A/N: Dear readers, I have had so much fun over the last few weeks writing Sherlolly stories at a crazy rate. Your responses have been much appreciated. This was my last queued-up plot bunny, so it'll probably be my last story for a while. But then, who knows, I might wake up with a plot bunny in my head tomorrow... In any case, hope you'll enjoy.

Usual disclaimers apply.

From Florence, with Vigorously Repressed Feelings

After the Fall, he hid for three days at her place. The first night she made up a bed for him on the sofa in her little study, but half an hour after lights-out she heard his voice from her bedroom door.

"I don't want to be alone."

"You're not alone, Sherlock," she mumbled sleepily. "I'm here."

"That's…too far away."

"What do you want?"

"Be closer."

She sighed. "All right then."

With the same blundering nonchalance with which he had barged into her life, Sherlock insinuated himself under her duvet. How was she going to get to sleep with this man in her bed?

"Molly?"

"What?"

"You have turned your back on me."

"No," she replied, getting more awake by the second. "I've not turned my back on you. Believe it or not, it's got nothing to do with you. I always sleep like this."

"Could you make an exception tonight?"

"Oh, Sherlock, I am really, really tired." She turned over and faced him. "Happy now?"

"Almost. Can I hold your hand? And your other hand as well? I think it might stop my hands from shaking."

Molly obliged. It was the least she could do, she supposed, given what he'd been through. And so they fell asleep, face to face, with their entangled hands resting in the space under their chins.

And that was how they slept the following night, and the night after. It was uncomfortable, because it wasn't the right side for her to lie on and she felt like she should move as little as possible so as not to disturb him. It was also nerve-wrecking, because that was Sherlock in her bed, and what wouldn't she have given for that even a week ago, when it wouldn't have meant the End. But ultimately, it was simply elating that he had chosen her of all people as his refuge and that she could have this morsel of closeness with him before…well, before whatever came next.

His days, while she was at work, he seemed to spend almost entirely on the internet. He certainly didn't spend them on chores. Molly began to understand why "Not your housekeeper!" was Mrs Hudson's battle cry. He could have at least emptied the dishwasher, but snooping around her possessions seemed to have been more interesting, because on the last evening he held out a small cardboard box to her and asked if he could have it.

It was a set of picture postcards of Florence. Molly had bought them as a souvenir years ago on a holiday with her father. It was so long ago that they looked decidedly vintage to the contemporary eye. She couldn't even remember where she'd kept them.

"Why do you want those?"

He shrugged. "Can I have them?" he repeated.

"If it makes you happy."

Now he frowned. "It won't make me happy. But can I have them anyway?"

"For goodness sake, Sherlock, just have them and be done with it!" Reviewing her terse tone in the light of the wider context, she put her hand on his arm. "I'm sorry. Let's not quarrel."

"No, let's not. And thank you."

"It's okay, they're just some old postcards."

"I mean, for everything."

oOoOo

She was on early shift the next day, which meant that she left a flat that contained Sherlock and returned to one that didn't.

It felt as if it was raining inside. It felt as if colour and music had evaporated from the world. Molly lay on the sofa with her face turned to the backrest. She tried to convince herself that she could still pick up a faint trace of his scent, but it was a delusion and she knew it.

Thank you…for everything. There was no denying it, those were the words of a final goodbye. She had to lock the memories of the last few days away safely if she wanted to live on as more than a shadow.

The weeks went by. Molly tried to keep in touch with John, like she had promised Sherlock, but this proved difficult, as John was curled up with his grief and not wanting to talk. She looked in on Mrs Hudson once and they had tea together and reminisced about Sherlock. Molly thought it would be better for her not to meet Sherlock's friends too often. It was too hard to keep up the pretence. At least with Greg she could focus on work. Even so, whenever he came to the morgue she was painfully aware, and no doubt he was too, that they were avoiding the topic that occupied both their minds.

Life was uneventful otherwise. Shifts at the hospital, lazy weekends at home, fairly tame nights out with friends. She was reading a lot. She wallpapered her hallway. She wasted hours on Pinterest looking up projects she would probably never tackle.

On arriving home one day, she was sorting through the post to check for any bills or appointments among the junk mail, when she noticed a handwritten card. The writing was unfamiliar.

Dear Molly,

Having a great time. The journey out didn't go according to plan, but I'm all settled now and ready to have some fun. Everything is fine. Missing you!

