Disclaimer: I own bupkis.

Summary: It starts just as everything has ended and well on its way to beginning again.

This is dedicated to Flavialikestodraw who wanted to see something with a road trip and well, I found out that I am absolutely horrible at writing road trips so, here this is. And…I apologize in advance, Flavia, sweetheart that this doesn't have so much road and trip but it's like a glimpse of it. Kind of. Maybe. I know it's probably not what you were expecting and maybe not what you wanted but I'm hoping that this may at least pass as something interesting. Just a head's up: any substantial blocks of italics is memories.

Thank you so much to everyone who has been giving me constant support and for all your amazing words. Seriously, you guys are my moon and stars (oh lord, I really did just get cheesy on you, didn't I?) Reviews, as always are greatly appreciated and any mistakes are mine and mine alone. Much love to all of you and hope you all enjoy!

The hint of a spark

One-shot

No blinding light or tunnels to gates of white

Just our hands clasped so tight

Waiting for the hint of a spark

If Heaven and Hell decide

That they both are satisfied

Illuminate the NOs on their vacancy signs

If there's no one beside you when your soul embarks

Then I'll follow you into the dark

Death Cab for Cutie – I will follow you into the dark

It starts just as everything is ending and well on it's way to beginning again.

It's early; a thick fog covers the water and the two people occupying the lone canoe. They're silent, partly from not wanting to disrupt the serene calmness that comes from being the only two on the lake (the only two on the property) and partly because, when Molly thinks about it, they don't know what to say to each other.

For the past three years, she has been his secret-keeper. She has been his crutch in a world where all (except three) believe him dead, where many (but not all) believe him disgraced and a fraud and where a few (the special few) have never forgotten him.

(Molly will never forget him. She could never forget him. He has an iron grip on her soul and heart.)

And after three years of hiding him and fixing him, of wishing and praying for this nightmare to be done, for this façade that both she and Sherlock have created, to be over with, it finally is. Everything can go back to normal.

(Except, Molly doesn't know what normal is anymore.)

She's terrified of forgetting who she once was. Instead, all she remembers, all she feels like she knows is the taste of lies as they come tumbling easily from her lips. All she can feel is the sympathy and empathy that she had no right to give to Mrs. Hudson, Greg and John. (Sometimes, during the past three years, when everything would become too much, she almost believed the lies she told.)

The sound of the water as the oars turn in and out, overcome her, reminding her of days long past but never forgotten. She takes a quick glance behind her and sees the house in the distance and for an instant (just an instant) she glimpses into the past, where she was a child and she and her brother would paddle out in the middle of the lake and get sunburned while their father would watch them from his spot, hands cupping his mouth and his voice echoing across the water to where they were.

(Her father is dead now and her brother lives in Cardiff and their house remained untouched for years. The once cherished memories becoming too painful for either Hooper sibling to bear alone.)

Except, Molly isn't alone.

(Because a supposedly dead and disgraced dead detective is sitting in front of her, his clear blue eyes staring at her, trying to etch their way into her very soul.)

Molly wonders if she should tell him that he doesn't have to look so hard. (She'd tell him anything he'd want, if only he'd ever just ask her.)

It's late (or early, she supposes it depends) when she's woken from her sleep to shattering glass. Her heart races as she slowly but surely gets out of bed and she grabs the baseball bat, propped against her bureau in the corner. Her fingers tighten around the handle; she's gripping it so tightly her knuckles turn white.

She lets the bat clatter to the floor when she sees the tall figure stumble towards her sofa. "Sherlock?" She hisses, as she flicks on the light and stares at him. He's got nasty bruises and cuts, some are shallow and superficial, and others worry her. On instinct (three years worth of instinct), she goes into the bathroom and reaches for the (always restocked) first-aid kit, bringing it out with her and taking her usual seat on the table, in front of him, and cleans his wounds.

"Do you…do you want to talk about it?" She asks him.

"It's done." He croaks.

Her head snaps up. "Done?"

He nods, his eyes (his empty, pained and anguished eyes) finding hers and he holds her gaze, the weight of his words washing over her. "The last man…Sebastian Moran is dead and everything is done." He breathes in deep and looks at her, his eyes wild as he tries to grapple with the past three of actions and consequences. "We're finished."

He says "we" and she shouldn't be happy about it, but she is.

(She's been waiting for this day for three very long years.)

"You brought me here for a reason." Sherlock states. It's not a question, just an observation.

Molly shrugs, a lump suddenly appearing in her throat. "It wasn't…it's not…just for you." She takes a deep breath and inhales the familiar fresh air and for an instant (just an instant) she can almost hear her childish giggles, from a time when everything was simple, from a time when she didn't have to lie constantly. "It's as much for me too."

