1. New Beginnings

I could reinvent myself, she realized one day on the commute home from work.

Even though no one – except for him – knew about the dual life she had been living. For what it's worth, she was done with that lifestyle. She was over it. She was clean now. The destruction, the consumption, the all-consuming self-hate threatening to burn the tenuous bridges holding the tattered pieces of her life together, was finally extinguished.

The bus's rhythmic swaying and stopping lulled her into an unusually contemplative mood. Earlier in the week, her boss had mentioned a job opening for her in London. Molly hadn't intended on taking it, but she told him she'd think it over for propriety's sake. However, she had the sinking feeling that if she stayed here any longer, it would be like stepping over a precipice without a harness.

This was her chance. She could get away.

She tried to picture herself five years in the future. She wanted to ask New Molly Hooper what to do next. But the paralyzing fear that New Molly was just an older version of Past, Messed-Up Molly dissolved the image immediately.

It was suddenly difficult to breathe on the crowded bus. Her grip on the rail above her head tightened, the bones in her hand painfully digging into the unyielding metal. But it was a welcome pain, anchoring her to the real world as the wave of Fear came back tenfold, carrying with it The Need. She had to sit down, but she couldn't. Close her eyes. Deep breaths. Concentrate on the here and now. Take life one day at a time. Think calmly and rationally.

Life in this idyllic town was toxic. She needed to get away – she knew that. But she was good at her day job – she also knew that too – and moving to London would be good for her career.

Curiously, she had realized from the beginning that she was able to compartmentalize her life into two categories: The Life and Her Life. She could separate her downward spiral to ruin in The Life and juxtapose it with the academic success and accolades in Her Life. By day, Molly was a put-together, respectable doctor at the small hospital in the center of town. By night, she found solace at the bottom of the whiskey bottle or from the exquisitely sharp pinch of a needle, but never both at the same time. She wasn't stupid.

She is – was – a functioning addict.

It was at her lowest point, when she awoke to find herself scratched, bruised, and covered in sick, that she realized with a mirthless laugh how her life was a morbid example of Newton's third law.

For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.

For every good in her life, she managed to find a way to fuck something up.

No more.

The bus rolled to a stop on the corner of her street. Shuffling out the door with a few quiet pardon me's and sorry's, Molly pulled her scarf up towards her chin to stave off the winter cold. She brushed a few snowflakes from her nose as her feet quietly crunched up the icy steps to her building. Once in her flat, she dumped her things on the console table by the door with a sigh. It took a moment for her to compose herself, to steel her nerves. She picked up the phone and called her boss. She had to do this before she changed her mind.

"Hi, Patrick? It's Molly," she said calmly. "I think I will take that job after all."

"Fantastic!" The crackly line did nothing to subdue her boss's bottomless enthusiasm. "I'll let Mike Stamford know right away and get your transfer papers sorted in the morning. I'm really glad you're making this decision, Molly. London will be wonderful for you!"

"Yeah," she replied, a nervous smile creeping to her lips. "I hope so."

That night, as she was brushing her teeth before bed, she felt the strange urge to call him.

It had been three years since they had last spoken. She blamed him for everything, but it wasn't really fair of her to do so. He had never forced her or persuaded her to do anything. In fact, he had quietly discouraged it at the beginning. But it was a lonely time for the both of them, and misery loves company, so he indulged her whims. Having a companion helped fill the void.

It was the pitiful meow of her cat, Toby, which pulled her out of her reverie. The phone was in her hands and a tinny voice was coming from the receiver. Three years and she still remembered his phone number. Putting it up to her ear, she braced herself.

" – wasting my time," his deep baritone barked. All the memories came back, triggered by his all too familiar voice, in a blinding rush.

"Wait – " Molly hesitated. Fuck.

"Who is this?" His tone was nothing short of annoyed.

"It's Molly," she said. Molly, hang up now. "Hi Sherlock."

His silence made her physically cringe.

"Molly," the steely edge to his voice softened. "I hope you are well."

A statement, not a question. Not an invitation to a conversation, but a means to end it. But she had called him and she had to say something.

"I am," she switched the phone to her other ear. "I am now. I wanted to let you know that I'll be moving to London soon."

"Ah."

"You won't - you won't be able to reach me at this number anymore," she began with a stammer.

"I see."

"Yeah. Um, how are you? I hope things are good with you."

"I'm fine," he replied slowly. "I wish you the best of luck, Molly."

"Thank you," she had to end this conversation now. "Well, good night Sherlock."

"Good bye, Molly."

She waited for the click and the dial tone before putting the phone back into its cradle, feeling a strange sense of emptiness. A cleansing sort of catharsis.

It was fine. She was going to be fine.

Yeah, I'll be fine. Freaked out, insecure, neurotic and emotional, she thought grimly.

No. She couldn't think like that. Not anymore. That was how Past Molly would think. She had to start thinking like New Molly.

And New Molly would say that this was a new chapter in her life. A better one. Or so she hoped.

AN: I'm planning on writing a short Sherlolly ficlet every day for the next year. They'll be connected, but not necessarily chronological. Mainly, this is for myself, for me to improve and get into the habit of writing. But also, this is for the fandom. There's no such thing as too many Sherlolly fics, is there?

Let me know what you think.

- Skye