You're still reading this? You deserve a cookie!

So close to the end now, I can almost taste it! Thanks to Miz-Joely for reading over this for me. Just two more chapters, and possibly an epilogue to go now.


"No! Get out!"

Sherlock dodged a book that came flying towards his head, and sniffed, blood trickling down from his nose onto his lips. He licked unconsciously, and darted his eyes about, making sure there were no other projectiles headed his way.

Lestrade had seen him coming and fairly ran towards the detective, throwing punches right and left, landing quite a few Sherlock tried to escape without causing any harm to the irate Detective Inspector. He had no desire to fight the man, especially in his place of work, which was obviously crawling with officers. He finally escaped as Anderson, of all people, broke in and shouted for Donovan to help him hold back Lestrade. Sherlock saw the conflict in her, but her concern for her boss overrode her desire to see Sherlock thoroughly beaten, so she also stepped in, holding onto one of Greg's arms, and whispering soothing things to the enraged man.

Sherlock readjusted his coat, sniffing again and smirked.

"So no cases?" he asked, ducking as another book flew at him.

"GET OUT!"

Ah well, Sherlock thought, walking out of the building. It was hardly a six.

He could take a few of the cases that were filling his inbox. Yes, that would be a nice change of pace.


Mid-afternoon on the third day, and he was at rope's end.

Sherlock growled in frustration as Wiggins AGAIN pointed out the most obvious thing that the detective was missing. It was their fourth case of the day, and the fourth case solved by the former junkie. The one who WASN'T the world's only consulting detective.

What the bloody hell is wrong with me?

So far, there had been eighteen cases, of which, Sherlock had solved a total of five without the help of his temporary assistant. In fact, Sherlock hadn't added anything to a majority of the cases, leaving Wiggins to solve them on his own. At any other time, Sherlock would have been grudgingly impressed by the other man. As it was, the detective was finding it irritating beyond all measure. He just couldn't collect his thoughts. All his knowledge was evading his grasp and all too often he found himself completely derailed by a sudden flash of warm brown eyes or flushed ivory skin.

It was distracting and worrying and, above all, painful.

Sherlock watched as his client left the flat, teary eyed with the knowledge that her daughter had not, in fact, been kidnapped, but had run away to elope in America with her much older boyfriend. Sherlock gave it two months before she was back, shamed and with an addition to the family.

The tall man sprang up from his chair, pacing the sitting room of 221B, as he attempted to collect his scattered mind palace. Honestly, it was getting ridiculous. The first case, he excused, but after that, even bloody Anderson would have been able to put the pieces together. It certainly should have been child's play for the great Sherlock Holmes. Instead, he was being shown up by an ingrate freshly off the streets. It was humiliating, even if no one else was there to see it.

Thank the powers that be that no one is here to see this.

Wiggins' voice broke through Sherlock's erratic thoughts.

"Trouble with the missus then?" he said nonchalantly, digging at a bit of mud on his filthy shoes with his equally dirty thumbnail.

Sherlock shot him a sharp glare, annoyed that the man was finally saying something. He'd hoped that after the first day of no mention of Molly that Wiggins would let the sleeping dog lie. It seemed that wasn't the case.

"That is none of your concern," Sherlock replied curtly, his voice dripping with acid.

Wiggins made a noise in the back of his throat that sounded like assent and gave a sage nod.

"Nope 'taint." He continued looking down at his shoe but stopped his efforts to remove the mud, his eyes taking on a blank look.

"I had a missus once, you know."

Sherlock started a bit, his gaze narrowing at the man. There was no sign of a serious relationship, former or current. He frowned as the other man continued.

"She left me when I got bad into the drugs. I didn't go after her." He looked up at Sherlock, frowning. "I shoulda gone after her."

Sherlock retreated into his mind palace at that and was only vaguely aware when Wiggins stood, announcing his departure from the flat. Sherlock waved his hand in the air dismissively as the other man assured that he would be back to play assistant the following morning.


Two hours later, Sherlock jumped up from his chair where he'd ended up after Wiggins made his exit from the flat. It was late afternoon now, going into evening and Sherlock glanced at the clock. Molly's shift wasn't over for another hour; he had time.

Snatching up his coat, he ran down the stairs and out the door, hailing a cab to Bart's. He drummed his fingers nervously on his thigh throughout the trip, thinking of what he would say, of what she would say.

He ran into the morgue and literally collided with an intern, sending the student sprawling to the floor. Sherlock muttered an apology, scanning the room for Molly, and ran back out the doors when she wasn't there. He ran up to the lab and skidding to a halt just outside the door. He let himself in quietly, wanting to regain a measure of control over his frantic mind. He breathed in deeply, savoring the light smell of his Molly that hung in the air. She had her back to him, and was hunched over a microscope. He brow knitted in worry as he took in her appearance. She was too put together. On the surface, she appeared fine, but Sherlock saw the subtle problems with her façade. Her clothes were impeccable, as well as her hair, but as she turned her head to the side to scribble down something on the pad next to her, he saw the tired wrinkles on her forehead, the faint circles around her eyes and the makeup, which had been retouched more than once, indicating that she had cried multiple times during the day.

He sucked in a deep breath, more for courage than anything else, as the room had begun to feel as if it was closing in on him. At that moment, Molly turned, finished with her work, and spotted him. Her lips trembled as she stared at him, and he wanted nothing more than to cross the room and wrap his arms around her, holding her close to him, never letting her go.

She sucked in an agonized breath and wrapped her own arms around herself in a defensive maneuver. Molly looked down at a point to the left of Sherlock's shoes, and chewed her lower lip, before clearing her throat.

"What do you want, Sherlock?" she asked, and the detachment and coldness in her voice cut through him, leaving his heart bleeding once more. He despaired that she would never forgive him and turned on his heel, without a word and disappeared, leaving Molly behind to fall apart, one more time.


He sat, numb, for hours, replaying it over and over in his mind. He was cold, so cold, though the early March air was unseasonably warm.

Sherlock hadn't accepted it before, not really. Now, having heard her, having seen her defensive stance, he knew.

Molly was gone.

Somehow, his mind still refused to process that painful knowledge. It kept getting stuck, where all other thoughts passed through so easily, that one wouldn't become fact. He was crumbling and it was so much worse than when he thought he'd lost her on the rooftop. This time, she had a choice to come back and she'd made the decision not to. He'd gone to her, and she hadn't fallen into his arms as he'd hoped.

The rejection sliced through his heart. Even before he realized Molly's importance to him, Sherlock had never been able to fathom the thought of ever being rejected by the quiet woman.

Now that he knew what he felt for her, he wanted nothing more than to go back to the days of uncaring coldness. At least then, he'd been able to pretend that he was an island, alone to himself, needing no one else.

Sherlock texted his brother on the second day, making arrangements, then alternated between staring at the wall, and playing his violin.

Wiggins had shown up that morning and taken one good look at Sherlock before turning on his heel and leaving without a word. The detective was mildly grateful for that.

It shamed him how much he needed Molly Hooper. Her shy smiles haunted his dreams whenever he dropped into a fitful sleep. He hadn't showered, or eaten, or even changed clothes since coming back from Bart's. The melody he'd been playing while she was in the hospital now had an ending. It was haunting, sad and troubled all at once and Sherlock played until his fingers bled.