Just an idea I had running about in my head—what if Sally found out that Sherlock wasn't dead after Reichenbach? I took some liberties, obviously—but I wanted them to have some sort of proof he was innocent. I am sorry if everyone is out of character. I haven't written any Sherlock fics before. Or many fanfics in general. Depending on feedback, I might continue. The story isn't really done in my head—I still have places I want to go, bringing in Lestrade and Mycroft for one.

Rated M for some bad language.

Please Review. Even flames accepted.

Sally Donovan practically flew down the street. She wasn't sure if the men were still following her, but it was a safe bet to assume that they were. She ducked into an alley, breathing hard. She clutched her radio, listening. Satisfied that she was, at least for the moment, alone, she brought it to her lips.

"It's Sergeant Donovan. I need back up," she quickly gave her location. "Suspects, three men, Caucasian, all between 5'8" and 6.' Brown hair…ack…"

Her head was suddenly yanked back.

"I don't think so girly," hissed a voice in her ear. He ripped the radio from her hand. In what seemed a bit like overkill, he threw it to the ground and shot it. Sally winced.

"That'll just bring them sooner you know," she grunted at him. His arm tightened around her throat.

"By that time girly, you'll be dead, and I'll be gone." She felt the cold metal of a gun pressed against her head. She closed her eyes. Then, there was a sharp tug on her neck, and the man let go. Sally stumbled forward, spinning, trying to see what had happened. There was a thick, muscular man, looking in fury at a tall, thin man who stood with his back to Sally.

"Come now," drawled her savior, "can't we settle this like civilized people?" The muscular thug's only response was to charge the smaller man. He moved faster than someone of his size should be able to move, but it didn't seem to bother the thin man. He quickly side-stepped the attack, coming in quickly with a series of blows of his own that were almost to fast to follow. Groin shot, punch to the stomach, another to the solar plexus, haymaker to the ear, mui tae clinch to the head and knee the man twice in the face. The bigger man lay still on the dirty alley. The thinner man was breathing hard. "Guess not," he commented dryly. Sally squinted, trying to get a good look at him.

He was tall, with sort of ginger hair. He turned to face her, finally. His eyes were dark, hard to tell in the darkness of the alley, but probably brown. He had slightly tanned skin and a smattering of freckles. He wore jeans, a red T-shirt, and a dark blue windbreaker. Sally had never seen him before in her life. But there was something familiar about him all the same. It was really quite unnerving. Something about those cheekbones, the shape of the eyes…the lips.

The man ducked down next to her, checking her neck for injuries. "You alright?" He asked gruffly. She nodded, still staring.

"Why did you...how did you...do that? How did you even know what was going on?" The man gave a grin. Again, Sally was struck with the notion that she should know this man. Also that it was incredibly odd to see him smile.

"I was bored and I have a police scanner. I'm living not to far from here. The police are useless when it comes to timing. You ought to know that Sergeant Donovan."

"How did you know my name?" Sally demanded. The man rolled his eyes.

"Honestly, you people. You mentioned it, remember? On your radio? I did mention that I have a scanner. Pay attention." And suddenly Sally knew him. She was surprised she hadn't seen it before, though, to be fair, she probably hadn't wanted to see.

"But…That's impossible. You're dead. You died, two years ago."

The man jerked away from Sally. "Sorry," he muttered. "Don't know what you mean. But if you are fine, then I'll be going."

"NO. I know who you are Sherlock Holmes, and I demand…" that was as far as she got before he was upon her, clapping a hand over her mouth.

"Do please SHUT. UP." He pulled out a phone with his free hand; he pushed a button, than spoke quickly, giving their location. "Car. Now." It took less than a minute before a large black car came around the corner. Sherlock quickly pushed Sally into the car. "Home," he instructed the driver.

"Yes Mr Beck."

"Sorry, Mr What?"

"It is a long story Donovan. One I do not have any desire to share with you. However, I cannot have you telling anyone of tonight's events. So some sort of explanation is necessary. It will wait until we arrive at my flat."

