Sherlock waited impatiently for Molly to come back, pacing back and forth on top of the coffee table in his bare feet. He groaned. "Where is that woman?"

As if on cue, Molly stormed in, muttering angrily under her breath. She saw Sherlock on the coffee table and glared.

"Get your feet off of my bloody table!" she shouted. The fierceness in her voice startled Sherlock, who quickly jumped off. "What happened?"

"John was being as arse," Molly said. "He had been drinking. His sister was very, very drunk." She flung her coat onto the floor and threw her purse at Sherlock, who ducked. The purse hit the wall and fell, a tube of lipstick rolling out of it. Sherlock picked it up and observed it.

"Back to your regular colour, are you?"

She glared at him and snatched the lipstick from him. She threw it in the direction of the purse and sat down on the sofa, crossing her arms.

"Someone's feeling chipper," Sherlock muttered sarcastically, and Molly rolled her eyes.

"Why were you pacing on my coffee table?" she asked.

He shrugged. "I was bored, and I was waiting for you to get here. Oh, and I have something to tell you."

"Please don't tell me you broke another vase."

He looked shocked. "How do you know about that?"

"Sherlock!"

"What?"

"…Just tell me what you wanted to tell me," she said, exasperated.

"I know when I'm going to tell John."

Molly straightened up. "When?" Please be soon, she thought.

"Next year."

Her heart dropped into her stomach. "N-Next year? I don't think John can last that long.

"Well, you'll have to help him. Visit him a lot, maybe even… No, scratch that last thought," Sherlock said, steepling his long, thin fingers under his chin in meditation. He took a deep breath.

"Maybe even what?" Molly asked, curious.

"… I was suggesting," Sherlock said softly, "that maybe you and John could build a relationship together."

"Wait a minute," Molly said, tilting her head. "John and I, building a relationship together? Like, dating?"

Sherlock nodded slowly. He shouldn't have said that. Now she would feel like she had to date John. "I mean, if you want to. It would be perfectly fine if you didn't."

Molly bit her lip, considering the thought. She loved Sherlock, but she didn't want to. Maybe dating John would take her mind off of Sherlock for a bit. "Hmm… John and I, a couple… He is nice-looking, isn't he?"

A very, very small and secretive part of Sherlock that he didn't know about agreed with her.

"He's kind, too. Well, right now he's not, but… I could help him…"

Sherlock gave her a fake smile. Bugger.

"Yeah, I guess that could work. I'll visit him tomorrow," she said with a small smile. She looked at the clock. "It's getting late. I'm going to bed. Goodnight, Sherlock."

And with that, she went off to her room. Sherlock sighed and put his face in his hands. "Why did I do that?" He frowned. "Why am I regretting it? I should be happy. John needs to let me go. More importantly, I shouldn't be feeling in the first place. But still…"

He felt dread creep up inside of him. He called for Molly.

"What?" She walked into the room in her pajamas, a skip in her step.

"I don't think you should start a relationship with John. I know it would help him let me go, but I don't think he's ready for that kind of relationship just yet."

Molly rolled her eyes at him. "Don't worry, Sherlock. He'll cheer up."

Sherlock looked at her uneasily. She took his hand in hers and gave him a reassuring smile. "He'll be fine. Don't worry. I'll make sure he doesn't do anything stupid," she said softly, peering into his luminous eyes. They were filled with worry and something else she couldn't see… something hidden…

Molly got up on her tip-toes and pecked Sherlock on the cheek. She scurried back to her bedroom, red-faced and giddy.

"What if he falls in love with her?" Sherlock asked himself, unfazed by Molly's peck. "…Why is that a bad thing?"

He walked into his bedroom and fell onto the bed. "I don't understand…"

Molly curled up under the covers of her bed, that weird feeling inside of her stomach. She had just… kissed Sherlock. She still couldn't believe that she, Molly Hooper, the little mouse, had mustered up the courage to do that. She sighed contentedly and drifted off to sleep, her mind cleared of all thoughts about John.

