Author's Note: Inspired by an anonymous prompt on Tumblr. The title comes from this quote: "We understand how dangerous a mask can be. We all become what we pretend to be." (Patrick Rothfuss, Name of the Wind.)

Well, we all do silly things—

You're a bit like my dad.

Maybe it's just my type.

The clues were there. She had hidden them, deep within the layers of lies she had been made to share with him. Perhaps she had hidden them too well. She wished he'd seen them; but then, she often wished for a lot of things. But this? No. Never this. So now, in the dark heart of this place, a place she thought she had left behind, she felt her heart pound against her ribcage. The funny thing was, he still didn't see. He still didn't understand. His gaze, blurred from the sleeping agent, refocused on her as he stirred and took in what she had previously kept away from his sight: the shaking hands, the hunched shoulders, the steel-eyed gaze. The fear. The determination.

The knock at the door came again, fist hammering against wood. Sherlock clutched at his bleeding arm—a consequence of dealing with criminals who fought with knives, not guns—and his stare locked onto the door, which shook on its hinges from the sheer force. In the darkness, she saw him make to stand. Poor man still thought this was all for him.

"Sherlock," she blurted out, her fingers tightening around the key in her palm. "Please." Somehow, he seemed to understand. He settled back down, his fingertips soaking red as he clutched tightly at his wound. Her instincts took over. Scrambling towards him, she ripped at the hem of her shirt and tied the piece of cloth around his arm, methodical in her workings.

"Sabine!" a voice roared from behind the door. A few minutes. Knowing him, that was possibly all they had. "Sabine!"

"Molly." Sherlock's voice was low. The hesitancy with which he spoke was clear, and pained her. She shook her head and continued to tie the hand-made tourniquet. He repeated her name, firmer this time. "Who exactly is Sabine?"

She was five when she was told her father was a businessman. "He solves problems," her mother had said sweetly, as she gently brushed through the thick curls of her daughter's hair.

She was seven when she came to realise exactly what problems her father solved. She still remembered it now, after almost thirty years. It had been summer. She had been playing outside, her mother watching from her wheelchair and laughing in that way she always did. "Where's papa?" she had asked suddenly, tilting her head to look at her mother. Even then, when she was nothing but a little girl, she had seen the brief look of panic cross her mother's face. Impatient, she had not waited for her mother's answer and had run inside, joyfully ignoring her mother's pleas to return to her. She ran up the stairs and down the corridor to her father's office, a sacred place she had never had the privilege to see. She heard voices, calm and insistent, but she had ignored them.

With the rebellious streak that came with being a child, she continued to sprint down the hall, calling for her papa. The word and the laughter accompanying it fell away from her as she pushed open the office door. A man, shaking and afraid, had fallen to his knees. Another man was stood in front of him, the long, black barrel of a gun pointed straight at the man. Her father stood beside the scene, the tiniest hint of a smile on his lips. Clearly, he had not heard her.

"Papa?" she said slowly. The smile on her father's lips was gone. Words, instructions, orders, they flooded from him in a panic, but it was too late. The gunman had already fired, and the man who had been so fearful had fallen to the floor.

"Go!" Her father yelled. The terror in his eyes shone. "Sabine, go!" She had turned on her heel. Tears streamed from her eyes as she found her way outside. She threw herself against her mother's waiting arms and sobbed.

She was sent away soon after that, to live with her relatives in the rural annals of England. They were kind to her, and spoke to her softly with honest truths and smiles that always reached their eyes. Soon, she became used to the name of "Molly Hooper". Yet the cards and presents came every year, never early and never late. Her mother wrote to her in spiels, writing of her progress and the well-being of others. Her father wrote too, but his words were shorter—blunter in their usage. Every letter too, was finished with the same phrase.

I am sorry. I will always be sorry for hurting my Sabine. Always, always.

On her eleventh birthday, only one letter came through—from her father. Deep down, she had expected it. Her mother's words were too cheerful to be taken as the truth. She went back, but only for one day. The day of the funeral. She had never liked funerals; she liked this one even less. Her father had enveloped her into a tight embrace. His lips had pressed against her forehead. She had felt his tears drip onto her skin. She had held him tighter. They remained united throughout the ceremony, their hands clasped tightly together. As soon as the ceremony was over however, that was gone. She was escorted into a car and driven back to the airport.

