A/N - Well this is a little late, sorry about that :/ but here it is and it's extra long :]

Thanks for all of you for R+Ring :]

And in the next chapter there will be sexy times!

Echo

Chapter 4

The Funeral

It had been three days since Molly's long and emotionally draining phone conversation with John. In which they had both broken down into tears more than once and profusely apologised for the fact more than was necessary. Luckily for Molly she had Sherlock to comfort her - well, perhaps comfort was a bit of a stretch; he sat next to her and rolled his eyes as she sobbed quietly.

John didn't deserve this pain and she wanted more than anything to put him out of it. But Molly couldn't tell John the truth, if she did she would be putting him in danger along with Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and probably Sherlock. No, Molly would keep the secret and continue to string out lie after lie, for them. Molly would gladly take pain to ease the suffering of others, but it was hard to hear the pain in John's voice knowing that she could ease it, if only slightly.

Hopefully John would thank her later, or perhaps hurl abuse. Either way, Molly Hooper would sit back and take what he had to offer.

Now Molly was sat with her laptop open on her knee, with Sherlock's face staring back at her with a deerstalker on his head splashed across the news page. The caption read; fake genius, ends life after truth leaked. It made Molly's blood run cold; how dare they publish something so terrible. He had only been dead for four days. Some people just had no common decency.

Sherlock took this very moment to stroll out of Molly's room, hair tousled and bed sheet in place; this had become the norm now. Molly didn't have the heart to kick him out of her bed even though she knew he was well and able to spend the night on the couch. Sherlock was still bored and attempting to cure this with driving Molly into a frenzy with his naked appearance and not-so-subtle comments. He found himself waiting for her to continue what they had started, he was more than willing and knew that she wouldn't take much convincing, however things kept popping up; a phone call from John or Mrs. Hudson, an emergency at work and her constant worry for her missing tabby.

Sherlock noticed immediately by the slight dark marks under her eyes, furrowed brow, tensed jaw and pinched expression that something was wrong - he just hoped that it wasn't to do with the bloody cat. "Molly, what is it? My name being dragged through the mud again?" his eyebrow quirked as he nodded toward the open laptop; he didn't have to be the consulting detective to figure this one out. His death would still be up for public consumption, as would his life. He was simply glad that he had been able to pull the wool so tightly over their eyes. Ordinary people were like little sheep, ready to follow the largest crowd - so fickle, so boring.

Molly sighed heavily before reciting the words before her and growling angrily as she shoved her laptop aside and jumped off the couch. "Who does this Kitty think she is? She knows nothing about you! And who is this source? It disgusts me!" Forcing her way past Sherlock in her fury, she stormed into the kitchen and slammed her finger down onto the kettle, watching as the little light came on to inform her that soon she would be satisfying her thirst with a nice cup of tea.

Sherlock watched on with a smirk as the angry pathologist took her fury out on her unsuspecting kitchen appliances. He had only ever seen John get riled up to defend him. He found himself rather enjoying the sight of a flustered Molly, she was rather beautiful in her temper. Hair ruffled up, eyes ablaze, hands clenched into fists and lips pursed; yes, she was a sight to behold. But Sherlock couldn't allow his feelings to creep up once again; his funeral was later today and he needed to prepare Molly as best he could.

"Just forget about that for now. You need to focus, now when you get to the funeral, what do you need to do?" Sherlock eased back into being her mentor, his head high, eyes fixed and jaw set. Molly couldn't help but find it rather amusing; he looked like some sort of Greek God, wrapped in her bed sheet. Sherlock's eyebrow quirked as he realised that she was staring at his sheet clad body rather than his face. "Focus, Molly. And one day you may see me without it."

That caught her attention as her head snapped up, mouth agape and eyes bulging. "I mustn't give anything away. But I should still refer to you in the present tense because I'm grieving." She was able to push aside the mental images of him striding around her living room naked, in order to recite his rules. "I understand why you're telling me this, but I honestly don't think that I need them. It feels real to me Sherlock and believe me, even a fake burial of you will have me in tears. I'm not going to tell anyone. I swear." She looked up into his light blue eyes, her feet carrying her forward a few paces until they were an arm's length apart.

