Because Philip Philips does things to my mind and his art is truly amazing. And because it's winter break and I have nothing to do, naturally, so I wrote and thus this story was born. And because I needed something to keep my mind off the fact that I haven't seen the new episode yet. Which sucks. I heard it's pretty amazing though.

**Also keep in mind I started writing this sometime ago and just picked it back up this week so it was written with no knowledge of season 3 (obviously). You could probably go ahead and call it AU actually.

I do not own Sherlock or the song.

And I would do it for you, for you

Baby I'm not moving on

I'll love you long after you're gone

For you, for you

You will never sleep alone

I'll love you long after you're gone

And long after you're gone, gone, gone

-Gone, Gone, Gone, -Philip Philips

Cornerstone

She leaves in the spring, when the sun first comes out and the air begins to warm while the sweet scent of the newly bloomed vegetation weaves around their heads and Sherlock finds it highly inappropriate.

He's known for some time that she was planning to go but when it happens it takes him completely by surprise because the feeling that clutches tight at his gut is foreign to him and for a split second, he's tempted to think he cares.

Of course he pushes it aside as the time comes for her to bid her goodbye and she finds him in his lab, hunched over his microscope even though he really stopped working hours ago and was simply waiting for the sound of her footsteps on the tile floor. She nudges the door open and he can see her eyes are red rimmed and puffy, the previous goodbyes obviously ended in a rather strong outpour of emotions and he is gnawing at his bottom lip in an attempt to hold back words of comfort that are fighting to make themselves heard.

His back straightens when she clears her throat and a breathy laugh falls from her lips because even after all this time she's still nervous around him.

He thinks he's going to miss that sound.

Sherlock's eyes, almost as soon as he looks in her direction, are on the ring taking refuge on her left hand, glinting under the infuriatingly bright lights and hugging her finger snuggly. It's extravagantly huge with a gold band and covered in tiny stones that reflect when her fingers twitch and catch the lighting just right.

It is nothing like Molly and sometimes he finds himself wondering if her fiancé-Tom-(Sherlock hates him the moment he meets him and he's almost positive he always will) even knows her at all. Surprisingly though he's never been able to point this out to her and he supposes that maybe her happiness is enough for him to keep quiet although the burning hatred is nearly intolerable some days.

Sometimes Sherlock wonders what he wouldn't do for Molly Hooper.

"I assume you're here to offer your goodbyes," he finally says when she fails to say a word, tinkering with the slide he's looking at as a distraction.

He's trying to look anywhere but at her.

Molly doesn't answer him right away, walking closer until he can smell her. It's sickly sweet like vanilla but with a hint of disinfectant that always seems to follow her around. He finds himself craving it more often than not.

When he finally brings himself to look up, she's smiling but it's sad and the initial sight of it makes him want to scream his frustrations at her, as if it were her fault for giving herself what she's always wanted. To tell her she doesn't have to go; that she can stay here with him and they can solve whatever crimes come his way and they can be happy.

But then he remembers that really, Molly can never be happy with him and if he was even a remotely good person he would let her go, to be with a man who would love her and tell her how beautiful she was and give her children that had her warm smile and bright personality.

He could never give her any of those things and he knew it.

So in the end he accepts the hug she wraps him in, arms locking behind him as she buries her head in his shoulder and sniffles a little bit before pulling back and placing a soft kiss on his cheek. It brings back memories of a Christmas where he tore her down, watched her hold herself together and prove him wrong in front of everyone before offering her a kiss so much like this one that it hurt to think about it.

And then she was gone.

Almost like a magic trick she had disappeared and he was left in the empty lab staring blankly at the spot she had just been in and it isn't until John comes in looking worried and slightly angered before telling Sherlock it was nearly the middle of the night that he realizes he'd been there for hours.

He doesn't talk for the next three days.

John gets married a few months later in a small chapel with Sherlock as the best man and the few friends he has watching, cheering, and drinking, along with his parents and sister. He's done a fairly good job of holding himself together throughout the monotonous ceremony and seemingly endless reception until he overhears Greg mentioning to John how much of a shame it is that Molly couldn't come and everything comes crashing down.

