On with the story!

Thanks to eyebrows2 and emma de los nardos, I'd be lost without you.

As always, any feedback is more than highly appreciated.

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"I have to say, Molly, you've managed to surprise me." Sherlock´s voice was colder than the December day reaching towards noon on the other side of the window. The light reflecting through the glass onto the detective's sharp face made his eyes seem even paler than they normally did; like bottomless pools of crystal clear water ready to drown her if she slipped even the slightest.

Molly felt dizzy when staring into those eyes. Her heart was beating faster than normal and she had slight difficulties in the simple act of breathing, but - interestingly enough - she didn't recognise panic in herself. She would have expected to experience the said emotion now that Sherlock had recognised her and her previous plan had obviously been shattered into pieces. Instead she felt calm; serene almost - remember as he might, he was still there, strapped into the bed, dead to the world, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. Sherlock Holmes was at her mercy, and that realisation made her head feel light and her heart thrumb in her ears.

It was a whole new ball game now.

Her initial plan had been to keep Sherlock drugged, in that constant state of not knowing who or where he was; to slowly make him trust her, depend on her, see her as his salvation - to love her. She would have had kept him under the influence of the drug for the rest of his days had been up to her; if that was what it would have taken to make Sherlock believe he was a man named Tim, a man who after some tragic experience had lost his memory, a man who would grow to love his helping angel, Rachel. But obviously the course had shifted now - he was Sherlock again, Sherlock bloody Holmes - the man who had plagued her dreams and made her chest burn with one-sided desire probably since the day she had met him.

So it was Sherlock again - the hurtful, rude, sometimes borderline mean Sherlock - who at the same time was the most wonderful, exciting, interesting and – without a doubt- the sexiest man Molly had ever come across with – so she obviously would have to adjust her strategy accordingly. But what was exhilarating about the situation was that everybody thought he was dead.

There was not a thing in the world she couldn't do to him and not get away with it; and she knew he knew this.

Which, more or less, made Sherlock Holmes her bitch.

As he laid there staring at her with contempt in his eyes, Molly, having gained self-confidence from her thought process, met his stare without a flinch. She saw immediately that her refusal to fidget or turn her face away was not what he had expected; there was a flicker of surprise in his eyes. Molly crossed her arms across her chest and straightened her back.

"Is that so? I suppose I should be flattered, then." There was none of the usual insecurity or nervousness in her voice. In fact, she didn't sound like herself at all.

Sherlock observed her for a few seconds; it was impossible to tell what he was thinking.

"Don't be." His voice was stripped of any color and cut the air like a blade.

Molly raised her eyebrows in mock surprise.

"Really? When I have managed to surprise the great Sherlock Holmes? Not many people have been able to do that, I would think." She was exaggerating in her articulation of his name.

Sherlock snorted. "I'm merely surprised you have sunk so low. Isn't this a bit pathetic, even by your standards?" He yanked his hand so that the sound of the metal clips of the strap clashing with the bed frame echoed in the room.

Molly's jaw clenched. She absolutely hated it when people - men - called her pathetic. It reminded her of her teenage years, all those tedious fumblings, the awkwardness of the moments when she wanted to get out, leave, anything -

She stopped the thought before it reached its goal. "Call it what you want, Sherlock, but you seem to have the lower hand here." Her voice was neutral but in her eyes was a vicious look.

Sherlock was angry and it was apparent in his voice, even if he kept the volume normal. "What I seem to have is the tied-down hand. Let me go."

Molly couldn't help a small burst of laughter from escaping her lips. "You really think I'm that stupid?"

He didn't reply, merely stared at her without blinking - an answer enough. There were flames of rage in his eyes now, and yet the coldness of his stare was enough to make the room feel chillier.

Molly shook her head, a small manic smile spreading on her lips. "Oh no, I have no intention letting either one of you go."

The mention of another person made Sherlock glance quickly to his side; it was as if he had forgotten he wasn't in the room alone. When he recognised the unconscious man in the other bed, an expression of disbelief spread on his face. Without turning his eyes back to Molly he just stared at the still figure of the dark man, and when he spoke the astonishment painted on his face was also woven into his voice.

