Molly

The morgue was a lonely place most days. The days that no one came to visit her, more so than others. And these days, that was more often than not. No Sherlock to barge in. No Lestrade to come chasing after him for information. No John coming in to roll his eyes at Sherlock's lack of social skills and morbid tendencies.

She sighed and set her paperwork down, leaning on her elbows to stare over her small domain. Her little corner of the world. The place where she made sense of the order of the world.

The usual suspects of her realm of social experiences had dwindled. John was lost. He was lost in his world. Destroyed without Sherlock around. And while Molly knew John wouldn't be able to tell that Molly was lying to him, she didn't want to run the risk. Or put herself in the position of blurting out the truth. Which she wouldn't—couldn't—do.

She never saw Anderson these days. Which, frankly, was fine. The man was obnoxious. She tapped her pencil against the table. And Sally had developed a case of the yips, as she understood. She was going to be demoted soon if she didn't step her game up again. Molly almost felt bad for her. If she hadn't been the cause of all of this stress and secrecy. She bit her lip. That wasn't fair. It wasn't entirely her fault. She was just doing what she thought was right.

Molly finally set down her pencil and pushed her chair away. She turned to fetch herself some coffee (black two sugars—oh God) and screamed.

"Well dear, if I'd known I'd have such an effect, I surely would have worn my visiting mask," the well-dressed bland-looking man in the doorway said.

Pressing a hand to her chest, Molly took a deep breath and then smoothed her hair. "Mr. Holmes. Hullo."

"Miss Hooper."

"Oh. Um. Molly. Please." She frowned at him. "What are you doing here?" She didn't think Mycroft would ever have a reason to interact with her at all. Unless... No, he hardly could have figured it out. Sherlock had...she bit her lip.

Mycroft looked her over, arms hanging by his sides.

"Can I help you with something?"

Mycroft smiled.

Molly suppressed a shudder.

"What level of intimacy did you encounter with my brother?"

She choked. "Wai—I'm sorry what?"

"Not intimate then. But you wanted it."

"Stop that," she said lowly. Her fingers curled into her palms.

"You worked with my brother."

"Sherlock occasionally used the morgue. And...and borrowed things from me. But we were never friends. And we were never together!" While once she would have loved the idea, now... No. Now it was not something she'd think she'd enjoy.

Mycroft squinted at her.

Molly rolled her eyes to cover her unease. "What do you want, Mr. Holmes."

"You were with him before he died?"

"For a little while. He was..." She gestured around. "Here. In the morgue."

Mycroft nodded and finally stepped into the room, looking at everything but not touching. "So how are you doing, Miss Hooper. I'm sorry. Molly."

"Um. I'm fine..." She worried at her cuticles, watching him.

"Yes. Yes, I know."

"Sorry?"

Mycroft sighed and fixed her with a placid stare. "You're fine."

"Yes...?"

He tilted his head. "It's the anomaly."

"I'm sorry. I just don't understand what you're getting at!"

"I'm sorry for bothering you." He turned and headed to the door.

Molly let him go, afraid that if she said anything to stop him, he might ask questions. She was the anomaly. She always was. "I'm just..." she whispered finally. "I'm just glad to have life back as normal."

He paused in the doorway but didn't look back and then disappeared around the corner.

Molly sagged against the counter and dug the heels of her hands into her eyes until she saw stars. Then grabbed her things and headed home to her haven of solitude and secrets.

Lestrade:

The appointment with his superiors had not gone well. Greg had forgotten it was today, so had arrived late, unshowered, and smelling of beer. Not the best impression of course. And he had exited the meeting much in the same laissez-faire attitude in which he had entered. His mood greatly improved, of course, seeing as he'd been fired.

Greg slouched back to his office and stared dispassionately at his things. He sighed and spared a minute to put some semblance of order to the papers and folders before saving important things to his memory stick. He tossed the various things that actually mattered to him into a spare plastic bag he found lying around and then trudged out to the pavement to hail a taxi home. He hadn't driven to work in over a week on account of being over the legal limit. He grinned in the back seat until he caught sight of the cabbie's face and then schooled his features into something more normal. Drinking at home it was then...

Greg used a lot of his new-found freedom to lounge on the couch, drunk, for the next week. Jess came home once, caught sight of him, and rolled her eyes.

"I'm serious, Greg. If you don't straighten yourself up, I'm going to leave permanently," she'd threatened.

"Go on then." He'd lifted the can to his lips, watching her, comfortable in his woozy haze.

Her expression of surprise had been almost entertaining. "What?"

