Disclaimer: I own nothing.

A/N: Hello, all! Firm M rating on this one toward the end.

Huge thank you to my big sis and beta, Alethnya-if you haven't read her stuff, you really need to. Sis, your encouragement and mad editing skills are so wholly appreciated.

Thank you everyone for taking the time to read!

She closed the door of her flat softly before letting out a sigh that she felt from the depths of her chest. She had held herself together so well; doing everything that needed to be done, everything that he had asked her to do. Now that it was all over, it was suddenly more difficult to hold herself together with every moment that passed. She took off her coat, returning it to its usual hook by the door. Looking down at herself—at the blood-stained lab coat she was still wearing—the composure she had been fighting so hard to maintain, began to crack. She should have taken it off…should have showered at work…

Sherlock's blood.

She swallowed hard as tears sprung to her eyes, the sight of those small, dried, stains striking up the memories of only hours earlier.

Beautiful blue eyes that stared lifelessly above. The vivid red of his blood painted his face in thick streams. The contrast of red and blue was strangely beautiful; like a perfect red rose against a clear blue sky, each color making the other appear deeper, more vibrant. Her stomach turned, a jolt of fear spiking through her so violently it made her stomach sick. But then he blinked, and she sighed, deep, with relief. Not dead.

So strange. Death was a common element of her daily life. And yet…nothing had shaken her more than the sight of Sherlock dead-but-not-dead in her morgue. Another wave of feeling wrenched through her, and she clapped a hand over her mouth as her tears began to fall.

This was so silly. He wasn't even dead. She had spoken to him, watched him walk away…

Everyone was gone and Sherlock's brother had somehow ensured that her little corner of Bart's was secure. Sherlock sat up, removing the sheet before she even had a chance to fully avert her eyes. Mortified and reeling, she spun around as he dressed; that light shuffling of movement the only sound in the room. Then, true silence fell, but her voice was sufficiently lost to the tension that was now closing her throat. This was about to be good-bye, after all.

After a moment, he sighed. "Molly."

She half-turned to him, hesitant to look at him now for an entirely different reason, even as she could see him looking at her at the very edge of her periphery. The simple way he had said her name held an edge of entreaty to it that she didn't have the strength to face at that moment. "Yes?"

A lengthy paused followed. She saw him shift, several times, as if he were about to speak. When he finally spoke, his voice was detached, completely lacking any previous emotion. "So…that's it, then. Remember to display the appropriate degree of grief. Which, given that you are purportedly besotted, should be a great deal; otherwise all of this will have been for nothing. Gotta dash, Mycroft will be an absolute bore if I don't stick to the timeline."

She stared, wide-eyed and unseeing, at the wall in front of her in disbelief, his words cutting into her, shattering her heart and leaving her broken inside. He turned and walked toward the doors that would take him away…for how long, she still didn't know. He hadn't said…and she was too afraid to ask.

Everything they had just been through…just…everything…and he didn't even glance back when his flattened palm pushed open one of the doors.

Molly dropped her eyes to the floor, numbness burrowing into her chest and snaking outward until her entire body felt heavy with the sheer nothing that blanketed her mind. Finally, a monotone whisper escaped her lips into the silence. "Okay."

They way he had left things between them…it hurt. She had served her purpose, she had helped him; she had at least thought it would have merited a thank you. Even worse, she had foolishly hoped for more.

Scrubbing her hands across her cheeks to get rid of her ridiculous tears, she made her way to her shower. She was the idiot who had thought it meant something when he looked at her as if she was all he could ever need in the entire bloody world and said 'you'. Never in her entire life had anything set every single bit of her on fire the way that had. She had never felt so alive.

And wasn't that just pathetic.

She turned the water on, shrugging out of her clothes quickly before stepping into the shower. Scooping up the bottle of 3-in-1 that she saved for long days where she only cared about being clean, she began scrubbing at her skin, freezing when she noticed the tiny bits of his blood dried on her wrists.

She really thought she might be sick…

Without letting herself think of it any longer, she scrubbed them away. Sherlock was alive and he was safe…for now. She had done her part. He had said that she counted—that he'd always trusted her. For a man like Sherlock, how could she ever want more than that? But she had, and she did, and she was the foolish one for thinking it possible…if even briefly.

