AN: WELL. This story IS, obviously, AU as of last night. I haven't watched The Empty Hearse yet, though, and even when I have, I'll try my very best to continue this story, because it seems a pity not to finish, as it's complementing my first story - which is just as AU now, of course...
Still, there may be people who enjoy, and I assure you that a single comment will make a major difference in the speed that this story will be updated! All the best and a Happy New Year!

Okay, maybe it's time to explain this a little, as it's not (primarily ;)) my aim to confuse my readers here. As the story note states, this story is told in reverse order, beginning, as you will have noticed, with Sherlock's and John's reunion. It will move backwards in time now, and all the "regular" chapters will be from Sherlock's perspective, just as all chapters of the companion piece "Closed Record" were from John's.
However, while writing, I found it necessary and advantageous to integrate other people's views on the events described by John and Sherlock. So far, it seems like there's going to be an "Interlude" between all regular chapters, told from alternating perspectives. They are placed on the same timeline as the chapters, so this very first Interlude takes place BEFORE the previous chapter Five Hundred and One, but AFTER the upcoming Chapter 2.
Apropos. I am certain that I'm not the only person to find this annoying, but there is no way of avoiding the automatic numbering of chapters, so the prologue, chapters and interludes are named "chapter" indiscriminately, which is not ideal.
Whenever I write about a certain chapter number, I am talking about MY numbering system ;)

Interlude I

The morgue is quiet. It always is, of course, but it has become more so since Sherlock's – ever exciting – visits to the place ended with him an occupant in the square honeycomb of bodies. For a moment, she wonders why no one has ever thought of making hexagonal compartments to economise, but then the image of the dead as pale larvae put even her off enough to make her concentrate on the task at hand. Or maybe it is thinking about Sherlock.

Ever since this madness started, her life has felt unreal, put on hold, somehow. The less she sees of him now, the more certain she becomes that some catastrophe is waiting to happen. It could be just her conscience, because isn't lying one of the deadly sins?

The phone on the wall starts ringing, making her jump where she is standing lost in thought.

.

Ten minutes later, she has taken Ron Adair to the slightly more temperate examination room. He's lying on the slab now; it might be the same one she showed Sherlock on. It is not, she knows – and this man is dead, too. Molly looks down at the peaceful face, and up into the bloodshot eyes of the DI. He has not given any explanation for his sudden interest in the deceased, who she examined over a week ago. Suspicious death, the form had said. Because nobody should kill himself at that age, being in such excellent health.

She sneaks another glance at the detective. Lestrade has never looked as bad as this, she thinks, not during the investigations he was subject to following Sherlock's death, not even when Andrea left him with the children. She learnt all this overhearing the idle chatter of other people, unkind commentary on a man that some couldn't seem to wait to see degraded.

She feels a pang of guilt for having been so caught up in her own misery, when really she had the advantage of knowing the truth. She might have stuck up for him, in some way, she supposed. But she is a coward when it comes down to it. The idea of becoming the target of her colleagues mockery, once again, or of inadvertently betraying, not herself but Sherlock's secret, effectively sealed her lips.

In the absolute quiet of the white-tiled room she notices her heartbeat gradually picking up as more and more time passes. She does have a tendency to lose track of time, but the large, station-like wall clock assures her that the detective has indeed been standing there mutely for a full five minutes.

"He's told me." Lestrade's voice, when it finally comes, is toneless, slightly above a whisper and rough, while he keeps assessing the body (and why is Adair lying there, really?) between them with an intensity that goes straight through the object he pretends to examine. "That... that Sherlock's not dead."

Molly's breath catches, and her knuckles turn white with the force of her gripping the edge of the stainless steel table. Should she say something? she wonders.

"You did it, didn't you? Help him. It must have been you." He's talking fast now, and more loudly, but Molly is not sure about his tone.

She nods nonetheless, making herself square her shoulders and look up. She does not know what to expect from the DI. She has never been sure about him, or his relationship with Sherlock, really, and apart from the most awkward Christmas party in living memory, – and the funeral – she has never even met the man outside of work.

"I wouldn't believe him at first, you know. I saw Sherlock's body; after all, there was a certificate. Hell, there was a burial." He swallows, patently remembering the short ceremony in the cemetery, and all the unpleasantness that surrounded it, as well as she does. "There even were a few people who mourned for the mad bastard."

Suddenly, Molly feels cold to the bone. "You don't understand," she tries.

"Damn right, I don't. And I don't care for being told another bunch of lies and secrets. Particularly the kind that I have to live with afterwards! And decide whether or not to keep!" His eyes are drilling into hers, and she is almost glad to see anger there now. "What, in God's name, was he thinking? What has John, or Mrs Hudson, done to deserve that?" His voice is sharp, bitter in a way that isn't in keeping with his usual self, she thinks. "Come to think of it, not even I might have!"

