Sherlock was bored, he was angry, and no one liked him anymore. He had no cases coming in – most of England still thought he was dead and a fake. He had no one left to chase – what little was left of Moriarty's network wasn't worth it even for entertainment-value. When Mycroft had agreed it was time for him to come back in from death, that highly official "unofficial" source of work had dried up, at least for now. At the moment there were only a few positive features in his life, and those were…unsettling. Profoundly unsettling.

Mrs. Hudson, for example, had agreed to let him move back to 221B Baker Street. He'd long since grown sick of his hotel room; that alone would have put him into his high-speed mode to move back in. However, his landlady's distinct lack of enthusiasm had him shifting his things out of storage and into the flat even faster than he'd managed to move the first time, for fear she change her mind.

He'd had approximately fifteen minutes of glorious satisfaction—fifteen minutes that started when he first unlocked the door and looked in on the old, familiar rooms and had ended when he put his own steel-framed armchair in its proper place at one side of the fireplace, and realized there was no squashed, homely old overstuffed armchair to go on the other side. From that moment on the move was like a carefully constructed object lesson proving the old saying, "You can't go home again." Or perhaps, "You don't know what you've got till it's gone." He had never before realized how little room John's possessions took up amongst all his own clutter…nor how much their scant and humble presence defined his sense of home.

Almost as bad, Mrs. Hudson was barely talking to him. No more chipper trips up the stairs to put a treat in his fridge. No more fond invitations down for "beans and toast for supper, lovie? Save yourself some pans and some wash-up?" And there was a list of new rules thumb-tacked to the door. It indicated the times when he was not to play his violin. It also listed things he was not to do at all: shoot guns in the house for anything but immediate defensive purposes; keep human body parts in the flat—with an exception made for Sherlock's skull, on the express condition he loan it to her Little Theater group for their next production of Hamlet…

She wasn't the only one not talking to him. John was an aching silence of unstated reproaches, punctuated by the rare, but blistering not-so-unstated one. Lestrade was busy working on an open-and-shut that would have been beneath Sherlock, had he not been so desperate—but Lestrade wasn't inviting Sherlock to kibbitz, this time. The one time Sherlock tried to goad him into it, pointing out the Detective Inspector was making long work of a short case, Lestrade's earthy response had suggested to Sherlock that, perhaps, this particular technique of forcing an opening through gadfly critique would no longer serve him in future. Indeed, "suggested" was probably not a forceful enough word for it. Any more direct a statement of territorial defense on Lestrade's part would have given Sherlock room to claim police brutality. The sound of Sally and Anderson's loud cheering had not added a ray of sunshine to the all-encompassing gloom as he'd stalked away from the D.I.'s office.

Mycroft, too, was busy…the sort of busy that involved sudden silences so solid you could crack a hardboiled egg on them, and mysterious messages and actions that conveyed the perfumed scent of super-ultra-totally-top-secret international affairs. We-shoot-you-if-you-find-out stuff—the kind Sherlock had been merrily taking part in only months before, when he'd still been informally on Her Majesty's payroll of highly secretive specialists.

Sherlock wasn't sure how to even proceed. Somehow he'd simply assumed he'd come home, everyone would ultimately be delighted to see him, John would write one of his effusive blog entries explaining everything, clearing Sherlock's name, and opening their doors for business once more, and things would proceed along proper and reasonably entertaining lines. Instead, the one time Sherlock had ventured to bring up John's blog, his friend had turned grey and walked abruptly out of the room, and that woman to whom he was in the apparently slow-motion process of becoming engaged and married had presumed to attack Sherlock like a terrier rounding on a particularly pesky rat. Her verbal skills had proven…educational.

There were not many people Sherlock was unwilling to spar with for fear of not only losing, but of licking his own emotional wounds for weeks after—indeed, until Mary Marston had lit into him, Sherlock would have limited the list to Mycroft, Irene, and very, very rarely, to John, who usually won by playing dirty, and taking advantage of Sherlock's desire to have at least one person in the world who believed he had a "better nature." According to Mary Marston, though, Sherlock had no such thing, nor ever would. Worse, she made a virtually ironclad argument supporting her claim.

At the end of his first week back in 221B, he was getting desperate…

How are things in Islamabad, Persephone? SH

Very busy. Forgive me if I don't talk: I'm on company time, and my company is expecting some quality chastisement.

