A/N Hey guys! Sorry once again that this is late but I've had such long shifts at my new job and studying for my final exam that it's been a nightmare getting slots of time big enough to write fanfic in, especially since this chapter ended up being so gosh darned long XD Seriously, I didn't expect it to be as long as it is, but it's kinda drabbly in parts, so please excuse it :S
Speaking of its epic length, some news: This chapter will be split into 2 PARTS. Sorry for the cap locks, I just want people to not think I'm posting 2 weeks' worth of fanfic chaps as I'm posting this one tonight and another one tomorrow. They were originally supposed to be just one chapter but it got loooong and I've had to split it (also, it's 1AM here and I have to be up early and am dreading it :/ So I'm gunna get some shut-eye and post the rest tomorrow). So yeah, two parts in two days, but I'm still gunna be posting my next update on Sunday :) Sorry about the kerfuffle, please feel free to flame me for my idiocy :/
To all that reviewed, favourite-d and alerted, THANK YOU! Cookies to you all and mountains of my unabashed love to your names! To Detectiveatwork, don't worry, it's not going to be a Johnlock story :)They're just gonna be good friends (even though these pesky boys write themselves in ways that seem as Johnlock as the show suggests sometimes -_- It's a nightmare -_-). I agree it'd ruin the essence of it.
Finally: A huge THANK YOU to Cainchan, my wonderful reviewer and friend who has kindly let me use her fanart as covers for this story as well as Never The Twain. So mountains of thanks and a Holy Grail built to your name my lovely!

Disclaimer: With advice from theimprobableone (thanks by the way for your review and advice :D) I asked the Penguins of Madagascar to help me build wings!

It did not go well. I should have listened in biology when they told me that penguins can't fly. Current location: Somewhere out at sea. It's cold; I only have my monkeys and a battered copy of The Traveller's Easy Cookbook for company. I'm shivering and almost all alone and alas… still no Sherlock in sight… it's a sad day to be me D':

John woke up feeling relieved. He had woken up terrified before, nightmares having played their part in that, but relief had never been something that he had woken instantaneously with. Not that it didn't feel good, because it felt fantastic, but John was wary of it. The months in which Sherlock had been gone had warned him that what you wake up feeling would be the making or undoing of you for the whole day and John shuddered at the memory of days on end spent feeling nothing but sadness and the terror of being alone.

It took less than a few seconds to recognise the source of the relief and John scrambled to look at his leg, the unfamiliar sensation making him panic for a second. Or to be more specific, the lack of sensation. A few seconds in which his heart seemed to beat too fast for his body to cope and he managed to push out a shaky sigh of reassurance. As a doctor, he knew that the idea of becoming mysteriously paralysed overnight was not a medically sound theory, but it was early and he was still tired and the lack of pain in his leg had momentarily caused him worry. However, now he sat, staring at it, the only thought crossing his mind being The pain is gone. The pain was gone and John felt the overwhelming relief in the strange not-numbness that all appendages have, the sensation of them being there and yet, ordinarily, you don't feel them, as such, simply know that they are sound and not in pain. John couldn't think of any other thought for a long string of minutes and he had to stop himself from dancing from his bed.

He thought about calling Sherlock, to tell him the news and the thought struck him. Sherlock had been back less than two days and the pain in John's leg had vanished, the stress dissipating from his mind and taking the shooting agony with it. He remembered talking to Trishabout the pain when it had first returned.

"It's worse," he had said, "It's worse than it was when I came back from Afghanistan." Trish had nodded at that as if she understood but John knew that she really, really didn't understand because she didn't feel as if her leg was sawn off at the thigh.
"Grief has a way of causing pain;" she had said tonelessly, "Pain in the mind can manifest itself into physical pain, reawakening your old injuries." John had wanted nothing more than to curl up and give in at that point. She didn't understand it. It was agony.
However, right now, John had to hand it to her, she had been right. Sherlock's return had put a halt to all thoughts of grief and, sure enough, it was like he had been rewired, the pain now longer chasing signals from his brain down to his leg, as if he had been short-circuited overnight. He grinned, tentatively climbing out of bed. There was still a little discomfort as he slowly stood but nothing compared to what he had suffered with for the last few months. He didn't even bother to change out of his pyjamas, walking into the living room, relishing the silence, uninterrupted now by the usual clack of his cane.

