Sorry for not updating for so long! I was just kind of pushing the same story on A03 so that it reached the fourth chapter as well! That's all!

As usual, nothing belongs to me. Damn, am I unable to come up with witty disclaimers anymore.

Present time, the Hounds of Baskerville

"Why would you listen to me? I'm just your friend," said John, sarcastically.

"I don't have 'friends!'" exploded Sherlock – he didn't need friends. He didn't need Molly. He didn't need John. He needed to be alone – he needed people to understand that he was no hero, no angel.

"No. I wonder why?"

Something like a prick hit Sherlock – Molly's face came into view again. Don't let this be like us, Sherlock. Don't do that to John Watson.

That Christmas, when Sherlock left, it became unbearably silent.

Molly wandered around the field, she walked through the woods, exploring further and further until there was nothing left to explore. She made snow men and spent time with her parents. And above all, she read the book Sherlock had given her.

She couldn't get enough of it. She read it again and again, until the words were practically memorized by her. She could see why Sherlock picked it out for her, and she certainly agreed with his taste – it was one of the most fantastically written book she had ever seen. It was, however, Scout and Jem's relationship that really made her understand exactly what was happening –

Jem was growing up. Scout was growing up as well, but not like Jem – because Jem was older. It didn't fully register then, but Molly understood slowly over the year. Sherlock was growing up, because he was smarter. Molly knew exactly when she understood it as well.

And when Sherlock returned the silence didn't go away.

Molly could not understand it – it never made sense to her. But it did not go away. Sherlock would fall silent a lot more, even while they played their games. They spent time on their homework together, which increased quite a lot since they reached fifth grade.

Sherlock finally broke out the racquets he had been given on Halloween – Molly and Sherlock played badminton and got better and better at it. At times, his wolfish grin would come and his competitiveness returned. Molly had been thrilled to see that, so much so that she got him a football for his birthday, and the game broke out again.

Mycroft gave Sherlock something far more curious – a violin. No one asked Mycroft where he got the money, but Sherlock's eyes had been shining the way they had when Molly had given him the microscope.

But it was Sherlock's parents that outdid everyone – they got him a little puppy. Molly remembered him staring at it like it was an alien, something from a different planet. A little like he had looked at Molly when they had first met.

It was a unilateral decision to name the little thing Redbeard. Sherlock completely bulldozered over her absolutely perfect ideas like 'Scamper' from Secret Seven ("Molly, we're not naming my dog after the idiots in a series of books who could not solve crimes which were threes and fours in a matter of minutes. its unacceptable."), or 'Shadow' ("What? Why? What for? A ghost story set in Shimla? Oh Molly, ghosts don't exist. And we're not naming him that anyway."), or 'Panic' ("Molly, I'm reminding you that panicking is one of those things that are under the heading 'Human Error.'")

When Sherlock finally looked upon the puppy – brown, with shades of red. "Oh, I know!" he said. "Redbeard. Every pirate needs a feel good animal."

"Sherlock, that animal is usually a parrot," said Molly, frowning.

"Parrots are idiotic, not to mention carriers of diseases. He's a Redbeard."

Present time, between the Hounds of Baskerville and the Reichenbach Fall

Not even John knew that Sherlock hadn't received a formal education in the Violin for a very long time. Another one of Molly's favourite memories was sitting all those afternoons, watching Sherlock decode the Violin all by himself. They biked to the town and got him books for it after school, and they studied the musical theory like nothing else. Molly first began to appreciate music with Sherlock's violin.

Even now, Molly's varying tastes in music was rooted to Sherlock first playing a very scratchy Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.

From there, Molly had gone deep into music, only she did not realise it until Sherlock had left her. When seventh grade came, she began with bad pop music numbers – a contrast to the previously classical tastes she had acquired. She went from there onto Jazz, a natural successor to what had happened to her and from there even further – Rock, Alternative, Reggae, and so on.

However, this was also punctuated by their return to school. Sherlock – he took an interest in swimming, and Molly would see him go for evening swims instead of join her in the bus. Molly never said anything, preferring to use the time to go for ice-skating classes instead.

His mind was becoming increasingly distant from Molly. There was a time when Molly could read his mind like the back of her hand. But as she saw him become colder, Molly only got touches of what he was thinking. She knew what could hurt, she knew what made him unbearably happy – but he was becoming unreadable at times.

