"Molly Hooper, Molly Hooper," Sherlock practically chanted. The hallucination had reclined himself on the sofa, right leg bent at the knee and resting against the left knee. His foot bounced to-and-fro each time the name was said. His eyes were focused up on the ceiling, clearly bored, though they slowly drifted to the smiley face smirking down at him from the wall.

Just over a week had passed since John's nightmare- if it could be classified as such- though John had done very little to progress the case. No doubt Sherlock Holmes would have sprung up at the most minor lead on a case, and generally John wouldn't be one to refuse, but John was...hesitant. Dreams weren't exactly a lead. The real Sherlock would have pointed out that dreams were simply science- chemicals in the brain. Having gone to medical school, John was aware of this.

But oddly enough, his hallucination never pointed this out. It was one of the few times he'd done what the real Sherlock wouldn't have, and John wondered if that was the result of his own mind. Upon realizing this, he'd swear at himself- obviously it was the result of his own mind. It was his hallucination.

Still, there were multiple times each day when Sherlock would pause in whatever he was doing and turn to John to question, "have you been to see Molly Hooper yet?" This would always baffle the doctor.

"If I had been, you'd be the first to know," he'd snap in reply- or something equally short. Sherlock would eye him for a moment before releasing an exasperated sigh and return to whatever it was he'd been doing. John never questioned why it was so important that he go see the woman, knowing that while the answer would be coming from his own mind, his hallucination would make sure to phrase it as the real Sherlock would- sarcastic and rude.

Part of John felt that the sudden urge to go see Molly was completely random, and not connected to Sherlock's case whatsoever. After all, any prompting to go see her had come entirely from himself. Both his Sherlock hallucination, as well as the Jim Moriarty in his dreams, were products of his own mind. There was no other explanation for it- no mystifying phenomenon. Still...it had rather come out of nowhere. Molly Hooper passed over John's mind every now and then, but he didn't think of her often, nor did he dwell on her. So to suddenly have his mind so desperately prompting him to go see her seemed...well, a bit more than a coincidence.

"Why do you want me to go see Molly so badly?" John finally tried, defeated, sinking down into his own armchair in front of the fireplace. He was rather exhausted from his day at the surgery, and was honestly looking forward to an uneventful evening. The following day would be Friday- one more day before his weekend, and he couldn't have been more ready for it. Sherlock shifted on the couch so that he could get a good look at John.

"Well you've suddenly been seeing all these people you haven't seen since my death," he pointed out with a grin. "Wouldn't it make sense to see her as well?" John gave a brief shake of his head.

"No, there's more to it," he protested with a grumble.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed simply, pulling a huff of annoyance from John.

"Well if you know that, then why don't you tell me?" Sherlock stared at the blond, considering for a few painfully silent moments, before finally sitting up and turning to face John properly.

"John, think about the evidence you have in this case." It was odd to hear Sherlock so casually referring to his own case, but John was very much aware that it was something the real Sherlock would do- look at every case objectively.

"Just the phone," John replied in confusion.

"And?"

"And...I don't know. Just the phone." Huffing in annoyance, Sherlock shook his head.

"Look at it from the other end of things, then. What is it you're lacking at the crime scene?" John groaned and massaged his temples, wishing the man would just tell him, but knowing very well that this was his process of working up to the solution. Lacking...what was he lacking...

"DNA," John finally exclaimed, the answer hitting him suddenly after what seemed an eternity of silence. A smile slid across Sherlock's lips.

"Very good, John. Yes, the blood on the roof would have been fantastic evidence, had it not been tampered with. However, the fact that it had been tampered with makes it just as useful to us."

"Does it?" John questioned, clearly frustrated.

"John, think for once, would you!" Sherlock leaned back on the couch, crossing his arms. "Who was up on that roof? Who's blood was it? Not mine. Couldn't have been. So whose was it, and how did they vanish so quickly? Someone knew what they were doing to be able to tamper with that DNA."

