Sorry it's been a while! My exams are lining up like a Parade on Independence Day. It's awful. You get rid of one colourful, heavily loaded, and attention necessary exam and another shows up, dancing it's way through your eyes, leaving you with a mild sense of satisfaction and a lot of exhaustion.

Now, the thing is, my next set of exams are starting in a month, the ones on which my future depends. So the gaps between the updates are going to stretch a bit. Terribly sorry, guys, can't be helped.

I don't count.

Absurd. Stupid. Silly.

I don't count.

What was wrong with her?

I don't count.

Molly flashed before his eyes – small, six years old, laughing at everything intelligently, bright, sunny, running for freedom.

I don't count.

Seven year old Molly taught him how to be a pirate. She taught him greys and whites and blacks.

I don't count.

She was eight when she bought him that magnifying glass. He still used it. She was red in the face, his best friend.

I don't count.

When she was going to be ten years old, she had loved animals and birds and everything dead.

I don't count.

She was crying because of him. He had humiliated her for the first time.

I don't count.

Molly Hooper smiled at him, sitting in the make shift bed in the woods, with the heavens falling from above.

I don't count.

She was crying again, begging him to stay. She wanted him to be there. And he walked off. He saw the scene like a ghost, and as eleven year old Sherlock walked off from Molly, Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective tried to get the boy to stay. Because there was nothing like Molly Hooper.

Molly practiced and practiced and practiced.

Sherlock was coming for the recital, she knew he was. He just had to. He had promised.

In school, life had come to an easy low. The children had received one of the worst punishments for their treatment of Molly, and had been impressed on by their parents what a disgusting crime they had committed. Well, for the most part. Molly spent her time in school studying, no longer bothered by bullies – for a while anyway.

Her lunch, which used to be spent with Sherlock was now by herself. Sherlock went off by himself, and Molly kept to herself. She liked a spot under an old Oak tree in the playground, where she sat and ate her lunch.

In the last week of school, school seemed to be becoming a bit of a chore. She could not wait for her recital, as she was confident in Sherlock's coming. She sat by herself under the Oak, watching the other children.

"Hello," said someone.

Molly looked up, surprised. It was a female voice, so she knew it was not Sherlock.

"Hi," said Molly uncertainly.

"You're that girl – the one they locked in the basement." The speaker was black haired, with an olive complexion. Her lack of tact was a refreshing change. "Oh – sorry."

Molly didn't say anything for a while. "That's okay," she said. "I'm fine now."

"Really? That easy?" asked the girl.

"It's dumb to drag things out," said Molly, shrugging, uncomfortably.

The girl's face cracked into a grin. "I'm Meena."

"Molly Hooper," said Molly with a smile.

When the Christmas holidays did come, Molly was nervous. She had been completely alone in school, apart from Meena who spent some of her breaks with Molly, and chatted with her. She came home, did her homework, and went for a cycle ride, normally – it made her feel free.

Her father wasn't well, so in the evenings, she'd spend some time with him. Her mum had an extremely strained look these days, and Molly was worried about her by this time. She ignored it for a while, because sometimes, it was her own troubles that came to the forefront.

Molly was relentlessly practicing for her recital, determined that Sherlock was coming. He had promised. She'd given him a ticket – she tried to speak to him sometimes, but he ignored her, spoke to her curtly, and avoided her most of the time.

When the day of her recital came, she was extremely nervous. Would Sherlock like her white dress, or would he call it silly, she wondered.

By evening time, the rink was lit up with fairy lights. Their instructor smiled at them brightly, his teeth gleaming. Molly suspected he used teeth whitener.

"Come on girls, show time!" he said.

Molly took her position, and scanned the crowds. No Sherlock. No parents.

"Molly, your parents are calling," said her instructor.

"Hello, mum?" said Molly, taking the receiver.

"Molly, dear, are you alright?" she asked.

"Yeah, what's wrong?" her mother sounded unusually strained and in pain.

"Molly – your father –" Molly's heart sunk further. "He's really sick. I'm taking him to the hospital."

"Alright," she said immediately. "Do you want me to come?" she asked.

"Do your recital, dear," said her mother gently. "I'll come pick you up after."

