Disclaimer: I own nothing.

This started off as a Halloween story, but then this whole plot thing happened. Huge thanks to my Sister/Beta Alethnya for badgering me to finally get back into writing. (If you haven't, you need to go check out her Khan/OFC fic Somewhere I Have Never Travelled. It is my life, my canon and Khan/Rebecca are my supreme OTP. I'm not even kidding.) Anyway, thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy!

The gentle hum of a beloved tune snaked through the darkness. The sound filled the space around her with warmth as memories of love and home flitted through her mind. A faint glow rose up in the darkness, illuminating the area around her to reveal the corner of a room. As the humming of the tune grew stronger, so did the light, revealing more of the unknown space and a spark of recognition jolted through her.

Her bedroom. Her childhood bedroom; a room she had not been in in so very long.

Tears sprung to her eyes as her mind finally recognized the warm, melodic voice—her father's voice. Beautiful Dreamer—his favorite song—given life by his warm, comforting tenor was the source of so many good memories. Nightmares, heartaches and hurts; everything was made better in her world by the gentle sound of that cherished melody.

"Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me"

She spun around to face the one dark corner remaining in the room. The memory of gentle arms holding her in a strong embrace, rocking her in the soft light of her bedroom made her smile longingly at the dark, eagerly awaiting the light to fill that final corner.

"Starlight and dewdrops are awaiting thee"

Her father's lovely, soothing voice—chasing the darkness and her fears away just as it always had. That warmth filled her and she took a hopeful step toward that lingering darkness, eager to see her father for the first time in years.

"Sounds of the rude world, heard in the day,"

Another step. His smile as he looked down on her had always been so soft and she had never felt as safe as she had with him.

"Led by the moonlight, have all passed away,"

Something moved in the darkness and her steps faltered. The room around her grew cold and that cherished warmth melted, twisting into a tendril of fear as eyes—inhuman eyes—stared out from that darkness.

"Beautiful dreamer—"

That tendril of fear exploded into full-blown panic as the room around her erupted with light, illuminating all that had been in darkness. A shadowed figure stood there, haloed by the sudden brightness; the more she tried to focus her eyes on it, the more its form blurred into not-quite human shapes. One thing remained constant though—the figure was wearing a hooded cloak, filled with shadows and its head was downcast. A feeling of pure, tainted evil bled through the air and surrounded her, nearly suffocating her in its intensity.

Her breaths were shallow and ragged and she fought to control her breathing, fought to calm her nerves as that figure just stood there in the corner…waiting.

For what?

Slowly, the shadows crept out from the figure, throwing the corner into darkness yet again. She watched in horror as that darkness stretched, a shadowy tide that appeared to leach the light from the room, slowly creeping toward her.

"No!"

She threw herself backward and relief washed through her as the darkness receded ever so slightly back toward that shadowed figure. She stood, staring at the border of light and dark, waiting for the shadows to fully retreat once more. The shadows blocked the door; as soon as they fully retreated, she could try to reach the door.

As the silence stretched, the shadow crept out from the figure and toward her again. "What do you want from me?" She yelled as her back hit the wall behind her, frustration at being trapped lending a bite to her voice.

The figure's downcast head tilted to the side but still it stood on in silence, its features hidden by the bulk of the hood. It seemed as if it was studying her, learning her, calculating…though exactly what, she didn't know. Whatever it was and whatever it was doing, it was most certainly a threat. That feeling of unrestrained evil swirled around her, taunting her and suddenly, it's head snapped to tilt to the other side as the silence was chased away and that beloved melody filled the room again.

But it was wrong. A different voice filled the room and this one did not fill her with warmth.

"—Queen of my song,"

This voice made her blood run cold.

Jim.

"List' while I woo thee with soft melody."

The room fell into darkness so thick she couldn't see her hands held out before her…but she could hear it…him… moving, could hear it breathing in the darkness.

"Beautiful," a small, twisted laugh, "…creature, for me you'll scream"

A shuffle of sound fell just to her left, causing fear—sharp, painful fear—to spike through her blood and slither under her skin.

"Thrilling to kill you inside of your dream"

His voice was so soft and sweet as he moved to her right, even closer, and a whisper of breath brushed across her cheek.

"Beautiful creature, living in death"

She smacked her hands against the wall behind her in frustration; palms stinging though she couldn't even feel it. She could hear it…him… breathing all around her.

Then…everything stopped and fell silent. Not a sound. Not a breath could be heard.

