Disclaimer: I own nothing! I claim nothing! I'm just borrowing the characters for my own pleasure and the pleasure of whoever reads this!

Chapter One

Truth Revealed

She smiled softly, and looked down, though still gazing at him through her lashes. "Hi. I'm Molly."

"That's a plain name, Molly." Sherlock's jaw locked. No. Impossible.

John was glancing between then, wondering what the hell was going on.

"Molly's an acceptable name, to most."

Bloody hell.

Sherlock spun on his heel and walked out, slamming the door behind him.

John was utterly dumbstruck as he watched Sherlock take off before glancing ahead once more at the woman in front of him, who looked just a step away from a breakdown of her own. "What's going on here?"

Molly sucked up any hurt she may have been feeling - and she was definitely feeling it - as she looked to John. She smiled softly. It was good to see him in the flesh, even with the. . . unusual circumstances. "Hello John. . .I'm Molly. The Molly. It's a long story, but I'm not a program. Mycroft -"

"Bloody hell." John interrupted. "Sherlock's going to kill him. He's been a wreck you know." his expression softened then, and without warning, he approached her, and wrapped his arms around her. "Thank bloody hell you're real. We've missed you - all of us." he pulled away just slightly, to look her in the eyes. "You are not allowed to do that again, just so you know."

Molly was stunned. She expected a lot of things, hurt, anger, maybe a bit of hate, from both of them, but John, always John, was so kind to her. She remembered all the times he defended her against Sherlock in the beginning. It was a miracle, and it took all her will power not to cry with happiness. Things could be right again.

Well. . . maybe not.

The thought was unwanted, but Molly couldn't help but look towards the door that Sherlock had left from just moments ago. He, at least, seemed to well and truly despise her. She wondered, and even hoped a little, that most of his rage was against Mycroft - he certainly wasn't on her good list right now, after everything he had done.

John seemed to catch her mood, and he too glanced towards the door. "I'll talk to him. He's just. . . upset." Understatement. "Listen, if you still have his number. . ."

"I do. . . I was told not to contact anyone though. . ." Molly admitted, looking down at the ground. "I'll explain everything, I promise. It. . . it wasn't meant to be like this."

John nodded. "I'll hold you to that. Just, for now, pretend it's all normal. Text him the information on the body, because he'll want it once he calms down."

Molly nodded, and after the two exchanged a few more words, John left, and she returned to the body. In some ways, she was glad for the interruption. The poor woman on the slab had undergone a horrible death, and she wasn't looking forward to finding out what other, hidden damage might be lurking under the skin.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

Sherlock compounded the information in his mind, piecing things together finally. Every odd habit, every annoying reaction from the program, every too-human sound, how had he not seen it? Even John had seen it, hell, even bloody Anderson had made quips about him finally finding a freak-girl for himself.

He slammed the doors on his way up to his flat, causing Mrs. Hudson to call a derogatory worried statement up, but the words didn't even register. He had things to do, things to delete and purge, as they should have been from the start. Stupid, he sneered. Emotions, weak, useless. He should have known, but he had been blinded by them.

He went to his laptop, still open - he rarely turned it off anymore - and made his first step in the purging. That damned cat. He deleted the background, leaving it as the plain windows symbol, before turning it off completely, and shoving it away. Stupid, useless, he should have known.

What else? Immediately, his eyes went to a stack of sheet music, where he'd written down the song. Had he needed to? Of course not, he'd had it memorized from the first time he'd played it. Sentiment, cold and cruel, had been the only reason to bother copying it to paper. Sentiment, he registered coldly, was also the reason he had the sheets in his hands. Sentiment, rage, had him tearing the pages, until they were in strips and squares no bigger than his palm. He released them then, allowing the torn scraps to scatter around the already messy room. What did it matter?

With a huff, he threw himself onto the couch, facing the back of it an effectively blocking out the world. What did the world matter, it's not as if it had done him any good as of late.

Of course, the world didn't seem to have any intention of allowing him his privacy, because no sooner had he settled than the door the the flat opened. Familiar footsteps. John. His mind registered dully.

"Piss off."

Still, John walked into the room, and let out an annoyed sigh. "You've said that so many times, it's lost it's affect mate, now quit being a prat. I should think you'd be happy - you didn't lose the woman you love after all."

At the mention of that word (you know which one I'm talking about) Sherlock sat bolt upright, and glared at John. "I do not, and have never loved anyone, least of all a bloody computer program." He spat the words out, standing to hover over the other man.

John glared right back. "Molly isn't a computer program, she's real, we've met her. Well, I met her, you were too busy running away from a difficult situation. Quit denying your bloody feelings. You were heart broken when you thought Mycroft got rid of her, and right now, you being a prick isn't going to help anyone."

"I was not running! And I was not heart broken, I was annoyed at his meddling, as always. You've got no right to tell me what my feelings are. As I've told you before, I don't do feelings, so kindly piss off, and quit telling me I've got them!" Sherlock had begun to raise his voice, until at the end he was practically shouting.

John shook his head, looking away from Sherlock's almost animalistic appearance. "Fine, Sherlock. Say you don't have feelings. You're wrong, but I'm not going to argue with you. I know what mourning looks like, and for you it's secluding yourself from the world, and playing your violin until it sounds like the instrument itself is crying."

He sighed, and looked back up. "I just hope you smarten up and try to work things out with the only person I've ever seen you actually happy with - machine or not, and thank hell not. She's real, and she's practically waiting for you. You're the only thing holding you back."

"Get out." Sherlock said coldly, turning away from him.

"Fine." John did just that, shutting the door quietly behind him. Still, he couldn't help but smirk, knowing his words struck a nerve. Hopefully, it was the right one.

Whelp, there's the awaited Chapter One of the sequel to Her. I hope it held up to the standard you all have set for me.

Until next time! :*