Sherlock awoke to the thunderous sound of his heartbeat reverberating throughout the darkened bedroom. It was echoing so loud it felt like his heart had burst. He pulled himself out of the bedcovers and staggered for the door, hoping that wakefulness will calm his throbbing heart. He reached the corridor and stopped in utmost confusion. He wasn't in 221B anymore. He was in Molly's flat. The dull thudding only got louder. Deafening. Pulsating. It echoed through the walls and threatened to spatter blood everywhere.

"Stop it. Just stop it!" He barked hoarsely over the din.

Thud… thud… thud… thud…

The maddening rhythm grew louder as he reached the dimly-lit kitchen and what he saw beyond horrified him.

"Molly?"

Hunched over on the sitting room floor was a vision- Molly, immaculate, almost ethereal, in her glowing white coat. She looked up at him and smiled her familiar dulcet smile.

"Um… What are you doing here? He croaked loudly. He wasn't even sure Molly could hear him over the thunderous noise.

She raised her hands and opened her palms for him to see. They were completely stained in bright red blood, but it wasn't hers. Her palms looked unscathed. She wrung her hands together and he watched in morbid fascination as the blood dripped and stained her white coat sleeves.

An involuntary shudder bolted through his body. "Oh Molly! What have you done?"

"Your heart was making such a racket, Sherlock. It was beating so loudly, it haunted me day and night. I just couldn't take it anymore! It must be stopped!"

"Mol-ly! Stop talk-"

"It must be stopped!" She screamed and gestured plaintively at the floorboards underneath her. The steady, unforgiving beat seemed to be emanating from there.

"I…I just had to cut it out of your chest…hide it in a safe place…Sherlock. Where no one else could hear it" she apologetically stammered.

Sherlock's face contorted in agony. The deafening din distracted him from the terrible pain clutching at his chest from the minute he woke up…

He looked down at his bare torso and saw his chest cavity ripped open, hollowed out, his ribs jaggedly shining in the light and his bloody heart missing… He fell on his knees panicked, clutching at his empty chest.

"Where is it, Molly? Where is it?" he shouted

"Here it is, Sherlock, where no one can find it…" Molly whispered while tearing away at the floorboards with her bloodstained hands. The loosened floorboards revealed a recess. From it, she picked up something red and hefty, a bloody, writhing sinewy mass of muscle that dwarfed her small hands.

His heart.

It was beating deafeningly as she thrust it into his hands. "Here, Sherlock" she said with a bereft smile. "Here's the beating of your hidden heart."

His heart!

The heaviness was spreading throughout his chest like liquid lead and he couldn't do anything about it but give in… He screamed but his screams were soundless…

"Sherl! Sherl? Are you ok? Sherlock?" a worried but lilting voice wafted from nowhere. He followed it.

He opened his eyes and peered into Janine's blurry features. Janine shook him and his vision cleared. He was in his own bed at 221B. Janine was lying beside him covered in nothing but a sheet. He shook his blanket and looked down at his pale, bare chest. Intact. Nothing but chest hair there.

It was just a dream. A recurring nightmare that had plagued him for the past three years. He sighed irritably and wiped off the beads of perspiration that have now fallen into his eyes.

" Were you having a nightmare?" Janine traced a playful finger across his naked chest. "Or are you coming down from a high again?"

"Neither!" he growled. "What time is it?" He sat up and ruffled his damp, sweaty hair angrily. He inhaled deeply and tried to regain his facade of composure. He was Sherlock Holmes. No one was supposed to see him like this.

"Just a little past midnight, my dear" she breathed lazily into his ear. "I just got in an hour ago. You were sleeping so soundly, quite a rare sight, so I didn't dare wake you-"

He stopped her from babbling with a firmly planted kiss on her lips.

"Oooh, are we going there tonight? She breathlessly intoned. "Oooh you, frisky boy!" she giggled and slapped his bare backside.

Sherlock sighed inwardly. He simply cannot have this kind of distraction. Magnussen was weighing heavily on his mind… an interesting case at Tuxbury Old Park had surfaced… not to mention, he was being haunted by macabre dreams again and Molly…

He waved away that last mental image as if swatting at a fly. He desperately wanted some time and space to think, to plot his next move. And he can't do it here at Baker Street. Not with Janine around. Her weakness seemed infectious…

He smoothly pried himself from Janine's embrace and gently kissed her on the forehead. In one swift action, Sherlock had bounded out of the bed and had proceeded to dress in a flash. He grabbed his blazer while absently mouthing, "Sorry dear, got to run. Some leads to follow. Call you later."

Janine pulled up her sheet furiously over her body. "Sherlock, you wanker, leaving me again on a lurch! Oh God, just sod off!" she cried dramatically into the pillow.

Sherlock had already walked out of the door pretending not to hear her.

Sherlock sighed heavily as he put on his coat. He knew perfectly well there was no absolute need for a coat tonight but he wore it nonetheless on this balmy June night. It was his only companion on his long, nocturnal and solitary walks around London. Janine hanging around Baker Street had recently forced him to extend his forays out on the city streets. He loathe Janine's company in his lair but he saw it as a necessary evil for his plans to come into completion…

He shook off Janine's heavy presence and started walking. Sherlock reveled in strolling the streets of his beloved London at ungodly hours. The desolated streets afforded him the privacy and anonymity to conduct his investigations. Aside from the occasional drunk or a member of his homeless network accosting him, no one really dared bother him while he was on his stroll.

Invariably, in the last seven months since his return to London, his walks were bound to end up at one, familiar destination…he would often come out of his abstraction and find himself standing at the foot of Molly's apartment block. As a force of habit, Sherlock would glance up at Molly's fifth floor flat while fingering a key he always kept in his breast pocket.

Most of the time, Sherlock would just turn around and head back to Baker Street. But on quite a few occasions, he would stay for an hour or so, just staring at her window. He couldn't fathom why, but coming here gave him solace when he needed it the most.