"Alright," said Molly. Her lip trembled.

"I love you, alright? I'll take a video from Ramona's parents and watch you, promise."

"Yes Mum," said Molly.

So that was two people who would be watching her down. Was Sherlock there?

The crowds were devoid of Sherlock. Molly shivered – it was freezing, and they were in nothing more than dresses. She huddled into her cardigan, and made a split decision.

She ran out, in the wind and cold, and walked across to the stands. She bumped into thousands of people, who all dodged her, walked by her, but no Sherlock.

Molly gave a frustrated groan. "Molly?" came a voice.

"Meena?" said Molly. "What are you doing here?" she asked.

"My sister is performing," said Meena. "Why are you outside?" she asked.

"I'm –" Molly blushed. "I'm looking for Sherlock."

"He's not here, Molls," said Meena. Molly did not register the brief use of a nickname. "Are you sure?" she asked.

"Our family was the first to come. I would have noticed."

Molly had to make another decision at this point. Hear the call of her instructor, do her dance, or walk off?

"Molly?" asked Meena.

Oh, sod it, thought Molly, using her first mental abuse. There was no one left to dance for but herself, and nobody was going to stop her on that. If Sherlock had decided to grow up ever so early, it was his own bloody fault.

She was burning on the skating rink.

Sherlock was watching from behind the stands – Molly Hooper came on with the remaining girls, and he was mesmerized. She didn't look small, or helpless, or needing help – she stood up, tall (despite her height), her eyes were flashing – Sherlock was close to awed when he saw her.

Molly Hooper, you're a force of nature.

And she was – her body was on fire, as she did one sequence of steps after another.

And it was when she stared directly at the stars and sky, once she was done, that Sherlock knew that Molly Hooper would be fine on her own.

Molly spent her Christmas with her father, in the hospital. He had cancer.

He was going to return by the time New Year's came around, and Sherlock wasn't around for her. She was bristling with the pain of his lost, but she steadfastly ignored the hollow, empty feeling in her stomach. She ignored it and focused on her father instead, who was laughing at some really bad joke of her mum's.

Her mum was in a bad shape, and Molly didn't need to ask her to know that. Sometimes, at night, she heard restless padding, and found her Mum, sitting in the dining room, staring at a photograph of their family in cold horror. Molly would swallow, and walk away.

Molly understood death even then. She knew the finality of it, because it had fascinated her for so long, and she'd played with dead things for so long – well, it made sense.

Molly's soft toys and cushions had been subject to her cut up and operations when she was five. It had been Sherlock who had taught her how to channel her talents in a way that made sense to her.

And despite everything Molly Hooper understood about death, she wished, beyond hope, that her father was not dying.

Molly was beginning to pray at nights. She wasn't sure who she was praying to, because God had never played a more important role in her life, and she didn't care. She was sending out any and all telepathic signals, hoping that someone was listening. Anyone.

Margaret Hooper had always known her daughter to be precocious, smart beyond other children. When she became friends with that Sherlock boy, she had been so glad, because Sherlock finally seemed like someone up to her speed.

True, Margaret didn't like the bullying she received due to her friendship with the boy, but he was a good child, and he had broken it off with Molly because of everything. Margaret missed him a little, to be completely honest. Molly had seemed so much happier around him. Margaret sighed, and decided it really was time for bed.

She was going to go into Molly's room, switch off her lights and tell her daughter to go to sleep, like she had done ever since Molly slept in her own bed – Margaret pushed the half closed door, and she saw the small figure of Molly bent over her bed, hands pressed together.

"Dear universe," whispered the girl. "Hi. It's me again."

Margaret pressed her lips together.

"I'm just checking in. Seeing how all of you are doing. I hope it's going well, God. Don't punish Lucifer too much; I don't think he's completely evil. He's more like... the grey area. I don't know. Anyway. I'm sure you're perfectly fine, God. I mean, you're all powerful. I don't think you need the goodwill of an eleven year old to help you along."

Margaret would have told Molly how strongly God needed the help of anyone willing, but she said nothing, watching.

