Hey, guys! Have I mentioned songs inspire me? I probably have, but here's a reminder. If y'all haven't heard the song "All I Ask" by Adele, LOOK IT UP. It's absolutely beautiful and utterly emotional. And I can usually either take or leave Adele, but this song has soared to the top of my charts. If nothing else, look up the lyrics and read through them real quick. I can't incorporate them into the story, per the rules and guidelines. Seriously. Look it up. And then, enjoy!

Molly Hooper stumbled into her flat, weary and sore, after working a double at Bart's in order to cover for a colleague. This colleague, a new member of the pathology staff, had not taken her advice, which was to go easy on the alcohol while ringing in the new year. Thus, he was currently at home, nursing a massive hangover, and Molly, being the most reliable, was asked to take his shift. She didn't mind, not really; her work was her life, and she was proud of what she'd built for herself. That didn't mean she couldn't be tired, and more than ready for a good night's rest, after it was through.

In such a state, Molly began shuffling absently around her flat, not bothering with the lights, knowing the place by heart, and put the kettle on to make a nice cup of chamomile. Her eyelids remained heavy and half-closed as she wandered into her bedroom, quickly shedding her trousers and jumper, and the extra layers beneath, in favor of a cozy pair of flannel pyjamas. She unraveled her hair from the messy knot at the back of her head, and carefully, dazedly, brushed the tangles out. Just as she finished, she heard the kettle whistling, and she made for the kitchen, this time switching the lights on.

That was when she noticed the uninvited guest on her sofa.

"Gahh!" she shrieked, taking a startled leap backward and into the doorjamb of her room. She winced in pain, putting one hand on her pounding heart, the other on the back of her head, which had taken the brunt of the impact. "Sherlock, for God's sake! You scared me half to death!"

The detective in question blinked. "I would have thought you'd be used to this by now. It's certainly not the first time."

Molly expelled an exasperated breath and lowered her hands. Despite her lingering anger over his drug use, and the whole Janine issue, she did not have the energy to argue with him. "Alright then," she asked tiredly, "what do you need?"

It took her a moment, in the silence that followed, to realize that Sherlock was struggling to answer. His mouth opened and closed, opened again, and closed again, before he took a deep sharp breath through his nose, and promptly released it. And he still hadn't answered. Molly frowned, coming out of her sleepy daze. "Sherlock?" she nervously walked toward him, sitting on the sofa beside him. She had to physically restrain herself from reaching out and touching his hair, his hand, his face. Something to wipe that frightened look from his eyes. "Sherlock, what's wrong?"

His breath came in shallow spurts, and he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. When they opened again, they were glistening with tears. Molly's anger melted. She had only seen him like this once before, just before the Fall. That told her everything she needed to know: he was going to die. And, just like before, the next thought in her head was, Not if I can help it.

"What do you need?" she asked again.

Sherlock's lips twitched, caught between a smile and a frown as his unusually high emotions threatened to spill over the surface. In a low, raspy whisper, he replied. "Just you."

It was different, this response; similar enough that she knew he was remembering the Fall, too, but he'd added the just to the beginning. What did that mean? Molly waited, silently, knowing he would either explain, or he wouldn't, and no amount of questioning would change that. When it became clear that he wouldn't be elaborating, she asked a new question: "What can I do?"

He took a shuddering breath, and one tear trickled down his face. Molly would never get used to seeing him like this, and she didn't want to. Let me help you, she pleaded in her head. Finally, Sherlock replied, "I just… can't be alone tonight."

Molly swallowed hard. This was bad, whatever it was. And it became clear to her, this was likely to be Sherlock's last night. He would be gone by tomorrow. The thought brought tears to her eyes, and she bit her lip to try and force them down. His eyes remained on her through this, and she could see him deducing her reaction. He knew that she knew, or at least had guessed. And he seemed to be equally impressed and saddened by that. Still, she couldn't help but hope she was wrong.

"This isn't…" the words caught in her throat. "I mean… you're not… saying goodbye?"

Sherlock didn't respond at first, and his lack of response was answer enough in itself. Molly fought to keep from crumbling, but the waterfall of tears couldn't be suppressed. Finally, Sherlock took another breath, and his voice was as cool and collected as ever as he spoke. "Molly, you have always seen me, known me, in a way that no one, even John, has even come close. I… still don't understand why… when you know me so well, when you have seen me at my absolute worst… you still stay."

