Oof so I kind of went on hiatus from my other story (writer's block) so here's a little (or not so little) oneshot. Also, feels abound. Enjoy :)

~Archetype-of-a-fangirl

She doesn't need Sherlock Holmes to tell her how ridiculously sentimental she is. To mourn the loss of a man who wasn't even dead was ridiculous, and she knows that her presence is unwarranted. She can almost see him rolling his eyes at her. Sentiment is nothing more than a chemical defect found on the losing side, he would scoff. Still, she can't help but wonder if a part of him isn't at least slightly pleased with the amount of people who truly love and care about him. If anything, the amount of people paying their final respects is ample proof of that.

The first time she visits Sherlock Holmes' grave, it's during his funeral. She's prepared for this, and she knows that her every move will be watched. She knows he's alive, and has no reason to mourn, but the tears that fall from her eyes that day are completely, truly genuine. Her grief isn't an act. She agonizes over the pain of her friends, the uncertainty of the future, but selfishly, more than anything else, she mourns the loss of his essence; his presence. It's the beginning of the end for this chapter in their lives, and she's terrified for him, terrified of the danger they're in.

She's managed to avoid making eye contact with everyone else, not because she's afraid they'll realize the truth, but because she knows that she won't be able to cope with their heartbreak. After all, she's the one who helped fake all of this, even if there was no other option. When she glances up, she inadvertently catches John's eye, and instantly shoves her head back down. Because no matter how hard he tries to be stoic, and how hard she tries to block it out, she sees his pain. She doesn't want to watch, but she does, out of the corner of her eye, and she can't help but notice the cane, the almost imperceptible flex in his arm, and it kills her to see what Sherlock's death has done to him. She sees Mrs Hudson's sobs silently wrack her frail frame: his death has taken its toll on her too. She sees Lestrade, standing far off to the side, torment and guilt etched on every crevice and plane of his face. One jump off of a building, and everything and everyone has irrevocably changed. She desperately wants to tell them the truth, to explain everything, but she also knows that more is at stake then their emotional welfare, and no matter how much it hurts, how much it pains her to see the people she considers her friends in so much grief and misery, she can't say a word otherwise.

She hadn't expected the ceremony to be so painful, but it is, even though she knows she must only feel a fraction of everyone else's pain. After all, she's the only one here who knows the truth. For the past three years, her life has completely revolved around this man, and even his fictional death is still enough to torment her. A small part of her dies when Mrs. Hudson puts a comforting hand on her shoulder. She is the cause of their pain, and she feels utterly wretched. She doesn't deserve their kindness or sympathy. She's an impostor, and thus doesn't deserve to be here. More than anything, she wishes Sherlock were here to make everything better. Only Molly notices the tall man watching them from the shadows when she leaves.

The next time she visits Sherlock's grave is the Thursday after "The Fall". She still doesn't know why she's even there, especially since she's the only one who knows that his death is a farce. She hasn't seen him since the day she smuggled him out of Bart's. It's on Thursdays that she misses him the most. It's on Thursdays that he always swishes into the lab, demanding that Molly procure the miscellaneous body parts that he needs for his various experiments, and out of sheer habit, she prepares a bag of phalanges for him before she remembers he won't (can't) stop by for them. The other girls eye the bag of fingers and give her pitying glances, whispering amongst themselves.

"She completely adores him." "Quite sad actually." "Do you think he was actually a fraud?" "Probably was." "Poor Molly," She hears all of this, and more, but can't say anything for fear of compromising the situation. The sudden realization that Sherlock is essentially dead to her is harrowing, and as she stitches up Mr. Herbert Carraway (victim number three in a case that would've taken Sherlock mere minutes to solve), she wishes he would sweep in with his billowy coat and fix this whole mess. Perhaps believing he was dead would have been a kinder fate for her; worrying about him was more than taking its toll. As she stares down at the glossy marble headstone, she tries not to think about her encounter with John earlier that day.

"Molly," He had whispered. His face was haggard and dull, but she didn't miss the briefest spark of hope in his eyes as he addressed her. Without Sherlock by his side, he had seemed so incredibly lost and out of place. He never came to the lab without him."Is there...is there any, any possible way he's alive?" She felt the bile creep up her throat and she looked at him, willing her face to remain impassive. He cut her off right as she opened her mouth.

"You know, as well as anyone that if there was anyone who could pull it off, it was -is- him. Please, Molly." She closed her eyes, and shook her head almost imperceptibly. The defeated slump in his shoulders wasn't lost on her. John closed his eyes, and rubbed his hands over his face.

"I'm sorry, John."

For the rest of the day, she's withdrawn and quieter than usual. When she thinks no one's watching, she slips out of the lab, grabs her coat and purse, and checks out of her shift.

She's lost in her thoughts, and before she realizes it, she's somehow arrived at his grave. What is she doing?

She's about to turn and go home when the very man plaguing her thoughts suddenly appears beside her.

