Sally nervously tapped her fingers on her desk. She hadn't seen or heard from Sherlock for more than a month. She had asked around, and neither Adrian Beck nor Hamish Taylor had called in any tips. She had seen Molly once or twice, but neither woman had done more than a brief nod in greeting.

But today was different. Today, she had arrived at work and a steaming cup of coffee was on her desk, made the way she liked it. It was from the same place Sherlock had gotten her coffee from the day after she had found out about his survival. Written on the side of the cup, where usually a name was written were the letters "O.K." She glanced at the door for about the twelfth time in five minutes.

All day she was distracted and nervous. She got virtually nothing done, constantly fidgeting, and looking over at the door. At close to 5:30, Tish, who sat adjacent to her, finally asked her what was wrong.

"Nothing. Nothing, I'm just expecting someone."

"Oooh, anyone interesting?" Tish's eyes glowed, hungry for some fresh gossip.

"You have no idea," muttered Sally. "I'll bet he was just playing with me, so he could laugh at me later."

"How uncharitable," came Sherlock's drawling voice. "Have you no faith in me at all?" Sally glared for a moment, then sighed.

"More and more. D'you want me to go in with you?" Sherlock shot her a dirty look.

"I do not require a babysitter Donovan, and I'll thank you to remember it." He whirled, and stalked toward Lestrade's office. Sally immediately followed him, sliding in just as Sherlock slammed the door. He gave her another dangerous glare, but she just smirked at him. Like she was going to miss this. Lestrade looked a bit frustrated at the interruption. He had actually been getting a lot of work done.

"Donavan! What the hell are you doing? Who's that?"

"Sorry sir. It's important." Lestrade still looked annoyed. Sally glanced at Sherlock, who was glaring intensely at the door handle, as if trying to make it burst into flames. Sally tilted her head toward Lestrade. She could almost see Sherlock going over his decision, trying to see if this was the best idea. "You wouldn't be here if you could think of a reason not to be. Stop stalling," she told him quietly.

"Yes, thank you for your input Donovan. You can leave now," he said sarcastically. Lestrade froze. He knew that tone. And that voice. Sally gave a grin.

"Are you kidding? This is getting good."

"Out!," Sherlock opened the door and all but shoved her out of the room. Sally glared at the door for a moment, and briefly considered pressing her ear against the door before deciding it would be undignified. She settled for leaning against the door and peering in the window instead. Which, in all honesty, probably wasn't much better, but she couldn't hear through the thick wooden door, and at least she could see through the window.

Lestrade's face was pale, his hands were visibly shaking until he clenched them into fists and slid them under the desk. He looked confused, then a bit angry, then confused again. He opened his mouth to say something, but Sherlock put up a hand to silence him, and handed him a slip of paper. He swept out of the office and gave Sally a bit of a glare before pressing a piece of paper into her hand as well.

Molly Hooper's Home.

Now.

Car will pick you up.

Of course he knew she would want to be there. She supposed it made a certain amount of sense that he wouldn't want to actually tell Lestrade in the office, after all, it was here that Lestrade would have been killed had Sherlock not jumped, and Sherlock hadn't even trusted his own car not to be somehow bugged. Though, to be fair, she wasn't sure how much the driver actually knew about Sherlock's identity.

Sherlock was through the door before Lestrade managed to propel himself out of his chair and lurch toward the door.

"That was…was it?" He asked Sally, staring at the now closed door Sherlock had stepped through just moment before. Sally glanced over at him. She showed him the note.

"He'll explain. We have to go." Lestrade didn't move. "He won't like it much if he has to wait sir. I promise he'll explain everything when we get there." She glanced over at her other co-workers. Everyone was still going about their everyday business. Lestrade was still a bit unsure how that was possible. The world around him had turned upside down, how could anything possibly still be normal.

Sally lowered her voice still further. "Sir? We really should go."

"Sir, I need to talk to you," Anderson sauntered up to them. "Sally," he added coolly.

"Hello Anderson."

"I can't talk now," said Lestrade. "I was just leaving. Sorry, pressing engagement."

"But sir,"

"Not now Anderson!" Anderson looked shocked. Sally had to hide a small smirk. Somehow Sherlock's disdain for Anderson seemed to bleed through and infect everyone else as soon as he talked to them. Funny, she hadn't noticed that before. Sally barely glanced at Anderson as she grabbed her bag and coat and followed Lestrade out the door. Anderson stared nonplussed at the two of them, files forgotten in his hands.

"That was probably a mistake sir. He's not gonna let that go."

"Probably not. Are you going to explain what the hell is going on?" Sally glanced away, and, with relief noticed a long black car coming around the corner.

"Come on." She pushed him lightly into the car. Lestrade stared at Sally.

"So, let me get this straight," he began, "Sherlock Holmes…"

"…jumped off the roof at Saint Barts two years ago and died."

"But that was…"

"Adrian Beck. He is staying with Molly Hooper. He has some answers for you."

