Disclaimer: I own nothing but my mind, my dears.

Summary: Sherlock Holmes doesn't know why the sight of Molly Hooper turning her back on him hurts so bloody much. All he knows is that it does.

A/N: Not to sure about this one. It's via Sherlock's POV which is like terrifying for me to write so hopefully, I did this justice. I hope you guys enjoy it! You guys are awesome. Completely and utterly awesome and I love you all. As always, any mistakes are mine and mine alone. Reviews are always appreciated….and have I mentioned before that you guys make me swoon? Because you do. I swoon. Hope you enjoy!

Just a head's up: anything in italics is in the past.

Also: The title is taken from the song Dead Hearts by Stars. For some reason, I can just imagine this song for Sherlolly. It's beautiful and heartbreaking all at once.

They had lights inside their eyes


When Sherlock Holmes comes back from the dead, it's to media frenzy. He barely has time to breathe and definitely doesn't have time to stop the well-aimed punch that John lands on his cheek. He supposes he deserves it. He did after all pretend to be dead. But really, he did it for them; they should be more grateful and less violently inclined.

(But, Sherlock can't really blame them can he?)

He's standing in front of John, watching as he rants and raves about Sherlock's deception, resurrection and how only you Sherlock, only you, can come back from the dead only to arrest someone else. To be honest, Sherlock didn't want to arrest Sebastian Moran. No, instead, he wanted to kill him. But, he consoles himself with the fact that he knows people where Moran is going and is able to sleep better (that is when he does sleep) knowing that Moran probably won't even make it through the week.

(If he were any less of a high-functioning sociopath, he'd probably feel some remorse, but he's not and he doesn't and it's all-good.)

He's pointedly ignoring the flashing cameras and the gathering crowd of loud and incredibly obnoxious people ("fans," Lestrade says, slapping him on the back, "they're your fans, Sherlock. Specifically, your screaming fangirls." Lestrade takes entirely too much pleasure in teasing him about this) when he sees her.

She's standing on the edge of the crowd, fingers dancing along the yellow tape and looking around until her brown eyes stop on him. She doesn't say anything. She doesn't duck under the yellow tape and make her way over to him (he half expects her to do that and somehow, for some reason, he's oddly disappointed when she doesn't.) Instead, she just stares at him and even from this distance, Sherlock can see the bags under her eyes and the exhaustion that lines every contour of her body (is he the reason why she is so tired? He finds his chest hurts with the thought of causing her any more pain than he already has.)

Then she smiles a little sad smile (he remembers those smiles, she gave them to him every time he would leave out her window after he would come to her during the three years of his exile and would cover her body with his and take what she would always give) and shrugs as if to say, everything is back to normal now and then turns around and walks away.

(Sherlock Holmes doesn't know why the sight of Molly Hooper turning her back on him hurts so bloody much. All he knows is that it does.)

"You can stay in the spare bedroom." Molly tells him softly, as she runs the warm cloth over his face and wipes the dried blood off his skin. Her hands are shaking, partly from adrenaline, but mostly from everything that has happened within the last twenty-four hours.

He reaches his hand out and grasps her wrist, the pads of his fingers pressing into her pulse. He watches as she falters in her ministrations and watches as her chest shudders with deep breaths she claims greedily. He can feel the blood rushing through her body and her pulse quickens rapidly.

"Molly." He says, his voice echoing in her flat, his fingers drawing circles around her wrist.

She closes her eyes and then blinks rapidly. "Yes?"

He pauses and then shakes his head, his hand falling from its place on her wrist. "Nothing."

She looks disappointed but instead of saying anything, she gives him a small sad smile and continues to clean him up. She gets up and throws everything in the waste bin. "You must be tired. You should sleep. Tomorrow…well…tomorrow is another day, yeah? A different day. I'm…I know…I'm rambling…just…good night, Sherlock." She steps away from him and makes her way towards her room when she suddenly turns around, one hand braced on the doorframe. "Sherlock?" She calls out quietly, softly, "I'm…I'm glad that everything worked."

He nods. "Thank…you." He replies hesitantly.

She turns around and walks into her room, shutting the door behind her.

(He knows what she doesn't say: I'm glad you're not dead. I'm glad that you're okay. I'm glad that you're here. With me.)

John is staring at him. Analyzing him, as if trying to make sure that he's not going anywhere. As if trying to reassure himself that he's actually alive and this isn't some cruel joke. Sherlock can hear Mrs. Hudson quietly sob in the kitchen as she gets the tea ready.

"So," John starts, "you're not dead."

"Obviously." Sherlock drawls, "and you punched me."

"You bloody well deserved it." John snaps. "Do you have any idea what you did to me? I watched you die."

"Did you really?"

John narrows his eyes, "now, is not the time to be sarcastic, Sherlock. Or else, I'll give you a matching black eye." He takes a deep breath and drums his fingers against his chair. "How…how did you do it?"

Sherlock leans back on the couch and shifts as Mrs. Hudson takes the seat next to him, fussing over him. He gives her a small smile. "How do you think I did it?"

