A/N: Wow, sorry it took me so long to update this. I've had a really rough semester. Thank you so much to everyone who read and reviewed that last chapter, you're all lovely. And of course, thanks to my delightful beta, Prisci.

Disclaimer: I will never own Sherlock. It's sad, but true.

Sergeant Donovan had been staring at the image on her computer since she had gotten to work. The pathologist she had been using on her current case had sent it to her nearly an hour ago. The image and its accompanying message had her head reeling.

Sergeant Donovan -

I've finished the full post-mortem and I think it would be best if you came down here at some point today. I will, however, summarise my findings. It appears as though the victim was paralysed (although I've yet to determine what paralysed him) and then they cut him open and sewed him back up after the victim had died. All the stitching is very precise, like what you would expect after a post-mortem. I believe that it was being - excuse the crudeness of the language - being cut open that killed the victim. The only abnormality - besides, of course, receiving an autopsy while still alive - was a piece of paper folded and placed next to his left lung. I've attached a scan of the note. If you can't read it, it says "I've done you a favour, kitten. Let's see if you deserve it."

An apple crunched behind her. She swivelled around and watched Lestrade's eyes scan the screen over the top of her head. He cocked his head to the side and took another bite of his apple, chewing it slowly and never shifting his gaze.

"Well, dear ol' Mitch is becoming more and more interesting."

"Yeah, well, clearly someone didn't like him."

"Someones." Donovan raised an eyebrow as Lestrade perched himself on the corner of her desk, nodding to her computer screen. "Probably two someones: the one who wrote the note - three if someone else cut the body open and the note was just passed along - and 'kitten.'"

"So...you're thinking not the wife, then?"

Lestrade shrugged. "I don't know about you, but she didn't really strike me as the psychotic type."

"Well, some psychos are damn good at hiding it, aren't they?" Donovan looked up at the sound of the new voice.

"John!" Lestrade stood up and made his way over to door. He gave him a sad smile, clapping a hand on John's shoulder and guiding him over to Donovan's desk. "So you'll give us a hand with this one?"

John shrugged, his eyes fixed on Donovan, who stared back, her mouth pulled into a tight line. "I don't see how I can be much help."

Donovan gave a half smile, turning her screen for John to see. "This is all we have, we have no other leads besides this."

John stared for a moment at Donovan's screen, his eyes flicking across it. He had seen a number of disturbing deaths throughout his career, both in the army and with Sherlock, but the description he was currently reading seemed to be the most vicious murder he had worked. "So, we're looking for probably three people," he murmured.

Lestrade took another bite of his apple. "Possibly two."

"No, not with this. The surgery, the note. This was carefully planned out, probably by someone incredibly smart. The note wasn't written by the same person who killed your victim. Not enough separation. Makes it too easy."

Lestrade caught Donovan's eye over John's shoulder and smiled. Regardless of whether or not he thought he was capable, John Watson would be incredibly beneficial to their case.

"Who did the autopsy?" John asked suddenly, turning to face Lestrade.

Donovan stood up and walked around to stand next to Lestrade. "Newer guy. Adam Green. Why?"

John continued to look at Lestrade, not even acknowledging that Donovan had spoken. "The note was to someone, someone that would definitely read it. A crime this intricate - there's no way he -"

"He?" Lestrade's mouth twitched as John looked at him. He knew exactly what John was going to say, but he figured it was worth giving him the pride of having to explain it. John raised his eyebrows.

"You've worked in homicide for years, Greg. I know you know that it's statistically more likely to be male." With a sigh, he looked down, unable to maintain eye contact any longer. "There's no way the someone would commit a murder this intense and just hope that 'Kitten' sees this. No, 'Kitten' is someone working on the case. Someone on this case knew Mitchell Richards. You need to talk to his wife again."

"I don't think we're gonna get anything from the wife, John. She seemed to be under the impression that her husband didn't speak to anyone."

Donovan turned to Lestrade. "Weren't you going to run a check, see if he had any family or anything his wife didn't mention?"

Lestrade nodded, taking one last bite of his apple before tossing it in the bin. "Got the new kid on it. He should be back soon."

Donovan sighed. "You couldn't have just done it yourself?"

"Oi!" Lestrade straightened his back. "I'm your superior!"

John looked up, eyebrows raised. "They fixed that up, Greg? Took them long enough."

