A/N: Here we are on the last page, thank you to AussieMaelstrom for beta and everyone for reading.

So, then this book is closed. Dear Fancies mine,
That streaked my grey sky with your wings of light,
And passing fanned my burning brow, benign,-
Return, return to your blue Infinite!Thou, ringing Rhyme, thou, Verse that smooth didst glide,
Ye, throbbing Rhythms, ye, musical Refrains,
And Memories, and Dreams, and ye beside
Fair Figures called to life with anxious pains,We needs must part. Until the happier day
When Art, our Lord, his thralls shall re-unite,
Companions sweet, Farewell and Well away,
Fly home, ye may, to your blue Infinite!

- Paul Verlaine (1895)

England 1958

Sweeping dust away with her woolly sock had been a trying pastime, a reminder that no one was washing the floors, that her wiry arms did not have enough strength to clean every inch of dust from the house, despite her best attempts. The actions kept her busy, kept her away from reminders, as one of them was hidden beyond the door she lingered in front of. Her hand poised on the cool doorknob, the one she didn't dare turn.

She knew it was locked, knew there was no point on braving it, as she would get no further past this point – "Dad?" she said hesitantly, pushing her ear to the door, hoping to hear him.

No, she only heard a mumbled word, which she knew wasn't spoken to her, not really. Her lips trembled slightly, her brown eyes dropping to the floor, while the silence continued. Sometimes he would break it, his feet padding through the hallways in the dark, like he didn't want to see her.

She knew why – she herself was like the dust – a reminder – her mother was gone, and she might not have grown entirely into her own skin, but she knew that her father could see her. Molly wished to see the same when she looked in the mirror, but she only looked tired, felt hollow.

Every day well-wishers would come, passing on condolences for their loss, bringing food, giving short awkward speeches, which she bore with an attempt at a smile. People she'd never talked to, neighbours, supposed friends all tried to interrupt their grieving, and often she would pretend they weren't home.

She wanted them to believe they were somewhere else, instead of locked up and hiding from her mother's death. In some ways, she felt her innocence dissipating, or perhaps it was already gone, dissolving into thin air. Death was so close now, stranger's flowers and words were reminders of how unwelcome it was, but no one could challenge it. Whenever it had the chance it could take you, and already she felt the cold tendrils of this imaginary foe grasping for her father, "Dad?" she repeated, clearing her voice, urging him to hear her, to let her rip through the walls he was building up, thicker than wood or brick.

The sound of a glass shattering made her take a step back, feeling for a moment frightened until a croaky voice cut her fears away, "Just…give me a moment love."

She knew what that meant, her eyes watering so easily, like they'd been doing of late, "Okay," she said rushing off, her steps quick, causing her cat Toby to trot after her hopefully, but she paid him no mind. There was one remedy, one balm to her pain, and she knew it was madness, but she wanted to be heard. It would be her last prayer, though when she scrambled forward a stack of paper, holding a pen tightly in her hand, she knew there would be other moments like this, but this was her first.

"If there is ever anything bothering you – write about it – let out the pain, all the frustration and you can forget it much more easily."

"Even if it is about Billy Smith being an idiot?"

"Pen his name down with idiot underlined if it makes you feel better, but try to keep it off the walls love."

Forgetting her mother was out of the question, fresh tears blurring her sight, dripping upon the words she was spreading thickly upon the paper. With every movement of her pen, every turn of the page – she twisted her grief, her anger – into sentences that she felt barely conveyed what she was trying to say. Years would pass before she put pen to paper in the same manner again.

1962, France

"I do not see how long you will last if you continue this path, perhaps this trip abroad will finally let you waste your time properly, don't you think?" - bitter laughter swept from his cracked lips, dragging his feet along the mud, his eyes twitching against the rain. His body was almost an empty shell of bones fuelled by pure instinct, by self-loathing – this was how falling from grace felt like. Tugging at his coat, he drew up the collar, trying to shield himself from the cruel downpour that had already soaked his clothes.

Dying would be easier, simple even, for then his head would finally settle, letting the cravings subside when his body took the final plunge into the never-ending darkness of eternal sleep. In that space there would be no more wants, for what reasons did he have to cherish life? His mouth moved, spitting out the words, as his body had begun to ache.