"You had help, obviously. Mycroft, more than likely but he can't be all…you're not going to tell me, are you?"

No, Sherlock concedes, he won't tell. He'll never tell. It's their little secret. The past three years will always be their little secret.

(Part of him is disappointed that John never gets the answer right. People always seem to underestimate and forget about Molly Hooper. Sherlock used to be one of those people. Not anymore.)

He staggers into her flat, in his dazed and confused state; he knocks over the lamp that was a gift from her aunt before she passed away (all of Molly's family is dead and he vaguely wonders how she can always be so happy when she's always so alone.)

The noise wakes her up, he knows it does, because within a few moments, the light is turned on and he sees her (no, he thinks, I'm seeing double of her. Twice as much to haunt him by. Doesn't she haunt him enough?)

There is clanging noise and he can blearily see the baseball bat she had in her hand fall to the ground, "Sherlock?" She makes her way to him in two steps and catches him as he stumbles and falls. "Christ." She groans as she heaves him onto the couch (how many weeks, months, has it been since the last time he was on this couch? When she took a soft warm cloth and wiped his face clean of his blood?) "Sherlock?" Her voice is fading in and out but he knows he can hear desperation and fear seeping out of her. "I need you to stay awake. Sherlock. Can you hear me?" Her small hands grasp his face, "Sherlock, can you see me?"

I always see you. Always.

He closes his eyes and succumbs to the darkness but not before he sees her eyes light up and then her face twist and fall (she's so expressive. She's always been so expressive) and realizes that he said it aloud.

When he wakes up, it's to the sun setting and to Molly sleeping on an uncomfortable chair in an uncomfortable position. She's resting her head on one of her hands, her body trying to mold itself to chair and he glances down at her other hand, loosely holding his. He pulls his hand out of hers slowly. Not slow enough, because she stirs and wakes and then a flash of hurt falls over her face when she realizes that he pulled his hand away from her. (He hurts her; he always hurts her, every time, always.)

She clears her throat. "You're awake." She stifles a yawn and stretches. "I'll go make tea." She gets up and walks away from him and all he can see is her back.

(When she comes back into the room, hands carrying a tray of full of tea and food, he feels like he can breathe again.)

On their way into Bart's, they bump into Mary Morstan, the obstetrician that John is dating. Sherlock knows better than to think it's coincidence and by the look on Mary's face, he can tell that she's equally displeased at having to pretend to bump into her boyfriend.

Sherlock decides to end the charade. "I suppose the ring is for her then?"

Mary chokes on air, her head whipping around to John. John's cheeks are glowing red but Sherlock thinks it's probably more in fury than embarrassment. "Sherlock, you arse."

"You're going to ask me to marry you?" Mary asks.

"Not yet." John assures her. "Well…I mean…yes…soon…oh, Christ."

Mary snickers and kisses John on the lips, softly, delicately. John's hands grip her waist, as if terrified of letting her go. "The answer, for whenever you're ready, is yes. It will always be yes." She pulls away from him and gives Sherlock a bright smile. "It's good to meet you, Sherlock. I'm sure we'll see each other more." Then she leaves.

"She's less irritable than the rest of your girlfriends." Sherlock offers as he walks by John and makes his way down to the morgue.

When he finally gets down to the morgue, Molly isn't there.

(It's his imagination tricking him into thinking the morgue is colder than it usually is.)

He takes what's given to him and sometimes (most of the times) he takes what isn't given to him. He's always been like this. He's always been greedy. He's always been possessive and he most certainly thinks that he can find himself becoming possessive when it comes to Molly Hooper.

He looks down at her as she gasps and writhes underneath him. (She makes the most remarkable sounds that sear into his body and mind.) Her hands cling desperately to his shoulders and her lips seek every surface of his body possible.

Her eyes are wide, blown black by desire and bit-by-bit Sherlock loses himself to her. In her.

(This starts when he comes to her uninjured one night. A mere touch of his fingers to her skin sets her heart racing and her tongue soothes her dry lips and Sherlock loses all self-control he's been struggling to hold on to. He slams her against the wall and tears gasp after gasp from her throat.)

Later, he gets dressed and creeps out the window, but not before he takes a look behind him and he sees her, naked body wrapped in a loose blanket and a small sad smile gracing her lips as she watches him walk out of her life.

(He wonders what she's thinking about when she's wrapped in that loose blanket and watching him break her heart with every footstep that takes him further away from her.)

Sometimes, he wonders if she thinks about anything at all during those moments or if she's too busy trying to make sure her heart doesn't shatter until she's certain he can't see her break.

(He always sees her break. He watches her break and fall apart every time his body covers hers but he's always there to piece her together again.)

Mrs. Hudson organizes a little get together at 221b Baker Street to celebrate his return from the dead.

Molly is invited.

She doesn't show up.

(He refuses to let himself think about it but it seems that's all he can do.)


"Don't." She says, her voice soft and tired. He can see and feel her body tense and he runs a hand down her bare back, as if his touch will ease her tension (if anything, his touch is the reason why she's tense.) "Please, Sherlock. Don't."

