A/N: Ok – so it's been a very long time. And I'm so sorry for neglecting my fic writing, especially my WiPs. But here's an update. And some good news – only one more chapter to go! YAY!


Chapter 9

To the untrained eye, the Molly Hooper who returned to work at Bart's just two weeks after the incident in Vegas differed only slightly from the Molly who had departed. Her hair, although tied in her trademark ponytail, had not yet returned to its natural shade. The semi-permanent dye she had used to become Cindy now seemed more permanent than advertised. Her fingernails still shone with their false French tips, a luxury she could never afford or justify when her hands the better part of a day in various body cavities.

And, of course, no one could tell to look at her how close she'd come to not returning at all.

If Henderson had struck her harder.

If Smith hadn't acted when he did.

If Sherlock didn't alert the ambulance.

If this, if that, if only –

None of it wore on her face when she walked into the lab, ready to start work after receiving the all-clear from Mycroft's doctors one week after arriving back in London.

"Molly!" boomed Stamford cheerily, "How was your holiday?"

"Oh, you know," Molly hesitated, chiding herself for not preparing a better cover story. "It was great," she smiled her brightest smile, hoping it would be enough to convince Stamford.

"When I read your email asking for a few more weeks, I thought maybe you'd met someone, had some kind of holiday fling?"

Molly steeled herself, blocking out any images of the frantic, passionate coupling she'd had with Sherlock just moments before the operation fell apart.

"No, nothing like that! I just needed some more time."

With a nod, Stamford was off to give a lecture to his first-year residents. Molly spent most of the morning wading through emails. She was amazed how little attention people paid to the Out-of-Office autoreply she'd set up. Twelve frantic emails from her intern about the procedure for pituitary gland preservation; Ten invitations inter-office social events which had already come and gone; Sixteen urgent requests for bloodwork results from Tony the new lab tech.

It was well past 1 o'clock when the pain in shoulder, a constant reminder of the force with which she hit the floor, was overcome by the sharp pang of an empty stomach. She needed lunch.

If she had thought it through, she would have realised that 1 o'clock was when she usually left her stakeout as Molly and turned into Cindy. If she dared to remember, the pang of hunger pains would have felt eerily like the butterflies she had every time she went to the hotel to meet Bill. But she wouldn't have those thoughts. Not today. Today was about proving to herself that Cindy was dead, buried, left in Nevada.

She was Molly.

And Molly was definitely not avoiding Sherlock.

Not when she heard his trademark baritone in the hallway around the corner from her office. Not when she turned left instead of right as she exited her office. Not when she took the fire stairs instead of the elevator because she didn't dare wait an extra second and risk looking into those eyes and seeing-

-not Bill. Because Bill died in Nevada, too.

And even though Cindy and Bill may or may not have had a highly charged, frantic encounter in a Las Vegas Hotel room, Molly and Sherlock most certainly did not.

Or so Molly told herself. And she truly believed it.

Until she ran into Meena at the café down the street from Bart's. A café at which, Molly was well aware, that Sherlock was not welcome after offending the owner by deducing (with frightening accuracy) the number of times an hour he would sneak into the storeroom and take compulsive nips from his vodka-filled hip-flask.

Tj's Coffee shop would be a safe place for Molly to grab her lunch for the next little while. That is, if she was avoiding Sherlock, which she certainly was not.

Meena sat alone, strewn remnants of a large latte and a rocket salad in front of her as she idly checked Twitter or Facebook. Molly was happy to walk past, pretending she hadn't seen her friend when Meena looked up, her face beaming.

"Molly! Darling!" She stood, pulling Molly into a tight embrace. "I'm so glad you're back!" She lowered her tone conspiratorially, "David from accounting has been asking about you!"

Molly didn't know what look crossed her face, but Meena was the kind of infuriating friend it's impossible to hide anything from.

"I see, it's like that then?" Meena pulled away and motioned for Molly to sit down.

"Like what?" Molly tried to act casually, picking up a napkin and idly wiping the table before resting her hands on it.

"You've met someone." Meena looked so proud of herself.

Molly knew she had no other choice but to tell her friend the truth – well, a truth interspersed with lies. "Maybe I had a holiday fling," she smiled, trying to imagine if things had been different. If the man she met in Vegas wasn't a cocaine addict with a gambling problem and a regular date with a callgirl – or, more accurately, a Consulting Detective doing a far too believable job at playing a cocaine addict with a gambling problem and a regular date with a callgirl. A callgirl he did a remarkably believable job of pretending to fuck.

Not to mention the one time he wasn't pretending at all.

Meena's eyes widened, "It's serious, isn't it? I can tell. Are you going to leave us and go Stateside forever?"

Molly almost choked on the glass of water the waiter had given her "No! No way!"

"But you liked him?" Meena asked, genuinely keen to hear the answer.

Molly paused for a moment before responding. What did she feel about Sherlock now? She'd certainly progressed beyond a mere crush – seeing a dead man sit up in his body bad, covered with blood and shaking from the adrenaline from a faked fall would do that. She'd definitely progressed beyond friendship – being one's only tie to their life while they're pretending to be dead for two years forged a bond much deeper than friends. She had to admit that she loved him – and admit it to Tom, his hands open and holding her returned engagement ring as she explained to him that there wasn't anything he could have done.

Sherlock had her heart, even if he had no idea what to do with it.

And as she sat there, she realised her love for him wasn't mere sentiment – slapping him three times after a failed drug test, chastising him for throwing away the beautiful gifts he had been born with – even the very act of calling his intellect beautiful when she knew he had always seen it as a curse – these weren't the acts of someone infatuated or starry-eyed. She loved him, even when it hurt.

She loved Sherlock well before Bill and Cindy.

And she would love him long after. She knew that now.

"So," Meena prompted, "are you going to go back for him?"

Molly's lips formed a tight, sad smile. "No. There was a man, and he meant a lot to me. But he made it clear: What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas."


A/N Maybe a bit angsty? But I promise, only one chapter to go, and there will certainly be a happy ending!