Tonight, Molly's bedroom was pitch black but the window was half-open, her white curtains fluttering in the breeze. He knew she was there and she was there alone. Tom had been away on an overseas trip for two days now and would be gone for another full week. Since John and Mary's wedding, Molly and Tom's relationship was on shaky ground. He deduced that Molly would be breaking up with him as soon as he came back from his business trip. Sherlock knew it as a fact.

Sherlock resisted the all too familiar pull and turned on his heels to go back.

"Human error." He muttered under his breath.

A vivid image of Molly holding his beating heart flashed unbidden before his eyes. Here's the beating of your hidden heart…

Sherlock couldn't take it anymore. "Oh, for God's sake, Molly! Just leave me alone!" He shouted in frustration.

The light turned on in the bedroom and there was Molly, her long hair tousled, sticking her head out of the window. "Sherlock? What happened? Why are you shouting? Oh my God, why am I shouting? The neighbors! Oh, never mind… just come up!"

Molly was actually tossing and turning before Sherlock ceremoniously showed up. She couldn't sleep. She had another row with Tom before he left for Germany. He wanted her to take a break and go with him. She refused claiming that she was overburdened at work. The bitter truth was she couldn't stand being around Tom lately. Sherlock's return from the dead had burst the idyllic bubble she had built around herself and Tom forcing her to confront a horrible realization: She had never gotten over Sherlock Holmes.

Three years ago on this very day, Sherlock had shown up on her doorstep, seeking refuge right after his "fall". And now years later, she couldn't bear to think about what happened between them then. She kept the memories of those precious few days securely locked away after he left. For more than a year, she had waited and waited for him to come through her front door… he did have a key after all…but he never did. The waiting exhausted her physically and emotionally. One day she just woke up wondering what the hell she was waiting for. Sherlock waited for no one so why should she? She found herself a proper lad in Tom. Faithful, loving Tom, who wanted to marry her, build a domestic life with her. Molly thought she was content.

Until Sherlock came crashing into her life again.

I've got plans but he just rides all over me! Because, you let him, Molly Hooper. Always.

Every night since his "resurrection", Molly allowed herself the luxury of worrying about Sherlock. Was he eating? Was he sleeping? Was he doing drugs again? On the surface, he seemed to be doing remarkably well on his own but then Sherlock was an absolute expert at keeping up appearances. Since John and Mary's wedding, he had neither texted her nor shown up at St. Bart's . She had texted him a lot, offering cases, body parts and dissections but he didn't reply. The only time he did reply was when she offered to visit him at Baker Street.

Don't Bother.
Quite busy.

SH

She took that as a sign that he was truly preoccupied with his cases. Or that he was hiding something. Molly had Mrs. Hudson snoop around for a while but even she couldn't find anything incriminating. Accustomed to his mercurial moods and erratic behavior, Molly shrugged off his long silence. He'll show up when he wants to show up.

And show up, Sherlock Holmes did. At her front door at 2 o'clock in the morning, just as he did three years ago.

"You're a sight for sore eyes," Molly giggled nervously. "Are you bored? Why are you here?" What was she supposed to say? Sherlock never ever called on her. Not at her flat. Certainly not at this time. Well, maybe he did but that was a lifetime ago…

"Anything wrong, Sherlock? Is a criminal mastermind after you? What do you need?" her nervous giggle turned into anxious questions.

Sherlock only stared at her with vacant blue eyes. He looked confused. It was as if he was searching for an excuse to be there. Toby nudged him out of his paralysis with a swish of his tail. Sherlock reflexively patted the cat and proceeded to pace around Molly's flowery sitting room restlessly. He almost knocked over a vase of red daisies on the coffee table. He was unusually uncoordinated tonight leading Molly to suspect he was either drunk or high.

Sherlock hammered out an answer, "I have to apologize for calling so late. I just didn't realize I was still holding on to this," He gingerly fished out Molly's flat key from his breast pocket. " I just dropped by to return it. I never got to use it anyway since… since I returned" Sherlock held out the key for Molly to take.

Molly's heart dropped. She suddenly recalled their arrangement shortly before he went into hiding. If you need anything, Sherlock, she had said placing the key to her flat in his palms...My door is always open… That key was her declaration of love and loyalty to him. She thought he had thrown it away and forgot about it by now but he kept it. He actually kept it. Does it mean he loves her too? Why is he returning it then? He's closing the book on what could have been…

"No!" Molly cried out to Sherlock's disbelief.

"I want you to keep it, Sherlock. Please. You'll never know when you'll find it useful." She covered his outstretched palm with her small hand. "I mean it. Please keep it. My door is always open for you, Sherlock, remember that." She withdrew his hand from his before turning away so he wouldn't notice her tears.

"Would you mind if I stay then?" He had already shrugged off his coat and carried on as if discounting Molly's words. "I'm on a case. Err, two, actually. I just… I need some space. I've been feeling cramped lately. Can't think in Baker Street."

Molly was taken aback. She opened her mouth to ask "Why?" but thought better of it. Sherlock had his methods. However dangerous or peculiar those methods were- Molly was always enthusiastic enough to accommodate his fancy. Unquestioningly. Maybe she just enjoyed the mysteries he brought in with him…

"I don't mind."

He was looking around for a coat peg and Molly took this opportunity to look surreptitiously at his vivid cornflower eyes. They seemed lost. As if searching for something more…

Molly suddenly felt a wave of pity for the great detective. Was he here because he was hungry for some familiar company? He misses John, that much was evident, she could see it etched as sad lines on his face. Did he miss her too? Oh, Molly, why would he be here if he didn't? Sherlock would never be caught saying things like "I love you" but she knew he was capable of feeling it.

She wanted to run to him and embrace him but she controlled herself as she had done so many times before in the last seven months.

"I hope Tom won't mind-"

"I said I don't mind, Sherlock! Don't you forget this is my flat not his. Anyway, he's away in-"

"Germany. Berlin, to be exact. He won't be back until early next week," Sherlock was busy hanging his beloved coat inside the coat closet that he didn't see Molly grit her teeth.