No letters or cards came the next year. Or any year after that.

For that, she was relieved. At least for now, she was free.

She was eighteen when she moved away from her relatives. She settled in London, and began to pursue her ambition. She had always wanted to be a doctor, even since she was small; she had claimed it would be fun to help people. She ended up becoming a pathologist. It was a small irony, considering her pedigree, but she didn't let it bother her. She had found something she was good at, that she liked. She wasn't going to give it up.

She was twenty nine when Sherlock Holmes burst through the door of her morgue. Dazzled by the intelligence that seemed to sear through him and the intensity of his ice-blue gaze, she failed to see that he was high.

She saw it the other times. The times before his brother forced him into rehab; the times when he would burst into her flat in the middle of the night, demanding shelter or aid from drug dealers or drug addicts he had managed to "get on the wrong side of", a playful smile at the side of his mouth. She knew—saw—how much he loved it; the thrill of being chased. Of course she, pathetic in her childish adoration of him, would help him. Every time, she would give him the shelter or the help he so often required.

She hated herself for it; for in doing so, she was reminded of that life, the moment when she had so passively seen her father order the murder of another and smile while he did so. She remembered the terror that flashed in his eyes as the gun fired and as he saw her little, seven year old eyes widen in horror.

He came to see her when he was out of rehab. He promised he wouldn't step foot into her flat again. Another lie that was broken years later. "You do count," he had told her, his voice shaking. "You've always counted and I've always trusted you." It was a risk to help him, she knew that. If her involvement in it was ever exposed… Yet help him she did. Once again, she found herself sheltering him. This time though, something had shifted; changed between them.

The night of his death, she had been asleep when he had slipped inside her room. She felt his weight on the bed and his warmth radiated from him as he wrapped his arms around her waist. It was not a romantic gesture, however much she wished that it was. It was the gesture of a lonely man—a child—seeking comfort in the person nearest to him. She knew because she had been there so many times before. Nightmares as a child, nightmares of a monster with her father's face, had driven her to the bed of her aunt, Janet Hooper. She would calm her, cuddling her and stroking her hair, murmuring her new name into her ear as she fell into sleep.

"I have to go tomorrow," Sherlock murmured against her skin. "Moriarty's web still needs to be dismantled."

Her fingers hovered over his skin. "How long will you be gone?"

"Mycroft and I have set out a plan. If all goes well, two years."

She felt herself heave out a soft sigh. "You'll have to lie," he reminded her. "Tell people I'm a fake."

His hands twitched at this; an automatic reflex. Fighting with his own mind. Her hand fell against his arm. He stilled.

"I will. Just…" She swallowed thickly, twisting her head to face that ice-blue gaze. "Come back. For John."

"Yes. For John."

She slowly turned her head away. The temptation was there, as it always had been, for her to tell him. It would be so simple.

"Sherlock?" she whispered to the dark. A soft grunt told her he was listening. Simple—so, so simple. My name is not Molly. My real name is Sabine. Selfishness gripped at her, stilling the words.

"Molly?" he asked, raising his head from the pillow. She smiled hesitantly.

"Good luck."

Maybe it was a miracle; perhaps it was the exhaustion from the day, but whatever it was, Sherlock only nodded, thanked her and let himself slip back to sleep once more. When he left early the next morning, she fooled him into thinking she had fallen asleep too.

Two years later, she fooled him again; this time, into thinking she had become engaged. She hadn't. Tom—or Tomas—was little more than a bodyguard, sent by her father as a precaution. There was rebellion in certain districts of his crime ring which he had to quell, and to do that, he had to make sure his daughter, his Sabine, was safe.

Tomas was an efficient bodyguard, and played his role of bumbling fiance perfectly. Soon after John and Mary's wedding, he was dispatched back to France, the threat to her father's empire securely dealt with. She would've been lying if she had said her anger at being dragged back into the murky world of her father's criminal reign had not played a part in the way she had confronted the problem of Sherlock's relapse.

Though she could of course never stay angry with Sherlock Holmes for too long. His death had proved that. She visited him in hospital. He joked about the use of morphine. She cracked a smile. She told him how much of a dick he was to Janine. He agreed with her. He told her she had saved him, in his mind palace. Confessed it, really. She bit back another smile, but didn't try to hide the tears in her eyes. She kissed him on the forehead.

