Hello everyone, and thank you so so so so much for your continued support even in my extended absence! It's been far too long and I know that it seemed as if I vanished from the face of the earth, but just like Sherlock will in the new year, I have returned! I apologize profusely for my long hiatus. As some of you know, I am in grad school and, mid way through the term, all sorts of awesome academic opportunities came my way. Needless to say, I have been drowning in academic writing for the past little while and am now very much out-of-shape with creative writing, so I am sorry if this chapter is a bit (or a lot) rusty around the edges - I do hope that you enjoy it regardless. It is on the shorter side as I try to get back into the swing of things. Anyway, now that I am on break for the holidays, I will be able to devote more time to creative writing, and hope to have many new updates to you in the near future.

Also, please note that I had to change some very minor bits throughout the story (regarding the bullet which killed the victim) to fit more with how the story has developed. Nothing super major at all, but just wanted you to be aware.

Now, on with the show...

It was afternoon, and the uncomfortable encounter between detective and doctor in the kitchen of 221B was hours in the past. Now 221B was vacant save for the skull on the mantelpiece and some dismembered body parts in the fridge.

In one of the many state-of-the-art laboratories of St. Bart's Hospital, Sherlock Holmes rose from a table. The table was laden with a microscope, a set of bullets strewn in disarray, a book on radioactivity, and the container from Elizabeth, the lid of which had been carefully secured.

As the detective turned to grab his dark scarf from the chair behind him, a one Molly Hooper entered the room. Sweet, courageous, smart pathologist Molly Hooper. Warm-eyed, soft-haired Molly Hooper. The Molly Hooper who had so much heart to offer and whose heart had been broken over and over again; who once believed that she was in love with the detective and who would always love him in some way. This Molly Hooper approached Sherlock hesitantly at first, but her steps became more confident as she moved closer to his slender form. Determinedly, she cleared her throat.

"Is everything alright?" she asked.

Sherlock did not respond, dramatically tying his scarf around his long, slender neck and refusing to look at the young woman.

Molly frowned slightly before trying again. "Solved the case, then?" She offered a semi-bright, semi-nervous smile.

"Yes," the answer was sharp. The detective was now pulling his long coat around his slim frame. "I was just leaving."

Molly took a deep breath as she watched the curly-haired man. She may not be as observant as he, but she was intelligent and had a keen eye when it came to the emotional realm of the human, so she noted the tense muscles running through the detective's shoulders and the thick, tight way that his jaw was clenched. "What's wrong?" she finally asked in a firm, concerned voice.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and stared at the pathologist with silence before finally muttering in an irritated voice, "Nothing is wrong. Now if you will excuse me, I owe our murderer a visit – "

Molly reached out and grabbed the curly-haired man's arm as he tried to hurry away. "No. Something is very wrong. You had the victim's body delivered to the morgue days ago, and yet you have only just come in this afternoon."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed at the pathologist, irritation boiling in their icy blue depths. "I've been busy."

Molly shook her head vehemently. "You're never too busy to solve a case. You live for them. It's not like you at all to take days to come in to inspect the body. I don't have to be a genius to know that something is bothering you."

A worry line formed between the detective's eyes and he pulled his arm away harshly. Then, slowly and emphatically, he spat, "I've…been…busy. Do not make me repeat myself again."

His tone had been intended to frighten the pathologist. However, Molly observed Sherlock not with fear, but instead with care and concern. Then she asked in a gentle and careful tone. "Where's John?"

Sherlock didn't respond, now busying himself with the buttons on his coat. When he was done buttoning up, he lifted his head proudly and, with an air of purpose, he headed towards the door without a glance at the soft-haired woman. But before he could make his great escape, she asked in a determined voice, "This is about John, isn't it?"

At that, Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically and his back seemed to stiffen slightly. "No."

Molly gave the detective a small smile that was full of understanding. "When Lestrade called me to tell me the body was being dropped off, he also told me that John wasn't with you. That he has a new girlfriend. Mary. You've solved so many cases together and grown so close, it must be hard to suddenly be alone."

Sherlock sniffed slightly but his face was expressionless. "Don't be absurd, I'm not alone, he's still my flatmate."

