HI EVERYBODY.

Yeah, no, don't mistake it for a coming-out-from-hiatus chapter. My exams end on 30th March. You shall have to wait till then for me to get out of this. If anybody wants to know, they've been going okayly. I took Darthsydious' advice and I am very nice to my brain.

I punched this in as a small interlude to the hiatus, so you know - I don't like abandoning you people for so long. Well, enjoy!

One year passed without note. Molly went about her life, after Mike furnished her with a short leave to mourn. Molly had a feeling it was more because Dr. Stamford needed to mourn by himself as well.

Molly's senses were extraordinarily sharpened ever since Sherlock had left. She had heard nothing from him in the year of his absence, but Mycroft had been in steady communication with her throughout. Molly had been the one to initiate it, using the secure phone Mycroft had supplied her with to text the man she was too afraid to make a phone call to.

How is our mutual friend? x Molly

HE LIVES. – MH

Mycroft was careful never to give away exactly where Sherlock was, however, Molly received information of a very different nature from him, which normally brought him closer to her than ever.

THE VIOLIN IS BEING WELL USED, MISS HOOPER. IT WAS A GOOD IDEA. – MH

HE HAS MADE A FRIEND, RECENTLY. – MH

JUDGING FROM THE PICTURES, MISS HOOPER, IT LOOKS LIKE THE SANITARY CONDITIONS ARE NOT VERY GOOD. – MH

Molly had laughed at the last one.

Molly had invited him for tea a few times, but Mycroft had declined, preferring not to raise suspicions. Molly did not wish to argue with the British Government.

Greg Lestrade had initially worried her a lot. A lot more drinking, an inquiry into his work, and finally, finally he wasn't fired or demoted. Molly had provided a testimony for him, and while being under the staring eyes of the number of officials waiting for her to give a verdict on how the DI could trust a man who was a proclaimed sociopath, not to mention a fraud, she had said only:

"Whether the man was a sociopath or a fraud should be irrelevant –" she said, "He still solved more cases than the Scotland Yard put together, and he may not have been a genius, but none can deny he was excessively smart."

It looked a lot pleasanter for Lestrade after that.

Meanwhile, Molly was trying to pick up the pieces for all the others – she visited Mrs. Hudson once a week. The old woman was in a bit of a hassle – after the funeral, John had not come to visit her anymore.

"He's a big man, I know," sighed the woman, "But one phone call should not be too hard."

"It feels terribly cold, doesn't it, Mrs. Hudson?" asked Molly softly.

"Freezing," said the woman. "It was never warm when he was here, no, but it was never this cold either."

Molly stared out of the window.

"He was fond of you, you know?" said Mrs. Hudson. "I don't know – I have never quite seen him stick it out with another person for that long."

"No, Mrs. Hudson," said Molly. "He wasn't fond of me."

"Oh, dear, he had to have been fond of you – why, I remember that Christmas…"

There were too many pieces left to be picked up.

Molly couldn't meet John – the man was in no good state for it. However, everyone else was left.

It was a year later that Sherlock knocked on her door.

And by knock she meant barging in.

It was evening time and she had just finished playing on her Piano – some of Tchaikovsky – and she was settling down for a night of bad movies and wine. It was a standard between herself and Toby that she liked honouring. However, somewhere in the middle of Pretty Woman Molly must have fallen asleep, the glass of wine lying abandoned on the coffee table. That is when the tumblers of her lock begin turning.

Molly woke up at the sound. She stared at the door, and reaches for the bottle of wine, paused, then stopped. Instead, she begins picking up a cricket bat that lies under her couch. The door opens, and Molly jumps to her feet, bat poised in her hand.

"Do put that down, Molly," said the irate voice which opened the door. "I assure you, a woman of your stature will not be able to make much damage even with a cricket bat you haven't used since you were thirteen."

Molly relaxed. "It's good to see you too, Sherlock," she said sighing with relief.

