Phew. This was one of those chapters that had about 4 full drafts and altered considerably in mood, depending on what music I was listening to at the time.

For anyone who's contacted me recently, I am sorry and I will get back to you, very shortly! I was just obsessed with this until it came out right. Usual thanks and disclaimers apply.

Chapter 35

In the end, it didn't take her long to track him down.

She had tried Baker Street first, using her spare key, but there was no sign of him or any obvious clue as to whether or not he had been there since Mrs. Hudson's attack. He wasn't answering his phone or replying to any of her texts. She had then hurried across to Bart's thinking he might be in the laboratories, but he was not there either.

She paused, trying to think where she would go if she were Sherlock. It was possible that he had had a breakthrough in the case and had dashed off, or possibly he was hot on the trail of Mrs. Hudson's attacker, but somehow she didn't think that was the case. The last couple of times she had seen him, she had sensed an odd lassitude to him that she'd never before associated with the fierce ball of energy that was Sherlock Holmes. He was tired of it all and her heart ached for him – but what was the alternative? Who could possibly do what Sherlock did? He'd made himself far too indispensable.

Where might he go if he was feeling deeply conflicted, possibly even scared? That he had been scared, she had no doubt. It had simply never occurred to him that she – Molly - might be in any real danger. His focus had narrowed to three individuals: John, Greg and Mrs. Hudson, and he couldn't imagine that this shadowy individual would be a risk to anyone else. As far as they knew (and assuming he had accurately deduced the perpetrator's motivation), he was quite right about that…but for just one vital moment, before he had pulled Greg's old coat back, he must have feared that he had been wrong all along. She couldn't imagine how he must have felt in that moment, thinking it was her lying there, badly injured, possibly even dead.

Equally, she couldn't imagine anywhere that gave him as much happiness and security as either Bart's forensic department or his chaotically cosy lounge at 221B. So where could he be?

At a loss, she drifted home, checking her mobile every now and then just in case he had replied to one of her texts. But the moment she entered her flat, she knew where he was. She couldn't say how she knew – it was simply that the flat felt different.

And yet, on the face of it, the flat was empty. She hurried through the darkened rooms, but they were silent and showed no sign that he had been there recently.

She paused in her bedroom, her eyes on the closed window pane. Sherlock had a key to her flat now, but still usually entered by that route for some reason. Despite the security risks, she had got out of the habit of locking it…which was, of course, how Irene Adler had managed to get in. Greg had berated her on more than one occasion about the proximity of the window ledge to the metal fire escape that ran down the side of the building from the roof.

She pushed the window up and leaned out over the old-fashioned sill, looking at the roof just above her and then at the ladder speculatively. It would be perfectly easy for any moderately fit person to get up onto the wide window ledge, grab the railings of the fire escape and swing their feet over onto the rungs, which was the main reason it was there, of course. Luckily, she'd never had occasion to use it. She glanced downwards at the distant ground, and felt a cold prickle of sweat go down her spine.

Not wanting to lock herself out by accident if the heavy window slammed down, she found a door wedge and shoved it into the base of the window sill. Then she sat on the ledge, holding onto the curtains tightly with one hand while reaching out to grab the wet cold metal railing with the other. She gripped it tightly, her eyes closing for a moment. Then she took a deep breath and, carefully not looking down, swung her legs over the edge of the sill and got her feet onto the ladder.

Once safely on the fire escape and gripping tightly to the railings, she began to climb upwards. She was on the top floor, so it wasn't far to the roof. She'd never been up there, but it was a fair assumption that the ladder led somewhere. At least part of the root must be flat and allow access – which was fairly common in these old apartment blocks.

As she climbed up the last few rungs, she stopped, her heart leaping into her mouth. She could make out the dark silhouette of a tall man standing a few feet away. He was on a flat section roughly six feet wide between two sloping sections of roof, with his back to her, looking out over the rooftops of North London towards Hampstead Heath. The attitude of deep concentration would have given him away even if he hadn't been wearing that distinctive coat. She breathed more easily as she continued climbing – at least she had tracked him down and could see he was safe.

She stepped carefully onto the roof and let out a trembling breath of pure relief. He didn't turn in her direction as she walked towards him, but she had no doubt he knew she was there. The tarmacked surface glittered in the cold moonlight, still wet from the earlier rainstorm. The sky had cleared and the moon was bright, but the early spring air was cool after the rain, and she shivered in her thin suit jacket.

