"I just wish that you were alive to hear that."

Suddenly, he heard a soft, strangled, definitely feminine...sob from directly behind him. He paused, face slowly growing warmer in embarrassment, before he whirled around to confront the intruder, an angry rebuke ready on his lips…

But what he saw made him take back anything that he was about to say.


The Englishman was still on the path. Obviously he hadn't cleared out when he was leaving Molly's grave. But what was he doing by the grave that Sherlock had come to visit? Why hadn't he left when the two men had walked past each other?

And why was the Englishman...crying?

Sherlock was sure that he had heard an extremely feminine sob from behind him. So why was the Englishman here, rather than the woman he was sure of hearing earlier?

Slowly, the Englishman looked up to meet Sherlock's eyes, tears rolling down his face. Slowly, he reached a slim hand to his face and tugged at a corner of his mustache. In shock, Sherlock watched as he pulled off the mustache, then did the same to each of his sideburns, placing all of the false facial hair onto the ground. Alarms were ringing throughout his mind. This was not possible. This was not possible. This was not possible. This was not possible.

Finally, the Englishman took a deep breath and grasped an area near the roots of his hair. Quickly, he wrenched it all off and Sherlock quickly took in a breath as he realized that the reddish-brown hair he had seen was merely a cleverly placed wig.

Suddenly, a woman with the same shade of reddish-brown hair tumbling in waves around her shoulders, wearing men's attire, and crying silently, stood before him on the path.

But this woman was much more familiar now than when she had disguised herself as a man.

All of the pieces began to fall into place.

Who was the only woman Sherlock knew that would go to such lengths to disguise herself as a man? Who was the only woman Sherlock knew that had precisely the shade of reddish-brown hair that the woman had now? And who was the only woman that would be so unfamiliar to him merely because she looked fifteen years older than the last image of her in his head?

"Molly," he whispered. "Molly Hooper."

"Me," the woman on the path agreed in a wavering voice, tears rolling down her face. "It's so wonderful to be able...to meet you again."

"But…" He whirled around again. The headstone was still there, grim and imposing as ever. Marie Hooper, 1812 - 1832. Resurgam. "You're dead!" He exclaimed, whirling to face Molly. "You died in my lap fifteen years ago!"

"Resurgam," she said quietly. "Did you ever...just pause to think about what it meant?"

"'I shall rise again,'" he replied softly, realization dawning upon him like the first rays of daylight.

"It was, I guess...my last message to you, Sherlock," she said quietly. "You were never the one who put it there. I did. I forged your writing when I...when I broke into the carver's and found the form you'd written to commission my headstone. I scribbled it at the end of Marie Hooper, 1812-1832. I assumed you would come to visit and I hoped you would...understand."

"But the blood!" He tried desperately to hang on to a bit of reality. "You were bleeding out all over me!"

"False. Just like those magicians we…we used to watch as children on the street. Just a trick. Just a magic trick, I swear."

All of the pieces fell into place.

"Did...you mean it? Everything you said? When you were talking to my grave, Sherlock?" Molly asked suddenly, a hint of hope tracing her tone. She nervously played with her hands as she spoke, the cool breeze playing with her hair.

"Of course I meant it, Molly," Sherlock said, absolutely dumbfounded. "But one thing. Where were you for the past fifteen years?"

"England," she replied. "Masquerading as one Milo Hooper. I got my degrees this way, I'm actually a pathologist now at Bart's hospital in London under that name. I just came to...say goodbye, I guess, to my past. I never expected for you to be here."

"But why would you fake your death to escape to England, Molly?"

"You."

"Sorry?"

