The world's only consulting detective stood in the shadows, almost one of them in his dark coat and scarf, and pondered, not for the first time, how he had come to this pass. It was early February, and the air around him was cold and damp. He had turned the collar of his coat up to ward off the chill as he stood there watching the end of shift parade as they exited St. Bart's. He really wanted a cigarette, but couldn't bring himself to light one, knowing the the object of his attention would not approve, even if she would not see it. When he saw finally Molly Hooper exit the building, he fell into his usual routine, following at a sufficient distance to watch over her, but never, he thought, close enough to be detected.

As he cautiously shadowed her on her nightly walk home from her place of employment, his mind drifted to everything he had done that had brought about this uncomfortable situation. He wanted to blame Molly, and her unfortunate engagement to that dullard, "meat dagger", but he knew nothing of this was her fault. When he had returned from his two years away, he had been full of good cheer and the best of intentions. But finding his pathologist engaged, and his best friend about to be, he had, instead, reverted to his old arrogant, anti-social self. And then came the whole Charles Augustus Magnussen affair, which would change his life forever.

The last time he had actually spoken to Molly Hooper was when he had been dragged to her lab, by his best friend, to pee in a cup. Molly had not taken well to his return to drug use, and had reacted accordingly, slapping him multiple times. He had made a cutting remark about her broken engagement, and watched the anger in her eyes turn a bit to pain. If anyone were to ask Molly, her words of admonishment had been the last that she had spoken to him. But Sherlock knew she had spoken to him again, and those were the words that broke him.

During his dealings with Magnussen, Sherlock had been shot, nearly fatally, But he held on, seeking Molly's advice in his mind palace. He often spoke to her in his mind palace, more often than anyone else, he had to say. In there, she was not angry and heart broken. She was his Molly, helpful, and kind, and beautiful. She told him how to survive the bullet. She encouraged him to work through his pain. And he soon became aware, even while only semi-conscious, that the real Molly was often sitting by his bedside while he struggled to return to the world. She was not aware that he could sense her presence, and occasionally even hear her encouraging him, even begging him, to wake up. And then he heard John tell her about Janine, and then the newspaper article where the woman had bragged, untruthfully as it turns out, about their extraordinary lovelife. Finally, the last thing she had ever said to him, her voice breaking, was "Goodbye, Sherlock," as she bent over to kiss his forehead and touch his hand. She walked slowly from his hospital room, never to return. Only barely conscious, at best, he knew he had to fix this.

It would take him months to settle the Magnussen situation, and then not in a way he had expected. He had murdered the man. Blown out his brain in front of multiple witnesses, including his own brother, who had warned him against becoming involved. But once again he felt he had to protect John Watson, and now his wife, too. So he had put bullet in the man's head, and effectively ended his own life as well. He sat on the small plane, awaiting takeoff into exile, which, Mycroft had warned him, would certainly end in his death in about six months time. And his biggest regret was that he couldn't bring himself to say goodbye to Molly Hooper. He hadn't spoken to her, or seen her, outside of his mind palace, in months. He had been too occupied with the Watsons' problems to mend his own life, and now it was too late. But, perhaps it was better this way. Molly had removed him from her life months ago. She certainly had had time to heal. It would have been useless to see her again just as he was flying off to his death. He looked out the window as the plane hurtled down the runway. "Goodbye, Molly."

The broadcast caught everyone off guard. Moriarty's face was on every available screen in the country, and his new threat had been sufficient to grant the detective a reprieve, or even a pardon. He was not sure which it was as the plane touched down, he only knew that the master criminal would not overlook the mousy pathologist who had helped him fake his death, who was, in fact, the one who counted the most, for a second time. His first words upon joining his brother in a large black car on the runway were, "Get someone to Molly Hooper. He'll go after her this time!"

"Already take care of, brother mine. Dr. Hooper has had a protective detail for ages. I would never let anything happen to her after what she did for us!"

"Please, gather everyone at Baker Street so that we can discuss the situation, and make plans…"

"Once again, already taken care of, brother. Oh, and welcome home," Mycroft then said with a smile. Noticing the smile, Sherlock had a bit of an epiphany, or perhaps, just a suspicion, but refrained from further comment.

Shortly after, all the principals had been shepherded to Baker Street, save one. DI Greg Lestrade was all bluff and bluster. John Watson, and his pregnant wife, Mary, had looks of concern on their faces. Mrs. Hudson dithered about, serving tea, and stealing glances at the telly.

"Will somebody please turn that bloody thing off!" Sherlock bellowed as he entered, Mycroft right behind him talking on his mobile. The detective surveyed the room quickly before asking, with some alarm, "Where's Molly?"

"She has refused to leave her flat, Sherlock. She says she is perfectly safe there, and has nothing to contribute to the situation. She requests an update if anything changes." Mycroft spoke calmly.

"She can't stay there…"

"As I informed you, she has an expert protective detail, and she will be removed to a safehouse if the situation warrants it, Sherlock. I can't order my people to kidnap her…"

"Why not, Mycroft? You can start revolutions with the wave of a pen, and crash markets with a single phone call. Surely, one mousy pathologist can not have you hornswoggled!"

"Sherlock, I, for one, never found Dr. Hooper to be particularly mousy. That is your own description! Furthermore, she can be quite strong willed, even stubborn, when dealing with anyone other than you, it seems. I cannot forcible carry her off to somewhere which she has made it perfectly clear she doesn't want to be! Deal with it, and the situation at hand."

