A/N: This is a companion piece to Never Again and One Too Many. I've had laryngitis for the past few days so have been pottering about, completely mute, and doing a bit of writing here and there, before settling on this. Not gonna lie, Holnnes' excellent unilock photoset may have nudged me towards it, so it was most fortuitous that I actually logged in to tumblr and saw it. Anyway, I hope you enjoy. I know it's been a while.

Another Beginning

by Flaignhan

They sit in silence, mostly, and it's quite nice. She gets things done at any rate.

Revising with Becky and the others usually results in too many biscuit breaks, or giving up altogether and heading into town for a drink.

No chance of that with Sherlock. Although he does get through her biscuits at an astonishing rate.

They have grown used to each other, in a strange sort of way. Two and a half years of being around each other will do that to you, she supposes, but it's different. She's not particularly sure she would call him a friend, but she is certain that she is the closest thing he has to one...whether he wants one or not.

"Have you got the notes from the week before last?" he murmurs, reaching out a hand for them without bothering to raise his gaze from the book in front of him.

Molly flips through her notebook and finds the section, passing it over to him without comment. She has not been given a straight answer whenever she's asked about his sporadic absences, and she doesn't expect one now.

He sips his coffee as he speed reads her notes, flipping the notebook over when he gets to the end of the page and drinking in the next side.

"Are you coming out after the exams are over?" she asks. "We're all going to head into town, if you want to come along."

He glances up at her, and she knows the answer already, but not only that, he knows she knows the answer.

"You remember last time?" he asks, handing her notebook back to her.

"I remember it better than you do," she says, her lips curving into a cheeky grin.

"Precisely. We won't be repeating that."

"It's the end of...all of this," she says, gesturing vaguely to the books. "No more classes, no more exams, no more group projects. Surely that's something to celebrate."

Sherlock shrugs. "Group projects aren't entirely worthless in this module," he admits, to Molly's surprise. She thinks that could possibly be a compliment, but she won't push it any further. It's plenty for now.

"We'll have our own celebration," he says at last, turning back to his textbook. "Something appropriate."

Molly raises an eyebrow, but after a moment, her pre-exam nerves kick in again, and she returns to her revision.

It's a balmy night, and she waits there anxiously while he picks the padlock on the park gate. Her heart is thudding in her chest, but she doesn't have the willpower to tell him to forget it, to head back to campus, that whatever he's planned isn't worth breaking into a park for. In truth, part of the reason her heart is thudding is because of her imagination running wild at the thought of what they might get up to, on their own, in a park, on a warm summer's evening.

She hears the click of the lock releasing, and the grind of metal on metal as Sherlock slides back the bar and opens the gate. He steps aside, letting Molly go ahead, then picks up his backpack and follows, closing the gate behind them.

"Where are we going?" Molly asks, looking around at the darkened paths, lined by shrubs, with litter bins and wooden benches dotted out at regular intervals along the way.

"Top of the hill," Sherlock tells her, heading off towards the centre of the park. Molly follows, noting that the deeper into the park they go, the darker it gets, and the clearer the stars are. She eyes his backpack with suspicion as it bobs along in front of her, Sherlock keeping up a steady pace as the path starts its incline. He hasn't told her what he's brought along yet, and despite the million and one options running through her mind, none of them seem quite right. She doesn't really know him at all, she realises, and whatever he's brought with him, she is certain will be nothing she could have guessed in a decade. Whether it's a good surprise or a bad surprise remains to be seen, but she'll hold out hope for now.

When they reach the top of the hill, he shrugs off his backpack and sits down on one of the benches, nodding to the space next to him by way of an invitation for Molly to join him. He unfastens the clip of his backpack, loosens the toggle and string under the flap, then opens up the bag fully. Molly frowns at the indecipherable shapes inside, and leans over to get a better look.

"What are they?" she asks, squinting through the darkness to try and make some sense of what he's brought with him.

