There is a dead man lying on Molly Hooper's couch. Molly is discovering that dead is, in fact, a relative term. Despite her profession and the fact that most of England thinks that he just perished by jumping off earlier that day, Sherlock Holmes certainly doesn't seem dead to her.

Molly's flat has been silent since she arrived several hours ago, Sherlock in tow. They left the morgue almost as soon as Sherlock was wheeled in. There were no wounds to take care of - his calculations had been almost perfect. So right after Molly rushed through the correct paperwork officially stating that Sherlock was dead, they hurried out via a back door before they could be recognized. Nobody would blame Molly for leaving work early - her unrequited feelings for Sherlock hadn't exactly been a secret; it was understandable that she'd be upset when he died.

Throughout all this, Sherlock has barely said five words to Molly. He's spent the whole time in her flat with his eyes closed, hands in his usual thinking position, with an untouched cup of tea Molly made hours ago sitting beside him. Molly complies with this for as long as she can - he has enough on his mind without her interrupting. But after several hours, the sky has grown dark outside and the silence has become too awkward for her to bear.

"So, what now?" She asks, wincing at how stupid her words sound.

Sherlock opens his eyes, coming out of his mind. "What?"

"What are you going to do now? I assume you're not just going to lie on my couch for the rest of your life?" Molly laughs nervously.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "What life? I'm dead, remember?" Silence falls for a moment before he speaks again. "My brother will send a car for me soon. I'm much less likely to be seen at his house. That will give me time to find out what to do next."

"Are you ever going to come back?" Molly can't help but ask.

"To your flat? I certainly hope not. I hate cats." Sherlock glowers at Molly's kitten, curled up in the corner of the room.

Molly lets this comment slide. "To London, I mean. To Baker Street."

"If all goes according to plan." Molly doesn't ask what the chances of this are.

Sherlock closes his eyes again, and Molly notices, not for the first time, how miserable he looks. Who can blame him? He's just left his entire life behind - his work, his home, his best friend. Although Molly knows he'll never admit it, Sherlock lost everything he holds dear in his fall off the roof.

"I'll keep an eye on John," Molly says finally. "Just to make sure he's alright."

"Of course he'll be alright. He'll get over this soon enough, everyone will."

Molly laughs bitterly. "You don't honestly believe that, do you?"

Sherlock shrugs and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like "sentiment."

"I'll keep an eye on him," Molly repeats, and this time Sherlock nods.

"Thank you." Molly can't remember the last time she's heard Sherlock say those words.

"It's not a problem."

"I couldn't have gotten this far without your help, Molly," he continues quietly.

"It's the least I could do."

Sherlock looks confused as he sits up. "No, you don't owe me anything."

"You wouldn't understand it."

"More sentiment, I assume." One of the few things Molly doubts Sherlock will ever be able to understand. She just nods. "I don't know why you did it, but I'm still grateful."

"I wish it didn't have to be like this," Molly tells him. "I wish you didn't have to do this."

Sherlock sighs. "It doesn't matter whether you want me to or not, I still have to."

Molly can't argue with this, so she doesn't say anything else. The silence they fall into this time is much more comfortable than the one that had occurred when they first arrived at the flat. Sherlock is the one to break it this time, with a glance out the window and another sigh.

"The car is here."

Molly isn't sure what to say. Enjoy destroying Moriarty's network? Don't get yourself killed? She almost laughs at the ridiculousness of the situation, but it gets caught on the way out of her throat and sounds more like a sob instead. Sherlock looks like he has no idea what to do. He stands awkwardly near the door, his hands stuffed in his pockets, and suddenly Molly is overwhelmed with the thought that this might be the last time she ever sees Sherlock Holmes alive. Before she can stop herself, she throws her arms around him. Sherlock stiffens, but as Molly refuses to let go, he pats her back awkwardly.

Molly finally breaks away. "Sorry. You - you probably have to go now. Be careful." Her words are painfully inadequate, but they'll have to do.

Sherlock nods. "Goodbye, Molly."

"You're incredibly brave, Sherlock. Nobody else could do what you're about to do. I hope you know that." Maybe it's a trick of the light, but Molly is pretty sure Sherlock smiles. Then he is gone, out the door and into another life.

Please be okay, Sherlock, she thinks. Please come home.