"Sally, that man in my office—"

"Sir, I am sorry, but we cannot talk here. Trust me, I tried. When we get to Molly's, we can explain." Lestrade frowned, but didn't ask any more questions. Sally was glad, she wasn't sure she wanted to be the one who answered them anyway.

They rode in silence the rest of the way to Molly Hooper's place. Sally thanked the driver and ushered Lestade inside. Molly greeted them a bit nervously at the door. The smell of Chinese food wafted from the kitchen.

"Hello," said Molly, bobbing slightly. "Come in, he wants to see you. Um, can I take your coats? Or anything?" Sally shook her head, and Lestrade didn't respond at all. "OK then. This way. Help yourself to Chinese. Oh, and we've double-checked the house today. No bugs at all. Not even Mycrofts."

"I knew it!" exclaimed Lestrade. "What was that nonsense about 'Adrian Beck' Donovan?" Sally opened her mouth to respond, but Sherlock beat her to the punch.

"A precaution Lestrade. One I am a bit surprised Donovan thought to take." He raised an eyebrow at the Sergeant. She glared back at him. She still owed him, she supposed, but she could not wait until this was over and things went back to normal. It was so much easier to hate him.

"I'm not a complete idiot Sherlock. And I would remind you that I am trying to help." Sherlock just shrugged. He didn't comment, but she could practically hear his accusing thoughts. Yes, but your doubt, your hatred, and your lies helped get me into this mess. Trying to help now is just a pathetic way to make yourself feel better. She deepened her glare. Sherlock, who had in fact been thinking nothing of the kind, as he had almost immediately began ignoring Sally's presence after his initial comment finally did look back at her.

"And stop putting words in my mouth. I don't blame you any more. Grudges are boring." Sally's mouth dropped open. Sherlock sat down at the table next to Molly, and began picking at Chinese.

"Are you kidding me? What about all the terrible things you've ever said to me or Anderson?"

"Not grudges. I just like the looks on your faces. It's entertaining to see how quickly I can piss you off. John and I…" he trailed off, before continuing, "we'd have bets. Thought I guess I do hold grudges against Mycroft. But he is a special case."

"Sorry, excuse me, not following," Lestrade interrupted. "What the hell is going on here? Sherlock, how are you alive? How could you possibly have survived? I went to your funeral! This….this isn't possible."

"No, it is merely improbable," he grinned. "Once you've eliminated the impossible, what ever remains must be the truth."

"Sorry, what?"

"It's on the website. Also, it's something I like to tell Mycroft."

"But how are you alive?" Sherlock waved a hand.

"Boring. What matters is making sure everyone stays alive."

"What do you mean?"

"God, what is it like being so slow? How do you even get around?"

"Sherlock!" snapped Sally, at the same time Molly placed a hand on Sherlock's arm and shook her head. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"You haven't told him anything. How could he possibly know?" Sherlock sighed.

"Sorry," he muttered.

Sally was once again surprised by the amount of control Molly seemed to have of Sherlock.

"Moriarty framed me," began Sherlock. "He got Mycroft to tell him all the important bits of my life, and he used those to ruin me. He had a man in the police, who manipulated Donovan for a long time, but especially on that last case, and she, who already doubted me and wanted to see me suffer, leapt at the opportunity to knock me down a few pegs." Sally glared furiously into her sweet and sour pork, appetite gone. The problem was, she truly believed that he didn't hold a grudge against her. He was simply stating facts, and doing it that cold, clinical, emotionless voice he always used when discussing old cases or things that bored him.

"He also had people placed around Baker Street. On the roof of Saint Barts, he told me that if I didn't kill myself and complete his story, he'd kill you, Mrs. Hudson, and John, and he already had his shooters placed. Then, he killed himself when I figured out that there must be a code to call off the shooters, so then, obviously, I had no choice but to go through with the plan I had but into effect with Molly." He leaned back in his chair, and popped a fair amount of rice into his mouth. "Since then, I've been living as Adrian Beck, for the most part. An author, doing research on various criminal masterminds of the 20th and 21st centuries. I haven't gotten up to the famous Holmes/Moriarty case yet. The whole point of which, obviously, is so I can research Moriarty quietly, but without too much suspicion. We have been looking for his men—his top men." Sherlock stopped talking, staring at the ceiling.

"Well, what have you found?" It was Molly, not Sherlock, who answered Lestrade's question.

"We found the man who was meant to kill you with the help of Sally. The shooters on Baker Street were all members of various foreign Mafia, and not really related to Jim in particular. Oh, but we do know now that his organization was very big." Sherlock snorted.

"It was immense. Just to name a few—that serial killer cabbie, the Chinese smuggling ring, the whole mess with Irene Adler…"

"Who?"

