A/N: Please forgive any spelling or grammatical errors.

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The smell of linseed oil and the feel of the pews on the back of her knees, reminded Molly of the church services she attended as a child with her father. Molly's father had always insisted they attended every Sunday growing up, despite the suspicion that her father only attended mostly out of worry for her sake, rather for himself. Molly, even at that age, was ever the rationalist, questioning everything around her. It was difficult for a man to raise a child on his own, a girl no less.

After her father died, Molly did not really keep up with the practice, much to her regret. She had retreated into herself, and buried her sorrow and grief into her studies at medical school. And yet, here she sat in the non-denominational chapel inside St. Bart's hospital. It was something she started doing after Sherlock's fall.

To the outside person, it may have appeared she was praying for the soul of the loved one. For someone who was in the know, Molly prayed for Sherlock's safety and the strength to continue to live with the knowledge that she had the ability to take away the pain and sorrow of those closest to her, and yet still had to maintain the lie. So for twice a week after she finished her graveyard shift, she would go to the chapel and pray. Molly loved that she could go up into that sacred space and be alone in quiet. She found a sense of peace of doing something, in performing the act of lighting a candle for Sherlock. It was her way of being helpful, asking for protection from the divine force.

As she sat back down and lowered her head, she sensed someone sit beside her. It was odd that someone would sit so close, considering all of the other seats were empty. Molly looked up and was surprised. The person revealed to be was Mycroft Holmes.

"I am surprised to see a rational scientist, such as yourself in here." He said.

Molly simply continued to stare at him.

Mycroft shifted slightly and sensed that he had misspoken, something John Watson would call "a bit not good."

Molly knew the Holmes's lived in a different world. Their world was purely empirical, life as the know it was simply a large complex puzzle, something that could be manipulated by cause and effect. It was that line of reasoning, Molly assumed that he was here.

Her eyes scanned briefly, to make sure no else was around. "If you're afraid that I will reveal anything about Sherlock's secret in confession or anything…You're wrong." She whispered.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Come now Dr. Hooper, we both know you are not Catholic. " He continued, "I had my doubts about involving you in the whole operation but Sherlock insisted. He said you were one of the strongest people he knew. I am beginning to see why."

Molly looked at her folded hands in her lap, demurring his praise.

"We may appear as godless heathens, but Mummy did attempt to raise us right." Mycroft stated.

He recalled many times in their youth that he and Sherlock were dragged into church by their mother, despite their objections. Mummy was insistent. He surmised his mother prayed for strength and patience in dealing with her boys. The brothers spent their time commiserating in misery, communicating to each other with eye rolls, and whispered deductions about their neighbors and other members of the congregation. At the time It seemed like an exercise for social control of the weak-minded masses. Although, Mycroft didn't seem to mind dressing up in a suit as Sherlock most vehemently did.

"Sometimes faith is all we have." Molly said lowly. "When I was small, my dad used to take me to church on Sundays. I think he did it believing I would grow up with some moral fiber or something, considering my mom wasn't around to teach me about being a girl. I was a bit weird as a kid. Liked to poke at things to see how they worked. Always asking questions of "Why?" Must have driven my dad off the deep end with worry when he didn't know the answer. "

Molly paused.

"I suppose it's a question I live with and pursue to this day. I see the worst in what humanity capable of in what passes through the morgue doors. Sometimes having faith means being ok with not having all the answers, things will be taken care of whether we know it or understand it or not."

"It must be nice, having the ability to rely on and draw strength from an omnipotent supernatural being." Mycroft said with a moroseness, while twisting the handle of his brolly. He knew all too well that having faith in people was a fool's errand. They will always let you down in the end.

Molly turned and looked at Mycroft directly in the eye. "I believe in Sherlock Holmes. I have faith he will accomplish what he intended to do and come home to us."

The British Government's face was impassive, but his eyes seemed to display a bit of emotion. Molly got up to leave.

"You would know." Mycroft said. "If he was killed. I would make sure you knew, personally. So you would never have wonder why, in that respect. That question will always have an answer for you."

It was the least he could do for woman who clearly and unreservedly loved his brother.

"Thank you, Mycroft." The pathologist turned and walked away.

Mycroft moved follow her in leaving when he suddenly stopped. He turned around moved to where Molly lit her candle. He locked eyes with the religious figure for a moment, then lit a candle of his own next to hers.

He left silently after that.