"When my time comes around,

Lay me gently in the cold dark earth.

No grave can hold me down,

I'll crawl home to her."

Molly had observed the wrath of Sherlock Holmes many times, but he had never been as terrifying as that day.

"You fools!" He roared, hands running through his hair. "This man is more dangerous than you could possibly imagine. Two years of dismantling his criminal web and it has all gone to waste!" His fist crashed into the table, knocking over a microscope and a rack of test tubes. Molly flinched. Sherlock shouted even louder, alternating his fury among the other figures in the room. John sat in a corner rubbing his forehead with his hands, Mary gripping his arm comfortingly. Detective Inspector Lestrade stood near window, staring blankly ahead of him. Molly peered at the silent man for a moment. He had been especially kind to her recently, after….

The face still occupied every screen in London. His mocking, self-satisfied expression staring them all down from Molly's computer, the television in the lounge, the screens in Piccadilly Circus.

She coughed quietly, holding back tears. Her hands tapped nervously on her knees. Sherlock was attacking Lestrade now.

"Scotland Yard, you have any theories?" His tone dripped sarcasm and fury. Lestrade glared at him.

"Sherlock, I haven't clue. I'm out of my depth here." Sherlock snarled to himself and closed his eyes. His hands rubbed his temples furiously.

"Maybe," Molly ventured cautiously, "It isn't really him, Jim-" She caught herself, "Moriarty. Maybe it's a distraction. He can't really be alive, can he?" She glanced at Lestrade for reassurance, but found none. Sherlock's hands stopped. He turned to her slowly.

"Molly Hooper, perhaps it would be best if you refrain from making judgments on this subject, given the fact that you were in a romantic relationship with the most dangerous criminal mind in the world without having THE SLIGHTEST IDEA." He shouted the last words, towering over her like an impending storm. "When we need to know Jim Moriarty's favorite cafés and kissing habits I will gladly consult you." Molly was stunned. Her mouth gaped open, her throat choking on her denials. She could feel the eyes of everyone on her; hear John's exasperated sigh, and blinked hot tears from her eyes. John and Sherlock argued, but Molly could not hear them. Her mind was screaming. Blood pounded in her ears. She felt a hand on her shoulder; Lestrade, trying to comfort her. She muttered a quiet apology, brushed his hand off, and staggered out of the lab.

In the hallway, she could still hear Sherlock and John's muffled shouts through the thick metal door. Jim. James. Moriarty. A sob escaped her and echoed down the hallway. Sherlock had disparaged the intelligence of Molly, and most other people, but not to this magnitude, not after she had given him so much. She had helped him fake his death, and then had aided in a case in John's place when he returned. Was this the thanks she got from him? Molly checked her watch. As usual, Sherlock had kept her at the morgue far later than her shift required. Wiping her eyes, Molly grabbed her keys and purse, and shuffled into the cold darkness.

There were only a handful of people in the Tube station at that time of night, most of them heading home after long dinners with significant others, or tourists going back to their hotels after seeing the biggest shows in London's theatres. Molly took a seat in the corner of the carriage across from a tall, blonde man, reading a newspaper silently. Still shaken, Molly closed her eyes, leaned over her knees and took several long, deep breaths. Her heart raced in her chest. She exhaled and straightened her back. When she opened her eyes, she noticed the man across from her staring, unblinking. He quickly returned his attention to his paper. Molly blushed. She should not be so conspicuous about this on the train.

She waited patiently for her stop, tapping her fingers on her bag, occasionally glancing up at the tube map to check her progress. At each stop, one person got off, trudging into the concrete stations, except the man across from Molly. Whenever the doors slid open, he would glance up at her, then back down to his paper when she remained seated. When the train finally announced the station nearest Molly's flat, she gathered her things and positioned herself next to the door. Behind her, the man folded his newspaper loudly and discarded it on his seat. He stood directly behind Molly, holding tightly to the handrail above her. She could feel his proximity keenly, and wished desperately that she could make herself disappear. When the doors slid open, she jumped onto the platform and walked quickly up the escalator. Her oyster card swiped smoothly, letting her out of the station and onto the deserted street. She stopped at the corner and looked back at the Tube entrance. He was there, leaning against the wall, his eyes locked on her, a lit cigarette glowing between his lips. Molly swallowed hard and gripped the strap of her bag tightly. She ought to call someone; a friend, the police. Molly took another deep breath. She turned swiftly down her street, silently praying to herself that he would not follow.

He did not. At the door to her flat, Molly waited, staring down the street. She stood on the steps until she was sure that the man had not pursued her, and then sighed with relief. She unlocked her door, and pushed into her small, unlit hallway. Just like normal, Molly hung her coat on a peg, dropped her keys into the small basket hanging from the wall, and slipped her shoes off. She looked down at her socks and smiled; pink, with tiny black paw prints. Switching the hall light on, she clicked her teeth softly.

"Toby, come here boy," She padded up the hall and into the living room. His favorite spot was there, beneath the window where he could lay in the sun. The light clicked on, illuminating her small living room. She cast her gaze at Toby's spot, then drifted around the room to her sofa, and the man sitting on it, staring at her with dark, cold eyes. He grinned.

"Miss me?"