John Watson flipped through the Sunday newspaper with a grim face. It was all over the paper, last week's incident at the pool which he had the misfortune to be a participant of. "REINBACH POOL BOMBING: SUSPECT CAUGHT", the headline screamed, but John had already read the article. They were wrong, and had gotten some completely other man by the name of Kaleb Princeton, who had also been suspected of attempted murder. John knew the real villain's name, Jim Moriarty, but he didn't dare tell anyone that. It was Sherlock and his secret, because Moriarty seemed to have ways of knowing if they did tell the police. It wasn't a risk either of them were willing to take, although John suspected for different reasons. John wouldn't tell because he wasn't ready to be responsible for another bombing. Sherlock was most likely in it for the sport, the hunt of finding Moriarty and beating him himself.

"Speak of the devil," John muttered as Sherlock walked in through the door and slammed it shut, moodily plopping himself down on the couch. John raised an eyebrow and glanced at Sherlock. "No luck, I assume?"

"It's like he never even existed at Bart's, all the files have been taken or deleted. Even his desk has been cleared. Employees say that rumor has it 'Jim Morrison' got fired and left the office in a huff, but that's obviously impossible. He planned the final riddle for that day," Sherlock said, kicking his shoes off, one by one thudding the wall then dropping to the floor where John knew if he wanted them by the door where they were supposed to be, he'd have to pick them up himself.

"Well, he sure planned this whole scheme well, if nothing else. Not a hint of him being suspected in the papers. Right now they've got a Kaleb Princeton in for questioning," John said glancing back at the paper.

"Kaleb Princeton... that name rings a bell," Sherlock said, not noticing the sudden look of shock and regret on John face. "He was part of the Marvin Lane attempted murders, if I remember correctly."

"Oh..." John exclaimed softly, eyes darting across the paper. Sherlock turned his head on the couch.

"You do remember that in the news a few months ago, don't you?" Sherlock asked.

"It's not the murders, it's a missing person," John said grimly looking up. Sherlock turned back around.

"You act like you've never seen a person go missing before."

"But I think it's someone we know, I've seen her face before," John said, looking closer. "Do we know a Molly Hooper?"

Sherlock whipped back around with a sudden look of surprise on his face. He stood up from the couch and strode over to where John was sitting and peered over his shoulder. "Yes, I know Molly. She was the girl who worked at the hospital, in the morgue."

It suddenly clicked in John's head and he looked up. "Sherlock, that was Moriarty's girlfriend," he said grimly. Sherlock was silent, but read what the newspaper had to say.

"'Molly Hooper, age 31, went missing from her home on 412, Westham St. five days ago, leaving everything in her home untouched. Experts are still trying to distinguish if her disappearance is tied in with the Reinbach Pool Bombing which occurred the same night. Her roommate, Pauline Stevenson, says that she heard nothing from Miss Hooper, and has no clue where or why she could have gone missing. DI Lestrade of Scotland Yard says that they are very busy on the Reinbach Pool Bombing Case, but will get onto to Miss Hooper's mystery soon,'" Sherlock mumbled, reading the passage aloud, then standing up. "Sweet little Molly, what a shame. I suppose we'll have to keep an eye out for her, maybe investigate a bit."

Sherlock was acting typically, but John was a more clever man than anyone gave him credit for, and saw something that Sherlock didn't want him to see. John saw in Sherlock's eyes a certain sadness he had rarely seen in his stone-cold friend. But what unnerved John the most was the pinch of how deflated Sherlock suddenly looked. John knew that Sherlock had no hope that Molly was still living. After all, the facts were straightforward. Molly was Moriarty's girlfriend, and Moriarty was a murderer who didn't care who died. But John was confused why Sherlock was so disturbed by it. Usually, a murder would be exciting, a lead. This time, Sherlock just walked off, out of the room and into the kitchen without another word. John was confused, but decided to put it to the back of his mind. He needed to set his mind to catching Moriarty as quickly as possible.


2 MONTHS LATER


"The handbag is twenty years old, obviously a hand-me-down since it has the initials of Hopkins' mother on it, C.J.H. The only problem is..." Sherlock mumbled, inspecting with rubber gloves the handbag of the woman, Mrs. Mary Hopkins-Smith who's disappearance had been the top case for the past two days. The woman had vanished from her workplace, C.J. Hopkins and Co. that her mother founded thirty years ago. The elder women had died just seven months ago, and Mary had taken over the corporation. "The only thing taken from the scene of the crime was hers, not her mother's. Nothing of value, just things that belonged to Mary. That's why the bag and the painting stayed. Oh... but the kidnapper must have pulled things out of the handbag that belonged to Mary, leaving traces of fingerprints. Molly, I'm going to need-" he stopped dead, realizing what he had just said. "Oh..."

