More transcript from The Empty Hearse. Apologies, but I felt the need to write in every Sherlock/Molly scene from the new series.

–OH

I sit on my bed, thinking. I'm so glad Sherlock is back. He's been gone so long; I thought he might have been dead. But he's not, so I am so happy that he's back.

Maybe a bit too happy, happier than I should be.

But it's alright. Things will be back the way they were before and…

My phone trills a text.

Baker Street. Come as soon as you can. Now would be best.

-SH

I stare at the text before I reply.

Okay. Is something wrong?

Mollyx

I wait a moment for him to respond, but he doesn't, so I grab my coat and gloves and leave my flat.

(221b Baker Street)

When I walk into Sherlock's flat, he is standing at the window, looking out it.

"You wanted to see me?" I say.

"Yes," He turned to face me, then started walking towards me. "Molly?"

"Yes?"

"Would you…" He stops briefly; looking down at the floor, then continues to slowly walk towards me. "Would you like to…"

"Have dinner…" I suggest at the same time as he says, "Solve crimes?"

"Oh…" I sigh, awkwardly.

A while later, I sit in a dining chair next to Sherlock's chair. He is looking out the window and we have too clients, a man and his wife, in the room. The woman is sitting in John's chair and the man is standing next to her. As I listen to the man's story, I think about what is happening.

Sherlock Holmes and I… solving crimes? I don't understand. I get that John is angry with him and everything, but why am I here? Sherlock could have chosen anyone to help him, like Lestrade, but why did he choose me?

"…Monkey glans." Sherlock says, reminding me that I should be paying full attention to our clients. I bite back a smile at his words and he turns to the client. "But enough about Professor Presbury. Tell us more about your case, Mr. Harcourt."

"Are you sure about this?" I quietly ask Sherlock as he walks by me.

"Absolutely." He says.

"Should I be making notes?"

"If it makes you feel better."

"It's just that that's what John says he does, so if I'm being John…"

"You're not being John – You're being yourself." He tells me, sitting down in his chair next to me. I look away and smile.

"Well absolutely no-one should have been able to empty that bank account other then myself and Helen." Mr. Harcourt tells us. Sherlock stands up and starts to walk to Mr. Harcourt.

"Why didn't you assume it was your wife?" Sherlock asks.

"Because I've always had total faith in her." Mr. Harcourt tells him.

"No – It's because you emptied it." Sherlock says, pointing at his stomach, hairline, and forehead as he says, "Weight loss. Hair dye. Botox. Affair." He swiftly takes a business card out of his pocket and gives it to Mrs. Harcourt. "Lawyer. Next."

"And then – then he emailed me and – and he said that…" A woman says, sobbing as she sits on the sofa next to her stepfather. Sherlock sat on a stool next to her, his hand clasped with hers. He sympathetically pats the crying woman's hand.

"And your pen pal's emails just stopped, did they?" He asked, speaking softly.

She nods. I make notes on a small notepad at the dining table.

"And you really thought he was the one? The love of your life?" Sherlock continues. He looks at me. The woman takes of her glasses and cries harder. Sherlock stands up and walks over to me, keeping his back to our clients.

"Stepfather posing as online boyfriend." Sherlock told me, speaking quietly.

"What?!" I whisper back, staring at him shocked.

"Breaks it off, breaks her heart. She swears off relationships, stays at home – he still has her wage coming in." He turned to the woman's stepfather and almost shouts at him. "Mr. Windibank, you have been a complete and utter bastard. What has Alison here ever done to you? I suggest you go home and break it off with your wife because if you want to break your stepdaughter's heart, why not break her mother's as well? Plus, she sure as hell will break it off with you when she finds out what you've done to poor Alison, so why not have the upper hand?" The man stood up and stormed out of the flat, Alison fallowing moments after. We could hear their fight and her angry sobs when they were out on the pavement.

"How the hell did you possibly figure that out?" I asked.

"Hardly a difficult deduction." He says. I roll my eyes. "Next!"

(Crime Scene | Third Person POV)

"This one's got us all baffled." Detective Inspector Lestrade says as he tears police tape off of a door.

"Mmm, Don't doubt it." Sherlock says.

Lestrade opens the door and Sherlock and Molly follow him down the stairs into a basement. When they get to the bottom of the stairs, what they see confuses them. At the far end of the room is a white-painted table with a skeleton in an old fashioned suit seated on a chair behind it. The skeleton holds a syringe in one of its hands, and a carafe, a glass, and a writing set is on the table. Sherlock frowns and walks over to it. He sets his tool pouch on the table and begins to examine the skeleton with his magnifying glass. Molly stands nearby, writing notes in her notebook.

Sherlock sniffs the skeleton, trying to decide what he smells.

Pine?

Spruce?

Cedar.

New mothballs.

Carbon particulate.

Fire damage.

He straightens up, closing his magnifying glass. Molly looks up at him.

"What is it?" She asks. "You're on to something, aren't you?"

"Mmm. Maybe."

SHOW OFFSherlock heard John's voice in his head.