She had helped the man she had been hopelessly in love with for years fake his death. Had put everything in her entire life on the line to help him. Who did that? Honestly? It could be called selfless, but all Molly felt was pathetic. Because a quiet certainty had seeped into the most broken pieces of herself when he had walked away from her in the morgue; she would do it all over again if he were to ask.

Oh, but was she a fool for Sherlock Holmes.

She willed the last of her tears away, her palm cracking against the cold tile of the shower wall. Turning the water off, she yanked the shower curtain open and reached for her robe. She scooped up her blood-stained clothing, tucking it under her arm as she made her way out of the bathroom.

Turning to take her clothes to her hamper—though she should probably just set them on fire—she nearly jumped out of her skin with fright at the sight of someone sitting on her bed. Fright that was swiftly followed by the sickening butterflies that sunk to the pit of her stomach, just as they did every time she was in a room with him. "What are you doing here? I thought…" the words she had been about to say died on her lips.

Sherlock was sat on the bed. He remained silent, staring into the empty palms of his hands that rested on his lap. Tears dripped from his face, falling to land in growing puddles in the creases of his hands. "It was so easy to lie."

Silence fell after that, Molly having absolutely no idea how to proceed. She racked her brain in hopes of working out the right context for the comment he had just made. Ah."To John?"

He nodded slowly. When he spoke, his voice was low and hoarse. "I was so intent on playing the game, beating Moriarty…it was so easy to lie, to tell John precisely what was necessary to destroy his faith in me. I cried when appropriate, conveyed the necessary signs of distress at the correct moments. Complete detachment. I didn't care…I didn't care that…" his voice caught and his head bowed a little further, hiding his face from view. With every inhale and exhale, his breath shook, and she knew he was fighting to keep himself under control.

Molly put her clothes down and slowly approached him. When she stood right before him and he still did not look up at her, she sank to her knees so that she could look up into his face. His eyes were red-rimmed with the tears he had shed and swimming with those that he was refusing to let fall. "That what?" she prompted gently.

His eyes sought hers and he swallowed. "That I could break him. The idea of emotionally devastating a man who is more than a brother to me, he is a friend…" He cleared his throat gently. "It was simple, far simpler than it ought to have been." He stopped, shook his head."Perhaps I really don't have a heart, after all."

The misery in his voice just devastated her. So many different responses came to mind; correcting him, placating him…but she couldn't form the words. She'd never been very good at this whole talking thing. But watching him, seeing how lost in his own feelings he really was, it was impossible not to speak. "I don't think that's true…" she reached out, terrified of what she was about to do, but intent on doing it anyway, and brushed a tear away that had fallen onto the tip of his thumb. She brought her hand up, resting it gently atop his, "I don't think it was as simple as you've convinced yourself it was. That you're upset at all…Sherlock, you can't honestly think that about yourself?"

He remained silent at that, starring down at where her hand was still resting over his. With a shaky inhale, he adjusted his fingers, his palm meeting hers as his fingers closed around her hand. Her eyes dropped from his face, landing on where his hand now held hers, her heart hammering in her chest. That simple action, which wasn't simple at all, caused that tiny flame of hope to burn once more. Remaining silent and still, both of them continued to look at their joined hands. When his thumb rubbed across the back of her hand in a gentle caress, Molly looked up to his face. Still his eyes remained on their hands. When she realized he wasn't going to speak, Molly finally found her voice again. "You can't blame yourself…Jim didn't give you a choice. You did what you had to do to get through what needed to be done."

He laughed, and oh was it a twisted sound. "Oh, Molly…don't be foolish. There is always a choice."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning I could pick up a phone right now and tell John everything. The idea to manipulate him into believing I am a fraud, to convince him that I truly am dead was mine."

"But why?"

"Secrecy is paramount." His voice sharpened, taking on more of his familiar air. "And John has a pathological need to engage far too many idiots in potentially revealing conversation."

Molly pressed her lips closed, fighting the tiny tug at the corner of her mouth brought on by the disdain that gave his voice its usual cadence. "Most people do. Doesn't mean…"

Here his eyes raised to hers suddenly, but the way he looked at her this time was different. Much different. "You don't."

She dropped her eyes, unable to hold his gaze any longer…not when he looked at her like that…especially when he was still holding her hand. She cleared her throat, intent on getting rid of the fog that had started to settle over her brain. "Well, I try…but most of the people I talk to are dead, so it's a bit of a one-sided conversation." She let out a little laugh, hoping that the action would instill at least a little lightness into the air around them. "So…your secret's safe with me."

