I always wonder why did we bother,
distanced from one, blind to the other.

Oh, but sweetness follows.

-REM

Finally, after so many moments of running, John stopped. He stood in the doorway of their flat and let the cold water of doubt rush over him. He couldn't move, he couldn't think. There was nothing there for him but an overwhelming sense of self-despair and lingering moments, ended all too soon. He gasped for air, unaware that his breath had been held. John closed his eyes and counted.

One…

Two…

Three…

With that third beat still ringing in his mind, he turned the doorknob and entered the flat. It was cold and dusty, and he couldn't believe that only hours before he'd sat in those chairs, heard that voice.

He turned and saw Sherlock, shadowed, standing by the door to his room.

"You're late John."

I was worried… Was I? How interesting.

"I couldn't… I couldn't come sooner."

John sighed and fell into his favourite chair, relief overcoming him as his legs shook and he fought to keep the cry from escaping his lips. His shoulders shuddered as Sherlock watched, walking gracefully on steady legs to the window.

"He's coming for you, but you already know that, don't you?" John let his fury colour his words as he spat them out, feeling the blood drain from his already pale face.

"I'm aware."

Sherlock said nothing more, continuing his disinterested stare out the window, watching life progress as usual on the streets. Cabs to catch, biscuits to buy, people to see. People. He disliked them almost as much as they disliked him.

Excepting John. No, he was unique.

How remarkable.

John watched his shoulders rise and fall, so steady, so sure in what was about to happen. It was almost as if he didn't care, didn't mind leaving, accepted his eminent and early death. John hated it, hated his cold certainty and his willingness to go down fighting. Most of all, he hated how much he loved this cruel, wonderful man.

"You can't leave." He was on his feet before he knew it, closing the gap between them in moments. "I won't let you. You can't. Call Mycroft, I don't care."

But that was the thing. He did care. More than he would admit. John flexed his still hand and debated turning Sherlock around by force and shaking him until he understood just why he couldn't chase Moriarty to the ends of the earth.

Before he had even laid a hand on the detective's shoulder, Sherlock turned. They were now standing face to face, and John couldn't read the expression in Sherlock's green eyes.

"Please. You can't leave. London needs you."

Sherlock smiled. "I doubt that."

"I need you." Those words caught in John's throat and once again he let out a stilted breath he hadn't been aware of holding.

The ice in Sherlock's eyes melted as he closed the gap between them, lips brushing John's before he had a chance to react. John's eyes closed and he shivered, uncomprehending that this was goodbye.

Sherlock pulled back and John felt his last nerve break as the detective strode out of 221B, coat swirling and face masking some pain he hadn't known he possessed.

John ran for a cab and sat with shaking hands in the back, reaching into his coat for his ever-present gun, hand grasping a soft envelope instead.

My dearest John, it began.

And in the back of that cab, far from Sherlock Holmes, John Watson cried.

Months went by, and Sherlock's blood slowly washed out of the concrete outside of St. Bart's. Like it had never happened.

And no matter how hard he tried, John couldn't wash the memory of that bloodstained face out of his mind. Every time he closed his eyes, there he was.

There were no more dreams about the war, no.

Only falling.

One year later.

She slid into the vinyl booth, jeans squeaking on the orange plastic as she moved her thin legs, crossing them once, then twice. Her long fingers toyed with a single ring on her pinky that glinted in what little light the diner lamp bequeathed. The restaurant was quiet, old Christmas carols playing murkily even though it was already mid-January. They hadn't noticed the shift in seasons, no-one came here anyway.

She ordered a large chips and paid at the counter with tattered bills, worrying at a hangnail on her thumb. Her slender shape was barely noticeable, the kind of person who could disappear when no longer thought of, vanishing into a thin mist. Being anonymous suited her. Attention was never deemed a necessity.

Returning to her booth, she dipped a chip into a sticky ketchup substance, dousing it once with vinegar and then focusing on her task until every last morsel was complete. Her long brown hair was pulled into a hasty ponytail, and strands were beginning to fall into her eyes. Molly Hooper didn't notice his presence until a low cough came from the booth across from her. She started.

