Chapter 1

"What's next?" Molly asked, closing the heavy metal drawer containing the body of a homeless man dressed in Sherlock's bloody clothing and sporting a vicious head injury she was glad Sherlock had inflicted himself. His plan was simple but elegant, yet there were still ways it could go horribly wrong. Ways she was certain Sherlock had systematically worked through. He had made half a dozen phone calls, and Molly had retrieved four packages delivered through the hospital's old coal chute courtesy of Sherlock's homeless network, and one from a businessman in a three thousand Euro Italian suit. Sherlock was apparently unwilling to share the nature of the contents of those parcels with her.

Sherlock had either not heard her question, or he chose not to answer. Molly sighed. By now, she should be used him ignoring her. He was sitting on the floor, his back to the wall, with his knees pulled up and elbows resting on them. His fingers were steepled underneath his chin as he stared straight ahead. Sherlock was a million miles away in his mind. Molly had seen him like this more times than she could count, and she silently wished she could join him there someday, wherever he was.

She washed her hands slowly, then sat down quietly next to him, savoring the rare opportunity just to stare at him, to burn the image of him into her mind. It could be a very long time before she saw him again. It might be never. He could die on that rooftop in a matter of hours or he would leave to preserve his secret and never come back for her. The tears in her eyes silently rolled down her cheeks, and she turned away from him to stare at the wall in front of them. Molly wondered when she'd become accustomed to being ignored by him.

Her chest ached as she remembered what he had said to her only a few hours ago. That he needed her. That she mattered to him. How she had wanted to hear those words from Sherlock. How she had wanted him to wrap her in his strong arms, pull her against his chest, and whisper his need for her. He would hold her head between his hands, gently brush his lips against hers, and then deepen the kiss as he finally let his emotions and his hunger for her loose.

The sound of her tears dropping down onto her lab coat stirred her slightly from her fantasy. When Sherlock came back from his mental hideaway, he would need her to be completely in the present and ready to work. He'd need her to understand that what he meant was that he needed her skills, not her. Those few words of acknowledgement were more praise than she'd ever received from him and she realized that it must have cost him emotionally to say them.

Molly reached up to wipe her cheek, but warm, slightly calloused fingers were there first. She startled and looked at Sherlock with wide eyes, pulling back slightly, knowing how he usually avoided physical contact. His fingers followed her movement away, brushing away her tears, and she involuntarily closed her eyes, trying so hard to remember every nuance of his touch. She wanted to remember every detail when he was gone.

"Why are you crying, Molly?" He asked, finally lowering his hands and replacing them under his chin, studying her face.

"Sherlock…" She tried to pull herself together and push those desires back down deep inside of her. There was no use crying over what she couldn't have. It didn't matter that she really couldn't look at another man with any sort of real desire since she'd met him.

Sherlock didn't move, or offer her a way out of the question. His ice-blue eyes held hers until she had to look away. It was enough that she wore her heart on her sleeve around him, it hurt too much to have him peer into her soul. She hesitated before softly saying, "Please don't ask me questions you already know the answers to. I already know you think I'm pathetic, please don't make me feel worse. I will still help you and keep your secrets, no matter what."

"Molly," he said as she moved to stand, "I have never considered you pathetic. Ever. And I'm… sorry if I made you feel that way. It was never my intention." Sherlock turned to look up at her from his place on the floor. Was it regret that played across his face momentarily, Molly wondered?

She inched closer to him, trying to find the edge of his personal space, which was strange because he had had no qualms about invading hers a few moments ago. She reached out tentatively to touch his hair, as she had wanted to for so long. He didn't pull away when she gently brushed his temple with her fingertips.

"I know. I know you didn't intend to hurt me. But the truth often hurts, Sherlock. I know how much you value the truth, and since you are leaving m… since you are leaving, I want you to know that I do not blame you. It's who you are, and I would never ask you to change."

He leaned in to her touch, slightly, and blinked for just a fraction of a second longer than necessarily. If he hadn't taught her so well, she might have missed it. He was fighting for control of his emotions, replaying many events in his life, unearthing those regrets that he had previously not allowed himself to see. Why now? He would either die in a few short hours, or suffer the death of the essence of his life, his work, his success, his… pride. Those were what he truly valued, but they were not worth the death of the people who had made his success possible. Where would he be without John, Mycroft, Lestrade, and especially Molly? He, the great Sherlock Holmes, did deserve to die. They did not.

