This is the same story, but told from Sherlock's perspective instead of Molly's. Thanks to those of you who asked for this version for encouraging me to finish it. :)

This is the clean version. I'll post the smutty version as a separate story if I ever manage to get it done.

Breaking into Molly's flat would have been easy even without a key. Escaping house arrest at Baker Street and evading Mycroft's goons required a bit more skill, but was easy enough considering Mycroft hadn't assigned his best and brightest to the task.

It was the decision to go to Molly's at all that had been difficult. The best way to keep her from harm was to keep his distance, to keep the fact of their friendship discreet. No one other than his closest friends needed to know she was anything more to him than a convenient lab assistant. The disastrous Magnusen case made that abundantly clear. Sherlock would not allow her to become one of his 'pressure points'.

He had considered sending her a text, but the version of John in his mind palace convinced him that was not good, too cold even for a self-proclaimed sociopath.

No doubt Mycroft could have arranged a secret meeting to allow a proper farewell as he had agreed to do for the Watsons. But it was his brother as much as anyone that Sherlock wished to shelter Molly from. Better for him to simply disappear without a word than put her under unnecessary scrutiny from the British government.

In the end though, he couldn't just disappear. She deserved better and he wanted to say goodbye. So he found himself standing in her darkened bedroom in the middle of the night, contemplating which method of waking her was least likely to induce screaming or get him slapped.

After a moment, he eased down onto the edge of her bed and gently shook her shoulder.

"Molly." he whispered.

She twitched and gave a little sniff, but didn't wake. He nudged her shoulder again, this time to better result.

"Sherlock? What do you want?" She muttered and raised up for a second, before collapsing back against the pillows.

"I'm leaving London tomorrow, Molly."

"Ok." Her eyes drooped back closed. He waited for his words to penetrate the fog of her sleep. It only took a second.

"Hold on, What? Wh-where are you going?" She came fully awake, reaching for the lamp.

"Don't get up." He caught her shoulder before she could flick the light on. Better to keep her flat dark if Mycroft's less-than-best were looking for him.

"Eastern Europe." he continued, "I can't tell you where exactly."

"When will you be back?"

"I'm not coming back this time." it pained him more to say it aloud than he expected.

"What? What's happened?" She stared up at him in alarm.

"Short version. I made a mistake and the only solution was to do something illegal. In front of witnesses, unfortunately. A lot of people are better off, but certain people in power did not approve, so there are consequences."

"What are you saying? Can I help? I can be a character witness or something. No, wait...Can't your brother do something?" Her voice pitched up and she sucked in a sharp breath. He lightly rubbed her shoulder, trying to reassure her.

"Do calm down, Molly. Mycroft has already done everything that can be done. He arranged for the assignment I'm taking. I find it preferable to incarceration. At least it won't be boring. Besides, I've ridded London of her most repugnant criminals. Well, technically, I suppose Moriarty ridded London of himself."

He smiled faintly at the bit of humor and saw the corners of her mouth twitch up, echoing his expression.

They were both silent for a long moment. He was afraid any more details would just upset her. It was time to do what he came for and say goodbye. He looked down and noticed he was tapping out a nervous rhythm on her shoulder with his thumb. Not good. He needed to get on with it.

But she spoke before he had the chance. "I don't want you to go."

His throat tightened. First his thumb, now his throat. His body was betraying him. He swallowed, forcing his words out in a course whisper.

"I told John once that he was my only friend, but that wasn't true. You are my friend too, a much better one than I deserved. I will miss you, Molly."

He leaned in and brushed her forehead with a quick kiss before rising to go.

She grabbed his arm, whispering, "But, it's suicide."

That stopped him short. How did she know that? He'd said nothing about danger or death, only that he wouldn't be returning. No one else he'd told, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, even Billy Wiggins, who was moderately observant, had figured out his assignment wasn't survivable. Yet, Molly had. Oh, of course! He'd referred to himself in the past tense and she'd caught it. His clever Molly! He wondered for a nano-second when she had become "his". But, that was a tangent.

"A suicide mission." she went on, in a slightly stronger voice. "It's the only way it makes sense. Oh God, Sherlock. What are you going to do?"

He put all the confidence he could muster into his response even though he didn't believe it himself. "Mycroft thinks we have about six months to plan a daring escape. I have a reputation for being somewhat indestructible that I would prefer to keep intact."

"I did watch you jump off a building and survive." she played along, but wasn't quite convinced. She still had his coat sleeve twisted up in her her fingers.

She went on, sounding resigned, "But you can't come back here, can you? Even afterward? Not ever." Leave it to Molly to hone right in on the aspect of the situation that disturbed him even more than the idea of dying.