"Precisely."

Her stomach dropped. Oh. That's why he had needed her…it wasn't that he needed her; it was because she had no one, literally no one, to tell any of his secrets to. A recluse of a pathologist to find the body double and chuck it out a window. A hopeless romantic to risk her entire life to forge the necessary paperwork.

Again…she was such a fool…such a stupid, stupid fool…

"You take care in all that you do." He continued, seemingly unaware of her current distress. "That's always been an attribute I have…greatly admired in you."

Her inner recriminations halted at his words even as he turned her hand over gently in his, the finger of his opposite hand began to softly trace the veins in her palm. Her eyes snapped up to his, only to find his focused on her now upturned hand. "Careful. Meticulous. Gentle. Brilliant." Each word was spoken gently, but then his breath hitched, his voice going hoarse. "Soft." But then his brow knit together, his jaw clenched and he swallowed hard in preparation for the words he was about to say. "I used to do it to you, too."

With every word he had spoken as his touch sent shivers shooting through her, Molly had slipped deeper and deeper into the fog she had been trying to resist. But that last declaration had thrown her, causing her to fully slip from beneath its yoke. "What?"

"Manipulation." His voice was flat and his finger had stilled.

Oh, that. "I know."

His eyes jumped to hers, stunned surprise staring back at her. Apparently he thought that he was a master manipulator, beyond detection. Not surprisingly, really.

"You knew…and yet you still helped me," he said, his voice disbelieving.

"Yes."

"Why?" The word was wrenched from him, and he sounded so confused, so…perplexed. "Why would you help me when I had used you? When I was so intent on disregarding sentiment that you were convinced that you didn't matter to me? How long have you thought that, Molly?"

Pulling her hand from his, Molly sat back on her heels as she looked up at him. The string of questions making her distinctly uncomfortable. Answering any of them would only incriminate her feelings for him further. "A while."

"Molly."

He never did like not knowing something he wanted the answer to. She sighed and dropped her eyes. There was no point in trying to be vague. "From the beginning, okay? You barely looked at me. Barely acknowledged I was there. I knew from the beginning that when you did…it was just because you wanted in the morgue or the lab. That you wanted someone on the inside that would bend the rules to make your cases easier to solve." She smiled slightly, slanting a look up at him in an attempt to shift the growing tension. "To make you coffee." Her grasp for humor fell on deaf ears.

Sherlock's jaw clenched and he closed his eyes. "You say that…and yet you ask how I can think the worst of myself."

She hadn't meant to upset him further. She had just been trying to give him the answers he wanted. "I didn't mind." It wasn't entirely a lie…unfortunately.

His eyes opened, narrowing at her as he pinned her with a piercing look. "Unlikely."

"No, it's not," she blurted out before she could think better of it.

That look of haughty superiority caused his brow to arch at her, condescension practically radiating off of him. "Indeed. Masochism is hardly something to champion, Molly. Perhaps you should rethink your associations if being manipulated for another's benefit is pleasing to you. Although I suppose you havn't maintained enough associations for that to be of any real concern. If anything, you have made it far easier on yourself. I imagine…"

"Stop it," she ground out from behind clenched teeth, unable to handle another stream of his cutting comments. Tears flooded her vision as she fought to not let his words get to her. She knew that it was when he felt the most vulnerable, the most emotionally compromised, that his tongue cut the most vicious remarks.

His head dropped forward slightly and he blew out a breath. "Forgive me…that was…"

"Cruel."

His jaw clenched and he looked away from her. "Yes."

Kneeling still on the floor before him, Molly's eyes dropped to her lap. Her head was down and her hair fell around her like a curtain, blotting out the world. All she wanted to do was get up and walk away. She didn't want to keep sitting here…not if he was going to start treating her like this.

"I am sorry, Molly," Sherlock sighed heavily, before continuing quietly. "And not just for that last."

His words from the morgue earlier ran through her mind. She shook her head, wanting to have done with it all. "It's okay…it's fine."

The silence stretched on and she was thankful that he appeared to be letting it go. When he spoke his voice was hesitant and she could hear a faint tremor in the depths of his rumbling baritone. "How could you not mind something as reprehensible as my manipulating you?"

