When Sherlock Holmes arrived in the lab that February morning, he fully expected to find Molly Hooper starting her 9:00 AM shift. But instead, he found Mike Stamford.

"Where is Molly?" Sherlock demanded, his harsh tone perfectly disguising the worry that was rapidly rising in his chest. Molly only missed work for a very good reason; she was about as dedicated to her job as he was to his work. Had she fallen ill? Or was it even more serious than that?

"His way of saying 'hello,' Mike," John said, walking into the lab behind Sherlock.

"Well, then, hello right back to you both," said Mike, with a smile that was just a bit forced.

"Molly Hooper, Stamford!" Sherlock practically barked. "Where is she? She never misses a shift unless something is wrong. What is wrong?"

"Easy, Sherlock," John said, putting a hand on Sherlock's shoulder when he made to step closer to Mike. He would have snapped at Sherlock for his rudeness under normal circumstances. But the supposed resurrection of Moriarty had blown anything normal in the lives of all of them out of the window.

Sherlock had become especially protective of Molly, which was understandable. She had been overlooked by Moriarty when he'd been alive, and she'd played a key role in his Fall. This made her more of a target than the others, and if John Watson had learned anything about Sherlock Holmes, it is that he would go to any lengths for those that he trusted and cared for.

Seeing that he wasn't going to get off the hook easily, Stamford sighed and gave Sherlock a stern look. "Don't bother her, Sherlock. She had to take her cat to the vet today. Said it had to be put to sleep. I gave her today and the rest of the week off; Lord knows we all deserve a break from death after any kind of loss, especially Molly."

"Got that right," John said, shaking his head. He'd never been one for cats, but he knew how much the loss of a pet could hurt. He'd had a bull terrier growing up that had died of old age. He and Mary were planning to adopt a dog from a shelter once baby Emma was a bit older and really able to enjoy having a family dog. "Well, of course we'll make due with you then, Mike. Right, Sherlock?"

But Sherlock made no response. He seemed to have frozen in place, especially the expression on his face. After ten seconds, John became quite worried and gave Sherlock's shoulder a shake. This seemed to break the spell: Sherlock blinked and then practically sprinted out of the lab.

Thankfully, being in the army had given John extremely good reflexes. He was right behind Sherlock within seconds and pulling then both to a halt before the detective had reached the elevator.

"For Christ's sake, Sherlock!" John practically shouted at him when they had stopped. "Her damn cat is dying and you're going to drag her back here?"

"Of course not!" Sherlock shouted right back, pulling his arm away roughly from John's grip. "I would never do that to her, John!"

There was so much conviction in Sherlock's tone and expression that John was left momentarily speechless, and he also didn't doubt what Sherlock said for a moment. "Okay," he said softly. "Okay, mate. Just tell me where you're rushing off to. We did, after all, come here for a reason."

Sherlock nodded, looking at the ground for a moment before pulling a bundle from his coat pocket. It was what looked to be a fist-sized clump of dirt wrapped in a secure, police evidence bag. He handed it to John. "Have Stamford run all of the tests he can for blood samples in this soil. I'm fairly certain that there will be our latest victim's blood there, and hopefully her killer's will be as well. Text me when the results come through."

John nodded. "Sure, but Sherlock –" The detective had turned and began walking at a quick pace to the elevator. "Sherlock, where are you going, then?"

After Sherlock had pressed the elevator button – which opened immediately after – he looked over his shoulder and only said, "I won't let her go through this alone."

After he had entered the elevator and the doors had closed after him, John just stood there for a minute, processing what had just happened. When he was finished, he smiled a soft smile to himself and shook his head as he walked back towards the lab.

Well, I'll be damned…the idiot finally pulled his head out of his arse…damnit, now I owe Mary fifty quid…

The veterinary clinic's waiting room was nearly empty, with the only other company besides the receptionist being a bearded man who had cocker spaniel laying, possibly sleeping, at his feet. Thankfully, neither he nor the dog bothered the young woman on the other side of the room, cradling her cat in her arms. The tabby's breathing was slow, deep and labored. She rhythmically stroked him, occasionally scratching behind his ears. He purred at her action, but not nearly as enthusiastically as he used to.

"It's okay, Toby," she whispered to the feline. There were tears in her voice. "You'll be feeling a lot better soon…and I'm not going anywhere."

The door to the clinic opened with a soft tinkling of a bell, but Molly did not look up, instead keeping her focus on her cat. But when she felt someone sit in the chair right beside her – and got a whiff of his very familiar scent – her head snapped up sharply. Sure enough, it was Sherlock who now sat beside her, hands folded on his lap and his back iron-rod straight. His gaze was focused just above the receptionist's head.

In her vulnerable grief, Molly's temper flared. "Here to drag me back to the lab once my cat is declared?" she said in a tone that was a perfect cross between a snap and a hiss.

