This story has been getting terrible reception so far, but I'm gonna continue publishing, because I really, really enjoy writing Sherlock as a boy and their friendship together. It got a much better response on A03, so you can always find it there. Someone on ff asked me if I was going to discontinue, and I'm responding by saying no, I won't be discontinuing.

Standard disclaimers apply.

The body in the morgue was beyond recognition by any standards; at least in Molly's eyes. And she was the best pathologist they had – which really was not saying much, considering they had Dr. Davies as well. "You didn't need to come in, Molly," said Sherlock.

"That's okay. Everyone else was busy with… Christmas. Ah, the face is sort of bashed up, so it might be difficult."

Molly opened out the corpse, and waited for Sherlock to identify her. However, he asked her, oddly enough, to show the rest of the corpse, identifying her as Irene Adler as soon as Molly did so.

Oh. Oh.

Well, at least he was still William Sherlock Scott Holmes somewhere, thought Molly, sucking in a breath. Sherlock's glance went to her briefly, but did not linger.

She had to ask, though. It was important.

"How did Sherlock recognize her from – not her face?" she asked Mycroft.

He wished he could tell Molly – nothing had happened between Irene Adler and himself. Nothing had ever happened between them. The idea of sleeping with anyone gave Sherlock a vague feeling of nausea and disgust. Why did they think he would?

"Look at them," he said. "They all care so much." Molly's face swam into his face, crying. "Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us?"

"All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock," Mycroft said.

There was a pause as they smoked together. "Of course you'd say that," Sherlock finally said. "Because of you –" Sherlock paused, unwilling to go forward. "Molly is like that."

Mycroft turned to look at him. "For that, I am truly sorry," he said. "It was never intentional."

The mole had woken up a little early that winter – it had something to do with the heavy tramping all over his hole. He blinked blearily at the girl responsible for it, but she paid him no attention. She was too busy standing there, enjoying the ice cold wind. The mole shivered briefly, and dived back into his hole. He cared not to see this silly little girl walking around.

Molly had been having a mildly lonely Christmas, and it suited her. She enjoyed herself, playing operation, reading books, insisting on more and more hot chocolate. She did miss Sherlock, but it was not like he had disappeared forever and would never return. Molly was perfectly content to wait for him while the world thawed itself.

She spent time with her parents, and they found it a relief and a nuisance to have her around them at all times. On one hand, her mother could now grab her and cuddle with her at any time – her father made snowmen with her and took pictures of her again and again. Molly loved it – but they got tired of it when they were busy and Molly insisted on a story or something like that.

"I think I'd like to be a witch," she told her father one day.

"Why witch?" asked her father.

"No princess has brown hair and brown eyes. I might as well be a witch. They keep hurting the witches in the stories. I'd like to teach them a lesson on behalf of the witches."

And it took it's time – the snow first covered the ground like a giant sheet – a cocktail of ice in the air and stars in the nighttime fires. It was all sharpness and fire – ice had a tendency to burn more than freeze. Then, eventually, the snow began to become wetter and the air began to come in swirls. Warmth began to come in; and with it, Sherlock.

"Sherlock!" she grinned at him.

Sherlock smiled briefly. "Hi Molly," he said.

She tackled him to the ground. "Don't be stuffy!" she said. "How was it?"

He grinned at her, and then sobered immediately. "It was a – Christmas," he bit out.

"That bad, eh?" she asked.

"It was horrible," said Sherlock with relief.

They got up from the snowy ground. "It's nice to have you back. It's been lonely," she said.

"Well, it's better to have you around. The only person I can handle in my family is Sherrinford and Mycroft. And Mycroft is annoying."

"Did you guys talk this time?" asked Molly, as they began walking to their spots in the woods.

"Yeah – usual things. He's become a bit of a cynic," he told her.

"Wasn't he always?" asked Molly curiously, flopping down on dry ground by their favourite tree.

Sherlock seemed to be on the verge of words when he struggled with his sentences. His hand fluttered through his hair, and he looked up at the tree before looking at Molly again. "He said some curious things," he said.

