(ii)

Near the end, he sits in a shadowed corner of a dingy, back-alley café in Prague and waits. He sips too-milky tea from a chipped cup. The pad of his thumb traces the chiseled lip. He thinks of John's perfect brew and of Molly's ridiculous mug collection.

He hears her enter: the bell over the door tinkles, her heels click as she winds her way through the maze of rickety tables toward him. She sinks down, and he meets her eyes; they are precisely the blue he remembered, vivid and vivacious and glittering up at him from beneath perfectly-smudged lids. The corners of her lips tilt up, but she doesn't speak. Their gazes hold as he lifts a hand to signal the waiter.

"Another tea for –"

"Wine," she corrects. "The house red is fine."

"Mm, perhaps you're right. The tea is –"

"Too milky, yes."

He takes a drink. The cup clinks when he returns it to its saucer. "You come here often," he observes.

"Yes."

"We discussed varying your schedule, did we not?"

"Oh, a girl's got to have some fun, Mr. Holmes," she says. "And I know the owner. Well –"

"You know what he likes."

She smiles fully at last, showing perfect, white teeth. "You're catching on." He thinks of Molly's self-conscious, crooked grin.

Her wine arrives on a paper napkin, and she thanks the waiter with a touch to the forearm so light, so nonchalant, that he might have believed she didn't know the effect it had if he didn't know her. The waiter retreats, half-smitten already, and she turns back to him, takes a sip. "So," she says, setting down the glass. She runs a fingertip along its edge; it comes away rosy with lipstick, and she wipes it away, smearing rouge red across the white square. "Shall we start with business or pleasure?"

"Business."

"Of course," she agrees carelessly. "I have it. Everything you asked for." She reaches into her coat and withdraws an envelope. "I'm rather good, don't you think?"

"That depends."

"On?"

"What you did to get it."

She lets out a low, tinkling laugh. "Nothing you wouldn't approve of, Mr. Holmes, I assure you."

His mouth quirks. "Naturally."

"Naturally."

She slides the envelope across the table. When he reaches for it, she lifts her fingers to cover his. Her skin is soft against his knuckles. Her voice is softer. "Let's have dinner," she says.

They sit, suspended, for several seconds. Then he withdraws his hand, takes the envelope with it. Hers is left outstretched on the wood. "Some other time," he replies, tucking the information into his own inner pocket with crisp efficiency.

She cocks her head, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. "Interesting," she muses. She picks up her glass and leans back in her chair, swirling the liquid thoughtfully. "So?" she prompts finally. "Who is she?"

He frowns. "She?"

"Come now, Mr. Holmes," she says. "You know I like a game, but don't make me guess."

"Yours is as good as mine," he replies. "I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about."

She sighs threatrically, but her eyes are sparkling with amusement. "Is it the pathologist?" He thinks of Molly's palm on his forearm, just beneath the elbow.

Her laugh is high and sharp with delight. "It is!" She sits forward, resting her elbow on the tabletop and her chin on her hand. "That little slip of a thing…my, my, you are a man of simple tastes."

He scowls despite himself. "How do you know about my pathologist?"

His discomfort, and his use of the possessive, seem to amuse her all the more. "I did my research," she says. "I had to make you want me, didn't I?" She pauses. "Now, if I'd known it was possible to make you love me, I might have put on a white coat." She laughs again. "To think, it could have been as easy as playing doctor."

"You're not a very good listener," he retorts. "I gave you my opinion of love the night I beat you."

"Ah, yes. What was it? 'Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side.'" She reaches across the table to push back a stray curl. Her varnished nails graze his temple, and an involuntary shiver of pleasure dances down his spine. "Well," she says, trailing her fingers along his jawline. She tilts his chin up. "You, my poor, poor man, have definitely lost."

"I will burn the heart out of you," Moriarty had said.

"I've been reliably informed that I don't have one."

"But we both know that's not quite true."

Molly doesn't see him until the hazy mirror of the Bart's lockerroom, but he sees her. He's only on his second cup of jasmine in the cramped Chinese takeaway that faces her block of flats when she rounds the corner, shopping bags in tow. She's just the same.

(Hair pulled back, slight indentations above the ears where her usual safety glasses press too tight; still working at Bart's, then, but spending more time in the lab. Finishing a paper, perhaps, or teaching a practicum. Lugging a full-to-bursting 5p bag in one hand and a massive pack of Felix pouches in the other; still forgetting to bring her reusable to Sainsbury's, still catering to Toby the Demon's every whim. And still – he grimaces – cooking eggplant parmigiana on Thursdays. He can see the offending fruit – she informed him it was a fruit, two years ago; he informed her it was inedible – through the plastic.)