Make him wait for it.

Her…and she has. Deliciously so. Really, dear, some other time. I can't keep the client hanging.

Wait… I was thinking. Maybe I could fly out to see you for a week or so…

Oh, terrible timing, Sherlock. I'm booked solid right now, and I can't risk having you here. The wrong people would notice. And I know you: you'd be sure to notice the wrong people.

After Halloween?

Try for after New Years. Seriously, I've got to go. Work's just begging for attention. Bye...

It could be a tease, he thought. A ploy to make him jealous, to bring him back to her flat and her bed.

He dismissed the thought, uneasily certain she was happily focused on business, her newest lover Sabiha, and on her own plans—which were forever and always quite distinct from his own. Irene didn't do togetherness. Or, as she herself had put it soon after he'd rendezvoused with her in Islamabad, "Don't expect me to be John Watson, Sherlock. I'm not going to settle into happy domestic bliss with you, both of us sitting all cozy in our armchairs and our slippers in front of the fireplace at 221B. That's your idea of the good life. Mine involves designer dresses, well-kept leather novelties, lots of expensive gifts—some of them given quite unwillingly—and regular changes of address. Sometimes forced changes of address, just to keep things interesting."

No. It was fairly likely every word had truly been intended to discourage him from visiting…and if they also made him squirm a bit, and scorched his vanity? Well…it was Irene, after all. Meting out punishment was both her talent and her calling.

Sherlock thought of going out to Islamabad anyway. "The wrong people" were likely to be men and women Mycroft would want to know about: dignitaries of both the legitimate and illegitimate ruling classes, coming back to Irene because the coast was clear: Mycroft's Hound had been called in from the field. Irene wouldn't thank him for it, though. If he went back now, he'd be both unwelcome and inconvenient. He had no illusions: Irene was as wild and independent as he was…no…she was more so. He could not, for example, imagine her coming back to an empty flat, looking for the warmth of lost times and frayed friendships.

Which left him with only one redeeming bright spot in his life—and that spot had proven as unsettling as the rest.

Hello, Molly. Want to do lunch? I could kill for a curry. SH

Sorry, Sherlock. Got a backlog of paperwork to fill out. I brought lunch in with me today.

Any interesting corpses?

No. Not unless you're interested in a few cancer deaths.

I'll take what I can get. See you in a quarter hour.

But…

But what?

Nothing. See you soon, Sherlock. But no getting me in trouble. I don't want a reprimand messing up my applications. Okay?

You take all the fun out of it.

Don't pout, Sherlock. Once I'm in med school you can start working over Nigel. I think he's next in line to be senior morgue assistant. He's always game for a bit of fun.

Sherlock knew Nigel, and Nigel was no Molly Hooper. But beggars couldn't be choosers. In the meantime he still had access to the morgue and to the one and only Molly. He scrambled into his coat and scarf, hailed a cab, and was over at St. Barts in a matter of minutes, sparing only one icy glance for the roof's edge from which he had plummeted to his "death."

He'd won that game. He was not about to waste anguish and remorse and vile, entrapping sentiment on the memory…or on the remembered ghost of John, a tiny figure at the back of the turn-around, staring up in endless horror to where a ghost-Sherlock stood staring back down, phone pressed to his ear, crying.

No. He would waste no time on that at all. He'd won-won-won-won-won, and it was over. And that was that.

He crashed into Molly's lab like the king of storms, face thunderous and coat swirling around him in the wind of his own passage. He was talking at high speed before the doors even shut behind him.

"You've moved the microscope bank. I don't like it, but it does make room for the new Keyance digital—very nice, I'll be pleased to take that out for a spin—but the lighting's bad and it's pushed the equipment racks off to the side. Very inconvenient, I think you should do something about that." He was rattling away, his mouth an automatic weapon with the safety off, barely willing to spare a glance for Molly, who he now knew saw too much of him too clearly. When he did look, what he saw was enough to fuel the continuing barrage, however. "New hairstyle: wearing it pinned up to look more professional, no doubt for your interviews, but the cheap hair decoration you've used to secure it brings the tone down, as do the earrings, which are old. Gotten from Oxfam? Pink cubic zirconiums? Really? Someday you are going to have to pay for a makeover; you still dress like Brixton, especially when you're trying not to. You're living frugally these days: egg salad sandwich—look sharp, you've got some salad on your collar and crumbs down your front —and an orange, I can smell the peel all the way over here, though it's an improvement on your scent, which is also pure Brixton. Did Mrs. Hudson recommend it? It's one of her favorites; you smell just like her." She stood as though frozen, staring at him, a bunny rabbit caught in oncoming headlights, eyes wide. "Well? The bodies? Don't keep me waiting! I'm bored, Molly, bored!"

