Hi Guys! I've missed you!

I broke the fourth wall of depression, and out came Sherlock. I need to learn how to write even when I'm depressed... use writing as fuel to help me... This fandom helped me get through a tough year...anyway. We're getting personal here. But I thank you all for your patience.

ALSO. My plans of finishing this by the end of Summer? PSHAW. I say, if you all are patient with me that instead of breaking it up in three "books" as I was planning on, that we'll just carry the adventures through on this story-line into the next year. If you guys can be patient while I get started on my Freshman year at College (w00p acting and writing major DECLARED!) I promise it'll be fun :)

okay! Responses! (I'm replying privately to the ones pre-16):

Ells: Thank you so much for your review! I felt terrible when I didn't post another chapter immediately after reading it :( Sorry about that!

KraZiiePyrozHavemoreFun: Haha isn't it though... ;)

Renaissance: Your enthusiasm basically sums me up every time I read fanfiction... :) Haha, ohhhh the deductions we shall deduce.

GottaDance88: Thank you so much for your support. I'm terribly sorry it took me so long to update... I always appreciate new readers! Super encouraging!

Aviatress: Haha, yeah. Cliffhangers man... I don't mean to... And I kind of hate myself for them, especially being a fan of BBC... I watched an ep of Broadchurch tonight and cursed the sky at the cliffie... then I thought of everyone reading my fic... and felt REALLY bad . But not bad enough apparently. I almost ended on a worse cliffhanger than provided THIS chapter... Don't worry, I'm writing the next one as we speak... ;)

Magentacr (+ everyone mentioning the drug use): yes... The thing is, I know you hate me for it... but it's canon. Sherlock Holmes is a destructive man... It even alludes to previous drug use in the BBC series. The problem with addiction is that everyone's an addict to something. Whether it's substance abuse or (in Molly's case) needing to be loved or (in John's case) the need to not be alone. ~that's my meta way of saying that while I agree with you all that it's a terrible thing, it's in character. AND that even though this is a drama/romance fic, I really don't want to delve into the realms of co-dependence... All we need is love, for sure... but it also tests the best and worst in ourselves. The addiction is something that, in the end, would have to be ended by the conviction of our hero.

...but the trick is, Sherlock isn't an angel. As Gatiss (or Moffat?) said, if Doctor Who is about a "god" trying to be human, then Sherlock is about a human trying to be a "god". ((I could not for the life of me site the interview I read that in...Google should bring up some context)) A hero's strength comes from within... not a girlfriend- though a support group is essential!

oooohkay. YOWZA. I just upped the word count on this by like 200... #EnglishMajor *ALSO, I love you guys, and I get that the apathetic posts were just that. However, I like to discuss things... and I hope that it was stimulating conversation and not an offensive lecture :S*

A/N: Take you me for a sponge? I own naught and ne'er shall. :(

The coming of Fall would mean pies, lattes, and dense food. She frowned at her pale body in the mirror. It wasn't shaped the way it should be. She didn't like her knees. She reconsidered the skirt she was planning on wearing that day. She fisted the rolls of skin around her waist.

Somewhere in the back of her mind her Dad's voice said in a teasing but comforting way that "everyone has chubs". Susan, even with her Tolkien-elf-like features and all, carried fat on her arms. So, even though she jumped and bits of her jiggled, she knew she liked herself more than beating herself up about a goal weight...

She sighed in resignation and got ready for work. If she was going to enjoy Autumn fully, it was time to break out the workout tapes again. Grabbing her boots and sweater she walked to work. The air held the condensation of Summer, still shadows of Fall lengthened.

The rocky beach shifted beneath him, slowing his get away. Another of Moriarty's crooks cornered and caught. He didn't bother to wait in surprise while the mystery-sniper murdered the criminal. He turned on his heels, heading back towards the little fishing village. The first shot didn't surprise him.

The second one did.

Mycroft was on a different plane. Sherlock realized immediately what had happened. The stitches in his shoulder, the heavy pain killers, and private jet were his elder brother's way of saying 'you've had enough games, it's time to grow up.'

He refused to take the pills offered to him by the stewardess. When she refused to answer his questions, he made a snide observation that a woman having an affair was in no place to play the hypocrite; so in the end he learned Mycroft was in Rotterdam, and the current plane was taking him back to London.

Irritated as he was, England was familiar.

