Molly closed the cold chamber before walking back to her desk. She double checked her clip board, making sure she got all her thoughts down before calling it a day and heading back to her flat. A hollow knocking made her jump in her seat. "Sorry, didn't mean to scare ya." She smiled as she recognized Richard's voice. Richard was one of the hospital's residents who just started about three months back. The poor boy always was strapped with the worst hours. Just when he was about to become nocturnal they'd switch around his schedule so he could work a 'normal shift.' "I honestly don't even know what a normal shift in a doctor's residency is." He joked one late night over coffee.

Molly's hours were more stable. Though once and while she was called in to look over a John or Jane Doe and everything went a little haywire. She could blame Sherlock for that. She had been the only mortician willing to work with him, whether it was cases or one of his odd experiments. Thus The Yard had decided she was the best for late night murder cases. As if spending time with Sherlock made her some deductive genius. She couldn't complain too much though… the nostalgia was nice. At least for her, knowing the truth about "The Suicide of a Fake Genius" (those words strung together sill made her bite the inside of her lip). Any time she ran into Greg (rarely, very rarely) there was always awkwardness between them. They both knew Sherlock, but only professionally and in very separate spheres. Two people could only talk about one ill-fated Christmas party so many times.

Richard walked over and leaned against her desk. "About to pop off?"

"Yes," she replied nodding. She looked back at the stainless steel wall of cold chambers. "I'm sure they won't miss me much." Richard gave her a chuckle, even if she knew her joke wasn't all that funny.

"My shift is over in about half an hour, want to meet at Doyle's Pub?" The old Molly would have answered in a heartbeat. A solid "no," or perhaps "can't keep Toby waiting," if she was feeling cheeky. But that was the old Molly. Now her heart beat at least once before she replied. She began to reply and her heart took a second beat when her phone buzzed. She grabbed it off her desk and looked at the number, her eye's widening.

"I'd love too but I can't" She rushed, grabbing her bag and bolting for the door.

"Molly is something wrong?" Richard asked, following her out.

"No," not exactly wrong, she thought. Odd was more fitting. Some people at The Yard might say, a bit freakish.

Molly struggled to knock on the door while also carrying and arm full of shopping bags. As she stood in the damp hallway she wondered what could be taking him so long. Did he invite Mycroft to catch up over a cup of tea? Or Mrs. Hutson to thank her for all the cups she made for him back at 221B? Deep in her heart Molly wished that were true, no matter how implausible it might be. Finally the door opened. "Your late," Sherlock's voice rolled over her coldly. He was in a nightshirt and a pair of sweat pants with a red robe hanging off his thin frame.

"Last I checked we didn't agree on a time, just a meeting place," she clarified walking in. She placed the groceries on the kitchen table before getting a good look at the flat. If you could even call the water stained, barely lit hobble that. "How long have you been here?" She asked, a bit worried he might catch something nasty staying in a place like this.

"Only a few days," he assured her. He reached into the bag and pulled out a bag of white rice.

"I thought some food would do you good. I don't know how well you can cook so I bought basic things." She started to unpack the bags, placing a plethora of microwavable meals on the table.

"Molly, you didn't have to do that. I didn't ask for-"

"Oh hush." It was certainly a brute remark, especially for her. But after helping someone fake their own death, after falsifying piles and piles of medical records and even having to find a look-a-like body for the funeral, Molly had earned the right to talk to him in whatever way she damn wanted. Something they were both aware of. "So… London," Molly spoke, trying to spark a conversation past his personal health. She feared that like with Greg there would be awkwardness between them, that in three years their relationship had frozen like a forest lake.

"Yes," he replied, watching as she stacked the cans of beans and soup into short towers. "I felt it was time to come back." Molly paused. She turned to him, setting down a can of tomato soup.

"Come back… as in, really come back. Back to London, back to 221B?" She immediately regretted her question. Sherlock's eyes grew dark and solemn. She recalled when he was called in to identify the body of Irene Adler, and his last look at the London skylight before leaving in a cab to God knows where.

She was about to apologize when out of the corner of her eye she saw movement. Sherlock slowly lifted his hand to cup Molly's cheek. A part of her, the old part of her, wanted to lean into his warm palm. To feel his fingertips brush against her cheekbones. But that was old Molly. She turned away and focused on the groceries. For a while the only sound in the flat was the sound of moving cans and plastic bags. Molly felt Sherlock's eyes on her the whole time. How much time had even passed she didn't know when finally he spoke. "So, you've moved on too." Molly paused for a moment and turned to him.

"What do you mean?" For the first time she noticed Sherlock had his laptop open on the couch. Setting down a can of black beans she walked over to it and turned back the screen. There was the once so familiar sight of John's blog. When the news first broke, she had checked the blog every day to check in on him. Then every day turned into every week, then every other week. Till eventually months passed and- God it must have been a year now since she had last looked. But there at the top of the page was a new post, "A New Beginning." Molly didn't even have to read any further to understand.

She looked back at Sherlock still standing by the kitchen table, looking at the cans and boxes as if they had wronged him in some way. Molly took off her coat and threw it on the couch. She had meant this to be a short, but now it was clear that he had called her for a reason. "Sherlock," she comforted walking towards her. She rested her hands on his shoulders. "It's been three years," she reminded him. She'd barley been there five minutes and already she wanted to eat her words. At least she could say their relationship hadn't changed. "John was bound to move on at some point. He missed you more than most of us did."

"Did he?" He asked moving away from her hands and back into the kitchen.

"Yes, he did," she said sternly following him; he leaned against the rusted metal sink. Molly worried he might be getting sick, from the apartment or from the recent news via John's previously abandoned blog. His back was to her, "Sherlock, out of all of us John took your death the hardest."