"You, of all people should know better than to mourn me." He scoffs, but his voice lacks the caustic harshness that would have been present only a week ago. She freezes, but can't deny that this is what she was hoping for all along. "What are you doing here?" He turns his face, and she realizes that he's grieving too, even if he can't show it. With only one look, the emotional walls between them have come crashing down. While she, and Mrs. Hudson, and John are mourning his death, he's mourning the loss of them, and his former life. He sacrificed everything he's ever known for their safety, and unlike them, he doesn't have anyone he can rely on anymore. When she doesn't say anything, he cracks a reluctant smile.

"Please, Molly. I thought you'd be delighted to see me." He says. He tries to hide the falter in his voice, but she still notices. He's broken. Her hands, as if of a mind of their own, reach out to touch his face, as if questioning his very existence. He'd rather die than admit it, but he permits this act of sentiment because he needs this familiar comfort just as much as she does.

"Oh Sherlock," She whispers. His face is disguised well, but she thinks he looks almost...exposed without his Belstaff or scarf. He's worn, in the same way John is and no amounts of face putty or makeup can fully disguise the dark circles and bruises spotting his face. She throws her arms around him and cries. Molly feels him stiffen, and very reluctantly, he returns the gesture. It's a small act, but it brings her a sense of closure. He's okay, and for now, that's all that really matters. "You're a right arse, but of course I'm happy to see you," She doesn't care if people are watching, she doesn't care if they're judging, because at this moment, they're just two people mourning the loss of a loved one.

"What are you going to do now?" She asks. "When will you be back?"

"I need to track down other members of Moriarty's crime ring," He doesn't know when or if he'll be back, so he elaborates on his first answer, hoping she won't notice that he's (very deliberately) ignoring her second question. "It won't take long for them to realize that I'm not actually dead, so I need to have them taken care of before that happens." She doesn't need to ask what will happen if he doesn't succeed. They don't say much after that; at least nothing of importance.

An hour later, it's time for him to leave, and she unwraps the scarf around her neck and hands it to him with a wan smile. It's not his familiar blue scarf-John has that one-but it's warm and he's cold. She notices his reticence in taking it, but at least he does accept it. He hesitates, then loops it on and gives her that beautifully lopsided half smile.

"Goodbye, Molly Hooper," Is his parting phrase before he walks away, leaving her to contemplate their conversation alone. She still worried, beyond worried, but his visit makes it hurt just a little bit less. When she finally leaves, she realizes that visiting his grave makes her feel that much less lonely. She's still an impostor to everyone else, but at least standing there, in front of the grave of the man she helped kill, she understands that there was nothing she could have done. It's not her fault.

The next time she visits Sherlock's grave is on a Thursday evening, exactly a week after her first visit. She kneels down and polishes the tombstone with her sleeve. When the wind brushes against her bare neck she fleetingly wishes she had her scarf. She had given Sherlock her only one. Shivering, she stares at her glossy reflection. The roses and flowers left last week had already wilted, and the first signs of neglect are already visible. Molly isn't sure how long she's been sitting there, but when she sees a shadow fall behind her, she immediately knows who it is. He's disguised differently this time, but the fake glasses and straightened hair aren't enough to fool her. After all, she knows him better than most. Molly swallows the selfish little flutter of joy she feels in her stomach.

"Hey," She grins.

"...Hi." He sits down next to her. It's dangerous for him to be here; even if he's in disguise, but he feels this irrational need to check up on her. He owes her though, so it really doesn't matter, does it? It doesn't necessarily mean that he's attached to her, after all. Gratitude and nostalgia are all it is.

"...How are you?" It's a loaded question, and they both know what she really means. When will he be back? How is his mission going? Is he okay? What will become of them?

"...I'm fine." He smiles at her. She isn't reassured by his answer, but lets it go. Sherlock pulls off the scarf she gave him last week and wraps it around her shoulders like a shawl.

"Why are you here?" She knows why she's here, but his motives are an enigma. He utters the words she never thought she'd hear him say.

"I...I don't know." Molly's his only link to her former life besides Mycroft, and for some reason, he's unwilling to relinquish it. Besides, he feels oddly protective of her. It isn't fair for him to put such a huge burden on her, and it isn't fair for him to continue to endanger her by visiting her, but nothing about this situation is fair, and he's always been selfish like that. She doesn't say anything and instead continues to lean against him.

"How are you?" He asks. She notices that he seems unsure, as if he didn't know how to inquire after another person's well-being. Sherlock Holmes is the most aggravatingly brilliant man she has ever had the misfortune of knowing, and she knows he can be incredibly charming when he chooses to, but when it comes to showing genuine emotion, he's at a loss. So she talks. She prattles about her day, work, Toby, and other inconsequential things as if they've been friends for ages. It's ironic that after years of knowing each other, it takes one fake suicide to reach this level of comfort with each other, but in a way, they understand each other, and she's okay with that. When she moves to give him back her scarf, he declines, and she treasures this little piece of him.