It was a whole two months after Molly Hooper's death, and Jim Moriarty's disappearance, and Sherlock still couldn't get used to it. He had at first supposed it was one of those things where you felt sad after loosing someone you knew, like when his father died. But that took far less time to get over, it was only his father, after all. Every time Molly's name entered his head, it was like a sudden pain in his heart, daring to say he even had one. Life went on, though. The Reinbach Pool Bombing Mystery was declared Unsolved after Sherlock had refused to take the case, and the police force grew bored with it. There had been no sign of Jim Moriarty again, and John went on working in the hospital with his girlfriend, Sarah. Sherlock also took on new cases, for the fun of it, at least. But it was never the same thrill. Every time he needed something done in the hospital that was just a bit illegal, or when he felt like someone should walk in nervously and try to interrupt him, he felt lonely. It was what he wanted, all along. Time to do his experiments with no interruption.

But Sherlock was pondering over the idea, now that he had it. Was it really what he wanted? Was the saying really true, be careful what you wish for, it might just come true? He was so confused, depression had never been his area of study, crime was, of course. He wondered if he should see a doctor. Sherlock thought about the one time he actually did.


"John, I need to talk to you for a minute," Sherlock said, walking into the living room where John sat, drinking tea and looking at something on his laptop.

John sighed. "For the last time, I didn't take the last of the milk. If you want another gallon, I'll go out later and-" John started, but Sherlock sighed.

"I don't care about the milk right now, I'm trying to be serious," he sat, sitting on the couch, directly away from the table where John sat at. "This is a very big step for me, since I'm independent when it comes to solving personal problems, but I'm not sure this kind of thing is my area of expertise. I need a doctor's help, and frankly, you're the only one I trust."

John looked up from his laptop and closed it. "What is it, Sherlock?"

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. "It's her."

"Who?"

"Her," he repeated a little louder.

"Who is that?"

Sherlock sighed and held his head in his hands. "I don't understand," he said, lifting his head up again with tense muscles.

"Then explain to me. What is it?" John said slowly.

"It's... Molly. The woman who went missing, and dated Moriarty. The one who we know for a fact is deceased at this moment," Sherlock hesitated. "Ever since then, I've been getting these visions. I start to drift off from my work, or whatever I'm doing, and... I see her." He paused. "She smiles, or she laughs nervously, like she used to. Or whenever I hear her name, or think of her at all, it almost hurts. She's in my head. I'm not sure what kind of disease it is, because I've never heard of these symptoms before. Now that you've heard it, I'd like you to tell me exactly what I have and how to cure it, because I'd love to get my life back now."
John was silent when Sherlock finished. He just looked down at his mug of tea. Sherlock grew impatient. "Well?"

John looked up. "I'm afraid there's no cure for it," he said.

"Well, what is it? I can at least try-" Sherlock began.

"There's no exact cure except time for love," John interrupted. "From what you've given me, I can say confidently that you're in love with this woman, Molly. It's unclear to me when you started this, before or after her death. That happens to people sometimes, after someone they know dies. They realize what it really is like without them, and fall in love with the dead."

Sherlock stood up. "I am most certainly not in love with her. She was just a woman who worked at the hospital and got me into places I didn't have clearing for. I barely know a thing about her," Sherlock protested loudly. John just looked at him sadly. Sherlock plopped down, defeated, and not even convinced by his own words.

"I don't know what's wrong with me. Women have never influenced me before. I've never even showed the slightest interest in them," Sherlock said, softer.

"There comes a time when we all do," John said back. "You've just chosen the most unfortunate of times."

"Then HOW do I stop it?" Sherlock yelled back.

"Time. You just have to wait."


Sherlock sighed. Time certainly wasn't ticking by fast enough. Molly was getting in the way of all his experiments. Sherlock had told all of this to John too yesterday, but John had gone and done the dumbest thing possible. He had talked to Sarah. Leave it to him to get a woman's point of view on things. So all because of them, Sherlock had a date with a girl named Claire Nixon tonight. Sherlock scowled at the memory. He most certainly wasn't going, and had already told John no. John said that telling him was the easy part. Telling Sarah no would be another thing.