It was the first time he'd actually seen her since his return, rather than texting, and it disturbed him how remarkably comforting he found her familiar face, here in this familiar place, with the two of them playing out their familiar roles.

She blinked, slowly, eyes remaining closed longer than a mere blink demanded. She swallowed once, hard. When she opened her eyes, they were empty, and she smiled a smile that would have gotten her hired as a clothing-store mannequin in a shaved second. "It's good to see you, too, Sherlock. The bodies are in the other room. No damage, please: they've got to go to the mortuary later today, and at least one's intended for open-casket viewing. Be kind—if you know how. Don't maul anything more than you already have. If you need me I'll be in my office." Not waiting for a response, she turned, with clockwork precision, and walked sedately to her office. Only the slightly-too-firm closing of the door gave away her mood.

He reviewed what he'd said—all of it correct, all of it demonstrating an interest in her that he'd have thought she'd find flattering, if anything. Wasn't it? It wasn't like the Christmas he didn't want to think about, when he could see he'd been quite horrible.

It wasn't like that Christmas—was it?

He scowled. And what if it was? He was tired of trying to renew contact with people who clearly didn't like him half so much as he'd though. At least there were corpses to examine…an ever present help in times of trouble. He stalked into the rooms with the autopsy tables and proceeded to pace, peer, prod, and poke—though he was actually quite careful to leave no signs of molestation to indicate he'd been less than…kind. Not that he'd admit he was making any sort of effort, of course.

He was just finishing with the second body when his phone vibrated.

Sherlock? It's me, Molly.

Yes, Molly? He almost typed in a teasing, goading, "Do you want to apologize?" but found he couldn't, for fear he'd join his deceased companions on a slab. Or, worse, that he wouldn't, but that Molly would close more than her office door on him.

Look, I'm sorry I walked out on you. But I thought I could do this. I thought I could deal with you when you're being…you. I know you're not going to change, but I thought I could. I thought I had. But I can't. His phone signaled each new message coming in, as she continued, I've been doing a lot of thinking since you went. I thought I could deal with you coming in and tearing every detail of my workplace apart, and then me. But I can't. It just turns into you telling me I'm a puffed up little chav from Brixton with no taste, messy eating habits, and stinky perfume.

Ah. It was a revelation of sorts…he often didn't hear what he said through his victims' ears. It was educational to hear it graphically reinterpreted for the help of empathy-impaired.

I didn't mean it that way.

After a long delay, she sent, I almost said "you never do," but I'd be lying. But, no. I don't think you did mean it, this time. That doesn't mean that isn't how it comes across. The thing is, Sherlock, if I can't deal with it—I can't see you. I can't risk letting you do what you do, only have it be about medical school, or trying to learn how to fit into a new social group that's more high-class than I am, and I can't…I can't be with you, because even when you don't mean it, it hurts, and messes me up. Do you understand?

He watched the series of messages spool up his screen with a sinking feeling.

I understand.

And that was the real hell: he did understand—maybe better than ever before, after weeks of boredom and loneliness and the cold wind of his friends' anger. And he wasn't stupid: he was arrogant, and far more likely to evaluate people from the outside, with focus on sentiment-free analysis, than to try to deduce their inner feelings. Indeed, much of the time he despised those feelings…though not always. But he wasn't stupid, or even indifferent to those inner lives. He could understand when he made the effort.

Good, Sherlock. I'm sorry. You're a great man. I just have to start taking care of myself, or I'm going to go back to being nothing—only this time I'll know how much of it I did to myself.

I understand.

He couldn't bring himself to type in, "I wish you the best, Molly Hooper." Or even, "You'll always count."

