Author's Note: Thank you all so much for the praise for this story! I was really nervous and you have all shown me that I had no reason to be and I appreciate you all so much for adding this to subscriptions/favorites and especially for reviews. Also, thanks to my coauthor/proofreader AlyssaMeg for all her input, even the suggestions that certain inconvenient characters get hit by buses. Which will not be happening. You have all given me such a self-esteem boost!

Anyway, here's a new chapter in which there is a much-needed dose of humor.

Molly had been having a very long, very tough day. She didn't want to check out any more bodies. The misery of it all was starting to wear her out. The death and despair didn't really get to her, normally. Perhaps she hadn't always been the happiest of people, but she had always been able to handle it, unless it was someone she knew, before. But it had just been a lot to deal with, these past few weeks. That thing in the paper about Sherlock…

She knew it was a bit paranoid, but she couldn't help but be afraid somebody knew, and that they might come looking for her. She had the feeling she was being watched all the time, now.

And then there was what happened with John. It wasn't as though they hadn't all gotten used to worrying about him before, but he'd seemed like he'd been getting better and then…since it happened, she couldn't help but worry all the time that the next body on her slab was going to be his.

Especially when she was told the body was a suicide. Like this one. She breathed deeply and steeled herself to look at the body. Jeez, she thought to herself, I haven't felt like this in ages. I think I need a break…At least it's the last one of the day.

She laid out her scalpels and other tools on the table next to her as slowly as she could, then unzipped the bag as quickly as possible. She stared in shock for a moment at what she saw. It was a face she recognized, after all…but no, it couldn't be…

Before her brain had time to consider what her eyes were telling it, the corpse promptly sat upright and greeted her cheerfully.

"Hello, Molly. Long time no-

She didn't think, she just reacted. With a screech of horror she grabbed the tray of instruments from the trolley next to her and smacked the man across the face with a resounding "clang!"

"OUCH!" the man exclaimed and quickly raised a hand to his head, groaning in pain slightly.

Molly stared in disbelief. It was him, alright. His hair was different for some reason and he looked a bit thinner, if that was possible, but it was Sherlock Holmes, in the flesh, sitting on her autopsy table. He even had on the coat and the scarf.

"Sherlock?" she asked, still shocked. You knew he was alive, she reminded herself. But she hadn't expected to actually see him ever again. "Is it really you?"

"You were expecting someone else, under these circumstances?" Sherlock smirked as he drew his hand away from his face.

Molly couldn't do anything but stare in disbelief. She was still holding the metal tray she'd used to strike him in her hands. Behind her, the door to the morgue opened and John Watson walked in, out of breath.

"Okay, I'm here," he announced, then panted for a moment, obviously out of breath. "What was that noise? What did I miss?" he asked quickly.

"Miss Hooper was just demonstrating her ability to defend herself against the proverbial 'zombie apocalypse'" Sherlock announced with a hint of disdain. "Should the miracle of the revival of the dead take place in her morgue she is fully prepared to nullify it with the assistance of an aluminum tool tray."

John raised an eyebrow at him, then turned it on Molly. "That's one way to greet your long-dead friend," he observed wryly.

Molly dropped the tray and, once more acting without thinking, hugged Sherlock Holmes as tightly as she possibly could, burying her face in his shoulder.

"I thought I'd never see you again!" she exclaimed, and felt tears welling up in her eyes.

"Erm, Molly…" Sherlock began, and, realizing how stiff and uncomfortable he felt in her grasp, she let him go.

"Sorry," she said, dusting him off slightly as she stepped back. She noticed a fresh cut on his eyebrow. One of the tools that had been on the tray must have flown up and nicked him. "I'll, um, get something for that…" she gestured toward the injury and began fishing through her supplies for a bandage.

"Excellent shot." Sherlock remarked, tapping the wound and regarding the blood on his fingertips with mild interest.

"Sorry," she replied, slightly embarrassed, "I just wasn't expecting…well, I wasn't expecting a cadaver to sit up at all and then on top of that it was you and I just…" Suddenly, she realized how silly the whole thing was, and despite herself she started laughing.

"What's so funny?" Sherlock asked, frowning as he removed himself from the bag the rest of the way.