"You keep threatening. You love me at all anymore?"

Softening briefly, she'd looked away and was silent a moment. But when she'd met his gaze again, her eyes were hard. "Fine. We'll divorce then. Shall I get the papers ready?"

"Go on then," he'd repeated.

She'd had them to him by the end of the week. And he felt even freer. All these things, these stressful little things had been sheared out of his life, and now he was free. Greg grinned at the ceiling while it rippled like the sea.

He shifted and the telly remote, his mobile, and a bag of crisps all fell to the floor. When he'd finally mobilised himself to retrieve them, he caught a whiff of something foul. Apparently he should shower, since it seemed the reek was him. He stumbled into the walls several times on his way to the shower, but finally managed to get himself clean. Tucking a little flask he'd found somewhere (probably his father's...or Jess's brother's), he headed out.

Somewhere along the way (maybe the third time around the same block) he realised he'd forgotten shoes. But since it was pleasant and dry out, he didn't bother turning back. Passing the liquor store, he hesitated, but went on. It was bright out. He rubbed a hand over his jaw. Felt good. Rough. Shit, had he remembered his key—oh. Yes. There. In his pocket. He giggled. He'd really be shit outta luck.

He rounded the corner, meandering along.

"Lestrade?"

He jerked, spinning around clumsily.

"Greg?"

"John! Johnny! How are you?"

"Good God, Greg.

"How 'bout a drink, eh?"

"Greg... It's only half ten."

"Oh." He could feel his eyebrows go up. "That early?" He swayed a little. There were two Johns suddenly. One looked extremely disappointed. The other grinned, a little leery.

"Oh Jesus..." John reached out and grabbed his shoulder. "How drunk are you?"

"Just... just a little."

"And uh... you're not. You're not wearing shoes."

"Fergot..." Greg scuffed his foot over the pavement. "But I did remember my keys!"

"Oh good..." John said before sighing heavily. "Come on then. Let's get you home..."

"S'alright. Let's go out. Nowhere to be."

John frowned at him, guiding him back down the street.

"Got fired! You didn't hear?"

"Fired!" John yelped, surprise edging it's way into the worn down folds of his face.

Greg grinned. "S'been lovely. All this sleeping and...and drinking..."

"Greg, what day is it?"

"It's..." He glared at the traffic light. "Wait, 've got this one." Wednesday he's thrown up in the kitchen. He'd cleaned it... two days ago? And then it was the day after his wife had dropped by with the divorce papers? "Should be Sunday?"

"It's Tuesday morning," John said dully. "You live...right?"

"Yeah. Turn right." He sagged into John's shoulder. "Eighth on th'left."

"Right. Right."

Greg snorted. "You sound like I'd feel. Feel if I weren't." He floundered for the word. "Drunk." John sighed. "Sorry. No. I mean—"

"Greg. Stop. Please."

"Right." He sucked in a shaky breath. "Right." It was silence until they reached Greg's house.

"D'you need... Do you need me to come in?"

"Uh... You prob'ly shouldn't..." He wobbled away from John's support, digging in his pockets for his keys. "Bollocks... Where the fuck did I leave them..."

John dug into the front pocket of Greg's sweatshirt and opened the door for him. "Oh God..."

Greg rocked forward, sniffing the air. Shrugged. "S'not so bad..."

John stared at him.

He grinned and took a pull from the flask.

"No," John said, brow furrowing. "No." He slapped it out of Greg's hand. "You do not get to be drunk while we... You do not get to be drunk to get over this."

"Says who?"

"Says the man with the alcoholic sister, you bastard," John snarled, pushing him into his own house.

"Hey!"

"No. Shut. Up. What is this mess?"

Greg stared at the ruins of his home. He lifted a shoulder and let it drop.

John looked around a minute, shaking his head. "God." He frowned at him suddenly. "Greg, your wife..."

He flinched.

"She's... She left?"

"Few days back, 'parently," he mumbled.

"Shit."

"It was coming a long way off."

"Go sleep it off, Greg." John helped him up the stairs, cleaned him up a bit and then pushed him into the bed. "Sleep."

John:

Taking care of Lestrade was really not what he needed. But he grit his teeth and put the man to sleep before wading through the shit-fest that was the rest of his house. Jesus, the man was miserable. In the midst of his cleaning, John realised that, in some sick, fucked-up way, he'd missed cleaning up after another person not himself. Such were the habits that Sher—that living with another person forced upon a man. He put the rubbish out in the bins and cleaned up several old vomit stains before thoroughly Lysol-ing the place.

