Hi guys.

My exams have started in full finality, and I find myself in the need of a hiatus. I really need it, because my future depends on these exams and all that. I shall see you after March ends, promise. Forget not!

Much love,
Ridiculosity

UPDATE: Guest reviewer 173metric brought to my attention that 'delivered' in Mycroft's text was misspelled. I'd like to clarify : Mycroft did not misspell, he does not normally misspell. I'M SO SORRY FOR THE TYPO IT WAS MY FAULT. It has been edited because small goof ups are allowed, this is no small goof up. I'd make an excuse - something like being too busy to spell check and whatever, but that's pointless.

Miss Hooper had insisted on going for the funeral. The church was small, relatively empty. Greg Lestrade had come, and Mike Stamford. For some reason, Molly's friend Meena had come as well, but Molly had not seen her – she simply stood in the back and walked out before the service was over. John was there, and did not comment on the absence of Sherlock's family. It mattered little.

What really did make him curious was why Molly Hooper had come.

Sherlock and Miss Hooper's previous connection had never been found, and could not be exploited – no one would suspect her or think less of her for coming. Molly knew that Sherlock was alive – it did not make sense, in his eyes, for Molly to come.

However, he could chalk it up to sentiment. She could possibly want to see her friends. That also meant that she was lying through her teeth in front of them.

What were the motivations behind Miss Hooper's coming, he wondered. Well, it would be an exercise in his mental powers.

Perhaps not sentimental, perhaps she simply wished for a sense of closure. On the other hand, she knew Sherlock was alive. What would she need closure from?

The mystery was reasonably satisfying, but Mycroft could not resolve it from throughout the tedious ceremony. Funnily enough, she did seem slightly stony – numb, cold, and... humming?

She was humming, in small, sad sighs. He wondered what the song was.

Mycroft was thoughtful.

"I can't go back to the flat again – not at the moment." John was staring at the gravestone as if there was something there that wasn't dead. Absurd.

Mrs. Hudson gripped his arm tighter. "I'm angry," said John. He said it in a matter of fact way. John had always been a soldier – numb in grieving where others could cry. He could see that emptiness in John's face.

"It's okay John," said Mrs. Hudson. "There's nothing unusual in that – that's the way he made everyone feel." She paused, to think about the many wrongs Sherlock had done to her. "All the marks on my table and the noise. Firing guns off at one in the morning."

"Yeah," muttered John.

"Bloody specimens in my fridge. Imagine! Keeping bodies where there's food." Really was unreasonable, how they kept harping on about that. "And the fighting! Drove me up the wall with all his carryings on!"

"Yeah, listen I'm not actually that angry," said John. "Okay?" "Okay," nodded Mrs. Hudson. "I'll leave you alone to – you know –"Sherlock had a strong suspicion she was crying.

And now, Sherlock supposed, was the time for the soliloquy. John prepared himself, as if going to battle – for someone a lot more in-touch with his emotions, John did have a hard time expressing himself. "Uhm – mmh."

"You – you told me once – that you weren't a hero." That was an odd way to begin. "Uhm – there were times I didn't even think you were human, but – let me tell you this – you were – the best man, and the most human – human being that I have ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you have told me a lie."

It was a weight off Sherlock's shoulders. No, he's my friend – let me come through please. He's my friend.

John Watson believed him. The most human – human being.

"Yeah, so –" John was struggling with heavy emotion. "There. – I was – so alone. And I owe you – so much." He paused. "Please, there's just one more thing. One more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be... dead. Would you do that, just for me? Just stop it, stop this..." The soldier had broken.

As he watched John walk away, briefly pausing – as if in the middle of a salute. Demons run when a good man goes to war, Mr. Moriarty.

And this time, he had John Watson by his side.

She had seen John and Mrs. Hudson walk to the cemetery, to the black gravestone. It was a good choice – Sherlock wouldn't have liked anything too heavy anyway. John might as well have erected a glorified statue of Sherlock to annoy him into the afterlife, but that had not happened.

She waited until both of them left – the two people who had known Sherlock more closely than she had ever had privilege to. She squeezed John's shoulder briefly, patted Mrs. Hudson on the back. Mycroft looked at her curiously. She shook her head at him – and indication for him to leave.

That was when Molly made her way to the gravestone.

It was a nice spot, she decided. The birds were chirping – the tree was whispering. Other such romantic nonsense was going on – for nature was vain in her creation. She couldn't help making herself beautiful even in destruction.