Nothing about being an outcast had subdued his anger, his hatred for his invisible nemesis, and the victor in a game he never truly wanted to play. The way it had all ended seeded doubt in everyone, doubting his faculties and sense, even morality, but he knew those doubts already existed, having now been brought to light by well-calculated lies.

He had underestimated the game, far less of a player when meeting one who matched him beyond any shadow of a doubt. It was supposed to be something to pass the time with, as he had questioned the whispers were true, but in a moment of sublime foolishness he found himself thwarted.

Letting his addiction…no – not addiction – his evasion of the dull vapid young minds of his pupils best him to the point of him being found in such a compromising position with the headmaster's youngest daughter. Adler had not listened to a word, of course, though he barely had the faculties to utter them, but his brother had known from one condescending look.

He slipped upon the hill he was lumbering along, suddenly toppling into the mud, his entire front covered with grime, all expressions on his brow like that of surrendering, but his body still fighting to get out of the slippery grass that held him down in his weakened state. This creature was only half the man he had been, a mere shadow, for the temptations had been too many. They had all been easily found and surrendered to the second he'd lost his brother's over-paid lackeys.

Never had he intended to follow his brother's intended route, as he knew death lay much quicker there. No, he would go by his own hand, there was no doubt in that, as so-called friends weren't there whispering for him to live, that he'd managed to somewhat listen to throughout the years.

All of it had crumbled…but John…he didn't know.

From this agony John would be truly spared, believing perhaps in the ridiculous story his brother would concoct upon his death. Here it was, waiting ahead of him with such a great allure that he could not consider any other option. He rolled onto his back on the ground, opening his mouth to taste the bitter rainwater, promptly licking at his chapped lips.

Desire continued to drive him, the dark creature that spun in his mind, compelling him ahead to his own destruction, applauding. Somehow he felt like a distant set of eyes watched him, seeing his trembling hands fish out the remnants of his drugs from the inner pocket of his dishevelled coat, almost making him stop.

Everything narrowed down to this moment, his blood flooding through his veins, his heart thumping loudly, all of his thoughts disintegrating into this one…one thought – just one more…one more…

That was when Sherlock Holmes died.

Miracle: such an effect or event manifesting or considered as a work of God.

"Is he awake?"

"Coming to, I think. God is on his side."

"I don't think anyone is on his side."

He heard a wooden chair scrape against stone floors, one of the chairs legs almost loose, halting at his left side, "It is strange how you assume you are one to bestow judgement." The old man's voice was soft, the language familiar, yet – he knew it – it was on the tip of his tongue.

Heavy garments were being worn, he heard it from the movement of the younger man, "I apologise father Francis, but this man blasphemed upon his arrival." Obvious.

"Who would not in the state he was found?" said Francis, "One would curse one's mother in any tongue if one is at the depths of despair, like I believe this man was, and still is."

Sherlock took a steadying breath, resolving to find the barest hint of patience left in him, his body taut and heavy against the abrasive fabric of his bed, grating upon his heated flesh. Already he knew where he was, he'd heard about the monastery from the locals talking amongst themselves drinking and intending to absolve their guilt the next day with a confession of their sins.

Instead of dreamless sleep, he found himself awakening to face the Samaritans who had taken him. "Oh God," he moaned, averting his rolling eyes from their gaze, attempting to sit upright in the bed, failing as his body was broken by shivers.

It was the closest to an infirmary he would find in these parts, other sickly men occupying beds with thick white sheets, some of them wailing, others of an eerie silence that he recognized.

These would-be-Samaritans, their pledge, their cloth compelling them to save him when he did not want to be saved "Stay…you must regain your strength my friend," said father Francis, lingering by his bed, his greying hair and deep wrinkles hard to see, causing Sherlock to blink furiously at the man, tears dispersing themselves from his eyes, not out of relief but out of withdrawal, "Your addiction nearly killed you."

"Nearly is the-," he began, though cobwebs in his throat made the words crumble. Neither did clearing his throat soothe the present obstruction.

"You have also caught a cold," said Francis, his dimples showing, as he patted his arm seeming pleased by this development.

