Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. If I did, well, Sherlock would still be an asshole but he would be a little more human than he already is. He'd also play the piano, in addition to the violin.

A/N: Thank you for the lovely reviews! Before this chapter begins I'd like to address the fact that I do not like keeping people waiting, which is why I am pre-writing 'Watson's Niece' (will be out in a few weeks.) The next chapter may be out this coming weekend!

~Chapter 2~

~Heavy Secrets and Candles~

All the ingredients of chaos mixed together created the perfect pastry of terror. It was flawless.

Molly Hooper watched the smoke rise up into the sky in threatening swirls, hearing the thousands of people, who were gathered along the riverside like algae on a boat, scream, point and capture the sight on their phones. Distant wails and screams of terror, the heightened curiosity and impulse to run filled the air. It smelled like burnt plastic and wood, filling bitingly-cold London air with damp humidity. Working with the natural impulse, the citizens and tourists of London descended into fear and ambiguity, pointing and yelling out propaganda.

Molly only watched as helicopters descended around the aircraft. Seemingly even more nervous than the bundled up citizens staring at the wreckage, police officers pushed them back to make way for ambulances and fire trucks. Every able service was there: the coroner, MI6, the police force, even a few American troops armoring up. She didn't know where they came from, but they did wear American flags on their shoulders. Her hands remained on the railing and her eyes on the craft, even as a black car rolled up behind her and someone ran out.

"Molly!" Lestrade called, his voice heavy from panic and exhaustion, running out to meet Molly on the side of the bridge, "Molly, thank god you're okay!"

Looking over to her left, Molly sniffed, feeling her pointy nose go numb and red from the cold. "Hello, Greg."

"There's more than likely to be casualties. You're needed at St. Bart's to prep for autopsies immediately."

Molly nodded, letting go of the railing. She zipped up her jacket and faced Lestrade, which of whom was sporting whiter hair and bigger bags under his eyes. He looked decades older than he was before, heavied by more unsolved cases walking out of Scotland Yard's doors without the consultation of a private detective at hand. No jewelry heists were ended on a note of sarcasm and I-know-it-all and no murder left Donovan snickering and murmuring, "Freak." Molly knew he missed him, but she couldn't bring herself to look into Lestrade's dimming eyes. She couldn't even look at John, and very rarely Mary. Her focus was on her hands as she and Lestrade continued to talk.

"Where did the Americans come from?"

In the midst of panic, running civilians, abandoned cars and women breaking down into tears on the side of the street, Lestrade answered Molly's innocent question. It was only part of the chaos, only a single fragment of what was going on around them. Some people fainted, some others just ran away, but no one wasn't unamused by the seemingly terrorist-driven airplane landing in the heart of their city.

"This was their craft, Molly. The president was in it."

Molly's heart sunk into her stomach as the smell of smoke in the air grew sickening. She felt the flower starting to wilt and the sun start to dim as she reached for her inner strength and met Lestrade's eyes for the first time in forever, holding the contact for as long as she could without blinking. "Are you telling me that I'm going to have to cut open the bloody president of the US?"

"Yes."

Puzzle pieces floating in the air fell into place when Molly realized what the cause of heightened panic was for. Hopelessness was mixed into initial shock and reaction because of American tourists and British citizens with American relatives. The earth shook with the desperation in the sobs as Molly looked down at her hands, her wedding ring. These hands will open up the President of the United States on a slab in a quiet, cold morgue. She could see the blood, his brain, the tattered suit on the table…

"Are you alright, Molly?"

She stared into Lestrade's eyes again, pursing her lips together. She grew determined, strong, brave. "Yes. It's just the thought of opening up someone so important…it just shook me for a bit."

"If you're not well, we can ask Doctor Landsford…"

"No, I'm alright." Molly quickly assured him, giving him the biggest smile she could muster. "I'll be on my way."

"Great. I'll pay your cabbie. You can get into the car; I'll be in there in just a moment."

