CHAPTER THREE

The next morning Molly woke up, but did not open her eyes. She had slept hard and didn't want to get up. She then felt a finger touch her cheek, ever so softly. She looked, but the finger had disappeared. She turned her head to see Sherlock gazing at her. It was still amazing to her that he was there—in her bed—with her. She smiled and he smiled back.

"Good morning," she said.

"Good morning," he replied and his smile faded.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. When do you go in today?"

"I don't. I'm off."

"Oh?"

"Uh-huh," she answered, pleased to see him happy about it.

"Well, in that case…" He began to kiss her passionately and she reciprocated. She couldn't be a happier woman.

When they eventually got out of bed, it didn't take long for Sherlock to become bored. Molly looked around at all the boxes of his belongings and asked, "Well, would you like to put your things up?"

"My things?" He then looked at the boxes and became flushed. He never imagined not going back to Baker Street, but he didn't want to leave Molly, either. "I…I…"

Molly looked down. She knew she had taken it for granted he would stay with her and she felt terrible. A confusing combination of rejection, guilt and anger tortured her mind. "You don't want to stay here…with me?"

He stared at her big, sad eyes and instantly felt he had gotten himself into a situation he knew of no way out. "I hadn't given much thought."

She ran back to the bedroom, crying. He paced around the coffee table in a mad panic, vigorously rubbing his fingers through his hair. He cursed under his breath and his heart beat wildly. He was tired of all these new experiences. They were exasperating him. He just wanted to go back to how things were before the Fall. He knew he couldn't, though. This morning was evident of that. He was pretty sure he had done the one thing he swore he'd never do—he had fallen in love with Molly Hooper. He finally admitted this much to himself. He sat down on the couch and put his face into his hands. "Damn!" He felt caged. It was bad enough he was stuck in this flat—

A thought occurred to him. Maybe he just needed some fresh air. Being seen in London, though, was not an option. He took a deep breath. He got up and knocked on the bedroom door. "Molly?"

After a few seconds a feeble answer, "Yes?"

"Let's go for a drive."

He could hear her get up from the bed and come to the door. "What?" she asked after she opened it.

It tortured his once fictional heart to see her wet eyes. "I really need to get out for a while. I've gone stir crazy."

She sniffed and nodded. It was a good idea. "Okay." She began to turn away to get ready, but he laid his hand upon her arm. She turned to him.

"I, uh…I'm sorry."

She looked down again.

"I…It's just…"

"I know. Too much too fast. That's me all over." She walked away.

He really did feel torn. Torn between Molly and the life he was always so comfortable with.

They were ready to leave and Molly made sure to check that no-one was around when they left. They got into her little car and took off. "Is there anywhere in particular you wanted to go?"

"Just where I can be outside and get some fresh air."

"I know just the place."

She drove for about thirty minutes out of town to a little village. She pulled up and they got out. He stretched his long legs and she locked up the car, tossing her cardigan into the back seat. It was a wonderful sunny day. "Where are we?" he asked.

"Guildford."

"Ah."

"I had an aunt who lived here. She died years ago, but I loved the book shop they have here and I come out every once in a while when the city gets to me."

"Is that often?"

"Sometimes."

He studied her, thinking of how much he didn't know about her. He could also see that she was still upset, but he knew not what to say to make the situation better.

She could tell he felt awkward, and simply said, "Come with me."

She took his hand (which was still odd to him) and led him to her favorite book shop. There they shared a passion. Before they knew it, they were ransacking the shelves, constantly asking the other, "Have you read this?" and ending their quest with a large stack to purchase.

After putting their treasure trove into the boot of the car, they walked the little village somberly. Eventually though, Molly just had to say what was on her mind, whether or not Sherlock wanted to hear it.

"Look, Sherlock, I didn't mean to put any pressure on you. Lord knows you've had enough to deal with lately, but it's just, well, I like having you there, really." She rather trailed off and looked away.

He sighed and grumbled. He did not like this at all. "Can we not make any decisions just yet?" was his only rebuttal.

She looked at him to see his expression. "Yes, of course." She figured this was an improvement to a positive move back to Mrs. Hudson's, so she took it.

The day trip proved to be beneficial to both. They got the needed break and it kept his wandering mind somewhat occupied and out of her closet.

On the way back to town, her phone rang. Sherlock picked it up to look at the number and saw it was his brother. He answered it. They talked for a short while and Sherlock relayed Mycroft's news to Molly afterwards. They were fairly certain they had found a lead on the other hitmen, but would know for certain tomorrow. Tomorrow, however, was the day of Sherlock's 'funeral'. It was to be done, no matter what. Mycroft would take no chances.

