The dying sun cast a long, dark shadow in front of her as Molly Hooper made her way up the street to St. Bart's. It was the second day of the year and her first day at work at the morgue from the winter holiday. Her breath plumed out in front of her on the cold air and she pulled her coat more tightly about herself. Not that it helped. It was cold and there were shadows everywhere.

It was a new year in London, the city where she'd lived for years. And yet, she felt unsettled. Everything felt different, hollow. Everyone she cared about seemed different.

Last year had shown real promise. Sherlock Holmes had returned from the dead and his favorable reputation had been restored. Well, Molly was one of few people who knew he hadn't really died and she'd helped him fake his demise. John Watson, their mutual friend, had found love, married and started a family. He'd even managed to eventually forgive Sherlock for keeping him in the dark about his alleged death. Molly herself had met a nice young man named Tom and had accepted his proposal of marriage. Everything, for a short period of time, seemed well and good.

It hadn't taken long for it all to go to hell.

Her feelings for Sherlock had returned with the consulting detective and not long after John and Mary's wedding, she'd realized staying with Tom, when she loved someone else, would be dishonest. Yes, she knew he looked like Sherlock and he was extremely kind, patient. They could have made a life together. It just wasn't in her to be that selfish, to string Tom along so she wouldn't be alone. So she broke off their engagement.

While she didn't regret it, she did come to realize she held a certain resentment towards Sherlock because he'd never return her feelings and she knew that now. As much as she wanted to blame him for Tom and everything else, it wasn't his fault. Molly told herself she was no longer waiting to see if he'd ever feel something for her but deep down, she was. She knew she was. And waiting in vain for Sherlock would inevitably result in the life of a lonely, telly-watching, cat-loving spinster.

Her mother must be so proud.

Right before the holidays, Sherlock took on a case as dark as the winter days and in a very short period of time, he'd ended up back on drugs – for a case he said though she wasn't certain she believed that. He'd been shot and nearly died, left the hospital before he should have to continue the case only to kill the man at its center, Charles Magnussen, himself to protect John and Mary. He would have been nearly dead and exiled were it not for the threat of Jim Moriarty's return, his face striking fear in Molly's heart each time she saw it on a news report or paper.

She'd unknowingly dated him the first time he'd tried to take Sherlock down. Molly shook her head at her own not-so-fabulous taste in men. Scratch that earlier thought. Her mother must think her a right idiot.

Checking her watch, Molly sped up. She was already a couple of minutes late for work.

Mary Watson had been the one to fill in the rest of the details as to what had happened over the Christmas holiday. She'd asked Molly over to tea only a couple of days ago and the normally bubbly blonde woman was the picture of misery when she'd greeted her at the door. Mary, in confidence and while her husband John was elsewhere, had filled Molly in on all the details of the Magnussen case, including her part in it. By the time she got around to telling Molly that is was she who shot Sherlock and how the same consulting detective had killed Charles Magnussen in an effort to protect John and his family because of her past, she'd been an absolute emotional wreck.

Molly had been as supportive as she could in that moment. She'd tried, really had, not to focus on the part where this woman, her friend, had actually shot the man Molly had been in love with for so long. It hadn't been easy. Mary had the love of a good man who had committed himself to her. She was carrying his child and their love was so strong, he'd been able to forgive her for concealing her past as an assassin from him. John had even been able to forgive Mary for shooting his best friend.

Honestly, the woman had everything Molly herself could ever want. And she did understand Mary's desperation to protect that – even if it meant shooting Sherlock Holmes.

The thing she couldn't do was to tell Mary that she absolutely forgave her. Not in that moment. How could she? Mary of all people knew how Molly felt about Sherlock. Maybe Molly was of no more importance to him than a hat rack, but he meant so much to her. Mary's act, even to protect herself and those she loved, was a selfish one. Sherlock hadn't been in the wrong. He'd merely been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Sure, Mary had been deadly in another life and had deliberately tried not to kill Sherlock. But she almost had killed him. That, Molly had to reconcile with herself and she told Mary that.

So, yes, their visit had ended a bit awkwardly and Molly's heart was heavy that she couldn't give her friend the complete comfort and forgiveness she desperately wanted. Yet. But Molly had nothing if not her honesty. Molly wasn't a lot of things: beautiful, vivacious, charismatic. She was, however, honest and loyal. Very loyal.

Most of her life she'd considered it a strength. The last several turbulent weeks had her reconsidering that. What if her loyalty were really a terrible weakness?

Trying to get herself into work mode, she tried to clear her mind as she approached the entrance she always used for the hospital.

Across the street from the hospital back entrance Molly was fast approaching, was a girl shivering in the cold. She wore a dirty jacket that couldn't have been much protection from the bitter cold, high heels, and black stockings with rips in them. Probably not twenty yet and a prostitute if Molly had to guess. They usually didn't work in the area of the hospital though.

