Hello there, once again! Sorry it took me so long to finish this chapter, it was tougher for me than the previous ones. Sherlock's character and trying to put together the puzzle of his fake death were rather challenging. And the Olympics were extremely distracting to boot (Why wasn't Benedict Cumberbatch part of the ceremonies?)

Not to mention the fact that I decided to do an experiment, channeling John Watson by typing in his fashion: my head three inches from the keyboard and using only my index fingers to jab each individual key like javelins. Let me just say, not advisable.

Lastly, in my research I discovered there were basically two schools of thought on how Sherlock accomplished his epic escape but I chose the one that gave more cute moments between him and Molly, regardless of truth. Whether that was really how it happened, I have no idea. Hope you enjoy anyway! Feel free to comment and make suggestions for improvement!

I do not own Sherlock, though I love him dearly...

Chapter 4: The Final Deception

"You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you."

"It's time," the tall man proclaimed with grim finality.

The small, brown-haired woman shuddered inwardly, taking a deep breath to gain some semblance of calm.

"Is everything ready? Are you ready, Molly? It's essential that you play your part correctly, but if you can't do this—"

"Yes, yes, I know!" the pathologist interrupted, her eyes narrowing and her chin lifted in defiance even though her stomach was twisting with fear and distress. "Of course I can do this, don't worry. And I did everything you told me to, to the letter. But the question is, can you go through with this? You're the one that's about to take a very long fall with about a thousand possible margins of error." Her brow furrowed with worry and sympathy unintentionally coming through her brave façade.

Sherlock smirked in that arrogant way of his, though slightly more wavering, then tied his characteristic blue-striped scarf about his neck and turned up his dark coat collar.

"I know what I'm doing."

A sense of foreboding began to overtake Molly once more but she trampled it down for the time being. For now, she had to be as methodical and unfeeling as the man standing before her, the one that she had come to care for so deeply against her better judgment, the one that trusted her enough to depend on her in his most dire and darkest moment. More than anything, she had to prove him right, here and now. But what if something went wrong? She may never see him alive ever again…

In a strange, rare spurge of bravery, Molly grabbed the sleeve of Sherlock's overcoat to hold him there for just a bit longer. She would probably regret this foolishness later, but she couldn't bear the contrary if the worse were to happen. Ignoring his expression of irritation and confusion and the nervousness fluttering her insides, Molly stepped up onto her tip-toes and pecked a quick kiss on his cheek. Astonishingly, he gave no reaction but for a slight flinch at her gesture of affection. "Good luck."

"Even if luck were not a delusion, it would still be unnecessary, Molly Hooper." And with that, he was gone, striding confidently—like faking his own death was the easiest thing in the world— out of the lab and making his way to the roof of St. Bartholomew's Hospital to meet his archenemy, the most dangerous criminal master mind in the world.

"Be careful," Molly whispered fervently to the empty air where the consulting detective had just disappeared.

How astonishing and touching it was when Sherlock first came to her asking for her help, needing only her. Her heart had leapt a little at his delicious revelation. But her heart froze once she learned what he had to do. Molly had hoped that there would be another strategy to solve this, yet there was no denying that there wasn't. Sherlock's logic was irrefutable, it always was. His reputation, his career, his life was in tatters, and Moriarty wouldn't stop, wouldn't leave any of them in peace, until he was able to complete his gruesome melodrama. Not until he was dead. And soon, they would make him seem that way.

It wouldn't be long now. Could she really do this? She simply had to.

Dear heaven, give me strength. Let it work. Let them live through this, if nothing else.

I can do this. I can do this for him. And to her great surprise, remembering who it was for, she felt that she could.

For the next two agonizing minutes, Molly paced her lab with jerky, uncertain steps and counted breathlessly to herself until her time was up. With heart pounding erratically in between clawing up her throat, she exited to the outer corridor and made her way down to the main floor, trying her best to smile naturally whenever coworkers greeted her as they intermittently passed by. Could they see it in her eyes behind the lies of her face, all the pain, the fear, what she was taking part in?

The florescent lighting was particularly harsh that day. It broke through the glass side of the walls and into her eyes, making it harder to concentrate on pretending that nothing was out of the ordinary even though her hands kept fussing with her hair and clenching inside the pockets of her lab coat. Besides, who would suspect? The other doctors had always thought her peculiar and naïve anyhow.

Molly made it to the proper lobby in good time. She took her place at the snack machine, feigning indecision and interest in what it offered, though she saw nothing behind the partition. Instead, she was focused on the reflection upon it of the side entrance, waiting for her cue now that the stage had been set. Her foot began an agitated tapping and she bit her lip in an effort to restrain the swirl of helpless dread and panic. Should it be taking this long?

At last, since she had been listening for it, she could hear a chorus of muffled shouts and flurried movements just beyond the entrance, causing her heart to jump and her breath to hike. Before she could force herself to take action, she stole a deep breath and steeled herself.