"Fireworks," he says plainly, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Where d'you get fireworks at this time of year?" Molly asks. In mid-May, they are about as far away from bonfire night as it is possible to be. Sherlock frowns, and starts pulling the fireworks out of his bag.

"I didn't buy them," he tells her, as though the idea of paying money for such things is utterly abhorrent to him, "I made them."

For half a second, Molly is impressed. But then the facts come to gobble up that feeling. Homemade fireworks. Two words which are a recipe for disaster. She cannot see a pair of safety goggles in Sherlock's bag, nor any fireproof gloves. Just a bundle of fireworks dumped into a backpack with absolutely no regard for any form of safety precautions.

It's very him.

He takes the bag over to the middle of the large grassy area in front of them and tips all the fireworks out onto the ground, before he starts arranging them into some sort of order. He sticks them into the ground, and takes a good while doing it. Molly estimates there must be at least thirty of the blasted things, while a little voice in her head reminds her that only one need go wrong for them to end up in A&E this evening.

When she sees the orange glow of a cigarette, hanging from his lips, she nearly has a heart attack.

"Are you serious?" she calls across to him. "Are you actually serious?"

"What?" he asks, and in the darkness she can see his lips curve into a smile around the cigarette. He's teasing her. Which is very not him. Normally he's far too wrapped up in his own world to tease. And normally teasing doesn't risk the teaser getting their face blown off. It would be such a terrible shame to ruin such a beautiful (if slightly haughty) face.

"Hurry up," she tells him. "And be careful!"

"I'm always careful," he replies, the cigarette wobbling dangerously with each word. He starts unreeling the fuse, and hooks it up to each of the fireworks. Apparently she's in for a nonstop show this evening.

Molly looks away, unable to watch the little orange light dip dangerously close to the fireworks every time he crouches down. It's sending her spiralling into a pit of anxiety, and so she prefers the view of the houses on the outskirts of the park, windows aglow with the flickering blue light of their televisions.

After what feels like an age, Sherlock returns to the bench, dumping the now empty backpack down, and taking a seat next to Molly. He takes the last of the cigarette from his lips, leans down to the ground, and presses the tip against the end of the fuse. It smokes for a moment, then sparks, before the light shoots off down the fuse, towards the fireworks.

The first one rockets into the sky, an earsplitting whistle accompanying its ascent, before it bursts into a shower of gold. Just as the burst begins to fade, there is another whistle as the second firework soars above them, lighting up the heavens for a beautiful split second.

"Well?" Sherlock asks, as the third one barrels up into the night.

"They're pretty good," Molly concedes. She's never had this good a view before, not even on bonfire night when her dad would take her to the local park for the town's big display. She remembers trying to quickly write her name with with a sparkler, and never quite managing to reach the 'y' before the 'm' had disappeared.

"Quite good," Sherlock repeats. "It's complex chemistry, but I suppose I can take quite good."

"Very good," Molly says, nudging him in the side. "And it's not complex, it's just bloody dangerous."

"Well it's a good job I know what I'm - "

"Oi!"

Molly looks at Sherlock, her breath caught in her throat as a torch beam swings its way up the path. The heavy footsteps aren't particularly speedy, but she suspects the owner is being carried along by anger.

"Police?" Molly breathes.

Sherlock shakes his head as another firework erupts overhead. "Park keeper," he tells her. "Time to go." He bundles up his rucksack under his arm, and grabs Molly's hand, pulling her to her feet and guiding her past the fireworks as they continue whistle upwards and explode in a flash of colour. Her heart is pounding in her chest as she runs, and she can barely see where she's putting her feet in the darkness, but Sherlock leads, and despite their current predicament, she trusts him.

"Isn't the gate back there?" she asks breathlessly as their feet pound against the pavement.

"They'll have someone waiting," he replies. "Come on!" He yanks her along, across the grass now, and over a flowerbed, soil scattering in their wake. They reach the trees around the edge of the park and they slow down now, breath heavy, the bangs of the fireworks still causing Molly to start, despite her expectation of them.

