Nearly everyone had the wrong idea about Molly Hooper. Bright, pretty (though not in the conventional sense of the word) Molly Hooper - pathologist, socially inept and very often, completely oblivious to what was so very clear to most. She was admired by her peers, appreciated by anyone who encountered her work, with her exceptional attention to detail. If you were to ask any of them about Molly, they would rave about how hard working she was, how much she cared about other people, and how very good she was in her job, despite their often obvious disapproval at her choice in career.

What they didn't see, however, was the loneliness that had plagued her for years, but most especially into her early adulthood. While as a child and teenager, Molly had at least had a friend here or there and a family member or two to count on, that had not been the case once she announced what exactly she would study in medical school.

"You'll never meet a man that way," her mother and sister had warned her. A much younger Molly had cried bitter tears.

And they had been right, of course. Now 33, Molly hadn't had a real date in ages, because once they asked the inevitable "what do you do for a living?", well that was just too much for most people. Molly Hooper, in her odd manner of dress that seemed like a mix between grandmother and primary school child, who talked too much about her cat, Toby, quite enjoyed her job, discovering why exactly a person had died. She enjoyed it, but it wasn't exactly something you shared with other people, was it? Because it was grotesque. Creepy, even. Other people didn't understand.

Then came the day that she met Sherlock Holmes.

People had two reactions to meeting Sherlock Holmes. There were the Mike Stamfords and John Watsons of the world, who marveled at Sherlock's genius and deductive reasoning. These, of course, were quite rare, given Sherlock's reaction when such a person did appear. The other reaction was far more typical, and it was typically one of anger and embarrassment of being utterly dressed down and having your deepest secrets revealed. These people tended to respond with statements of "is he for real?" or with statements of utter contempt, about what a "freak" or a "weirdo" he was.

Somehow, Molly Hooper fell into neither category. Of course, these categories weren't so cut and dry, and there were exceptions, like Mrs. Hudson, DI Lestrade, and a few others. But even these didn't see exactly what Molly saw when she met Sherlock, and he deduced that she was indeed going grey at 28, and her choice of mousy brown hair showed that she had nearly given up on finding a romantic partner with her choice of career being what it was. These were the facts of her life, and she had made peace with them to some extent. Sherlock didn't tell her anything that she didn't already know. She simply shrugged her shoulders and asked him exactly what he had wanted of her. (To see a body - it was nearly always about a body).

Molly had found herself oddly drawn to Sherlock. It wasn't romantic, at least not at first. And any notions of romance had gone straight out the window when he had, in his own way, rejected her offer of a coffee date. No, what had really attracted her to Sherlock had been a sense of kinship, of knowing whAt it was like to be different, socially ostracized, and often completely misunderstood. People thought Sherlock was cold and emotionless, and she could understand how people had come to that conclusion. He often trampled all over people's feelings in order to discover the answer to who had committed a crime and why. But they didn't understand that was possibly more compassionate in many ways than a kind word or comforting gesture. John Watson had met Sherlock the day he had been in Molly's morgue flogging the corpse of one of her former coworkers. It seemed horrible to think about that way, but the manner in which those bruises formed proved that it was not the boyfriend, after all, but a jealous coworker. Similarly, Molly had been accused of being cold and emotionless because she performed autopsies. She took people's bodies apart and discovered why they had died. For most of these, that was fairly obvious and she offered no truth to families that they didn't already know. But then there were the few who felt as though they could have done more to save the person, or didn't know how or why they died, and Molly was there to offer comfort and more importantly, answers.

Caring about people took different forms. Molly knew that, and certainly, Sherlock knew that. So why did everyone else get it so wrong?

Still, Molly was naive and no, her lonely flat wasn't all that inviting. So when slightly nerdy, geeky Jim from IT had come to fix her computer, she had been a bit awed. He knew what she did, and he didn't mind. When he asked her out on a date, she had, of course accepted.

"Gay," Sherlock had proclaimed, when Jim had joined her in the lab one day. Molly had flushed pink, and stammered something in response, something she couldn't exactly remember. She had felt humiliated. Then, in the days following, when Jim had been more and more insistent on seeing her again, and had resorted to almost stalker-like activity, she had ended it, with little more than a phone call. Something was off about him, and she couldn't exactly figure out what it was. Sherlock didn't know, either, but he had known, too.

Moriarty, like all villains, had lied to all of them. He manipulated and used weaknesses to get what he wanted. After Sherlock and John returned from the pool, a little shaken, a little more cautious, but more determined than ever to destroy Moriarty, Molly came to a realization that Moriarty, no longer Jim from IT, not even in her own head, had played her for a fool. She felt humiliated and just plain stupid. Why, oh why had she listened to her heart instead of her head, when her head had never led her down the wrong path?

She had gone on and on about this one day to Sherlock, who had become bored while John was at the surgery. She had entertained him by having him deduce causes of death before she had even performed the autopsy on three different bodies. Eventually, he had let out a dramatic sigh and complained, "Molly, must you go on and on about your insipid love life, or lack thereof?" She had blushed scarlet at that, and by the time she had thought of a reply, Sherlock had completely left, and she had hardly even noticed.

