Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Please note that, despite the fairytale theme, the following is completely unsuitable for the young or timid of heart, as it contains references to consensual bondage with a female domme, as well as references to mental health issues. If this squicks you, I suggest (with respect) that you do not continue reading. If on the other hand ,you do like that concept…

Journeybread

The city is a forest.

The city has always been a forest.

It has its byways, its trodden paths. It has its monsters, sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued, though they are merely human in the city. (Well, most of the time they're merely human. When it comes to Moriarty, the man who was once Sherlock Holmes is starting to have his doubts.) The city has its forgotten places too, its untouchable places. Its mysteries. Its trees and roots are metal, their leaves neon orange or bitter yellow. Water flows underneath the ground in the city, secret rivers that nobody remembers. Secret arteries in an ecosystem nobody truly understands. And when you stand in the city, you know that you are in the belly of some giant beast. Eaten, not embraced- Swallowed whole and vulnerable-

But then, the man who was once Sherlock Holmes knows what it is to be swallowed.

By panic. By fear. By loss. By shame. By drugs. By emotion.

By the weight of all he thinks he is and all the things that he knows he is not. They're drowning him.

The images play, again and again, as he picks his way through the streets. Blue eyes flash inside his mind, John's face as he pulls the trigger on Magnusson. Mary's as she hears what he has done, the hard, sharp nod (which appals John) telling him that in his place she would have done the same. It's hypnotic. He is no longer the clever detective in the hat but invisible. The unknown, the thing the cityborn's eyes slide past. The thing nobody wants to see, let alone talk about.

It's the best state he could be in.

Finally, he's where he deserves to be.

For he is homeless again- On the streets again. Living rough, no Baker Street lamplight or tea from Mrs. Hudson for him. Let Moriarty and his web believe that he has gone to his death in Eastern Europe. Mycroft has it all planned- his miraculous return, his defeat of his arch-enemy, Magnusson's murder discretely forgotten in the adulation of his saving his people from the dragon within their borders. Sherlock might be a natural performer but Mycroft is a playwright, he knows how to spin a good yarn; If he didn't know better, Sherlock might almost believe that this one was told for his benefit, his big brother creating a scare so audacious that they would have to take him back-

This suspicion had lingered until the morning Philip Anderson's head turned up on Lestrade's desk. One of Sally Donovan's hands was in the box with it.

When they dragged her corpse out of the Thames a week later- Anderson's body has never been found- a smiley face was carved into her chest. Words- asking for Sherlock's gratitude, asking for the news to be sent to him- had been chiselled into her body, making the woman into a sick missive. A once-living being transformed into a tasteless taunt.

Sherlock had never liked Sally, but she did not deserve to have that happen to her. Words carved into flesh, into bone- He is not worth that.

Nobody is.

He let Lestrade hit him when he checked in, let the other man take out his wrath on him though he knew such acceptance might end their friendship. Intellectually, Greg knows that it's not his fault but sentiment- Oh, sentiment dictates otherwise. After all, in seven years working together, she never took a promotion and he never could fix up his marriage.

Sometimes things are so obvious that they pass Sherlock by entirely: Donovan's place in Lestrade's life- in his heart- was merely one of them.

He wishes it were the only one, but he knows that it is not.

And it is this bitter capacity for obliviousness which brings him to this section of the woods tonight. To this place. A high tower, deep in the forest. Surrounded by predators, entirely human monsters in an entirely human world. But in this place, there is someone for whom Sherlock has been willingly blind, willingly careless-

Her name is Molly Hooper and she hates him.

He has the slaps to his face to prove it.

She doesn't know that he is still in London- nobody except John, Mary, Greg and Mycroft do- and she believes he is out dying in some foreign field, without ever having even said goodbye to her. Without ever having apologised, or tried to explain, or admitted that he was leaving.

It is easier for her to hate him, Sherlock knows. Easier for her to believe that he abandoned her- the heart, slit open and cracked wide might cauterise, might heal, but only if no doubt lives within it. Only if no hope for his return resides. By the time he comes back, she will truly be over him, will have found herself someone kind and gentle and deserving to walk through life with.