Well, he thinks cheerily, eggplant immangiabile will have to wait. He's purchased pot stickers and orange chicken, her favorites, and he knows she'll be especially grateful because she's plodding down the pavement in the hateful, grayish-brown clogs she only wears for back-to-back autopsies.

He stands, leaves a few bills for the tea, and slips, smiling, onto the sidewalk, carry-out swinging at his side. He's halfway across the street when he gets one more deduction than he was expecting. (Left hand held awkwardly against the shopping bag, as if her fingers are heavier, but only just.) She's reached her building, and she maneuvers the Felixes under her arm, fumbles at her coat pocket.

And then it's not so much a deduction as an observation, shiny and sparkling and real.

It stops him mid-step.

And he's still stopped, seconds later, when she shuffles inside and, with an artless twist of her ankle, manages to nudge the door shut, taking her shiny, sparkling engagement ring with her.

Mary Morstan answers the door in a t-shirt and tracksuit bottoms, hair damp across her forehead and a towel in hand. "Not very punctual, are you?" she says, mouth quirked amusedly. "Come in," she adds, turning away. He follows her down the hall into her – and John's – flat.

"Kitchen's through there. I won't be a minute." She nods right-ish, then ducks out of sight, into the master bedroom, presumably.

"No," he calls out distractedly, taking the opportunity to peer into the sitting room. He recognizes John's influence immediately; they may both like cinnamoned biscuits, but it's statistically improbable that she also has an independent inclination for Star Trek DVD boxed sets and understuffed sofa cushions. "John's the punctual one."

He hears her approaching once more. By the time she reappears, flat-haired and towel-less, he's casually enconsced in a kitchen chair, inspecting his fingernails.

"Mm, he is," she muses. She smiles pleasantly. "Annoying, isn't it?"

"Very," he agrees.

She opens a cupboard and rummages inside, finally producing mugs and a coffee tin. "Military training, I suppose," she says, manipulating the coffee machine. "Anyway, it's a good thing you were late. Gave me time to have a shower after kickboxing."

"Kickboxing?" he says. He's surprised, and mildly impressed; he'd deduced aerobics.

"Twice a week," she confirms. "I used to be an A&E nurse. You should have seen the injuries…."

"Planning to inflict some?"

She laughs, removing the pot to pour. "If only. Milk and sugar?"

"Black, two sugars, please." He thinks of Molly's flirting.

"But they got me thinking that a bit of self-defense wouldn't go amiss."

He nods noncommittally. He fails to see how forty minutes battering air will help her batter flesh, even if it is twice-weekly. Better to learn how to fire John's gun. But he'd rather get to the point.

She reads his mind. "So," she says, setting down a pair of fragrant, steaming cups and sinking finally into the seat opposite. She fixes him with an unexpectedly arresting gaze. "What is this about?"

"Expertise," he answers.

"Mine?"

"Yours."

"In?"

"Human nature."

"Intriguing." She pauses, eyebrows raised. "Hit me with it."

"An acquaintance of mine is engaged to be married," he says. "And I feel…." He stops. He thinks again of Molly's flirting. And of his own repudiations, the many, many times he was not entirely good. "I feel I may have…missed an opportunity." He finds he's examining his cuffs. He looks up and and clears his throat. "I need an appropriate response," he finishes crisply.

She lifts her coffee, nodding slowly over the lip. Her fingers drum a speculative beat across the tabletop. Finally, she sighs, lowers her voice to a strange, unnecessary mix of nonchalance and understanding, and says, "Is this about John?"

He frowns. "Why would it be about John?" he demands.

"Oh, I don't know," she replies, rolling her eyes. "Engaged to be married, missed opportunity…."

"I know you have a very high opinion of him, Mary," he says irritably, "but not everyone envies you a lifetime of near-compulsive cleanliness and bad clarinet-playing."

"You'd be surprised. Have you met the one with the nose?"

He snorts despite himself.

"Speaking of which," she continues, "were you the one who introduced him to all those nutters?"

"John is perfectly capable of finding his own nutters."

She laughs at that, takes a sip – and lets out a sudden, loud cough. "Too hot," she cautions wheezily, swiping the back of her hand across her mouth. She pushes the cup away with an exaggerated shiver. "Why are you asking me, then? If this isn't about John."

"Mrs. Hudson took my skull ages ago. And John and his mustache are busy."

"You mean John isn't speaking to you," she says flatly.

"Surprised he can speak through that" – he gestures vaguely at his own face – "monstrosity."