"Shut up, John." Sherlock whispers. Lestrade's eyes flicker towards him and Molly looks at him.

"What?" She asks.

"Hmm? Nothing." Sherlock says.

He walks to the other side of the table and continues examining the skeleton. He takes tweezers out of his tool pouch and carefully lifts the lapels of the skeleton's jacket.

"This gonna be your new arrangement, is it?" Lestrade whispers to Sherlock.

"Just giving it a go." Sherlock answers.

"Right. So, john?"

"Not really in the picture anymore." Sherlock moves away from the table and looks at the whole scene. Cement dust falls from the ceiling and a rumbling is heard. The three of them look up.

"Trains?" Molly asks.

"Trains." Sherlock agrees. He steeples his fingers in front of his mouth as Molly walks over to the corpse.

"Male. Forty to fifty," She says, examining the bones in its neck as Sherlock walks over to join her. She looks round at him. "Oh, sorry. Did you want to be…?"

"Er, no. Please, be my guest." He tells her.

JEALOUS? He hears John's voice in his head again.

"Shut up!" He says angrily through gritted teeth. Molly glances nervously at Lestrade, and Sherlock takes out his magnifying glass and examines the hand holding the syringe. Molly continues investigating the skeleton.

"Doesn't make sense." Molly says.

"What doesn't?" Lestrade asks. Sherlock blows dust away from the hand and continues to blow dust from the table.

"This skeleton – it's… it can't be any more than…" Molly starts.

"…Six months old." Sherlock and Molly say in unison.

Sherlock opens a secret compartment he found on the side of the table. He slides a book out of it and blows dust off the cover of it. He gives it a sarcastic look and shows it to Molly.

How I Did It

By Jack the Ripper

"Wow!" Molly exclaims.

"Hmm." Sherlock hums.

He drops the book flamboyantly on the table and Lestrade leans in to look at it.

"'How I Did It' by Jack the Ripper?" Lestrade says, confused.

"Mm-hm." Sherlock hums.

"Impossible!" Molly exclaims.

"Welcome to my world." Sherlock says to her.

Lestrade gives them a grin as Sherlock repacks his tool pouch.

SMART ARSE The voice of John Watson rings in Sherlock's head again.

"Get out." Sherlock says angrily, but quietly, flailing towards his own head. He turns to Molly and the still grinning Lestrade. "I won't insult your intelligence by explaining it to you."

He turns and starts walking towards the door.

"No, please – insult away." Lestrade says.

You forgot to put your coat collar up. Sherlock grimaces at John's voice and stops in his tracks.

"The-the-the corpse is-is six months old; dressed in a shoddy Victorian outfit from a museum," Sherlock stutters, disoriented from the commentary in his mind. "It's been displayed on a dummy for many years in a case facing south-east judging from the fading of the fabric. It was sold off in a fire-damage sale…" Sherlock pulls his phone out of his pocket and shows the screen, which holds information on the sale, to Lestrade. "…A week ago."

"So the whole thing was a fake?" Lestrade asks, disappointed.

"Yes." Sherlock confirms, turning and walking out of the room.

"Looked so promising."

"Facile." Sherlock, who was already out of sight, says.

"Why would someone go to all that much trouble?" Molly asked.

"Why indeed, John?" Sherlock says. Molly looks down awkwardly.

(Molly's POV)

Awhile later, Sherlock and I stand side-by-side at the door of a client's flat. We had already done several more cases, and I was beginning to forget about him calling me John earlier. Sherlock pushes the doorbell, but instead of flashing or a ringing, we hear a recording of a male voice saying 'Mind the gap. Mind the gap." I giggle and Sherlock gave me a half smile. A young man, Howard Shilcott, opens the door and Sherlock held out a bobble hat to him, which he had carried here.

"Oh – Thanks for hanging on to it." The Howard says.

"No problem." Sherlock says. The man grabs the hat and leads us into his flat. "So, what's this all about, Mr. Shilcott?"

The office Howard leads us to is very decorated. The walls are covered in photographs of trains and him with trains. There is a train set with moving trains. The rest of the room is mostly train memorabilia.

"My girlfriend's a big fan of yours." Howard says.

"Girlfriend?" Sherlock chuckles, and looks at me, grinning. I give him a look and his smile drops as he apologizes. "Sorry. Do go on."

"I like trains." Howard says, pointing out the obvious.

"Yes." Sherlock says.

"I work on the Tube," Howard explains. "On the District Line, and part of my job is to wipe the security footage once it's been cleared," He sits down at his desk, opening his laptop. "I was just, er, whizzing through and I found something a bit bizarre."

Sherlock mouths me a silent 'Oooh" and I smile at him. We walk to stand on either side of Howard, who pulls up footage of a train. There is only one person at the station, a business looking man with a briefcase is standing on the platform in front of the open doors of a carriage.

"Now this was a week ago. The last train on the Friday night, Westminster Station, and this man gets into the last car."

"'Car?'" Molly asks.

"They're cars, not carriages," Howard complains at her lack of train knowledge. "It's a legacy of the early American involvement in the Tube system." I give Sherlock an annoyed look and I can tell he is annoyed too.

