Disclaimer: I own nothing!

A/N: In the spirit of the season, may I present a ghostly Sherlolly tale for your enjoyment! Thanks, as ever, to my sister, my beta - Xaraphis. Congratulations on posting your very first story today (more lovely Sherlolly goodness...Beautiful Dreamer...go on and give it a look-see, eh?)

The night was dark, moonless – gathered storm clouds hung like looming black shadows, lit from within by the lightning that cracked across the sky. Rain fell in sheets, trailing down the window pane, the patter of it against the glass loud in the silence.

She stood in the middle of the room, her eyes focused on the rolling torrent of water as it spilled down the glass. Feeling strangely numb, she blinked hard, trying to think…to remember…

There was something she was forgetting…

Something had happened. Something wasn't…right.

Slowly, she admonished herself, forcing her eyes closed and sucking in great, greedy gulps of air. Breathe. Relax. Think.

When she finally felt more in command of herself, she took one last deep breath and then opened her eyes. Looking around now, she took stock of her surroundings – the fireplace along the far wall, the two low arm chairs facing one another before it; a desk covered in books and papers with a laptop tossed haphazardly atop the lot, a buffalo head peering down upon the mess from the wall above. She frowned, familiarity an itch beneath her skin.

She knew this place.

She turned further. A flash of lightning lit the room, throwing the stylized damask wallpaper covering the wall nearest to her into stark relief, making the sloppy yellow smiley face painted across it glow eerily in the half-light. She stared at that smiley face, lips parting and breath coming shorter, sharper as the itch of familiarity flared into a burn, searing flames of frustrated recognition licking up her spine.

"I know this place," she whispered to no one, voice trembling. "I know I do. I know this place..."

Her eyes dropped lower, falling upon the sofa pushed up near the wall just at her feet. Low and long with angled arms, it was covered in well-worn leather that was cracking in spots and rubbed smooth in others. It was…it was…

Lightning flashed and suddenly, the sofa that had been empty was empty no longer, a slight figure lying along its length. One arm draped over the side of the cushions, the head of the unknown figure was turned toward her, sightless eyes staring out into the room from beneath a spill of long, dark hair.

Dead.

Her breath caught in her throat and she stumbled backwards, away from those limp fingers that just barely brushed the floor near her feet. She slammed her eyes shut, hands balling so tightly into fists that she could feel the bite of her nails against her palm. Thunder rolled across the sky and she opened her eyes to find the sofa empty, no trace of the small, still figure from only a moment before.

That small, still figure…

She couldn't breathe…

A face hovered above hers – near-black eyes the only thing that she could see.

'Ah, Molly-girl…you're a dear to die so prettily. We'll set such a scenefor our darling Sherlock, won't we now?'

She couldn't breathe…

Eyes widening as horrified remembrance stole the very air from her lungs, Molly Hooper reached up to claw at her neck, fingers tangling into the scarf that hung there still – blue and soft and smelling of him – as she desperately tried to pull it off. Gasping, sobbing, she fell to her knees, yanking and tearing at the twisted length of cashmere that would…not…budge…

"Get off," she wailed, voice high and thin, "get off, get off, get off."

Distantly, she heard the creak and slam of a door, followed by footsteps thumping up the stairs that she knew stood outside, but she hardly paid them any mind – she was too focused on trying to get that scarf off. It was only when the door creaked open and the lights flicked on that she stopped, frozen.

Waiting.

It was him. She knew it, though she did not look up – could not look up. He was standing just inside the door, the high polish of his shoes gleaming at the edge of her periphery. Slowly – desperately – she followed the long, lean lines of him up from his shoes to the black trousers that disappeared beneath the painfully, achingly familiar bulk of his beloved Belstaff. His hands, as long and elegant as the rest of him, were poised above the first button of the coat, tensed and white-knuckled. She was surprised to find nothing but the pale column of his throat where his blue scarf should have been – she flinched, fingers convulsing on the one wrapped round her own neck, pretending his bare neck meant nothing when she knew that it meant everything.

His face – so, so dear to her even if she did want to slap it more often than not; had slapped it, in fact – was tense, generous mouth drawn tight and jaw clenched. He was breathing hard through his nose, slow, deep breaths that she knew were meant to be calming but didn't appear to be working in the slightest. His beautiful eyes, a kaleidoscope of green and blue, were locked, unblinking, on the sofa.

Her heart leapt, something like relief easing the worst of her panic. Did he see it too?

If he saw it too, then maybe, just maybe…

"Do you see it?" She pushed up onto her knees. "What is it? Sherlock…do you see it too?"

Nothing. No answer. Not even a flicker of acknowledgement in his eyes. He just kept staring at the sofa, eyes red and expression raw.

Molly frowned, all thoughts of her own distress evaporating at the sight of him troubled. Shoving up to her feet, she took a lurching step toward him, hand reaching out to him. "Sherlock? What's wrong? What's happened?"

Still nothing.

Panic setting in once more, she stepped up beside him, fingers hovering just shy of touching. "Sherlock," she had meant to shout but the word got caught in her throat, escaping finally as nothing more than a tremulous whisper. "Why won't you answer me?"

The slam of the outer door again, the stomp of boots on the mat and then the steady trudge of measured steps upon the stair and then John Watson was pushing the door open, fading blonde hair darker for the rain that had soaked him. He paused just inside, blue eyes going dark with sadness when they fell upon the unmoving form of his friend.

Molly watched, hands twisting together in front of her, as he edged his way around Sherlock's back. Eager for him to help where she apparently could not, she shuffled backwards, clearing a path for him. "I don't know what's wrong, John," she said fretfully. "I tried to help, but he won't…"

"Sherlock," John said and all of the sorrow in his eyes was there too, in his voice, "mate, you can't keep doing this." His arm lifted, waving in the general direction of the sofa. "There's nothing there."

Molly, shifting from foot to foot, glanced back at the sofa and then away again quickly – still empty, though in her mind, she could see that figure…see the empty eyes and small, slack mouth…

Your mouth's too small now…

"No," Molly moaned the word, arms lifting to press the heels of her hands against her eyes as she shook her head. "No, no...I can't…" She dropped her arms again, panic rising up like bile in the back of her throat as she stared at the two men. "Look at me! Why won't you look at me?"

"She's not there, Sherlock." John's voice had hardened slightly, gone more forceful. "Molly isn't there."

Molly flinched, eyes flying yet again to the sofa, jigsaw pieces falling into place. "Oh," she breathed, one small, shaking hand lifting to grab at the scarf still wound tight around her neck.

"I am aware of that, John." Sherlock's voice, tired, strained…sad. "Believe me, I am…well aware."

"Oh, God," she sobbed, her other hand pressing against her mouth as tears gathered in her eyes. "You can't see me…"

"Sherlock…"

"Leave it."

She turned back to them – back to him – eyes shining; knowing and sorrowful. "You can't hear me."

"Mate…if you need to…to talk about it…"

"I said leave it, John."

She watched him stalk away, shedding his coat as he went and tossing it sideways over John's chair, his shoulders a straight, proud line. John, cursing beneath his breath, lowered his head, rubbing at his eyes tiredly as he followed Sherlock into the kitchen.

Molly did not follow. Just stared after them, tears sliding down her cheeks.

"I'm not here." She closed her eyes, gripping the scarf hard. "Because I'm dead."