"Never mind. Government secrets. But his reach is far wider than I'd thought. He has had a hand in almost every major crime in the past ten years, and even some of the smaller ones. And he was clever. He had hundreds of lackeys. They would answer to slightly more important lackies, who also reported up. Those people reported to three or four, what would they be called? Main bosses? But that is where we got a bit lucky. Each insignificant person in the web answered to just one person above him or her. But none of these "higher ups" knew who the others were—they only knew their own superior, and their own…employees, I suppose. But once we get to the main four men, we began to understand a bit more. Each of those four men knew, or at least had records of almost everyone else involved. We've only found two of them so far, but they have been most helpful. And both of them reported to the same man—a man called Sebastian Moran. We did some more digging, and found that, along with their immediate superior, every single person in Moriarty's net also reported to Moran. He is the highest level before Moriarty. He was the only one who ever even saw Moriarty, the only one to talk to him in person."

Lestrade sat back, trying to take it all in. Sherlock could almost see the gears turning in the DI's head.

"OK, so ignoring the impossible fact that you were dead but now it turns out you never were—you pretended to kill yourself so other people wouldn't die?" Sherlock rolled his eyes, but Sally felt her mouth drop open when she noticed Sherlock beginning to blush.

"Really, is that all you got out of that? Were you not listening at all? Honestly, you are worse than my skull." Lestrade instinctively looked around for the infamous skull that had for so long graced the mantelpiece at Baker Street. "It's not here," snapped Sherlock.

"So you care about people and now you are searching for the men who would see them dead?" Sherlock nodded. "And you need my help is it?"

"No. I don't need your help. I don't require anyone's help. However," he glanced at Molly, cutting off her quiet reprimand before she could give it, "your assistance would make this case go a lot quicker. Mycroft and I will give you what we can, and if you would put your men out looking for these men," Sherlock shrugged. "The more manpower the better. We have to find them without them realizing that we are onto them, which, the more of them we catch becomes harder. But you mustn't tell anyone that I am alive. If you do, you will die, and so will John, and Mrs. Hudson."

"But you've already said that Moriarty killed himself."

"And his men are loyal to him. At least Moran is, and everyone is scared of Moran. If they find out that I am alive, then they will finish the job they began. I cannot allow that to happen. You must pretend that you still believe I am dead." Sherlock gave a little wink. "Adrian Beck will still help out occasionally."

"I don't know if you know this, but I am not exactly very popular at the Yard right now. Assigning men to search for random, impossible to find crooks…no one will allow it."

"I've gotten IA to terminate their case against you."

"You did?"

"Yes. Anyway, I deleted their records about you."

"You did what?"

"And gotten that dreadful CI fired. The one John punched. What was his name?" Lestrade opened his mouth, probably to tell Sherlock what the man's name was, but Sherlock waved him off. "I don't care. Point is, you can do basically whatever you want to again." Molly poked him with her chopstick. Sally almost choked. She did choke when Sherlock looked at Lestrade straight in the eye, and said, "Please do help. I would be grateful." Lestrade paused, then nodded.

"OK Sherlock. God help me, I'll probably lose my job over this for sure."

"No you won't, Mycroft's taken care of everything. Or at least he will. None of you will be in danger of losing your jobs, he owes me. I have work to do." And just like that, Sherlock bounded up from the table and leapt up the stairs. The other three heard the sound of his slamming door, and then, nothing.

"He does that. He talked a lot tonight though," commented Molly.

"He said 'please,'" said Sally. "He never says 'please.'"

"He thought a long time about this. Of course he said 'please.' He needed you to say 'yes' Detective Inspector. I think he needed another friend. Not me, he spends all his time with me. Not Mycoft—Sherlock still hates him, I think. He does respect you though."

"Funny, he never showed it before," muttered Sally.

"Does he need to? Sherlock cared enough to die for you, Detective Inspector, and for John and Mrs. Hudson. Actions speak louder than words sometimes, Donovan." Sally sighed, and went back to playing with her food.

"So whose idea was it to tell me? About Sherlock not being dead, I mean?"

"Mine," confessed Sally. "I only just recently found out myself, about a month ago. I thought telling you might help him out."

"It took you that long to think I might be able to help?" Lestrade sounded a bit hurt.

"It took him a month to think it over," interjected Molly. "He was really very nervous about it. He had to really think about it first. He has a lot of faith in you Detective Inspector. Otherwise he wouldn't have said anything. But I think that's why he talked so much—and why he was a bit unkind earlier. His emotions started to get the better of him and he lashed out the only way he knows how."

"Emotions?" snorted Sally. Both Lestrade and Molly fixed her with a cold look. "Sorry. I'm just not used to thinking of the frea—of Sherlock as having actual human emotions. "

"Does he have proof? That he is innocent of fraud I mean." Molly nodded.

"Would you like to see the tape?"

Well-that's chapter three. Writing Molly is really freaking hard. Writing all the characters are really freaking hard actually. I apologize for the OOC-ness. I am sure it is everywhere. Review please. Any hints as to how to write the characters as more themselves would be good too…