A jolt of fear struck through her as her eyes widened and she shifted away from him, looking to the far wall of the room. She was absolutely not answering that. She huffed out a breath, "You've had a big day…dying and all…I think it's…"

His hand caught her shoulder, halting her retreat. "Molly?"

His voice was far gentler now when he said her name. She couldn't say no to him. Never had been able to…and probably never would. More importantly, she had never really wanted to. And despite herself, she answered him, "Because anything from you was better than nothing from you." She cringed inwardly; the words sounding even worse when she finally said them out loud. "Silly, I know."

Silence met that quietly whispered confession. She was waiting for some cutting remark on sentiment and the fools who lose themselves to that weakness. Something spectacular to follow his earlier comments. Third times a charm and all that. Then again, she could just abandon this ridiculous conversation in favor of rest…or crying herself to sleep in her pillow. Deciding she'd had enough emotional turmoil for one day, Molly stood and stepped back, putting space between them.

"Sherlock…why are you here?"

He looked away from her, his voice going flat. "Every detail has been seen to…despite the level of incompetence Mycroft deems acceptable in his inferiors. Sleep eluded me; I needed something to occupy the time and realized I had not given you a proper good-bye and considered it appropriate, given the circumstances."

Molly huffed, unsurprised in the slightest that he was attempting to deflect; unsurprised and incredibly disappointed. She really couldn't handle any more of this tonight. He was leaving tomorrow, she just needed to say good-bye. If they said it, she would finally be able to truly fall to pieces like she so desperately needed. It was the only way she would be able to pick herself back up again. So…he had come for good-bye, she would give him that. "That was thoughtful of you. I'm a little tired, so I was just getting ready to go to bed." She was practically dead on her feet, but no need to say that. She turned, moving toward the door. "I'll see you to the door…"

"I'm not that fond of coffee."

The way those words wrenched out of him halted her steps. She studied the floor, her eyes narrowing in confusion. "Sherlock, I'm not sure…"

"I much prefer tea," he said, his voice pressing.

Memories flooded her mind of the countless cups of coffee she had made him over the years. She had always just assumed…brows furrowing in confusion, Molly turned back to him. "Why didn't you tell me? I would have made you tea."

His eyes looked into hers, hesitant yet determined, as he stood. "You prefer coffee."

That look underlined the significance of that seemingly incongruous statement and her heart felt like it leapt into her throat. "What has that to do with anything?"

He looked away from her then, inclining his head as he focused his attention on the space above her head. She watched him swallow the words he had been about to say, saw the sliver of fear he was trying so hard to conceal widen his eyes slightly.

Something in his face shifted and he clenched his jaw, his eyes dropping to hers. "I didn't wish to inconvenience you."

The man who had manipulated her into wheeling out bodies, lying to the police, and forging government records…believed asking her to make tea instead of coffee was some great imposition. This man, who never let his dislike for anything go unvoiced, had apparently been drinking her coffee without comment for years. Overwhelmed by the potential implications—and completely despite herself—she felt the burn of tears in her eyes once more. "Why?"

His hands balled into fists at his sides, almost as if he was willing the words out of his mouth. "Because…" Shaking his head slightly, he closed his eyes. "I asked too much of you already. Because…you are Molly…and you…"

Her eyes widened and the tears that had been swimming in her eyes began to fall. It sounded as if he cared…about her…but he couldn't possibly…

Swallowing down whatever thoughts had been rushing through his head, Sherlock's eyes opened. Fear and determination warred in his gaze as he moved toward her, slowly. Each step sending her heart pounding even harder in her chest. He stopped just before her and she had to tip her head up to look at him. His voice was low, rough, as he finally spoke, "You matter to me. Too much."

His eyes looked down into hers, raw and penetrating as his impossible confession blazed its way through her mind. Unable to form any semblance of coherent thought, Molly stood stunned, unable to tear her eyes away from his face. It wasn't possible. It couldn't be. And yet…

He was looking at her like he had in the morgue the night before; the way that made her burn. Just like then, every single cell in her body felt like it was vibrating from the honest, unguarded emotion shining down at her from those stunningly blue eyes. She snapped her mouth shut, shaking her head in disbelief as he moved, closing what little space remained between them.

