I rage against the trials of love…

I curse the fading of the light…

Though she's already flown

So far beyond my reach,

She's never out of sight…


Thankfully, for Sherlock, he was able to tell Molly the whole story in less than an hour. He knew that not by looking at a clock, but by the fact that Molly stayed seated on her sofa, holding that throw-pillow to her chest, while he talked.

For the most part, her gaze remained steadily on him as he told the story, never interrupting him (she never had to since he didn't hold anything back). Occasionally, he had to force himself to go slower (he had a tendency to talk quite quickly) when Mary – still sitting beside Molly on the sofa – silently prompted him to.

When he was finished, Molly turned her gaze to the pillow she still held to her chest. She didn't say anything for what felt like an eternity, though Sherlock knew it could only have been a few minutes. He felt exhausted but relieved, lighter even, now that he had told it all. For the first time, he understood how talking about something could be therapeutic. No wonder John had faith in the process…perhaps now he did, too. Mary, still seated beside Molly on the sofa, gave him a little nod, letting him know that he'd done the best he could do by telling her everything.

Eventually, the silence was broken when Molly absently reached up to brush a tear off her cheek. Looking at it on her fingers, she gave a hollow chuckle.

"What was that for?" Sherlock snapped. The last thing that he had expected Molly to do after telling the whole story was chuckle.

Molly kept her gaze on the tear resting on her fingers and replied without apology: "Nothing, just…I don't know whether to be happy or sad at this reaction. I thought I'd cried every tear my body held last night."

Any indignation Sherlock had felt at her unexpected reaction disappeared at this equally unexpected reply. Now he just felt sick at the thought of Molly crying.

"This probably explains why she hasn't screamed, cried or hit you at all," said Mary softly, leaning to the side a bit so that he could see her clearly. "Now just sit still and quiet; you've told her everything that happened. Now it's her turn to speak. Just be patient and she will."

Sherlock made an imperceptible nod in her direction, and willed himself to do just that. And eventually, Molly did speak, in a soft and sorrowful voice.

"It's horrible, Sherlock…the whole story and situation…it must be true, not even you could make up something like that…" Her eyes suddenly got wide with panicked realization. "Oh, God…there are cameras in here…how long as she been watching me?!"

"I can't be sure, Molly," said Sherlock, in the calmest voice that he could. "She must have placed the cameras in your flat while you were at work sometime between that day in the ambulance and when she revealed her true identity to John."

"So, a month at most…" Molly murmured, looking sick and curling herself around the pillow she still held to her chest. "More than enough time to know my schedule, when I would be home and when I would be working…" Molly shot him a glare. "When would be the best time to get what she wanted from me. That certainly sounds familiar."

Sherlock couldn't help but shrink from her justified glare, and he felt ashamed once again. Both of them knew that, ever since Sherlock decided to work with no other pathologist, he had memorized not only her work schedule but every other schedule that she had, including her menstrual one. All the better to know when she would be the most willing to do what he needed…

"How do I spell your name again?" asked Mary sarcastically. "Oh, yes, it's eight letters long: A-R-S-E-H-O-L-E. Have I got that right?" She shot him a look as nasty as Molly's glare was cold.

Knowing that he had a big hole to climb out of, Sherlock said to Molly: "I will make sure that any surveillance that was placed in your flat is removed and destroyed before the day is out, Molly. I'll call Lestrade and have him send over his best forensic and technical officers."

Molly only kept glaring at him for a moment, and then she gave him a short nod. "The afternoon would be best," she said.

Nodding – and quite relieved that Sherlock was able to do something, able to correct at least one wrong that had been done to Molly – Sherlock pulled out his phone and called Lestrade. He made the request in a tone that indicated 'no' was not a correct answer. Thankfully, Greg didn't even try to, and said that he would personally oversee the de-bugging of Molly's flat to ensure all was left as it should be.

After relaying this to Molly once the call was over, she seemed to relax a bit. More silence followed for a few minutes, and it was Molly who eventually broke it:

"How bad off is 221B? And Mrs. Hudson's flat?"

Glad to have a question that he could easily answer, Sherlock replied: "Thankfully, the bomb was quite a small one. Though it would have severely injured or killed us had we remained in the sitting room, the blast wasn't strong enough to cause serious damage beyond my flat. Mrs. Hudson's flat is quite intact, just a few pictures and knick-knacks that fell from the force of the explosion upstairs. As for 221B…as I said, it's still there, but nearly everything in it was either damaged or destroyed. It will take some time to get it how it was before."