"Okay," whispers Molly. He gives her that smile again.

"Okay,"

She's distracted for the rest of the week, and when next Thursday comes, she returns to his grave at precisely the same time. She sees his tall form looming over the grave, and a wry smile graces her face.

"You're back," She accuses lightly.

"Keeping tabs on things," He shrugs. He notices the bouquet of sunflowers dangling awkwardly from her hands, but for once, has the tact to not say anything. She knows it's silly, but the gesture is more symbolic for her than anything else.

"John's well." She murmurs, setting down the flowers. When he gives her a piercing look, her eyes are still trained on his headstone, as if it held the answers to all of her questions. "Better than expected. He's...he's coping." She explains. He seems satisfied-or as satisfied as he'll ever be-with her response, but she knows him, and she knows he's still hurting. "There was nothing you could do." He knows this, she knows this, and even though it doesn't lessen the pain, they've both come to terms with it.

They stand in silence for a few more minutes before he says: "Do you regret it?" It's become commonplace now, this implicit understanding and confusion. She's not quite sure if he's referring to her assistance in his suicide or just the past five years in general, but either way, she knows what her answer is.

"No," she says, and never in her life has she felt more sure about her answer. A sense of relief washes over him, and he hides his smile.

"Here," He thrusts that familiar woolen scarf into her hands, and like a ghost, he turns and vanishes into the night. A bit abrupt, but it doesn't matter. She knows he's heard her.

Like clockwork, they meet again like this over the course of the next month. During what would have been her 6th visit, he fails to show, and she's disappointed and overcome with worry. He's never missed a meeting. She waits for another forty five minutes, and when she's accepted the fact that he isn't coming, she leaves with a heavy heart.

As she steps off the curb towards the street she receives a text from an unknown number. Check the sunflowers, it says. She peers left, then right, and when she's satisfied that her behavior isn't too obvious, she casually loops back to his grave. She picks up the bouquet and a small sticky note flutters off. Upon closer inspection, she finds a small camera also attached to one of the stems.

"Hi. In Germany." It must have been a strange sight, to see someone grinning so widely the grave of a loved one, but smile she does. He's okay, and he hasn't forgotten. Spirits lifted, she tucks the note into her pocket and begins to talk into the camera.

It's an irrational act of sentiment, and he curses himself for contacting her. There's a million reasons why he shouldn't have done it, least of all the danger of his message being intercepted, but he didn't want her to worry more than she already was. Besides, Molly's come to represent home for him, more so than Mycroft, or even his own parents. Not that he'd ever admit it. So he contacts Mycroft, and has him place the camera before she arrives. Mycroft is already keeping tabs on all of them so his weekly visits are actually redundant. He can't remember the last time he acted on emotion rather than reason. Still, it's nice, and as he curls up in front of his computer, he replays her message, silently listening and chuckling at her rambling anecdotes. He doesn't realize he's smiling until after her message ends.

He has to stay in Germany and Austria for the next two weeks to tie up some loose ends, and each week, he sends her the same text. Check the flowers. So, each week, she continues to check the flowers, and he continues to remain in contact with her. As he sprints through an empty warehouse on what he hopes will be his last assignment in Prague, he briefly wonders what mundane task she's completing. Whatever it is, he wishes he were there.

Molly almost decides against visiting the cemetery today. Her coworkers are getting worried.

"Really, Molly." Emma had said. "Let's go." Molly looked at her.

"What? What are-" Emma gave Beth a meaningful look.

"We're staging an intervention. Every week you go visit him. I know you need to grieve, but...it's starting to get unhealthy." Unhealthy? Oh, she knows it's unhealthy. It still doesn't change how she feels, though.

After an hour of pleading and persuasion, she's finally managed to convince them that, really, she's fine. Although he (or Mycroft) had, without fail, left the camera every single week, she's beginning to worry that he hasn't been receiving her messages. If he had, he most certainly never acknowledged it. Logically, she knew that it was nearly impossible for him to contact her without some threat on his safety, but she was sure Mycroft would have been able to provide some indication. Nevertheless, Molly is a creature of habit, and so, at exactly 4:47 P.M, she signs out of her shift and begins her walk to the cemetery. To her surprise, a tall figure is already waiting for her by the time she arrives.

"You're 4 minutes and 16 seconds late," He says by way of greeting. She knows him well enough to know that this is his way of alleviating her of any worries she may have had. She grins, even though she knows she must look ridiculous.

"Hi." She whispers. He still won't talk about his mission, and to be honest, she's expecting nothing more from him. For all that Sherlock was a prodigy at deductions, Molly had learned her fair share as well. The carefully concealed dark circles, foreign fibers, and mismatched coat buttons tell the story better than he ever could, so she doesn't press him for the details. Instead, she just waits for him to speak first.