"Sherlock!" he cried, looking for the detective in the living room. He wasn't there and John took a quick scout round the kitchen before he frowned, knocking on Sherlock's bedroom door. "Sherlock?" he called. There was no answer and John felt his stomach drop, his heart rate increasing for the second time in only ten minutes after waking up. He was sure it wasn't healthy but when living with Sherlock it seemed to happen a lot and John couldn't bring himself to care as he stumbled back to the living room.

"Sherlock?" Oh God. John tried not to panic. Sherlock was a grown adult, he had probably just gone out somewhere without telling him, like ever, but John still couldn't stop the panic rising in him. Sherlock was gone. What if he doesn't come back again? What is he doing? John refused to remember Sherlock stood on the roof of Bart's for what must have been a good twenty minutes before John had got there. Like John wasn't there now. What if Sherlock doesn't come back? John shook himself.

"Stop being stupid," he muttered, scolding himself aloud, "Of course he's coming back. He's just gone out." Yet as much as John repeated it, he couldn't calm down. Sherlock was gone. And alone. Please God, don't let anything happen to him, don't let him-

John stumbled into the kitchen, desperately trying to keep himself calm as he looked around for his phone. He had left Sherlock alone. He knew Moriarty was no longer around but he felt sick at the thought of Sherlock being alone, if he got hurt by someone again because John wasn't there.

Sherlock didn't look to have slept for most of the night once again as the kitchen table was even more stuffed with laboratory instruments and books and John had to root through them all to try and find his mobile, sure he had left it on there that night. Growling in frustration, he span around, scanning the surfaces. Sherlock had moved almost everything around since he had got home and yet everything still looked as if it was on the verge of being packed away, boxes still stashed around, piles of objects teetering like a hoarder's paradise. John felt almost triumphant when he finally spotted his mobile, like a hunter finding a particularly easy piece of prey, on the kitchen side and he cocked his head at the slip of paper underneath it. He recognised Sherlock's handwriting on the paper and picked it up. Sherlock must have moved his phone to get him to find the note and John didn't know whether Sherlock had known he would panic and had left that specific item with a note specifically or if he had simply thought that John would require his phone at some point in the day. John hoped it was the latter.

The note read: Gone out to re-establish network. Will be back in several hours. Sherlock. John knew that by network, Sherlock was referring to the homeless network that he seemed to have working for him. Obviously, over the time he had been gone, it would make sense to assume that people scattered, especially after hearing of his death and no longer had any reason to hang around Sherlock's usual haunts any more. Sherlock would have to practically rebuild the entire network again and John imagined that today would only be the beginning of a long process for his friend.

He frowned at the note as he put it down. As grateful as he was, it was strange that Sherlock had left a note at all. Sherlock never left notes. It just wasn't something that the eccentric flatmate cared about, he expected John to realise he was gone and that he didn't need to tell him where, even when sometimes he was gone for days on end. It had scared the hell out of John the first time it had happened, but eventually he had got used to it. So why had Sherlock left one now? Especially when over the past two days, Sherlock had been more distant than ever. John wondered if Sherlock had known that John would be afraid, had left the note to assure him that he was coming back to assure John because he knew he wouldn't feel comfortable with Sherlock disappearing on his own and not knowing where he was.

John shook his head. As much as he knew that, in Sherlock's own way, John would always be his closest friend, Sherlock didn't think about other people like that. It wasn't because he meant to be rude or uncaring, he simply didn't get it. For all of his deductions and brains, Sherlock Holmes didn't always understand people. It was one of the many reasons as to why he needed John, not just for company or support, but for a humanity that he could sometimes miss in everyone else, that John had to reinforce and make him believe that it was worth having. It was an irony that, with it being John who taught Sherlock to do the more human things, such as leaving notes for your flatmate so that they do not worry, it often fell that John would be the one that would receive the end of Sherlock's more flawed sides of his personality. Notes wouldn't be left, heads would still be in the fridge and Sherlock would still call him an idiot while watching the news. But John understood, perhaps not why Sherlock was like he was, but he understood that was how Sherlock was, take it or leave it and that was the crucial element.

