AN: Thank you so much for all your kind words and support! You guys are amazing, truly! Before we begin, I want to check in and make sure you all are clear about the premise. Just in case: Sherlock screws up big time and hurts Molly, gets thrown into an AU where he is the "mousy pathologist" but he still retains memories of his life as consulting detective. (I know it's out there, but you've stuck with it this long, its too late to back out now!) If something remains unclear, especially the jumps between Sherlock's old life and new life, let me know.

'Italics'- inner thoughts

**Trigger Warnings- vague mentions of suicide**

Five days… Five days since the supposed death of Molly Hooper, and already London felt different. The once vibrant city was suddenly lackluster. And in a strange act of defiance, the typically dreary weather was replaced with clear skies and sunshine. To Sherlock Holmes, it was hateful.

Friends, families, and lovers took to the streets, all enjoying the warmth that radiated from above. It was a mockery of the sadness—heaviness—he was feeling. Refusing to witness such merriment around him, Sherlock avoided public transportation, opting for the privacy that only a cab could provide.

Burying Molly (or rather, a casket containing the remains of an unclaimed Jane Doe), had been far more difficult than he had anticipated. Beforehand he had reminded himself that it was all a ruse, however he had not been prepared to see the reactions of those closest to him. Of course he expected being somehow affected; he loved Molly, how could he not? But to see Mrs. Hudson weeping like that… and a gruff man like Lestrade trying to keep his emotions in check? It was unbearable. He didn't even attempt to sneak a look at John; for if he did, John would completely undo him.

As the cab made its way from the cemetery to his flat, Sherlock had time to contemplate the actions of all the ordinary people (ordinary in terms of people outside of his tiny circle of loved ones) going about their boring routines. Were they not aware of what they had lost? That one of the greatest minds—no, one of the greatest people he had the privilege of knowing—was dead to the world? Did they not know that this brave woman sacrificed so much so that they could continue living their mind-numbing lives? Did they even care that everything that was said about her was a lie? 'No,' he thought bitterly. 'They only care if the story is juicy enough for the front pages of the tabloids.'

The sobriety of the day allowed him to revisit his own memories of his "death" and consequent mission. He recalled being anxious (excited) to begin his one-man man-hunt. After he had been nursed back to health by Molly Hooper, he gathered his few belongings, packed up, and left the pathologist's flat in the early morning hours. He hadn't said goodbye; knowing that by not doing so he was playing into some kind of sentimental cliché—the "hero" silently walking away into the sunset. In fact, now that he thought about it, he hadn't even said thank you. Sherlock grimaced; he had been a coward then. And completely selfish.

At the time, all he could think about was what he had just given up. The gravity of what he had just done; what he was going to do, and the enormity of the task that lay ahead. If he was completely honest with himself, he hadn't even considered the mess he had left behind. More specifically, the mess he had left behind for Molly to clean up all on her own.

Now it was his turn. Molly had left the mess, and now he had to deal with it. She had asked him to, and he refused to let her down. There was too much at stake.

This was hard; harder than anything he had ever had to do. Pretending to be bereft. Keeping such a huge secret. Watching as the others—those he considered family—crumble apart. Just a few words was all he had to say, and he could spare them the heartache. He wouldn't—couldn't—reveal anything just yet; he wouldn't jeopardize anyone's safety. But the sooner this ordeal was over (and he could return to his regular life where he is the consulting detective), the better for his mental stability.

A few days after the funeral, Sherlock had been surprised with a visit from Greg Lestrade. The weary man walked into the morgue, and uncharacteristically sat himself down at the bench.

"I feel like I owe you an apology Sherlock," the detective somberly stated.

"An apology?" Sherlock asked. 'What could the man possibly have to apologize for?'

It was no secret that Greg had fallen on some hard times. When the papers began to claim that the consulting detective was a fraud—and that she had orchestrated many of the crimes she had been applauded for solving—the eyes of the powers that be at the NSY had all turned on DI Lestrade.

Suddenly his years of hard work, loyalty, and quick turnover rate meant nothing. He had collaborated with the disgraced detective and he had requested her help on several high profile cases; it was the opinion of his superiors that he was just as fake as the consulting detective herself.

Of course, it was all absurd. Anyone with just a bit of brain power could clearly see what the issue was. It wasn't that he had contracted work out of his department (many other detectives did that). No, they had issue with the fact that Greg Lestrade had been friends with her. No doubt about it, this was strictly personal.

"Yeah, it's my fault that she… you know. I could have defended her—protected her—but I didn't. I'm no better than those who straight out accused her of being a phony. I know she meant a lot to you, and my apologizing won't bring her back, but I—" he uttered, letting the rest of his declaration hang in the air.