He needs you.

All of a sudden, the transparent doors were thrown aside and, like a hurricane, transformed the everyday bustle of the hospital into utter chaos. And Molly plunged into it unperturbed and without hesitation. At first, she assumed a mask of innocent curiosity and professionalism as she walked quickly over toward the intended path the gurney would take, the matter-of-fact voices of the yellow-jacketed E.M.T. team assaulting her once she was close enough. She felt ill to her stomach but soldiered on. The deception must be executed with perfection to the very end, else people she cared for would lose faith in her, or would never wake again.

"Severe head trauma, little chance of survival—"

"Molly!" One of the medics, a young woman with short blonde hair and big teeth, an acquaintance of hers, spoke with shock infused in her words. "What are you doing here? No, stay back, you won't want to see this."

"What?" Molly called over the noise. "What do you mean? What's happened?"

"It's," the woman faltered, "it's that man, that detective friend of yours who always comes around here, you know," the E.M.T. finished lamely, already aware of the pathologist's ridiculous crush on Sherlock. Molly had vented to her more than once about him, after all, and Molly had been counting on that for this moment. "He's—he's jumped off the roof…"

"He…what?" Molly gasped whilst the gurney bumped along, straight for her. Just as it approached, she could finally take in the sight of a seemingly dead Sherlock Holmes sprawled unceremoniously on the white sheets of the rolling mattress, dark crimson blood from his head staining them and marring his perfect face, icy blue eyes open and seeing nothing.

Her stomach fell and her hysteria returned in full force and reached an unimaginable peak. "Oh, Sherlock, no!"

Calm down! She silently berated herself. It's the blood you siphoned from his arm not three hours ago. Get a grip. You have a job to do!

Allowing her dismayed feelings to show in order to solidify the performance but at the same time urging her mind to calm, Molly rushed forward to the consulting detective's side, shoving aside the protests and arms that tried to hold her back. "Let me do this, please!"

Her old triage training kicked into high gear at once.

As she bent over Sherlock's still form with his arm brushing her leg, she leaned in pretending to check his breathing but was in fact discretely reaching inside the man's thick Belstaff overcoat to remove the rubber ball that was taped to the inside of his right armpit, allowing blood to return its flow into his arm before slipping it into her lab coat pocket, patting it along the way as though she were trying to find something. "Stethoscope," Molly snapped to the gawking medical personnel.

The muscle relaxers would be wearing off soon. She had to hurry faster.

Cold metal touched her hand and Molly took the long instrument that was proffered her without a look or word of thanks. Hands shaking and eyes becoming blurry, Molly went through the motions of checking his pulse, relishing that she could finally touch Sherlock's chest without eliciting his baleful glare. She allowed herself to do it now and could breathe again once she noted that his skin was still warm. Even more importantly, discovered that his heart was beating faintly.

But first, she had to hide the way her own heart was soaring high with triumph and a happiness that was so vast it was almost painful. That was when, after straightening her back, the tears began to flow shamelessly down her face, creating the desired effect. The medics assumed she was expressing her sorrow for a lost friend when, in actuality, it was the outcome of sheer and all-consuming relief that had gripped her. She concealed her mouth with her hands just in case a smile escaped her caution.

"Nothing?" A male nurse inquired from behind.

Molly shook her head solemnly as more tears cascaded down.

After the others expressed their condolences for her loss, one of them suggested attempting resuscitation, and once again Molly received a jolt of fright.

The older male technician gave made the announcement that was required. "No use. Fell from the very top floor, he did. Took the worst to the head. He's not coming out of that. Sorry, Molly."

With eyes full of pity, the blonde medic turned to Molly. "If you can't be the one to…take him then—"

"No, no!" Molly contradicted bluntly, knowing that the only way Sherlock's brilliant master plan could come to fruition would include removing him to the privacy of her own morgue, finalize faking the records, and then sneak him out. "I—I hate the thought of him lying there, that I have to…but it would be much worse if anyone else took him out of my hands, you know, it wouldn't feel right to me…I'll take him now."

Disregarding their placating comments and comforting gestures, the pathologist reverently closed Sherlock's eyes for him and lay his back straight onto the cot and lifted his arms so that they rested parallel to his body. Then, refusing any aid from the others, she made her excruciatingly slow way to her morgue, knowing that she would be the only one on shift today, and she made sure of it beforehand. Now and then, she would be alone down a hallway and she dashed ahead as fast as she could push the tall man, quietly making assurances and throwing out questions and receiving harrumphs in response. She never thought that condescending trademark grunt of his could sound so beautiful. "Just hold on."

Once inside the cold room filled with white tiles, stark stainless steel, and lifeless bodies, Molly made certain no one was around then returned to Sherlock's side, shivering slightly at the red that streamed across his high cheek bones and began to dry. "I think you can get up now, if you can. You might still be weak from the medication so be extra careful."