He treated the note with a reasonable bit of suspicion, wondering if Sherlock had left it for a reason. Feeling a little silly, John even checked it over closely for any signs of a coded message, using his old army skills to sift through the note. Living with Sherlock had got him seeing criminals in his soup and it wasn't too much trouble to take extra precautions if it meant avoiding harm. However, he found no secret message, nothing suspicious other than the strangely kind gesture and, leaving the note to one side, he poured himself a quick bowl of cereal, sitting at the table to read the newspaper before he got changed. He wanted to be out as soon as possible because today he had planned to begin his investigation. He had thought long and hard about it, wondering if it would be a betrayal of Sherlock's trust to go behind his back, but he had to know. He wanted to know what had happened on the roof that day, where Sherlock had been all this time and, most of all, what it was that Sherlock wasn't telling him. John knew that Sherlock was keeping something back and John was certain that it had to do with his "death". He had practically evaded the question of why he had done what he did and although John wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt and his privacy, he couldn't stand to be kept in the dark any longer. Not when it had affected him so and, more importantly, it had concerned Sherlock's safety.

He scanned through the paper, his mind more on plans of what he was going to do today than on the news that flicked past. He knew the people he needed to see, what he had to look for, however he couldn't help the slight feeling of trepidation forming in his stomach. He didn't know exactly how to start or what a clue would look like when he found one. All he had was what Sherlock had taught him and he felt bad about now using it to find out one of Sherlock's own secrets, even though John was almost sure that it would not harm anything but Sherlock's pride for him to know.

Deciding on a plan of action, John tried to calm down the uncertainty brewing in him. He'd know what to do when he started. After all, when it came to investigating, there was no better teacher than Sherlock Holmes. He would head out soon and he was going to find out the truth, even if Sherlock wasn't going to tell him it himself.

Sherlock was halfway across London by the time John Watson sat down to eat breakfast. The re-establishing of his network had taken him less than three hours to complete, which he knew would astound anyone that knew precisely how large his network was. However, to know exactly how large his network of the homeless would be a feat in itself as Sherlock had always been careful about it, taking time to keep his messengers a secret. He had worked through it systematically, devising a system for it, searching out what had been scattered and what still remained, linking them together. In his head, he could see it, like a map covered with different coloured areas for the people in them, overlaid with a system of where he had been and how he had got there, what he had said and what they had said and looked like. Everything was up there, all the time. The people he passed in the street suddenly became a story. He could see segments of their life, what they had done this morning, where they had been. Things connected that ordinarily wouldn't to any other person. Any other person was boring and Sherlock couldn't be more glad that today, of all days, things weren't boring.

He had gone out in the early morning. He had needed something to do after another night of only sleeping fleetingly. There was nothing wrong with that, he didn't sleep very often anyway, especially if he was on a case, but he had seen how John had looked at him yesterday and had known that he was worried about it. Even with his hair now cut to a reasonable length, Sherlock knew that he still looked haggard. He was still tired, his body weight still dangerously low and he still had the pale, waxy look to him that came from overtiredness and stress. Even though he knew that John had already picked up on his depleted state, he preferred not to be faced with it early in the morning. It was clear that John cared, too much in Sherlock's opinion, but it was not always advantageous. It wasn't helpful and Sherlock found himself often having to do menial things such as eating and sleeping in order to placate him.

He had gone out to take his mind from things, something that Sherlock Holmes didn't do often. He liked having things on his mind, it was interesting, and yet recently he found himself more and more eager to stop thinking about things. To stop thinking about John's irrational concern, to stop about keeping the real reason for his faked disappearance from him, about Mycroft and months spent alone and for some reason missing his old life, about the fact that he was strangely grateful to Lestrade for not giving up the case and the largest thing of all: His father. Sherlock didn't know what to feel about it and that was uncomfortable, that he felt anything at all about his father's return. He just wanted it all gone.

He saw a taxi pass and wondered if he should hail it down, perhaps return to 221B and see if John was still at home. He let the taxi past, deciding that it was a bad idea, instead opting to deduce the taxi driver's marital status as he drove by, looking at the state of the man's tax disc. Deduction was clinical and straight forward. It cut straight to the facts. Facts were simple, no grey areas, no emotions, simply cold, calculating facts. They were comforting, above all else. They helped to make sense of things and to distract him from the things that didn't make sense.