Summer came, and she had ice skating lessons again. That Christmas, she was going to have a recital, and she was extremely excited about it.

"Sherlock!" she yelled when he came back from his swimming session.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I was selected for an ice skating recital!" she said, running forward and hugging him tightly.

"That's excellent," he said with a genuine smile.

"It's before Christmas!" she said happily. "You'll come, right?" she asked.

"Sure," he said easily.

"I'll buy you a ticket?" she asked eagerly.

He nodded – his thoughts had floated away somewhere she didn't recognise. She didn't mind, in that moment.

As the summer progressed, Molly's ice skating classes became intense, while they perfected their recital. Molly had no solo, but she was fairly happy without it. That's when her parents suggested Piano classes. She had a feeling they wanted her to not concentrate on her father – who had been sick for some time – and Molly had a tendency to zoom into an overactive imagination.

Molly's eyes had perked at the idea. She agreed immediately, and climbed up to Sherlock's room to tell him.

"Hi!" she said breathlessly – however, someone else was in his room.

It was Mycroft.

"Oh, hi Molly," said Sherlock. "Mycroft had a bit of a proposition."

"Oh," said Molly her face falling.

"Maybe I will tell you in a while," said Mycroft glancing at Molly.

"Oh, shut up, Mycroft," said Sherlock, annoyed. He patted Redbeards head, for he was snuffling into Sherlock's hands. "It's Molly. What do you want?"

Mycroft's eyes hardened. "I'm doing an experiment in Chemistry. I was wondering if you wished to sit in. It's quite an interesting one."

"Obviously, it is far ahead of my level – but teachers, you see. It suits you perfectly, on the other hand."

Sherlock grit his teeth. "Is that all you can ever do? Insult me?" asked Sherlock.

Mycroft smiled – a little like a cat. "I'll leave you with Molly then," he said with a smile. Sherlock nodded. "There's a file on the experiment – do look through it."

Sherlock waved him away. Molly laughed nervously. "You should probably be a little less rude."

"He deserves it."

Molly sat down on Sherlock's bed. "It's exciting though. Can I read the file too?" she asked.

Sherlock nodded. Molly flipped through it – it was extremely high level for someone in tenth grade – a study in compounds which could probably evolve into something bigger.

Molly understood very little, but she had no doubt Sherlock understood it perfectly. Sherlock was looking at her oddly.

"He's becoming stranger," said Sherlock quietly. "I know he has contacts which are getting him a lot of power – and he's working ruthlessly. I don't know if he has a heart anymore."

"He's always know what is right, however – even if it is only through a morally skewered compass," said Molly.

"Molly, my compass is morally skewered," said Sherlock patiently.

"What I'm saying is – I know Mycroft has principles which he works with."

"I'm sure he does," said Sherlock.

"And he always takes care of you," Molly pointed out. "Always."

"I'm sure. The only thing I agree with him on is that one should not become too sentimental."

Molly squirmed uncomfortably. "Where do you get that from?" she asked.

"Being attached to people makes it hard for you to concentrate on what you're doing," said Sherlock, staring out of his window.

Molly chose to ignore that. Their unnatural distance was enough to put up with. She had a lot to think about, apart from her damaged relationship with Sherlock - besides, her father was not feeling well these days – he had been sick for quite a while – Molly had plenty on her plate without Sherlock's personal epiphanies.

"Oh, I forgot to tell you!" she said excitedly. "My parents say I can take piano classes!" she said.

Sherlock continued staring out of the window. "That's great, Molly!" he said with artificial cheerfulness. "Aren't you happy?" she asked, her face falling.

"Yes, I am. I just don't see why I should get excited about everything you do," said Sherlock.

Molly bit her lip. "I know – I just – you know, you play the violin – so –"

Sherlock didn't say anything.

"Sherlock –" she asked tentatively. "Are we best friends?"

Sherlock turned away from her and didn't say anything. He said quietly, "You're a mockingbird, Molly Hooper. You're going to give it your best and make everyone happy. And that doesn't work with me."

"Going by the text you're referencing, I'd also end up dead," said Molly wryly, wrinkling her nose.

Molly didn't see Sherlock's face blanch.

