Present-Molly

Molly got up before Paul did, showering and shrugging on an unremarkable tank top and shorts before stuffing a bag. She had to go out, figure out what the hell she needed to get, who was on the other end of the line. She had a feeling that she knew who it was—at least in general. The chances of seeing a woman identical to herself tossing herself in front of a train—and then get a call from another woman who sounded exactly like her—she had a feeling it was something that most definitely wasn't normal. Cloning maybe? That was a strange thought, wasn't it? Being a human clone. Apparently no one had ever done it before, especially with the ethical issues that were tied to it. As well as the dangerous side effects of being a copy.

A copy.

Was that all Molly was?

Well she wouldn't know without all the information. Logically, she shouldn't care. She shouldn't care about the similarities or the possibility of the improbable. She should tear down and torch, taking Mrs. S, Kira, and Felix with her in one sweep. New names and new lives, far away from the lies of Moriarty and Beth Childs and the briefcase mentioned—but that couldn't be possible. Molly was, after all, a scientist at heart. Scientists were known for their intelligence and great discoveries, however they were also known for their curiosity. Being the lab rat? Clones? Rare identical triplets or quadruplets? It was too good for a proper scientist to resist.

Sherlock—Present

There had been no activity from Moriarty. Nothing. It was as if the man wasn't alive at all. Sherlock was impatient. He wanted to get this over with. It didn't feel like a game to him anymore, it felt more like his mission of dismantling the web. Obviously he had missed several crucial details, and those details had cost Molly her life, but even then, that one didn't seem right either. Something wasn't right about her body at the morgue. It was her face, it was her hair—recently dyed a shade darker, but her hair nonetheless—but something wasn't right and it was going to bother him until he figured it out.

He needed to smoke.

He needed to drink.

He needed—

Absolutely not. Definitely not after Molly's reaction. He smiled fondly and winced at the same time, remembering the slapping.

Present—Molly

She was in the back of the car when the woman got in, wearing a horrendously furry coat and a pair of shades despite the poor lighting. When she took them off, Molly wasn't exactly surprised to see that this face—while with dyed short red hair—was a mirror image of her own.

"Beth!" German accent. Bingo. "Why weren't you responding I got the blood samples—"

"I'm not Beth. Beth committed suicide. My name's Molly. Here by mistake. Tell me what the hell is going on, why are you here? What blood samples?"

"Y-you're not Beth."

"No I'm not—"

Molly was cut off by the sound of breaking glass and the sick thud of a bullet hitting flesh and bone. She shrieked, watching as the German fell back into her seat, obviously dead. She ducked down, but nothing occurred. There were no more shots. The German's mobile started ringing. Quickly Molly answered it, "She's dead, the German's dead, she was shot."

"Oh my God it's true somebody's killing us!"

Molly's heartbeat increased steadily as she processed the situation. She was most likely a clone. Another clone came in rambling about a briefcase. This clone was German—international. Presumably another one was on the phone. Someone just assassinated the clone in the back of her car. This car wasn't actually hers, but Beth's, another clone that had committed suicide in the London underground. She was in even deeper shit than the Moriarty situation, and she wasn't even trying.

"Look. I can get rid of the body, but shit—we're going to have to meet—after I get that briefcase."

Present—Sherlock

A woman with rather pale skin and drastic eyebrows sat before John Watson, as Sherlock took a greater interest in studying the web on the wall, trying to figure out where Moriarty might strike next. She was an on again off again smoker and alcoholic, had lost a child within the past ten years, and she was quite wealthy, resulting in a plated diamond necklace, and gently used but excellent quality clothing and shoes. She had traveled from Italy, and from the looks of things, traveled with the express intent to speak to Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, forgoing even checking into a hotel coming from the airport.

"My-my name is Maria Giordano." The woman spoke slowly, slightly unsure of her English before deciding to sod it and carry on, "I do not mean to trouble you, young man, but there's something I must ask of you."

"Go away." Sherlock spoke at the same time that John said, "Ask away."

The woman nodded, tears pricking her eyes as she pulled a photograph from her purse, "A few years ago my daughter—my dear, dear daughter disappeared. I lost all hope! I thought she was dead! But then…then I saw a picture of her at a wedding. She seemed so happy and I had to come right away, I had to find her." Ms. Giordano gave John the picture.

"I find this utterly tedious—"

"Sherlock, you're going to have to look at this." John interrupted, practically running to Sherlock's perch and stuffing the picture in his hands, "Sherlock look."

Present—Molly

This wasn't the first occasion that Molly thought that her training as a pathologist and her time spent in care could create a lethal combination. She was always the best at the hypothetical how to get away with murder games because she and Sherlock had spent so much time catching the kinks in lesser plans. This accumulated experience led her to a level of quiet confidence in what she was doing. She cut off the hands and burned off the prints, making it impossible to make a proper ID from them. She buried them under a back porch thirteen miles away. Then she cut the jawbone out, scrubbing them off before placing them in her pocket. She would have to dispose the teeth at a later time. She used a shovel to smash the face to an unidentifiable pulp, and then proceeded to dig a hole and bury the rest of the German, alternating between layers of rocks and soil to make it difficult for any animal to dig it up.