"I hope – um. I hope Billy's fine. And please look over Sherlock. I have a feeling his cousins aren't very nice to him. And tell him I miss him, please. Well, anyone who is listening can just tell him. That would be nice."

Margaret didn't know her daughter perfectly. She knew Molly had an intense inner life which not a lot of people were privy to, and she did not know Molly's beliefs in God. It was only when she saw her small little daughter praying that Margaret realised how much Molly had grown up in the last five years or so.

"And, um. Please, anyone who is listening?" said Molly, her voice cracking. "My Mum's not well."

Margaret started crying.

"My father's going to die, I've come to terms with that. Death... happens. It kind of sucks, but it does. No one can do anything about it. And he's sort of – okay with it. He says he'll miss seeing me growing up, but I don't think that's going to be his primary problem. Cause he's going to go into chemo soon. And. Well. I dunno. It's kind of hard."

Marga Hooper had never loved her daughter more.

"It's mum I'm more worried about," said Molly quietly.

She was crying fully now. She bit her lip to stop herself from gasping.

"She's not happy at all. People die all the time, that's truth. Shakespeare understood that, so I don't see how that's a very new theory. I think it's the fact that the person is sort of – missing – that gets everybody else. And Mum – she's not well. I think it hurts her to think that Papa won't be around very soon. She's doing this thing – she just stares at photographs in horror, like she can't believe what's happening. Someone's got to talk to her, but it can't be me. If she knew how smart I was, she'd expect me to do better in school." Molly gave a nervous chuckle.

"So can everybody just help her out? I don't know how many people are checking in right now, but you know – all of you listening. I think God might broadcast the message. He can't directly intervene; I think he has enough on his plate. There's children dying, there's planets collapsing in other galaxies and there's blackholes to take care of. I don't know. But all of you in our little praying thing here, you can help. We're a support group. Like when last week, I think Rosie Wester heard – and she gave Mum some cookies. That was nice of you, Rosie. I'm glad you're all there, you know. It gets pretty lonely sometimes."

Margaret Hooper couldn't take it anymore. Molly was so – she was so – she was so small.

"Thanks universe. I hope all of you are happy. Keep the gas in, Jupiter."

When Molly went back to school after the Holidays, she had Meena to meet, first thing in the morning.

"Hi!" she said brightly. "Come sit with me!"

Molly smiled gratefully, as Sherlock was right behind her, and waiting for a seat. Molly couldn't take sitting all by herself. She noticed the frown on Sherlock's face and felt like she had scored an unforeseen point.

Meena chattered about her Christmas holidays, and Molly interjected every now and again. They found that they watched the same TV shows, specifically one Doctor Who and enjoyed a lot of the same books. Molly was glad to have found one other person who had read The Chronicles of Narnia.

"I say, you're fun!" said Meena. "To think that I've been twaddling around with these idiots who can only think about who the next person they are going to peck on the cheek is."

She thought she saw Sherlock twitch, but she said nothing when she smiled and agreed to be friends with Meena.

They went for class, and Molly helped her with her remaining homework before the teacher came in. Meena actually even took a desk next to Molly, a fact that Molly was deeply pleased about, even if it perplexed her to no end.

It was during break that the explosion occurred again. She hadn't been noticing Sherlock, and she bitterly reflected that he had probably been scowling at Meena throughout.

"So, how was your Christmas?" asked Meena, sitting down beside her, at her desk, while Molly munched on some sandwiches. The rest of the class had gone off somewhere else, and there was no one there.

She saw Sherlock grit his teeth. Pursing her lips, Molly said simply, "Kind of lonely."

"Oh. Why?" asked Meena.

"Really?" exploded Sherlock. Both the girls stared as he jumped to his feet. "She's an idiot, and a gossip, to boot. She's being friends with you because her Mum told her that dear sweet Molly's having a bit of a hard time. She's terrible at her studies – you can see it by the pencil marks on her fingers, and the hair under her nails – lots of nights of pulling her hair out over math sums. She's going to use you for her studies, and who wants to know about your boring Christmas anyway? With your boring mother and equally boring father, who probably got you another hideous jumper!"

Molly stared at him for a beat. Another beat. Meena looked at Molly anxiously.

Her eyes narrowed, became small little slits.

