A chill woke Molly. She rubbed her eyes and looked over at the unoccupied space to her left. There was scant evidence Sherlock was ever in the bed save for a faint imprint on his pillow. She sat up and looked at a clock on his bedside table which read a few minutes past 5 am. She had heard John tease him before about not sleeping but it was strange to actually learn about it firsthand.

She wrapped a sheet around herself and wandered out to the living room. Sherlock sat fully dressed in one of his suits in his chair with his hands propping up his chin. Toby lazed on the top of the chair behind him with one possessive paw on his shoulder. She thought Sherlock was asleep until his eyelids flew open.

"Trouble sleeping?" She asked.

"I don't need a lot of sleep. Why are you up?"

Molly caught her lip between her teeth for a moment. "It was a bit cold."

He nodded slowly. A frown furrowed his brow. She stood there a feeling self-conscious and contemplated whether she should sit down or not. She felt as if she were disturbing him.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled. "Am I bothering you?"

He didn't answer immediately. He stared through her as if she weren't there for several seconds. Then his eyes regarded her blankly.

"What's wrong?" She asked.

He stood up. "I have to go out."

"Really? Right now?"

He strolled past her and grabbed his jacket from a hook by the door. She couldn't believe it. Big red warning lights started flashing insistently in the control room of her mind.

"What's happened?"

He donned his jacket and twisted a scarf around his neck. "It's not your concern."

Molly stared at him. She knew her mouth was parted in surprise because she felt her own breath feather across her lips. He was always so hot and cold but this was beginning to get ridiculous.

". . . he only ever does as much as he needs to, doesn't he?"

She didn't know why Janine's words echoed through her head then but when Molly repeated them to herself, they seemed more significant than they had been at the time.

"Sherlock, I am confused. Why is it that the closer we are physically acquainted, the more distant we become?"

He made a sound of dismissal. "I don't have time for this."

"No, I don't suppose you do."

"Molly, you are just one piece of my life . . ."

"A piece? I'll be a pair if we keep doing what we've been doing."

He twisted his brow with a sardonic look on his face. "I am aware of that. You don't need to remind me."

Molly bit her lip. There was something unsettling in the familiarity of his dismissal. She had experienced this before but on a much smaller scale. Again, Janine's annoying counsel echoed through her thoughts.

". . . my heart and my mind are still in disagreement about some moments because he was. That. Good."

She grabbed his jacket as he turned to leave. He barely turned his head and when he did, it was just to stare at her hand on his sleeve like it was a pesky insect. She drew it back as if burned.

"I understand," she whispered. "I understand it's not been easy, Sherlock, but this is never going to work if you don't trust me with things."

He swung around and advanced on her with a murky look in his eyes. She backed away. There was something menacing in his movements which made her shrink in retreat. She hated that he reminded her of his brother Sherrinford as his gaze scanned critically over her frame.

"He's nothing but a machine held together by purpose and function and powered by lies."

"You could never understand, Molly," he mumbled.

He said it so matter-of-factly, in the same manner she had heard him speak a million times before, but this time it rang shrilly in her ears. It was a wretched thing to hear.

"I have to go." He opened the door. "I will see you later. Mycroft has his best team outside. You should be fine."

Molly watched him leave.

". . . Such convincing lies."

Only a few hours later, Molly's eyes fell on John across the busy coffee shop. He looked tired, pale and very sad. She swallowed a lump in her throat and turned away for a moment to fan her flushed skin. She patted her hands against her face, steadied her breath and resumed her approach.

"H-hello, John," She said, wishing her voice was stronger.

He jumped up from his seat. "M-Molly."

For a moment, they both stood there, then a flood gate opened. John's eyes welled up with tears. Molly threw her arms around his insubstantial frame and hugged him for all she was worth. It had only been days but he seemed as if he were wasting away.

"Oh, John, I am so sorry, so very sorry."

She felt him gather her closer for a moment. Then, his hold went slack and he deflated into his chair again. "Please sit. Thank-you for coming."

Molly bobbed her head and sat opposite of him. He looked so unkempt. He hadn't shaved recently, his hair was unwashed and he wore a tatty beige jacket over a stained green tee. He must have noticed her appraisal.

"F-forgive my current state. I am having trouble being motivated to do much of anything."

"Including eat?" She probed.

He looked away. "Everything tastes of ashes."

Molly reached across the table and took his hand. "John, you know I would do anything for you, you're my friend. I love you. Sherlock loves you . . ."

John jerked his hand back and balled it into a fist on the table. He squeezed his eyes shut for several moments.

"Don't, Molly, I do not want to talk about Sherlock and I do not want you to tell him I asked for your help."

Molly chewed her lip. "Yes, of course, John, but he's going to know we spoke. I've acquired a shadow, you see."

John looked up with concern. "Yes, I heard about what happened from Greg. Are you alright?"

She touched the base of her neck absentmindedly. "I'm okay, John. A little fright, that's all. I'll be fine. I'm more worried about you. What can I do?"

John rubbed a hand over his face. Then his fingers drummed on the table as he lowered his voice.

"I am sorry I didn't let you examine Mary."

Molly frowned. "What? D-don't be, John. I didn't w-want to do i-it, truly."

"Would you do it now if I asked you?"

"Oh," she felt her eyes go wide, "I didn't expect that . . ."

John's eyes were impossibly sad when he looked up at her with moisture glinting along his lids. His lips quivered.

"I need your help. The autopsy done on her was a complete farce."

Molly's brows drew together. "Where was it performed?"

"Over at University."

Molly made a face. "John, they're usually pretty good over there. The government relies on them for all their big cases . . ."