Is he spying on me? How long has that been going on?

"I'm not spying on you, Molly, if that's what you're thinking. You left his itinerary tacked to this door!" Sherlock kicked the closet door exasperatedly to prove his point.

Molly steadied herself. Here's to an interesting night. You let him in, deal with it! Here goes…

"Sherlock, I haven't seen or heard from you since John and Mary's wedding. I've left a ton of messages in your voicemail. Even John is worried. You haven't returned any of our calls. Are you okay? Good Lord, are you on drugs again? She couldn't help but ask, knowing full well that her queries will irritate him.

Sherlock sighed dramatically before angrily huffing, "Of course, I'm okay! I've had my hands full over quite a number of cases last month that I couldn't be expected to reply to everyone's fluff! You've left precisely 21 voicemail messages, 35 texts, and 18 emails in my inbox since May 19! It's incredibly tedious to read through all your witless drabble-"

"Sherlock Holmes!" Molly cringed. His inability to see her concern stung like a slap across the face. She couldn't believe he was treating her boorishly again.

Sherlock stopped himself short, taking cue from her horrified reaction. He walked towards her and gently stroked her blushing left cheek as if physically atoning for that verbal slap. "I understand the concern, Molly Hooper, but I'm alright. I'm just really… busy."

His touch was electric, unexpected yet so familiar that she involuntarily shivered. He was standing so close, Molly could smell the aftershave he had put on that morning… so close she could see the beginnings of a stubble on his Cupid's bow… She terribly missed those lips …

Was he a better kisser? Tom's sad voice popped into her head.

She jerked away from Sherlock in an instant. "Errrr… you hungry? I've got some pies. Some tea? Is Mrs. Hudson feeding you? I have resorted to asking Mrs. Hudson after you."

"No. No, thank you, and yes, Mrs. Hudson hasn't only been feeding me but snooping on me too." Sherlock had moved and was now impassively draped across her comfortably upholstered chesterfield, his eyes closed, his long fingers steepled gracefully under his chin.

"Don't you have to be somewhere, Molly? Like in your bed. Sleeping?"

"Are you comfortable on that couch? Because I remember you used to prefer my bed-"

Sherlock looked up at her with feigned innocence, a mischievous smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Why Ms. Hooper, is that an open invitation to your-"

Molly gasped and drew her dressing gown tighter. "No! No. No! I mean…you can take my bed… I'll take you on the couch. Oh God! I mean, I'll take the couch!" She stammered.

Sherlock's powder blue eyes crinkled over her discomfort. He cackled a little too loudly. The poor bastard was enjoying this.

She wasn't used to this anymore but whatever this was, she missed it. She missed the flirty, smiling Sherlock. She missed his pale, beautiful body… Molly blushed at the thought. Ever since he deduced that she was engaged, he had been more guarded and formal with her. A wall had sprung up between them over the last seven months and it had a name- Tom.

"I… I … I mean-"

"I'm already on the sofa. I have no desire to expend energy by moving to the bed. Goodnight, Molly, " Sherlock mumbled dismissively, his eyes closed.

"Okay then. Carry on… um… deducing. Goodnight, Sherlock."

She worked up the courage to boldly ruffle the top of his heady curls before turning away to leave. He caught her wrist tenderly and drew her warm hand to his cold cheek.

"Thank you for letting me in, Molly."

"I wish you've come sooner." Molly sighed.

Anything and nothing was possible with this man.

Molly had a singular dream that night. A dream that had played out in so many nights over the last three years that she welcomed it as a friend…

Sherlock was falling. He fell slowly past her window at 's, his black coat floating weightlessly…Stifling a scream, she resisted the urge to look down onto the street below where he landed.

Molly had an essential role in this urgent play and she had to do it now. Within seconds, she pushed a corpse dressed in an identical copy of Sherlock's outfit out of her laboratory window. Before it hit the ground, Molly was already running. She ran breathlessly into the hospital courtyard, desperately waiting for Sherlock. Her heart was beating anxiously. Did everything go as planned? Did he survive his stunt? Was he hurt? It seemed ages before the operatives came in thru the wooden doors, wheeling a still, seemingly lifeless and bloodied Sherlock in. Much to her surprise, tears sprung unwelcome into Molly's eyes. She couldn't help it. She started sobbing and made no attempt to stop, they were still playing the farce after all. Someone else who wasn't a part of this elaborate act could still take notice and wonder if they all did anything out of the ordinary. She directed the operatives to wheel Sherlock down the hall into one of the morgue rooms and dismissed them right away. Mycroft will probably debrief them himself.

"Sherlock, it's okay. Get up now!" she screamed at his immobile, bloody face. He wouldn't stir. "Sherlock!" She was starting to get worried. "Sherlock!" she began to shake him.

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open. "Bloody hell, Molly! Your voice is loud enough to wake the dead!"

He was off the stretcher in one lithe move but before he could utter another word, Molly had him in a tight embrace, her tears running freely down her cheeks again.

"You idiot! Don't ever scare me like that again!"

Sherlock chuckled and tentatively patted her pony-tailed head. He moved to leave but Molly caught the edge of his coat sleeve. He cocked his head to one side in amused astonishment.

"What now, Molly? I still have things to do. Lots to do." The mask of pain he was wearing the night before his fall slipped back on his face.

"Don't you dare go running away into forever without saying goodbye, Sherlock! It was now or never. She had to let him know or she'll forever regret this moment.

She said, "You know you'll be needing more of my help. You'll need a hideout while we sort this out," Molly surprised herself and did something bold. With quivering fingers, she fished out her flat key from her lab coat and pressed it in his palm. "Keep my key. Feel free to stay over whenever you need the space."

She stared directly into his eyes. A whirlpool of emotions seemed to be raging in those cobalt orbs. She could glimpse the sadness, the fear, but was that elation as well? She was so taken aback when tears started to blur Sherlock's eyes that she clasped him again in an embrace.

