Okay, so ever since I saw the first episode, I've always thought that Molly got a bad rap, and I know that I'm not the only one who felt that way. That's why, when she became uber important during TRF, my inner feminist was like, "Woot!" Plus, I think that the Sherlolly ship, besides having a name that reminds me of some kind of sexual lollipop, is just the cutest thing since the cutest thing that came before it :D

OH MY GOD GUYS I CRIED SO HARD DURING REICHENBACH *TEARS

This fic is just basically my theory of how Sherlock managed to survive, plus throwing in some hopefully convincing fluff.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. The greatest show on Earth belongs to "The Moff" and Godtiss.

Molly's heart raced as the scene played out before her. She sat at the wheel of the lorry, her hands clenched tight to the steering wheel. She glanced back at the bed, for what felt like the hundredth time, where an inflated cushion rested. She turned her gaze to the roof of St. Bart's where a tall figure stood precariously on the edge. Sherlock's phone was to his ear, and his long coat flared out behind him in a sudden breeze.

Molly tensed as she recited the plan in her head, and she waited for Sherlock's signal. He brought his arm out in a pleading gesture, presumably towards John. Even though he was five stories above her, she could see the anguish and desperation in his face. She knew that at least part of it was for show, but she couldn't help wondering if Sherlock knew what kind of pain he was putting John through.

Steeling herself for what lay ahead in the next few crucial minutes, she replayed in her head the conversation with the detective the previous night…

"What do you need?" she had asked. He paused, and he stared into her eyes.

"You," he said simply. She inhaled softly, hesitating before she replied.

"In what sense?" she asked. He smirked, though to her it seemed a little sad.

"Not in the way you're probably hoping," he said. Molly's cheeks grew pink, and she looked down at her feet. She felt him take a step closer.

"Molly," he said, almost tenderly. She brought her eyes back up to his. His blue-gray eyes bored into hers as he placed his hands on her shoulders. She fought to suppress a shiver.

"Molly, what I'm asking of you will hopefully save my life, and possibly those of many others," he said all this with a sense of urgency. His hands tightened their grip on her shoulders a fraction, and the meaning of his words slowly sunk in.

"What do you need?" she asked, yet again.

"I need you to help me commit suicide," he replied, his voice steady. Her eyes widened.

"What?" she whispered. He brought up his hands in front of him, his eyes almost pleading.

"Not actual suicide," he said quickly. "Just making it look like I've killed myself, so others won't be targeted." She bit her lip apprehensively.

"What do you mean, 'so others won't be targeted?'" He sighed and turned away, his hand rubbing through his hair.

"Contrary to popular belief, I do have…if not friends, people I don't want to see get hurt because of me," he said quietly. He turned back to her, and the troubled look in his eyes melted Molly's heart a little.

So, she thought, he DOES care.

"What do you need me to do?" she asked, squaring her shoulders. Sherlock smiled, and her heart skipped a beat.

The next hour had been spent planning, what they hoped, would be full-proof plan. Molly, though, saw a million things that could possibly go wrong, but she began to believe that, through sheer force of will, Sherlock's own propensity to be right about nearly everything was all they needed to ensure success. She had to admit to herself that it had been thrilling, planning a conspiracy in the dead of night with the man she was infatuated with.

Now she sat at the wheel of a lorry, adrenaline pumping through her and hardly believing what she was actually doing. She kept her eyes fixed on Sherlock, who now had taken his phone from his ear. She turned to key in the ignition, ready to peel out, and drew in a breath. Sherlock threw his phone behind him onto the roof, and Molly knew the moment had come. Her heart pounded and her hands were shaking as she watched Sherlock take a step into thin air. She continued to watch, with almost surreal fascination, how he fell gracefully towards the ground. Molly felt the thump as he landed on the cushion on the bed of the lorry, and she looked back to see that he was safe. Sherlock lay sprawled across the back, the blood pack that had been hidden in his coat having ruptured and painted his face and neck scarlet. From his pocket he quickly pulled a small pill and swallowed it. Sherlock looked to Molly, gave a nod, and rolled off the bed of the lorry and onto the pavement.

Molly turned back to face the front, and maneuvered herself away from the sidewalk and into traffic. In her rearview mirror she could see the figure of John coming around the side of the smaller building. One of Sherlock's trusted homeless network, riding a bicycle, collided with the doctor, as they had planned. In John's disorientated and shocked state, it would be harder for him to see what he believed to be Sherlock lying dead on the sidewalk. Molly felt a stab of pity for the man, who had been the closest to Sherlock. Molly turned a corner just as John reached Sherlock, and she felt tears well up in her eyes in sympathy for good doctor.