"Someone...who knew their science," John slowly stated, the gears in his mind turning. Sherlock nodded in agreement, clearly relieved that the doctor was catching on.

"Someone who knew their science- someone aware of what was happening. Someone close by."

"You're saying I really should go see Molly Hooper," John finally stated after a good bit of silence, releasing a tired sigh.

"I've been saying that," Sherlock huffed.

It served John right, for not listening to his own intuition.

The process of entering St. Bart's was an operation in itself. John hadn't thought twice when he'd grabbed his coat and ran downstairs, out into the rain to hail a cab. However, it wasn't until he was well on his way to the hospital that his stomach began to churn as the anxiety kicked in.

John had avoided St. Bart's since Sherlock's death. He'd actively avoided it, going out of his way on long detours so that he wouldn't have to see it. It was as if the building itself had become his greatest fear, which he had vowed never to face. This wasn't the good kind of fear- not the fear on the battlefield that John's body yearned for, no; this was the bad kind of fear that made one dizzy and nauseous.

As the cab pulled up across the street from the hospital, John felt his stomach drop, and he wordlessly paid the cabby the fair before sliding out of the car. He clutched his cane tightly, as if it would give him as much mental support as it did physical. The near-ancient building was lovely, and John could remember a time when his eyes had lit up in excitement every time they caught site of it, in the foolish naivety of his younger days when he was only just studying to be a doctor.

Joy had turned to dread, yet time continued on, and the hospital remained as it ever had, its bricks never crumbling beneath the countless lives lost there. John fidgeted his hands a bit as he stared at it, feeling rather sick at the idea of entering it for what he realized was the first time since Sherlock's death. Finally with a deep breath, he slowly began his journey across the street and into the hospital.

The hospital itself seemed particularly busy that day, however as John made his way downstairs the people thinned out until he was the only one- slowly but surely- walking in the hall that led to the morgue. Of course, people avoided the morgue like the plague, which had actually been quite useful, for it had always been the only location of the hospital Sherlock had been interested in.

His mind returning to Sherlock caused the army doctor to pause in the dimly-lit hallway, glancing around only to find himself alone. Sherlock had recently seemed to be appearing less frequently, and John didn't know whether to take that a sign that he was growing closer to discovering the truth, or merely another stage of coping with Sherlock's death- he certainly didn't feel as if he was coping or moving on.

Unlike other hospitals John had been in, St. Bart's seemed to have a non-existent morgue staff. In fact, John had only ever seen Molly, and he'd wondered more than once what the hospital did on the days where she couldn't make it in.

John paused outside the door he knew as the morgue- though it was clearly labeled as such for the people who didn't frequent it as much as Sherlock Holmes and his trusty sidekick- and knocked after considering it a moment. Sherlock Holmes would have just burst on it, probably scaring the living daylights out of the poor woman, and there was a time when John very well might have done the same (though not quite as enthusiastically), but it had in fact been ages since John had spoken to Molly, so he thought it wise to knock on the off chance that they had hired additional staff.

There came no reply, and after a pause, John pushed through the door, nearly running right into Molly. She released a soft cry of surprise, quickly holding her hands into the air to avoid further contact with John. With a quick glance, he could see this was merely because she was in the middle of a autopsy, and while John tried not to focus on the dissected man laying on the autopsy table nearby, Molly's bloody gloves were a reminder that it was ever present. The autopsy room was always nearly blindingly bright, what with how white and sanitary it was, and the unpleasant smell of chemicals hung in the air.

"O-Oh! John!" Molly nearly choked out, clearly very shocked to see the man. She blinked rapidly at him for a moment as if she expected him to vanish into thin air, and when he didn't, her eyes widened guiltily. "I didn't get blood on you, did I?" John quickly checked himself before giving a brief shake of his head.

