It was one of those side streets with only a handful of lamps on which he now walked. The darkness of the London street would probably have scared most people but for him it was actually quite helpful. At least he wouldn't have to worry about being spotted by any neighbours – they probably wouldn't react well to seeing a dead man walking.

Of course he wasn't really dead, at least not physically and he, along with the rest of the world was beginning to accept that Sherlock Holmes was dead. Whatever he was now he could not now or ever return to being Sherlock, for the sake of Mrs Hudson, for; for John, Sherlock was dead and buried and he, whoever that made him now, had to let go of the life he had acquired living in Baker Street for the past few years with John, and start again.

It therefore made no sense to him that he was on this street now, outside her door. It wasn't safe and it certainly wasn't logical or even remotely intelligent to be here.

Though Sherlock Holmes had for his whole life strived to avoid relationship and feelings and all other such nonsense that weakens the soul and distracts the mind, it seemed that Mr Holmes could not die, could not drift off silently into the unknown until he was certain that John and Mrs Hudson would be okay. All it grief, regret, love, sentimentality, whatever you wish, no matter the name, the feelings produced remain the same and though he had fought them, ignored them and even at first denied them, Sherlock knew he could not beat or override a chemical reaction, he could not merely convince his brain to think nothing more on the subject as he would wish to do! And so the only logical solution to this highly irrational surge of feelings was to make sure John would be looked after – cared for, that once he had finished the five stages of grief he would be able to move on and live his life as a fine Doctor and wonderful man.

Text:

To Molly:

Let me in. Now

Please.

888

She couldn't believe he was in her house, walking around her little room, studying her pictures, her book collection and oh God, he certainly wouldn't approve of her taste in DVDs. The last few days had been such a rollercoaster, she felt like she'd been battered black and blue. When he'd first asked her for help she'd simply gone into over drive, Sherlock wanted her help, isn't that what she'd wanted from the beginning – for him to trust her, depend on her, need her. And yet in the days after they'd said their rushed goodbye she'd grieved for him as if she, like John and Mrs Hudson, really thought he was dead. She'd helped save his life and in the process she'd almost killed herself.

She hoped that he wouldn't be studying her little flat too closely. Would he notice the fact that she was wrapped in her dressing gown at 7pm, the tissues and food wrappings on the floor, not to mention her duvet on the sofa; would he know that from the moment he's hugged her for a split second and muttered thanks and goodbye, that once she'd gotten home and climbed into her pyjamas she hadn't moved from her sofa apart from to get more food and tissues.

She hoped he wouldn't deduce from her puffy red eyes that she could barely get through a whole hour without crying.

She prayed he would never deduce from all the idiotic things that she did just how much she really truly loved him.

She knew that he would never realise just how much him being here was killing her.

'Please God, please don't ever let him say goodbye again.'