Molly gnawed on her lip again, knowing this was the best—the last—opportunity to say the words she had never before had the courage to say. Fear still held her back, for a moment, but she forced her way through it, and said, quietly and firmly, "Because I love you, Sherlock."

He blinked slowly, and she watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. "How?" he asked, that little wrinkle appearing on the bridge of his nose as he frowned. "How can you possibly love me? I am cruel and insensitive, to you as well as to others. I have manipulated you, I've insulted you, I've disappointed you… how can you continue to love me?"

Something clicked inside Molly's head then, something she had never before considered. Really, she should have, if she knew Sherlock as well as he seemed to believe. "You did it on purpose, didn't you?" His eyes widened a fraction, and she knew she was spot on. "All the hurtful things you've said and done… you did it intentionally, to keep me at arm's length. Why?"

Sherlock stood abruptly, pacing about the room. "What does it matter? It obviously didn't work! You're still here, doing everything I ask of you, because you love me!" He spat the words out like he would a rotten orange. He stopped pacing, and looked at her again. "Why?" he whispered fiercely.

"Because that's what love is!" she countered, also getting to her feet. "It's being there for someone, no matter what. There's nothing logical about it, it can't be reasoned. It just is."

He stared at her, his chest rising and falling with each rapid breath. Slowly, his anger dissolved into the same sadness that had preceded it. He collapsed onto the sofa again, burying his face in his hands. Molly sat as well, watching him and waiting. She didn't know what was going through that brilliant mind of his, but she knew this night would change everything. It was an ending, and for her part, she wasn't sure she was ready.

Sherlock straightened, his eyes red once again, and he looked at her. "Molly, I… I've done something… very not good." He nearly laughed, likely some private joke. "I'm leaving London tomorrow… and I won't be coming back. At least… not alive."

Molly felt her chin quiver as her eyes grew moist again. "I knew it was something like that."

He nodded, not surprised. "As a last courtesy of sorts, Mycroft has arranged for John and Mary to… see me off." His voice broke at the end of the sentence, and he took a moment to compose himself. "In my current situation, I… knew it would be unwise to ask him to allow one more person." Sherlock met her eyes again. "But I had already been given tonight, to spend as I wished."

Her heart swelled against her will, flattered that he would choose to spend this time with her. "And… how do you want to spend it?" she asked carefully.

Sherlock licked his lips, and answered, "That is entirely up to you."

"Me?" she echoed.

He shifted so he was facing her head on, his eyes never leaving her for a moment. "Molly, despite my behavior, I do… care about you. I want for you to be happy. And… I am willing to do what I can, in the limited time available, to see that you will be." He took another breath. "What happens tonight is entirely up to you."

Molly felt almost dizzy with the weight of what he'd just said. He was giving her everything she'd ever wanted, and even if he didn't fully know what that entailed, he was willing to do it. But only for one night. Why was fate so cruel? Why couldn't this have happened ages ago? Why did she have to love this man, condemned to death, with only a matter of hours left? Thinking of tomorrow hurt, like a white-hot poker stabbed through her heart. And she knew it would only be worse if she gave in, if she asked for what she truly wanted from him. But God help her, she didn't care.

"Can we… pretend?" she asked timidly.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed in confusion. "Pretend what, exactly?"

Molly mustered up what was left of her courage, and forced out her request. "Pretend you love me." He was obviously surprised, and was about to reply, but she cut him off, "No, I know. You don't believe in love, but you're a remarkable actor. You made Janine believe you loved her," she added, trying to force the bitterness from her voice. "And I know you were expecting something… well… something," she said with a blush. "But I don't want that if you're going to be resigned to it. I want you to pretend you want it as much as I do. Make me believe it's real."