This isn't how she thought the evening would go.

She looks over her shoulder, and for a moment, silhouetted against the flash of a firework, she sees a stocky man looking around, determined to find the offending trespassers. He shines his torch towards the trees, and Sherlock pulls her behind one of the thicker trunks, standing inches away from her, his chest rising and falling quickly as he regains his breath from their sprint through the park.

When the park keeper turns his torch in another direction, Sherlock mutters a quiet "come on," and leads her towards the fence.

She looks up at the top of the fence, wondering how on earth she'll manage to scale it (in sandals nonetheless) but Sherlock has already linked his fingers together, and is crouching down, ready to give her a leg up.

She places her foot in his hands, and takes his shoulder for an extra bit of balance. He lifts her into the air with ease, and she manages to grab the top of the railings and swing her leg over. It's with a little difficulty that she gets the other leg over as well, but after a few moments, she is cautiously lowering herself back down to the safety of the pavement.

Sherlock shoves the backpack through the bars of the fence, and Molly takes, it before moving out of his path. He takes a few steps back, casts a glance over his shoulder in case of any wandering torch beams, then sprints towards the fence, leaping at the last second so he is able to pull himself over smoothly, and drop down on the other side. His level of grace is somewhat annoying but, Molly has no time to dwell - Sherlock is narrowing his eyes at something behind her, and when she turns, she sees a pair of headlights slowly moving towards them.

Sherlock drags her under the light of one of the street lamps, and before she can process anything, his lips are on hers, his hand gently cupping the side of her face. She barely has the chance to kiss him back before he pulls away and moves to her neck instead, pushing her back against the lamp post, as her fingers tangle in his hair. She closes her eyes contentedly, savouring the sensation of his lips against her throat, as she inhales a shaky breath.

But then it's over, and he's separated from, her, looking towards the far end of the street as a van turns the corner. Molly catches a glimpse of the council's logo along with the words 'Parks Team' emblazoned across the back doors, and her bubble is burst, slamming her mercilessly back to earth.

"Sorry about that," Sherlock says, picking up his rucksack and slinging it over one shoulder. "It's a crass trick but it works every time."

Every time. The words sting in a way she knows he doesn't intend, and she manages to voice a quiet "No problem," before they cross the road and cut through an alleyway, where they're unlikely to be caught.

"Quick thinking from you though," Sherlock continues. "I was a bit worried you might push me away and cause a scene, but no...well done."

She doesn't care much for his appraisal, and she walks quickly, trying to stamp out any hurt resting in her heart.

"Your place is closer isn't it?" he says. "We should get inside for a bit. I doubt they'll catch us now, but those fireworks weren't especially...legal."

She smiles despite everything else at this, and leads the way to her house, keeping her eyes peeled for any signs of park keepers. As they walk, the sounds of one party merges into another, bass lines slipping into different keys, laughter changing tone depending on the guests.

She can still feel him on her lips.

Soon they reach Molly's house, and the living room light is on, but all is quiet. Molly fishes her keys out of her bag and unlocks the front door, stepping inside, with Sherlock following and closing the door behind them.

Becky appears in the hallway, clad in her tartan pyjamas, hair tied up in a messy bun. She's carrying a bowl of cereal and a cup of tea, and Molly hopes that Becky's desire to consume these will hurry the conversation along somewhat.

"Evening," she says, casting her eyes over the two of them. "What have you two been up to?"

"Nothing," Molly tells her, slipping off her coat and hanging it on one of the cast iron hooks fastened to the wall of the hallway.

"Nothing?" Becky says sceptically. "You know that's a great colour on you, Sherlock."

Molly frowns and turns around, while Sherlock looks down at his black jeans and loose grey t-shirt. When he looks up at Becky, baffled, Molly's eyes widen, her heart jumping into her throat.