"Moriarty."

The name escaping Sherlock's lips wasn't directed to anyone in particular and it wasn't a question; it was a mere recognition of the fact that he had realised the danger of the situation he had been thrown into - if Molly had succeeded in capturing both of them, there was no saying of what else she was capable of.

Therefore it started to be quite obvious that he had seriously underestimated her.

And he seldom, if ever, underestimated anything. Sherlock had underestimated John - the ex-soldier had, after all, became the most important thing after his work to Sherlock - and now he had underestimated Molly. If the extent of his underestimation remained the same, then, considering the specifics of the situation at hand - Molly would be the end of him.

Molly, still smiling a smile that failed to reach her eyes, turned to look at Moriarty as well.

"Why would I let two of my favourite boys go?" Her voice was distant, as if she were thinking something else.

Then, snapping out of her thoughts she walked to Sherlock's bed and leaned very close to his face, her lips only a few inches away from his. "When we can have so much fun together?"

The expression in her eyes made Sherlock's body tense; there was very little, if none, of the Molly he had thought he had known in there. When she leaned to him and touched his lips with her own, the touch burnt like acid.

x

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By the time John arrived back home, he was - if possible - even more puzzled than he had been in the morning of that day. He had been so consumed by the thought of Sherlock possibly not being dead, yet, when he exposed the idea to the smallest ray of sense and reason, it became impossible to believe. Molly had said she had seen Sherlock a day or two before the fire - which would have explained how she knew about the bandage on his hand. But, to John's best knowledge, Sherlock hadn't been in Bart's for about a week before his death - but then again, like John would have known his every movement? When he considered the odds, it did seem much more likely that Sherlock had visited Bart's after he had cut his hand, instead of not having visited but Molly having something to do with his death, or - even more absurd - that Sherlock wasn't dead but that Molly was hiding him somewhere. It sounded ridiculous, no matter how John tried to look at it. It was Molly, after all - poor, lonely, slightly weird Molly who probably didn't have the capability to hurt a fly.

Right?

And yet there had been something off about her when he had talked with her that morning. Something John couldn't put his finger on; something evasive, like she was hiding something. Something sinister.

He slouched on the couch and rubbed his eyes. Was he just losing it? Was the loss of Sherlock too much for him to bear?

John leaned back and sighed. Letting his gaze travel around the empty living room, he tried to empty his head of the whirlwind of thoughts swirling inside it. He wanted to accept Sherlock's death and move on with his life; there was no other option. But for some reason he didn't seem to be able to do so - it was like the ghost of Sherlock was holding on to him, refusing to leave him be. It was almost as if there was something unresolved.

As his eyes wandered around the dim room he couldn't help himself from stopping at certain objects - the skull on the mantelpiece, Sherlock's shirt tossed on the back of a chair, his laptop...

Sherlock is very focused on something. He has been staring at the faintly glowing screen for what must have been hours, not saying a word nor in any other way acknowledging there is somebody in the room with him. John is sitting in his chair, reading, and every now and then raises his eyes from his book to steal a glimpse at Sherlock. Looking at him makes John feel like things are the way they are supposed to be; as odd and complex and difficult it sometimes is to share a space and life with that eccentric, emotionally challenged and yet so magnificent man, John genuinely feels this is good and this is correct.

Suddenly Sherlock lifts his eyes from the screen, catching John staring at him. The expression softening his sharp face is slightly amused and he smiles, just a bit, but enough for John to see it. The white glow of the laptop screen reflects off his skin and his eyes and gives the dark curls framing his face a silvery touch; maybe this is how he will look when he is old.

They sit like that for a while, staring at each other in silence; sometimes words are simply not needed. This is indeed good and correct.

Then Sherlock breaks the silence. "Do you have an x-ray at the clinic? "

John knows better by now than to be surprised by Sherlock's reactions or questions; with him, normal rules of interaction don't apply. So instead of asking first why he wants to know, John merely shakes his head. "No, we send those patients to the hospital." He pauses for a while, considering if it is a good idea to inquire more, and then decides it is. "Why?" There is a shade in his voice which can only be described as patience towards whatever the answer may be.