She guffaws. "He shaved it off."

Now he's really impressed. "Nicely done."

"Well," she replies, smirking, "I can't take all the credit."

She hazards another sip, and he leans back in his chair, crossing right ankle over left knee. He can see why John likes her.

"Look, what it comes down to is this. Is this person –"

"She."

"She. Is she happy?"

"I have no reason to suspect otherwise."

"Then…what is it they say? If you love somebody, let them go. Or is it, set them free? Well, whatever it is…you should let her be, Sherlock. Let her be happy."

He tries. He really does.

"You wanted to see me?"

"Yes. Molly –"

"Yes?"

"Would you – would you like to –"

"Have dinner?"

"– solve crimes?"

"Are you sure about this?"

"Absolutely."

"Should I be making notes?"

"If that makes you feel better."

"Only – it's just that – that's what John says he does. So if I'm being John –"

"You're not being John. You're being yourself."

"Fancy some chips?"

"What?"

"I know a fantastic fish shop just off the Marylebone Road. The owner always gives me extra portions."

"Did you get him off a murder charge?"

"Nope. Helped him put up some shelves."

The thing about Tom is, there's absolutely nothing wrong with him.

(Late thirties, never married, financially stable. Health, average – light drinking, no drugs, but poor eyesight. He really should lay off the first-person shooters. Job, middling – a solicitor. Competent, but unconfident, too polite for promotion, too nice. Three sisters, two parents, one dog. More ex-girlfriends, but not too many to raise eyebrows, nor too few to raise red flags. Good dress sense, if a little…derivative.)

There's nothing right either. He's boring, and three years ago he'd have said he was perfect for Molly, but now all he can muster is a platitude. "I hope you'll be very happy, Molly Hooper."

It's excessive and empty at once. Overwrought and yet utterly not enough.

Mary Morstan would be proud.

She wears yellow to John's wedding.

Bright yellow, so garish it nearly glows. It's half past ten and pitch black, but he can see her coming toward him in the dark, a dress-shaped smudge hovering over the ground like some neon apparition. The next time a client reports a haunting, he'll deduce overeager pathologist. In fact, it was clearly the color that drew his gaze – repeatedly – as she bobbed off-beat across the dance floor.

And he'd actually believe that last – if he was a moron.

As it is, he listens, silent, to the unsteady click of her heels and the quiet cadence of her voice as she mutters something beneath her breath, and wonders how he could have let this happen.

"Sherlock?" she calls out.

He lifts his cigarette to his lips, knows she'll follow its flickering end to the copse of trees twenty yards from the ballroom. By the time he tilts his head back against his oak and exhales starward, she's beside him, frowning at the smoke.

"Smoking? But you were doing so well!"

"Took it up again," he says carelessly. "Somewhere in Poland."

Her frown deepens. She clearly wants to ask what's wrong, but given that the answer's sitting snugly on her fourth finger, he's grateful when she settles instead on, "That was brilliant." She nods back in the direction of the ballroom. "In there."

He smiles. "The crime solving? Yes," he muses, taking a self-satisfied draw, "it was surprisingly simple once I identified Sholto as the victim. And I do like to tie up loose ends…the Bloody Guardsman, the Mayfly Man…. Photographer even stuck around to be arrested. Very neat all around, though the Major's near-suicide was a bit of a crimp…."

"I meant the speech," she says flatly. She pauses, then gives a short shrug. "But the crime solving was all right too, I suppose…."

He looks down at that. His eyes narrow accusingly. "Are you being sarcastic?"

She smiles brightly, eyes sparkling. "No."

He makes a tetchy sound. "Don't do sarcasm, Molly. It doesn't suit you."

"Oh," she says, retreating immediately. She flushes. "Sorry – I didn't mean –"

He smirks – she's just too easy – and now her eyes narrow. "Are you teasing me?"

"No," he mimics. She lets out a low laugh. After a moment, he takes another draw, watches the smoke dissolve on the air. "Sarcasm does suit you, actually."

"Does it?"

"No need to fish for compliments."

"Says Sherlock Holmes."

"Mm," he admits. "Well played." She giggles, and he grins.

They lapse into companionable silence. A minute later, she reaches down, tugs at her shoe. "I hate these heels," she grumbles.

"Why are you wearing them, then?"

"Societal standards of beauty? Vanity? Pure, unadulterated masochism?" she suggests. "Who can say?"

He laughs. "All terrible reasons. You're fine as you are."

"Am I?"

She's smiling impishly as she says it, and he knows what's expected of him: a tetchy sound, a smirk, the smug reiteration of an earlier quip: "No need to fish for compliments." Six words, all scripted, just another safe scene in their carefully constructed friendship.

