Author's Note: Thank you everyone for following the story! I was floored at the numbers for the first chapter! Thank you a hundred times over! And to those of you who reviewed, you warm my heart!

The ball is starting to roll a bit more. I apologize for the mistakes you find. It's 5AM here and I have been at work all night. I have the worst habit of completely skipping over necessary words in my sentences. I will review this later and tweak when I am not quite so sleep deprived!

Oh, if anyone is interested, I am on tumblr! ladymythgirl followed by at sign, blah blah blah

lady_myth has been my writing handle forever, but sgrplum is my nickname. I'd love to chat with any and everyone!

Disclaimer: Sooooo not mine. Kudos go to ACD and BBC!

Enjoy!

lady_myth

Masquerade

The Tangled Webs We Weave

Molly trudged up the stairs to her first level flat, her arms laden with a week's worth of groceries and files from St. Bart's. She shuffled to her door, grumbling as she tried to dig out her keys without any of the plastic bags from Tesco slipping from her arms.

"Bloody hell!" she winced as one bag slipped free, causing a dozen cans of tuna cans to land solidly on her foot with a large thunk. She jabbed her key into the lock, twisted the doorknob, and then kicked the door open. She bent down to snatch up the bag and dashed inside, trying to cut her cat Toby off at the pass.

The fat orange and white tom cat meowed his welcome to her, contentedly laying on the one arm of her divan couch. She glared at him.

"Of all nights you decide take your time…"

She turned to the left and entered her small kitchen, done up in white cabinets and soft green tiles. Everything in the apartment matched exactly what one would think Molly Hooper's home should look like. All the furniture was secondhand, a bit shabby, but in decent condition. The colors were fairly muted: light greens in the kitchen, dusty rose in the living room, pale yellow in her bedroom and bath. The place was littered with soppy books, films, and romantic pictures. Her fireplace mantle only held two portraits, both single shots of her parents. Otherwise, every surface was covered with cat knickknacks and small family trip mementos; everything from a mini Eiffel tower to an old newsboy cap that was supposed to have belonged to her father to her mother's dove leather gloves. The items in the flat had been planted years ago and Sherlock hadn't blinked twice at what had been laid out for him to deduce. It was soft, ordinary, and kind of a drab place.

It fitted her affected persona perfectly.

In Molly's opinion, she liked the divan even if it was a real faint pink with a darker pink diamond pattern embroidered on the fabric. She smirked as she recalled Sherlock's utter disgust at the piece of furniture. It wasn't sturdy and would have likely broken if he had ever decided to stand and jump on it during one of his mood swings. However, it had its advantages. He was able to stretch out comfortably, his long legs dangling only slightly over the armless end, and whether he liked it or not, the couch became one of his favored spots in the flat during his temporary stay.

Everything else about the flat could burn for all she cared. The pictures on the mantle were in fact of her grandparents, even though Sherlock had deduced and callously shared that her parents were long dead after having her late in life. He hadn't even expressed any remorse for her.

Of course that would be too sentimental, too kind of a courtesy to extend to me. Never mind he had just thrown himself off a roof in order to keep three of his friends safe. Arsehole.

The truth of it was her father was very much alive, well, and hopefully taking it easy in Cornwall. Lord knows that man deserved his retirement. Knowing her mother, she was probably knee deep in some remote African village, saving the world one small child at a time by dispensing vaccinations from her mobile clinic.

Molly released a wistful sigh at the thought.

She glanced over the props in her flat and checked to see if anything had been moved. It appeared that one of her mini cat figurines had moved. She sighed irritably, walked over to make sure the position hadn't been changed due to Toby's adventuring, and confirmed that it was due to someone moving it. Without skipping a beat, she grabbed one of her tea light glass bowls and gently flipped it upside down over the figure. She turned around and returned to the kitchen, intent on putting away her groceries.

She smirked.

Eat your heart out, Mycroft.

Sherlock had stayed with her for only two weeks before he'd contacted his brother. After convincing Mycroft that he was alive, his elder brother swiftly retrieved him and Molly didn't hear from either of them for months.

Ungrateful brat.

