15 January 2015
Baker Street

Molly walked into the parlour carrying a full carafe of coffee. "Fresh and hot," she said softly, "If anyone wants…"

DI Lestrade held out his mug. "I could do for a warm-up."

"Me too," Sgt. Donovan said.

Molly grinned and made her way to the pair, topping up their mugs with the dark liquid.

"Delicious, this," Lestrade said as she finished pouring.

"Mrs. Hudson's secret ingredient: she grinds a little bit of cinnamon with the beans," Molly winked. "Gives it a little zest, I think."

Donovan smiled. "Lovely service, don't you think?"

Molly froze, blinking a few times before smiling. "Yeah, it was. Lovely."

"Such a shame," she continued. "So young. And after everything that had happened…"

Molly's eyes darted across the room to where Sherlock stood, immersed in a conversation with one of the other doctors from the clinic where John worked. Where Mary used to…Molly stopped just short as she caught Sherlock's eye. What was the signal? she thought. When I needed him to rescue me from awkward social conversation? Damn, what was it?

Mrs. Hudson walked in, a tray of cookies in her hand, a handkerchief dabbed to her nose in the other. She waltzed around offering the treats to everyone—"They were her favourite…" she kept saying—and Molly remembered the carafe in her hand. She made a move to excuse herself but was interrupted by Lestrade.

"I don't suppose John will be here."

"No," Molly replied. "No, I wouldn't think so. He needed some time…it's been a difficult couple of weeks. For him. You know."

She heard herself talking and wondered if the words she said were as hollow-sounding to them as they were to her. She knew she was blushing; once again, she beamed ocular lasers across the room at the back of Sherlock's head, but the signal was lost to her.

Lestrade ran his hand up and down her arm. "I'm sorry, Molls. How are you feeling?"

It wasn't the change in subject that she wanted but it was a start. She nodded and managed a small smile, tucking a strand of gingery hair behind her ear as she cleared her throat. "Yeah, good. Been seeing someone about it. John recommended her. Wonderful therapist. I've seen her twice now. Nice lady."

Donovan shifted from one foot to the other. "Any word about Moran and—?"

Lestrade shot a dangerous look at Donovan, who realized she'd stepped in it and quickly back-pedalled. "Molly, I'm sorry. I'm just—"

"It's really okay," she said, softly, content to leave it at that. She was dimly aware of Sherlock coming across the room to her side, and used that as a pretext for a hasty retreat; Lestrade's admonishing whisper to his sergeant made her cringe.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked.

"I hate that people are walking on eggshells around me," she said. "Nobody knows what to say."

"I don't walk on eggshells."

She smirked. "Well you never did," she told him, setting the coffee pot down on the table and smoothing her hands over the soft silken material of the black dress. She'd purchased it specifically because it came with a jacket that covered the bruises on her arms, nearly gone but still dark enough against her pale skin to make her uncomfortable. The opaque tights on her legs provided a modicum of coverage for the bruises there, too. Still, standing in that room, surrounded by Mary's friends—Their friends…John's and Mary's—was an exercise in awkwardness that she had rather wished would end, and the thought made her feel awful.

"How long do we have to—?"

"As long as it takes," Sherlock said, his voice low and monotone. "That's the deal. It's what we agreed to."

"I know," she sighed. It's harder this time around, she thought. Doesn't matter. It's what they needed; it's what you were prepared to give. Suck it up, Molly Hooper. She looked up at Sherlock. "How are you?"

"I'm fine."

"And John?"

Sherlock nodded. "He'll be fine."

Someone across the room had decided to make a quick speech; Sherlock slid his hand into Molly's and squeezed as they both turned to face the speaker, the same doctor with whom Sherlock was talking only moments earlier.

"What was the signal again?" Molly whispered to Sherlock.

"What signal?"

"The one you told me to use when I needed you?"

He squeezed his hand around hers. "You won't need it," he told her. "I don't plan on leaving your side for the rest of the day."

Molly smiled and felt a blush creep into her cheeks. That sounds nice…she thought to herself as the words of the doctor broke through to reach her.

"What can we say that hasn't already been said?" he asked. "Mary Watson was simply a beautiful person…"

31 December 2014
Baker Street

Anthea…

No.

Mary, dressed like Anthea.

Sherlock didn't notice that the Anthea he thought was Anthea wasn't really Anthea until she took off her hat and revealed platinum blonde hair underneath. But Mary was shorter, had narrower hips; Anthea never wore trousers. Sherlock should have deduced this the minute she walked past him and into the foyer downstairs, but he didn't. He didn't deduce that this was a ruse; that Mycroft knew so very much more than he was letting on; that the Mary Watson who sat in his parlour was far more ashamed, contrite, vulnerable than the one who only three months earlier had shot him to save his life…

Sherlock watched the scene but was not engaged in it; like the night before at the window, watching the street below. He watched as Mycroft explained and as Mary cried and as John collapsed into his chair and as Molly shivered at his side on the sofa. He struggled to keep up; not deducing. Listening, piecing together, and always a step behind.