And Molly never did show up. Mycroft had kept him informed about her situation, which was not, after all, as dire as it had seemed once the whole "I'm back!" scenario turned out to be a clever hoax, at least as far as the authorities could tell. A very conveniently timed hoax, as far as Sherlock Holmes was concerned, as he continued to eye his brother with renewed respect, and even affection.

But that brings us up to the present day, and a consulting detective following a pathologist through the winding streets of a chilly London, watching over her as she made her way home. He had been doing this since the Moriarty threat, even knowing that Mycroft's men were also observing her. Sometimes he nodded at them as they passed each other. They all knew who he was, and that he was no threat to their charge. Sherlock knew her routine by this time. It was just a little over a mile from St. Bart's to her flat, and unless the weather was extremely inclement, she would walk, often stopping at various shops on the way. If she went into the coffee shop, he knew that she would be taking a small detour, to share a hot drink and a bit of conversation with an elderly homeless woman who spent every early evening at the same spot. Molly always left her with a few pounds and a smile. Occasionally, she would stop for takeaway, if she did not feel like cooking for herself after a tiring day. Sometime pizza, sometimes Thai, or Chinese, but most often curry. He would watch as she then climbed the steps to the entrance to her building, and wait until the light came on in her flat, before he turned to make his way back to Baker Street. He knew she was in no real danger, but these evenings were as much for his benefit as for hers.

This evening she stopped for curry, as he had predicted in his mind. When she exited the shop, he noticed that she was carrying quite a lot, certainly enough for two people, and wondered if she was expecting a guest. Sherlock smiled a bit of a sad smile, wondering if the guest would be male, and if he would be sleeping over. The thought made something clench in his chest, a small discomfort which he knew he had no right to feel. As he moved to walk away, his mobile signalled an incoming text. He looked at it immediately, thinking perhaps Mary Watson had finally gone into labor. But he was surprised at the content.

I'VE BOUGHT ENOUGH FOR TWO. ARE YOU GOING TO JOIN ME? - MOLLY

He crossed the street and climbed the steps without a second thought. He hesitated outside her door, however. On many previous occasions, he had merely barged in, uninvited. But, on this occasion, he had been invited. But still, he hesitated, before putting his hand on the knob and entering.

Molly was already in the kitchen, placing plates and silverware in the appropriate positions. She barely acknowledged his presence, but he did notice that she had she had purchased chicken curry, his favorite.

"How long have you known?"

"That you've been following me? About a week."

"I thought I was been so cautious, too. What gave me away?"

"Duncan did."

"Who?"

"Duncan. One of my regular guards. He told me. He knows he wasn't supposed to, but he said he felt sorry for you." Molly studied him carefully, to see how he would react to the news.

"I must remember to thank Duncan at my earliest convenience, if it means I get to share some of that excellent chicken curry."

"Sherlock, please don't tell Mycroft about Duncan. He's not supposed to fraternize, you know…"

"Not to worry, Molly, I will allow my brother to chalk it up to my incompetent shadowing skills rather than Duncan's overly sympathetic personality. But perhaps Duncan should consider a change in career?"

"He already has, Sherlock. He's due to retire at the end of the month, and wants to become a beekeeper in Sussex."

"A man after my own heart, it would seem."

"Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"Having chicken curry, I assumed."

"Sherlock, please answer me. I can't take this again. Seven years of this is enough! Don't pull me in again. You know I love you, and you just keep breaking my heart…"

Sherlock Holmes now broke into a big smile, possibly not the best thing to do when his pathologist was talking about her many broken hearts, or her heart being broken many times? He was unsure how one should handle the plural form of that particular condition. He was still pondering the question, when he noticed tears forming in Molly's eyes, as he had witnessed far too many times in the past. He rushed across the flat to take her in his arms.

"I've had a couple of broken hearts, too. Or heartbreaks." He was still unsure of the plural. "At your hand, Dr. Hooper!"

"Never!" Molly muttered into his chest.

"Two of them that I can recall offhand, Molly. I'm sure that I can dig up a few more, now that I've found my heart to examine." He continued, as she wrapped her arms around his waist and listened in rapt attention. "The first was when I came home to find that godawful ring on your finger. I'm afraid I didn't recognize the symptoms at the time, but looking back, it became fairly obvious. The second, and by far the worse, was when you kissed my forehead and told me goodbye as I was lying in my hospital bed…."

"I didn't think you could hear me…"

"It seems I always hear you, my love," Sherlock said quietly, and Molly gasped at the term. "I heard you just now, when you said 'love', present tense. Hence the smile! You said you love me. Not what I was expecting, and much more than I deserve!" He was now almost laughing, and smothering her face with kisses, before finally zeroing in on her mouth, and not releasing it until he once again felt the urge to laugh with joy.

"Molly, you know me. You know I can't promise that I won't break your heart again. But I can promise that I will always be there to mend it, until you've finally had enough of me!"

"Never, Sherlock!"

"We'll see. I can be very wearing on the nerves, I've been told."

"I have nerves of steel, Sherlock Holmes. After all, I cut up dead people for a living."

Sherlock glanced at the table, set for two and laden with his favorite curry, and then into the eyes of his favorite pathologist, and decided that re-heated curry could be, indeed, an excellent choice for breakfast.