A/N: Thanks for all you reviews, favs and follows! Hope you like this chapter!

Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock.

Molly slipped on a pair of medical gloves before starting her autopsy on "Sherlock's" body. True to his words, Mycroft had ensured that a body resembling Sherlock would be in the morgue when she came in the following morning. She marvelled at how similar this body was to the consulting detective who was currently sulking around her flat, annoyed that he couldn't get anything done as of yet. The hair, facial structure and body size were so alike that Molly shivered slightly. She had no idea that such manipulation on a body was possible.

The results of the autopsy were straightforward. Blunt force trauma to the head, a broken neck, several broken bones and internal bleeding. It was immediate death upon impact. She swallowed hard as she recalled Sherlock's body plummeting down from the roof of Bart's, his long coat billowing in the wind. He had been so close to death, and if he hadn't solved Moriarty's problem, she would be staring down at his broken body instead. Never again would she have been able to listen to him make a clever deduction, or watch him working on one of his samples in her lab. The reality of how close he actually was to dying hit her, and she promised herself that she would do all she could to make sure she would not see him lying on her slab.

She wondered about how John and the others must be feeling, thinking that this was indeed reality. It was horrible knowing that she had the truth but couldn't do anything about it. For a moment, she felt like the villain, the one who was causing all the pain to the people whom Sherlock called his friends. It was stupid really, since she wasn't the one who started this mess. But logic didn't seem able to quell the rush of guilt that had been frequently washing over her for the past two days.

Molly was glad that Doctor Portman had agreed to do the autopsy on James Moriarty. She normally wasn't a violent person, but she couldn't be sure what she would've done if she had his dead body in front of her with a scalpel in her hands.

The horror of what she had just thought of doing stunned her. What was happening to her? There was an anger chorusing through her that she had never felt before. She shook her head and went back to the work, slowly descending into the regular routine of an autopsy.

When she was finally done, she locked the corpse into the body locker with a loud click, as if the finality of the sound could put an end to the guilt that had been building up as she was working. Realising that nothing was going to work, she took out her phone and dialled a number.

"Hello?" His voice was hoarse from crying, and a lump immediately formed in her throat when she heard it.

"Hey John, it's Molly," she replied, trying her best to compose her trembling voice.

"Molly, hi. I'm sorry I didn't call you or anything…"

"It's ok. We're all still trying to deal with it. I just wanted to know how you're holding up."

"I'm ok. I'm still trying to come to terms with it. It all seems so unreal, you know?"

"Yeah, I know," she said heavily. You have no idea, she thought.

"What about you? Are you ok?"

"I'll be alright, John."

"That's good. What are you doing now?"

"I'm at work."

"At work? So you…his body…"

"Yeah, I was the one in charge."

"I'm sorry to hear that." She heard a sniff.

"It's ok, it sort of gives me closure." She shut her eyes tightly and tried to breathe steadily.

"Yeah, I guess it does that... Listen, was there, you know, anything odd about the body?"

Molly's tears threatened to spill out of her eyes at the hopeful tone of his voice. She wanted to yell at him that Sherlock was fine, that he had survived the bloody fall. But she couldn't. She would jeopardise the whole situation and Sherlock would probably kill her himself.

"No," she whispered into her phone.

"Oh, right." She could hear the dejection in his voice and her chest tightened.

"Listen, John. If you need anything, anything at all, just call me ok? Even if it's just to talk, or if you just need some company. Just call me."

She heard a something that sounded like a choke. "Thanks. You can call me too, Molly."

"I'm alright. Don't worry about me."

"It's hard not to. You…I know you liked him a lot."

"I did." Still do, she thought.

"This is a mess, isn't it?" he said, his voice shaking.

She didn't reply him. She couldn't bring herself to.

"Well, his funeral is next week. So I'll er…see you then?"

"Right, see you John. Please take care of yourself. Remember to call if you need anything."

"Sure, thanks Molly. Bye now."

The tears she tried to control started to flow down her cheeks after she ended the call. She wondered how long more she could keep up the lie.

Sherlock sat across the sofa from Mycroft, a snarky look in his eyes. He had expected the arrival of his brother, but he didn't think that he would actually come to find him the very next day. He was still in a physically weak state and did not want his brother to see him like this. Mycroft had merely smiled calmly at him when he had limped over to open the door. It had put Sherlock in a bad mood ever since.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock asked, his voice sounding harsh even to his own ears.

Mycroft arched his eyebrows at his tone. "To visit you of course, dear brother. You're hurt."

"Don't be absurd. I'm alive and well."

"Alive, yes. But surely not well. How's the rib?"

"Get to the point," Sherlock snapped.

A solemn expression instantly settled on Mycroft's face. "I need to know what your plan is."

"Track them down, of course. That's the only way to dismantle the network."

"You don't need to track everyone. That's impossible."

"I know. I just need those loyal to Moriarty."

Mycroft nodded and handed him a file. "Sebastian Moran," he said simply.

"His pet?" Sherlock flipped through the pages, taking in as much information as he could. Moran was apparently an ex-general from the army. Traditional, inflexible and brave.

"Yes, and unfortunately, he's not a psychopath like his master. He is capable of forming lasting relationships and has a group of loyal friends you need to track down as well. How many of them there are still remains a mystery."

