A/N - Hey you guys :] thank you all for being so wonderful and reading/reviewing Echo :] there are only 3 chapters after this one :/ but there will be a sequel :] thank you all again and little warning here, there is a lot of angst :/

Okay I'm gonna drop this chapter here and run and hide :'[

love you :]

Echo

Chapter Seven

Unwanted Arrival

Molly stood in the kitchen, stirring a cup of tea for Sherlock who was reading her laptop at the table. Molly couldn't quite help herself as her mind drifted to that morning. She had sat up watching a sleeping Sherlock Holmes, a sight which was so very peaceful in amidst of all the chaos. She had pulled her eyes away, moving to the small bathroom as her common sense screamed at her; she knew full well that this wasn't some perfect love story, Sherlock would not declare his undying love or get down on bended knee, and she would not have her white wedding with the man of her dreams. This was a small piece of the cake - a taster - and that was all she could have.

Molly would never get to call the man whom was slumbering peacefully, hers.

Molly had allowed the hot water to wash away the tears. Cleanse her of the night passed. She would never forget the feeling; never forget the sight of him as he finally allowed his mask to fall, if only for a moment. No, Molly Hooper would not forget. Perhaps that was the problem; she would forever have these memories burned into her mind, repeating on an endless loop of euphoric misery.

Molly quickly snapped back to the present as the spoon collided with the side of the cup. With a fast swipe of the hand, Molly caught the tear leaking down her cheek. She knew the rules; she knew what she was getting into. She had to let go, Molly couldn't allow herself to become attached, it would be too painful.

"I think the tea is finished now." Sherlock's rich baritone swirled around her, making her heart flutter and eyes close as she remembered his whispered words of passion. Silently berating herself, Molly picked up the cups of tea and made her way to the table. Sherlock didn't raise his eyes from the screen as he held his hand out for the tea. With a roll of her eyes Molly tried to place the handle into his grasp - with some difficulty.

"So, what's the latest?" Molly flicked her hand casually over the laptop, she knew that he had been looking up any news of his death and checking in on John of course. This also meant of course that he would be leaving soon. Molly quickly crushed the fear and tried to swallow the rising lump in her throat. She knew this day was coming. This wasn't permanent.

Sherlock watched Molly closely, seeing the glossy sheen in her eyes; she was trying to hold back tears. Her hands were nervously twitching as they had been since she awoke that morning. He had woken to see her leaving the room, shoulders sagging and head held low. She was obviously upset about something. Damn it, Sherlock didn't have time for an overly emotional Molly, he had to distract her - redirect her emotions.

"Molly, why are you out of contact with your family?" Sherlock stifled a smirk as he watched her face go from misery to surprise, she was such an open book. His eyes remained trained on her face as she formulated her response. He knew what she was going to say.

"Why do you think I'm not in contact with my... Oh never mind that, I'm past trying to deduce the great consulting detective. After my father died, my mother got remarried and I was the only one who disagreed. There was a heated family row and now they don't return my calls." Her eyebrows drew together, breathing accelerated and jaw clenched. She was now angry, perfect. Sherlock knew exactly how to play little Molly, and he would never tire of it.

"And why did you disagree? Didn't like the new man?" Sherlock was genuinely interested, however with a slight scowl and a disinterested look, he glanced back to the computer screen – he didn't want to give her too much power.

"No." Molly answered immediately, eyes snapping up to meet the side of Sherlock's face. "I didn't even know the man, but he wasn't my father. My father had been buried little longer than a month and she got married again, making everything with my dad seem meaningless. I tried to talk to her, but we've never really seen eye to eye, I'm more like my dad. I think that's why she doesn't like me anymore, I remind her of him."

"Perhaps your mother was lonely – I can't say I understand that feeling but I know people get that way, especially after someone close dies." Sherlock kept his voice void of emotion, his eyes remaining trained on the screen before him as he spoke nonchalantly.

With a slight shake of the head, Molly tried again to explain herself. "I understand that she felt lost and alone, maybe desperate for comfort but to rush into it – I can't forgive her for that. I was still mourning my father when I received the bloody invitation. He raised me, cared for me, loved me, just as he did her. Please don't misunderstand me, I love my mother and want her to be happy, but I was there for her, she could have sought comfort from me or my brothers, but instead she went to singles bars for over 50's and found a replacement. I can't forgive her for that."

Sherlock noticed with a swift glance that the glossy look was back in her eyes, but this time it was more determination than just sadness. She missed her family; obviously she had removed the pictures to stop the sting that came with the reminder of their fractured relationship. Molly was stronger than she gave herself credit for, she had stuck by her guns, not allowing her love for her mother to cloud her feelings of betrayal – Sherlock was proud.

Wanting a little more information, Sherlock pried further. "And why have your brothers stopped talking to you?"

A slight smile touched her lips before she answered quietly, "They didn't want to upset my mother, so they just went along with it. They used to do the exact same when we were kids – majority ruled in our house, I guess I had enough of being pushed around and forced to feel something that wasn't there." A solitary tear trailed down her cheek, curling under her chin before continuing its trail down her neck. Sherlock followed the movement with hawk like eyes, watching with fascination as the salty fluid left a wet path in its wake – fascinating. Ordinary people were basically balls of uncontrolled, raw emotions. He felt himself rather lucky that he had trained himself long ago, never to allow his heart to rule his head.

"Come on then, what else do you want to distract me with?" Molly's voice cut through his thoughts, her light hearted tone striking him as slightly odd. "I know you picked up my family upset from the missing photographs. So what else? Perhaps my washing up liquid is an insight to my past, or my DVD's, warn out books, tatty clothing, loose floorboards, perhaps my creaking table?" Molly's eyebrow rose in question, her eyes slightly mischievous – she was playing with him.