Sherlock picked up the handbag again, taking out his lens and closely looking inside. Nothing, save the tag. It read, "DESIGNED BY ALICE ALEXIS, Copyrighted Tobias Easton, etc, etc," Tobias... long for Toby. Toby was the name of Molly's cat, Sherlock knew that. He had found her blog after she died, through Sarah. She had postings that obviously stated she had loved him. John only winced when it seemed to sink in with Sherlock that she had loved him, and it took her death to figure out that he might have just loved her back.

The sudden ringing of his phone made him wake up from one of those sudden daydreams that he found himself often in. Sherlock pulled out his normal iPhone, instead of the pink one Moriarty had given him. Scotland Yard had confiscated that for testing, but had never gotten any leads off it. "Lestrade" the caller ID read. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, wondering if he had any news on the Hopkins case. He answered it. "Hello?"

"It's her," Lestrade said into the phone without so much as a hello back.

Sherlock was quiet for a second. "Who?"

"You know who I mean. We found her,"

"Lestrade, who did you find?" Sherlock said, speaking a bit louder.

"It's Molly Hooper. But listen to me, Sherlock."

Sherlock's heart began to race with hope. That was something he was never aware he could have, hope. "Where is she?"

"Listen to me. She's dead."

Sherlock felt his heart sink, even deeper this time. The hope was gone, completely erased and vanished. Sherlock was suddenly aware that that little spark of hope had been there all along. Just a minuscule piece. Though reason told him that Moriarty had gotten to her two months ago, he still had a small flicker of hope that he had kept her alive. But that candle was blown out the moment the word Dead was uttered. "I'm on Pitt Street, no. 131."

"How fresh is the body?" Sherlock mumbled.

"Very. She seems to only have been dead an hour or two." Sherlock was now more confused than ever. Reason now told him that Molly should have been killed a while ago. Why now?

"I'm on my way," he said, clicking the phone off and rushing out the door without a second thought to Mary Hopkins-Smith or her mother's bag.


Sherlock had just barely made it into house number 131 on Pitt street when John Watson appeared from the staircase and blocked Sherlock's way. "Sherlock, don't go up there. For God's sake, don't. I've seen people who have taken their own lives given what you've been through. If you see her body I'm afraid that you might be next to take yours."

"John, let me through," Sherlock said, trying to get through, but John stood firm with a sad face and set lip.

"I'm telling you, don't. It's grotesque. Not more than you've dealt with, but it'll be more painful to you than ever. And yes, it's her. Don't think you're going to go up there and find someone else. She's got auburn-red hair, the exact shade I remember her with, and this is near her home. It's her, and I'd rather not have you see the body," John explained.

"Just let me by," Sherlock said, shoving his friend out of the way and charging his way up the staircase.

"Damn it, Sherlock, don't go up there!" John yelled after him, but it was too late, Sherlock had entered the room upstairs. There were people from an ambulance there, as well as the police, in body suits to stay clean. And right, smack dab in the middle of the room, was the body. As Sherlock approached it, he saw the more painful details that John had warned him about.

Molly's throat had a great gash in it, and her body was swimming in blood. She lay on her back, knees drawn up, and her face twisted up and gashed so that it was almost impossible to clearly see the features of her. There was also a horn-handled clasp knife lying in the puddle. Sherlock didn't feel dizzy, didn't cry, but just stared. "Molly..." Molly was wearing dark blue jeans spattered with dark red and a blood-soaked once-yellow jacket. Her hair was auburn-red, like John had said, and up in a ponytail that Molly had been famous for wearing.

Sherlock felt a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry," John said softly. "Truly, I am." Sherlock suddenly stood straight up and walked over to the body. "Sherlock, what are you-?"

"There is too much wrong with the scene. Obviously, we know how the girl died, the horn-handled clasp knife. But the intention is unknown, isn't it? The kill is also fresh, which would leave us with a more recent mystery, not a two-month old one."

"Holmes, what are you-?" Lestrade began to say, but Sherlock silenced him.

