Molly sighed before she walked into the door, grasping the handle and trying to prepare a smile on her face. The burden on Sherlock was much greater than the one on her; she was going to help him through this. She's always been selfless Molly Hooper, so she shouldn't feel this any different.

She hung up her coat as she came through the door, watching Sherlock as he completely disregarded her entrance. He was in the same clothes he had been in for a few days now with his eyes closed and hands steepled together, pressed against his mouth. His feet were propped up on the coffee table.

Next to him on the table was a mug lying on its side with a small amount of black, stale coffee spilled across the table top. Within the dark, sludgy liquid was at least a pack's worth of extinguished cigarette butts.

Before, he had nothing to do, nowhere to go- he had been in hiding when they were at Molly's flat, and now Mycroft had relocated Sherlock and Molly to a flat in a small villa in southern France for the time being. It was too dangerous for him to stay in England for as long as he did, and when Mycroft finally knew, he decided it best to move them out of the country.

Mycroft had noted the changes with Sherlock and did not trust him to stay out of trouble. He had requested Molly to go with Sherlock, and since Sherlock had made no opposition, Molly agreed. Mycroft told them they were to act normal, act as a domestic as possible as to not attract attention, but Sherlock was just as void of society as he had been in London; anonymity would not be a problem at the moment. Mycroft would be spending his time with his resources tracking down Moriarty's network, attempting to eliminate them so Sherlock could safely return to London.

Sherlock refused to leave the flat even though he could now. He had no reason to, and he didn't feel it important. There would be no cases, no Baker Street, no John.

No, John Watson, best friend of Sherlock Holmes, was still grieving over the man that had jumped from the roof of Saint Bartholomew's hospital that dreaded day, believing that Sherlock was deceased; his body buried beneath the soil. He did not have the faintest idea that the grave he visited all the time was void of any corpse, but that didn't mean that Sherlock did not feel buried there anyway.

Sherlock was grieving as much as John, but grieving over the death of himself. It was not for the reasons that people normally mourn over death. He grieved because he was beaten, and he was lost. He had assured himself that he was a step ahead of Jim Moriarty, but in the end he only discovered he was two steps behind. Now he was paying the price for it; there was no other way to save the few he cared about. So with Molly's assistance, Sherlock faked his death and removed himself entirely from everything. Molly was sure now that he wasn't only detached physically.

Everything had changed; well, mostly everything. When he broke what seemed to be his endless silence, his words were either mean and crass, or flat and void of anything. He made sure to take whatever he was feeling, or hiding, out on the one person trying to piece him back together. Molly took his words as lightly as she could manage, remembering what he'd been through. She understood irrevocably that he was at his worst; he had nothing left, and she was his only hope.

His behaviour had been like this for weeks, and so scene before her was not surprising. She had been more concerned with the way he looked. There were dark, heavy circles under his eyes even though he had all the time in the world to sleep; most of his nights were spent wide awake, brooding. And now his already slim body had continued to thin, as malnourishment was evident; he ate rarely, and Molly had to make a fuss to even get him to. He was torturing himself, letting himself fall apart piece by piece and Molly was unsure of what to do.

"Sherlock," Molly said with a heavy sigh, but he said nothing, his eyes closed and body still. She cleaned up the mess and tossed it into the rubbish bin without complaint. When she came back out of the kitchen, she replaced the empty spot on the coffee table with a fresh mug of coffee; black, two sugars just as he liked it.

Molly set her own coffee down on the table and curled up in the chair next to sofa Sherlock sat on. She held her legs against her chest and rested her chin upon her knees, watching him. She wanted something; she needed something- a movement, a noise, something.

"You've been staring for a while now," he said before she had a chance to speak, finally opening his eyes and looking to her.

"Well, I just- I wanted to make sure you were okay…" she trailed off nervously.

"A dead man does not need mothering, Molly," he replied brashly, pushing her away as he usually did, keeping his façade stern and annoyed.

She kept her eyes down now, hugging her knees tighter to her chest and she let out a soft sigh. It was killing her inside to see this, and she thought she was doing well at hiding it, but his deducing skills had not faltered at all. His eyes immediately were scanning her when he heard the sighing breath escape her lips but said nothing.

She fidgeted in her seat as he picked her apart, concern evidently washed over her face. He became lost in the sad way that she looked, but also the strain in her eyes as she tried as well as she could to keep it from him. Did she think he was stupid?

No, of course she didn't, but he seemed to think so; no one plays games with Sherlock Holmes. He thought harshly, disregarding the adverse feeling of responsibility for the almost-hidden grave look on her face; he denied that she was that way because of him. It was not his fault, it was her problem if she was going to be so emotionally invested in his physical and mental health.

It was not long before Molly became uncomfortable enough and stood up from her seat, not looking at him as she spoke. "Is there anything you need before I go to bed?"

He went to reply, but she knew the only thing that he was going to ask for. He closed his mouth as he watched her walk over to the bag and pull out a box. She knew his routine, and it made Sherlock feel she had thought him predictable, taking care of him in the only way she knew how; how irritating of her.

She walked over and handed the box to him. "These will- they'll have to do. The neighbours have been complaining, they know you're smoking. They told us that this was a smoke-free flat complex; I was spoken to today."

He looked down at the box of nicotine patches dissatisfied, giving a sniff of derision but said nothing. He set them down on the table, his eyes heavy as he was fighting off sleep. Molly knew he wouldn't though; she knew he would force himself awake for another day before his body couldn't physically fight it off anymore.

"Sherlock?" she said softly as he looked over to her.

"If I make you something, will you eat?"

