"24 hours." Sherlock looked at her intently as he gave the syringe. "You'll need to administer the antidote within 24 hours, or there'll be tissue degeneration and brain damage." Molly nodded, looking at the syringe with trepidation. It was the one thing that would counteract the drugs he had to take, the one thing that would speed up Sherlock's metabolism, his heart rate, again, and the one thing that would bring him back from the death.

"Are you sure, Sherlock?" she asked one last time.

"The only way to stop this is with my death and I'm not yet ready to die yet. I have to fake this. It's the only way and it needs to believable, believable even to those who know me. People will be looking very closely and they'll know if it's not me on the slab."

"But the autopsy, the funeral? We can't just let your body disappear." Sherlock smiled a devilish smile at her words.

"You'll find this on your desk, just after they put my body on the slab." Sherlock put his little black notebook -A moleskin Molly's mind ridiculously supplied- open and face down on the table. Molly picked it up and gave a start as she read the text, read Sherlock's last wishes, his demand for her to do the autopsy, for her to arrange everything, including the demand for a closed coffin. She quickly put down the notebook again.

"That, by the way, are my real last wishes," Sherlock said causally. Molly felt her stomach jump at the words. "You're the only person I'd trust with my death body." Molly knew the words were morbid, not normal, but she both understood the sentiment and appreciated it. She never was the person for normal. "Goodbye, Molly Hooper, I'll see you again soon, or rather you'll be seeing me soon." At those words he smiled a real smile, spun around, twirled his coat far too dramatically for the situation and walked out of the room.


The large, oak breakfast table was covered in newspapers, the plates of the occupants left standing to a side as they read the exposé of the fraud detective together. The greyed haired man looked up with a sigh.

"Have you called him yet?" he asked his wife. The question made her smile.

"Of course not, I'm not getting between those two.' Her husband raised his eyebrow. "All this." She gestured to the paper spread between them, "Is Mycroft's doing. Because even though my son may no longer talk to me, I would not betray him like this, so most likely Mycroft's doing. Unless of course, there's something you want to tell me." She threw him an amused look.

"Those two will be the death of me one day." His words made her laugh out loud.

"I'll call Mycroft after breakfast to see if this is part of their rivalry, or that Sherlock has some case going on that requires him to destroy his good name." She folded the newspaper and turned to her breakfast in comfortable silence. Just as she had buttered her second piece of toast she heard the ring of her phone. She frowned at the sound; there were only a few people who had that number and she could not imagine any of them calling her at this time of day out of their own free will. She walked to the side table, picked up the phone and looked at the number. She felt her heart sink at what she saw. She only had ever remembered four numbers to heart, her husband's, her sons' and the number now on the screen. She pressed the answer key and spoke.

"Yes?"

"Ma'am." The voice on the other side sounded breathless, hesitant, nothing like the man she knew.

"What is," she started, but then he spoke again.

"I'm sorry." The voice hitched on the second to last syllable.

"What's wrong?" she demanded, her heart heavy with dread.

"I failed; he jumped; I failed him, you." The voice had suddenly turned expressionless and she felt her heart sink even more.

"Tell me. Tell me exactly what happened."

"He said he was sorry. He told me it was all a lie, his genius, his cases, everything. He said she was right and then he told me this was his note. He jumped. There was no pulse, and so much blood." The whole thing was delivered in the voice of a soldier reporting he had just lost his whole squadron.

She had heard it all, but had not yet taken in what it meant, was not ready to take in what it meant, so she sat down blindly. She could feel her husband's hand on her shoulder, saw the worried look in his eyes and she let out a sob. .

"Ma'am, what should I do?" The voice sounded helpless and to be honest she was not clear of mind enough to know what to do in this moment. She closed her eyes for a moment. She had to be the soldier again, to be in charge again.

"Listen carefully. Where are you?"

"St' Bart's"

"Okay, I want you to find a place to sit down and then I want you to call the office, have somebody pick you up and bring you to Bakerstreet. Tell I said so. I'll take care of things.

"And John, whatever happened, this was not your fault. You didn't fail me or him. Remember that."

She put down her phone the moment she heard the dial tone and whispered, "If there's somebody who failed him it was me."


Molly stood next to the slab, the body on it was pale and she felt a sort of shame as she took stock of the bruises, wounds and scars. She never expected to have chance to look at his body and here she was. Then she looked at the fake wound on the head, his own blood clinging to his hair and wished all of this wasn't necessary. Just as she wanted to pull up the sheet, cover the body, her left hand felt the needle in the pocket. She knew it wasn't time yet, but she really wanted it to be over. She stood for a long time contemplating everything. Suddenly the door to her sanctuary opened and she watched as Lestrade walked in.

"Molly?' He started as she quickly pulled up the sheet, but she was too late and Lestrade fell silent as his eyes caught sight of the body. He closed his eyes for a moment, steeling himself and then he spoke again.

"Molly, there are some people to identify the body." Lestrade didn't have to explain which body. "Can we… Is he ready?" he said hesitantly, his eyes on Molly, studiously avoiding looking at Sherlock.