"Right," Molly's spoken word dissipated into the air as she headed towards Lestrade's car, watching him pay the cabbie from behind the window. She looked over at the aircraft wreck, the very tip of the wing sticking out from the Thames, a fire heavily burning, swirls of smoke reaching out into the air as far as it can. Lestrade shut the door and drove away, just as helicopters approached the wreck with water to put out the fire.

Red-hot panic dissipated as they drove farther and farther away from the Thames, and the air began to feel icy-cold again, the streets less than crowded and lacking screams and police sirens. Silently fading away, the accident was far from over. Once in a while the wail of a firetruck or a police car would come and hit Molly with unforeseen force, making her jump every time either came rolling down the street. Every time Lestrade had asked her if she was okay, and every time Molly told him she was fine.

Without warning, Lestrade brought the car to a screeching halt, jumping out of the car and opening Molly's door before she could unclick her seatbelt. It was either he was high on a coffee-induced caffeine rush or she was rigid from the fact she was going to perform a very important autopsy. Lestrade held her left hand, the one the wedding ring was on, and helped her out of the car. Reaching over to close the door behind her, Lestrade asked Molly if she was okay for one last time.

"'m alright," Molly said, sniffing from the cold. She slipped her leather gloves off of her dainty little hands and headed inside.

Inside St. Bart's, the air was strangely empty. As if someone had used a vacuum to suck any sort of smell or sound out of the hospital, that was what the reception area felt like. The air lacked the stark smell of disinfectant and the barking orders of paramedics rolling in bleeding patients or nervous cries of parents and spouses. No young child whizzed past them on rollerblades they weren't supposed to be on and no beeping and slamming of a video game echoed down the hall. Instead, the occupants of the chairs had their eyes fixated on the only television on the room; all of them watched the coverage of the crash.

The receptionist, Betty, saw the arrival of Molly and Greg, peeling her eyes off of the television for the sake of greeting them. "Afternoon. Terrible, isn't it? The crash?"

"Yeah," Lestrade said gravely, sinking his hands into his pockets, "Molly was there."

Betty's bright blue eyes clicked onto Molly's, curiosity and concern flying out of her mouth. "Oh my god! Really? Are you alright?"

"'m alright," Molly repeated, feeling the slightest sting of annoyance hitting her chest. The warmth of the hospital cushioned her cold face like hot buns straight out of the oven, making her sniffle a bit. Her red nose, sniffles and just-as-usual slightly sad expression made Molly look like a sob story, one someone would put on the paper or document on the telly for the sake of profit and destruction.

"Are you sure? Landsford's in today, he'll be more than happy to…"

"I can do the autopsy," words rolled out of Molly's mouth as she played with her wedding ring, the shiny little thing that always bothered her, for some odd reason, "and I can handle myself on an emotional standpoint too."

Molly quickly adds, "You don't need to call Tom," and starts heading down the hall to the elevators, feeling Greg and Betty's eyes heavy on her back, ignoring the bright, icy winter light filling into the hall from large floor-to-ceiling windows. Striding through the hospital, she replaced her jacket for her lab coat and her comfy side-braid for a serious-looking high ponytail. Snapping on gloves and prepping the autopsy, she felt her heart race faster when she heard someone fly into the room.

"Oh sorry, I'm not done preparing yet…is the body here?"

Molly grabbed a few dishes and some scalpels, her ears open and ready for the new arrival's answer. No words were spoken after a few moments, forcing Molly to pull her eyes away from her urgent prepping to look up at who had walked in.

The new arrival was the destruction of the world itself. It wasn't the flickering light of the sun disappearing and the lone little wilting flower slowly dying, the muted, silver-lined death as the last droplet of hope flew out into space, it was the reality. Hard, true reality. It wasn't whimsical as Molly's dreams were, but the brooding storm, the dastardly large explosion of light and heat, both happy and destructive, walking in like nothing was ever wrong but really, kicking over towers and making everything crash onto the ground. He didn't leave the lights on until the power ran out, he exploded it first.

