She drives towards Portsmouth with him wedged into the boot of a rental car. Choosing that car nearly led to a bout of hysteria as she checked one boot after another, trying to envision which would be the least miserable for her six foot comrade to coil inside. Despite all her anxiety, when it comes to it, he installs himself as fluidly as though he is accustomed to riding around the country like this, and when he extricates himself he barely even stretches.
"Thank you, Molly," he says as she hands him the case from the back seat. "Your help has been invaluable."
"I can come with you," she blurts out.
He tilts his head ever so slightly in a way she has come to recognize. It's what he does when he's confronted with a reaction that flies in the face of his brand of logic. Molly has gotten that head tilt a lot.
"I—I hate to think of you out there all alone."
"Alone protects…." He trails off, and if he weren't Sherlock Holmes, she would think he couldn't make himself finish the sentence.
"Protects us," she says. "Protects your friends. I know. But who's going to protect you?"
"I would say it doesn't matter, except you would only say it does. Suffice it to say..." He shrugs. "Pick a comforting cliché, pretend I said it, you need to be on your way if you're to avoid suspicion."
"Where will you go? Will I…will we ever see you again?"
"It's best if you can't answer those questions."
She reaches out a hand for him to shake, and he throws his arms around her in a bear hug instead. Again she is reminded of her father, because this hug feels like goodbye forever. She doesn't cry, but can't help a sharp intake of breath and a bit of a shaky exhale. She is glad they've stopped on a dark country lane, where he's less likely to see her face properly. In case he would, for a change.
"Keep an eye on them," he says quietly. "Lestrade. Mrs Hudson. And…."
"I will," she interrupts, so he won't have to finish.
"Good girl," he responds, drops a brief kiss on the top of her head, and then he backs away, picks up his case, tips his cap to her, and sets off down the road towards the port.
On the drive back she braces herself for the long lie ahead. She feels guilty for not feeling worse about the prospect, but acting as his co-conspirator has brought her unexpectedly close to him. There are only four she will hate to lie to (she includes Mycroft, though she suspects Sherlock doesn't), and perversely, the thought makes her glow with contentment.
He will never love her in the ordinary way, and she may never see him again, but she is on the short list of people he cares about.
It counts.