The voice now when it sang was a low, guttural growl of inhuman pitch.

"Waiting and watching for that final breath."

Suddenly, light flooded the room once more, revealing the figure standing right in front of her; it's face still downcast and concealed by shades of grey and darkest black.

Tears fell from her eyes as she stared at the lowered head not a foot away from her face. Fear like nothing she had ever felt before grabbed hold of her body, pulling taut as she prepared for the moment when she would finally see its face. A low growl arose from it again, reaching into her body and turning every nerve into ice. It rushed at her and she pushed herself back into the wall in a futile attempt to escape it. The growl turned into a perverse roar as fingertips dug into her skin, bruising her flesh as she screamed. She watched in frozen horror as the head slowly lifted…

Molly's eyes flew open and the darkness that filled her bedroom triggered a fresh wave of real panic. Her hand flew out to her nightstand, fingers fumbling with the knob on her lamp before blissfully soft light filled the confines of her bedroom. Sucking in lung-full after lung-full of air, she fell back against her headboard and brought her shaking hands up to bury them in her hair.

A dream. Just a dream. Just an overwhelming…horrific…nightmare of a dream.

A flash of lightning filled the room, followed unerringly by a sickening crack of thunder. She listened to the torrent of rain as it hit the roof over her head, focused on the sound as it sluiced down the windows in an attempt to calm her mind.

It really wasn't working.

It had been years—decades—since storms had truly scared her. They were certainly not one of her favorite things, but she was rational enough to ignore the discomfort. She blew out a breath and dropped her hands to let them fall into her lap.

The memory of the fear must have been buried somewhere; every storm that had happened over the past weeks had triggered a myriad of nightmares. It would only make sense that this would be the time that England decided to have an abnormal amount of thunderstorms. So, she had been having an increasingly abnormal amount of nightmares. Always with darkness…always faceless…always Jim's voice.

Thunder sounded once more, this one a loud but steady rumble that caused the pictures on her walls to shake. The storm didn't appear to be letting up any time soon and sleep was most definitely no longer a viable option. The panic might have settled and her breathing returned to normal, but her mind was a very long way away from being at ease.

With another sigh, she threw her legs out from under the covers and buried her feet in her soft, peach-hued slippers. Next came her fuzzy, white robe, the pocket embroidered with a grinning cat nuzzling the word "purrr-fect". She pulled her hair out from the back of the robe, letting it fall over her shoulders as she made her way into the kitchen.

"Tea," she said to Toby as he wove through her steps and she tried not to stumble in the semi-darkness. "Nothing like tea to calm the nerves."

She filled the electric kettle up with water and flipped the switch to turn it on. The glowing blue light of the switch always filled her with a tiny wave of delight; tea made everything more pleasant.

Humming softly to herself, she grabbed a cup and a tea bag out of the cupboard. Her eyes widened when she realized what exactly she had been humming and she immediately went silent. Beautiful Dreamer…a song that had always filled her with such comfort; a song that had chased the demons away, now seemed to be summoning them. The memory of the fear she felt in her dream and that encroaching darkness dug into her mind, causing a flood of anxiety that threatened to wash over her. She blew out a breath and slapped her palms on the counter, causing Toby—who had leapt up onto the counter beside her—to jump back down onto the floor. She flashed him a small, apologetic grin, thankful for the momentary grounding, "Serves you right. You know you're not s'posed to be up here."

She stood there, looking at the cat, half-expecting him to reply. Bringing a hand up to her brow, she rubbed at it tiredly and let out a thin, self-deprecating laugh. "I'm waiting on an answer from a cat. I think I've been working too much." She leaned down to scratch under Toby's chin and her smile got a little bigger. "Too many post-mortems and not enough conversation."

She opened the refrigerator and looked mournfully at the milk container as she set it on the counter. Toby began to rub against her leg beseechingly, but there wasn't enough milk for the both of them. She looked from the milk to the sweet little face of her cat as he continued his persuasive attentions on her leg, all the while giving her the most annoyingly pleading look. A few more rounds of glances from the milk to the cat and she rolled her eyes, grabbed a saucer and poured the rest of the milk for the damn feline.

With a disheartened groan, she flipped off the kettle; there would be no tea without milk. Not in her world.

She thrummed her fingers on the countertop, looking around for something to calm her nerves and take the edge off. Molly smiled slightly when her eyes settled on the bottle of gin that sat on her sideboard. Considerably less than half-full, it was saved for long days and special circumstances; this was undoubtedly both.

