Thank you D, Someone Who Wants a Fez, Lono, saoirse09, Fan of the Fic, rory'sfan04, Ssmill, Sirius7, Colorful Magic, and magicstrikes for your kind reviews!

I figured out a way for us to know why Moriarty didn't target Molly! Look for it in chapter twelve! Also, I'm definitely settled on writing a parallel fic for this story (still untitled, no working title even really so if you've got suggestions throw 'em up! I'll definitely credit you for the title if you give me something that works!), so worry not! Though there be only three-ish chapters left, they are not the end!

Also in a direct answer to SWWAF: I have to say that unfortunately Sherlock will fall prey to that by the end of the fic, but that is because he'll finally remember Molly and how much he cares for her. In that case, he'll have a thirteen year history with her and in my mind entitled to some soppy bits :D

Enjoy!

It was in late spring that Sherlock seemed to once again go back to 'normal.' He went on his cases, though more than occasionally hounded by the press, and came to Bart's when he needed to run tests. Molly, who had spent many nights recently crying herself to sleep if she slept at all, tried to put him out of mind. She loved him, so much it hurt, but she was thirty three this year. There was a lot of life that she wanted to experience, and it was time to make herself believe that she wouldn't be experiencing it with Sherlock.

There was a nice man she started to have the occasional lunch date with. His name was Steven, an x-ray technician, and although he was a little awkward Molly didn't really mind. She liked awkward, because she was awkward—she'd always found awkward men, too, even Sherlock was. The last painful five years didn't fade, though, no matter what she did. Steven had some sort of painful past too, which is why she could even deal with him. It wouldn't last, they both knew, it wouldn't even progress. But it was something.

The blog that Sherlock's flat-mate kept was her most visited place—Sherlock's blog was rarely updated anymore. She wondered what Doctor Watson had said to Sherlock that caused him to stop. The tall detective was incredibly self-conscious about the things he indulged himself with, the things he did that made him happy. Despite how pleased he could be at times with his cases, the things that made Sherlock truly happy were few and far between.

Brilliant riddles and games were his favorites, and were actually the things which no one could take the joy of from him. Behind those were his hobbies—the study of scents and of textures—and lastly was his personal appearance and mannerisms. They were little things in other people's lives, but in Sherlock's were absolutely huge—that he'd stopped updating his blog indicated that someone close to him had disparaged it.

If she could have been there for him in something more than she already was, Molly was sure he would have continued publishing his studies.

In the midst of this, came the trial of Jim Moriarty. Jim, the man from the previous summer, wasn't called Moran, and he was the one responsible for the bombings of last summer. He was also responsible for so much more. Molly worried for Sherlock, as the eye of the media zeroed in on him at the center of the Moriarty trial.

And then the other shoe had started to fall.

Molly saw it as Sherlock stormed towards her, with John Watson at his side, and dragged her back to her lab. Steven would have to wait as Sherlock produced two bags of crisps from his pockets—it would have made her smile at the memory that that was always how Sherlock had kidnapped her before his accident, save for the words which came out of his mouth as he did. Sherlock spoke as though Molly herself hadn't realized just who Jim Moriarty had been, what his angle had been with getting close to her.

The lab was dreadfully cold around her as she ran about getting things for Sherlock—reference books for the most part—or running tests for him. All the while she watched out the corner of her eye. Molly saw the way Sherlock watched John out of the corner of his eye, and also noticed how he hadn't once looked at her since grabbing her in the hallway. Invisibility was awful, but it also gave her the strength to actually talk to him as she hadn't in years.

If he couldn't see her, he might not hear her—and if he didn't hear her, he couldn't say anything mean about her words. The memory of her dad made her do it.

"You're a bit like my dad." Molly had gone through her father's death just months before Sherlock had switched from casual cocaine use to full-on addict—he had been just functional enough to help her through it before descending into his own hell. He had dropped out of school, and it was only Mycroft's constant worry and aid that had kept them in the flat they shared.

"He's dead." Maybe sadness, not happiness was the key that she hadn't yet tried? Maybe bringing up the shared past they had might, as all of the doctors and nurses had claimed, bring back Sherlock's lost memories. It didn't work, but then she'd never thought it would. Not really. But the short conversation, where Sherlock looked at her—actually looked at her for the first time in years—made miles of headway.

She'd even managed to let him know that she knew when he was lying to be nice—he hated crisps, he never ever wanted crisps. Sherlock never breathed a word of this, however, because he didn't like people to tease him for disliking such a staple of people with poor or odd hours and poorer, odder eating schedules. Though it was a bit rude, it proved that she knew him far better than he'd given her credit over the last five years. No, I know you don't.

Review?