Narrowing his eyes slightly, he recognised her sincerity and gave her a slight nod. "I'm sorry Molly. I just don't want anybody to be at risk. You do realise that there is no need to cry, I'm right here, standing before you. It's rather peculiar for you to become so upset." His words were not meant to be harsh or cutting in any way; Sherlock was genuinely bemused by her overreaction.

Molly took in a steadying breath before answering, "I suppose I'm not only crying for me or for your death. I'm sad because John is mourning the very man who is living in my flat. People are slandering your name, making everything you did seem like a lie. I'm crying because they are trying to make the world believe that the man I-I-" Molly's eyes filled with tears as she ducked her head, hiding them from Sherlock. After clearing her throat she continued, "the man that I care about was a fraud. You're not, and it makes me feel sick to know that anybody could believe such a thing." With another long sigh, she looked back up to Sherlock, seeing the look of concentration etched across his face; he was deducing her.

Sherlock stood stock still, eyes fixed onto Molly's large brown orbs. He knew what she had wanted to say - what she couldn't say; that she loved him. Now, Sherlock was a man of science, everything could be boiled down to numbers and equations - even love. It was simply a chemical release in the brain - nothing more. Yet, seeing it course through someone, seeing their eyes dilate and neck throb as their pulse quickened, for you; it was exhilarating and puzzling all at once.

The Consulting Detective had known Molly Hooper for years, she had always been there, in the shadows ready to help. He had always been there to use her and then crush her hopes of there ever being anything between them. But now he wasn't sure, she was different; she had proved herself, stood her ground and helped him, even though it may cost her life. She was always so willing. The pathologist was opening his eyes, changing his views and luring him down the path of sentiment; he hated sentiment.

Fixing his mask of indifference, he spoke quickly, "well, enough talking, go get ready. You're cab will be here in an hour." And just like that, with those words spoken, he had slammed the door closed once again. Crushing Molly's hopes with his harsh demeanor. However, for the first time he didn't need John to tell him. It registered with him that he had done something cruel; he felt remorse.

Right on the dot, an hour later found Molly sat in the back of the black cab on her way to the funeral parlour. In her tight black dress and ballet shoes, hair fastened in a side bun and minimal make up; she didn't want to look like the joker after all the crying. She was still confused by Sherlock - you'd think that his behaviour would become easier to handle, or that his words would no longer sting. Molly would always be hurt by his words, because she cared and she longed for him to care about her, even if it was just for a second - she would take anything that he had to offer; the gentle caress of his hand, another lingering kiss, even a brief hug would be nice.

Tears once again welled up in her eyes as she fantasised about all the things she would never have. She knew that it wouldn't be difficult to cry, but she didn't think it would begin this soon.

Molly soon found the cab arriving at the funeral home. It looked rather isolated, just Mrs. Hudson and John were stood at the entrance. After paying the cabbie she rushed to meet them, face dropping as she saw the empty look in John's eyes. Mrs. Hudson was quick to give her a hug and stroke her cheek tenderly. "Molly dear, how are you?" Her voice cracked as she asked the question. Her gentle face was drawn downward, eyes heavy with sleep and tissue stuffed into her sleeve, ready to mop up the tears that she would no doubt cry.

Molly felt the tears track down her cheek as she tried to smile and nod at the friendly old woman. She found herself choking on the lump forming in her throat. "I-I'm fine, thank you. How are the both of you?" John tried his best to smile back at her but only managed a meager nod before turning to enter the building. Mrs. Hudson gave Molly an apologetic look before following his lead. Molly was about to head in as well, but a hand gripped her shoulder effectively stopping her in her dead.

"Excuse me, would you like to comment on Mr. Holmes and his fraudulent life?" Molly turned to see a woman with curly red hair, pointing a Dictaphone at her. "I'm Kitty Riley. Pleased to meet you, uhm?" Molly's eyes narrowed immediately as she remembered the horrible things printed about Sherlock by this vile woman.

"You don't need to know my name. All you need to know is; Sherlock is a great man, he would never lie."

"Was a great man." Kitty corrected quickly, pushing her recording device closer to Molly.

"He is and always will be. I read your article Kitty. Who is your source? Because everything they are telling you is lies, and you are extremely foolish to believe it." Molly held her head higher as the reporter narrowed her eyes - probably trying to intimidate; but not today, not at his funeral. Molly had been preparing for this and she wouldn't have some low life come in and upset things.