Molly felt a wave of guilt come over her. How could she be putting pressure on him during all this? She felt terrible and was determined to keep him cheered up as well as well as she could.

He was quiet the rest of the way back and came into her flat without a word. He sat down in the middle of the couch and put his hands together at his mouth. He looked exactly the same a couple of days ago, and Molly still didn't know what to do.

"Tea?" she asked.

"Yes—no—coffee."

"Okay."

She fixed the beverage and brought it to him. She sat next to him, but he barely glanced at her. Instead, he looked ahead and said, "I must go."

"Go where?"

"To the funeral."

"But—"

"Hidden, of course."

"Oh. But, won't that be painful?"

"I have to."

His look was so sad her heart broke. She caressed his thigh and he looked down to her hand. He slowly placed his hand on hers. He wasn't used to this kind of contact. He was in pain, but he wasn't alone, either. It was remarkable how much better he felt knowing someone was sharing his hurt. He looked suddenly to her. "Thank you," he said softly.

"For what?"

"For…for caring."

"Well, I…I…" she was afraid to say it. She feared it would blow his mind. She did anyway, though. "I love you," was her explanation.

His eyes grew large and he breathed hard. He couldn't reply to that, of course, but internally it elated him.

"I'll take you tomorrow," she reassured.

"Thank you."

He finished his coffee then went to her laptop to fish around on the internet. There he stayed for some time and Molly just let him be.

He never came to bed that night, but was dressed and ready when Molly got up. Without much talking, she drove him to the funeral. There were plenty of trees for him to stay concealed behind, but still allowing him a view. Watching his friends mourn for him was heart-wrenching, yet he felt it was his duty to be there for them, so to speak. Seeing John, especially, tore at his very soul. Never did he have a friend such as him. He was more of a brother to him than his own, and he always accepted him, eccentricities and all.

He only stayed a few minutes—it was about all he could bare. "Are you all right?" Molly inquired.

"Hardly," he grumbled.

She didn't know what to say, so stayed silent

They went back to the flat and she explained that she had to go to work. He only made a vague reply.

She gave him a kiss on the cheek as she was leaving, but he had no reaction. His mind was still at the cemetery.

Molly did her best to get off at a decent time that evening. She was concerned about her flat mate and worried what he might do in his depressed state, but when she arrived home, he was not there. She thought it odd, but thought he may have just stepped out for some air.

She changed into something comfy and fed her cat. It was only when she sat back down to watch some telly that she realized that he had gone through the boxes of his belongings. In a panic, she checked them out. It was evident he had taken a large amount of them and had left to God knows where. She looked around, searching madly for a note. Eventually she found one on her pillow. It simply said, "Sorry. –SH."

She screamed and cried then called Mycroft. That was the only possible place he could be. Mycroft had not seen him, but he also wasn't surprised. He explained to her that Sherlock did things like that and to not be concerned. Molly refused to accept that and then went on a ramble about how it must have been her fault. He assured her it wasn't, but being a Holmes, found it very difficult to console the woman. He also had to break the news that his lead had fallen through. Sherlock still couldn't come back into existence, and that meant the situation was still critical.

He went on to explain, "I had sent you an email. I can only presume he had read it. I shouldn't worry though. My brother has a way of surviving under the radar quite well. He'll come around."

"When do you think this will all be over?" she asked in desperation.

"Soon, I hope. Believe me, I do worry. We are trying our best."

The consolation was only somewhat effective. Molly hung up and cried herself to sleep. She was tired, worried and heartbroken. She could think of nothing but Sherlock.

CHAPTER FOUR

Days passed and Molly was virtually unchanged. The man she had fallen so hard for was gone. She had admired him, worked with him, tolerated him, saved him, and then loved him completely. How could she possibly get over him?

She would occasionally call Mycroft who had no news for her other than they were finally getting somewhere on locating the henchmen. By chance, one had gotten into a gunfight in Prague. The identification of the one helped to track down another, so now it looked like it was only a matter of days.

"How are we to let Sherlock know?" she cried on the phone.

"As I've said before, Sherlock has a way of knowing all. Please don't worry!"