Looking at his profile, Molly saw his jaw tighten and his knuckles whiten before he took a deep breath and looked at her. "No, Molly…though I know I can't blame you for jumping to that conclusion. John did the same thing. I am simply here to…well…to offer my support."

Molly's brow furrowed and her temper cooled. She could always tell when Sherlock was lying, whether consciously or unconsciously. And while she could see that he was not telling her everything, he was still telling the truth. So, she slowly nodded before looking back down at Toby.

A few moments of silence passed before Sherlock broke it. "Is he ill, Molly?" he asked softly, looking down at the feline.

Molly shook her head. "Old age and the complications of that. He's fifteen, which is a long lifespan for a cat. In the last week, he's barely eaten anything and barely moved. Took him in yesterday and found out that his kidneys were rapidly breaking down." She sniffed. "It's just his time, I suppose…"

"How long has he been with you?" asked Sherlock. He'd never bothered to ask or find that out before. During the few times that he'd used Molly's flat as a bolt hole, his interaction with her feline had been like meeting an enemy under a truce. That cat had never quite trusted him, always keeping close to Molly and glaring at him like Sherlock was a threat to his human…

A wise cat, then. Lord knows I'd already hurt her too many times before I met that feline.

Molly pulled him from his reverie by answering his question. "Since he was a kitten. I was in my first year of University, and it was just after my dad died. A girl I knew from my biology lab had told me that her family cat was expecting a litter, and I asked if I could have one when they came. He's been with me all his life."

Sherlock saw that a tear had fallen from Molly's eye and was halfway down her cheek. Without hesitation, Sherlock unfolded his hands and raised one up to gently cup Molly's face, wiping the tear away with his thumb. In her vulnerable state, Molly unconsciously leaned into the warm touch, still keeping her eyes on the tabby cat in her arms.

"Molly Hooper?"

Both Sherlock and Molly looked up to see that a man who could only be a veterinarian had come through a door by the reception desk. He had a clipboard in his heads and a sympathetic look on his face. "We're ready for you both now," he said, looking from her to Toby.

Sherlock saw Molly visibly gulp, and he dropped his hand from her face to her shoulder, squeezing it gently. She looked at him again and, for one of the first times in his life, he could perfectly read and decipher the turbulent emotions in her eyes.

Of course I can. Because I know exactly how this feels.

"I'll be right here, Molly," he vowed solemnly. "I promise you."

Molly bit her lip as tears filled her eyes anew. In the next moment, she had blinked them back and said hoarsely, "Thank you."

With that, Molly carefully stood up, cradling Toby lovingly in her arms, and bravely followed the kindly veterinarian through the door.

Sherlock let out a deep breath and leaned his head back against a wall. Memories that he never looked at voluntarily were flooding through his mind without permission now, and he was brought out of it some minutes later by the sound of rapid paw prints and the hushed scoldings of the only other visitor in the waiting room.

Opening his eyes, Sherlock saw that the cocker spaniel – who had apparently woken up from his nap – had now seated himself before him, grinning and panting. Sherlock smiled and chuckled, reaching down to scratch behind the dog's ears. "Hello, pretty girl," he said, deducing immediately the dog's gender.

"Sorry, mate," said her bearded owner, who had gotten up to follow his dog. "Hope you don't mind. She loves meeting new people."

"No, not at all," said Sherlock. "In fact, she seemed to know exactly what I needed."

The bearded man nodded, looking to the door that Molly had just carried Toby through. Having figured out in his mind what was going on, he nodded towards the door and asked, "You that nice girl's bloke, then?"

Sherlock looked up at the man, and the words that came out of his mouth came from his heart rather than his mind. "I very much hope to be."

The bearded man grinned. "Well, you made the right move being here for her, mate. You take special care of her tonight."

Normally, a conversation like this would have irritated Sherlock beyond belief. Now, he merely gave a small smile and said, "Oh, I plan to."

The bearded man gave a satisfied nod as the white door by the reception desk opened again. Sherlock looked up on alert, but neither Molly nor the veterinarian came out. Instead there came a young woman in teal scrubs, obviously a veterinary technician. "Mr. Williams? Time for Lucy's check-up."

"Okay, we're coming," said Mr. Williams. He then held out a hand for Sherlock to shake. "Good luck to you, mate."

Sherlock returned the handshake whole-heartedly. "Thank you." He then turned back to Lucy, the chipper cocker spaniel, with a smile. As he gave her one last scratch behind the ears, he said lowly, "As tempting as it may be, try not to bite any fingers off, or you won't get a treat after it's over."

"You've got that right," said the veterinary technician. Mr. Williams laughed as he led Lucy after her and through the door.

Sherlock, feeling just a bit better and with just a drop more confidence in himself, he sat back in his seat again and settled in. He had promised Molly that he would be here, and he would keep that promise.

And if she would accept him…that promise would extend throughout the rest of their lives.

A/N: My beloved family dog of sixteen years passed away a few days ago, and this is basically my form of therapy for it. If you leave lots of reviews I'll write a follow-up chapter sooner rather than later. More to come!