This is a fairytale, and Sherlock knows it.

But he still tells it to himself every night.

That is the purpose of fairytales, to be the knots with which one pulls together life's experiences and explains them.

It's the only reason they have survived so long.

Tonight though, a fairytale isn't good enough. Tonight, he cannot stay away. He has been circling every night since his disappearance. Like iron fillings pulled by a magnet, like the heft and slide of a hangman's noose tied, he gets closer, then closer again. Mycroft has a security team on her, but Sherlock figures that if he can evade them then surely Moriarty's men can. It's why he spends so many of his nights here- John and Mary can handle themselves, Moriarty has several lost lieutenants to prove it- so he sleeps beneath her window when he can, under the wide moon. The security detail notes him, checks him and then leaves him, because moving on a rough sleeper would cause more hassle than it's worth, and because a building in this neighbourhood without at least one would stick out like a sore thumb.

There is safety, Sherlock knows, in never sticking out.

He sometimes wishes, as he surveys the wreck his life has become, that he had a little more talent for it.

He sees her then, moving along the path, her eyes straight ahead of her. Quick, purposeful tread, her ponytail swinging with each step she takes. The three person security detail are good- they never advertise their presence and they keep to a safe distance. Close enough to intervene, not near enough to paint a target on her chest. Molly slows as she nears the steps to her building, her eyes scanning the area warily. She has her keys- a bunch, heavy as a castle keep's- hefted in her right hand. The individual keys poke through her knuckles like claws. Sherlock shifts, sees her eyes narrow on him nervously- he has never before been this plainly in sight- and as the security detail moves forward he does something absolutely asinine. Something he knows he can't explain. He can't tell her who he is- and she clearly doesn't recognise him- but this near, he wants a word, a touch, something. Anything.

So he does what he always does in these situations: He lashes out. Gets what he wants.

He comes bowling towards her, staggering and desperate and gauchely, horrifically aware of how much bigger than she he is-

She panics, that's obvious. With a single, sharp blow the bunch of keys digs into his face, the weight knocking him backwards, the metal tearing at his skin. It feels… It feels terrible and wonderful at the same time. It feels like she is not lost to him.

He blinks, stares at her- for a moment he is back in Bart's and she still loves him and he is not a murderer-

And then as quickly as he can he turns tail and runs, barrelling down the street while one of the security detail- the smallest, a woman- gives chase.

He is being pursued, he knows, and not by the security detail.

No, he is being pursued by the flash of joy he felt when Molly slapped his face.

He loses his the female agent after about ten minutes in the warren of streets in this part of London, shedding his red hoodie- he will come back for it later- the better to disappear into the shadows of the evening. The homeless are indeed invisible in this great city, and he has a great many friends to call on at a time like this. He pushes himself over the back wall of a chipper in Whitechapel, pressing tightly against the brick's of the building's lower storey. It's a popular spot for rough sleepers- he knows two of the ones already in place- since the heat from the fryers bleeds into the stone. He takes in a deep, shaky breath, trying to calm himself- Trying to ascertain why he left the path- Trying to figure out why he would ever do something so stupid-

He doesn't know that Molly Hooper sleeps not a wink that night, consumed with suspicions which she cannot quite master.

She passes out eventually in the dawn's blue light and when she dreams, she dreams of a man in a red hood.

She wishes she knew what he'd wanted.

Path of Needles, Path of Pins

He goes back three nights later. Not to her place but to St. Bart's.

He knows she has a lighter security detail there- everyone keeps watch on her, and she dislikes being surrounded at all times.

And besides, being spotted near her place twice is ill-advised.

Once, he's a homeless nut-job. Twice, he's a stalker or a member of Moriarty's camp.

Neither characterisation will be optimal for his continuing health.

So he sneaks into the hospital in which he used to be so welcome, his head down, his hands shaking. Just another junkie, looking for a fix. When he makes his way to the morgue (he'll just tell them he got lost) he watches everything from the corner of his eye. Sees flashes of Molly, her lab coat pristinely white in the morgue's perpetual gloom. She's thinner, her lovely, warm body wasting away from worry? Stress? Grief? He doesn't know.