Sherlock Holmes stood before her, his dark hair and piercing eyes just as she had remembered. He looked thinner, and there was a fatigue she couldn't understand that resided in the set of his mouth, the lean in his gait.

"It's not right for you to creep up on me like that." Her voice was tired, and quieter than he was used to.

"You were waiting for me, where you not, Molly?" his voice was low, and smooth, black like a panther.

"Of course. You know I do, every Thursday since you said you weren't okay."

She swallowed, nervous that he'd thought her overbearing or ditzy. For all of her quiet awkwardness, Molly was anything but stupid.

"You waited, even though I was dead? Even though you went to the- funeral?" Here his voice caught, but his eyes remained blank, emotionless and icy.

"You told me to. So I did. Friends do that for each other."

"Wait in empty sandwich shops?"

"No, trust. Trusted that you'd keep your word." She smiled, a sad, bitter thing. "And you did."

Sherlock grimaced, obviously uncomfortable being so close to home when he was already so far away. His eyes flashed, mouth twitching. Sherlock was anxious to be gone.

"I have two minutes, tell me everything you know about him." His voice was abrupt, snarky and rude in the quiet post-Christmas atmosphere of the diner.

Molly raised an eyebrow, chewing on her bottom lip. She hadn't waited here every Thursday for a year for nothing. His green eyes met her brown ones and he lowered his gaze to his hands, which played incessantly across the table and curled under his angular chin.

"Please. –I need to know."

She inhaled, knowing that Sherlock needed the truth.

"It's been hard on John. He's not really the same. I look at him sometimes, and he just looks so empty, like he's waiting for someone, something, anything. He's sad when no-one's looking, just like you."

Sherlock stiffened and swallowed the wave of nausea that threatened to overcome him. This was stupid. John was alive and that was all that mattered. Nothing more.

He stood, still missing the high collar and swirl of his old black coat. This jacket was plain, cheap and ill-fitting. He grimaced, feeling the newly formed bruises on his back. Still running. Always running.

Molly was staring at him, her mouth slightly open as if she couldn't believe he was there in front of her.

"You look like death."

Sherlock stared right back.

"I am dead."

She winced, realizing her clumsy mistake. "Sherlock, I'm sorry, I didn't-"

His eyes flashed, that deep proud anger sparking inside him. His words were sharp, pointed.

"Of course you didn't Molly, you never mean it. None of the stupid things you say, rambling on even though no-one's listening. Seems like your cat collection is growing, what is that, two new kittens?"

He paused, looking at the slight scratches on her wrists.

"No, three and a new boyfriend by the looks of it, you've gained two pounds and look! He has a cat too, how fitting. I wish you the best of luck." His voice had risen, angry and sarcastic.

"And you need not wait for me anymore, I won't be coming back. John's better off without me, you all are. You wasted so much time in this damn restaurant. Why would you wait? Any little feelings left?" He spat out the words, gesturing wildly. In the back, the employees watched and decided not to interfere. The Christmas carols grew louder.

He turned to leave, quietly shutting down all of his emotions until there was a blank slate in his mind. A firm hand caught his wrist.

"You aren't leaving before I tell you this, Sherlock Holmes. Friends help friends, and I may not be yours, but you are definitely mine. I don't count, remember? And you're right, John Watson is better off without you because you're rude and arrogant and obnoxious. But you know what? You need him. You say the most awful things, every time. And you need him. When you were together, you were almost human."

His face was blank but his eyes were shocked, uncertain.

"He misses you."

And with that, Molly Hooper turned and walked straight out of that restaurant, not looking back. Her hands brushed the sticky orange booths and her hair blew in the breeze that greeted her in the brisk street. She walked quickly towards the tube, legs shaking after her confrontation.

He was wrong. That was all she could think about. He was wrong. More than anything, she knew he wasn't okay in the slightest. Wrong. The word echoed in her mind.

She had yelled at Sherlock Holmes. That was definitely a first. Molly smiled and looked at the dirty pavement, folded her hands in her pockets and waited for the train.

Wrong.

Back in the restaurant, Sherlock sat in the booth, long fingers toying with a note, hastily slipped in his glove as she left.

Speedy's Café, 5 pm, Thursday

x

He sipped his black coffee, two sugars, and grimaced. He couldn't run forever.