A/N: Spoilers for His Last Vow. This is a two parter. Second part hopefully written and posted tomorrow. Hope you like.

Don't Wait Up

by Flaignhan

Not a word is uttered on the journey to see him. The windows are tinted, so she has no idea where they're going, and she's stuck in the car for two and a half hours before it slows to a stop, and the door is opened by a tall suited man with plain features.

"Follow me," he says.

Molly gets out of the car, glad of the opportunity to stretch her legs. A chilly blast of wind hits her and she shudders, pulling her coat tightly closed around her as she climbs the stone steps leading up to a set of large oak doors. The place is basically a country retreat, with large rooms, luxurious furniture and big open fireplaces. The only off putting thing is the abundance of dark suited agents, standing stock still at every doorway, eyes fixed on her as she passes them.

The man escorting her leads her through a maze of corridors, then down a set of stone steps. It's not so glamorous down here, but still considerably more decent than Belmarsh. Eventually they come face to face with a narrow wooden door, its black paint cracked and peeling. There is a complicated electronic lock attached to it, as well as heavy steel bolts at the top and bottom.

"It's pointless, really," a familiar drawling voice says. "But it's protocol."

Molly doesn't say anything, but looks up to Mycroft, who gives her a brief, sad smile. He swipes a pass against the electronic lock, and the agent unbolts the door.

"Go on," Mycroft says. "He's expecting you."

Molly pushes open the door and slips inside, closing it softly behind her. Whatever happens in here, whatever's said, she doesn't want an audience. This isn't like those few brief moments after the fall, this is different. There's no adrenaline here, just quiet resignation.

It's not right.

He looks up at her as she walks in, and she dumps her bag on the floor. He's sitting on the edge of an old wooden table that has certainly seen better days. There's a camp bed in the corner with a twisted sleeping bag strewn across it, his coat and scarf folded neatly on top of a small, splintered chest of drawers. It's shabby, and it doesn't suit him.

He's chewing on the inside of his lower lip; she can tell by the way it's pulling, just a little. Apparently, he doesn't know what to say. First time for everything.

He opens his arms, and at first Molly is confused. It looks as though he's asking for a hug, and if it were anyone else she would oblige, but this is Sherlock Holmes and he doesn't do hugs.

"Please," he mumbles.

She looks him straight in the eye and realises instantly that this is no joke. He's broken, completely, and he needs someone to hold him together. She doesn't know what's wrong (well, she knows he's killed a man) and she doesn't know how to fix it, but this she can do. Of course she can do this.

She steps forward and is surprised by how firmly he pulls her against him, his arms locking her into place, his face buried against her shoulder. She encircles her arms around his neck, resting the side of her face against his head, her fingers curling in his hair as she tries not to cry. It's silly, really. She doesn't even know what's happening, but if it can reduce Sherlock, her stupid Sherlock, to this, then she will put money on it being substantial enough to earn a few tears from her.

"Tell me," she whispers. "Sherlock, tell me."

He pulls away from her at last, his arms relaxing their grip and sliding down to her waist.

"You can't tell John," he says, fixing her with a piercing look. "Or Mary. Promise me, Molly. Promise me you won't tell them."

"I didn't tell him you were alive," Molly says. "For two years. So yeah, I promise. You can trust me."

"I know I can," Sherlock says offhandedly, as though this goes without saying. "But now I need you to not tell him that I'm dead."

"Should be easy enough," Molly says, but when she allows her lips to curve into a small smile, it falters the second she meets his eyes. He's giving her the look. The look that says that they both know what's going on, but today it isn't smug, it isn't laced with pride, it's just plain hopelessness.

Molly shakes her head slowly. "No..."

"I'm to take on some undercover work in Eastern Europe," he says, his voice reverting to its usual detached tone. It's as though the light has flicked off behind his eyes, as though Sherlock Holmes has already departed. He's given up, and he never gives up.

"Mycroft expects it to last six months," he tells her, withdrawing his arms from her and resting his hands on his knees, his head bowed, hair blocking his eyes from her view. "Or rather," he says looking up, "He expects me to last six months."

She's confused. When he says 'last' it sounds like he's going on a suicide mission, but Mycroft wouldn't do that, not to his own brother, surely?

"What d'you mean?" she asks in a small voice, already dreading the answer. Her intestines twist themselves into knots as he stares at her, his features set in a solemn expression. Molly looks down at his knees, his fingers tapping against them rapidly, and places her hands over his, stilling them. There are a million and one thoughts racing through her head but she can't grasp any of them long enough to make sense of them. It's a death sentence, and they're going to get as much out of him as they possibly can before he dies what's likely to be a slow and painful death.

A terrorist would have received better treatment. Jim, at least, received a trial. And yet, here Mycroft is, sending his younger brother off into the wilderness to die.

"You could run away," she says, grasping at straws. She knows he never would, knows he is far too proud, but for once, just this once, she wishes he would be as selfish as he has been in the past.