"Bastard," was what came out of Molly's mouth first. A dish of tools fell out of her hand and landed on the ground in glittering, noisy light. The shrill crash filled the room, spreading across the two of them like a seismic wave. It rattled at Molly's heart as she backed away from the man, putting an entire island counter between them. He still stared into her soul, stared like she was the most interesting thing in the world, maybe the most beautiful, the most important…

"Get your bloody eyes off of me," Molly hissed, reaching for a scalpel to defend her, staring at the man's face. His eyes burned into hers like acid, making them sting and causing tears to fall, "and get out."

Molly knew he didn't want to go. Even from that far away, she could tell that his heart was shattered and now falling into pieces, crashing down like the dish of tools she had dropped. The sun was desperately trying to shine but failed at every attempt. Flickers of a smile tried to crawl up his face but were no match for the quivering frown and the damp eyes. He was a broken man, bundled up heavy and tight hiding a sob story.

Tell me what's wrong, Molly's own words were flying through her ears, not spoken now but four years before, breaking into her innermost thoughts, pushing at the harsh and unwelcoming words she had planned to speak. What do you need? Tell me what's wrong. What do you need? Tell me what's wrong….

Molly watched as teardrops fell to the linoleum floor, both of hers and his, setting the scalpel she had held in her hand on the counter with a large SLAM. Her hands found the side of the counter, gripping it with all of the strength she had, with the urgency of hanging from the side of a building. Her fingertips grew white and the wedding ring dug into her finger, but it didn't stop her from squeezing it harder and then slamming her fists on the counter, her hands greeting her face just as she started to sob.

She was warm from embarrassment and shock, as well as the sunshine trying so hard to shine on her. It was unfortunate that a raincloud followed her wherever she went, casting ever-lasting sadness on her. It was also unfortunate that two sad people cannot cheer each other up.

She could feel his presence beside her. She could feel the warmth, the smell of cigarettes. She could feel his shadow, the dark coat flying behind him like a cape. Every single cell in her body sobbed as she felt his hand set on her shoulder.

"Congratulations," his voice falters, falling into the abyss. That one word echoes through the room, accompanying Molly's sobs.

Molly set her hands on the counter, trying to keep herself from crying, yet at every attempt her sobs grew louder. She felt his calloused finger brush over her wedding ring, with sensitivity for her and disappointment for him. Through the blur of tears she turned around to look at him, the closest they have ever been to each other. With hardly any air between them, she looked into his piercing blue eyes. Those usually calculating, cold eyes were now broken and sad. Behind the eyes she could still see his brilliant mind at work; she saw flashes of Tom, his awkward demeanor, the surprised smiles of his family, the barking of his dog…even her cat, Toby, whom she had to give up because of Tom's pet. He put the pieces together and his eyes moved from the ring to Molly, still damp from tears.

In the dim, stark light of the morgue, she watched the crystal tears slide down Sherlock's pale, flawless skin. It cascaded down his cheeks like a dripping faucet and over his brilliant cheekbones. Even in rotting sadness in her heart, Molly couldn't help but appreciate how some tears caught themselves in his overgrown hair, his badly shaven face, his brilliant, damp eyes…

She could feel the rough stubble on his chin as he kissed her forehead. She could even feel the devastation in his shaking hands, fumbling through her hair, her hair tie disappearing causing it to fall down her shoulders. Every little touch, every stolen glance he would've allowed himself were all happening at once to make up for four years. Two kisses, one on her forehead and one too near her mouth, then digging his head into her hair, starting to sob; Molly was 'happily' married yet made no effort to remove another man's arms from around her waist neither her arms around his neck. She felt dirty yet just as broken as him.

"Sherlock…" she whispered, feeling her own sobs rumble in her ears. "…oh, god…"

The embrace lasted for five seconds, hastily cut off when Lestrade's even, urgent footsteps came bouncing down the hall. Even in a fit of emotion, Sherlock had shed his coat, pulling a blonde wig and a pair of glasses out. He was a blonde, intelligent-looking man who looked slightly red due to his sensitive skin once Lestrade had walked in.

