I'll never shake away the pain…

I close my eyes but she's still there…

I let her steal into my melancholy heart…

It's more than I can bear.


John,

I will be away from London for the next two months or so. I won't be taking my mobile with me, but I will check my e-mail regularly. Please send me updates/pictures/videos of Rosie while I'm away.

Please forgive me for not saying goodbye in person, but I'm not ready to face answering the question of "why" that you have every right to ask. If you really want to know, ask your best mate about our latest phone conversation and his most recent "experiment."

When I come back, I sincerely hope that I will be a better and stronger woman than I have let myself become. Only then will I be the godmother that Rosie deserves.

Please don't worry about me, John. I need to do this. For Rosie, for Mary, and most of all for myself.

Molly


Minutes later found Sherlock walking as fast as he could down the residential streets of London towards the one residence. Once every word of that letter had been burned into his memory, it had dropped from his hands as he rushed out the door. He'd barely remembered to grab his coat and scarf on the way out. Damnit, he'd forgotten to say anything to John or say goodbye to Rosie before he'd left…

"Then be damn sure to answer your phone when he calls later."

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks and turned his head to the right so quickly that his neck cricked. Mary Watson stood beside him, looking at him with a deadly serious look on her face.

Oh, Sherlock knew exactly what was going on. He'd watched John go through the same thing after her death: conjuring her in his mind's eye and placing her in reality as if nothing had ever happened.

But so much had happened, and she was still so very much needed…

Mary – the Mary his subconscious mind had conjured, anyway – gave him a sad, compassionate smile. "I know, Sherlock, I know. But it is what it is. Now, let's keep walking before you attract some unwanted stares."

Automatically, Sherlock obeyed and resumed his punishing pace. Mary remained in the far corner of his sight, easily walking beside him. Sherlock did not engage in conversation with her, because he knew that would attract unwanted stares and attention to himself. The sight of a man talking to himself on the street was never a good sight. No, best to get to Molly's flat as quickly as possible without causing any delays.

"You know you could get there a lot quicker if you hailed a cab," said Mary cheerfully, still keeping pace beside him. "Then again, I imagine that you need to exert all of that manly turmoil raging inside you." She ended her statement with a snort.

Sherlock couldn't resist rolling his eyes and quickening his pace ever so slightly at that.

"Don't blame me, love! I'm you, this is coming out of your mind, so I'm just telling you what you already think and know in the guise of your deceased friend."

"I know," Sherlock grumbled under his breath.

"Watch out!"

So distracted was he by his thoughts, Sherlock nearly walked into a busy street where he didn't have the right-of-way. But Mary's loud warning caused him to come to a halt just in time. Refusing to look around him – and ignoring the angry honks and curses from the crossing cars – Sherlock stepped back onto the sidewalk to wait for the signal to cross.

"Buy a flower, dearie?"

That didn't sound like Mary (though she was quite talented at creating different voices and accents). So, Sherlock turned his head towards the parallel street. On the side of the sidewalk was a small flower stand, run by a weathered old woman with a cringe-worthy smile, that looked to have been taken straight out of a Victorian painting. Under normal circumstances, Sherlock wouldn't have even acknowledged its presence and ignored it. But Mary stood beside the vendor with an encouraging nod, pointing to a particular flower on display.

When Sherlock saw what type of flower it was, his stomach felt heavy again. Pink roses…just like the enchanted rose in the storybook he'd been reading to Rosie…Well, he did have some spare change in his coat pockets…

Surprisingly, a single pink rose cost him only tuppence. "You look like you need one, dearie," was all the old vendor woman said as she'd handed him the rose.

"Oh, believe me, he's going to need a lot more than that," said Mary matter-of-factly.

Sherlock couldn't help but shoot Mary a glare before nodding his thanks to the vendor woman and walking away (now that he had right-of-way at the crosswalk).


It certainly took longer to reach Molly's street than it would have had he taken a cab. But he hardly felt tired; he had done much longer and harder physical excursions on cases. Mary did not fade or go away, and she didn't speak again until they had reached Molly's street.

