Two

The consulting detective and his blogger found Dr. Hooper in her small office off the morgue, filling out the paperwork on her most recent autopsy. When she saw the two of them outside her open office door, she immediately dropped her pen on the desk and sat up straight, alert and anxious for any news they could give. "Anything?" she asked.

"We found him, Molly," said Sherlock, looking at her.

She took a deep breath, one hand gripping the arm of her office chair in a vice grip. "Is he…"

The detective shook his head, and Molly's body seemed to collapse in relief. John couldn't help but admire how tactful Sherlock was being right now. Both his voice and his gaze on her were gentle, and he couldn't help but feel a bit proud of his best friend.

When Molly looked up again, her voice was stronger. "Where is he?"

"In West Sussex just a few miles from Brighton. He's staying in a cottage right on the coast –"

Molly's gasp cut Sherlock off. Her hand covered her mouth, and tears filled her large eyes as she shook her head a bit. "I should have known…I should have known…" she murmured to herself, barely loud enough for the other two to hear. Then, in the next moment, strength filled her expression and posture as she stood. In rapid time, Molly had put away the paperwork she'd been working on and then grabbed her coat and purse from the hook on her office door. She then walked up to the both of them and managed to speak with gratitude from the heart. "I know where to go from here. Thank you both for finding him."

With that, Molly walked through the pair and left the morgue.

For a few minutes, the two men just stood there. Sherlock seemed frozen in place, and John wasn't quite sure what to do now. For all intents and purposes, the case was closed. Molly had come to them with a case – find out where Tom was – and they had done that. In fact, they hadn't even needed to give the specific address, for Molly seemed to put it together when she found out the basic location.

The text alert of his phone broke the uncomfortable silence. John pulled out his mobile and read the text he'd just received from his wife. "Mary wants to know if you'd like to come to dinner," said John softly and awkwardly – Sherlock hadn't moved yet.

After a moment, Sherlock blinked and then he was off. John had to jog to keep up with Sherlock's long strides as he made his way from the morgue and down the long hallway. "Sherlock!" he called.

"Tell Mary that we may not be back in time for dinner," said Sherlock, not slowing down. "We're not finished yet."

When Mike Stamford's office came into view, they saw Molly exit that room as she pulled on her coat. John followed Sherlock as Sherlock followed Molly, slowing his pace somewhat so he would not overtake her. Molly didn't notice until she got into an elevator and the two men got in after her. She only gave them a nod, most likely assuming that they too were on their way out of the hospital. But when they had left the building, Sherlock hailed a cab – in that magical way he did so that a cab always pulled over right away – opened the door for Molly, then told John to go in after her. He did as Sherlock got into the front passenger seat, telling the driver to take them to Victoria Station.

Molly now looked extremely confused, her gaze going to Sherlock. "What are you doing?" she asked, almost defensively.

Sherlock turned in his seat so that he could look at her. "You employed me to take your case, Molly. I intend to see it through." This was all he said, and though his face was blank, his eyes begged her to see that he wasn't doing this only to satisfy his own curiosity. John prayed that Molly would let herself see that too.

Thankfully, she did. She said nothing, but only nodded and relaxed in her seat. But John could clearly see that it was only her body that she was forcing herself to relax. Wanting to begin his own repentance, he reached between them and took her hand to show her that he truly was her friend. She didn't look at him, but she squeezed his hand in acceptance of the gesture.

Within ninety minutes, the three of them arrived in Brighton by train. Throughout the ride there, John and Molly tried to distract themselves by sharing a medical journal Molly'd had in her purse and discussing various articles. Sherlock didn't say anything for nearly the entire duration of the ride, in his classic "mind palace" pose. Molly was content to ignore him, and quite frankly, John thought it was probably best for Sherlock to be quiet right now.

He broke his silence as the train began to slow and pull into its destination station. "How did you know the specific location before I gave it to you, Molly?"

John winced a bit at that; his tone came off as very blunt and offhand, as though he didn't really care what the answer was but just wanted to know it for himself. And that may very well be true, he thought sadly.

Molly turned a gaze towards him that could rival any of Mycroft's icy stares. "Three months before you came back, Tom surprised me for my birthday by booking a cottage on the seashore for a week. On our last night there, he proposed to me. Because Tom is just as weakly sentimental as I am, I know that's where he has to be if he's in that area. It's number 7 Willow Street, right?"

Sherlock merely nodded like an obedient child.

"Satisfied?"

He nodded again.

Molly turned back to the medical journal in her hands. In the short time that the train slowed and came to a stop, Molly ignored him and John glared at him. Sherlock just sulked in shame he would never let show.