Donovan let out a bitter laugh, causing John to turn to her with a cold glare. She shrugged, used to John's treatment of her. "Not yet. They're still pissed because they think he embarrassed them."

"Yeah, well," Lestrade walked back to Donovan's desk, looking again at the image of the note. "After this case..."

"I don't know," Donovan smiled. "I'm liking this position of superiority."

Lestrade laughed. John continued to glare.

"Inspector Lestrade?" A young man with ginger stubble approached them, waving a folder at Lestrade. Donovan walked over to him and took the folder, thanking him with a smile. The man continued to stand there, his eyes darting between Lestrade and Donovan expectantly. Lestrade let out an exasperated sigh.

"Well?"

The man turned and hurried away. Donovan rolled her eyes. "You don't have to be so mean to the kid."

"Oh, look who's talking."

Donovan snorted, opening the folder and running her eyes across the page. Richards seemed to have had a few family members scattered around the London area, probably estranged. She scanned the list of names, hoping to find one she recognised, another cop or maybe a doctor or...

"Fuck," she murmured, grabbing her bag and shoving the folder into it before turning around and snatching her jacket off her desk.

"Anything of interest you want to share, Sally?"

She spun around to stare at Lestrade, unsure of what to say. She could tell him what she knew, but she was sure that doing so would only make a mess of things. With small smile, she shook her head.

"I just...I realised that there's something I have to take care of." With that, she turned around and walked off, not waiting for Lestrade to respond.

Molly was used to days of silence. Sherlock had been living in her flat for months now and she knew that he could abstain from communication for days. But right now, she was tired of his silence. It had only been six hours and she just wanted him to speak. But he had been staring at her television all day, watching whatever would come on. But he was bothered by something, that much she was sure of. After the first few hours of silence, she had moved herself to stand next to the television, trying to catch his eye. But no matter what she did, she could not draw his eye. It didn't even seem as though he was watching the television anymore. He was just looking through the screen, his eyes wide and somehow both full and empty all at the same time.

With a resigned sigh, she walked over to the couch and sat herself beside him. "What's wrong?" He continued to stare ahead, completely ignoring her. Frustrated, she turned on the couch, crossing her legs and facing him. She stared at him for several long minutes until he blinked once and turned to face her, staring at her as though he had never seen her before. Molly felt her cheeks go pink. Sherlock cocked his head to the side unblinkingly.

For as much as he considered silly notions and sentimentalities like love foreign to him, he knew something of relationships and sexuality. He had been observing the people around him all his life. He had, as much as he hated himself for it, watched it on television. He had lived with John Watson, for Christ's sake! And what he knew, as much as he tried to ignore it, affected him. It had been bothering him for weeks, months now. He was unsure why, though, at this very moment, he felt the need to act on his urges. Perhaps it was something he had seen on the telly. Perhaps it was her presence, home rather than at the hospital. Blinking once more, he finally spoke.

"Did you have sex with him?"

Her cheeks deepened in colour. That was not what she had expected him to say. "I - who?"

"Moriarty."

Molly let out a surprised shout of laughter. "I - I'm sorry. I don't mean to - I just..." She buried her head in her hands and took a deep breath. "No, no I didn't. But...why?"

Sherlock shrugged, turning back to the television. "Curiosity."

"But why now?"

Sherlock shut his eyes for a moment. He had his answer. It was all he needed. Why did she need to know why? Did he even need a reason? "As much as it may surprise you, Molly, I do not always know what's going through your head. I was curious, so I asked."

Molly raised an eyebrow. "That was...ages ago. Why would it matter now?"

Sherlock turned back to her, staring at her as though he could believe why this bothered her. He sighed and reluctantly made up a suitable explanation. "Because you know it wasn't real. You thrive on your emotions and your emotional connections with other people, more so than most people. And now - don't look so insulted, you know it's true. And you know that nothing from that relationship was real. I never asked before, so I'm asking now."

Now it was Molly's turn to stare as though she was talking with a small child. "Of course I know none of it was real. I've known since you showed up at my apartment at three in the morning to let me know. I moved because of it. Why does it matter so much now? We both know he only dated me to try and hurt you."

"Because he succeeded!"