Mary—not her name; doesn't matter. Military service. Sniper division. Somewhere in Europe—Where did she say? Sweden? Switzerland? Never saw action; left her after conclusion of first service term. Why? Better job offer. Where? French secret service, the DGSI. Counter-terrorism. Tasked with one case file: a man in a villa in Provence named Sebastian Moran.

Sherlock had often wondered what it was that had drawn him to France nearly three years earlier. The gangs in Brussels and the thugs in Austria and even the criminals as far away as Tibet had made whispered mention of a man in Provence; hints of a partner, an equal to Moriarty, with possible connections to French nobility ran rampant wherever he went. But Sherlock's investigation had run into so many dead-ends that he concluded the man they spoke of might not actually exist.

Now, he knew it was Moran he was following. He and Mary both, in their separate ways, had been on the same path for so long.

Sherlock watched as Mary struggled to recount the details of what led her into Moran's web, and when she faltered, Mycroft picked up the story, about double agents and cover so deep it was impossible to extricate her when her safety was compromised and two of Moran's men figured out who she was. She killed them both and went on the run, ending up in London.

How long in London? Two years. Two years of hiding. Two years of peace. She met John. She married John. And then…

Targeted by Moran…for leaving his organization? For suspected infiltration? For killing his men?

No, Sherlock shook his head. Of course not.

Because she married John Watson.

John. His best friend—That's how it works, right? He says I'm his best friend, so then he must be mine?—was sitting with his head in his hands listening to the story of how Charles Augustus Magnussen learned about his wife's past life, her time as a sharpshooter and her recruitment into the secret service and eventual dangerous double life within the criminal empire of one of the most dangerous men in England. A very unlucky twist of fortune brought her onto John's path, and brought Magnussen into Moran's, and at that intersection was born a host of troubles.

All of this led to Moran contacting Mary and threatening to kill John outright if she didn't help him. She lied to John; she signed the rental papers for the home next door; she agreed to lay a bomb beneath the London Eye on New Years' Eve. But Mary had been set up; if it hadn't been for the still-ongoing and vast surveillance of Moran's network, coupled with the the timely receipt of Sherlock's text from Moran about fireworks and the clever quick-thinking of Mycroft and his team, Mary would have been killed by Moran's agents the moment she set foot in the service tunnel. As it was, the thugs were killed first, and Mary was intercepted instead.

It hadn't stopped Moran from achieving his ultimate goal. Mycroft had realized only too late that while the Secret Service and Ministry of Defence was busy investigating the potential terror threat against the New Years' Eve revellers, Moran's network had managed to hack into a sensitive area of the MoD files and made off with several hundred gigabytes worth of sensitive government information about various military plans and installations to take place over the course of the upcoming year.

An enemy with a roving target of his own, Sherlock said. Molly, Mary, John, the heart of Mycroft's work. How can we defend ourselves against someone this variable?

Of all the revelations laid out, however, the worst was the fact that Mary had lost their baby, months earlier, during the incident with Magnussen. She didn't know how to tell John; they weren't on speaking terms, and he avoided seeing her often while he struggled to come to terms with the magnitude of that lie. So she compounded it by pretending. She invested in maternity clothes to cover a stomach that no longer carried a life. She bought a prosthetic baby bump from a company that produced props for films and television. She refused John's intimate advances and faked her morning sickness with such success that John diagnosed her with hyperemesis gravidarum. All while concealing the grief of that tremendous loss, shouldering it alone against a sea of hostility and misunderstanding.

John had no idea. None of them did.

"This is all my fault," Mary had repeated, over and over again as the terrible story wound to a close.

Sherlock wondered how John might react. Lied to. Manipulated. Faced with the realization that he not only married a woman whose past was a mess but whose current resume almost included the destruction of a major London landmark and the deaths of scores of innocent people. Sherlock himself was unsure how he might have reacted were he the recipient of the same news.

But John, from the depths of his misery, didn't miss a beat. "This is so far from being your fault, Mary," he told her. "You did exactly what was asked of you by your government, you infiltrated a criminal network and stayed there for nearly two years…and in the end, it's me…your association with me…you wouldn't be here if it wasn't for me…"

Then he reached over to grab Mary's knee and begged her forgiveness.

The sins of man, he thought, turning to Molly, who had drifted off to sleep against Sherlock's shoulder. Visited upon the women closest to us…

"We need to take precautions now," Mycroft said, in a speech that Sherlock had heard before. "Our people took great pains to ensure Moran believes that Mary is dead, and until his threat is neutralized, he must persist under that belief."