He found himself on a familiar path. Not ready to face Baker Street just yet, he had allowed his deductions to remove him from thought of where he was going, an almost autopilot state coming over him and he barely had time to realise where he had led himself before he instantly wanted to turn around and head away to anywhere but here as he saw the all too familiar building loom over him when he turned the corner. Bart's hospital glared at him as he entered its sight and Sherlock stopped, the aching feeling of resentment towards the building sweeping over him. He instantly wanted to stop looking at it, like a child trying to avoid the eye contact of a bully in the school playground, but he found himself stepping towards it on impulse. The memories of the hospital were mixed and confused and it was that confusion that invited Sherlock into its enveloping arms, the need to know what it was that this building held for him and what it meant to him. He couldn't explain it other than it was the familiar, comfortable need to know.

He remembered the good things about that place. Spending days on end in the labs, analysing data for cases, the place had been a sanctuary both before and after he had met John. His first meeting with John had taken place in one of those labs, as well as his first meeting with Molly. And yet, there were the bad memories haunting those walls as well. His first meeting with Moriarty, although exhilarating, had become a hated memory. His naivety, his belief that the game would play out without sacrifices, when all along he was heading towards the greatest sacrifice he had ever made. The conversation he had had with Molly where she had looked him in the eye and had known that he was afraid of what he was going to have to do to himself, to John, to everyone he called a friend, in order to save them, had become a memory that he still thought about today, turning the words over in his mind and wondering if he could have said something different that could have stopped what would come to pass.

He looked up at the roof of the building and remembered what it had been like to look down from that rooftop, to see John in this very spot, looking up and reaching out to him. That was the worst memory. He remembered the final conversation with Moriarty before he saw the gun in the criminal's mouth and the trigger being pulled with a shattering noise that made Sherlock stumble back. Shattering because in that moment, although he had planned for it, he knew that he was going to have to convince John Watson that not only was his best friend a fraud but also that he was dead. He remembered the broken sound of John's voice crack through the phone and Sherlock couldn't believe how bad his luck could be as he saw John step out of taxi as, although it was always good to see his blogger, he knew that he was now going to have to look at John's face when he told him he had lied to him. He was going to be forced to lie to his friend's face and although Sherlock would never admit it, he would always remember the most painful memory in Bart's Hospital, perhaps his life, being seeing John's face when he thought that his best friend had committed suicide before his eyes.

Sherlock found himself stood in the spot that John had tried to get to his broken body, John's agonised cries still seeming to ring around the street like a ghostly scream and he felt a shudder as he looked at the pavement where the blood had been cleaned from. The irrational thought came to him before he could even register its irrationality and for a brief second it felt almost as if he really had died and was here, visiting the sight of his death as nothing but a spectre. He looked down at his almost ghostly white hand as he held it out in front of him, the pale, thin appendage doing nothing to convince him that he wasn't simply an ethereal spectator, surveying the spot of his painful demise. Another shudder passed through him and Sherlock shook himself from his thoughts, looking up at the roof of the building, seeing the sickening distance from the top floor to the pavement and, convincing himself that his shivers were simply from the cold, tore himself from the scene to head inside.

He didn't know what had drawn him to enter the hospital, perhaps it was the desire not to go home yet, however once inside it felt almost like a natural thing, his old routine slipping back into place as he felt his legs carry him instantly to the lower floors of the building. It was as if the answer was written on the doors of the building and had given him a direction to walk in as he entered. He didn't need to follow the signs to the morgue as he had been there too many times not to know the by heart by now. He didn't know why he was headed here or what exactly he was going to say but it felt right all the same and he walked into the mortuary with more conviction than he had had in months.

He didn't bother calling out for anyone as he saw the person he was apparently searching for, stood over a large, dead man with spiked blonde hair and who was so large that the table looked as if it was struggling to hold him. He put his hands in his pockets and sauntered over to the metal slab, right behind the lady who was busily working away at what looked like a report on the cause of death. She didn't hear him, engrossed in her work and Sherlock took another look at the man, then read the cause of death over the worker's shoulder and rolled his eyes, walking around the back of her into her view.