Present time, between the Reichenbach Fall and the Hounds of Baskerville

The notes filled the night air, curling into the air as smoke floating into the atmosphere. Molly's music had always been something quite different from what his was – he should have guessed she never stopped playing the piano.

Fur Elise by Beethoven was playing through the doors and windows – she could see that her neighbours enjoyed her playing as much as Molly herself enjoyed it. Molly never understood why they'd give her food, they'd invite her over on Christmases. Sherlock knew why – they heard the melodies that left the apartment, like clouds of ink colouring water.

And she had an interpretation unlike anything else. It was terrifying the way she played. He knew her favourite was Mozart. He wished sometimes – he wished he had had the chance to play with her.

They spent such little time after that, Molly realised sadly. Sherlock's violin could be heard at all times, and where Molly was learning simple melodies to play, progressions and songs which were easy to practice, Sherlock was learning his Violin with a tutor – his parents had finally convinced him to get a tutor. Sherlock had thrown a tantrum, and asked that he select his tutor himself.

It had been reasonably funny, watching the man come in and receive a scrutiny by Sherlock, before he rattled off a series of complicated questions based on his study of musical theory, leaving the poor man stunned. After a lot of fighting, a lot of interviews, and a lot of mess, Sherlock finally agreed upon a man called Mark White, and Violin tuitions began.

Molly herself had other things to concentrate on. While Sherlock did all the donkey work for Mycroft's project and the brothers spent more time together, Molly had a dance recital to practice for along with her piano. Molly and Sherlock – they barely had any time together.

Molly put all her effort into her recital – she had to do it fantastically – Sherlock had promised to be there, and she'd perform for him.

Molly was entering a danger zone, and Sherlock knew it. He never understood why she was friends with him, and now – well – it was imperative that she understand what she was in for.

Sherlock never told her of all the times he had been bullied – of the time he had been found with 'FREAK' written on his forehead, somewhere on the school playground. He did not see the bullying happening in school anymore – but he knew Molly was hiding it to avoid another episode.

This fear of Molly being hurt had not happened out of the blue, unfortunately – like everything in Sherlock's brain, it was a progression which had been triggered by a warning – just as he understood when a political upheaval was going to take place before the adults told him, just like he understood when Molly was going to care for him more than anyone else.

"Well, Sherlock – what is this I hear about you having a new girlfriend?" asked Sherrinford.

Mycroft snorted. "She's his 'best friend' apparently."

Sherlock glared at Mycroft. "She's our neighbour," he clarified.

Sherrinford had looked extremely amused. "Be careful, Sherlock. Don't be as cynical as Mycroft – but remember that who you become friends with is always in danger of attacks. People aren't the same as us, you know. They have a lot of sentiments attached."

"I can't be friends with a soldier, can I?" asked Sherlock with asperity.

Sherrinford grinned. "Maybe you should wait until you meet a soldier who can handle you before becoming friends with anyone."

Sherlock did not say anything, but all he could remember was Molly's face when she cried after being bullied.

Sherlock knew that the bullying was slowing down these days – but one could never tell.

Molly didn't get to spend time with Sherlock outside of school, but she was busy. She had a sport to practice, music to keep going at, and her studies to work on. She was doing a science project on decaying matter. Her father was sick again, and her mother was beginning to get worried – but they promised to come for her recital. On top of all that, the bullying was increasing again.

Molly was in despair – she'd thought that period was going to be over – but the children had picked up more vicious forms of bullying.

Sherlock wasn't always with her anymore, so Molly need not worry about hiding too much – all the same – she had no one to confide in. Everything she thought of was bottled up inside her: her worries about Sherlock, the damage she seemed to have done to him (he couldn't even look her in the eye anymore), the bullying, the fact that her studies were still happening, her father, and her lack of friends. Molly was beginning to seriously doubt Sherlock's Mockingbird theory.

Christmas holidays were approaching and Molly wasn't very happy – she had a very rough day, as her school work had been going down as a result of the stress she was putting on herself. Molly wrapped all her stuff up, prepared to go home and have some hot cocoa – maybe look longingly at Sherlock's house – she hadn't seen his place in many days. And Sherlock was not in school – he was working on Mycroft's project.