"I would not be surprised if he hasn't caught something else Father Francis," said the younger monk, forcing Sherlock to look at the round-faced boy who stood behind the older monk with an exasperated mien. Cleary he was an unwanted patient, or by the sullen expression on the boy, somewhat of a memento. He wanted to snap out his deduction, to point out the boy's slow speech and visible shivers, but he did not have the vigour to do so, forced to stay mute.

Francis arched a playful brow on his behalf, as if the man's thoughts turned in that corner, but he doubted it, "My apologies – where are my manners? Augustus has just reminded me to introduce myself properly, for I assume you are a gentleman? I am old – I forget – I am father Francis and he is Augustus, of course. Your name sir, is however, a mystery to our modest monastery-," a hand held against his breast, his speech said with such mirth that Sherlock felt the undeniable upturn of his mouth.

This man was no ordinary monk, from the way others moved around silently, all of them observing, listening intently, it was easy to see that he was the elder, and also the one who chiefly ruled over the others (with the exception of their invisible force). Not a village idiot, nor a fool of any kind, but a learned man. Somehow this made him even more annoyed, he could see by the rough hands of the man that there were scars from scientific equipment. Here was a man he could somewhat consider equal, yet a believer of ancient scrolls penned by men who wished power, more than anything else.

Dull.

Obviously he had a secret, which he knew that the man would unburden if he asked for it. He fought to speak once more, concentrating to make his voice audible, until he sunk into his pillow realising the strain it was causing, "Ah! Our presence has weakened you; perhaps, we shall let you rest some more? It will do you good I think…come – come Augustus – let us not trouble him, perhaps he is our esteemed writer? I know an Englishman when I see one, you know." He spoke with an undeniable twinkle in his eyes, making Sherlock grimace.

Francis leapt off his seat with far less effort than Sherlock would have surmised, his steely blue eyes staying on the man followed by Augustus, who scoffed at the mention of the writer.

Withdrawal. It wasn't a pleasant experience, but he recognised the symptoms despite his disinclination to avoid the inducement. Anxiety luckily did not take place, though chiefly it had burdened him the most in his earlier years, as if that was surprising. Youth brought doubts, and those he bore no longer, except in those few spare seconds he had thought…he had meddled with Miss Adler. Coughing soundly in his bed, he lay chiefly ignored by the other monks who seemed to all share Augustus' festering annoyance. He didn't mind, allowing himself to sweat it out, barely touching the dry scraps of bread they pushed on him, "Water," he mumbled, his throat aching.

"Demands already?" Francis' voice said, appearing by his bedside with a freshly filled goblet, "You are feeling better, I gather it – care to give us your name?"

Taking the goblet grudgingly from the older man's wrinkly hands, he muttered a name, before taking a generous sip, causing Francis' brows to knit together.

"Not a name – your name," he said.

He pursed his lips, unburdening himself of the goblet, which the monk took from him, "Sherlock Holmes."

"Pity," said Francis, causing him to frown in return.

"Sorry?"

"Not important…Sherlock – it is the name you give yourself, then?" said Francis.

"No less than you gave yourself yours - father."

"Ah! You will be a most amusing guest."

"If this is what you consider hospitability then it is appalling."

Francis did not seem at all unsettled by his words, merrily shrugging lightly at them, "Then you are welcome to leave, Mr Holmes. No one is keeping you here."

The second he sat upright, blood rushed too quickly to his head, and he emitted a groan, "Or perhaps they are," said Francis quietly with a smile.

For days he had been there, restless and bored beyond belief. No rest to be found in his bed, or in his mind, as such he could not stay there too long without being interrupted with his body succumbing to the pain. His insides itched; sweat pouring out of him, his body constantly shuddering. The turn of paper distracted him now, sounding like the beat of a drum in his head, all of his senses heightened painfully, "What – are – you – reading?" he said with gritted teeth, his eyes narrowed at the man he considered his captor who briefly looked at him.

"A story."

"Isn't the bible filled with stories, each as unconvincing as the rest – with apples and talking snakes?" he spat, he saw in the reflection of the man's grey eyes – his weary body. Sherlock deflected his gaze, steadying it on the brick walls instead.

Francis chose once more to ignore him, a thing he constantly did effortlessly unlike the others who would leave him instantly at any condescending word, for now he had fully regained his speech, allowing him to spit out his venom, but unable to move freely, "It is a boy who is talking about his dead mother," said Francis, eyes still on the page.