"Like?" asked Molly.

"I don't know – he was – well. Something about not becoming too sentimental."

"Sentimental?" asked Molly instinctively.

"I don't know what it means either."

"Hmm," said Molly. "Well, what would you like to play?" she asked.

"I don't really feel like playing," said Sherlock in a hollow voice.

Molly's eyes widened. "That's kinda hard to believe," she said.

"I dunno," said Sherlock. "I'm a bit tired, you could say. I had to put up with tones of unnecessary social conversation."

"Only you would find that tiring, Sherlock," giggled Molly.

He smiled at her wanly. He sat down beside her, ruffled her hair a little. "You're just as annoying as ever. I suppose you played tea parties while I was away?"

"Oh please," said Molly. "You gave me Operation. I played Operation. It was fun."

"Better than tea parties," he said. "And better than relatives. Let's sit here for a while and just… be."

"I'm wondering when you're going to stop talking in that grown up way of yours. I never understand it, you know."

"Oh, I think you have a better grip on it than me, Molly. I just say it – you actually do it."

That summer, Molly and Sherlock evolved a little. Molly noticed something off, but she didn't realize what had happened for a while.

Molly didn't realize the subtle change in both of them until it had fully happened. They didn't spend all their time playing pretend any more – apparently, being ten had something to do with it. They spent more time playing games like hide and seek. Molly loved hide and seek – only Sherlock was annoyingly good at it.

"Oh, how did you know?" she asked dismally, when he found her easily.

"I looked at your prints, the plants and the fact that there's a little bit of your jumper thread unraveling on that branch over there."

Soon, Molly became better at the game, however. And it evolved into something very different.

Molly would change her hiding places again and again, making Sherlock run around for clues – and it was almost like a small chase for a criminal. Molly became good at misleading Sherlock and throwing him off her trail, so she'd leave deliberate crimes – and Sherlock would have to find her. It was the first game of murder they played, and it was fantastic.

Along with hide and seek, Sherlock and Molly began to use their bikes a lot. It gave Molly a sense of freedom she had not experienced since her random runs – and it was faster. The coming of spring brought a new kind of gaming with it, and while pretend was fun, it was more fun when it spread wider.

When school started again, though, Molly found there was more than the games that had changed in him over Christmas. She wasn't sure what was wrong, and she simply wanted to ask him – she wanted to make sure he was perfectly comfortable around her.

Because Molly dealt with the bullies just fine. It was alright. Except… Sherlock – who used to remain silent on these matters – suddenly began to find her more and more after a bully attack. And then the incident happened.

It started small. Before the summer started, Sherlock would only become broody after her attacks with the bullies. Molly didn't address it, figuring something else was bothering him. Then right before summer started, he just glared at one of the people who had taken away her lunch.

Summer came, and Molly put it out of her head – they were having fun, even if it was punctuated with small days where he spent evenings with Mycroft. On those days, Sherlock's face would be particularly stormy, and she always heard loud arguments from the attic.

Then, summer ended – and school started again. And Sherlock – he had been fine for three weeks. Molly hadn't been bullied in a while. When she was, though -

"Are you okay?" he asked her, after Molly's ribbons had been stolen. Sherlock didn't usually do that, offering silent comfort over words.

Molly grinned. "I'm used to it. I got a spare pair."

Unfortunately, Evan, the boy who had stolen her ribbons heard her. "Heard that? She says she got a spare pair!"

"Leave her alone," said Sherlock, his fists clenched.

"Protecting your girlfriend, are you?" asked the boy grinning brutishly. The other boys surrounded them.

Sherlock glowered. "William – leave it alone," said Molly, warningly. "Here, you can take the rest of my ribbons."

"Thanks cupcake," said the boy before tugging the rest of her ribbons as well. He grabbed the badges on her bag and pushed her away. Sherlock glared for a second, and before Molly could say anything – he just – launched.

And before Molly knew it, he'd hurt the boy over and over. He may have broken his nose with the sock he gave. "Sherlock, stop!" she screamed.

