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~s~s~s~s~s~

Sherlock didn't reveal his plan to me that day or the next. When I asked about it, he said dramatically that all would be revealed in good time. The only thing he wanted me to do was ring Mrs. Hudson and find out when she would be out of town next. I was able to catch her just as she was leaving for a week in the Lake District.

"I've a gentleman friend now," she admitted with a giggle. "Nothing serious, we have fun together. It's rather nice to have someone show you a good time."

Grinning ear to ear, I said, "No one deserves that more than you, Mrs. Hudson. When you come back, let's have tea."

"That would be lovely, Molly."

Sherlock had an excited gleam in his eye when I told him Mrs. Hudson would be away starting that afternoon. I wanted to know what he had up his sleeve, but I bit my tongue and dropped the subject, which was hard to do because I was very curious, especially since he was leaving the flat in different disguises. There was Colin the commodities trader with the yellow bow tie and Jeremy the hipster in a black beret. And, of course, Lionel.

For the most part, he beat me home in the evening. I typically got a curry takeaway, which Sherlock favored. After we ate, he would sit on the couch, working on my laptop, while I watched a movie or read a book. Occasionally he would look up from his work to tell me what was fundamentally wrong with the plot of the TV show I was enjoying or to explain a facet of some area of research he knew I was interested in. One evening he presented me with his scholarly research papers on the Norwegian artifacts. He was right: I did find them fascinating. At bedtime, I went to my bedroom, and he slept on the couch.

I would be lying if I said I never had the fleeting fantasy that we were a real couple, sharing our lives together. How could I not? Sitting that close to him, talking with him, sharing a laugh or two. After I turned in, I would picture for the millionth time what it would be like to kiss him.

It was a comfortable, happy week.

But seven days after we had visited the crime scene, Sherlock Holmes stood waiting for me in my flat dressed as, well, Sherlock Holmes. He wore a white button-up, a well-cut suit, and a purple muffler. And somehow he had retrieved his wonderful black coat. His hair was back to its natural color, which contrasted sharply with his blue eyes and pale skin.

"It's time to spring our trap," he announced with anticipation.

"Right now? All right, I'll go change," I said, heading to the bedroom.

"Why must you always be changing your clothes?" he demanded.

I slipped off my brown slacks and pink blouse and quickly pulled on jeans and a blue tank. Slipping on a red jumper, I quickly pulled my long brown hair into a ponytail and was back in the living room in less than five minutes.

"I don't know what you're complaining about," I said as we left the flat.

We travelled by cab to 221 Baker Street. When I recognized where we were, I grasped his arm.

"You'll see," he said confidently.

We walked up the steps and Sherlock opened the door with his key. "Mycroft has maintained my rooms," he told me. "Come in and see if I have surprised you."

I had only been in his flat once before, but it looked much like I remembered. In the dim light, I could see stacks of books and papers to one side. It resembled a museum exhibit that someone had forgotten about.

I looked in the bare kitchen, then turned to my right. Silhouetted in front of a white panel curtain on the far window was a bust of Sherlock Holmes. It sat on several books that were stacked on a wrought iron plant stand. It "wore" one of Sherlock's old suit coats, by way of a carefully rigged hangar, and a dark wig.

"That's amazing!" I exclaimed walking over to it.

"It is rather like me," he said with pride. "A French art student named Oscar made it this week. It's amazing how fast a person can create something when he is offered a great deal of cash. Still, it took him six days to make."

I ran my finger down the bust's nose. "It looks just like you."

"I added the other touches," he explained, adjusting the lapels. "Oscar had no idea who I was," he added sullenly.

"When were you over here to set this up"

"Earlier today."

"Are you going to tell me your plan now?" I asked.

"Yes." Sherlock walked over to the mantel and picked up the skull. "When it is completely dark, I will send a text to Moran announcing my desire to meet with him here. I will also send him a picture of myself with today's paper to convince him I am real."

"What if he doesn't come to meet you but instead goes after John?"

"I will text John saying he is needed to consult on a case at Queen Elizabeth Hospital. He will be in a taxi when Moran is on his way here to kill me."

"What do you want me to do?" I asked nervously.

"Every fifteen minutes, crawl to the dummy on your hands on knees, being careful not to be seen. Turn it in a small way so it would appear to an observer outside that I am moving."

