THAT'S RIGHT, I'M BACK TO WRITING AND I MISSED YOU ALL VERY MUCH.

Yes, the story is titled after Barthes' beautiful, ~beautiful~ little essay - Death of the Author. AND YES, THE CHAPTER TITLE IS AFTER FOUCAULT'S EVEN PRETTIER ESSAY, 'What is an Author?' I love me some poststructuralist criticism.

Molly stared up at the ceiling.

The clock ticked incessantly.

One, she thought. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven –

Downstairs, the grandfather clock chimed twelve.

Molly's heart clenched tightly in her chest. She felt the rush of sensation up her throat – unable to stop the gentle fluttering in her stomach. She didn't bother turning on the light – still staring at the ceiling.

For a second, the feeling was the only thing reigning in her heart. Then, she picked up the pen on her side table – and hoped the god that whoever it was she was speaking to wasn't asleep.

Hello, she scribbled on her left arm. I'm Molly.

The words faded gently – one letter at a time. She paused.

Happy birthday to me, she added on her arm.

The glow of the lamp was decent company – better than Mycroft, in any case. The silence was acceptable, since his brain was humming – he watched the test tube closely, willing the experiment to deliver results.

The clock ticked.

Sherlock measured a cup of salt carefully, ignoring the throbbing noise of the clock.

His parents weren't asleep – they decided a better use of their time was in picking up Mycroft from the airport, since he was coming for Christmas. This kind of behaviour was idiotic to say the least – and something Sherlock refused to participate in.

His arm tingled.

He wanted to ignore it entirely, since there were more pressing concerns – but he knew he had to look, see what his soulmate was saying to him. He might miss important information – information which would allow him to avoid the individual altogether.

Someone turned eighteen, he thought.

Twentieth December. Twentieth December. Twentieth December.

Hello, said the words. I'm Molly.

He never responded – he had never planned to, of course. Whoever this Margaret was – with her birthday on twentieth December, currently eighteen years old and probably stupid – he didn't want to speak to her. It was lucky he was alone when she decided to contact him – had Mycroft been around, he wasn't entirely sure what his brother would have said.

Happy birthday to me, continued Molly of the twentieth December birthday.

The words faded from his arm.

He could see the cramped writing, deliberately saving paper space. Perhaps not in a very well off family – a blue collar job for her father, a mother who went for weekly book club meetings or Bingo. He sensed more than deduced that she lived in the country. He noticed how cautious she was in her opening – how restrained, how the words themselves betrayed a sense –

Recoil.

Despite his irritation, the words kept appearing. He was eighteen as well when they had appeared for him, he didn't feel the need to yammer incessantly. He was irritated at this girl – who tended to interrupt him in the middle of work. He began ignore the tingling of his arm, particularly if it happened too close to experiments.

But some of the words did slip through.

Difficult day today. Professor Warner tried to put me in detention again.

Information such as this was as frustrating as it was to have his arm tingle once every day. What did she mean again? How many times had the man tried to put her in detention? What had she done to warrant attention such as this from her teacher? As far as he could tell, teachers were as useless as half the human population – and could be ignored almost entirely, if you bothered them little. What was she doing that caused the teacher to dislike her so much?

At times, he almost wished to write back – just to see why she was holding back such a lot.

He was certain she was holding back – so certain, in fact, that he considered, briefly, investigating. Her words were always in isolation – always betraying the tiniest of facts, never her identity – the barest of details, ones that mattered little.

Her gym teacher. Her marks in biology. Her friend, Meena's birthday. Her mother.

Never herself.

He knew precious little about what she liked, about what she enjoyed, about what she thought.

At times, he would roll his eyes when his arm would tingle and he would not check what she had said. He didn't care to hear about how she had done on calculus.

At times, he was curious. Briefly – for seconds, for minutes.

Hope you're having a good day. Mine hasn't been – but then, neither has my year.

Curious.