"I—um—it's not your fault, Greg. I think it was always going to end this way." When one was in need of comfort, they typically avoided Sherlock. But it this world, his "shy, eager-to-please" personality made him approachable; friendly even. (He couldn't count the number of times strangers approached him to share their tales of despair. He hated it. 'Was this how it had been for Molly?') Regardless, he would attempt to be there for the DI, and anyone else who was in the pursuit of consolation… Only because Molly had asked him to.

The two chatted for a little longer when the older man stood up. "Thanks for hearing me out mate, but that's not the only reason I came down here. I tried checking up on John, but he isn't too keen on talking to me—I guess he holds me responsible… In any case, I was hoping you could talk to him and see how he's doing?"

The gnawing feeling at the pit of Sherlock's stomach seemed to intensify with the mention of John's name. "I don't know if that's such a great idea—"

He felt a bit guilty, cowardly, for not agreeing right away. (Hadn't he promised that he would do that?) Before he could come up with a convincing reason to avoid John, Greg continued.

"I'm going to be perfectly honest with you, Sherlock, he isn't doing well. I am worried about him—about what he'll do to himself. I guess I figured that…" he paused briefly to collect himself. "I just thought that since you both cared her, it would be good for you two to support one another. Be there for each other. Promise me you'll at least think about it?" Greg asked sounding hopeful.

And for the second time in a span of a week, Sherlock made a promise he was hesitant to keep.

~oOo~

Visiting Mrs. Hudson had been taxing. She was sorrowful, of course, but more than that she was concerned. Concerned for herself, for John… and even Sherlock himself. Her sweet, mothering nature made it that much more difficult to continue the lie.

"I know you cared for her, dear. That much was obvious. But I think she cared for you as well… in her own way. She just wasn't always very good at expressing herself, you know?" Mrs. Hudson had offered, with a pitying glance and a squeeze of his hand.

The social call didn't last much longer after that. In truth, Sherlock hadn't planned on staying at all. He had hoped that he would get a quick glance at her, and John, gather enough information on their condition should Molly require some sort of report. But when the elderly woman had gathered him into her frail arms and swept him into her flat with the promise of biscuits and tea, he couldn't resist.

The trip hadn't been entirely unsuccessful. He learned about the going-ons of the neighborhood ("Lots of new neighbors, so much noise, so much traffic!" she had complained), and more to the point, he had learned about John's faring.

"…Couldn't even return to the flat, it's so bad! John is staying with his sister for now, but I don't think that is wise. You know she has problems with alcohol," she whispered the last part. "He cared so much for Molly. Mrs. Turner always thought they would end up together, but I knew better. Oh that girl! Who knows what was going on in that funny head of hers?"

Finally finding his voice, Sherlock was able to calm the woman a bit. "Don't worry Mrs. Hudson, I'll go check on John. I'll let you know what I find."

With one last hug, and a kiss to the cheek, Sherlock made his way to the doctor's new lodgings.

~oOo~

What awaited Sherlock as he arrived to Harry Watson's flat was discouraging. He took in John's appearance, and understood the seriousness of the situation without having to ask, "How are you?" The unkempt beard, the greasy hair, and the smell of stale beer that emanated from him all painted the perfect picture of a man who had given up on life.

"Sherlock? Come in," the doctor said as he walked away from the front door to reclaim his seat in the poorly lit sitting room. Sherlock followed, trying to gather the strength necessary to keep from blurting out the truth about Molly.

"How are you doing?" John asked politely, if a bit distractedly.

He was taken back, not really anticipating exchanges in pleasantries. "Good—er I mean, as good as can be expected, I suppose. And you?"

John laughed bitterly, "Me? I'm just fine, as you can see… Now you can share your observations to whomever sent you. Was it Mrs. Hudson? I bet it was."

"Well, she's worried about you. So is Lestrade." Sherlock didn't miss the clench of John's jaw at the mention of the Detective Inspector's name. "Of course, I wanted to check on you as well. We all cared for Molly too."

"But it was more than that, wasn't it? I didn't just care for her… I loved her!"

That, Sherlock had not expected. The shock must have shown on his face because John was quick to explain himself. He chuckled sadly, "Relax mate… I only meant that I loved her in a brotherly way—the way I wish I loved my sister. It was my job to keep Molly safe—to protect her—and I failed."

Scotch spilled on the table as he served himself another glass. It didn't appear that he had any interest in drinking it, but rather it gave him something to do—a monotonous action to keep him busy. The amber liquid held his attention for a moment longer before he spoke up again. "She saved me, you know?"

"On a case?" Sherlock asked, confused by the sudden change in topic.

"No, when I met her. I had just returned from Afghanistan, and I was… lost, for lack of a better word. I was alone, and she gave my life purpose again. I owe her so much," John softly replied. "I was on the phone with her when she… did it. Did you know?"