"That's a shame…" said Molly absently, her mind already turning to her next – and far more difficult – question: "What happens to your sister now?"

Sherlock sighed and ran a hand through his curls. "She'll go back to Sherrinford, once it's secure again. In the meantime, I know that she'll be placed in a maximum-security cell with full restraints and strict order to everyone not to engage with her. But I doubt that last order is necessary…she's been practically catatonic since she surrendered. Like her mind has broken…I may have brought her plane in to land but it was a harsh water landing that's rendered the plane severely damaged if not completely…Either way, she'll never be free again…"

His tone of voice was sad and defeated, speaking as much to himself as he was to Molly. In response to this, Molly nodded grimly, now looking at the wall opposite her. "That's as close to fair as it can be," she said quietly, more to herself than to Sherlock.

The detective's first reaction was shock, and not a pleasant kind, either. "What?" he breathed.

Molly finally looked at him, and there was no trace of tears in her eyes now. There wasn't a trace of an apology, either.

"However sick she may be, whatever unfair decisions have been made about her life, she murdered at least six people in cold blood, without hesitation or remorse, and would have killed more if you hadn't managed to get through to her. As you so candidly pointed out that day in the ambulance, Sherlock, I work with murder victims nearly every day. And nearly every day, I have to guide families through identifications, all of them terrible and heartbreaking. When someone is murdered, it's those who loved them – both the murdered and the murderer – that are committed to a life sentence of grief that they don't deserve and can't escape. Even when justice is served to the fullest it can be served – in this case, Euros losing her freedom for the rest of her life – nothing is fair because nothing can undue those actions or bring those people back. As I said, it's as close to fair as it can be."

Though her tone grew softer near the end, the steely backbone of her tone and gaze did not waver. Once again, Sherlock was reminded of just how strong Molly, her belief system and moral compass were. Though there was no more generous or giving soul in his life, Molly also wouldn't just stand by and stay silent if something wasn't right. As John had so eloquently put it, Molly saw through his bullshit and didn't hesitate to call him out when he crossed a line. That principle applied to the world, as well, as Molly was demonstrating now.

So, of course Sherlock couldn't fault Molly for her view of the situation; in fact, his regard for her grew even more. He knew that, if Euros hadn't been his sister, his opinion about the situation might not be as just as Molly's was.

After a pause, Molly continued, concern laced in her tone. "How are John and Mycroft? And what about your parents?"

Sherlock heaved a sigh, sitting back in his chair and folding his hands beneath his chin. "John is strong, and no soldier could have been better in that situation yesterday. He has his daughter, and Mary's memory, to make proud, and I've no doubt that he will."

Mary's eyes filled with tears before she shut them, a beatific smile on her face as she breathed a sigh of relief. Molly merely nodded, not at all surprised to hear this.

"Mycroft…well, he's not as strong as he believed he was. He knows that, though he had the best intentions, his actions have backfired. And, though he may object initially, our parents will learn the truth and everything that's happened. So much of this horrible situation happened because of secrets and lies."

Molly nodded in agreement. "You're right. Nothing is ever settled until it is settled right, and only the truth can do that." Sighing again, she put the sofa cushion behind her back and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "Well, Sherlock…between your family and your flat, you'll certainly have your work cut out for you while I'm gone."

Her unexpected last words were like a punch to Sherlock's gut. He sat up abruptly, looking at her with wide eyes. "You mean…you still mean to go?"

Molly looked at him, surprised by his words. Her gaze turned firm when she spoke, though. "Yes, I do, Sherlock. No explanation that you could have given me was going to change that fact."

"B-but…you know what happened now! You know that the phone call wasn't just an experiment or a cruel joke at your expense. You know now that I didn't have a choice, that I thought you were going to die unless you said…those words."

"And I believe you." Molly ran her fingers through her new bob and smoothed it out before she spoke again. "You were right about me knowing the truth before I left, Sherlock. It is better to know the truth rather than assume the worst…and I can't deny that I did…but I still have to leave."

"But why?" Sherlock knew that he sounded like a whining child, but he didn't care in his desperation.

Molly shut her eyes, visibly frustrated that she now had to explain herself to the man that she could hide nothing from anymore. Rubbing her face with her hands again, she said softly into her palms: "When Mary died…you weren't the only one who lost a close friend, Sherlock."