"How..." His voice cracks slightly, and he tries to disguise it with an awkward cough. "How is...everyone?". So she tries. She tries to update him, to serve as the sole link between the life he leads now and the life he left behind. She tries to explain their predicaments, and to the best of her ability, their emotional welfare.

"I think... I think it's better now," She treads, cautiously. Sherlock grimaces, but doesn't say anything. He could deduce as much, anyways. In their own respective ways, they were both trying to restore order and balance into their uprooted lives.

"That's good."

"So...how...how was Germany?" He gives her a wry smile.

"You know I can't tell you anything."

"Maybe not, but you can tell me how it went." He's impressed by her bravado. Molly Hooper from two months ago wouldn't have dared.

"It's harder than I expected." She mock gasps, and the gravity of the situation is instantly lessened.

"I never thought I'd live to see the day when YOU would actually admit that." He rolls his eyes, but she doesn't miss the mirth on his face.

So they talk, and she rambles on, the same way she has to his camera, except now he's there, in person. She can see his face, watch his reaction, hear his laugh, and it's infinitely better than talking into the cold camera. Despite this entire mess, she's glad she at least has him, and he, her.

When it's time for him to go, he permits her to hug him. Five seconds, no more, no less, and when those few moments are up, he pulls away with a cough and moves to call a cab.

"Wait," She says, digging into her pocket. "Here," She holds out his scarf, the same scarf that she has been carrying on her person for the past three weeks. It's become their thing now, to exchange that wool scarf between them. Neither of them will admit it, but the scarf is comforting, in more ways than one. This time, he doesn't hesitate. He smiles, accepts the scarf, and as he walks away, she sees him wrap her scarf around his own neck. The lingering warmth of his embrace is enough to distract her from the gusty winds blowing against her scarf-free neck.

She worries about him, she really does. Over the past two months, she's noticed that he's beginning to crack, and the cool, detached facade of a mask he wears is beginning to melt. He's no longer the analytical, perfect, consulting detective and she suspects that it scares him just as much as it scares her. After his return from Germany, she had hoped he'd at least be that much closer to succeeding, that much closer to returning to normalcy. Obviously not.

He's twenty minutes late this time. Last week, it was 17, and the week before, it was 10. She's no longer an anxious mess when he's late.

"Hello," he greets. She whirls around, ready to give him a piece of her mind, when she suddenly catches sight of the numerous cuts and bruises marring his face.

"You're hurt." it's a statement, and he doesn't even bother to refute her. "Come on." When he protests, she reasons with him. "You can't just walk around London looking like that,"

"Fine," he huffs, and she tugs him back to her flat. She pushes him onto the couch, and is surprised at her own bravado. Certainly Molly from three months ago wouldn't dare pull such a stunt.

"Sit. I'm going to go get my supplies," She pads into her kitchen and as he waits, he peers around the room. Still single, still has a cat, still working at Bart's. For the most part, she hasn't changed, and for the life of him, he couldn't say why he was so pleased with that. She comes back with paper towels, a bottle of rubbing alcohol, and an assortment of bandages.

"Shh, sit still. This will sting."

"Yes, Molly. I KNOW," The tone in his voice is so exasperated it's almost like old times, and when she catches his eye, she knows he's thinking the same thing. They both start giggling, and the bandages are temporarily forgotten. Soon they're both gasping from the absurdity of it, and neither of them can quite remember what exactly they were laughing about to begin with.

"Sit STILL, you're like a wiggly puppy." She snickers. After she cleans his face, and bandages his wounds, his face becomes somber and he looks at her uncertainly. He opens his mouth. Then shuts it. Then opens it again. Molly watches Sherlock Holmes open and close his mouth like a goldfish and giggles at him. This was the man feared by criminals all over the world, this was the man with the international reputation. He shuffles his feet, embarrassed.

"Thank...thank you. Very much. For this." He gestures to his face and she grins at him. It's an awkward acknowledgment for everything she's done, but at that moment, they are the most beautiful seven words he could have ever said to her. Before she can lose her nerve, she pecks him on the cheek. He freezes, and nothing he's ever experienced, no deduction can explain the strange emotion he feels when she does this. Molly mistakes his silence for anger and mentally berates herself for pushing too hard.

"I-I'm sorry...my mother, she...she used to say kisses made everything better. I shouldn't have, I'm sorry, I just-" She blushes furiously. He sees her stammer, and he realizes that the rapport he has built post-fake-suicide with Molly is rapidly crumbling. He realizes that he rather likes this stronger version of Molly, and sees that her uncertainty has once again transformed into the flustering pathologist colleague from Bart's. It saddens him knowing that he has reduced her to this with nothing more than a piercing glance.

"No," He cuts her off. "It's..." He stops and she waits for him to continue, anxiously. "It's okay."

"Okay,"

"I've upset you," He frowns.

"No! What? No! I just, I shouldn't have-" With only a moment's pause, he kisses her on the cheek, effectively halting her flustered apology.