"I just finished the preparations," she said as she made sure the body was completely covered.

"Molly," Lestrade said, "Why are you here? Couldn't somebody else?"

She smiled a sad smile, "Who else is there?" Lestrade nodded understandingly; he was there too after all.

"Can I?"

"Yes, please let them in. Things are as ready as they'll ever be."

Lestrade walked away and opened the door to let some unseen people in. Three people entered; she recognized Mycroft Holmes immediately and there was no doubt who the man was whose shoulder Mycroft's hand rested on. The woman who stood on the other side of the man was small, but she was the one supporting him. She knew this were Sherlock's parents and not for the first time since last night she hated the man on the slab, because she could see the hurt radiating of the three in front of her.

"Dr Hooper," Mycroft Holmes acknowledged her. "May I introduce my mother and father?" Molly took a good look at the two people. The woman was short, but her bearing, clothing and manner gave the impression of tall, powerful lady and it was immediate clear from whom Sherlock had inherited his eyes. Sherlock's father on the other hand looked very much like distorted version of Mycroft. Mycroft's face was blank, with no sign of emotions. The man's eyes on the other hand were red and it was clear he was supported by the two people beside him. Once again Molly felt a stab of annoyance towards Sherlock and she almost wanted to scream out it was all a game, all fake and not real.

"Dr Hooper," Mrs Holmes shook her hand firmly.

"My condolences," Molly said, feeling like a horrible person when her condolences were accepted silently.

"May we? Mrs Holmes asked.

"Are you sure you want to look?" she aimed her question at the room at large, but her eyes were on Mr. Holmes.

"Yes," was the short answer, so she cautiously moved the sheet away. The movement was met with a soft gasp and she looked immediately at Mycroft, but his face was blank again before she met his eyes. She turned her head to Mrs Holmes and her face was blank too. Her husband on the other hand had turned white as he moved his hand to his son and then looked at Molly for permission. She nodded, not trusting her voice. He placed his hand on Sherlock's cheek, carefully stroking some stray hairs from Sherlock's face.

"What's the cause of death?" Molly looked up startled, since Mycroft's words were like a pistol shot in the silence.

"It's of course not official yet, but head trauma. It would've been quick." She didn't say painless because that would be another lie.

"The eye-witnesses stated he was already death when the first people reached him." Lestrade spoke for the first time and his words were met with silent acknowledgement of the meaning. Mr Holmes carefully removed Sherlock's hair to the side and let out a gasp when he saw the mess that was Sherlock's head. Molly felt pride for a moment at her handy work quickly followed by more shame.

"Who'll do the autopsy?" Mrs Holmes asked, her voice steady.

"Sherlock," Molly started hesitantly. The woman raised an eyebrow, but Molly went on, "Sherlock asked me to do it."

"He did what?" Mrs Holmes looked at her sharply, suspicion in her eyes. Molly swallowed as she gave the woman the notebook. Mrs Holmes went through it until she reached the middle. She then silently read it, before handing it to Mycroft, Lestrade looking over Mycroft shoulder.

"It's Sherlock's handwriting," Mrs Holmes confirmed, "I know you're the best for this, Dr. Hooper, but I do want a copy of the report and I assume the police will be discrete with this information." At these words she looked at Lestrade. "Now if you don't mind giving us a moment with our son." Her words were a clear dismissal of Molly and Lestrade and the two of them walked away in silent, giving the grieving family some space.

"How are you, molly?" Lestrade asked. She only shrugged in reply, not certain what to say.

"I should ask how you're doing. It looks likes you haven't slept in days". Lestrade smiled at her words

"Things are not good. He really made a right old mess of things, didn't he? And then this." Lestrade sat down looking at the door. "I can't imagine him being death. I expected him to go out in a blaze of glory, taking out the world, not jumping from a building, because he saw no other way out. And then there's every chance I'll lose my job because of him."

Molly didn't know what to say. She felt guilty, but knew there was nothing she could do to stop the hurt, his hurt and the hurt of the people grieving for a living man. She did the only thing she could think off and put her arms around the detective and held him.


"What will you be doing?" Molly handed Sherlock his clothes as he sat on the edge of the metal table.

"I'm not sure yet. I'll need to hide until things have calmed down a bit. I need to find out what is left of Moriarty's organisation and then I'll have to find out how to take it down completely." Sherlock stood next to Molly for moment, both lost in thoughts.

"I bought you this." Molly handed him a small plastic bag. "It should get you through the next few weeks, until you know what to do." Sherlock opened the bag and inside were a cheap phone, and a wallet. Sherlock smiled at her.

"Thank you, Molly Hooper." And to her surprise he hugged her, holding her for longer than was necessary. Molly did everything to stop herself from clinging to him, part of her hoping he would stay, but then, after a lifetime, but still too soon, he let go, picked up his coat and shawl and with a twirl walked to the door.

"Use it," she said as she watched him walk away from the room. He turned around with one last smile and then the door closed and Molly knew this might be the last time she would ever see him.