"I've caused Mycroft enough trouble already," he sighs.

"He can't just do this," Molly says, shaking her head. "He can't."

"Of course he can," Sherlock says exasperatedly. "He's Mycroft. The Prime Minister answers to him."

"But what's he going to tell your mum and dad?"

Sherlock shrugs. "That I'm abroad and can't come back, most likely. And no family holidays to visit, either." He closes his hands around Molly's, his thumbs brushing against her knuckles gently, soothingly. She feels empty inside, as though she's been blasted through the chest with a shotgun and everything has been drained out of her. She can't think through the weight of the situation. This is the last time she's going to see him and there are so many things she wants to say but they all seem so pointless, so pathetic, and so bloody stupid.

A hot tear falls down her face, and she clamps her front teeth down on her bottom lip to keep any more from following. Tears are the last thing he needs - he needs support, not a breakdown. He takes one of his hands away from hers and brushes her tear aside, before pulling her against his chest as more tears begin to flow, her hands shaking as she grips the sides of his shirt. He cradles her head against him, his fingers tangling in her hair, and she thinks there must be a way to solve it. There must be.

"Fix it," she says, pulling away and wiping impatiently at her face. "You're Sherlock Holmes, so fix it."

"Molly - "

"Just because they're sending you away, it doesn't mean you have to die. You could do whatever they ask and then come home." Her eyes are filling up with tears again, her voice cracking, and Sherlock's shaking his head and she can't just let him give up like this. She can't.

"Molly, these people - "

"I don't care."

"Molly, if I could then I would, but I can't." He detaches himself from her completely and starts pacing around the room, his breaths coming in shaky gasps. He's panicking, just like she is, and all she's doing is kicking up a fuss rather than helping him come to terms with things.

"But you have to come home," she pleads, not bothering to stem the flow of tears now. It's pointless, he's seen her cry before and this does seem like a decent enough reason to be upset. Even he couldn't begrudge her this. "You have to."

"Molly - "

"You did it before," she protests. "You made everyone think you were dead before. You fooled everybody."

"You fooled everybody," he says pointedly.

"Well I'll come with you then. Or I'll meet you out there, wherever there is. And I'll help. We'll fix it."

"Don't you dare," he says through gritted teeth, one clenched fist smashing against the wall. Molly flinches, her breath catching in her throat. "You've already risked enough to save my life. You're not going to pay the price for what I've done."

"There has to be a way," she whispers. "There has to be."

"Molly, I'm not coming home," he says softly. "I'm going to die, and there's nothing either of us can do."

"But why are you only telling me?" Her voice is cracked, broken, just like the rest of her is, but somehow he hears through the distortion, through the drama of the tears he can hear every word she utters. He stops pacing, straightens up at that question, and suddenly, just for a moment, he's almost like his old self again.

"Well I would have thought that was obvious," he says, staring at her from the corner of the room.

"Not to me," Molly breathes, shaking her head. She wipes at her eyes and sniffs, trying (despite knowing how futile her efforts are) to catch a breather, to maybe get just a shade of her voice back so she can converse with him like a grown up instead of this blubbering, wailing child she has turned into.

"Erm," he says, raising his eyebrows and casting his gaze down at the floorboards. He clasps his hands behind his back, pressing his lips together as his eyebrows draw into a frown. "Well…"

"Sherlock…"

He blinks, and apparently decides that he can stall no longer. "I need you to know the absolute truth of things," he says. He won't look at her, and when she doesn't say anything, he continues. "I can't have you making decisions based on a lie, that I'm alive and well and one day might come back home. I can't let that happen. Not to you."

"Don't wait up?" she mumbles thickly, a fresh stream of tears trickling down her cheeks.

"Yeah, basically," he says with a humourless laugh. His eyes are overbright and she can tell he's trying to make this easy for her, but she'd rather he didn't. She'd rather he let out whatever he needs to let out, say whatever he needs to say, but she knows that won't happen.

"I love you," she says, before she can think twice. She wipes at her eyes again, even though it's no bloody use because the tears just won't stop, and his lips curve into the faintest of smiles.

"I know you do," he says, nodding his head. "I know you do."

"Yeah, I know," Molly ploughs on. "But I can't let you walk into a death trap without me saying it. Without me letting you know just how much."

"Molly - "

"Without letting you know that you mean the world to me, Sherlock Holmes, and…and…" She breaks into sobs, covering her face with her hands, hiding from him as each one rips through her, and within milliseconds he's there, arms wrapped tightly around her, holding her close, supporting her weight when she feels as though her legs might give way at any moment. She clings to him, sobbing into his chest, and tries to commit this moment to memory. There are happier ones to be sure, but this is him, and she will only ever want to remember him, at his most human, because there are a host of youtube clips and press conferences that have him being the consulting detective, but no real evidence of him ever being a man.