"A friend of mine once told me that kisses make everything better." He offers by way of explanation. Her cheeks flush a violent red, and for a fleeting moment, he realizes how adorable she looks with her frazzled hair and pink cheeks. Before his mind can even register their proximity to each other, he leans in and kisses her, but this time, on the lips. Although its a simple kiss, and barely lasts a second, it means more to Molly than any words or platitudes he could've said, and in that split second, she realizes that she would go to the ends of the Earth for him. Like a deer in the headlights, Sherlock is completely and utterly transfixed, and emotions ranging from bewilderment to embarrassment cross his face as he pulls away.

"Sherlock," She whispers. Suddenly, the magnitude of what he's just done weighs down on him, and he freezes. "Sherlock," She repeats, but this time it's tinged with worry for him. It isn't until Toby meows that he is snapped out of his reverie.

"I need to go." He says. Molly frowns at the sudden detachment in his tone, but doesn't say anything. She might have been worried if it hadn't been for the fact that Sherlock had very deliberately left the scarf behind. He'll be back; she was sure of it.

It's been over a week after the incident and he hasn't stopped thinking about the kiss. Never in his life has he ever felt so conflicted and at odds with himself.

An hour before he's supposed to meet Molly, he replays that night on her couch in his mind. More than once, he gets up as if to pace the room, before sitting back down. He can't do this. He can't. She's becoming such an overwhelming presence in his life. When she kissed him, he felt something beyond his usual apathy. He should've already distanced himself from her by now, but he hasn't. He shouldn't have kissed her either, and in retrospect, there were a million things he wished he could reverse, but it's too late to rectify that lapse of judgment. . He's tried to erase her, erase the memories of last week, but then he sees her (or at least the mind palace version of her) begging him, not to and he can't. Because she means more to him than anyone will never know, and he's always valued her. Still, she's a weakness...his weakness... and he hates himself for allowing himself to become so attached to her. There's a room now, a whole room dedicated to her in his mind palace, and even that's not enough. Without him even realizing it, she has already begun to permeate through his walls, maybe even more than John has, and he can't handle that. The reason he's even in this mess is because he let his sentiment overpower his common sense. But no longer.

So he texts Mycroft.

"Watch her for me -SH" reads his message. It only takes a minute for his brother to respond.

"Finally tired of your little goldfish, dear brother?" He doesn't even bother to correct Mycroft. It distraction to end, and this is the easiest way to do it. He knows that by not showing up, he will invariably break her heart. Molly's had enough pain at his hands, but it's better for her to be broken-hearted than dead. Maybe it was unnecessarily cruel, but it was better for the both of them in the long run, anyways. Molly Hooper deserves so much more than I could ever offer, he thinks to himself, if only to quiet his nagging conscience. As the clock ticks four, he repeats this mantra to himself. Molly deserves more.

When Molly arrives at the cemetery, she's surprised that he's not there. She's slightly disappointed that he's late, especially because of the rapport she thought she had built with him last week, but she's not necessarily worried. When he'd kissed her last week, she'd been so sure that he cared. But he's always late; it doesn't mean anything. She's so sure he'll show up, maybe this time with a reasonable explanation. So she waits. And waits. And waits, for what seems to be an interminable amount of time. And even though she's an exceptionally patient woman, by the time an hour has passed, she's a nervous wreck. No matter how late he is, he's never NOT showed up before without any warning or means of contact. She checks the flowers next to his tombstone, but there isn't a note there. Her phone is eerily silent too. No news from Mycroft either. Her mind betrays her with images of him injured, or worse, dead. With every minute that passes by, the dread in her stomach only increases and by the second hour, she starts to cry. She's so, so terrified that something's happened to him. If she had been thinking rationally, she would have realized that if anything had actually happened to Sherlock, Mycroft would've said something, but at this point, she's anything but rational.

Several yards away, an elderly woman notices her distress and makes her way over to Molly. As her shadow falls over Molly's back, Molly whirls around.

"Hello dearie," the woman says, in a way so reminiscent of Mrs. Hudson that she starts to tear up again. Other than John and occasionally Lestrade, she hasn't seen any of her old friends since Sherlock's funeral. She sits down next to Molly, and wraps the younger woman in a warm embrace. Perhaps under other circumstances, she might have been suspicious of this woman, but something about her seems so comfortingly familiar that she instinctively trusts her. The woman doesn't ask any questions, just lets her grieve, and for that, Molly's incredibly grateful. She offers Molly a Kleenex, and they sit there for several minutes.

"I've lost my son not too long ago. I miss him everyday." The woman says soothingly, with a final pat on Molly's shoulder. "I can't say it'll be okay, but it gets better, with time." Molly gives her a watery smile, suddenly embarrassed.