There's a tightness in his chest when he hears her name, years of memories conjuring themselves up and pushing to the forefront of his mind, ones that he had fought for weeks to lock away in the empty rooms of his mind palace.

While he never tried to delete her (he doesn't think he ever could, even if he wanted to) he did try to numb some of the feelings that arose when he walked into the lab or passed by her old flat on the way to a scene. Sometimes he would wonder how she had managed to implant herself in his life the way she had, not as the woman who counted when no one else would listen, but as the one who watched him break down countless times; the same girl who washed the blood from his hands and stitched his wounds more times than he cared to remember and the one who showed him what it meant to truly care for someone when he felt truly alone.

Almost as soon as the name leaves Greg's lips John's face morphs into one of worry (Greg will continue to apologize for days) and he glances toward Sherlock who's already on his feet, moving toward the door and ignoring everyone who watches him go.

He needs to clear his head so once he's outside he pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his coat and captures one between his lips, taking a long drag. He doesn't stop walking until he finds himself on the steps of Baker Street, freezing, exhausted, and alone.

That night he throws out everything that reminds him of her and for the first time in a long time, he dreams.

The years pass slower than he thinks, friends coming and going as he stays in 221B and takes cases as they come. John moves away a few years after his wedding because Mary wants to be closer to work and at first Sherlock finds it hard to adjust to such loneliness once more.

Then one day in the dead of winter he has his nose in a book (beekeeping is his newest obsession but Mrs. Hudson forbids any sort of insect in the flat) and just before he can flip the page there's a soft knock on the door that interrupts his train of thought.

Of course he calls down to Mrs. Hudson but overtime her hearing has all but disappeared so instead he swings his feet off of the couch and stomps down the stairs, slender fingers gripping the door handle as he rips it open, prepared to give whoever was on the other side a piece of his mind.

But his mouth closes almost as quickly as it opens.

He has to blink a few times but there's no mistaking who was standing in front of him, the apples of her cheeks flaming from the cold and the same soft smile on her lips.

Just as he remembers it.

She takes one look at him and her eyes light up, his name rolling effortlessly off her tongue even after all this time.

"Hello Sherlock."

Time has been nothing but kind to Molly Hooper.

She still has a certain youthfulness to her face even with the few wrinkles that have settled between her brows and around her mouth. Her hair is still the same shade of auburn, containing just a few hidden strands of grey that are barely visible.

She was still beautiful.

It takes Sherlock a moment to compose himself after she greets him but the gears in his head aren't stalled for long and he reaches out to pull her into the flat as a particularly cold breeze blows flakes of snow into the hall, sticking to her hair. It's a staring match for the first few seconds, he unsure of what to say, a mix of joy and confusion tightening in his chest, and she just happy to see him again.

In the end it's Molly that breaks first.

"You look well," she tells him awkwardly, slightly breathless. She's clutching the ends of the scarf wrapped around her neck with nervous fingers and immediately he notices the absence of a ring but he keeps the thought to himself for now.

He responds with a quiet "thank you," instead and can't fight the smile pulling at his lips as he watches her, shifting uncomfortably beneath his observant gaze as if she had forgotten what it felt like to be in his presence.

Then he frowns as he realizes she may have done just that.

He invites her upstairs for tea after Mrs. Hudson yells at him for allowing his guest to stand for so long but not before she can wrap Molly in a hug and express how much she's been missed.

Sherlock just stares. He hadn't even realized they were friends.

He puts the kettle on and admires Molly from the kitchen as she walks around the flat and becomes reacquainted with every inch of it, her fingers skimming across book cases and the mantle top. She even smiles when she sees the skull and Sherlock feels his heart lurch.

"I can't believe you still have this," she muses, holding it in the palm of her hand and smiling. He forces one back as he pours the tea, balancing the two steaming cups in his hand as he brings them to the sitting room.

She remembers which chair is his and makes quick work of sitting in the one opposite, taking her tea and blowing the wisps of steam away before she sips it. Sherlock sinks down into his own chair and sets his cup aside. He tents his hands beneath his chin and watches her instead.

"You're not wearing your ring."

It comes out colder than he intends, almost as if he's angry although he knows there's no reason for that. She flinches as if he's burned her and immediately he feels regret clawing at his insides and swallows back a frustrated scream.

