Five

Ten days later, John went to 221B Baker Street, where he knew that he would find Sherlock. And it was a trip he knew he would have to make but nevertheless hated doing. The afternoon was uncommonly dry, which was rare for Great Britain in the early springtime.

Before going up to Sherlock's flat, he popped in on Mrs. Hudson and asked if she wouldn't mind whipping up a batch of the chocolate biscuits he knew Sherlock had a real sweet tooth for. Seeing the great sadness in John's eyes and hearing the seriousness beneath his tone, Mrs. Hudson replied, "Of course, and I'll make enough for you to take some home, too," and kissed his cheek.

When John reached the door of 221B, he heard the sound of Sherlock pacing and talking to himself, the way he only did when working on a case. Since that day, Mycroft had proven himself as a true brother by providing Sherlock with a few cases that gave Sherlock the distraction that his mind desperately needed during this tough time. Thankfully, Sherlock found the time to ask John and Mary for an update on Tom and Molly at least once a day. The Watsons, either separately or together, had made the effort of visiting the two of them in Brighton every other day. Little Emma brought smiles to both tom and Molly when they desperately needed them the most, and the support that her parents provided was a Godsend to the two lovers and his family. They provided equal support for Sherlock during this time; John sometimes helped Sherlock with his cases, Mary often had Sherlock come over for meals, and Sherlock became Emma's babysitter when the Watsons' were either working or visiting Molly and Tom.

But now, ten days after that terrible and heartbreaking day, John had come to 221B with a heavy heart and a heartbreaking piece of news.

Letting himself in, he found Sherlock pacing and muttering to himself before a wall of evidence he'd put up, dressed in his pajamas and a dressing gown with no shoes. Typical Sherlock, the consulting detective in his element…John hated to break that now, but it had to be done. He knocked on the open door to get Sherlock's attention; it worked. Sherlock's curious expression immediately fell when he saw the look on John's face, and the doctor spoke the words before he could fully deduce him:

"Tom passed away this morning."

Sherlock gave a long sigh and sat down in his chair. John sat down in his own chair, rubbing his eyes before continuing to talk.

"Tom's nurse called me a little while ago. Molly was right there by his side, and so were his parents. There was no pain, and it was peaceful. Tom's wishes for his burial were simple and minimal, so his funeral is going to be a small, intimate affair some time this weekend. Mary and I have been invited, and we'll probably take Emma with us"

"She is a well-behaved baby, so she won't be any disturbance or trouble," Sherlock said softly, looking at his hands folded in his lap. A small pause, and then he said, "How is she?"

John knew that he was no longer talking about Emma. John sighed and said, "We haven't seen her or talked to her yet. Veronique – that's Tom's nurse – said that she's just been a rock through all of this, especially for Tom's poor parents. But she also said that sometimes, when she'd pass Tom's room when just he and Molly were in there, she would hear crying from the both of them. And today, according to Veronique, Molly's really been supportive of Tom's family, taking charge of making the arrangements. She's staying strong…" John shook his head and winced as he blinked hard. "Which means that she's only letting herself mourn when she's alone."

At this, Sherlock shut his eyes and held his head in his hands. John was quite moved by this but not truly surprised. Not when he knew just how deeply Sherlock's feelings ran. He wondered if Sherlock knew yet.

A sharp ping broke the somber silence between the two men. It came from Sherlock's mobile, and he pulled it from his pocket as if it were a lifesaver. Reading the message, he said, "Lab results are back on the particle's beneath the four victim's nails…should help me narrow down the murder sites…" His gaze turned to John, and John saw two things: a plea for help, and a fear that he was saying the wrong thing.

John, though, gave a small nod and stood up. "I planned on staying, if I was welcome. I can pick up a sandwich from Speedy's later, and Mrs. Hudson is making us biscuits now. Now, fill me in."

Relief and gratitude flooded Sherlock's features for a moment – brief but John caught it – before standing up, leading John to his evidence wall, and beginning his exposition.

Hours later, after John had gone home to his family and Mrs. Hudson had gone to bed, Sherlock was still wide awake. The case was not solved yet, but that could wait until morning. Now, as he stood at the window, Sherlock's thoughts were all of Molly.

There was one thing that John had told him that had affected him more than anything else, and it was causing his mind to bring back a memory from three-and-a-half years ago…the night before his Fall…

…Sherlock had just gone over the entirety of his plan with Molly. They were sitting in a corner of the morgue, speaking in a hushed voice with only the dead for company. Molly was silent throughout it, nodding occasionally and keeping her face carefully neutral and calm. When Sherlock was finished, he asked if she had any questions or needed clarifying on anything. Molly kept her gaze on a floor tile just left of her right foot when she silently spoke again. Her voice was soft, steady but small like a child.

"So…only I, Mycroft, and some of your homeless network will know?"

"Yes."

"And Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and John can't know…until you return."

"Yes."

"…How long will you be gone for?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Depends on how large Moriarty's network really is, but if Mycroft's and my calculations are correct…about two years." It took more effort than he'd anticipated to keep his voice neutral.

Molly blinked hard once, then twice. "And I…I won't hear from you at all, will I?"