"Please be quiet, the minute you talk you spoil the moment of me being a genius. Now, there are two things very wrong with this picture. One, this woman is wearing a ring on her left hand on her fourth finger, meaning she's married. Molly was never married, and was often referred to as Miss Hooper in the hospital. Granted, a lot may happen in two months, but for a woman who has been missing for over two months, I would think not. Now, Pitt Street is indeed close to Westham St. where Miss Hooper lived, but it's not closer than it is from the C.J. Hopkins and Co. building where a certain Mrs. Mary Hopkins-Smith went missing two days back. May I add that on her jacket, the initials M.H. are decorated with silver thread, which you might have mistaken for Molly Hooper, but it's not. Inspector Lestrade, I believe I have found the missing Mary Hopkins-Smith for you."

Lestrade stood with his mouth nearly hanging open while John's eyes were wide. "We've all been blind!" Lestrade exclaimed and pulled a picture out of his coat pocket, looking at it for moment, then back at the corpse. "I can barely see the resemblance, since the face is so mutilated. But surely it IS the same girl!"

Sherlock stood back up from where he was squatting down and walked past the baffled Lestrade and Watson, making for the stairs. He started to run down them, a new fire burning in his heart, a new hope. "Sherlock, where are you going?" John called down. "We just discovered the body of Mrs. Hopkins-Smith and have no clue who the killer was!"

"I'm much too busy for that right now! Molly might still be out there!" Sherlock called back, disappearing.

"Wait, Sherlock! Answer me one question!" John called down. Sherlock reappeared in a moment. "You said there were two things wrong with the scene. One was the ring. What was the second thing?"

"Oh," Sherlock said. "It was quite simple, really. She was wearing a yellow jacket."

"How does that help?" John asked. Sherlock gave John a half-smile.

"Molly would never wear yellow, she told me herself. I only just remembered it. Now, if you'll kindly excuse me, I'd like to find Miss Hooper," Sherlock answered, disappearing once more.

"Wait, Sherlock! It's been over two months! What makes you think you'll find her now?" John called down, but there was no response. John sighed and leaned against the railing. Lestrade walked up, still a bit flabbergasted by the whole situation.

"Where's Holmes gone?" Lestrade asked.

"Off to find a woman who is most likely dead," John sighed.

"Well, what the hell's wrong with him?"

"The worst, most incurable disease," John chuckled. "Sherlock's in love."


4 HOURS LATER: 10:36 PM


Sherlock stepped out of the cab and looked at the buzzing electrical sign outside of the rundown, suburban motel. The Willow Motel the sign read, but some of the letters weren't lit, so at first glance, all it said was The Wi*l *w M **el. Sherlock looked at the flier, then back up. This was the place.

In four hours of desperate, burning hope and energy, Sherlock had gone to Molly's old apartment she shared the co-worker Pauline Stevenson and interviewed her. Sherlock had seen her once or twice in the hospital, she worked in the IT section, where Jim used to work. The Asian woman had at first not let him in until she knew for sure that he was set out to find her. Even after that, she was furious with him, lashing about how much Molly had cared for him, all her attempts to make him notice her, and all the embarrassment and failed missions Molly had reported to her. Plus the fact that it had taken two months for Sherlock to come around and start searching. But eventually, Sherlock got enough information to hypothesize that Molly hadn't been killed. By Moriarty, at least. Pauline had not seen or heard from her since, but told Sherlock about the last time she'd seen Molly.

"I don't know if it'll help any, but the last time I saw her was on the day of the Reinbach Pool Bombing at around one in the morning. She couldn't sit down and kept glancing at the clock, looking terrified. She looked like she was all nerves and standing on the edge of a cliff. I told her that she needed a cup of tea to help calm her down, but she said she needed a walk, a breath of fresh air. I remember her bringing out her tote bag and nothing more, not enough to run away, at least. That was the last time I saw her," Pauline had said.

"Did you notice what she was wearing at all?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, now that you mention it, she was wearing a few jackets, even though it really wasn't that cold outside And she was also wearing a pair of tennis shoes," Pauline replied.

Sherlock walked into The Willow Motel's lobby and the door opened with a little tinkling bell ringing above it. A middle aged woman with a tired look on her face stood behind the desk and Sherlock walked up to it. "Excuse me, is there a Miss Erika Wilson lodging here?" he asked.

Sherlock had also discovered that Molly had ran away, after deducing from how many coats she was wearing, plus the tote bag and tennis shoes. Molly hadn't been kidnapped, she'd ran away from being kidnapped. He had then inferred Molly had ran in the obvious direction: Away from the heart of London, where the hospital and pool were. A woman who had barely enough money to share an apartment with a friend obviously couldn't buy a house or apartment right away. Maybe rent one, or share one, but most likely not even that. And she would be under a fake name. For a period of time, it seemed nearly impossible, and with a sunken heart, Sherlock had stepped into a coffee shop to get a drink.