"Why?"

Why? Why? Three little words. One syllable and to Molly, it's so much more than that. It's so much more than just a question. It's a state of self. Why do you do the things you do? Why do you love the way you do? Why have you lied for the past three years? Why? Why? Why?

Molly blinks, and she brings the oars out of the water and sets them to the side. They continue to glide over the water, the soothing sounds of the lake enveloping her. She looks over the side of the canoe, her eyes catching sight of her rippled reflection. "So, I can remember who I am, Sherlock. You're not…you're not the only one who's been…who's been…broken."

After Molly bandages his more serious cuts, she gets up, arms full of bandages, cloths, the first-aid kit and bowls of water stained red. She makes her way to the bathroom and throws out the cloths and bandages and makes sure to sterilize everything before putting them back in the first-aid kit and tucking in the cupboard underneath her sink.

It's when she dumps out the water and watches as his blood streams down the drain of her sink and disappears, that she realizes this is most likely going to be the last time she patches him up. That this will be the last time, he comes to her for help (comfort, solace, a sense of the familiar in a world that has been lost to him.) That this will be the last time, she will undoubtedly ever see him alone, ever have the time to breathe the same air he does and the last time to ever keep vigil at his side, during the times when his wounds were so grievous, she was terrified she would actually have to bury him this time around.

And those thoughts, those incoherent fearful thoughts send her reeling into a silent but frenzied panic. Because she doesn't want the last time they're together to be in her flat with her standing over her bathroom sink, watching bloodied water (his blood) stream down her drain and disappear. She sighs and walks out of the bathroom and into her room, shedding her pajamas and slipping on a pair of loose jeans, a jumper and her trainers. She comes back out and grabs her keys from their hook. "Get up." She tells him softly, her voice tired, "I want to take you somewhere."

He stares at her for a couple of minutes and Molly stares back, unwilling to back down from this. He doesn't say anything. He just nods and then follows her.

"I mean…" she stumbles over her words and rubs a rand over her face. "I know…I know I haven't…done as much as you've done, I haven't been…placed in this situation, ever…but all of…all of this, it's just…I can't…I've lied to so many people and…and…don't get me wrong, I'd do it all over again because it would save you…it would help you but I just…God." She chokes back a sound, that's partly a laugh, partly a sob, but probably not even human (more like something, someone, wounded.) "Never mind. Never mind…forget…forget I even said anything." She gives him a bright smile that she knows doesn't quite reach her eyes (when was the last time her smile actually reached her eyes?) "I'm fine."

"You're not." He says, his voice deep. She can hear it echo across the lake and she shivers (partly from the crispness of the early morning but mostly because it's his voice) "and neither am I. I had…I hadn't taken into account this would do to you when asking you for your help and for that…I am sorry."

She lets out a deep sigh and reaches over, hesitantly putting her hand atop his. Their hands are freezing, her fingers are growing numb and his fingers are on the brink of turning blue but Molly can feel the heat that emanates from their touch. "You've nothing…you've nothing to be sorry about. I'd do it a million times over."

"Why?" He asks her, his head cocking to the side, eyes studying her.

Why? She wonders, pondering that same question. Why? Why? Why? She tightens her grasp on his hand, the tips of her fingers grazing his wrist and settling on his pulse point that is pulsating rapidly. (She idly wonders if he can hear her heart own beating thunderously.) Because I love you, she thinks, because if I could, I would move heaven and hell to make sure you come home, safe, alive, whole. She doesn't say that, even though the words are lodged in her throat, even though they're aching to come out, to be set free, she keeps them locked tightly in the deepest part of her heart and soul (the part that is firmly imprinted with him), "because you asked, Sherlock."

She glances over at him every now and then. It's late (or early, she supposes it depends) and the roads are dark, the only lights coming from the streetlights, the headlights and the moon. He's crouched in the passenger seat, head resting against the window, slightly bobbing with the potholes in the road.

"You can…you can sleep. It's a couple hours out."

"I can't." Sherlock replies.

"What?"

He straightens up and turns his body slightly, she turns her head briefly to look at him and then she stares back at the familiar winding roads. "There is too much for me to sort. I need to think and I can't think."

"Why?" She asks him and then cringes.

He doesn't say anything else, his mouth forms a pout and he turns his head away from her to the window, hugging his coat closer to his body.

(Molly takes this as her cue to not say anything else. So, she doesn't.)

Instead, she fixes her eyes on the familiar winding roads before them, occasionally glancing at the man in the passenger seat.

(She tells herself it's to see if he's still pouting but she knows the truth, it's to make sure that he's still there. Still next to her.)