But instead, he finds himself meeting her eyes and saying, slowly, lowly, deliberately, "More than."

She blinks up at him, and they stand, suspended, for the space of several heartbeats. Then she exhales, clears her throat. "Yes, well," she says, stammering but determined, "Tom's so tall – it just makes sense to add a few inches for –"

He scowls. "Yes," he says irritatedly, "where is Tom? Constructing a meat dagger perhaps?"

She folds her arms over her chest. "Don't be mean," she chides.

"That was idiotic. And don't pretend you didn't think so," he adds. "Remind me never to get within stabbing distance of your fork."

She makes a shocked sound. "I never –" He arches an eyebrow, and she rolls her eyes. "All right, I did. But he's not idiotic! He's –"

"Moronic?"

"No!"

"Stupid?"

"Now who's invested in a thesaurus?"

He snorts appreciatively but continues undeterred. "Weak-willed?"

"Sherlock!" she says, scandalized.

"Indecisive? Boring?"

"Well!" she interrupts loudly. "It's a good job I'm all of those things too. We're a perfect match."

"No," he says urgently, straightening and looking straight at her. "No." He steps toward her, his cigarette discarded in the dirt, his hands suddenly coarse at the curves of her jawline. Her eyes are dewy, her lips parted. "You, Molly Hooper, are none of those things. Never."

And then he kisses her.

Later, much later, he will conclude that his rashness resulted from thoughts of Tom and Jim and jealousy, from thoughts of Mary Watson and her silly little saying: if you love someone, let them go, set them free, let her be happy. Hypocritical and inapplicable, as it turns out, the former because if shooting your husband's best friend to save your marriage isn't holding on, he doesn't know what is, and the latter because, put plainly, Molly Hooper isn't happy. She's settling.

With all the self-deluding benefit of hindsight, he will identify those thoughts as his undoing.

But the fact of the matter is, in that moment, with grass below and sky above and Molly, warm and bright and glowing between his palms, he isn't thinking anything at all.

He doesn't sleep for the next thirty-two hours. He thinks twenty-four is sufficient, initially, then remembers John's messier breakups and settles on the extra twelve. But his mind is a live wire, his thoughts taut and thrumming with current, and he can't sit still. And between his restless driving into London and his relentless pacing in 221B, Mrs. Hudson nearly shoves him out in hour thirty-one.

As he takes his suit jacket, held out to him with a tut at the base of the stairs, he has a thought. "What kind of food is traditional post breakup?" he asks.

Her brow furrows. "Why? Has somebody broken up?"

"No one you know," he lies. He shrugs off his dressing gown and on the jacket. "Just a friend."

Her expression softens. "I had a friend once –"

"Just the one?" he teases. He finds he's in a teasing mood.

She tuts again and he grins. "Don't be rude, dear," she scolds, trying to hide her amusement. She folds her arms across her chest determinedly. "Not when you've kept me up half the night banging in and out of your flat and blowing things up."

"Science doesn't keep hours, Mrs. Hudson!" he says, swiping a kiss across her cheek as he opens the door.

"Not decent, as always," she says, smiling outright now. "You'd think there'd been a murder. You might try being a bit less cheerful when you see your friend," she adds as he steps out into the early morning mist. "And ice cream wouldn't go amiss. And something with a bit of kick!"

Per suggestion, he arrives on Molly's doorstep with four flavors of Ben & Jerry's and a bottle of wine. He has been inside twice since his return – once for a group dinner, with John, Mary, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson in tow, and once to collect a sack of diseased corneas. The latter was significantly less unpleasant.

Both times, he was immediately attacked by Tom's pomeranian "Powerpuff." The puff was self-evident, the power less so. As it lacked both physical and mental function, the power was clearly in its ancestors' ability to avoid the swift justice of natural selection. He now feels a certain camaraderie with Toby, who spent both visits hissing at it from atop the refrigerator. He smiles; he's confident Powerpuff will have gone with Tom.

He knocks, trying to be a bit less cheerful. A minute later he doesn't have to try.

"Sherlock?"

Tom answers the door in a t-shirt and pajama bottoms, an empty coffee mug dangling at his side.

There is a long, gaping silence.

"Is there something you –" Tom starts finally. He's cut off when, true to form, the canine in question comes scuttling around the corner, tongue swaying beneath wide, vacant eyes. It manages three rings through his ankles before Tom scoops it up and says, "Sorry – obedience lessons aren't really taking." And then, more warily, "Do you want to come in?"