"Th-thank you. I've..." She gestures towards the street vaguely. "I've...got to, um, go. Thank you. Again. Thank you." The woman gives her the same, gentle smile, and Molly smiles sheepishly back. After she turns around the corner, the woman turns away from Sherlock's grave and walks towards a familiarly black limo down the street. The driver hops out, and opens the door for her. As she slides into the back seat, she is greeted by her eldest son.

"You didn't have to do that, mummy." Mycroft Holmes says. Violet Holmes simply glares at him.

"Nonsense. Now take me home, Mycroft." She continues to berate him, and as the limousine slinks back down the street, the oldest Holmes child and head of the British Government bows his head like a scolded dog.

"Yes, mummy."

For the next week, and the week after that, he still doesn't show up, and still hasn't made any form of contact with her. She's received confirmation from Anthea that Sherlock is, in fact, not dead, or even injured, and is currently gallivanting around London. So he'd just chosen not to show up. Chosen to let her worry without any consideration to what he's been doing to her. After all the events of the past three months, she hates how she means nothing to him, hates the way she still hangs around him like a sick puppy regardless, hates how he can just manipulate her around like a rag doll. But no longer. And for the first time in four years, she looks at her reflection, and sees not a mousy, pathetic, pathologist, but a strong woman who deserves better. She leaves the neatly folded scarf on his pseudo grave, and walks away.

After she leaves, Sherlock Holmes creeps out from the street, and stands in precisely the same spot she had occupied only moments before. When he sees the scarf, he tries to ignore the sudden pain that reverberates in him. She's poisoning him. When he sees sunflowers, he thinks of all the messages she'd left for him. When he walks down the street, he sees hundreds, thousands of wool scarves taunting him in the store displays. Every little thing reminds him of her. Sure, he's probably completely screwed things up with Molly, but it doesn't matter because he desperately tries to convince himself it's for the better. He's done a lot of stupid and risky things in his 36 years, but he won't-can't-take unnecessary risks, especially when it could endanger the people he loves. She's safer this way, he thinks, but he still picks up her scarf and pockets it.

He's tempted to visit his parents, but the last time he had, Mummy had smacked him upside the head and delivered a very stern scolding for hurting her "future daughter in law".

But even Mycroft, who as a rule loathed to contradict Mummy, had to side with Sherlock on this one. He's doing the right thing, and even if Molly's heartbroken now, he'd much rather her be hurt than dead. So why does he feel so damn miserable about it?

With that, the tenuous friendship that had begun to form between a certain detective and pathologist is instantly shattered, and for nearly two months, there is no form of communication between the two. Sherlock continues to infiltrate Moriarty's network, and Molly continues to perform autopsies. When Emma pesters her for what has to be the thousandth time about finding Molly a date, she doesn't hesitate. For the first time since Jim from I.T., she says yes to a date with some man named Tom, and yes to a life beyond Sherlock Holmes. The date is scheduled for Thursday night.

He's close. He's so damn close to finishing this mission that he could have weeped. It's been at least a month since he's had a proper meal and sleep, and although he had managed to survive with minimal sleep or food in the past, this time he doesn't have John or Mrs. Hudson to keep him in check. To say that the past six months have been strenuous is a severe understatement. The cost of such living is more than evident in his appearance. Besides his newly straightened and dyed hair (his dark curls were too recognizable), and dirt brown contacts, he's also worn and haggard beyond recognition. More than anything he just wants to go home.

"You're becoming soft, brother dear," is Mycroft's snide comment when Sherlock finally answers his phone. Sherlock doesn't deign to respond to his remark.

"Yes, yes, get on with it." Sherlock snaps. "Couldn't you have just texted me this?" He can almost see Mycroft's theatrical pout on the other end. Because Mycroft is his usual unpleasant self, Sherlock deduces that everyone was fine.

"You'll be pleased to know that everyone's doing well. John has recently become romantically attached, Mrs. Hudson has been attending her bridge club again, and Mother and Father miss their darling little boy dreadfully." So he was right. Still, he can't help but notice that Mycroft had (very deliberately) omitted one person from his report, and for a brief moment, debates about inquiring. If he does, Mycroft will never let him hear the end of it. Logically, he knows that she is fine (at least physically), but then again...he's also extremely nosy. Especially with matters concerning Molly Hooper. And god forbid she become entangled with yet another sociopath.

On the other end, Mycroft anticipates what his brother is going to ask, but also notes his uncharacteristic reticence in doing so. Interesting.

"Well Sherlock, if that's all..." He says, temporarily forgetting that he was the one who called first, not the other way around. "I must be going; duty calls."

"Wait," Sherlock interrupts quietly. "What about Molly?"

"Ah, I was wondering when you'd ask." Mycroft's smug smile is audible even through the phone. "Miss Hooper is fine, although she also went on a few dates with an acquaintance."

"A date?" Sherlock sounds flabbergasted.

"Yes Sherlock, a date. You see, when a person is interested in-" Sherlock's hiss cuts him off.

"Is he safe?" Mycroft rolls his eyes.

