Setting: during HLV, between Sherlock's capture and his 4 minute plane ride.

Warnings: The medical facts presented in this fic may not be accurate, but they sounded good, so just go with it. Mentions of murder and mayhem. Mostly angsty angst angst.

Summary: Molly Hooper has always known how dangerous Sherlock Holmes is...she just never cared.

A/N: Companion piece to Forensics, but not dependent on that story.

Molly Hooper was just tidying up the lab in preparation for her tea break when Sherlock Holmes burst in unannounced. This, in and of itself, was not unusual and would not have alarmed Molly if not for his current state.

The first thing Molly noticed was the absence of the distinctive overcoat. Sherlock had been known to wear that even on a relatively warm Spring day. The second thing Molly noticed was one shirttail flapping free of the confines of his trousers. Finally, and Molly was ashamed later that this had not figured higher on her list of observations, was the rapidly blooming bruise on Sherlock's prominent cheekbones followed by the smear of blood on his knuckles.

Sherlock skidded to a stop in the center of the lab, looking wild and panting from the exertion. When his eyes found Molly, his shoulders slumped as though someone had cut an invisible string holding his muscles taut.

"Molly," he breathed in obvious relief.

"Sherlock!" Molly exclaimed as she hurried to him, "Are you okay? What's happened?"

Sherlock offered no verbal reply, just grasped Molly's upper arms in an almost too-firm grip. His head fell forward as he let out a breath. After a moment, he gathered himself, let go of her arms and straightened.

"I need to speak to you urgently," he started, shaking his head when Molly's mouth began to form another question, "I don't have much time, so just listen. Please?"

Molly nodded.

"I-I will be leaving," Sherlock uncharacteristically stuttered, "England. I'll be leaving England for an extended period of time and I needed, I-I wanted. Yes, I wanted to say...oh, bloody hell." Sherlock turned and stalked away a few paces. He faced away from her, but Molly could still see the man visibly calming. Sherlock's shoulders straightened, his head tilted up and he put his hands in his pockets.

Molly resisted the urge to go to him and instead spoke. "Sherlock, whatever it is, whatever is wrong, I can help. You know I can."

A low chuckle drifted to her ears. "Not this time I'm afraid. Even Mycroft couldn't help this time." He turned and gave her a half smile, but she saw a hint of something more serious in his eyes. "I've done something that can't be fixed."

"Everything can be fixed with work."

"Oh Molly," he said calmly, but with a slight groan, "There is no use in trying to get around this one. Truly."

Molly studied him for some time. She finally tilted her head and asked, "If you were presented with the same circumstances, would you do the same thing again?"

"Yes," Sherlock said without hesitation. He added one quick nod for emphasis.

Molly nodded and looked down briefly. She took a deep breath and said, "Okay. Then you did the right thing. That's all I need to know."

Sherlock shook his head. "No. I can't leave it there, not with you. Maybe I can avoid the issue with the others, but I find that I can't make myself lie to you about this."

"Then tell me."

Another bitter smile, "Ah, but if I tell you, you won't think well of me anymore and I'm not certain I can handle your contempt. Not you. I've always known what I'm capable of, but I've managed to hide it from you so far and I'm loathe to change that."

"Sherlock, the third day after we met, I knew what you were capable of," Molly stated matter-of-factly, "The cabbie killer case, remember? the one John called a Study in Pink."

"Of course I remember."

"Yes, well, I assisted in that post-mortem."

"He died from a burst aneurysm brought on from the stress of being shot."

"He died from a ruptured aneurysm brought on from a sudden, intense surge of adrenalin."

"Yes, as I said-" Sherlock started only to be cut off by Molly.

"There was bruising around the bullet wound. Bruising that wasn't accounted for in the police report… bruising in the shape of a large footprint. Some of the blood around the wound had already begun to coagulate and was smudged. He was alive for several minutes before the aneurysm burst." Molly watched his face closely for a moment. "I know what you are capable of Sherlock Holmes. Good and bad. I know you."

Sherlock took a breath and frowned, "Then why-"

"Don't ask me why," Molly interrupted, "It doesn't matter. All that matters is that I believe in you and I care about you."

Sherlock studied her for several long, tense moments during which Molly didn't flinch. His eyes hardened as did his expression and his voice was ice cold when he stated, "I killed a man last week. He was unarmed, but a threat to John and Mary just the same, so I killed him. That's why I didn't return by New Year's Day as I said I would."

Molly's first instinct was to try to explain this information away, to demure or offer some sort of sympathy, but as compassionate as she was, Molly Hooper was also a realist. She had no doubt that Sherlock spoke the absolute truth and that he believed with everything he was that he had done the right thing. Her personal feelings on that topic could wait until later, so she focused on the crisis at hand.

"So are you a fugitive?" she asked simply, gesturing to indicate his dishevelled appearance, "Is that why you're in this state."

"Yes, but only temporarily. I was being transported. When I saw how close I was to Bart's, I decided to try and see you before I was locked up."

"That's not going to solve anything, Sherlock. You can't run. I'm sure your attorney can mount a defense base on protecting John and Mary. Mycroft can certainly afford the best defense team. Public opinion is still very much on your side after the whole Richard Brook thing."