He licked his lips and returned his phone to his pocket, noticing his hands were shaking. He made himself return to the internal organs in a plastic bin on the lab table, already weighed and waiting to be neatly returned to the corpse before burial. He studied the tumors riddling the liver of the deceased. It would not have been a pleasant death. Ten minutes later he was still staring at the same liver, thinking the same thing again, as his mind looped, stuck in place.

He should not have come in. They'd been doing well, texting. She'd been glad he was back—the only person in all England of whom he was certain that was true. As long as it had just been words on the screen, they'd been fine.

Oh.

He had his phone out as fast as a gunslinger drawing a six-shooter.

Molly! Did you have any trouble telling me that in text?

He waited, imagining her getting her phone out of her pocket, reading the text, thinking about it, responding. It seemed to take forever.

No. But, Sherlock, I don't think I want to be your text-pal. Sorry.

No, no, that would be silly, he typed back—though, in fact, he'd actually been planning on that option. But if Molly didn't want to be his text-pal, he'd come up with another answer. Fast. He scowled, thinking….

As he thought, she typed, back a simple ?

Molly, get up, keep walking, and keep texting. Come to the autopsy room.

He could almost hear the mental shout when he got her next ?!

He could hear her feet coming down the corridor as he typed, Just push through the door. Keep looking at the screen. Good, good, that's right, come on in. No, don't look up. Can you keep texting?

She laughed, and he watched with a sense of relief as her body relaxed. She was grinning as she typed back, Yes, Sherlock, but I feel really stupid—and don't say it, or I'm walking back out.

I won't even text it, Molly Hooper.

Thank you.

No. Thank you. First: I am sorry. I did not mean to insult you.

I know. You usually don't…or you hope that clever and funny rates higher than polite.

A precise evaluation, unfortunately. You know my methods, Molly. Which leads to my second statement: You were right. I am unlikely to change…which means you risk being hurt when dealing with me.

Yeah. And I don't know how to stop caring, especially when you're saying everything I'm afraid is true.

What are you afraid is true, Molly?

That I'm stupid, and plain, and tasteless, and tactless, and not very interesting, and that I ought to just keep my mouth shut, and my head down, and accept I'm a Brixton girl who should have gotten pregnant at seventeen and married at twenty and divorced at twenty-two, and live between the dole and a day job ringing customers out at a cash register.

None of which is true except that you come from Brixton. And you do need to learn to dress for and function in a new social setting. Molly—you can look up, now. Please?

He could see her waver. He could see detail after detail, the usual tidal wave of input that never ended, but this time, for once, it came with an actual emotional context. He knew how to evaluate it—at least a bit. When her eyes met his, he could see what it cost her.

"If you have to walk away, or close the door, or end the friendship, I do understand," he said, trying to remain calm…and having to work at it, as he'd had to work to talk to her the night of his death. "But if you can say all that to me with me right here, just by using text, and if you know I can read it and understand, perhaps we can find a way to make friendship work after all? Even without text?"

She worried her lower lip in her teeth, brow furrowed as she considered. Then, fear slowly fading, she nodded. "I…think we might be able to do that." She took a deep breath, set her shoulders like a soldier preparing to march, and added, "Sherlock, I'm sorry, too. I really thought I could just let you be you and not care, and I'm sorry I failed."

"You didn't fail. If all I could be was my observations and deductions, it would be different. The real trouble is that I can be…better than that, and seldom bother. And you know it. That's why it hurts, isn't it?"

"Yes," she agreed.

He barely held back a shiver, as he realized her answer was serious because she knew he needed a serious answer—that he really wasn't sure his guess was right. "I…don't always understand what people are feeling," he said, feeling almost unendurably raw and revealed. "I see the details, and can even deduce the pattern and identify it. It just…"

"…isn't real to you, without a bit of help sometimes."

"Yes."

She thought about it for the longest time. Then she gave a business-like little nod, put her cell phone back in her pocket, and walked calmly across the floor toward him. She reached up to grab the collar of his shirt, pulled him down, and placed one kiss on his cheek before letting go and stepping back. "Thank you, Sherlock Holmes," she said, before turning to the liver in its bin. "Nasty case of heptacellular carcinoma, isn't it?" she asked.

Sherlock's life was indeed unsettled; deeply, irrevocably unsettled. But at least he was no longer entirely alone.