Even while the dead man lived, Molly couldn't help feeling this emptiness. London was mourning the death of Sherlock Holmes, and so was she. Closed up in her apartment, he was quiet these days. He did have the occasional insults to throw, but Molly took them in good humour.

She looked onto the grave. Sherlock would call her silly – the grave did not contain him. The religious beliefs that had placed it there were baseless.

"Hi – um – Sherlock? No, hi – universe."

"It's been a while, but it feels a lot more natural talking to all of you than speaking to the man between the worlds of living and dead." There was no sound. Everything was quiet.

"Yeah, it's the return of the Silence," said Molly with a dry chuckle. "It's been a tough few days, you know. But um – John's the one who needs help, I think. He was alone, and now he is alone again. Maybe someone will listen. And Sherlock has a lot ahead of him. And don't tell Mycroft this, but I think he's a bit fussed about the whole affair as well. I can't handle all of them. Oh, and Greg. Greg's… going to need beers. And football games." Molly sighed. "I'd like to apologize to John," she added, more to herself than anybody else. "I was so... jealous of him. I almost hated him. Almost. I don't envy him now."

"And while we're at it – I know I don't normally ask for help, but for all intents and purposes, Sherlock Holmes is going to be my flatmate for the next month or so. I think I need a little assistance."

By the time a week had passed, Sherlock was considering Mycroft's offer on going into a country safehouse. It didn't take much of Molly Hooper to waver him into such decisions – she was making him eat, for crying out loud. It was absolutely absurd.

However, Molly did make him eat – she expectantly made him a plate of food, and did not even look like she had imagined him to say no. Sherlock could not help it – she seemed to have unending patience where he was concerned. It was infuriating.

So he ate. And then she got him pajamas, telling him that sleep really was necessary. It would help him think.

Sherlock snorted.

Molly smiled nervously. It hadn't even taken her long to give up the privacy of her room…

"Um – you should – take the bed," said Molly after a pause. It was odd enough with Mycroft's presence – now that he was gone, nothing seemed to fit.

"No, no – it is your room. I am only a guest."

"You have injuries," said Molly, squaring her shoulders. "Go ahead and take it. You won't fit on the couch anyway – I shall make myself a bed, don't worry."

And so he found himself in Molly Hooper's bed, staring at the ceiling, smelling of her.

Boring, boring, boring.

Sherlock was bored. Molly had gone for work again.

Why do people do that anyway? Wasn't it enough that she went once? How much money does one need to survive? John used to know. John took care of things like that.

God, how dependent he was on John Watson. It was bloody irritating.

Sherlock looked around the apartment. It was curious. Small. Terribly Molly. Well, since there was nothing more to do – he might as well deduce Molly Hooper.

Facts at hand – used to be my best friend when we were children. Small, brown hair, brown eyes, cares far too much, has an irritating habit of laughing nervously, twitches a lot, cream with one sugar, has had many boyfriends, but all of them wrong for her, likes reading, adequately sufficient at the autopsy table, mother, dead Grandmother, cat –

Well, there might not be so much to deduce after all.

But he could always rife through her bookshelf, see what she picked up over the years.

The first thing he noticed was a battered set of Harry Potters. He smiled to himself. Then, there were a number of romantic novels, including Pride and Prejudice. She seemed to have a section for the cheap, leather bound classics one could find at any other book store. There were endless Enid Blytons, some copies which he recognized from their childhood. Their? There was Neil Gaiman, Terry Pratchett, and some other authors. Tolkien was sitting there, on the shelf, The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, and all.

Then there were dystopic novels – 1984, Brave New World, Lord of the Flies. Hunger Games was lying there, but Sherlock got the feeling Molly didn't like it very much, it was simply lying at the bottom of the shelf. There was a lot of fantasy fiction, funnily enough. And – goodness – science fiction. Isaac Asimov, HG Wells, and whatever else she seemed to have gotten her hands on.

Molly's bookshelf was simple – it had a lot of the genres she liked. There were a few novels on philosophy, and some papers on literature, and a shelf devoted to medical novels. It was a very well stocked bookshelf, and Molly seemed to have expanded her list more and more since she parted ways with Sherlock Holmes.

The whole place was littered with bloody photo frames. Molly and her Dad, Molly and her Mum, Molly and her Grandparents (Father's side) and Molly and her Grandma. Molly and Meena, funnily enough.

