"Thank you." I quickly ended the call and proceeded to hailing a taxi. The cab driver turned around to look at me and I took that as an opportunity to deduce as much as I could about him. He was wearing a very nice suit, a suit that was certainly not affordable for a cab driver. He had a previous job in an office, indicated by the angle he held his wrists at as he drove. The fact that he was still wearing the suit, meaning it was probably relatively new, told me that he had been laid off when the income of his business had decreased. The business had something to do with mobile phones, which I could tell because of the model of his mobile phone sitting on the chair beside him was considered luxurious, despite his scanty salary. Several other deductions came to mind, but I tried to focus on the case.

Lestrade had phoned me earlier, requesting my help for a particularly enigmatic case after the fifth murder that had happened only an hour before. The victims were clearly poisoned hours prior to their death, but there was a separate chemical injected into the victim merely minutes before death that masked the poison they had previously consumed. Anderson reasoned that it was because the murderer was hoping that the poison and the chemical injection would be muddled, creating a new substance that would somehow affect the death of the patient. Anderson really is an idiot. It took me seconds to realize the killer was using a second chemical to mask the first because they, probably a he- it is statistically more likely, realized that the first poison could somehow be traced back to them. It was in that moment I realized that I would have to figure out what the poison was so I could trace it back to the murderer.

According to Lestrade, there were no connections between the five victims. I was going to observe the most recent victim and preform several experiments on them, hoping to find the original poison. The body was being kept at Bart's Morgue, meaning I would probably run into Molly Hooper. I used to think she was a nuisance, but then I was forced to stay at her place while I attempted to dismantle Moriarty's criminal network after my "suicide". I learned there was more to Molly than just a blushing girl who I could easily manipulate. She was a horrible cook; I remembered chuckling in the kitchen at Molly's failed attempt at making pasta. She loved to sketch; a look of concentration and focus I had never seen before on her soft features always came across her face whenever she picked up paper and a pencil. Neither of these things I had noticed, or- more accurately- bothered to deduce, before I was forced to share a flat with her. Now my opinion of her has changed, and possibly my feelings towards her also.

No – I couldn't think about Molly right now. I was on a case. The term 'married to my work' came to mind, but I dismissed it immediately. There had been five murders, and I knew I should try to discover who the murderer was. I would admit I was definitely intrigued by the case so far. If John was with me, he would have been lecturing me about how I should be more compassionate towards the victims and their suffering families. However, John wasn't here. After Molly and I had revealed to him a month ago that my death was faked, he asked for a little time to comprehend it. He hasn't said a word to me since.

The cab driver arrived at Bart's, and I paid the fare for the ride before exiting the cab. Bart's Morgue was particularly familiar to me, for I had spent several hours in the rooms that reeked of both chemicals and death. I noticed that the quiet footfalls of Molly were absent. I tried to calculate where she could be- on her break, getting some equipment from other pathologists, or maybe going to the restroom. The body of the most recent victim had been left on a table for me, ready to be investigated. I walked over to it, my footsteps resounding throughout the silent room. The silence was unnerving- usually I at least had Molly's erratic breathing to keep me company, even if it could get extremely irritating. I had recently noticed Molly always showed visible signs of nervousness when she was around me, either the quick breathing, the racing pulse, the vibrant cheeks, or the dilated pupils. I shook my head slightly- once again, now was not the time to be thinking about Molly. I had a very interesting case with lots of potential on hand, and my thoughts were constantly about Molly. There had to be something wrong with me, and I hoped it wasn't sentiment. I've seen sentiment destroy several people, and I could not let it have its dark tentacles wrapped around me.

I unzipped the plastic bag in which the dead body lay cautiously, unprepared for what I may see on the body as a result of the murder that had been described to me. Lestrade was unable to identify either the chemical or the poison, and nobody was intelligent enough to take notes on the physical effects they might have on the bodies. My mind slowly registered the facial features, timid but familiar, despite being maimed by the murderer. The chestnut brown hair was pulled back into a thick ponytail and was matted with blood from a deep gash in the temple of the head. Then the horrifying realization strikes me- this is the face of pathologist Molly Hooper.

Molly's features seem smaller in death, and not at all peaceful. I realize she must have discovered what was happening to her before she died, and I knew she had tried to prevent it. As I studied the bruises and lacerations on her fragile body, I can tell that Molly struggled against her attacker and tried to fight back when he either poisoned her or injected her with the chemicals. I felt as if I might be sick when I remembered Molly phoning me several times earlier in the day, close to the time when she must have died. She was calling me to try and get my help, to see if I could possibly save her, and I ignored her so I could finish conducting an insignificant experiment. When I realized that this is how John felt when he thought I was dead, I suddenly have much more sympathy for him. However, he never had the guilt I will have for the rest of my life, knowing I could have saved Molly if I had only answered my phone.

The sentiment broke through my barriers, the dark tentacles prodding me restlessly. Visions filled my mind, already haunting me. One of them was of Molly attempting to help me solve a difficult case. She had pointed out a vital clue that had I had looked over, deeming it unimportant. She was flustered when I genuinely praised her for helping me solve the case. Another was a tearful day when Molly received the news that her mother had died and she sought refuge in my arms. I held her, awkwardly trying to comfort her, as a constant stream of tears ran down her face. At the time, I thought it was ridiculous of how much sentiment affected her. The third memory hits me the strongest, and it is the one I can remember with the most detail. It was a rainy day at Molly's flat, and she was sketching quietly in a beige chair. I leaned over the armrest of the chair to see what she was drawing, and, after meeting my eyes with her chocolate brown ones, she hesitantly kissed me. It was a nice kiss- soft and sweet. She pulled back quickly though, her cheeks were a flaming color brighter than I had ever seen them before but her lips were curved up in a small smile.

