A/N: So, there's this one done. Hope you enjoy and, to those who celebrate it, a very Happy Halloween!

Once again, thanks so much to all who took the time to read/review/follow/favorite this story! I appreciate every single one of you. And thank you so much to my sister, Xaraphis, for giving this a read over for me!

Three years later, that 'bit of oddness' as Mrs. Hudson had come to call it, had been largely forgotten. Or at least, everyone pretended that it had been largely forgotten. Molly wasn't quite so sure that it had.

Sherlock certainly acted as though nothing at all had happened, but she knew full well the intrinsic inaccuracies of that barometer. With everyone else, there were moments…searching eyes peering into the empty spaces of the flat, wondering glances aimed at the sofa that still sat on the far side of the room. The creak of a floorboard, the groan and thump of the pipes, would elicit a gasp and a look of such expectant eagerness that Molly was often tempted to reward them with…well…with something.

She wasn't quite sure what – she never had managed to duplicate her actions of that night. The nearest she had gotten, and only when the flat was entirely empty, was the gentlest whisper of a breeze. It had rustled the papers on Sherlock's desk and then dissipated almost immediately, leaving Molly thoroughly frustrated with herself. Being dead, she thought, would be far more useful if it came with an instruction manual.

The only thing she was really proficient at was turning pages – which, really, was all right. If there was only going to be one thing she was truly good at in her ethereal state, at least it was something useful.

She was, in fact, knee deep in a case study about a 10-month old boy with microcephaly and episodic cyanosis when it happened.

It.

The thing she had dreaded from the moment she realized that she'd been stupid enough to go and fall in love with a man like Sherlock Holmes.

He hadn't been home in several days, which wasn't at all unusual when he was on a case.

When she heard the downstairs door open, she smiled. But then…the tread on the stair was wrong. Slow and trudging rather than light and quick. There was sorrow in those steps and Molly straightened, heart thudding as she waited for the door to the flat to open.

Then it did.

John and Mary Watson stood just in the doorway, hands clasped tightly between them, their eyes red and raw as they gazed forlornly into the empty room.

Molly knew what it meant, their sadness…their grief…

Heart cracking open in her chest, she sank to the floor, her fingers wrapping in the scarf round her neck and pulling it up so that she could bury her face in it – remembering it, at that moment, as nothing more than his. She sobbed into it, a fear like nothing she had ever felt before clenching at her insides.

He was gone. The only thing that had made this…this…existence bearable was gone.

But she was still here. Would she always be here? To see it emptied of everything that was him…to watch new people claim the space as their own? How could she bear it?

"I don't want to be here," she whispered brokenly. "I don't want to be alone."

Boxes were scattered throughout the flat, stacked against the walls and perched on every flat surface. The moving crew was scheduled for the following day.

Molly had heard Mycroft – who had handled his brother's affairs – telling John as much the night before, both of them taking one last walk through of 221B before it was emptied and prepared to be let again. Mrs. Hudson hadn't wanted to do it, but Mycroft had been insistent that Sherlock would not have wanted her to hold onto something that he no longer had any use for.

A far cry from how things had been after the first time they had mourned the younger Holmes and painful proof that this time, he would not be coming back.

Laying on the sofa, staring up at the ceiling as tears rolled down her face and into her hair, Molly tried not to imagine what it would be like tomorrow once the crews had gone, taking everything of him with them and leaving her in an empty flat.

Alone.

She closed her eyes, misery rising up in a wave and crashing over her…drowning her in…

"What the hell is going on?"

Molly froze, her eyes flying open at the snarled exclamation. That voice…

That voice…

She sat up sharply, turning as she rose, her feet falling to the floor, eyes wildly searching for something she didn't dare believe. A figure stalked into the lounge, long jacket fluttering behind him in a way she had never thought she would ever see again…

Sherlock.

He stopped with his back to her, his hands balled into fists at his sides as he stared down at the boxes stacked atop the seat of his chair. "Mycroft," he growled, thumping a fist against his thigh, "if this is your idea of a joke…"

"It's not a joke."

The words were out before Molly even consciously decided to speak, thin and high and trembling. Sherlock went still, clenched fists falling open. He didn't move, didn't turn, but Molly could see the tension rising in him.

Pushing herself to her feet, she took a hesitant step toward him, skirting the edge of the table that sat before her. "It's…it's not a joke, Sherlock," she repeated, fear – so much fear – riddling her voice. "Do you…remember what happened?"

He said nothing. The silence in the flat was deafening.

Molly took another step toward him, her hands lifting out of habit to twist in the fabric of her – his – scarf. "I know how you feel right now," she said softly. "I…I remember how I felt…how confused I was when I…"

Sherlock whipped around, coattails flapping, his eyes landing square on hers for the first time in over a decade and the words died on Molly's tongue. His face was as she had last known it, his hair the peppery silver-black that lent him an air of distinction that she found quite absurdly attractive. He was looking at her with wide eyes, shock and disbelief writ large on the planes and angles of his face.

Nerves getting the better of her, she dropped her gaze, focusing on the shiny black of his shoes. "I heard everyone talking," she said in a rush, fingers twisting harder into the scarf, feeling the weight of it for the first time in years, "so I know what happened. I can…tell you, if you want. If you can't recall, I mean. Or…or not, if you…if you don't want."

