Molly was exhausted. It had truly been an eventful month, in which the name of Sherlock Holmes had been cleared, Molly had had to perform no more than ten autopsies, and Mrs. Hudson had invited her to lunch eleven times. Molly wanted nothing more than to go home and curl up with her cat and some good long fantasy novel. It had been two years since Sherlock Holmes's apparent demise, and his "death" had torn everyone apart. However, in the two years since then, all who were close to him had picked up the pieces and vowed to go on.

All except for one.

Molly still felt strangely hollow, always thinking of the consulting detective who, under the fluorescent lights of a morgue, pledged to someday return to London, to her.

Molly shook off these thoughts and pulled her locker open. In the door's mirror, she jumped, shocked, as she saw a shadowy figure with a mop of curls standing right behind her. Molly whirled around, and there he was.

Sherlock Holmes, slightly leaner than the last time Molly had seen him, stood before her. She couldn't speak. She just smiled happily at the sight of her consulting detective standing in front of her.

"And so we meet again, Sherlock," Molly breathed.

"As promised, my dear Molly...I am truly back."