I copied the photos and kept a copy of my favorite with me, in the pocket of whatever coat I wore. It seemed silly and sentimental, but it made me feel somehow stronger, carrying a bit of him wherever I went, and I never told or showed anyone, even Lestrade.

Lestrade had begun to chivvy me into getting back out into the employment and romance markets. I had been lagging- I harbored a strange dread of going back out and having to communicate with strangers- but I knew he was right. Greg had gone so far as to suggest that I could complete simple training and join the Yard; after all, I had the right background for it from my service. But that seemed too close to home, a painful reminder of what had been.

I opted instead for an interview at St. Bartholomew's. As long as I entered the same way every day and kept out of the morgue, I reasoned, I could almost avoid the memories.

I was able to secure a position there with relative ease. I had done my time there in previous years, built up a resume and even a reputation that I could rely on. The work was a bit mundane, but it paid well, and it got me out of the house and back into contact with the rest of the world, which I quickly grew used to again.

I met up with Greg Lestrade every Friday after work. I hadn't had a mate like him in years, and certainly not since I'd been in Afghanistan. Occasionally others joined us: Mrs. Hudson, a few times, Mike Stamford once or twice.

One evening when I arrived at Greg's flat, someone familiar that I hadn't seen in a long while opened the door. I stopped short when I saw her.

"Hello, John."

Her voice was just as I remembered it, timid and kind. I swallowed. I felt unreasonably guilty, remembering the way Sherlock had treated her. It was as if, now that he was gone, I had taken on responsibility for his social dysfunction and, in this case, inadvertent cruelty.

She put a hand on my arm, looking at me with concern. Everybody looked at me that way, these days. I took a deep breath through my nose, trying to clear my head.

"Molly, it's- it's good to see you," I managed.

Molly smiled. "Oh, it's good to see you too, John. It's been too long."

It's been three months. A quarter of a year. Sometimes it didn't feel like that long, as if it had been just a few days before that I was fighting my way through the mass of restraining arms toward Sherlock's still form. Sometimes it felt like it had been years ago.

Greg had come to stand beside Molly at the door, and now he took me by the arm and guided me to the sofa. I sat, mechanically. He sat beside me. Molly ducked into the kitchen, seeming to sense that I needed a minute to process. Greg picked up the bottle of wine that sat next to several glasses on the coffee table and poured a fresh glass, handing it to me as he took up his own.

"John," he said after a minute, "are you alright?"

I nodded. "Yeah, I'm fine," I asserted. Close enough to the truth. I am fine, in one or two ways at least. Greg sighed.

"Is it Molly?" he asked.

I took a sip of the wine. It was warm, soothing on my throat. Just answer him truthfully, I told myself. He's asking because he cares.

"I don't know, it's just," I bit my lip. "Sherlock-" My voice was rougher than I would have hoped. I cleared my throat and tried again. "Sherlock was so unfair to Molly. I don't-" I don't what? I swallowed. I didn't finish. I didn't know how to finish. I glanced up at Greg. He was looking thoughtfully at me.

"You know," he said after a minute, seeming to understand that I couldn't say more, "that was who he was." He took a sip of wine. "I think Molly understands that. She never speaks of him unkindly."

I appreciated Greg's frank reassurance, but at the same time there was something that made me uncomfortable about the way he said it. That was who he was. When he was alive, Sherlock's lack of social graces had been appalling and admonishable. Now that he was gone, we had to accept who he had been and move on. I don't want to move on.

Molly returned quickly with a tray of cheese and crackers, and I slowly relaxed as we snacked and drank wine and talked. Molly had changed, blossomed in Sherlock's absence. She didn't stumble through her sentences anymore; she had lost the anxious, fluttery manner she had always had. Or maybe she hadn't changed. Maybe I'd just never been around her enough without Sherlock to see who she really was.

It took several minutes after Molly returned from the kitchen for me to escape my mental torpor enough to wonder for the first time what Molly was doing over at Greg's in the first place.

"Er- are you two-" I didn't finish, but they seemed to understand. Greg blushed a little, and Molly gave a self-concious little laugh.