As she approached him, she put up a hand tentatively before letting it drop again without touching him. His posture seemed forbidding; his shoulders set in firm lines. He was looking intently out into the darkness – sometimes at the streets and alleyways far below, sometimes at the blank windows of the apartment block across the road. She wondered what it was that held his attention. Was there something significant that he could detect in the darkness, some little clue or sign of activity that was invisible to her? She looked out doubtfully, but the view looked exactly the same as before, despite the altered angle.

Looking down at the street in front of her flat reminded her of something. "I wonder where Sherrinford has got to. Do you think he's still in the country?"

He made a startled movement. He must have been waiting for her to say something, but clearly hadn't expected that. "Oh – he's around."

His voice sounded a little hoarse and again she lifted a hand to him and let it hover, uncertain of its welcome. The distance between them seemed even greater than before, and she shivered again, not entirely from the cold.

Suddenly seeming more aware of her, he shrugged out of his coat and put it around her shoulders. His hands lingered for no longer than they needed to, and the concern seemed simply perfunctory – a polite gesture and no more. Nevertheless, she pulled the warm wool around her gratefully and breathed in his familiar scent.

"I'm sorry," she burst out, at last.

His quick glance at her showed that he was surprised by this as well. "You're sorry?"

"I was unfair – about Greg's death. I should have realised…" She swallowed and tried again. "I didn't give you a chance to explain. I – I know you cared about him in your own way. As much as you ever can."

She touched his arm tentatively and, feeling the tension there, knew she'd said the wrong thing again. "Oh, damn it, Sherlock - I'm sorry about that too. I've just made it sound as if you're not capable of caring in the same way as everyone else -."

"But I'm not," he responded quietly, not looking at her.

"Yes, you are! You just show it in a different way."

"What makes you believe that?" He refused to meet her gaze, his eyes continuing to flit across the darkened streets with apparent absorption. His voice was oddly impersonal – not angry, as she might have expected him to be. "All my life, I've been told that I don't…react in the right way – the socially appropriate way." Now his voice did sound bitter as he spat the words out. "My mother tutting at me in her well-meaning way, Mycroft's acid comments… Even my closest friend once described me as a 'machine' – and he should know. So please don't insult me by pretending that you understand me when no one else has ever come close."

"That's not true! People do understand you –."

"People," he sneered.

"Well…" she cast around for inspiration. "Well, what about Mrs. Hudson? She knows you better than you think. And - and I know John bitterly regrets his words that day." She paused for a moment. "And Greg understood you too. I'm certain of it. Why else would he have put up with your behaviour all those years if he hadn't known the real you, underneath it all?"

She noted the way he flinched at Greg's name before he replied, finally looking directly at her. His face was white and seemed set in stone. "And you? You thought the worst of me the other day, didn't you? How am I supposed to convince you?" He flung his arms out – the gesture appearing helpless but also a little defiant and angry. "I can't change and I don't intend to try."

"No, and I don't want you to! I didn't realise it until tonight…" She shook her head, angry with herself. "Before Greg died, I said that I loved you exactly the way you were – and I do… I - I just wanted you to know that," she added, lamely. She sensed that her words were not enough to convince him, but she wasn't sure what else she could say. How could she make Sherlock trust her again?

He seemed prepared to accept her last words without further argument, or more likely he couldn't be bothered to debate the point, as he let out a weary sigh and resumed his intent perusal of the scene. After a few tense moments of silence, he stirred and looked at her again, his eyes very blue in the moonlight. "Earlier, when I saw Mrs. Hudson…for just a moment, with that coat, I thought -."

"Yes," she interrupted quickly. "Yes. I know."

He looked at her for a moment before raising his eyebrows. "So, it would seem that Mycroft was right all along. How very irritating."

"How do you mean?" she asked, her heart sinking. This didn't sound good.

"Well, look at me!" he burst out, gesturing a little wildly. "Have you ever known one of my cases to stretch out as long as this one? I've been…distracted from the Work. It might be argued that if I hadn't been too busy thinking of more personal matters, I could have prevented the bomb going off. I might even have saved Greg's life -."

"Oh no you don't!" She was suddenly furious with him. "I know where you're going with this – and don't you dare! You don't get to suggest that it's purely your feelings for me that have made this case difficult…"

"Really? Well, since you're evidently the expert, what's your suggestion?" he responded, sounding more weary than mocking.

She stared at him in disbelief. "How can someone as intelligent as you still have so little personal insight? You can deduce motivation – psychoanalyse murderers. Half the time, you can tell exactly what I'm thinking just by looking at my face – and yet you don't understand yourself."

She stepped closer to him and gripped his arms, forcing him to look at her. "Sherlock, you have had a hell of a year – four years, actually. You've been stalked by a psychopath, you've had to lie to your best friend and fake your own death, and then come back from that…and more recently you've been pursued by a blackmailer. You've been shot – you died on the operating table, for God's sake! You killed someone in cold blood and had to face the consequences of that. And a now good friend has died just because someone wanted to punish you. Tell me, which part of that doesn't sound incredibly stressful to you?"