"You!" she exclaimed between giggles, "Turning up here in a damn body-bag! It's just…ironic, that's what it is. Too funny." She turned around and popped a small bandage onto where she had injured him. Perhaps it was just her imagination, but she thought she saw him smile. "I mean, after all that work to make you dead and then you just…show up…And what on Earth have you done to your head?" He frowned visibly at that last remark. Some small voice in the back of her mind told her it wasn't funny, that she should be hurt or angry, or just something else, and she tried to suppress her laughter. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, John's voice suddenly cut through her laughter before she could go on blabbering.

"Wait, you knew?" he asked, and Molly could sense what was coming. Sherlock, apparently, couldn't.

"She helped, of course," he said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, "who else was going to do my autopsy?"

Molly wanted to tell him to shut up, but she couldn't. She just looked down nervously and waited for the reaction she could practically hear coming.

"You knew the whole time…" John said slowly, shaking his head in disbelief, "And you never thought it might be a good idea to…I don't know…TELL ME?"

"John!" Sherlock scolded, but Molly barely noticed his defense of her as she turned around, suddenly ridden with guilt.

"I wanted to tell you, John I really did, especially after this last time…" she began. Both men interrupted her at once.

"I'm sure you did," John began sarcastically.

"Last time?" Sherlock asked, confused,

"He made me swear not to tell anyone, even you!" Molly desperately tried to justify her actions to John.

"What do you mean, 'Last time?'" Sherlock demanded.

"I didn't know how to tell you! I didn't even know how to reach him, I wasn't sure he even was still alive…" Molly continued.

"You knew the suicide was fake, that's the point, you could've said something! Even a hint."

"John, you've done this before?" Sherlock continued, incredulous.

"What does it matter if I have?" John finally paid attention to the affronted detective

"Quite a lot, I'd say," Sherlock retorted, sounding angry.

"Look, please, I…" Molly stuttered, trying to get control of the situation.

"Hush, Molly, the gentlemen are talking." Sherlock replied snidely.

Three years before, she would have done what he said, because she had been madly, stupidly in love with him. Three years ago she took all the abuse he threw at her because she thought maybe someday he'd finally reciprocate, and if she ever talked back she'd ruin her chances. Three years ago she thought he needed her.

Now she knew. He had told her how much he needed and valued her, and she had given everything he'd asked for, and now she knew she mattered. Which meant now, she had earned the right to speak up for herself.

This was not the meek, long-suffering Molly he'd left to clean up his mess three years ago. This was the new and improved Molly who was not going to take abuse from anyone. Not even Sherlock Holmes.

"Shut up, Sherlock!" she snapped. She felt her heart rate pick up as both men stared at her in shock. Oh god, she thought, what am I doing? But there was no time to undo it now.

"He's right, okay? You could have left something, some sort of clue, or message. You could have told your friends, the people you supposedly loved enough to die for, what was happening. And you're right," she turned to John now, "when I saw you were in trouble I should have gone ahead and told you anyway, and I'm sorry." She meant it, too, but it was hard not to sound like she was angry, right now. "And you!" She whirled back to point a finger accusingly in Sherlock's face. "Do you have any idea how much hurt you caused? And I couldn't say a damn thing, I could only sit back and watch him fall apart. And not just him, but Mrs. Hudson and Greg and everyone! And I did it all because you asked me to, so don't you bloody tell me to 'hush,' Sherlock Holmes!"

Both of them seemed incapable of doing anything but stare at her in shock for a moment. Molly felt just the slightest bit dizzy after all that. Finally, to her relief, the faintest hint of a bemused smile crept onto Sherlock's face.

"Miss Molly Hooper," he said quietly, as if to himself, "Look at you." That seemed to be all he had to say, but coming from him it was very sweet, and she felt a blush creeping across her face. Not wanting to start that again, she went on with her lecture.

"Now, you've faked your death, you went off to God knows where for three whole years and then tonight you turn up on my table, I'm assuming you need something from me?"

"Right, yes, of course," Sherlock said, a slightly delayed reaction, as though returning from a daydream. "I need to see the records of my death, please," he asked, with an absurd amount of politeness for such a favor as viewing your own falsified death certificate.