He snorted, raising a brow at the man, "So? Everybody dies."

The monk smiled to his displeasure, his green eyes staying on him with clear intrigue, "So – he – says."

"What?" he said, trying to disguise his surprise, though Francis had already caught on, taking to peruse the pages, which were worn already, clearly frequently studied.

"He says – and I quote – It is selfish to wish for my mother to return, for it is only for my own sake I wish her here, not considering that she might like the quiet…for everyone dies. There is no one who is able to escape death."

Puzzled, he tried to understand how a mere child could be credited to those words, dripping of bitterness in someone so young, but he quickly realised – death does that to us all.

"You read that and you call yourself a man of God?" he said, with the smallest of laughs, disguising his curiosity. He was certain that if he were given the piece of religious tripe, he would manage to find out the whereabouts of the child, but he still wondered why a French monk would at all be interested in an English child's lack of faith.

"See – the cover - " he held out the religious leaflet, with a slight smile grazing his long face, " – death is beyond even God's control." Sherlock touched the pages, letting go of it quickly, to dissuade Francis into assuming he would have him converted in any way or the other.

"Why are you still reading that?"

"You can see the same things every day, yet look at them with fresh eyes – shall I read to you?"

"No."

"I often wished that everyone who braved death's door willingly died instead of her, of how she had not done anything to harm, to hurt, yet she still died."

He was counting the amount of bricks before him, letting the mundane task take over in his head, but the words still flowed through, "He sounds more sensible than you," he said carefully, his eyes flickering to Francis who chuckled in return.

"I suppose he is," he said diving into the pages of the leaflet once more, apparently seeking some explanation he would never find.

"I am better," he said maddened.

Francis did not even give him a proper appraisal, continuing to walk past him, yet halting nonetheless, "Are you?"

"Why do you care?" he said with a clear whine in his voice, reminded of John's idiotic tactics to make him feel anything resembling guilt.

"Why do you not?" said Francis with a significant look, walking away, before he could give a well-thought reply dripping with the deduction he was building up against the man.

He could not account for why he'd done it, or the astonishing strength he'd found in attempting it, but in his hands he possessed the beloved volume. Ripping it to pieces was his plan, simple but effective – to force the man to let him be, yet his hand stayed with the pieces of flimsy paper stuck between them. And for the first time in many years, Sherlock read, immersing himself in the words of someone who he felt, despite himself – alike - only to find himself agreeing with the finishing words that the essay slowly build towards, "I will live."

The low candlelight was burning out, the words plunging into the darkness, as he drew for breath amongst a room filled with strangers.

Sunlight poured down on him, re-awakening his body, though his mind was otherwise engaged, "She is not an idiot," he snapped the pamphlet shut, holding it out to Francis who looked at him mildly bewildered. For once the man seemed to be at a loss.

"She?"

"It's a girl! Easily seen by the use of words, the prose - excessive explanation of feelings - odd that you called her a boy, but the signature M. Hooper can be deceiving, the curves in the signature are feminine as well. Taken here by an English missionary – commonly found in England, dispersed in a small community – obviously not intended to seed doubt in your faith, but she has – approximately one year ago. This girl is young, far too young, yet you're interested – because – because - you had a son – ah – sentiment – the old crux."

"And you are not?"

He sighed, glaring in return, "Some sentimental dribble about loss is not about to change me."

"Yet this is the fourth time you've read it."

"Guessing doesn't suit you…it's six," he said with a tiny smirk, groaning slightly against the twinges of pain streaming through his body, "She knows how to write – a good enough education, but one always tends to grow older when one loses someone – explaining her...way of writing…I suspect John has turned grey by now, though I hope he hasn't inflicted his pain upon the outside word. His prose is horrendous!"

Francis stared at him, a serious expression on his otherwise humorous face, while they walked outside the monastery. Somehow his last days there, he had been so very unlike himself, he had found himself speaking out all of his aggravation, letting it be known to the man – a confession – Francis christened it, though chiefly he considered it openly deducing his thoughts regarding Moriarty. The man was still out there, somewhere, but it was the letter that gave him the thought – "or maybe he was no man…but a boy." Now he was finally leaving, intending to return home, ending his own banishment, "When you get back you must thank this Miss Hooper," said Francis, making him stare at him in surprise.