It was a year later, after stolen looks and numerous failed attempts on both of their parents, when Sherlock showed up at her door. He said nothing, only smiled. She hesitantly invited him in for coffee. He kissed her.

Two months after that, on her thirty first birthday, she received a delicately wrapped gift and a letter.

For a third time, Molly Hooper fooled Sherlock Holmes. She claimed it was from a friend.

The pounding against the door was relentless now. Harsh words were spat out in hurried French.

"Open this door! Sabine!"

"Who is Sabine?" Sherlock asked, teeth gritted and his gaze fierce. Molly's eyes shimmered with tears. She wrapped her fingers around the key still in her palm. A hopeless smile crept onto her lips as she looked back at him.

"Sabine is me." She didn't dare look at him any longer.

Letting out a shaking breath, she got to her feet. Her fingers trembled as she fiddled with the lock. The pounding ceased and carefully, she opened the door. The stocky build of her brother stormed inside, past her. He crouched in front of Sherlock, gazing at and studying for a few moments.

"Huh," he said, accent thick as his mother tongue rolled quickly from his lips. "So you told him about us then?"

The language, foreign to her for so long, jammed its way up her throat and out of her mouth before she stop it. "No, just me," she whispered. Her brother grinned and made to grab at Sherlock's arm, pulling him up. Pain roared from Sherlock as her brother's fingers dug into his wound.

"Please!" she cried out in more hurried French, stepping forward. "Don't hurt him, please brother, please."

Her brother only grunted, but his grip on Sherlock loosened and he instead shoved him forward. He did not need to tell Molly where they were headed.

They congregated in the kitchen. The smell of home—rosemary, lavender, baked bread—still clung to the walls. Heart heavy, Molly sat at the age-worn, rustic table. In the darkness of the evening, she watched as Sherlock's gaze moved about the room, taking everything and anything in that he could, seeking out weaknesses, advantages, escape points. She knew the place like the back of her hand—she knew such thoughts were useless. The gentle footsteps of her father sounded and a soft knock was tapped out against the wooden door. She did not look up, but Sherlock did. He smiled thinly as he took in every aspect of her father's appearance. Wiry, like her. Same brown eyes. Her hollowed out cheeks. Greying hair. Long, pointed nose.

"You're Molly's father."

"Correction: I am Sabine's father," he said, his accent tripping lightly over his words. He settled into the chair directly between them and crossed his hands over his lap. Molly finally lifted her head. Her father's eyes brightened with excitement.

"You must be Sherlock Holmes. I know about you. Consulting detective, is that right?" When Sherlock only glared, he smiled wider. "You think my Sabine told me? No, we haven't spoken in years now. But I like to check in on her, every once in a while."

"You speak English extremely well."

"Unlike my son, I do not hold unfounded and naive prejudices. But then, he was always the brawn. My Sabine always had the brains." His hand settled on hers. She flinched slightly, but didn't draw herself away.

"If you loved your daughter, you would call her by her name."

Her father's hand moved away from hers, his frown deepening.

"Her name is Sabine. It is the name she was born with."

"But it isn't the name she chose," Sherlock said evenly.

Her father nodded once, the movement elegant and precise. "True. But perhaps we should give her the choice." His brown eyes swept towards her. "Well? Which name would you prefer we give you for this interlude?"

Molly. I want to be called Molly. She wanted to say that, but she knew she couldn't. The situation was already precarious enough, and she had seen how cruel her father could be. The memory of the gun flashed across her. She winced a little, closing her eyes briefly.

"Sabine," she said finally, looking to Sherlock as she spoke. His expression was unreadable, but she thought—hoped—to have seen a flicker of understanding there. Her father raised an eyebrow, and smiled.

"There. Now, perhaps we should get down to—how you say—brass tax."

"And what," Sherlock asked, voice tight, "precisely is that brass tax?"

"Simple. I want to know how much you know."

"I promise you, I know very little. Your daughter's a wonderful liar."

She could not help but wince at those words, but Sherlock's expression remained unreadable. Her father raised an eyebrow.

"Come now, you're a smart man. I know that, Sabine knows that. It's why she loves you, is it not? "He's so intelligent, it's like he's burning." She always has been observant. So able to see things that much clearer than anyone else. Can you, Mr Holmes?"

