His face was blank, almost frozen. His body was still as well, so still it was impossible to tell if any breath inflated his chest. Steely gray-blue eyes remained open, staring fixedly but unfocused.

Sherlock Holmes was dead.

Molly shivered looking at him. He was dead but alive. Alive and sitting stock-still on her sofa.

Sometimes people went into shock after a death. Molly was a doctor and though all her particular patients were lacking joie de vivre, she remembered with clarity her psych rotations in medical school. Her education taught her the academic side of grief and loss and the varied reactions humans had to such occurrences . Personal experience, too, also made her familiar with the effects of death on survivors. The living, those left behind, often retreated into a world of despair inside their own heads. Though alive and in perfect health, Sherlock Holmes was to all intents and purposes legally deceased. And he seemed to be in shock over it. Actually, he might even be catatonic. Molly worried. Despite all her knowledge of death, she was unsure how to help him. He had not budged an inch nor spoken a word in the last 3 hours.

Initially he rambled on without stop in his usual fast paced speech when Molly had rescued him from his body bag at the lab earlier. After clearing his system of the anesthesia she had injected him with after his staged jump off of the roof of St. Bart's into a passing rubbish lorry (one she had driven herself, sweating the entire time in fear that her timing and speed would be off with his plunge) he had interrogated her with one million and one questions- "Is John safe? Does he suppose I'm dead? Did you rush my post-mortem? Have you supplied a body to the crematorium for my funeral?"- until he made himself absolutely sure that his plan had gone off without a hitch. After all that, it was a silent ride to her flat, and then 3 hours of silence on her sofa.

Molly fretted over whether to say or do something for him. It was reassuring in an odd way. She always fretted about what to say or do around him. No change there then…

"Sh- Sherlock?" she tried tentatively. As usual he didn't seem to hear her. She raised her voice to a more forceful squeak, "Sherlock, are you OK?"

"Thinking…." he said, tonelessly. It was an automatic answer. Something cold like a voicemail greeting, a warning to shut up and let him think. Molly could tell that he still wasn't aware of her question, much less her presence. The answer was given by the 1% of his brain not ruminating on his current problem.

Molly nearly slunk away, cowed. Then she considered better.

"Thinking about what? Our next move?"

Sherlock immediately came back to the present. Like an eagle rotating its head on its shoulders to eye prey, he cocked his head toward her and blinked. "Our next move?"

Molly's mouth fell open a fraction. Under his intense gaze she quickly closed it and gulped. "Um…yeah. Just wondering what we do next?" she murmured.

Sherlock knitted his brow and gazed at her with a look that was otherwise unreadable. "Molly," he said firmly, "There is no 'our' next move. There is no what 'we' do next. I told you last night when I asked for your help what was to be done. I fake my death with your help and then hide out for some time in your flat until after my funeral. And then I leave. Alone. I have endangered you enough by involving you in this scheme of mine. I will not be responsible for endangering you further."

"But you can't!" Molly cried. His gaze turned instantly sharp and she could tell he was going to contradict her. "I can't let you," she said, quickly, "You can't be alone. The gunmen after John and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson are still out there. You won't rest until you ensnare them. You've given up your whole life for your friends, Sherlock, and I- I-" Molly began to stammer. She paused a moment and swallowed hard while shutting her eyes to clam herself. Then, resolutely, "I intend to help you get it back."

Her voice gathered a firmness that made Sherlock consider her before speaking. In all of an instant she went from being jumpy to being steadfastly brave. He had only seen her firm once before, only 24hours before, when she had asked without hesitation what he needed of her.

"And how do you suppose to help now? If you have a plan worth executing I might consider you."

Molly stared at him dumbfounded. "I rather thought you already had a plan," she admitted meekly.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and shrugged, irritably. "No. I was doing my best to concoct something before you interrupted me. If you can come up with something reasonably logical, Molly, I'll have you along. Otherwise, I think for myself and only for myself. I cannot and will not be responsible for more people than myself. You see what danger my friends get into by there acquaintance with me."

Molly twisted her hands. It was on her. One shot to prove she could be off use to him otherwise her role in all of this was over…

"You need money," she tried, hesitating, "You had only hours to plan your death so I'm sure you couldn't empty your bank accounts. That would have been suspicious, too, emptying your accounts before dying…."

"It would have reeked of insurance fraud, and possibly would have tipped off Moriarty," Sherlock conceded. "Go on."

"…And you can't empty your accounts now because your dead, obviously," Molly continued, "So you do need money. I have money."

"Indeed," commented Sherlock without emotion.

"You can't get out of the country by air, no passport when you are legally dead…"

Sherlock inclined his head. "True. Any ideas how to remedy that?"

Molly thought to herself. If he couldn't go through customs by air then that left two options…

"A train," she proposed, "Go by Chunnel. Or by boat. To France perhaps?"

"I like France," Sherlock commented, gently. "But what to do when there?"

He was visibly relaxed now, reclined back into the cushions of the sofa. Molly blushed when she realized he was playing a game with her. One he obviously thought she would lose but was so far reasoning out intelligently. It gave her some courage. She continued on less shakily.

"You've no identification, so you can't get a proper hotel. That leaves hostels. I'm sure you'd have no qualms about spending my money for a private room in a hostel but my funds can only go so far if I leave my job at the lab to run off with you. It'd be better if we bunked in a shared dorm. Those uni kids leave their stuff unattended most of the time. Knowing you, you could pilfer spare change quite easily and it'd be difficult to prove you a thief."

Sherlock outright laughed at that. "Dear, Molly! You are quite criminal to suggest such a thing. Although to be fair, if anyone were to steal from us I'm sure I could deduced the thief out of a whole room of bunk beds."

Molly smiled sheepishly. "And," she spoke up, grabbing his attention once again, "Shady people sometimes stay in hostels. We could find someone to deal you a false new passport."

Sherlock considered her a moment further. "Well," he said at last, "After this mornings events I suppose you've proved and earned your worth. We leave as soon as my funeral is held."