Sorry this took so long, but life's been crazy. This story will just be a total of four chapters. Nothing too long. More of a broken up and fragmented oneshot than anything. Just me exploring character thoughts and actions behind known events.

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Disclaimer: I don't own 'Sherlock'

The Fourth Friend

The tired woman sighed as she finished stirring the hot liquid. Tapping the spoon off on the side of the mug, she tossed it into the sink. Turning around, she leaned against the counter and grasped the cold surface in her sweaty palms. The small staff kitchen stared back at her, bland and empty.

No one there.

She gave a small, forced laugh.

No one knew.

"God," she muttered, "why do I always do this? Every time, without fail."

Biting her lip, she pushed the pesky thoughts from her mind and pushed off the counter. She spun around, grabbed the warm mug and walked out of the kitchen without a second thought. As her footsteps echoed in the empty and darkened hallway, young Molly Hooper's thoughts echoed the memory of words she would very much like to forget.

"You're wrong, you know."

Her fingers tightened on the mug as she shook her in attempt to dislodge the persistent memory, but her action was futile. The dark, empty hallway did nothing but remind her of a darkened room she had also thought to be empty.

Finally finished, she was ready to lock up for the night. She wanted to be done and go home, and maybe try to forget. He always said the most horrible things, and here she was, just as smitten as when she first met him. The auburn haired woman wasn't sure who she hated more: Sherlock or herself.

Biting the inside of her cheek, she shrugged of the white coat that covered her clothes and hung it up. She snatched her simple light olive coat and slipped her arms into it. After she had straightened it out, Molly reached for her bag and slung it over her shoulders. She pulled her long ponytail out from under the strap and flipped the lights off. As she made her way to the door, she flitted through a mental checklist: making sure she had everything she needed and everything had been turned off. She stopped in her tracks. Does Sherlock have an ongoing experiment? she wondered briefly. After a quick thought, nothing came to mind and she continued on her way.

She let a sigh escape her lips. Still worrying about him. She couldn't not worry about him apparently. She reached for the door knob and turned it, but just as the door was opening a voice, well-known but unexpected, sounded.

"You're wrong, you know."

Gasping in surprises, her hand flew to her chest as she spun around to face the darkness. The rectangle of light coming through the door's window fell softly on a partially hidden figure. His thin form leaned against a counter. His ever-present coat fell off his shoulders where the collar was pulled up, showing only his high cheekbones, strong nose and bright eyes. Those bright eyes were down casted as he continued to speak. And she listened, as one hand circled over her waist and clutched the strap of her bag.

"You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you."

His voice stopped and Molly wondered if he expected her to respond. She had opened her mouth, taking a breath, and had leaned forward slightly when he suddenly turned to face her saying, "But you were right."

His bright eyes fell on her face and stayed there, observing her, deducing her, but the only thing that came from his thin lips was: "I'm not okay."

On autopilot, without a second thought, her hand dropped from the strap of her bag as she shuffled forward stating, "Tell me what's wrong."

Her hand snuck around and rested on top of the bag that its pair had just abandoned. Her mind briefly warned her that she was doing it again. She was doing just what she had been chastising herself about and what she will no doubt be chastising herself about again, but she paid no mind to it. There was a reason she did it. He was a friend. And though he would never care to admit it, sometimes he needed someone. Sometimes he needed help, and she would always be there to offer it.

She watched as he pushed himself off the counter, his bright eyes never stopping their penetration of her face. "Molly," he stated as he began to take slow and measured steps towards her, "I think I'm going to die."

His steps were steady as he made is way closer to her. Molly watched his bright eyes as the shifted in the light they reflected. Catching herself, she shook her head briefly, shifted her position and asked, "What do you need?"

"If I wasn't everything you think I am," he implored immediately after her question fell from her lips. "Everything that I think I am," he continued in a tight voice, leaning in closer. "Would you still want to help me?" he questioned condescendingly as he stopped an arm's length away from her. Molly perceived the barest trace of crease between his dark eyebrows.

Without hesitation, she asked again, soft yet fierce with determination, "What do you need?"

Does he really need to ask whether or not you'd help him? Her mind mocked her. Pushing the annoying voice to the side, her eyes widened and her pulse increased as she watched the tall figure close the gap between them, his brilliant eyes never leaving her face. He stopped again, much closer to her this time, and looked down into her eyes and said simply, "You."

Shaking her head to dislodge the memory, she opened the door to the lab. "Sherlock," she called out, "I fixed your—"

Molly's eyes widened at the empty room before her. The dark haired consulting detective was nowhere in sight. "But—" she began.

He had just been here.

He was just here.

The auburn haired woman took a deep breath as the agitation began to grow. "He's always going to do this, isn't he?" she asked herself tersely. With a sigh she let her shoulders slump as she walked to the microscope and set the warm mug next to it.

He might be back soon for it, she reasoned faithfully.

As she began to make her way out of the lab, she spotted a piece of paper with a neat scrawl decorating it. Furrowing her brow in confusion, she reached out a hand towards it. "I don't remember this," she mused as the paper crinkled under her fingers. She brought it in front of her and read the hurried and cramped writing.

"Molly,

I've gone out. Something to do.

I'll be back for my phone. Don't lose it for God's sake.

—SH"

Sighing she folded the paper and slipped it into the pocket of her lab coat next to Sherlock's phone. "I hope he is going to see John, but, hell, he better not be seen," she muttered as she opened the door. Closing it behind her, she made her way to the morgue. She had a body to examine.