And that was when she realised that the whole class was suspiciously silent. She looked around, to find the girls and boys glancing at her ever so often.

Molly had not returned from school. Sherlock glanced at the bus stop, but the bus had already gone, and no red jumper had gotten off.

Odd. Maybe she had practice, and walked to the ice skating rink.

It had been over an hour, and Sherlock was beginning to feel a little uneasy.

He glanced at the road every few minutes, hoping to see brown hair and a red jumper.

It was over two hours now. Sherlock was beginning to feel a little worried. He knew Molly's father was at the Doctor's, and her mother at work – they judged Molly smart enough to take care of herself.

Two and a half hours later, Sherlock put on his coat and hat and asked his mother to drive him to school.

World renowned Mathematician Alice Holmes looked up from her book and asked her son gently, "Why?"

"Mummy –" Sherlock's voice choked. "I think Molly's in trouble," he whispered.

"Sherlock, why aren't you speaking to her these days?" asked his mother firmly.

"Because – because – Mummy please, not now!"

Mrs. Holmes got up, adjusted her shawl, picked up the car keys and walked to the door. "You better explain on the way, William Sherlock Scott Holmes."

"She should have a better friend," muttered Sherlock, finally, looking outside the window, while the trees whooshed past, like many legged monsters.

His mother said nothing.

"She's small and if she wasn't friends with me – Mamma, she'd have tonnes of friends if she wasn't friends with me."

"Sherlock, you really are a goose," sighed his mother.

They found her in the school basements.

She was small, and curled up in an abandoned room, among a lot of papers. She had been tied up and left, clearly – the marks were there on her arms.

"Molly!" yelled Sherlock when she was spotted. His mother had been held up by an argumentative janitor.

He turned her face upwards, and on her forehead, in childish, capital letters were the words 'Freak's Girlfriend.'

It scared him to no end.

They took her home, and Sherlock fished her home keys from Molly's bag. His mother carried her gently, when she woke up. "Mrs. Holmes?" she muttered.

"Yes dear?" said his mother calmly.

"Tell him not to worry," she said quietly before falling off again.

They wrapped her up, and Sherlock went downstairs to make some hot chocolate – cinnamon, sugar, two marshmallows – just the way she liked it. Molly didn't seem to have anything wrong in her, apart from having spent an unnecessarily long time in a dank basement, trying to get out of her locked room. The tear stains told Sherlock that she had been crying. He took a sponge to wipe out the words that were offending him more than her red jumper.

Her face was all quiet, however. It was extremely artificial – Molly did not sleep like that. She just... went everywhere.

Anger surged again, and Sherlock quelled it.

"Well, I've called her mother. She's in a right state," said his Mother.

Sherlock did not say anything. They waited for Molly's mum to come home, in a flight of hysterics.

"What happened, Alice? Oh, goodness – this is the second time!"

"Calm down, Margaret," said his mother gently. "She's perfectly fine. She's been subject to a rather vicious incident of bullying."

"Oh," said Molly's mum, unable to find words. "How did you find her?"

"Locked in a cold basement, with that written over her face." The traces of the words remained.

"I mean, how did you find her?" asked Margaret impatiently. Sherlock's eyebrows went up – clearly, Molly had been having incidents like this regularly, and she had been telling some to her Mum.

"Sherlock got worried when she didn't come home two hours after school," said his Mother calmly. "I drove, we found her."

Margaret Hooper turned to see Sherlock. "Thank you," she said. "She'd been telling me of all the horrible things. I thought you didn't care, though."

Sherlock swallowed.

"Sherlock?" came the soft voice.

Sherlock looked up from his book. Molly woke up, finally, after having slept for quite sometime.

"You're not going to stick around this time, are you?" she asked sadly.

Sherlock swallowed. She'd always known him before he knew himself.

Molly started crying again. "Please tell me what I did wrong," she said, tears going down her cheeks.

"You get bullied because of me, Molly. I can't let you just – take it anymore."

"I don't mind it, do I, Sherlock?" she begged. "Please – p – please – I have an ice-skating reci-"

She dissolved into tears. Sherlock wanted to cry himself, but he forced himself. "Molly, it's not worth it. I have to keep worrying over you – and – and –"

"Please," she whispered again. "We were g-going to play together – the p-piano and the v-violin..."