"Thank you, Molly Hooper. Thank you for saving my life." He whispered earnestly against her tear-stained cheek. "I knew I can always count on you."

Without warning, Sherlock's warm lips were suddenly all over her mouth, gently tasting the strange mixture of their tears and anxieties. She moaned in surprise as he deepened his kiss with a passion matched by the adrenalin of the fall still pumping wildly in his heart. He was kissing with a fervor born out of gratitude and relief and she just reveled in it. She loved knowing that Sherlock was human after all.

Molly woke up at 7 that morning, still tasting the memory of Sherlock's kiss on her mouth. She stumbled groggily into the sitting room to check on the detective. He was gone.

"Maybe I dreamed up last night too," Molly muttered ruefully.

Two days later, Molly had already conveniently forgotten about that strange nighttime incident with Sherlock. Tom had called earlier that morning and asked her off to the countryside with him as soon as he came back. She agreed to go. Sherlock's return had made her question her feelings for Tom but Tom was doing everything to make her stay. Molly was determined to overcome her qualms over their relationship. She could still work this out with Tom. Yes, I can! She triumphantly thought.

She jauntily hummed a tune while slicing cardiac muscle from a recently deceased heart before mounting the sections onto a cryostat microtome to freeze them. So focused was she that she didn't see a tall, dark-suited figure creep up furtively behind her.

"Quite a broken heart you have there, Molly…" Sherlock's dark timbre echoed across the empty laboratory hall.

Molly squealed in surprise as the pulpy mess of a dissected heart flopped out of the surgical bowl down towards the floor… Sherlock caught it in a split second with an agile, latex-gloved hand. He wrinkled his nose in pretend disgust at the sight of the red, shiny mass and tossed it toward a still-shocked Molly.

"Here you go. Do be careful of your heart, Molly Hooper. Don't ever let it fall. It does get so easily broken." He smirked at his own pun.

Molly laughingly grabbed at the sinewy mass and clutched it to her chest as if it were her own.

"And who better to advise me on the affairs of my heart, than the Great Sherlock Holmes? I dare say you should take care of your own heart, Sherlock. If you can find it."

She smiled at him knowingly, the half-torn heart still glistening in her palms.

Under the harsh lights, the vivid image of Molly holding his still beating heart sprung unwelcome in his head. His smile faded as he recalled his discomfiting nightmare from a few nights ago… Molly, smiling as she was smiling now, holding his still-beating heart…

Just a dream, Sherlock, focus! Just random mentation produced by the dopaminergic structures of the frontal cortex and the limbic system… Not a Freudian symbol… No, don't be a sentimental fool! It doesn't mean anything! You're not in love with Hooper. Certainly not!

Sherlock mentally slapped himself. You're here for a reason!

"So why are you here?" Molly had begun to slice up the heart again.

"Have I truly been away that long from Bart's that you have to ask me why I'm here?"

"Well, actually…yes." She rolled her pretty doe eyes at him.

"Just following up on some cultures I had run a few weeks ago… for a case, of course."

"That's interesting." Molly was trying her best to ignore him.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Ummm…actually…" He rubbed the back of his nape, flustered. Molly was now staring at him expectantly.

Focus!

He wanted to get to the point but he could never understand why he found it hard to ask her this question:

"Molly, it would mean much to me if you go with me on a case tomorrow night."

He paused and gulped. His mouth had gone dry. "I know we've agreed before not to do this again but your presence would mean a lot to me. Would you come?"

Molly almost cut herself with the scalpel. Why now? She looked up at him and saw the earnestness in his expression. In an instant, the last two days were crystal clear. Sherlock was lonely. This was his attempt to confide in her emotionally. He had come to her desperate for her affection. How can she deny him that?She could never let him down.

"Yes, of course!" she said too quickly before she changed her mind.

"Oh, and can you bring a venipuncture kit with you? You're taking blood samples."

Oh, Sherlock, you'll always lead me to my undoing, she cried silently.

"Sherlock!"

Molly screamed at the top of her lungs as she ran panicked thru the gardens of Tuxbury Old Hall. It was almost pitch black but she could see bounding closely behind her, a couple of ferocious Rottweilers intent on taking a bite off her backside. Ahead, more than a yard away, she could make out Sherlock sprinting towards the tall hedge, his coat flying behind him.

Oh God, the bloody bastard's going to leave me to the dogs! She thought desperately.

Inexplicably, Sherlock's big, strong hands were suddenly on her small waist. She felt herself being hoisted over the thorny hedge. Scrabbling to the top, she looked down at the 10-foot drop…

"Jump, Molly!" Sherlock ordered over the din of the dogs' barking.

"I can't!" She had a ridiculous fear of heights. Usually, it wasn't a problem but now it certainly was.

Sherlock had now clambered up the hedge beside her. "Molly, we have to hurry! We can't let anyone see us! I'll jump first and catch you." He squeezed her clammy hands tight to reassure her and with a swish of his coat he had rolled to the ground unscathed. How does he do that?

"Molly, come on!" Sherlock yelled impatiently. He had his arms outstretched reaching for her feet.

She lowered herself carefully, reluctant to let go of her handhold but her fingers slipped and suddenly she was falling head first onto the unrelenting ground. She dragged Sherlock who was still holding on to her feet, down with her. She closed her eyes expecting to hit the cold ground hard but instead she landed with a dull thump against Sherlock's chest. She opened her eyes in confusion. She was straddling Sherlock and he was pinned underneath her just lying there giggling. He had used his body to cushion her fall. Sherlock Holmes has the lightning reflexes of a cat.

"You idiot! You're such a douche!" Molly had gotten over her shock and now she was intent on making the sleuth pay while she had him in her clutches. She punched Sherlock's left arm hard but it seemed to have no effect as he guffawed even more. "What the hell did you just put me through?"