Sherlock frowned. He had hoped that Moriarty would not have many loyal followers. He certainly didn't have any friends, that part was obvious. He had no idea about friendship and affection. But this Moran was different. He was more social, more normal. He couldn't take him down without tracking down his loyal followers within the network as well.

"I've already sent a few of my people undercover. They should have some information ready for me soon," Mycroft said.

"But they're idiots."

"They are the British intelligence. Give them some credit, will you?"

He smirked and his brother frowned at him. "What do you have in mind then, Sherlock?"

"I'm still thinking."

"Which means you have no concrete plan. While you're still thinking, let my agents do their job. You do want to return to 221B Baker Street soon, don't you?"

"Of course," he replied, frowning at his brother's condescending tone.

Mycroft reached into his briefcase and pulled out another set of documents. "Your new identity."

Sherlock opened the file. He was now known as Ryan Cumberbatch. A chemist. 35 years old. An orphan who grew up in Surrey. He knew that he was going to have to operate under a new identity after his fall, but that didn't stop him from feeling slightly sick when he stared at his new passport. Sherlock Holmes was well and truly dead to the world now.

"Well, I have to be off," Mycroft said, standing up. "I have a meeting with some politicians from China and -" He saw the look on Sherlock's face. "- but you don't need to know that, do you?"

"Naturally."

"Goodbye, Sherlock. Try not to be a nuisance to Miss Hooper. No one else can tolerate you long enough to house you, I'm afraid." Mycroft smiled tightly at him before walking out.

Sherlock threw the file against the wall and scowled.

Molly was exhausted by the time she reached home. Not only had she had to deal with her colleagues enquiring about her well-being, forcing her to lie again, she had also received a call from her mother.

It wasn't very often her mother called her. After all, she was living in New York and they had barely met in the last ten years. Her parents had divorced when she was just a child, and her mother had went off with some man, travelling around Europe and sending birthday cards a month late. For a long time, Molly had tried her best to impress her mother, thinking that making her proud would bring her back home. It was only much later that she realised the problem didn't lie with her. She could still clearly remember the disgust etched in her mother's voice when she had found out that Molly wanted to be a pathologist. To her mother, pathology was something abominable and repulsive. It gave Molly a sense of satisfaction when she had told her mother she was going ahead with that career choice anyway.

It turned out that her mother had finally heard about Sherlock being a fraud. She knew he had worked with Molly often in the labs, and she wanted some gossip for her friends, who were apparently fans of John's blog.

Molly had wanted to scream at her mother for being so insensitive. But instead, she had curtly told her that she had to work and hung up before she could say another word. She had turned her phone off after that.

She sighed as she took off her coat, hoping that Sherlock was in a much better mood than she was. She saw him on her sofa in one of her dad's old shirt, idly stroking Toby's head. She smiled when she realised that he might very well be a cat person like her.

"You're in a bad mood," he noted.

"Bad day," she said as she placed the takeaway boxes on her coffee table, plonking herself beside him. She was so tired that she didn't care if she looked graceful in front of Sherlock or not.

She passed him a packet of nicotine patches which he gratefully accepted, immediately plastering one on his left arm.

"What happened?"

She was surprised that he was interested to know about her mundane life, but she figured that he was probably too bored being on his own the whole day. She started to fill him in on her day, pausing when she talked about John. But he had merely nodded stiffly and asked her to continue, saying that his grief was expected and normal.

He in turn, told her about Mycroft's visit. Well, his version of Mycroft's visit anyway, which consisted of him focusing on his brother's failed attempt at a new diet and the horrible surname he had been assigned. He sounded exactly like a stroppy teenager and she had a hard time trying not to laugh.

Molly relaxed as she listened to him talk, his deep baritone pleasing to her ears. It was odd; they had never spent time outside the lab like this before, and it was actually rather enjoyable. It was like they were actual friends having a meal together. It had only been two days since he bid his former life goodbye, but a lot had happened since then. Emotionally at least. She could feel a bond developing between them. One that wasn't just restricted to their relationship in the lab.

Despite the horrible day she just had, the thought of that raised her spirits.

It was late but Sherlock couldn't sleep. His slim fingers were steepled under his chin as he leaned against Molly's soft pillows, trying to formulate a plan to bring down the network. He was frustrated that he couldn't get to work right away, but what good would he be if he couldn't even walk properly right now? Going undercover in his current state would just draw attention to himself.

He knew he couldn't work alone; it was going to take years if he did. And he wanted nothing more than to return to his previous life with John, Baker Street and his cases.

He needed a skilled blackmailer to help him then. One who would be able to slip into the ranks of the network and infect it from within, drawing out the poison and reducing it to insignificance. The person must be intelligent and manipulative – it was going to be a task filled with challenging mind games.

And just like that, he knew exactly who to contact. He quickly fired off a text.

I believe you owe me a debt. – SH

Why the sudden need for my services? Can I offer you something else too? You know I'll be delighted to.

Don't play games. I'm sure you've read the news. – SH

Oh don't be so uptight! Of course I did. Thought you died though. Where and when do I meet you?

In two months' time. London. – SH

Lovely. See you very soon, detective!

Sherlock rolled his eyes before flinging his phone to the other end of the bed.

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