After a pause, Sherlock took a breath. "Sabine has little to no trace of accent, so I assume she moved to England when she was young—presumably after witnessing an altercation with you and a client, or a rival criminal boss. The latter is more likely. She lived with relatives, who may or may not have lost a child of their own before she was born. They took her in, and gave her the name I know her by of Molly Hooper."

For a long while, there was silence between the three of them. The sound of slow, methodical applause from her father broke it.

"Well done, Mr Holmes. You truly are a clever man. Do you know why I brought you here?"

"To swap stories?" Sherlock asked drily. Her father chuckled.

"You're funny too. No. Unfortunately, I'm getting old, and I cannot run this business of mine for much longer. And, as you've seen, my son is not the most ideal of heirs to an empire as… extensive as mine."

A spark of fear flickered in Sherlock's eyes. Molly swallowed, but she did not gasp, nor cry. This day had been coming for a long while—she knew that.

"I need someone who can think. Someone who can see things; who can solve puzzles. My Sabine does all of that, and more. Just look at how she's helped you. Faking paperwork, stealing bodies… That sort of thing isn't learned. It's instinctive."

"Instinct alone cannot run an empire," Sherlock said, his tone icy. He leaned forward, hissing slightly from the pain. The emotion in his gaze however, could not be mistaken for anything other than pure, unbridled hate. "And who's to say I would not stop you? Who's to say that by handing over your empire to your daughter, you do not inadvertently give me the tools to destroy your empire bit by bit?" The last few words came out in a soft, gentle and terrifying whisper. Molly though, knew her father, and she knew the reaction.

Her father's laughter echoed around the dark kitchen. "You really think you could destroy my empire?" He got to his feet, pressing his hands against the table. "Mr Holmes, do you remember Jim Moriarty? Of course you do. I hear you encountered him a few times. But him? Compared to me, he was a child. A toddler throwing his toys out of his pram because no-one would pay attention to him. His empire was an international one, yes, but Mr Holmes, mine is global. You would have to burn down entire cities before you even began to scratch the surface."

"The progress would be a lot quicker if the woman I loved was the one heralding it."

Her father gave out a soft laugh. "You don't get it. Still, you do not get it. Out there is my son. There are two things in this world he wishes to protect more than anything: my empire and his little sister. My Sabine."

"She is not your Sabine!" Sherlock roared, thumping at the table and jumping to his feet. "She is Molly Hooper!"

"Your Molly, Mr Holmes, died in 1973 as a stillborn infant! Molly Hooper is nothing more than a name!"

"Not to me!" Sherlock yelled, spit flying from his mouth.

"Stop it! Please, stop it!" Both men looked to the woman they were so heatedly arguing over. Taking steady, shallow breaths, Molly stood. Every part of Sherlock displayed the hatred, desperation and confusion he felt. She knew because she was feeling it too. Her heart cracked as she looked from one man to the other. The man who occupied her head and the other who held her heart. This was one problem she couldn't run away from; she couldn't fake a solution to this. There was, in the end, only one way to solve this.

Her throat and roof of her mouth felt dry as she, eyes brimmed with tears, skirted around the table and stepped towards the man she'd loved for so, so many years. Her fingertips traced against his face, his cheeks and his jawline. She drank in his eyes, etching them onto her memory. Finally, cupping her hand against his jaw, she reached and kissed him, the feeling sweet and tender and far too brief. She leaned close to his ear.

"You told me once I mattered the most to you. And I know I've lied to you, but Sherlock Holmes, believe me now. You are the one who will always, always matter to me."

She didn't have to say it. He knew. And when she moved away from him, her heart broke, leaving nothing but an empty, hollow space. She felt her father's arms enclose around her, just as he had done when she had returned to him once before. This time, there was no going back. No return.

Her brother entered soon after. Sherlock left without a word. He did not look back. In a way, she was glad for that.

Yet the tears still flowed. Her father held her closer, dropping a kiss onto the top of her head.

"I'm sorry," he murmured against her hair. The fact that he meant it only increased the hurt. "Oh Sabine… I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…"

Molly Hooper was 31 when she died. The paperwork was filed. A funeral was held. People gave their condolences. They asked how she died. Sherlock, with a sincere smile that didn't reach the eyes, only ever had one reply:

"Broken heart."