When the train came to a stop, the uncomfortable party of three left the train and the station in silence. Again, Sherlock was able to get them a cab right away, and soon the three of them were off towards the final part of their destination. John could now see that Molly's iron façade was crumbling, knowing that she was about to be reunited with her former but terminally-ill fiancé. She bit her lip to hide the fact that it was trembling, but folding her hands together on her lap couldn't fully disguise their shaking. Wordlessly, John reached over and covered both of them. She didn't grip it back but she was able to relax a bit with a few deep breaths. Sherlock, once again in the front passenger seat, remained blessedly silent.

When the cab pulled up outside the cozy white cottage on the seashore, John couldn't help but feel that everything about it was idyllic. One couldn't ask for more from an intimate getaway location, low-key and sentimental. He had been planning on booking a similar vacation for his family of three once Emma had grown a little bit more to be able to enjoy all the fun a beach and the water could bring. Looking at this setting, John could easily picture any couple or family making beautiful memories here.

But now, he realized sadly, the memories that would be made here would be heartbreaking.

Sherlock paid the cabbie and asked him to wait for ten minutes. The group of three then approached the door, Molly leading the way with the two men right behind her. But before she could knock or ring the doorbell, she turned on her heels and faced Sherlock.

"You don't speak or come near him unless he asks or I say so, do you understand?"

John was reminded of a mother bear fiercely protecting her cave and cubs. The worst part about it was not that Sherlock could only nod in response, but that Molly had every right and reason to do so, considering her long history with the consulting detective.

Molly turned back to the door, took a deep breath, and knocked on the door. A minute passed, and then the front door opened. There stood a middle-aged woman, her long hair in dreadlocked braids and her dark skin contrasting against the light color of the nurses' scrubs she wore. John's heart sank a bit at the sight of this woman – if a nurse was there to answer the door…

"Hello," Molly began, her face paling as her mind thought the very same thing. "Please excuse me if I'm intruding, but –"

"You're Molly!" the nurse softly exclaimed, a hand coming up to her heart as she sighed in relief.

Molly's large eyes became even larger. "Um…yes…how did…"

"He keeps a picture of you by his bed," said the nurse. "He told me that the happiest time of his life was when he was here with you. Please come in, you'll do him a world of good."

With tears in her eyes, Molly followed the nurse inside. Sherlock and John, now feeling quite useless, followed in after them almost unconsciously. The cottage was cozy and a one-story cottage, so it did not take long to get to the right room. Upon arriving at the door, the nurse took Molly's hand and squeezed it, giving her a reassuring smile and gesturing her to go in.

By now, Molly had all but forgotten that Sherlock and John were with her. And when she softly opened the door of the room in which Tom was, she'd pretty much forgotten about anything else but him. Looking into the dim room with Sherlock and the nurse, John's heart broke.

The room was less a bedroom than a hospital room, albeit a very nice one with a large window overlooking the ocean. On the hospital bed in the room lay Tom, so different from the few times that John had seen him in person. Already skinny to begin with, he was even more thin now, his pajamas too large for his frame (though they probably hadn't always been). His skin was taut and waxy, and his curly hair had lost its life. He was hooked up to a heart-rate monitor and an IV drip, and an oxygen mask lay nearby. Just like the nurse said, the bedside table held a large and beautiful picture of Molly, which looked to have been taken on the beach just outside at a time when all had been beautiful and timeless to them.

John didn't need half of his experience in the war and in the surgery room to know that this man was dying, and had very little time left.

His eyes, which had been fixed on the window, turned when the door opened. When Tom saw Molly, his eyes widened in disbelief, then hope, then relief, love, and regret. "Molly…" he breathed, his voice barely audible but trembling with sweet relief and a plea for forgiveness.

Molly was across the room in an instant, and gently perched herself on the side of his bed. She leaned down, cupped his thin face with her tiny hands, and touched her forehead to his. "I'm here, love, I'm right here," she breathed as Tom began to cry.

"I'm sorry…" he breathed, his hands weakly rising from the bed to touch her, to confirm that she had truly found him. "I'm so sorry…"

Molly shook her head, tears of her own falling now. "I've got you, I'm not leaving you."

John's vision blurred and he had to blink quite forcefully. He didn't need any more proof of how much these two loved each other, and what an unfair tragedy this would inevitably become.

Then, a movement from the corner of his eye caused him to turn his head. Turning his head, he saw Sherlock's figure practically fly down the hall and through the cottage. John followed him but by the time he got to the front door that Sherlock had left open, the cab was already driving away.