She seemed genuinely ashamed. "You," she repeated. "I thought that you'd finally found the one who was perfect for you. And it wasn't me. Even though we've been friends for...forever!" She laughed mirthlessly. "I didn't think you wanted me around anymore. I think that you asking me to find Irene was the last straw. I went to a magician, asked him for some false blood. A couple of sous* later, I was ready...ready to die. And when...y-you asked me to d-deliver the letter, I saw my chance. The rest...the rest was just acting." She took a deep breath. "And also, it was for me. It was better for you to think me dead so I could go on with my own life! So I could learn new things, meet new people, see new places. All without the burden of thinking of a man who would never love me back. Well." She took another breath. "Until now."

Sherlock stared at this woman, this new, grown woman who had made her way in the world with her wits and starlike wonder. This woman that he loved more than ever now. This woman who, amazingly, was alive.

"I was only here to visit the graves of Les Amis de l'ABC, my grave, and then leave France forever," Molly explained further. "Rather like a milestone in my new life, I guess. But as was said, I never expected to see you, or hear what you would say about me. Honestly…" She smiled a little, despite her tears. "I still love you. Even being, well, dead for fifteen years hasn't changed that." She cautiously stepped closer, and Sherlock saw the sunlight filtering through her brown hair and turning it flaming red where the sun touched it. Molly was a little bit taller, he realized. And her girlish features had matured into the face of a worldly, strong woman while still maintaining a sense of youth. She looked more determined than ever.

Sherlock stepped toward her too, cautiously as well, as if they were meeting for the first time. For a second, he feared that she was only a shadow that would be chased away if he got too close. But when he extended a hand, she took it eagerly in both hands, and Sherlock knew that Molly was real. She was alive.

And she still loved him just as much as he loved her.

His other hand came up in a gesture so familiar, it felt like it had been done many times over. He felt her face, wiping away the tears that had spilled over as she had explained her death to him. She was perfectly warm to the touch, to Sherlock's joy.

"Alive," he whispered happily. "You're...alive."

"I am," she smiled back at him, the sun's rays kissing every inch of her face.

"You said you were going back to London?" Sherlock clarified.

A wordless nod was Molly's answer.

Sherlock leaned in, quite close, close enough to count every freckle on the woman's nose. Molly blushed deeply and Sherlock could see her eyes darting around: it was rather indecent for them to be this close in public. But Sherlock didn't care, he had one thing he needed to ask.

"Please," he whispered intensely. "Please, take me with you."

Molly's dark eyes lit up. "Always and instantly," she murmured before pulling him into a consuming kiss...

And Sherlock had no doubt, absolutely no doubt, that this woman was alive and it was not a dream...or was it...


Sherlock jerked awake, staring at the ceiling, lips still tingling.

Molly, he realized suddenly. Molly!

He sat up straight in bed.

Molly?

He heard soft breathing to his right and sank back into bed in relief. Molly was alive, they were both in London…

He rolled over and quietly put his arms around Molly, his wife now, marveling at how tiny yet powerful she was and trying to calm his racing heartbeat. Bracing his forehead against hers, he watched as her dark eyes opened a crack.

"Well, look who's here," she smiled impishly and snuggled deeper into him. "Good way to start the morning, eh?"

She was still working at Bart's, still under a man's name. But Sherlock was trying to call in a few favors so that she could work under her given name. Times were changing, and Sherlock firmly believed that some things had to change, as well.

"Nothing like interaction with the living to prepare for working with the dead," Sherlock tried to joke as Molly buried her face in the crook of his neck.

"Was that a joke I just heard, Sherlock Holmes?" she sniffed a laugh. "You continually amaze me."

"And you continually amaze me, as well, Molly Holmes," Sherlock pointed out, carding a hand through her hair. "Coming back from the dead and all."

"I'm glad we crossed paths at the cemetery," Molly sighed. "If we hadn't...I'd be pining for someone living all the way across the English Channel!"

"And I wouldn't have known the truth, and we wouldn't have ended up here, together."

"Let's not think about what might have been," Molly sighed again into Sherlock's neck, sending shivers down his back.

"Y-yes," he agreed waveringly. "For now, we have what is to be. And I'm perfectly satisfied with it."

"I too."


Now THAT took a while to finish properly.

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