"Wrong," he said as he walked into her line of sight and she jumped, giving a little cry and dropping the file in surprise. He watched her without expression as she gaped at him, the expression becoming familiar to him.

"Y-you're back," she stuttered, staring at him.

"A wonderful observation as ever, Molly," Sherlock said dryly and she stuttered over some indecipherable sounds before she managed to speak.

"Well, I mean, I didn't know… you've been gone a long time," she managed.

"3 months," Sherlock agreed. There was a beat of silence and Sherlock rolled his eyes again as she made a little "oh" sound and had to scoop the pages of the file from the dead man's legs.

"Where have you been?" she asked as she sorted through the pages of the report. Sherlock didn't answer, merely watched her sort the feel, wondering why he had even bothered to come. She was just as surprised to see him back as everyone else, even though she was the one person who had known he was still alive. After all, she had helped him to do it. However, after his fake death, he had left, not telling her where he was going and this was the first time in three months they had spoken. Of course she was surprised to see him. It made Sherlock feel a little sad, that even here he still felt a little like he was coming back from the dead, however the next words spoken made him smile a little.

"What did you mean, wrong?" Molly asked and Sherlock felt a surge of something close to relief sweep him. He had come here because Molly didn't count. Not in a way that she meant nothing, she had helped Sherlock through his final meeting with Moriarty, she had seen emotion in him even when others hadn't and, perhaps most importantly, she had always been there, despite everything, at Sherlock's side. So in his own way, Sherlock knew that Molly meant a lot to him and even though Moriarty hadn't put a sniper on Molly, he considered her a friend, however she had said it herself. She didn't count. To Sherlock, Molly would always be just Molly, just Molly who worked at the morgue who had been by his side all this time and yet he had never really thought about. He could always show that little bit more of himself to Molly Hopper because she would always be the person no-one really thought about until she wasn't there.

"Your report says he died in a motorcycle accident and that he had bought the bike that day," Sherlock said, thankful for the distraction Molly had provided, "However it's obviously wrong. He's far too heavy to sit on a motorbike, much less ride one." Molly blinked, looking at the dead man as if she half expected him to wake up.

"Then… how did he die?" she said.

"Car crash. I'd have to see the scene to decide how they switched the car for the bike, however if he was a worker for Scotland Yard or the hospital service, I could assume that it was simply written up as a bike in the report," Sherlock said.

"He was a doctor for the emergency centre here," Molly said.

"Ah, obviously the paramedics said it was a bike and not a car then. If he has a wife, you should inform her he was cheating on her. He was obviously in the car with another woman; however the paramedics, knowing the man and wishing to keep that a secret, covered it up with a story about him wanting to learn to ride a motorbike and crashing on his first attempt. Quite obvious really," Sherlock drawled. Molly stared in wonderment for a few moments before she nodded slowly.

"I should, um, change the report then?" she said and Sherlock chuckled softly.

"Yes," he agreed and she nodded, screwing up the old report and throwing it to the waste paper bin. It missed by a few centimetres and bounced off the wall.

"So, are you just here to say you're back then?" Molly asked, beginning to root around in a drawer for a new sheet.

"Yes," Sherlock said and, a few moments later, added, "Thank you."

It caught them both off guard and Sherlock wondered if John's politeness had rubbed off on him and he had said the wrong thing at the wrong time, which he could then blame entirely on John. Molly looked stunned but then apparently recovered, although she had stopped searching for the file.

"Thanks?" she said, "What for?" Sherlock didn't know quite what to answer that with for a moment, wondering why he had come out with it to begin with and eventually settled on the most truthful answer.

"For helping me to fake my death," he said, "Your help was, after all, invaluable." Molly smiled and it made her look like a puppy dog who was just happy to have pleased someone.

"Oh, it's okay," she beamed, "I mean, I hope you never have to do it again or anything, I mean, that'd be awful but, if you ever do, then I'm you girl… well, not actually your girl, you know, I meant… and I hope that it never does come around that you have to fake-"

"Your conversational skills haven't improved Molly," Sherlock interjected and she stammered to a halt. Sherlock knew he was being what John called rude, however Molly had a tendency to ramble if not stopped and despite it being a welcome normality, Sherlock never could tolerate it for long.