"But…"

"If you persist in talking Sergeant Donovan, I will be forced to knock you out." He looked so dangerous, and he was supposed to be dead and so Sally found herself quietly staring out the window for the rest of the journey. They pulled up less than five minutes later to a smallish flat on High Street.

"Wait a moment. I've been here. This is Molly Hooper's place." Sherlock glanced at her.

"Yes." He took a key from his pocket and quickly let the two of them into the flat. The black car disappeared around the corner. As soon as Sherlock closed the door, Sally turned on him.

"What the fuck? You are dead. There was a funeral and everything. You fucking killed yourself because we found out you were a fake and a total psychopath. You jumped off a building! No one could have survived that, so…so….start…talking."

"If you would stop your inane chatter for half a second, I might tell you. Clearly, I didn't die."

"Oh Sherlock, did you get the…." Molly's voice trailed off as she noticed Sally. "Oh." Sherlock looked relieved.

"Show her the tape Molly. I have….work to do." Molly followed him up the stairs with her eyes.

"That's all he ever does now. Work. It's good I guess. But he barely eats, and almost never sleeps. If he doesn't catch everybody…"

"You helped him? Molly, after how he treated you, how he treated everyone…even after he was proven a fake…you helped that freak fake his death?"

"He isn't a fraud Sergeant Donovan. He never was. Moriarty was real. Richard Brook was someone that Moriarty invented. It's all right in his name even. Rich Brook. Reichenbach."

"I don't understand. He is an arrogant berk, he is a fraud, he is dead, then he isn't, then he kidnaps me…what is going on?"

"Look," Molly sighed. "He really isn't a bad person. He really is as clever as everyone thought he was. He was never a fraud. But he had to die."

"If he is such a good person, than how could he do this? Lestrade has been facing an inquiry, IA has been on his ass since the whole…Sherlock is a fake thing, no one trusts him, he is the laughingstock of the Yard... Sherlock ruined him. He ruined him Molly. And does he even care about that? Does he even care about John?" Molly dropped her eyes.

"He didn't have a choice. And of course he knows what is going on with both of them. You have to believe that he…he has tried to help Lestrade in any way possible. He got the inquiry dropped at least. He has been trying to tell IA to get off his back—or rather, Mycroft's been trying, but he hasn't had as much luck as he had hoped. The most he can do is call in tips from time to time and hope that with enough solved cases on the books Lestrade might get his reputation back. And as for John…he asks about him everyday. Every single day, Sally. He checks up on him, even though it is dangerous. I have found countless unfinished letters from Sherlock trying to explain things. John still texts him. He keeps them all. How can you say he doesn't care?"

"Because he never seemed to in the past. And no one could be as clever as he claimed to be. No one."

"Oh, and somehow he managed to commit impossible crimes, get away with them, solve them, get other people convicted—people who confessed, and never recanted their confessions, fake his own death, and he ISN'T clever? How does that work?" Sally fell silent. That had never happened before. Molly Hooper—timid, shy, silly little Molly Hooper had stunned Sally Donovan into silence. "Look. Just watch the tape alright? There isn't any sound, but I have a recording of that too."

She pulled a flash drive off of a chain around her neck and plugged it into the computer. "Sherlock and I both have one. It is conclusive proof that he is innocent and not at all a fake." There were only two files on the computer. Molly opened the video file first. "It takes a bit for anything to happen. Sherlock planted the camera the night before he jumped. The night he came to me, actually. It was one of the things I helped him with." A door opened and Richard Brook, (Jim Moriarty?) walked onto the roof. He walked over to the edge of the roof and sat down on the ledge. He made a call. "He is telling someone to call John, pretending to be a paramedic to let him know that Mrs Hudson had been shot and was dying."

"How could you possibly know that?"

"John told me about the phone call," Molly shrugged. "Also, we enhanced the tape and zoomed in and Sherlock can read lips."

"Of course he can," muttered Sally. "You just took his word for it then?"

"John's as well. John used basically the same words in describing the call that Sherlock said Jim used. Plus, it makes sense. Jim wouldn't want any loose ends, and John would have been a witness. He didn't like to get his hands dirty, and he probably would have had to kill John himself."

