Just breathe, Molly. You can pull this off. It's crazy but everyone already thinks you're a wreck around Sherlock, so it'll be totally believable that you'd be a mess after his "death".

Two hours ago, Sherlock had come to see Molly on his own. He said words she had always wanted to hear. He needed her. That was where the fantasy ended. She never expected that he would need her to fake his death and hide him afterwards. As usual, he had already worked out how it would happen and he needed Molly to fix certain aspects of it.

Push a body, which she would supply off the roof, into a convenient laundry truck that his homeless network would arrange.

Provide blood, matched to his type, that he could hide in his coat.

Supply a syringe filled with beta blockers to slow Sherlock's heart rate.

Wait while he jumped out of a much lower window.

Dash outside with a stretcher and carry his body back to the mortuary after she declared him dead.

"Sherlock, there's no way that will work!"

"Of course it'll work, I've planned it out exactly. John will be distracted by my fake Mrs Hudson call. Passers-by will believe I've jumped. The laundry truck will drive off with the other body. It's perfect."

"But what about Jim, I mean, Moriarty? What if he sees me?"

"Let me deal with him. He won't see you because he's only interested in me. That was his mistake: he never saw you."

"Thanks. No need to make me feel important."

"Why would I do that? Haven't I already told you how integral you are to my plan?"

It had worked, of course. His plans always did. Unexpectedly, Moriarty had killed himself too – well, no doubt Sherlock anticipated it….you don't come back from a shot to the head either.

I got a bruised and mildly concussed Sherlock back to my flat at the end of a long day, after hiding him in a morgue drawer, while I did an autopsy on the fake Sherlock, lied to John, Greg and a whole lot of other people, and generally pretended that the man I loved, that everyone knew I loved, was dead. I could hear the awed whispers: "Didn't think old Mol had it in her!" "If she'd only shown that kind of strength when he was alive…" "Imagine being able to autopsy her friend?" When it came down to it, it wasn't hard to pretend he was dead, or that I was devastated by it all. I deserved a flipping BAFTA. "And for the best performance in a morgue, the BAFTA goes to Dr Molly Hooper!"

Sherlock, for once, was quite subdued and didn't say much until they were safely inside the flat.

"Right, well, I guess it's lucky I have a spare room…it's not exciting but it'll do fine while you recuperate".

Molly fussed around with clean bedding, while Sherlock just stood there.

After watching her for a bit, he said,

"Thank you, Molly. I couldn't have done this without you. I saw a different side to you today. You're strong and determined in a crisis."

"Well, y-yeah, I guess so."

He smirked. "And the crisis is over."

"Wwwhat? What do you mean?"

"You're stuttering at me again. If I'm going to stay here for a few days, and let's face it, I am, you're going to have to get over these ridiculous feelings you have for me!"

Molly winced and bit her lower lip, and then forced herself to look Sherlock in the eye.

"Don't you call me ridiculous! Do you realise what I did for you today? I put my professional career on the line, faked a death and lied to people I care about! And I didn't do it so that I could be insulted. I asked you once before why you always said such horrible things. I get it now. You have to push everyone away that you care about. You did really well with John today."

Sherlock closed his eyes at the mention of John's name.

I could feel myself starting to blush but I couldn't stop now; he was right about one thing, I had to get over him.

"Yes. He told me about your last phone call. Do you know, I think you broke his heart? And I see now that I do count because you always try to deflect any emotions and that's what you're doing now. Well done, dead man, I'm the only person who can help you. Well, you can make your own bed."

I threw the pile of bedding at him and stalked out, gathering my cardigan and what was left of my dignity around me. Toby, little traitor, whisked past me into Sherlock's room. This was going to be a long few days.