His lips are smeared with the faintest hint of rosy pink lip gloss, and Sherlock follows Molly's gaze, the realisation dawning on him as he raises his thumb to his lips and wipes the colour away from his pale skin.

"It was an experiment," he says confidently, as though he thinks Becky is the sort of gullible idiot who would fall for such a line.

"Of course," Becky replies, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Well, whatever experiments you get up to when you're upstairs, try to keep the noise down. I'm still hanging."

"From last night?" Sherlock asks, eyebrow raised.

"Night before," Molly murmurs, fighting to keep her smile at bay.

Sherlock lets out a snort of laughter, and Becky glares daggers in response.

"You don't get to judge me, Sherlock - one white wine spritzer and you're off your tits dancing like the orangutang from The Jungle Book!"

The insult flies wide of Sherlock's frame of reference, and so Molly takes the opportunity to start climbing the stairs, Sherlock following behind. She hears Becky disappear into the lounge and put on The Simpsons, and she supposes it will be the last she sees of her tonight.

"I'll just have a quick tidy up," Molly says as she reaches the top of the stairs. Before Sherlock can say anything, she rushes into her bedroom, closing the door behind her. She takes three seconds to make a short list of the most pressing issues, then scoops up her dirty laundry and chucks it into the wash bin. She collects the mugs from her desk and bedside table, puts them on the window sill, then drops the blind, hiding them from view. Lastly she collects the rogue textbooks from her bed, dumps then on her desk, and pulls her duvet into a vaguely presentable state.

She opens the door and steps aside to let Sherlock in, who kicks off his shoes and dumps his backpack on the floor. When Molly turns around, she catches sight of herself in the mirror, and sees that her remaining lip gloss is also smeared beyond the edges of her mouth.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock," she mutters, grabbing a handful of tissue from her desk and wiping the stains away. "No wonder she noticed."

"Oh who cares?" Sherlock throws himself onto her bed, arms folded beneath his head as he looks up at the ceiling. "You're moving out in a couple of weeks, you won't have to see her ever again."

"Except I will, because she's my friend, and friends tend to keep in touch." Molly tosses the tissues in the bin and goes over to join Sherlock on the bed. As she lays down, she feels a shiver of awkwardness pass through her, and she is unable to make herself comfortable. She lays stock still, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sound of Sherlock's breath.

"Did you like them?" he asks. "The fireworks?"

She smiles. "I did actually."

"They turned out well, didn't they? I didn't get the chance to test them. Only so many opportunities one gets for setting off illegal explosives."

Molly lets out a breath of laughter, knowing in her heart that she has already forgiven him for getting her hopes up earlier.

"Will you keep in touch once you leave?" she asks. She turns her head on the pillow to look at him, and he frowns for a brief moment before answering.

"I suppose it couldn't hurt."

It's better than nothing.

"You can always text me if you need to," she tells him, her eyes fixed on his profile to gauge his reaction.

Another frown.

"Why would I need to?"

"Just in case, I don't know...if you need any help with anything or, if you want to talk about - " Molly's words stutter to a halt, and she sits up, her eyes on the thin trail of scarlet, trickling from Sherlock's nostril.

"Nosebleed," she says, pushing herself up from the bed and heading over to the desk to collect some tissues for him.

"Shit." He sits up, his hands cupped beneath his nose to prevent the blood from dripping onto Molly's duvet, and takes the tissues, wiping underneath his nose.

"Pinch it," Molly says. She sits on the edge of the bed, taking his right hand and moving it into position, before clamping his fingers down on the bridge of his nose. "It's all right," she says, offering him a small smile. "It happens."

They sit in silence, waiting for the bleeding to stop, and eventually the blood clots, and all Sherlock is left with are a few reddy-brown stains around his nostrils. He keeps a hold of the tissues and lays back down, shifting over to make room for Molly.

"You'll make a good doctor," he tells her at last, his voice a little thick.