He really doesn't, but he finds himself moving inside anyway, into the kitchen, into a chair. He feels unmoored. He's rarely wrong, and with the exception of Christmas, years ago, he's never wrong about Molly Hooper. But Tom and his mug and his mutt, answering the door at five thirty in the morning in Hanes and checked trousers, doesn't need deducing: this time, he has been.

"– funny you're here, actually," Tom is saying. He hardly hears. "I've been wanting to explain – about that whole meat dagger thing –"

"Tom? Who was it?"

Molly, damp-haired and dressed for work, follows her voice into the room. She stops short. "Sherlock!" she says. Their eyes meet. A beat, then she flushes, looks away. He feels a rush of something he's much more familiar with.

"– obviously didn't mean he'd, you know, made a –"

"Quite a lot of sex," he says abruptly.

Molly freezes.

Tom falls silent, blinks. "Sorry?"

"Having it, apparently," he replies. "The two of you." He sets his elbows on the table, his gaze on Molly's over steepled fingers. "According to you." His tone is derisive. He prefers angry to unmoored. She doesn't look away, doesn't speak either.

Tom glances between them, brows raised. Finally, he barks out an awkward laugh. "Ah," he says. "Well." Another laugh. "That's my Mol, isn't it? She tends to overshare…."

He thinks of the "Mol" – the "my Mol" – Tom knows, oversharing and underwhelming and settling, and the one he patently doesn't, warm and bright and glowing, with the breeze and his fingers threading through her hair, and says, skeptically, "Does she?"

Tom frowns, glances between them again. "Well," he ventures, "with her job – has to tell all the tales, doesn't she?" Silence. "You know," Tom insists, "because dead men tell no tales." The proverbial pin drops. Tom clears his throat. "Sorry – joke."

"Was it?" he says nastily, "I hadn't noticed."

"All right," Molly says suddenly, sharply. "Outside, Sherlock."

Once there, she whirls. "What are you – what – what was that?" she demands loudly, fists clenched at her sides.

"A joke, apparently," he taunts. "Shall we add unfunny to the list?"

"The list?"

"Of Tom's deficiencies. At least try to keep up, Molly. He is your problem."

"Stop it, Sherlock," she snaps. "He's my fiance."

His lip curls. "Yes," he says, voice suddenly venomous. "He is."

A beat, and then, "Oh," she stammers, eyes rounding. "That's – that's what this is about, isn't it? You thought – you thought I'd have ended things with Tom after what happened –"

"Mm, and apparently I overestimated you," he replies. "Inexcusable, in retrospect, to expect a woman who failed to distinguish the Consulting Criminal from a Glee-watching information technician –"

"Sherlock –" she starts warningly.

"– to be capable of distinguishing an imitation from the genuine article."

Her warning dies on her lips. She stares at him, incredulous. "The genuine article?"

"Come now, Molly. Height, hair, coat, scarves. All Tom's missing," he sneers, tapping a forefinger against his temple, "is everything important."

She opens her mouth, closes it again, cheeks flushed. When words come, they are hard at the center, but strangely soft at the edges, thin and breathless. "No matter what you might think, Tom is – he's decent, warm and considerate and kind, and he loves me –"

"Yes, well," he says, "there's no accounting for taste."

She physically recoils, taking a step back so that her heel hits awkwardly against the doorstep.

"Even discounting preferences, though," he continues, undeterred, "I imagined a moral compass might have entered into the equation." He cocks his head at her. "Or doesn't betrothal require fidelity? By all means, correct me – you're always educating me on the niceties of social interaction, aren't you? Sherlock, don't do that. Sherlock, don't say that. Sherlock, apologize to the dead man."

"I was just trying – that's not fair. That was all just –"

"Hypocrisy," he finishes. "And apparently it suits you."

He knows exactly what he's throwing in her face: every crossed arm, every raised brow, every time she shot him that nervous, little half-smirk and told him to eat this, drink that, get your shoes off the sofa, be nice. Knows exactly how it's hitting her too: hard-won intimacies recast as infidelities, and all that ease undone.

He wonders if he should mourn the loss, but he can hear his heartbeat pounding past his eardrums and not much else, and anyway, if it's intimacy she wants, there's always Tom, who's decent.

"Makes a particular mockery of all those lectures on the sanctity of matrimony, doesn't it?"

"What –"

"It's not pointless, Sherlock. It's a lifelong commitment, Sherlock."

"You mean – oh, John's marriage," she grasps. "That's –" She stops short. Her breath catches oddly, and suddenly she exhales something between a sob and a mirthless, miserable laugh. "Oh, John's marriage," she repeats, more flatly.