"Of course, I will," Sherlock mumbled, annoyed with her obvious conclusion.

Well, same old Sherlock. Some things never change.

The latter blinked rapidly and flexed his limbs, getting a feel for his condition, before gingerly sitting up. Whilst he turned his body sideways, preparing himself to ease off the gurney, Molly opened up a low, out-of-the-way cupboard and pulled out a satchel that she had brought from home. She had come prepared at least. Sherlock was pleasantly amazed at her foresight and thoughtfulness.

Just as she dropped the bag onto the floor of the loo, Sherlock realized with a shock that something was very amiss with his favorite pieces of clothing. Gaping down at his neckline, he said with difficulty, "There's blood on my scarf…and my collar."

He sounded…disturbed. His eyes were wider than usual and his hands trembled a little and hovered uncertainly with hooked fingers.

Was Sherlock Holmes actually shedding his chink-less iron composure? Feeling effects of emotions? The world was coming to an end for sure. Perhaps at any other time, she would have wanted to make some cheeky jibe but couldn't find it in herself when her heart was aching so much.

And that was when Sherlock lilted awkwardly to one side like a tree struck down.

Molly hastened to him and grasped his arm. Sherlock visibly snapped back to his usual self with a small shake of his head, his chin regaining its proud tilt and ever-observing concentration. Nonchalant and in control once again. Molly sighed.

"Here give them to me. I'll let them soak until we leave." Without waiting for him to do it himself, she untied the scarf from his neck and helped him out of his coat without a single protest from him, to her utter bewilderment. Then, after gently placing them in a water-filled sink, she guided him to the toilet. "Now for the rest of you."

"I'm fine, absolutely fine. I can take care of myself," Sherlock asserted—a half-hearted stab at salvaging his belittled dignity. And, as predicted, she chose to ignore him.

Before long, Molly had the world's only consulting detective bowing beside a faucet with warm water flooding the porcelain basin below, the echo of splashes reverberating off the close-set walls. Applying a clean cloth from her lab, she scrubbed at Sherlock's pale neck and face then afterwards moved to his hair, her hands lingering over his smooth skin and his soft dark curls. Unable to help herself, a pleasurable tremor ran up her spine and her stomach quivered all the while. He did nothing, said nothing; he merely hung his head with eyes closed and mouth turned down at the corners, his long white fingers clutching at the sides until the stream turned from pink to see-through.

Quickly, she finished up and handed the tall man a bunch of disposable towels so he could wipe himself dry.

"I had to steal you a disguise, so I hope you appreciate it," Molly stated, pointing at her black satchel on the shiny tiled floor. "Change so we can leave before anyone comes." She closed the door of the loo then stood watch on the other side. "I must say, I can't believe this 'Homeless Network' of yours actually came through." As she spoke, she wrung out Sherlock's favored accoutrements and set them aside to dry.

Sherlock's attractive baritone seeped through the barrier between them. "Of course they did. I know the dependability of my own resources."

Molly rolled her eyes affectionately before becoming serious once again. "I'm just grateful is all…"

Once Sherlock reentered the lab, he was clad from head to foot like a surgeon with lab coat, scrubs, and face mask ready to obscure the recognizable attributes that had been decorating countless newspapers and magazines for months now. He fit the part of a doctor easily and with finesse. He could even fool John, though if he could see Sherlock now, the complaints would fly.

"I picked blue."

"What?" Sherlock asked abruptly.

"I chose blue scrubs for you because...I've noticed you like blue," she stuttered, feeling her neck heat with color.

For a minute, Sherlock said nothing just looked at her with that scrutinizing gleam in his eye though with something inscrutable hidden deeply within, more than mere confusion. Molly swallowed loudly.

Then the moment was over and he returned to adjusting said blue uniform as though nothing had happened. "Are the files and death certificate falsified?" he queried, all business now, his demeanor back to normal. As normal as Sherlock could get, that is. "Everything's taken care of, no evidence left behind?"

"Yes, all of the above is done, I made sure of it, Sherlock. I promise." How easily submission took over her when it came to this demanding man.

Sherlock nodded once and scooped up the bag that had once contained the surgeon's uniform. After packing up his remaining clothes and tightening the mask in position, they then proceeded to the hallway and descended to the street on the other side of the hospital where they exchanged the lab coat for an unremarkable old jacket she had picked up from the lost-and-found collection and left the scene of death behind without a single hiccup.

Side note: Yes, I realize Sherlock is not squeamish whatsoever when it comes to blood (Hound of the Baskervilles episode as indication) however he wasn't wearing his coat or scarf at the time so I figured he was rather sensitive about those possessions. And, coming so close to death, it is possible he might have freaked out for half a second...