"Oh…Molly." Lestrade looked over at the tools on the floor and the stranger accompanying Molly on the far side of the room, "So who's this then?"

"Sam Handerby," Sherlock replied, almost immediately. Realizing Molly was at his side with tears in her eyes, he snaked his arm around her shoulders, adding, "just an old friend from uni."

"I—I got…a little emotional," Molly hiccupped, wiping away tears with her lab coat sleeve, "he just brought back so many memories."

Molly could tell, from the skeptical look in Lestrade's eyes, that he was taking Molly's messy hair, the misplaced tools and the unprepared autopsy slab as dodgy. Even this random appearance of this 'Sam Handerby' was odd. Him and his odd-sounding American accent…

"I'm the US's Secretary of State's assistant," Sherlock proclaimed, lies streaming out of his mouth as did his tears out of his eyes just moments before, "and I was meant to meet the president once he'd landed in London, but I'm afraid he didn't make it…"

But Greg wasn't having any of this. Every inch of his face was emitting doubt and fraud, twisting and frowning as he hastily got out his badge. "Chief Superintendent Greg Lestrade of Scotland Yard. Not a single bit of information has been omitted from my ears ever since I got the bloody title. Even the fact that the president was never scheduled to land in London."

Molly immediately looked over at Sherlock, who's face fell from embarrassment and defeat. The usual bright light in his eyes from solving cases and successfully deducing was replaced by painful tries on figuring things out. "I can explain…"

"Yes you can." Lestrade growled, stomping over to him. He ripped the glasses and the wig off, only to attack Sherlock with a monstrous hug. "You bastard! You complete and utter bastard!"

He yelled, "FUCK YOU!" into Sherlock's shoulder, swaying them back and forth. Crusty from fallen tears, Sherlock and Molly's eyes locked on each other's as Lestrade continued to yell foul things into Sherlock's shoulder. A pained laugh escaped Molly's mouth, accompanied by a few more tears.

"No body, is there?" Sherlock asked Lestrade, over yells and wails. "I'll just need a yes or no."

"No," Lestrade whimpered, pushing himself away from Sherlock, straightening his suit and running a hand through his hair. He wiped his damp face as he tried to straighten up, "no, I just came in here to tell Molly that. It was remote-controlled."

He let out a sputtering, wet laugh, looking over and Molly, "Dear Christ, I was going to ask if you knew any decent detectives who would like to help us find out who controlled the plane!"

Irony tickling his heart, Sherlock cracked a smile, wiping away tears as he walked over to pick up the tools and dishes from the ground. Molly forced herself to numbly put supplies away and after a few hearty laughs, more spilled tears, Molly found the sky outside to be dark and herself in a cab on the way home.

"So why do ya think he came back?"

It was the first question presented over tea at Tom's flat. With only candlelight to illuminate their faces, the two leaned on the granite countertop in the kitchen. Both Greg and Sherlock were invited over for tea with Molly, however only Greg accepted. Sherlock, on the other hand, disappeared into the shadows in an alley beside Bart's, only giving a smile and a nod as a goodbye.

"Why do you think he faked it, is the question," Molly told Greg, tucking her brushed hair behind her ears. She tapped her wedding ring on the mug handle, making a shrill clicking noise echo throughout the flat. "I mean, you have to look at the cause before the effect."

"True, true." Lestrade murmured, taking a sip of his tea. Silence ensued as he looked up at Molly, who was still lazily playing with her ring. "But I reckon it's because of the plane crash."

"I do too."

"So what were you two doing?"

"Sorry?"

"I dunno how long you two were with each other, but, you know…" he motioned towards his own eyes, tracing circles in the air, "…he was crying too."