Slowly, deliberately, he leaned in toward her, kissing her cheek as he had done once before all those months ago. This time, though, his lips lingered against her skin. He pulled back slowly and, unlike last time, leaned to bestow the same favor on her other cheek. At the warmth of his lips sliding across her skin for a second time in a delicate caress, Molly gasped softly.

He moved back slightly in response, the edges of his lips soft against her skin as his breath flowed warm and slow over the skin of her cheek. They stayed that way, suspended in the possibilities of that singular moment. She could pull back, bid him goodnight…farewell. It was the safer option, probably the smarter option given the path that lay before him. But as the moment stretched, as the warmth of his skin and breath paired with the intoxicating smell of him hung all around her, it flowed under skin and sent heat curling through her body. She had wanted this, dreamt of this for so long…

Closing her eyes, Molly surrendered to the moment, nodding gently and reached out tentatively, brushing the tips of her fingers to the back of his hand in reassurance. He moved then, his hand sliding up her arm, over the column of her throat, skimming over the sensitive skin beneath her ear before sinking into the still-drying hair at the nape of her neck. He pressed his lips to her cheek once more and breathed in deeply through his nose, taking the scent of her in slowly. His fingertips tightened against the skin at the base of her skull as his breath shuddered out over her cheek and down her neck in a ragged exhale.

He pulled back fully then to look down into her face and Molly's eyes fluttered closed; the intensity of his gaze, his touch, overwhelming her. She felt him draw near, felt his breath dance across her lips; a wave of longing rushing through her at the first tentative touch of his lips to hers. Years' worth of want culminated in that moment and she surrendered to the kiss, molding her lips to his. Slowly, gently, he kissed her; the soft yet insistent feel of his mouth moving against hers shrouded her mind, drawing her into a delicious fog so heady that it blotted out everything but the feel of his skin against hers.

He cradled her head fully, his fingers tangling in her hair as he deepened the kiss, setting her body ablaze with the first brush of his tongue against hers. His free hand spread wide across the small of her back, holding her firmly against him.

Molly moaned, the feeling of his body hard against hers making her ache. She slid her hands up his chest, grabbing handfuls of his shirt and pushed up on her toes. His mouth slid from hers, dragging across her cheek, down to her neck. He kissed her throat in a slow, opened mouth kiss, his tongue stroking her skin and sending pleasure shooting to her core. Molly's fingers shifted to the buttons of his shirt, fumbling in her rush to undo them. He shrugged the rest of the way out of the shirt while her hands travelled over the expanse of his chest, grazing her nails over his skin, and he groaned.

Sherlock kissed his way back up to her mouth, taking her mouth in a frantic kiss before tearing away, his eyes consuming her as they locked on hers. His breathing was labored as his eyes held her captive and he lifted his hands slowly, deliberately to her robe; watching her as his hands pushed the plush fabric aside. Gently, his hands slid over the exposed skin of her stomach, her ribcage, grazing over her breasts before pushing the cumbersome fabric from her shoulders, her arms, to fall to the floor at her feet.

He brought his hands up to cup her face; the naked longing and emotion he allowed to shine through as he looked at her nearly undid her. Molly swallowed hard as a warmth of feeling bloomed in her chest, stretched out, and coursed through her with such strength that tears pricked her eyes. She leaned up and pressed her lips to his gently. Melting into the kiss, she wrapped her arms around his neck, reveling in the feel of his chest rubbing against her breasts in a tantalizing caress as she kissed him the way she had longed to do for far too long.

Tightening his arm around her waist, he guided her backward. When they reached her bed, he lowered her carefully to the bed. With the softness of her mattress at her back and Sherlock's body hard over hers, she shuddered as his hand swept up her leg. His hand caressed the soft skin of her inner thigh, making her moan, making her bite at the fullness of his lip in a silent plea for more. Finally, his hand moved to her center, his mouth breaking from hers in a ragged inhale when his fingers slipped into the wet heat there. A keening whimper escaped against his lips as his long, nimble fingers stroked her in a relentlessly gentle caress. He kissed her fully before his mouth dropped to her neck, dragging to her breasts. He swirled his tongue around her nipple languidly before sucking the pebbled peak into his mouth. The tightness of promised released coiled through her as his teeth closed over the sensitive skin there, that spark of painful pleasure shot to her core and sent her over the edge. She cried out, moaning in desperate gasps as his fingers coaxed her to completion.

