Disclaimer: I own nothing! I claim nothing! I'm just borrowing the characters for my own pleasure and the pleasure of whoever reads this!

Chapter One

Into Black

Sherlock looked at the time on his phone as he stepped into the burned up remains of the flat that was his latest crime scene. Much to his dismay, this case looked to be less than a four. It was a boring case of arson, not something he would usually waste his time with, and in truth, he would not be wasting his time here had he not been looking for a distraction from the evening ahead.

It had been two years since Moriarty's return, and six months since his defeat. Moriarty was not well and truly dead. Of course, that wasn't what had Sherlock searching the burned up flat.

In the last two years, and a few of the months that preceded it, he had grown accustomed to – if not at all fond of – the absence of one of the few people he could say he trusted wholly with his life.

He had trusted her with his life before.

Molly Hooper had refused to speak to or work with him since he had mocked her failed engagement while high on more substances than he would care to admit, even in the privacy of his own mind. He conceded now that perhaps he had overdone his drug use, conceded that he had been bored and missed the high, and he had taken out much of his frustrations on her that day.

She had been put into protective custody, courtesy of his brother, while Moriarty was tracked down. His insults and the separation combined had left somewhat of a rift between them.

The voice in Sherlock's head chose then to remind him, as he examined a charred bit of flooring where the fire had started, that Molly had chosen to be out of contact with him in the few months between his insult and the months following her return from protective custody and subsequent return to Saint Bartholomew's Hospital.

Until Yesterday.

she had texted him out of the blue the night before, three simple sentences that had made him contemplate what to do with the current situation.

I'm tired of you coming into the lab and both of us refusing to talk to each other like adults. Let's just… talk. I'll be at Angelo's at 7 tomorrow, so we can stop this… mess we've made. ~ Molly

Sherlock hadn't known that she had even bothered to save his number. He'd never tried to contact her himself either, finding it best to leave her alone given their last exchange. He'd saved her number though, even going so far as to transfer it over to his new mobile after his last one met an untimely fate that had also cracked one of his ribs six months previously. The simplistic criminal's need to swing metal pipes at him never ceased to irritate him.

That she had not only contacted him, but also chosen a neutral ground instead of the morgue or his or her flat, and that she was willing to attempt some sort of reconciliation had Sherlock at a loss as to how to handle the situation.

Throughout the night, he had thought about the various choices he had. The simplest would be to just not go. Molly would no doubt take his absence as a refusal, as proof that he didn't care about her presence or lack thereof. She would no doubt accept this, and though her feelings would be hurt, Sherlock knew that she would ultimately move on and accept the final nail in the coffin of their already almost-nonexistent friendship.

Though he had contemplated this briefly, the idea refused to sit right in his mind, because the implications weren't correct. While it wouldn't be simpler, easier, to not go, in the last two years Sherlock had found himself missing the uncomplicated interactions the skilled pathologist had offered him, especially in the time after his return and before his careless words. This went beyond him simply missing his favors, asking for tools and body parts and coffee. He missed the confidence, the intelligence, the humor and the calm joy that Molly brought with her when they interacted. That base curiosity she had, the acceptance of him despite – and even because of – his obvious flaws and failings in what most people found so easy to comprehend.

With all this displayed in his mind for his perusal, the second choice, to go and make amends, should have been the obvious one. While he had no doubt that they could make amends, it would take time to reach the comfort they'd once had, and Sherlock was certain that he would inevitably say or do something to once again crumble whatever sort of connection they formed. It was his nature to do so.

Wouldn't it be better, then, to go with the first option and save them both the emotional strain? Not that he cared about his own suffering. Molly's, however, did concern him. She had helped him far too much to deserve any more of his harsh actions and his even harsher tongue.

Sherlock nodded to himself, his mind made up. The more selfish of the choices, to go and make amends knowing that it would lead to pain for both of them, was the choice that he'd have made in the past. But he wasn't the man that he'd once been. Molly would be better off without him, no matter the unease he felt at his decision.

Not that it mattered, Sherlock thought, glancing once more at his phone to check the time. Their meeting was to take place in twenty-three minutes. The cab ride would take fifteen, depending on how crowded the roads were. Molly would wait until eight, he knew. An hour, in which she would call him the vilest things she could imagine, only to twist and squirm in her seat, making excuses and assurances to herself about his absence.

At 7:45, she would text him again, just to see if he was all right. Once she chose to open her heart to him again, her usual compassion would hinder her rational thinking.

He would ignore the message.

At eight, he'd receive another. A final goodbye, he was certain, and she would harden herself against him. There would be no returning to how things had been, no reconciliation, after that.

It would be kinder to do it this way.

And the arson was solved as well. Sherlock smirked. It really was too basic a case for him to have wasted his time with. He'd found the point of origin, he'd found the matchbox used to start the fire outside, poorly hidden in the shrubbery at the front of the building, and now all he needed was the accelerant used. He knew where the would-be criminal had hidden it was well.

It the hall closet, the only area that seemed untouched by the flames. It was like a protective ring had surrounded the door, leaving a clear curve of floor where burned and unburned met. Of course, there had to be some cause for the separation, but Sherlock didn't care about the what of the matter in that instance. Some durable piece of furniture must have once been in front of the door to create such an effect.

The door, upon testing the handle, opened easily. Sherlock was met by a wall of black.

No, not quite a wall, Sherlock observed. It wasn't solid, as he proved by a quick prodding with his left index finger. The blackness seemed to give around his finger as he penetrated it, only to slowly sink back into place like some sort of low-density foam as he withdrew.

He wondered how far back it went. He tested it again, sinking his whole arm into the black, unable to find an end. Again he withdrew, and the displaced mass once again drooped back into place.

Curious.

It didn't appear harmful. His arm had returned to him unscathed, just as his finger had before.

Now this is something worth investigating.

In a motion that was both reckless and ambitious, Sherlock stepped forward into the black, allowing it to swallow him as he strode forward to find its end and discover its purpose.

That's chapter one! Chapter two will follow shortly :3

Yea yea, I know, "Rosey! why are you starting another fic when you have sooo many WIPS?" Because This one has been gnawing on my brain for months. So much so that it forced me to write it in a notebook IN THE MIDDLE OF A CLASS LECTURE before it would give me any sort of peace.

Until Next Time! :*