That was when Molly bit her lip. Truth was, she was slightly awestruck at his reaction. Six months into the four years he was gone, Molly dreamed at night, struck by insomnia caused by her role in Sherlock's fall, that she'd be reduced to tears on the night he'd come back. She knew she'd be the one who'd be embarrassed as she tried to straighten herself up, Sherlock's critical and judging eyes over her. But the reality wasn't quick and swift. His reaction was tear-spawning, broken, touchy. Like something had happened that made him realize how important everyone was to him.

"Never saw him cry before," Greg stated, gazing through the flat, his eyes landing on the single candle that sat between them. The power was out, leaving the two to fend for themselves with phone lights and candles. "was a little shocked."

"Neither have I," Molly lied, but feeling bitterness at the end of her tongue, realizing she'd done enough lying for a lifetime, she added, "actually, he was, when he was on the roof talking to John. He never actually sobbed…"

"…he sobbed?" Greg chuckled, a crooked smile pushed up on his face. "Bloody hell."

Molly could almost feel his curiosity behind his voice as he asked, "Do you wonder why he was so emotional? Seriously, what did you two do? I don't think one look could leave you two sobbing."

"I just…got startled," Molly blushed, her mind shuffling through the memories, "I think I held a scalpel to defend myself or something like that…though it was odd, he kissed me twice and hugged me."

"Wow," Greg commented under his breath.

After a period of silence Molly said, "Something's not right about him."

"What makes you say that?"

"He was shaking," Molly recalled. "No, honestly, when he touched me…it felt like one of those massaging armchairs or something like that."

"Maybe he was cold. It's a tundra out there."

"No, he was very…warm." Molly insisted. "But his eyes…"

Staring at the flickering flame atop the lavender candle, she tried to block out the chills that crawled down her back as she recalled his eyes, "…like the Doctor, you know? They looked so old, like he'd seen so many bad things…they usually sparkled with anticipation but now, it's like someone threw some water on that fire."

Greg nodded, sipping more of his tea. He found a stool and pulled it closer, sitting himself on top of it. "So, what do ya reckon?"

"What?"

"If he'd came back years earlier, like two years or something, what do ya reckon would be different? I mean, firstly, whatever happened to him, he wouldn't be a shaking, nervous wreck."

"True…"

"I mean, sure, it's been too long for all of us, we all completely moved on." Greg let out an exasperated breath, setting his mug on the counter a little too hard, "Like come on, we all thought he was dead. What's John going to do when he sees him?"

"Bloody hell, who knows?" Molly sighed. She couldn't begin to imagine how badly people will react. It would be a spark in the midst of a blackout and a miracle in the light of tragedy to the media, but to everyone else; John, Mrs. Hudson…it was like death itself was crawling out of the grave, like a bad omen…

"They'd put up a fuss, as far as I know."

The focus on their conversation and the tea was instantly grabbed and thrown over at the man standing at the doorway to the flat. Everything about him reeked broken. Even Molly couldn't help noticing how much of a scrub he was; Sherlock always wore suits, looked perfectly groomed—but Sherlock now hadn't shaved in a lifetime. He wore sweatpants and a greasy-looking jacket. After four, long years, it broke her heart to see him so different. So broken.

Broken, like glass shattering from impact, spraying over her in a matter of seconds. Shock, passing through every body part, leaving her breathless and wishing for more…

"I'll need proper grooming supplies, as well as access to better clothes. All of my belongings are still at Baker Street, mustn't walk in looking like this demanding for suits, should I?" Sherlock flashed a smile, taking no sadness away from his eyes, "Would you ever be so kind, Graham?"

"Greg."

"Sorry, right, yes."

"Tom could help you with that," Molly told Sherlock, slightly breathless. She set her mug on the table, looking at his chest rather than his face.

From the corner of her eye she could see his cold, icy blue gaze melting like butter in a microwave. "Sorry, who's Tom?"

"My fiancé," said Molly, "the one who gave me this ring."

