Time Frame: Three weeks after Reichenbach.

A/N: Thanks to everyone who left comments, you are a great encouragement. Special note to FangFan, thanks for the suggestion about one of the scenes in this chapter, you'll know which one.

Chapter Two

After the Fall

"Oh God, no!" Molly screamed. Sherlock was falling. He was going to miss the safety padding. His body slowed down and he seemed to fall forever in slow motion. Molly could see the terror on his face as he realized his mistake. His body made a loud sickening crunch as it slammed the pavement. Blood and brain matter lay everywhere. Enough viscera for ten bodies. Molly shrank back in horror; Sherlock's dead eyes stared straight up into her own. His dead bloody lips parted and said in a broken whisper that only Molly could hear, "Why did you help me? Now I'm dead!"

"Molly, Molly, wake up!"

Molly felt a gentle nudge on her shoulder. Shuddering, she slowly sat up on the sofa. Sherlock moved to the fridge, poured a glass of milk, and heated it in the small microwave unit. Crossing back to Molly, he silently handed her the glass and sat beside her on the small couch. There wasn't much room; the seat was barely wider than an armchair. Her tiny flat wouldn't accommodate a normal sized one. Their shoulders touched as Molly leaned her head against the back and slowly sipped her drink.

"Falling again?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes," she replied.

Sherlock did not ask for details and Molly did not give any. How he knew about the falling part of her dreams she had no clue, unless she did more than just scream aloud. Molly didn't want to think about it. In the three weeks since Sherlock's fall from the roof of Bart's hospital, Molly had been plagued with nightmares.

They sat in comfortable silence until she finished the milk. Standing, Sherlock took the glass back to the kitchen. He paused at the doorway. "Better now?" he asked.

"Yes, thank you."

Crossing to the bedroom, Sherlock quietly closed the door behind him. Molly curled back on the sofa, pulled her blanket up to her chin, and thought about the events of that day three weeks ago.

ɸ

Molly had stayed in her office the day that Sherlock fell. When his 'body' was wheeled into the morgue, she nearly panicked. Sherlock wasn't moving. His face and neck had been covered with blood to discourage using his carotid artery for checking a pulse.

"He's fine," the fake orderly said in a low voice, "He's just a little dazed. Damnedest thing I ever saw," he said in admiration.

"Sherlock, are you okay? How do you feel?" Molly asked as she quickly shone a light into his eyes to check his pupils. "Where does it hurt?"

"Everywhere." Sherlock groaned, "I think I cracked a couple of ribs."

"You're lucky you didn't crack your head," Molly said severely.

"Yes, that would have been most unfortunate."

"Do you think you can walk now? We need to get you out of the main room."

Sherlock nodded as he stood he removed the racket balls from his armpits. They had very effectively stopped the circulation and hid a pulse from anyone checking his wrists. As he slowly took his first step pain shot up his right leg.

"Sprained ankle," he gasped.

With Molly's support, he limped painfully across to a small supply room she had prepared. Behind them, the orderly moved the cadaver, dressed it in Sherlock's coat, and placed it onto the bloody gurney. Next he began pouring blood over the face and neck.

As Molly glanced back, Sherlock said, "Don't worry. It will work. It was most opportune that the body landed on its head when we dropped it from the roof last night. Even Mycroft would have trouble recognizing me."

For the next few minutes Molly helped Sherlock clean up. The hardest part was getting the blood out of his hair. Soon, with his ribs taped and dressed in spare hospital scrubs, he was more comfortable. When Molly placed a blanket around his shoulders he complained in an irritated voice that was much stronger.

"Shock blanket. It figures - why does everyone always assume I need a shock blanket?"

Molly rolled her eyes as she left the room with the pan of bloody water. "Someone is feeling better," she thought to herself. "He's back to being obnoxious."

When she returned with two cups of tea and some biscuits, Sherlock was limping back and forth, the orange blanket trailing off one shoulder and dragging across the floor behind him.

"Moriarty is dead," Sherlock announced. "He was on the roof with me. He told me that John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade would be killed if I didn't jump and then he pulled out a gun and shot himself."

"That's good, isn't it?" she asked, handing Sherlock a cup of tea.

"I'm not sure," Sherlock admitted, "It was just too easy. Moriarty is clever - very clever. All along he tried to make me think he was crazy. Maybe he was, but something doesn't feel right."

"Miss Hooper," the fake orderly stood in the doorway, "Detective Inspector Lestrade is here and wants to speak with you."

"Tell him I'll be there in a moment."

The orderly nodded and left. Molly reached into her pocket and removed a small squeeze bottle. She carefully placed two drops in each eye. The burning solution reddened her eyes slightly and tears formed and slid down her cheeks. Molly looked at Sherlock.

"Looks good. You'll do fine."

Molly nodded, unconsciously stood straighter and left to face Lestrade. She was really in for it now. Lying to the police was a serious offense.

"And faking a death is not?" she asked herself scornfully. "Get on with it."

Lestrade was in the next room; beside him was a tall man Molly had seen once before. Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's brother.

"I'm so sorry Molly," Lestrade said.

"He's over here," she said and led them over to the gurney. Grasping it by a corner, she gently pulled back the sheet that covered the fake Sherlock.