"Molly, I'll explain once we clear the estate grounds. Now kindly get off me. We have to put some distance between us and those damn dogs." The dogs were still yelping over the hedge. He tried to lift her off but Molly was immovable.

"I don't care about the dogs! God knows, you've chloroformed everyone to sleep inside that house including a very sick man! Who else would hear us? I thought this was a simple case. You should have told me we're breaking in and entering and drugging people!"

"I assumed you knew! We're in the middle of nowhere in Bedford, in the dead of the night! What else would we be doing? Chatting up the neighbors?"

Molly was raging now. She blindly followed him and he led her into danger. She should have expected that sooner. Sherlock Holmes simply had no regard for his safety or hers. He only cared about the game. "Well, I'm not you, Sherlock! I'm not John either!"

Sherlock, deducing her displeasure, grabbed at the lapels of her brown coat. She fell towards him, her questioning face in front of his. His sweet, warm breath lingered momentarily on her lips before his mouth covered hers. She made an effort to resist him but Sherlock only pulled her closer. He kissed her deeply and ferociously with a longing she had never tasted in other men. She gave up and returned the kiss with passion, marveling at how long she had gone on without resorting to this.

After what seemed like an eternity, Sherlock looked up, "We should have done that sooner."

"I believe so." Molly panted breathlessly. She got up, brushed off the dust from her clothes and started walking along the desolated path, leaving Sherlock still lying on the cold dirt. "It doesn't change anything though. I'm still mad at you."

The hour-long taxi ride from Bedford back to London was interminable. Sherlock sat beside Molly lost in thought, his angular features inscrutable. Molly was still silently fuming but at the same time burning with curiosity.

It was partly her fault. She had marched blindly into this without demanding the details. She knew a considerable amount of danger was involved but the excitement of facing the unknown with Sherlock made her throw caution to the winds. She was ashamed to admit that the adventure had thrilled her- breaking in brazenly into a private estate, watching Sherlock drug two people and then instructing her to draw blood samples from a sick, sedated man before being chased out by trained guard dogs… It was disturbingly exhilarating but what was all this for?

She suddenly remembered the blood samples that Sherlock had her take. She immediately took out two lavender-topped vacutainer tubes from her coat pocket. She held them to the light. The purple seals were still intact, the blood inside them glistening like rubies.

"Ahhh, I'm glad you didn't lose the blood samples," Sherlock drawled. "Would you mind sending them off for DNA analysis tomorrow, Molly?"

"What for?" she petulantly asked.

"Well, I assumed you already know what for. You've seen the state of the young man. What do you think?"

"Sherlock, I'm going to throttle you and your ridiculous assumptions! I still have no idea what this case is about! For God's sake, give me a clue!" No wonder John was always tetchy. Sherlock Holmes can be deliberately infuriating.

Sherlock looked out of the taxi window, a quirky smile forming at the edge of his mouth, "Two weeks ago, this young lieutenant named James Dodd, on leave from his deployment in Sierra Leone, came to me with a missing persons case."

Wait, what? A missing persons case? Why would Sherlock concern himself with a trivial case like that?

"He was searching for a fellow soldier and close friend, Godfrey Emsworth, discharged from active duty half a year ago. Mr. Dodd was concerned because Godfrey had stopped corresponding with him a month after he came home from Sierra Leone. His Facebook and Twitter accounts were inactive, his phone couldn't be reached, and he wasn't answering any emails. Quite suspicious for a 26 year-old man, who surely wouldn't be able to resist the pull social media wherever he went. When Mr. Dodd wrote Godfrey's father, the imminent Colonel Emsworth, the older man assuaged him that the reason why Godfrey had been incommunicado was because he was sailing around the world on his yacht. Apparently, everyone in Godfrey's social circle believed this."

"And why doesn't James Dodd believe this story?" Molly asked intrigued.

"Because Godfrey had confided to James that there was nothing in this world that he hated more than sailing. He had almost drowned once while sailing and has been put off the sport ever since."

"Oh! So James was convinced that Godfrey had met foul play somewhere and the Emsworth family are covering up his death?"

"Exactly. Except Godfrey isn't dead." Sherlock smiled slyly. "A week ago with the help of my Homeless Network, I have traced his whereabouts to the supposedly abandoned Emsworth family estate, Tuxbury Old Hall, in Bedford."

"The young man I took blood samples from?" Molly exclaimed. "That was Godfrey Emsworth? Why is his family hiding him from James Dodd and everyone else?"

"Why indeed, Molly? You know my methods. Apply them." Sherlock was now looking at her expectantly.

Molly pondered on the clues. "Well, it's obvious that his family are going to great lengths to keep him hidden away. There are only three people living in Tuxbury Old Hall including Godfrey, which lessens the chances of people talking. One is his live-in nurse and the other the estate caretaker, both of whom you unnecessarily drugged. We could have slipped in without drugging anyone but the dogs, Sherlock."

"But where's the fun in that?" Sherlock whined.

Molly ignored him. "Also, Tuxbury Old Hall is three miles away from the main road and neighboring houses. Quite far from prying eyes. By the way, thanks for making me walk those three miles, Sherlock. You owe me new shoes." She pointed to her scuffed flats.

Sherlock only shrugged, amused. "Go on, you seem to be enjoying this deduction thing."

Molly resisted the urge to kick him in the shin. "Godfrey is quite sick. His live-in nurse sedates him but even under sedation, he was having involuntary tremors and uncontrollable movement. I noticed it while I was drawing blood from his arm. A man still in his prime, with impaired motor skills- could it be early-onset Parkinson's disease? But why the desperate need for secrecy? He can still live a productive life with Parkinson's."

"I'm afraid I'm being unfair. I'll give you more clues. His mother died, four years ago, age 46, from "natural causes". So did his maternal uncle, a year ago, at the ripe old age of 40, from the same "natural causes". Further investigation reveals that on Godfrey's maternal side at least one family member from every generation dies young from "natural causes."