"Not this time," he replied, forcing a chuckle. Molly sent a weak smile at him before stripping off her medical gloves and tossing them in the hazardous waste bin. She then pushed through the morgue doors into the hallway John had just come from, clearly expecting the man to follow. He made his way after her as quickly as possible, though when Molly noticed the cane, she slowed her pace a bit, causing John's stomach to churn unpleasantly. He couldn't stand when people did that.

The two of them made their way silently up the concrete stairs and to the lab Molly worked in when she wasn't doing an autopsy- where John had met Sherlock Holmes for the first time. He paused in the doorway, staring into the lab silently.

There sat Sherlock, looking just as he had the first day they'd met. His curls fell delicately about his head as he stared intently into the microscope, refusing to be distracted. The detective sat on the stool he always did, taking no notice to the fact that he was nearly blocking the pathway. Molly stared at Sherlock before slowly glancing to John.

"John? Are you alright?" she questioned softly- gently. Always gentle. Molly was one of the sweetest people John had ever met- the type of person you heard about in stories, but that couldn't really exist, because good people like that were too good to be true; good people like that were twisted and corrupted by society until they were anything but good.

John could see how she could easily be considered cute or adorable, though he'd never had any romantic or sexual attraction to her. She was such a mother that it almost seemed wrong to even consider having such feelings for her. There was always care and concern in her eyes, and it often made John wonder why she worked in the morgue when she so obviously had a desire to take care and help people.

Sherlock finally looked up from the microscope, his eyes instantly focusing on John, and the familiar smirk slid across the man's lips. "Yes, John. Are you alright?"

Admittedly, John's heart had skipped a beat, forcing his eyes from his hallucination, and he began to calm once more. "Yeah...I'm fine..."

"If you say so," Molly replied, eying John suspiciously. "So what are you doing here, then?" She questioned before quickly adding, "Not that I'm unhappy to see you! It's been a while...I was a bit worried. It's just a surprise to see you."

"Yeah...should have sent a text or something. Wasn't exactly thinking straight," John replied in apology. Smiling, Molly shook her head in dismissal as she leaned back against one of the cluttered counters.

"You know me. Never too swamped with work." That seemed to be the case- Molly never seemed too overwhelmed with work, and she always had time to assist Sherlock, or anyone who merely needed a friendly ear, but still, she seemed to spend a significant time at the morgue, and John wondered if she desired so badly to keep herself occupied. He supposed the feeling wasn't exactly foreign to him, though it was such a shame, what with how sweet Molly was, and how much she did for others; she deserved to be out living life, not merely tolerating it.

"Right..." John fell silentl, struggling to decide on a delicate way to bring up the topic. After not talking to Molly for nearly three years, give or take a few texts or e-mails, it seemed rather cruel to suddenly show up merely to talk about Sherlock Holmes, and it was in that thought that John somewhat understood why Molly was so desperate to stay distracted- everyone used her, in one way or another.

Molly stared at him, cocking her head curiously as she did so, as if trying to read his mind, though remaining ever patient all the while. "You're here about Sherlock?"

The question came out of silence and somewhat shocked John, though it shouldn't have, because why else would he be there? It was a relief that Molly had figured it out on her own, though it made him feel guilty all the same because she'd already seemed to have known that it would be the only reason for John to visit. John wordlessly nodded, his eyes once again wandering over to Sherlock who had returned to whatever it was he'd been observing in the microscope.

"I'm trying to figure out what really happened," he finally explained, leaving out his hope of Sherlock still being alive. He'd learned from Sherlock not to say too much when it wasn't necessary.

"He's dead, John." The words were out of the ordinary for Molly Hooper, in that they were harsh and short, and very dismissive. John didn't need to be Sherlock Holmes to figure that much out.

"Then I want to at least clear his name," the doctor replied quickly, trying not to sound as desperate as he felt. "He deserves that much, I think, despite what a complete arse he was. I know for a fact that he was no fake, and I think you do too."