"That'll do." She said to the cat that, who was blissfully unaware of anything but the saucer full of milk before him.

Not even bothering with a glass, she opened the bottle and took a swig—oh, how her mother would have hated that. The burn of the alcohol seared her throat as the lovely and soothing flavor of juniper and citrus danced on her tongue. A few more burning gulps and all that wretched chaos was beginning to be replaced by warmth and the barest touch of an alcohol-induced fog.

Suddenly, a particularly bright flash of lightning flooded through the windows of her living room, illuminating the shadow of a figure sitting on her sofa. Her eyes widened in panic as her grip tightened on the neck of the bottle of gin she was holding. The figure stood and moved forward, catching her arm as she swung the bottle over her head in an attempt to strike at it.

"Drinking alone, Molly?" Sherlock's voice washed over her; a relief and a frustration all rolled into one. Alcohol spilled out of the bottle and down her arm as he had yet to release her. "If I didn't know better, I'd believe that you actually are a drunk." He plucked the bottle from her hand and set it on the counter, flashing her a tight, fake smile. "Though perhaps that would explain the substantial increase in violent behavior you have displayed of late."

Molly yanked her arm out of his grasp, stormed over to the light switch and flicked it on with so much force that it made her hand hurt—like hell she was going to let that show. "Oh, that is rich coming from you!" She whipped around to face him and glared up into his bored gaze. "What are you doing in my flat, Sherlock?"

His lips pursed and his eyes dragged from hers to start taking in the details of her flat. "I needed to think, something made increasingly difficult at Baker Street by Mrs. Hudson and her latest dalliance. My previous attempt to utilise John and Mary's flat did not end on a pleasant note; John threatened bodily injury if I didn't vacate the premises immediately…something to do with pregnancy, I don't know. I deleted it. So that leaves you."

Fucking. Brilliant.

His habitual rapid-fire delivery did nothing for the state of her nerves—or her mood—so she continued to glare at him. His eyes maintained their constant absorption of every detail of her flat, bouncing around her as if she weren't even there. It took every shred of self-control she possessed not to yell at him. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"

"No." The distraction in his voice spoke volumes; not only had he no idea of the time, but he also did not care in the slightest.

Typical.

His eyes narrowed as he focused his gaze toward her bedroom. "I hardly see how it matters. You awoke on your own, but not because of the storm..." Here he directed the full force of his piercing gaze on her face. His eyes narrowed, "Nightmares. Recurring nightmares."

Her eyes widened and her jaw clenched—she reallydidn't want to talk about this. She really didn't feel like listening to her latest psychological trauma being picked apart and paraded before her by Sherlock-bloody-Holmes. She just wanted the whole thing to just go away.

He observed every detail of her face with unnerving intensity. "You—" his eyes settled on hers and whatever he saw in her gaze halted the likely torrent of words from his mouth.

Maybe there really was a God.

Dropping her gaze from his, she moved to the kitchen and yanked a towel off of the counter. Still without looking at him, she knelt down and attempted to clean up as much of the alcohol that had spilled during their almost-row as possible.

As she pushed and pounded the towel into the carpet, he remained unmoving at the periphery of her vision. He stood in silence, which was often-times even more terrifying than when words would spill out of his mouth in an effort to keep pace with his lightning quick brain…

That glorious, brilliant brain belonging to this glorious, beautiful, brilliant man…

Molly pressed her lips together as her brow knit in frustration. Thoughts like that were the bane of her existence and she pounded the towel into the carpet a little harder than necessary.

That glorious, beautiful, brilliant man that lied to you repeatedly while he did heroin, got into a fake relationship—a one-sidedly fake relationship complete with a fake marriage proposal—before he murdered a man.

Sighing, she tossed a glance at his feet—his bare feet—and tilted her head up to look at him. Now that her mind was clearing from the nightmare and the unexpected appearance of him, she was able to fully take in his appearance. "Do you generally travel about town in your dressing gown and pajamas?"

Those incandescent eyes flicked from where she was cleaning up the floor to hers. "I told you, I needed to think. Changing clothes was a waste of time." The detachment he cloaked himself in permeated his voice, infuriating her all the more. "I thought of something. For a case. Thought I might find the answer here." The absent-minded air was back in his voice as his eyes settled on Toby and he muttered. "Cat-loving pathologist."