Sherlock snorted outright at that and shook his head. "Mycroft's done the best for me that he could manage. There won't be a trial. "

Molly felt cold. "What do you mean?"

"I'm am still a bit of a media darling, aren't I? Well, the government doesn't want any public uprisings over my imprisonment, and regardless of the quality of my defense team, prison would be inevitable, so Mycroft talked them into sending me on a mission. A six month mission. I'm to be exiled."

"Until this blows over," Molly stated. When Sherlock didn't answer, didn't look at her, she panicked a little. "Until this blows over, right Sherlock?"

"Until I've been killed in the performance of this mission," Sherlock said bluntly, "Mycroft estimates it will take approximately six months for that to happen. He's never wrong."

The gasping sob that wanted to break free was barely quelled by Molly slamming a hand over her mouth. Sherlock turned to face her, cursing softly.

"I know you don't want to hear this. It would be kinder, probably, to let you think as John does, that I am being sent away long enough to redeem myself, but I wanted you know the truth. I wanted someone I could trust to hold this truth for me even after I was gone. Someone to whom I could honestly say goodbye."

"No," Molly whispered.

"Molly," Sherlock said with just the barest quiver in his voice, "I'm fundamentally a selfish man. I can truthfully and without shame admit that I've never performed a truly unselfish act in my entire life. Until now. My first instinct was to simply leave without word to avoid-" he paused and gestured vaguely. "But I could not leave you that way. I owe you much, more than I will ever admit to, so please allow me this one act of unselfishness. Let me say goodbye."

"No," Molly said, standing straighter and wiping away a stray tear. "No, you don't get to do that. I know what effort it took for you to come here and say these things to me and that you think this will give me closure. It won't."

"It will. You have to move on now, Molly," Sherlock said with the low even cadence of someone trying to placate an upset child. "Say goodbye to me Molly."

"No."

Sherlock stepped closer, into Molly's personal space and stared her down with the softest, saddest expression she had ever seen on his face. She wanted to slap him. In the distance, she could hear yelling.

"Say goodbye, Molly."

"No," Molly said fiercely, "You don't get to do that, Sherlock Holmes. You do not get to give up. You've never given up on anything in your life and you aren't going to start now. I won't let you."

"Say goodbye." There were noises from down the hall, the sounds of angry people getting progressively closer.

"No! I don't care what anyone told you. There's a way out and you'll find it. You'll think of something brilliant, just like you always do. That's the real reason you needed to tell me the truth. You knew I wouldn't accept it. You knew I wouldn't let you accept it."

Suddenly, a pair of dark-suited men burst through the lab doors. Just as suddenly as he burst in, Sherlock was being pulled away. He struggled enough that the two black-suited men couldn't drag him more than a foot.

"Molly," Sherlock started, his voice laced with desperation and hopelessness. His voice was uncharacteristically hoarse. Molly reached out and pressed her palm to his cheek. It was a cautious, light touch, but enough to still Sherlock's desperate struggle.

"Stay alive," Molly said quietly, but firmly, "whatever you have to do, just stay alive."

With that, Sherlock allowed the two men to drag him away. In his wake, Mycroft Holmes entered the lab. He waited long enough for Molly's breathing to even and her tears to dry before he approached.

Which turned out to be a miscalculation on his part.

Molly let out a feral scream and flung herself at the tall man, beating her fists against his chest and screaming incoherent demands to fix it and save Sherlock. The rush of anger lasted mere seconds to be replaced by a wave of grief so violent that Mycroft had to grasp the woman's arms to keep her from collapsing at his feet. Molly slumped against his chest and sobbed.

When the sobs eased to gentle tears and that gave way to sniffles, Mycroft pulled a snowy linen handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it into Molly's hands. As she wiped at her face and dabbed at her nose he leaned close to her ear and whispered."Miss Hooper, I have a plan."

Molly froze, grateful that her face was obscured by the handkerchief. "What?" she whispered.

"You shall recognize it when you see it." Mycroft murmured, "Watch for it and be ready." He straightened and smoothed his suit jacket. Molly looked up at him, wonder sparkling in her eyes now instead of tears. With a brief incline of the head, he turned and strode out of the lab.

Barely a week later, Molly Hooper dropped her brand new cell counter, the one she spent months wrangling for with accounting, and it shattered. It would annoy her later, but just at that moment her full attention was on the face on the monitor in her office. She had been trying to catch up on East Enders while everyone else was on break when that very familiar face that belonged to a very familiar man who should be very, very dead, popped up.

Molly's first reaction was what one would have expected, but it took only a moment for realization to set in and for the look of utter shock to evolve into a smile of pure, unadulterated joy as her thoughts turned to a hushed conversation she had the week prior.

"You shall recognize it when you see it."

Once again dedicated to my fabulous beta, TheStormweaver! If you liked this, thank her. I wasn't sure I wanted to publish this one, but she convinced me otherwise. She is also my Mycroft Holmes expert and tweaked his part for me. It's much more Mycroft.