"Oh." Sherlock sniffed, forcing his eyes wider. He adjusted his jacket as if he was already wearing a clean suit. "Of course. So he's the man who was making his way up to the flat? The one who cares about his manliness so much that he bought shoes a size too big for him and always makes the habit of puffing his chest out?"

Greg opened his mouth to defend awkward Tom, but Molly beat him to it, agreeing with Sherlock. "Yes. That's the love of my life."

"Sarcasm."

"I love him."

"Lies."

"You read me like a book." Molly told him angrily. She didn't know what she felt, a numb feeling taking over every part of her body. She could say she missed having critical, I-care-so-I'll-hurt-you Sherlock Holmes pointing out every single flaw out of her love life, but at the same time she was so offended that he had arrived in her flat and was now insulting her life choices. Her husband. She should defend him, but no; she was siding with the consulting detective. The prince of her sugary-sweet fantasies who'll sweep her off her feet and bring her along in his wonderful endeavors, heart-racing crimes.

"I love him. That is not a lie."

Sherlock leaned his head forward a little, as if to mock her façade. "Yes Molly, you love him. Said so yourself. Also in subtext, admitted I was correct."

The three heard footsteps echo down the hall behind Sherlock, who quickly muttered, "My name is Sam Handerby. Old friend from Uni, assistant to Secretary of State."

As if in order from a script in a play, Molly promptly walked towards the doorframe just as Tom appeared there. She put on the sweetest smile she could muster and kissed him on the cheek. "How was your day, sweetheart?"

"Good, good…" his eyes drifted elsewhere to the other two men in the room. He looked lost. "…erm, who's that? And why is Greg here?"

"Greg and I met an old friend from Uni of mine." Molly said, just as Sherlock turned around. "This is Sam Handerby."

Sherlock held out his hand to shake Tom's, who hesitantly took his hand. "Nice to meet you, Tom. Your wife is full of contradictions."

Shooting a heavy, angry glare at Sherlock's direction, Molly reached forward to pry Tom's jacket and scarf off of him. Tom took that as a joke and laughed, saying, "Well, you can say that."

"Tom darling," Molly tugged at his sleeve, "Sam's gotten himself into a pickle. He needs access to a razor and a spare suit. Can you help him?"

"Um…" looking over at his wife's sugary sweet smile, he couldn't help but say yes. "Yes, that'll be alright with me."

He set his briefcase on the counter beside the mugs of tea and turned to Sherlock. "Uh, Sam, pretty sure it's obvious where my razor is. The bathroom's the first door to the right. I'll get you a suit." He disappeared into a bedroom, to which speaking ensued.

"He's nice." Sherlock commented.

Molly's face morphed like a child tasting the sour inside of a sugar-covered candy, obviously offended by the sarcasm underlying his rumbling voice. She wanted to slap him, but instead flashed a smile. "Keep him from getting bored, Greg. I'll go talk to Tom."

She could see their eyes running after her in the mirrors of the hall, watching Greg picking up his mug and Sherlock taking a seat on a stool at the counter. Neither of them, for some unfathomable reason, did not exchange words until she had shut the door of her and Tom's bedroom.

The bedroom they shared was cozy, draped in an essence of what every bedroom should be: an oasis, a place where they could escape the exterior evils. The lights were dim and it always smelled of flowers or cinnamon. Otherwise, it felt so normal; so familiar, as Tom's embrace was to her and the ever faint presence of their quiet, sleepy dog. Words exchanged between them were clipped and short, hardly filling up the room with anything else but empty space. The two led a mild conversation to which Tom agreed with everything like a docile dog being trained and in which Molly ordered and received. She felt ever-growing dread at the bottom of her stomach, telling Tom that Sherlock's name was 'Sam Handerby' and not the man whom she still fancied, the lie under the wedding ring she wore, under the vows she had spoken.

Lies are like candles; they make things great for a while, but once the fuse burns out all hell will break lose. Lies are heavy and will only hurt you if you run fast enough to avoid the flame.

Next on Two Years Too Late…

…Mary Watson bumps into our favorite detective and pathologist on the street.