She let go of him and stepped back, folding her arms. "I'm the least of your problems, don't you see? If you are really struggling, shouldn't you look at the impact that James Moriarty has had on your life? If it hadn't been for him…" She felt tears pricking her eyes and blinked angrily. "If it hadn't been for that bastard, you'd probably still be just solving odd mysteries for Greg, arguing with Mycroft over petty things, making John's life far too exciting and bothering me for corpses to whip! Living a perfectly ordinary life – well, ordinary for you anyway. Practically anyone else who'd been through what you have in the last few years would have been heading for a nervous breakdown long before now."

His eyes flickered away for a moment before refocusing on her and she could see him giving her words serious consideration even as the doubt still lingered in his expression.

"The trouble is," she continued, watching him carefully, "you've fallen into the trap of assuming that just because Mycroft is older than you, he's also more emotionally mature. Whereas…well, I don't pretend to know much about his personal life, but can you really imagine that he's remotely happy, for all his wealth and power? Because I can't. Don't start believing again that 'caring isn't an advantage' because it just isn't true! And, in your heart, you know it."

He stared at her for a moment, looking utterly helpless. "Molly…"

"Please." She stepped forward again, gripping his arms. "Please, just -." Just kiss me, she wanted to say, and then it'll be alright.

He must have seen something of her feelings in her face, because he gave a wordless exclamation and suddenly she was in his arms, held tightly against his body. She felt him trembling violently and knew that the stony exterior was simply a façade.

"What you really need," she murmured into his neck, "is a bloody holiday."

"Ridiculous." His response was scathing, and yet she felt some of the tension drain out of him. He pressed a firm kiss onto the top of her head and she knew then that they would be alright.

She smiled. "Have you ever been on a proper one? I mean apart from being reluctantly dragged along somewhere with your family?"

There was a long pause before he replied. "We…used to go to Sussex. Arundel, the South Downs. Archaeological digs and long walks on the beach with Redbeard…" She absorbed this silently, resisting the urge to ask who Redbeard was. "It was…not unpleasant. I was able to get away from Mycroft. He hates the countryside."

She laughed at the satisfaction in his voice. "Well, that's a possibility. We'll get through this and then – then I think we'll have earned a break." She lifted her face from his neck, pushing him back slightly to look at him before saying firmly: "I don't want you to change. I think it's fair to say that – that I will get angry and I will say things that I don't really mean – that's inevitable. But…I think I know my mind better now." She smiled up at him. "The truth is, I fell in love with the Sherlock Holmes I met at Bart's all those years ago. I fell in love with your energy, your intellect, all those weird experiments that I never understood, your impatience, your – your terrible manners, your - your…just you. I tried so hard not to love you, I told myself it was a ridiculous infatuation and I tried to move on, but I just couldn't. It was impossible. Even if you never loved me back, I would've carried on loving you. And I do know you. I should've realised that you loved Greg… Even if it wasn't obvious to anyone else, it should've been to me."

She was crying now for some ridiculous reason. She tried to turn her head away to wipe her eyes surreptitiously, but he lifted her face and kissed them away very carefully and gently. Frowning a little, he asked, "What terrible manners?"

"Oh – you! You know perfectly well what I mean!"

She laughed through her tears. He was smiling slightly, but his eyes were glittering too. This time she could recognise the unshed tears that he was trying very hard to restrain.

"Greg Lestrade was a good man," he said quietly, his voice suddenly desolate.

"Yes. Yes, he was. A very good man." Paradoxically, for the first time since Greg's death, she felt able to recall him without crying. The stark image of his death was starting to fade from the front of her mind; to be replaced by happier memories. "He was my friend."

"And mine too, even if that might surprise some people." He sighed and leaned into her again, resting his cheek against the top of her head. She was beginning to recognise this as his way of seeking support, and wrapped her arms around his waist in comfort.

They stood that way for some time in the silence of the cold evening, high above the streets below.

"Are you any closer to finding his killer?" she asked, eventually.

She felt his body tense, although he didn't let go of her or move away. "I could have tracked down the killer quickly enough, but I wanted to find out who hired him first. I thought that one might lead me to the other. I should have focused on him more – it didn't occur to me that she would hire the same person to attack Mrs. Hudson."

"So he was the same man? Mrs. Hudson couldn't recall anything. And I -," she swallowed, "- I'm no more use to you now than I was at the time. Whenever I try to remember, it's only Greg I see…" She closed her eyes against the awful image.