"Just a black coffee, two sugars," Sherlock had said, his hands in his pockets and spirits lower than ever. What a mess of a detective he was, he thought. He paid for his drink and sat down in one of the lounge chairs as he waited. A woman walked into the little cafe with a grin on her face. The woman was about in her late twenties with pin-straight blond hair, dark, dark brown eyes, and braces.

"Hello, there, Jenny!" she cried out cheerfully to the barista preparing the coffee in a slight cockney accent. Jenny grinned back.

"Amelia, hi! What's brings you here so late?" Jenny asked, flipping a lever and putting a cup under the nozzle of the machine.

"Ah, you know, work work work! Had to stay late tonight because apparently we were waiting for a 'Very Important Client' to call. Erika and I were getting really bored, I mean, REALLY bored. So we started playing little games. Ya' know, finger football, origami folding, stuff like that. I mean, what else can a receptionist do for three hours after closing time, waiting for some bloke who's paying really well to get in late? Lucky us, he cancels! UGH, I swear, the life of a receptionist, huh?" Amelia laughed a hearty, very annoying laugh and Sherlock almost left without his drink.

"Hey, at least you've got a job. I heard Sabrina just got fired from her job as a temp. Hey, how's Erika doing? I haven't seen her in a while." Jenny said, finishing up the cup of coffee she was preparing.

"Eh, same old, same old," Amelia said. "Did you know she's not a natural brunette? I'm not even kidding! Her hair's coming in all ginger! You think you know a girl, huh?"

"Black coffee, two sugars!" Jenny called out. Sherlock got up from his spot and walked up to the counter.

"Thanks," he mumbled, and was about to walk away, when the girl Amelia looked at him with a big, brace-toothed grin.

"Oh, my gosh! You look JUST like the doodles my friend Erika draws! Even the eyes are the same color! Plus, black coffee and two sugars are like, the EXACT type of coffee he likes. You don't know an Erika Wilson, do you?" Amelia asked with huge eyes.

"No, I can't say I do," Sherlock said, thinking that to leave would be the best idea.

"You've seen her little comics, haven't you, Jen? She calls 'em The Adventures of Sherlock and Molly! She's got the cutest little characters!" Amelia gushed. Sherlock stepped dead in his tracks and turned back around.

"What did you say?" he asked Amelia.

"Oh, they're just some silly little doodles Erika does when she's bored. Here, I've got one of her comics in my bag, she gave it to me to keep!" Amelia said, searching through her cluttered purse. She pulled out a strip of slightly crumpled paper. "Here ya' are!"

Sherlock looked down at the comic panel. It was entitled 'Lipstick'. It had two little cartoon figures that looked a lot like Sherlock and Molly talking, with Molly trying to impress Sherlock with her lipstick, and him not noticing it. Sherlock's heart stopped. This happened before, with him and Molly. No one but Molly could have done this.

"Funny," he said, giving the comic back to Amelia. "Now, this Erika Wilson, you work with her?"

"Yeah, she was just hired about two months ago," Amelia said. "We're both receptionists down at-"

"Do you know where she lives?" he interrupted. Amelia got a strange look on her face.

"Even if I did, why would I tell you?" Amelia said, narrowing her eyes.

Thinking fast, Sherlock responded, " The name rings a bell now, didn't I see it on a poster?" Amelia's eyes sparkled again.

"Yeah, you probably saw her Lost Wallet sign, poor dear never gets a break. She just lot her wallet yesterday. She's FREAKING out because that was all the money she had and she lost it. Have you seen a wallet anywhere?" Amelia said.

"No, but could I have one of those fliers? Just in case I see it, I want to know where to bring it," Sherlock said.

"Yeah, just give me a sec," she said, fishing through her bag again and pulling out an even more crumpled piece of paper. "There ya' are, love. Nice meeting you, Mister..."

"John. John Watson. Nice to meet you ladies, and thank you," he said with a genuine smile that he didn't have to fake. His heart was burning with hope again and he stepped out of the coffee shop with new excitement.

"Yeah, there's an Erika Wilson here," the woman said, after checking her books. "What business do you have with her?"