"You know she's most likely not there, Sherlock," she said as they both slowed their pace. "She probably left that note in the mailbox when she visited yesterday evening."

"But she didn't leave right after leaving Mrs. Hudson and Rosie," argued Sherlock. Molly's street was quite deserted (everybody was off at work or school by now). "Mrs. Hudson didn't mention Molly having any luggage or suitcases with her."

"And over twelve hours have passed since then, Sherlock. Plenty of time for her to get out and far away from London by now."

Sherlock's lips twisted into a tight, ugly shape, and he did not respond.

He came to a stop at the stairs leading down to the front door of Molly's basement flat. Sherlock had been following pure instinct in walking all the way to Molly's flat right after reading that letter. But now that he had arrived, his fear grew just as large as his determination.

If Molly was here, then Sherlock faced the monumental task of repairing their relationship to normal by explaining to her everything that had happened during and leading up to Sherrinford – things that he had not even begun to process himself yet.

If Molly was gone…then Sherlock would have to face a very terrible reality indeed: that Molly Hooper no longer wanted him in her life, to the point where she left without a goodbye.

"Come on, Sherlock," said Mary softly at his shoulder. "You know you have to. It's the least that she deserves."

Sherlock gulped, and walked down the steps towards her front door as though he were being led to his execution. With a trembling finger, he ran the bell and waited.

Minutes passed, and nothing. No movement and no noise came to him, even when he pressed his ear to the front door. Realizing that the terrible reality was becoming real, Sherlock put the pink rose stem sideways in his mouth so that he could have both hands free to pick her lock.

"You do realize that this makes you look like a desperate and insane love interest from a rom-com?" asked Mary dryly, even as she was keeping herself from laughing.

"Shut up," Sherlock said, his words muffled by the flower. "I need to see for myself."

Since this was far from the first time that Sherlock had picked the lock of Molly's front door, he was through it in less than twenty seconds. He took the flower out of his mouth and called out, "Molly?"

But again, there was no response of any kind. As he shut the door behind him (and Mary), he knew and felt that it was empty. Like a lost boy, Sherlock wandered around from the front hall to the sitting room, and then he finally turned towards her lovely little kitchen.

The scene of the crime.

"Oh, no, Sherlock," said Mary, who was already standing in the kitchen. More specifically, she stood in the exact spot that Molly had stood during that phone call. And she was pointing to the counter with an absolutely heartbroken look on her face.

His heart pounding, Sherlock walked to the kitchen, standing opposite Mary at the counter. He looked at what was resting on its top, and suddenly his breath froze in his chest.

There lay Molly's mobile phone – the screen of which was absolutely shattered.

The sight of that phone, the primary and last link of communication that Sherlock could always depend on with Molly, now broken and left behind…well, Sherlock felt a great affinity with that phone now. After dropping the pink rose beside the broken device, he gripped the edge of the kitchen counter as he leaned over it, trying desperately to catch his breath. His eyes burned so he shut them tightly, but all he could see was Molly's face as it had been when he'd watched her in this room, talking on this mobile: hurt, humiliated, and heartbroken.

"Easy, sweetheart, easy," Mary's voice sounded in his ear. "Calm yourself. Easy does it. She won't be gone forever, you know that. You read the letter: she'll come back for Rosie's sake. All hope isn't lost."

It took a while for her words to settle in Sherlock's mind, therefore allowing his breathing to become the normal, boring task that it was. With a shaking hand, he wiped his eyes (thank Christ no tears had fallen).

Just then, he heard the flat door opening and closing. Followed by a very familiar set of footsteps to his ears.

His heart began to pound again, every instinct telling him that it could only be one person. Looking at Mary, she looked back at him with excited and encouraging eyes. "Don't worry," she whispered. "This isn't your imagination; I would know. This is real!"

Slowly, Sherlock turned on the spot to face the person who had just walked in.

His heart, which had been pounding like a drum, now dropped to the bottom of his stomach.

It was Molly…but it wasn't his Molly.