"Oh for heaven's sake, do give me some credit; of course he's safe. He's inconsequential. Also, mummy requested that I 'lecture you some more about breaking that poor girl's heart'. Although, really Sherlock-". He hangs up on Mycroft before he can deliver the promised lecture. As much as it bothers him that Molly's moved on (and so quickly too), there's nothing he can do. Its a small solace that at least his actions haven't seemed to cause her too much pain. Irrationally, he wants to visit her, to explain, but with so much on the line, and the completion of his mission being so close, he can't afford to slip up. And so, for the ninth consecutive Thursday, he doesn't visit.

On what would've been the first anniversary of her first grave side meeting with Sherlock, she impulsively makes the decision to visit his grave. Even though Thursdays are her date nights with Tom (and no, the irony isn't lost on her either) she cancels on him. She'd never admit it, even to herself, but Sherlock still has priority over him, even after all this time. She'd never imagined love would feel this way, and wonders if it's just a little overrated, and wonders if Tom were Sherlock if she'd feel any differently. She brushes that though aside. She's happy, more than happy, with Tom, even if he's a little thick sometimes, and he's healed her in ways that Sherlock never could. For all his shortcomings, he loves her for nothing more than she can offer, and she'll always be grateful for that.

By the time she arrives in the park, she's already regretting her decision to come. She should've stayed home with Tom and Toby. So what if he sometimes has the personality of a slab of tofu? She's far better off, far happier, with Tom than a certain consulting detective she could name. She should've stayed to snuggle in and watch Doctor Who. She should ha-What? For the briefest moment, her heart stops. Because like the prodigal son, Sherlock Holmes has returned, and he's waiting for her.

Maybe, subconsciously, she had been expecting him, but now that he's here, she can't deal with it. So she turns, and walks away.

Ever since his phone call with Mycroft, his brother has taken it upon himself to inform Sherlock of Molly's comings and goings. She doesn't really do much besides go to work and go on dates with that repulsive (he knows virtually nothing about the man, but he is sure someone that ordinary would have to be repulsive) boyfriend of hers every Thursday. Perhaps it wouldn't quite disturb him so much if it was any other day of the week, but he feels slightly...hurt...that she would pick Thursdays, of all days. It's ridiculous to lay claim to a day of the week, but he's always considered Thursdays to be his day, and he's more than bothered that she seems to have forgotten him already. To be fair, it is mostly his fault. So when Mycroft reveals that Molly has, in fact, changed her plans with Tom, he knows exactly where she's headed. After all, it's no coincidence that she'd go today, of all days. He can always rely on her bloody sentiment. But this time, she's the one who walks away first.

"Wait," He says it before his mind can even register what he's doing. There's a slight falter in her stride, but she keeps moving. His ribs are still sore from his "adventure" last week, and he mentally curses her before running to catch up to her. He whispers her name, and that's what finally makes her pause. "Molly," She regrets showing her indecision, but stays anyways. Because even though he'd hurt her more times than she can count, she still wants to decipher the mystery that is Sherlock Holmes.

"What are you doing here?" She asks, so quietly that Sherlock has to strain to hear her. For a moment, there's nothing but the sound of cars whizzing by, until he finally answers.

"I had to finish some-" She cuts him off with more force than he'd have expected from Molly Hooper.

"Where were you?" Her voice drops another octave. In anger? Grief? He can't tell.

"It was dange-" She cuts him off.

"That didn't stop you when you were in Germany."

"It was dangerous," He repeats.

"Please," she scoffs. "One word, one sign, is all I would've needed. You just couldn't be bothered."

"I couldn't-"

"How could you lie to me?" Her voice has dropped again in volume, and there are tears in her eyes, but the sheer force behind her words would have been enough to cower even the bravest of men. In this moment, she hates this man more than anything or anyone else in the world, save for Moriarty. She hates how he treats her, even after all this time, and she hates that despite everything, he still has the power to break her heart.

"I waited for you," her nose is slightly pink and her eyes are stinging. "for weeks, and weeks, and you never showed up. I was scared, Sherlock."

"I...I'm sorry." Suddenly, she's furious. How dare he? How could he even dare to expect that two little words could wash away months of pain. "It was for-"

"Don't you dare say it was 'for my own safety'. Did I care about my damned safety when I helped you? No! Did I give a shit about my safety when I continued to meet you here, week after week? No, I did not! I did it, because I would've done anything to make sure that you were okay." He's always known that she was infatuated with him, but the blunt force of her loyalty knocks the air out of him. Only John and his immediate family have ever cared for him like this.

"Molly, I didn't want you to get hurt," he reiterates. While he knows that her anger towards him is justified, he also wants her to understand why he did it.

"But you let me worry and grieve. I thought you were dead until your dear brother even bothered to inform me otherwise. No, the great Sherlock Holmes couldn't be bothered." Her voice cracks as weeks of pent of anger and sadness tear its way out of her. "You were scared, weren't you?" Sherlock stiffens.