Afterwards though Mycroft had taken it upon himself to monitor Molly's activities via small recording devices. Apparently her role in Sherlock's little stunt marked her as interesting enough to spy on. Periodically, he would have a new device planted, but she was quick to find them. Even after almost a year, and making sure she had the most boring home life possible, she still kept finding the planted equipment. Whether he didn't trust her or he thought he was going to gather information on his younger brother, she had no idea.

The United Front probably knew but they hadn't shared and she really didn't care. If anything, it was a fun game she played with an unknowing Mycroft. That and it made her keenly aware that probably Baker street and St. Bart's was monitored.

She put away her foodstuffs and opened a can of tuna to Toby's mewling delight. During the process of unpacking one of the bags, she discovered a small cassette tape. Her eyes flickered briefly over it, noting the lack of any labeling, before pocketing it. She tossed the plastic bags, grabbed a glass, and poured herself a decent amount of wine. She calmly walked to her bathroom.

While the flat was one step above a hovel, she could boast one fine feature. Her bathroom was home to an old Victorian claw footed bathtub. It was quite possibly her favorite spot in the whole place, mostly because she was able to completely relax, lazing about in hot water and an obscene amount of bubbles. She shut and locked the door to the bathroom, a motion she'd never forego not with her job. She then reached into the tub, inserted the rubber stopper, and turned the handles so the perfect temperature of water could fill it. She placed her glass on her bathing tray and turned on her sink's faucet as well.

Once she was satisfied with the amount of noise in the room, she reached down and opened up the cabinet beneath the sink, digging far in the back to pull out a 1990s cassette Walkman. She placed the headphones on her ears and pulled the tape out of her pocket. She then carefully and quietly popped the plastic cover open and extracted the tape, inserting it into the player. Crouching down by the gushing faucet of the bathtub, she pressed down on the play button.

For several long seconds, she only heard the soft whirl of the tape spinning before the tinny sound of a guitar being strummed sounded in her ears. The audio track was scratchy and faint, like the cassette had been taped off of an ancient record player.

The voices of John Lennon and Paul McCartney faintly crooned to her, "Two of us riding nowhere, spending someone's hard earned pay. Two of us Sunday driving, not arriving, on our way back home. We're on our way home, we're on our way home. We're going home."

Molly just managed to cover her gasp by slapping her hand over her mouth, tears immediately pooling in her eyes. She ripped the headphones from her ears, yanked the tape out of the player, and quickly stripped off her clothes. She just managed to dunk her head underwater when the relieved sob escaped her throat, erupting in only large bubbles rather than noise.

Oh God! They're okay! They're back! They're safe!

She pulled her head from the water, taking in a deep but shaky breath as she tried to get her emotions under control. Her hands were shaking as she pulled out the tape from the cassette reels, destroying her first connection in nearly three years to two of the most important people she knew. With each twist of the reel, her heart seemed to both ache and thrill in her chest.

They're okay. They're here now, that's all that matters.

She snapped the tape completely from the cassette and crumpled it up, dumping it over the edge of the tub for later disposal. She sunk back down into the water, letting her muscles unwind and her thoughts turn to happier, safer memories.

-M-

Sherlock's long calloused fingers lightly plucked at his violin, his gaze unfocused as he wandered through the halls of his proclaimed Mind Palace. In all actuality, he was in one particular room.

A very pink room.

The room was identical to the living room found in Molly's flat, the only exception was the occasional body part or piece of lab equipment that shared space alongside her cat figurines and chintzy travel souvenirs. He stood in the middle of this room, slowly spinning around, peering carefully at the items on the shelves.

His roving eyes paused over certain objects.

A tube of red lipstick. A copy of The Treatise on International Forensic Science and Criminal Laws. A small collection of free weights. A custom made tight-fitting black leather jacket with an absurd amount of pockets. A SWIFT trauma medical kit. And now added to this strange collection was a CD in a clear jewel case, propped on the mantle, winking at him in the soft light.

None of these things seemed to belong in this place. Not one had a proper place or reason to exist where they did. They didn't match in any way to what he knew of Molly Hooper.

And he knew her.