"Yes. If you say so," said Sherlock stepping inside. He was not in his customary dress pants and suit – he was dressed in an odd assortment of jeans and a shirt. He looked bruised and unshaven. "Get new locks, Molly, this was dangerously easy to break into. You could be murdered in your sleep and none will know."

"Mmh," said Molly. She put the bat under the couch, and looks up at him. "Hungry?" she asked, automatically heading to the kitchen.

"Yes," said Sherlock testily, "I don't normally just show up at people's apartments, you know. I do want something in return."

"No need to be grumpy," muttered Molly quietly. "I will get you food."

Molly took out some mutton from the fridge. "Do you mind?" she asked Sherlock, "It's not defrosted, you know, so the meat might be a little tough."

Sherlock stared at her for a full minute, before saying, "Molly, I have been surviving on boiled grasses and stale bread. Anything would be good – and your cooking is fairly good."

Molly blushed red. "Really?" she asked.

"You cannot have not known it," said Sherlock. "This may be one of those inane functions of the human brain to validate themselves through praise. I assure you, Molly, your cooking is very good."

Molly grinned. "Since you asked nicely," she said. She put the mutton in the oven to defrost it a little, after rubbing it down with oil and garlic and some other herbs to make it spicy and hot. She buttered some bread and fried it in a pan – it was a little thing she enjoyed a lot. She heated some of the soup she had made for herself and handed Sherlock a bowl. He took it without comment.

"Watching bad movies with wine?" asked Sherlock.

"Well, a woman has to live," said Molly while stir frying some vegetables.

"I have seen many horrible forms of living, and this certainly does not qualify as one."

"It's a lot better than not having wine and bad movies," said Molly easily. "So how goes it?"

"Decently," said Sherlock fairly. "I have more to do, and, I have dismantled many of the lesser branches. However, my work is attracting some eyes."

"Do be careful," said Molly anxiously.

"I am. Molly you are really irritating."

"I am also the one feeding you."

"If you intend to squeeze out some gestures of good will because of that, you do not know me."

"You could try to be nice, William," said Molly.

Sherlock stared away. "I brought you something," he said, suddenly. Molly was careful to avoid his eyes. He pushed a packet on the coffee table, and as Molly served the man his meal, she picked it up.

It was a bunch of assorted fridge magnets. Molly smiled at them, and thanked Sherlock, pausing to squeal a little when she saw some blue ribbons and hairslides.

"They're just ribbons, Molly," said Sherlock, rolling his eyes as he chewed into the vegetables and meat.

"Why did you get them?" asked Molly.

"One of my accomplices left them for me. I decided to give them to you – suits you more."

"Well, thank you anyway. How long can you stay?" she prodded.

"I have to leave soon. Tomorrow, possibly – if she shows up."

Molly felt a stab of jealousy. A she. Well, he had never expressed interest in Molly either way.

"Will you stay for lunch tomorrow?" asked Molly. "I have an off day. I can cook something nice."

Sherlock's icy eyes surveyed her. "That would be appreciated."

Molly smiled at him. "Mycroft has been keeping me updated about you," said Molly idly, sitting down on the couch. Sherlock was still eating.

"He has?" asked Sherlock, a bite in his tone.

"Yes, he did," said Molly. "You needn't give me that look. I like your brother." Sherlock's eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. "Oh, shut up. He never gave anything away. He'd just tell me that you were using your violin, or whether you made a friend. I've asked him to tea a few times, but he says it will raise suspicion. He likes pastries, right?" asked Molly.

"Impressing that spider will get you nowhere, I hope you know, Molly," said Sherlock chewing a bone.

"Don't call him that," admonished Molly. "I asked because I would like to do something nice for him."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Is your bed made? And thank you for the meal, Molly, it really was the best I have had in many months."

"Thank you," said Molly. "It's made. You may have to shove Toby off, though."

"I shall take care of that proud little feline," muttered Sherlock under his breath.

"Morning, Molly."