"Tell her there's someone who found her wallet coming up," he said, and the woman rolled her eyes, grabbing the phone and punching some numbers.

"Yes, Miss Wilson? There's some bloke here who found your wallet. Yeah. Yes, uh-huh. No, he doesn't have a stubbly mustache and beard. Yeah. Okay, 107, got it. Thank you, Miss Wilson," the lady hung up the phone. "Room 107, she'll answer the door for you."

Sherlock began walking away without a Thank You towards the lower-level rooms. He reached door 107 and knocked before he had even completely gotten his whole body to the door. The door opened hurriedly to reveal a woman with a huge smile on her face. Sherlock was surprised to see the same, sweet face of Molly Hooper, with pixie-cut light brown hair framing it. And there was no trace of yellow whatsoever on her.

"Thank God, are you the man who found my-" she began to say, but stopped, her smiling dropping suddenly and completely. She stared blankly at him, and Sherlock felt his heart racing as he looked at Molly.

"Molly," he said with a sigh of relief.

Molly stood as still as stone with her eyes wide, and began breathing faster and faster. Molly clung to the door frame, beginning to fall down with shock and Sherlock rushed to help her back up.

"My God," she sobbed, obviously crying from how her shoulders were rising and falling quickly. "How did you find me?"

"It's a bit of a long story," Sherlock said with a small smile. "Are you okay? Has he harmed you at all?"

Molly pulled herself up and wiped tears away from her red face, but smiled. "No, I fled as soon as I figured out what he was going to do. I didn't tell a soul, I was so scared..." Tears began to slowly fall down her face again.

"It's alright, you're safe now," Sherlock said, still a bit unsure how to treat her.

"Please, come in," Molly said, stepping back into the hotel room. Sherlock followed her in. He imagined what it would be like, confined to such a small space for two whole months as a completely different person, hiding from a silent enemy and shut the door behind him. He turned back to Molly, who's tears were still freely falling, but slower now.

"Molly, it's been two months since I last saw you and there seems to have been a sudden change in me," Sherlock began in the sort of way he would explain things. "I thought you had died, that that feind Moriarty had killed you even before the bombing of the pool. John Watson and I were lucky to escape with our very lives. We had no hope that you were still living. But through the two months you were all I could think about, and it even hurt to think sometimes. I consulted with Watson, who's also a doctor, and he said that I was in love. This kind of thing has never happened before, and I don't know how to explain it. It might drive me mad, and I HAD to find you. I don't know if it makes any more sense to you, these sudden feelings, but I had to make sure you were okay."

Molly began breather louder, and began laughing shakily. "Y-you really mean that?" she nearly giggled.

"Yes."

Molly started laughing more. "I've been in love with you since the day we were formally introduced, and it took my fake death for you to realize that you loved me too?"

"Molly, I-" Sherlock began, and Molly bit her lip. "Listen, would you come back to your former life at St. Barts? Watson and I would protect you best we could. It'd be for the best if you stayed close to me."

"A-are you asking me to be your girlfriend?" Molly said with blushing cheeks.

"Well, not exactly..." Sherlock trailed off, feeling a little embarrassed too.

"Oh, of course, I just thought..."

"But I wouldn't mind if you were," Sherlock babbled, possibly unsure for the first time in his life. Sherlock was filled once more with his strange, newfound emotion: Hope. Molly just grinned nervously.

"Of course, yes, I'll come back. Oh, God, how did you even find me in the first place?" she asked.

"It's a long story, but I think we have plenty of time."


PHEW! I can't believe I finished this! Sorry it's SO LONG, but with such an amazing prompt, how could I not write this much? Anyways, this story is dedicated to 88imy88 over on Youtube, who posted the video that inspired this Fanficiton. If you want to go check it out, here's the link: http:/www DOT youtube DOT com/watch?v=DxuEA7tb9Zs . Thanks, 88imy88, for the great prompt and letting me be creative with it! :D

Do you know how hard it is to write an in-character, in-love Sherlock? GOODNESS, I think I had to edit the ending just about a THOUSAND times! XP Hope you enjoyed it!

*Note: How Mary Hopkins' death was described and where was taken from the Sherlock Holmes story The Six Napoleons. It's on of my favorites because it's so odd. :)

*Note II: I own no one except for my own characters (Pauline, Mary, etc.). They are owned by people older and richer than I.

Best Wishes,

Aktress.