Sherlock was sat on a bench in the park when Molly approached him. He was difficult to pick out from a crowd now, if you didn't know what to look for. The high-collared coat and blue scarf had to go. They were too obvious now – the whole country knew about him. If he was to blend in with his surroundings, and convince the nation that the Great Sherlock Holmes really was dead, then going into hiding in plain sight was what he had to do. And, being a master of disguise, Sherlock was fairly difficult to spot.

This particular December afternoon, he was wrapped up well in a thick parker jacket, sunglasses shielding his eyes from the blinding (and surprising) winter sun, and a red scarf covering his neck and chin. He wore no hat. Instead, he allowed all passersby to see his new hair cut; not that any of them would care. All those lovely curls were now cut short. Molly wasn't sure she liked them that way.

She sat down beside him on the park bench where he was seated; just watching the world passing by as he stared with bored eyes at the paper before him. Molly noticed, from a quick look, that all of the quizzes had been solved on the puzzle page. In biro, too, rather than pencil. Sherlock didn't make mistakes, and Molly was certain that Sherlock could have taken one look at that piece of paper and then completed the whole thing in his mind. He must have been really bored to put in the extra effort and write it all down. Sherlock never wrote things down. Not even the important stuff. After watching him work for years, and admiring his every move every day, Molly had learned odd little things about him like that.

"Hello, Sherlock," She said timidly, shifting just a little bit closer to him along the bench. Sherlock made no move towards her. He made sure to keep his body language very defensive.

"Good afternoon, Molly Hooper," Sherlock answered, as was customary.

The two of them had had meetings similar to this very one over the course of the past nine months. In places where people were always about, but minded their own business, so there was minimal chance of being overheard. Sherlock had been sure to sit on the very same bench, reading the same weekly newspaper, every Thursday of the year, at exactly eleven o'clock in the morning. Habit was something ordinary people did; if he was to fit in, he would have to develop habits, such as this. It also came in handy when "bumping into" Molly, out and about. On-lookers would not think it was a pre-arranged meeting.

"I brought you something." Molly said, holding out a brown paper bag.

Sherlock took it from her and brought out the home-baking that Molly had gone to the trouble to make especially for him; "What's this?"

"It's cake. I thought you might like some," Then she added, with a self-satisfied smile; "You said you like cake."

"No, I said I like muffins," He answered, coldly, "This is not a muffin. A muffin is made from a thick batter and generally contains either fruit or nuts. This is a flour-based food with a lighter sponge; decorated with pink icing and an edible flower. It's obviously a cupcake. Honestly, Molly. I thought you knew better."

Molly's smile faded. "Oh. Sorry. I didn't know there was...classifications of...cake...I just...made some and...thought you might..." He met her gaze. She froze. "...like one."

Sherlock watched, almost with some kind of fascination in his eyes, as Molly dropped her gaze to the gravelled path beneath her feet and went silent. Reading human emotions had never been one of his strong suits. It had never been important. But John had helped him understand more about the basic human mind and emotions – even if it was something he had tried to forget.

His deduction: Molly felt embarrassed. She was trying to be kind, and Sherlock had done nothing but criticize her for it.

He sighed; "Thank you." He said stiffly, and realised he wouldn't have said anything of the sort before he met John. Manners were a waste of time. Time that could be spent doing other useful things such as thinking or experimenting – or, in this case, getting to the matter at hand.

"So how's he doing?" Sherlock said, forcing down the sickly-sweet taste of Molly's cupcake, and taking off his sunglasses.

Both of them knew who he was talking about, but Sherlock refused to say his name out loud.

"No improvement," Molly answered, "He's the same as he has been for weeks."

"So what have you come to tell me?"

"I just..." Molly seemed to be struggling for words. Either there was no real reason why Molly had requested another meeting, or whatever she wanted to talk about was difficult for her to bring up.

She huffed in frustration at herself; "Don't you think," She finally said, "that if you told John the truth –"

"No."

"You don't even know what I was about to say."

"It's obvious."