Molly seemed to soften at the realization of how desperate John really was (even though he tried to hide it). This wasn't a journalist or fan coming around snooping, having discovered Molly by coincidence and hoping to get any information about Sherlock out of her. He was just John- a man entirely shattered in result of Sherlock's death. Sherlock Holmes, the most important person in John's life; even Molly could see that. He didn't want the story, or the truth behind the fake genius; he simply wanted the truth.

"Alright," she finally sighed, her voice softening once more. She fiddled silently for a moment with the sleeve of her lab coat. "But what makes you think I can help?"

"Because I think you know more than you've let on." John's words were as gentle as they could possibly be, not wanting to sound accusatory, but still they caused Molly to look up at him in shock, her eyes wide. Deer in the headlights, John thought.

"W-what makes you think that?"

"Well for one, this," John stated, pulling out the bagged mobile phone. He handed it over to Molly, and she silently stared at it through the clear bag, though she didn't really seem to see it. Her face was expressionless. "I think you've seen it before. In fact, I think you're the one that replaced it with Sherlock's real mobile."

"Why would I do that?" Molly questioned quickly, offering the mobile back to John.

"That's what I want you to tell me, Molly," John replied, taking the mobile from her. "The blood on the rooftop was completely useless to the investigation because the DNA had been practically destroyed. Whoever did that had to have some kind of education in the medical field. They also have had to been very close by in order to get to the scene of the crime, tamper with the blood and replace the mobile, and disappear completely before the police arrived."

Molly looked extremely pale, and at the fear she might faint at any moment John grabbed a nearby chair and helped her down into it. "I'm not accusing you of anything," he insisted, staring at her honestly. "I just want to figure this all out. If...if Sherlock needed help in any way during his last hours, it had to have been from you."

"Why me?" She questioned softly, struggling to find her voice. John could see that he'd worked it out quite nicely, and that Molly's walls were about to crumble.

"Because everyone else was closely involved with him- it would have been too suspicious. And...well, you would have gone unnoticed." John felt rather cruel saying it, but it was a vital fact.

"You mean I'm invisible," Molly replied with a rather sharp laugh before quickly rubbing her eyes. Guilty overwhelmed John at the fact that head made Molly cry- he was sure that Satan himself would feel guilt for doing such a thing. The doctor opened his mouth, though Molly shook her head, brushing his unsaid words away. "It's alright. I know it's true." Unsure of what to say, John swallowed softly, leaning against the counter as well.

Molly turned away from him and took a few steps, approaching the stool Sherlock sat in. As she approached, the man pulled away from the microscope and stared up at her. John's heart leaped in his chest, for he was certain that the two of them were staring at each other- that if Molly couldn't see Sherlock now, it was only a matter of seconds before she magically could. Instead, she breathed out a shake sigh, hesitating as she reached out, allowing her fingertips to lightly brush over the base of the microscope.

"He came to methe night it all happened," she finally admitted softly, as if she feared that if she raised her voice, it would crack and waver. "He told me that he thought he was going to die, and that he needed my...my help."

John did his best to listen without piping in, and continue listening without his own mind beginning to babble with itself. Still, there were so many questions he had- mainly, why did Sherlock go to Molly instead of him? He could have helped. Though of course, logic had already told him that it had to be Molly, because Molly was the only one that would go unnoticed and unsuspected. Still, that logic did very poorly to combat jealousy.

"I helped him arrange it all. His...death. I helped him fake it." At that, John nearly had to clutch the counter as it seemed a wave of dizziness smacked him. Hearing someone admit aloud- someone tell him that Sherlock had faked his death- it was the most shocking yet wonderful thing John had ever experienced, he was sure.

"His...fake his death?" John choked out, desperate to make sure that what he was hearing was true. He blinked rapidly, suddenly wondering if this was real- was this Molly Hooper real, or had he conjured her up too? That thought was too much, and he felt almost as if a panic attack was coming on.

Molly seemed to sense this, for her eyes widened and she quickly guided John over to the stool Sherlock was sitting in (though as John sat, Sherlock vanished).