"Thank Miss Hooper? Why would I want to meet her? She's only a child."

Francis laughed freely stopping at the stony gate, forcing Sherlock to stand in front of him with a crease in his brows, "You have been whispering her words like a prayer in your sleep my friend, perhaps the most honest you've ever been...and years have passed for that girl as well…"

Sherlock cleared his throat grimacing, "Well, Francis – I hope I won't see you again," he said, ignoring the man's words taking to shake his hand firmly with a smile.

The monk nodded, "Oh, but I believe we will one day Mr Holmes, I believe one day we will," emotion heavy in the man's voice, and Sherlock did feel a sharp sting when his last letters to Francis came unanswered, revealing to him the other deduction he had so willingly overlooked - the man's age.

Eleven years later

She intended to spare the reading for later, yet still she read it, this letter from the past, hands digging into the paper.

1963, September 21

Francis,

You will most likely be pleased by the news that I have met your esteemed authoress. It was an unintentional meeting due to my case, of which we have both spoken about already. I need not delve into the particulars under the circumstances, as this letter could easily be intercepted.

You are most likely speculating as to how I know it is her who wrote the piece you gave to me. Firstly she was late to class. I was given the time to look over the call sheet, reciting the long list of names, which presented me with a M. Hooper who was late.

I was somewhat taken aback by this, despite having some foreknowledge that this particular area had indeed spurned the religious artefact you held on to. Secondly she spoke back. She challenged me, instead of stifling in her seat like I had suspected she would. Of course I might have set out a trap just to see that she had the fortitude her words gave way to, but she did indeed walk into the challenge. Bravery is in some sense a new kind of stupid, don't you agree? I assume you don't. Thirdly, and most importantly – I do not know how I will ever be able to thank her…

"Miss Hooper, Molly Hooper?" said a young man, disrupting her reading, forcing her to fold the letter back into its respective envelope with a tight smile. She had hoped for a few minutes at least, but he was more prompt than she expected.

"Yes – yes – that's me," she said brightly, standing up from her chair, and shaking hands with the journalist by the name of Lucas who soon settled down opposite her.

"Thank you for seeing me," he said grinning, while she nodded in return, clearing away the letter that he eyed curiously.

The café was crammed to her liking, though the nerves of the journalist were much higher than she imagined, as he'd given the impression on the phone that he was a far more senior journalist than he looked. She did not care in the slightest, giving him encouraging smiles, while he fumbled with his notepad, clearing his throat, "Miss Hooper – we are here to talk about your new book, of course, as everyone's curious to see what you and Doctor Watson have been up to-,"

"It's not a biography," she said giggling.

"Unlike Doctor Watson's own books?" he said, clearly wanting to speak of Sherlock Holmes.

She did falter for a second, but kept her brown gaze steady and said, "Unlike his - yes, though those are coming to an end as well. Not many more cases to go on anymore…"

"Sherlock Holmes was your professor for a while wasn't he?"

Molly frowned, knowing immediately where this was heading, "Yes-," she started, hand grasping her cup of coffee harder than she intended, releasing her grip when she saw what she was doing.

"I'm just wondering, I'm sorry I'm asking - but is he the inspiration for your first published work?"

Like always she gave the tiny snort, and the pursed lips, "No, not at all, though I do love people speculating that it is, but certainly John doesn't." She hid her mouth behind her cup, watching the disappointment appear on the man's face.

"Would you care to tell me who was?"

Putting down the cup she said calmly, "It wasn't ever supposed to be read-,"

Lucas soon began rifling through his notepad, before looking up at her with much more confidence, "Yes – your father published it in your behalf under the alias M. Hooper – after he became aware you'd written something else for a religious paper when you were very young?"

"Yes, yes he did," she said with a brief smile, "Though it turned out he'd read that piece not long after my mum died, kept it to himself though, but he was the one who handed me the copy of my first book, yes." Rambling always happened despite herself, hoping the topic could be avoided.

"Now – everyone knows how the story ends, and to tell you the truth – I'm surprised that you, while so young-," she raised a brow, awaiting the 'being a woman'-bit to appear any time soon "- wrote such an ending, since you'd think it would be happy."

