"I heard the fair is in town this week. I was thinking maybe we could go on the weekend, to celebr- to get away, just the two of us," Molly stammered nervously, playing with the hem of her dressing gown. She was looking at him from the doorway of their bathroom. He stood on the other side of the room, his back to her as he faced the wardrobe, slowly pulling on his off his own deep blue night gown. When he made no reply, as she expected, she continued softly. "I was wondering that, if maybe we did, we could invite Mary."

Her husband froze at the mention of Mary's name. He had one arm out of the gown, the other bent at an awkward angle to try to get it out. Molly ventured to call to him softly, hoping quietly that maybe he was willing to talk; maybe he could speak to her, and maybe today was the day.

"Sherlock?"

It wasn't.

He stood frozen for a few moments before pulling his gown all the way off and dropping it on the ground in front of their wardrobe. He turned and padded his way to the bed, climbing in stiffly and pulling the covers up to his chin, lying in his side away from her. Molly sighed and turned the lights in the bathroom off, and then pulled her own gown off, sliding into bed next to Sherlock. She propped herself up with one arm and stretched over him to reach the lamp on the table next to him. She turned it off, but didn't move for a beat.

She missed him. Lord, how she missed him. His smile, he anger, his body heat, his eccentricities, the way his fingers curled over hers casually while they would eat, his hand dwarfing hers. She missed hearing his voice, she missed the way their toes pushed together while they were falling asleep, and she even missed the smell of his cigarette smoke lingering on his skin after a long case. She just missed him, her husband, Sherlock Holmes. She didn't know how to bring him back. Molly noticed there were hot tears running silently down her cheeks. She sighed and dropped her head a little, her nose brushing his shoulder. And, oh, how she wanted him back. She wanted him to hold her while they reclined together in the afternoon, she wanted him to play the violin softly for her again, she wanted him to kiss her softly, she wanted him to insult her cooking even though she knew he secretly liked it. She missed him, and she wanted him back. But how could she do that? How could she get him back?

She finally pulled her arm back and curled up next to him, inches away from his back. Slowly, cautiously, she inched closer to him until her shoulder rested against his back, and then turned and wrapped her arm around him in a hug. She felt him tense up, but he didn't push her away, and Molly smiled softly through her tears at this one small victory. She would get her husband back. Slowly but surely, Sherlock Holmes would return to her.

"So Molly, where's Sherlock today?" Mary squinted at Molly from beneath her sunhat. The sound of people laughing bounced around the spacious field, and Molly scooted a little closer to her friend, her dress catching on the bale of hay they occupied. She tugged at the material until the pesky hay gave, and she cleared her throat to answer the question.

"He stayed at home," she replied. "He isn't feeling well."

Mary tutted and shook her head, giving Molly a concerned look. "I am sorry. What is wrong with him?"

"The doctor said that since he suffered so much trauma with the war, he might be suffering from, uh," She frowned tightly as she tried to remember what the doctor had said. "He said it was…oh! Shell-shock."

A surprised look crossed Mary's features. "You went to see a doctor? Sherlock let you go to a doctor?"

Her companion shook her head. "No. He didn't know I went." She looked down and fiddled with her rings. Mary looked even more surprised, glancing around in amused disbelief.

"This is just a conversation full of firsts," she joked, and Molly smiled weakly. Mary leaned closer, her laugh fading into a concerned smile. She snaked her arm around Molly's shoulders and squeezed. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"I just-" Molly stopped and huffed, frustrated. "He won't talk, he won't eat; he won't do anything! I don't know how to help him." She fell into Mary's side, her friend wrapping her arms around her in concern.

Mary nodded, taking in what Molly had told her. "What did the doctor say?"

"He said that there was a large chance of him recovering, but it may take a while. But it has already been so long! How long must it last?"

"Hey," she said, and tipped her head forward to meet Molly's eyes. "I know how you feel. John-" A pained look flickered in her eyes when she said his name, but it disappeared just as quickly and she continued. "John had a really hard time when he got back from war, the first time. Maybe not as severe, but we all know Sherlock is a drama queen." Molly rolled her eyes with a smile. Mary continued, "Don't worry too much about it. It may seem hopeless now, but I promise you, this doesn't last forever."

"But how can you be sure?"

Mary shrugged. "Sherlock has to eat sometime. He acts like a god, but he is still human."

There was a lull in the conversation for a few peaceful moments, before Molly spoke softly.

"How can you be so strong, Mary?" Molly sighed. "You're always pulled together. I don't know how you do it." Mary laughed and squeezed her friend's shoulders softly.

"Years of practice. I used to be a nurse."

Molly nodded, her chin brushing against her friend's shoulder. She then sat up, and squared her shoulders.

"I heard the sound of popcorn over there." She pointed toward a popcorn vendor and stood. Mary gathered her purse and stood with her. Mary looped her arm through Molly's, and they began their walk to the popcorn. Molly felt better after talking to Mary, and she was determined to have a good time today, and not worry about her husband for a couple hours.

