Disclaimer: I own nothing but my mind, my dears.

Summary: Sometimes, Molly wonders if Sherlock Holmes is a figment of her imagination, torn from the deep recesses of her heart and soul to taunt her with something that she's always wanted but could never have.

A/N: Another one bites the dust. Sheesh, I'm on a roll aren't I? I love you guys I love you guys I love you guys. Hopefully you all enjoy. Reviews are always appreciated and like always any mistakes are mine and mine alone.

Also: just a little warning, there is some violence. I don't think it's anything to graphic but it does mention death and stuff. But like I said, nothing too graphic. Just wanted to let you guys know, in case violence is a trigger.

All the things said and unsaid

One-shot

When Molly Hooper agrees to kill Sherlock Holmes, she knew what she was getting into.

In theory, at least.

In actuality, she has no idea what she's getting into.

The potential consequences of her actions weigh heavily on her mind as she wipes the dried blood off Sherlock and bandages his injuries. They're in the comfort of her flat and she has him braced against the tub, bending and contorting his body to the way she needs him, in order to clean him up and fix him. (Fix him. She doesn't even know where to begin to fix him.)

They don't say anything. She's well aware of what he thinks about her attempts at conversation with him and she's too exhausted and wired to deal with any insults today. Especially today. Especially right now. Because she just killed the man she loves. (She wonders if he knows how that makes her feel. She wonders if he knows that when he jumped off the roof, he inadvertently took her with him.) So, she stays silent and revels in the deep breaths he takes. In and out. Inhale and exhale. (He's alive. He's broken but alive and if Molly had the energy, she would weep with joy, but she doesn't have the energy to weep, so she doesn't say anything.)

Her mind begins to wander. She thinks about John and wonders what he's doing right now. Is he still kneeling on the pavement outside of Bart's wondering where it all went wrong? She thinks about Greg and wonders if he's even aware of his surroundings or if he's just going through the motions of living. She thinks about Mrs. Hudson and she wonders if she's standing in 221b Baker Street, looking around at the flat that once belonged to a man she considers (considered, Molly reminds herself, considered) a surrogate son.

She wonders if she's going to get fired. If all her autopsies are going to be questioned. She wouldn't be surprised if they were. She wouldn't be surprised if she gets suspended. (It doesn't matter what happens, Molly will never ever regret helping Sherlock. Never.)

She's jolted out of her thoughts when she feels hesitant fingertips dance along her pulse point on her wrist. "Are you alright?" She asks him. "Do you need any more pain medication? I can-"

"You're thinking too loudly." He interrupts her. "I...Mycroft will ensure nothing happens."

Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes. The man who looked at her with a pitying expression that Christmas day at the morgue when Sherlock took her heart and smashed it by identifying the woman-Irene Adler-on her slab by not-her-face.

She has a feeling that Mycroft Holmes doesn't like her very much.

"I can handle it." She tells him. "I can handle anything."

(I handled killing you, I can handle anything, is what she doesn't say.)

Despite her protests, he leaves that night. Or rather, early the next morning. (The time doesn't really matter, he still leaves.)

"You'll be careful, won't you?" She asks worriedly.

He nods sharply, not wanting to acknowledge the fact that she is worried and scared that when he leaves, it will be the last time she sees him for God knows how long.

She takes a step forward and her mind swims. She's so close to him, her hands reach out and her fingers trace imaginary shapes on his coat (it's not the Belstaff, she had to burn that one, she mourned for it.) "Sherlock…" she trails off, unsure of what to say. Unsure if she should say anything. Be safe. Take care. Don't die. Come back. Come back. Come back.

His hands grip hers and she slips her fingers between his, interlacing them. He's trembling lightly and Molly wonders if it's residual adrenaline or something else entirely. "Thank you, Molly Hooper." He hesitates slightly and then bends his head to place a dry kiss that sears through her cheek.

She blinks and then he's gone.

(Sometimes, Molly wonders if Sherlock Holmes is a figment of her imagination, torn from the deep recesses of her heart and soul to taunt her with something that she's always wanted but could never have.)

John starts working in the A&E at Bart's. He comes to see her in the morgue a month after Sherlock dies.

"Oh!" She gasps upon seeing him. She gives him a small smile. "Hello."

"Hello Molly." He replies, he tries to smile back but it looks a grimace. "I just…it's been…I'm working now."

