Open me up and you will see
I'm a gallery of broken hearts
I'm beyond repair, let me be
And give me back my broken parts

"Be OK" by Ingrid Michelson

Sometimes Molly almost wished Sherlock hadn't needed her help.

Of course, she was eternally glad that he was alive, and flattered (and maybe even a little relieved) that he had deemed her important enough to ask for her assistance in faking his death, but, as it turned out, pretending that someone was dead while surrounded by his grieving loved ones was anything but easy. Sometimes the guilt made her want to rip her hair out. Sometimes it was bad enough that she'd go home and cry, with only her cat, Toby, for company. As affectionate as the small, charcoal-colored feline was, he did not make for a good grieving companion. Although there was very little doubt in her mind that Sherlock was grateful for her help and did in fact care about her, she almost laughed at the idea of sharing her stress with him. She could almost picture how the conversation would go.

"Molly."

"Yes?"

"Are you alright?"

"…No. How did you know?"

"It was obvious, really. The way you've been buttoning your shirts—"

"OH-kay, well, that sounds very interesting and you've certainly caught me, now, haven't you?"

"…"

"…Sherlock?"

"Yes? …Oh, right. Um…" He'd stop to clear his throat before he recited the line: "What's bothering you, old chap?"

"You don't have to call me—"

"Molly."

"I guess I'm just… feeling guilty."

"Guilty? Whatever for?"

"For lying to everyone about you being dead."

"It is for the best, Molly."

"I know, but—"

"You're doing the right thing by helping me. If you didn't lie it would only make matters worse."

He would try to comfort her (in his own, completely emotionally detached way), she was sure, but she doubted it would be very effective, especially since Sherlock was currently someplace in Austria. He'd occasionally text Molly to keep her posted, and, at her insistence, to let her know he was still alive. Sherlock said that she was being ridiculous and paranoid. Molly said that wherever Sherlock was concerned, there was no ridiculous or paranoid.

She was just finishing up the paperwork for another corpse when the first texts in three days came.

Still breathing. Had an interesting run-in with some drug smugglers in Linz, though. No matter. I survived. – SH

Powdered sugar is much more flammable than it has any right to be. – SH

And as it turns out, so am I. – SH

Molly decided she didn't want to know. She sent him a message back ("Do be careful. – MH") before returning to her work. Working in a morgue wasn't exactly the most cheerful of professions, especially not for someone like Molly, for whom things never worked out, but Molly preferred to keep a positive attitude and cheery mood despite. Rather than think about whatever Sherlock may have been through that apparently involved drug smugglers, powdered sugar, and flames, she chose to think about the evening that lay ahead of her. Watching Glee, drinking cocoa, and watching the snow fall in the London night.

It would've sounded peaceful if it wasn't so pathetically sad.

When things got particularly lonely, she found herself thinking of Jim.

Not Moriarty. Jim.

Then, of course, she'd mentally slap herself and remind herself that that man was the reason Sherlock was in constant danger, why she was living a lie, and why hundreds, perhaps thousands of people were dead.

They had only been on three dates.

One of those had been watching Glee with her cat.

He'd just been using her to get to Sherlock. So he could kill him. Burn him.

These facts did not taint her memories of him, much to Molly's frustration.

Most of the time, keeping busy with work and Sherlock (it was like babysitting an overgrown toddler from across the globe, honestly), she was able to keep her mind off of him. This, however, was not one of those times. A week before Christmas, nearly three years since "the Woman" incident. John, who she'd been mostly avoiding out of sheer guilt, was off in Scotland with Mary. Lestrade was going to be working. And Molly had no other friends, no family to spend the holiday with.

And so, with a heavy heart, she found herself thinking about Jim once again as she opened the door to her flat, fully expecting to spend the holiday alone, again.

This year, however, that would not be the case.

"Hello, love."

Molly let out a scream and dropped her keys.

Jim Moriarty was sitting on her couch, grinning.