Partially inspired by Whitman's "Oh me! Oh life!" poem. Read it...it's awesome.

(Also...I'll be finishing up All the World's a Stage this week...and my other WIP next week - thanks!)

(Tarmac Scene, Rethought)

"John, there's something I want to tell you…I've meant to say it always, but I never have."

A pregnant pause.

"I love you…you're my best friend, I've never had a best friend. Never believed I'd have one…but you are one of seven people in this world that I'd do anything for. And I would have continued to do it…had it not been for…." he stopped, and lowered his head.

"…been for…?"

He looked up and smiled a watery smile, "Well. To the very best of times…" and shook his dear friend's hand.

Sherlock turned to leave.

"Sherlock…"

"Hmmm?"

"Who are the seven people?"

He smiled at John. "Well, my parents, obviously. Mycroft…though don't you breathe a word to him. You, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade…" he stopped.

John's face contorted in confusion. "I count six…"

Sherlock winked and went to board the plane.

Molly knew what was happening. She knew, she accepted it. She grieved silently as always (Molly Hooper was stronger than anyone gave her credit for). She suspected when she saw the video loop of Jim that it was a fake, which was why she wasn't terribly fussed (shocked, but not concerned). She also knew that the government would never allow Sherlock to leave now that it was suspected that Jim was back, Mycroft would see to that.

She got ready to leave at the end of the day. She hadn't checked her mobile, but noticed when she checked the time that she had missed a few texts.

(2:25 pm) Won't be leaving. SH

(3:07 pm) I assume that you are ok. SH

(5:48 pm) Please send a text when you receive this that you are, in fact, ok. SH

(6:45 pm) If I don't hear from you in the next hour, I'm going to begin a search. SH

(6:46 pm) Well, Mycroft will, at any rate. SH

That was an hour and fifteen minutes ago.

I'm just leaving work now…am fine… MH

"Too late," said a voice from behind her in the locker room.

"Oh! Hey, Sherlock," Molly had jumped and whirled around, smiling. "I'm fine, as you can see."

"Clearly," he replied. "Well…I'll just head back, then. Plenty of work…should we share a cab?"

Molly nodded and smiled. "That'd be lovely," and the pair walked out.

They walked out and Sherlock hailed a cab. Into the vehicle they clambered and he took out his phone and began to scroll. Molly fidgeted with her bag a bit, and began to make conversation, "So, I saw the interruption."

"Hmm, yes. I thought you might've."

"Working on that, then?"

"Trying to."

She took that as a plea for her to shut up.

But he continued, "I doubt it's anything to be overly concerned about. However, there will be certain…people….who will be given added protection courtesy of Mycroft. I hope that you don't find it to be too much of a hindrance."

"Me?"

"Yes…of course. Anyone who has been intimately acquainted with me will be watched more closely. Luckily, that list is rather small."

Molly nodded. "Yeah…I imagine."

He went back to his phone. "I want you to be careful, Molly. Mindful of your surroundings and people on the street."

She smirked. "I always am."

"More diligently, now. I insist," he looked intently at her.

"Ok, Sherlock."

He smiled as they reached her flat. "As an added precaution, I'll be texting you more regularly. Someone will be by tomorrow with a phone to serve that purpose. That phone is to be used only to text me - for nothing else. Keep it on your person always, but never let it be seen in public. Understand?"

She nodded. He was being thorough, and a bit over the top, she believed.

He continued, "One of Mycroft's men will be there with you tonight until that hone is delivered in the morning. No work tomorrow - and you'll be brought to Baker Street for a lunch meeting with John and Mary. Mycroft will also be there, unfortunately."

"Ok."

"Goodnight, Molly," and he turned away from her, texting his brother that she was at her building.

Molly returned the sentiment, and went to her flat, a bit confused, but glad for his fierce concern.

He returned to Baker Street alone. Flat empty. He put a kettle on, and began to rummage about the kitchen.

Mere hours ago he believed he might be sent away. For good. Forever. He thought that perhaps Mycroft would do something to stop it all…he thought that he wouldn't be privy to whatever scheme he conjured…but his brother had said no. This wasn't his work. Someone wanted the country to believe that Moriarty was alive.

Kettle screamed.

Pour out tea.

He never gave into the depression he often felt. Submission to such a weakness had never been high on his list of desirable attributes. But throughout his life (as he sat down by the fire, sipping his drink and stippling his fingers) he had danced with that tendency.

He fought it with drugs.

He evaded it with work.

He lost himself in the care of those whom he loved.

