Molly Hooper had absolutely no idea what she was getting herself into the day Sherlock approached her in the dark shadows of the morgue. "What do you need?" She had asked, the words numb on her tongue. She had never seen him so fragile - so broken and so vulnerable, and it frightened her.

"You."

The answer terrified and bewildered and flattered and humiliated her all at once, and she would have sworn the temperature in the room dropped at least twenty degrees in the few seconds he had uttered the word.

You...

Me? She had thought once her mind was clear and working again. Why her? After all, she was simply a pathologist - an assistant and nothing more. And yet, so much conviction, so much longing and desperation had echoed in that single word, and in that moment, she had fallen to her knees in helpless love.

And so, as everyone who loves another does, she helped him without question and without motive, silently carrying out his brilliant plan. And at last, when the he had jumped and pronounced dead, she could not help but feel a slight triumphant pleasure at their work.

And then he was gone.

Disappeared without a single word of gratitude or finality. The last time she had seen him had been on that night in Saint Bart's, where his face was illuminated with the scars of moonlight slipping through the windows, and his hands cold and brisk, the slightest shake in them. Of course, what had she expected? An actual "Thanks" and "Goodbye?" Maybe. But the truth hurts, doesn't it? He had never shown acknowledgement to anyone besides himself, and dying wouldn't change that.

So, Molly stepped forward and continued on with life, despite her bleeding and scarred feet, the ghost of Sherlock Holmes haunting her every thought.

She had never imagined that afterwards, that ghosts would become all too real.


The London wind whipped Molly Hooper's face as she hurried down the street, her eyes cast down at the concrete below her. Today, today of all days . . . She bit her lip, tightening her jacket and stuffing her fingers down into the small crevices of warmth in her pockets.

Since Sherlock's memorial service weeks before, John had moved to his sister, Harry's place. Today had been the first time that Molly had seen the man since it all, and John Watson was no longer familiar - he had turned into a stranger.

"Hello, Molly," he said, leaning against the doorframe to her laboratory in Saint Barts. Molly had paused, almost dropping her papers in stunned alarm.

"J - John, hello," she replied slowly, the words heavy on her tongue. His eyes - even from a distance - now lacked the spark of life. His face - hollow. His hair - gray. He was a dead man walking, and the regret of knowing that she held the secret that could end his suffering churned within her. Wordlessly, she placed her papers on the table next to her, stepping forward and embracing the man.

At last, she pulled away, a strained smile on her face. "How are you doing?"

He shrugged, and Molly realized with pain that his hand gripped the cold handle of a cane. "I'm alive, aren't I?" His chuckle was hollow and raw, little humor resigning in it.

Molly glanced him over, swallowing her tears away. "Yes, I suppose so."

After an hour of strained conversation, John left, leaving the woman to feel even more alone than before. Her sobs echoed in the empty laboratory, her tears staining the tile floor.

She was suffering in her own mind.

Now, the young pathologist stumbled down the street, the pain numbed for the time being. To see John so distressed, so broken . . . it shattered her heart. "He's alive!" She had wanted to cry out when he had arrived, wanting to wring her arms around him and laugh. "He's alive and breathing and I am so very sorry!"

Sorry for what?

So many possible answers, and yet none could ever possibly cease the betrayal John would eventually feel when the truth was revealed . . . at her as well.

At last, Molly glanced up to the comforting shadow of her flat, and she could not help but sigh in relief. The prospects of finishing the pint of chocolate ice cream in her fridge pulled her up the stairs, and when at last when her fumbling hands unlocked the door to her flat, it was not ice cream that caused her scream aloud, but rather the unexpected figure of the presumed dead Sherlock Holmes sitting on her couch.

At her cry of surprise, the man glanced up, frowning slightly as if annoyed. "Do keep it down, Molly," he said disapprovingly, returning to his past activity of mindlessly flicking through the television channels. "I rather not be discovered quite yet."

Molly stood frozen in the doorway, a million emotions colliding within her at once. After a pure, whole minute of opening and closing her mouth in a desperate search for words, she decided on one particular emotion, and stepped forward, slamming the door behind her with a force that caused even Sherlock to glance up in surprise. "Sherlock Holmes!" She said, each word punctuated with anger. "You leave without a single word of gratitude or goodbye, leaving me to worry for weeks how you are, and then decide to just randomly turn up in my flat expecting me to be completely fine with it, when I myself have even been grieving, not over you but John!"

At the mention of John, his eyes widened, but before he could speak Molly was yelling once more. "You decide to fake your death, not even considering the pain your best friend will have to endure, including the rest of the world that cares about you, though I don't know how anymore could appreciate an arrogant, cold-hearted, unthoughtful sociopath! I don't even know why I even decided to help you in the first place!"

