It was early evening in Baker Street as a warm, familiar voice floated through the air.

"You really should get out a bit more, Sherlock, and definitely eat more. I can count your ribs from here."

"What for? There's nothing of interest for me out there, not without your company."

John smiled at Sherlock from across the table, before returning to the newspaper in his hand. The paper was blank, why on Earth would an imaginary paper need information? It wasn't as if Sherlock was going to read it. An imaginary paper to accompany the imaginary man.

"I always knew you were a sentimental git." The imaginary John laughed fondly. "I don't see why you hide it so very deep, I always liked knowing you were human."

"Yes, well, your opinion hardly matters anymore does it?"

Imaginary John looked fake affronted.

"I am genuinely wounded and hurt by that you lanky git," he smirked and shot Sherlock a cheeky, knowing wink. The small gesture felt like a knife in Sherlock's gut.

"You should have thought about that before you jumped off a building."

John didn't react.

Sherlock had never intended to go mad, it was just one of those things that crept up on you and by the time you realised , it was too late.

But Sherlock welcomed that madness. How could he reject it if it was bringing him John? Sherlock, of course, knew that it was not actually John. He might have been driven mad with grief (as cliche as it sounded), but he was not an idiot.

It started about a month after John had jumped. One day Sherlock had just woken up and there he was, sat in his armchair as if he'd never left. Sherlock had run to him, but as John stood to greet him, Sherlock passed straight through him.

"I'm not real, you daft sod. I just thought you needed the company."

From that moment, the imaginary John had accompanied him everywhere, even to the grave where the real John rested, buried deep I'm the Earth. The only times imaginary John left him were when there were other people present. Sherlock had a tendency to speak out loud to the hallucination, but would still prefer not to do so in other company. Just because Sherlock himself knew he was mad, did not mean he was keen on the idea of everyone else knowing.

"Eat something. For me, please?"

Sherlock looked back to John, who was staring at him with a pleading expression that closely resembled a small child who wants the last slice of cake.

"If you were real, I'd be worried about your sanity with a face like that," Sherlock retorted as he grudgingly got up from his chair and proceeded to the toaster.

"It's not my sanity that's in question."

"And who's fault is that I wonder."

"Yours, you bloody prat. You know that this is a stage of the mourning process. A bit extreme in your case but still."

"I still think it's your fault," muttered Sherlock under his breath as he waited for the toast to pop up.

"Pray, tell me why it's my fault."

"You're the one that died. You're the one who left me in this state."

"People die everyday, Sherlock."

"But not my best friend. You were the only friend I had, John. And you didn't just die. You purposefully jumped to your death and you made me stand there and watch. That's how it's your fault."

There was no reply from John, and he wasn't there when Sherlock looked back towards him. There was, however, and unexpected reply from the doorway.

"Oh, Sherlock."

Molly made her way around the table and brought her hands up to his face, wiping at something beneath his eyes and along his cheekbones. It was only then that Sherlock noticed the tears. Damn, he thought he'd stopped crying, but it seemed like his body had other ideas.

"How much did you hear?" Sherlock managed to ask, his voice trembling only slightly.

"Since you got up to make toast." Molly flushed red as she confessed her intrusion. "I did knock, but I don't think you heard. Mrs Hudson let me up."

So, she'd heard rather a lot. But she didn't look at him with pity, or fear, as one would assume someone would if they'd just walked in on you talking to a hallucination of your dead friend. She just looked sad, and if Sherlock had been paying attention, he would have seen the underlying guilt that shadowed her face.

"Please, don't tell anyone." Sherlock never said please. Maybe a few times if he wanted something from John, but usually, pleading was beneath him. Maybe this was why that one word broke Molly's heart a little.

"I won't," the mousy haired girl promised as she continued to wipe his tears. "Sherlock, it's okay to be upset. It's normal - healthy, even - to cry."

So Sherlock did. Molly pulled him into a tight hug until the worst of it was over. She then managed to manoeuvre him into the living room where she settled him onto the sofa. She draped a blanket over his shoulders before moving back to the kitchen. She returned a few minutes later and pushed a mug of tea into his hands. Sherlock automatically lifted it to his lips. Upon the first swapo he grimaced. Sherlock took sugar in his tea, but this was just too sweet. There could have easily been six or seven spoonfuls in there.

Sherlock knew what Molly was doing. The blanket, the tea, the looking at him with a certain amount of cautiousness that meant she thought he was going to have another breakdown at any second.

"I am not in shock, Molly." He shrugged the blanket from his shoulders.

"I know, I just didn't know what else to do. I'm not the doctor around here-" Molly let out a horrified gasp at what shed just said, tears springing to her own eyes. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I didn't mean to- I wasn't- I'm sorry."

"It's fine, Molly."

It wasn't fine, not really. But seeing how he couldn't even handle his own emotions, he didn't want to be dealing with a distraught Molly as well.

The flat felt suddenly stifling. Everything reminded him of John, and Molly's accidental slip seemed to trigger this. There was too much John - in the flat, in his mind, everywhere.

Maybe everyone was right. He needed to get out of the flat.

"Fancy getting something to eat, Molly?"

Molly blinked up at him, eyes still shining with her unshod tears.

"Everyone's been telling me I need to get out more and actually eat so etching decent, and is way we'd be killing two birds with one stone."

Sherlock didn't like the idea of eating out without John. But he knew he'd have to get over all of his aversions and anxieties sooner or later, and now seemed like a good time to start. Besides, maybe if Mycroft and Lestrade saw him outside and eating, they might leave him alone. Yes, dinner with Molly seemed like a very good plan.

"Sure." Molly looked taken aback with the proposition, but no less eager.

"There's an Italian restaurant I enjoy just off of Northumberland Street, and the owner owes me a favour." He did not want to explain the sentimental attachment to Angelo's, so left it there.

Molly smiled up at him, looking genuinely pleased at the development of Sherlock's emotional state.

"Well, what are we waiting for?"

And with that, they descended he stairs and headed out into the London night. Sherlock breathed a deep lungful of the chilly air. Being outside again, walking through the streets, observing and deducing people as they went, it was good, refreshing. It cleared his head of the cloud that had fogged his mind with grief and he took the first tentative step towards moving on.

Molly could sense all of this, and knew how difficult it was for the consulting detective to even consider moving on from John's 'death'. Another wave of guilt crashed over her for the part she played in orchestrating John's fall because she saw the pain it caused Sherlock. But she was determined not to think about that.

Instead she looped one of her arms through Sherlock's, who - surprisingly - raised no arguments, and continued to walk into the night.