His pathologist was quiet, reserved, shy, but smart. She was steadfast and loyal and surprised him at the oddest of times. She was gentle and kind, full of sentimental sloppy feelings that he couldn't bring himself to fault her for anymore.

Not after everything she had done for him.

Sherlock Holmes may not have been outwardly that appreciative, but that didn't mean he didn't feel gratitude towards her. He knew the significant risk Molly had taken by helping him stage his death. By turning to her, he had run the risk of dragging her into the target sights of James Moriarty's organization. A simple miscalculation on their part, whether it had been the chemical Molly had concocted to slow his heart rate or by him showing his face too soon out in public, the ruse would've gone belly up and all parties involved eliminated.

She had potentially given up everything to help him. Without question, without fear, and from what he could tell, without any regret. This complicated things between them, whether she realized it or not. He acknowledged that he felt gratitude toward her. He recognized that he owed her for her part in keeping his friends safe.

However, from there the thoughts in his head became…muddled.

This is why I do not deal with feelings. Emotions are complicated. Winded. Disastrous. Illogical.

Sherlock massaged the bridge of his nose, trying to stem the surge of chemicals in his system that were triggered whenever he thought about one Molly Hooper. He shook himself and peered more intently at the out-of-place items in her room.

It didn't make sense. He would normally write them off as things that belonged to other people that Molly just happened to hold onto, but that still wasn't logical. Molly lived alone. She had very few friends and she seldom invited any of them over. None stayed long enough to leave anything behind. She had no lovers or companions.

His gaze narrowed as he focused on each item.

The jacket and lipstick were personal, so she had picked them out at some point. He could perhaps write them off as things purchased during a flight of fancy.

Trying to impress someone? He winced as he recalled the Christmas fiasco but nodded, content with that conclusion.

The music could be from a co-worker playing a joke on her. He found that highly probable.

He could excuse the Treatise as her just being curious about how rules and regulations concerning her field in other parts of the world.

The SWIFT trauma kit might be left over from her days as a medical student. However, it was of an unusually large size and he knew that it was quite expensive. It hadn't been an impulse buy and it was even less likely that a medical student would've been given it.

Perhaps she bought it right before the Fall? She may have assumed that I would have needed it. This was a somewhat satisfying conclusion, except one could not purchase the kit at any Tesco. This pointed to more forethought than they had time for back then.

We had less than 24 hours to concoct a plan to kill me. She barely left my side that whole night, busy building the chemical compound to slow down my respiration and heart rate. Then we had to set up the impact zone, find a suitable body double…

Not for the first time he pondered the swiftness in which she had created the chemical. When he had outlined his plan, she had run into the lab and, without any hesitation, began to assemble the components needed to make him truly the living dead. In a little over two hours, she had handed him a small filled syringe that he would need to inject himself with before he stepped onto the roof. She had shown him another syringe, the antidote, which she would dispense as soon as he was back in the morgue. She had informed that the chemical would keep him clinically 'dead' and still for up to three hours, but after that he would actually enter into respiratory failure. The paralytic part of the compound wouldn't allow him to do anything other than slowly suffocate, fully aware of what was happening.

He had been sent to the morgue in little over an hour from when he jumped and revived shortly thereafter, but it had been an unsettling experience nonetheless.

He shook himself again, unknowingly reaching up and tapping his fingers against his heart and mimicking the now steady beat within his chest.

He looked at the free weights and frowned.

It would've been easy to say that Molly had purchased the set with the intent to get into shape but that she'd never followed through. However, he could see the tell-tale nicks and dents on the edges of the weights, showing they had been lifted and dropped often. The handles were shiny, polished from sweaty palms.

It didn't compute. The person who handled those weights would be strong, dexterous, and slim. Molly was slim, but she hardly had any strength from what he could tell. He knew her hands, wrists, and forearms were quite strong, but those were the major limbs and muscles groups utilized in her field. Granted she kept her body under wraps beneath the oddest jumpers in existence. Her trousers were always loose, allowing ease of movement. The only time he had seen her in anything semi-revealing was when she had worn the cocktail dress to John and his' Christmas party. Based on that image, he would immediately eliminate her as the user of the weights.

