Hullo! I've got this philosophy that a blunt-yet-kind-hearted stranger can save your life, so with that in mind I plow on.

My phone rang just as I left my shift. It was Sherlock, who had been staying with her since she helped him fake his own death.

"Come home at once!" He ordered.

It was once rare for him to call, but ever since I'd slyly pointed out the text records are accessible, I'd been getting phone calls instead. After getting sold out by his own brother, he was warier than ever and didn't want to leave a provable trace. And it was a win-win, because I got to actually pretend to have a human boyfriend at home instead of a not-so-dead-not-so-fake genius detective hiding out in my flat.

"Why?"

"The game, Molly, the game!" Sherlock said.

Oh no, please tell me he hasn't been watching daytime telly again. "What game?" I asked with careful patience.

"Moran made a mistake! I've got him, Molly; I can return to London and stop Moran!"

I sighed. I knew it was coming, but I didn't want to lose him or face John and say, "yeah, I knew he was alive when I comforted you at the funeral, sorry".

So I resolved to sound excited, "I knew you'd do it! Tell me about it when I get home, and then we'll celebrate."

Everyone in the elevator was watching out of the corners of their eyes.

"My boyfriend's team won a football game." I lied. "It was a pretty big deal, he's, um, a coach for little kids…"

Blank stares.

"And you don't really care… This is my floor!"

It really wasn't, but I wanted to get away from the staring people in the elevator. I could walk down the stairs, right?

I was cursing at my own stupidity by the time I reached the stair well, and one flight down I sunk to the concrete and started sobbing. I couldn't believe I'd thought I could be all domestic with Sherlock Holmes and fix him! Damn those sad grey eyes when he'd come to the hospital to say he was going to die, when he said he cared about me, that I mattered. Damn his puppy dog face when I'd driven him home after he watched John mourn his grave. Damn the "please" and "thank you" that made me let him move in with me.

It wasn't him I hated, it was myself. I'd fallen for Jim's trick to get me to introduce him to Sherlock; for Mycroft's trick when he told me to stay in the car and not worry, that Sherlock wouldn't jump; and now for Sherlock's little "Oh, Molly, you're my last friend in this world, please will you come to Dublin with me and work there?" number.

My phone buzzed, and there was a text from the last in the line of geniuses (genii?) who'd played my heart.

You're upset. Why? –SH

Molly? –SH

Did I say something wrong? John used to do this. –SH

Should I make coffee? Get the milk? –SH

Are you coming home? –SH

Clueless, clueless, clueless Sherlock Holmes. For being such a brilliant detective, he never could solve the mystery of love beyond a combination of chemicals. To be honest, I wasn't quite sure why I loved him anyway.

Coming, just got held up at work. –MH

"Boy troubles?" An airy voice inquired.

I nearly screamed, and I definitely gasped. A girl with thick white blonde hair and huge blue eyes was standing over me, having appeared silently from seemingly nowhere. She was barefoot and carrying kitten heels, which explained why I hadn't heard her footsteps echo.

"I'm Aline, but everyone calls me Alien. Are you having boy troubles?"

"Ye-yes… I'm Molly, um, Molly Hooper."

"What's up? Sorry, you don't have to tell me anything, I'm interning here. I'm in med school to become a psychologist. I'd be a normal doctor, but… bad foot." She indicated where there was a long pink scar running down her leg. "Anyhoo, I reckon I'm a bit of an expert on this therapy lark. Do you wanna talk about it?"

I nodded, realising just how badly I wanted to talk about it. "I've been living with this guy for three years… Um, not like that, he's my flatmate. That's just the thing, though. I've loved him for like six years, and nothing. At first I thought, you know, he must be gay. His last flatmate was a guy. But they weren't together either. And one time he recognised a dead woman from her body without looking at her face, because it was smashed in… Oh! That was morbid."

"No, no, it's quite alright. I spent a lot of time assisting a coroner, but I couldn't stand up very long after the accident."

"Oh, what happened? Sorry, I'm a bit nosy…" I winced.

"I'm the one running about asking crying nurses for their life story." She said, faintly amused. "I was riding a horse and some mainlander was out hunting where ought not have been, and he shot her. I fell off and down a riverbank. Completely mangled the leg, cut open my stomach, nearly bled out."

"I've heard of worse, but then again I do autopsies."

She actually laughed, long peals of laughter echoing through the hall way as she put her shoes back on, and kept laughing way too long. "That was funny! Well, to return to your boy troubles, I think you're amazing and he's either an idiot or he doesn't want to risk his friendship with you. And in either case you should put your foot down and make sure this isn't one sided. Does he work?"

"Um, independently."

"Does he cook or clean?"

"Sherlock, cook! Clean! That'd be the day."

"Sherlock?"Aline asked curiously. "Like the detective?"

"What? No, his name's Locke, I said "Sure… Locke cook!" And anyways, isn't Sherlock Hope dead or something? And a fake?"

"Holmes. And I always figured he faked his death as a part of the Moriarty conspiracy—you know, hiring an actor to cover up his brother overthrowing the government. Someone said he's a vampire, though I doubt that, he clearly comes out during the day."

I stared at her. "Um…?"

"Surely you know about the Holmes Conspiracy! You're from London, I know by the accent."

"I left the summer of…"

She smirked at me. "Of when he died. Or supposedly died."

"Oh no." I said, horrified. "Oh no, oh no, you're not supposed to know! Please don't tell anyone."

"Don't worry. I'm a conspiracy theorist and an intern. No one listens to me, and I have no one to tell. Good luck, Molly Hooper. I liked your comments on the blog, you were the only one who really cared about Sherlock besides John."

And with that, she pushed open the door and walked out into the sunlight, humming a waltz.

There were like eight messages on my phone, so I called Sherlock, something extremely rare, and told him what to do as I tried to hide the tremor in my voice. "I'm on my way out now, so stop texting me. Go out and get the milk before I get home. And make me some coffee, black, two sugars, plenty of milk."

"You sound like him," He said in shock.

I was sick of being compared to John (even though I liked the man, it pissed me off sometimes). "No, I sound like me." I told him, and hung up.

Did ANYONE recognise Luna? Conspiracy theorist… Huge blue eyes… Blonde… Barefoot… Creepy… Knows too much… Hums a waltz… Please tell me someone, anyone got that! I was seriously playing around with the name before I decided Aline/Alien was a good way to make it subtler.

Anyhoo, this is just me running with the whole Molly thing. That poor girl has had almost no VOICE this whole show, and she's so loyal it's painful to watch. No, seriously, I winced even the second time Sherlock blundered his way through the deductions at Christmas in ASiB.

An explanation of what John's up to is coming next, and of course how Moran made his fatal mistake. Not to mention what's been chasing about all of our heads for a while… How the hell Sherlock lived and why he faked his death beyond the initial fall. *smirk* I figured it out, with fanbase help. You'll hear it from the d-bag genius himself.