Since living with Molly, Sherlock had made more cruel comments to her than he cared to admit. Most, he completely ignored and just waited for Molly to either forget or move on. Occasionally, he had found her later, either in her bedroom or the kitchen or sometimes returning home from work, and, although the exact words "I'm sorry" seldom were said, he did what he could to let her know that he acknowledged that what he said was uncalled for. But regret was never immediate. Unless her reaction proved the cruelness of his words, he felt no need.

But this time, the moment the words left his mouth, he regretted them. How could she have known what was happening when he himself hadn't realised the extent of Jim Moriarty's lie? He had done his best to make it clear to her that he blamed her for nothing. But somehow, in one small exclamation, he ruined that for both of them. Because, most of the time, Sherlock Holmes was an honest man. And he truly did not blame Molly Hooper for anything. He never meant to make her think he did.

Before Molly's face had the chance to react, he reached across the couch, grabbing both of her hands in his own. She immediately withdrew them, folding them in her lap. When she spoke, her voice was softer than Sherlock ever thought it could be. She didn't sound like the cheerful, hopelessly romantic girl from the morgue. No, she suddenly sounded much older than he ever knew she could sound. She spoke like someone thoroughly defeated in all aspects of life.

"I know. I messed up. I...I'm kind of hopeless about things like that. Easy to take advantage of. It was...it was silly. And, um, my idiocy and stupid, stupid idea of some fairy-tale romance, for what was not the first time and probably won't be the last, messed things up. And hurt people." With that, she stood up and gave Sherlock a sad smile. She glanced out the window. It wasn't even dark yet, but it didn't matter. "I should go to bed. Work tomorrow, you know."

He nodded, finding himself at a loss for words. He had always assumed that her life was simple, that her greatest tragedy was not knowing better than to love him. But the words she had said and the way in which she had said them made him question everything. Quickly turning off the television, he raced to the edge of the corridor, catching Molly as she made to shut the door. She looked at him silently, both praying for him to say something and dreading anything he could possibly do or say.

"You're not an idiot, Molly. Far from it. And I don't believe you have ever hurt anyone. Not intentionally. I don't think the same can be said for anyone else." She continued to stare at him silently, her lower lip sucked in slightly. "You don't give yourself enough credit. You count, remember?" He smiled at her, thinking back of the conversation that saved his life. With a nod, he turned back around and made his way to the couch. As soon as he had stretched himself along it, he felt the familiar pressure of Toby making his way onto his chest. As he shut his eyes, deciding it was safe to doze off, he was sure he heard Molly's door finally click shut.

The street was relatively empty for the time. People should be getting off of work and arriving home, but with the exception of an elderly couple taking a walk, the street was almost empty. The sun was beginning to set and casting a blinding glow on all the reflective surfaces. The glare off the hood of her car suddenly jolted Sergeant Donovan back into reality with a gasp. She hadn't taken a proper breath since she had opened the file. The second John had said that there had to have been a connection between the murder and those investigating the case, she knew he had to be right. But she had figured that it was someone obscure, someone unimportant. But the second she had opened the folder, she knew that her luck was out. With a shudder, she got out of her car and stood in front of the tall building. It could just be a coincidence; she could be here for no reason. But it could very well not be. She was about to finally reach out and push the buzzer when someone placed their hand on her back. She spun around suddenly, surprised by the contact.

A tall woman with curly blond hair and piercing green eyes was smiling at her, a slightly confused look gracing her face. "Sally Donovan, right?"

Donovan nodded smiling back at the woman. "Yeah, I was actually just about to call up for you."

The woman opened the door, gesturing for Sally to step inside. "Is everything okay?" She let out an uncomfortable laugh. "Normally when the police show up, something's not right."

Donovan shook her head. "No," she said, following the woman into the lift. "Everything's fine." She shook her head again. "No, sorry. I'm a bit off today. Um, your name actually came up in an investigation and I just wanted to talk to you before you got all wrapped up in something."

The woman exited the lift, leading Donovan down the corridor and into her apartment. "So I take that this is an official police visit?"

Donovan shrugged. "Unofficially official."

"Ah," the woman said with a nod. "Drink?" Donovan shook her head. "So can I ask what this is about?"

"Your cousin, actually."

"Cousin?" The woman picked up her drink and nodded towards and bright blue couch.

"Mitchell Richards."