He was perfectly still for a few minutes, and Molly likewise refused to move. She'd said her piece, she'd made her request. It was up to him now, and she honestly wasn't sure how he would respond. He had said he would do whatever it took, but perhaps this was going too far. If it was, she had other, milder ideas. Maybe a private violin concert…

Just when she was about to suggest something else, his eyes softened, and he gave her a look she had never seen before. It was a mixture of affection, determination, and an aching sadness. His fingers caressed her face, trailing a slow path from her cheekbone to her jaw, until he lightly took her chin between his forefinger and thumb. His eyes flicked down, looking at her lips, and she watched his pupils dilate. Christ, he's good, she thought as her heart danced anxiously in response. He tugged gently, pulling her toward him, eyes still on her lips. Molly closed her eyes, feeling a bit of sensory overload, and tried to prepare herself.

But nothing, nothing, could have prepared her for what it felt like to kiss Sherlock Holmes.

The moment his lips brushed against hers, she was lost in an electric current, pulled as if by a magnet to him, and he was clearly just as drawn to her. What started as a soft, innocent peck, became a full-on snog in less than five seconds. The hand cradling her chin slid to the back of her head, and his other hand shot around her waist, practically dragging her onto his lap. Molly didn't even resist. Her own hands fisted around the lapels of his Belstaff as she straddled him. Their hands wandered, hers into his hair—soft!—his roaming her back and waist. A trail of goose flesh erupted across the skin of her back as his fingers slipped beneath her pyjama top, and she leaned further into him. Which was, apparently, the right thing to do, as the evidence of his arousal pressed against her right there.

In an instant, he stood, hoisting her up and guiding her legs around his waist. Their lips broke apart as she gasped, and she met his eyes. They were impossibly dark, and burning with what she could only describe as hunger. He strode purposefully toward the open door to her bedroom, and her body flushed with anticipation. Once inside, with the door pushed halfway shut, he slowly released her, setting her on her feet. They reached for one another in tandem, closing the distance with another heated kiss.

Molly slid her hands inside his coat, pushing it off his shoulders and letting it fall to the floor. Part of her expected him to quickly pick it up and hang it on one of the pegs on her door. But he seemed just as eager to be rid of all impediments, and quickly shrugged out of his suit coat, which fell in a heap on top of his Belstaff. Sherlock turned his attention to her top, gripping the hem and yanking it off in one fluid motion. He paused, eyes lingering on her bare breasts, and Molly fought the urge to cross her arms in front of them. He'd said they were too small, indirectly, that horrible Christmas. What was his opinion now, seeing them literally in the flesh?

She forgot her insecurities when he pressed a soft kiss to the very top of her left breast. Molly's head spun with the intimate contact, and she gripped his shoulders to keep from melting into a puddle at his feet. As he kissed the other one, his thumb hooked around the waist of her pyjama bottoms and her knickers. With slow, deliberate movements, he dragged them down past her bum, all the while pressing feather-light kisses between her breasts and along her abdomen. At last, she stood completely exposed to him, in every possible way. He stepped back a fraction, his eyes roving over her, drinking in the sight of her. "You're beautiful," he murmured.

Emboldened by his assessment, Molly closed the distance between them, a sultry smile playing at the corners of her lips. "And you're wearing entirely too many clothes."

She placed her palms on his abdomen, dragging them upward, feeling his muscles constrict at the touch. With the same agonizing slowness he had used on her, she unbuttoned his shirt, leaning forward and marking each newly bared spot of skin with a kiss. He sucked in a breath as she reached his navel, and with a tug, she untucked the shirt, and retraced the path of kisses she'd left. He shuddered with desire, and in a fit of obvious impatience, he pulled the infernal thing off himself. Molly felt her own patience wearing thin, so she made quick work of his belt and trousers, his hands coming to her aid, until all that was left between them was air.

It was impossible to tell who kissed who first, but in a split second, they were back to the frenzied kisses from before, skin against skin, each throbbing with the need for more. Molly felt herself being pushed onto the bed, and Sherlock followed soon after, carefully, making sure he didn't crush her with his weight. And, just as cautiously, he slid inside her. Molly cried out in pleasure, and he responded with a throaty moan, and gathered speed. And within minutes, they reached the fastest and sweetest climax either had experienced.

Sherlock moved shakily to one side before collapsing onto the mattress, rolling onto his back. Neither one moved for several moments, until Molly felt Sherlock's hand entwine with hers. She turned her head, and found him watching her with that same tender expression. Reality came crashing down, as she remembered that this would be the one and only time. Before she could stop it, a sob burst from her lips, and the heartbreak overwhelmed her.