"Oh, right, sorry," Molly said and she gushed another smile, "I'll just shut up now." Sherlock gave a nod as she began searching for the file again and beaming when she found it. She was one of the dizziest and yet most happy morgue assistant Sherlock had ever known, however he didn't know exactly how jolly one could be as a morgue assistant, even when surrounded by a million different opportunities to experiment. 29 opportunities presented themselves simply with this body, Sherlock observed. It was a woeful waste of a body when they had to be buried.

"So, how did John take the news? He came around to the hospital you know, he quit his job. He came to see your… well, the body, I guess, but they wouldn't let him," Molly said, "I felt really bad for him. I wanted to tell him you know, but I knew you'd told me not to." Sherlock was surprised that Molly had been able to keep her mouth shut from telling John about him, however the mention of his flatmate made him scowl and he turned away to observe the body currently residing on the slab.

"What was that about you shutting up earlier, Molly?" he retorted quickly, immediately realising how harsh it had come out and wincing at Molly's hurt expression. He was often used to hurting her feelings but his response had come out more scathing than usual and he almost regretted it, however wasn't keen to bring the topic up again in order to remedy it.

"Sorry," Molly apologised quickly, "I just- I was worried about him. He didn't look too good when he came to the hospital apparently." Sherlock sighed.

"He was… shocked," Sherlock said, "He asked me why I had been away for so long and not told him and then called me a selfish bastard but other than that, it's been… fine." Molly's gaze was boring a hole into his back as he spoke and he could feel the concern as if it was a tangible force.

"You don't sound happy," she observed. Sherlock felt irritation rise in him and he kept himself from turning around to snap at her.

"It's fine," he growled.

"Sherlock, if you need to talk-"

"I don't need a therapist, Molly, I just came here to tell you I was back," Sherlock snapped but Molly didn't let up.

"He'll come round Sherlock, I'm sure it's just the shock," she continued and Sherlock rounded on her, spinning around to face her but was lost for the right words to say and so stood looking defiantly at her.

"Oh," she said and that one syllable seemed to encompass everything. Sherlock's anger dissipated as quickly as it had come.

"What?" he said, his eyes searching her face for a deduction to make.

"I didn't know, I'm sorry," she said. Sherlock frowned.

"What? You didn't know what?" Molly shrugged and put her pieces of paper on the desk beside her.

"I thought it was him that was still in shock, but um… you're still not okay with it," she said and Sherlock felt like he was back in that conversation before his final meeting with Moriarty, where she had compared him to her father, "I mean, you're still a little unsure of what to say and stuff, since you've come back. That's okay, I mean, you've been gone three months, so things don't always just slot back into place but…"

"But what?"

"I don't want to be rude," she said. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Molly, just say it, whatever it is," he pressed. He was used to Molly just blurting things out, so her hesitation was unusual and it almost made Sherlock feel as if he had been cut off.

"You're pushing him away, aren't you?" she said finally and Sherlock stared at her in amazement. "That's okay," she said quickly, "I mean; I guess that's normal, you've been away so long but… I just think that John might appreciate it if you didn't, you know, push him away too much…" Sherlock couldn't think of what to say to that. Out of everyone who knew him, even John who perhaps cared the most for a detective whom no-one had ever really cared for, Molly had a knack of being able to catch the glances that no-one else did. It was the perfect explanation as to why Molly loved so easily. There was an old saying that said if you followed a person around for a day, saw everything they did, even when it was the silly things like talking to themselves when they thought they were alone, or singing in the shower, you could fall in love with them. However Molly was almost the personification of that idea. It was as if she could see the whole of a person, even what they didn't expect her to see, just by looking at their eyes. It was extraordinary.

"I haven't really been speaking to him like I normally do," Sherlock blurted out. It felt good. It felt amazing just to get that out there because there had been no-one to tell it to, even though it had been eating away at him since his return. Because, in all honesty, he was intentionally pushing John away and, with John being his only close friend, he couldn't tell anyone about it.

"I saw him… at my graveside," Sherlock admitted, "He was… distraught but I kept back and just watched. I had to keep the secret in order to keep everyone safe but, even now I'm back it's difficult. And I think I need to be distant. If I have to do something like that again, if I have to go missing again or something does in fact happen to me, then I'll have made the mistake of allowing a person close only to see them suffer because of something I have done."