~o~o~o~

John sat up in his bed, panting and sweating. He had had another nightmare.

All of his nightmares were the same. Not Afghanistan anymore, but Sherlock. He kept dreaming about Sherlock jumping, the sound of his impact as clear as ever. CRACK.

He sucked in a breath and got up. He ran his fingers through his messy brown hair. He padded out of his room in his socks and went into the kitchen. Harry wasn't up yet. He made a cup of tea and went back to his room. He put the cup on the nightstand and climbed back into bed.

John was about to fall asleep when the door opened. Molly stood there, wide awake and grinning. A tired-looking Harry stood behind her, then stalked off when she saw the look on John's face.

"Hello, John," Molly said brightly. He sighed.

"Molly. I've already told you I'm tired of visitors. Please just leave me alone," John replied. He curled back up and pulled the covers up over his head.

"John, I'm just trying to help."

He ignored her.

She frowned and crossed her arms. "Would you like to go out for lunch later?"

"No," John answered immediately. He turned away from her.

"Come on. Don't you want some coffee or something?"

"I have tea right here, you know," he grumbled.

"You know what, John? This is pathetic. You're pathetic. You need to move on."

John sat up and turned to face her. "That's what everyone says. 'Oh, just let go; just forget about him.' Well, guess what? It might be easy for you to just let go and forget about it, but it isn't easy for me. He was my best friend. I don't think I'll ever be able to do that if people keep pushing me. And don't try to say you understand, because you don't. Nobody will ever understand."

Molly just glared at him, and he glared right back.

"Fine. Be that way. But let me tell you this: moping and sulking will definitely not help," she growled, turning and leaving, the door slamming shut once again.

"Good riddance," John shouted. He sighed angrily.

~o~o~o~

Sherlock was sitting next to the window, peering out at the busy street. He was trying to figure out who a person was by studying only their shows and ankles.

"Let's see… Black dress shoes, slightly scuffed; probably late to a business meeting, by the way he walks… Has a small cat… No, not a small cat, a medium-sized cat…" He sighed and looked at another pair of shoes.

"Ballet flats. Mmm, probably around three years old… On her way to ballet practice with her mum…"

He spotted a familiar pair of shoes, but didn't look at the wearer's face since he didn't want to ruin this little game of his.

"Casual shoes, covered in mud, recently got back from… the cemetery… he's got a bad limp…"

Sherlock looked at the man's face and tilted his head. He got up and went to sit on the sofa.

"BORED!" he shouted and crossed his arms. "Why is there nothing entertaining around here?!" He stood up and looked around. Molly was still asleep, even though it was time for her to go to work. She had seemed angry when she got back from seeing John the previous day. She had stormed in, yelled at Sherlock for leaving the milk out, and went to her room.

Sherlock didn't want to wake her up, but he was bored and needed to talk to someone. He wished he could talk to John.

He suddenly got an idea. He remembered how sometimes when John was gone, he didn't notice and he just kept talking to himself.

Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to pretend that he was back in 221B Baker Street, sitting in his chair, John on the sofa across from him. He opened his eyes and saw the doctor grinning at him from Molly's chair.

"Hello, John."

John looked at him sadly.

"So you can't talk back," Sherlock said, a little put off. "Well, you're only a figment of my imagination." He tilted his head a little. "I wish I could talk to the real John; you're not fun."

"Who are you talking to, Sherlock?" a tired voice asked. Sherlock looked away from John and saw Molly standing behind him.

"Oh, uhm…" He looked back at Molly's chair, but imaginary John was gone. "Myself."

She shrugged and sat down next to him. He turned to look at her. She looked dreadful. Her hair was very messy, and her eyes were red and puffy. Sherlock observed her for a moment before asking "What did John say to make you this upset?"

Molly shook her head and sighed, closing her eyes and leaning back. Her phone went off suddenly. She reached for it, but Sherlock snatched it up before she could get it.

"Text from John. He says: 'I'm sorry about yesterday. DO you still want to go and get coffee?'"