"So it's a hereditary illness! But why shroud it in secrecy? Almost everything now is curable. And if it isn't, it's a family's pride to battle the disease."

"Well… not this one." The prominent Emsworth family would rather pretend their son had disappeared rather than disclose to society what he is suffering from. It seems that the Emsworths are more concerned about protecting their reputation than their own flesh and blood. What disease carries with it such a stigma that your own family would chose to forget you exist?" Sherlock sounded sad.

It finally dawned on Molly why Sherlock took on this basically unremarkable case. A soldier fellow searching for his missing comrade, refusing to believe his friend was gone forever… James Dodd subconsciously reminded Sherlock of John Watson. Sherlock still hasn't forgiven himself for putting John through all that suffering. He was still obviously searching for a way to redeem himself in John's eyes. He did that by finding Godfrey Emsworth for James Dodd.

"You miss John a lot, don't you?" Molly stared him straight in the eye. The detective looked away, incensed.

"What? No! He's on his sex holiday, for God's sake!" Sherlock sullenly huffed. "What the hell, Molly? Get back to the case! Focus!"

"Sherlock! Don't ever call a honeymoon a sex holiday! Please! I know you don't want to talk about him but if you're ever lonely- "

"Molly! Back on the case!" Sherlock sounded threatening. "What is Godfrey Emsworth suffering from? Why is his family ashamed of him?"

"Huntington's disease." Molly said flatly. The answer had been flying over her head since she observed Godfrey Emsworth's twitching body. "A hereditary condition that causes movement abnormalities and cognitive disabilities in the person affected… eventual madness…then death at a young age. Families affected are often ashamed of its legacy and will do everything to hide it. "

What a terrible way to die- to go down in the prime of your youth, mad and forgotten. She thought of Godfrey's peaceful face…he knew his fate and chose to accept it…like a true soldier. How brave of him. A tear trickled down her cheek and caught the light in the cab.

"Molly, good God, you solved the case! Wait! Why are you crying?" Sherlock's genuine confusion made her tear up even more. He tried wiping away her tears with his fingers.

"I'm sorry. I'm just sad for Godfrey." Molly sniffed. "Will you tell James?"

"Once we have confirmed our suspicions thru DNA testing on the samples you took, I think I'll take Mr. Dodd to seek an audience with Colonel Emsworth. I can imagine James Dodd will be discreet with the information but it is the family's prerogative whether to tell him or not. At least, I can convey the news to James Dodd that his friend is still alive." He looked out thoughtfully at the moving landscape and lapsed into silence again.

Sherlock was busily scrolling through his text messages when the taxi arrived at Molly's flat. Janine had left exactly 12 texts and 5 voicemails since he last saw her two days ago. Her last text read:

Heading to Baker Street, Sherl.

Don't take too long solving crimes.

I miss you!

See you later love!

Janine XXX

Sherlock furiously pounded a reply:

Don't bother, my dear.

Working all night.

Will call on you tomorrow.
Love you.

SH

"Sherlock, this is my stop." Molly nudged him out of his heartless reverie.

"Wait, I'm going with you." Sherlock threw a bunch of notes at the cab driver. "Keep the change!" he hurriedly bounded out of the cab to catch up with Molly.

"Why are you avoiding 221B suddenly like the plague, Sherlock?" Molly rubbed her eyes tiredly while fishing for her keys. "Nothing, not death threats, bombs, not even assassins could keep you from going back there. Ah, I know… You're running away from a girlfriend. Is it that bridesmaid from John and Mary's wedding?" She giggled uncontrollably at her own joke.

He tried not to look alarmed. How could she know? Of course, she doesn't, idiot! Sherlock did what he did best, lie through his teeth, "I left a body soaking in the bathtub for about a week now. I'm measuring the rate of tissue decomposition in scented bathwater and the stench is unbearable. Not even Mrs. Hudson wants to come up."

"That's ghastly, Sherlock! "

"Thank you. And after you." Sherlock had already opened Molly's front door with the key she had given him but Molly didn't seem to notice. She went in without saying a word. Toby streaked out in a flash but Sherlock managed to catch him. "Your cat!" He was holding the hapless Toby at arms length. She took the cat from him as if taking a baby.

"Oh poor Toby." She stroked the cat's soft fur. "Don't worry. He doesn't bite."

"I know!" Sherlock had slung himself again on Molly's white chesterfield.

"I'm not talking to you. I'm talking to the cat!" Molly haughtily retorted.

Sherlock made an exasperated face and slinked deeper into the couch. Molly disappeared into her small kitchen and came back with a bottle of red wine and a couple of wine glasses.

"Drink up, Sherlock! You've just finished a case. You have no excuse not to!" Molly passed him a full glass of wine as she settled in her armchair with a glass of her own.

Against, the bright red fabric of the chair, Molly seemed luminous, her soft features framed with a glow Sherlock failed to discern before. He contemplated the graceful indulgence with which she lifted her wine glass to her lips, how elegantly her bare feet dangled above the floor, how sweet those lips tasted when he kissed them an hour before… A long-suppressed ache awakened in his chest. He tried drowning it with the contents of his glass.

"I'm sorry about the dogs in Tuxbury Old Park, Molly. I failed to account for them."

"Nothing to worry about. We did get out unscathed. I must admit it was a bit…fun!" Molly was already starting on her second glass.

She does love her drink. He suddenly recalled the botched stag night party for John. Never trust Molly Hooper with blood alcohol computations ever…Sherlock chortled at the thought.

"Care to share what's so funny, Sherlock?" She stared at him crossly, her wide eyes narrowing into slits. Did she always look this charming whenever she got mad?

He laughed again. "Oh, Nothing!"

"In that case, have another drink!" she irately threw the wine bottle at him from her perch. Sherlock caught it within an inch of his forehead.

He gave her his best indignant glare, poured himself another glass and raised it, "To your happiness, Molly Hooper," he smiled sincerely.