John and Mary, holding hands across the room from Mycroft, were shaken but stalwart. United in their exquisite grief, the shock and pain of the night's revelations, and yet undaunted as they faced the uncertainty of their future.

Sherlock glanced once more at Molly. The evidence of Moran's viciousness rested in every bruise that covered her fair skin; he knew it slept in the recesses of her subconscious mind and would awaken during the nightmares that he was certain would shake her from her slumber. Moran's indelible fingerprints were not going to fade easily; the wounds he'd caused would take months to heal.

John and Mary could be spared further pain at the hands of this man. And they would have each other, in one way or another.

Sherlock knew he already had all of Molly. Now, he was prepared to give everything to her in return. If only she'd have him…

"What do we do?" John asked finally.

Sherlock looked up and caught his friend's eye across the room. "Have you ever planned a funeral?"

16 January 2015
St. Pancras Railway Station

The crowded outside entrance to the busy railway station was hardly the place for a meeting of this nature, but perhaps that was exactly why Mycroft chose it. In fact, Sherlock knew that was exactly the reason for it. Thousands of people passing through these doors meant that the four people gathered near its entrance would go virtually unnoticed.

Especially four people making their goodbyes.

Molly stood at Sherlock's side. Her neck was bundled in a long scarf, looped twice and hanging loose down the front of her chest; her tiny hands were warmed by thin mittens and the pockets of her raincoat. Still, she huddled next to Sherlock for warmth as they waited for Mary and Mycroft to arrive.

"Is John coming?"

Sherlock shook his head. "He and Mary said their goodbyes yesterday. After the funeral."

"Ah," Molly said. "Must've been difficult."

"I know it was."

"Course," Molly nodded. "Silly…we've been here before."

"He hasn't, though," Sherlock said, thinking of the night the plan was hatched, how sick John had looked as he realized that Mary was going to be swept into hiding until a time when it was safe for her to return. Mycroft gave his word it would not be long; John took small comfort in that, but he couldn't wipe the fear and panic from his eyes at the thought of losing his wife, their unborn child, and the entire life they'd planned for themselves in the span of one night.

"There they are," Molly whispered, and Sherlock looked in the same direction to see Mary and Mycroft coming towards them. Mary dragged a suitcase behind her, and held another bag by the handle.

"We've come to see you off," Molly said, walking to Mary and throwing her arms around her shoulders before Mary had a chance to drop her luggage.

Mary laughed; it was clear she had been crying. "How nice," she said. "Be sure to form a similar welcoming committee when I return."

"It'll happen," Molly levelled a finger at her. Sherlock noticed Molly's own cheeks were already dampened.

Mycroft was busy scanning the crowd, nonchalant but vigilant, as Mary turned her sights to Sherlock.

"We're not gonna be able to get away with too many more of these, I reckon," Molly joked, lowering her voice. "It'll reach American soap opera levels of absurdity if any more of us spontaneously return from the dead."

"Then you all need to stop getting into trouble with international crime syndicates," Mycroft drawled.

Sherlock admonished his brother with his eyes before smiling at Mary. "How was John?"

"Oh, you know," she replied, swiping at tears in her eyes. "Very John, let's put it that way."

"You'll see him soon," Molly replied.

"Yes," Mary nodded before breaking down again. "Probably in March. Definitely for our anniversary."

Molly ran her hand along Mary's arm; Sherlock offered a tissue from the wadded up ball of tissues that Molly had shoved into his pocket as they left the flat a half hour before. Mary laughed.

"Always thinking ahead, aren't you Molls?"

Sherlock frowned. "How do you know Molly had anything to do with this?"

Mary looked at him, unimpressed. "You're not the only one who can deduce, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock shoved the tissues back into his pocket and retrieved a small piece of paper instead. "When you get to Paris, you're to phone my friend," he said. "She'll be expecting you."

Mycroft looked amazed, and slightly stunned; Molly's reaction was harder to read. But Mary took the paper and smiled. "Is she nice?"

Sherlock nodded. "She's a good person," he said. "And she owes me a favour or two."

Mary nodded. "All right," she said. "Irene Adler. I can do that."

She hugged Sherlock then, and he was surprised to find himself growing emotional as he wrapped his arms around her much shorter frame.

"You be good," she whispered. "Be good to Molly. Be good to Martha. Be good to Mycroft. And for Pete's sake, try to remember Greg's name once in a while?"

Sherlock nodded. "For you, I will endeavour."

Mary pulled away and wiped her nose with the fingertip of her gloved hand. "Take care of John. Make sure he eats well. Don't let him sulk. Remind him that I love him. So much. Every day."

Both Molly and Sherlock nodded.

Mary embraced Molly next, and before they knew it, Mycroft was ushering her into the station. Mary waved and waved, while Molly wept and Sherlock watched until he lost the white blonde top of her head in the crowd.