"I don't know," Molly says with a shrug. "I plan to get down to the morgue as soon as possible. Fewer people to contend with. Live ones at least."

"You're good with people though," Sherlock replies. "I don't understand it, but you are."

"Better than you, maybe. But everyone's better with people than you are."

"You haven't met my brother," Sherlock says, tilting his head so she can see the smirk tugging at his lips.

Somehow, even with the traces of his nosebleed lingering, and the knowledge that he is both oblivious and ignorant, Molly can still feel her stomach doing somersaults. She's always felt like his irises could hold entire galaxies in them, and maybe it's the way he looks at her, when she's the only person around and he's broken out from his isolation. There's something that she knows will never fade, no matter how much her brain tells her that it will never happen. Every time she convinces herself that they can be friends and it's fine, and she's happy with it, he looks at her and sees her, just for a moment, rushing her right back to square one.

"What are you doing after you leave?" she asks, forcing herself to move the conversation on, before she gets lost forever.

"No idea," he sighs, turning his gaze back to the ceiling. "Mycroft will probably find something for me to occupy my time with."

"You could go to Bart's as well," Molly suggests, perhaps a touch too hopefully. "You don't have to do medicine, they'll take you on as a chemist, there's loads of courses there..." She knows the answer before he even says it, and he probably knows that too, but he says it all the same.

"No...there are bits of Bart's that sound interesting but I've had enough of work."

Molly laughs. "Of course you have. Any form of effort is far too taxing for the great Sherlock Holmes."

"I'm glad we're in agreement, Hooper."

He's teasing again, and she can't help but relish the way the 'p' pops on his lips when he says her surname.

"I'll come and visit though," he tells her. "When you're doing something interesting, like your first post mortem."

"No, you'll put me off." She swats him on the arm, but the laughter still escapes from her at the thought of it. As her laughter fades, the reality of graduation sets in, the weight of being torn from everything that has become so comfortable for these past three years bears down upon her without mercy. "I'll miss this," she says, and she doesn't just mean him. She'll miss living with Becky, she'll miss all the friends she's made, both in classes and out, she'll miss this house, with memories tacked to the cork board and fairy lights trailing along the top of her overfull bookshelf. And of course, of course she'll miss him.

She'd gotten so used to seeing him every day.

"It's not the end, Molly Hooper," he says, and somehow, the depth of his voice manages to make the man who plays around with homemade fireworks sound wise. "It's just another beginning."

"Do you really believe that?" she asks, her brow furrowed. It sounds far too sentimental for him.

"Oh Molly, you know I don't care about anything enough to believe that."

"You're an arsehole," she breathes. She buries her front teeth into her lower lip as she tries not to let the future overwhelm her. She wonders if in fifty years she'll look back to this moment, with him, and class it as one of her highlights. She also wonders if she'll forget it altogether.

"Look," he says, and she can tell by the change in his tone that he's being logical now. He's not just pulling a string of words out of a hat and seeing if they stick. "You most likely had these exact same feelings when you left college and were about to come here. And look how it turned out. It'll be the same at Bart's, you'll make new friends, find someone else to live with, and you'll go out and get smashed in overpriced bars and clubs. There's really no need to worry about anything."

Weirdly, she feels a little better.

"Thanks Sherlock," she says, and she breathes a little easier now, her eyelids growing heavier by the minute. When she closes her eyes, she sees burst of gold and red against pitch black, and when she opens them again, the LED display on her alarm clock tells her it's half past four.

Sherlock is sound asleep, his soft brown locks splayed over the pillow. He looks utterly perfect, and she watches him, just for a moment, to commit the image to memory. There is a faint trace of stubble along his jaw line, and even in the dark she can see the sharp lines of his face as clear as day.

Molly settles down again, on her side, so she can see him, and soon she is lost to the world once more. When she wakes again, he is gone, and though her heart is heavy, she knows she will see him again, and she knows he'll be worth the wait.

The End