"No! I know, you don't," and that is really all she wants to tell him, but then the words just keep tumbling out. "But Sherlock didn't, either. He was so afraid. I couldn't let him down. I don't know what mad plan he would have come up with had I said no. He never told me how long he would have to... He made me promise. But when things didn't get better, not for John, or anyone, and not for Sherlock, either, I thought I should tell you all anyway, but I just could not. Because what if he was right, what if you would be dead if you knew? It would have-"

"Now, wait a second. What... what the hell are you talking about?"

"Moriarty had..." The words dry out. She should not even be aware of this, she knows. Sherlock had wanted her to know as little as possible about the matter. But she is no fool.

"Moriarty has been dead for almost a year and a half!"

"He has, but all of this was Moriarty's plan. He had every contingency covered long before they ever met up on the roof." Molly's eyes move upwards in both a reference to the scene of the man's death and a tired plea for Lestrade to understand what she is saying without her having to spell it out.

"He– " Lestrade's eyes narrow. He draws a deep breath that drains away too early. "Moriarty threatened to kill…" She sees him weighing the options in his mind. And, predictably, he goes with the one she saw first, as well. "Are you telling me he's been doing this to protect John?"

And because she really should not know any better, she nods, but looks away, at the incision forming a neat letter Y on Adair's chest.

"That is mad, even by his standards."

"It's not mad," she claims. But of course it is; she's thought so a hundred times herself.

"Molly... Dr Hooper," he says, correcting himself, which gives her the opportunity to cut his protestations short.

"Oh, I know! It was not a good things to do, you can't call it that, of course. But he didn't have much time to plan things out. He was... well. He was desperate when he understood what was going to happen. Or do you think he would have asked me, of all people, for help? I don't think he ever meant for it to take this long. But he had to keep going." She tries to make this less of a rant, but is not sure she'll be able to make much sense. Not after all this time, when she is feeling and fearing too much. "You know how I know how bad it is for him? That it's been hell for him? He has not asked about him once! I don't think he has even said John's name out loud. And I tried talking about John with him, believe me! And then I didn't for a bit, but then he did, kind of." Lestrade's frown makes her stop to breathe, at last.

"I told him when they hospitalised him after that breakdown. I was hoping... I was sure Sherlock would finally stop this, let him know, because..." Lestrade is looking at her strangely now. "But he just said I had to do something about... about John, and I thought, great, what can I possibly do? I mean, I haven't been able to look him in the eye, let alone talk to him. But I went upstairs to check on him and fled when he woke up... So, I couldn't. It was... But then I did do something, and... and now..." She stops herself stammering, and swallows down the inappropriate tears scratching at the back of her throat. "He said I was the only one he could trust, but he can't. Because now I have to keep secrets from him, too, and he must know that. Of course he knows – but he still doesn't ask. I wonder – I wonder why he doesn't want to know; because it's not something he does, not wanting to know, is it? So I figured, maybe he..." She is suddenly too tired to go on.

"You know, that is not the story Mycroft Holmes was telling me yesterday..."

"Mycroft Holmes?"

"...when John came to my office to tell me about the wed-" He stops mid-word, turning a weird shade of sallow.

"I am to be a bridesmaid," Molly offers incongruously.

"Brides-" Lestrade stares at her like noticing for the first time that he is talking to a lunatic. "Sherlock doesn't know?"

Not that she hasn't been trying to tell him exactly that all the time. She shakes her head minutely. Two tears drip onto Adair's upper arm and run down onto the shining steel beneath.

"I couldn't tell him," she forces out, wiping the salty water from the dead man's skin. "He is this close to going off the rails, and I know he's been holding on only... only because he knows – because he thinks he can go home afterwards." Her voice finally breaks.

"Molly... It's not your fault."

She gives him a strange, crooked smile.

"How on earth have you been able to stand it?" It is not quite a question. And if it is meant to be one, she is not sure if they are talking about the same thing.

"I am glad that you know now," she admits and wipes at her eyes. "Does that mean he's coming back soon?"

Lestrade shrugs. "It means he needs my help, apparently."

.

One and a half hour after the call, Lestrade leaves with an assortment of Ron Adair's bodily fluids, tissue samples, lab results and CT scans. He waves them in an absentminded farewell gesture.

With an uncomfortable feeling that she has missed something there – but that might well also have something to do with talking to anybody about things long concealed – she returns the dead man to his cubicle.

"I doubt my brother will thank you for this indiscretion," the lanky man leaning against the mortuary refrigerator remarks. "But then, Sherlock has never been able to appreciate concern."

For the best Bee, which doesn't really need saying, as the entire story is. Still. Since I can't do more than write to distract you right now, I will just keep doing that ;)