But there, on the corner of one of the coffee tables, was a small photo frame, featuring a boy with curly hair and Molly Hooper. They both looked eight. Sherlock frowned for a bit, until he realized with a jolt – that was him.

It seemed to have been another day that they had been pirates. On a rock, pretending it was their boat. Sherlock was smiling, and so was Molly – she was positively glowing. Behind the photo frame, it was written in Molly's handwriting – Best Day Ever, with Sherlock Holmes. That boy with the blue eyes.

He found himself smiling fondly, and he grinned around the room, feeling an unbidden sense of accomplishment.

Sherlock really wasn't fooling anyone, snooping around Molly Hooper's apartment. Mycroft would have rolled his eyes – which he did – and told him not to indulge in what was not to be, however, for now, he would simply have to watch his brother through a black and white camera.

He owed Molly Hooper something – he wasn't quite sure what, but he did. He had been the catalyst for the end of her relationship with his brother, and while he maintained it was for the good of Sherlock, it may not have been for the good of Miss Hooper.

Therefore, he said nothing. Sherlock could stay with Molly Hooper for a month or so, fix the injuries he had, and move on to heavier missions. Mycroft simply had to watch.

Molly had, at least brought home some files from work. The insights into Molly Hooper's life had been interesting, but nothing terribly compelling. He required a few murders to look into.

"Brother did it," he said, handing Molly a file back. She made a few notes on the margins.

He flipped open another file. "The neighbour. Look for a debt in gambling," he rattled off. "And for a stash of money – I'd say under the floorboards of his bed."

Molly nodded briefly, scribbling down more notes.

"Alright, that's a small haul for a typical London day," said Sherlock, getting up, pacing.

Molly stared outside the windows. "London's in shock," she said.

She had said it very quietly, very distantly, as if making a remark to herself. He wasn't sure if she had meant for him to listen.

"Don't be silly, Molly – cities cannot be in shock, no matter how much politicians insist otherwise. The prevailing atmosphere of rain does not change at all."

Molly shrugged. "It's become all quiet everywhere," she said.

And then she did something extraordinarily odd. She started singing to herself, staring at the window. Sherlock felt deeply uncomfortable, for it seemed terribly – terribly – private.

"Sleep, don't visit – so I choke on the sun. And the days blur into one. The backs of my eyes – hum with things I have never done."

He listened without paying direct attention to it.

"Sheets, are swaying, on an old clothesline. Like a row of captured ghosts, over old dead grass. It was never much, but we made the most."

It was a lovely tune. Sherlock found himself wishing for his violin.

"Welcome home."

Whatever it was, it was haunting.

It was unbelievably quiet in Molly's apartment. Tony – whatever his name was, had disappeared into Molly's room, claiming it for his own. Sherlock looked around the small apartment.

What else did Molly stash away in her apartment, he wondered? The closet seemed like a very nice place to start, however, he abandoned it in favour of the kitchen.

The fridge was predictable – convenient, small, and filled with groceries of all sorts – Molly really liked cooking, for some odd reason. He had not perceived that trait when she was a child. The top of the fridge had tiny notes all over it: Dentist's, at nine! You need to buy some shampoo. For fuck's sake, Molly, get your act together around Sherlock. He's a man, not a Greek God.

Sherlock smirked at that one. He looked further.

DO NOT EAT THE COOKIE BATTER. YOU ACTUALLY HAVE TO COOK IT.

Meena needs to have her knickers stolen. She's being unbearable.

Remember Sherlock's friend's name, please, Molly.

Mum's coming tomorrow! :D

Emoticons, snorted Sherlock. Annoying.

BUY SOME SHAMPOO, FOR GOD'S SAKE.

TAKE DOWN THE BLOODY CHRISTMAS LIGHTS.

Mrs. Norris' (still can't get over her name) Mum just died. Bake her cheesecake, she likes that.

OH MY GOD THE NEW HARRY POTTER MOVIE IS COMING.

Friendly reminder to Molly, for a good day – Romione is CANON.

Romione? What on earth was that? What did canon mean? Was Molly speaking in code to avoid people snooping into her apartment? Was she being deliberately tantalizing? What on earth did she mean? Sherlock glared at the offending sticky.

The fridge also had various fridge magnets from the places she had visited – which had been a fair amount, he now noticed. It seems Meena and Molly had hitchhiked through Europe after college. It seemed to have been a fun trip, judging by the pictures.