She has sharp edges now, bones which poke through like his do; Sherlock does not like the thought of her becoming like him, though he cannot for the life of him explain why.

He liked it when she was soft. Gentle. Not-him.

Now he has the horrible feeling she's lost that, and that it's his fault.

Every so often she looks up, almost as if she can feel his scrutiny, and though Sherlock doesn't like to admit it, she doesn't look afraid. Resolute perhaps- the Molly of five years ago would never have attacked him with a set of keys- but afraid? No, she is not that.

He wonders how many of her fears she has faced in the last six months, ever since Moriarty's return, and realises that he his capacity for sleep will not benefit from his knowing.

This time he waits until she gets into the house, waits until the security detail settles in for the night, to try and see her face to face again. Once her flat is swept and cleared the emphasis switches to watching the outside: A team sits in a different car every night, a piece of shit Honda or Astra which is falling apart so horribly that the locals will assume it's the drugs' squad inside and not an MI:7 security team. Sherlock uses the few moments while the team is camped in the front of the flat, sorting through her kitchen, and darts into the living room. Takes a deep breath and clambers up inside the flume. The flat is late Victorian, with a chute slightly wider than its earlier brethren; it's the only reason he can fit inside a space, skinny though he is, which would originally only have been wide enough to hold a child.

He waits, listens until the security detail declare the flat clean and leave. One will remain on the landing, but the rest want the warmth of the car and their own companionship, want to stop tiptoeing their way around a civilian. As soon as the door closes he hears Molly begin to potter around the house, hears the hum of the shower and the whistle of the old-fashioned kettle she keeps from her days in uni. Sherlock waits until she is in the shower, waits until he hears the humming, soft trill of her voice singing under the spray, and then shimmies back down the flume into her living room.

He's not entirely certain why he's done this: If his presence is discovered she might be taken into protective custody, whether she wants to be or not. That would be… That would be more than a Bit Not Good.

And yet… He had to see her. Some paths are meant to be strayed from.

And he's already chosen the path of needles, he chose it the day he shot Magnusson. Is it any surprise he wants to feel the path of pins beneath his feet just once, before it's lost to him forever?

So he pads around the flat, takes in the changes- Tom's presence is now, thankfully, gone. Checks the security arrangements- all are rather obvious, but professionally set up. An agent did this, however, not his brother- it lacks his creative flair- and he will be sure to have a word with Mycroft about that at their next little tête-à-tête.

As he moves through the flat he takes in the pictures on the walls: Mary, John and the baby. Lestrade, her and Mrs. Hudson at that last party in Baker Street, when he'd just returned from the dead. Older ones too, Molly and her parents, her in her cap and gown, grinning like an idiot. Molly and her dad, a gawky, innocent teenager's smile on her face, her grin glittering with braces, her eyes so shy. For a moment Sherlock stares, wanting to take one but knowing its theft will be read into as either a threat or a warning- Probably both-

He blames this indecision for not noticing that the water has turned off. For not hearing the quiet footsteps behind him.

He also blames it for the thunderously painful crack on his head from- yes, he thinks groggily, she has indeed smashed his head with an iron- And then he's falling backwards, drunk on gravity. Heavy under his own weight.

Sherlock lets out a hiss and turns his head to look at her, stumbling onto his knees.

In the split second before unconsciousness claims him he sees recognition in her eyes. Sees her mouth open wide in an "oh," of shock.

Darkness comes up and claims him, oppressive as water against his limbs. He is rocked by it.

He just registers her feet walking away from him, towards her front door, and then nothingness is his only sight.

Her flowers, Her cake, Her wine

When he opens his eyes, his is sitting on a wooden chair in her kitchen.

There is a cup of water at his elbow- just out of reach, it would seem- and two small, neatly cut pieces of toast, a tiny jam pot beside them. There is also a ramekin of butter.

The items seem out of place to Sherlock, dainty. Unnecessary.

They are not for him, surely.

He would, however, like the water, so he reaches for it and that is when he realises that his hands are tied to the chair. His legs too.