She bit her lip thoughtfully, before she said, "I didn't choose the ending – Lucas – if you don't mind me calling-,"

"No – not at all!" he said laughing, gesturing for her to go on.

She grinned, the brightness of her smile, however, slowly fading, "The thing is Lucas, I didn't choose the ending – the ending chose me…"

He looked at her for a moment, clearly dumbfounded, but she didn't feel like giving him a more elaborate answer than that, certainly not the truth, which wasn't an option.

Answering his other questions proved to be no problem whatsoever, unlike what Mike had first probed her with, as this was her first public appearance as the author M. Hooper – who for years – people assumed was man. A fact she didn't feel like correcting anyone about, for it had kept her privacy, but it had been her ex-fiancé who had ousted her identity to her immense displeasure. Though that wasn't the only reason as to why she had ended their engagement, despite all of their mutual friends hoping she would settle. It wasn't something she liked, the word that was – settling – and it truly felt like she was doing so by intending to marry Tom. She did not know if she would make him happy in the end, for he barely made her so.

"Are you ready?" asked Mike, dragging her mind to her present situation, the car getting closer to the bookshop that was strewn with people waiting to buy her new book.

"No," she said with a hint of a pout, "No, I'm not-,"

"It isn't Tom, is it?" said Mike looking at her rather worried, like he constantly did when he was with her these days. Unmarried was a concept very few seemed to cope with, despite the burning of bras and the path of free love. But Molly reluctantly admitted that whatever time or place she would find herself in, people still frowned upon the idea of spinsters in any form or shape, though she didn't fear the idea, unlike previously. There was certainly some charm to the idea of being the old mad lady with her cats, though she was certainly not old yet, and only a tiny bit mad.

"No, no it's not Tom," she said with a laugh, "I've moved on, you know, so no problem there."

Mike raised his brows at her in return, being her agent had prompted him to keep his mouth shut, but today he seemed keen on letting his mouth loose for once, "Be difficult not to… you broke it off."

In some ways he reminded her of her father, rather too much for her liking, "We didn't fit-," she tried to explain, gesturing with her hands, hoping he'd let the subject drop, and she was allowed to think of the letters in her purse instead. The ones she never thought she'd ever see, except John had found them – revealing to her all of the letters that had been returned to Baker Street unopened. He'd hesitated giving them to her, but she had persuaded him otherwise, though it did not wholly look good when she ended her engagement with Tom not long after.

"I just don't want to see you alone, that's all."

She sighed, staring out of the window of the car, watching the passing buildings, "I'm fine… I promise – and alone is nice, you know-,"

"Better than what you said last time, I'll say," said Mike chortling properly, while she shook her head glaring at him in return.

"Shut it," she said, "I was a bit dramatic-,"

"A bit? Alone protects me?"

Molly shook her head, "Mike, I just – it was the day dad-," she drew for breath smiling briefly, her eyes stinging. First her father had been taken from her, and not long after her grandmother. She bore no ill will towards their passing, for it had been natural causes, and she had been given the chance to say goodbye. Truth be told, the words bore truth, and in some ways being alone didn't harm one. Anyway, she was never really alone, given the title of auntie by John's and Mary's children, and surrounding herself with her work at St. Bart's.

"Sorry, sorry, I should've remembered, but you don't like – you just never tell me these things…" said Mike, looking wounded for a moment.

"I just don't want to bother you, it's not your job-,"

"My job is to look out for you, and I for one think you need someone like that – don't you?"

Instead of answering, she just nodded, letting the rest of the drive to the bookshop continue on quietly, while her nails dug into her purse.

Sir by M. Hooper –

He would have loathed the title, truth be told, so did she, as it felt like a joke she wasn't allowed to laugh at anymore - "The phenomenal first novel penned by M. Hooper has struck at the heart of the country…" The papers had all thought she was a man, like her school had when she'd applied to it, and it had been amusing. Her outing of course corrected their presumptions, and to some reviewers her previous brilliant work was reduced to schoolgirl fancies.

Perhaps she had just been a young woman at the time, but she did not believe her feelings were any less real. Never had she intended for those feelings to be viewed by the general public, her father picking up the manuscript when she moved out to live closer to her university. And not once had he judged her, only handing her the first printed copy with a whispered, "It's brilliant."

