This is a strange arrangement, Molly thought as she gazed at the tall, Belstaff-clad figure standing in the middle of her living room, a small bag of belongings clutched tightly in his fingers. For a moment, she simply couldn't think of a thing to say. Here was Sherlock Holmes, the supposedly fake, dead detective, using her flat as a hidey-hole. Because he needed her. Her. The pathologist simply couldn't wrap her head around this. All this time, she had thought that she had meant nothing to Sherlock, that she was simply there to help out in the lab and fetch him body parts (sometimes on the sly, depending on the body part). She was always happy to help, even when she tried protesting weakly that she was busy, only for said protest to be completely brushed off by the World's Only Consulting Detective's insistence that it was for a case. It was for a murder. It was for an experiment. He was bored, Molly. And Molly couldn't bring herself to mind.

She couldn't help the pain, though. It was always simmering near the surface when she let her thoughts drift towards the man she worked with, the man who was oblivious to the fact that Molly watched him as he retreated into his mind palace, her eyes following the sharp lines of his cheekbones, the cupid's bow of his upper lip, each soft curl of his hair, hair that fell into his own pale, blue and green eyes, impossibly deep as they stared into space, brilliant thoughts racing through his mind at lightning fast speed. She had always known, deep down, from the start – even before she had worked up the courage to ask Sherlock out for coffee – that she was setting herself up for heartbreak. How could she measure up to him? she had always wondered.

But were things different now, now that they both knew that Sherlock Holmes did, indeed, care?

"Um," Molly started, finally managing to break the silence as Toby came into the room and sniffed at Sherlock's shoes, earning him a downward, unreadable glimpse. "So…you don't have much."

"I don't need an excess of belongings. I'll be needing to travel light and have no use for the items of sentiment most normal people feel the need to bring with them."

"Right, yes…I'll show you the spare bedroom." Sherlock gave her a nod, and Molly started off down the hall. After Sherlock had filled her in on everything she would need to do to help him fake his death, he had informed her that he would need to stay at her flat for a bit.

"Not that you can't stay," she had said, awkwardly, "but isn't your brother, you know…"

"Rich? Yes. And yes, there would be plenty of space at his home to accommodate me, but no, I need to stay under the radar. It would be too…predictable of me to stay with Mycroft. It won't be for long; I'll be leaving England soon, but I have some business I need to take care of before I go."

Molly pushed open the door to the spare bedroom, and Sherlock silently entered. Molly could see him scanning everything, probably on instinct, taking in every detail.

"It's a bit small," he commented, drily. "Is your bedroom any bigger? Yes, it is," he answered himself instantly. "I need space to think. I think it would be best if I slept there."

"Oh, um…" Molly stammered, glancing down at her hands, which she clutched together to keep from fidgeting.

"If that's alright?"

"Yes. That's fine. I just need to get some things first. It shouldn't take me long…but make yourself at home."

Over the next few days, Molly saw little of Sherlock. She had given him her spare key, though, so the detective could let himself in at any hour he might return. There were many times when he was there that he didn't speak to her at all, but simply sat on the couch, staring off into space as he traversed through his thoughts. Molly was used to his ways, and so wasn't very bothered. She did admit to herself, however, that she was a bit disappointed. While she felt lucky to be able to count herself among Sherlock's few friends, one of the few he let in, even a bit, well…she had expected…more? As it was, Sherlock treated her about the same as he did before, though Molly did notice that he made an effort to make his requests/demands more polite. Where were they at now, she and Sherlock? Had she been crazy for not letting go of her feelings for him after all this time?

But, she knew, it didn't matter. Sherlock would soon be gone, and he hadn't made it clear if he was even coming back. How long did he plan to stay "dead"? Was he going to stay in hiding for the rest of his life?

...

...

When Molly came home from work after a late evening, she found the detective lying on the couch, his arms crossed serenely over his chest. He didn't move an inch to acknowledge her presence as she moved to the kitchen, setting her purse on the counter and looking through her fridge for something to eat.

After heating up some leftover spaghetti and eating it in silence – well, aside from the small meowing from Toby, who she gently shooed away before he could jump onto the table and stick his nose in her food – she moved into the living room just in time to see her cat jump onto Sherlock's stomach. The detective's eyes slowly opened, his pupils rolling forward. He stared in silence as Toby walked over his arms onto his chest, extending his head toward Sherlock's. Molly pursed her lips to keep from giggling as Toby turned, presenting his backside to Sherlock's scrunched up face, before she thought to intervene.

"Down, Toby," she scolded. Toby glanced up at her, and then, after a pause and a casual stretch, he jumped onto the floor in a languid manner, as if to state that this was all his idea. Molly couldn't keep the smile off her face now as she sat in her armchair. Toby jumped into her lap, and she scratched him under the chin, earning her strong, affectionate purring.

She felt Sherlock's gaze and glanced up at him, willing herself not to blush as she had before when the detective looked directly at her like that, as if he were peering into her soul.

"Have you, um, ever had any pets?" she asked to break the silence. Sherlock's gaze fell away from hers, and he took a couple moments before answering. As he did, she noticed a nicotine patch peeking out from under one of his sleeves.

"Yes," he said, simply. Molly was surprised.

"Really? What was it? Them?"

"A dog, when I was a child," Sherlock answered, his voice a bit too casual. Molly didn't press that, but asked instead:

"What was his...or her...name?"

"His name was Redbeard."

Molly smiled. "That's cute. Like the pirate?"

"Yes. I rather had an affinity with their kind as a child."