But Sherlock didn't pause – he'd practiced this. Molly should really ask him where he had learned to fight so well – he was good at avoiding bullies.

And before Molly knew it, the poor boy was pulp – well – as pulpy as ten year olds get. He sported a good few healthy bruises and Molly had the strange urge to laugh.

The boys scrambled before Molly could apologise, and she turned to Sherlock, glaring. "What were you thinking?" she asked.

"Molly – you get bullied because of me. I have to do something!" he glared back at her.

"I get bullied because I choose to, Sherlock!" her eyes were burning.

"Molly, don't be naïve!"

"I'm not," she said angrily. "You're being strange. It's not your fault, or problem that I get bullied."

"Yes it is," Sherlock nearly ripped his curls apart while he strode across. "You would have made such normal friends, Molly. Don't you know that? Are you that stupid?"

"I'm stupid? You just beat that boy to – well – I don't even know what!"

"Molly – I – can't." Sherlock look so frustrated she could have hugged him. She edged forwards, and gently hugged him around the neck. "I can't," he repeated. He tore away from her and ran off.

They didn't speak for a few days.

Molly had never felt like his house was further away – she'd stare at the attic, shake her head a little and walk off. She was at a loss as to what she was supposed to do. It didn't make any sense. It was as if something had just overcome him – like he couldn't bear anything anymore.

She didn't see him, apart from the bus stops. She underwent a lot of bullying because of that. "Did you and your boyfriend break up?" "Poor little Molly Hooper, no one to save you now." She was too distracted to make any sense of it, or even react. This left people gnashing.

She knew He had received a disciplinary hearing. She had eavesdropped on it – she wasn't Sherlock Holmes' best friend for nothing. Avoiding people was her strong point. No one noticed the brown haired girl listening diligently at the principal's office.

"Mr. and Mrs. Holmes – we really think you should have Sherlock checked."

"Why?" went Mrs. Holmes' anxious voice.

"He's extremely antisocial – he doesn't like making friends. The only friend he has is currently not talking to him."

"He's been fighting with Molly? That's impossible," said Mrs. Holmes. "He dotes on the girl." Molly's heart may have exploded in her chest.

"Nevertheless, Mrs. Holmes –"

"My wife is right," said Mr. Holmes. "Sherlock close to loves Molly. He's never fought with her, and she's the only other person who can keep him line."

"Look – Sherlock has always been alone, antisocial, and a small menace at times," said the Principal frankly. "But he made one friend, and Miss Gates reports that they haven't been talking, even though Molly seems worried about him. He's become increasingly unstable since then – even worse than before. I don't know about you, Mrs. Holmes – you should have him checked – maybe the lack of friendship is harming him itself. Normally, it wouldn't matter – they are ten year olds. But with Sherlock – well, it's special enough that he made a friend. Something tells me losing his one friend may not go well with him."

It was at this point that Molly slunk away – she was going to miss her bus.

She might as well have stayed, though. By the time she came, the bus had gone, and she had to walk home. Her countenance was extremely moody, and her mom recognized the problems at once.

She wandered aimlessly into the field, even though it seemed dumb without Sherlock. October's first rains were looking like they were coming.

Molly kept walking around, uncaring. She glared at the clouds which were forming above, daring them to make a move. She should not have tempted fate.

"Molly, what is wrong with you?" came the loud voice. She recognized Sherlock's voice even when the rain was beating down the earth, making the heavy sounds of a wet cloth being slapped across a river rock. It had started so suddenly, and it kept pouring, an endless tirade of sadness being dumped upon the world.

Molly stumbled across the log. "I'm lost!" she screamed back. "I don't know – I was crying and –"

Sherlock grabbed her arm as she fell again. "Molly, you're so silly sometimes," he yelled over the rain. "Come on – let's go."

"I'm sorry Sherlock," she said. "For whatever I did. Please let's be friends."

"It's not your fault, Molly," he said, dragging her out of the wood. Search lights were shining near Molly's house. "Come on, Molly. We have to run now, you hear?"