She's safe. She's alive. John is alive. Mary will survive in Paris. And we can find Moran here…

"Irene?" Molly asked, breaking his concentration.

Sherlock recognized the tinge of jealousy in her words. It surprised him and didn't at the same time to hear such an emotion coming from Molly. But rather than reacting in shock or mock outrage, Sherlock slipped his hand around hers. "Nothing to fear," he replied.

"Nothing?"

He squeezed. "Nothing."

"What did she say to you?"

Sherlock considered. "Among other things, she told me to remember Graham's name once in a while."

Molly chuckled. "Nicely done, Sherlock."

He grinned. "What did she tell you?"

Molly grew quiet, pensive. Sherlock looked down at her face, struggling to decipher her. "She told me she was sorry. She has nothing to be sorry for, as far as I'm concerned. But she said she was sorry…then she told me not to be afraid anymore."

"Afraid of what?"

Molly shrugged. "I've been afraid of a lot of things. Recent events notwithstanding," she sighed, looking down at their conjoined hands. "But you know what? I'm not afraid anymore. Mary said it would be okay. And I think it already is."

Sherlock smiled. "I'm glad to hear you think so."

"Yeah," she said. "Me too."

He kept his eyes on her for a long while before breaking away; in that moment, Sherlock spotted Mycroft returning through the throng, a look of absolute disgust on his face.

"Well, that's enough of trains for the day," he scowled as he approached, brushing the shoulders and arms of his suit.

"Not everyone can travel by chauffeur," said Sherlock.

Mycroft grunted. "Miss Hooper, are you still crying?"

Molly sighed. "It's a sad day, Mycroft," she retorted. "Saying goodbye to a friend—"

"It's hardly goodbye," Mycroft said as they walked towards his car. "And what are these 'friends' of which you speak?"

She giggled and linked her arm through his, much to his alarm and Sherlock's amusement. "Oh, but Mike—we're your friends."

She kept her arm linked through his until they reached the car. John sat in the backseat, nursing a pile of tissues himself. Bleary-eyed, he waited until Molly and Sherlock were inside before he began speaking and crying at the same time. Molly wrapped her arm around his shoulder and consoled him as they drove.

"I thought being on the inside of this great secret would be easier, but it hurts even more than when I thought Sherlock died."

"Well of course it does," Sherlock said. "This is your wife we're talking about here. As important as I am, I'm not married to you."

John sobbed and laughed at the same time. "There's that famous Holmes modesty, shining through…"

"Now's the time for strength, John," Mycroft said. "Mary will be taken care of. You must persevere."

John nodded. "I know. I will."

"Perhaps you should take a holiday," Mycroft continued. "Visit family. Get away from the city."

John shrugged. "I don't know—"

"It's not easy," Molly said. "But you have us still. We've done this before."

"I'll be fine," John said. "I'll see her in a few months. And in the meantime, we'll be hunting for Moran…"

"With the backing and support of the highest levels of our government," Mycroft said. "If, that is, you'll work with us?"

"What?" Sherlock joked, motioning across the backseat of the car at Molly and John at his side. "Get the band back together?"

"We could use the help."

Sherlock looked out the window. Two weeks without a case had been difficult; of course there was the stress of planning Mary's escape to keep him occupied. But in the end he missed the chase. And more than anything, he wanted to catch Moran.

But Molly still had a long ways to go before she was ready to return to work, and certainly before she could work with him on a case. And John was in no shape to investigate anything, not like this. Sherlock wouldn't do it alone, no matter how badly he wanted to. And do I ever want to…

"I think perhaps we need a little more time to decompress," he said, not believing the words coming out of his own mouth. "Maybe a holiday. Somewhere…"

"The three of you?" Mycroft asked.

Or the two of us, Sherlock said, looking over at Molly. Mykonos…Bora Bora…or even just a rented cottage overlooking the seaside…

"No, not for me." John said. "You two go ahead. Just don't go and get married before Mary comes back." He shrugged. "She was very explicit in those instructions to me."

"Married?" Mycroft, Sherlock, and Molly all retorted at once.

John cocked his head to the side. "Oh come on…"

Mycroft shook his head and leaned back to listen to the driver, who was speaking to him between the seats. He nodded and leaned forward again towards the three other passengers.

"Where exactly did you all want to be dropped off?"

"Baker Street," Sherlock said, without missing a beat. "We're going home."

**A/N: There we have it-End of Part I. I hope to have a Part II and III at some point. Maybe even before S4 airs! Thanks for your encouragement, and very special thanks again to luckbringer and MizJoely for being awesome betas and helping me with the first drafts, to my favourite writer in the world (my husband) for helping me with the subsequent drafts, and to all the Sherlollians on Tumblr who were so wonderfully supportive of my first full-length Sherlock fan fiction! I hope you've enjoyed the ride! I know I have! :) **