She could tell Mycroft was losing his patience with the emotional woman. She calmed herself down, thanked him then hung up. Maybe, just maybe, she would be seeing him again soon. It would be sooner than she thought…

After another long day at work, she sighed when she unlocked the door to her flat. She wished her head was already lying on her pillow. She turned on the light switch and got the scare of her life, for there on her couch, sat Sherlock.

She thought she was dreaming or hallucinating. Surely, this wasn't real. Yet, there he was sitting Indian-style in almost a meditative state. He turned to look at her. "Hello."

Tears came to her eyes at the sound of his deep, beautiful voice—that voice that could not be mistaken for anyone else's in her heart. She ran to him and held him tight. He slowly raised his arms to hold her. He had missed her as well. She showered him with kisses and apologies until it made him laugh.

"So you missed me, then?" he joked.

She rambled nonsensically for a few seconds about the worry and self-torture she had been through.

"I see you still haven't mastered complete sentences yet. Never mind." He placed his fingers on her mouth to silence her and stared hard into her eyes. He couldn't believe how her sad, dark eyes rattled him. It was clear that the time that had passed had worn on her. His heart pounded through his chest at the sight of her sweet face. He leaned in and kissed her hard.

She calmed down and her tears were dried. She could finally speak normally to him, so she asked, "Where have you been?"

"Taking care of business."

"Business?"

"If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself." He turned to her and gave a sly grin.

"You mean…you…"

"Devil's in the details and Mycroft has never been good about details."

"Oh!"

A minute passed without a word. Molly's smile couldn't be larger. He was back. The love on her face was undeniable and he looked down and actually took her hand. "I, uh…I'm sorry."

"No, no, I am. I put too much pressure on you."

He said nothing, but kept looking at their clasped hands.

"And I don't have a problem if you go back to Baker Street, really. I mean, you're welcome to stay here, of course, but if—"

"Understood."

"I'm just glad you're okay." She was on the verge of crying again.

"Of course I'm okay. You should have more faith in me."

"Yes, I know." She smuggled up to him, but he didn't back off this time. He was beginning to grow accustomed to her company. He could smell her hair and found himself giving a kiss to her head. She was so happy that a couple of more tears fell before she fell asleep in his arms.

They woke up to the sound of Molly's phone. "Oh, God! What time is it?!" she asked in a panic. "I'm late for work!" She ran to the bathroom instead of answering the phone. Sherlock picked it up. It was Mycroft.

"Morning," Sherlock answered.

"Well, back to the nest, I see."

"Why not?"

"I guess you must be pretty happy with yourself."

"I usually am."

"Most would agree."

"I trust you have news? Or do you require a pathologist?"

"News, indeed. We've caught them, thanks to a not-so-mystery man."

"Lovely. May I return to the land of the living now, or do I have to stay with the undead a while longer?"

"From what I can tell, you are free and clear. We have got them to admit as much. I highly doubt there are any others, and if there are any, they would have gotten wind of Moriarty's demise and wouldn't care to risk capture for the sake of someone too dead to retaliate."

Internally, Sherlock was screaming for joy. He closed his eyes and sighed relief. "Well…" is all he could get out.

"I understand you have been put through the ringer on this, Sherlock, but remember all the others who have suffered along with you—Dr. Hooper for one. The woman went positively potty when you ran away on her. About drove me mad with phone calls."

Sherlock made no reply, but looked toward the bedroom where she was.

"I guess you'll want to see John next?" inquired Mycroft.

"Yes. I'll have Molly meet up with him"

"He's not likely to take it well. I rather wished I could see it, for I know he'll deck you."

Sherlock chuckled. "Yes, he probably will."

"Well, welcome back, little brother."

"Thank you."

He hung up. A rushing Molly ran out and almost hit him. "Oh, who was on the phone? Mycroft?"

"Yes?"

"And?"

"I am alive again!"

She jumped up and hugged him. "Oh, I'm so happy for you!"

"I'm coming with to work with you."

"Oh, okay."

They made their way to St. Bart's. Sherlock sat in silence, but Molly had her own thoughts screaming through her head. Would Sherlock go back to living with John? Was she only able to get close to Sherlock because of his situation? Where would things go from here?

She ran into work without much thought to the sauntering gentleman behind her. She apologized to her coworkers for her tardiness and when Sherlock strolled in, all eyes were on him. Some had heard he was dead—and yet, there he was. He followed her into the morgue and looked around with a macabre fondness.

So many hours he had spent at her microscope got him excited about getting back to work. The building itself, though, only brought sadness. He wasted no time wanting to contact John. That was his first priority.