"Yes, not so very sacred now, is it?"

"Is this about John?" she whispers.

He lets out a groan. "Why," he demands, throwing up his hands,"does everyone think this is about John?"

"Because he's just got married." She blinks, and moisture spills over. She swipes at her cheek, sucks in a damp breath. "And you're sad or lonely or just bored – and you've decided to play some game." Her voice is rising again, hard, soft, hysterical. "You know I have – had – this silly, little crush on you, for just – for ages – and you've decided to see if you can wreck –" She swallows, meets his eyes. "Is it?"

She asks it quietly, pleadingly.

"Is it some game?"

He exhales through his nostrils. He thinks of coffee and candy and garish, glowing dresses, of tikka and Tom and being wrong, knows what he should say, and doesn't. "Well, Doctor Hooper," he drawls instead, managing a smirk. "The game was, inalterably, on."

He's been wrong about Molly Hooper.

He takes the Smallwood case because he's right about Augustus Magnussen. The drugs are just a bonus.

"You!" Slap. "Horrible!" Slap. "Immature!" Slap.

"All right, Mary – he's not – don't –"

"Selfish!" Slap. "Prat!" Slap.

Words and wounds slough off him like old skin. A butterfly shucking away a cage. His hands ringing and wringing Moran's neck. Magnussen, Magnussen, Magnussen.

"Come now, Mary," he says at last. He's too settled, glassy-gazed and languid, but they do not deduce the obvious: the smooth introduction of needle to pulse, morphine bound to blood. "Surely you can do better than prat."

"This is serious, Sherlock," John says darkly. "Molly's been nothing but kind to you, and you've treated her like shit."

He thinks of soft, brown eyes, tense with wariness and weariness, and shuts his own. He hardly opens them again until it's Molly hitting him.

"Well? Is he clean?"

"Clean?"

(Thinner beneath her crisp coat, bruised beneath her lower lids – dark, little smudges like newspapered fingerprints – too few meals on too little sleep. Posture poor, bending beneath the weight of something that's–)

Three slaps: two right-handed, one left.

(– not her engagement ring.)

"How dare you throw away the beautiful gifts you were born with! And how dare you betray the love of your friends! Say you're sorry."

"Sorry your engagement's over. Though I'm fairly grateful for the lack of a ring."

"Stop it. Just stop it."

He meets John at Magnussen's building.

"Magnussen's office is on the top floor, just below his private flat. There are fourteen layers of security between us and him, two of which aren't even legal in this country. Want to know how we're going to break in?"

"Is that what we're doing?"

"Of course it's what we're doing."

…

"There's a camera at eye height to the right of the door. A live picture of the card user is relayed directly to Magnussen's personal staff in his office, the only people trusted to make a positve ID. At this hour, almost certainly his PA."

"So how does that help us?"

"Human error. I've been shopping. Here we go, then."

…

"You see? As long as there's people, there's always a weak spot."

"That was Janine!"

"Yes, of course it was Janine. She's Magnussen's PA. That's the whole point."

"Did you just get engaged to break into an office?"

"Yeah. Stroke of luck, meeting her at your wedding. You can take some of the credit."

"Je—Jesus, Sherlock. She loves you."

"Yes. Like I said, human error."

Mary Watson's bullet is death condensed, and feels like it.

The first thing he sees is Molly.

You're most certainly going to die, so we need to focus. I said, focus! It's all well and clever having a mind palace, but you've only three seconds of consciousness left to use it. So, come on. What's going to kill you?

Blood loss, the gun, Mycroft and the mirror.

Sherlock, you need to fall on your back. Right now the bullet is the cork in a bottle. The bullet itself is blocking most of the blood flow. But any pressure or impact on the entrance wound could dislodge it. Plus, on your back, gravity is working for us. Fall now.

Shock, the east wind, Mary and the wedding gown.

Must be something in this ridiculous memory palace of yours that can calm you down. Find it.

Pain, the dog, Moriarty and the padded cell.

You. You never felt pain, did you? Why did you never feel pain? You always feel it, Sherlock. But you don't have to fear it! Pain, heartbreak, loss, death. It's all good. It's all good. It's raining, it's pouring, Sherlock is boring. I'm raining, I'm crying, Sherlock is dying.

John's voice. "We're losing you! Sherlock!"

Come on, Sherlock. Just die, why don't you? One little push, and off you pop. You're going to love being dead, Sherlock. No one ever bothers you. Mrs. Hudson will cry, and Mummy and Daddy will cry, and the Woman will cry. And John will cry buckets and buckets. It's him that I worry about the most. That wife – you're letting him down, Sherlock. John Watson is definitely in danger.