And I indirectly murdered her. Heavy guilt weighed me down, bringing me to my knees. I never imagined anything could break my spirit, the spirit of the consulting detective Sherlock Holmes, but this has. I attempted to inspect the body, but the task had become infinitely more painful since I discovered it was my friend lying dead beneath my fingertips that were trying to discover the chemicals and the poison. An internal debate started up inside myself of whether or not I should continue to aid Lestrade on this case. I knew that I could prevent several other innocent people from being murdered if I could discover the original poison, but I didn't know if I could handle studying Molly's body as if it was one of my experiments. In that point in time, I mentally shook myself, trying to get some sense into my head. I had never abandoned an exciting case for anything, especially not sentiment, and I wasn't going to begin now. That is when I noticed the crumpled up paper Molly clutched in her right hand.

The paper was curled into a ball and she was clutching it as if it was the most important thing in the world to her. I carefully massaged her frigid fingers open and retrieved the paper. Molly's handwriting was very distinctive and I could tell the message had been written quickly, for the ink was slightly smeared as her wrist flew across the page. My brow furrowed slightly as I begin to read the letter.

Dear Sherlock,

I know I am going to die. I've tried to prevent it in every way possible, but I've realized I'm stuck. There is nothing I can do about it anymore, so I'm trying to accept it. The truth is, Sherlock, that I'm scared. There is so much more that I wanted to do, and I'm going to be brutally honest while writing this. It's not like I have anything to loose anymore. I just wanted to let you know that I think I may be in love with you. My heart pounds whenever I'm around you, and I'm always so sure that you hear it. Even when you used me and manipulated me to get what you needed, I still let you because I was your friend, or at least it was I seemed to be with you. Then the fall happened, and I realized that you began to depend on me a little at a time after you moved into my flat. You have no idea how that made me feel. I felt like I could share anything with you, even if you never felt the same. You became more aware of my feelings and stopped insulting me most of the time(thank you for that by the way). Then the night we kissed… I can hardly describe it. I was so immensely happy I would consider it miraculous if you didn't see me smiling like an idiot for the next week. All I wanted to do was kiss you again, and now I'll die knowing I never got the chance to. At least I got to kiss you once, and I still can't believe I ever got the courage to do that. Another thing that I think you need to know is that this was a completely random homicide, and you definitely did not bring this on. There was nothing you could do to stop it. Thank you for everything. Goodbye Sherlock.

-Molly

There was a trail of wetness down my face and I was repulsed at the expression of sentiment. I decided I needed to stay on the case just to prove to myself I could overcome the emotions that were threatening to overwhelm me. The great Sherlock Holmes, battling his feelings - that was definitely a first. I took one look at Molly's innocent brown eyes, externally fixed on some distant point, and realized I couldn't finish the case without destroying myself and all the pleasant memories I had with her. My numb fingers dialed Lestrade's number and I wait for him to pick up.

"Sherlock? What happened? Did you discover something?" I can hear the urgency in Lestrade's voice and I knew he was fearful that another attack would happen unless we stopped the murderer quickly. I averted my eyes away from Molly, trying to make myself sound emotionally unattached.

"Listen, Greg…" I hear the other line get very quiet as Lestrade realized something must be extremely wrong if I was calling him by his first name. "I can't finish the case."

I could practically feel his shock through my mobile phone. "What? Why not? Sherlock, what's wrong?" Lestrade sounded nervous, for he knew that if I couldn't continue with an intriguing case, then something must be very wrong.

"Did you know who the latest victim was?" I asked, hating myself when my voice cracked.

"What? No. Why would you ask-" I quickly clicked the end button, silencing the phone call. He didn't know it was Molly.

I discovered the pad of paper that Molly had ripped a sheet out of to write her final note, and take out my own sheet while also grabbing a nearby pen.

I might have been falling in love with you too.

-Sherlock Holmes

I folded the paper into a small square and put it right next to her note. My eyes scanned over Molly one final time, and I knew after today I would never see her again. I would never see the joy light up her eyes, or her bounce slightly on the balls of her feet when she was excited. I shook my head, trying to clear it of Molly. Honestly, there was nothing else to think of anymore besides John, but John wasn't present. I didn't know if I would ever see John again.

I exited the morgue and walked aimlessly through the streets, unsure of where I could go or where I was welcome. I couldn't go back to Molly's flat, and I don't think I'll ever be able to, because of the events that had happened that day. I also knew I couldn't make myself go back to 221B Baker Street because too many painful memories of John were buried there. I watched as various people walked around me, several with smiles on their faces. I didn't even have the heart in me anymore to try to focus on my deductions. So many people walking to different places without a care in the world, unaware that everything they know could be ripped from them in such a little time. It was amazing how sentiment could destroy you.

There was no place to go and nobody to be with. I was truly alone.

Author's Note:

All these characters belong to BBC's Sherlock.

This was really depressing and hard for me to write, but I felt like it was just too good to pass by. Also, this is my very first Sherlock fic, so please tell me what you think in a review! Reviews mean the world to me! Also, I DO ship Mollylock/Sherlolly, and I promise my next fic about them will be much happier, probably even fluffy. Thanks for reading!

Lastly, it takes me hours to write this, but it only takes you a couple of seconds to review. Please leave a review!

~NN