"Sherlock, would someone really believe you stand at your window for hours?"

He stared at me, confused. "But I really do that."

"OK. And where will you be?"

"The house directly across the street is empty. I will be waiting there for Moran, who will undoubtedly use the second floor window much as he did the rooftop across from the Adair home. Moran will take a shot at the dummy. That is when I will catch him. No matter what happens, do not leave this room. Keep the door locked. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Good. Now we wait for the sun to set." Sherlock sat in "his" chair, a smile ghosting across his face.

"What is it?" I asked, plumping the Union Jack pillow before sitting down.

"I am looking forward to tomorrow. John will be back sitting where you are. I will be on my way to restoring my reputation," he answered. "Then we will return to investigating crimes. It will be like the old days."

"Not everything will be the same," I cautioned him.

"What do you mean?" The room was dark with purple and grey shadows, and I couldn't make out Sherlock's expression.

"I mean, things have changed in three years. People have moved on. For instance, Greg Lestrade has reconciled with his wife, but Anderson is getting a divorce."

"Good for Mrs. Anderson."

"Mrs. Hudson has a boyfriend now, did you know that? She won't be at your beckon call as much."

"Mrs. Hudson will want to be here all the more when John moves back in."

"Sherlock!" I said with an incredulous laugh. "John lives with Sarah now. He's not going to leave her."

"I'm sure John and Susan..."

"Sarah," I corrected him.

He shrugged. "Does it really matter?"

"John loves her, so yes, it does matter," I said crossly.

"Love." Sherlock spat the word. He stood and walked over to the dummy. Even in the growing darkness, I could see him put his hands on his hips and shake his head. "He may think he loves her..."

"Why do you say love like it's a bad word?"

With a flick of his hand, he dismissed the topic. "You say people have moved on, but you have not," he said. "You are exactly the same."

He hadn't said it to be cruel. He was just stating a fact. I was living the status quo life of a boring single woman who spent hours with the dead and who didn't go on dates because she was in love with a man who was pretending to be dead.

"I suppose you're right," I said, still stinging from his words. "I've kept your secret, but the truth is your secret has kept me. I couldn't 'move on' when I knew you were alive."

Sitting in almost darkness gave me a courage I wouldn't have had in the daylight. Not only was our week together ending, our three-year secret was also ending. Tomorrow could be a new beginning. "Maybe when this is all over, I can start living again. Just like you." I stood and looked out the other window. "Before you left three years ago, I tried to tell you how I felt. About you."

Sherlock turned on a small table lamp by the bust so its silhouette would be apparent from the street. "Talk of feelings is useless and distracting."

"No, it's not," I argued.

"Yes, it is, especially on a night such as this," he insisted.

"Tonight is exactly the right time! If you didn't love John, Greg, and Mrs. Hudson, you wouldn't have given up your life for them."

"Loving someone gives that person an advantage over you!" he hissed. "These three years have proved caring is weakness. Moriarty drove that point home."

I felt the bottom drop out of my stomach. "Then you must think very little of those of us who do care."

He sighed heavily. "I think highly of you. When I said you counted that night in the lab, I also meant I knew I could count on you. You are efficient..."

"Efficient?" My voice went up an octave.

"Reliable, trustworthy..."

"At least I have the makings of a good collie," I said softly.

"Molly!" he exclaimed, exasperated. "I have never claimed that love is my area. I don't love anyone. I can't love anyone. And I don't want to discuss my emotions. Ever."

My cheeks burned hotly as I looked across the miles of welcome darkness that separated us. "I'll always care for you, Sherlock, because that's who I am. I'm not going to change. But after tonight I want you to stop using my feelings for you in order to have an advantage over me."

Sherlock walked briskly to the door. "I am sending the text. Lock the door behind me and remember your instructions."

His swift footsteps echoed down the stairs and he slammed the front door.

~s~s~s~s~

I spent the next hour alternately on my knees making small movements to the Sherlock bust or sitting with my back to the wall, repeating our last conversation over and over in my head and beating myself up.

"Way to go, Molls," I said harshly. "This is the most important night in his life and you want to talk about how you feel. Brilliant. Tomorrow everything is different. No more watching TV, getting takeaway, or investigating together. You will be Molly from the morgue. And Sherlock...will be who he is. He probably won't even want to talk to you."

And then Sherlock's head exploded.