A few more moments passed on screen, then Brook (Moriarty?) looked at the phone again and started typing a text. "He is telling Sherlock to meet him." Two minutes later, the door burst open again. Sherlock came striding out. Brook (Moriarty?) was holding out his phone, saying something. Molly clicked the audio file.

"…it's just…staying." The shorter man was saying. Sally watched as the whole little drama played out, feeling sicker and sicker. "Oh just kill yourself, it's a lot less effort….Let me give you a little extra incentive. All your friends will die if you don't, " he said, rather joyfully, thought Sally. It was especially jarring since Sherlock was holding him over the edge of the roof.

"John," said Sherlock, his voice full of terror. That was the oddest part. Sherlock Holmes, afraid for the life of another human being?

"Not just John. Everyone."

"Mrs Hudson?"

"Everyone."

"Lestrade."

"Three bullets. Three gunmen. Three victims. There is no stopping them now. Unless my people see you jump." Sally put her hand to her lips as Sherlock slowly stepped onto the ledge. Then, inexplicably he began to laugh. Molly had tears in her eyes.

"He thought he was free. He thought he had an out. He didn't," she whispered. Sherlock leapt over to Moriarty, explaining his theory. He could find out the code word and then everyone would live and he wouldn't have to go through with the plan. The audio cut out as Moriarty shot himself. Molly wasn't sure why. She assumed it was because Sherlock had been so surprised that he had accidentally ended the call.

"WHAT?" yelped Sally. "He was there? Still? He DIED? But…that wasn't in the papers or anything, I…" Molly touched her hand and pointed at the screen. Sherlock was stumbling on the roof. Then he was on the ledge again, reaching out, talking on his phone.

"He is talking to John," whispered Molly. Sherlock threw the phone. And then he fell. It wasn't even a jump, he just sort of lifted his arms and dropped off the roof. Sally had to hold back a scream.

"But how did he survive Molly? How did he live?"

"I can't tell you that. I won't. He will have to tell you. But you see, this is why Sherlock has to play dead. Jim is dead, but his people are still out there, and John, Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson all have big targets on their heads."

"Why did Sherlock make you show this to me? Why didn't he do it himself?"

"He doesn't like to watch the video. Would you?"

"But why hasn't it been released to the public? We could clear his name, we could…."

"Make amends?" asked Molly, eyebrow raised. Sally paused.

"Oh God. I did this didn't I? Me and my stupid jealousy and…pride. I did this." She buried her face in her hands.

"Well, Anderson helped," came Sherlock's dry voice. "And Moriarty played a part too I suppose. Though it probably would have been harder for him if you hadn't tried so hard to get me arrested. And you didn't have to rub it in John's face when you were gloating."

"Sherlock!"

"I'm not going to apologize. Not this time." Sally nodded.

"No, don't. You're right." Sherlock looked surprised, but he recovered quickly.

"Of course I am." Molly rolled her eyes, letting loose an exasperated sigh.

"Can't you ever be a bit modest?" Sherlock scowled.

"Adrian Beck is modest. I am sick of groveling. When I am here, I will be myself, even if I can't dress how I'd like, I'll sure as hell act however I want." Molly didn't answer. Sally could tell this was an argument they had a lot. Which was something else that was new. Sherlock didn't like to have the same argument twice. He liked to insult people and prove he was clever, but now he seemed to listen to Molly, and have enough patience with the pretty coroner to have repeat arguments. How interesting. Sherlock Holmes was slowly but surely becoming a human being. John had started it, immediately it seemed. And now Molly was rounding out the edges. And he was letting her. Sort of.

"So, Adrian Beck—that's why the driver called you Mr Beck?"

"We have to be careful. This house isn't bugged. We check it daily. Well, it probably has Mycroft's bugs, but it is his people that sweep the flat. Sherlock checks over the place when they've gone, but he never finds anything. Not after that one time," Molly explained. Sherlock smirked, but neither offered more information.

"So, Mycroft's people know that Sherlock is alive?" Molly shrugged.