She moaned. "Tell him I'm really not in the mood."

Sherlock typed the message and sent it. A minute later, John replied. "He says: 'Are you sure?'"

"I'm positive."

He nodded and sent the message. The mobile went off again. "He says: 'I'm coming over."

Molly sat up straight and turned to him. "Hide. If you want me to keep it a secret, hide. I won't tell him."

Sherlock jumped up and ran into the hallway, opened the broom closet, and his in the back of it. He took deep breaths, trying not to panic. What if John spills something and looks here for cleaning supplies and he sees me? he thought.

After a little while, there was a knock on the door, and Molly answered it. "What do you want, John?" she asked tiredly.

"I'm sorry. Please forgive me, Moll," he said, his blue eyes pleading with her.

"Don't call me that," she snapped.

"Call you what?"

"Moll."

"Oh… Well, will you forgive me, Molly?"

She sighed. "I don't know if I can. You're hopeless. You said it yourself; you can't let go. I don't really agree, and I know that someday you will. Even if you don't believe in yourself, I do. And so does Harry. I may be accepting your apology, but I'm not going to forgive you for what you're doing to your poor sister."

John just looked at her, then nodded slightly. He turned to the door and limped out. Molly frowned as the door shut quietly.

"Molly," Sherlock said, emerging from the closet, "since when did John start limping?"

She turned to him. Ever since your suicide. He said his psychosomatic limp came back. Didn't I tell you that?"

Sherlock frowned. "Must've slipped my mind."

Molly looked back at the door. "He left," she said shortly, and looked down. "I thought he would argue or something."

"Well, apparently he didn't feel like it," Sherlock said, going to sit on the sofa. Molly sat beside him.

"He confuses me."

"Yeah, he can be confusing, but you figure him out after you've lived with him for a while."

She sighed. A weird look crossed her face. "Speaking of that… Do you…" she trailed off, turning pink. Sherlock gave her an 'are-you-really-asking-me-that' look.

"You know I'm married to my work, Molly. I'm John's friend, and nothing more."

Molly studied him, then shrugged and crossed her arms. She was relieved Sherlock had said that. She had always thought there was something going on between them, but was always too nervous and scared to ask.

She sighed. "I just hope John doesn't do anything stupid."

~o~o~o~

John limped all the way back to his sister's flat, which was a long way from Molly's. He didn't hail a taxi, since he needed to think for a bit. Plus, he was terrible at hailing taxis.

After what happened with Molly, John was ready to commit suicide.

He didn't want Harry to feel bad, but he also didn't want to be a burden. And he felt so alone. Even though he was staying with his sister, he still felt like there was nobody who could actually talk with him.

John had already tried to talk with Lestrade, but he was too busy. He was just grumpy when Molly visited, so he said things he wouldn't normally say. And when he tried to get forgiveness… Well, that didn't work. So, he felt like he was completely and utterly…

"Alone."

As he walked to Harry's, that word echoed in his mind.

"Alone."

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the voice. It wasn't his. It sounded strangely familiar…

"Alone."

It wouldn't stop.

"Alone."

He reached the flat and fumbled with the keys. His whole body shook uncontrollably, and when he finally got the door unlocked, he almost fell over.

Harry was sitting at the kitchen table, poking her kung pow chicken around her plate. She looked up and saw John stagger in, pale as a ghost. She immediately stood up and helped her brother into a chair.

"John," she said slowly, "tell me what's wrong."

He shook his head, balling his hands into fists.

The voice kept saying that one word.

"Alone."

"John," Harry repeated. He still didn't answer. She got a cup of water and dumped it on his head. That snapped him out of it.

"Wazzat?"

"Alone."

"Tell me what's wrong, John."

He blinked a few times. "I dunno…"

"Alone."

Harry put a hand on his shoulder. "I think you should get some rest, John."

He nodded. "Yeah. G'night, Harry."

"Night, John."

"Alone."

That night, instead of the Sherlock nightmare, he had a nightmare about one word.

"Alone."