Author's Notes: Hey all! Testing the fanfic waters on this side of the fandom pool. Happy New Year, and Happy Sherlock Day! Finished this with just an hour to spare before the UK broadcast. Whew!

"Don't cry
––the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says
we are for each other"

––e.e. cummings

shmhshmhshmhshmhshmh

He set off with the singular purpose, even for just a short while, of breathing in London air once again. Every place else on Earth was a shade compared to this city, and he missed it all in his absence––its frenetic pace, frenzied civilization, and ordered chaos. He contacted Mycroft upon his arrival, in part––and he did so with such trepidation he almost changed his mind––to ask for a favor.

Beyond that, however, he hadn't a clue why he was back. Somehow though, he found himself drawn to her flat. He was only vaguely aware he was returning to the last space he occupied, like an elastic band snapping back to place. He only knew he needed to see a familiar face—hers. He found a relatively comfortable spot—he'd been in much worse in the past year—and waited until it was dark enough to slip into the shadows, and keep vigil of her front door.

Molly Hooper arrived, balancing a handbag in the crook of one arm, and a shopping bag containing the spoils from her trip to Tesco in the other hand. She quickened her movements when she sensed that the shadow she saw from the corner of her eye was decidedly too large to be a stray cat. She'd never been more internally grateful for Tom's presence than at that moment. If only she could get her keys out, unlock the bloody door, and raise the alarm.

"Molly." The hand grasping the key froze in midair. Even with his baritone disguised, or perhaps hoarse from disuse, she immediately recognized the owner of that voice.

His name slipped from her lips as she released the breath she'd been holding. She whirled around to take in his long-absent form. She studied him under the dim streetlight and half-moonlight. His hair was shorter, or simply slicked away from his face, nary one of his trademark curls. He wore dark clothing, a leather jacket, black jeans––yes, jeans!––and that familiar blue scarf wrapped expertly around his neck. He both looked and didn't look like the man she helped commit a fake suicide for.

Fighting the compulsion to drop her belongings and wrap her arms around him, she instead opted for a question. "What are you doing here?" She surveyed their surroundings to make sure no one was lurking about. Though Sherlock's name had been wanting from the tabloid press and hashtags in the past year, one couldn't be too careful.

He looked at her weakly and stammered slightly, as if he had not worked out what he would say, so instead he opted for any answer.

"I'm supposed to be in Switzerland."

"You're supposed to be dead."

He let out an almost inaudible laugh, and Molly caught herself. "Sorry." When he waved off her apology, she continued. "I am glad to see you."

For the second time that night, Sherlock was robbed of words, and all he could do is gesture for Molly to let them both in her flat. Molly unlocked the door, and Sherlock followed her inside, locking the door behind them.

"Tom?" Molly called out, as she turned the lights on, and moved into the kitchen. Sherlock remained by the entrance to the kitchen, unsure of how he should fit into her space after months of being away.

"He's not here." She looked at him quizzically, pausing from her task of shelving away groceries, and prompting him to explain. "I asked Mycroft to give him the night off."

"Oh, okay." He couldn't help but wonder––or hope––if it was relief he saw on Molly's face when she didn't question him further.

He'd announced to Mycroft about a year ago, after his fall, that Molly Hooper's safety was paramount. His brother agreed, and the next day, a small parcel arrived for Sherlock while he was holed up in Molly's flat, awaiting further instructions. With equal parts vanity and self-denial, he chose "Tom"'s dossier out of the half dozen Mycroft had screened for him. He looked, Sherlock decided, about as nondescript as a deep cover agent could, and about as normal a bloke Molly herself would choose. Any resemblance to himself whatsoever was purely coincidental. Besides, his records indicate that seemed the least incompetent out of the bunch.

Sherlock watched Molly put away the last item in the pantry. His eye caught a glint from the ring on her left hand, followed by an inexplicable tug at his chest, which he duly ignored. "How are you and Tom getting on?"

"Oh, as well as one can with one's pretend fiancé," Molly replied with feigned stoicism. Has she always been funny? he thought, but said nothing, and let her chatter on with that familiar cadence of hers. "All these code names, and checkpoints, and reports. I think most people just can't believe I'm settling down. My mum isn't wild about him. Can't complain though." The mirth in her eyes suddenly left, when she remembered there was a more pressing issue. "Really, Sherlock. What are you doing here?" repeating her earlier question.

"I… couldn't find a proper cup of coffee anywhere outside London."

The moment the words left his mouth, he was irritatingly aware of how pitiful he must have sounded, how utterly transparent to her. As it were, he was not himself; but she, mercifully, was more sure of herself than he had ever seen her.

In the silence that followed, Molly's heart broke for him. She looked at him, not with eyes of pity, because she knew the loneliness the consulting detective could not articulate. She felt it over the past year.

Moving around the kitchen table, she closed the space between them in a few steps. She stood in front of him, though he still towered over her, nervous but marveling at his nearness again. Her heart beat loudly under her chest, she could feel her pulse thrumming throughout her body––all absolutely normal bodily functions whenever Sherlock was around. But this was a little different. She grasped his hand with hers, and she felt him squeeze back with an unreadable expression on his face. "Black, two sugars?" she asked quietly.

The first genuine smile in a long time, broke on Sherlock's face.

shmhshmhshmhshmhshmh

When Molly opened her eyes, light trickled in minutely from between the blinds. In the haziness of lingering sleep, she remembered what happened the night before. She'd spend the evening and night on her sofa with Sherlock Holmes. They'd talked about everything and nothing, watching crap telly, and feeding Toby scraps from their Chinese takeaway. In the wee hours of morning, she could almost swear that they held hands. She now found herself covered in the quilt from her bedroom, and very much alone. Though she steeled herself for it, a wave of heartache washed over her. She sighed, fighting to keep the tears that threatened to fall from spilling. She rose and got ready for work.

Molly retrieved her handbag from where she deposited it on the kitchen table last night. As she reached for it, a slip of paper peered from the opening zip. She held his note, hastily written on the back of her Tesco receipt, and brought her other hand to her mouth, half in confusion but mostly in love for that man. She folded the slip and tucked it in her purse.

A year later after his return, she would relish in the quirk of his lips and the mistiness in his eyes, when she showed him the note again, rereading his own words. Dum spiro spero. While I breathe, I hope.

end.

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