At times, he deduced her as an exercise.

She was going to be nineteen years old today, finishing school in a few months. She had one close friend, Meena, who had her birthday in August. She was probably poor, or she lacked financial support in some way or the other. She liked biology, going by her considerable standard and grades – which seemed to chafe for the Professor Warner of hers. Sherlock only had to assume it was because she was a girl – and a few things clicked in place. She was rule abiding, from what he could tell.

She was cautious.

Not with her emotions – with her identity. With whomever she was. She was deliberately misleading, which made Sherlock grind his teeth. She was possibly fatherless, since she never spoke of her father. He wondered whether her father was not active in her life, but her profile didn't quite fit – she would have mentioned her father if he was part of her life, or she would have been affected by his prolonged absence enough to be a different person. As such, Molly of the twentieth December birthday was just too quiet.

Which was an irritating paradox, for someone who absentmindedly wrote on her arm every day.

He had kept her a secret – a well-kept one, since no one needed to know of this liability. Trevor, in fact, was the only one who had guessed.

And that was one year into college, too. Victor Trevor had looked at him up and down, in the middle of his experiment – his arm, tingling a little (which he ignored) and grinned.

"You ever reply back?" he asked with his wolfish smile.

"No," said Sherlock shortly.

"Nice," said Trevor.

Sherlock never asked him how he knew his arm was tingling.

The girl was kissing him – Sherlock was attempting, to the best of his abilities – to focus, to categorise the sensory data that the encounter was affording him.

He often found it hard to conduct a sexual experiment without one or two variables being uncontrollable. If it was not the excess of sensory data, it was frequently the emotions of his partner in question. He had categorised sexual stimulation done in isolation – considerably easier, since the only variable that had to be controlled was himself.

His arm tingled.

"Fuck," he cursed. He considered ignoring Molly of the twentieth December birthday for a minute. Entertained the idea of avoiding listening to her – and then shook his head.

"Excuse me," he muttered. "I need a second."

"No worries," said the girl, guessing the reason and glancing at his arm. "I don't guarantee staying by the time you come back, though."

Sherlock grit his teeth. He wrenched himself away from the woman, and disappeared from the alleyway. It was behind the bar that he had found the blonde girl in – and at the moment, he needed more privacy than what an alleyway or a bar could offer.

He nearly tore his sleeve aside when he entered the bar's men's room.

I know no one is listening on the other side, Molly of the twentieth December birthday had said.

Odd.

He locked himself in the stall, waiting to see if more was coming. His arm was still tingling.

I know no one is listening, because hardly anyone ever is. Whoever you are – if you are there, that is: I wish you luck with this world. I wish you as much luck as you will need – because I'm barely managing.

The words faded.

Sometimes I wonder why I bother – I wonder why I should even try – who would be interested in my life as an average person in a world of other averagers? A mediocre genius, that's what I would call myself – intelligent, but mediocre. Nothing brilliant – nothing blazing. Nothing much.

Sherlock was watching, for the first time, with rapt attention. Almost nothing was in his head at the time.

I've been forcing my life forward this last year. I told myself to accept my stepfather, but it's hard – and I told myself to accept whatever he gave me, but that's hard too. I had nothing but my mother – and she's leaving, now.

His mind raced – leaving where? Job? Security? A new marriage?

Dad died of cancer, when I was in fifth grade, did I tell you?

No.

Mum isn't dying, but she's leaving all the same – she's going for some new job somewhere.

Ah.

And I'm staying with Fred – at least, until I go for college, that is. Fred's sons are getting on my nerves. James has tried to kiss me twice now, and I –

I'm – alone.

Letter by letter, Molly of the twentieth December birthday faded.

Have a good day.

Trevor was saying something that Sherlock was tuning out almost completely.

"Holmes?" he said. "You listening?"

"Yes Trevor, continue to fascinate me with whatever inane rubbish you have," said Sherlock, without looking up from his book.

