Everything seemed to fall into place after the events with Euros. Although one of them fell and fell so hard that there was still a painful pounding of blood in all of their hearts whenever they thought of Mary, wife of one John Watson and a mother to their daughter Rosie, all of them knew that with time the pain will start to dull. It had to, didn't it?

Everything seemed to fall into place — Molly returned to working in the morgue and lab, letting Sherlock do whatever he wished in the facilities unconditionally, allowing and helping with his crazy experiments and even crazier cases. That's what she was for, right? Little, mousy Molly Hooper, always there to assist Sherlock Holmes and get nothing in return.

They never did discuss that phone call. Or rather, she never asked of it. John told her about what happened in Sherrinford, about tasks his best friend was thrust upon and that she was one of them as well. That's all she needed to know.

She was part of the game, as always. Coming to importance only when it was necessary for the world's only consulting detective. Did he ever remember her when there was no crisis in his world? Did he ever think of her when sitting alone in his flat in Baker Street, having nothing to do and getting bored out of his mind? She could ask if she were brave enough, but Molly already knew the answer. A single word; the world's most painful word — no.

So she didn't ask if her reveal was of any importance to him. And Sherlock kept silent himself; he never liked holding a conversation with her that didn't include the case or empty compliments that lured her into helping him out.

It's impossible to believe in any words of his — because long ago, five years ago to be exact she was right. She didn't count, she never did. Only her mind was useful from time to time. But she herself?

Long ago she was naïve as well, falling for any affectionate smile or glance that she overthought for hours on hours. She believed in every compliment and broke down at any harsher word sent her way. And yet she never blamed him, never blamed Sherlock for her heartache or the shyness and self-consciousness he kept pushing her further and further into with every deduction that didn't spare words as sharp as knifes. It's how he was; he couldn't help it. It was her mistake to put that dress on, wear that shade of lipstick or part her hair just so that would apparently displease him. It was all fault of Molly — she should've been better at her tasks, more appealing to the eye of a handsome consulting detective and less annoying. He was never to blame that thoughts fell into his mind and jumped from his tongue sooner that he could catch them ( not that he ever tried to do so, though ).

And she cried, oh had she cried back then. Cried over any critique and insult. Sobbed because of cold glares and orders to shut up. Wept because the smooth baritone she adored never said her a good word, not unless he wanted something from her. And oh did she cry after that call. She wept her eyes out, sobbed until her lungs were burning, throat closed off and lips chapped with the dryness salty tears inflicted.

Molly cried because she never counted, nor she ever will.

Tired and emotionally drained the female marched to the tube to get herself home from Baker Street. The boys were solving a case and it required someone to babysit Rosie. Since she had a day off she was more than eager to take care of the little angel who had her mother ripped away from her. It was always a delight to hold the small babe in her arms, coo at her and make silly faces. Or sing soft lullabies and watch as Rosie fell asleep. So sometimes she had dreamed of holding her own child like this, sue her. It's not like she could help it. Her biologic watch was buzzing and screaming that now was the exact time to have a kid of her own. The only problem was that there was no one to have that child with.

And yes, though she did miss Watson's baby girl, deep in her heart and mind she knew that part of the reason why she accepted was because she wanted to at least get a glance at the certain consulting detective that stole her heart all those years ago. Every once in a while, when the periods between visits at Bart's stretched out too far in between she needed to get some reassurance that he was alright; that he wasn't taking anything and actually looking after himself. That his frame didn't get any leaner than it already was, that his cheekbones didn't get even more prominent as cheeks sunk in from the lack of food and that there were no dark circles ruining the beautiful sight of his magnificent, electric eyes. And not every time would a phone call from John or Mrs. Hudson suffice.

Stepping into the tube and finding an empty space to sit down, Molly released a long breath, shoulders slumping and head hanging low. Never was she thought of when there wasn't a need to use her good heart. As more time went by it got more obvious to her and yet the pain still remained the same.

As soon as the two men returned from the crime scene, John took Rosie from her arms and thanked her, instantly focusing on his daughter, holding her close and whispering something into her ear. He was kinder, his glance was kinder and instantly apologetic. John knew what was coming; he always knew of the love she had for Sherlock and the fact that it was unrequited. Though words were polite, the ones that followed and fell from Sherlock she could sense the note of rush and impatience in them. He too thanked her and bid her a good night, her jacket limply hanging in his hand, fabric bunched where his long fingers curled into it and outstretched, waiting to be taken by the pathologist.

