A/N: A post-Reichenbach Sherlolly multi-chapter fic. Just what I wished happened during the two years that Sherlock was "dead". :)

Disclaimer: BBC Sherlock belongs to Moffat and Gatiss.

"What do you need?"

"You."

It had just been one simple word, nothing fancy, elegant or descriptive. Except the word had been uttered by one Sherlock Holmes – a brilliant detective and a genius of a man. A man whom others thought was a cold machine. The word had not been just a word. It had been imbued with desperation, fear, honesty and vulnerability. So much vulnerability, that she had heard his voice waver and crack when he came to her, choosing her as his helper. She didn't think that she would ever see this side of him; that he would ever allow her to see this side of him. She remembered the relief written plainly on his face when she had readily offered her help. The way he had graced her with a look so full of affection, it had made her heart ache.

Molly chewed on her bottom lip as she waited for the body that would eventually come into the morgue. She could see the commotion happening right outside Bart's, the passers-by dashing around for help, thinking that Sherlock Holmes had jumped to his death. That he had been too overwhelmed with shame at being discovered as a fraud and could not face the criticism that would come. She spotted John amidst the crowd and her heart started racing. She suppressed a sigh and paced around the cold lab, willing herself to calm down. The sound of someone clearing his throat forced her to stop and turn around.

Mycroft Holmes was seated at the corner of the lab, watching her with an impassive mask. She was pretty certain that he was studying her, wondering why his younger brother had chosen her for his elaborate plan to outwit Moriarty.

"You should calm down, Miss Hooper," he said, giving her a tight smile.

She nodded and forced herself to stand still. She had to be focused now, Sherlock was counting on her. She looked out of the lab windows and saw the paramedics bringing him into the hospital.

"I better get going," Mycroft said. "My work here is done."

Molly didn't question how he knew that Sherlock was being brought into Bart's at this exact moment. He probably deduced it from her body language or something similar. It became apparent very quickly to her that Mycroft Holmes was just as smart, if not smarter, than Sherlock. She gave the older Holmes a small smile as he rose to leave. They had barely exchanged a few words, but she could see that Mycroft was very concerned about his brother's well-being.

He turned around just before he opened the lab door. "Miss Hooper?"

"Yes?"

"I don't think my brother deserves you," he told her, flashing her that odd smile that looked like a cross between a smirk and a grimace. She had seen it that night during Christmas, when he had come into the morgue with Sherlock to identify a woman's body. The smile was extremely unsettling.

"We'll be in touch," he said, swinging his umbrella as he walked out.

Molly took a deep breath and straightened her back. It was time for her role in the plan.

"Please, Mike," she pleaded with her boss. "I need to do this."

"It's not good for you, Molly. I've assigned Sherlock's body to Doctor Portman instead." Everyone knew about her crush on Sherlock.

"It'll give me closure," she insisted. She had to be the one doing Sherlock's autopsy. It was the only way the plan would work. "Please."

Mike Stamford looked at her with pity in his eyes. Molly knew that he would let her do it. Sherlock had told her that Mike had a soft spot for her, probably because she reminded him of his younger sister whom he didn't get to see often. Apparently, she was living in South Africa.

"Ok," he relented with a sigh. "Come in tomorrow to do it. Take the rest of the day off, you'll need it."

Molly dug her fingers into her palm to stop the guilt from overwhelming her. She hated lying to people, but this had to be done. "Alright," she said faintly, managing a small smile. "Thank you so much, Mike."

Her first job was to treat whatever she could of Sherlock's injuries with the materials that Mycroft had provided, which were thankfully sufficient. She then proceeded to inject Sherlock's body with some strong painkillers, numbing the pain she knew he would be in when he finally regained consciousness. As she moved closer to his left arm, she saw the tell-tale signs of needle marks. Her hand paused in mid-air as she digested this information.

Sherlock Holmes had done drugs before. And judging from the severity of the faded marks, he had probably been an addict. This man lying in front of her on the cold slab had once been in a very dark place. He had been damaged before. And he was going to be damaged again, losing his old life. The realisation brought a huge lump in her throat and she swallowed hard, forcing herself to concentrate on injecting him with the medicine.

Molly pointedly refused to stare at the other dead body lying on the slab beside Sherlock. The body of the man who was the cause of all these problems. The man she had once dated. She had been so close to Jim Moriarty, even inviting him to her flat. He had sat on her sofa and played with her cat, Toby. The thought of that made her stomach churn.

She shook her head slightly and settled herself on a chair after disposing the needle, pushing those nauseating thoughts out of her mind and waiting for Sherlock to regain consciousness. It wouldn't take long.

Just as she had expected, Sherlock started to stir in a matter of minutes. She stood up quickly and went to his side, saying his name softly to assure him that he was fine.

"M-Molly?" he rasped, his voice barely recognisable.

"I'm here. You're alright, Sherlock. The plan worked."

"Obviously, or I won't be here." He winced as he tried to sit up, pushing her hands away when she tried to help. "I'm fine."

She suppressed the urge to sigh. She had predicted that he would be like this. Sherlock hated being weak and vulnerable, and coming to her for help had been crossing a line already.

"Where are the clothes?" he asked.

It took a while for Molly to realise that Sherlock was completely naked. She had been so pre-occupied with treating his injuries just now, she had neglected the fact that he was stark naked. Her eyes inevitably started to travel down his body, and she blushed furiously when she caught him looking at her.

"Er…they're here," she mumbled, quickly passing him some clothes Mycroft had given her. "You're going to need some help getting them on."

"No, I don't."

"But Sherlock, you're heavily bruised and you have a broken arm and rib." Even though he had figured out a plan to break his fall, there was only so much he could do.

He rolled his eyes and at her assessment and steadily ignored her as he stood up gingerly from the slab, wincing from the pain. Molly made a movement to go forward but shrank back when he glared at her. She watched him silently as he tried to put on his clothes – a shirt and a pair of jeans – afraid of doing something that would set him off.

It was only when it became apparent to Sherlock that he could not even bend properly that Molly stepped forward. She helped him with his jeans and slipped his shirt over his bruised body without a word, all the while avoiding his gaze. She finished dressing him quickly and went over to get his shoes.

"I – Thank you, Molly," he finally said softly.

Her heart broke a little at the sincerity of his tone. She knew she should be annoyed with him for being so stubborn, but she just couldn't find it in herself to be like that. After all, he had just lost everything in his life. "You're welcome," she said, passing him his shoes. She smiled a little when she saw the look of relief on his face when he found that he could at least slip his feet into his shoes without aid.

A dark look suddenly crossed his pale face and he hobbled over to Moriarty's slab, lifting the white sheet to stare at the dead body of his adversary. He stood there studying Moriarty's face, anger apparent in his blue eyes. After what seemed like eons, he finally looked away.

"Ready?" she asked gently.

He nodded, pulling the white sheet back over Moriarty.

This time, when she put her arms around his waist to support him out of the morgue, he didn't push her away.

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