"But Sherl –"

"No, Molly." He glared at her; his dark eyes now slightly menacing, "If I thought John knowing would do the slightest good for anything then don't you think I would have told him by now? It's too much of a risk, Molly."

Molly watched as he stared out at the dewy grass of the park. It was a bleak day, and only an old man, walking his dog, could be seen quite a fair distance away. The clouds were grey above their heads, and a bitter breeze was getting ever so slightly stronger in the air. She knew by the far-off look in Sherlock's eyes, that he wasn't seeing any of it. The furrow in his brow was a clear sign that he was irritated, and in deep thought.

"Listen, Sherlock," Molly said; and Sherlock noticed a change in her voice. She was no longer timid, or embarrassed; she sounded confident. What she was about to say would come from the heart, "You can't live this life forever. At some point, someone will recognise you. You can't live the rest of your life in hiding, and trying to fit in with the rest of society. You need to clear your name."

"It can't be done, Molly –"

"Just shush! Alright? Just listen to what I have to say!" Surprisingly, Sherlock allowed her to carry on, "You need to clear your name – but the only way you can do that is by getting people on your side. I want to help you. You can't do this alone – and just me won't be much help either. If you tell John you're still alive, he can help too. And, trust me Sherlock, he will be thrilled to see you. We can start a campaign –"

"It can't be done, Molly!" He shouted, in that booming voice of his. There was anger in his eyes now – annoyance at how stupid Molly could be; how ignorant. But mostly annoyance at himself. Because, for once, he had stumbled across a case that he could not solve, "It can't be done! I've thought and I've thought for the past ten months, about possible ways of announcing to the world that I'm not dead – about convincing the entire British nation that I'm not a fraud. But they won't want to hear it! And consider this; even though Moriarty is dead, what about that web he weaved? Those connections of people all working for him – the ones who were ready to shoot John, and Mrs Hudson and Lestrade – do you not remember that they were under strict orders to shoot if I didn't die? What do you think will happen when they find out Mr Sherlock Holmes fooled them? Do you think they will be happy? No. I sincerely think not. So if you think there's any way, any possible way, that I can tell John and get the entire nation back on my side – "Believing in Sherlock Holmes" – then tell me Molly Hooper. Because, honestly, I think it would be an utter waste of time for everyone involved."

Sherlock watched as his harsh words took effect. He watched as a single tear rolled down Molly's pale cheek and he noticed that the fierce hero who had been sat beside him just a moment before had crumbled.

"I was just trying to help," She finally whispered after a while, "I just...I wanted to..."

Her voice faltered and another tear was shed. Annoyed at herself for being so weak, she wiped it quickly away. Then, with some new-found courage, Molly found the strength to carry on.

"John misses you," She said, "and before you ask how I know; it's obvious. He hardly eats, and Mrs Hudson says that he doesn't go to bed anymore. He just sits in his armchair...thinking – and doesn't talk to anyone, if he can help it. His therapist is getting nowhere with him." Molly looked at Sherlock, but he refused to return her gaze. No emotion could be read off that pale face of his, "He's better than he was in the beginning; he even leaves the flat, occasionally. But he's not the same man he once was, Sherlock. I didn't know him well but...he's changed. Dramatically. What you've done to him; it's not good for him, in any way. He's severely depressed –"

"It's been ten months –"

"But he's still not over it, Sherlock," Molly said desperately, "That's what you need to understand. And I'm worried that, if he doesn't improve soon, that he'll be left in this troubled state for...well, maybe the rest of his life."

There was still no response from Sherlock. Molly continued to look at him, trying to read his expression, but Sherlock dropped his eyes to the ground and still did not look at her.

"If you don't do it for you, Sherlock," She said, "At least do it for John."

Molly didn't wait for a reply after that. She knew there was a small chance of getting an answer out of him.

But as she walked away – shoulders hunched over because of the cold – Sherlock lifted his eyes and stared after her silhouette as it shrunk away into the distance.

"Thank you, Molly Hooper," He whispered.

And, without waiting a second more, he stood up, walked out of the park, and hailed a passing cab.

"221B Baker Street," He said to the driver, after climbing in.