Sherlock shook his head and remained silent, encouraging John to continue. "She sent me away; she was going to meet with Moriarty and she sent me away by orchestrating some fake emergency! When I was on my way back, she called. She sounded strange."

"How so?"

"She told me that she invented Moriarty—that the newspapers were right all along… That she was a fake. In fact, she told me to tell you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson that she was a fake. But you don't believe that, do you? That she was a fake?"

Sherlock shook his head again, vehemently this time. "No. I believe in Molly Hooper."

"I know you do, Sherlock." John's hardened face gave way to a watery smile. "You loved her too."

"Yes, I do," he said plainly no longer wishing to deny it. (Whether he meant "Old life/pathologist Molly Hooper" or "New life/consulting detective Molly Hooper" it didn't make much of a difference anymore.)

The two men sat sullenly for the next hour contemplating the different forms of love they shared for the same extraordinary woman. When Sherlock made a move to leave, John's broken voice stopped him.

"Um Sherlock? Thank you for coming today, it means a lot to me… But can I ask you for a favor?" John stood and walked over to a desk that sat in the corner. After a few moments of fumbling through the drawers, he pulled something out and held it out to Sherlock. In his shaky hand was his old service revolver.

"Can you take this away? I don't think it's safe here… with me."

Without demanding an explanation (because really there could only be one reason he'd part with his gun), he took the weapon from the former soldier and made his way towards the door. "John, if there's anything—"

"I know. You'll be the first one I call."

~oOo~

Exhaustion hit Sherlock with the force of a freight train. Mentally, physically… emotionally… you name it, he felt it. It was overwhelming to feel so much at one time, however despite his attempts—and heaven knows he tried—to shut it all down and delete the past few days, he couldn't. Maybe it was because he felt it was his duty? As part of the promise he had made to Molly, he was obliged to follow through and endure the pain. Perhaps this was his penance for all the horrible things he had said and done in his past life? Who knows.

Nevertheless, he internalized it all and did the only thing that was in his power to do in the moment… he cried like a child. For several hours, sobs wracked throughout his entire body as he cried for the lies he told, for the loneliness he felt, and for the fear of losing Molly for real this time.

Molly had unknowingly—or knowingly—placed a tremendous burden on his shoulders, and the weight was unbearable. Sherlock had always fancied himself a strong man (the many enemies he had lain to waste could attest to that, had they lived). Oh, how foolish he had been. Sentiment had always been something he (and Mycroft) had scoffed at; easy to fake, and easy to take advantage of. But this was something different. This need to care for other was eating him from the inside-out… ailing him like a malignant tumor in possession of his body. 'Why would anyone willingly chose to feel like this? To take on the problems of others as their own.' Caught up in his grief, one name popped up in answer to his own question… 'Molly Hooper would.'

Before sleep overtook him completely, he had one final thought… 'Molly Hooper is stronger than I ever gave her credit for.'

~oOo~

He had been asleep for approximately three hours, according to Sherlock's groggy estimation, when he felt the mattress dip behind him.

"Shh… it's just me," he heard a familiar sweet voice whisper. He felt his pulse speed up and gave into the need to confirm that the woman who held his heart was truly there. Sherlock turned to his side, coming face to face with the cute button nose that belonged to none other than Molly Hooper.

Sherlock smiled sleepily. "Molly, how long—"

The tiny woman hastily interrupted him. "Just for tonight. I'll be leaving the country soon, and I just had to come…" Molly didn't finish her explanation, hoping that he understood that she couldn't leave without seeing him again.

Luckily for her, Sherlock did. They continued to lay side by side, quietly committing the other's face to memory. No words needed to be exchanged. The intimacy of the moment struck him— 'has she always been this beautiful?'

"Sherlock? I know you've already done so much for me, but can I ask you for one more thing?" Her voice sounded so small—so delicate—that he couldn't deny her anything even if he wanted to.

"You know you can ask me anything."

"Do you think—can you—" she huffed once, frustrated by the inability of spit out her words. "Just hold me. Please?"

Sherlock's heart swelled as he pulled her towards him, her head effectively landing on his chest. He wrapped his arms around her small frame and was rewarded by her contented sigh. It didn't matter that only hours before he had cursed Molly for entrusting him with her secrets and her life. All the pain and hurt was immediately nullified when he laid with Molly hidden away in the safety of his bedroom.

And though he was aware that he would have to relinquish his hold in a few hours, now that he had gotten a taste of this bliss, he'd be damned if he wouldn't chase after it again.

AN: I wrote myself into a corner but I am starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel. I estimate about one more chapter...

Thoughts? Is the story hard to follow? Any suggestions?- Leave me a message! :)