"My father is dying," she said at last.

Sherlock's face went completely blank, but Meena's remained unsurprised.

"You like deductions so much, do you, Sherlock Holmes? Well, let me deduce her, I assure you, I will do a better job. She's been nice to me ever since the bullying incident because she felt guilty, and her Mum gave her a good talking to. But she'd liked me since then, yes she has trouble with math, but she didn't ask for help, I offered. Her mum probably recently told her that my father was dying, so she decided to go all out, because she likes me. From before."

"And what about you, Sherlock? You left me all by myself. I'm here, standing, right there. It's your choice to be friends with me, you know, and your own fault I'm looking for friendship elsewhere. I'm alone, Sherlock, and it's no thanks to you!" Her voice was rising in pitch and she was beginning to get very, very angry. "You left me while my father was dying. You left me. It's your own problem! Don't come around and destroy what I have left because I'm not going to be happy."

Molly stormed out of the classroom, and Meena smiled nervously at Sherlock. "Bit of a firecracker, innit? Well, I'm sure it will be fine."

Sherlock seemed to be not listening to Meena, so she walked out as well. She didn't see Sherlock huddle in on himself, in quiet shock.

The days began to speed by all over again. Molly went to school, came home, did her homework, and spent time with her father in the evenings. Her father was a lot weaker now, and hairfall wasn't an improved look on him, but he refused to get a wig.

Molly and her mother didn't particularly mind – as long as he was happy, cheerful, fine. As long as he was healthy, none of the little details registered in their heads.

Molly had noticed that her Mum no longer came to her room to tuck her in. Molly didn't question why, as she was grateful her mother hadn't stumbled upon Molly saying her prayers.

Meena had been the best help Molly could have asked for. The girl was saucy and daring, and kept Molly on her feet all the time. She'd dare Molly to come to school with her clothes on backwards, she'd actually come to school with her clothes on backwards. She made Molly laugh endlessly, and Molly really needed laughter.

It was a curious quality of time to just whisper by, without letting you know. The minutes vanish without recognition; the hours are shuffled off in corners of Molly's room, between books and hidden in the niches of her toys. The days rushed off, without pausing to think, disappearing into an oblivion that Molly couldn't see, and the stars began to dim as her head could not look that far up anymore.

No matter how the days went by, the small, invisible hole that Sherlock left in her heart refused to be cemented. Everyday it just stayed, mainly because he stayed. Molly saw him everyday, and Molly heard him talk everyday. Molly's windows were not immune to the melodies he played on his violin, or the hisses of his chemistry set. It was as if he was in another dimension, and Molly could do nothing but stare as he continued on as if nothing had mattered to him.

"What happened between you two?" asked Meena, on a sleepover, eating a cookie.

Molly looked, automatically at Sherlock's house. "He didn't want to be friends anymore."

"Why?" she pressed, curiously.

Molly didn't say anything, looking away from Meena.

"Let's play truth and dare!" said Meena suddenly.

"What? No!" said Molly.

"Yes, absolutely."

"Definitely not," said Molly.

"Okay, your turn. Pick one. You have sixty seconds to make a decision, or I will give you both."

"This is insane."

"Fifty eight seconds."

"Meena!"

"You have forty five seconds."

"Don't be silly!"

"Thirty seconds."

"Fine! Dare!"

Meena grinned slowly, in a very Cheshire Cat way. Molly trembled.

"I dare you to go into the woods, by yourself."

Molly laughed openly. "The woods aren't that scary, to be honest. I've spent one too many nights there."

"You have?" asked Meena curiously.

"Of course I have," said Molly. "Sherlock doesn't like anything which is boring, and woods in the dark are not boring."

"Hmm," said Meena.

"I can take you, as a dare," said Molly cheerfully.

"Ooohh, lets!"

Sherlock grit his teeth and glared at the two girls heading for the woods. Those were his.

Well, theirs. Molly had ownership, but only with him.

Molly was making friends, and Sherlock really should have been happy. At least, this was what he had wanted. But it was hard, watching Molly laugh because of someone else, watching her walk away with someone else in the woods.