"John, sit down," she ordered gently. "Are you alright? You look like a ghost." John simply shook his head, unable to speak, though he motioned for her to continue- he needed her to continue. "I helped him plan it all..."

"How?" John questioned sharply. He didn't understand...you couldn't fake falling off a building, as much as he wanted to believe it. He couldn't wrap his mind around it, and with every second he was beginning to fear even more that none of this was real.

"That's...that'll come later," Molly simply replied with a shake of her head. "There are more important things. He asked me to do something specifically- to replace his mobile with this one." She motioned to the evidence bag.

"Why?" John quickly asked. He was struggling in finding a balance between calming down, but desperately needing to understand. "Was there something on the mobile he didn't want people to see?" Molly seemed to hesitate at that, considering, before crossing her arms and leaning back against the edge of the counter opposite to John.

"He said there was something on it that would prove his innocence- prove that he wasn't a fake." Furrowing his brow, John shook his head silently before pinching the bride of his nose.

"That doesn't make sense...why would he want to hide evidence that proves him innocent?"

"It wasn't safe," Sherlock's voice breathed down his neck, causing a shiver to instantly shoot down John's spine. He spun to find nobody there- not even his hallucination, yet his heart wouldn't seem to calm down, and his throat was dry. He felt very close to...something. A panic attack? Passing out? Understanding? And he didn't know how to feel.

"John?" Molly murmured cautiously, staring at him in even more concern now. John spun around to face her once more.

"Why wasn't it safe?" he demanded, though she simply stared at him in complete confusion.

"Why wasn't what safe?" she questioned, hesitating. "John, are you...are you seeing things?"

"Tell me!" John yelled, his voice raising more than it had in a long while. Molly looked frightened now, yet entirely unsure what to do about it- whether she should run or try to calm John down.

"He...There are people after you," she finally forced out. "People that...he just said it wasn't safe. He had to go into hiding." John clutched his cane tightly once again, dizziness continuing to hit him in waves. He was relieved and confused all at once, and overall he couldn't determine if he was feeling more positive or negative, or simply...insane.

"Where's the mobile?" he questioned, seemingly calmer though Molly was very much aware that he wasn't. In fact, she would have preferred if he'd continue to yell, because the blank, determined yet almost void expression he now wore was...frankly terrifying.

"I-I don't have it," she admitted, though she quickly continued for fear of what John's reaction would be. "It's in a safety deposit box. He asked me to put it there." Reaching into her pocket, she quickly produced a notepad and a pen, scribbling down an address and a number on it. She tore the note free and offered it to John. "I haven't been there since I put the mobile in." She then hurried to a nearby drawer and dug around in it before finding a small key and offering it to John as well. "That's all I can tell you."

John took both the note and the key from her, examining each carefully before tucking them into his pocket. He then glanced up at Molly, eying her suspiciously before nodding.

"Thank you," he replied, quickly hurrying it out. He had another lead, and he couldn't waist anymore time, especially now that he was positive that Sherlock was alive- that he had a chance at finding the man, though the very journey to do so seemed to be pushing him closer and closer to the brink of insanity. He was very much aware that he owed Molly an apology, though he felt that if he offered it now, it would simply be meaningless words called over his shoulder- he'd wait until later before offering to take her to dinner or something.

"John!" Molly called after him, and he paused in the doorway, turning to look at her. Perhaps she'd forgotten something? A little extra bit of vital information? The woman studied him for a moment, swallowing softly before murmuring, "I think you should get some help."

A/N: I AM A HORRIBLE PERSON FOR NEVER UPDATING THIS! I know it probably sounds like meaningless words, but I deeply apologize for ignoring you all for so long. I've been extremely emotionally unstable recently, and just haven't been able to write anything. But I'm going to try to do better, as we are nearing the end of our tale. I hope you're excited! Once again, thank you for the reviews! They really help keep me writing, especially when I have all these personal issues. Until next time! Hobey ho!