'No, you're not.'

In an instant, Sherlock saw utter despair cross Molly's fair, flawless features. The silver ring around her chocolate eyes dimmed and she turned her head.

'Perhaps you're right.'

She vanished in a whisper of the wind, no evidence of her presence left behind.

He stared at the spot she had occupied, trying to prevent his Mind Palace from collapsing entirely while fighting the unknown feelings roaring in his chest; betrayal, anguish, sorrow.

His mind fogged, the very foundations of his Mind Palace shattering under the two impossibilities he'd just faced:

1. The laws of everything he'd ever believed as a man of logic and science had been bent to the point of breaking in front of his very eyes

2. Molly Hooper was a liar

In a daze, he slowly turned and walked to the door, Mycroft's men bursting into the room from all sides, running past him and clearing the room. He didn't hear their calls, the radio static as they relayed the scene to his brother. His feet led him to the street and he slid into the unmarked car idling at the curb, his eyes still glazed over as he desperately tried to keep his Mind Palace from collapsing around him.

The car pulled away.

Across from him, Mycroft sat primly, one leg crossed over the other, the ever-present brolly at his side. Wordlessly, he handed a thick, tan folder to the Consulting Detective.

Written in thick, black letters across the front was the title 'Zephyr'.

Sherlock stared at it, knowing exactly what was inside. A flash of anger briefly overwhelmed his shock.

Mycroft had had it ready. He had known about Molly and had known Sherlock would eventually find out about her. He'd known for some time, it seemed, due to the sheer amount of information in the file.

Sherlock flipped open the file. Clipped to the top of the dossier was an aged picture, several decades old based on the deterioration of the ink. A familiar face stared back at him.

Molly.

'What is she?' Sherlock asked, not looking away from the picture of the sweet, blushing pathologist he'd known.

Mycroft sighed. 'I do not know.' He fiddled with the handle of his brolly, 'She would have remained an unknown enigma had she not crossed paths with you, brother mine. When it became apparent she would be an asset, I had her background thoroughly dissected. Her history is… intriguing.'

'Yet you did not think to tell me about this before today?' Sherlock spat as he stared down at the file.

'Would you have believed me, Sherlock?' Mycroft quirked an eyebrow tellingly. 'As it is, I, myself, took significant pains to procure evidence of her true nature.'

Sherlock's head whipped up and he narrowed his eyes, 'What did you do to her?'

Mycroft sighed heavily, 'Nothing so… horrible as to be determined inhumane, I assure you. She has proven herself to be most resilient.'

'She works for you, doesn't she?'

'In a manner of speaking.' Mycroft smirked. 'Enough about the pathologist. Why was there no trace of Moriarty's body in the warehouse?'

Silence fell between them.

'She let him go.'

Mycroft's grip on his umbrella tightened. 'I see.'

Those two words immediately caught Sherlock's entire attention. Mycroft was able to easily conceal any emotion. Except anger. It released itself in a dangerous calm, like the breath before the oncoming storm. Sherlock saw his brother's fury, in the tightening of his hand on his brolly and the near frigid, even tone.

They rode the rest of the way to Baker Street in silence.

As the car pulled up to the curb, Mycroft cleared his throat.

'Tread carefully, Sherlock. A new, evermore dangerous game is, as you say, afoot.'

With a scowl, Sherlock ducked out of the car, the file clasped tightly in his hand.

Two days later

With a timeline crossing the wall behind the sofa, Sherlock had mapped out the dual-identity of Molly Hooper. There were generous gaps in the information file, decades without any trace of her. The earliest notice of her was in 1845, under the name Margaret 'Molly' Collins. Since then, every so often, her surname was altered, her occupation changed, but her style and appearance remained the same.

Sherlock stared at the distorted lines.

It felt surreal, something he loathed. He was a scientist, a logician. Everything he knew was based in solid fact and reality. This… this was beyond anything he'd ever comprehended. He had no knowledge or experience in anything otherworldly.

And he didn't like not knowing.

He resented that Molly had kept a secret from him. Molly Hooper had hidden something monumental from him and he wasn't sure if he was more upset about his entire reality being challenged or… that Molly had not trusted him with her secret.