Once everything was in some semblance of order—the broken glass in a paper bag and binned, he found a scrap of paper and jotted down the quick note: Don't worry about it. Drinking doesn't help you deal—but you know that. Give me a call if need be. -John

Then dropped the paracetamol on top and set a glass of water next to it.

Then took himself home and made tea and sat in front of his telly and maybe missed Sherlock a little less.

Mycroft:

He frowned fiercely into the fireplace, ignoring Bea's stomping around. She'd grown irritated in his inactive state. Granted, this was growing to unheard proportions. Prior to. His brother's death. She was so irritated she was cleaning everything. Her hair was done up in the way he liked, sweeping away from her face and pinned back simply with one of those claw clips. But her brow was wrinkled, lips turned down, shadows under her eyes from stressing about his increasingly poor living habits.

He curled a lip in disgust. All this thought about...his brother, and he was becoming more like him every day.

That thought spurred him to his feet. "Beatrice," he barked.

"What now, Mycroft. What do you want."

"Lunch, I should say."

"It's nearly supper."

He waved a hand. "I'd like to go to Lando's."

"Oh, decided to be a human being finally?" She still had her back to him.

He suppressed the sigh. "I would like to take you out to dinner, Beatrice."

She said nothing.

"As way of apology for my, admittedly, rather juvenile behaviour."

She dropped her cloth and turned, brow arched. "I'll just get dressed then." She disappeared up the stairs. But she was smiling.

His own melted away and he was left scowling into the fireplace, startlingly shaking with rage. Of all the selfish things to do! He balled up the newspaper he had with the news about his brother and raised an arm to chuck it into the fireplace. But...didn't. Snarling instead, now there was no one to see, he threw it behind his chair and tugged on his clothing. Nothing fit properly anymore. "Damn you," he hissed to himself, smoothing his hands over his waistcoat and resettling his jacket on his shoulders. He'd already let out the seams once. It wouldn't do to have to again. He was eating light at Lando's then.

Following his wife up the stairs, Mycroft stepped into the bathroom to re-comb his hair and reapply the cologne she liked.

Mrs. Hudson

Mrs. Turner gone, she cleaned her cups and then, grown bored, she dug through her CDs and stumbled across one labelled with a permanent marker. Breath caught, Virginia tottered across her flat to the CD player and popped it in with trembling fingers.

There was a measured clicking and then a cleared throat.

"Mrs. Hudson."

She whimpered.

"First of all, Happy Christmas."

Pressed a hand over her mouth.

"Second of all, seeing as you are a woman who has nearly everything she needs, I did a spot of creative thinking, and thought you might enjoy this."

Sherlock's voice stopped and then the frail notes of a violin slowly wound through her flat while she gripped the mantle tight, knees weak.

Paganini's Caprice no. 24

Mendelssohn's Concerto in E Minor

Bartok's Violin Concerto No. 2

Rimsky-Korsakov's Scheherazade violin solos

Elgar's Salut d'Amour

Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto, second movement

Bach's Chaconne Partita in D Minor

When the last strains died, Mrs. Hudson was on her knees, sobbing freely, soaking her handkerchief.

"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock's voice said gently. "Thank you."

The CD clicked and then Sherlock's voice said again, "Mrs. Hudson. First of all, Happy Chri—"

She scrambled and slammed a hand down on it to shut it off. Then lowered herself into her chair where she cried until she had no tears left.

Molly

Anyone would have said Molly Hooper had become anti-social. Her sister chastised her for her lack of 'fun!' How come she never did anything anymore? How come she never came out? Molly used to like to dance. Now she just sat in the booth or on her stool and sulked. What was the point anymore! Then threw her hands up and headed off to the floor by herself. But Dani was young. She didn't see the world through the eyes of death and watch as everything changed around her.

Mycroft was wrong. She wasn't fine. She hurt. But she knew Sherlock was alive. That's why she couldn't face John. Couldn't face Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, any of them. God. Lestrade. Poor bloke lost his job, lost his wife.

She rolled her eyes and growled to herself. This was ridiculous. It was hardly her fault, was it? Dani came back when the song ended.

"Are you going to dance or not?"

Shaking her head at her younger sister, Molly downed the rest of her drink and went to dance.

Life didn't stop, after all.

Through the flashing lights, she thought she saw a long grinning face framed by dark curls. But the next time she turned round, it was gone.

Molly kept dancing.

Lestrade

He didn't stop drinking. Tried. Too many thoughts. In his head. He didn't like it. But he did cut back. And by thoughts he meant feelings. Cutting through him. Eating him inside out.