"You distracted bastard," said Trevor good-naturedly. "You've been off for weeks and you know it."

Sherlock ignored him again. His eyes shifted, of their own accord – to his arm.

For weeks, there was nothing.

Whoever she was, she disappeared from his arm as quickly as the words had faded.

Sherlock found himself glancing at his arm periodically. He told himself that it was nothing more than an idle curiosity, but he knew that he was heading into dangerous terrain.

He had thought about her. Consciously.

He had deduced the words she had written. She was not poor; she was just neglected by her step family. She was careful with herself, because she was unsure of support. She was quiet about her father because he was dead. She was going to come to college soon, and going by who she was – he had assumed it would be medicine.

His brain was gnawing for more information – information that was no longer forthcoming.

Trevor had offered him some drugs – which was helpful, all things considered. Sherlock's brain became quiet after a decent seven per cent solution.

His mind was almost constantly racing – and, irritatingly, it was frequently towards her.

By the time Molly of the Twentieth December birthday was in University, he would be in his second year. He wondered, idly, what she would be studying. Whether she would take up biology and become something as boring as a medical professional. He wondered whether she would ever write again.

A light, slightly ticklish sensation climbed up his arm. Sherlock tore away his sleeve -

I'm going to be studying pathology soon.

Molly of the Twentieth December birthday was becoming an interesting person.

He had begun taking cases on and off – some illicit affairs which he solved in the span of a day, at times, missing items – no one was willing to give him anything more. Notably, a missing person's case. The man ended up somewhere outside the country to escape his wife.

University was becoming an interminable bore. His professors bored him, his peers irritated him – and his experiments with sex were over. There was nothing for him to do except the occasional substance abuse, paired with a smattering of ridiculous cases.

Molly had begun speaking again. Her words came hauntingly, her authorship as restrained as it ever was – with moments of quiet reverie. She was saying a little more in her words – a tiny bit more. He didn't know why she had gained the ability to do so, but he suspected it had something to do with her mother being gone.

News of her mother was sparing. Sherlock learned that she was working in Denmark, and that her stepfather wasn't very keen on joining her there. Strains on their marriage weren't his concern, but Molly seemed to be effected by it.

How effected she was by everything – by everyone. Sherlock found her a paradox that did not resolve itself – with her heart open to the idiocy of the rest of the world, yet she could not give herself up either. She was nonsensical, and frankly, he was exasperated by her. He hated sounding like a lovelorn sap – waxing poetic about his construction of a woman that he had never met, but she was confusing – and that was in the brief moments of clarity that her words provided.

He wondered whether she would be just as confusing in person.

His arm tingled again – and he pinched the bridge of his nose. Speak of the devil.

Her words hesitated so much – so very, very, very much –

I

Um

I met someone today.

Sherlock paused.

He's in my class, came the next set of words.

The urge to tear off his arm nearly overwhelmed him. He texted Victor for a new dose.

For the first time, he wondered what she looked like.

Would she had brown hair? Blonde? Black? Red? Light gold? Brownish gold? Auburn?

What would her eyes look like – round? Was she dark skinned? If she was, did she have large eyes – black in colour, or perhaps brown? Would she have thin eyes – Asian heritage, perhaps? Would she be small – would she be tall? What would she look like once she smiled? What would happen to anyone watching her smile?

What would her fingers look like? What would her hands?

Whatever Molly was – the author of a very sparing, tiny little story – a small player in a life that was unremarkable – she could not be real. Her existence was a nightmare, something his subconscious had spun out of the depths of his imagination – writing stories that he had never expected himself to read.

His name's William. He's not very tall, his hair is golden – he's rather nice.

That's how she described the man of her current life, the new character that Sherlock disliked instantly and mindlessly. And what story was she writing now – what with a new character? What story did he want to read? Was he to enter as a character?

Would he like himself in her story?