"Molly…"

She squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head – hearing how ridiculous she sounded and hating it. "I know…I know…I'm babbling. Sorry…I'm just…I'm out of practice with speaking. At least, speaking to people. Much more used to speaking at them now, I'm afraid…"

A strangled sound – almost a laugh but not quite and then suddenly, he was right there, right in front of her, his hands gripping her shoulders almost painfully. Molly gasped, her head snapping upright and her eyes finding his once more.

Tears welled in her eyes, the pressure of his touch overwhelming after so long without.

"Oh," she said, the word a wondrous sigh. Slowly – so slowly – she unwound her fingers from her scarf and reached out toward him, laying her palms flat against his chest. "You…" the word broke on a sob, "I can feel you."

"Molly," Sherlock said her name again, his own voice thick with astonishment. "Molly Hooper." He let out a shaky breath and yanked her to him, crushing her against him and wrapping his arms around her. "You're here."

Joy like nothing she had ever felt before bubbled up inside of her, making her nearly lightheaded with happiness. "I'm here," she affirmed, winding her own arms around him, holding him back just as tightly. "I've always been here, Sherlock."

His arms squeezed tighter, his head dropping to rest atop hers. "I'm sorry," he choked. "I'm sorry, Molly. I'm so sorry that he…"

"You've nothing to apologize for." She fisted her hands in the back of his coat, pressing herself even further into him – she would have crawled inside of him if she could. "It wasn't your fault, Sherlock."

"Yes, it was," he said sadly, resignation in every syllable. "It is. It is my fault that he…" he stopped, she felt his hand slid up her back, his fingers playing with the cashmere looped at the back of her neck. "I hate this scarf."

Molly let out a gurgle of pained laughter. "Not nearly as much I do, Sherlock, I can promise you that."

"Then why…"

She pulled back, her arms sliding down to rest on his forearms, his hands settling at her hips. Molly looked up at him, sighing sadly. "It won't come off. I've tried everything. I can't even unwrap it to tie it differently. It simply won't budge."

"Really?" Sherlock frowned, eyes shifting down to examine the length of cashmere critically. "Interesting."

It felt like no time had passed; like it had been mere hours since she had spoken to Sherlock, rather than the pile of years that actually lay between their last conversation and this one. Molly rolled her eyes, swatting at the consulting detective's arm. "It's not interesting, Sherlock. It's horrible and tragic and…and…annoying. You try living with this thing twisted round your neck for over ten years."

"Have you tried cutting it off?"

"I could barely manage to turn pages in a book. Scissors were a bit outside my means."

He darted a look up at her, brow arching. "While that answers several lingering questions I've had about my apparent inability to keep my place in a book these past few years, it is also, I believe, quite egregiously inaccurate. Molly…you brained an intruder with my microscope – which cost me a fortune to repair, I might add – I doubt scissors would have proven particularly difficult to manage after that."

Molly shook her head. "You charged the repairs to Mycroft's card, so it didn't cost you a cent…and I watched you do it, Sherlock, so don't deny it. As for how I did all of…that, I've no idea. I've certainly never managed to do it since."

Interest well piqued now, Sherlock brought both his hands up to tug at the scarf experimentally. "I repeat, interesting. I suppose you thought to try…"

"Sherlock."

He stopped, thoughts whirling behind those kaleidoscope eyes. "What?"

He was as he had ever been; death hadn't changed Sherlock Holmes even one tiny bit. Molly honestly didn't think she had ever been happier. "I don't think it's going to come off. I think it might be a…a rule or something."

"Nonsense, Molly," Sherlock scoffed. "Rules were made to be broken – this," he held up the trailing length of the scarf between them, "will simply require a bit of ingenuity and a good deal of experimentation. We shall certainly have the time."

She rolled her eyes. "Obviously, Sherlock, but…don't you think there are other things we should be discussing at present?"

"Such as?"

Molly smiled like she hadn't in far too long. "Oh, I dunno…the fact that we're both dead?"

"Dull," he dismissed, the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth blunting the sharpness of the word. "What is there to discuss about that? You're dead, yes, been aware of that for some time now, thanks. I'm dead – admittedly newer information, but still not particularly interesting; it's a wonder I lasted as long as I did, really."

"Yes," Molly agreed, reaching up to brush the hair back from his forehead, fingering one of the more silvery of his curls. "Yes, it really is."

Sherlock reached up, trapping her hand in his, pressing her palm against his cheek. "I…I missed you, Molly Hooper."

"I know," she said through tears, bringing her other hand up to cup his other cheek, cradling his face – his stupid, perfect face – between her palms. "I heard. And I missed you too."

He sucked in a breath, his hands coming up to wrap around her wrists, his thumbs rubbing circles in her skin. "You heard," he gave her wrists a squeeze, "so you…you know that…that I…"

Her smile turned soft, gentle. "I know, Sherlock. And I hope you know that…that I do too."

The breath rushed back out of him and he leaned even further into her hands, his eyes sliding shut. "You do." He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "That's…that's…good."

Molly slid her hands backwards, curling them around the back of his neck, her eyes dropping shut. "Yeah, Sherlock. That's good."

Silence.

Sherlock sighed. "What are we going to do in an empty flat?"

"Famous as you were? I'm fairly certain Mrs. Hudson will have it occupied again fairly quickly."

"Well what are we going to do then?"

"I dunno. You're the creative one – I'm sure you'll think of something."

"Mmm. It will make for some fascinating experiments."

More silence.

"Molly?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"You were raised a Catholic…is it only demons that are capable of possessing people?"

"No. Absolutely not, Sherlock. You are not attempting to possess anyone."

"But…"

"No."

"For the sake of science, Molly…"

"Oh, my God."