She nods, "Mike told me. I wanted to…I meant to…I just…" she trails off and stares at her hands. (She wonders if he can see that she had his best friends fake and real blood on her hands a month ago. He doesn't.)

"Me too." He supplies. He runs a hand through his short hair and tugs. "Look, Molly. I…I need to know…can you…please, Molly."

Her heart breaks for the man standing in front of her. "Oh, John." She murmurs. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." She crosses the space between them and all but launches herself in his arms. "I'm so sorry."

(She doesn't know whether she's apologizing for the pain he's going through or because of her part in it.)

One day, three months after Sherlock dies, she comes to her flat after her shift, only to find a small package waiting for her. She waits until she shuts the door to her flat and then carefully opens the package. Inside of it is a small porcelain figurine of a ballerina.

(She once told him years ago, that she wanted to be a ballerina when she grew up. He looked at her, cool eyes appraising her and said, "Pathology suits you better.") She still doesn't know whether to take that as a compliment or something else entirely. She never mentions it again and she always thought he'd deleted that little tidbit about her.

Apparently not, she thinks. She feels a little jolt of something knowing that he remembered something she said years ago.

(It makes her wonder what else he remembers about her.)

Sherlock sends her little trinkets from the countries he's in as a way of letting her know he's still alive.

She collects them in a blue box and places it on the top shelf of her closet. (For safekeeping, she tells herself. It's not at all because looking them makes her heart clench and eyes sting with unshed tears.)

She wakes up one morning; a year and a half after Sherlock has been gone and struggles to remember the exact shape of his face and the startling color of his eyes.

She stumbles on her way to the closet, grabs the box full of trinkets and sobs over them.

(It occurs to her that this is the first time in a year and a half that she allows herself to cry over the man she loves and helped kill.)

On the day of his two-year memorial, Molly receives a colorful seashell from Sherlock. (She once told him years ago, that when she was younger, every summer, she and her mother would go down to the beach and pick seashells. Then her mother died when she was twelve but she still went down to the beach every summer to pick seashells. "It was my way of keeping her alive. I don't get down to the beach much anymore.")

On the day of his two-year memorial, Sebastian Moran breaks into her flat and waits for her.

(She's not paying attention, her hands fiddling with the seashell, until she turns on the light and jumps, seeing the strange blonde man lounging on her couch. He has a scar stemming from his eye to his jaw, it looks fresh, new. He holds his gun as if it's his lifeline and taps it gently against his leg. He smiles a twisted smile, full of vengeful promises. It makes Molly sick to her stomach and she drops the seashell she's holding in pure shock. "Molly," he says, his voice deep and soft, a complete contradiction to the murderous look in his eyes, "Sherlock is playing a very dangerous game."

"Sherlock's dead." She answers, her voice surprisingly steady. Her heart feels like it's going to burst. "Who are you?" She probably shouldn't even be asking that. If she were at all smart, like she claims to be, she'd scream bloody murder. Or trying to attack him. She has a feeling, if she did either, he'd have no problem using the gun in his hand. So, she says and does nothing and hopes to God this is all one horrible nightmare.

He gets up and crosses the distance between them until he's standing right in front of her, breathing in the same air. "How silly of me, not to introduce myself. I'm Sebastian Moran, you're Molly Hooper and Sherlock Holmes is not dead. Don't ever lie to me again." He gives her a tight smirk. "However; I've always been rather curious. You spend your time around dead people and death. Do you think about your death at all?"

Her breath hitches at his veiled threat. She bites her lip until she tastes blood but still says nothing. She stares at him blankly.

"No? You should start." He leans in close; his mouth at the shell of her ear and it takes every ounce of her to not flinch. "Molly, Molly, Molly, little Molly Hooper who bit off more than she could chew. I'll be seeing you."

She blinks and he's gone.)

On the day of his two-year memorial, Mycroft Holmes comes to her flat and escorts her into a black car. (He has her entire flat cleaned out in two hours and makes it seem as if Molly Hooper never existed.)

(Maybe she never did.)

"Don't tell him. Let him…let him finish what he's doing. I can…I can handle this." She takes a deep breath and meets Mycroft's cool gaze. Anthea is sitting next to him, hands clutching her blackberry and staring at her with an unreadable expression. "I don't…he doesn't need any distractions. Not that I mean I'd be one…because I wouldn't…I just…don't tell him. Please."

(Mycroft gives her an appraising nod and Molly thinks that he doesn't hate her as much as she once thought he did.)

She doesn't know how her stuff gets to the safe house before she does, all she knows is that it does.