He shook his head, planning to give her a moment, then gently extract his arm from her grasp.

"Sherlock? Will you do something for me? Will you..." her voice broke.

For a moment he feared she was going to cry. He had a list of things to attend to before he left London. 'Make Molly Hooper cry' was most definitely not on the list.

"...sleep with me?"

He froze. Had he heard her right? He hadn't seen that coming. His mind raced trying to figure out how to respond, while his body stood there staring blankly at her.

The idea of sex with her didn't bother him, quite the opposite, but he shoved that observation away before it could take hold. Instead he focused on figuring out why she would suddenly ask for sex now? Oh...Obvious, really. She thought he was going to die.

"No, that's not..." she stammered, "It didn't come out right. I-I mean, will you just stay her for the night?"

So either she hadn't actually asked for sex, or she had, but immediately thought better of the idea. He favored the latter.

He seized the opportunity to tell her why he couldn't stay.

"I'm not supposed to be away from Baker Street. Some nonsense about house arrest. Apparently, I am a danger to society." Although technically the truth, it sounded absurd. He instantly regretted saying it.

It didn't matter, though. Molly stumbled on, so wrapped up in her own embarrassment, that she clearly missed what he said. "I never believed those articles in the papers. I know sex is, erm...not your area. It's ok. I just... just stay until I fall asleep? Please?"

Somewhere in the back of his mind he heard John yelling at him. 'You've made a right mess of it now, Mate. Just go. Just leave before things get really weird.'

Instead, Sherlock heard himself whisper, "Alright."

She scooted over and lifted the blankets motioning for him to get in beside her. For God's sake, what had he just done? He slowly removed his scarf, coat and jacket, laying them over the end of the bed. He quickly played out four, no five different scenarios for begging off. It was no good, each one involved leaving her angry or in tears, or both, none of which was his objective. The only option was to do as agreed and wait for her to fall asleep. It was only for a couple of hours at most. He slid off his shoes and laid down on his side, fully clothed, next to her.

"You wish to be..." he searched for the best word...snuggled? hugged?

"Cuddled?" he said at last, mentally cringing at his choice.

Molly rolled away from him, and slid backwards until her back was pressed up against his torso, her bum fitting neatly into the curve of his hips and thighs. She reached back, found his arm and pulled it around her.

She tucked his hand up against her solar plexus, the edge of one breast brushing against his wrist in a not unpleasant way. Her breathing and pulse were rapid. He began estimating the time before sleep would overtake her in her heightened state, and wondered if offering to rub her back might help. He imagined that leading to other forms of touching. Maybe not, then.

"What will you do, you know, after your 'daring escape'? Where will you go?" she asked softly.

"I don't know."

"Will you let me know, somehow? Just an anonymous text or a blank postcard or something?"

"Why?" he asked. Surely it would only cause her more pain to wait for a message that would never come.

"To let me know you've survived, of course! I can keep a secret, you know. Promise me."

She was really asking him to promise her he would survive. He shifted uncomfortably. It was a promise he didn't think could be kept. Could he find a way to survive a situation Mycroft was convinced would lead to his death? And afterward, could he go on living without ever being Sherlock Holmes again? Survive? Maybe. But afterwards? Then what? Maybe he would take up bee keeping. Not bloody likely.

"Promise?" She asked again.

He blew out a breath and said it anyway. "Promise."

"Are you scared?" she asked, barely a whisper.

He had no idea where to begin to answer that and decided it best not to even try. He took a deep breath, slipping into his mind palace while he waited for sleep to descend upon the woman curled up against him. Her hair smelled of strawberry shampoo with the antiseptic undertones of the morgue, an odd combination of scents he found surprisingly appealing. He began analyzing and cataloging the scent, storing it away with his other memories of Molly.

He caught himself pulling her closer as she relaxed into slumber. Doing so made no sense as it would only be more difficult to extricate himself. He was surprised to find he no longer cared to make a quick exit. Tomorrow, he would bid John farewell and board a plane, bound for danger. The game would once again be on, different and deadlier this time. Facing that game with nothing but his wits to keep him alive and without the hindrance of protecting those he cared for should have been exhilarating. It wasn't. It made his stomach clench.

"The east wind is coming, Molly. I'm terrified." He murmured.

He pushed the thought away, focusing on observing the slow rhythm of Molly's breathing as she drifted off.

Half an hour before her alarm was set to sound, Sherlock rose and quietly slipped on his shoes, jacket and coat, his armor against what was coming. He began to knot his scarf around his neck as he stepped through the bedroom door, ready to disappear into the cold night, to turn up his collar and go be Sherlock Holmes for the last time. He turned back, unwound his scarf and draped it lightly over her shoulder as she slept.