One Month Later

Sherlock quietly contemplated the far wall of the sitting room at 221b, or so it would appear to anyone watching him. He was sat on the sofa, eyes forward, fingers pressed to his lips, one leg crossed over the other, breathing deep and regular, but his entire focus was inward as he methodically went through every fact he'd retained about Molly Hooper in his mind palace, starting with the most recent data.

There was a great deal he wanted desperately to delete, not only because it was unnecessary to remember it now that she'd been rescued, but also because of the uncomfortable feelings such memories raised: the way she'd mistaken him for his twisted counterpart, the feel of her lips on his when she'd kissed him, the glorious sensation of her mouth on his cock, the litany of abuses she'd suffered, the limits placed on her freedom, the deliberate attempts by Holmes to destroy her soul. The things she'd been forced to witness, the guilt she still bore for actions far out of her control.

The unfathomable affection she still held for him. Why? Three months after her return, one month since she'd left for Sydney, and he still couldn't wrap his mind around her continuing affection for him. Why didn't she hate him as much as she did his counterpart? They should both be held equally accountable for what had happened to her; hell, even before she'd been taken, ripped away from them, he'd torn her down in front of a roomful of witnesses! He'd always meant to apologize to her for that, but she'd been taken and now it seemed too little, too late. And yet, he suspected that if he were to see her today and say the words that had been on his lips when the vortex opened above her ("I am sorry, forgive me"), she would accept that apology. But why? It made no sense, how little anger she felt towards him, how little she claimed to blame him for what had happened.

John and the therapists had advised him to take her at her word, and he'd tried to do so, but now that she was safely away from London – of her own volition, willingly making the trip to Australia with her brother at her side, a freedom long overdue – Sherlock knew that it was only a matter of time before her feelings for him would change, had most likely already begun to do so. How could they not? Surely she would become angry and resentful, now that she was away from London and had time to really think about it; after all, he'd left her to rot for an entire twelve months, had been unable to find a way to free her, and would doubtlessly still be conducting a futile search for her if not for the other world's Smythe.

Thank God his death and the destruction of his notes and scientific apparatus meant that no one from that world would find their way here, at least not any time soon. And even if by some happenstance they did, he was confident that Molly, at least, would be in no personal danger from such an incursion. His counterpart was dead, she'd made very sure of that, and he very much doubted that anyone would believe she'd been the one to take the fatal shot. No, he would be blamed, or Moriarty, or possibly even Lestrade. If he'd thought the man would have taken him up on his offer, he'd have asked him to come with them, to leave the poisonous atmosphere in which he'd been raised behind. But even if that word's Mycroft Holmes took vengeance on him for his brother's death, Sherlock knew Inspector Greg Lestrade would never leave. He'd see it as running away, leaving his world to its fate, nullifying the sacrifice Sally Donovan had made. Sherlock might not know a great deal about human nature, but he knew true resolve when he saw it.

Besides, what he'd learned of that world's Mycroft Holmes made Sherlock fairly confident that Greg would be in no real danger for killing the ambitious politician's brother. That Mycroft appeared to despise sentiment even more than his own brother did, and would doubtless spend more time attempting to find a way to recreate Smythe's astounding scientific feat than in seeking vengeance for a brother whose criminal activities sooner or later would have become more of an inconvenience than a help. Especially if the rumors about his running for Prime Minister were true.

The 'real' Mycroft would never sacrifice Sherlock for his political ambitions; no matter how critical he was of his elder brother, he could confidently say that much. And not just because Mummy would have his head if he did, either. Sherlock found himself idly wondering what his parents would make of Molly Hooper, then shook his head violently as if to dislodge the thought from his brain. Molly was in Australia with her brother, rebuilding her stolen life one painful moment at a time, and the last thing – the very last thing – she needed was him intruding on that new life. Hadn't he caused enough damage? He could hear the Mycroft inside his mind palace scoffing at the merest whiff of sentiment, sneering at the idea of Molly being more than just a puzzle to be solved.