"High-functioning sociopath, Molly," the man whispered, staring at the pale carpet. At last, once she had caught her breath, did she see the despair upon the man's face. All at once, all her anger vanished and she was left feeling suddenly so cold in a room so silent she thought she could hear her own regret pounding within her. "Sherlock, I—"

"Don't apologize," the man said, raising a hand as if to dismiss the topic. He had returned to his normal behavior, but the shadow of her words still hung between them like a screaming cavern. For a moment, the two were frozen in a poise of awkwardness, neither attempting to speak or move. At last, she laughed—it was hollow and bittersweet, but a friendly laugh nonetheless.

"Sherlock, you have got to stop surprising me," she said, setting down her purse onto the couch and making her way to the kitchen, shedding herself of the bleached lab coat that clung from her timid figure in starched curtains. She shivered, and was unable to tell if the color rising in her cheeks were from the cold or not as she pulled open her fridge, searching for the long-awaited ice cream at last.

"And you need to begin observing more," he retorted back in his deep voice, following her inside and leaning against the doorway. God, she could feel his dark eyes studying her from behind.

"I'm a pathologist, Sherlock-not a detective."

"Consulting detective."

"Only one in the world, yes, I know." Molly rolled her eyes, unable to protect the small smile of amusement that grew on her lips. Opening the half-devoured tub of chocolate heaven and beginning to carve her way through it with her spoon, she turned and studied the man who had so wantonly walked into her life - the genius hidden behind a scarf and long coat. The child behind the stoic matureness. The gentleness behind the insults. The love behind the cold mindset. Few saw the true Sherlock Holmes—and sometimes, Molly Hooper was very, very lucky to be granted such an honor.

It was inevitable - from the day he entered Saint Barts, she had been drawn to him. He was so - simply amazing. The way he made his deductions, knew every aspect of her morning before she had spoken a word just from observing. He was a work of art, that Sherlock Holmes, and she was simply an observer.

"Molly," he began, his eyes steady and unwavering as they locked with her own. "I require a place to stay now that Baker Street is . . . unavailable to me. You and Mycroft are the only two people in London who know of my existence, and as I have sworn to forever loath my brother, the only reasonable conclusion is to move in with you."

As the words flew from his lips, she choked, coughing slightly and setting the tub upon the counter as she swallowed. "With me?" Had she heard him correctly? The offer seemed too good to possibly be true. The reality of the situation sunk in, and all at once countless questions and statements and feelings rolled crackled with electricity within her pounding heart. "But why?"

A smirk made its way onto his lips, as if the answer was so obviously clear. "I have business to finish with an old colleague of mine from when I attended Uni. He, a man of particular capabilities, knows far too well that I am alive, and has in fact called me back as to work on a favour for him, one I cannot oblige but to accept—"

He paused, noticing the intense shade of worry that had fallen over Molly, staring absently at him. "Yes?" He paused, glancing at her.

"Oh!" She stuttered, being pushed from her thoughts. "Um, well, I was just thinking -" The heat rose in her cheeks, and she looked away, digging back into her dessert and returning to the living room. "I have to work all week. Will you be alright on your own?"

Sherlock scoffed, falling onto the couch and closing his eyes. "Please. I'm not a child, no matter how much John insists I am."

Molly stiffened, unsure how to reply. She supposed John would be a touchy subject since "The Fall," as she called it. However, he seemed unnerved by the mention of his old flatmate, continuing to meditate upon the couch as stiff as he had been before. Did he miss him? Sherlock must miss him. But if he did, Molly was unable to peel the stone wall of defense away.

Sherlock peeked open an eye, peering past the dark curls cascading down his forehead and blinking the small figure of Molly into focus. He sighed, as if disappointed to see her still standing there, and folded his hands beneath his angular chin. "I'll be fine. It will be as if I'm not even here."

She opened her mouth as to ask where he had even been for the past month, but upon seeing his face contorted in silent concentration, she shook her head, smiling softly as she retreated to her room, falling onto the bed and shoveling the ice cream into her mouth as she mulled over the situation. Within moments, she was asleep, the spoon still in her hand. She did not hear the gentle knock or opening of the door, nor did she feel the ice cream spoon and tub be removed from her clasped hands as a blanket was pulled over her sleeping figure.

A clock ticked somewhere in her room, quietly tracking the time as it swam in cool waves around her. The sun breathed its last breaths before plunging behind the horizon as the sky was smothered in the fabric of night. The clock struck twelve. Cars sped by outside, people continuing on in their dreary lives, unaware of the ghost living within a pathologists home in an ironic turn of events. Far away, in an office cluttered by papers and books, a man rested his head in his hands on his desk, attempting to rid himself of the desperation and grief that had settled within his cracked heart, the phone number of a particular dead consulting detective sprawled in spider-like cursive upon a single piece of paper.

"God help me," he whispered, shaking his head and laughing bitterly in shaky breaths. A loud click resounded from the door and slowly, as the man glanced upward, it opened to reveal the silver streak of a gun, poised and loaded and staring right at him through a narrow point. The silence shattered and fell to the floor in jagged shards as an eruption exploded from the gun, the paper holding the number of Sherlock Holmes now stained by an ever-growing pool of crimson blood.

Molly Hooper continued to sleep, and Sherlock Holmes paced the dark living room of her flat.

And without knowing it, a game had begun.