The girl made eye contact with Molly for the briefest of moments, her eyes heavily rimmed in black before she hid behind a curtain of dark hair. She looked ashamed to be there and Molly's heart squeezed in her chest. Poor thing. Here Molly had been feeling sorry for herself when she at least had a place to live, a respectable job, and plenty to eat. From the looks of the poor creature across the street, she wasn't even well fed. Long, painfully-thin legs gave testament to that.

With a deep sigh and pity in her heart, Molly pulled open the door to the hospital and headed to her office. She'd get the girl a nice hot cup of coffee, maybe something from the canteen. Dropping off her coat and purse in her office and pulling on her lab coat, she headed up to unlock the morgue, check everything quickly so she could go get sustenance for the girl.

Molly was in such a rush to get something for the girl before she wandered away or got picked up, she really wasn't watching where she was headed. Flinging open the door, she collided with a tall, solid form. Hard. Strong hands gripping her arms and kept her from falling backwards, probably in an undignified heap on the floor.

"You seem to be in a bit of a hurry, Molly," he said, the sound of his deep, rich voice washing over her.

Glancing up into his handsome face, Molly smiled. Despite everything, she was happy to see him. Especially now that she knew how close she had been to never seeing him again. If not for his wound, she might even have hugged him even though she knew he'd probably hate that.

"How are you, Sherlock?"

He didn't release her until she took a small step back. He was so much taller than she and she was in his personal space which he didn't care for either.

"I'm fine, Molly."

From the looks of him, that was far from the truth. Sherlock was normally fair, but now his pallor was alarmingly pale. The shadows beneath his eyes were dark so he couldn't have been sleeping. He was thinner than normal which meant he wasn't eating and might be using – or both.

Shaking her head, she decided to let it go. Sherlock was there because he wanted something. The faster she could find out what it was, the faster she could run her errand of mercy.

"Well, what can I do for you today?" Molly asked, hoping she sounded like her normal, besotted self.

"Molly, I just wanted to come by…" Sherlock stopped, seemed to be at a loss for words.

Poor thing. He must really be feeling poorly, she decided. The Sherlock Holmes struggling for words?

"That is, I just…"

His beautiful eyes, she could never decide if they were strictly green or blue, were focused on anything but her and she could feel the agitation coming off him.

"Sherlock? Is everything okay?" Okay, now she was beginning to worry. "He hasn't…"

Had Moriarty moved against him? Now, when he was so frail?

"No." Sherlock's brow furrowed and now he met her gaze. He took a deep breath before saying, "Ijustwantedtothankyou…"

Sherlock had mumbled. That never happened either. Placing a gentle hand on his arm, she tried to steer him in the direction of the chair he usually inhabited at her microscope.

"I think perhaps you should sit down," she suggested.

Sherlock grabbed her hand and pulled it away from his arm, but held it in his. His face was a study in annoyance – but that was a good sign.

"I don't need to sit down," Sherlock stated with something like his normal authority. "I came by to say thank you, Molly. That is all."

"For what?" she couldn't help asking. She really hadn't seen him since she'd run the drug screen John had requested and slapped him silly for using drugs again. Surely he didn't mean that, did he?

"Saving my life," he said simply.

Molly was confused. "Sherlock, you've already thanked me for that. You know I was glad to help you with… well, the fall, I guess. You know I'd do most anything for you."

She probably shouldn't have said all of that. It was true though.

Normally her rambling earned her a look that made her feel like an absolute moron. Yet his eyes were kind, his expression soft.

"I wasn't referring to that particular occasion, Molly. I was… just thank you."

Molly's heart sank as she took him in. For once he seemed small in his Belstaff, looked so lost.

Not knowing what else to say, she just said, "You're welcome, Sherlock. Always."

"John's not permitting me to take any cases at the moment, so if I don't see you for a few days, there's your explanation."

The line was meant to mark his exit. He squeezed her hand gently before he released it, turning on his heel to make his way out of the morgue.

"If I don't see you for a few days," Molly called to him before he was out of earshot, "I'll know you're at death's door."

That stopped him. He actually smiled at her over his shoulder that. "Or it means John is holding me captive and I require rescuing."

"I'll keep that in mind," she told him, waving as he turned and walked away.

Require rescuing? Was that an invitation to stop by 221B Baker Street? What could he mean?

Stop it, Molly. The man looks like death warmed over. You can't take what he's saying right now seriously.

He'd thanked her for saving his life but he didn't mean when she'd helped him fake his death. Had he meant when she'd slapped him for the drugs? He hadn't been about to die…

Shaking her head, she decided to analyze it ad nauseum when she was at home with her cat.

At the moment, she was on a mission. In a remarkably short amount of time, she'd gotten coffee and a loaded styro container of food from the canteen. Not the best food in the world but it was hot. Dashing out of the hospital door, her gaze immediately found the girl, now crouched down on the sidewalk across the street, looking cold and miserable.

Without any hesitation, Molly headed for the girl, coffee and food container in hand. By the time she reached the girl and saw the despair in her face, she'd decided no one would really care if she brought the girl into the morgue to eat and warm up. Well, as much as one could warm up in the morgue.

Molly never noticed Sherlock in the shadows by her building, watching her walk the girl across the street and into the hospital.