"Dear God," Lestrade moaned, "you never get used to it. Especially if it's a friend."

Mycroft stood beside Lestrade, looking at the body without showing emotion. Lestrade glanced at him. Mycroft nodded his head and abruptly turned to leave. As he moved past Molly, she thought she saw a flicker of emotion cross his face. Guilt? What was Mycroft feeling guilty about?

"Are you going to have someone else do the autopsy?" Leastrade asked.

Molly shook her head. "No, it's the last thing I'll ever be able to do for him. I'll make sure he receives the dignity he deserves."

Lestrade nodded.

"Have you seen John yet?" she asked.

"Yes, they sedated him after we talked. What a mess!" Lestrade ran his fingers through his hair in frustration.

Molly looked at Lestrade, swallowed, and then asked cautiously, "Did you find anything on the roof that might tell us why . . . ?"

Lestrade squeezed Molly's arm gently and shook his head. "The only thing on the roof was his mobile; John was talking to him at the time. Nobody pushed him. I'm so sorry, but the fact is - Sherlock jumped."

"I know," Molly said. "I was just trying to understand why this happened. Sherlock is not a fake!" she said defiantly.

Lestrade had just smiled sadly and left to file his reports.

ɸ

On the sofa, Molly turned trying to get comfortable. She struggled to focus on happier thoughts but sleep was long in coming.

When she awoke the next morning, Sherlock was gone. There was a note on the table that said:

"Be back late. Don't feed cat tuna. SH"

The glass that had been used for milk had been washed. The bed was made. Sherlock's few items of clothing were folded neatly on the chair in the corner of the bedroom. Really, the man was a model house guest. That being said, Sherlock was still Sherlock. Sometimes Molly came home from work and found the oddest things in the bin. What had he been doing with four tampons, a bottle of olive oil and a dead mouse? Yesterday it contained a plastic bag of blood, a tiny pump and some tubing. She shuddered, she really didn't want to know but she wondered if it was his blood. At least he cleaned up after himself.

Molly headed off to work, bleary eyed. If the nightmares didn't stop soon she was going to fall asleep in the middle of an autopsy. What she needed was to focus on something other than problems.

After work, she struggled to keep her attention on her martial arts workout. She performed so poorly her opponent asked if something was the matter. Later as she headed back to her flat, she decided that perhaps she should take something to help her sleep if things didn't improve soon.

Molly opened the door to her flat and was met by a very irritated Toby. Her grey striped cat had a decidedly snotty attitude about not being fed on time. Molly opened a tin of cat food and placed it on the floor beside the water dish. Too late, she realized it was tuna flavored. Oh well, whatever aversion Sherlock had about tuna, he would have to put up with it one more time.

Sherlock had still not returned. Molly wasn't worried. He was often out late meeting with his homeless network and running down leads about the location of Moriarty's men.

She decided a hot shower was in order. Maybe she could sleep all the way through tonight without nightmares. After the shower, Molly slipped into the bedroom to get a pair of pajamas. She quickly chose the Betty Boop bottoms and a skinny black tee shirt. As she dressed Molly smiled. Many people considered Betty Boop to be a floozy. Molly preferred to think of her as one of the first liberated women with an independent mind.

He seemed to come out of nowhere. One minute the doorway to the bedroom was clear the next it was filled with the menacing form. It wasn't Sherlock. This man was not as tall and was much heavier. His scraggly beard and moustache hung greasily onto his chest. The eye patch gave his remaining eye a sinister glow. With a lecherous snarl he reached for Molly. Molly began to panic, and then all the months of practice took over. She grabbed his right wrist with her hand, fired her elbow above her head and downward into the bastard's nose. At the same time her left hand fist punched his groin. Her attacker bellowed a loud noise that ended a decidedly higher pitch. She swung her arm in a large circle pushing her opponent's arm, forcing it to lock and cause his body to bend double.

Suddenly everything changed. Molly felt her body arc into the air and slam onto the floor. She rolled smoothly to her feet only to be flipped through the air again. Every kick, every punch was blocked. When she landed on her back the third time her attacked rolled on top of her and pinned her to the floor beneath him.

"Don't panic," Molly tried to tell herself. "If I can move my head a little I can bite his nose." She suddenly realized her adversary was no longer attacking. In fact, he was laughing. Molly looked into his face and saw that half of his beard was hanging loose from his face and the eye patch was over his nose.

"Sherlock Holmes! What in the hell do you think you are doing?" Molly yelled. "And why are you dressed like a bloody pirate?"

Sherlock rolled off Molly and lay on his back gasping and laughing. "I wanted to see how well you could protect yourself. You're fairly good for a beginner," he generously admitted. "I could show you a few moves that would make you better."

Lying beside him Molly flushed. Surely he didn't mean that the way he sounded. "Not tonight you won't," she said flatly as she got to her feet. "Don't you dare do that again!" She slammed the door as she left.

Sherlock lay in the darkened room and smiled. "That had gone well." He wasn't worried about Molly's anger. She always forgave him. He idly wondered if he could interest her in how to handle a cutlass?

That night Molly's dreams had nothing to do with nightmares.