Christmas came, and she had tried to make it up to him. She had bought him a gift, and it was nothing important, really, just a nice pair of gloves. She had personally wrapped it herself, having at least learned one thing from her mother (that personal touches were important to show that you cared). He had taken one look at it and had made all these assumptions, that she was in love with him, and then he commented on her body, and while she hadn't really cared that her breasts were small, and her mouth was, too, this was in front of her friends and colleagues. She was humiliated, for the first time in her life she felt completely enraged and humiliated by Sherlock Holmes. "You always say such awful things," she had nearly spat out. And then, he apologized to her. He apologized, like he hadn't realized what he had said, and he kissed her on the cheek, and what in the world was she to do with that?

And she couldn't even process that when she was called in later that evening to perform an autopsy on a perfectly proportioned woman. Too young, and very much dead, face horribly disfigured. Sherlock had been visibly affected when he identified the woman as Irene Adler, and she wondered who this woman was to him, and how he knew what she looked like below the waist, was intimately acquainted, well enough to identify her. She still wondered.

It was only six months later when Moriarty returned, and though she was not paralyzed by fear, she certainly appreciated the security detail that Sherlock's brother had posted at her flat, and outside of St. Bart's, possibly for her benefit, but the latter was probably also for Sherlock himself. Something in the man's demeanor changed and she recognized that. He knew Moriarty's plan, she was certain. She prattled on one day, and he tried to spare her from the embarrassment of again saying something ridiculous and stupid. But she continued on. "You look sad when you think he can't see you." She didn't know the nature of Sherlock and John's relationship. She didn't think it was romantic. Unlike others, she didn't make the assumption that it was sexual or romantic simply because it was obvious that they cared for one another. But John had been there in a way no one else had before. No one else had been that close, and Molly could see it. Hell, everyone could see it. Sherlock knew, though. He knew that Moriarty was going to try and kill him, and not just kill him, but destroy him. She had promised to help, even if he never needed her. She didn't know she was important at all, not until he had looked stunned when she had expressed this sentiment. She offered what she could. She offered herself.

"If I wasn't everything you thought I was..." Molly's heart ached when he came to her, startled her in the dark. She thought for certain that it was him..not Sherlock, but Moriarty, come to hurt her, come to use her once again to get to Sherlock. She hadn't been afraid. She had been willing, willing yo help. Willing to fight and end this monster of a man, James Moriarty.

"What do you need?" Molly had asked, afraid of the answer, afraid she wouldn't have what he needed. That it wouldn't be enough and he would escape again. Her heart had leapt when Sherlock had said "You."

Sherlock paced as he explained the plan to her. It was simple, but so many factors made it easy to go wrong. She was afraid, because what if he had it all wrong? What if he couldn't easily be lured to the rooftop? In the end, she would do her part. She would help Sherlock fake his suicide, and she wouldn't breathe a word to anyone.

She watched from the window that day, as it all unfolded. She saw Moriarty on the roof, saw him fall by his own hand. She saw, rather than heard John's near silent cry of "Sherlock". She watched as several people dressed very much like emergency personnel, kept John away for all but a moment, treated him for shock. She watched as they brought Sherlock to her, and she sent him off to her flat to wait until she procured a body that looked enough like Sherlock to be passable. She stood by as Mycroft Holmes identified his brother's body, and she nodded once as he whispered in her ear, "I know where he is, Dr. Hooper. This is a passable doppelgänger, to be certain. I offer you any assistance you may require to keep him safe."

Several hours later, she returned home, noticing that her security detail had thinned out significantly. Obviously, Moriarty's demise had been the cause of that, but she knew he was only one of many. The battle was over, but for Sherlock, the war had just begun. When she opened her door, the man himself was sleeping on her couch, wrapped in her grandmother's afghan and with Toby curled at his feet. Sherlock had dyed his hair a deep auburn, and what a difference that had made. Not to mention the fact he had completely done away with his curls, and he looked like an entirely different man. The coat was gone, and he looked so much younger without it. He stirred as she walked through the door. "Molly," he said, rubbing his eyes and sitting up.

"Sherlock," she said, yawning and dropping her bag on the armchair. "You look..."

He self consciously rubbed at his head. "I don't like it."

"No, it's good. It suits the new you. I guess."

"Molly, I-"

She shook her head. "Don't. Don't apologize or thank me or do anything. Not now." She sat down beside him, and sighed. "Just do what you were meant to do. I'll keep your secret. I'll keep them all safe."

He looked at her, stunned. "I don't know what to say."

"That's okay." She leaned her head against his shoulder, and he relaxed at the sensation. "Your brother knows. In case you wondered. He did praise my choice of a body, however. Mr. John Doe 17 is certainly a good likeness. You should let him help you, Sherlock."

"The world thinks I'm a fraud."

"That was his plan. But he only halfway succeeded, Sherlock."

"What do you mean?"

"He made the Yard doubt you, and those who see you as a star, a legend - they doubt you. But all those people you helped. And your friends. We don't doubt you. We believe. You've beaten him at his own game. You destroyed him. And tomorrow, you will begin to destroy the rest of his network."

Sherlock looked at her, surprised. "You believe that?"

"What?"

"That there are still people who believe?"

"Of course there are, you idiot. Now, come on. I'll fix you something to eat and then we can both sleep. Tomorrow is another day. And Sherlock?"

He raised his eyebrows. "Hmm?"

"You better not take any unnecessary risks, and you better come home as soon as you can. Especially for John. I don't know much, but I know that you mean a lot to him. I wish I could convince you to take him along."

Sherlock shook his head. "Too risky."

Molly sighed and nodded. "All right. Do what you were meant to do, Sherlock. There will still be people who believe in you."