He's about to apologize instead but she cuts him off.

"I haven't worn it in a while." She admits quietly.

Sherlock tries his hardest to swallow his grin but once he sees the hurt that flashes in her eyes it isn't hard to do. His eyes soften when she looks at him and he can see the need for her to tell him. At the same time he can see the pain that would come with that and he reaches across the space between them and takes her hand in his own.

"You don't have to tell me now."

She smiles, and then cries, and all Sherlock can do is stare.

She's staying indefinitely, he finds out, already checked in at a motel some ways into the city but Mrs. Hudson won't stand for that. She clears out the room John left behind and Molly is settled in before the sun sets.

Sherlock pretends it doesn't hurt to have her so close.

He wakes the following day to the smell of pancakes coming from his kitchen and at first he thinks he's dreaming. Then he remembers about the woman that now sleeps in the room across the hall and he nearly falls out of bed to get to his dressing gown before tiptoeing to the kitchen where he watches her flip something onto a plate before she turns around and spots him, hand flying to her chest in surprise.

"Sherlock, you frightened me." There's a hint of a smile playing at her lips after she recovers, coming to set the plate on the table.

"I hope you're hungry," she says, "I think I've made too many." She looks sheepishly down at the platter that's piled high with pancakes, definitely too many for just the both of them, before she sits down and stabs one with a fork.

Wordlessly, he sits down to join her.

At first he just sips the coffee she had set out, pretending to blow the steam away long after it had cooled. He watches Molly eat for a few moments but when she notices he has yet to touch any of the food she quirks an eyebrow and sets her fork down.

"What's the matter, Sherlock? You've been awfully quiet since yesterday evening."

Her voice is flooded with warmth and concern, familiar and comforting and everything he's been yearning for. Sherlock looks up and manages to smile.

"I'm fine," he promises, "I've just… forgotten what it's like to have you around," he admits quietly.

Molly's smile falters and she looks down at her plate, pushing the last of her pancake through a puddle of syrup. He wonders if maybe he's upset her, not that either of them are likely to be surprised, but when she looks back up he sees that while she looks sad her eyes are clear.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I'm sorry I never came back to see you."

Sherlock sucks in a breath, blinks in surprise and feels his chest tighten. He pushes his plate aside and leans in close to her until they're nose to nose and he can see the tears filling her eyes. He wipes them away with his thumb.

"You have nothing to be sorry for, Molly Hooper. Nothing at all."

"Did John tell you Elizabeth's party is next Saturday?"

"Mhm."

"You were planning to go weren't you?"

Sherlock sinks a little lower in his chair and pulls the book he's holding closer. He can hear Molly tapping her foot in the kitchen.

"Sherlock, please don't tell me you're going to skip your own goddaughter's birthday party."

Through a frustrated sigh he sets down his book and stands up to face her, nearly flinching at the look of annoyance etched onto her face. Instead he manages a careless shrug before his arms fold across his chest.

"How important can it really be? It's an eight year-old's birthday party."

Molly throws down the dish towel she had been holding and braces herself against the counter.

"That isn't the point, Sherlock. She wants you to be there as well as John." She can see he's about to decline again so she tries a new tactic.

"We can go together if you'd like."

Almost immediately Sherlock feels his face flush, especially when Molly gives him a smug smile that lets him know he's already lost. He couldn't put up a fight even if he wanted to.

"Fine, but you get to buy the present."

He hasn't been to John's house in nearly a year. He didn't really like the long cab ride nor did he like being stuck in a house that seemed to be constantly filled with loud children, and much to his horror this time was no different.

He's currently surrounded by a group of eight year olds who are looking at him with a mixture of bored and curious expressions, Elizabeth standing toe-to-toe with him and looking very much like John when he was annoyed.

"Uncle Sherlock, why can't you do one trick? Just one?"

She put her tiny hands on her hips and Sherlock held back a groan before opening his mouth to let her know exactly why he couldn't show them a trick but he was saved (thankfully) by John who seems to be enjoying his best friend being interrogated by children. Luckily for Sherlock though, John was more merciful than Mary and he shoos the children away with a few words and a promise that he'll play a game with them.