He opened her cabinets – scores and scores of ingredients. And another few scores of cookbooks. On the sides of the recipes, and into the margins, Molly had scribbled her own little notes. Another combination of wit, shyness, and an intense inner life – he wondered how she bottled it all up and presented a presentable face in front of people.

The door creaked open, and Molly entered, holding grocery bags. "Hi Sherlock," she said.

She seemed a bit put down. Ah, yes. Mourning friend in a Hospital intent on giving her friendship.

"How was your day?" she asked, trying to smile, but coming of as a grimace.

"Boring," he said. "Do you have any files?" he asked.

"Not today," said Molly, grimacing again. "No murders. London is quiet."

Sherlock groaned in frustration. Molly fiddled with her hair.

"Sherlock – um – would you mind if I – if I –" she stumbled with her words.

Sherlock waited.

"Could I play my piano?" she finally asked. "I've – I've had a bad day. John was there – and Lestrade and I – I can't –"

She silenced herself, finally, waiting. Sherlock watched her thoughtfully. "Go ahead," he said. "It's your home."

Her shoulders slumped, and she made her way to her piano. He watched her – she kept the grocery bags on the counter, and took off her coat, laying it on the couch. She opened her hair out, and sat down, poised, ready, waiting for something.

And then the notes filled the air – they were everywhere. One of Chopin's, if he recognised correctly. She played the delicate tunes fantastically well, the way Chopin's progressions spoke of a little bit of life. She was a very good player, he had always known – but he did not realise how much of that lay in her interpretation.

Molly was small as she played, but she did not fall into the music, become part of it, as many of the books romanticized. She made the notes part of her, as if she herself had composed them. The progression changed, and it had become one of Beethoven's symphonies. Fur Elise again. Well, it was one of his favourites too.

Once again, her interpretation surprised him. She was playing it not as the tune itself – which was beautiful, of course, but as something else. Sherlock had the image of the mysterious Elise that it had been written for – whom no one had ever discovered the identity of. She had a mysterious smile, a pen poised on a letter, and dark hair. He shut his eyes.

Once again, the tunes changed. Molly paused – she was thinking of something. Her eyes flicked to the corner, watching Sherlock. He was looking outside the window. Mozart began to play.

Oh, so she knew his favourite composer.

He had wondered if she did. Apparently, she did. The tunes, notes, rose high in the air, and Sherlock found himself looking down a very long memory lane, into somewhere where Molly had been a long time back.

Finally, the tune changed one last time.

It seemed familiar – he could not recognize, though. Was it her own composition? No, the notes were very different from who Molly was. He realised it in a while – it was the song she had been singing that one time.

She was humming it now, playing with all her soul. Everything was pouring out into the music – the notes filled her, enveloped her, and he got the heady feeling that Molly Hooper was turning into the music itself. The tune rose, slowly, gently, falling again – the song had a taste of something so foreign, something different, something Sherlock had never seen before.

The final notes faded, and silence filled the apartment. Sherlock stared out of the window.

Molly was muttering to herself nervously. "Better – much better," she said quietly. "Shower now, maybe... yeah." She padded out of the room, leaving Sherlock to contemplate the loss of his violin.

Um... Mr. Holmes? x Molly

MISS HOOPER, WHAT CAN I DO FOR YOU? – MH

Could you maybe... get Sherlock a violin? x Molly

... A VIOLIN? – MH

Yeah. I think he is missing music. I was playing some symphonies today, and he was – well, I think he misses having something to play. x Molly

VERY WELL, MISS HOOPER. A VIOLIN SHALL BE DELIVERED TO YOUR OFFICE TOMORROW. IT WILL BE AMONG OTHER PACKAGES OF FOOD AND CLOTHING, SOME FOR YOU AND SOME FOR SHERLOCK, SO AS NOT TO LOOK SUSPICIOUS. ALONG WITH IT WILL BE A SECURE PHONE FOR YOU TO CONTACT ME ON. WE CANNOT RISK YOUR SAFETY. – MH

Thank you, Mr. Holmes. Sherlock will appreciate it – he has a good brother. x Molly

Well, that last bit was certainly odd. Miss Hooper had an odd tendency to be kind to everyone, and see the best in them too. It was mildly irritating.

Molly was taking far too long.

Sherlock stared down at her. Her face was pleasantly flushed, her lips red due to all the biting. She was doing it again, and fingering the rack.

"But if I put it in there..." she muttered to herself.

"For God's sake, Molly!" Sherlock exploded. "It's only scrabble."

"Patience is a virtue, Sherlock!" said Molly, at once, eyes flashing. "Shut up. Concentrate on your tiles."