He ran a soothing hand down her back. "Yes, I believe he is the same man. Which also suggests that he may mean more to her than just a gun for hire. They may be working together."

"How do you know for certain that it was him both times?"

"Two clues. First, I had someone watching 221B and ready to contact me, just in case Mrs. Hudson decided to go out alone. She reported a tall, dark-haired man appearing at the corner of the road just as Mrs. Hudson, John and Mary returned. This man paused in a doorway for a moment and then strode into the house and back out again a minute later. It happened so quickly, the watcher didn't have time to warn me. She described the man as 'nondescript', the type of person who is easily forgotten – which, as you know, is the problem the police have found when interviewing witnesses to Greg's murder. Also, I found a man's footprint, too big to be John's, in a dusty corner of the hallway by the stairwell where he clearly stepped back after hitting Mrs. Hudson. It matched a set found at the café where Greg was shot."

"You're not telling me they managed to lift distinct footprints from that café? It would be impossible!"

"From the café itself, yes, but I investigated the area when I got back from Ireland. It was some hours afterwards, but despite the inevitable mess that the forensic team had made, I still managed to find some prints across the street from the café. They were in a cordoned-off doorway, part of a building site, where someone had stood for several minutes on a sheet of MDF, facing the café entrance. The prints, damp and muddy from the wet pavement, were still there several hours later. The builders hadn't been working that day, and no one else would have had any reason to step past the cordon they had left. Only someone who wanted to hide while watching the customers at the café…before choosing his moment to strike."

Molly considered this in silence for a moment. "Was he responsible for the bomb too?"

"Possibly. They may have been working together, and he would have been the one planting the bomb. Not the security hacks, though. They would require someone with internal knowledge – our suspect isn't in that league."

"What about the woman? The one that you think is behind all this?"

He paused. "Possibly – or she knows someone who can. She may be in a position to blackmail them into helping her… But I'm not much nearer to finding her. Moriarty covered his tracks thoroughly. Every document has been destroyed; every possible witness seems to have either disappeared or died in unusual circumstances. If I could only work out where he was born… My suspicion is one of the Magdalene laundries – either he was born there or his younger sister was, and both were taken away from their mother. She may have had some form of mental illness if she'd been sent there. But, it's near impossible to obtain any information from the laundries – since the scandal broke back in the nineties, they've destroyed a lot of records or have been otherwise obstructive in their dealings with investigators. The mother probably died fairly young in that institution, especially if she had an untreated psychiatric illness. She would have been buried in an unmarked grave and Moriarty and his sister would have been put up for adoption, but it would have been apparent at quite an early stage that there was something wrong with him, at least."

He paused. "I need to find the sister. She's the one who ordered Greg's death, as well as the bombing of John's flat and the attack on Mrs. Hudson. Moriarty's death pushed her over the edge – or more precisely the nature of his death. I suspect she had the full story sent to her by Magnussen after his death. She may not have even remembered that she had a brother if they were separated in early childhood, which they may have been if he showed early signs of his mother's illness. She has built up some kind of picture of him which may be based more on sentiment than reality. She blames me for what she perceives as his obsession with me, and hates the fact that I cheated him by surviving."

Cheek pressed comfortably against his chest, she thought this over for a moment. "Couldn't you trace all the girls who were adopted from Ireland during a certain period? She would be – what – early thirties now, if she's a bit younger than him? So born around 1982?"

"Yes, and I have someone working on that, but it's difficult if the records were destroyed. We're also going through the records of airlines and ferry operators to investigate any instances of an adult entering Ireland alone and leaving with a female child of the approximate age, but that's tricky too, because it happened all the time back then, and she could have been taken anywhere. Mainland Britain, the USA, Canada, Australia… It wasn't in the interest of these institutions to draw attention to the private international adoptions, for which they received financial 'donations'."

She smiled. "Can I assume that the 'someone' working on this for you is Sherrinford?"

"If anyone could locate something relevant in the records, it would be him," he admitted. "But in fact, he's too busy focusing on what he does best – infiltration. Moriarty's sister wouldn't have been capable of hacking into telecommunication systems across the UK or overcoming the security of several stores in a single night without serious help. It's up to Sherrinford to go underground and investigate who's working for her."

"Then who's helping you with the records? Not Mycroft, surely?"

He paused; she could sense his hesitation. "I'm…not sure I can tell you at this stage."

She frowned, considering. Who else would Sherlock agree to work with? And why the secrecy? It couldn't be John, otherwise he would tell her…

She lifted her head, pushing him back to look at his face. "Sherlock…just who is Mary Watson?"

