Disclaimer: I have been a really, really good girl but nope, I still don't own Sherlock.

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Happy Birthday, Molly Hooper

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"No, Mark. You can't come," Molly said to the phone.

Her phone rang when she was preparing dinner, and she had been pacing in the kitchen ever since, her phone pressed to her ear. She threw a glance to the living room where Sherlock was sitting in her couch, typing on her laptop (yes, he had been using her laptop since he couldn't go to Baker Street and take his, said he needed it to work—something to do with tracking down Moriarty's ring).

Sherlock had been taking refuge in her flat ever since the day of his supposed 'suicide.' This is exactly why no one could come here, but of course Molly couldn't tell her brother, Mark, that.

"Why can't we?" came the reply from the other end. "We always come to see you every year," he pushed.

"I…I have to work," she reasoned, hoping her brother would just give up.

"You always work," Mark pointed out. "But it's your birthday, Molls! Take a day off, be with your family. Also, Amy and the boys miss you. They are so excited about seeing you."

Molly sighed, biting the bottom of her lip. She felt really bad for turning down her brother and his family like that. They live in Cardiff, and they're the only family she had left. Every year on her birthday, they would come to London and all five of them would spend a day together. Amy, Mark's wife, would prepare dinner in the evening, and then they would all sit down in Molly's small dining room as Molly blows the candles—with the help of her two little nephews.

"I'm sorry, Mark. But I can't. Not this year."

"But Molls—"

"I'll make it up! I'll go visit you guys in Cardiff instead. I think I can take a day off next week. Okay?" she quickly added. Without even giving her brother time to reply, she quickly ended the phone call. "I have to go. I'll call you later. Tell Amy and the boys I say hi."

Shoving the phone back to her pocket, she let out the breath she had been holding. She had been telling a lot of lies since the night she offered Sherlock her help; to John, to Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade—to everyone. She had mourned with them, held John while they both cried for Sherlock (though Molly's cry was more of guilt because she knew for a fact that Sherlock Holmes was alive and breathing, and was currently watching telly in her flat). And now she had just lied to her own brother.

She had been telling a lot of lies, but she still hadn't got used to it. She still felt the same fear (of getting caught) and guilt after every single lie she uttered—which, she then thought, was probably a good thing.

Shaking her head, she broke herself out of her reverie. After straightening her apron, she took the knife that on the counter and went back to cutting the vegetables—a task she had abandoned to answer her brother's call earlier.

She silently prayed that her brother wouldn't be so stubborn and do exactly the opposite of what she had told him.

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It was eight in the morning when Molly woke up the very next day. It also happened to be a Sunday, and she hadn't gotten any call from St. Barts that tell her she was needed there immediately (when she checked her phone, there were a lot of messages coming up, but all of them were birthday greetings). She normally would stay in bed until at least 9 or 10 AM in days like this, but that day she just felt like getting up.

Putting on her robe, she then exited her bedroom. She found Sherlock in the living room, sitting upright on the couch. Any other person (who doesn't know Sherlock) would have thought he was staring blankly at the television in front of him, but Molly knew he was thinking. Her eyes then landed on the suitcase by his feet, and she frowned. Sherlock snapped out of his thoughts as Molly stepped closer to him.

"Are you going somewhere?" she dubiously asked.

He finally looked up at her, and nodded curtly. "Yes. It is time for me to hunt down Moriarty's ring; they are apparently, scattered all around the world," he explained. "Mycroft's car is picking me up in a few minutes."

"Oh," was all she could say. Her face fell and she could feel the sudden weight in her chest.

Of course she was upset; Sherlock could be an arse at times—he had his days, really—and she would be lying if she hadn't thought of hitting him in the head on several occasions during his stay with her. But she—as ridiculous and childish as it sounds—was in love with the man. She knew he wouldn't be staying with her forever. But she had started to get used to having him around all the time. She had never really given a thought of how much it would hurt when he finally leaves her. And she couldn't help but think that had she decided to stay in bed, she would have missed him. She wouldn't have known he was leaving and she wouldn't see him again for what she assumed would be a long, long time. Had he planned on letting her know he was leaving at all? Had he wanted to let her to at least say good bye?

She didn't voice any of her thoughts, obviously. However, Sherlock rose from his seat, and walked over to where she stood. She looked up at him—biting her lip as she tried her best not to shed any tear—unsure of what to do. But he surprised her when he took her in his arms, hugging her small from. She was frozen at first, but soon she sneaked her arms and wrapped them around his neck, standing on her toes so she could bury her face in the crook of his neck. She inhaled as much of his scent as she could, storing the memory of it in her brain. And at last, the tears she had been holding finally poured. As they rolled down her cheeks, a drop fell on Sherlock's coat, leaving a small pool on the black material.

When they pulled apart, Molly stared at his face, taking in his features and memorizing every curve and detail—something for her to hold on while he's gone. The ring of his phone startled her, and she looked down as he reached in his pocket to retrieve it.

"The car is here," he mumbled after reading the message, and put the phone back to his pocket.

Molly gulped, nodding slowly. This is it, she thought. From now on she would start worrying about him, constantly, every single day; wondering if he was alright, or if he was alive at all. The weight in her chest felt even heavier, and it was getting even harder for her to breathe that she had to take a deep breath a couple of times.

"Take care," she managed to say, surprising even herself that her voice didn't tremble.

His lips quirked in a faint smile, though it was gone so soon that if Molly hadn't been focusing her gaze on him, she would have missed it. He leaned over to her, and pressed a kiss on her temple. This took her by surprise, but she quickly relaxed, closing her eyes as she held onto the sensation of his lips on her skin.

"Thank you, Molly Hooper," he said, and she could feel his warm breath against her skin as he spoke.

He stepped back from their close proximity, and went to collect his suitcase. Not even giving her a final glance, he turned on his heels and walked out of the flat, leaving Molly alone, with the fresh memory of his warmth around her.

When she went to the kitchen just a few minutes after he was gone, desperate for a cuppa to clear her head, she found a small box wrapped in red paper with a small pink bow on top of it. There was a card attached to it. She carefully opened the card, and her heart beamed when she saw a handwriting she recognized all to well.

'Happy birthday, Molly Hooper.

-SH.

P.S. Your brother and his family will arrive shortly after I leave. (And no, it is not why I chose to leave today)'

True to his words, as soon as Molly finished reading the card, the doorbell rang. As she neared her door, she could hear the chatter of her two young nephews. She was tackled by the two boys once she opened the door, the both of them hugging her tightly with their small arms as they showered her with 'happy birthday's. She ruffled their hair, and told her to come in, before rising up to give her sister-in-law a hug.

Her tears had dried, but it seemed like her brother could sense something wasn't quite right. He gave her a look after they hugged, and asked if she was okay. She didn't feel like lying to his face this time, so she told him the truth.

"I think I will be."

He gave her arm a gentle squeeze, and the two hadn't even reached the living room when both her nephews emerged from the kitchen, one of them holding Sherlock's gift.

"Aunt Molly, is it your birthday present? Someone gave you a birthday gift before Danny and I did!" the oldest, Joseph, said, a look of hurt upon his face.

"Who is it from, Aunt Molly? Is it from your boyfriend?" Danny, the youngest, quipped.

Molly quickly shook her head, taking the gift from Joseph's hand. "No," she squeaked. "No, it's not from my boyfriend. I don't have a boyfriend," she chided, chuckling nervously.

Her brother and his wife didn't miss the blush that crept onto her cheeks, though.

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