A/n: Hello everyone! I'm glad to see you all here...This is my second to last *real* chapter, so I hope you enjoy. I would like to thank my two reviewers Nicely Nails and cher bear for their continued support. You guys really keep me going :)

Disclaimer: Definitely not mine...No profit, no nothing.

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My Absence, Hardly Worth Noting

Chapter 16

"Molly!" John greeted, partially out of surprise, partially to warn Sherlock of her presence. "What brings you here?"

The woman stepped inside as the doctor held the door open for her and took a cursory glimpsing tour around the flat, which had been recently cleaned. Making eye contact with Sherlock, she gave him a sweet smile. "I just want to talk to Sherlock a bit, nothing serious..."

Sherlock returned the expression and shot John a please-go-away-for-a-little-while glance, and the doctor immediately caught on. "I, uh, I'll be upstairs." After closing the door and grabbing his laptop, John trotted up the staircase, mentally preparing himself for what could be hours of online television.

Once John was tucked away in his room, Molly settled down in one of the armchairs and continued to smile. She wasn't quite sure how to address the topic.

"You want to know why I'm not dead," Sherlock asserted, starting the topic for her.

Nodding, the young woman continued, "I took the DNA myself, Sherlock...You were in my mortuary. And don't try and tell me that you've been messing with the samples all this time, and that that wasn't originally yours, and that the sample I had was incorrect. We both know it wasn't, Sherlock. We both know it."

The detective refrained from answering. It was entirely possible Molly was recording this entire conversation, and if she knew his particular markers as well as he thought she did, there was no way she wouldn't notice that someone had tampered with the evidence. "You know I know, don't you?" she asked. Letting out and exasperated sigh, she insisted, "Look, I know you had something to do with Doyle's death, but there's no way they can prove it. I don't know how you were involved, but whatever it was you did, I'm sure you had your reasons. I– I won't talk about that, alright? I'm not wearing a wire or anything, but I'm sure you can tell that." He couldn't, not entirely. She was wearing far too many articles of clothing. It was December, after all. "We won't talk about that...Because the Sherlock Holmes I know wouldn't do something without needing to."

"How can you be so sure, Molly?" Sherlock breathed, "that I'm the same man you knew. Three years it's been..." Hunching over onto his knees, using his good arm to brace himself, the detective met her eyes as he kneaded his fingers.

Pushing a stray hair from her face, Molly returned, "Because you're Sherlock Holmes...You're the most stubborn, frustrating, unchangeable, beautiful universal constant." Smacking her leg in an epiphany, she added, "You're the most logical person I know, and even if you had killed him, I'm sure it would have been for a good reason..."

"I think you need to revise your suppositions that you've created regarding my character," he commented, looking down at the floorboards. They were always horribly interesting when they needed to be.

"Oh stop that, Sherlock. We both know you're uncomfortable right now, but please talk to me, not at me," she begged, staring at him until he looked up. When his dull eyes met her own, she grinned, "Good, so, why are you not dead? Not that I'm complaining, of course, but I...I seriously thought you were, but I believed in you Sherlock. That you were somehow tricking me for my own good or something, for your own good...But I couldn't deny what was right in front of me..."

Sighing like it was too much trouble, Sherlock answered, "I honestly can't tell you how I lived...I might have been right there on your slab, to be honest. It's not impossible...They might have drugged me or something, removing me afterwards or something. I don't know anymore, it's too blurry to recall properly..." He hated it, this uncertainty, how nightmarish these recollections were, how unreal they were despite his constant ruminations.

Molly's expression softened. He wouldn't lie about something like this; Sherlock Holmes would never admit to not knowing. "Who are 'they'?"

"Bad people," Sherlock responded, amazed at his own understatement.

"Moriarty?"

"Something like that." The detective rubbed his temples. If only they were just Moriarty; Moriarty was child's play.

As she watched his expression shift into pain, Molly questioned, "What did they do to you?" He didn't want to go, did he? There was a reason he didn't call...

"A bit too much," he chuckled, lifting is cast for an example. He knew if she saw more than what was already present, she would be mortified. Anyone would – friends, family, John probably already is – and he knew he'd probably have to spend the rest of his life in a general state of dress. It was confining, just to be able to mask his shame. His shame, he mused, he had never had that before. Even now, he was hiding a painless (albeit ugly) bruise from the IV from John.

"Why are you laughing?" she pressed, horrified by his response.

Sherlock laughed again. "What else do you do when you don't know what to feel?"