All of those silly people, worrying over silly things. Busying over whether some footie match was won. Caring about whether two fictional characters would ever fuck or not. What to have for dinner…who said what to whom…like a sick carousel of trite and insignificant worries that people use to deny and avoid that what really matters.

What was the point.

Foolish streets filled with equally foolish people.

But for seven.

Seven people whom he loved had made his life worthwhile.

But to everyone, until recently, it was six. Well, maybe three.

That one person, the one person whom he would deny, repeatedly, having any want or feeling for, crept to the forefront of his mind…crept, because he had kept her safe from himself. Safe from the life he lived, except when absolutely necessary. Safe from his thoughts, for his thoughts were most troubling of all…

"You shouldn't deny yourself, Sherlock. Everyone deserves love…" His mind conjured Molly sitting across from him in John's chair.

"I don't. Not really," he looked up at her. His eyes were sad.

Molly smirked her crooked smile. "Yes, you do. You're a good person."

"You cannot know that. I haven't let you in…"

"Why?"

"Because you're safer when kept at a distance," and he turned toward the fire.

"From what, exactly?" and Mind Molly slid off the chair and kneeled in front of him, and rested her hands on his knees.

He looked at her again. "From me. From my life."

"You should let me judge that," and she began to slowly lean into him, her eyes resting on his mouth.

"And what would you do if I let you?"

"This…" and she grabbed his mouth in hers, her tongue licking his bottom lip. She quickly deepened the kiss, desperate in her actions. She climbed atop him, not breaking the kiss, and straddled him in his chair.

She quickly began taking off her jumper…her bra, and he grabbed her sides and pulled her breast to his face, caressing her nipple, already erect in anticipation, and Molly moaned loudly.

Somehow (likely because his mind couldn't withstand it) she was naked, and he was inside her warmth, her rocking gently on top of him, her head thrown back, hands on his shoulders. Slowly she quickened her motion, and she looked at him now, fierce hunger across her face, along with perspiration and something else indescribable. Sherlock met her eyes, and a tear formed…his hand reached up to her cheek…

And she vanished. He was alone once more. But the tear fell in solitude down his face.

Molly laid in her bed while a stranger sat in her lounge. She thought about the cab ride, and how silly Sherlock was. Of course she would be fine.

It gave her great pleasure to finally be at ease around him. Her stammer abandoned, her eagerness quelled, her sarcasm evident. She didn't think he noticed all that much, really. But to Molly Hooper, it meant the world.

How much she loved him, she couldn't say. She hadn't always loved him, that much was certain. He was a prat.

But…she saw how much love and care he was capable of. She noticed his face when no one else did. She saw how much emotion lingered under the surface of his skin…and Molly, though always prone to silly flights of fancy, would also despair in her quiet. She longed to touch his hand, to let him know that she, too, felt pain…

"I don't feel pain, Molly," said Sherlock from the chair in her bedroom.

"You feel it more than anyone I've ever known," she told the apparition, and she sat up.

"Ridiculous," he smirked. "You know me too well."

"I do. And I still love you."

"How?"

She shrugged. "Dunno…just do. You amaze me, but also never surprise me."

He got up and sat on the edge of her bed. "Well, Molly Hooper. You always surprise me."

She leaned back against the headboard. "I don't believe you…you don't pay attention to me."

Sherlock leaned in toward her. "I see you…when you aren't looking…and you amaze me…you beautiful, brilliant creature," and he grabbed her, and kissed her soundly.

Molly quickly succumbed to his actions, and he undressed her without ceremony…his hands feeling out every inch of her in passionate examination…and he too, though Molly couldn't account for it, was naked, and now on top of her.

Their kisses were hungry, their hands on the other's faces, asses, running along their heated bodies in such a frenzy that Molly felt as though she were falling.

And when he slid inside her, she gasped, she cried, and he followed suit…again and again he thrusted in her, until she wept, overwhelmed…

And on her side she laid. Curled like a child, holding onto the duvet, soaking her pillow in salty tears.

Molly only wanted to be a small but significant verse in the play that surrounded the great man, she never wished for anything so dramatic as what her mind just created.

And Sherlock, for his part, merely wanted Molly…to let the world go by…he was tired of it all…his mind required respite. She could be his tonic, if he wasn't such a coward…

The two minds met without realizing…their wishes oddly similar. And the streets below hummed in constant banter, in meaningless drabble, in adherent worship of all things contrived…

In tandem they played without knowledge, each contributing a verse to the other, and their tears mixed in somber morning.