It had started when he was away. He had been away for quite some time - a year at least - when he began to notice his distraction. He disliked distraction when working, so much so that he swore them off completely when he went clean. Well, save cigarettes. Distracted by thoughts of *companionship*, which yielded thoughts of friendship, which in turn led to thoughts of the people he considered to be his friends. Even while beating an operative to within an inch of his life, he grimaced at the term. Yes, Sherlock Holmes had a friend. A very good one at that. John Watson was a very good friend. But what of Mrs. Hudson? Hardly a friend. More like a beloved aunt. What of...George? Gavin? Gustave? LeStrade. A useful ally. A means to an end. Ok. A friend of sorts. That left Molly. Surely she was a friend. His mind couldn't reconcile the definition of friend with the slight stirring in his stomach at the thought of her.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Then he came back. He came back to the people he had sacrificed two years of his life for. He returned to find the two people he cared for most in this world engaged. They had found people they cared for more than him.

John didn't surprise him really. But Molly, she had. He was well aware of her attraction for him, & perhaps he fleetingly had thought that that alone would secure her loyalty & exclusivity. He was wrong. He asked her out despite knowing she was betrothed. They'd spend the day together in a fashion that would tell him all he needed to know. And what he discovered was, she was over him. Her manner was altered. Her stammer, gone. Her hesitation replaced by quiet confidence & attractive reserve. She laughed at his jokes without blushing, she offered her strictures in complete silence. They moved in musical tandem, finishing one another's sentences which irritatingly recalled his parents. How tiresome. Parents.

His shock at seeing Tom was profound, but he had said goodbye. Nothing to be done about it. Molly had made her choice.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::;:::

He awoke in hospital, attached to many machines. His eyes refused to focus. He could hear something - it sounded very far away - like a whimper or a dove. Willing himself to see the source of the sound, he wretched his eyes open & searched the white room, whose lights reflected off the walls & threatened blindness or a migraine. There, next to him, not three feet away, was Molly. She sat there, nose in a book, holding vigil at his side. She must've been crying for him.

"Ma-ee?" He wasn't sure if that made sense. His language was muffled.

She looked up. "Sherlock! Don't talk. You've got all sorts..." and she fiddled with the attachments. "Blast. Should fetch a nurse." She rang the bell.

Molly sat down again & picked up her book that had fallen from her movement. "Rebecca," by Daphne Du Maurier. Sherlock noted the title. In walked the nurse, checked vitals, removed the restrictive mask & gadgets so he could speak. He offered a very weak & silly smile for the nurse when she left.

"So...how are we feeling?" Molly asked.

"Dreadful," was his reply. "Got shot."

"Yeah. Well, can't say I'm sorry. Drugs & all. Part of the life."

Sherlock's face betrayed a look of indignation. "I wasn't shot getting drugs," although he was barely audible, she understood.

"No? Then how? What happened?"

His eyes fell. "You were crying just now," he croaked.

"Yes. The girl here," she motioned toward the volume. "She's something. She hides, all the while in a shadow. Then she realises the shadow never existed. And she emerges basking in the warm sun." Molly has a far away look about her face.

"You mean...you were crying over a book? And here I lay...practically dead..." He pouted.

She laughed. "Oh Sherlock! I am sorry you were shot. But I knew you'd be fine."

He didn't like it. "You were sitting here crying over a book."

"Sorry. It's just...I can...identify with her."

He looked away. This wasn't going well. "Where's John?"

"With Mary, I think. I should be off," she said, standing. " I'll be back tomorrow," and she kissed his forehead. She was no longer cross with him.

And he was left alone to ponder these thoughts: Mary. John. Molly. Wasn't crying for him. Reading a book. Mary. Molly...