Takes place after RF. Just a Molly-centric fic. I think this was inspired by some fanfic I was reading, but can't remember.

I don't own the Sherlock Holmes world or any variety of it on TV, in books, etc.

Secrets changed people. It was a silly thought, Molly knew. Because of course secrets changed people. Knowledge almost always did. And knowing something one couldn't tell anyone else made the secret harder to bear. That was just how humankind worked.

But Molly hadn't truly known this until Sherlock fell. There's a difference, you see, between knowing something intellectually, and knowing something emotionally—something tied close to the heart and chained there, not to be released for an undefined period of time.

The Secret changed how she saw the world. It loomed above her. She felt small beneath its greatness and didn't think she could bear it sometimes. Trust, she found, was a great burden. And this secret was truth wrapped in trust. Truth: Sherlock Holmes was alive. Trust: Sherlock Holmes was alive only because she helped him, and trusted her not to tell anyone.

(All on top of trusting her to help him survive his death.)

To add to her already great burden, she had to lie.

John... John was the hardest one. It was then the Secret's weight would crush her.

"I just," John managed as they sat in his new flat 221C, unable to be in the one he'd shared with Sherlock. "I just wish I could've said something. Couldn't I have said something? What could I have said to make him... to make him not... Even if he thought he was a fake? Molly, it's my fault. I should've…"

And he would cry on her shoulder. And the entire time she would feel hyperaware of the expression on her face. Be sad but do try not to look fake, she would hear his voice say. She'd feel her heart beat say Sherlock is alive Sherlock is alive—

But she'd bite her tongue and whisper-croon to him, "I'm so sorry" over and over and over again. I'm sorry I'm lying to you. I'm sorry you're in danger. I'm sorry this causes you so much pain. Saving people should never be this painful. Never, ever, ever.

It hurt to watch. She wasn't the one out killing to protect. She wasn't the one who threw away her life to go hunt for those who would hurt her loved ones. She wasn't even the one who lost him. He was alive. And she knew it.

But to John he was dead. To everyone he was dead. She felt guilty for feeling guilty for having this Secret. This lie was lifesaving, so why did she feel guilty? How was she supposed to help others with their despair when she was so conflicted in her own feelings?

(This on top of worrying for Sherlock's safety while he was away. How horrible would it be to help fake his death only to never hear from him again?)

(No, don't think about that, Molly.)

It would be so easy to end John's tears and pain by saying those three words: Sherlock is alive. But she couldn't. All their safety counted on him remaining dead in their eyes.

All their safety but yours, a voice would sometimes whisper to her at night. All but yours, because they never saw you. Moriarty looked past you. But you count. You do.

And so Molly observed. Molly comforted. She was a rock in the midst of a storm at sea. But again, no one saw. They saw her grief—and, yes, she felt grief—but they didn't see her try to help. Mrs. Hudson didn't find it odd that Sherlock's friend from the morgue dropped by occasionally to see how she was. Lestrade didn't question Molly when she came up for her lunch break to eat with him, or hand deliver results to him.

Even John, in his grief, didn't question her dropping by so often or react much to her comfort. He didn't really react to her at all. Even when he screamed and yelled his actions were never at her. He'd sob with his head on her lap. Or sometimes she would leave when he clearly needed alone time. Either way, his grief blinded him or numbed him.

To all, she was just the girl in the morgue who had a penchant for loud, baggy clothing and a crush on Sherlock. Never had the term "crush" been so fitting.

There were some days she cried herself to sleep every night. Some days she wondered if her grief was so strong that she had imagined his survival, and that he was really dead. There were some days she saw the emptiness in John's eyes, the slump in Lestrade's shoulders as he did desk work, or Mrs. Hudson's shaking hands, and had to hurry away least she start sobbing in an incoherent mess.

Secrets were heavy things but Molly Hooper was strong. A quiet strong most didn't notice. She had long ago accepted this, considered it a superpower almost. Because if being underestimated led to criminals making mistakes, she was fine with being underestimated. And she always counted, even with Sherlock gone.

So Molly Hooper carried the secret of Sherlock's life and death away inside her. She figured it was the least she could do to help save these people's lives by acting like he was dead.

After all, Sherlock Holmes was brilliant. If anyone could take down Moriarty's web, it was him. Sherlock Holmes would come home one day and that secret, that knowledge she carried, would change the world.

"I just," John managed as they sat in his new flat 221C, unable to be in the one he'd shared with Sherlock. "I just wish I could've said something…" If the flat is incorrect, I apologize. I got it from the site sherlockology in the character section for Mrs. Hudson.

It was a silly thought, Molly knew. Adjective eventually chosen because of the line: "Well, we all do silly things."

Mycroft isn't mentioned in this. I'm not sure if Molly has met Mycroft or not. (If it was mentioned before, I've forgotten.) I kind of assume Mycroft knows of Sherlock's survival, but I don't know if that's canon to BBC's Sherlock or fan theory and assumption. Hence, since this fic assumes she hasn't met him, Molly thinks she's the only Secret Keeper. (And she's no Peter Pettigrew, thank you very much.) Hope you enjoyed!

Stay cool.

-SS