A/N: Reichenbach stays the same except for two things: The very first few minutes and the very last few minutes no longer exist. Cheers.
Chapter 1: Reliable
Molly Hooper was nothing if not reliable, and reliable was what Sherlock needed right now. Reliable. Sturdy. Safe. He knew that she still loved him, knew that it would hurt her to see him the way he was, but he didn't care. He didn't care that it would break her heart to see him so clearly broken, didn't care that he was using her as an emotional security blanket. Sherlock's mind, usually so precise, so mechanical, was a frenzied, seething mass of need, grief, and rage. Something inside him had broken and he needed reliable to keep the pieces from flying apart. John Watson was dead and Sherlock Holmes needed reliable.
Beating Sherlock had meant destroying him, and destroying him meant destroying the one thing that he held most dear. Sherlock had assumed that it was his mind that Moriarty was after, so certain that Moriarty meant to destroy his credibility, meant to make his friends doubt him, meant to make him unable to practice his unique brand of sleuthing ever again. As it turned out, he'd been wrong, for once, but it only really took once, didn't it? It was funny, incredible, even, how just by watching, just by observing from the outside, Moriarty had been able to figure out what was really important to Sherlock. It wasn't his mind. It wasn't his reputation. It was John. Moriarty had realized, even before Sherlock did, that Sherlock was absolutely, irrevocably, and completely in love with his blogger.
It only hit Sherlock when it was too late, when he'd quietly slipped back into his room in Baker Street after faking his own death to find John with a bullet through his head, a gun in his hand, and a note in John's blocky print that read: "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I can't do this without you." That day had marked the first time that tears had graced Sherlock's face; he'd been so afraid that he'd mess up, that Moriarty's gunman would see the switch and that John would be killed. The second instance came that night when he realized that it didn't matter, that this had been Moriarty's plan all along, that John's gunman wasn't one that he could ever really escape from.
Molly had seen this coming. Despite appearances to the contrary, she wasn't stupid; she'd watched too (and okay, maybe it had been obvious to everyone except the involved parties) and she knew what John was to Sherlock. She'd grieved when she heard about Watson's death, along with everyone else who'd known him. John had beenwas a good man and he deserved far better than what he'd got. She'd grieved, but she'd also spent her time preparing herself for the inevitable, for when Sherlock realized what it is that he'd lost and for him to come running to her for comfort. It was for naught - all the preparation in the world wouldn't have mitigated the shock she felt and the sick lurch her stomach gave when she saw him turn up on her doorstep (how did he know where she lived?)
He had been crying. Years of unfeeling, uncaring coldness and emotional sterility had given way to the full trauma of losing his best friend, the man he was in love with, and Sherlock had cried like only a broken man can. His eyes were red and puffy, his entire face was swollen, a silhouette against the clear dark night. It was, perhaps, the first time that Molly had found him physically unattractive. "Molly" he choked out. "I... John..." He faltered. "I'm not okay."
"What do you need?" She whispered, leaving the warmth of her house to join him on the doorstep.
"You." He took one step forward, grabbed her by the back of the head and kissed her.