"We all know him to be a proud, unpleasant sort of man; but this would be nothing if you really liked him." – Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

Few people truly liked Sherlock Holmes. Many envied him. Most respected him. All knew him. He was a special sort of man, the type that made you unsure of whether you'd rather snog him senselessly or smack him across his self-righteous face.

Yet, Sherlock had changed. He wasn't the man he was before he met John, before he got to know Molly, before he faked his death, before he met (and then lost) Mary, before he became a god father, before he… well before he lived. Truly lived.

But he hadn't changed that much. Not really. He was still an arsehole, desperate for the last word, refusing to keep his thoughts, regardless how rude or contradictory, to himself.

He was happy though. Things seemed as if they were almost back to normal. John was slowly returning to his old self, his depression and grief period after Mary's death cultivating in a forced, fake sort of acceptance. Sherlock didn't really mind if he was looking at a fraction of who John was. In the end, Sherlock was a selfish man. As long as the John Watson standing in front of him appeared and acted like his best mate, then he was satisfied.

Or that's what the old Sherlock would have said. The new Sherlock now had sentiment seeping through the newly formed hole in his chest. He felt guilt. And he felt loss. That acute, soul-sucking, body-numbing feeling of despair.

That was a first in 35 years.

So, he was working with John, trying to do whatever he could, more so than he ever had in the past, especially after John returned to him. He helped with Rosie, listened to boring tirades about football trades, and even watched those American cooking shows the Doctor had begun to fill his spare time with.

But it would never be enough. Not when he felt responsible for the bullet.

Sherlock glanced up at the ceiling, riddled with four-year-old bullet holes, and sagged his body against the worn sofa of 221B Baker Street. A soft sigh escaped his lips.

John was as back to normal as he ever would be. And Molly… well Molly had finally put her brain to good use and dumped that ridiculous git she had called a fiancé.

Sherlock also felt responsible for that. Had he been in London when the moron first showed up, he could have easily chased him off. He could have warned Molly that he had a startlingly low IQ, and that he snored like a 30-stone man, and that he still called his mother "mummy", and that he probably still had feelings for the girl he fell in love with when he was 15, and that—

Sherlock shook his head and sagged deeper into the sofa. That didn't matter now. Molly had the good graces to end her engagement, and again, things were back to normal.

Mrs. Hudson made tea whenever he'd like. Mycroft was back to using his overpriced treadmill on a weekly (although his brother claimed daily) basis. Lestrade was in a casual relationship with a woman he met online. Anderson now had a verging on irritating admiration for the detective, but Sherlock didn't mind that change too much.

Overall, everything was back to the way it should be.

Sherlock shifted on the sofa and stared into the beat-up cushions.

Then why do I feel so empty?

Xxx

Molly was in the process of reinventing herself. After her realization that she was pawning over an unreachable literary character, she figured change was in order.

No matter how hard she tried, she would never be the head-strong, passionate, playful, proud woman that a Mr. Darcy would fall in love with.

It didn't matter how many books Molly read. She would never be Lizzie Bennett.

She whimpered and took a sip of her takeaway coffee, treading the last few steps from the tube station to St. Bart's.

Of all the Bennett sisters, why do I have to be Mary? At least if I was Lydia I'd be having good sex and be married by now.

Molly trudged inside, shaking off the raindrops that had pelted her plain, black umbrella. She looked from the neutral accessory, to her tan trousers, to her black rain coat covering her plain, navy blue cardigan. She couldn't help but whimper.

Lizzie is spunky and unique. I shop off the discount rack at Primark.

The pathologist tossed the empty takeaway cup into the bin before descending towards the lab, surprised to find the one and only Sherlock Holmes, hunched over his favorite microscope.

"Oh. Sherlock. Good morning. I wasn't expecting to see you," Molly offered politely, as she slid out of her damp coat.