Sally stopped by once.

Didn't come by again after she smelled the place.

It was better.

Perhaps he ought to get his arse off the sofa. It wouldn't do for John to rescue him again.

He groaned. Rolled off the sofa. Clattered through the cans. What day was it? Where was his mobile. He fumbled for the lights, and looked at the clock once he blinked through his eyes adjusting. 11:40 then. He thumped up the stairs to shower. Wait. Mobile. On the counter? No. He turned around and tripped back down again, rifling through the rubbish everywhere to find his mobile. Then promptly snorted. Dead battery. No wonder he wasn't waking up on time. Not that he would have listened to an alarm.

Dragging a hand over his face, Greg caught his reflection in the hall mirror. He looked like shit.

Just because his life had gone to shit too didn't mean he had to fall apart. He was acting like a child. He plugged his mobile in and then headed back up the stairs to shower. Winced at the rancid-smell of himself and his clothes. He showered quickly and then went downstairs again to check his mobile. 8 September. Jesus. Been long enough. He'd really fallen down the rabbit hole. Dragging a hand through his damp hair, Greg managed to dig through his kitchen for a rubbish bag, sweeping all of the cans and bottles into it from his counter. After an hour of steady cleaning, his house looked habitable again. He collapsed onto the sofa and promptly dropped off into sleep with a metal promise to search out a job tomorrow.

Mycroft

Frowning at the information set before him, the evidence was refutable. Unlikely. But possible. And if anyone could pull one over on him, it would be his late departed brother. This was the fifth incident, however. The person was clever. Knew something of his brother's life. Easier these days, what with the doctor's blog for all to see.

The frown pulled sharper at his face.

"Oh God. You're not on that again, Mycroft." Bea dropped her gloves on the sideboard.

"Sorry. It's puzzled me, and I need to figure it out."

"It's puzzled you?"

He looked up long enough to give her a look, and then back down at the camera footage, the figure dodging any glance of his face as if he knew the camera were there.

"It's not Sherlock, Mycroft."

"I know that!"

"Well, don't get your knickers in a twist."

He glared at her fiercely until she left the room with a shrug. Spreading the surveillance photos across the dining room table.

"Oh. Dear God..." Mycroft was on his feet before he knew it, slamming his hands down on the table and shouted his brother's name for the first time in nearly thirteen months.

John

John Watson's life started again when a slumped figure staggered into him as soon as he opened the door.

"Oi, you okay?" He looped an arm around the bloke's middle. "Can you stand?"

The guy muttered something.

"Sorry, say again? Do you need medical assistance?"

"John..." the man groaned.

He frowned. "What? How do you—"

"Inside. Please."

John's stomach erupted into flutters. "No," he moaned. "No no no..."

"Inside, John!"

He flung back the hood and dragged the man into the light of the hall and stared. An eternity, he thought perhaps. Forever. Eyes roving.

Sherlock's gaunt face, irritated expression, and rolling eyes looked up at him.

"Jesus..."

"Can we just...upstairs? No, don't be angry..." his dead friend pleaded, gripping John's good shoulder very tightly.

John cursed a low stream of filth and then dragged Sherlock up to their sitting room, shoved him down onto the sofa still decorated with Sherlock's robe, and stomped away to fetch the med kit. "When I am finished," he said, low and vicious, "you will tell me everything, Sherlock Holmes."

"Yes, John, yes," Sherlock said, slumping into the cushions, sans-hoodie.

He was thin. Thinner. Shadows beneath his red eyes from lack of sleep. A sluggish bleeding from beneath his matted blonde hair. "At least it's clotting," he muttered, snapping on gloves and cleaning the gash. It didn't need stitches. Head wounds, of course, just bled a lot. When everything was cleaned and packed away, he returned the kit and then pulled out the Chinese leftovers and made a heaping amount. He shoved the plate into Sherlock's hands, his own perfectly steady, and glared at him.

Sherlock didn't make a sound. He accepted the fork and John drank his luke-warm tea while he waited for Sherlock's mouth to not be busy. Until Sherlock began to eat very very slowly.

"Finish up," John said flatly, without shifting his glance from his magazine.

Sherlock, obligingly, ate.

"Tell me everything."

And did.

Then John stormed up to his room and locked his door, sitting with his back to it to keep Sherlock from picking and entering.

When he woke in the morning and opened his door, Sherlock fell into his room, immediately awake and brandishing a knife.