And that was how his older brother looked at it: puzzle solved, case closed, information extracted. Yes, he'd seen to it that the British government footed the bill for her therapy and would be more than generous in repatriating her if and when she decided to return to London, but he'd done it out of cold pragmatism. A cold pragmatism Sherlock wished desperately to emulate…and couldn't.

He tried to focus on Mycroft, calculating the odds that his brother was even now attempting to use the data gathered to do exactly as his counterpart was undoubtedly doing – trying to recreate the other Smythe's research. Oh, he'd deny it if asked outright, but Sherlock knew. He estimated it would be no more than a week before their own Smythe would suddenly resign his position and go off the grid for some hush-hush government project. As long as Mycroft didn't drag Molly Hooper back into it in any way, shape or form, he could do as he damned well pleased. But the slightest hint that she might be used to help with that project, and Sherlock would see to it that every other nation on Earth, friendly or unfriendly to British interests, would be let in on the truth of what had happened to her.

Once again he mentally reached for the memories he knew he should delete, and once again he hesitated. He'd retained them for three entire months, far longer than he should have, and he still couldn't bring himself to actually remove any of them from his mind. Instead, he envisioned a large cupboard, not unlike the one in which the two of them had been imprisoned by his counterpart, and carefully placed each memory inside, being sure to lock and bolt the door behind him.

He would take the memories out again and make his decision based on how Molly acted toward him if she ever did return to London. Of course, the odds were good that she would come back within a year, since she'd been remarkably determined to get her old life back as best she could Simply put, Molly Hooper was no coward; even if no one else would blame her if she stayed as far from London as she could, but he knew her. She would brand herself with that epithet if…

His thoughts came to a stuttering halt at his mental choice of words. Branded. During one of the few therapy sessions he'd shared with her she'd told him about her punishment for trying to stop Sally Donovan's murder. As she described Holmes' actions – how he'd donned leather gloves and held his signet ring over an open flame, then pressed the red-hot metal into her flesh – Sherlock had been torn between nauseated outrage and admiration for the stoicism with which she related the events. Dr. Manx had clearly been just as horrified as Sherlock; for Holmes to have marked her in such an arrogant, controlling way…to treat her like a possession…it was too much for him to process. He'd had to excuse himself, taking a few minutes whilst in the men's loo to bring his shaking hands under control – and his temper.

The anger arose anew as he lingered on that particular memory. Oh, if that bastard wasn't already dead he'd gladly go back and strangle him himself for doing such a thing to his pathologist…

Wait. Where had that come from? Molly wasn't "his" anything, certainly not after what he'd allowed her to endure for the past year! Hadn't he just been reliving his anger at his counterpart for treating her like a possession? With a curse he sprang to his feet, grabbing his coat and rushing down the stairs with no particular destination in mind. All he did know was that he needed very desperately to get outside of his own head before he drove himself mad.

"Sherlock?" He barely paused at the sound of his flatmate's puzzled voice; he'd entirely forgotten John's presence as he'd wrestled with his memories and the unwanted guilt and anger they roused. Not to mention the tangled, entirely inappropriate physical response his body still had to one particular memory, the shameful way he replayed the feel of her lips on his cock and how his own hands tended to stray there in the dead of the night…

"Going out," he said tersely, practically running down the stairs and out the door. It was dark and drizzly but he'd never let something as mundane as the weather stop him. No, he needed something, something to still his thoughts and erase, however temporarily, the memories that were tormenting him. He pulled his mobile out of his pocket and picked out a message, his thumb hovering over the 'send' icon as he strode down the pavement. John would be pissed off and Mycroft and his parents disappointed and Lestrade absolutely livid, but he needed something to take the edge off, to help soothe his jagged nerves and calm his whirling, discordant thoughts. They would understand, once he explained why he'd done it, of course they would, all of them, even Molly…

That stopped him in his tracks. He stood motionless in the middle of the pavement, while passer's by jostled him or walked around him with annoyed expressions on their faces. No, he realized. Molly wouldn't forgive him. Not for that. She'd helped him once, not long after they met when he was still using, although that was one of the facts about her he'd thought long since deleted. She'd helped him back to his flat, stayed with him as he came down from his high, stayed long enough to be sure he wouldn't choke on his own vomit or jump out of a window in a mistaken belief that he could fly. When she'd left in the morning she'd scribbled down the name of a drugs counselor she knew; he'd crumpled it up and chucked it in the bin but had called Mycroft an hour later and gone off to rehab.