The first thing she sees is the blue box on her bed and lifts the lid to stare at the trinkets Sherlock sent from all over the world.

(She has the world in a box, tucked on the top shelf of her closet, for safekeeping.)

It should (but oddly it doesn't) surprise her that a week later, the supposedly impenetrable safe house is penetrated by a supposedly dead Consulting Detective.

It's past midnight and she hears a crash and then yells and a baritone voice that echoes throughout the halls. Molly bolts out of bed and rushes out of her room, following the voices.

Sherlock is furious. She has never, in all the years she's known him, seen him this furious.

"Sherlock." She breathes. She wants to cry because he's here. He's alive and still broken but alive and her eyes study him, as if trying to commit his face to memory, in case she wakes up in a panic, unable to picture him clearly in her mind anymore.

He turns around to face her and his eyes are wide, fingers trembling with unrestrained anger and unrest at his sides. "You." He croaks. "You. Molly."

At the sound of her name, Molly launches herself into his arms and wraps herself around him, holding him tight. She starts rambling things like I got your trinkets. You're too skinny. How are you? I've missed you. Please don't let go. I'm scared. Sherlock, I'm scared. But most of all, she says, you're here, over and over again as if it's some sort of reverent prayer.

(Maybe it is.)

"How did you know?"

He's silent and then he rolls his eyes. "Anthea told me."

"What?" She asks, wondering if she heard him correctly.

He watches her as she settles against the headboard of her bed and brings her knees to her chest, holding them tightly. She gives him a slight smile and pats the empty space next to her and slowly, but surely, he lowers himself onto the bed, toeing off his shoes and placing his jacket on the side. His legs are outstretched and he settles back comfortably. "After I gave you the seashell, I…had some things to check up on. When I came back, you were gone. It became obvious to me that it was Mycroft's doing."

"You dropped off the seashell?" She shakes her head and turns her body so she's staring at him. "I don't understand, you've mailed them…" she trails off and sighs, "no, of course, you didn't. The paper trail alone…all this time…you were here and watching all this time…you didn't…you never…" she takes a deep breath. "Why didn't you just say you were back?"

"It was the safest option." The apparently not, isn't and doesn't need to be said.

(Part of her, a very large part, wants to hit him and yell at him and curse him for making her miserable. She wants to tell him that she loves him and hates this situation. She wants to tell him that she wants to go home, that she wants him to come back home. She wants to say a lot of things but she doesn't.)

Instead, she studies him. He has bags underneath his eyes, his face is tired, body weary and Molly bites her lip. "When was the last time you slept?" She questions him quietly.

"Days." He answers truthfully.

He turns his head to look at her and her breath catches in her throat. She brings a hand up and tentatively brushes a stray curl from his forehead. "Go to sleep, Sherlock. I'll...I'll look after you."

He tries to argue with her and she pushes him down the bed with gentle hands and settles the covers around him. She presses a soft kiss on his temple. "Please." She whispers, her brown eyes seeking his, "do this for me."

He nods sharply and then closes his eyes, succumbing to blissful sleep.

She gets out of bed, careful to not disturb him and grabs his jacket, her intention to fold it over the chair. Her hand grazes the outside of the pocket and feels something hard in it. Curiously, she reaches into the deep pocket and pulls out a miniature Eiffel Tower replica.

(She once told him years ago, that she went to Paris with a group of friends before they all went their separate ways for Uni. "I fell in love with the Eiffel Tower. Paris is a bit cliché for me but architecturally, the Eiffel Tower is stunning and I always regretted not getting something to remember it by.")

Tears sting her eyes as she places the miniature Eiffel Tower back in his pocket, drapes it over the chair and settles back into bed. She lies on her side. Eyes trained on the rise and fall of Sherlock's chest. She watches as he takes deep steady breaths. In and out. Inhale and exhale.

Someday, things are going to go back to normal and he's going to delete this and her, but, she reasons that she'll always have her blue box of trinkets and maybe, just maybe, that'll be good enough for her.

(It isn't, but Molly is good at pretending.)

Anthea comes to see her after Sherlock leaves ("It would be best, if you stayed here. Mycroft," he says his name with a roll of his eyes, "will keep you safe") and Molly stares at the younger woman.

"Why did you tell him?" Molly asks, her voice breaking the silence.

Anthea puts down her blackberry, uncrosses and then crosses her legs again, her black heels, shining elegantly. "Because you didn't see his face when Mycroft told him that your life was in danger."