The woman let out a surprised and vaguely uncomfortable laugh. "Mitch? God, I haven't talked to him since, well, since uni."

Donovan looked down at her lap. "He was killed the other day."

The woman stared at Donovan, her green eyes void of all emotion. Finally, she gave a sad smile. "Bastard had it coming." Suddenly, she clapped her hands to her mouth. "Oh, god! I'm not a suspect am I? That probably wasn't the best thing to say."

Donovan smiled slightly. "No, not really. Um, why do you think he had it coming?"

"Because he was a misogynistic pig."

"Care to elaborate?"

The woman only stared.

"Right. Well, then. Um, just a quick question: did he know Molly?"

The woman's eyes widened. This was not a question she had expected. After staring at Donovan in silence for a moment, the woman blinked and ran her fingers through her hair. "I, uh, Hooper?"

Donovan nodded.

"Why?"

Donovan glanced down at her lap. She knew that she technically shouldn't answer. She needed an answer, that was all. But she knew that, regardless of the answer, there could be no way that Molly had anything to do with this murder.

"It wasn't random murder. I just want to clear all possibilities, before bringing everyone else into this."

The woman nodded. "This is really something you should talk about with Molly."

"So she knew him?"

"Unfortunately. As I said, he was a misogynistic pig. But it's not my place to talk about it. She's your friend, right? So talk with her."

Donovan stood up. "Alright. Well, thanks anyway." With a small smile, she made her way to the door.

"Sally?"

"Yeah?"

"Can you just," she looked nervous. "Just, keep me updated, okay? If this goes any further with Molly and all."

Donovan nodded. "Course. I'll see around, Mary."

Mary nodded, standing up to shut the door as the detective left.

Sherlock couldn't have slept for more than a couple of minutes. When he opened his eyes, the last light of the sun was fading through the window. The evening news played on the telly, but there was nothing all that new, nothing particularly interesting. His interest had been sparked for a moment at the mention of the murder of some rich, young doctor, but he eventually went back to sulking when no information was given. He'd be sure to ask Molly about it in the morning. Maybe she could ask around at work. It had been a while since she had given him enough details of a case so that he could solve it before the police did. He had mindlessly begun to pet Toby when he heard the familiar sound of Molly trying to quietly open her door and make her way down the hallway.

"I thought you went to sleep."

There was a soft intake of breath and a cessation of the footsteps, followed by a moment of silence before Molly's spoke softly. "I got hungry."

"You're always hungry."

Molly appeared around the corner. "It's better than the alternative."

Sherlock sat up, swinging his feet to the ground. She had responded to that question with that exact phrase more than once. "One day, I'll find out what you mean by that."

"And until that day, you'll let me eat in peace."

The moment she had passed him and disappeared into the kitchen, Sherlock smiled. She never stayed mad at him for too long. He often found forgiveness a sign of weakness, especially when it was repeatedly given for the same reason. But with Molly, it struck him as a sign of strength. He knew very well that she remembered each and every time he had hurt her, but she knew when to hold a grudge and, most importantly, when not to. He was momentarily distracted from his thoughts when Molly's mobile began to buzz on the table.

"Your phone's ringing."

"Who is it?"

He glanced at the caller I.D. "Mary Morstan."

Molly slipped into the room, sliding in her socks, snatched her phone, and darted back into the kitchen. Sherlock listened carefully as she answered the call.

"Hiya, stranger!" So, clearly a close friend of Molly's, probably from childhood. He didn't get the impression that Molly went out much, at least not since he had moved in. Her call had certainly cheered Molly up. For a few minutes, there was only silence. Then Molly spoke in cool, apprehensive tone. "I've tried to forget about that, Mare. Well...yes, obviously I've failed quite miserably, but aren't we used to that? ...Alright, alright, sorry. Look, was there a reason for bringing - oh." After that, Molly didn't speak again for several minutes. Quietly as he could, Sherlock stood up and made his way towards the kitchen, pressing himself against the wall, out of Molly's sight.

"No, I'm fine, Mary. Really. I'll just...I'll call you tomorrow, okay? Bye." There was a moment of silence before Sherlock heard the crash of shattering glass.

"Molly!" Without a second thought, he dashed around the corner into the kitchen.

Molly was standing at the counter, both hand clasped firmly over her mouth. He followed her tear-filled gaze across the room to where a broken plate lay at the foot of the opposite wall. He looked back at her, not even bothering to hide the confusion in his eyes.