"We went out Sunday night for the first time," Molly said shyly.

Greg smiled in at her. "Yes, we did," he agreed, rather dreamily.

Molly and Greg were perfect for each other. The more I watched them, the more I understood that. They seemed to be head-over-heels for one another, and soon Molly was joining us every other Friday evening. She was cautious of stepping on our friendship, offering to stay away on Friday nights in general, but I knew Greg was too infatuated to be happy with that arrangement. Besides, Molly was becoming a good friend of mine herself.

But even as the months passed and the death of my best friend became easier to think about and talk about, Molly and I never discussed Sherlock. Greg and I did, almost freely. Sherlock's name would come up in frequently casual conversation. We spoke of him fondly and at times disparagingly, and slowly it started to hurt less.

If Greg or I mentioned Sherlock around Molly, though, she would either excuse herself or change the subject. She did this so subtly that for a long time I didn't even realize it, but when I did, and begun testing it, I found that she never participated in any sort of discussion or mention of him. She could have been suffering from some measure of trauma as a result of his suicide, but I found it hard to believe that something like that would be affecting Molly more than me.

So one Friday evening when Greg went to the store and left Molly and I on our own, I decided to confront her about it. We were sitting shelling peas and chatting, and I couldn't think of an appropriate way to ease Sherlock into the conversation, so I decided to just plunge in.

"Could I talk to you about Sherlock?" I asked.

If I hadn't been watching carefully, I wouldn't have noticed the way her fingers slipped momentarily on the pea she was holding. She righted them and shelled it quickly, then dropped the empty husk into the bowl with the others and stood.

"Just a moment," she said, beginning to walk briskly from the room.

"No, Molly, wait!" I called out. She stopped, but didn't turn around. "Molly," I started carefully, "why do you always avoid talking about him?"

She turned, at that. For once, I couldn't read the expression on her face. "I- I don't avoid talking about him." Her tone suggested a defiance that her stammering belied.

"Yes, you do," I argued. "Molly, come back and sit."

She did, slowly, avoiding my gaze.

"Did something happen?" I asked. Then, "did something happen between you two?" It seemed almost too impossible to even be worth mentioning, but I couldn't think what else could have been causing her strange behavior.

Molly shook her head uncertainly, still not looking at me.

"Molly," I said after a minute, "I- I'm so sorry for the way he- the way he always treated you. I shouldn't have-"

"No, John," she said, looking at me now. Her expression was oddly distressed. "No, I- John, you mustn't feel guilty for-" She stopped. She seemed to be entreating me for something with her gaze, but I couldn't figure out what it could be. I waited to see if she would continue and, to my slight surprise, eventually she did.

"That night before Sherlock- well, morning, I suppose, I- well, we- er- we talked."

She was back to not looking at me, except for little furtive glances. She'd assumed that same restive, nervous demeanor that I hadn't seen in months. He has that effect on her even from beyond the grave.

"What did you talk about?" I prompted after a moment's silence.

She looked up and gave me a small smile. "He was kind to me," she said abstractedly.

I took a deep breath. "Sherlock. Was kind. To you." She nodded earnestly. I felt rather bewildered by the whole situation. Molly's undecipherable expressions and vacillation between confidence and timidity was baffling enough, but what she was saying... Kind. I had seen concern for others, at times, perhaps even a sort of caring, but kindness? Kindness implied empathy.

"How?" I asked.

Molly looked thoughtful, as if she were carefully considering something. After a moment she began to speak, slowly and deliberately.

"He told me that he'd always trusted me, and that I was important to him, even if he didn't always act like it," she said.

He told me he was too busy to go see Mrs. Hudson when she was dying. Though, of course, that had been a setup, Sherlock's setup; to get me far away enough that I couldn't stop him.

"Why, though?" I said it thoughtlessly, not realizing how it might sound.

"Does it really matter?" Molly asked sharply. She began shelling peas again, in an efficient, end-of-conversation sort of way.

I shook my head. "No, Molly, it doesn't. I'm sorry."

And that was the end of that, though she hadn't really answered my initial question, and I didn't stop wondering about it.