Wordlessly, his arms slipped around her, and he cradled her against his chest. Her deep, guttural sobs echoed in the quiet flat, and her heart broke a little more with each sob. "Don't go," she begged.

He held her tighter. "I have to," he whispered.

Minutes passed this way, Molly crying and Sherlock holding her. When she had almost cried herself dry, she became aware of Sherlock's fingers gently stroking her back in an attempt to soothe her. She also noted the suspicious dampness of her hair, and, drawing her head back, confirmed that he had shed tears right along with her. His eyes were dry now, but still red-rimmed and brimming with sorrow. He gazed back at her as if she alone could replace his grief with joy. Something flickered in his eyes, and he smiled softly. "But I don't have to go yet," he pointed out.

With a watery laugh, Molly pressed her forehead against his chest. His pulse thudded against her skin, and to her surprise, the beat was erratic and quick. Her own heart accelerated, and she tried very hard not to read into his reaction. It was probably just a physical response of being near a naked woman, with whom he had just had sex. He didn't actually… it was just pretend…

"You're thinking rather loudly, Molly," he said with a smile in his voice.

Molly smiled involuntarily. "You always say that."

He chuckled deeply. "Because it's the truth."

Sherlock never asked what she was thinking. He likely knew already, and was therefore trying not to break her heart even more. They seemed to form an unspoken agreement to pretend, for the rest of the night, that tomorrow would come, that this was real, and that it would last.

Molly turned to her other side and spooned against him, and he pulled the comforter out from beneath them, protecting their naked forms from the inevitable chill. Once settled, he started tracing random patterns on her upper arm. She soon recognized the pattern, which wasn't random at all, and was in fact a series of numbers, repeated over and over. She concentrated, attempting to determine what they were. 1…1…2…9…2…0…0…7. Molly sucked in a breath without thinking, the importance of the numbers dawning on her.

11-29-2007. The day they met.

"Angelo's case," he picked up on her train of thought. "You were working your first solo shift. I fairly tore you apart that day." Was it just her, or did his voice carry a hint of regret?

"I was an easy target back then," she shrugged. "Fresh out of school, just got dumped by my college boyfriend—"

"Still recovering from your father's death the year before. Fragile. And I used it all against you."

Molly turned in his arms, facing him again. She met his eyes directly. "And I forgave you less than an hour after you left."

Sherlock's eyes widened. "Why?"

She hesitated, not sure how he would take the truth. But he would know if she lied, and he would never let her get away with not answering. "Because… I saw something in you that day, and I've seen it every day since, beneath the arrogant, high-functioning sociopath." She smiled sadly, impulsively lifting a hand and brushing away the curls on his forehead. "I saw pain. Loss. Something or someone from your past had gone missing, or left, or passed on. And it haunted you. It still haunts you."

His mouth was open, his eyes wider than she'd ever seen them. He blinked owlishly, and he smiled—a small, but sincere smile, eyes still impossibly wide. "Molly Hooper," he breathed. "You really do see me better than anyone."

Molly felt herself blush, and she bit her lip, averting her eyes. "Then I was right?"

"Twice, in fact," he said, and she met his gaze again, confused by his answer. "I lost a beloved dog, many years ago, and not long afterward, my brother—the other one—turned on us all. I haven't seen him since then." Pain flashed across his face before he controlled his expression. "Mycroft and I have always been at odds with one another. Sherrinford was different. He cared, or he seemed to care, about what I said and thought." A muscle twitched in his jaw. "Turns out he was the real sociopath."

She cupped his face with the hand that had been toying with his hair. "And you decided you would never let yourself care again, didn't you?"

He nodded slowly. "'Caring is not an advantage,'" he quoted his eldest brother. Molly wasn't sure if he knew she'd heard him and Mycroft talking outside the mortuary that night. The night he identified that awful woman from not-her-face. Obviously, he'd cared for her, whoever she was. The specifics of her case were never shared with her, and she suspected it was better that way. But he cared, and was advised not to care. And Molly had never before wanted so badly to give Mycroft a good slap.