"And to yours, Sherlock." She smiled back but he glimpsed the gleam of tears in her eyes.

They were almost thru their second bottle of wine when Molly found the courage to ask the sleuth a sobering question.

"Sherlock?" Molly hesitated.

"Hmmm?"

"You've never talked about those two years away from London… How was it?"

"Cold. Unpleasant. Lonely." He murmured while staring impassively at the ceiling, wine glass drooping from his hand. A rote answer to a question many have already asked.

"I'm really sorry, Sherlock. Sorry I asked. I didn't know it was that bad." She leaned in closer to the sofa and timidly patted his dark curls as if to console him.

"Don't be, Molly." He had worked hard to expunge the memories of those two years from his brain. All he had to remember them by were his troubling dreams. And yet he kept the memories of the last few days after his "death" alive…

"You know, I've thought of you a lot while I was away." His voice turned raw. He suddenly sat up. His eyes were burning with a raging fire she had only seen once a long time ago…

Sherlock roused from his emotional slumber was now staring at her with livid aquamarine eyes.

"What were you thinking about?" Molly squirmed in her chair. Her pulse quickened. She knew exactly what he was thinking of.

"Of our brief time together. Those three blissful days I shared with you before I left London that I know I'll never have again." He reached out for her empty hand and gazed at her with such poignancy that her heart broke.

Molly's head spun. She couldn't believe what Sherlock was saying. It seemed too honest to be true. Was she imagining all this in her drunkenness? Was he drunk too?

"Sherlock, I'm very flattered." She grasped his hand tighter. "I didn't know what I did… or what we had… mattered that much to you." A tight knot of remorse welled up in her throat. She knew what he was going to say next and Molly was trying hard not to cry.

"You matter the most, Molly. You know that. You save me all the time. You saved me from falling on that rooftop and you saved me from dying in those two years I was away. I found solace in your memory. The thought of coming back to your warm arms kept me alive every time I was injured or hunted. I assumed we'll just pick up where we left off once I came back…I've never been so wrong…"

He looked at her with such forlorn innocence, "I feel so much for you, Molly. Tell me why does it hurt so much to feel?" His woeful voice trailed off and Molly through the veil of her own tears saw his blue eyes clouding.

Molly was stunned. That candid confession was tantamount to a declaration of love.

Sherlock Holmes had cut out his bleeding heart and served it to her on a silver platter and Molly Hooper had no inkling what to do with it.

Molly swallowed the last remnants of her indecisiveness. She finally knew what she wanted. She wanted Sherlock and she wanted him now. To hell with the consequences. She'll deal with all that tomorrow.

She shifted from the armchair and sat on Sherlock's lap. She cupped his bewildered face in her hands and kissed his cupid's bow with a fiery passion she had reserved for no one but him. She felt Sherlock shudder and knock the wine glass he was previously holding onto the floor. He hesitated for a moment, before enthusiastically returning the kiss, his tongue deliriously seeking hers. She suddenly broke off, smiling wickedly when he sighed in frustration.

"Molly, I need you. Now! " He moaned impatiently.

She didn't answer but instead wiped the tears off his angular cheekbones with her fingers, aware that his disconcerting blue eyes were following her every move. She kissed his warm cheeks, tasting the salt of his tears, before briefly planting kisses at the corners of his mouth. Her lips then moved down to his long neck and sought out his mole, kissing it and sucking it until he moaned again.

"Is this what you need?" she coyly asked, combing her fingers through his dark curls. She felt something inside him stirring. She knew she had awakened a craving in him. A hunger that he had deliberately starved for the past three years.

"Yes !" He groaned. His right hand undid her ponytail, letting her lustrous, auburn hair loose, while another hand slipped up her pink pullover and lingered over her breasts. She quivered at the touch of his long, hot fingers.

"Sherlock! Bedroom now!" she ordered. She wanted him now, hard and fast.

He lifted her easily and in one short stride he had brought her to the bedroom. He tossed her gently to the bed, chuckling as he undressed, "Did you miss me as much as I missed you?"

There was a strange poignancy to his question but in the darkened room Molly couldn't make out his expression. She did make out his pale, handsome nakedness. Desire welled up in her throat, "You're all I think about." She said as she kissed him again, pressing hard against his manhood.

They were intertwined in a tangle of limbs and mouths and Molly just lay quiet beneath him, spent and out of breath. He kissed her softly on the forehead then on her perky nose before sinking his soft mouth on her lips.

"Did I please you? Shall we go at it again?" There was a manic energy in his perfect eyes that Molly found too sexy to turn down but she was just plain exhausted. It was bloody 4 am already. She needed to sleep.

She had forgotten that his stamina lasted for days. Sherlock's lustful rage once awakened was insatiable. She recalled how he had sequestered her in the bedroom for the entire three days he stayed with her. And unlike most men, his forays into sex were without inhibitions and carried no impossible expectations. He had investigated and pleasured every inch of her body to exhaustion yet Molly didn't want this night to end.

"Can we take a break? I'm completely knackered." Molly giggled while stroking his dark hair. Her hands wandered down his back and felt the indentation of scars. She didn't notice them before in the throes of her ecstasy. She skimmed her fingers over the gouges in his pale skin, her remorse growing every second, her mood darkening. Oh Sherlock, what have they done to you? To think she had been furious at him for making her wait for years while he was battling Moriarty's gangs for their safety… she felt like a selfish idiot. He would die first before admitting it but Sherlock had a noble heart. He cared too much and loved too selflessly. Molly grasped him in a tight embrace, their naked bodies molding perfectly into oneness.

"Sherlock?" She cupped his face in her hands, her big, brown eyes peering into his soul.

He steadied himself waiting for the question. "Hmmm?"

"I love you."

His perfectly composed face crumpled into a tender smile, "Will you still love me tomorrow?"He whispered sadly against her hair.

"Always, Sherlock. Always."