Greg Lestrade felt hot. This case was taking far too long, and it was irritating him. His first big case back on the job, and it should've been much easier than this. It seemed simple enough. The Murder of Mr. Adair was a touchy subject with everyone on his team, and if Anderson was anywhere in earshot he became a defensive prick. Donovan was no better. She spoke boldly but rarely thought.

He slid his phone around the desk as he ran through the murder scene in his head. He felt more tense and stressed as solution after solution held holes.

"If he didn't kill himself, someone else killed him," Anderson repeated again.

"God, do you think so?" He snapped.

Sally crossed her arms and spoke loudly, "Look, he's got a point. Someone just shot him from outside, from the window."

"Right, and who was around the area in that time? The wife, the neighbors and their 8 home-schooled kids, in addition to the Adair's. Can any of them fire a gun? No, we even looked into that. And even if any of them faked it, how do you explain the body's distance from the window?"

Anderson scratched his cheek, "Well, the angle wasn't mathematically impossible..."

"We're not seriously considering the idea that children killed Mr. Adair, are we?" Sally laughed in disbelief.

"I still say we can't rule out suicide-"

He cut Anderson off by storming out, "Fine. Start looking for the gun, bullet, and review the alibis for what, the fifth time? And, for Chris'sake, let me know WHEN YOU TWO DECIDE TO START DOING YOUR DAMN JOBS."

Greg looked at the contact he'd selected to call in his stress. "Calling... Sherlock Holmes..."

He hit end, and looked at the blinking image of the now deceased detective. He took a deep breath. Coffee. Coffee and a doughnut. That's what he needed at the moment.

He tossed the sticky paper and still-warm coffee cup into the trash outside the morgue. Molly was once again staring off into space. Her blue rubber fingertips were still coated in a liquid that was very likely blood, and her neat ponytail was cocked to one side.

"What're you looking at?" He asked, pulling a file out of his briefcase.

She shook her head and smiled. "Nothing."

Molly was always friendly. But she could also be a bit odd. He remembered the days when he'd walk in on Sherlock performing some horrific experiment on one of the cadavers, and Molly would be nearly as excited about it as he was.

"Do you have time to look over a file for me?" He held out the Adair case. "I need some advice."

She took off her gloves and frowned at the yellow card stock. "John's girlfriend worked for this family..."

Greg quirked an eyebrow. "John's got a girlfriend?"

"He's transitioned from bachelorhood nicely," she gave a small smile that Greg had to appreciate. Molly flipped through the photos and notes. "Who did his post-mortem?"

Greg shrugged. "Not sure."

Molly blushed and hurried to say that she didn't mean it in that way. Necessarily. "It's just that," she chewed her lip. "It's a bit obvious the bullet was dug out of his head... but they didn't say with what. My guess is that you're looking for a knife that's fairly brutal. Something with a bit of a serrated edge, perhaps. The kind of knife you'd want to use to get something like that out would probably be something smaller... anything bigger than a kitchen knife would've been too big. Aside from the rushed cutting, it's not too badly hacked at. The bullet is probably about this big."

It took a moment for him to comprehend her. "That was brilliant. We should've gone to you first."

She gave a crooked smile, and though flustered by his compliment, returned to her work. "No, that's- you didn't have to-"

"I can see why he only ever wanted to work with you," Greg shook his head. "That was... just incredible. My faith in humanity has been restored."

Molly nearly chuckled. "How's sergeant Donovan?"

He gave a wry look. "Making things more difficult than necessary. As always."

They shared a knowing eye roll, and Molly sighed. "I know you're doing your best, Greg. But this family has been hurting for a very long time..."

He nods stiffly. "Yeah, I know. You've been a great help today. To them and us."

Molly seemed to have run out of things to say.

He didn't leave right away, the image of her solemnly returning to her work (her mind full of unease after dealing with the police) triggered a memory in him. She'd always been this way. Fresh out of school, the bright and the rising star of the pathology department. She was always eager and always quick to catch on. And always a bit quirky. Other than that, nothing very special.

He remembers the first time he'd met Sherlock in person (he'd received e-mails and phone calls; Anderson had dealt with him on more than one occasion previously) that she'd been blushing and tripping all over herself. While he and Molly spoke, Sherlock cut in and solved the case from his microscope across the room. A little miffed and disbelieving, he'd brushed him off as some know-it-all rich boy out of Uni. Later, when he'd interviewed Sherlock after the case was closed, he got an earful and soon had written a note for Sherlock Holmes' contact information. He still couldn't remember much of the conversation, because Sherlock had smelled so badly of cigarette smoke he was nearly sick.