Try as she might, Molly simply could not picture Sherlock as a young boy, playing pirates with his dog. Of course, he had to have been, well, a kid, but for some reason she had always thought of Sherlock as that calculating, brilliant enigma from the very beginning. But the more she thought about it, the less that made sense. After all, only a kid could grow up to have a job like Sherlock's, a job where he solved crimes and lived a life of danger and adventure. What little boy wouldn't dream of a life like that? So there had to be something that had changed, whether it was sudden or gradual. When, and how, did Sherlock become as he was now? Why did he need to hide his emotions?

"Will you be coming back?" she blurted out before she could stop herself. She looked up at Sherlock, whose expression was a closed book, as expected.

"I don't think it's a very good idea to divulge details at this point," he replied, after a pause. "Just in case things don't go smoothly and I'm found out. The less you know, the safer you are."

Silence filled the air. Toby stood and jumped off of Molly's lap, trotted back over to the couch, and jumped onto the armrest, which Sherlock's coat and scarf were draped over. They hadn't been there, this morning. Toby stretched out, and then began kneading at the Belstaff. Sherlock was up in a flash, snatching the apparel away and checking the coat for damage while Molly scolded Toby. Sherlock hung the coat and scarf up and returned to his former position on the couch.

"I'm sorry," she apologized for her cat. "He normally isn't – I should discipline him more-"

"It's fine."

Molly didn't let the silence stretch out as long this time, and finally asked what she had been wanting to, but hadn't had the courage to before.

"Are you going to tell John? That you're alive, I mean."

Sherlock stared up at the ceiling. For a moment, just one brief, tiny moment, his cool façade cracked, and a vulnerability that Molly didn't see often shone through before it was pushed back down.

"I can't."

"Why not?" Molly pressed, refusing to let it go this time. "He's your best friend. He deserves to know."

"Molly, you don't understand. It was vital to the plan for John to believe me dead. And he must continue to do so. Besides-" He then stopped, clamping his mouth shut.

"Sherlock? What is it?"

"Nothing." Sherlock's voice was stiff. Molly could tell that he didn't want to talk anymore, but she still had so many things she wanted to know. She let her gaze linger on Sherlock a few moments after he had reclosed his eyes, and, suppressing a sigh, picked up a book from the end table beside her. But she couldn't concentrate on the words. Her gaze kept flicking over the book to Sherlock's face, which was emotionless, smooth, and utterly impenetrable.

…

...

Molly had been dreading the day of Sherlock's funeral. What if she wasn't convincing enough? What if she overdid it? What if she accidentally let something slip?

She needn't have worried so much, because it really wasn't as hard to fake the emotions as she had thought it would be. Only seeing John's empty face, his lifeless gaze, made her want to cry, and she wanted to tell him so badly. But she couldn't betray Sherlock's trust, trust which was hard to earn with him. But, as she greeted people afterwards, she couldn't help but notice that Sherlock's parents weren't there, which made her suspect that they knew. Sherlock's parents knew, but not his best friend. It wasn't fair.

And though she knew, unlike the others, that the closed coffin was empty, her tears weren't fake.

…

...

Molly didn't have work today, but was so used to waking up early that she didn't even bother trying to fall back asleep. She sighed, flipped back the covers, slipped on her dressing gown, and headed to the kitchen for breakfast, only to stop when she saw Sherlock standing by the front door. Clad in his coat and scarf, he again held the small bag.

"You're leaving," Molly said, approaching him.

Sherlock gave her a small nod. "Yes. I have a few more…loose ends to tie up, and after that I'll be going."

Molly opened her mouth to speak, and closed it. This might be the last time she saw Sherlock Holmes. At once she felt her throat close, and was afraid to say anything lest her voice betray it.

Sherlock was silent for a few moments as well. Finally, he spoke. "Thank you, Molly. For everything."

Molly tried her best to give a nonchalant shrug. "Oh, i-it was no trouble. I'm glad I could help."

Sherlock simply looked at her for a few moments, and again Molly saw the cold, calculating mask shift slightly, revealing that delicate vulnerability underneath, the vulnerability that he let so few people see. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. "I mean it, Molly. Thank you. You've helped me more than you could know."

Molly felt her throat closing more, her vision beginning to become blurry as she gazed at Sherlock Holmes for what could be the last time, ever. She just couldn't imagine life without Sherlock, hanging around in the lab, having her fetch him coffee, deducing uncomfortable details about her life, texting her at three in the morning because he needed a pancreas. All while she watched from the outside, wishing that there could be more between them, but knowing full well that that would never happen. That didn't mean that her feelings for him ever diminished, though. She was starting to realize that there was a part of her that would always have feelings for that mad, impossible, brilliant, and amazing man.

Molly wasn't able to control herself. Before Sherlock could protest, she rushed forwards, throwing her arms around him and hugging him tightly.

"Goodbye, Sherlock," Molly whispered, a tear escaping and disappearing into Sherlock's coat.

Sherlock was frozen, and seemed to have no idea what to do. His arms seemed to be locked to his sides, and his back was stiff and rigidly straight. Only when Molly pulled away, quickly swiping her eyes and ducking her head to hide the flush in her cheeks, did Sherlock regain his composure. He leaned forward, and Molly's breath caught in her throat as Sherlock's lips brushed her reddened cheek as they had at that Christmas party at 221b, that Christmas that seemed ages and ages ago now.

"Goodbye, Molly Hooper." Sherlock pulled back and gave Molly a small smile, a smile that both filled her with warmth and broke her heart. And with that, he turned, opened her door, and stepped through it, closing it behind him without another glance.

As Molly let herself cry some more, she heard Sherlock's soft footsteps slowly fading away, taking him from Molly's life.