Sherlock looks at him once they wander off, grateful and annoyed all at the same time.

"I'll never understand why she insists on torturing me," he complains, earning an eye roll from John.

"She's eight, Sherlock. And she only does these things to you because you let her."

Sherlock scoffs. "Whatever you say, John." He swallows and takes a look around the big backyard before glancing back at John with a weary expression.

"Have you seen where Molly's gotten off to?"

John gives him a knowing smile and points towards the house. "She and Mary have escaped to the kitchen."

Just as the words finish leaving his lips Sherlock is already moving toward the house but John suddenly appears beside him, awkwardly jogging to keep up.

"Sherlock, I know what she meant to you before she left but I want you to be careful with her now that she's back in your life. Her situation is more than a bit delicate right now."

Sherlock snorts and waves him off. "I know she's just been divorced, John. I may not be good at conversation but I'm not daft."

While he is expecting John to mumble something about him being a git and leaving it at that, he isn't expecting John to stop walking, looking at Sherlock with an expression that seems to be heavy with… pity?

The doctor looks at him a moment longer and then sighs. "You really don't know do you? She hasn't told you?"

Sherlock feels fear encase his heart at the tone in John's voice and he stops, turning to face his friend with a face that he fights to keep stoic.

"What, John? What don't I know?"

"They aren't divorced Sherlock. Not yet at least. She called Mary a few weeks ago and said Tom had up and left. No note or phone call, she just woke up one day and he was gone."

The words seem to enter his mind but for some reason Sherlock has trouble comprehending them. John is just staring, as if he's afraid of a meltdown or some sort of fit, but Sherlock couldn't for the life of him feel anything but sadness.

He turns toward the house and keeps walking despite John's voice doing its best to call him back.

When Mary sees the look on his face as Sherlock enters her kitchen, she quietly excuses herself and leaves Molly looking completely clueless as she stands by the counter with wide eyes.

"Sherlock," she says when she catches a glimpse of his face, "what's the matter?"

He knows she must be terrified when he doesn't answer her and opts to just keep moving closer until he can hear her suddenly panicked breathing and her hands move up to press against his chest. As if to keep him away from her.

She nervously bites her lip and he pretends it doesn't make him want her.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

She lets out a shaky breath and grips the lapels of his coat. "Tell you what?"

"Why didn't you tell me what he did to you?"

She sniffs and a tear escapes from the corner of her eye, dripping off the tip of her nose.

"What difference would it have made?" she asks bitterly, letting go of him to wipe it away.

She still refuses to look at him. He hooks a finger under her chin and tilts her face towards his. Deathly serious.

"I could have killed him for you and no one would have known."

Then she laughs and for a moment, everything is fine.

It takes her three days before she tells him exactly what happened but in the end he doesn't mind the wait.

She tells him how she woke up one day and the other side of the bed was cold, how the closet had been cleaned out and she had searched the whole house before calling his mobile more than a dozen times and then all their friends. How she hadn't even found a note, just a gold wedding band sitting on the mantle.

How she cried and cried until she thought she didn't have any tears left.

He thinks it's going to take every ounce of self-control he has to keep himself from flying out the door to go and look for the man who broke her heart.

In the end it only takes one pleading stare and the feel of her arms wrapped around him.

He pretends it isn't unbearably cold when she lets go.

Early winter marks nearly four months that she's been with him.

On a particular day without much snow he asks her to get coffee with him, ignoring the blush that's exploded across his face. She puts on her coat with a silent smile and snakes her arms through his and Sherlock is almost sure his heart is going to burst out of his chest.

He buys her coffee and a pastry and watches her sit in the glow of the artificial light while she eats and laughs and he's almost sure he's never seen anyone look so beautiful.

Things are going well and Sherlock thinks they can only get better.

It isn't long until he finds out how wrong he is.

He takes a case a week after their coffee date and he's gone for nearly two days. When he comes back she tackles him in the doorway and presses a kiss to his cheek. They both freeze and it isn't until Molly mumbles something about needing to finish up in the kitchen that he allows himself to breathe.