While others questioned everything he had ever done, only Molly had never wavered in her support, never stopped being there when he needed her. Mycroft felt he needed a nanny to monitor his "disgraceful behavior," Lestrade had always been embarrassed that his department couldn't solve these cases without help, and even John had doubts about his integrity and his sanity. But Molly? Molly rarely complained about him or asked him to conform to social norms, and she willingly gave to him everything he had ever asked her for. She came in early for him, worked through the night with him, gave him access to her lab and the bodies he needed for his experiments; things that could have caused her to lose her medical license and her livelihood, if not her freedom. For him. He'd taken her for granted, he saw that now.

She treated him like a man, not a freak of human nature. It was wrong that he had left her pining for him, unwilling to look seriously at another man. At the same time, he felt privileged. She expected nothing in return for her unreserved kindness. But he was keeping her from happiness in the boring, mundane world. Unlike him, she could be satisfied there. If he were out of the way.

Sherlock was startled when her soft, delicate finger wiped away the tear from the side of his face. He looked up at her with desperation, and Molly thought she saw a hint of fear. She moved up to her knees, by his side, but avoiding his eyes so he would not have to live with the knowledge that she saw him in a rare moment of despair. She leaned towards him, waiting for him to pull away, but letting him know that she was there for him, to be whatever he needed her to be.

What could I possibly need from you? He'd been so callous. This was what she'd been offering him all along, he thought sadly. He leaned towards her, her arms carefully sliding around his shoulders, as he forced himself to relax into her embrace. He told himself it was a kindness to her, to leave her with a taste of what he had so long denied her, to ease her mind before he left her, but he had to admit it may have more than that.

"It's okay, Sherlock. I'll never tell." She stroked his hair, whispering to him. "I'm here for you. For just five minutes, Sherlock, you don't have to be strong, just this once. I won't tell anyone."

His resolve snapped, and the enormity of what he was going to do crashed down onto him. The sword of Damocles had been held above his head for so long, and now he must lie down beneath it and cut the thread. Whether his plan worked or not, he was going to lose everything and everyone, including Molly. He was barely able to keep his shoulders from shaking as he surrendered to her arms, collapsing against her. Only with her could he welcome another's touch. And he would have to leave her forever.

Molly held him while he wept silently for several minutes, his face hidden from her view, but she wiped away his hot tears, memorizing the feel of his skin, his smell, the softness of his shirt and the rougher tweed of his signature coat. She whispered quiet words of comfort to him until he finally stilled, and she closed her eyes to pray this closeness wouldn't end.

Sherlock raised his hands and gently pulled her hand away from him, and Molly could feel his walls rebuilding. As he sat up, facing away from her, Sherlock pressed the gentlest of kisses over the pulse point in her wrist, before letting her go. He moved a foot away from her, and Molly dropped her arms to her sides, trying to keep her own reactions in check. He needed her to be strong. Sherlock needed her.

Facing away from her, he stood and gathered himself to his full height. "Molly, I can never be what you want, what you need." He pulled his collar up and buttoned the coat. "Once I am gone…"

"Don't. Sherlock don't," Molly interrupted. "Don't say it. Don't make me feel guilty when I can't fulfill your last request of me." Her voice got quieter. "Please, Sherlock."

She saw him nod once, then step out into the deserted hallway to make a call. It was over as quickly as it began. She knew there would be no repeat performance, no further cracks in his armor.

As he hadn't given her any other immediate instructions, Molly set about scrubbing down the morgue table she would use when Sherlock's "body" came in. The autoinjector with the antidote to the toxin Sherlock would give himself before his "death" was still in the pocket of her lab coat, but she checked it nearly every minute. Without it, Sherlock could die for real. There was a fine line between appearing dead to trained medical personnel, and actually being dead. His pulse would be very weak, barely palpable under normal circumstances, completely hidden by the thin prosthetics he placed over his pulse points. His breathing would be shallow and infrequent, risking stroke, heart arrhythmia, or outright death from hypoxia. She had moved an entire crash cart into the morgue on the pretense of investigating a death from the ICU, as well as a veritable pharmacy of other medications.

If Sherlock came to her alive, and died here, under her care, she would never forgive herself. She had pleaded with him to let John in on the secret. She needed John's skills in case something went wrong. He had years of trauma and critical care experience that would be invaluable in a medical emergency, but Sherlock had just looked at her and very calmly told her "no." She knew better than to argue with him at that point. "Whether I die here," Sherlock pointed to the stainless steel morgue table, "or up there, you, John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson will be safe. John's grief will be more convincing if it is real. His acting skills are poor, at best."