Sherlock's fingers drummed on the table. Molly pursed her lips, lifted her fingers. Sherlock looked up expectantly. However, Molly pursed her lips again and lowered her hand.

"Just make a word!" Sherlock said loudly, jumping to his feet.

"Don't be a clust – a git," said Molly. Sherlock's heart jolted a little at her old insult. But he ignored her. There was nothing else to do, and he really did have to be grateful to Molly. She had wrapped up his broken arms and bruised cranium. She had even smuggled Bill the skull back so that he wouldn't be lonely.

"Done!" she said triumphantly. "R-A-C-Q-U-E-T. I make nearly thirty five points, ha! What do you have to say to that?"

"I say that you clearly have only the skills to play nonsensical games like this."

"Do be a better loser, William," said Molly, absentmindedly.

Sherlock stared at her. Well. It had been a while since she called him that.

You only have yourself to blame for her not calling you that.

She seems... happier, thought Sherlock. Her cheeks were read, and her face was lit up. There was a strange sort of contentment which he hadn't seen in her.

The only thing that had changed in her life was his arrival on the scene. Oh. Oh. She had missed spending time with him.

Trust Molly Hooper to hold onto maudlin sentiments like that. Sherlock really did not know what to make of it – sentiment – he thought grittingly. It was irritating, annoying, pestering, the reason for his downfall into Molly Hooper's life. If he kept staying here, among the pictures, and the memories, he was going to be enveloped in – and Sherlock Holmes would be dead for good.

Molly bit her lip as she examined him. "One more week, I should think," she said gently.

Sherlock groaned in frustration. "I need to leave now!"

"Sherlock," said Molly carefully. "You're a lot better now, but you need to not exert yourself and be in perfect health so that you're able to handle what is coming next."

Sherlock growled. "Do you really think the criminals who are going to try and bomb me, use thumbscrews on me, kill me, torture me, are going to pay attention to my health, Molly? Must you always be so silly?"

Molly looked at him, and said quietly, "I don't believe they will care about your health, but I think you should – it will give you the medical advantage over them."

Sherlock 'Pah'ed loudly.

"William," said Molly sternly.

"Stop calling me that," snapped Sherlock.

"Oh, I'm sorry," flared Molly. "I'm just trying to make sure you don't die within the first few days of your ever so dangerous operation."

Sherlock didn't say another word, choosing to walk off into her bedroom, and slamming her door shut.

She rapped on the door. "Don't do that," she said, exasperated. "Come on. I need my pyjamas."

Sherlock opened the door and glared at her through the crack. "Sherlock, it's just a week more," she stammered.

Sherlock let out a long suffering sigh. "Fine. I am going to begin preparing for immediate departure."

The nights had become cooler now. Molly stared into the ceiling.

She knew she could not detain Sherlock for anytime longer. He was leaving in a few days more.

It was only when confronted with the reality that he would not be spending time with her anymore, that Molly realised how much she had missed his company from when they were children. Molly had missed his sardonic humour, she had missed the way his eyes would heat up at the mention of a mystery, and Molly had missed the unconditional acceptance he gave her. She wished she had a little more of that.

"Well, goodbye, I suppose," said Molly, laughing nervously.

"Molly, conversation is not your area," he informed her, tightening his coat.

"I know," she said. "Look. I'm – I'm just trying to say – Sherlock – be careful, please?"

Sherlock didn't say anything, preferring to keep his back to her. "I shall endeavour to succeed," he said finally.

"Yeah," nodded Molly. She looked into the distance. "When you go there," she said suddenly, in an almost whisper – "When you go there," she continued. "Remember the grey area," she finished. "That's where all the pirates are, and the knights."

"Molly, I don't think comparing this to a fantasy game is going to help," said Sherlock testily.

"I know," she said. "But you're going to be doing some horrible things, Sherlock. You're going to need your strength. You're going to need to remember the grey area. The Mockingbirds. The stars. Please, keep that with you. Remember that you're not a machine. You're – well, you're just the anti Moriarty."

She had said it to the window, not him.

"I shall return, Molly Hooper," said Sherlock.

She nodded jerkily. "Yeah. Please do. Have you kept your supplies? The violin Mycroft sent?"

Sherlock nodded. "Enjoy your bed," said Sherlock slowly.

Molly laughed shortly. "Goodbye Sherlock Holmes."

While I may be on hiatus, reviews are always welcome! :D