She really hadn't been expecting to see Sherlock. Their relationship had gone through its typical ups and downs—he would offend Molly and then disappear, only to reappear when needing her help. This time had been no different. Mary's death had catapulted the detective into a dark place, and Molly seemed to be the only person capable of picking up the pieces, given John's own depression and anger at his friend. That task would have been easier had her heart also not been torn to shreds by the death of a friend, the ending of her engagement, and the loss of who the man she loved really was.

How do you help someone when you need help yourself?

Molly took her hair out of its messy bun and began to retie the brown locks into a composed up-do. She glanced back over at Sherlock, who seemed to be entranced by whatever specimen he was looking at.

He was better now. Or, at least, he was clean. She stood by his side and made sure of it. Now he devoted his time to assisting John with Rosie, solving cases, or tormenting Mycroft. He was back to being Sherlock.

Untouchable, unreadable, unforgettable Sherlock Holmes.

Molly shook her head and fixed the buttons on her cardigan. She would have to forget Sherlock. In a romantic manner, anyhow. She had promised herself so, riding in a coach cabin of that delayed train, the rain pounding against her window like an unwelcome reminder of the tears she had shed over that man.

When my Mr. Collins comes around, I won't be saying no this time.

Molly busied herself at her desk, looking over the files that the new interns had set down before her arrival. She glanced over her shoulder, surprised to see that Sherlock had not moved from his position at the bench.

"Did you need help with something? You're normally not here this early."

Sherlock finally looked up from the microscope and over to Molly, his eyes red from both physical and mental exhaustion. Molly let out a small gasp.

"Sherlock, are you okay?"

The detective couldn't help but let out a laugh. "Am I okay? What a typical and bland question, Molly. I expected more creativity from you."

Molly frowned and moved away from her seat and over to the detective, reaching her hand to touch his cheek. Her frown intensified as he flinched as soon as her hand met his skin.

"Sherlock, have you—"

The detective practically hissed. "Of course not. Do you think so low of me?"

Molly frowned. "No, Sherlock," she whispered, "but we all do stupid things when we're upset."

"What makes you say I'm upset?"

She gave him a look. "You clearly didn't sleep well last night and well…Sherlock you could sleep anywhere and through anything. Things rarely overwhelm you enough that you wouldn't be able to sleep."

Sherlock looked up and met Molly's brown eyes, surprised by her intimate knowledge of how his mind functioned. He shifted away from her hand and focused his attention back on the microscope.

"Rosie's birthday is coming up."

"I know," Molly whispered, a soft smile overcoming her features.

Sherlock gripped the edge of the work station, his eyes locked on the large instrument in front of him. "What do I get for a child whose mother sacrificed her life for my own?"

Molly frowned and stared at the consulting detective. She was at a loss for words. She had never felt so close to Sherlock, been given such an intimate look into his mind and his feelings. Yet, she was so far away, standing behind the hunched over detective, who seemed determined to keep himself occupied with the microscope in front of him. He still tensed under her gaze, flinched over her caresses, and bulked at her interest in his feelings.

Why don't you trust me yet? Why don't you need me like I need you?

Sherlock returned his eyes to their place on the microscope, and changed the slide being examined.

"What sort of material gift will ever replace a mother's warmth? What teddy bear can say 'I'm sorry'? What plaything can go back in time and let me perish from that bullet?" Sherlock gripped the edge of the work station and dropped his head away from the microscope, now gazing at his lap, his face turned away from Molly's eyes.

"I already died once. What would it have mattered if I had died again?"

Molly hugged herself and just stared at Sherlock, who kept his eyes shut tight and his hands gripping the loose material of his trousers.

"Sherlock…"

The detective shook his head and finally sat up, moving his gaze to the brunette who stood behind him, seemingly stuck in the middle of the lab.

"Don't," he whispered, "There's no use in feeding me the lies and ridiculous justifications for death and pain that others so frequently throw around."

Molly continued to watch her friend, her heart both hurting and hammering in her chest. "Why not?"