'It wasn't about trust.'

Sherlock whirled around in surprise. Molly stood by the door, dressed in her usual baggy trousers and cherry covered cardigan. Everything about her screamed 'ordinary'.

'I didn't say-'

Molly smiled sadly, 'I've learned how to read people just as well as you, over the years, Sherlock. It just took me longer than you to hone my skills. Much longer.'

Sherlock turned back to the wall.

He heard her sigh and make her way across the room to stand at his side. They stared at the haphazard collage for some time in silence.

'It was for your protection,' Molly finally broke the silence. Her soft voice was laced with sadness, but remained resolute.

'From whom?'

From the corner of his eye, he saw Molly breathe deeply. 'From everything.'

He huffed and spat, 'Vague, mysterious, self-important. I can see why Mycroft is fond of you as an asset. You've all the makings of his ideal protégé.'

Her hand twitched at her side, but she remained silent.

'Ah, you even have the 'silence is the upper-hand' attitude down to a science!'

'Shut up,' she hissed. 'You have no idea what is out there. My silence is a shield between you and a thousand things that would seek to destroy you. Your little dabbles with Moriarty are part of a bigger game.'

'Yes, and if I am to believe that you, it's apparently a game you have been playing all along.' Sherlock turned, towering over her, his eyes flashing in angry realization.

Molly whispered, 'You weren't even supposed to be there.' She closed her eyes and sighed, 'I knew Moriarty would show. Your presence forced me to change my tactics. And then you wouldn't leave.'

Molly turned away from him, a tear making its way down her cheek. She whispered bitterly, 'You weren't supposed to find out.'

They stood in silence. Questions burned his tongue, but refused to be spoken, his heart thundered with heartbreak, disappointment and aggravation.

'Whatever you think of me, I'm on your side' she spoke softly.

Sherlock merely quirked an eyebrow and snapped bitterly, 'But there's always something I miss. You expect me to believe you're some form of otherworldly warrior, powerful and immortal. I have serious doubts about what I've seen, it's a road I've traveled before.' The Baskerville case taught him to be even more discerning about putting too much trust in what his human eyes have seen. 'Forgive me for struggling to understand this possible shift in my reality.'

Molly winced at his tone.

His Mind Palace was crumbling, things he had once never doubted, like the bloody laws of physics, were suddenly cast out into a pit of uncertainty. He raked a hand through his hair, unaware of its violent tremor, as he turned his scowl upon her once more.

'Yet even with all your so-called power,' he spat, 'you let Moriarty waltz out of that room with nary a scratch.'

Her head snapped up in shock and anger. 'I did not let him waltz out the room, Sherlock Holmes. There is more at play here than a simple criminal network. I made the right choice, the only choice to get you out alive.'

He cocked his head back as he laughed mockingly, 'You killed Moran while he was on top of me, without so much as singeing me. You easily could have stopped Moriarty.'

Molly shook her head and turned her face away in contemplation, 'Something else is controlling him. Something… dark.'

'Oh, that's very informative,' Sherlock rolled his eyes.

'Damn it, Sherlock, just trust me, killing him would probably bring about something even worse,' she pleaded, the Molly he knew coming through.

'Trust you? After everything you've thrown at me?' He bellowed, causing her to rear back in surprise.

Her eyes softened, 'I know this is a lot to try to comprehend. Especially for someone like you, whose mind is based in science and logic. But I'm still Molly. I've never lied to you about who I am. I simple omitted what I am.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes at her rationale.

She reached out and brought his gaze back to her solemn eyes. 'I've never felt darkness that powerful, Sherlock. Moriarty was never that powerful. Whatever this is… whoever this is… they're powerful and Moriarty may just be a pawn.'

'Wonderful,' Sherlock deadpanned.

Before he could say more, the door below opened and a familiar voice shouted up the stairs.

John.

Molly's eyes widened as she flicked her gaze to the wall. 'Sherlock, please,' she whispered. 'Don't tell him what I am. Don't let him see that.'