"Harder than you?" he bit back.

"I knew the truth, he didn't! He thought, they all thought, you had killed yourself, that you were somehow a fake. I saw… I saw people begin to accept it." Sherlock's head was now cocked so she could see the profile of his steep nose and grief stick eyes. "I saw them accept that you were dead, that you were a fake. But John never did."

"Until now," he muttered.

"Just because he's moved on doesn't mean he no longer believes in Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock chuckled,

"'Believes in Sherlock Holmes'…." He turned around to face her, still leaning against the sink. "What does that even mean?"

"It means exactly what is says, I believe in Sherlock Holmes. I believe that Sherlock Holmes is not a fake genius, I believe that he will live on-"

"Through what?" He practically screamed at her.

"Through people like John! Though your cases, through his blog entries…" she felt the urge to bite her lip, to pull away and let herself go free. But instead she continued on, "through me." Sherlock looked at her with that stunned look he had only given her when she had truly struck him. When she had told him she didn't matter, when she said her last goodbyes to him. "Today I believe in Sherlock Holmes, as I did the day and months before as I will do for the rest of my life," her eyes welded up with tears. "Because Sherlock Holmes is a good man."

Suddenly she was in his arms. His hot breath hitting against her neck as his cheek rested on her shoulder, his curls tickled the outside of her ear. "Molly," he murmured in a way she had only dreamed about. Time had passed but nothing had changed no matter how much Molly tried to deny it. Sherlock was still his brash self; she was still mousy and insignificant as ever. And she was still very much in love with Sherlock Holmes. Her arms gently wrapped around his waist, pushing their bodies close together. "Thank you… for everything." He pulled away and looked into her eyes. Molly felt like an idiot, just staring back at those light blue eyes. She blinked, for just a moment to let her eyes rest. But in that time Sherlock had moved forward to kiss her forehead.

Molly felt her cheeks grow redder than the shade of lipstick she wore to the Christmas party, the drumming of her heartbeat filled her ears. Sherlock had kissed her before, on the cheek, but this was so different. His lips lingered on her skin, and his arms were still firmly wrapped around her. What if he heard her heartbeat? Oh God she wasn't just mousy Molly, she was full blown schoolgirl Molly with pigtails and a horrible completion. Sherlock would be the handsome football star, but that didn't fit Sherlock in the slightest. He was her lab partner… the only one in class that would work with him, that would let his backhand comments just roll over her like the incoming tide.

When he finally pulled away Molly looked up at him, as if to say 'please don't stop, I like it when you kiss me.' She felt a large smile stretch out the hot skin of her cheeks. "I'm glad to see your hair grew back…" She raised a hand and let one of his ringlets wrap around her finger. "Remember when you first left? It was so short-"

"And blond as I recall."

"You looked like you should be walking the red carpet in LA." His eyebrows lifted in a puzzled look.

"Isn't that a good thing?"

"On others maybe, not on you." He took her face in his hands, which this time she accepted, though they felt cold against her flushed cheeks. "You never answered my question, about coming back." He pursed his lips in reply. He pressed his forehead against hers.

"I think… soon I will be returning to 221B." Molly smiled, feeling her eyes well up again.

"You better quit smoking before you go back," she chuckled. Sherlock pulled away and looked at her like the proud man he was, offended to be accused of such a thing. "Oh please Sherlock, I smelled it on you the second I walked in the door." He sighed in defeat.

"It's been a hard few weeks," he told her.

"I'm sure of it."

Molly had cooked Sherlock dinner. Nothing fancy by far, just tomato soup and rice. He seemed thankful for it though; Molly couldn't imagine what he must have been eating the past few years to stay out of the public eye. She hadn't stayed long after that. It was getting late and Sherlock insisted she go home to leave him to do the dishes. Considering he was going back to Bakerstreet it was probably good for him to do some labor. He was far from a delicate flower and Mrs. Hutson wouldn't treat him as such. Molly was sure hell would freeze over before John would.

She was welcomed to her flat by a very hungry Toby, who would not stop nudging her legs till he was given some kitty meal. Once his bowl was filled Molly was free from her two big responsibilities and decided to wash up. Normally for convince sake she took a shower, but the old claw-foot tub was calling to her. What was the use of paying so much per month if she didn't use all her commodities? She filled the tub up with warm water. She preferred to sit in the tub and watch the water fill up around her as opposed to walking around her empty flat.

Once the water was up to her shoulders she shut of the water. She leaned back in the tub, looking through the translucent water at her pale body. She sunk deeper into the water, her mind playing back all that had happened today- progress, so much of it. Sherlock was back; he was going back to Bakerstreet and probably The Yard. Maybe it was all in her head but Molly decided she had helped him with that decision. She gave him a glimmer of hope that not everyone had given up on him that there were those that still believed in Sherlock Holmes and would wait eagerly for his return. Finally, after three years, everything was moving forward,

She relaxed in the bath till the water chilled and her fingers shriveled up into prunes. Wrapping a towel around her she pulled the plug on the tub and walked back to her room. Toby was waiting inside, resting on her warm laptop. He looked so peaceful it was hard for her to pull the computer out from under him, but there was something she needed to do.

Sitting on her bed she typed in the address for John's blog. Toby meanwhile had decided resting against her thigh and batting at her moving fingers was just as nice as a warm laptop. She clicked the first link on the blog and skimmed through the entry, not very surprised by it's contents. What did surprise her were the comments. Quite a few for such a sudden post, of course they were all from people John knew personally. Or at least… it seemed that way.

"Who is Mary?- Harriet Watson"

Who is Mary indeed?

Originally published on tubmlr in November, pre season three release.

Title inspired by Misguided Ghosts by Paramore.