"He has enough on his plate." Molly argues. "He shouldn't have to feel responsible for me. No one should have to feel responsible for me."

"Doctor Hooper," Anthea says quietly, "the blue box on the top shelf of your closet says that he's always felt more than responsible for you."

"What?" She blurts out.

"Sherlock Holmes deletes everything trivial and yet, he hasn't deleted one single thing you've ever said. What does that say to you?" Anthea gives her a grin and a one shoulder shrug, then turns her attention back to her blackberry, fingers typing away madly, as if the entire conversation didn't even happen.

(It says a lot to Molly. But she's never let herself dwell on it. She doesn't think her heart could take it if she's wrong.)

She's in the kitchen making a sandwich when everything goes to complete and utter shit.

Sebastian Moran strolls into the safe house (safe house, she thinks, there is no such thing as a safe house) as if he owns it. There is blood spatter on his shirt and Molly knows that it's not his. She sends up a little prayer for the lives he's stolen. He grins at her, white teeth gleaming. "I told you I'd see you again."

She looks at him and then at the plate in front of her. It's not much, but she figures it'll buy her all of three seconds. So, she grasps the plate and throws it at his face. She barely registers a yell and shattered glass, before she runs.

She doesn't get far. As in, she doesn't even step foot out the kitchen, before he pounces on her.

She's aware that she's brought down to the cold floor and she's aware of being hit and the blinding pain that follows it. She's vaguely aware of biting him and crawling away from him, only to be pulled back by her ankle. She's aware that she's yelling and she's aware that she grabs a large piece of broken glass and without thinking she turns around and stabs him.

He lets go of her instantly and gurgles. Molly looks at him with horror and then stares at her hand. She's cut it from where she gripped the broken glass too tightly.

Detachedly, she realizes that she aimed and hit the jugular vein and that he's bleeding out. Even though she's a pathologist and deals with dead people and death all the time, she still took an oath. She still promised to protect and save those who couldn't protect or save themselves.

She grabs a cloth and presses it to his neck, trying to stop the bleeding. "Oh God." She says over and over again. "I'm sorry," She feels like she's being pressed to death. She feels like her lungs are collapsing and all she can do is look on helplessly at the man she just killed. (Sebastian Moran may have a minute, two at maximum before he dies.) His eyes are wide; he looks at her with dazed confusion and resignation (but not regret and not even surprise.) He gives her a twisted smile, gasps and then goes limp.

She starts breathing heavily, greedily gasping in air. She can't breathe. She can't breathe. "Oh God. Oh God. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I never…I never…oh God." She repeats this over and over, looking for an absolution she doesn't deserve.

She vaguely registers a voice yelling her name. She isn't aware of anyone else in the room, until she's ripped away from Sebastian Moran's dead body and is pressed against Sherlock's chest. His hands tracing the shape of her body as he looks for injuries. "Molly. Molly. Molly." He repeats her name over and over again like some reverent prayer.

She looks up at him, "I…I...handled it." For some reason, it's the only thing she can say. (She has a million and one other things going through her mind, things like: oh God, what have I done? Is it over? Please Sherlock, tell me it's over. Can we go back home? You're here, you're here. But mostly, she thinks, I love you. I love you. I love you. Take me home. Tell me I'm going to be okay. Tell me we're going to be okay. Don't forget about me. But all she says is, I handled it.)

It's because of this, she starts laughing. Head bowed to his chest as her body shakes and suddenly the laughter turns into gut-wrenching-body-aching sobs that shake her to her core.

Sherlock wraps his arms around her, pressing her into his body. "I am sorry." He whispers against her ear. "I am sorry."

(She doesn't know if he's apologizing for the pain she's going through or for his part in it all.)

When they get back to London, John, Greg and Mrs. Hudson meet them as soon as they get off the jet.

John punches Sherlock and then yanks Molly into a bone-crushing hug.

Mrs. Hudson is sobbing and reprimanding both Molly and Sherlock.

Greg holds her by the shoulders and turns her from left to right and then hugs her tightly.

As soon as they're busy looking and surrounding the very recently risen Sherlock, Molly disappears into the car that Anthea has waiting for her.

(That's the thing with Molly Hooper, blink and she's gone.)

"You don't want to be with them?" Anthea asks her.

"I'm tired." Molly replies.

Anthea looks at her, her gaze softening. "It's been a very tiring few months, hasn't it?"

