Molly had crawled back into her bed, feeling better but tired. The small bug had taken a lot out of her energy, and she felt utterly exhausted and spent. She heard the soft opening and closing sounds of wood against wood, just as she heard muffled footsteps. He had returned then. She snuggled deeper into her blankets, not quite liking the smell of sweat, but not having much choice about the matter either. She had closed her eyes momentarily, trying to get her mind back in order. Fevers always made her think in a strange, randomised manner, which made no sense to her once she thought about it after getting better. She began to sift through her thoughts, some broken, some with yellowed edges, some shiny new, some faded and old. But thoughts, nonetheless. Memories that made her who she was. Memories that made her understand the world around her, thoughts that helped her rationalise a world full of madness and misery into something that was mellowed and sensible, something which did not frighten her away easily. She loved her mind, it was her own, a creation of herself, a part of her being. She loved it, and did not want to change it for anyone in the world.

Sherlock had walked into the sleeping form of Molly. By the look of how her slippers were haphazardly placed on the floor and the looser form of the blankets wrapping her, he guessed that she had woken up once. Probably to drink some water, or go to the loo. He saw her face lie still in the moonlight, the ghost of a smile playing lightly upon her lips, right before they parted to let in a gush of cool air. He gazed at her face for a few seconds, thinking. Molly Hooper, the woman who mattered, the lady who helped him in dire times, the person he could trust, lay there. And Sherlock Holmes had no influence over her for a change. He could only observe her from the outside, look at the person that she was, keep his words to himself. He had come to terms with the fact, finally, that he could not control her, howsoever much he tried to. Control who she saw, control her time; control every fibre of her being. He had to let go, let go of the person he had called a friend, one who mattered the most to him, second only to the good doctor. He could wield no power over her, not anymore. Yes, there was a time when he could use her, pull the strings of her affection just like a master puppeteer, and get his work done. Not now, not anymore. Neither remained an enigma to one another now. Molly knew Sherlock, and his actions. She had broken free of him, and now, it was up to her if she wanted to continue with the friendship and camaderie they had formed over the months. If she wanted, he would remove himself from her life completely, and never come near her again, or let her even catch a whiff of his presence. If she wanted, he would stay for her, and help her in his own little manner, which would obviously include the blunt truth, but would be helpful in the long run. If. The weight of a thousand earths came heavily upon that one word. If….

Molly stirred a little, the soreness in her limbs relieved from the change in position. She was deep in her thoughts, perhaps even asleep, for her thoughts had enveloped her completely, making her dead to the reality outside of the bubble of her mind. Sherlock snapped out of his thoughts momentarily, shifting the weight of his transport off his feet, and sitting down on the floor beside her bed. He crossed his legs over, and looked at Molly. She looked tired, but better. Almost as though she was free. Perhaps she was, for she was not dragged down by the mass of the world, and it's million and three troubles. He let out an involuntary sigh. Sleeping was the human's way of escaping reality, for when one slept, everything was possible. People who were dead came back to life, all the joys and wants in the world were fulfilled. But the dead also remained dead, people had to face their fears, have all their hopes destroyed bit by bit. He hoped, or rather, a part of his mind hoped, that Molly did not have nightmares ever. It would be partly his fault if she did. He had taken her thoughts, feelings and emotions, and twisted them, bent them, forced them, left them, and then abandoned them so often, he was surprised she retained any at all.

A buzz in his coat alerted him. He sprung up, his eternal grace never failing him as he wafted over to where his dear coat was hung. He pulled his mobile phone out.

Molly felt much better after she had gone through most of her happier thoughts and the wistful ones too. She wished that she had more courage, more hope, more confidence, and a large helping of self-esteem since a young age. Perhaps then she might not have been such a door-mat for any human who was nice to her. Her conscience informed her that she felt obliged when a person, be it a random stranger, or her own family, talked nicely to her. She should not be. It was the duty of every human in the world to talk nicely to her, and if they did not, she should not entertain them in her life for any longer than necessary. Yet she did. If there was one misgiving in the nature of the sweet, gentle, kind and caring Molly Hooper, it was her willingness to be nice and to help every living being around her. She could not bear suffering at large, and tried to help each person in her own way, howsoever small. That trait had helped her become the way she was. She wanted an audience too, albeit one who would egg her on, tell her she was brilliant, beautiful, one that would gasp at her wonders, weep along and yet comfort her in the pits of despair that would hold her aloft when she would soar above the waves of happiness. She needed an audience, for she was a genius too, in her own right. Every genius needed an audience, and Molly Hooper withered for she had none.

Sherlock frowned a little at his phone. He then went over to check on Molly, not physically touching her, but mentally cataloguing every part of her. She seemed fine now, if not better. She would need to rest tomorrow, and by the day after tomorrow, she would be fine. Good.

He collected his coat and his scarf, hesitating a little when he saw the article of clothing lying below a furry feline. The aforementioned feline decided just then to raise its head, and ask the towering man in front of it an inquisitive question "Mrow?" Sherlock just smiled in reply, before bending down to collect his scarf. He and the cat had gotten off to a good start, and once he overlooked the manner in which the feline had shed its fur upon the man, he realised the two had shared many similar qualities. After tying his scarf, he bent down once again, and petted the feline upon its furred head. The cat pushed its head against his hand, enjoying the feel of skin against fur.

"Take care of her. She trusts you. And on no accounts let her go to the Mortuary tomorrow." He said, knowing it sounded foolish to talk to a cat. But the look he got in return banished such thoughts.

She had made her mind. Sherlock would stay in her life, but now as a friend, and nothing more. She had taken enough pain and hurt from him, without a word. Now, she would maintain a distance from him. She was an intelligent girl, pleasant to the eyes, witty, and everything that anyone would have looked for. She need not find her audience in someone who barely acknowledged her presence. No, from now, she would find new people. Meet them. And before it all, see their history. For she would be completing another cycle of life if that person were a consulting criminal, consulting detective, or a corpse. She decided to live her life again. Molly Hooper, the withered soul, would now start afresh, as a flower in bloom.

Right before he left, he stopped and wrote a note. She needed to know where he had kept her medicines, and when to take them, and how many. He placed this note on the fridge, where the water was kept. He then went over to the door, and opened it. When he was about to close it, he hesitated. But this was important.

"Take care, Molly." He said, before looking at his phone one last time. On the screen, in the basic texting font, was a message.

"Come Back. –JW"