Sherlock shrugs his shoulders. "Oh, just wondering." He turns his focus back on the screen; John waits. He knows Sherlock so well by now; he knows he doesn't have to ask again. He will reply, in his own time; Sherlock Holmes seldom leaves a topic open he himself has brought up.

And as sure as spring follows winter, after some minutes Sherlock speaks again. "I´ve been reading about tooth identification. It is one of the more efficient ways or identifying a corpse."

John merely waits. It may be going somewhere or it may not; only way to find out is to sit back and see.

Sherlock types something, click or two with the mouse, some more intense staring. Just as John considers getting back to his book, the consulting detective opens his mouth again. His voice is a bit distant, as if he was talking to himself. "I'm going to get my teeth x-rayed. Might come in handy some day."

John shakes his head, internally chuckling at Sherlock´s never-ending interest in any scientific method on the face of the earth. Then, deciding there has been enough talk about teeth that evening, he puts his book down, gets up and goes to Sherlock. The feel of John's hands on his shoulders is enough to make Sherlock suspect likewise; the brush of John's lips on his neck is enough to convince him so.

Why hadn't this occurred to him before?

John got up from the couch and went to Sherlock's laptop, closed and dark and mute, sitting silently on the table where Sherlock had left it before his final exit. He stood there hovering over the slim machine, hesitating to open it; it felt almost like an intrusion of Sherlock´s privacy to touch it. Granted, Sherlock would have not extended the same courtesy to John' personal belongings, but still - in this day and age a laptop can come very close to what a diary used to be, and John didn't know if he felt entirely comfortable with the step he was about to take.

Then, quickly - like it wouldn't count so much if he'd only do it fast enough - he popped the laptop open and pressed the power button.

The screen lit up and the light hum of the machine filled the otherwise tomb-silent room. After a short moment the desktop laid in front of John's eyes like it had laid in front of Sherlock's not long ago; it felt strange to look at it, knowing that it was Sherlock who had observed it last. He sat down and started browsing through the vast amount of folders and documents that were stored in the hard drive, trying not to spend too much time on those that weren't the objects of his search. Yet, when he came across a folder labeled with his own name, John couldn't help himself from clicking it open.

There were two files in it. One was a picture that made him involuntarily both blush and smile, emphasis on the latter. The other one was a text file called "read", and he clicked on it.

The simple layout of the .txt -file had the same blunt straightforwardness as the words that were written on it.

John,

If you are reading this I am either dead or missing (or given I'm neither but you are reading this anyway, rest assured you will be both quite soon). I would hope my demise has brought about the same condition to Mr. Moriarty - if that has been the case, I have no regrets at all, and I hope you can feel the same.

Mycroft will see to the legal matters arising from my death, so if everything is clear concerning the events leading to it this message bears little purpose. If, however, there are unanswered questions concerning, for example, identification - there is a folder on this laptop containing my dental x-rays, fingerprints and other relevant facts that may be useful in the quest for identification. Feel free to go through them and use them in any way you see fit.

Last, but not least - it was a pleasure to know you, John. Truly.

SH

PS You know I do.

John heard the dry voice in his head as he read through the few lines over and over again, spending a bit more time on the last one than on the others. The pain of loosing him was strong, it cut his insides and made breathing feel like walking on thin ice - at any given second it might break, he might break, and the fall to the cold darkness might be too much for him to survive.

John closed his eyes, still seeing the words still looming on the laptop screen as if they had been burnt onto the insides of his eyelids. He sat like that for a while, recognising the pain and tackling it, determinedly pushing it further aside so as to give him space to function again. Slowly, through the pure power of his will, the overwhelming, paralysing pain eased its grip and he was able to breathe more freely without fearing that the faceless numbness lurking behind the gates leading to his mind would enter and claim him as its own. After a few moments, as soon as he felt the pain was manageable, he gathered himself, opened his eyes and started to look for the folder Sherlock had mentioned.

The search didn't take long. He transferred the files to a memory stick, stuffed the stick in his pocket and was heading to Bart's as fast as only a man on an important mission can.