He pulled back, discarding his trousers and pants quickly before he dove back to her. He collected her in his arms, holding her closely against him. He kissed her fully, his mouth devouring hers as his length strained against her entrance. She moaned, her body burning with desperation at the hollow ache of him there. It was excruciating, it was delicious and she needed more.

Running her hands up the skin of his back, Molly kissed him back as voraciously as he did her. She hooked one leg over his hip, the other around his leg and pushed her hips up into his slightly, causing his length to push firmly against her in a silent invitation and plea. He broke the kiss with a groan, his eyes blazing into hers, his pupils blown completely. With his breath coming hard and fast, he caressed the skin at her hairline slowly, so slowly, before lowering his head, closing his eyes and kissing her gently. He slid into her, their twin moans of sheer ecstasy vibrating the kiss as he filled her, the delicious sensation setting her alight. When he was deep inside of her, he paused, holding still as he kissed her slowly, yet passionately. The anticipation climbed inside of her and she arched into him with need. He moved then, pulling out before thrusting into her slowly, deeply, straining into her as she gasped against his lips.

She met each thrust, pushing up against him, moving her hips to meet his in each maddeningly slow onslaught. It wasn't long before sobs of ecstasy were ripping from her throat and his movements became faster, more insistent, and her body was once more tightening in that painfully exquisite way. His hand moved to her center, stroking her with every thrust and she fell over the edge. She held tight to his back, holding fast to him as her orgasm coursed through her, pleasure crashing through her body in excruciating waves. His eyes found hers and they absolutely burned with need, with hunger as he looked into her eyes, her mouth, watching her as she came apart beneath him. As the final throb of ecstasy coursed through her, his thrusts grew more urgent. Molly surged up, kissing the skin of his neck, his ear, delighting in the shiver that ran through his body even now. Suddenly his body tensed and a guttural groan ripped from his throat as he pulsed inside of her. His head dropped to the crook of her neck, his heavy and ragged breathing rushing over her heated skin and making her shiver.

Minutes passed as they both lay still, their labored breathing filling the silence as they attempted to compose themselves in the aftermath. Sherlock lifted his head to look in her eyes; the heat, the passion that had been in his eyes was fading, replaced by a tenderness that she could hardly believe. Bringing her hand up to his face, she cupped his cheek gently, smiling softly at him and her heart twisted at the sliver of fear that leapt in his eyes at her gentle touch. He closed his eyes, kissing her forehead as he slipped from her body.

Then he was turning them over, settling under the bed clothes. Neither of them spoke in the silence that stretched out before them. Laying there with her head on his shoulder, certainty settled in Molly's stomach like a sour stone. She felt the strength of earlier fade…in its stead was the overwhelming reality of tomorrow. Brushing it off as best as she could, she turned her head and pressed a kiss to the skin of his chest. His arm tightened around her as he dropped a kiss to the top of her head, slow and lingering, his fingers rubbing a tense, longing caress against her arm. He continued to run his fingers over her arm, the touch soft yet comforting, and she closed her eyes. Absorbing the feeling, focusing on the warmth of his skin. Adrenaline fading from her body, she felt herself beginning to drift into the first layers of sleep. But she couldn't sleep now. She hadn't asked him how long until he had to leave…would she see him again…where was he going…what was he doing…

With the warmth of Sherlock's body all around her, Molly drifted to sleep.

Light streamed in through her bedroom window and Molly woke up with a jolt. Staring up at the ceiling, she didn't move, was too afraid to. When she moved, when she really woke up…he'd be gone.

She wasn't ready for him to be gone.

Taking a steadying breath, she sat up in bed, looked around her room and her stomach sank. He wasn't here. She stood, retrieving her robe from the floor and donned it before walking into the great room of her flat. Sorrow so heavy she could hardly breathe pressed in on her. This room was empty as well.

She sank down into the cushions of her sofa, heart-broken and reeling. When the tears began to fall at last, she knew there would be no stopping them this time. She looked up and froze; a folded piece of paper with her name—in his atrocious handwriting—scratched across the top, sat propped against a candle on the table in front of her. Reaching out to grab the small bit of crisp white, she unfolded it to find a single sentence scrawled inside.

Never doubt your importance to me.

The control of the past few days began to slip entirely from her body and she cried in earnest, sobbing gently into the quiet of her flat. Falling back against the cushions, Molly clutched the paper in her hand.

He was gone.