"It's been a very tiring eight years." She responds, her mind going back to the day Sherlock Holmes barged into her morgue and demanded access to body parts. She thinks that day was the beginning of her reckoning.

She's unsurprised to find her belongings in her flat. She's startled to find it exactly the way she left it. She's too tired to think about it, so she strips off her clothes and walks into the bathroom and takes a shower with the water too hot for comfort.

She's pulling on her pajamas, the back of her shirt clinging to her skin from the dampness of her hair, when she hears someone knock on her door. She makes her way to the door hesitantly and peers through the peephole. Her heart starts slamming against her chest when she sees a familiar mop of black curly hair. She opens the door and gestures for him to come inside.

"You should know," Sherlock says, his voice deep but soft, "that had you not killed him, Moran would have killed you. Without remorse."

"I know." She answers. And she does. She really truly does but that doesn't make what she did any easier to deal with. She killed a man. In cold blood. She knows what he's done. She knows what he was capable of doing and part of her feels relief that he's out of their lives and this entire situation is done and over with, but she's still having a hard time looking at her hands without picturing blood staining them. "I just…"

"I know." Sherlock says and she thinks that out of everyone in this world, Sherlock Holmes would be the one to understand her.

He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a tiny replica of the London Eye. (She once told him years ago, that going on the Eye reminds her of the London she used to know and love.) She cradles it gently in the palm of her hand.

She has trinkets and souvenirs from exotic countries like China, Russia, Spain and Australia to name a few and she cherishes them more than she thinks he knows but the sight of the London Eye makes her heart stop. It makes her breath shudder and body tremble. Because this…this she knows. This she's familiar with. This…this represents home.

She takes a step forward and her mind swims. She's so close to him, her hands reach out and her fingers trace imaginary shapes on his coat (it's still not the Belstaff) "Sherlock…" she trails off, unsure of what to say. So, she decides to not say anything, instead, she reaches up and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth. He turns his head when she attempts to pull away and suddenly, his lips are on hers, mouths seeking each other desperately and Molly pours eight years of loving this man into one kiss.

"Molly, I don't-"

"I don't care." She cuts him off. She knows what he's going to say. She knows he's going to say that he doesn't do sentiment. That he can't. That he'll hurt her. That he wasn't able to keep her safe then, what will happen if something like this occurs again? And she wants to tell him that she loves him too much, that she's always loved him too much. "I can handle it. I can handle anything." She bites her lip and peers up at him through her eyelashes. "Can you?"

(He doesn't go back to 221b Baker Street that night. Instead, he spends the night with her, igniting her body and soul until all she can see, all she can remember, all she wants is Sherlock. Just Sherlock. Always Sherlock.)

"The trinkets…I thought...why didn't you delete them?" She asks him. She's propped up on her elbow, eyes studying him as he's encased by the moonlight streaming through her bedroom. "They were never relevant to any case or anything really."

He grabs her hand and pulls her towards him, interlacing their fingers together. "They were relevant to you."

It's such a simple statement and it really shouldn't mean all that much. But it does.

It means everything.

When Molly Hooper enters into a relationship with Sherlock Holmes, she knows what she's getting into.

In theory, at least.

In actuality, she has no idea what she's getting into.

(Molly is okay with that. Really. She is.)

Eerrmm. Yeah. I blame The Middle East (the band) and Angus and Julia Stone, for doing this to me. This has actually been an idea that's been swarming in my head for a while. I've always loved the idea of BAMF!Molly but at the same time, she's so kind-hearted and amazing that if she were to hurt/kill anyone, she'd feel bad about it. Because she killed someone and that's not something she's used to. It's not something she does, and I guess that it always seemed realistic that she'd apologize for it. At least to me. This could also be from my chocolate high as well.

As it stands, here it is. Jesus. I need to stop writing so much and give you guys a breather from my incessant ramblings.

On the upside, have I mentioned how much I love guys? Because I really don't words can describe how much so. Your guys' support in everything I write is astounding and I just want to say that I am incredibly grateful to write and read stories with quite possibly the best writers and people. Rock on my lovelies! Rock. On.

I sincerely hope that you all enjoyed it and words cannot express how much I adore all of you. Like seriously. You guys are my Sherlolly inspiration. I've said it before, I'll say it again. I don't think I've met a group of people who are so awesome and supportive. It means the world to me. You guys mean the world to me.

MAD LOVE AND RESPECT FOR ALL OF YOU.

Much love,

BB