No, Molly wouldn't understand. She'd look at him with those big brown eyes; her forehead would crinkle and she would shake her head sadly and turn away from him. If he truly wanted her never to forgive him, never to find a reason to use the key to his flat he'd gifted her with, this would surely do it.

A hand on his shoulder startled him out of his thoughts; he turned, staring blankly at the worried face of John Watson. Without speaking he held up his mobile, showing John the unsent message he'd typed up to one of his former dealers. The usual place, two hours, twenty grams. He heard the hiss of John's intake of breath, then let him watch as he quietly hit 'delete message' before dropping the phone back into his pocket. "Danger night, then," John said heavily, and Sherlock nodded. "Wanna talk about it, mate?"

No, he didn't want to talk about it. Of course not, why would he? Alone not only kept him safe, it kept him from putting others in harm's way or becoming collateral damage as Molly Hooper had. And yet he somehow found himself back at Baker Street, sitting in his chair opposite John, a cup of tea in one hand and a digestive biscuit in the other, words pouring out of him carried on the tide of guilt he simply could not shake. "I know it's selfish but I hope she stays in Australia, starts a new life as far from me as she can," he concluded fifteen minutes later, setting the untouched tea and biscuit on the floor next to his seat. He ran an agitated hand over his face and stared helplessly at John.

He wasn't sure what he'd expected – some bland platitude or attempt at comfort – but what he got was pure John Watson. "Sherlock, you do realize you're being a complete ass, right?" Before Sherlock could respond, John continued, "Look, mate, I know you think you're being all noble or something by keeping away from her, but I think it's pretty clear how she feels about you, yeah? Even if she's never come right out and said so, even the year she just spent in a living hell with a man who looked exactly like you didn't turn her against you. But if you keep pushing her away, eventually she's going to believe you and then where will you be?"

"Alone protects…" Sherlock started, only to fall silent at John's disbelieving stare. "It's safer," he tried again, earning a raised eyebrow and a head-tilt that spoke volumes. "Fine," Sherlock huffed, slumping in his chair. "I admit that I would rather she returned to London at some point than stayed away forever. Are you happy?"

"Have you told her any of this?" John said, ignoring the petulant question, leaning forward earnestly with his elbows resting on his knees and hands clasped. "Have you even spoken to her since she left?"

Sherlock glowered at him, but John just looked at him with a patient expression until he finally said, "No, of course not, she doesn't need anyone hounding her. She's supposed to be taking this time to herself, to heal, to shake off the stench of captivity. For God's sake, John, she spent twelve months chained to my other self's side; even if she does still have some fondness for me, I'm the last person she wants to see right now!"

"Sherlock, for a deductive genius you can be a complete idiot," John pronounced. "She loves you. Let her know that you hope she comes back. No pressure, no demands, and for God's sake," he interrupted himself, "no fake heartiness! You're not trying to sweet-talk her into giving you body parts to experiment on, and besides, I suspect she's always been able to see right through that act!" He grinned, then turned serious again. "Look, I know you're not the type to get into a romance, married to your work and all that, but at least let Molly know you're still her friend, yeah?"

"You missed your calling, John, you should have been a relationship counselor," Sherlock said, but the sarcasm was weak and John only grinned at him. "Fine," he sighed. "I'll call her. Next week or the week after. Or text her," he added. "She knows I never call, she'll be worried if I do something so out of character."

John's grin broadened. "Since when does Sherlock Holmes care about worrying anyone? No, don't, I can see I'm about to have my head bit off and I'd rather skip that if you don't mind. I've got a date with Mary, and you've got a phone call to make – don't put it off too long, that's my advice." He glanced down at his watch and jumped to his feet, then hesitated. "You're all right now, right? Don't need me to stay and babysit you, do you?"

