A/N: Wow, again, thanks for all the enthusiastic reviews of this story! It will get pretty dark soon, just keep that in mind as you read, and remember that I generally like to end things like a fairy tale, with "happily ever after" as a huge part of the equation. Enjoy the ride, and thanks for reading!

Molly frowned as her mobile rang, distracting her from the pathogen she was researching online. What did Sherlock want now? She'd already played lookout for him when he insisted on returning to the roof, the scene of the crime, as it were, from two years ago. He'd been up there far longer than the five minutes he'd assured her it would take for him to do whatever it was he intended to do, long enough for her to get fidgety and start half-way up the stairs to check on him. The sight of him barreling down towards her had relieved her mind; not that she'd been worried, exactly, that he was going to dive off the roof for a second time, but still. Part of her, the deepest, most secret part of her heart, would never stop worrying about him. Ever.

He'd left without so much as a single word, simply nodding when she called a sarcastic: "You're welcome!" after his retreating form, the Belstaff buttoned up to his chin and his hands deep in the coat's pockets. She'd shrugged and taken the stairs back down to the basement, figuring she might as well get some exercise out of this little excursion before returning to the work Sherlock had interrupted.

She couldn't keep a smile from her lips even though she told herself she was annoyed with him. Perhaps the message – he'd sent a text, naturally – would be an apology? He did that more frequently now that he'd returned from the 'dead,' just as he was a bit nicer to her since admitting that she counted and that he'd always trusted her.

Of course, he wasn't the only one who'd changed since that dramatic day two years past. She'd spent enough time in his battered and bruised presence to lose a little of the near-awe she'd always felt for him. Oh, his incredibly agile mind still impressed her; she still loved him, deeply and profoundly and still quite unrequitedly (even through her disastrous engagement to Tom Hicks, which had ended badly two days after Sherlock's return when the other man had realized exactly how Molly felt about the no-longer-dead consulting detective), but he'd become a little more human to her that day, the man willing to sacrifice so much to keep his friends safe. She'd begun to understand him, just a bit, just enough for her to be able to stand up to him when he was biting and sarcastic and practically climbing the walls with boredom while waiting for enough time to pass to allow him to emerge from her flat and begin his mission to dismantle the criminal labyrinth the late Jim Moriarty had left behind.

There was good reason for Molly to continue to worry about Sherlock Holmes; after all, he'd nearly died for real the day of his return, flushed out of hiding by Sebastian Moran, Moriarty's former lieutenant and marksman. The sniper had almost killed John Watson as well, but now he was behind bars and John and Sherlock were alive and kicking. All's well that ends well, wasn't that what the Bard said?

Her mobile gave another impatient little beep, reminding her that while she'd been drifting in her thoughts there was a message waiting for her.

She looked and smiled. From Sherlock, as expected. Meet me at the flat after your shift. Bring dinner. Thai, not Chinese. SH

She shook her head, still grinning. Typical Sherlock, apologizing without apologizing. She would pick up the Thai from the place near the Tube station that let out nearest his Baker Street flat, and after she left for home she'd find the money to cover the cost tucked discreetly into an inner pocket of her handbag. She responded to the text in the affirmative, heroically holding back on the urge to sign it "Love, Molly XXOO" even in jest, and tucked her mobile back into her lab coat pocket.

She tried to focus on her research, but her mind kept returning to her first sight of Sherlock after he'd come back to London, to the life he'd been forced to leave behind, the damage that had been caused to more than just him when he jumped off the roof and faked his death. He'd nearly scared her out of her skin, lurking in the shadows of the staff changing room at the end of an overnight shift, but knowing that he was done with his undercover life had been all she needed to hear to put a smile back on her face.

The smile hadn't lasted as he admitted to seeing John – and further admitted that the reunion hadn't exactly gone smoothly. Of course, the growing bruise that had decorated his cheek attested to that. John had been so angry with him; even now, nearly two months later, he still occasionally could be heard muttering about stupid bastards and rooftops under his breath.

He seemed to reserve the bulk of his lingering resentment for Sherlock, although Molly had unflinchingly accepted he harsh words he'd had for her once he learned of her part in the plan. Only the fact that, once Sherlock had vanished from her flat a week after she'd smuggled him in, she'd had no idea if he was still alive, kept John from completely blowing up at her for pretending to grieve along with him.

Not that she'd actually done any pretending; her worries and fears for Sherlock's safety might not have been the same as John's genuine grief for the supposed loss of his best friend, or as damaging to her psyche, but she'd felt them and John had been told by her – and, surprisingly enough, by Sherlock – that he had no right to belittle her feelings just because she'd known Sherlock had faked his suicide. Nor because she'd helped him to do it.

Well, John had a new girlfriend to keep him busy at the moment; with any luck, Mary would help him reach a point where he could fully forgive Sherlock. He was really, really close, Molly could tell; he'd started his blog up again and even gone on a couple of cases with Sherlock already. Granted, DI Lestrade had a lot to do with that, but still. Progress was progress.

John and Sherlock's relationship was progressing, John and Mary's relationship was progressing, even her own friendship with Sherlock was progressing. She was the only one who seemed to have taken a step backwards, after trying so hard to move on with her life and find love with someone who actually returned her feelings.

Molly repressed a sigh as her mind wistfully lingered on the fact that she'd hoped things would progress beyond mere friendship with Sherlock someday, but she was a practical girl at heart and would take what she could get. If Sherlock couldn't offer her more than friendship, well, it was certainly better than the dismissive way he'd treated her for the bulk of their working relationship.

"Back to work, Molly Hooper," she ordered herself. Dinner was still more than four hours away, after all.

oOo

Sherlock's eyes gleamed with satisfaction and his lips curled in a smile as he read the text from Molly Hooper. Good. She would bring dinner, they would eat it, and then…

His eyes glowed a soft, gossamer silver as Moriarty's hold on Sherlock's mind slipped, just the slightest bit, Sherlock surging from his mental prison as the malevolent spirit allowed him to see just what he had planned for the sweet little pathologist after dinner. The struggle for control was brief, Sherlock's face morphing from gleeful satisfaction to a snarl of rage as his prisoner fought to eject his unwanted mental tenant and the spirit of Jim Moriarty fought just as hard to retain control.

The supernatural force won out over the man who until a few hours ago had not believed even in the smallest measure that such an entity could ever exist. Weakened by the struggle, Moriarty felt Sherlock's heart pounding in his chest, his breath coming in gasps as he muttered: "Good try, darling, but we both know I'll always come out on top."

Gradually his heartbeat and breathing returned to normal, and Sherlock's eyes returned to their indeterminate blue-green shade. To outward appearances, he was Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, coolly in control of himself as always. His lip curled in another dark smile. "Appearances can be sooo deceiving, can't they?" he whispered as he donned Sherlock's – his, now – favorite black coat and left the flat.

There was a limit to the amount of time he could spend inhabiting Sherlock's body, and there was a lot he needed to accomplish before he was eventually forced to seek a new host. Right now, for example, he had a lunch date with John Watson and his girlfriend, Mary Morstan, that he absolutely could not miss.

It was going to be absolutely delicious.