The evasive expression on his face told her all she needed to know. "So, it is her helping you! Who is she? You're not telling me she's just a nurse. What did happenbetween John and Mary last year? He found something out about her, didn't he? That's why he was behaving so oddly…"

He gripped her shoulders, his face very serious. "I can't tell you anything about that, Molly. I told you once that it's not my story to tell, and that hasn't changed. And I can't even tell you who she is…for the simple reason that I hardly know myself. But…yes, you're right that she's not just a nurse. She has some expertise in…well, she's ideally placed to do the research I need. That's all."

"And John doesn't know about it?"

He hesitated. "John wouldn't want her to get involved. They have an agreement, while Eleanor is young at least. But right now, I need her. She understands that."

She stared at him. "You can't put her at risk! Think of John and Ellie…"

He shook his head impatiently. "Believe me, Mary Watson is more than capable of looking after herself – and her family. Don't forget, she has a vested interest. That person tried to kill John. She told me once -," he stopped, smiling slightly. "Well, let's just say that she wouldn't allow anyone to take John away from her. But, in any case, I'm not putting her at risk. It's just research."

"And what have you been working on?"

He shrugged, looking away from her; she recognised this as a sign that he didn't like to admit having made limited progress. "Looking into Magnussen. Trying to investigate who he had a hold over. I'm sure this woman was being blackmailed by him. He'd made arrangements for her to find out what happened on the roof at Bart's after his death. It was a last dig – at me and at her." He grimaced. "Magnussen didn't keep any information trails – he kept most of it in his head. But there are some leads to follow up."

"Is there anything I can do to help? You thought this woman might approach me at some point after that chatroom conversation. Would it help if I tried that again?"

He considered her for a moment, his head on one side, before shaking it. "I don't think that'll help. If she was going to approach you, she'd have done so weeks ago. Are you certain you haven't had any odd encounters – at work, perhaps?"

She shook her head. "No, nothing. But in any case, I suppose the approach we tried wouldn't help now, especially if she was watching us after the bomb. I could hardly pretend not to be on good terms with you now."

He was looking at her with a strange gleam in his eye. "You could move into 221B now," he said, softly, as if it had only just occurred to him. "There's nothing to stop you."

"Would you really want me to invade your sanctuary?" she teased, even as her stomach warmed at the thought of living with him. "You must have it exactly the way you want it, now that John's moved out."

He shrugged, the slightest impression of a smile tugging at his lips. "I'm sure I could cope."

"I do come with baggage, you know," she warned, solemnly. "He's tall, dark and handsome…and rather furry. Still...I believe he approves of you."

He pulled a face, as if considering Toby. "Well…I suppose it would make a change from talking to the skull…"

She laughed, pulling his face down to cut off his words in the best way possible. Knowing him to be preoccupied, she had meant the kiss to be brief. However, he deepened it, tightening his arms around her and tangling one hand in her hair to hold her head steady.

She returned the kiss willingly. She sensed that he needed this as a distraction from his current fears about his ability to solve Greg's murder. Desire was thrumming through him; she could feel that even beneath his neat suit as his pelvis ground into her. In the past, she would never have considered Sherlock to be much of a sexual being, but she could hardly fail to recognise the unrestrained passion in his body at the moment.

She was no less keen herself, feeling a strong need for a deeper connection with Sherlock to quell her own fears. Her emotions had been all over the place since Greg's death, and cold logic told her that this was not the right time, but as she ran her palms up across his chest and felt his heart beating fast, she knew she couldn't hold back any more. She needed this every bit as much as he did, and she opened her mouth freely to his questing tongue and pressed her body into his, trying to convey welcome with every part of her being.

His hands ran more freely over her, almost feverishly, as if to reassure himself that she was really there, while he nipped at her lower lip and then sucked on it almost hungrily. Gasping, she pushed his face back, peppering that long white neck with kisses while her hand slipped down and palmed him, hot and heavy, through his trousers.

He moaned harshly at the bold touch and pushed her away a little, his breath quick and unsteady as his sharp eyes ran over her face, interpreting her thoughts accurately as always. "Yes."

"Really? Now?" She didn't quite believe him, even as her heart beat frightening fast with nerves and desire. "What about the case?"

"Come on." He took her hand and pulled her roughly back across the roof to the fire escape. She stumbled over the hem of his coat, tugging at his arm to stop him.

"I hate heights. I have an irrational fear of falling."

"I know." He sounded unsurprised.

She gulped out a nervous laugh. "Of course you do. It took a lot out of me to get up here - I'm not sure about getting down that ladder..."

His hands were warm as he squeezed her shoulders, smiling down at her. "Trust me."

So she did.