Oh good, he thinks, I'm about to be tortured for information by someone in my brother's employ: How novel. This will look well on the poor idiot's performance evaluation.

He hears a throat cleared behind him- high voice, light steps, probably the female- and then Molly walks into his line of sight. She is holding an extendible baton, very like the ones the Met gives to its members, and she is staring at Sherlock from the business end of it. She looks… She looks rather put out, but she is alone. It would appear that she has not called her security detail, which is interesting. The fact that she is holding a piece of toast in her other hand, making her look considerably less fearsome, is also interesting.

Silence.

There are a great many things he can say in this moment. Things like sorry and help and why am I tied up? (thought to be fair, he can guess the answer to that one).

What he says- blurts- though, is, "I'm not him."

It is, he knows, imbecilic.

Molly's eyebrows threaten to migrate to her scalp, they raise so high.

"I'm… I'm nobody," he says. "Nobody you need to worry about-"

"Then what were you doing in my living room?" she asks, tone sceptical.

It's a reasonable question.

What he says next is not reasonable though. "He- He asked me to keep an eye on you."

Molly frowns. "Who?" she asks. "Who asked you to keep an eye on me? John? Mycroft?"

Sherlock doesn't want to say his own name- speaking of oneself in the third person is so ridiculous- so he merely drops his head. Murmurs, "No, the other one."

Which is still speaking of oneself in the third person, and is even more ridiculous. But there's a freedom in the loss of eye-contact, the freedom of a lie-that's-not-a-lie, that sets something loosening in his chest. Something he has never been able to hand to another.

It may have passed through Irene Adler's hands that night long ago, but she never left her fingerprints on it. Tonight, though… Tonight he can't help but think that Molly might. It's in her hands.

She's finally tied him down, after so long in freefall.

"So Sherlock Holmes asked you to keep an eye on me, did he?" Molly asks. The sceptical tone is back. "Why would he do that?"

Sherlock shrugs. "I can only guess, miss," he says. He keeps his eyes on her feet: She'd see the lie in them. "Said you-" It's not him, so he can tell her the things The Great Detective would never tell her. "He said Moriarty once threatened to burn the heart out of him, and that's you now." He dips his head, the emotion frightening, defensive. He will not let her see it. "I think that's always been you, miss," he says.

His throat is tight.

Molly's feet walk back and forth in his line of vision. The fact that she's barefoot is strangely… Fitting. Her feet are quite beautiful.

"And what about John? Mary? Mrs. Hudson? Lestrade? Have you been hiding in their chimneys too?"

He shakes his head. "No, miss. Only yours."

"Oh? And why is that? Christmas is months away-"

"He doesn't miss them the way he misses you."

Even as he says the words, he knows they're true.

Molly snorts. "He doesn't miss me at all. He disappeared, never even said goodbye-"

"No point in saying goodbye if he never left."

She pauses at that, her brown furrowing. Taking him in. Taking that in. "But he's not coming back, is he?" she says eventually. "Not to the life he had before. So why not at least explain..?"

Now Sherlock looks up at her. It's a little frightening but- But he wants to see the look on her face when he tells her this.

"If you were angry, you would get over him," he says simply. "He tells you, apologises… He just sets you up again." He clears his throat. Has to look away.

He's not sure why he's telling her this.

"He's a bastard, but he's not that much of a bastard. And you deserve- You deserve better. You deserve things he could never give you. A home. Children. A real family, not a patched-up, ragged doll like him. He might be a suitable bystander in family life, but he'll never be a participant. John, Mary, they both know that, it's how they can stick with him."

He looks down again, at his lap this time. The next words are difficult, because they are true.

"The man you spend your life with should be a participant in that life. It's that simple."