"Most likely not," said Sherlock, making his tone colder and more indifferent in an effort to keep it from becoming as soft and frightened as it had been when he'd first approached her about this. "In fact, it's best for you if I don't. It will be much easier for you to believe I am dead, especially since you're not exactly an adept actress."

Molly stood up so abruptly that Sherlock felt his neck crack a bit as his eyes reflexively followed her movements. Her blank expression hadn't changed, but dark eyes were suddenly much brighter. Clearing her throat, and still not looking at him, Molly said, "Right. Um…well, you know where the body is, so…just give me a few minutes to ready myself…Lay the body out for me and I'll be ready to go when I come back."

With that, Molly nearly ran from the morgue. Sherlock blinked in surprise at how quick she had been, but forced himself to stand again and do as she suggested. Being a strong man, he heaved the corpse that would be his decoy out of its frozen cupboard, plopped it onto a long metal tray, and transferred it to one of the work tables where Molly did her autopsies. However, when his task was completed, Sherlock started to get that tiny nagging feeling in his mind that perhaps he'd said something 'a bit not good' to Molly just now.

Nothing about this situation is any good, he thought in frustration as he began to pace, waiting for her to return. What the hell was taking her so long? If he'd looked at the clock on the wall, he would have realized that she'd only been gone five minutes, but he was impatient to start.

Or was it because he felt badly?

Shaking his head harshly, Sherlock muttered a curse and made his way out of the morgue and down the cool hallway. When he reached the door of the women's locker room, he was stopped in his tracks by a muffled sound coming from beyond the door, which wasn't quite shut all the way. Growing even more uneasy in his mind, Sherlock tiptoed to the door and opened it just a bit more so he could peek inside.

The moment he did, he wished that he hadn't left the morgue.

Molly's locker was open, and she was leaning her shoulder against the one just to the left of hers. She was leaning over; one hand was covering her mouth, and the other was clutching her heart. And she was crying. No, not crying – sobbing. Sobbing as if her heart were breaking.

And, Sherlock realized, it was. Because emotions weren't remotely his area, he couldn't specifically say why, but one thing he did know: it was his fault.

Looking at her, Sherlock felt his throat constrict and his eyes burn as a frightening idea came into his head: to go in there and comfort her. But Sherlock stopped at that, for he had no idea how he would go about doing that. Terrified by his physical reaction, this unfamiliar urge, his lack of knowledge, and this most terrible sight of Molly crying, Sherlock did the only thing he could think of doing that would protect him:

He ran. Quietly but very quickly. All the way back to the morgue. He caught his breath as quickly as he could, trying desperately to delete what he had seen in his mind. But he couldn't; it was burned into his mind palace forever…

Thankfully, when Molly returned to the morgue, Sherlock had caught his breath and his cool exterior was securely in place again. But he did give her a thorough once-over from the corner of his eye. She'd changed into her spare and more comfortable set of clothes, her pony-tail had been redone, her face had been washed and all traces of tears were gone. When she came to the body and looked at him over it, though her eyes were red her expression.

"Let's get started."

And so they did, working throughout the night in silent comradery. It paid off, too: the plan worked without a hitch. Afterwards, Sherlock hid in Molly's flat while she performed his "autopsy," and he spent the night in her bedroom while she took the spare one. She'd insisted, saying it was a better mattress, that he needed rest. Sherlock couldn't refuse, saying he could use the space tonight, but he wouldn't acknowledge the true reason:

The room was Molly's. Everything smelt of her, especially the soft pillows and warm blankets. There could be no sweeter comfort the night before his long mission, during which he was sure there would be no comfort at all. So though he didn't sleep throughout the whole night, he felt no less comfortable or safe.

In the early morning, Sherlock left. He would have sneaked out without a word if Molly hadn't already been up, in the kitchen making a pot of coffee. Had she known that's what he would want to do? Had she made sure to wake up before sunrise to make sure he wouldn't leave without saying goodbye? He thought to what he had said to her yesterday about not staying in touch with her…and his questions were answered.

He accepted breakfast from Molly, and neither of them spoke. Finally, it was time for him to leave. At her doorway, Sherlock could see that Molly was harnessing in all of her strength to keep herself together until he was gone. His heart twisted in the same painful way it had when he'd seen her crying in the locker room, and knew that the sooner he left the kinder it would be to her.

But he also knew that he had to say goodbye. She needed one; he didn't know why, but she needed one. And because his mind wasn't helping him at all, he left it to something else inside him to do it.

So, he placed his hands on her shoulders, and kissed her forehead before resting his own against his as he said, "Goodbye, Molly Hooper. And thank you." He tried to make his tone as sincere as possible, and it wasn't hard because it was the truth.

He was out of the flat in the next second and practically racing down the stairs of the building. Just because he knew that Molly was giving into her tears now didn't mean he had to leave slowly enough to watch or hear it happen…

…When Sherlock came out of this sorrowful memory, he picked up his violin and played through a new composition that was being born in his heart. It was heart-breakingly sad but desperately beautiful, because it was born of his memory and the emotions it rose up in him that he couldn't yet name but had to get out somehow.

And, for such an observant man, he never once noticed that his cheeks were wet.

Meanwhile, on an isolated spot on one of Brighton's many beaches, bathed in moonlight, Molly was crying without restraint, the sounds drowning in the sound of the waves.