"He said he liked trains." Sherlock says quietly to me, and I hold back a small laugh. He smiles.

"And the next stop…Saint James's Park…and…" He plays the next footage. The last 'car' opens its doors at Saint James's Park and no one gets out. The car is empty. Thought you might like it." Howard says, replaying the footage. "He gets into the last car at Westminster, the only passenger…and the car is empty at Saint James's Park. Explain that, Mr. Holmes."

"Couldn't he have just jumped off?" I ask. Sherlock shakes his head, getting more serious about the work.

"There's a safety mechanism that prevents the doors from opening in transit," Howard explains to me. "But there's something else. The driver of that train hasn't been to work since. According to his flatmate, he's on holiday. Came into some money."

"Bought off?" Sherlock suggests, turning to me.

"Hmm?" I hum, blankly. He looks at me for a moment, and then turns away from me and I feel heat rush to my cheeks.

Come on Molly, focus.

"So if the driver of the train was in on it, then the passenger did get off." Sherlock says.

"There's nowhere he could go. It's a straight run on the District Line between the two stations. There's no side tunnels, no maintenance tunnels – nothing on any map. Nothing. The train never stops, and the man vanishes. Good, innit?" Howard says.

Sherlock closes his eyes, as if he is trying to remember something. "I know that face."

About ten minutes later, we were outside of Howards door. I walked down the steps towards the door to the building.

"So, Sherlock," I say. "What are you going to need?" I turn around and he is still standing at the top of the stairs, his eyes closed. He is completely still. "Sherlock? You alright?" There was another moment of silence and I start to walk slowly up the steps towards him. When I am a few steps away, his eyes open and I stop.

"The journey between those stations usually takes five minutes. That journey took ten minutes – ten minutes to get from Westminster to St James's Park. So I'm going to need maps – lots of maps, older maps, all the maps." Sherlock says, speaking fast.

"Right." I say.

"Fancy some chips?" He asks, walking down the stairs.

"What?"

"I know a fantastic fish stop just off the Marylebone Road," He says. "The owner always gives me extra portions."

"Did you get him off a murder charge?" I ask sarcastically, following him.

"No – I helped him put up some shelves."

I giggle and smile at him briefly. "Sherlock?"

"Mmm?" He says, stopping at the bottom of the stairs and turning to face me.

"What was today about?"

"Saying thank you."

"For what?"

"Everything you did for me."

"It's okay. It was my pleasure." I say, a bit dully, reaching the bottom of the stairs and walking towards the door.

"No," He says. "I mean it."

"I don't mean 'pleasure' I mean, I didn't mind. I wanted to." I give him a little smile.

"Moriarty slipped up. He made a mistake," Sherlock says. "Because the one person he thought didn't matter at all to me, was the one person that mattered the most. You made it all possible," He drew in a deep breath. "But you can't do this again, can you?"

"I had a lovely day," I tell him, my voice sounding choked. "I'd love to…I just…um…" I look down at my hand.

"Oh, congratulations by the way." He says, noticing the engagement ring on my finger.

"He's not from work," I smile faintly. "We met through friends, the old-fashioned way. He's nice. We ... he's got a dog ... we-we go to the pub on weekends and he ... I've met his mum and dad and his friends and all his family and I've no idea why I'm telling you this."

"I hope you will be very happy, Molly Hooper. You deserve it. After all, not all the men you fall for can turn out to be sociopaths."

"No?"

"No." He steps closer to me, and gives me this beautiful sort of smile. Then, he leans down and kisses my cheek. I close my eyes and give him a weak smile. I don't open my eyes until he's left the building.

I look after the door. "Maybe that's just my type." I walk out the door, and it's snowing outside. I see Sherlock turn to the right, adjusting his coat and I head down the path, stopping at the end. I watch him walk away for a moment, then turn to the left and walk the separate way as him, trying my best to not think about what just happened.

"Hey Molly." Tom, my fiancé, greets me as he comes through the door. He walks over to me, and sits down on the sofa next to me.

"How was work?" I ask him.

"Stressful," He says. "Nina didn't show up again – But enough about that, how was your day?"

"Fine." I tell him.

"You hung out with that detective bloke, yeah?"

"Yeah. It was nice; it was fun."

"What did you do?"

"He just had some cases that he asked me to help him with."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah." I say. He turns on the telly and switches to the news, where they are talking about Sherlock.

"What sort of man would fake his own death?"

"A good one," I say quietly, hoping he didn't hear me. He did though, of course.

"What?"

"Sorry, I just mean, he had a good reason."

"And how would you know that?"

"Because I helped him fake it."

"Babe, I don't want you to hang out with him again."

"What? Why not?"

"Because I heard he's a psychopath. There's no telling what he could do to you." He explains..

"We've been friends since Uni. If he was going to do something to me, it seems like he would have done it by now."

"Molly, just stay away from Sherlock Holmes."

I stand up and leave my sitting room. I walk to mine and Tom's bedroom and enter it, closing the door behind me. He can sleep on the sofa tonight, and I can think.