As soon as the door slammed below, John whipped round to face Samantha, who was closing the microscope case and set it off to one side out of the way. "What just happened?"

"Something was brought to Sherlock's attention. Take a look at the microscope." She stepped away from the table, and John carefully looked at the microscope. "What do you observe?"

Sherlock considered his relationship to Molly in his mind palace on the cab ride to Bart's. He had known of her fascination with him, had exploited it in fact over the few years they had worked together. She was his source for experiments, and it was child's play to manipulate her. Most of the time, she didn't seem to mind, not enough to give him a guilty conscience. He was used to having the upper hand in their relationship.

But everything changed when he had to fall. Not only was Molly Hooper the most important woman in his plan, he couldn't have pulled off the stunt without her assistance and access to the morgue. He recognized her contribution and necessity, and did not resent her for that, at least. She was a brilliant pathologist, even if easily molded to his will.

No, his resentment of her had begun when he was on the run. As a virtual fugitive, food hadn't come often, and sleep even less. Sherlock remembered the dreams he had had of her as she haunted his unconscious mind. In one, she was touching his face, her hands soft and cool, and instead of repelling him, he had relaxed, closing his eyes while she sang to him softly. Others featured him holding her in his arms, inhaling the scent of her hair. She held on to him like he was as insubstantial as his dream. In others, they were simply sitting together, basking in each other's presence. Finally, there were the dreams where he could see himself and Molly doing rubbish things together like get engaged, being married, and holding the hands of thin, black haired children. Those were the worst, as when he was awakened to the cold and the dark, the loss and grief he would feel were terrifying.

Sherlock could understand the survivalist nature of sexual dreams with Molly, his body wanting him to mate with the closest eligible female, but he never had those kinds of dreams with Molly. In a way, it made it worse. Sentiment was a defect. Wrong. Other. He couldn't love, not in his line of work. He just couldn't.

John looked over the microscope, his brow furrowed, but finally pronounced, "I don't see anything."

Samantha suppressed the urge to sigh. "Unfortunately. Try turning the knobs."

John did so, "They are pretty stiff."

"Exactly. This microscope was in a lab, but while the others have been well-used, this one hasn't been touched. Do you notice anything else strange?"

John shook his head.

Samantha smiled. "Look at the dust. There's a thin coating, but not enough to have come from three years' disuse. The layer is pretty even overall, and the corners are especially well cleaned. Someone took good care of this microscope over the past three years, someone who kept it ready to be used." Samantha took the microscope from John's hands and set it back on the table. "Someone used this microscope like a candle in a window, keeping a signal or a sign that someone cared. A near-futile gesture to show that someone still believed. Someone knew."

"How can you be so sure?"

Sherlock turned his mind to his decision after his return. He had vowed to break off all contact with Molly. He couldn't afford to fall into emotion, so he did the only thing he could think of: avoid Molly. When he met up with all his former contacts, he left her off his list. He hadn't seen her since.

But the dreams hadn't stopped.

Sherlock had been at his wit's end when Samantha had shown him the microscope. His internship idea had been a bad one in that she read the signs from the microscope just as he had, and she stood in judgment of him and what he had done.

He told himself he had had a rare moment of weakness, coming here. Possibly seeing her. Possibly nicking autopsy records as well.

He ought to turn the cab around. Send Samantha after them. Interrogate her for the information if need be.

His resolve was just as weak.

He paid the cab and walked into Bart's. Maybe Stamford would get them for him.

"I know because I met the person, a woman named Molly Hooper. And I know why she stopped, just over a month ago."

"Enlighten me."

"She acted like she hasn't seen Sherlock in a long time. From your emails, it sounded like Sherlock made trips to Bart's frequently, but not now. Molly stopped cleaning the microscope because Sherlock has been avoiding her, and it's breaking her heart."

As soon as Samantha left the morgue, Molly's mouth twisted, and she slammed the autopsy reports onto a table and ran over to her little office, burying her face in her hands. She willed the tears back into her treacherous eyes, but they ran anyway.

She shouldn't care. This was just the last nail in her coffin with Sherlock.

He couldn't even be bothered to come himself and get his microscope, the last thing of his in her possession.

She had cleaned it diligently, a reminder of better days.

Sherlock hadn't let any of the regular cleaning people near his microscope, only Molly. When he left, she had continued the practice, in the hopes that Sherlock would return soon.

Molly sniffled. She couldn't continue to do this, not after Sherlock's return. She had waited for him to come to her, tell her that he was back and everything was alright. But he never came. She waited and waited, and she finally gave up.

He had used her, just as he had used her in the past.

Molly had told herself she needed to move on, have healthier relationships, meet other people, be happy, but she just couldn't. She cared too much, that was the problem. Molly had had nightmares frequently while Sherlock had been away. It would be a normal day at work, and she would have to do an autopsy on a John Doe. She would pull back the sheet to find Sherlock's pale, cold face staring up at her.

Molly allowed herself to grieve. This was just the last step, the last time she would shed a tear for, or because of, Sherlock bloody Holmes.

She looked up just in time to see the back of a head covered in black curls retreating from the small window in her office door.