Sherlock waved a hand at him, thrusting his legs out and crossing them at the ankles. "No, no, have fun with Miss Morstan. I promise to behave – but," he added with a glower, "that's all I promise. I don't want you hounding me to contact Molly, I'll do it when I'm good and ready."

John smirked at him. "Sure, whatever you say," he said cheerfully as he grabbed his coat, patting his rear trouser pockets to confirm the presence of his mobile and wallet. He scooped up his keys and opened the door. "Don't wait up, I'm sure I'll be very late!" he called over his shoulder.

Sherlock ignored him, pulling his own mobile out of his pocket and twirling it in one hand as he stared at it. He barely registered the sound of the downstairs door slamming shut as he contemplated the blank screen. To call or not to call…or text. Or he supposed he could even Skype if he thought Molly actually wanted to see his face as much as he longed to see hers…

With an exclamation of disgust he tossed his mobile onto the coffee table and jumped to his feet. Mycroft would laugh his ass off if he could see how disgustingly sentimental his baby brother had become. Since the solace of drugs was no longer an option, Sherlock instead turned to the other (far less effective) cure for a restless mind; he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his desk drawer and lit one up, taking a long drag before suddenly pulling it from his mouth and grinding it out in the soapstone ashtray he'd been using. Holmes smoked; the man's clothes had reeked of it, and the last thing either Sherlock or Molly needed was another reminder of her year in hell.

Instead, he reached for his violin, drawing the bow across the well-rosined strings and quickly running through a set of scales, feeling the familiar exercise spread its soothing balm across his troubled soul.

He would call Molly, or text her, but not tonight. The nine hour time difference alone made it impractical; it was nearly three in the morning in Sydney. Tomorrow or the next day, or the day after that, he resolved, would be soon enough.

oOo

She had no idea where she was; the room was dark and she was alone. Then the door burst open, and he was there, silhouetted in the light from the hall. "Molly?" he called out, that dear, familiar voice, thrumming with concern. She flew into his arms with a sob of relief, resting her head on his chest and wrapping her arms around his waist.

His arms were around her, holding her close, and she felt his lips on the top of her head before she tilted her face up to meet his. When his lips met hers she felt a peace, a sense of belonging, that she hadn't felt in years. "Oh, Sherlock," she sighed as he turned and pressed her against the wall, his hands gently sliding her cardigan from her shoulders. "Thank God you're here. I've missed you so much."

"I've missed you too, Molly, more than you can imagine," he replied, his voice low and husky with some emotion she wasn't entirely sure how to name – relief, maybe? Oh, and definitely desire, if the heavy lump in the front of his trousers was anything to go by. She should be blushing at how forward she was with him, but they'd known one another for years, and this moment had been inevitable ever since she'd first seen him back on that horrible mirror world where she'd been trapped for so long.

"I should never have left," she confessed as he kissed his way down her chin, her throat, her exposed collarbones.

His hands tightened on her arms almost painfully, and he gave a low chuckle before responding. "No, Molly. You should never have left. You should have known I'd come back for you."

There was menace in his low tones, a threat that translated to movement before she could react; he grabbed her wrists, slamming her hands against the wall on either side of her head, crowding his body against hers, pinning her in place. Trapping her. Her heart was pounding as every instinct she possessed screamed at her to flee, but it was too late; he held her prisoner, and all she could do was moan in denial as he murmured in her ear, "Did you miss me?"

"No, you're dead, I killed you," she protested when she could finally speak, eyes tightly shut and body trembling. She'd started taking self-defense courses, but every lesson had vanished from her mind as panic overwhelmed her.

"Should've stayed long enough to make sure," he replied with another dark chuckle. Then his lips were on hers, forcing a kiss on her, his intentions more than clear as he pinned her wrists with one hand and began slowly, deliberately unbuttoning her blouse with the other. "You should know by now, Molly love, that evil never dies."

Evil never dies.

The words echoed through her mind, over and over again, until terror finally unblocked her voice, and she screamed.

A/N: OK, sorrynotsorry for the evil cliffie. But hey, at least this update came pretty quickly, right? (Grins brightly with wide innocent eyes at audience). Thanks as always for following, favoriting, reading and of course, reviewing!