She quickly pulled over and raced from the car into St. Bart's. If Sherlock had timed it correctly, the paramedics should have been bringing him in now. Molly sprinted along labyrinthine corridors, sliding to a halt by the entrance to the loading dock. A small group of paramedics was wheeling a stretcher through the doors, and Molly could see Sherlock lying motionless. If she didn't know better, she would have automatically thought there was no chance of survival for him. Even though she did know better, her stomach still dropped and she still put a hand to her mouth to stifle a sob.

One of the medics looked up and saw her standing there.

"Molly!" he shouted. His voice snapped her to attention, and she hastily wiped away her tears.

"Run and get Dr. Stamford!" he ordered. He and the others were currently checking Sherlock's vital signs, but they didn't look hopeful.

Molly nodded, and took off the way she came. As she raced to get to the upper floors, she prayed to anyone who she thought would listen that Sherlock's brilliant plan would continue to go off without a hitch. She finally reached the corridor where Stamford's office was located, and she paused to catch her breath outside the door before hammering on it. She was still pounding her fists into the wood when it was suddenly opened and Mike Stamford stood on the threshold, a bewildered look on his face.

"Molly?" he asked, incredulous.

The stress of the past few minutes had already added its strain to Molly's face, so the desperation in her voice matched the desperation in her eyes.

"It's Sherlock," she gasped. Stamford's eyes widened, and he nodded in understanding. Molly turned to make their way down to the loading dock, only glancing behind once to make sure Stamford kept up with her. For a man of his girth, he could keep up a steady pace.

They met the paramedics, ironically, outside the doors to the mortuary. Stamford raced up behind her and flew to Sherlock's side as the paramedics stepped away from the stretcher. They, and Molly, looked on as Stamford examined Sherlock's body. Though he tried to maintain an indifferent expression on his face, Molly could see the sadness in his eyes at the loss of a friend. Sherlock, apparently dead, gazed up at the ceiling with unseeing eyes.

Stamford finished his examination, placed his hands on the stretcher, and lowered his head in a gesture of fatigue. When he looked up, his gaze met Molly's, and he slowly shook his head. He motioned for the paramedics to wheel Sherlock's body into the mortuary. Molly, feigning shock, could only stand there and stare off numbly as the detective's body passed by her.

When the mortuary doors had swung shut, Stamford walked up to her tiredly.

"Molly," he said softly. She looked to him with what she hoped were haunted eyes.

"If…if you feel like you can't handle it," he said slowly until his voice hitched. He coughed slightly, then continued.

"If you would like…someone else to perform…you know," he muttered. "No one would blame you - "

She held up a hand to silence him, and swallowed the lump in her throat. He waited as she shut her eyes and squared her shoulders, trying to adopt the same attitude she had always used when dealing with other dead bodies. She opened her eyes and looked squarely at him.

"It's fine," she said, and she was impressed that her voice didn't tremble. Stamford nodded, concern in his eyes, but he didn't say any more. He turned to go, bringing a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiping his face with it as he trudged slowly up the corridor.

Molly sighed, more tired than she ever had been. She looked up as the paramedics left the mortuary, and she caught the door as it swung shut. She entered the dimly lit, sterile looking room. In the middle of the room sat the stretcher, Sherlock still in repose, and Molly paused to consider the enormity of the situation. She quickly turned to lock the door before leaning heavily against it. Slowly she slid to the floor as all of her suppressed emotions rushed to the surface. Tears rolled down her cheeks, and she put her head in her shaking hands.

My god, she thought, we DID it!

Suddenly, the whole thing seemed ridiculously funny, and she giggled hysterically to herself for a moment. However, she sobered instantly when she realized that their plan was still incomplete.

She quickly got to her feet and dashed over to Sherlock. Looking down at the man lying before her, she couldn't help the way her palms started to sweat or the fact that her mouth had gone dry. Even when he wasn't speaking, or moving for that matter, he still had that power over her. Her gaze swept over the dark tousled hair, now matted with blood, his almond-shaped blue-gray eyes that, even in simulated death held a piercing gaze, his sharp cheekbones and full lips, also spattered with blood. She continued to stare until the alarm on her watch snapped her out of her reverie. Her eyes widened as she realized that she needed to administer the antidote within the next minute and a half, or Sherlock's heart rate would continue to slow until he actually did die.

She reached hastily into her lab coat and withdrew a syringe filled with clear liquid. Sticking the syringe between her teeth, she grabbed Sherlock's arm and forced up the sleeve of his coat to reveal his pale forearm. She quickly plunged the needle into his skin and pushed down the plunger. When the syringe was empty she removed it and gazed hopefully at the detective's face for signs of movement.