The loud, nasty ring of her cellphone brought Molly back to wakefulness. The morning sun was shining too ruthlessly today. She sat up and rubbed her eyes. All at once, she was inundated with recollections from the night before…the trip to Bedford… the wine…Sherlock in her bed…She immediately turned to his side of the bed… as expected, he was already gone. She briefly covered her face wondering if she was regretting or rejoicing shagging Sherlock but the phone's incessant ring brought Molly back to reality. She looked at it in horror. It was Tom.

"Oh, hi love! Good morning! Had breakfast yet?" She sounded too chirpy even for herself. Tom dawdled, talking about the lectures at the convention he was attending, the food he was forced to eating, his weekend tour schedule... Molly rubbed her temples. The guilt was overwhelming but she stopped herself from telling him over the phone. She was certain now that she was going to break up with him but she owed it to him to tell him in person as soon as he returned. "Tom, darling, I think we need to talk once you get back. Okay then. Take care of yourself, love." She hung up the phone in shame.

"Was that Tom?"

Molly squealed in shock at the sight of Sherlock standing in her bedroom doorway, half-decent, half-naked in her own dressing gown. Realising she was still naked too, Molly brought her sheet further up.

"What are you doing here?" she yelled.

Sherlock looked at her like a dejected puppy, "But I've been here since last night."

"Sorry! I mean, what are you still doing here? I thought you already left. " She got up, the sheet tucked tightly around her, and attempted to apologize to him with a gentle kiss. He kissed firmly back while unwrapping her sheet.

"Sherlock!" she giggled. "Stop it, now!" she swatted at his hand. She recalled similar games with him, played out before, over the span of three short days. Now, they have the luxury of time on their hands, they can play forever. Molly hugged him tight.

"Well, since you're not playing, I made breakfast!" he loudly announced.

"Wait. What? Breakfast?" she looked up at him, confused. "You know how to make breakfast?"

"Well, I did have time on my hands and you do have a well-stocked pantry so I made some French toast and scrambled eggs. There's tea and coffee, of course."

"Whoa, Sherlock, you do know how to impress a girl!" Molly sounded excited. She made her way to the dining table and sure enough he had laid out a breakfast for two. "Where did you learn to do this?" She was truly amazed. Not even Tom can cook her breakfast.

Sherlock followed her, "When I was hiding out in France two years ago, I met this baker from-"

"Ahhh, Youtube! Say no more." Molly kissed a bewildered Sherlock on the cheek and sat down to eat.

Sherlock was showering in her bathroom when the mobile phone he left by the bedside table rang. Molly threw a cursory glance at it, expecting it to be John. Instead, flashing on the screen was the caller name "Janine". Her blood ran cold. Janine was the flirty bridesmaid at John and Mary's wedding. What in the world would she want from Sherlock? Well calm down, Molly, maybe she's just a client. The phone rang again but she ignored it this time choosing to pay attention to the book she was reading instead.

Five minutes later, Sherlock's phone lighted up with a message notification. She debated whether to ignore it again but curiosity got hold of her. She looked at the lit screen:

Missing you a lot, love.

When are you coming over?

Might not have a lot of time for you next week.

The Boss is coming to town.

See you soon, Sherl.

Janine XXX

The whole room spun around Molly. Her vision dimmed with an eddy of tears. Sherl? Sherlock was obviously intimate with this woman enough for her to give him a nickname. Sherlock has a girlfriend and he was deliberately keeping the information from her. He had never lied to Molly before. Why start now? Why would he lay bare his entire heart to her but not this? She felt betrayed and used. He lies to get around, Molly, you know that. You're not special, of course he'll also lie to you!

Sherlock came striding into the bedroom, fully dressed, a radiant smile on his face. "Molly, don't forget the Emsworth blood samples. They're in your fridge-" his smile dissipated when he saw Molly looking devastated.

"What's wrong?" He grasped her by the shoulders.

"Who's Janine, Sherlock?" Molly handed him his phone. She showed considerable restraint not to shove the cellphone into his perfect face. She wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt after all.

"She's…umm…she's…" He gulped. Molly had caught him off guard and his usually glib tongue couldn't produce a suitable answer.

"I just want the truth, Sherlock!" she screamed.

"Okay! The bridesmaid at John's wedding. I'm dating her. But it's for a case!" Sherlock looked frantic now. "See here Molly, she means nothing to me. She truly doesn't. That's why I came here. I want you." He tried to reach for her hand to reassure her but she pushed him away. He couldn't fathom why she was furious. He just told her the absolute truth.

"A case? You're toying with another person's emotions to solve a case? What happens then when you're done with her case? Have you ever stopped to consider any of the repercussions of your actions, Sherlock? I have! Because, I have to help clean up after you! She was livid with anger. She tried to swallow her confusion and accept the terms of the situation.

This is how it always was and will be with Sherlock Holmes. Deal with it, Molly Hooper! I can't! Not today! Maybe never!

Sherlock just stood there speechless. She was right, of course.

"Molly, you know my methods… you know what I do…you know what my life is about…"

"The game!" she sobbed.

"Sorry what?" He needed to console her but she wouldn't let him.

"Everything about you is about the game, Sherlock! The game is always on. It finds you. You find it. You live to dash from one game to another. You'll pursue it to the ends of the earth even if it kills you. Where do people like me fit on your game board? Or are you using me too like you're using Janine?"

It hurt to hear her talk like that. After everything he had confided in her the night before, it bothered him that she would think she was meaningless to him…He was confounded by her emotions and his. He turned away from her and looked out the bedroom window in an attempt to hide his own tears.

"So where do we go from here?" Molly steeled herself. It was a painful question to ask but she needed to know.

Sherlock didn't answer but instead put on his coat. He would deal with this, the only way he knew how to. When he turned around his face was impassive and blank.

"Sherlock, wait! Where are you going?"

"Undercover." He turned up his coat collar and left.

Molly wept. She suddenly had a fleeting premonition that Sherlock was going to die again and this time she won't be able to save him.