The storm-tossed waves crashed against the face of the cliff. Lightning flashed in the distance, over the ocean, the quiet, yet deep rumble of thunder following. The whipping wind promised the arrival of the storm upon the shore.

Her hands slack at her side, Molly stared out at the encroaching darkness, her toes curled over the edge of the cliff, her armored wings tightly bound to her back.

It would be easy to end it. Simple as leaning forward.

But it really wouldn't end.

Instead of the silence of death she craved, she would suffer the agony of drowning, of being tossed against the jagged rocks at the foot of the cliff. Then, as the last breath of life was torn from her body, the renewal would begin. Her body would heal. Her wounds disappear, her lungs emptied of the toxic water, her heart beating steadily once more.

Her flawless skin would bear no mark of her injuries.

But the memories would remain.

She closed her eyes and stepped back, breathing deeply of the damp wind. It was always after a death experience that the memories were closest to the surface. With each flash of lightning, each rumble of thunder, she fought the urge to dwell, to remember the pain and torture inflicted time and time again.

But of all the deaths she'd died, this last one was the most devastating. Watching Sherlock turn his back on her killed the little bit of humanity she had managed to hold on to, the hope that she could be happy, that she could be like them, that she could be normal for one life.

But Molly Hooper was a lie. And the lie had been discovered.

She had fought so hard to keep her secret hidden, to prevent the great detective from deducing her true nature. She had fallen into the character she had created and became Molly Hooper, pathologist, cat-lover, average, human, normal, and utterly in love with Sherlock Holmes.

Not all of Molly Hooper was a lie.

Her name, for instance, was actually Molly. But she abandoned her true surname over the years. It was easier, for her, to adopt a new last name every couple decades. Hopping from continent to continent, trying to make a life for a time then leaving before questions were raised about her un-aging appearance.

And the true Molly loved Sherlock Holmes like she'd never loved before. She had never met anyone like him, so brilliant, so emotionally-clueless, but with a heart that binds itself tightly to a close few and willing to sacrifice anything for them.

The hope she had carried, futile and idealistic, was obliterated by three words.

'No, you're not.'

Her heart clenched in the familiar pain of heartbreak. His words echoed in her mind, taunting her, reminding her that she would never be free from the chains of immortality that bound her to this life of solitude and exile, living amongst the humans but to never be one of them.

With a cry of despair, she collapsed to her knees, her armor clanking against the slate. Great sobs wracked her small frame, tears long withheld poured down her face. Her anguished cries were lost amid the oncoming thunder.

The storm drew overhead and as the first drop of rain touched her skin, she opened her eyes and raised her head to the heavens.

'Why?' she whispered brokenly.

The answering thunder crashed around her as the sky let loose sheets of rain, soaking her immediately.

'Why am I alone?' she shouted in anguish, pleading with whatever being had cursed her existence to answer her, to tell her that her suffering was not in vain. That there was an end in sight.

But there was no response.

Her wings unfurled, their silver armor disappearing into the air, unveiling silver and white feathers, darkened by the rain. Curling them around herself, Molly cried.

She was alone. Again.

She always would be.

When the storm passed and her tears had dried, she raised her red-rimmed eyes to the horizon. Her tangled hair lay in damp tendrils around her face, the silver strands glistening in the rising Sun.

With slow movements, Molly stood to her feet and opened her wings to dry in the warm light.

Enough. She lifted her chin and straightened her back. The tender, broken heart in her chest continued to throb and ache. But with determined focus, she set about barricading the shards of hope behind a wall of indifference.

Too many times had she been hurt, been heartbroken.

Now, her only purpose was to find Moriarty.

Destroy him.

Then disappear once more.

London would be a distant memory.

And Sherlock along with it.