Molly came home smelling of sweat and popcorn, and looking like she had ran through a cornfield. That was mainly due to the fact that she had gotten lost in the cornfield maze with Mary and had taken close to two hours to find her way out. After finally escaping the maze, they celebrated by buying toffee apples before heading home. Molly dropped Mary off at her house and drove the rest of the way back to 221B Baker Street. She walked through the door, waved hello to the sweet landlady Mrs. Hudson, and continued up to the apartment with a half eaten candy apple in one hand, and her purse in the other. She was smiling like a child- it had been quite some time since she was able to have a girl's day out, and she couldn't help feeling slightly relieved that Sherlock hadn't come.

He was sitting in his arm chair, staring into the fire. But his stare wasn't blank, not this time. Molly almost dropped her apple as her heart leapt into her throat. Keeping her face calm, she walked to the kitchen and set her bags on the table, then padded into the living room and took a seat on the couch. She pulled her shoes off but watched Sherlock out of the corner of her eye. He hadn't moved yet, but she saw his fingers twitch. She relaxed back, giving off an air of calm, all the while her heart beat in her chest at a rapid pace and she couldn't quite catch her breath. She didn't want to get her hopes up, but-

And then he spoke.

"Molly," he murmured, his voice rumbling in the air like static electricity, a storm-cloud about to break. "I-"

"I love you," she burst out, unable to contain herself. She immediately blushed and shrunk back, mentally berating herself for cutting him off. He didn't acknowledge what she said- he hadn't even turned from the fire yet- but paused for a moment before finishing his sentence.

"I am hungry."

His wife felt her heart dip a little, and watched him for a moment. His face was contrasted sharply, the fireplace lighting up his face but the shadows hiding where the fire's light couldn't reach. Then, Molly sighed and turned to the kitchen.

"Sherlock!" John shouted over the roar of the river. He ducked behind a rock, a bullet whizzing past, before calling out again. "Sherlock!"

The ambush hadn't been expected. But that was the danger of war. Living the unexpected.

Sherlock whipped his head around from the bank of the river to catch sight of his best friend. The doctor was having a hard time crossing through the rushing current, and the enemy was fast approaching. John glanced over the rock and turned back to Sherlock. "Cover me!"

Sherlock nodded and yanked his rifle off of his shoulder. He leveled it at the woods behind the river bank. John Watson, trusting his friend to take out any man who came forward with the intention of shooting him. Sherlock watched with sharp eyes, shooting down anyone who came in range with the intent of killing his friend.

John was about ten yards from the shore when he stopped, his body jutting forward and his eyes widening, before falling forward into the water. Sherlock's heart stopped and he heard himself screaming John's name, his voice breaking at the end of his name. There was a man who had sneaked to the edge of the clearing, somehow escaping Sherlock's notice, and shot him. The man shot John.

So Sherlock shot the bastard.

He flung his gun away, stumbling forward and wading into the water to grab John. He flung John's arm over his shoulder and pulled him to shore. He held John in his arms as he spoke.

"John, look at me, keep your eyes on me," he pleaded. John was having trouble focusing on Sherlock's face, and Sherlock shook him slightly, not thinking straight. "John!"

"Sherlock," John croaked, but his eyes rolled to the side before focusing on him again.

"I am sorry, I am so sorry. I didn't see him. He was just there-"

"You're crying," John noted absently. Sherlock realized there were burning tears coursing down his cheeks.

"Of course I'm crying," he replied heatedly. "You got shot!"Sherlock felt his heart cracking as he spoke, the cords that held it together snapping little by little.

"So…" John bit out, his face contorting in pain. "So you aren't a machine."

Sherlock tried to laugh, but it came out strangled. "John, stay with me. Please, just focus."

John's hands latched onto the front of Sherlock's coat in a death-grip. "You were my best friend, Sherlock, my best friend. Never forget that," he said desperately, his eyes locked on Sherlock's. Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but John started choking on something, coughing painfully. His hands fell away from Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock suddenly realized that he wasn't apathetic to the idea to a deity, and found himself praying fervently to whoever was listening- 'please, let him live. Save John Watson.'

"John," Sherlock whispered as John fell silent. He was alive, his heart was beating, but his chest wasn't moving, he wasn't breathing, his eyes were closed, and all Sherlock could think was how John never told him to piss off, how John had hugged him after Sherlock gave his Best Man speech, how John was his best friend, and how he was responsible for John's death.

I killed John Watson.

The final cord in his heart broke, and he heart fell in two.

I killed my best friend.

There were people surrounding him, a pair of hands pulling John from Sherlock's grasp and pulling Sherlock up off the ground, tugging him along. He hadn't a clue what he was doing. He could only think about John Watson, his best friend, the best man in the world, and that he killed him.

A/N: So! How did you like it? I don't want to beg for reviews or anything, but a lot of people followed this ficlet and nobody reviewed it. Which, I have to admit, it is a little disappointing. Just drop me a line, let me know what I did wrong or right, if you loved it, if you hated it, (though personally I would prefer the former rather than the latter. XD) I will try to post the rest of it tomorrow. ^_^

Much Love,

Daliah.