John, the blog, Baker Street and the very best of times.

What's going to kill you?

Blood loss. Shock. Pain. John. Molly. Molly in her white coat, in her high heels, in her clunky clogs. In her striped scarf, her checked trousers, and her bright, bright dress. Love is a chemical defect found in the losing side. Well, you, my poor, poor man, have definitely lost.

Molly in her foyer and her kitchen and his bed. An acquaintance of mine is engaged to be married. And I feel…I feel I may have…missed an opportunity.

Molly in his arms and his head and his heart. I've been reliably informed I don't have one. But we both know that's not quite true.

Molly's been nothing but kind to you, and you've treated her like shit. Je-Jesus, Sherlock. She loves you. Yes. Like I said –

"Well, Doctor Hooper. The game was, inalterably, on."

What's going to kill you?

– human error.

"It wasn't."

The room is dim when he says it, and she startles, letting out a small, involuntary snort and blinking into the half-light. She exhales, steadying herself between surprise and sleep, then straightens in the hospital visitors' chair. The fabric of her oversized jumper crinkles against the plastic. She squints at him, at his vitals monitor – and reaches immediately for the call button.

"Don't," he says softly.

She hesitates, but withdraws her hand.

"I'm fine."

"You're not a doctor," she observes.

"You are." He nods at the board clipped to the foot of the bed.

"Yes," she agrees drily, "but all my patients are dead."

He makes an appreciative sound at that, and watches her try to hide a smile by reaching for the chart. She flips a page, scanning down the columns of cramped physicians' scrawl. She frowns up at his vitals again, then stands to inspect the wound.

She unsticks his bandage with a few, deft moves, studiously avoiding eye contact. She's hovering over him, so close he can smell the floral freshness of her shampoo, can see the red-tinged translucence of the shell of her ear. His throat tightens as she traces the bruising at the base of his sternum. Her fingertips, cool and dry, make a soft, papery sound against his skin.

He shifts, ever so slightly, and she flushes. Her hands falter. "Sorry, I –"

"Shall I make it easier?" he murmurs lowly, confidentially. "Cause of death: gunshot wound to the chest."

She lets out a shocked laugh, her gaze sliding finally to his. "That's not funny," she says sternly.

He smirks. "Isn't it?"

She rolls her eyes, resumes her examination. He reaches up to tuck a tendril of hair behind her ear. She stiffens, and her fingers find the hole in his chest.

He hisses.

"You'll live," she says, replacing the bandage and backing abruptly away, and he's not sure if she's scolding or conceding.

She settles back down. With her sleeves pooled around her wrists and her legs tucked neatly beneath her, she looks delicate, almost child-like. And yet, the smudges beneath her lids, darker now than when he first saw them, are decidedly adult. He wonders how many nights she's spent here.

He's about to ask when he notices Janine's newspapers, still lying where she left them. "He made me wear the hat," declares the Daily Mail. Molly notices too.

"I didn't enjoy –

"I wasn't reading –

"– using her."

"– that."

She laughs awkwardly.

He clears his throat. "I didn't enjoy it," he repeats. "Using her."

"No. I know you didn't."

"Do you?"

"Of course." She pauses. Her lips quirk. "You hate that hat."

This time, he laughs.

"Really, though," she adds, sobering. She nips her lower lip and looks at him. "You're better than you pretend to be."

They sit in silence for several seconds, staring at each other. "Tom?" he says, at last.

She sighs, tries for a smile, swallows. "Over."

He nods slowly. "Just as well," he offers. "Bad coat. Polyester blend. Was never going to do anything substantial in that."

She snorts. "He was nice."

"You can do better than nice."

"Yes, well," she says repressively, glancing down at the armrest. She plucks at the place where plastic meets metal. "So you've said."

"I meant what I said," he replies, waiting for her gaze to find its way back. Her eyes are dewy, her pupils dark. He thinks of his hands on her jawline, his fingers in her hair. "Meant what I did, too."

She inhales, and he presses on, his heartbeat pushing up against his palate. "It wasn't."

He knows she's processed it this time. Her right thumb presses into her left palm, furrowing deep into the flesh, mooring her. Every other part of her is still. "It wasn't a game," he says thickly. "It isn't. And I'm sorry –"

"It's fine," she says suddenly.

"No, it's not –"

"Sherlock –

"Let me – Molly – I'm sorry. I am so sorry for what I –"

She lurches suddenly toward him, and he thinks of her predictable gracelessness, of her beautiful, singular inelegance. "Don't," she says softly, and stops him.