However, that would mean the weights would have a layer of dust on them, even if she had bought them used. And these hadn't.

It had been well over a year since the party, so she could have started using them. He hadn't seen her in anything form-fitting since. The two weeks he had briefly lived with her, she had walked around in either her work clothes or a large plush robe that seemed to swallow her up. Her sleepwear had consisted of extra-large t-shirts and lounge pants.

Conceivably, she could be using the weights. This requires further research.

He sighed, coming to the overall conclusion that the items could be deducted into excusable patterns of behavior. However, it didn't sit well with him.

He felt off about all of it.

He scoffed.

The violin was yanked from his hands.

"—ARE YOU EVEN BLOODY LISTENING TO ME?" John roared in his face, causing Sherlock to blink dazedly for a moment.

John tossed the violin back at him, causing Sherlock to fumble a bit before he could grasp the Stradivarius.

"John, do be careful!" Sherlock hissed, clutching at the violin possessively.

It was one of the notoriously missing 17 Strads (six others which he knew the locations of). This one he had liberated from a pompous collector that had no business keeping such a beautiful thing out of the reach of an appreciative musician. Conveniently, his had happened to be one that had been stolen before, putting the collector in the unfavorable spot of being unable to report it missing to the authorities.

It still brought a smirk to his face whenever he recalled that particular adventure.

"I can't believe you! Can you not be a complete git for one day?" John ranted, stomping around the room.

"What are you nattering on about?"

John whipped around, his face flushed red, "I'm talking about Molly!"

Sherlock looked bored, "What about her?"

John stared in disbelief at the detective. His shoulders slumped forward and he ran a hand roughly over his face.

"Why do I bother?" he muttered.

"Speak up!" Sherlock commanded. Land's sake, if the doctor wanted his attention the least he could do was not mumble.

"For the love of Christ! I was just demanding why you can't be a bit nicer to Molly?"

Sherlock huffed, "I am nice to Molly!"

John laughed without humor, "You? Nice? You order her around like she's your personal servant, demanding that you fetch her coffee and whatever menial tasks you come up with! She's a God damn doctor! Then you insult her and Mary about enjoying a night together and her taste in men!"

Sherlock smirked, "Ah! You're being defensive on Mary's behalf! I was only—"

John thrust a shaking finger into Sherlock's face, "No! No, no, no! That is not what I am doing! I am trying to get you to understand that you're hurting Molly! You're disrespecting her! Do you understand that? Does it matter at all to you?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but John cut him off again.

"She's your friend, Sherlock! Like how I am!"

"I know that," Sherlock grumbled, "I can't help it if what I say is construed as socially—"

John threw his hands up in the air, "Unbelievable! Aren't you worried at all? Molly kicked us out! What happens if it's permanent?"

Sherlock's eyes widened as he comprehended what John was getting at, "Oh."

"Yes! One would think you would treat her a bit more gently, especially after all that she's done for you! But no! You continue steam rolling right over her! It'll serve you right if you never get access to St. Bart's again!"

"That won't happen." Sherlock countered, "Mycroft."

"Sod Mycroft! Molly's still there!" John argued, "She still matters when it comes to how quickly your lab results are processed! She still matters because she has to fill out all of the paperwork when you pull a body out of queue! She still matters because she's the BLOODY REASON YOU AND I ARE STILL HERE ALIVE! DOESN'T THAT COUNT FOR ANYTHING?"

Sherlock sucked in a breath at John's last exclamation, a sharp pain striking him in his chest. He pulled his legs up and onto the seat, resting the Strad on his knees.

"I see your point."

John grumbled unintelligibly, rolling his eyes several times.

Sherlock's long fingers tapped lightly against the body of the violin.

"I suppose it would be in my best interest to…make it up to her?"

John collapsed into his chair, releasing a long sigh.

"Brilliant, Holmes."

Sherlock frowned. After a moment, he hopped up from his seat. He tucked his violin under his arm and hurried toward his bedroom.

John watched him from over the top of his chair.

"What are you off to now?" he demanded, perplexed.

"Getting coffee!"