"Sherlock, it's seven in the morning on a Saturday," said Molly, her voice muffled due to her face down posture.

"Irrelevant. You should wake up."

"Sherlock!" said Molly. "I'm sleeping."

"Then how are you talking?" asked Sherlock. "Do not engage me in empty rhetoric."

Molly groaned into her pillow. "I hate you."

"I'm sure you do. Now wake up."

She picked up her covers and hid under them.

"Molly," said Sherlock warningly. "I am hungry."

"Make food for yourself."

"I will sooner burn your kitchen."

"Go away."

"I still have a store of all your ticklish points, Molly Elizabeth Hooper."

That woke Molly up. "You wouldn't," she said, uncovering her head.

"Would you take that chance?" asked Sherlock.

"God, I hate you Sherlock."

His face cracked into his first smile.

Molly glared at him openly, proceeding to make the two of them some omelets. She chewed on hers for a bit. "So, do you need supplies?" asked Molly suddenly.

Sherlock pushed a list towards her. Molly raised her eyebrows. "Well, anyway," said Molly. "I shall endeavour to get as many as possible."

So Molly went shopping.

She was cooking when Sherlock came out of the shower. He was back in his suit (she had no idea where he had gotten it from. She suspected he had left one set in her closet), and looked shaved and more himself.

"I made shepherd's pie, would you like that?"

"Perfect," said Sherlock, "I feel a lot better."

"I have heard of many things a hot bath can't cure but I have never encountered them."

"Nonsense, Molly. Hot baths cure nothing."

"It was a quote, genius. Well, a mutated version. Sylvia Plath said it."

"Who?" asked Sherlock.

"She's an American poet."

"Poetry too, Molly?" asked Sherlock, clearly irritated.

"Poetry is wonderful, Sherlock Holmes," said Molly indignantly.

"I'm sure you remember it as well as you remember the names of the finger bones," said Sherlock, rolling his eyes.

Molly glared at him wholeheartedly. "Tiger, tiger, burning bright, in the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye, Could frame thy fearful symmetry?" she recited, without pausing. "In what distant deeps or skies, burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire, what the hand dare seize the fire?"

Sherlock stared at her. "You remember some verses of one poem –"

"Between my finger and my thumb, the squat pen rests, snug as a gun –"

"Molly, please, rattling off some poetry will not –"

"Till, with a sudden sharp hot stink of fox, it enters the dark hole of the head, the window is starless still –"

"Molly, you are really being silly, I understand that you remember some poetry –"

"Once we had a country, and we thought it fair, but –"

"Molly!"

"Auden. That's exquisite."

The new voice did not belong to either of the occupants of the room. Molly and Sherlock looked up to find a woman – a very beautiful woman, thought Molly – standing at the door. Her hair were sleek and shining and Molly could honestly have said she had never seen such a sculpted face.

"What on earth are you doing here?" asked Sherlock, angry. "I thought I told you we were meeting – elsewhere."

"My position was compromised," said the woman easily. This was Sherlock's accomplice?

"She can stay, Sherlock, I don't mind," said Molly nervously.

"You're a pretty thing," said the woman, her voice dropping, rolling over her words deliciously. "I could do things to you that would make you scream – I haven't met someone as tempting as you in a while, you know."

"I'm flattered?" said Molly. "Hang on – you're the woman on my slab. The one Sherlock recognised by not-her-face."

Sherlock stiffened. "How did you guess?" asked the woman, giving a side along glance to Sherlock.

"That woman had the exact same bone structure – it's hard to hide that."

"I went to great lengths to find a body that matched perfectly," said the woman. "Irene Adler."

"Molly Hooper," blinked Molly. "I wonder if death is a thing that actually happens around here. Do you like shepherd's pie?"

Irene smiled at her luxuriously. "I happen to love it. Now, you were quoting our favourite twentieth century poet – Auden?"

