Author's Note: Fic takes place a month after the ending of The Great Game.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters. They belong to BBC, Moffatt, Gatiss, and ACD.

Please let me know what you think by reviewing. First time writing Molly, and I do hope I got Sherlock all right.

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Molly Hooper has not been to St Barts for over a month.

Not since...

Not since she found out the truth about Jim.

She stares at the glass of whiskey in front of her. The bar empty, save for a couple people at a table far away, and a bartender on the other side of the bar.

She was never one for whiskey, but the past month, she's been for it.

St Barts gave her a leave of absence, once Detective Inspector explained to her boss what had happened.

Jim... her sweet Jim... her sweet shy Jim.

A criminal.

A psychopath.

A murderer.

Molly takes a deep breath and wills herself not to cry. She cried enough the first two weeks, she did not need to do anymore.

She remembered how she found out the truth. All of it. It came out about a week after the explosion at a pool, where Sherlock and his friend John Watson were found, badly hurt, but alive. When the Detective Inspector came to her, sat her down on the couch and told her everything he learned.

That the bombings that had taken place, that the deaths, that some of the crimes that had come about in London the past few months, were all orchestrated by a man she thought she could trust, that she thought was good, that she thought could help her overcome her ridiculous, no good crush on Sherlock Holmes.

That what happened at the pool was a stand off between Sherlock and Jim, with John being used as the last part of this.. game that was Jim created. That Jim did all of this to just get to Sherlock.

That he used her to get to Sherlock.

Jim is now dead.

She hopes. She knew the Detective Inspector had hesitated slightly on those words, as if he was unsure of it himself, but there a was a body, one that Sherlock and John identified without a doubt was Jim Moriarty.

And somehow Sherlock and John survived.

After those stunning revelation, Molly could barely cope. She took to the bottle of whiskey that she found in her cabinets, left behind by her brother when he visited months ago.

She could not believe how naive she was.

Oh wait, she could.

Molly sighs and picks up the glass, intending to at least dull some of her pain tonight, knowing the bartender will cut her off after her third drink. This would be her drink.

"That won't help," a deep baritone like voice says as a familiar hand grabs the glass from her and sets it to the side. Molly turns in her seat, and she meets cool blue eyes.

Sherlock Holmes's eyes.

This was the first time she saw him... well awake. Last time she did, she went to the hospital to see John and Sherlock, after what the DI told her. She wanted to make sure they were all right, even when her mind was in turmoil. John was awake, being treated for cuts, bruises, and a couple burns, but Sherlock was unconscious, apparently taking the brunt of the damage. Molly did not dare go near his room. There were two men standing guard, and an older man was in there, as well as an older woman.

She figured they were family. She did not want to intrude.

"It has been lately," she finally answers, as she takes him in. His right arm is in a sling, and there's a cut on his forehead that's still in the process of healing. She sees other bruises fading, and she imagines there are more underneath his clothes.

Her heart stumbles.

Foolish.

"In the end, it still will not help, Molly," he says, his tone not as sharp as it usually is. He carefully sits down on the stool next to her.

She turns away from him, staring at the glass that he pulled away from her.

"I was a fool."

"He fooled everyone."

She snorts.

"He fooled me."

Her eyes widen and she looks at Sherlock again. He's not mocking her, he's not smirking, he's not being arrogant.

He's.. humble?

She mentally snorts at that though. Sherlock Holmes, humble? Not a chance.

But somehow.. he seems to be.

"He fooled me," Sherlock says again, grimacing then. "Remember?"

Her mind flashes back to her introducing Jim to Sherlock. And then when he leaves, how Sherlock goes over what he deduced, claiming Jim was gay.

"I remember," she murmurs.

"You were innocent. He fooled everyone. You are not to blame."

She frowns as she looks at him. His tone is the same. There's no sympathy in his words, no empathy really, yet.. he's trying to comfort her?

His cool blue eyes blink, and she starts at what she sees. She swears she sees something like emotion, other emotion than his usual disdain and irriation with those around him.

"Easier to say than to feel."

"Feelings certainly can be a bother."

That is quite the Sherlock thing to say.

"You need to come back to St Barts."

"I will."

"Quickly." He insists.

"You don't need me there, Sherlock."

"I prefer to deal with you, not your temporary replacement. She is annoying."

"Doctor Burns is not annoying. She's just blunt. All Americans are like that."

Sherlock grimaces. "As I said. She is annoying. You are needed."

He just wants her there because she's a pushover. She lets him take what he wants.

"Doctor Burns lets me get what I need.. but not without all those forms. Protocol." He huffs. "Time wasting. As I said, you are more efficient."

And that is a compliment from Sherlock Holmes if there ever is one.

"My leave is almost up."

"You need to stop drinking too."

"I haven't done much," Molly protests.

He raises an eyebrow, and gives her that annoying, but gorgeous smirk. Somehow he knows how much she has been drinking. He always knows.

"All right, a little. It just...helps the hurt."

"He won't be able to hurt you again."

Strangely, that sounds like a promise. Said in the same even tone. Nothing changes. But it still feels.. like a promise.

"I know. He's dead."

Sherlock does not answer right away. He picks up her glass of whiskey and takes a sip, then grimaces. "Awful," he drawls. His mobile buzzes. He uses his other hand to open it and smiles at the text he sees.

"Time to go." He gets to his feet. "Both of us."

Molly realizes that somehow he won't leave until she does. She nods, and places her money on the bar and collects her coat. She follows him outside, and somehow, even with only one good arm, he's able to flag down two taxis.

As she gets in hers, he stops her from closing the door.

"Molly.."

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"I was telling the truth."

"About what?"

His cool blue eyes burn into hers. "Jim Moriarty will never hurt you again. Or anyone else."

This time, she takes comfort in that.

"Thank you," she says softly.

He nods, and straightens. She watches him for a moment to his cab and then closes her door and settles in.

After so many months of feeling stupid in Sherlock's presence, he's the only one that made her feel better for once.