"Yes it is," she argued, and he gave a small start at her words. "Caring for others, and having people who care about you, is what makes you stronger. It helps you understand, helps you grow and learn. When you care, you pay more attention, and you absorb more. You remember more. And I don't know how it all works in your mind palace, but I would imagine the people and the things you care about most take up a big chunk of it."

Glancing at his face, she realized she'd shocked him again. "What?"

"How…?" he breathed, his eyes roaming over her face. "How did you know… how could you possibly understand…?"

"I told you," she said patiently. "The more you care, the more you pay attention."

Sherlock exhaled slowly. "You certainly have been paying attention."

Her face warmed, and she looked away again. "Well… we've already established that I'm pathetically in love with you. Is it really so surprising?"

He shook his head in wonder. "I once thought you were ridiculous, predictable, and only slightly more intelligent than the average idiot."

"Thanks very much," she deadpanned.

He shushed her with a finger over her lips, then his expression softened, and his finger traced the outline of her mouth. "But the more I saw, the less I could predict. And when you showed up that Christmas with a new dress and a gift for me, I knew I would never solve it."

Molly blushed deeper at his reference to her least favorite Christmas. "Solve what?"

Sherlock smiled and traced her lips again. "The mystery of Molly Hooper." His smile widened. "Just when I believe I have it figured out, you go and surprise me."

She couldn't stop the grin from spreading across her face. "Well, at least I'm not boring."

Something shifted in his eyes, and in the dim light streaming in from her living room, she saw them darken. A shiver crept up her spine as his hand made contact with her waist, pulling her closer. "No," he said, his voice so low she barely heard him. "Not boring in the least."

With that, Sherlock's lips claimed hers, and their mutual passion escalated into a second round. This time was much more relaxed than the first. He kissed her languidly, as if savoring the taste and feel of her, and his touch was gentle and almost reverent. And Molly was very nearly convinced that he wasn't pretending at all.

They lay in a companionable silence afterward, Molly tucked against Sherlock, his arm draped across her middle from behind. His hand was back to tracing patterns in her arm, though this time, she didn't notice any rhyme or reason behind them. She desperately fought sleep, knowing he would be gone when she woke. But her eyelids grew heavier and heavier with every passing moment, and soon, it became impossible to keep them open.

In her last moments of consciousness, or perhaps in her earliest dreams, she thought she could hear a voice whispering near her ear, "My Molly."

Molly woke to the typical, obnoxious buzzing of her alarm, and she groaned in protest as she reached out to silence it. In the process, she realized she was naked, and the memories of the night before came rushing back. She whipped her head around to see the other side of her bed, only to find it empty not only of a warm-bodied detective, but of any sign of his being there to begin with. Her bedroom door was open, and from her view, she saw her kitchen and living room were also unoccupied.

He was gone.

Molly curled into a ball in her bed and let the grief consume her. Now that the make-believe was over, the pain of reality was overwhelming. Sherlock didn't really love her. Last night had been a beautiful illusion, and nothing more. He was gone, and she would never see him again.

She considered taking a sick day, but decided against it. There was no point in delaying the inevitable, and she had to move on eventually. Best to start now, rather than later. With tremendous effort, Molly forced herself to get out of bed, and start getting ready for the day. She grabbed knickers, bra, and bathrobe, heading for the shower first. Her movements were mechanical, unconscious. After a shower, she dressed, pulled her wet hair into a low knot at the side of her head, and went into the kitchen for tea and breakfast.

As she absently reached for the kettle, her hand made contact with… paper? Startled, she looked down at the kettle, and saw a note taped to the handle. Molly instantly recognized Sherlock's hurried scrawl, and she turned the kettle to read the note easier. Her throat tightened and tears sprang to her eyes, and she leaned heavily against the stove. "Damn you, Sherlock Holmes," she half-laughed, half-sobbed, his note now in her hand as she read it again and again.

I wasn't pretending. Thank you for everything.

And, as we all know, Moriarty shows up and Sherlock comes back. And how will Molly take it? Yes, ladies and gents, there will be a SEQUEL! Just one, mind, and probably not as angst-y. At least, I hope not. Yikes, that's tiring. Please remember to feed the box below with your thoughts and comments!