Sherlock, feeling uncomfortably cold again, looked at the specter sitting beside Molly on the sofa. Mary hung her head in sadness and whispered, "Oh, sweetheart…"

"I…" Sherlock began, almost afraid of what effect his words (whatever they would be) would have. "I know, Molly…" God, it sounded pathetic to his ears.

Suddenly, Molly threw aside the throw pillow and got up from the sofa. She slowly paced around her sitting room and refused to meet Sherlock's eye as she spoke in a very sad voice:

"Just after Mary's funeral, I got a call from Mycroft to come and see him about Mary's will…and what was left to me. Apparently, she only trusted him with that since she didn't want to tell anybody else about her past. It was all in a thick envelope…took me two bottles of wine and a nasty hangover the next morning to work up enough courage to open it…There wasn't too much in there, but what was in there held a lot of importance, to both her and me. First, there were three video discs, with instructions about who to and when to mail them."

Sherlock couldn't help but let out a strangled gasp. Molly stopped and looked at him for a moment before continuing.

"Yes. I'm the one who mailed that disc to you. I mailed the second one just now to John, in between getting my hair cut and picking up some stuff from my office. He should get it tomorrow, so expect a call from him. The third…" Molly paused, and took a moment to compose herself. "The third is for Rosie…when she's old enough to…I'll tell John about it when I come back, and that'll be something for him to decide in the future."

Sherlock nodded numbly, not at all surprised that Mary created separate discs for the two people she had loved most in her life. Meanwhile, the Mary on the sofa was looking at Molly with tears in her eyes. "I knew I could trust you, Molly. There is no one I've ever known besides John that I could trust so completely."

And Sherlock knew that she wasn't only speaking for herself.

"Of course, I'm not," Mary snapped at him. "This is your mind that's creating me, so anything I say will ultimately come from you."

Not needing to be reminded of the obvious, Sherlock turned back to Molly (who had resumed her slow pacing) and softly asked, "What else did Mary leave you?"

Molly's eyes followed her feet as she answered. "A long letter for me. She knew that I would have preferred a letter to a video disc." She wiped her eyes again. "She warned me of what she would ask you to do in order to save John from himself…and apologized for both that and for the time she shot you…I don't think she ever really forgave herself for that…"

Sherlock caught Mary's eye and, remembering the real Mary's last words to him in that aquarium, knew that Molly spoke the truth.

For a moment, Molly's face scrunched up in pure frustration before she completely turned her back on Sherlock. "Even today, I'm still angry at her for both that bullet and the crap you shot into your systems…two times she nearly got you killed…but I have to forgive her…because each time she was doing it to save the man she loved…I can relate to that…"

"She certainly can," said Mary, more to herself as she looked at Molly. Sherlock knew exactly to what Mary was referring; what Molly had done for him in helping him fake his death certainly fell into the category of "Crazy Things You Do to Save Those You Love the Most," right beside Mary's actions.

Molly turned back around and faced Sherlock, her standing and him seated. It was one of the few times in their entire history where she was the one looking down on him – usually it was the other way around.

"Her letter contained something else, Sherlock. You see, she knew better than anybody how I felt about you. She had a gift that way, of seeing through to the core of something. In her letter, after telling me how much she admired and respected what I did for you and how I was able to deal with you, Mary reminded me that I am not a selfless angel but a human being with her own needs…That I couldn't go on forever shoving aside my needs and dreams because it seemed easier for everybody else, especially you…"

Sherlock's uncomfortably cold feeling rose to freezing level.

"That's a very good point," said Mary. Sherlock refused to look at her since Molly was looking at him and would notice.

Molly continued, her voice cold and her eyes sad: "The last items in that envelope were a gift for me to use when, as she put it, 'Sherlock finally goes too far and your limits are finally reached.' She knew that the day would come, and yesterday it did. Those items she left me were…certain things that will help me not only leave, but disappear."

And just like that, Sherlock understood what was going on: Mary had given Molly the means to run away so that Sherlock would not be able to follow her. He knew that Mary could, quite easily. After all, if he hadn't placed a tracer in Mary's mobile, he'd never have been able to find her in Morocco. And even if he had placed a tracer in Molly's mobile, he knew that Molly wasn't going to be taking hers along: it lay broken on her kitchen counter.

Now, like Mary had done before her, Molly was going to defeat her own demon. But she wasn't going to do it by rushing towards it; she'd already been doing that for a long time. No, now she was doing the only thing left to her: get as far away from it as possible.

Because that demon…was him.