The footsteps on the stairs grew closer. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her. His oft-silenced heart urged him to protect her, to keep her secrets safe. But the ego he'd fed for decades had been broken, his deductive reasoning had been accused of failing him, and both were demanding indisputable proof. And a tad bit of revenge against the woman who threatened their infallibility.

'No.'

Her eyes widened in shock.

Time slowed to a crawl as Sherlock made his move. He knew what he was about to do could end very badly. But he needed further proof. He needed to see it with his own eyes. And there was no time to lose, if he had indeed fallen into a more dangerous game.

There was a eight-second time frame before John had an eye-line into the flat. Each second passed slowly as Sherlock spun around and lunged for the table. From the corner of his eye, he saw Molly begin to recover from her brief shock. He estimated she was able to vanish, and would if he didn't hurry, within six seconds.

His hand grasped the familiar, cool metal and he swung around quickly, his arm outstretched.

With an unerring eye, he raised the gun and pulled the trigger. The sound of the bullet piercing the air coincided with John's final step on the staircase.

Screaming in pain, Molly collapsed to her side, her hand immediately covering her wounded thigh. Blood seeped through her fingers, coating the wood floor in a dark puddle.

'Jesus Christ, Sherlock!' John shouted as he raced into the room, immediately rushing to Molly's aid. He shrugged his coat off and was about to press it to her leg when Sherlock pulled him back.

'Don't soil your jacket,' he said nonchalantly.

'What the bloody Hell have you done?' John wrenched himself from Sherlock's grasp and knelt beside Molly, who was shaking violently, tears of pain flooding down her cheek. He tore the tattered pant leg away, exposing her thigh. 'You shattered her femur, Sherlock! Call the paramedics!'

'No,' Sherlock stood over them, his narrowed eyes fixed on Molly, his heart beating frantically in his chest. Still in doctor mode, John improvised a tourniquet with Sherlock's nearby scarf, tying it above the wound. He then made to lift Molly up and get her to the A&E.

'Then I'll drive her,' he grunted, hoisting up the petite pathologist.

'Put me down,' Molly's grunted command laced with pain halted John's movements. He stared at her incredulously, about to protest. But her focus was still stubbornly on Sherlock. John hesitantly obeyed, lowering her to the floor and grimacing in sympathy as she cried out.

Her face was pale and sweaty as she tried to breathe through the pain. Sherlock could see that she was about to pass out from the agony.

John pulled out his mobile, dialing for the paramedics, when a gentle vibrating hum filled the room, barely audible above Molly's ragged breaths. He raised his head in question. Molly had not taken her gaze from Sherlock, knowing, despite her agony, exactly what he was trying to prove. He steadfastly refused to offer assistance or comfort. The humming persisted and to John's complete shock, it appeared to emanate from Molly. She suddenly closed her eyes in a wave of agony, clenching her teeth and groaning loudly. John gaped as silver threads of light, barely visible to his eye, began to weave across the bullet hole in her thigh, like haphazard stitches binding the flesh together.

The threads disappeared, leaving her thigh unmarked and, apparently, fully healed.

Silence descended between the three of them. His mouth hanging open, all words seemed to fail the medical doctor. Briefly, he considered another 'tea' incident, with Sherlock experimenting on John's mental capacities without his knowledge.

But Sherlock seemed to be in a similar state of awe, though the clenching of his fists at his side indicated a growing anger.

Molly stood, disregarding her torn and bloody clothes. Tear tracks marred her face, her cheeks still pale and glistening with sweat. The usually timid pathologist walked purposefully to the seething Sherlock and, despite her diminutive size, seemed to tower over him in her wrath.

Her eyes flashed silver and her voice was laced with underlying steel as she hissed, 'I may heal, Sherlock Holmes, but that does not mean I do not feel the fire of a bullet or the terror of agonizing pain and death. Remember that the next time you point a gun at me.'

'If you had been honest with me, I would not have had to resort to such measures to satisfy my disbelief,' Sherlock retorted.

'That was not a choice for you to make,' she hissed. 'My secrets were kept hidden for your protection, damn it.'

She turned to the gobsmacked doctor and smiled gently, 'John, do sit down before you faint.'