Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author Note: Set after 'The Reichenbach Fall'.

THE MAYBES MAKE IT BETTER, AND WORSE

Once Sherlock took his swan-dive off the top of St Bart's Hospital, Molly Hooper left the building. Morgue workers that she'd never seen before suddenly appeared in her lab, nodding their heads briefly and respectfully. That was her cue. Briskly, somehow, she scrubbed her hands clean and banished her lab coat to a locker.

Outside the back door, a black town car waited. Molly slid inside, keeping her head down. Anthea was focused on her Blackberry. Their legs pressed together. Molly took a deep breath, it was the first one she'd managed all day.

Her eyes started to sting.

An elegant hand silently wiped away the tears.

"Oh God, I'm so sorry. I….."

Anthea shook her head and her knee pressed even more insistently against Molly's. Molly took another breath and tried for a watery smile, leaning slightly closer.

"They're in my morgue now. Is he...?"

"He's arranging everything."

Molly closed her eyes for a brief moment and let herself be soothed by the hand stroking her hair. Soon they'd be at Anthea's flat. Molly's bags were already there, as were at least two bottles of her favourite wine. Maybe at some point, she'd get some sleep. Maybe. There was so much swimming around inside her head, because Sherlock has asked her to do a terrible thing and she'd agreed and there was going to be so much awful fallout...

"He's not going to tell John." Molly's mouth trembled. "I was sure he would. I should have said something."

Anthea's expression tensed minutely. Her opinion of Sherlock's scheme wasn't positive at all, especially the part that put a strain on Molly. Molly reached for Anthea's hand.

This wasn't the first time that Sherlock had hurt her, far from it. But the pain was deeper this time, for everybody, with all kinds of far-reaching tremors. Maybe that was what Sherlock was going for? Some kind of long-distance effect that he'd do anything – including dying – to achieve. Maybe the cause was noble, but his methods weren't.

God, poor John.

Anthea was stroking her hair again. "You don't have to work at St Bartholomew's."

"But he'll be coming back."

Molly knew that she sounded stupidly hopeful. But, despite the awful things he said to her, she knew Sherlock better than most people. So what would happen next really wasn't all that difficult for her to figure out. He'd do whatever he needed to, and then he'd make himself miserable, alone, before realising what everybody else already knew – he needed John. So he'd come back. The question was how long it would take him, and just what state John would be in by then. Molly's heart wrenched.

"And John needs me."

Anthea didn't argue, though her grip on Molly's hand tightened. "There's takeaway at the flat."

"Are you sure you don't….?"

Anthea smiled a smile that said everything. Molly held on, something warm breaking through the thick unhappy fug that had surrounded her for the past few hours. Sherlock was wrong; she wasn't better off alone. Nobody was, especially him. John too, he wasn't going to forget about Sherlock, not at all. Neither was Molly. But she was also going to drink and lie down with her girlfriend. Then, when she felt steadier, she was going to help John. She could help with the flat, or any cases, whatever he needed. Then when Sherlock came back, maybe he'd see it all at last. Maybe.

Anthea never made her feel stupid. And when she was around, Molly didn't fumble her words. Sherlock had wilfully missed out on something like this, on something this good. Molly bit her lip. Thanks to Sherlock, John was missing out too.

She closed her eyes and slowly rested her head on Anthea's shoulder, her thoughts on a constant terrible cycle. There was silence for the rest of the journey. Neither of them let go.

-the end