Molly watched the curly-haired man carefully. "I meant, being alone more than usual. Being alone on cases. That's what I meant and I'm…I'm sorry, Sherlock...I'm sorry about John."

"What is there to be sorry about?" the detective practically growled, his words coming out quick and fierce like a suddenly erupting volcano. "Alone is my protection. I understand that I only have myself to depend on. A lesson that you would do well to learn yourself, Miss Hooper. I see that you have yet again gone through a break up, the eighth this year if I remember." When Molly looked flabbergasted, Sherlock smirked and said coldly, "Your obvious weight gain, always a tell-tale sign. Not to mention those awful dark circles under your eyes, the lackadaisical manner in which you have put on your makeup, and the haphazard way that you have combed your hair – "

Molly blushed crimson and interrupted the detective with a sharp, "I broke up with him."

Sherlock's stare was scrutinizing and harsh, but Molly held his gaze without faltering. The silence in the room was deafening.

"Well, if you need to talk, please know that I'm always here," she finally said quietly.

"I have a skull that will do just fine if I ever need someone to talk to," Sherlock replied tersely before adding, "Oh, and that container will need to be disposed of properly. It's filled with radioactive material."

He waved his hand dramatically towards the table until Molly's glance fell on the container he was referring to. Elizabeth's container of chocolate powder. "Okay, fine," she nodded.

And with that, the detective was gone in a whirlwind of dark curls and expensive coattails.

Molly hurried to the doorframe and called after the quickly retreating form, "It's okay to need support, Sherlock. We all need people in our lives who can love us."

Without looking over his shoulder, the detective called back, "I don't need people to love me…" But what Molly couldn't hear were the whispered words that followed, "Only one person."

In a flat nearby, Mary Morstan was massaging and teasing the knots out of John Watson's shoulders, her hands soft with lotion.

A warm fire twirled and danced in the fireplace and two steaming hot cuppas sat nearby. In the background, the faint sounds of music filled the air. Flute music, gentle and soothing. Mary and John were nestled on the couch by the fireplace, a thick warm blanket curled around their legs and feet.

John had knocked on her door in a flabbergasted and shaken state earlier that day, covered in sweat, hair askew, jaw clenched, breath coming in spurts. But when Mary had pressed him to tell her what was wrong, he had refused to talk, instead making his way to the bathroom and muttering that he needed a shower. As he showered, Mary had prepared the living room with only one goal in mind: to calm her flustered boyfriend. She had set the kettle on the kitchen stove, turned on a relaxing CD, grabbed the warmest, softest blanket from her bed, found the gentlest lotion she kept on her bedside table, and lit a fire in the fireplace to take the chilly bite out of the flat.

Now, hours later, Mary's goal had been achieved. The scene had shifted from one of anxiety to one of pure and utter comfort.

John's eyes were shut tight with bliss and a soft, utterly satisfied purr was humming against his lips. "Ah…yes…that's lovely…just brilliant…thank you," he whispered as her fingers worked against his skin.

"Feeling better?" Mary asked, a pleased smile on her lips as she watched the content expression on John's face.

It was John's turn to smile, and it was filled with honesty. "Yes…so much better…thank you."

He pressed a soft kiss on Mary's tender cheek. But as he made to pull away, Mary's lotion-covered hands found the former army doctor's face and pulled him back towards her. Mary's lips crashed against his and, suddenly, he could feel the passion and the energy that radiated within her. Her fingers found his hair and, though she grabbed at his temple with excitement, always her touch was gentle. He felt safe, he felt so safe with her, attached to her, connected to her. She was his anchor, keeping him steady and afloat. He melted into her lips, an overwhelming sense of security washing over him.

When the kiss finally ended, Mary looked at the army doctor for a long time, her eyes twinkling in the firelight. Finally, she said breathlessly, "I love you, John."

At the words, John felt his heart leap into his throat. A mixture of giddiness and panic. How long had he been dating Mary? Not that long, certainly not long enough to warrant those very special, very important, very heavy words.

But as he stared into her blue, blue eyes and saw the respect and the care and the affection that lay within them, as he glanced at her beautiful mouth uplifted in an honest and trusting smile, the giddiness overtook the panic and before he knew what he was saying, these words had escaped from his throat:

"I love you too, Mary. I love you too."