He unpacks his things while she makes dinner and thinks about picking up his violin when the sound of her phone ringing breaks through his thoughts. He pushes it aside and leaves the violin on the bed, walking to the kitchen and stopping when he sees Molly pressed against the counter, one hand over face while the other presses the phone to her ear.

She's crying and Sherlock can hear someone on the other line, but he can't tell who.

Then Molly says his name and he feels the room spinning.

"Tom, please, I can't do this right now. Not after everything-"

She drops off as Tom's voice becomes louder and Sherlock feels a white hot rage build up in him but he can't seem to get his legs to work. Instead he watches from the doorway and listens.

"Molly, please, I need you. I just had to go and sort some things out but they're all better now. Please just come home."

While she hasn't said anything since he walked in on her Sherlock can see the confliction in her eyes and he knows what she's going to say. He knows it wasn't meant to be him, even when he thought fate had given him a second chance and dropped Molly Hooper outside his flat he knew.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he likes to think he always did.

But then, like she's been known to do, Molly surprises him once again.

"Tom, this is all so much, I need some time. I'll call you back, alright?"

And then she hangs up and sinks down to the floor, staring blankly ahead and ignoring the sound of his footsteps as he moves from his spot in the hall. Wordlessly he sits down beside her and stares at their warped reflection in the oven door.

"You should go back. If you love him then you should go."

He hears her let out a tiny, broken sob but he can't look at her.

"Is that what you want? Do you want me to go?"

Sherlock closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the counter, ignores the erratic beating of his heart and the burning sensation behind his eyes.

Finally he says "no" and feels fingers tangling with his own.

"Good," she says shakily, "because I'm not going anywhere."

"Molly, please don't do this for me." He looks at her with a desperate expression she's only seen once before and leans forward to press his forehead against her own. "I can't let you sacrifice anything else for me."

And this time they both cry, huddled on the kitchen floor, clinging to one another like they were sources of oxygen.

She stays wrapped in his embrace for nearly an hour before she silently stands up and leaves him, trudging to her room with tear stains on her cheeks and his heart in her hand. He stays there for what feels like a lifetime before the clock on the wall is telling him how late it is and he goes to bed even though he knows his mind has no intentions of letting him sleep.

He wakes in the early hours to the dipping of his mattress and the smell of shampoo. He doesn't even have to open his eyes to know it's her but he rolls over anyway and stares at her. Her long hair is falling around her shoulders and her eyes are still swollen and red.

Sherlock reaches out and tucks a stray auburn strand behind her ear, feels her lean into his touch and whimper like she's been deprived of his touch for a lifetime.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he realizes that's true.

Then he finds his voice and asks the question that's been plaguing his dreams for the majority of the night.

"When are you leaving?"

He watches her close her eyes against his words as if they pained her and he prepares himself for the answer although he knows whatever she says is going to break his heart. Then she blinks and he feels the air leave his lungs when she says,

"I'm not."

"Why not?" he can't help but ask and the words pour out before he can even think about stopping.

She fixes him with a pained expression and tightens her grip on his hand.

"I don't think I could ever go back to him after this. Even if I loved him I don't think that's something I could ever do."

Sherlock's silent for a moment, mulling over the words in his head until he feels dizzy. Then he looks at her and sees the answer to every question he's ever had for the last decade staring back at him.

"You never loved him."

It's a statement. He doesn't even have to think about it.

Molly shakes her head and displaces more tears (sometimes Sherlock wonders how she even has any more to cry), burying her face in the pillow as he stares at her.

"Why did you go if you never loved him?"

"Because I needed a way to get over you. I loved you, Sherlock, more than I've ever loved anybody in my life and I thought if I could just get away I could move on and let you be happy, because I knew you would never be if we were together. I did it all for you but ever since I came back I realized I never stopped loving you."

She presses her lips to his knuckles and lets the thought trail off, too afraid of his reaction to say anything more. Then she feels his hand on her cheek, wiping away the salty tears bringing her closer until their noses are pressed together and she can feel his breath on her cheek and it all feels so right.

"What do you need me to do then?" he asks, desperate. She feels the guilt eating at her for throwing all of these unwanted emotions at him so; she says the only thing that's been going through her mind since she walked back into his life as if it hadn't been ten years.

"Ask me to stay."

And he does.