The result of listening to one of your favorite songs and thinking about your OTP...

Heaven, a gateway, a hope

Just like a feeling I need, it's no joke

And though it hurts me to see you this way

Betrayed by words, I'd never heard, too hard to say

Up, down, turn around

Please don't let me hit the ground

Tonight I think I'll walk alone

I'll find my soul as I go home

New Order - "Temptation"

Of course it was Molly. It was always Molly.

It had just begun to drizzle as he left John behind at Kitty Riley's flat and made the long trek to Bart's. He had no choice but to walk, the police were looking for him. Drawing up his collar to shield the wind, he set off into the night.

The sounds of police sirens echoed through the dark alleyways, but he did not hear them. His mind was only thinking about the pathologist. That day he first met her he knew something was different. All of the other doctors he'd worked with previously had been either incompetent or irritating. There was Caroline, who chattered too much about her ex-boyfriends, Bobby, who constantly second guessed himself leaving Sherlock to wonder how he ever got through medical school, Samantha, who wore dark make-up and rarely said anything other than "fuck off", and various others who barely left an impression and were soon deleted from his memory. Sherlock had begun to wonder if the whole hospital was run by complete morons or if he just had bad luck.

That changed the day he met Molly Hooper.

He bent over the microscope to analyze the soil sample taken from his most recent case. It was blissfully quiet. He'd gotten rid of the annoying lab assistant by sending him on an impossible errand to find a specific brand of cyanoacrylate that didn't exist.

But just as he had begun to relish his victory, the door swung open. A sigh escaped from his lips. Couldn't these people ever leave him alone?

He looked up without moving his head from its position and saw Mike Stamford stride into the room followed by a young woman in a lab coat.

"Sherlock, I'm glad I caught you. I want to introduce you to Molly Hooper. She's a new pathologist and usually works in the morgue, but perhaps you've seen her in the lab. I know you've had your differences with some of our other doctors, but I think Molly and you might hit it off. She's one of our brightest."

She blushed a little at the compliment and looked sheepishly at Sherlock.

He studied her. He had seen her in the lab before. Early 30s? She looked younger than she probably was if she was already through medical school. Short stature. Long brown hair pulled back. Brown-eyes. Right-handed. Visibly nervous. Only child. Drops of coffee spilled on her sleeve. Went to a pub the previous night.

She looked progressively more nervous as he scrutinized her and made a small laugh before offering her hand to break the silence. Sherlock paused but shook it. She had a surprisingly firm grasp.

"Nice to meet you. Mike's told me a lot about you. You're a detective then?"

"Consulting. Yes."

Mike's mobile rang. "Have to take this, excuse me." He exited the room leaving Sherlock and Molly alone.

"Are you working on a case right now?" She walked over to the table and looked at the slide he was studying.

"Murder case. Trying to figure out if a suspect's alibi can be proved."

"So let me guess you're comparing the dirt found at the scene to that found on the suspect's shoes."

He leaned back on the stool and studied her more carefully. Molly had figured out what he was doing in one glance. Impressive. "Yes."

"Do you need some help? It's a slow day in the morgue. Good for people, bad for me." She laughed feebly at her own joke. He added 'morbid sense of humor' into his mind palace.

He proceeded to tell her the details of the case and they worked together to discover that the suspect was indeed in a different area of London than the crime, proving his alibi to be true.

It was only later that night at Baker Street that he realized he'd finally found someone he could actually talk to and work with without feeling agitated.

It was the beginning of their working relationship.

From that moment, Molly was the only pathologist Sherlock would work with. There had been such an immediate trust formed right from the start that Sherlock barely even noticed. Until now.

Now.

Now that his ruin was evident.

Now that death was a possibility.

Now everything was suddenly clear.

There was only one person he could turn to. One person who could help him defeat Moriarty. Of course, Mycroft was already working on the case with him, but he needed someone to be there for him. Someone who counted. Someone who mattered.

He wouldn't blame her if she said no. Everything he had ever said to her raced through his brain. One of those instances, that awful Christmas party when he'd been so wrong, stuck out the most. She'd entered the room with her face glowing with happiness that he felt could only have been the result of a new lover. He'd been so blind, so stupid. Never before had he felt such regret. He could criticize John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade without a second thought. But with Molly, it had made him feel shameful. She had only ever been kind to him and the thought that he had hurt her was inconceivable. He had tried to walk away as if it were anyone else, but found he couldn't. It wasn't just anyone. It was Molly. He had apologized but it didn't feel like enough. He promised himself he would never do that again.

He was never wrong. And yet Molly seemed to always surprise him. His feelings that day surprised him. It mattered what Molly felt. He never wanted to make that mistake again. He wouldn't.

He waited for her in the lab. The same place where it all began.

He knew her schedule down to the minute. The fact that he always showed up at Bart's when she was working was no accident. Whether Molly knew it or not, he always planned it that way. When the other pathologists complained about his presence there, Molly would gently explain to them in her quiet but determined way about his need to use the lab. She was always so warm, so caring. Always making everyone feel at ease and knowing how to diffuse any tension.

How could he have ever underestimated her?

Her footsteps sounded in the hall. He looked at his watch. Exactly on time.

He moved towards the center of the dark room and faced away from the door so she couldn't see his face. What was this nervous feeling that had suddenly come over him?

She entered the room and went straight to a side office. He heard some papers rustling. After finding the ones she needed, she turned out the lights and just as he heard her approach the door to leave, he spoke.

You're wrong, you know. You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you…