"I'm not really…I've never…"

He's stumbling over his words and Molly holds onto him more tightly, her ear pressed against his chest, his heart thudding loudly his ribcage. She wonders how many beats it has left, whether she'll feel anything in her own heart when his finally stops, or whether she'll just wake up one day, six months from now and realise that he's probably gone and she'll never hear anything to the contrary.

"If it was ever going to be anyone, it would have probably been you."

She freezes, his heart still pounding, sounding like a distant bass drum now. She looks up at him with watery eyes. "I don't believe you."

"Well you should," he says, avoiding her eye. "You've saved my life more times than you'll ever know. You make me a better person." His last few words are stiff, as though he's not quite ready to admit them, but knows he'll have no other chance.

"You're telling me this now?"

"Yeah I know, I'm an arsehole, aren't I?" he says in a rush, unable to keep the ghost of a smile from flitting across his lips. "Sorry."

Molly shakes her head in disbelief. Part of her thinks he might be saying this to make her feel better, to let her know, before she walks out into that cold harsh world that will soon be all the colder and harsher for his absence, that she too is cared for. But if he'd been lying, he'd have looked her straight in the eye. He wouldn't have faltered. He would have declared himself fully and without room for misinterpretation.

"Promise me something else."

"Anything," she whispers.

"Find someone," he says, and it's not what she wants to hear. She tried someone else and it just didn't work. "Find someone twice as good as you think I am," he continues. "And then find someone better."

"Yeah, like that's gonna happen," Molly says sceptically.

"Don't settle," he says firmly. "Promise me. Don't. Settle."

"Yeah, I promise," she says quickly. "I promise."

"Good," he says, and takes a deep breath, nodding his head. "Good."

There is a soft knock at the door and Molly's heart leaps into her throat. She's not ready to go, she can't leave him, not now, not to just let him be dropped off wherever Mycroft sees fit and enter certain death.

"No," she says, clinging onto his hands and shaking her head. "No."

"You have to," he says, trying to pull his hands from hers but she's gripping them too tightly. "You have to."

The door creaks open behind her and she sees Sherlock shoot a venomous look over her shoulder, before firmly removing her hands from his own and taking her by the shoulders. He leans forward, and presses his lips softly against her forehead, even more tears spilling down her cheeks, and she wonders how she can possibly have any left.

"Sherlock no…" she begs. "Please don't…"

"It's going to be all right," he tells her. "I promise you it'll be all right."

"It won't, don't lie to me!"

"Oh Molly," he says frustratedly. "You'll find another sociopath and who knows, maybe this next one'll make it to middle age. Third time lucky, isn't that what they say?" His words come out in such a rush that it takes a moment for her to process them. He seems to have only realised what he's said after it's too late to take the words back, and silence falls between them, filling the few feet of space that now might as well be miles.

"You're an arsehole," she says blankly.

"I know," he says, pressing his lips together and watching her carefully. "I know."

She can't think of anything to say, and she looks at the open door, the stairs ahead leading up to the light and airy rooms of the main house. She has to go, she knows. If she doesn't go now, she never will. She turns back to him, taking one last look, drinking in the exact angles that make up his face, the colour of his eyes, the way his hair falls softly over his forehead, the freckle on his neck, the way his shirt collar sits, revealing a small triangle of smooth pale skin. She looks down at his hands, knowing with certainty at last that she will never walk down the street with her own hand clasped in his. Never again will she hear him turn up in the middle of the night, kicking off his shoes and demanding the use of her flat. Never again will he sweep into her lab, expecting her to drop everything because there's been a murder and he's more excited than a kid at Christmas.

"I'll miss you," she whispers.

"Course you will," he says matter-of-factly, and for a moment, she hates him for it. "But you'll be fine."

"Yeah," she says, swallowing the lump in her throat. "Maybe."

"Definitely."

"See you then," she says, her voice coming out in a small squeak as she fights back her tears. She picks up her bag, and is shaking all over, but she can't bring herself to walk out the open door. But then he smiles at her.

"Laters," he says, and he winks. She doesn't know whether to laugh or cry, and so she leaves, before she can do either, rushing up the stairs and trying not to run back down when she hears the door close and the bolts slide across. When she reaches the top of the stairs, she turns around, hoping to maybe call something back to him, something that will make him laugh, or at least smile. But Mycroft is at the foot of the stairs, swinging his umbrella from his right hand, watching its progress boredly as it sways back and forth.

"Not a word, Miss Hooper."

"Why?" Molly demands, all traces of frailty vanishing from her tone. "Because of the shame it would bring on you?"

Mycroft doesn't say a word, and damn right too. There's nothing he could say to her that would ever justify his actions.

"You're a heartless bastard, Mycroft Holmes. You know that, don't you?"

Before he can even begin to think of a reply, Molly shoves past the two agents guarding the top of the stairs and storms down the corridor. She can't breathe, she needs to get outside. Outside and far, far away.