"Sherlock, I'm –"

Interrupting her, he insisted, "You don't have to. In fact, please don't..." Molly stared at him, unsure of how else to react. Sherlock examined her and mumbled, "What have you been doing in this while?"

"Sherlock Holmes and pleasantries," she giggled, "I never thought I'd ever see the day...Why don't you tell me what I've been doing instead." Sitting up properly, the lab tech gave the detective a proper view of her.

Eyes rolling down her frame, he deducted, "Sometime after my death, you decided to change careers, likely along with the privatisation of lab work for the police departments. Unluckily for you, the sole person you split the lab with happens to be Anderson, who seems to out of a relationship with Donovan, save a professional one...Whether he's still married or not, he's probably fairly unbearable at times...Which is precisely why you've been far more vocal than you used to be. Why else than to tell that sniveling prat to go fuck himself instead? Nicely done, if I may mention, and I'm sure your new friend Sally Donovan is rather appreciative of these snarks. You love this new job, wash your hands with invaluable frequency, and get to pick your own shift hours...yet, you're still losing sleep. Nails neat, those clothes are new– far bolder than you used to be–, makeup done, hair well-kept, and an insufficiently-covered hickey is resounding from your neck...I see you've found a lover."

Molly blushed and admitted, "You're right...as always. Moved to the lab a bit after you died, Sherlock...I couldn't bear to sit still in there after seeing you dead there in front of me. It reminded me too much of you. You have no idea...No idea whatsoever how much I missed you." Sherlock's face soured. He had seen more than enough in the pictures, but denying the fact that he was missed helped him live with himself all those years. Those defenses were now crumbling. "I knew you weren't a fake. I knew you had your plan, but it had somehow backfired on you. I couldn't understand how someone – anyone – could get one up on you. I felt like I had to somehow take your place...like my silly mortuary training could actually help solve crimes. And then I did. I picked myself and applied all over the place...I got got lucky enough to get hired after Anderson had chased away another lab partner...He's still married, by the way, his wife seems like she's staying just to torture him. Anyway, care to guess as to who it is?" she asked, smirking.

"Really? That's something!" Sherlock laughed. Anderson finally got something that was coming to him. Now to find out what had come to his little lab technician... After cataloging the rough size of the hickey, Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise when he found a match. Quirking his eyebrow, the detective wondered, doubting himself, "Really?" Though, somehow, it did make sense. He had been given plenty of hints from earlier.

Laughing, Molly continued cheerily, "Yup! I never really thought I'd wind up going down that road, but it's been a good couple of years..."

"You are certainly full of surprises, Miss Molly Hooper."

"I suppose that's an honor, coming from you," she remarked. "Got anything else?"

Examining her once more, Sherlock finished, "Did your cat die?" There was no sign of hair on her whatsoever, and the distinct cat-owner's smell failed to fill his nostrils.

"She didn't come back one night, which I suppose worked out in the end. Can't move in with someone who's allergic to them..." Molly explained. "I bet she found some other family...Someone who will be home more and give her all the attention she ever wanted. At least I hope she did. Never did get a call about her..."

The detective genuinely smiled. So the two were living together now (and he never did like that cat). This was a fruitful relationship, probably spurred by his own absence. At least something good came from his pain. Molly could now move on with her life thanks to his death, and she was probably far happier. If he had remained here in London, still occasionally visiting Molly in the mortuary for just long enough to keep her hopes up, she probably never would have even met this great love of hers.

It was so strange, what time does. How people move on with their lives, how they each respectively pair off even. So much could transpire in three years. Relationships can be formed, children can be born and raised, people could die, and longing could disappear or fester. Things progressed with or without him, and a part of him knew that no one particularly needed him anymore. He was just there as an accessory; it was only just nice to have him back.

Mrs. Hudson and Molly had done well for themselves, and with his little brother gone, Mycroft could finally expand his power to new realms of ridiculousness. In the long run, his absence was hardly even worth noting as people kept going on with their lives. Yet, despite it all, there were those who didn't trudge forward. John spent his years in depression, silently waiting for him. Though he felt selfish for it, Sherlock was thankful for his friend's loyalty. He wasn't sure just what he would have done had there been no place for him to return. And then there was his mother, who died not long after he did. He would have to go apologise to Mummy.