With a smirk, he responded quickly, "Well, the fact that you have a creaking table could mean that you just haven't gotten around the fixing it yet, but knowing you as I do – you wouldn't leave the table broken, you would make time to fix it, so that means its sentimental, perhaps it was broken when you were younger and you don't want to fix it, which brings me to assume it was your fathers table." Stopping for a moment Sherlock looked her over, seeing her nod slightly, he continued with satisfaction. "The loose floorboards are rather simple to deduce, you Molly Hooper are a pacer, you do it at work, you must also do it here, thus the well warn and creaking floorboards. The tatty clothing is simply because you will not throw them out; you will keep them until they fall apart because you are practical. The warn books simply suggest that you enjoy reading and by the looks of your collection, it is mostly medical journals, the fictional books are barely touched so they must be gifts, probably from your mother or other family members who don't quite know you as well as they should. You don't have any DVD's and your washing up liquid only tells me that you're cheap." Finally stopping to take in a long breath, Sherlock raised an eyebrow in challenge.

Molly stifled a laugh as she nodded slightly. "But the table was my grandfathers." Gritting his teeth slightly and berating himself for missing such an obvious observation, Sherlock just shook his head – he couldn't get it right each and every time. "And I am not cheap – I just don't like spending too much money, not in this economy."

Dismissing her last comment Sherlock closed the laptop with a quiet click. He had been desperate to ask this question for some time and now felt like as opportune moment as any. "Did you sleep with Moriarty? Is that why you bought a new mattress and sheets?" He drank in her facial expressions as they changed from mirth to dread, her cheeks paling and hands twitching – she was uncomfortable, but he needed to know, Sherlock didn't understand why, but he did.

Clearing her throat, she squared her shoulders and looked Sherlock in the eye. Molly had been hoping that this wouldn't come up, but that was rather impossible with Sherlock, secrets weren't kept behind locked doors when the man with the skeleton key arrived. "Yes, we had sex. I was drunk, I thought he was. But I have a suspicion that he planned it all, just so I'd feel disgusted when I found out the truth." Her eyes were once again distant, the glassy look returning as her hands finally stilled. "I'm sorry."

Sherlock was momentarily taken aback by her words, first her confession and then the apology. "Why are you saying sorry? To me?" His eyes narrowed slightly as he observed the obviously nervous pathologist.

Molly sighed, running her fingers through her hair before responding. "Because I allowed him to get in, I brought him to the morgue, I showed him around. I led him straight to you and all because I was lonely and naïve."

Sherlock couldn't help but agree with her on almost everything; she had been open to manipulation, as she had with him so many times in the past. "He would have found another way Molly. Moriarty was already in my life, you didn't introduce us, I had just never seen his face." Trying his hand at sympathy, Sherlock reached across the table and gave her hand a solitary pat – that was what ordinary people did, didn't they?

Giving his hand with a wide eyes stare, Molly nodded in resignation. "Right, well you better be off. I'm guessing that everyone still believes that you're dead, so you'd best be on your way tonight, no need to draw in unwanted attention. Drink your tea and we can arrange everything. It's probably best that we don't have any more contact, not until your name is clear and everyone is safe. How long do you think it will take?" Molly couldn't successfully keep the waiver from her voice.

"It could be weeks, months, years; I honestly can't give an accurate amount of time. I already have everything arranged, I shall finish my tea and leave, I know the backstreets well enough to sneak away, people are stupid, they won't suspect that I would leave in broad day light, it's the perfect disguise. Plus I'm barely in the papers anymore, nobody would recognise me."

Molly only managed to nod along, not trusting her voice to carry the short distance between them. This was it; Sherlock Holmes was leaving, perhaps for years. Vision slightly blurred, Molly watched as Sherlock imbibed his tea quickly. Standing slowly, Molly took the cup along with her own and placed them in the sink. As she began to turn she watched Sherlock's fluid movements as he put the scarf around his neck before pulling his coat on, collar turned up.

"Well, thank you for your help, Molly Hooper." In two short strides, he closed the distance between them, leaning forward to place to chaste kiss to her cheek. She couldn't respond, her heart was beating wildly, eyes filling up with tears as he briskly turned his back, heading for the door. In the blink of an eye he was gone, the click of the door resonating through her now empty mind. It felt like a dream, perhaps her fantasies had begun to feel too real. Shaking her head, Molly berated herself for questioning her mental capacity; she knew this day would come. He only needed her for a short period of time – she had been of use, she should take comfort in that.

Sherlock closed the door quickly, his hand clenching on the door handle. He knew that he didn't have to leave; he could have remained in her flat for months, waited it out and then returned to 221B. But he was pushing her away, keeping her at arm's length. Sentiment was something Sherlock had always steered well clear of – seeing it as weakness. Sherlock was an intelligent man, but he was making a fools mistake.

The truth about the consulting detective was that he was afraid of sentiment; he had been burnt many times and now he was afraid of the fire. He would come to regret his decisions soon enough, but now he will leave, he will flee.

Turning with a scowl etched into his face, Sherlock strode with purpose along the corridor and into the waiting elevator. In his haste, Sherlock had not noticed the shrouded figure waiting in the shadowed corridor.

Molly had fallen to sleep after practically throwing herself onto the couch. She couldn't remember what had woken her until she heard the familiar tapping on the door. Sitting up quickly, she smoothed down her hair before looking at her watch; Sherlock had left two hours ago. Could he have come back? Maybe he had changed his mind. Giving her head a slight shake, Molly jumped up and rushed to the door – there was no need to get herself overly excited before she'd answered the bloody thing.

Reaching for the handle, she tugged it open quickly, eyes light as she looked out into the hall way. Her anticipation died quickly as her eyes drank in the expensive tailored suit, wicked grin and dark, brown eyes. He was alive.