"What about mine?" Molly had asked him.

"Need I say the reason?"

Molly shook her head and tried to look anywhere except at his eyes. "No. You are right, as always." She would grieve nearly equally for his death as she would grieve him leaving.

"Don't ask questions you already know the answers to," he said, lighting up his third cigarette in a row and taking a deep drag. At least he'd allowed her to turn on the fume hood to evacuate the smoke. Given the circumstances, she didn't even bother admonishing him for the habit.

As she triple checked all of her equipment, every tick of the clock weighed heavily on her mind. She could suddenly feel Sherlock's eyes on her. She didn't dare turn around. If she did, he would surely tell her it was time for him to leave.

His quiet footsteps advanced on her, but she kept her gaze downward, glued to an invisible speck of dirt on the table. One that she couldn't get to come out, no matter how hard she scrubbed.

"Molly, look at me," he said in that voice that left her no choice but to obey, as she always did. She repeated the mantra in her head. I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry. She met his gaze and was momentary lost in the blue of his eyes. "I have seven minutes. I have left detailed instructions for you. I am confident in your ability to proceed from here. Do not blame yourself for any of this, ever, no matter the outcome. This is of my doing, and mine alone. Do you understand?"

She nodded her head and tried to turn back to checking her equipment again. Sherlock's fingers touched her chin, raising her head so that she had to look in his eyes once more. There were days when she did everything she could to steal a glance at his handsome face but now she could hardly bear the scrutiny.

His voice gentled. "When I go, you will need to find a way to focus. I need you to be at your peak of performance."

She nodded twice, but her nerves made her stammer. "I…I won't disappoint you."

Since Sherlock didn't really smile, it was hard for her to say if he was pleased, but some of the tension released from his eyebrows.

"You have never disappointed me. I don't expect you to start now." She just nodded, and his hand fell away from her chin. She whimpered slightly at the loss of contact. Sherlock turned away from her, but he didn't walk away. He waited.

"Sherlock?" Molly asked timidly.

"Molly." It was less of an answer than a statement.

"I have tried very hard to never ask anything of you."

Sherlock closed his eyes and steadied his voice. "Ask now. You may not have another chance."

The logical part of Molly's brain knew why he was doing this. Sherlock was placating her so she would fulfill her part in his plan when he was gone. Just like he flattered her whenever he wanted something. She should have hated him for it, but she craved those scarce scraps of attention. This was Sherlock, and he was offering to play her game, just this once, for the last free minutes they would have together before he risked everything. He was right, she would mourn him, even if he were gone but still alive. No one would know she helped him. She didn't care about his motives; she'd always known what kind of man he was.

"I understand if you say no, if you…can't." He still hadn't turned to face her, but he hadn't shut her down. "Sherlock, will you hold me? Just for five minutes? Let me pretend that it means something to you? Let me pretend that you care about me as a woman? I know it won't be real for you. That's okay. Nevermind….I don't expect you to…" He cut her off by turning around and wrapping his arms around her, letting her feel his strength as he pulled her tightly against him. He didn't even flinch as she slid her arms up his back, under his coat, letting her trace the lean muscles in his back.

Sherlock rested his chin on top of her head. Her hair smelled like peaches, and it was so much softer than he'd imagined. He rubbed his cheek against her hair, relishing the new sensation. She felt so fragile as he held her against him, and he felt an undeniable urge to protect her. Caring was weakness, emotion was weakness, friendship was weakness, but he had less than thirty minutes to live. Moriarty had already exposed all of Sherlock's flaws. What was one more? Sherlock found himself thinking that Molly made it easier to do what he had to, to face Moriarty, to disgrace himself in the eyes of all those who had once respected his intellect. Only she would know the truth. He trusted her to keep his secrets.

Their five minutes passed in silence while she listened to his heartbeat, steady and slow. It confirmed for her that Sherlock did this because it was a means to an end, not because he wanted intimacy with her, but before last night, she could not have even imagined he'd give her permission to touch him, much less hold him. It was more than she'd ever expected and it had to be enough. He was right, as always. This would get her through the bad times to come, but she doubted that he knew how it broke her heart.

Precisely as the minute hand hit three o'clock, Sherlock pulled away and lowered his arms to his sides. He walked briskly out of the morgue and up the disused stairwell in the back of the building, never looking back at Molly, and without so much as a word.