The service was short and simple. There were very few people-Molly, Mycroft with his wife and twin girls, a severe looking woman with high cheekbones who could only be Sherlock's mother, Lestrade and-to her complete and utter shock-Anderson and Donovan, Mrs. Hudson, a veiled woman whom she had a sneaking suspicion was Irene Adler, and John. After the service, the attendants slowly dispersed, Mycroft leading the weeping Mrs. Holmes away last, leaving only Molly and John, one on either side of the casket.

Molly had a brief, frightening thought as to whether or not the body of some other person was inside. Mycroft had insured a closed casket, citing the damage to the body as being too great for his mother to handle. Molly hoped the casket was empty.

John was standing near the head of the casket, staring at the arrangement of flowers sent by Sherlock's many believers. Molly crossed slowly to his side of the grave and wordlessly slipped her hand into his. They stood for several minutes, neither saying a word. It was John who broke the silence.

"This doesn't feel real, does it?"

"No," Molly felt like her heart was being squeezed inside her chest.

"Tell me you still believe in him. I need to know-" His voice cracked a little as he looked to the sky to stop his tears from falling, "I need to know that he was real."

"He was real, John. I know he was. And for as ridiculous a man as he was, he cared about you. He cared about you so much." They embraced each other then, both allowing themselves to cry freely.

"I'm sorry he was so awful to you," said John, extracting himself from her hug and quickly wiping his cheeks with the sleeve of his coat. "I think he really did care about you-somewhere in that strange brain of his."

Molly smiled. "I know he does. Did," she shuddered, but she thought that John accepted her incorrect tense as grief.

"I still wake up thinking I hear his violin. Think I'm going crazy."

"I miss him too, John."

Her face still felt puffy from crying as she climbed the stairs, wishing for nothing more than to take a hot shower and watch some junk telly with Sherlock before going to bed. She needed something to take the image of the heart-broken John out of her mind.

When she opened the door, she had the immediate fear that the room was on fire. Her flat looked as though a small cyclone had touched down and thrown all her possessions to different sides of whatever room they had originally occupied. Smoke filled the room, and as she searched for the source, Sherlock rushed into the room, cigarette hanging out of his mouth, and stuffed what appeared to be one of her shirts into an overnight bag.

"Sherlock, what the hell is going on?"

Her words seemed to startle him, and he looked up into her face. His expression was terrifying. His hair was disheveled, his face pale and strained. She rushed over to him and plucked the cigarette out of his mouth and put it out in an abandoned glass of water on the counter. She turned and put her hands on each side of his face, forcing him to look at her.

"Sherlock-what's wrong? What happened?"

He swallowed, keeping his eyes wide and on her. "He's alive. Moriarty's alive. And I think he may be coming after you."

Her blood ran cold. She felt as if all the air had suddenly left her lungs as she let her hands drop from either side of his face.

"He's dead. You watched him die."

"I don't know how, but he's alive. Now you have to go," he said as he thrust the overnight bag into her arms. "I got you a ticket to Switzerland- you're going to stay there for a few days while I figure this out."

She seemed to snap out of her haze at the mention of another country. "Wait, what? I'm not leaving you here."

"Yes, you are. Until I figure this out, I can't guarantee your safety. Mycroft will have someone escort you to the train station and then to-"

Molly slapped him, hard. He blinked several times before looking back up at her.

"What was that for?"

"You need to calm down. Now, tell me exactly what happened. We can figure this out. Together."

"Oh, please, Molly, as if you could really help me figure out a case."

"Don't make me hit you again. I'm helping you whether you like it or not. Now, what happened?"

Sherlock walked across the room and picked up his mobile phone. He opened the text and held it up to Molly's face.

"But that says it's from me. How did he get-"

"You said you didn't remember bringing it home. He must have picked it up somewhere. Or sent one of his people to do it for him. That doesn't matter. What matters is what came next."

He pushed a button and held another text up to her.

Bart's Roof-midnight. Don't worry, honey, Molly doesn't need to know.-M

"He knows you're here. He knows you're alive. How?"

"Don't you think if I knew that I'd tell you?!"

"You're not actually thinking about going?"

"Of course I'm going! This is the man who had trained snipers posted on rooftops with assault rifles posed on everyone I ever cared about. I can't ignore it! He could actually pull the trigger this time. John, Mrs. Hudson, you-"

"Me? He doesn't care about me. He had every chance to hurt me when we were dating, you know that."

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed. "Molly, don't you see? He knows that it was you who helped me. He named you in the message. He knows that I-"

"That you what? Sherlock?" She honestly had no clue what he was going on about. Jim Moriarty had been alone with her several times and never once had he made any attempt to do anything so much as look at her awkwardly.

"He knows that I care about you."

Molly stared at him, unable to move.

Wait. What?

How long had she waited to hear him say that? He had told her a few nights ago that she counted, but she never for a moment believed that he actually cared about her. Maybe had-feelings-for her?

"Sherlock, I-"

"Yes. Yes, I care about you. Happy?"

"It's not like I entered a contest, Sherlock."

He sat on the couch and buried his face in his hands. She blinked away the tear that was threatening to fall down her cheek and went to sit beside him.

"What do we do now?"

"You don't do anything," he said, not looking up from the floor, "You're getting out of here and I'm going to Bart's to see what he wants."

"I'm going with you."

"Like hell you are."

"It wasn't a suggestion."

He looked up at her, and ran his hand through his hair. Molly resolved herself into Confidant Molly once again, although inside she thought she may fall apart any moment. They locked eyes again. Then, in an instant, his lips were on hers.

His hands held the sides of her face as hers reached up and twisted into his curly hair. This wasn't like the kiss from last night. This time he was kissing her, and she was kissing back. It felt desperate, almost as if he had been waiting to do it-or as if he might never get to do it again. All too soon, he was pulling away, a slightly dazed look on his face.

"You're not going."

"Nice try."

Then, in a completely non-Sherlock fashion, he pulled her head down to plant a soft kiss on her forehead and wrapped his arms around her in an embrace. She reached her hands under his arms to rest on his shoulder blades, her head to his chest.

"I'm scared, Sherlock."

"Me too, Molly. Me, too."