"This place is very sentimental for you. I originally thought it was a summerhouse. It's obvious that the house hasn't been used in quite some time."

"Just over three years." Molly agrees.

"It's not a summerhouse."

She gives him a small smile and shakes her head. "No. No, this was…this was home."

He's silent as he stares at his surroundings.

Molly takes this time to close her eyes and lean back in the canoe, feeling it slightly dip with her movement. She knows that the sun is starting to rise because the fog is starting to dissipate and the wind is starting to shift and the birds are starting to come alive, their chirps and calls echoing across the lake and shaking the peacefulness that enveloped the two of them.

"It must have been nice. Growing up here. Peaceful." Sherlock says.

Molly opens her eyes and stares at him, he's staring at her, eyes boring into her and Molly wonders what he sees. Does he see the little girl who idolized her father and wanted to be just like her brother? Does he see as her as the little girl who swam, ran and hid in the house and it's surroundings? Does he see the awkward teenage girl who often got lost in a book, sitting against the tall oak tree in their yard? Does he see the young woman she became in Uni, who strived to be the best she could be, but always yearned for the familiarity of her well-worn study? Does he see how just over three years ago, she made the trip up here with her brother to watch their father die in their childhood home?

She takes in a deep breath and watches, as the sky turns pink and then orange, the sun peeking just beyond the horizon. She gives him a small smile. "Kind of like you can finally think clearly?"

The only response she gets is a twitch of his lips, before he leans forward, hands steepled beneath his chin as he closes his eyes and loses himself to his mind palace.

Molly wonders what he thinks about when he's in his mind palace. (She wonders if he ever thinks of her.)

She gives the rising sun, one last look before she takes up the oars and rows them gently back to shore, back to real life, back home.

She glances at him every now and then. It's still early out; the sun has just rose, lighting the way back home. They're silent as she drives down the familiar winding roads back into the bustling city and away from the memories of home and times where things were much simpler.

She maneuvers her way through the early morning London traffic as she parks in front of a familiar flat. She bites her lip as she reaches over and shakes Sherlock. It takes her a couple of seconds and few more shakes but he exits from his mind palace, his eyes glazed. He looks around and then with a start, he stares at her.

She gives him a small reassuring smile. "I figured it's time for you to go home."

"Molly, I-"

She shakes her head and raises her hand, "don't. It's fine. I would…I would do it all over again." Just don't forget about me, please, please Sherlock, I don't think I could take it if you forget about me.

Without saying another word, he opens the door and closes it.

She watches as he stands in front of 221b Baker Street for a few minutes before he straightens up and waltzes into the flat.

(Molly doesn't stick around to see or hear the reaction of the inhabitants of the flat; instead, she just drives back to her quiet and empty flat.)

She keeps telling herself that her red-rimmed eyes are from allergies and not from tears.

(She almost, almost, believes her lies.)

She's turning off the light in the lab, shrugging on her coat; she lets out a sigh, rubbing an ache in her neck.

"Molly." A familiar voice says, his voice echoing through the empty lab.

Molly jumps, gasping, hand clutching her chest. "Jesus Christ, Sherlock. What's wrong?" The sense of déjà vu is overwhelming.

He makes an exasperated face and she bites her lip as he continues to stay silent, his hands fisted into the pockets of his coat. She gestures to the door as they make their way out of the lab and into the halls of St. Bart's. Molly ignores the looks that other doctors and nurses give them. "Sherlock," she says, as he follows her to the parking ground and as she makes her way to her car, "not that I'm not happy to see you…I am…you know I am…but what, I mean…what's wrong?"

He leans against her car, his black coat billowing around him. "I find myself unable to think."

"Unable to think?" She says distractedly as she roots through her purse for her keys, "why is it hard for you to…" she trails off as her head snaps up to meet his gaze. "Oh…oh."

"Are you interested in a road trip back home, Molly Hooper?" He asks her, his lips twisting into a smile.

And because she can't say no to him, because she won't ever say no to him, she says, "I'm driving."

It starts just as everything has ended and well on its way to beginning again.

Flavia! It's here. It's done! I hope you and everyone else enjoyed it! I've always pictured Molly living in a place like that and just being carefree and herself and well, let's be honest, I want to live in a place like that. Lol. But yeah, I hope you all enjoyed it!

Also just to clarify, earlier when I say three people know he's not dead, I'm referring to Molly, Mycroft and Anthea, because if Mycroft knows (and in my headcanon, he does) then obviously Anthea knows because she's kick ass and I really really love her heels. But that's just me!

MAD MAD MAD LOVE AND RESPECT TO ALL OF YOU AMAZING PEOPLE!

Much love,

BB