back."

"Molly, Moriarty's network is vast and-"

"Fallible." At the feeling of finality of the moment, she felt a wave of courage coursing through her. "He's not perfect, Sherlock. He's dead, isn't he?"

Sherlock's face broke into a grin. "And I'm not, correct?"

Molly smiled back. "But they don't know that, so you've got the… element of surprise."

"And the element of surprise is far superior to thousands of enemy agents."

"Well, at l-least it's more than nothing."

They stood in awkward silence for several seconds. Then the detective spoke again. "Thank you, Molly. For… everything."

Her blush got even deeper. "It was my pleasure."

"How could that have possibly been considered enjoyable?"

"It w-wasn't that it was fun, but it was the fact that I could…" her blush deepened, "help… you."

Sherlock gave her the strangest look. She couldn't quite figure out what it meant.

"Well, r-regardless, my offer still stands. If you need anything at all, just ask."

"I will. Thank you." He picked up the fully-packed suitcase and slung on an unfamiliar windbreaker, as the belstaff was too recognizable. They both heard a clap of thunder in the distance. "I may contact you, but don't try to contact me. It would be both unsafe and nearly impossible. And Molly, be on your guard. Don't bring up the subject of my death; don't be foolish and try to clear my name; don't even bring up the subject of me at all."

"And lock myself in my flat and don't talk to strangers?" Molly crossed her arms, smiling shyly. "I'll be fine, Sherlock. They don't even know about me."

"Keep it that way."

"It shouldn't be a problem; I don't-"

"You do count, Molly."

The pathologist tried in vain to stop the smile spreading across her face. "I was going to say that I don't meet many people down in the morgue."

"What about Jim from IT?"

And back came the blush. "He was an exception. It won't happen again."

The detective turned to go once more.

"Oh, and Sh-sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you. Again. For s-saying that I count."

"It's not a compliment, simply a fact. You're trustworthy and reliable, and you saved my life."

"It w-was still nice of you to say it." Knowing that she shouldn't keep him any longer, she took a deep breath. "Take care of yourself, Sherlock. But whatever happens, just remember that Jim didn't win."

"I know," he smirked. "As you said, I'm still alive, aren't I?" As he pushed open the door and walked into the darkened hallway, she felt like part of her had just left with him. The wooden door shut with a soft click.

And then she was alone again. The half-smile slid off her face, and unhindered tears slid down her cheeks, mirroring the rain sliding down her window. He was gone.

JWJWJW

Sherlock's half-smile slid off his face as soon as he closed her door. Running quickly and silently down the narrow stairwell, he looked around nervously. Exits: two. One at the top of the staircase and one at the bottom. Visibility: low. Current weapons state: unarmed. Conclusion: move quickly. He shouldered open the bottom door and pulled his hood over his head, striding outside. Rain splashed down around him, and he squinted, trying to spot a cab in the downpour. There!

"Taxi!" As the black cab slowed, Sherlock looked at the driver, verified that, as far as he could tell, he wasn't a threat, and climbed in.

"Where to, sir?"

"The Brighton Public Library." The weapons situation would have to wait. He had a certain stop to make first.

JWJWJW

My friend Sophia suggested that I do a hiatus fic, so here you are! These chapters will alternate between being Sherlock-centric and John-centric. At least, that's the plan so far. I hope you enjoyed chapter one. Reviews/follows/favs are greatly appreciated.

For those of you waiting for The Texting Men, I apologize. I've been working on this story lately, since it won't seem to leave me alone, and I want to get it done before series 3 airs. (I know I have a bunch of time for that, but I'm not sure how many chapters this is going to be.)

~JillianWatson1058