Molly was going to grow up, and maybe in a few years, they were going to part. She was going to date someone. She was going to fall in love. She was going to have someone else to share half her mind with. She was going to glide down the aisle, with a bunch of tulips, her favourite flower. She will probably trip on her way. She was going to be somewhere else.

It filled Sherlock with restless longing.

As school came to an end, the summer was starting. Molly's parents were taking her to Ireland, where their Grandparents lived. Molly's Dad wanted to see Ireland again.

She was missing Sherlock, even now. Meena was something else, but she missed all their evenings together. All those afternoons. Molly sighed.

In the last week of school, she noticed something odd. The Holmes house was in a bit of a mess – there were things everywhere, and boxes all around. Sherlock's Mom was not going to work at all, instead, ordering boxes around. Maybe they were going for a holiday as well, Molly thought idly.

When the last week of school finally came, Molly was ready to rush home and make herself some hot cocoa. It was only then that she saw the wrap under which Sherlock's house stood. She realised without pondering – he was leaving.

Mycroft Holmes looked at her as he stepped into their car. He gave her a pitying smile. Molly only glared back. "You're an idiot," she added.

He only smirked at her. "You're going to get him in trouble," she said. "He's not you, you know. He's Sherlock."

"I'm aware. And he's at his smartest alone. As it is, he is slow enough."

Molly snorted.

Sherlock came outside the house. "Molly?" he said unconcernedly.

"You're leaving then?" she asked, without wishing for an answer.

"Yes."

"Fine. Stay away from trouble. Wait for an opportunity to be a detective, don't just go around deducing. And don't be mean to others. Don't be a clusterfib."

"That's still not an insult, and you're not my Mum," said Sherlock defiantly.

"No," sighed Molly. "Sherlock – tell me what's wrong."

For a second, he looked at her. "I'm okay."

"If you say so," she sighed again. "Goodbye Mrs Holmes," she said, spotting Sherlock's mother. "I'll miss you."

"I'll miss you too dear," said the woman. "Take care of yourself, yes?"

"I'll try, Mrs. Holmes."

She patted Molly fondly on the cheek, and Molly gave her a tight hug. She shook hands with Sherlock's father, smiling at him brightly.

"Bye!" she said, as they all sat down in the car. Molly's mum came outside, wiping her hands on an apron.

Sherlock steadfastly ignored her.

"I'd ask you to keep in touch, but I don't think that is happening," muttered Molly.

"I don't count."

What did she mean by that? She didn't count? She had kept his heart for so long, the keeper of his sentiment. She was hidden away in the cellar of his mind, along with all his other memories. He didn't need to hide it in front of Molly. Shouldn't that make her understand that perhaps she counted the most?

She was the only one he didn't notice – he didn't have to behave around her. He had to do so around so many people, but Molly never demanded it. Molly never called him a machine, which almost everyone had, in their worst times. She had only ever displayed what was true about his character – that he was far too human sometimes, and he avoided it.

Are you okay? And don't just say you are, because I know what that means – looking sad when you think no one can see you.

Of course she'd ask that. Of course she would. She was gentle, kind Molly Hooper, who had cared for him from when he was seven years old. She was brave to the point of madness, and she didn't need anyone, not like Sherlock. Sherlock depended on the people he befriended, Molly did not.

Looking sad when you think no one can see you.

She used to watch him, when he was sad. As a child, She'd simply look, and Sherlock never needed to explain, and she never asked. He never held back.

"What I'm trying to say is that if there's anything that I can do – anything you need – anything at all – you can have me."

There it was again. Unconditional.

"No, I just mean –" she was flustered. She didn't need to be. He understood perfectly. "I mean – if there's anything you need – it's fine," she said.

"What could I need from you?" he asked. What could he? She'd given him everything. What was left?

"Nothing," said Molly. And he saw it again. That little bit of a hole in her eyes, like something was missing. Like her arm had been cut off and she still could feel it there. "I dunno."

"You could probably say thank you, actually," she said, nodding shortly.

Sherlock's face twitched. "Thank you?" he said.

"I'm just gonna get some crisps – do you want anything?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something. "It's okay, I know you don't."

She didn't believe he needed her.

"Well, actually maybe I –"

"I know you don't."

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