Instinctively, he knew he wouldn't. She was a half formed idea of a person, a jigsaw puzzle which he could see only through a straw and in bits – but she was kind.

That Molly of the Twentieth December birthday was kind came to him so naturally, without deduction – was unsurprising. It practically reeked in her words – what she gave up for other people, how pleasant she was to everyone around her and how little she was noticed by anyone with the exception of her friend – Meena.

And he – he wasn't – he wasn't a very pleasant man.

Pleasantness. Kindness. Dear god.

He decided he needed another dose.

Through the haze of the drugs, it occurred to Sherlock that she had not said much about the man after that. At times, she said she was going out with him. Or that he was taking her out. It didn't matter in either case – nothing mattered, except for his mind being silent.

Silence.

Quiet.

She had said things – other things. About her experiments, about her classes. In moments of brief lucidity, he was interested in what she was attempting to research.

Mycroft had attempted to contact him, but he had fobbed him off.

He was months away from dropping out of college completely – until, of course, he got himself together and forced himself to work through the remainder. He had a degree now – and nothing else.

The drugs in his system were helpful additives to a cause that was increasingly looking achievable – the destruction of Sherlock Holmes, his disappearance from this plane of existence. No one needed him – he was painfully emotionally unavailable, incendiary, and, frankly, a rather rude man.

And then, she said: I broke up with William today. It had to happen, I suppose – he wasn't a very nice person, despite pretending to be.

He focussed on her words. He had to clear his head a little, let go of the drugs, and -

I sometimes feel as if someone is listening on the other side – despite me saying absolutely nothing, I feel as if someone is watching me. Writing me.

Can I be candid for a second? William is a very nice person. He's kind to people – he cares. He's also a horrible, passive aggressive man who could make me feel like nothing without saying anything terribly out of place. He isn't cruel – he's not even very rude – but goodness, how he can be both of those things without being either.

I don't suppose you're like that, are you? No – I'm guessing not. I've sometimes thought about – thought about you. What you would look like. Whether you're listening. Who you are.

If you have been listening for all these years, then it only remains to be seen why you haven't responded. I can only imagine a few reasons – the first one being that you did not want to be attached to me, which I can understand. But that makes little sense, given that you don't know me. So perhaps you are avoiding attachments altogether?

Which makes me think you're lonely.

Or perhaps you force yourself to be.

Which makes me wonder why – perhaps you consider yourself unlovable. Perhaps you think you are beyond attachment. Perhaps you think you are too interesting, and need nothing in this world.

I don't suppose I should add – perhaps you are right in all those things. You might be too interesting, beyond attachments – but I don't think you're unlovable.

I think we tend to make a world where we consider everything about ourselves unlovable. We're unkind to ourselves, and then we become unkind to others. We become ruder, and unbearable, and frankly, we become impossible to deal with. It isn't that everyone can be loved – rather that everyone tries their level best to be unlovable. Because we hate ourselves. We look at our bodies and find flaws, we look at ourselves and see nothing but destruction. We hate how we speak, how we talk, how we dress.

We should stop that. It makes the world more difficult. We should stop looking for others to fill our gaps and inconsistencies and hatred of ourselves – and we should just stop hating ourselves.

I imagine you're nice. Not having-tea-and-biscuits nice, but nice. You try, at times. You are probably not a very kind person, because if you haven't responded yet, you don't know how to be. You're not a bad person. You're just… working out how to be good.

That's just my imagination, of course. I'm writing you as much as you write me – and I don't even know if anyone is listening, or if I am just babbling into oblivion.

Which is the more likely option.

I hope you figure it out, whoever you are. I don't care if you don't respond – not anymore, anyway.

Molly.

Sherlock stared as the last 'y' of Molly faded away.

He picked up his phone, dialling the first number that came to his mind.

"Mycroft?" he said quietly. "Send your car. I'm going to need some help."

More to come! R&R, concrit accepted!