"I don't need anything."

"Please? You need to eat something," she pleaded, her eyes begging even more than her voice.

"Fine," he replied abruptly.

She gave a wide smile, scurrying into the kitchen to make him something as he watched her now with curiosity. Why did she even care? It didn't directly affect her. He knew why, he knew she cared, but it so pointless. Why bother?

He knew she was there because Mycroft had asked her and Sherlock had not refused the idea; he didn't because he did want her there. She was the one person in the world besides his brother, (because he even counted he thought sarcastically), and he needed that contact. He told himself that it was the more convenient option, that he would not have a necessity to leave the flat, and so it was 'justified.'

Ever since he began living with John he had enjoyed some minimal human contact, whether to talk out loud, or not feel as though he had to live a solitary life, and this was more comfortable for him. Though, since his fall he didn't speak much, and he did not embrace Molly when she would sit quietly in a room with him. He secretly enjoyed it though, having at least that something. It helped him cling to the edges of sanity he needed to surface himself back to reality. He wasn't sure how he would cope if she wasn't there.

She made something simple, something quick before he had changed his mind. She placed a cup of tea, some scrambled eggs, and a muffin in front of him; she hoped to God he would eat all of it because she didn't know when she would get another opportunity.

She sat next to him at the table with the newspaper, trying her best to understand the minimal amounts of French she could decipher; it was becoming easier. She was better at speaking in small conversation then she was at reading it. She scrunched her nose as she was trying to make out the words, sneaking a few glances at Sherlock as he ate slowly.

Her phone was next to her, and she glanced at it as she heard the vibrations against the table. She stiffened as she realised it was Mycroft, standing up from the table and walking into the next room as she opened the call.

His utensils were sitting against the side of the plate, food already forgotten. Sherlock knew it was Mycroft, he knew Mycroft would be asking how he was, and the worst part was that he knew that Molly would be told how John, Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade were. He couldn't bear to think about it, but he did so anyway. All he wanted was to be able to get this solved, but his brother was taking an awfully long time; it gnawed at him.

"Hello?" Molly answered faintly. Sherlock took in the patter of her light feet pacing across the room, her voice nervous as she awaited Mycroft's questions and answers.

"He's still not coping well yet?" he heard her ask, knowing from her common mannerisms that she was biting her bottom lip even though he couldn't see her. "Oh, really? He's met someone then? So is he doing at least a bit better? That's great."

Then he knew the conversation was about him: "No, he hasn't slept; he'll be awake for another day." She had spent enough time with him now to know how long he could go without sleep; she had really spent enough time to know a lot about him, at least in the manner of his current state. "I've just made him some food, but I doubt he'll finish it now."

Sherlock looked down at his food with disgust now; Molly's earlier pleas were not enough to make him want to finish it. He rationalised that he ate enough that made him fine for minimal functioning.

He pushed his plate aside and grabbed the laptop, opening it up. He was still convinced that he would be able to find something before Mycroft's men could, and he was determined that when he did, he would be able to solve this. He lost himself in his research, Molly's words fading into the background as he began the preliminary cataloguing within his mind palace. He took in every word that his eyes skimmed across, later to be analysed and eradicated if the information was decidedly insignificant.

Molly came back into the kitchen a short while after he had sunk into his research, glancing at his plate, the small smile on her lips pressing into a flat line. "You're done with this now then?"

He waved his hand, but said nothing. "Well," she started, suppressing a sigh and letting a smile back on her face. "It's good that you've eaten something at least." She gave his shoulder a light squeeze without even thinking about it, the pads of her fingers delicate against the fabric of his shirt.

He glanced over at Molly's hand indecisively and then looked up to her face; well, this was new. Not unpleasant, but new.

She pulled her hand away as she noticed him stiffen and look at her hand. She couldn't tell the expression on his face as he was deciding if it was pleasant or not. "Sorry," she said, sounding as though she had offended him.

"It's fine, Molly," he said, ignoring her now, his gaze intent on the laptop again.

"Anything new?" she asked after a quiet moment, trying to sound hopeful.

"Maybe," he replied, not looking away from the laptop, continuing to scroll.

She took his utensils into the kitchen and washed them off, not bothering with the dishwasher. This was quicker and kept her busy at the least. She would be there as long as Sherlock needed her, but there were only so many minimal tasks she could preoccupy herself with. She was bored, and she missed Bart's so much. It was what she loved; she hoped she had always made a difference, helped people get justice where justice was needed. But right now she was helping Sherlock, someone close to her, someone she loved, and that was probably even more fulfilling if it was going to make a difference for him. She hoped so, because he needed it. She needed to believe it.

Molly was modest with most things, but she didn't deny it when Sherlock said she was one of the best in her field. She had accomplished more in her small amount of years with her career than a lot of the staff senior to her did. Her job would be there when she returned though; Mycroft had ensured that when he asked her to go.

She spun around from the kitchen counter and was leaning against it, a new plan in her mind.

"So," she began, hoping she would be able to convince him, but she knew she was pushing her luck. "What would you say about going out and doing something tomorrow? Get some fresh air- go to the shops or something?"

"Fine," Sherlock replied, still not looking to her.

"Really?" Molly perked up, "you'll go?"

"I've just agreed, yes? I need to try and find someone anyway."

"Oh?" Molly asked quizzically.

"May be connected to the network," uninterested in the conversation now.

"Ah," Molly said, not knowing how else to respond. "Something safe I hope?"

"Molly, please," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.

She said nothing else, but was pleased anyway. Tomorrow they would go out and Sherlock would finally get some fresh air in his lungs.