"Yes, exactly, the government. Molly, the Holmes are all over this despite my efforts to prevent their interference. I feel like Mycroft would cover this all up if he could just to avoid sullying their name."

Molly shook her head vigorously. "John, Sherlock would never let that happen!"

His eyes dropped. "I am not so sure about that."

She swallowed. "I know this is hard, but surely you cannot doubt his love for you after everything he's done. His feelings aren't always apparent, I know this, but his actions are . . . I mean, has he ever given you any reason to think he would behave so duplicitously? Especially at the expense of your friendship?"

John's laugh was humorless. "A million times! Molly, you don't know him like I do. He's capable of great things but also horrific things. I know his reasoning seems so complex. I mean, it's astounding sometimes what he can do but in the end, it's all very simple. He doesn't make decisions based on dynamic concepts like feelings. He boils it down to logic - the binary language of a computer. He chooses a 1 or a 0 based on what advances his agenda. It's cold . . . it can be so cold."

Molly clenched her hands on her lap. "Everyone has such a terrible opinion of him, e-everyone. . ."

The coffee shop buzzed around them. Molly felt at the eye of a storm without its benefit of a calm center.

John tugged at the hair at his temples. "Arg, I know you love him. I know you do. It chokes me that he has taken advantage of that. Look what it's gotten you."

She grimaced. "I am not a child, John. I know what I'm doing."

"LIAR!" Her inner voice protested. "Lying, liar, McLiarson!"

"Don't underestimate him. For the love of God, Molly, it's a mistake everyone makes to their own detriment. Even his brothers, Mycroft and Sherrinford alike, they both underestimate him. They always have."

She took several breaths to tamp down the ire beginning to boil her blood. John closed his eyes briefly. He seemed drained. His voice became barely audible above the din of conversation around them.

"I am sorry. I didn't come here to lecture you. I need your help now Doctor Hooper. I need you to provide me answers. I lost sight of it for a bit but I know you are one of the only people I can rely upon."

She shifted in her seat. "I would love to help you in any way I can but . . ."

"Please, I beg you. They want me to sign a release and send her off to the burners with a heart murmur as her cause of death."

"I-is that what was found?"

He clasped his hands together so forcefully that his knuckles blanched. "Yes, like I said. It was a joke. I'm not even sure that great fat pig of a pathologist, Dr. Werstiff or something, even did more that give her a cursory glance."

She scrunched her nose. "You mean, Dr. Werstein?"

John raised a brow. "You know him?"

She sighed. "Yes, he's not the most thorough examiner. He can be, erm, lazy. Suffice to say, this wouldn't be the first time I've been sought for a second opinion after one of his cases."

John brightened. "Then you'll do it?"

She wrung her hands. She could not refuse him.

"John, I-I will do it on one condition."

"Yes, yes, anything."

She cleared her throat. "You have to trust me. You cannot ask me to d-do this and fling the results back in my face or accuse me of being in cahoots with Sherlock or Mycroft if you do not like what I find. I cannot be dissuaded when it comes to the truth, John, nor would I ever lie to you . . . e-even if asked."

He nodded quickly. "Yes, I know. I do know that. Thank-you. Hopefully, I can arrange everything for later this afternoon."

Silence fell over them for a minute or an hour. It was hard to gauge the time as she tumbled down a rabbit hole of thoughts. After a while, John started tapping on the table with his fingers. She looked up at him.

"If you don't mind my asking, what's going on between you two?" John asked.

Molly's face flamed. "I – ahm, er, I don't know to be honest."

He fidgeted. He kept looking askance. "Have you, ahem, done more than what I saw Saturday? Bollocks! It's none of my business. It's just . . ."

She cast her eyes down. Oh, he had to know. Her face was probably flashing a big neon, "SEX! SEX! SEX!" sign on her forehead.

He cursed. "You have. Quite a bit extra, I imagine. Molly, I don't want to offend you but more than that, I don't want you to be hurt."

"Please, no more lectures! I need to make up my own mind."

"Yes, of course, I'm sorry."

Molly fiddled with an advertisement placard on the table. Her eyes flitted around, looking for something in which she could use as an anchor. They fell to John's hands again for a tick.

She licked her lips nervously. "In order to do that, I need information. Sherrinford alluded to something when he, um, visited. Anyways, Mycroft and Sherlock sort of confirmed it but no one ever told me what happened. He did something, though, didn't he? Sherlock, I mean, he did a b-bad thing. He razed a library or something."

John went very pale. "Oh, Molly, don't ask me about that. You need to hear it from him."

She grabbed his hand. "No, he won't tell me, you know he won't. John, you have to tell me what he did."

John's eyes flew around wildly. He leaned forward. He opened his mouth then shut it again and started shaking his head.

Molly squeezed his hand. "Please, oh, please. I need to know. He's hiding things from me. He's being dishonest. I know it in my heart."

John's voice dropped to a whisper. "God, Molly, I don't know how to tell you this . . . he, mm, ahem, he murdered a man. He shot him unarmed. In cold blood."

Molly started shaking her head. Her face twisted. "No, what? Are you sure? You can't be sure . . ."

"I was there. He thought he was protecting Mary and I but he shouldn't have done it, Molly. He didn't have the right. He acted as judge, juror, and executioner in a matter of seconds. I love the man, I still do, but he's not right in the head if he can give in to that sort of impulse."

Molly staggered to her feet. She didn't want to hear any more. Her world had just been upended again and her heart felt like it was splitting in her chest.

"Oh, Molly, God. I shouldn't have told you. Sorry."

She leaned closer while fighting the urge to collapse against him. "W-who was it? Who?"

John let out a breath. "Charles Augustus Magnussen."