Really, I'm almost finished with the next chapter of Not My Name, I promise. This fun little thing is probably a piece of crap, but it only took a bit of time in my busy schedule to write. I originally intended for the first chapter to be a One Shot, but the ten reviews (thanks a lot guys!) I got demanded another chapter.

I do not own Sherlock!

Enjoy.

"Okay, Sherlock. Now I don't want you to panic just breathe deeply and—ompf."

Sherlock had somehow managed to launch himself across the room, wrapping his arms around a very alive and very much breathing Molly Hooper. She felt so warm, and it felt so good to feel her body move, and hear her gasp at his unexpected embrace. The warmth she had spread through him, more real than any hallucination and unlike any dream he hadn't deleted.

"You're dead. Stabbed once in the back, and then six times in the front. There was no struggle, and the killer messed up your flat afterwards. I punched Andersen. You're supposed to be dead, but you're not and I'm hallucinating and—"

"I know this is quite a lot for you to take in. Wow, usually this is the point where you faint. None of this hugging stuff."

"Faint? Wait usually implies that—"

"I've died five times in the years that I've known you Sherlock. Two times before this time you behaved very similarly. You—you come to the morgue at night and take my body out…then I wake up. This is the first time you haven't fainted."

Sherlock felt a sob rise in his throat, pressing his face into her neck, feeling her pulse, "Molly, Molly, Molly—" He couldn't make sense of what she was saying. She couldn't have died more than once but still be alive before him; that was simply impossible. But a tiny nagging voice in the back of his mind warned him that he was denying the evidence plainly laid out for him. Molly is alive.

"Listen, Sherlock." Molly had given up on prying him away and instead wrapped her arms about him, "You're going to go to sleep and when you wake up, you won't remember any of this. Everything will be fine, business as usual. So—so um, you can stop um hugging me now. Really, I'm fine. I'm okay."

As she pushed him with her left hand, Sherlock backed away, eyeing Molly. She was flushed, alive, still clutching the sheet against her bare chest, "This isn't possible."

"Improbable but not impossible."

"How are you alive?"

"Oh I thought you heard me…I'm a witch and I'm immortal. I kind of can't die. Well not kind of, I mean I pretty much tested out everything, knives, guns, plagues, malaria, spells, hanging…getting off topic again. I need to um…get dressed."

"Molly please tell me—"

"Tell you what, Sherlock? I'm just going to erase your memory anyway, so I really don't have to sit through your crisis as everything you've ever known about the universe comes crashing down around your ears. Oh…that wasn't very nice…I know this is hard for you."

"Molly please tell me what's going on!" Sherlock found himself almost begging, "I thought you were dead, don't you realize—I was going to—" He was going to find a man he knew that carried all sorts of ways to remove memories. He was going to shoot up with the strongest of whatever he had, and drift away and forget all about Molly. She seemed to sense his distress and the words he was trying and failing to grasp.

"I know. You did last time. I'll be right back."

Moments later, she emerged, fully dressed in an ugly yellow jumper and jeans, her hair down and around her face, and a small wane smile gracing her too thin lips. Wordlessly, Sherlock pulled her into yet another embracing, cursing this sentiment that had overtaken him. He chalked it up to shock, or perhaps it was a dream, in which case his actions bore no unfortunate consequences. Molly returned the hug, kissing his cheek.

"It's a shame, Sherlock. I literally have to die before you realize I'm your friend. Anyone else wouldn't have come back to you so conveniently."

"Then don't make me forget how much you actually do mean to me."

"That's against the rules."

"You break rules all the time."

"Well having a mortal know about me is one of those big no, no's like on par with killing."

"You musntn't tell a soul."

"Molly, you kept my fake suicide a secret, I think I can take whatever this is."

She smiled, looking down at her feet before up at him again, "So, Sherlock what are your questions?"

"How old are you?"

"Oh, you start with the offensive one, I see. Let's see….going by the number of times I've been on the earth rotating about the sun um…I'm approximately one thousand, one hundred and forty years old, give or take, and born in the winter of the first year of Alfred the Great's reign." She paused, looking up at the flickering light, "So…yeah, even though you're clever, you cannot actually grasp how long I've been alive."

Sherlock blinked, "You are a witch?"

"Yes. No greenface and broomstick though, I assure you."

"Are all witches—" Dare he say it? "Immortal?"

"No. Only the cursed ones." Molly smiled at him, plucking a peace of lint from his shoulder.

"How is it a curse?"

"A long life where nearly everyone you've ever loved will wither and die before your eyes isn't a blessing Sherlock. It's also boring. Why do you think I hang around you?"

At this point, Sherlock chuckled, "How is any of this possible?"

"Easy. It simply is. Nature and science intermingle with the supernatural and unknown all the time, Sherlock. You mortals are so clever, but so simple at the same time."

"Speaking cryptically doesn't suit you, Molly."

"Nor do jokes." Molly frowned, sitting on the bench where she once was dead—what a strange thought, referring to death in the past tense—and beckoned for him to sit next to her. Sherlock found himself doing so, found himself sitting next to this impossibility of a woman. She laced her hand in his, and then turned quickly giving him a peck on the lips, "Sherlock. I meant what I said. There are some rules I'm not allowed to break."

Before he could fully come to terms with the fact that she had so fearlessly kissed him, he had succumbed to a deep sleep.

He woke up, aware of the strange dream he hadn't deleted—a dream about Molly being dead. It had been horrible, it had made him feel things, real strange unfamiliar things. Devastation. Grief. Confusion. Fear. Death. Getting dressed while still replaying the dream—no it must have been a memory, he sped out the door and hailed a taxi. Just like the dream he found himself racing to her flat, not bothering with the buzzer and taking a back entrance. At Molly's door, he froze at last.

Slowly, Sherlock raised his curled, slightly shaking hand and knocked.

Molly opened the door, wearing a dressing gown with ducks all over it, and rubbing the sleep from her eyes, "S-Sherlock what are you doing in here?"

He brushed past her and into the flat, finding it devoid of blood, or anything suspicious. The only odd part of her flat was another painting hanging up of a forest. Sherlock turned back towards Molly, who had her arms crossed protectively across her chest.

"Molly, I had the strangest of dreams—"

"So…you've arrived at my flat at exactly four in the morning because of a dream? Okay, do whatever, I'm going back to sleep now…."

Sherlock didn't miss the smirk gracing her lips as she shuffled towards the bedroom, or the way that the front door closed on it's on accord.

So Molly would still bend and break rules for him.

Did you guy enjoy it?