Sherlock tugged Molly's hand impatiently.

"Come on, Molly, we haven't got all day."

The petite woman struggled to keep up with Sherlock's long strides. At that moment, he was dragging her over a hill at his parent's estate. They were far out of sight of the house by now, having already walked a good distance. It was chilly, being late afternoon already. Sherlock let go of Molly's hand to let her pull her coat closer around her small body. Without thinking about it, he slipped off his own coat and dropped back to drape it over her.

"The cold is bothering you more than me right now," he said curtly, interrupting her attempted protest.

Given, Sherlock wasn't a fan of the cold, (hence the ever-present coat,) but he was getting more agitated by the second and he couldn't have Molly shivering, or worse, her teeth chattering, while he was trying to rein in his urge to bite her head off. Contrary to popular belief, he didn't really need John to tell him that it was bad when he mistreated Molly. Maybe years ago he did, but now he was hyperaware of every emotion that flitted across her face.

The walk was silent and uneasy. It was the most awkward he'd felt in her presence for weeks. Honestly, this shouldn't be this uncomfortable. Sherlock snorted, startling Molly who glanced at him wide-eyed. It's just some place from years ago. I don't know why this was even one of the selected places. It's not like Molly's. She lost her mother there. It almost broke her in two. Not like it even had that much of an effect on me.

He hated lying to himself.

Sherlock stalked along, the grass brushing against his shoes and the bottom of his pants, leaving the bright green blades of early spring stuck to his clothes. The sun was just above the horizon, ahead, and a little to the left of them, casting golden and pink rays across the evening sky. Had Sherlock been paying attention, he would've thought it was beautiful.

As it was, he wasn't even paying attention to where they were headed, just letting his feet take him there of their own accord. They knew the way well, even if it had been years since he visited.

Abruptly, he stopped, looking up at a large tree.

Sherlock thought he would be able to go, collect the data and leave, without looking back.

He had never been so wrong.

He was unaware of collapsing to his knees and Molly's little gasp of fright as he gazed down at the carved name in the trunk of the tree, near the base. Sherlock reached out with a shaking hand, his fingers tracing the etchings in the wood. First, the cipher, burnt into the soft wood, (acid, can't ever be erased, directly over the top of the other so I can't ever forget,) then the name, carved deep into the side of the tree by someone who either didn't know what they were doing, or couldn't focus on their task. The latter was the truth, as a young Sherlock had been blinded by tears when he carved the name of his beloved Redbeard into the tree.

He unconsciously curled up into a ball at the base of the tree, an echo of the frightened, sad, little boy who did the same all those years ago. Sherlock reached out for Molly and dimly felt her take his hand and settle down next to him, cuddling into his side, covering them both with the Belstaff as she shivered against the cool February ground.

Tears blurred Sherlock's vision.

"Molly, this is Redbeard. You would've liked him. Even though you like cats better. Redbeard was so good. He was my good boy. Mycroft never liked him. Mycroft never liked me much either. He was born old. Never wanted to play games like I did. Couldn't see the point in pretending. Redbeard did. It was just me and Redbeard. He never questioned me. He was loyal. Like John but different. Redbeard was mine, all mine."

He choked a bit on the words that were tumbling out so fast he couldn't even tell if his mouth was moving.

"I found him down by the road when I was really young. I'd followed Mycroft down there. I was always following Mycroft where I shouldn't. His mum was dead there on the road. Hit by a car. I'd turned to go back to the house and nearly stepped on the little bloke. He was so tiny. So fragile. I took him home and Mycroft said he was going to die. Mummy hit him on the shoulder and helped me feed him with a tiny bottle. Mycroft said I was being stupid to get attached to an animal. That I should forget it and not waste my time. Mummy helped me take care of him until he got big enough to take care of himself. We used to play down here. This was our ship, the tree was the mast. I made a captain's hat for Redbeard. He shook it off every time I put it on him."

He continued, telling Molly all about his best friend.

"When we met other children, it didn't go so well. Mummy kept us at home and schooled us herself for several years. Mummy's clever, not like me and certainly not like Mycroft, but she's smart, and wanted to teach us on her own. So she did for a while. Mycroft thought I was stupid and teased me mercilessly about it so I was excited to meet other children when we finally had to start going to school with them. It was horrible. I wanted to impress them, to be smart. I asked the teacher why she was sleeping with one of the girl's father in front of the whole class. They hated me. I ran away from school that first day and came home to get Redbeard. We went down to the lake and floated out in the boat, and wouldn't go back to shore when they found us. It was the best afternoon ever."

He smiled ruefully.

"I suppose that's when I decided that all I needed was my pup."

"Once, I went out into the woods and got lost. I had had a fight with Mycroft, those were frequent. It was the dead of winter and getting late and I was cold and hungry and so lost. And Redbeard left me. I thought he was abandoning me and I couldn't understand why. He was the only one who was always there for me. He was my only friend. So I curled up on the ground and cried myself to sleep. Then when I opened my eyes, Redbeard was standing over me and licking my face and my parents were there to take me home. He went to get help for me."

Sherlock smiled fondly through his tears.

"And then, one day, he got sick. He got skinny and wouldn't eat. He tried to follow me. To play with me. But something was wrong. He just didn't have the strength. I went to school and came home and called his name. He didn't come. He never ignored me. As soon as I saw my parents waiting at the kitchen table, I knew. He was gone. I asked anyway. Mummy tried to tell me it was for the best. That they'd had him put down out of mercy. That was the last time I cried in front of my parent's. I was nine."

He sighed, resting his free hand across his eyes and rubbing at them a little. They stung from the continuous flow of tears.

"I snuck into the vet's office that night. It was the first time I actually picked a lock. I'd practiced, yeah, but it was the first time I actually did it. I found where they had Redbeard and I took him. And I brought him out here. To our tree. I buried him here, Molly. I couldn't let them take him away from here. I couldn't let them take him away from me. Mycroft found me here. He peeled me up off of the ground, off of the grave and carried me back to the house."

He stopped.

"Molly, I didn't want to care about anyone because I knew if I did, it would break me to lose them. Just like it broke nine year old me to lose Redbeard. He was my only friend until I met John. And losing John would hurt so bad. Losing Lestrade, losing Mrs. Hudson, losing Mary or Mummy or Father or even Mycroft. It would hurt. But losing you, Molly, losing you would kill me. I can't live without you now and I don't want to. You're all I think about. I can't focus when you're with me because all I can think about is you. Your scent, your taste. How you stretch in the morning when you first wake up. The way you lick the spoon after you stir your tea. The ridiculous bun on your head when you take those century-long baths. Everything about you has wormed its way inside of me and I'll never be rid of it. I'll never be rid of you. And it's simultaneously the best and the worst feeling in the world. Because if I were to lose you, I would lose myself. And I wouldn't be able to survive it."

He waited for an answer, and shifted to look at her when none came. She was watching him, a look of concern on her face and he found himself confused. Didn't she have anything to say to all of that?

"Molly?" he questioned, hoping she wasn't in shock.

"Sherlock, are you ok?"

"Ummm, yes?" He squirmed uncomfortably. The cold had seeped into his bones when he wasn't paying attention. And it was getting rather dark.

"You've just been laying there for over an hour." Molly shivered, rubbing her hands over her arms in an attempt to warm herself up.

He sat up and looked down at her. "You mean I haven't said anything?"

Molly's expression became puzzled, her brow furrowing in bewilderment. "No, Sherlock, you haven't said a word."

Damn.