"Um, well," Molly hesitated, "I've gotten rid of everything that wasn't completely legally necessary, like you said."

"I'm sure you did," Sherlock said calmly. "I still need to see everything you still have any kind of access to. Quickly, please" he added when she hesitated.

"Right," Molly said, "It could take a while, though, I've made sure to bury it all pretty deep."

"Take your time," John interjected, "After all the trouble we took to get in here we might as well stay awhile."

"Yes, how did you manage to…" Molly began to ask,

"The paperwork, Molly. Please." Sherlock interrupted, and she hurried off.

By the time she had found every document linked to Sherlock's death it was nearly half an hour later. She couldn't help but overhear a snatch of conversation as she approached the morgue in the otherwise silent corridor.

"Sherlock, I'm serious, why did we have to go to all this trouble? If this was all you needed you could have just sent me down here to talk to her, if it's so dangerous for you to be seen." She realized she was happy to hear that exasperation in John's voice. He sounded like himself again.

"I needed to speak to her face-to-face. It matters. I thought you of all people would understand that." There was a silence, and Molly was about to open the door when he spoke again. "And besides, my brain hasn't had a proper challenge in quite a while. A complicated infiltration plan was just what I needed. Consider it a warm-up."

"What, you mean like tuning up an instrument?"

"Precisely!" Sherlock replied cheerfully. "I've got a lot of hard thinking ahead of me. Best to give it a bit of practice before things get very bad." There was a pause.

"Do we have to leave in a ridiculously clever way too, or can we get a damn cab this time?"

"I think that would be acceptable, yes. Though I would prefer to leave the building through some means other than the main entrance, if that's alright with you. Come in, Molly," he added, more loudly. She felt surprised, then realized she probably shouldn't be, and walked in.

"Here you are," she said, handing him a folder full of less-than-perfectly organized files. "What did you need them for?" she asked.

"Someone knows I'm alive who shouldn't", Sherlock replied as he began speed-reading the papers, and she could have sworn she felt her heart stop for a moment. "I need to look these over for any weak points."

"I was completely thorough, I swear!" she said earnestly, "There's no way I made a mistake, no way anybody could have found out."

"We don't think it's your fault, Molly," John said reassuringly, "This person's very clever, she probably found out some other way. We just need to make sure there's no proof lying around."

"Oh…" Molly relaxed a bit, though not much. "Well, you're not going to find anything in there," she reasserted, just to make sure everyone was clear on this, "I was extremely careful."

"It would appear so," Sherlock said absentmindedly, apparently already done reading everything in the pile, and snapping the folder shut rather dramatically, "there's nothing here."

"So this was all for nothing?" John asked, ready to be extremely annoyed.

"Of course not," Sherlock replied with a superficial smile, "I got to see an old friend and have a bit of fun, and eliminated one potential source of trouble. Now, if you don't mind, Miss Hooper, John and I have a clever escape to make."

They walked out the door. Molly stood there silently, lost in her thoughts, until a few moments later when Sherlock suddenly came dashing back in.

"Molly, I nearly forgot something." He suddenly sounded very urgent.

"What's the matter?" she asked, concerned.

"There is a strong possibility that several dangerous people are already aware of my return to England, including my brother. Molly," he leaned in very intensely, and she suddenly felt afraid. "If anyone comes here asking about me, I of course want you to try and convince them you don't know anything." She expected him to add something like "which shouldn't be much of a challenge" but it never came, which only made her more nervous. "But," he went on, "If they threaten to harm you, or your family, or in any way make you truly feel unsafe, then I want you to tell them everything they want to know."

This didn't make any sense to her. "Why would I do that?" she asked, afraid of what the answer might be.

"Because, Molly" Sherlock said, lowering his dark, deep voice as if imparting a terrible secret, "The kind of people who will come looking for me are not the kind of people who make empty threats. You were an integral part of my disappearance and I've done what I can, but there is still a chance you could be in danger. And I do not want anyone else to be hurt as a result of my keeping secrets. Do you understand me?" he asked, and she was shocked to realize how serious he actually was.

"Yes," she replied, "of course." But she realized as he turned and rushed out the door again that she was fairly certain she was lying.