"Oh, yes," said Molly, nodding enthusiastically, taking out a dish of cheesiness. "I quite like Auden – Unknown Citizen is my favourite –"

"Personally I have always preferred As I Walked Out One Evening," said Irene.

"Molly, she can't stay," said Sherlock rudely.

"What?" asked Molly, cut short. "Why not?"

"She's dangerous," said Sherlock, gritting his teeth.

"I can see that, Sherlock," said Molly, exasperated. "But you're dangerous as well. And so is your brother. John is definitely dangerous. Greg is dangerous. Honestly, I am surrounded by dangerous people everywhere. Besides, don't be rude – she looks famished."

Irene smiled at Molly crookedly. Sherlock glared at the Irene.

"Goodness, Miss Hooper," said Irene in a drawl. "You've got him in a twist."

"Well, he can suck it –" said Molly, lifting her chin. "It's my home. I can choose to invite her in, Sherlock."

Sherlock switched his glare to Molly. Molly blushed pink, but did not let go of the stare.

Sherlock let out a noise of frustration, stomping off.

What on earth was Molly thinking, inviting the Woman to dine with them?

Sherlock couldn't help it, he was angry and frustrated. He had hoped to have Molly to himself, to tell her about his doings – the eastern section of the network down, the accomplices he had made in Bombay, the unending, everlasting, infinite exhaustion of being a wanderer across the world. The Mark of Cain stayed with Sherlock, and it would not go – something some of his accomplices had noticed.

"Who is you're thinking of?"

"Thinking of how best to take down Dalal."

"No, you're thinking of something else, my lovely little liar. Something far away."

"Thinking about something far away would be irrelevant."

"An English girl, then."

Sameera had always been unusually perceptive. Whenever Sherlock got a distant look in his face, that what she would call it – "You're thinking about your English girl."

Molly had a tendency to intrude into his mind again and again, whenever he found himself without anything to think about. She appeared when he was ready to sleep, she would be in his dreams. While on a mission, he thought of little else – but Molly – why, she stuck, and she refused to let go.

His brief interlude in England had been a desperate grip – before he left for the Middle East, he had to see Molly. He had to.

"Take these blue ribbons, my little liar. A tourist gave them to me a long time back – give them to your English girl."

He needed to see if she thought of him. If she was safe. If she was thinking of him as often as he was of her.

"I wonder if she can love as well as I can, your English girl."

She looked well – some of her colour was back. She was flushed, and happy, and she didn't seem to be seeing anyone. Something of her seven year old self had come back.

"Well, Miss Hooper – do you happen to like the Romantics, then?"

Molly had surprised him again, by how cultured she was. She could speak easily about endless poets, about different phases in literature, and she seemed to have done an elective in English during uni – something he had not accounted for, or deducted.

"Well, I do have a fondness for Keats," said Molly honestly. "However, I find the poetry of the twentieth century a lot more compelling – I mean, we had Hughes then."

"Oh," said Irene, delighted, clearly. "Mr. Holmes, I do like this pathologist of yours."

He bared his teeth at her. "Good. Leave her alone, if you know what's best for her."

"Sherlock," said Molly. "Don't."

"Protective, are we?" said the Woman.

If looks could kill was going to come true now. Science would have a field day.

"Tell me, Mr. Holmes, do you share a room? I see only one bed."

"Another example of your slowness, Miss Adler – do you not notice the unmade bed on the couch, or are you being deliberately slow? I assure you, you're quite a natural at it."

"Stop it, both of you," hissed Molly. "Have your lunch, for God's sake, Sherlock."

"Molly, she's a little minx."

"Ooh, I am flattered," said Irene.

"Really? It in the list of a few adjectives which would be a lot more flattering, in that case."

"Oh, Mr. Holmes, tread carefully. Miss Hooper will certainly not like your lack of experience in certain arts – using experience loosely, of course. And she wouldn't like my first hand experience."

"The same experience that cost you several million quid from the British Government?"

Irene glowered, and Molly had to back away a little bit. Goodness, she could look fierce.