"Come on…" she muttered through clenched teeth. "Don't give up on me now, Sherlock. Don't let this insane plan go to waste."

When he still hadn't moved, she tossed aside the empty syringe and grabbed his face, fulfilling one of her fantasies, though not in the way she had preferred. She put her ear to his mouth, and felt the lightest breath escape his lips. She smiled as she lifted her head. She put two fingers to the side of his neck, and felt his steady pulse, still a little too slow for her liking. Her brow furrowed with worry, then with determination as she placed her hands squarely on his chest, also fulfilling another one of her fantasies.

How sad, she thought as she pumped up and down with a steady rhythm. The day I finally get to touch him, I have to save his bloody life at the same time.

Taking her hands from his chest, she tilted his head back and pinched the bridge of his nose. Placing her mouth over his, she pushed air into his lungs, then repeated the entire ritual again. Sweat broke out on her forehead as she concentrated at the task at hand.

"Come on, Sherlock!" she exclaimed as she checked his pulse again. She could feel it steadily growing stronger.

"Wake up you stupid, impossible man!" she almost screamed in his face. For a moment she stood there panting, until a slight fluttering of his eyelids made her pause. She held her breath as Sherlock blinked once, twice, before grimacing in pain and coughing as he gasped for air. Her own breath left her in a whoosh so fast her knees began to buckle in relief. She slumped to the floor in an exhausted heap. Above her, Sherlock was trying to push himself up as his coughing slowed. He managed to pull himself upright, and sat there panting for a moment, one hand to his forehead.

Molly looked up at him in slight awe, and his gaze locked with hers. Some unnamable emotion passed between them; a mixture of absolute relief and a new sense of camaraderie that hadn't been there before. However, the moment was gone when Sherlock looked away and coughed discreetly. Molly turned her gaze away and felt herself blush. She got to her feet, but avoided looking at him directly. Why was she so nervous all of a sudden?

Oh, that's right, she thought, not without a slight bitterness. The man, whose life you just saved, is going to suddenly sweep you off your feet and plant a kiss on you in gratitude. She snorted derisively to herself in her head.

Next to her, Sherlock swung his long legs off the stretcher and tried to stand. However, his legs didn't seem to want to cooperate, and he swayed unsteadily as he gasped softly in pain. Molly, alarmed, caught him around the ribs before he toppled to the floor. His eyes were shut tight and his teeth were clenched for an instant, until he smoothed his features. She looked at him with concern. Sherlock saw the worry on her face, and tried to straighten himself with dignity.

"Thank you, Molly," he said, his voice slightly hoarse but still managing to sound haughty. He gently disengaged himself from her grip, though he kept the weight off of his right foot, Molly noticed. She frowned.

"Sherlock, does your ankle hurt?" she asked. He snorted softly.

"Of course not," he said snootily, and promptly took a step forward. She clearly saw him wince, though he tried to mask it. She rolled her eyes.

Good to see a near death experience hasn't caused any shifts in personality, she thought sarcastically.

"Sherlock, your ankle is obviously either sprained or broken," she said, as though talking to a child. She crossed her arms in front of her to emphasize her point. "Whatever the matter is, you shouldn't be walking around with a bad ankle."

He scowled at her, but made no move to contradict her. Obviously, he knew that the safety of his well-being depended upon her cooperation, and arguing with her would not win him her favor. Molly felt a small sense of immense satisfaction that he relied so heavily on her at the moment. She almost smiled as his scowl shifted to a resigned sigh.

"You're right, Molly," he said, though she could tell he was making an effort at being cordial. "If you must know, it's not only my ankle, but my leg up to above my knee that is in considerable pain at the moment." He said all this without so much as batting an eye, but Molly saw the strain around his eyes the pain was causing him. The blood that dried on his face and clothing did not improve the image, either. She sighed, then uncrossed her arms as she made her way to the door.

"I'm going find some splints and ace bandages," she announced with her back to the detective.

"Molly."

She stopped just shy of the door, and turned slowly back to face him with her eyebrows raised. He had sat himself on an autopsy table with his injured leg stretched out in front of him. Her irritation with him dulled slightly when she saw the sincere look in his eyes.

"Thank you," he said, and this time she could tell his gratitude was genuine. Her heart warmed a little and a small smile graced her lips.

"Just don't let yourself be seen," she joked. "Otherwise, people might start thinking I've been doing Frankenstein-esque experiments down here." He stared at her as she gave him one last smile before going out the door. When she had gone, he smirked to himself at her unusual sense of humor.

Yes, he thought. I made the right choice.

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