…O…K…

Confused beyond belief, she stood up to get a better look at him. His expression was stoic in the extreme, but that was nothing new. What was new were the shadows under his eyes and the slightest crinkle of worry-lines around his brow and mouth. Fighting the sudden urge to ask him what was wrong, Molly walked past him to more fully observe her flat. His Belstaff was hung on a coat hook by her door and the blanket that was usually folded up on a shelf was spread out on the sofa. The unmistakable indentation on one of the pillows made it obvious; he hadn't come here to think, he had come to sleep.

"Sherlock…why were you sleeping on my sofa?"

He shifted uncomfortably behind her and his voice when he spoke was hesitant. "You said I was no longer welcome in either of your bedrooms."

She squeezed her eyes closed, hoping somehow that she could find strength for this. Leave it to Sherlock Holmes to find his way around limiting circumstances due to a lack of specificity on her part. She would have to be much more precise in the future. "That doesn't answer my question."

A heavy sigh fell from his lips; she could practically see him drag his hands through his hair in her mind. A few moments passed in silence as if he was struggling to put voice to thoughts that he clearly had no wish to speak aloud. "I cannot protect you from Baker Street."

Her eyes flew open at that gently whispered confession and she fought the frustratingly unexpected sting of tears. "From Jim?" She tried but failed miserably to hide the shiver of fear that shot through her.

"Yes." His voice was stronger now but still hesitant.

"We aren't even sure if he's really back. There's been nothing for four months." Did you miss me? That wretched hijacking of the airwaves had turned her world upside down. That day had already been difficult enough; she had been reeling from the news of Sherlock's banishment, revealed to her by Greg that very morning. He hadn't known that she hadn't been told, and she had been forced to fake commiseration to hide just how much she wanted to cry. Not just for Sherlock, but for herself. Facing the reality of being slighted—forgotten—by Sherlock was bad enough, but then Jim appeared and everything got that much worse. Fortunately, it had been the very thing needed to keep Sherlock from leaving England; no one understood Jim Moriarty quite like he did. Unfortunately, not too long after that had been when her nightmares began.

"If he truly has returned," and here he sighed again, a tiny shake entering his voice this time. "When he learns that you aided me in my plan to defeat him, he will be coming after you. It's what…it is what I would do…and he and I are one and the same. "

That admission was a difficult thing to swallow and she had no idea where to even begin responding to it. Instead, she focused on the part that concerned her; the part that cried out over every other thought in her mind. He wasn't here because he wanted to be; he was here because he felt responsible for her potentially being in danger. Hadn't she told him that she had wanted to help? She was a grown woman; she had known what she was getting involved with when she helped him. If she had it to do all over again, she wouldn't change a single thing.

Well…maybe one thing…lots and lots of times doing that one thing. Their relationship, their friendship, would never have come to this if they hadn't done…that.

But they had, and then he went and disappeared for almost two years. He had kept in contact relatively infrequently during that time, so she had moved on, gotten engaged to Tom…and then everything went to complete shit once Sherlock came back. Every time she would convince herself that whatever she felt for Sherlock was over and done with, he would do or say something that would just turn her world on its head. However, it was never long before she remembered why there had been distance in the first place—Sherlock ignoring her and treating her like a task to be crossed off on his bi-weekly checklist was an all too familiar occurrence.

That thought agitated her; pulling at scabbed over wounds that she worked so hard to ignore.

"I'm not one of your obligations, Sherlock."

She turned around to face him; the words she had been about to say vanishing before they could be given voice by the raw emotion in his eyes. Holding her gaze, he took a tentative step forward. Her irritation and resolve began to wither as the distance between them continued to shrink. When he stopped right in front of her, her heart started pounding in her chest as she tilted her face up to look at him.

"No," He raised his hand to tentatively cup her face and her eyes fluttered shut of their own volition. She couldn't stand this close to him and look into his eyes—she just couldn't. His fingertips began to move against her skin in small, gentle circles that reawakened a yearning in her that was so strong it was practically an agony. "You are not." His gentle words, spoken barely above a whisper, tore at her and so many different things—old feelings and memories— coursed through her. She instinctively lifted her face more fully up to his, her breath shaking as every bit of her burned with the feel of his fingers stirring whisper-soft against the skin of her neck. Eyes still firmly closed, she gasped when his fingertips dug into the back of her neck. He held her in place as his breath slid down her face in a slow, hot caress before settling on her parted lips.