"You were scared that maybe you could feel something for someone who should've meant nothing to you, and it scared you. But no, you had to prove that you would never, ever care for anyone. So what was I? Nothing to you? Someone you could use and toss away as soon as she'd served her purpose? For such a brilliant man, you're a fool." She spits.

"I didn't-"

"GODDAMN IT SHERLOCK!" Tears are already running down her face, and it kills him to know that this is his fault. "I LOVED YOU!" She screams. They both freeze. "I loved you," Her voice is quiet again, but the raw emotion doesn't change. On impulse, he pulls her into his arms. "Let go of me. Let go, let go, let me go." She balls her hands into fists and begins to (futilely) pound her fists against his chest.

"Even my friends knew you would do this to me, but no. I had to trust you, didn't I? 'You don't mean anything to him, better stop before he hurts you, Molly'. God, I was so stupid to think-"

"Molly... They were right. I'll just end up hurting you either way."

"I can't do this Sherlock! I can't handle this anymore." He tries not to hear the way her voice cracks, or see the way her shoulders are slumped in defeat.

"I'm only ever going to bring you down, aren't I?" He whispers ruefully. She says nothing. "You deserve so much more than I could ever offer you."

"I know."

"He's a lucky man," He's talking about Tom now.

"You don't even know him," She drops her face, and stares at the ground.

"No, I don't. But I know you, and you deserve...better." Perhaps if she'd looked up , she would have seen the terror and misery on his face, would have realized that she means so much more to Sherlock more than anyone will ever know. But she continues to stare at the ground, and thus remains blissfully unaware.

"He is one of the kindest, most understanding men I have ever met. He never stands me up, is nice to Toby, and would never hurt me the way that you have." So even if he isn't Sherlock, second best is still better than nothing. She has a life beyond Sherlock Holmes.

"He's...he's good for you, isn't he?" She lowered her head, blinking away the mist in her eyes.

"Yeah, he is." As she turns to leave, she sees the outline of what appears to be her scarf in his coat pocket and stops. "I'm...I'm happy now. I haven't been this happy in ages, and I don't want to mess that up. Just...don't visit me anymore. I love you, and maybe I always will, but I love him too, and I can't handle you being around anymore. I know visiting is probably interfering with your mission anyways, so don't. If you ever need anything, I'll be here, but until your mission is complete, just please..." He fingers the edge of her scarf.

"I understand," And when he returns her scarf, it hurts to know that this will be the last time he'll ever do so.

He'd caught a break in his mission (which was also the main reason he was able to come back to London), but now he has to go to Spain. As Molly's getting ready for bed, he's already curled up in the back of a dubious freight truck, halfway to Pamplona. The ride is bumpy at best, but he still manages to fall into a fitful sleep that night. He's dreaming of Moriarty, when the scene shifts, and he finds himself suddenly facing a pair of very large, very familiar, doe brown eyes. It's her. Her face, and hair, and jumper, and everything that is so quintessentially Molly. Her familiar citrus and vanilla scent wafts over him, and he could stand there for eternity and never want for anything. She smiles with such heartbreaking innocence that he wants nothing more than to hop out of the truck and turn around for her. Although a conscious and thinking Sherlock would never have indulged in such thoughts, his subconscious was obviously more than happy to. He sees Moriarty creep up behind her, and even though he tries to warn her, he can't make a sound, can't move his body. She keeps looking at him with that same, trusting, loving expression. When Moriarty inevitably kills her, she dies with nothing more than a whimper, that hauntingly beautiful expression now marred with fear. The other man circles Sherlock. He laughs.

"I always told you I'd burn the heart out of you!" Moriarty's declares, gleefully. The statement echoes through his mind like a broken record as the scene goes out of focus once more. When he wakes up less than an hour later, he can't remember what exactly he had dreamed about, but knows that it must have been related to that strangely inescapable feeling of loss and despair. No matter; he's already arrived at his destination, and he needs to move. Now.

Molly doesn't know it, but by the time she wakes up, Sherlock is already undercover in Spain. Seeing him at the grave was cathartic at best, but it provides the closure she needs. Tom, of course, had remained blissfully oblivious (as he often was), and not for the first time, she's struck by how different the two men are. But it doesn't matter, because Tom is sweet. Tom is safe. Tom is comfortable. He is polite, and everything that Sherlock's not, and that makes her happy. Right? Yes, of course it does. He'll be back soon, she's sure, but it doesn't matter. She's already made her choice, and she knows that it's the sensible, smart one. As she stretches her tired limbs, her fingers brush against the scarf on her bureau. When she picks it up, a note flutters to the ground. It's in the precise, slanted handwriting that she knows too well.

"Good luck, Molly Hooper." And she smiles.

Fin.

Sooo what did you guys think? I may write more depending on whether or not people are interested. And please please please review :) I check all my reviews and they always make me reallllllyyyyy happy :3

Love,

Audrey