"Perhaps you would like a stepping stool to feel tall where I am concerned, Mr. Holmes?"

"Oh my god," said Molly, slamming a dish of caramel custard down. "If both of you really want to flirt, do not do it in front of me. And if you want a room, I will leave the apartment. This is not the time to play Sassy McSasserson."

"Sassy McSasserson?" questioned Irene.

"Flirting?" asked Sherlock.

"Isn't that your mutated version of it?" asked Molly, slicing into the dish and giving everyone a bowl each. "Whatever, I don't want to hear of it." Molly walked off into her room, slamming her door shut for good measure.

"There you go, Mr. Holmes. You've upset her."

"It's your fault. You never did learn to keep well enough alone," said Sherlock.

"Compliments on compliments. Miss Hooper seems to make you a better person."

He coolly stared at her, ignoring the truth of her statement.

"Oh. Oh." Irene seemed mildly astonished. "So she does make you a better person."

"Go away, Miss Adler."

"After I have seen your bizarre mating ritual – I do intend to."

"To what?" Molly had wandered back.

"Nothing, my dear. But we do have to leave," said Irene, relaxing in her chair.

"Alright," said Molly, clearing the table. She handed Sherlock a back pack. "Your stuff," said Molly cheerfully. "I've packed as much food as possible, along with clothes and other necessities. Irene, would you like something?" asked Molly.

"No, darling."

"Oh, go on," said Molly easily. "I can tell you need hair clips. One can never have enough hair clips." She wandered away again, and returned with a cardboard box. It was decently small.

"Can I know a little bit of where you are going?" asked Molly.

"The middle east," said Sherlock, looking out of the window.

"Oh. You're going to need sunglasses," said Molly, reaching to a shelf. "And sunscreen. Irene, I hope you're carrying other... necessities?"

"Molly, stop it," said Sherlock. "We need to go."

"I shall wait outside while you say goodbye to Miss Hooper," said Irene, pausing, briefly, to press a kiss on Molly's cheek. "Au Revoir, Miss Hooper."

"Goodbye," said Molly. "Take care. Don't get killed."

"Sound advice," muttered Sherlock, as Irene shut the door.

"I try," said Molly wryly.

"Molly, I will be careful. I will not die. I will return. Now that that's out of the way, thanks for your hospitality."

"Oh, pish to that," said Molly. "It's a bolthole, isn't it?"

"Well –"

"Sherlock," said Molly.

"A little bit," said Sherlock.

"Well, being friends with you was always a hazard," sighed Molly. She reached out, hugging him. "Be careful, yeah?"

"I thought we got this over with," said Sherlock.

"Call it an obsession," said Molly. "People are waiting for you over here."

Sherlock watched her, as she stood in front of him. Her eyes, bright, her face, flushed, her mouth, smiling. The straight way she was holding herself while looking at him. Her open and messy hair. The soup stains on her cardigan. The dirt on her trousers.

You're looking for your English girl.

"Molly Hooper," he said, finally.

"Yeah?" asked Molly.

He bent down, slowly, deliberately, kissing her gently on the cheek. His breath ghosted on her cheek – it was unimaginably soft. "Goodbye," he said.

Molly seemed momentarily befuddled. Sherlock walked out of the apartment.

"I'll miss you," heard Sherlock, almost a whisper.

"Chemical defects do have a tendency to be beautiful little disasters, don't they?" asked Irene. Sherlock did not say anything, staring out of the blurring rush of the English countryside. Sherlock fingered the back pack, feeling something very rectangular and hard. He frowned.

He opened the pocket slowly, extracting Molly's copy of To Kill a Mockingbird.

Molly's handwriting was neatly fitted into a small note – "Grey areas and other such necessities."

Sherlock smiled.

Love them reviews!

PS: The thing is, the phrase 'You're thinking about your English girl' is a reference from the Historical novel by Ken Follet called World Without End. It's really nice, second part to Pillars of the Earth. I really like the phrase.