A/N: My 11th hour contribution to the 2018 12 Days of Sherlolly. Rated T. MCD...but you KNOW me. Let's call this one angst with a happy ending.

Things went wrong, and Sherlock Holmes died when he jumped from the roof of St. Barts. Or did he?

e·piph·a·ny /əˈpifənē/ noun

1. the manifestation of Christ to the Gentiles as represented by the Magi (Matthew 2:1–12).

- the festival commemorating the Epiphany on January 6.

- a manifestation of a divine or supernatural being.

It's his birthday. Twelve days after another Christmas has come and gone without him. Molly draws in a shuddering breath and lets it out slowly. It's January 6, another birthday he'll never celebrate.

Because Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective, is dead.

She wraps her arms around herself as she restlessly wanders her cold, empty flat. She should put up the heat, should make herself a nice cuppa, curl up under some blankets with Toby and telly and stop punishing herself like this, but she can't help it.

Sherlock Holmes is dead, and it's all her fault.

She shouldn't be blaming herself; even Mycroft Holmes, the Iceman himself, has exonerated her of any fault. "My brother and I thought we had a flawless plan," he'd told her that very day. "Obviously we did...not."

She still thinks she imagined that slight hitch in his words, the sadness in his eyes hinting that Sherlock's older brother was human after all.

But in her heart of hearts, she wants to believe it's true. That he really did have to collect himself upon seeing Sherlock's body on the morgue slab, where it should have been that of another man carefully made up to look like his brother.

Since she's never been in contact with him since that day, Molly supposes she will forever be caught in a state of being not unlike Schrödinger's cat - certain and uncertain at the same time, with no way of knowing the truth until someone opens the metaphorical box.

She laughs at herself, a bitter sound, at how crazed her thoughts sound even in her own head. If she were to share them with someone, anyone - but no.

She's tried therapy but nothing can ease the dull ache of guilt she carries around with her.

She was supposed to save Sherlock Holmes, and instead...instead, she's killed him.

It certainly doesn't help that John Watson accused her of that very crime, when she went to him after and confessed everything, very much against Mycroft's wishes. The fact that he never contacted her to condemn her for her loose lips means nothing; she's locked in her own hell and nothing he could do to her could possibly make it worse.

John at least has managed to move on, found himself a fiancée according to Mrs. Hudson. That's good, he deserves some happiness considering how they all conspired against him with his (deceased, dead and buried, passed beyond the Veil) best friend. At the time Sherlock's arguments seemed compelling, logical, but in the aftermath...well. If things had worked out as planned, then the cruelty would have been justified. Maybe. Possibly.

But now…

She stops by the kitchen window, gazes unseeing out at the back garden - such a rare luxury in the 'dead center of London' but well worth the expense.

Come spring she'll need to do some serious work on it, as she's neglected it badly the past two years.

No more.

"Buck up, Molly," she tells herself, bracing her hands against the rim of the stainless steel sink. "Stop wallowing and get on with your life!"

"Excellent advice."

She gasps, turns so quickly she loses her footing, stumbles forward a few steps and nearly falls, only to be caught in a pair of arms, against a warm chest that's as familiar as the voice - the impossible voice - she just heard.

Slowly she raises her eyes up, almost too frightened to look past chest-level, but the sight of those straining buttons and the familiar, tight purple shirt give her all the courage she needs.

"Sherlock," she breathes, clutching his arms as she meets his amused gaze. "You're...you're alive!"

He purses his lips, tilts his head to the side. "Mm, not really," he says. "But I'm not dead, either."

"How…"

He shrugs. "Hard to explain. Let's just say I've been given a second chance and leave it at that, shall we?" Something in her expression must give her away; he smiles and reaches up to glide his thumb over her cheek. "All right fine...I've been given a second chance to make things right, to complete certain tasks left unfinished...and to say the things I never said."

"What unsaid things?"

He smiles again, his fingers still light on her face. "Things like, thank you for being my friend to John and Greg. Things like thank you for being a surrogate mother to a surly, angry young man, Mrs. Hudson." He draws in a soft breath, lets it out. Leans closer to her, hands now cradling her face. "Things like, I love you, Molly Hooper."

Their lips meet, her heart soars and she holds him in her arms, grateful beyond measure for this second chance he's been granted. A million questions crowd her mind, but she banishes them all, basking in the warmth of his embrace and the secure knowledge that someday, when she's ready, she'll ask them - and he'll answer them.

Unseen by her, a soft white feather drifts to the floor behind Sherlock Holmes, and he smiles against her lips.

Someday, indeed.