It was the most truthful Sherlock had ever been. In his whole life, he would never have told anyone that and yet there was a rawness inside him that felt like a constant burn. He had grown complacent, he had allowed himself the luxury of a friend, just one in all his life and it was now coming back to haunt him and he was forced to tear himself away once again. He had to maintain the distance because if he didn't, people would suffer. People would always get hurt because of Sherlock Holmes.

"You know, for someone so smart, you can be really silly sometimes."

Sherlock blinked out of his thoughts, looking in surprise at Molly. She was smiling but it was a sad smile, almost pitying him and Sherlock felt himself silently object to the expression.

"You kind of get the whole concept of friendship in that you sort of instinctual want to look after him but it's sort of backfiring on you a little," she said, "I mean, you're putting distance between yourself and him so that he doesn't get hurt, which sort of seems like you want the best for him, but that's what you're missing."

"Enlighten me," Sherlock said sarcastically, trying to keep what little amount of his façade left up.

"Friendship's all about getting hurt," she said, "You get close to someone but then you argue and fall out or you… well, in this case, fake your own death and that's upsetting for the both of you but that's the ups and downs of friendship for you! It's the definition of being a friend, Sherlock; you've got to take the good with the bad. Even when it's really bad, like thinking your best friend is dead even when he isn't. I'm pretty sure John would appreciate his real friend back even if it means getting hurt again later on."

Sherlock was silent as Molly finished, tilting her head at him in pity. He hated the pity but he didn't say anything out loud as he was still soaking in Molly's sudden outburst. He was used to Molly's ramblings but usually very little of them had any relevancy, however right now, everything she had said seemed to have some grounding, even if Sherlock didn't understand it. Surely, the best thing to do would to be to avoid pain? And yet Molly's theory stayed sound in that, despite having to be alone for the past months and watching John suffer as he had, indescribably Sherlock still wanted to talk with John like they always had, to act the way he usually did.

"You think I should continue as if nothing has happened?" Sherlock said. Molly shook her head.

"I think you should just tell him how you feel and then just be yourself again," Molly said, "You've done it to me right now and it's worked just fine. John's been waiting for his best friend to come back and he's still waiting, I'm sure he'd be happy to know why he's not come back yet."

Sherlock digested the information, filing it away. It wasn't the first time Molly had given him advice or even a sound telling off but each word still seemed to resonate and he didn't say anything else for a long while, instead he continued to stare at the body, not sure if he could even describe his reaction to Molly's advice, much less voice it. All he knew was that he could see the truth in it. The evidence was all there. John was still trying, every day, to see some of the old Sherlock and the detective had noticed it, confused as to why John would still want to continue being friends after what Sherlock had done to him. And yet, Sherlock found himself also wanting to resume their normal friendship. He stored the thoughts away, determined to think of them another time and not now, when Molly's gaze was still locked on him.

"The ring," Sherlock said quietly. Molly frowned.

"What?" she said.

"The ring on that man's finger," he gestured to the large dead man, "It's no longer there. Meaning he removed it for his lover. He was definitely cheating on his wife. Quite simple." There was a long period of silence and he caught Molly smile from the corner of his eye, which he tried to ignore. She turned to pick up the fresh report and scribbled down something. He was lost, deep in thought, deductions mixed with thoughts of Molly's words and he almost missed the moment when Molly quietly spoke up from where she was stood, back to him at her desk.

"You're welcome Sherlock," she said softly.

A/N Okay, so sorry about the ending :S I dunno what you'll think of it, however please remember that I am posting another chapter tomorrow that *was* supposed to be part of this chapter, till this chapter got loooooong XD Next "chapter" will focus on John's investigation but won't count as a weekly update, simply a continuation of this. I'm not sure to what degree I like or dislike this chapter as although I hate some bits and like some bits of it and I sometimes think my Molly interpretation sucks, I feel that this chapter was vital. It reveals the reason for Sherlock's distance and what he's been feeling and I also really wanted him to have some interaction with Molly after his "death".

Anyway, long A/N is long so, thank you for reading! Reviews are my fave things in the world, so anything from criticism to suggestions to praise is much, much welcomed! Thanks again for reading and I'll see ya'll tomorrow!

*Passes out into bed*