For a long time Molly says nothing, just stares at him. For once, Sherlock doesn't want to see her reaction. His curiosity is nothing compared to his fear. He's been… He's been running through the forest for a long time and he doesn't think he can stop now. Doesn't think he should stop. He suspects he gave up that right the night he killed a man, however righteously or justifiably, in cold blood. He wakes up some nights, sweating, dreaming of it. Horrified at what he did, and the knowledge that he would do it again in a heartbeat if it meant protecting those he loves. Sometimes he has nightmares, imagines that it was Molly Magnusson was pressurising. Molly Magnusson was trying to hurt. He sees her in front of the bastard, a gun in her hand but she's shaking- terrified- She's no Mary Morstan-

He doesn't like when he thinks these things, it wrecks his equilibrium.

But he can't stop and he can't hide it and he's not sure he wants to.

A beat.

He hears the light clink as she places the extendible baton onto the table beside him. Hears the pad of her feet as she treads over to him, feels the back of her hand slide gently down his face, her palm coming to rest on his chin. His throat. He forces his head up and she's staring down at him with kindness. Understanding. But something else too, something dark. Something almost feral. It sets the most delicious knots tying, low in his belly.

She shows her teeth to him, almost, but it's not a smile, and he doesn't understand.

Sometimes he wishes he were better with emotions.

"So Sherlock Holmes would rather leave than let me choose?" she asks quietly. The sound of her voice sends a shiver down his spine. "He'd melt into the shadows and leave me angry at him for my own good and never think of running that plan by me?"

She shakes her head, a quick, curt movement. Her ponytail swishes as she does so, its ends swatting lightly against Sherlock's bare neck. It doesn't sting, but oh, some part of him wishes it did. He's never felt so loved as when she slapped him that morning in St. Bart's.

Why else would he have tried to goad her into doing it again?

"He wants to do what's right by you, miss," he says, and it's not him talking and not him they're talking about, so he can tell her the truth. "He wants- He wants to set you free."

Molly shakes her head, her gaze turning troubled. For a moment she looks away from him.

"And what would he know about freedom?" she asks quietly. "He's never free."

Sherlock feels the sting of her words, because of course, she's right. He's never free. He can only operate within certain very specific parameters or he'll go entirely mad. He has plenty of evidence of that. But oh, he wishes he could be free of that for a little while. Wishes he could turn off that revving, rushing, tinder-box mind of his and just be quiet-

There are times when he thinks the desire for a little solicitude will drive him completely insane.

He opens his mouth to tell her this, his expression open, he suspects, docile- Honest-

And without any warning whatsoever, Molly's hand slaps onto his cheekbones again, causing his head to fall backwards with a painful crick. Pain lights up behind his eyes, a galaxy of false-bright stars.

He stares at her and she stares at him, both of them horrified, scared, mouths wide open-

And then Sherlock hears his voice say it.

"Again, please, miss," he says. "Again. If I'm not him then it doesn't matter."

Molly shakes her head to herself, her expression turning haunted, then slightly panicked. Bewildered. She looks a little sick with herself. But-

"You're not him, are you?" she asks. Her voice is breathless. "You're… You don't have to be him. You can be something else entirely. Someone else entirely. And.. And so can I."

She looks at her bare feet, beautiful and pale against the kitchen tiles. "So can I."

Sherlock nods, tries not to make his acquiescence too obvious. "I'm not him, miss," he says softly. "I'm yours. That's why he sent me." And again he realises that he's said a lie aloud that tells the truth. Her hand goes to his face again and this time he leans into it. Shakes his head slightly, almost like a beast being petted.

He doesn't know why he does it and he doesn't know why it changes anything, but it must convince her because she swings her hand back and strikes him again. And oh, but that sensation is lovely. That is hard and sharp and bright. For the first time since Magnusson's death, he will know peace, he can taste it. There will be silence inside his head-

He spends a night lost in the woods, tied to that chair, and although the other him might be horrified, Sherlock knows there's nowhere he'd rather be…

Three drops of blood spatter against her little, snow-drop hand, there where it's placed against his red hoodie.

It makes him think of possibilities, of spring time, but he hasn't the words to tell Molly that anymore.

A/N There now, hope you enjoyed that. I'm not entirely sure it's finished yet, so any feedback would be appreciated. The headings reference Journeybread Recipe by Lawrence Schimel, Perrault's telling of the fairy tale Little Red Cap and Red Riding Hood by Anne Sexton.