She did cry that day, unable to stop it, and the pair of them had been astonished when the book reached some level of acclaim. It was just a story, or so she constantly had to remind herself, changed and altered into a compelling plot, with the tragic ending still in place. Somehow having it in the printed word made it seem further from her, like it truly was something she had imagined.

Often enough she'd find herself wishing she had, since then she would probably be married to Tom, but she suspected that other obstacles would still be thrown into their path. He just hadn't been the right one. No matter how hard she'd tried to fit him into her life, it hadn't seemed at all possible.

Tom had never understood her work, or her want to write the silly stories as she did. They weren't silly exactly, all of them based on cases she'd assisted John Watson in, a man too fond of adrenaline-kicks than one would suspect.

And it wasn't before all of these books started to gain a truly large following that Tom had unceremoniously put her name out to be acknowledged, for only when she was loved by the public did he seem to take pride of her achievements. Unlike everyone else John was the only one who seemed truly relieved when she'd broken it off, "He just…he didn't look right," he'd said after she'd told him, giving her a bit of an odd look, which she ignored.

In some ways it was good everyone knew she was the one who had written the books, but the myriad of letters she'd received from young girls did in some ways startle her. She was certainly not encouraging this sort of behaviour, though she understood some of them, most of them wishing for that type of…"Well – we're here," said Mike, breaking up her thoughts once more, as she stared out on the pavement, her eyes widening at the sight of the people queuing outside of the shop.

"Are they here for me?" she said wrinkling her nose.

"Yes – they are," he said with a slight wink, opening the car door, holding it open for her.

It was something different seeing all of the different people's faces, some of them clutching her books to their chests, their faces lighting up when they spotted her. They were her readers, a curious thought which she found exhilarating, though terrifying as well. She was neither elegant nor worldly. In all essence she was still that same girl, still reading her books and doing her best to keep up with the growing world around her.

Praise wasn't something she coped well with, her mouth quirking upwards awkwardly at the books given to her by shaky hands of people who wanted her to sign her loopy signature, defiling the pristine copy. She felt like constantly asking, "Do you really want me to sign it?" But the way they all seemed to enthusiastically put their books on the table she occupied was answer enough. Quite often 'Sir' would appear at her desk, which wasn't supposed to be signed, but she did nonetheless, taking the praise with as much grace as she could, "Will there be another book like this? Since you've got the other series and all?" a young woman asked.

"No, it's just this one – some stories need to end," she said, her words heavier with meaning than she intended, but the young woman thanked her for the copy, before mutedly walking away.

"The ending was absolutely heart-wrenching," another said, sniffling as he walked off, "But beautiful."

There's beauty in tragedy, she'd read that somewhere, she didn't remember where, but it was true.

Her hand had begun to cramp, though blessedly the line was turning shorter, the mild banter diminishing, as it grew darker outside.

Another copy of Sir landed on the desk, her brown eyes turning to it wearily, the gloved hand that dropped it on the counter slipping away, the man's hands folded at his front.

She splayed open the book to the first page, it was a much more worn copy that she'd seen, almost falling apart, a brief smile playing at her lips, "What name should I put?" she said automatically, hiding her yawn rather poorly, as sleep prodded at her eyelids.

"Sir."

Her pen had begun to write, stilling when she understood, almost dropping the pen with shaking fingers, "Sorry?" she said swallowing. Now she was imaging things, her mind having surely leapt off into some fantasy, but she did not dare look up, for it would certainly break the spell the voice now had over her. It was dark, rich and velvet, so familiar with such a word; she knew not what to think.

"Sir," the man enunciated slowly.

Heart beating frantically, she tried too soothe her nerves, trying to calm them down, "That's not a name," she said carefully, allowing her eyes to shut, as her hand clung tightly around the pen still hovering above the page.

Neither spoke, her mind reeling, wondering if she had truly gone mad, holding her breath, until finally, "I agree," he said with a tone, amusement laden in his voice.

His words brought her eyes up, causing them to widen, her pink mouth gaping soundly at the sight of his soft smile.

For the first time in a long time, Molly Hooper was at a loss for words.

THE END