Hugs

Sheena

Who the hell was Sheena? Molly turned over the card and let out a strangled nervous laugh. It was one of her Florence postcards.

It wasn't an Italian stamp though. She checked the postmark. Phnom Penh, eight days ago. Still, it was unlikely that anyone along the postal route would notice the discrepancy between the motif on the card and the postmark, and even if they did, what conclusions could they possibly draw? Sherlock had come up with a virtually untraceable way to keep in touch. She remembered now that he'd mentioned something about digital technologies not being the panacea everybody took them for. Instead: good old-fashioned postcards.

She read the card several times, trying to decide whether it contained any hidden message or whether it was just a way of saying Don't worry about me; I'm fine. Would there be a code? Invisible ink? She considered this for a while, then she phoned Mycroft and let his PA know that she had received a message from Sherlock. He found the incident important enough to come straight to her flat.

"It's not Sherlock's writing," he said. "What makes you think it's from him?"

"The postcard itself. It's part of a set that I bought in Florence years ago. Sherlock took them away with him."

"I see."

"I thought he could probably change his handwriting. Or ask someone else to write it for him."

"That is possible, yes. Dr Hooper, I will have to take this card away with me for testing."

"Okay." Molly felt a little deflated. "Will I get it back?"

"Very likely. Good-bye, Dr Hooper."

A fortnight later, the card was returned to her in a brown envelope. There was no note to go with it, but when she phoned Mycroft, he told her that nothing had been found, no code, no concealed message, various fingerprints but none of them Sherlock's.

"You think it's not from him after all?" she asked.

"Oh, I'm sure it is. But it doesn't mean anything in particular. He's just…saying hello."

"Oh."

"Nevertheless, Dr Hooper, I would be grateful if you would keep me informed, should you receive any further such missives."

"Of course."

oOoOo

Another such missive arrived about five weeks later, and another three weeks after that. Thereafter they settled into a pattern of roughly one card per month, each written in a different hand. Molly pinned them all on her fridge.

From Monaco:

Dear Molly,

After an action-packed weekend, it's nice to relax at the hotel. You should see the cocktails they do here; they are absolutely humungous. I've been flirting with a charming man across the room; he's tall with dark curls, very blue eyes and the most seductive smile! Wish you could see him, I'm sure you'd like him.

Love

Shelly

…

From Tripoli:

Dear Molly,

This holiday is turning out to be very educational. So many ancient artefacts to admire! Who would have known that the people of this part of the world were so very creative? Did you know that you can make perfume out of whale vomit? Bet you didn't!

Shawn xxx

…

From Caracas:

Dearest Molly,

It's sad to see how dilapidated many of these historic building are. It's very picturesque, but still. To be honest, I would enjoy myself much better if you were with me. I miss your cheerful smile.

Hope to see you soon!

Sheila

…

From Las Vegas:

Hi, Molly,

What an amazing place this is. Mind-blowing. I hardly know where to go first. A delightful man has challenged me to a game of chess and I did not decline – the game is on!

Take care

Shannon

PS: I miss you so much.

…

From Vancouver:

My dear Molly,

What wouldn't I give to have you by my side as I explore these astonishing sights! But needs must, eh? No point in grumbling. Anyways, I'm gonna make the most of it.

Yours ever

Shelby

…

After that, the intervals between cards became longer, three, even four months could pass without one arriving. Molly knew what this meant. There had been twelve cards in the pack, and Sherlock must have thought at first that he would be home within the year, but he must have realised that his task would take longer, and so he was spacing out his remaining cards.

The day she pinned the eleventh card on her fridge, there was a ring on her finger that hadn't been there the day before. It felt like a betrayal, but she couldn't decide whom she was betraying.

The card was from Malaga:

Molly, my dear!

I wish I could tell you that I'm having great fun, but frankly it's all a bit naff. There's only so much sight-seeing I can stomach and I can't help thinking that it's been way too long since I saw you. Hope you're being good!

Hugs and kisses

Shirley

oOoOo

The twelfth card never arrived.

When she opened her locker door, his face appeared in the mirror, virtually unchanged. She turned, looked. He held her gaze. Two years of their lives as if they'd never been.

"So," said Molly eventually, "how was Florence?"

…

Missing you!

I would enjoy myself much better if you were with me.

I miss your cheerful smile.

I miss you so much.

What wouldn't I give to have you by my side…

Would love to put my arms around you just now.

It's been way too long since I saw you.

…

"Adequate," he replied.