"Molly, I need you to call John."

"It'll have to wait, Sherlock. I'm already behind.

He took her phone out of her purse. "This can't wait." He handed it to her.

"What do I say?"

"Ask him to come. You have something to tell him. Don't take 'no' for an answer."

She sighed, slightly frustrated, but knew it needed to be done. She did, after all, like John a great deal. He helped to melt Sherlock's icy heart.

John gave some resistance to coming to the place of Sherlock's death, but couldn't resist her plea. He would come over right away.

Sherlock spun around slowly on a lab stool, with his hands in prayer position as Molly did her work. He paid no attention to her slicing and stitching, but after a while made his way to a side room where supplies were stored. "What are you doing?" she asked.

"You'll have to tell him. I'll come out afterward."

"But—I can't—I wouldn't—"

"Yes, I know—words aren't your forte, as I have said, but I can't very well just be sitting here when he comes in, now can I?"

With scared eyes she stared at him. "No, I guess not," she replied softly. "Poor John," she thought, "having to hear it from me!"

It wasn't two minutes until the elevator dinged for the basement floor. Molly got butterflies in her stomach and wanted to hide. John made his way slowly in, remembering with angst all the times they had met there, working on a case with Molly.

"Hello, John," she nervously greeted.

"Molly," he quickly replied, but it was obvious he was not happy to be there.

"Please…have a seat. I'm sorry I had to have you come here, but it was important, I assure you."

"Well, I hope so, Molly. You know how I feel about the place, and the fact that I haven't seen or heard from you since…well, since." He paused, shaking his head and getting angrier by the second. "You couldn't even come to his funeral?"

"Well, I—"

"It tore my heart out to go, but I did, and you—"

"John, please," she begged, "what I have to tell you will explain. I mean, it'll tell you—oh, damn!"

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Molly. I have no right to speak to you like that. I'm just—"

"No, I'm sorry. I should have called, but you see, well, I have to tell you about that day."

"What? No…" He got up and paced wildly.

"There is something you have to know. You see, Sherlock had to die that day."

"No, he didn't!"

"Jim—Moriarty, that is—had shooters ready to kill you, Mrs. Hudson, and Greg LeStrade if Sherlock didn't die. He had to die in disgrace."

John dropped his head. "I knew it. I knew he wasn't a fake." He closed his eyes and Molly could tell he was on the verge of crying. She knew she had to get this over.

"So," she continued, "he asked me to help him."

He shook his head. "What do you mean, help him?"

"Yes, I helped him fake his death."

John sat back down with his mouth agape. "What? No, no… I saw it myself. I saw him jump that day from this very building."

"Well, that is what it was supposed to look like."

John started to breathe hard and got close to Molly. He grabbed her shoulders. "What are you telling me?" he asked very sternly.

She swallowed hard to get the courage to say, "He's not dead." She moved back, afraid of how he would react.

He shook his head with a nervous jerk in disbelief. "Then…where is he?"

Out of the shadows of the little darkened room, Sherlock slowly appeared. John looked up, and then turned white as a sheet. He felt he was seeing a ghost. He got up and the two men slowly made their way to each other. "John." Sherlock finally uttered.

John blinked as he stared at the man he thought was dead. "God, it is you."

"Well, technically, I'm not God, though some say otherwise."

John smiled then grabbed his friend and held him tight. He was in disbelief, but at that same time was so incredibly happy. He cried tears of joy standing back to see Sherlock's face once again. He shook his head with a crazed look in his eye.

"You're going to punch me now, aren't you?"

"Believe me, I'm fighting the urge." He hugged him again and they eventually sat down so that Sherlock could tell him everything from the beginning.

Molly went back to her work without a word. It did her heart good to see them both so happy.

At the end of Sherlock's tale, John asked, "So where did you go afterwards?"

"Well, I stayed at Molly's for a few days, and then I had to attend to some business."

"Business?"

"Yes."

"You mean you went hunting for Moriarty's henchmen yourself," he stated with surety.

"Business."

"I see."

John turned toward Molly and hollered out, "Well, I hope he didn't drive you crazy during the time you got to watch him, Molly!"

She simply looked at him with a sheepish grin.

John, however, was not without his own powers of observation. There was a look, not so much in Molly's face, for her admiration for Sherlock was no secret, but in Sherlock's. He definitely looked at her much more than usual (which was usually none at all) and with almost a hint of a smile. A bond had formed between the couple, but to what extent, John would have to figure out…and figure out, he would.