When he took up the Consulting Detective on his offer, he couldn't catch him by phone or e-mail. He finally showed up at extravagant flat (far too large for one person, and decorated for royalty) and found him smoking while typing a thesis -sized research report on tobacco ash. A year or so later, Greg and his division were starting to call him "the freak", which was a deserving nickname.

He remembered vividly the day he found Sherlock passed out on the floor in his flat. The trip to the hospital confirmed Greg's suspicions, and he told Sherlock he had to get clean in order to continue working with them.

Somehow, he didn't know quite how, but he started checking in on Sherlock regularly, for a time. Sherlock didn't like this, naturally, but he stopped resisting when he puked all over the DI's shoes. From that day forward, Greg left Sherlock alone more, and Sherlock appeared to shape up. Things became a symbiotic relationship- if not harmonious. He was an immature kid too lazy to find a normal life.

Looking at Molly, as she used to be before his life as a Detective revolved around Sherlock, made him feel a bit nervous and guilty.

"Do you remember what it was like before he came?"

Molly looked over her shoulder briefly, her mind whirring. "Yes." She said at last. "It was boring, wasn't it?"

When the doors closed behind her,she ripped off her gloves and ran to the cabinets she'd been staring at before Greg had walked in. Checking to be sure she was the only one around, she dragged a stool over and wobbled atop it. Using her littlest fingers, she tugged on the wedged object. It didn't want to budge, but when it finally did, she found with a shock that it was exactly what she had thought it was.

"Let's start with the riding crop."

Mary hung up the phone and sat heavily down on the couch. She curled into his side, and rested her set brow against his chest.

"What's wrong?" He knew the answer already.

"Molly said your friend Greg Lestrade came to the morgue to ask her advice on Mr. Adair's death." Mary's lip trembled for a moment, but her jaw clenched and she shoved off. "She said we'll all probably be questioned again. John, this can't be how it normally is!"

He realized that he actually didn't know how cases unraveled without Sherlock Holmes. It was a strange thought to have crossed his mind in such a casual way. Granted, he'd actively avoided all conversation about Sherlock for as long as he could think back. His therapist told him this avoidance was just another path of denial. He didn't care. It was easier this way.

Mary was ranting again. She had a temper that was terrifying when it flared up, still- it made her cute. "I mean, how difficult can it be? He would've never killed himself! How hard can it be to find one murderer in London? It can't really take this long, can it?"

He smirked, "Yeah, finding a murderer in London. Should be as easy to spot as a fly in your soup, right?"

"Don't do that, John, you know I hate it when you mock me." She paced the house, cleaning something here, something there. Her irritability panged his heart in more than one way.

"I know the detectives working on this case, Mary." He said later that evening while she scrubbed his bathroom tile. "Let me talk to them."

She shook her head, eyes red from more than tile cleansers. "We've talked about this."

"Yeah," He pushed forward, and sat down on the toilet so she'd be forced to look at him. Not one of their most romantic interactions. "But I'm fine."

"No you're not."

He growled and shifted his weight, bringing his fist under his chin. She could really test his patience. "Okay. Okay, fine. If I'm not alright, you're not either and we're both messed up and you're too moody to sleep with me anymore and I'm too much of a mess to make you happy. Is that it?"

She glared at him, then angrily fussed with her rubber gloves and tossed the brush down in the tub. "Now's when you want to talk about our relationship? What the hell does that have to do with this?"

"You worry too much!" He nearly shouts. "You won't let me take this case!"

"You're not a detective John! You're a doctor!" Her shouting has nearly bent her in half. "This is exactly what we were all afraid of!"

"Really? You and Molly Hooper? And who else, Mrs. Hudson? I'm tired of you women treating me like I'm psychologically unstable!" He yells after her.

"That's because you are!" She slams the door in his face.

"This is my bedroom." He growls, opening it and standing above her with crossed arms as she screams into a pillow.

As she screamed herself out, he began to feel terrible. John sat on the bed with the intention to apologize.

"I just want you to be careful." She sniffs, hair sticking to her wet face.

"...I love you."

He hasn't said that to anyone in a very very long time. He felt incredibly foolish.

"I love you too." Her voice is gentle and fragile.

Then Mary's kissing him, and she's everywhere and nothing else matters. He's so consumed with her that he barely registers the words she says breathily in his ear.

Songs to keep you company: (if you catch repeats, let me know and I'll give extras next time :)

-You, Sailor by Erin McKeown

-Big Black Car by Gregory Alan Isakov

-Jessi by Kris Orlowski