The inside of Molly's car was next. She decided to make use of going to a rougher area of Toronto, the sort of place where people looked away and were tight lipped about what they did and didn't see, and she used a practically empty 24 hour car wash. She still wiped it down with other cleaners, years of experience and dating a blood splatter analyst finally paying off. She then smashed her windshield further with a baseball bat, and in the morning hours took it to a different station to get it fixed. Her coat looked fine unless scrutinized closely, which allowed her the time to go and find replacement clothing before she took her coat and stuffed it in a homeless man's fire while he wasn't looking.

Molly was tired. But pressed in her hand was a wallet with a hotel key and some credit cards and in her pocket were some hair and blood samples.

She was going to get that bloody briefcase.

Two months before—Molly

She knew Janine was full of shit. So when Molly went to Sherlock and was stopped by a long slender hand and a smug smirk, Molly already knew that she truly had the upper hand in that conversation, whether Janine knew it or not. No doubt, Janine thought that it would be a part of her fun, to poke at the shy pathologist.

"See the papers?"

"Only after I had put them in the litter box." Molly replied lightly.

"Aren't you going to get upset? Embarrassed? Reprimand me for this?" Janine crossed her arms and did a poor imitation of Molly, "'Oh Janine, you shouldn't have spoken of such—intimate relations with the press.' Please. Give me a break do you know what that—"

"Good on you for getting revenge on the man. He deserves it. That was a low blow, even for Sherlock Holmes and I've known him for years. That means I also know that he'd prefer fucking a corpse to fucking you. Have a nice day."

Present—Molly

Molly had been practicing her statement for hours, going through it like clockwork. Art met her to go over it in a dingy little restaurant.

"Look Beth, you've got to get this right. Both our asses are on the line now and if they realize that you called me—and I put that cell in her hand to cover for your tweaker ass—"

"I've got it under control, Art." Molly hoped so, at least.

Two Months Before—Sherlock

Everything hurt. He knew that being shot wasn't pleasant, and his rather amusing encounter with a vengeful Janine aside, he was bored. Of course, that was when Molly with her shy little footsteps came walking through the door. He had seen her in his mind palace, directing him on what to do. He didn't know she had been such a part of it until then. The hospital had given him time to sift through facts, and there was one fact that practically screamed at him; Molly Hooper held an entire wing in his mind palace.

"You went and got yourself shot." Molly spoke with a slight tremor in her voice, "That is definitely not allowed."

"Sorry." Sherlock said, and he meant it.

Molly gave a little laugh and shook her head, "Might as well buy yourself a t-shirt that says that for all the trouble you cause."

He was forgiven. That was good. He would hate for the person with the most faith in him to never forgive him.

Present—Molly

"I need some help."

"Again?" Felix scowled into his drink.

"I need a hat—and one of those atrocious fur coats you've purchased—I got to pretend I'm the German." Molly affected the accent—it still needed a lot of work, but hopefully this would be a short job."

Molly pulled her hair up into the wide rimmed black hat, put on the coat, and then some designer shades. "How do I look?"

"Wow, Molls, you actually look kind of hot."

The room itself was trashed. Molly had no idea who ripped through it, but they left a strange little doll with choppy red hair similar to German's preferred do. They had been looking for something, tearing it apart in the process and for some reason the bloody telephone kept ringing. Finally, the knocking on the door alerted her that she would have to pay for the room. The nice man was quite a bit like Steven from the bank, nice and unsuspecting. The card was on file and the briefcase was in their storage.

She had nodded when he made a comment about how awesome the party must have been.

Yeah. Sure.

Present-Sherlock

It was Molly at John and Mary's wedding. She was wearing that bright yellow dress, laughing at something Janine was saying, one of Sherlock's favorites—that is if he had favorites. "This is—"

"Her name is Aryanna. She just—didn't come home one day, can you figure out where she is or—"

"I knew this woman." Sherlock replied stiffly, "She died two months ago."

"So she was alive all this time? Oh…oh thank God." The woman clutched at Sherlock's hands, both of them unintentionally wrinkling the photograph, "Thirty-three, that's wonderful! That's seven more years than I thought she had—oh…oh but what was she doing? Why was she here? How did you know her?"

Sherlock shook his head, the word "impossible" echoing through his mind. But then he realized something, "Do you have a picture of her from before? Full body."

Maria nodded vigorously, fishing out a picture of a much younger woman, standing next to a tree as she stared out over a lake. She was happy, smiling carelessly and—she did not look like someone who had been pregnant a year previously. That could not have been Molly Hooper. In that moment, the dots connected. The woman lying on the table could not have been Molly Hooper because she did not bear any signs of having ever carried a child. But what was going on? Where was Molly? Why was there a woman who looked just like her dead?

Decided that Molly would react a bit differently than Sarah considering Molly's experience with dead bodies, and it also removes a major plot hole in the show...in my humble opinion. Your opinions are greatly appreciated as well which is why there's this lovely box below for reviews!