"Sorry. No chance for you to be a hero this time, Mr. Holmes."

"Oh, do your research. I'm not a hero. I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Merry Christmas!"

"Man down! Man down!"

…

"Oh, Christ, Sherlock."

"Give my love to Mary. Tell her she's safe now."

Climate has yielded to cliché, and it has started to rain.

He stands at the window, watching the slow slide of droplets toward the sill and London toward night. He resists the urge to press his forehead against the chill, rain-tracked glass, to think cold thoughts about living with friends and dying without them. Instead, he presses his lids together and thinks about ash. He knows ash.

Behind him, the door clicks open, then shut. "She's here."

He doesn't turn. "No, she's not," he corrects his brother's reflection. "You're here, which is considerably less agreeable."

Mycroft ignores the jibe. "I'll admit that I do not understand this…attachment, Sherlock," he says. "Although," he adds, with a small shrug, "I suppose it needn't trouble me much longer."

He opens his mouth to retort, but Mycroft waves a hand dismissively, and he's inclined to agree: too easy. He waits. Mycroft doesn't leave. Finally, he whirls, brows raised. "Well?" he demands.

Mycroft shoves one hand into a trouser pocket. "I've bought you six months, you know," he says. "Six months that would otherwise consist of forty-eight square feet and a felon's jumpsuit. They don't tailor those."

"Are you expecting gratitude?"

"Yes, actually." He scoffs, but Mycroft continues undeterred. "Five years ago, six months with a case to solve and without human interruption would have been your idea of a holiday."

He contemplates that comment, head cocked. "Yes," he concludes at last. "I rather think you don't understand."

The two of them consider each other over the real hardware of the British government: not guns or tanks but yellow legal pads, red woods, and fabrics in various shades of institutional gray. He's called his brother his arch-enemy, but he knows as well as their mother that the only things standing between them and fraternal fondness are too much ego and too many IQ points. They really could understand each other.

At last, Mycroft pushes his shoulders back, adjusts his suit jacket. "Well," he says, turning away. "I'll see you on the tarmac."

"Mycroft." His brother pauses. "Thank you for bringing her."

"Ah, so you are capable of gratitude."

He swallows another retort and says instead, meaningfully, "Yes, I am."

Mycroft regards him for a beat, then sighs and inclines his head. "Don't draw this out, little brother," he says, glancing toward the door. "You'll only hurt her. And, it seems," he adds, nose wrinkling with distaste, "yourself."

The door clicks twice more, and then she is before him, wearing her beige trenchcoat and the pink-striped scarf he gave her for Christmas, two years and a lifetime ago.

She knows something's wrong, but offers an uncertain smile. "Bit cloak and dagger, isn't he, your brother?" she says.

"He tries."

He rounds the conference table too slowly, aware that he's drawing this out, and draws close. He cups her chin. "I have to go away," he says. "It is…unlikely that I'll be able to return."

She meets his eyes. "What do you need?" she whispers.

He manages a sad smile. "Nothing," he whispers back. He tilts her face up and leans down to press a single, lingering kiss to her cheek. "Nothing, this time."

He will never regret driving a bullet through the Appledore vaults, but he will regret this.

Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me?

The plane banks, and he realizes: two years ago, Moriarty thought Molly Hooper didn't matter at all to him. The Consulting Criminal rarely makes mistakes; on that roof he made only one. He will not make it twice.

He finds her at Bart's, half-hidden by a tower of cream-white file boxes, a dozen folders at her elbow and one in her lap. The name is printed in neat, black letters that he does not need to read.

"Molly."

She jumps; papers scatter. "Sherlock," she says hoarsely. "Are you –"

"Back, yes."

"So is he." Her voice catches, wavers. "Jim – he's –"

"I know."

She turns back, breathing hard. "I don't understand," she says. "I did it myself – and I can't – I did the autopsy myself –"

Her hand is trembling. He moves forward, stills it with his own. She looks up at him.

"I saw him pull the trigger," he says.

A beat of silence, then she exhales a hollow laugh and steps, almost stumbles, into his arms. "I didn't want to go home," she murmurs. "He knows where I live. Stupid, really. He knows where I work too. I just thought – at least there are people upstairs –"

"You're not going home."

"Where am I going?"

"We, Molly," he says, his fingers tangled in the hair at the curve of her neck. "We are going to Baker Street."

He and Moriarty made the same mistake. Molly Hooper is anything but irrelevant, anything but ordinary. Moriarty will never underestimate her again. And, he thinks, as he lets them into 221B, as their eyes meet in the hushed, narrow space at the base of the stairs: neither will he.