"Did you sleep with the Detective then? Did he trick you into bed? Or have you always known he was a fake but wanted to get him into the sack none the less?" Kitty shot her questions at Molly quickly, her eyes still trained on her every expression.

Molly's anger grew at her words - how dare she. "This is a funeral. If you don't leave then I will call the police. Goodbye Ms. Riley." With that said she left the nonchalant reporter outside and joined John and Mrs. Hudson as the funeral began. Today was going to be difficult for everyone, she needed to be there for them.

After the short service in which John spoke few words about Sherlock, Molly and John stood at the grave. The letters etched into the stone made no sense to her, they seemed so foreign. She had spent the service sobbing into a handkerchief while John rubbed her back, trying to soothe her heart ache. But John's comfort only made her cry even harder, she knew the truth - but she couldn't tell anyone.

"He confessed you know; told me he was fake before he died. I still don't believe him." John's cracked voice brought Molly back to the present, his eyes swimming with tears as he stared at the grave stone. "He was my best friend, Molly. But I couldn't save him. I tried, but he told me not to - I should have done it anyway." He bowed his head as the tears fell. John was a broken shell of the man she used to know.

Molly's throat tightened painfully as she watched the ex army Doctor fall apart. All she could do was drape her arm across his broad shoulders and steer him into an awkward hug. "It's okay John, there is nothing that any of us could have done. This is Sherlock we are talking about. He always does what he wants." Molly tried to lighten the mood, but only managed to make herself feel worse while John let out a rough chuckle.

"Yup, that was Sherlock, always stubborn. But he wasn't a liar, Molly." Pulling back from the hug, Molly nodded at his comment and gave him a watery smile. John's eyes narrowed slightly as he looked her over. "Did he say anything to you?" His voice was filled with such hope and determination.

"No. Nothing." Molly's heart sank as she lied so easily. She watched as John nodded slowly before patting her on the shoulder and walking away. He looked like a man who had just been hanging his hopes on one answer, only to receive the wrong one.

Turning her back on his retreating form, Molly dropped down beside the grave and allowed her emotions to take over. All the lies she had told that day, the anger at the words in the press, the hurt in John's eyes, the pity in 's. She didn't know how much longer she could take this. A warm hand on her shoulder caused her to jump slightly. Turning around, she expected to see John, but got a surprise as she clapped eyes on the dark haired Consulting Detective, clad in his usual blue scarf and long coat.

"You're going to catch your death out here, Molly. Come on." Sherlock helped her to stand, steering her into the trees at the side of the grave yard. He didn't say a word as he unfastened his coat and pulled her against his chest to wrap it around both of them. Molly didn't realise how cold she had been until she felt the warmth of his body seep into hers. A low moan leaked through her lips as she sank into him. Sherlock wanted to give a snide comment at the noise, but thought better of it.

"You shouldn't be out in the open, Sherlock; it's dangerous, someone could see you." Molly pressed her cheek against his chest as she spoke, too tired and cold to put any true emotion into her words. The gentle drumming of his heart lulling her eyes closed and easing her panic.

"I was careful. You did well today, Molly. Crying at the right times and not talking too much. How was John?" Sherlock's voice grew serious as he asked the question. Molly knew that he had been wanting to ask about John all along, but didn't want to show any signs of actually feelings; he was becoming rather easy for her to read.

"John's doing as expected, Sherlock. When will we be able to tell him?" Her voice became weak as her throat once again tightened, strangling her from within. "I hate that he has to go through this while we sit by and watch." Tears began seeping into Sherlock's shirt as she thought of John, alone in 221b.

Sherlock's chin was resting on top of Molly's head as he stared at his name on the grave stone, yards away from where they stood. His hand unconsciously stroking down Molly's back. "I know, I'm sorry that I've done this to you. But you were the only person I could turn to." With that said he placed a small kiss to the top of Molly's head - he wasn't sure whether it was an act or a true sign of emotion, but he didn't care to delve any further. He found himself wanting comfort, real comfort. Not just an experiment or a way to ease boredom. Sherlock was becoming attached to Molly and he couldn't find it in him to fight it anymore.