Sherlock let out a humorless laugh. "Those words are empty."

The pathologist moved around Sherlock's stature, and stood beside him, leaning against the work station. She stared ahead, contemplating his words.

"When I was about six, my brother won me this goldfish at a festival. I was so excited to have a pet. My mum went out and bought me a fish bowl, and food, and anything you could need to raise this itty-bitty goldfish."

Molly smiled fondly at the memory, her gaze staring forward at the sterile walls of the lab. Sherlock continued to stare at his lap, too tired to even interrupt Molly's story.

"Since you're a smart bloke, you know how this story ends. I had poor little Alice for three days before I discovered her floating upside down. And you can imagine how six-year-old me reacted, screaming about the dead goldfish that cost my brother 2 quid and good aim."

Sherlock finally looked over at the brunette, taking in her soft features with his tired eyes. Molly turned to look at him and gave him a gentle smile.

"It was an awful day. But I just remember my father pulling me into his arms, and telling me that life would go on. That death was natural and was the circle of life. That death was cruel, and cunning, and flat out unfair. But that it was okay to die if you were happy with the life you lived up to that moment."

Molly sniffled and wiped her eyes, surprised to feel tears dripping down her rosy cheeks. "I think about those words often. My father assured me that Alice had lived a wonderful life, swimming in this beautiful new fishbowl, waking up those few days to my smiling face."

The pathologist laughed and wiped her cheeks again, although fresh tears continued to spill down. "And when my father died, I tried to remind myself of his words. Because he had lived a happy life too. He loved his wife, and his job, and his children. He got to visit the places he wanted. Do the things he had always dreamed of doing. I don't think he could have gone out any happier, except maybe with a pint in his hand."

Molly laughed through the tears that continued to run down her cheeks. She took the sleeve of her lab coat and desperately tried to stop the waterworks, but to no avail. Meanwhile, Sherlock watched her, his face unreadable.

"Mary died too soon, Sherlock. But she was so happy. She was married to a man she loved, and had a beautiful daughter, but most importantly, she gave up her life to protect someone else she loved. You, Sherlock. Mary loved you."

Sherlock continued to watch Molly, the only evidence of his devout attention being his Adam's apple bobbing from a nervous swallow at her words.

"It's only right to grieve her loss. But all you can do now is honor her memory by giving Rosie the best life you can. No toy or gift will ever replace the love of her mum. But that's okay."

Molly looked over at Sherlock and took a tentative breath before covering his clenched fist with her own small hand.

"Things will get easier. I promise."

Sherlock gave a slow nod, before looking down at their hands and back at the pathologist. Upon noticing his attention to their entwined limbs, Molly sighed and removed her hand. She took a step away from the work station and gave her face one final wipe with her sleeve for good measure.

"Sherlock?"

The detective looked back to Molly. "Yes?" He offered, his voice quiet.

"Will you let me help you?"

Sherlock stared at her, his blue orbs intense on her rosy face. "How?"

She smiled softly. "Stand up."

Sherlock sighed and rose to his feet, his eyes still locked on Molly.

Molly smiled softly and moved towards his towering frame, before wrapping her arms around his strong form. She felt his body immediately tense, before slowly relaxing as each second went by.

"My father's words mean so much to me now. But at that moment, when I lost Alice, the thing that made me feel better was his hug," she whispered into his chest, "So let me return the favor and at least once let me tell you that everything is going to be okay."

Molly felt him nod, and wrapped her arms tighter around his form. To her surprise, his arms slowly moved from hanging by his side to wrapping around her petite frame. She wasn't sure if she imagined it, but she swore she heard a quiet "alright" escape from his lips.

The pathologist shut her eyes and pressed her cheek to his chest, selfishly enjoying the sound of his beating heart against her ear. She pressed a soft kiss to the material of his shirt and took a deep breath.

"Everything is going to be okay."

Sherlock almost believed her.