And it's always awkward, always; those goodbyes. She starts tripping over her own words and her eyes fall to the ground; dark brown unable to meet piercing blue-green. Over time, Molly started to believe that she learned to better navigate herself around those unpleasant situations. Now instead of blushing and school-girl smiles she had a gentle frown creasing the line of her brow, already thin lips disappearing into a white line and she pressed them together. She doesn't say much, just nods her head, slips into the jacket and gets her bag. And the goodbyes she gives back; well, Doctor Watson most certainly received a warmer one.

She wants to move on and move on is what she'll do, even if that will be the last thing she ever does. The charming, gorgeous detective will have to give back her heart, one way or the other; no matter how much she'll have to sacrifice. He'll have to give it back, because how else could she live without her heart; how else could find someone that could give her what she needs. How else could she give them back just as much? Heart is an essential part of a relationship and if one's heart is lying in the hands of third party, well, then that relationship was doomed from the start. And no matter what people around her might think, Molly Hooper does not want her next relationship to be ruined because Sherlock Holmes had her love in his possession and refused to give it back.

The tube jerks into a move and in few minutes Molly will be closer to her home, closer to the warmth and comfort of her bed where she most likely will hide herself between the sheets and weep and weep and weep.

And she will weep because women like Molly Hooper never got their happy endings with men like Sherlock Holmes.

And she will weep because she's still the mousy pathologist who's needed only when there's a case.

And she will weep, because just like it was in the beginning and just like it will be in the end — she won't count. Never had nor ever will.

There are tears welling in her eyes, stubbornly clinging to her coated eyelashes, threatening to fall and smear her make up, show her lack of strength, display to everyone just how tired of the heartache she was. However, she's stubborn enough, she won't cry until she's in the safety of her home; she won't shed a tear in front of all the people sitting in the tube, waiting to return to their families and loved ones, return to the warmth of the hearth in their house.

It's a bit of a longer ride than Molly expects, but she blames it on the constant thoughts whirling in her mind. ( She shouldn't. No matter what thoughts plague her mind, the ride always feels the same ) She blames it on the heartache and how it seemed to stretch seconds into minutes and minutes into hours. But finally the doors of the carriage whooshes open and she steps out, wrapping her arms tighter around her body and curling herself deeper into the warmth of her jacket.

The pain ridden mind prevents her from seeing the palpable around her; her eyes focused on the road as far as the tip of her nose goes ( Molly you see, but you never observe ). Yes, the woman doesn't observe that there was an unusual lack of people surrounding. And she doesn't notice a lone figure walking just behind her, clear eyes fixed on her back intently.

Well, she notices eventually, but by that time it's too late.

By that time she has a cloth pressed to her face, ether hitting her nostrils in the overly familiar stench and her eyes fly wide open with distress. And she tried to squirm and fight and get away from the grasp of what Molly suspected to be a tall, muscular man, much stronger than her and only too capable of holding down a 5'3" woman who, sadly, had no knowledge of any self-defense techniques whatsoever. And she screamed, tears finally allowed to escape from behind her eyelids. No one heard her, no one was around to hear actually. The carriage was emptied out in the previous stop and she just didn't notice, too occupied with her own self-loathing.

Few kicks into the empty air, another scream muffled by the cloth and a river of tears sliding down her cheekbones and any resistance, whether it was created by her body or her mind was only too quickly gone, her frame slumping into the arms of the man and eyelids drooping closed.

Darkness was the only thing she saw from that moment on. Utter and complete darkness in which she could shout and scream and curse. No one heard her, no one could hear her. A sightless sleep had taken over her entire body, making her frame heavy and limp, to be done with as someone pleased. This was not good. Not good at all.

She should've been invisible. Not a target, never the target. Never someone to use as a blackmail. After all, she had no one in her life. No family, no friends, no lovers. No one that could potentially care about her.

Just a mousy pathologist, Molly Hooper who never feared a dead man and never, ever got over her love for the world's only consulting detective.

Molly Hoopers of this world do not get captured.

Why? Because Molly Hoopers of this word do not count.

And yet she was starting to doubt that.

Sherlolly swooped into my life unexpectedly and been on my mind for quite some time now. It's such a tragically beautiful relationship and I couldn't help but to get my hands on it and see what my imagination will come up for this ship. This is the first time I ever test my abilities in Sherlock field so forgive me if I don't get all of the terminology or names right. Any constructive criticism is more than welcome.

Also, this is going to be very much angst and drama filled. I live for darker fics.

This fic should be updated at least once a week. If I have my schedule and muse under control, new chapters might appear even faster. Although I have yet to decide how long I want this fic to be, it shouldn't be more than fifteen chapters, I think.

Reviews are greatly appreciated!

Mondy x

I have nothing to do with BBC's take on Sherlock neither the characters created by Arthur C. Doyle. I'm merely borrowing the characters to have some fun.