"I thought it would make me feel better," she whispered.

"Did it work?"

Molly's eyes narrowed as she considered her question. Suddenly, she seemed to realise where she was, who she was with. Her gaze fell on Sherlock and her eyes widened. "You have to go."

"Go?" Go where? Go when? She couldn't ask him to go, not now. She wouldn't be safe without him. He wouldn't be safe without her. And, although he would never say it out loud, he didn't want to leave her. He liked it there, with her and Toby. Fortunately, she seemed to understand his thoughts. She had a way of doing that, knowing exactly what he was thinking, even if he was scared to admit it to himself.

"Not leave. Just, you can't be here. Not now. I...Sally will probably be here soon and that would just be...that would just be not good and I can't deal with this now and fuck!" Molly picked up another plate and threw it across the room. Without thinking, Sherlock darted towards her and grabbed both her wrists, pulling her close.

"I'll go," he said softly, reading the panic in her eyes, "but I need you to tell me what's wrong. Really, Molly. You're starting to worry me."

Molly took a deep breath and nodded. "There - there was this guy. This...this absolute jackass. And I went to uni with him. And we dated. For a while actually." She glanced away from Sherlock, suddenly uncomfortable with meeting his eyes. "He was the first guy I loved. Or first guy I thought I did."

"I thought you said he was a jackass." He tightened his grip on her hands, not wanting her to pull away."

She shrugged, still avoiding his gaze. "We all make mistakes." With a sigh, she looked up at Sherlock. "Someone killed him."

Tightening one hand's grip on her, he moved his other hand to cup her cheek. It was a sign of affection and comfort, two things he supposed people like Molly needed when people they knew died. "I'm sorry."

Molly shook her head, letting out a cruel laugh. "No. No, no, no, no, no. Because I am not sorry. I should not be - I am not sad. I should be grateful. God, I should be relieved. I've spent, spent years worried that I'll see him somewhere. And have to talk to him. Have to see his p-perfect wife and hear about his stupid, perfect job." She was openly sobbing now. Sherlock moved his hand to her shoulder, unsure of what he could do or say to comfort her.

"I don't...He couldn't have been that bad."

"He ruined my life!" Molly pushed back with a screech.

Sherlock stared at her. He had seen Molly near hysteria on more than one occasion, but nothing like this. He stood there, his arm still held lamely before him, despite the fact that she was no longer within his reach. They both stood there, staring at each other in silence until there was the shrill buzz of someone ringing to come in. Molly sniffed once and wiped her eyes on her sleeve.

"That'll be Sally."

"I'll...stay in your room. Or go out on the fire escape."

"Alright." Molly continued to stare at Sherlock's feet, not moving to get the door.

Sherlock took a step closer to her and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "Look at me, Molly. Whatever he did to you, he probably deserved whatever he got. And it's not really the police. It's just Sally."

Molly smiled with a raised eyebrow. The kindness Sherlock showed when he wanted to never failed to surprise her. "I'll let you know when she goes."

With that, Sherlock made his way back into Molly's room as she made her way towards the door.

"Molly," he called quietly. She spun around to face him. For a moment, he just stared at her. He didn't know who this dead man was, but he hated him. He hated every fibre of his being. Molly must have known this man nearly a decade ago and the fact that the idea of him could still stir such strong emotions in her made him angry that he had not killed the man himself. And that he was Molly's first love! He was sure that he never deserved her. Unsure of what to say to her, he simply smiled before darting back into her bedroom and turning down the lights.

He listened silently as Molly let Sally in, as they got through the formalities, the unusual hour, the unexpectedness of the visit. He listened to Sally's uncomfortable laugh as Molly admitted that, yes, Mary had already called her and, yes, she knew the victim, they dated for a while. Worst, he listened to the way Molly's voice shook and broke as she told her story. And he understood why Molly wanted to be happy he was dead. For what felt like several hours, he fought the urge to go to where Molly and Sally were speaking and to just sit there with her. He needed her to know that everything was over and that he was here now, to keep her safe. Because that's what they did, they kept each other safe. Sitting down on the edge of her bed, he buried his face in his hand.

He would solve this murder before the police did, he was sure of it. And, when he did, he would be sure to send the killer flowers.