Molly watched as his expression spoiled; she had completely lost him to introverted thought. "Sherlock?" she prodded, and he snapped back up to face her. "Look, I don't know what's wrong. I can't help unless you tell me, but I won't force you to...You have John here with you, and I don't know how this all will be sorted, but I'm sure you two can manage. I'll always be a phone call away if you need, so don't be a stranger, alright?" He smiled at her. "After seeing you, I can't really be all that upset...Just, I don't know. I'm glad you're back, Sherlock." Standing, she walked over to her friend on the couch. As he sat up, she bent slightly to hug his tall frame. "I just wanted to pay a bit of a visit...so I guess this is bye for now?"

Separating, the young woman strode off for the door. Before leaving, she turned to him from the doorway and barked, "Oh, and don't you dare do that ever again. I really might kill you!"

Telling her to not worry, that he had no intentions of that, the two said their farewells and the woman left the flat. Sherlock sat in silence on the couch and sighed. He was so tired. Why was interacting with people so tiring? So overwhelming.

Grumbling he slunk back onto the couch into a reclined pose, crossing his right foot over the left. A good time for a nap, he thought to himself as his eyes closed.

Upon hearing the door close downstairs, John closed his laptop lid, thankful that the visit didn't last as long as he had believed it would. Out of curiosity, he had checked his blog (which he never brought himself to deleting) for the first time in years, and it was booming with new comments, requesting more information on his companion's dis and reappearance. Some were glad, recasting their initial view that Sherlock had not been a fake, and the doctor couldn't help but feel disgusted. Many were lying; they didn't want to be wrong, and he knew it. He remembered the posts, the horrible comments that they had left. How hurtful they felt; it didn't matter if they didn't believe him, but he felt utterly insulted when they couldn't believe in Sherlock. There were only a handful of people who could attest to Sherlock's genius, and half of them had turned against him. Nothing left but petty words to contradict a dying man's last words. Who could argue against that?

Glad to rid himself of reason to keep reading, John cast his laptop aside and walked downstairs. He was in no mood to deal with anyone besides his flatmate, and he knew his flatmate would be in similar accordance.

Reaching their flat's ground floor, the doctor saw Sherlock stretched out on the couch fast asleep. It hasn't even been a minute since Molly left...I guess today's worn him out. He's been so tired lately...Never slept this much before. He needs it though...I'll just change his bandages when he wakes up.

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What do I do now? Sherlock thought as he leaned back into the hospital bed. After escaping the captivity of the last of his controlling organisation, he had finished them off, telling a rival gang just where their headquarters were, where everything was stashed. It was a massacre, but he was finally free. Free to be his own person.

But what did that even mean? Free do do what? Live? Live what kind of a life? One where all your friends have surely moved on past you, where you're left disgraced and too beaten to take a stand against it? Where no one will be glad to have you back...Where your absence has not only brought you pain, but bettered and extended their lives? Their lives, that you saved by running, by dying, by losing every ounce of dignity you had left, by losing everything that you were.

How could they appreciate it when he didn't want to tell them? When you didn't want them to feel guilty? To have pity for you? After all, why should they? You cared too much for them, all those people that probably thought you no better than some annoying little prat, blithering on and on about why you were so far superior than them. He knew he went too far, caring for those who wouldn't requite it. Yet, despite it all, he would do it again.

But no, not now. You can't go back now. Even if you wanted to, you couldn't. They are better than what you are now, someone used to orchestrate such awful misdeeds. You were tainted with the lives of all those you killed, those you ruined. You are filthy beyond recognition, how could you return now? Fallen so far from what you once were.

What was he even doing here now? There was no more threat to their lives, no more reason to live. Throughout all these years, you had nothing but memories, fantasies, of your friends. You dreamed that they would be happy, have lives, do so much more than when you were there. That they were successful, that your absence wasn't even worth noting in the grand scheme of their lives, let alone your presence had much of any influence. They didn't need you, probably didn't even want you. All you had was them, and they've had everything but you, leaving you with absolutely nothing.

Maybe I should just die, Sherlock concluded, the thought frightening him. How could he have brought himself to such a resolution? But maybe it wasn't such a bad idea. He had no identity, no one to care for him, nothing but guilt. He couldn't be like Mycroft, existing with no one; he had been too spoiled by camaraderie to be able to that, too far destroyed by it to realise that his life before everyone was directionless and lost.

There really was nothing left for him, the thought sunk in. He was alone and aimless, trying to find some new meaning would be desperate at best. But he was scared...How would he do it?