"Molly..." Why was she crying? He hated it when she cried.

"I won't make you come for my birthday parties, I won't even ask you to be my best friend," she promised, still crying. "Please – just come for my recital. You promised. You said you would!"

"Bye Molly," said Sherlock. It took all the effort in the world to not run out of the door and start crying. As it happened, Sherlock made it to outside the house before he ran off.

Present time, the Reichenbach Fall

Molly's shift was finally over, and she was looking forward to meeting Harry. Her hair were in a ponytail, and she was wearing what Sherlock would only call a hideous jumper. Toby had been sick, and she had to take him to the vet yesterday, afterwhich he proceeded not to let her sleep all night, which was why she was slightly woozy.

"Molly!" Oh dear.

Sherlock walked through the door she was just going to leave from.

"Oh, hello!" she said. "I'm just going out," she said, as Sherlock forcefully steered her in the opposite direction. "No you're not," he said firmly.

"I have a lunch date," she clarified.

"Cancel it," said Sherlock easily, not bothering with his puppy dog act. "You're having lunch with me," he added, waving a few packets of crisps.

"What?" she asked, keeping up with them.

"Need your help," he said, unconcernedly. "It's one of your boyfriends. We're trying to track him down. He's been a bit naughty."

"It's Moriarty?" asked John incredulously.

"Yes, of course it's Moriarty," said Sherlock, opening the door.

"Jim wasn't actually my boyfriend," said Molly, looking mildly flustered as well as proud. She thought she saw a flash of something in Sherlock's eyes. "We went out three times. I ended it."

"Yes, and he stole the Crown Jewels, broke into the Bank of England and organized a prison break at Pentonville. For the sake of law and order I suggest you avoid all future attempts at a relationship, Molly."

Molly was left, standing there, as Sherlock Holmes whooshed out of her life once again.

Present time, the Reichenbach Fall

She carried the files into the room – Sherlock seemed to be in a bit of a state at the moment. She could see it in his quick moves, in the speed with which he was talking. Being bored was one thing, this time, he was genuinely scared.

She fiddled with the test tubes and beakers as Sherlock spoke to John – she liked this part of her job – figuring out the reality of everything. This was enjoyable.

"Alkaline," she said quietly during one of the tests.

"Thank you John," said Sherlock.

Molly flinched momentarily. "Molly," she corrected without letting it hurt her.

"Yes," said Sherlock, without looking up from his microscope.

Present time, the Reichenbach Fall

"Glycerol Molecule," he muttered. "What are you?"

Whatever it was, it really did have him in a fix, thought Molly as she continued her tests.

"What did you mean, 'I owe you'?" she asked, glancing at him briefly. "You said – 'I owe you'?" she asked, gingerly. She didn't know where she stood with Sherlock anymore. "You were muttering it while you were working?"

"Nothing," said Sherlock curtly. "Mental note."

Molly looked at her slide again, and decided to dive right in. She wouldn't break any code that they had put up in an unsaid way between each other, before the Christmas party where she realized she was not going to be an important part of Sherlock Holmes' life anyway.

"You're a bit like my dad."

She saw him blink briefly into the microscope.

"He's dead," she added. "Oh, sorry." Sherlock knew. He knew her father had passed away a long time ago.

"Molly, please don't feel the need to make conversation, it's really not your area," said Sherlock quickly, curtly. The armor was back on.

As if it has been down in the time you have known him.

Molly bit her lip, took a breath in, avoiding Sherlock's face for a second. But she'd like to talk about this. "When he was dying, he was always cheerful. He was lovely." Her father's crinkly face blinked in front of her eyes.

"Except when he thought no one could see," she said, watching his face. He had the same look on his face, the way her father had always looked.

"I saw him once. He looked – sad," she said.

"Molly," he said warningly. Irritated. Uncaring.

"You look sad," she ploughed on. "When you think he can't see you."

Sherlock's eyes briefly flitted to John.

He looked at Molly – her small, determined face. "Are you okay?" she finally asked. She was his friend, after all. "And don't just say you are," she added, as his mouth looked ready. "Because I know what that means – looking sad when you think no one can see you."

"You can see me," said Sherlock slowly.

"I don't count."

DONE. SEE YOU NEXT WEEK, KIDS, I LOVE YOU!