"I don't know how much they know. They never go into Sherlock's room, and they always come by when I am at work. "

"And the neighbors don't notice anything odd about random people coming and going about your flat?"

"They are the neighbors," interrupted Sherlock. Frankly, Sally was surprised he had stayed out of the conversation for as long as he had. "It's the only explanation. They come and go without comment everyday. They only come around when Molly is gone. If I am here, I can hear them of course, but they never speak and they never leave any trace. The neighbors don't comment about strangers coming and going because they are the ones doing it."

"But they've lived here for ages Sherlock."

"Not ages, 5 years. They moved in around the time I met you and started spending a lot of time at the mortuary. Mycroft would have had them move in just in case I ever paid a call. Or to find information on you, in hopes of spying on me. He has people to spy on me everywhere," Sherlock sounded a bit pained. "And anyone who has contact with me."

"That sounds a bit paranoid," commented Sally.

"What, me or him? I have every reason to be paranoid. There are gunmen out there with the intention of killing those I am closest to if they ever get even an inkling that I am alive. But Mycroft never trusted me, so he's always gotten people to spy on me."

"Well, you've never really given him reason to trust you, have you," replied Sally. It wasn't a question. Sherlock shot her a dirty look.

"If I want your input I'll ask for it." Molly rubbed her temple slowly. Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned away.

"But really. There were the drugs, and then the cases where you consistently threw yourself into impossibly dangerous situations for no real reason except your own personal kicks, alienating everyone around you, constantly getting yourself into trouble with the police…"

"Yes, thank you Ms. Donovan. Don't you ever shut up?" He was glaring at her again.

"Is there anything else she needs to know?" Molly asked, a bit nervously. Sherlock shrugged, then waved a hand in her general direction and collapsed on the couch. Molly took that to mean it was at her discretion to tell Sally anything more.

"He goes by Adrian Beck when he is in public. He calls in to the Yard with tips sometimes, and when it turns out he was correct, he, or occasionally the driver, goes to the Yard to pick up reward money, if it is offered. Adrian is working on a research project—studying criminal justice and the MO's of various serial killers—seeing if there is a link. He has followed the Moriarty-Holmes case, but hasn't a strong opinion on it, as it isn't what he is particularly interested in, and he doesn't have enough data to back up any conclusions. Um….he likes the Beatles. I don't know what else might be good to know. He is very different than Sherlock. He is pretty friendly, and keeps his negative opinions to himself." Sherlock made an annoyed sound from his spot on the couch. "If you want to say something, by all means say it," Molly told him. "Obviously, he doesn't look much like Sherlock. That was easy—hair dye, colored contacts, and some tanning. Match that with casual clothes instead of tight suits, and a pleasant personality-"

"Really Molly, I think we've said enough to be going on with, don't you think?" Sherlock was sitting up now, looking for all the world like a petulant child. Sally just looked at him, unsure how exactly she was supposed to be feeling.

"You won't say anything? You'll keep our secret?" Molly's voice was strained. "At least until he catches the people who would carry out the plan to kill everybody?" Sally paused, thinking. Slowly, she nodded. She believed the two of them. God, she believed Sherlock Holmes.

"And Molly will be in no danger of legal repercussions after this is over," said Sherlock in a rather imperious tone. It was quite clear that he was giving an order, not making a request. "There will be no consequences, she will not be harmed in any way for helping me. Her job and her life will be secure."

"Well, that isn't exactly up to me, but I will certainly do what I can." Sherlock nodded, then sat back on the couch, staring blankly into space. Molly walked Sally to the door, calling the car. As the big black car trundled around the corner, ready to whisk Sally back to her own flat, she glanced back up at Molly's home. Molly Hooper and Sherlock Holmes.

"What have I done to you?" She whispered, sliding into the car and giving the driver her address. Which of course was a bit futile, as he already knew it. Sherlock Holmes was alive, and he as not any kind of fraud. He was still an arrogant jerk, Sally decided, but she would have to make an effort to be nicer in the future. It seemed he wasn't as much a freak as she had thought. It seemed Sherlock Holmes had a heart after all.