The door creaked open and Sherlock rolled his eyes. Not that doctor again, what with his bubbly irritating attitude...or even worse, the rude nurse. He would be scolded (again) for staying up, but what did it matter? How could he? He still was on high alert, nothing felt safe. How could he just rest like nothing else was wrong? Deciding to humor the man, Sherlock leaned back and partially closed his eyes.

As the doctor stepped into the dimmed room, Sherlock noticed that the gait and build of this one was different. This one was shorter, thicker. When he came into view, the detective closed his eyes tightly. John, his mind's voice cried out. This had to be some sort of trick.

"Sherlock?" John vocalised. A clipboard clattered to the ground, and Sherlock's eyes snapped open. It was really true.

Remain calm. He didn't miss you...save yourself the pain. "John," he greeted, confirming the doctor's assertion. He didn't know what else to think. He wanted to cry, any previous thoughts flinging themselves out the window. Sherlock watched the doctor, utterly speechless, staring at him. How was he going to react? Was he going to be happy? Indifferent? Would he be mad? Before thinking, the detective moaned, "John, I'm sorry." He didn't know what he was sorry for; there was too much to consider. His leaving, his own actions, why he was no longer worthy to remain by his side, his own previous thoughts. He felt so guilty.

John looked at him for a while and snapped, "For what? For jumping off a building..." Each accusation sharply darted through him and Sherlock felt his face sour. John really was mad; he actually cared. John had missed him. Actually missed him. The detective felt blank, like all that he was just doing was so terribly silly.

He needed reassurance, a recharging. How could he have thought of such a thing when there was a reason to continue? Why was he so stubborn to believe that no one cared. Glancing up at John, Sherlock noted he was trembling, how furious he was with him. Awkwardly, the detective wrapped his arms around the other man, badgering himself about how he shouldn't be doing this, how much better John would be without him. He wanted to cry. Even if John completely rejected him, neglected him, he could die happy, knowing that he had been missed by someone. He finally got to see John again. His John.

Returning the embrace, John settled his chin on top of Sherlock's matted locks. After chasing away the tears, he croaked, "Why Sherlock?"

The detective remained silent. How could he say such a thing? How could he be so selfish as to want to bring John down with him? John was strong, he had lived all these years without him (a feat Sherlock himself thought he could never manage if the roles reversed), and he had so much more to live for. How could he allow his only real friend to muck his hands up in his own twisted life?

Now aching from exacerbated injuries, the detective whimpered, and John released. Straightening himself out professionally, he went through the doctorly motions and Sherlock returned with his annoying patient routine. This part was easy; he didn't have to think about this.

When John saw his scars, the man insisted that he returned with him, and for the first time in years, Sherlock felt loved. Though he couldn't avoid the thought of how wrong it was to return to life, that he should avoid having anything to do with the living's lives, he realised it couldn't have been anyone but John. He needed John; he was the only one who could help him piece the fragments that were his life. After the doctor left, shooting him one of those dazzling smiles, Sherlock felt like he could cry. Please, let him savor this time before he had to go.

Sherlock awoke to tears in his eyes, wrapped in a blanket John had placed on top of him. Looking over with his hazy vision, he saw the doctor, curled in one of the chairs with his own covers, watching some offensively awful reality show. Sitting up, the detective was surprised as the last of his tears skidded past his lips. Something about him felt numb, like he had been putting something so important off for so long.

John looked up and immediately saw the tear streaks lining his friend's face. "Sherlock, what's wrong? Did you have a bad dream?" he questioned, voice full of concern as he sat up properly, giving the detective his undivided attention.

Wiping at his eyes like a child with his sleeves, Sherlock returned, "No, a good one..."

"But you were crying?" John commented, not entirely convinced.

"I was happy, John."

"Oh," John breathed, unsure of what else to say.

Chuckling a bit at his friend, Sherlock continued, "There is a lot I need to say to you..."

"About what?"

John was the only one who could help him, put his mind at any ease. He had to know, and Sherlock had to tell someone more than a few sheets of paper. "About what I was doing these last three years."

End of Chapter 16

A/n: And that's it! Sherlock finally is ready to reveal everything. I may or may not split up the contents of the next chapter depending on how long it is, but look forward to the ends of this story! Oh, and I didn't simply forget to add the other person aboard the Molly ship. After I finish this story and Letters for You, I intend on writing a Molly x ? fic, and for my own terrible amusement, anyone got any guesses as to the identity of her partner? Anyhow, now that you've read, please review (just because it's almost done doesn't mean you should wait until the end!) and make me happy. Throwing these large updates out takes some encouragement. 'Till next time!