Molly nodded. They dashed wildly across the field, like they had when they first met. She ran and ran, with the raindrops falling across her face and in her hair, trickling down her back and into her shoes. And she looked at Sherlock – and she screamed – because she was running again, and good God, it felt fantastic.

Sherlock looked at her incredulously before laughing – they crashed into Molly's parents. "I found her in the woods, Mrs. Hooper," he said quickly. "She was lost."

She had disappeared from field, and Sherlock had felt uneasy.

She had been crying when she wandered into the woods, and Sherlock had begun to panic.

She hadn't returned even until the rain started, and that made Sherlock want to curl up in fear.

Why didn't she understand anything he said? Why didn't she just get why he was avoiding her? Mycroft – he was right. Molly didn't deserve him for a friend. Not that Mycroft had… directly said anything about it. He'd only – hinted.

And then she'd been lost. Her parents had been worried and scared, and it was raining cats and dogs and Sherlock hadn't thought – he just ran for the woods. No one, not even Molly, knew the woods like him.

She was small and sleeping in her bed.

She'd had an awful fever and cold, and had skipped school for a few days. He came to visit in the evenings, and she helped him with homework, doing it with him. She laughed and grinned, and made Sherlock forget all his inner going ons of his brain.

"Sherlock, I know you're thinking," she'd said one day. "You know that this teenage brooding is meant for when you're a teen? Not when you're ten years old."

"I'm smarter than everybody else."

"That doesn't mean you have biologically become just that big, right?" she asked, amused.

And she was sleeping right now. She looked small and very, very sleepy.

"Sherlock," she smiled as she woke up. "You were there?" she asked.

"Yeah, I was," he said, getting a warm feeling in his heart.

"Don't go anywhere, okay?" she said, reaching for his hand.

"No," he said. "I won't."

They began to play again, and Molly noticed that something had changed in him. He was distant and mildly closed off. Molly didn't understand it, but she was understanding him less and less these days. He spent a lot more time in the attic with Mycroft these days.

Sometimes a sheet would fall over his eyes, and whatever Molly did didn't work. She'd lie down on his lap, or try to make conversation – anything. But it didn't work. At least he still played with her, and she liked that. She could see him clearest when they played together. And daylight never brought a darker creature than Sherlock Holmes thinking.

Sherlock also received something special on Halloween and Bonfire night – his uncle gave him a fantastic set of racquets for badminton. Molly was extremely envious, but she made it a point not to show it. She was careful around Sherlock these days, tip-toeing, anxious to avoid what had happened to him that time.

Molly also made a physical effort to avoid bullies from then on. She had to. She couldn't afford to see Sherlock lose control like that, and she couldn't afford to lose him. She'd never cry when they hurt her, she didn't say anything that gave it away that they were after her, and when she was alone, she hid from them so that she wouldn't start crying. She was bottling up a lot of it, but it was worth it.

On her tenth birthday, she had finally put her foot down for a birthday party. Her parents took Sherlock and herself to the Zoo, and they had one of the best days of her life. Despite his brooding disposition, he had not forgotten what it was to have fun, and although the animals bored him, making a raucous with Molly didn't. And obviously, they both loved cotton candy.

With the coming of Christmas, Sherlock was supposed to be going to his cousins again – and Molly, desperate to not let him go this time, had asked him not to. He only shrugged his shoulders, and Molly said nothing – it was Sherlock after all.

Yes, she didn't understand why he was acting strange. Yes, she didn't understand what it was that bothered him so much. But she understood him. She understood that he loved cakes almost as much as his brother. She understood his need to be looked at by the world as brilliant, because he was – in a way his brother wasn't. She understood that he both admired and was jealous of his brother. She understood that intimacy scared him a little, but when he was in for it, he was in for the whole. She understood that he had a very odd curiosity for the world, and she understood that when he was far off and distant, forcing herself on him would chase him further and further away.

That Christmas, she got him something she felt sure he would like – a small microscope. She had saved up all her money for it, for the last three months or so.

Night time came, and she knew Sherlock was leaving the next morning. She had to give him his present even now… Molly yawned. She had her alarm set and she'd give it to him, she supposed.

