Disclaimer: I do not have partial or complete ownership over any of these characters or the Sherlock series, they are under the ownership of BBC Wales. The first part of their conversation is also taken from Sherlock 2's The Reichenbach Fall.

She flicked off the fluorescent lights, finally done with the evening's work. She began her nightly routine of questioning herself on whether a pathologist was the ideal job for her. Molly Hooper sighed.

Look at me. A bit over thirty, alone, and stuck working day and night, she thought.

"You were wrong, you know," a deep voice interrupted her thoughts, shocking her out of her reverie.

She could see Sherlock Holmes in his coat, staring into the distance. Her bewildered eyes were stuck to his tall figure, unable to look anywhere else-just like any other time he was in the room.

"You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you," he continued.

Sherlock turned his head and looked at Molly. She could feel her chest freeze up at the sight of those piercing, almost gray, eyes. Even in the dark they glowed. Molly swallowed slowly, wondering why he was here at this time.

"You were right," he muttered.

Didn't he just say I was wrong?, she mentally rolled her eyes. Sherlock was an unsolvable mystery to her, always contradicting himself with superfluous language and actions that only made sense later.

"I'm not okay."

At those words, she released her bated breath and unfroze. To Molly, Sherlock was a brick wall of intellect, to put it bluntly. He possessed all the necessary wisdom, brain power, initiative, and understanding needed to be labelled a genius, yet he so clearly lacked the fundamental capabilities to feel, sympathise, and care which were needed to be called, well...human.

"Tell me what's wrong," she said as her posture straightened.

"Molly," he turned towards her. "I think I'm going to die."

This shocked her. For the years that she'd been working at the morgue and the lab, he was the one constant thing. Always there, poking about, messing with the dead and irking the living. She'd grown quite attached to his presence there, actually.

"W-What d'you need?" she reacted, afraid of what might be his answer.

What in the world could convince Sherlock Bloody Holmes that he was going to die? What could scare him like that?

Sherlock inched painfully closer and never broke his gaze. She stepped backwards, feeling her back touch the closed door.

"I wasn't everything that you think I am-everything that I think I am-" he put on that familiar look of scrutiny. "But you still want to help me."

Molly felt extremely unnerved. Usually she stood in the sidelines, watching the world's only consulting detective inspect the dead. She never once thought about what it would feel like if she were the one being examined and observed.

"What do you need?" she repeated, louder. She refused to be the one who looked away.

Sherlock stared into her brown eyes and stepped ever closer. Molly bit her lip, a bit frightened.

What is he doing? He's most certainly not himself tonight. Is he really serious about thinking that he's going to die?

She found herself wondering what John feels like, to live with the man she so blatantly adored. Sherlock was always going on about one thing or the other, insulting everyone half of the time. The other half was spent silent, dissecting everything around him.

What does he want?

He moved closer yet, the look of concentration wearing off slowly. It was replaced by an expression of-what was it? Wonder? Relief? Realisation?

Sherlock has no concept of personal space, she thought. He never had.

"You."

The word sent chills down her spine. She wondered for a moment if she was hallucinating-if Sherlock had actually said 'glue' or something equally puzzling. But the sheer intensity swimming about his irises told her otherwise. He needed her and that was it.

"What could I possibly-"

He cut her off bit by suddenly stepping the last few inches and closing the miniscule space between them, making Molly swallow her words. They were chest to chest now, and all previous thought of escape vanished from Molly's mind. She gazed up at his towering height, wondering what on earth he was actually planning on doing.

The air was charged with tension and something else-something new.

"S-Sherlock," she started. "What-"

"I need you," he repeated and took hold of her left wrist.

She recognised the action and scoffed. She broke her gaze. He was taking her pulse.

Of course. I'm nothing but an experiment to him, a subject on which his theories are to be tested upon. I'm just Molly Hooper, the pathologist in the lab who occasionally makes him coffee because I can't muster up the courage to-

"I need you to do something for me, Molly," he continued slowly.

All doubts abandoned her mind as she readily looked back into those eyes. If there's anything she could do to help, she would most definitely try her best.

Might be the first and last time Sherlock asks for my help-or any help, really.

"Anything," she murmured. Sherlock gave a satisfied smirk and let go of her wrist, still frustratingly near.

"I need a tentative place to stay, after tomorrow," he said in his usual manner. "A place to hide out and lay low for a while. Could you do that for me?"

"I...Why?" Molly asked, a little worried.

"Like I said, Molly, I think I'm going to die-or at least, I want everyone to think me dead. I need to fake my death. Afterwards, I shall need a place to hide. A place to stay quiet and under the radar. A place with amenities, but not too fancy nor too shabby. Quite simply, I need to stay with you, if that's possible."

"I...Okay. How long?" she nervously asked. Was he really asking to move in with her all of a sudden? And what of him wanting the world to think him dead?

What about John?

"As long as it takes for me to find a proper apartment and God knows how hard that is," Sherlock sighed. "Even if I-"

"I-It's okay, Sherlock, you can stay with me-I mean, if you'd like," she said timidly.

"I would very much like that, Molly Hooper," he looked at her and gave a little grin. "Thank you." Sherlock said it like it was something foreign on his tongue.

"Anytime," she sighed, dreading what was coming. "But what about John?"

"What about him?" he said in his usual oblivious manner.

"Does he know? A-About this...faking your death business." Molly tucked her hair behind her ear nervously. Sherlock was still pressed up against her and she still couldn't move.

"Oh, no. John would...freak out, so to say. No, no," he responded, never faltering.

"Who, then?"

"You, and only you."

That made her breath catch. Was she really so special? Did Sherlock Holmes, of all people, really trust her that much, of was he just taking advantage of her obvious affection for him? After all, he was a person who was calculating and precise. He would have no problem of doing anything for self-preservation.

Molly shook the doubtful thoughts away.

If Sherlock wants my help, then I'll help him. I believe that everything he does has a good reason behind it, and if he thinks faking his death is the best, then I'll help him.

"O-Okay. I'll clear out a room for you when I get home. I think you know where I live, yeah?"

"Of course," he shrugged, and finally took a small step back.

"You know how you're going to do it, then?" she ventured.

"Obviously. I've got everything figured out-don't I always, Molly?" came his conceited attempt at reassuring her. Molly understood, though, just as she always has.

"So...can I go now?" she let slip a timid smile towards the tall man before her.

"Oh, of course," Sherlock nodded.

"I'll be going, then. Um, good luck, I guess?" she said hesitantly.

Suddenly, Sherlock leaned in and whispered three words to Molly.

"You'll always count."

She swallowed, took a deep breath, and tilted her chin up confidently, gathering up her nerve to pull away and leave.

And that's when he kissed her.