"Good Lord, you collossal idiot!" John snapped, disarming him neatly and guiding him to his own bed. "Sleep. I don't want to see you up and about for twelve hours." He made to go downstairs, but paused at Sherlock's hand on his wrist. It trembled, but only slightly.

"I'm sorry I've pained you..." he whispered.

"God, Sherlock, you've done more than that," John said thickly.

Sherlock flinched.

"Who else knows?"

"Molly."

"Molly?"

"She helped me." Sherlock's grin was pained.

"Jesus. Not even Mycroft?"

"I imagine he knows by now..." Sherlock sighed, dropped John's wrist, and looked away. "Don't let him in."

John stared.

"Tell him I'm fine, just...don't let him in."

"I imagine he's worried himself insanely."

A smile quirked at Sherlock's lips. "Insanely might be the correct word to use."

"What did you do?"

"He's so paranoid about the cameras, John."

He shuddered at the use of his name from those lips.

"He's seen me, no doubt. In disguise. If he pulls the right ones together, he'll figure it out that it's me."

"Right. We'll have to get you back to your natural colour. Blonde washes you out."

"Shouldn't have gone so light..." Sherlock mused, eyes shut.

John lingered next to him a moment, letting a finger run up Sherlock's thumb. It twitched. John turned to leave. "Get some sleep, Sherlock."

"John—"

"I'll wake you for dinner. Get some rest. No, some real rest."

Sherlock

When he woke it was dark.

For a quarter of a second he could have been anywhere in the world.

Except that he was in John's bed. That smelt of John. Where John slept.

And then he was back amongst the living.

He stumbled down the stairs to the sitting room. John looked up at him, unapologetic. "You said you'd wake me for dinner."

"And you needed sleep."

Sherlock sat in John's chair, pulling his knees up to his chest.

"Do you feel better?"

John hadn't forgiven him yet. Had he apologised? He'd done that once already. "John... I am very sorry."

The expression on John's face twisted. "You said."

"But I'm not forgiven yet. I understand. That's logical."

"NO!" He jerked at the sudden volume, John on his feet. "It's not logical! Sherlock, what the fuck! You died! You made me fucking watch, you utter bastard!"

He flinched. "I—"

"Shut up! You made me—" John's voice broke and his covered his face with a hand, letting loose a stream of profanity. "I watched you commit suicide. Sherlock. I know... I didn't know. Why. God. I didn't know why! And you made me watch! What kind of bastard does that!"

"He was going to kill you, John!" His voice was dangerously plaintive.

John paled. "God."

Sherlock scowled. "He was going to have you killed if I didn't do it—you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson, and I couldn't allow that, so I had to follow through. I had to eliminate him before I could be 'living' again." He paused. "Did my brother stop by?"

"He did." John dropped his hand and offered a half smile. "I couldn't get any pictures."

The laugh came sharp and he was surprised by it as John. Though John's face eased into fondness more easily after. "I... Thank you."

Brows up, John pursed his lips. "I've not forgiven you."

"I know." He held a hand out to him. "Would you...in time?"

Licking his lips in that quick nervous way that Sherlock had missed, John frowned in thought. "I can," he said, low. "God, Sherlock. You can't ever do that again. If you do, I'd hunt you down and kill you myself."

Sherlock shuddered.

"I couldn't do it again. It'd break me."

He nodded earnestly. "I heard you."

"Good."

"No. Before. At my grave."

John paled and swayed.

Sherlock was on his feet, gripping John's shoulders. "I heard what you said, John. That was..." Emotions roiled through him unexpectedly like waves on a beach. He cleared his throat. "I was. Touched. I didn't know I mean that much to you. Thank you. I couldn't... I did it for you." Stepped back. Dropped his eyes.

The tension stretched between them. "God." The word was ripped from John like he hadn't meant to say it. "You idiot."

He grunted as the air was suddenly squeezed from him, wrapped in John's arms as he was. "J-john...!"

"Don't you ever do that to me again, Sherlock. I mean it. I don't... I don't know what I'd do without you..."

Sherlock softened at the confession, sagging into John, resting his head against John's that was buried in his neck. "I won't. I promise I'll tell you everything."

"Good," John choked. "Good."

They stayed there a while, until the flat grew dark, and when John finally let go, he looked Sherlock in the eye and offered him a smile.

"We're going to be okay."

"Good," Sherlock said quietly and then sank onto the sofa while John went into the kitchen, turning on lights. Tomorrow he would see Mycroft in person. Visit Mrs. Hudson, apologise to Lestrade, and thank Molly. And as he closed his eyes, the familiar sounds of 221B Baker street filled his mind with the sense of home.