"Psst, Molly!"

Molly jolted out of her bed and looked at the window. Sherlock grinned at her with the abandon he used to. Her heart thumped, and she opened the window. "What is wrong with you, Sherlock?" she whispered.

"Molly, want to go for a walk?" he asked softly. Molly smiled at him. "You're an absolute pain," she informed him. "I know," he said. "Let's take a blanket with us," she said. She grabbed her present to Sherlock along with a blanket.

They clambered out of her window, and into the chilly wind. He hugged her close, and they tramped off – snow had set and it was freezing. But Molly didn't mind it at all. They walked to the edge of the woods, and Sherlock seemed to have cleared some of the snow from one of their many spots.

Molly made a miniature bed for them, and they fell down to stare up at the stars. Silver glinted from the heavens, and Molly's small fingers reached out for them. "Meteor shower for tonight, Molly," said Sherlock quietly.

Molly's eyes shined at the thought. It became desperately quiet for a second. The winter meant little to no animals, and even the crickets didn't chirp into the night.

Her heart seemed to be waiting for something – Sherlock held her hand. There was something odd about this whole thing, something she couldn't place her finger on. Sherlock was growing up before her, and she didn't like it.

And then the sky exploded.

Diamonds rained upon them as they watched, an unconventional beauty of wildness and darkness that mixed together – crossing lines and barriers and making everything sharper. Molly watched in wonder, as the stars threw down their spears.

"Happy Christmas, Molly," said Sherlock, pushing a present towards her.

"Happy Christmas, Sherlock," she said, pushing her own present to him.

She opened her present, and something went very weird inside her. It was a black book, with the title 'To Kill a Mockingbird.'

"Take your time with it," said Sherlock. "It's one of the best. It has the story of –"

But Molly had tackled him into a hug and Sherlock smiled sheepishly. He opened his own present, and became very silent. He took it out – the thing she had saved all her money for. "Molly – you –"

"Yeah."

He smiled at her then, and hugged her tightly. Molly didn't know why she felt odd and queasy.

She had never understood – never. Molly never understood how to not be expressive in front of bullies. Her heart was to empathetic, it reached out, it gripped people and it almost always got them.

But she didn't have him. She didn't have Sherlock Holmes from since they were children.

That's right, Molly Hooper. I beat you.

Except it had never felt like a victory. It felt like he had lost something important – because Molly was strong, and she was so kind, and she was the parallel to him that he had never seen afterwards. Molly had been stronger than John or himself – John suffered from problems of the mind, despite being the heart of their team, and Sherlock – all him problems were emotional.

Molly – she was... she had always been – a Mockingbird.

She gave happiness to everyone and she was free – she had wings. She was a person beyond.

And she was sitting in front of a microscope, across him, saying nothing. "Well Sherlock, your cultures are done," she smiled.

"Thanks Molly," he said curtly. "Do you have a shift?"

"No," she sighed. "I don't particularly want to go home. It's a Friday night, and while watching Doctor Who on the telly is tempting, I'm not in the mood."

"Mmh," he said noncommittally. "Out of simple curiosity, why not?"

"Oh – I don't know. It's all sad and lonely in my apartment right now. Kinda sickening. I'd rather work."

Sherlock got the feeling she was lying to him.

"You're lying. Why're you lying? You can just stay if you want."

Molly flushed red. "I just feel like staying, okay, Sherlock?"

"Why? What's wrong with your apartment?"

Molly was glaring at him.

"Leave it alone," she whispered in a slightly deadly way.

"Is it the date?" he asked. "What is today?"

"Sherlock, don't –"

But Sherlock had already checked the calendar.

"Oh," he said.

"Oh, fuck," said Molly. "Why did I ever think you wouldn't know? Of course you knew."

"Molly –" he said quietly.

"No, I don't want to go home, Sherlock. Leave me alone."

She stormed off into her office, and Sherlock said nothing. She deserved to be left alone, after all.

Today was the day her father had died.

See you next week! Read and review please!