"Molly."

The rumble of his voice across her mouth—so very close—jolted her back. Confused and frustrated, Molly grabbed his hand and pulled it away as she dropped her face from his. "Sherlock," She squeezed her eyes shut, taking a few breaths in an attempt to stay the longing she had no intention of seeing through, "Why are you doing this? Why do you always do this? You push me away and then you go and do things like this. I can't keep putting myself through that."

Sherlock pulled his hand from hers and took a step back in retreat. He shifted his eyes away from hers and pressed his lips together. "Molly…it wouldn't be as before."

Her anger spiked again and she couldn't help the humorless laugh that erupted out of her throat. "Before…you mean before when you vaguely informed me that you were going to be out of contact while you tackled the case of a lifetime? When you said it was to protect me, to keep me safe from the questionable activities that you were going to have to do to solve it? When you were shooting up and getting addicted to heroin again, putting your life in danger again after years of being clean?" His gaze had snapped back to hers and his expression sobered, slipping back into the aloof arrogance that he wore like armor into battle. "Or maybe you're talking about when you had a relationship with another woman? When you then used that woman and proposed to her for a case. A case that you couldn't win, so you murdered the man instead?"

"To protect—"

"John, Mary and their unborn baby. Yes. I know." Her anger cracked for a moment allowing some of the sadness to break through—what she was about to say was probably the most painful part of it all. It took her a moment to center herself, to regain enough composure to speak without letting her tears fall. "Or maybe you meant before…when you didn't even say good-bye to me when you thought you were being sent away to die? After everything we had been through…after how we had been…together…how could you do that?"

His eyes had dropped from hers and he stood silently before her. He held onto that wretched blank look on his face, though she could see the sadness, the fear that he was trying so hard to conceal. "It was for a case."

That same justification said in an uncharacteristically pleading tone was like a scalpel slicing at her insides. Like always, he had ignored the important things—the emotional things—and chose indifference over substance.

He didn't understand; she was starting to think that he never would, that he didn't even want to.

They stood staring at one another, the silence filled with so many things left unsaid. When it became clear that he had no intention of saying anything more, she dropped her head and systematically ignored the tear that slipped from the corner of her eye.

If he was going to disregard everything that mattered, then she would too.

"You did all of that for a case, Sherlock. You say it wouldn't be like before. For now, it might not be, but what about when the next case of a lifetime pops up?" She sighed, bone-deep and weary and shook her head. "You should go. I'll see you at Bart's. Please don't break into my flat again. Your concern isn't wanted or needed. Good ni—uh—morning. Good Morning."

Her eyes studied the carpet, keeping her head down as Sherlock continued to stand in silence. She couldn't let herself look at him; she would lose every bit of the dispassionate façade she was trying so hard to maintain if she did. Her determination began to slip and just as she was about to give into the urge, she heard him move toward the door and gather his coat and scarf.

"Molly," He waited after he spoke her name, probably expecting her to look at him. He must have realized that it wasn't going to happen because he sighed, resigned. The sounds of him donning his coat, scarf and shoes were the only things to be heard in the flat. Finally, he slipped the locks on her door, his other hand falling on the knob. She listened intently for the sound of the door creaking open, but was instead met by the refined lilt of his voice—subdued, but no less breathtaking for it. "You have never been, nor will you ever be merely an obligation to me."

The unguarded and sincere feeling he put into those words stunned her, causing her to finally lift her gaze to seek out his eyes. Instead, they fell on the wood of her brightly painted door as it shut gently behind him.

Just as well.

His concern was wanted; it was treasured and so needed…but she couldn't let herself give in. She still loved that man with everything she had, but he was never going to stop hurting her. Every time she gave him a chance—every time she stood up for him and defended his actions at her expense—little pieces of her felt as if they shriveled up and died.

She glanced at the clock on her mantle. It was still too early, far too early to start getting ready for yet another long shift at the hospital. Responsibility reared its ugly head as her eyes feel on the stacks of books and notes haphazardly scattered on her dining table. She should, she knew, sit down and bang out a little bit more of her current research paper. Another crack of thunder sounded, causing her to jump—she wasn't nearly in the right mindset to even attempt work and going back to sleep was definitely out. Showing up to work pissed was generally frowned upon, so the small amount of gin remaining in the bottle was out, too.

Instead, Molly Hooper sunk into the over-plush cushions of her sofa and did the only thing she could bring herself to do at that moment—she cried.