He studies her shoulders and the curve of her spine and the way her skin glistens. He memorizes the way his hands fit and curl into her hips and waist.

"I can't do this anymore." She tells him and her voice sounds so broken. "I'll…I'll always help you. Anything you want. Anything at all. I'll patch you up, I'll be your friend…but I can't…Sherlock…I can't be this. Not anymore. I…" She trails off and sucks in a deep breath, her body shuddering.

Sherlock doesn't say anything; his eyes flit over her body, memorizing every curve and every dip, committing her to memory. He bends over and presses his lips to her cheek and then moves to the shell of her ear. "Thank you, Molly Hooper."

He gets up and puts on his clothes and ignores the sounds Molly tries desperately to hide from him (she's crying and every sniffle does something deep within the pit of his stomach, deep within the pit of his chest.)

(That's the last night he's in her flat and it's the last time she'll see him for six months.)

He walks into her flat and sees her sitting on the couch watching telly.

She looks at him with wide eyes and the frowns. "Sherlock?"

"You're avoiding me." He tells her. He unbuttons his coat and sits next to her on the couch. "Why?"

"I don't…I haven't…"

"Molly." He warns.

She deflates, her arms wrapping around her curled legs. "Because I don't count, Sherlock. Not anymore."

(She's rendered him speechless once before. This is the second time.)

"Sherlock?" She whispers into the room. "I heard…well…"

"I am fine." He snaps, his eyes seeking hers in the darkness of the room.

"You're not." She replies. She makes her way into the room and carefully settles next to him. Her body pressed against his. "My mother used to do this when I had a bad dream. Sleep next to me. Helped me a bit. Made me feel less alone. Less scared."

He doesn't say anything. He lies on his back, tense from the closeness and heat her body provides. "I am always alone." He admits to her after her breathing evens out and he's sure she's sleeping.

"You're not." She mumbles and turns around so her head is nestled in the crook of his neck. "You were never alone. You always had me. Didn't you know that, Sherlock? You'll always have me."

(He did. Always have her, that is. Until he took and pulled and pushed her away. Because he's Sherlock Holmes and he breaks everything eventually.)

"I was convenient to you because Jim-Moriarty-overlooked me and Sherlock, I'm glad he did, really, truly I am…but…three years of being with you and not having you…no, that's not…I had you, I know…but not…I didn't…have you. What is it you say?...the physical is transport? I couldn't…Sherlock…I love you. And it hurts." She's stumbling over her words, her face flushing by the moment.

He's not at all surprised by her admission. He's known about how she's felt about him for quite some time; he's even exploited her feelings to get what he wants (he always takes what's given to him and sometimes even what isn't given to him) what he is surprised about is what's going on inside of him.

He feels like he's burning. He feels like he's suffocating and breathing all at once. He feels as if his chest is expanding and collapsing. Sentiment, he thinks wildly, this is sentiment.

Is this how normal people feel everyday? Is this how John feels whenever he's with Mary? Is this how Molly feels every time she sees him? It's a horrid feeling. He feels claustrophobic in his own body.

He doesn't know what to say to her, for once, his words fail him. For once, he's terrified of opening his mouth because he knows something horrible will come out of it. Instead, he doesn't say anything; instead, he closes the gap between their bodies and clasps his hand over hers. He squeezes her hand, interlacing their fingers until he doesn't know where he ends and Molly begins.

Her eyes snap upwards to his and she stares at him, brown eyes boring into blue and then she lets out a little laugh of disbelief. Tears well in her eyes. "Oh. Oh. God. You…you…feel it…or something too…don't you?"

He sucks in a deep breath (he's thankful he doesn't have to explain. He's come to realize that he never has to explain himself to Molly. She always just knows) and inches toward her until his mouth is hovering over hers, sharing the same breath.

He bends his head down and captures her lips with his.

(When he was gone for three years, hunting down and dismantling Moriarty's network, he was desperate for the day that he'd be able to come back home. He's only now realizing that kissing Molly, pulling her tightly against him, their bodies wound up in each other, until he doesn't know where he ends and she begins, is home.)

He's on a case and he finds himself still pointedly ignoring the flashing cameras and the gathering crowd of loud and incredibly obnoxious people ("fangirls" Lestrade laughs. He still enjoys teasing him entirely too much about this) when he sees her.

She's standing on the edge of the crowd, fingers dancing along the yellow tape and eyes rapidly taking in the crime scene before her. She doesn't duck under the yellow tape and make her way over to him (he still doesn't understand why she waits for an invitation.) She lifts her head up and her eyes catch his. She doesn't say anything, instead, she just stares at him and even from this distance, Sherlock can see the bags under her eyes and the exhaustion that lines every contour of her body (she works too hard and he knows that she hasn't slept more than three hours in the past twenty-four.)

Then she smiles a little tired smile (it's never sad anymore, usually always just tired, or exasperated or full of emotion that it sometimes staggers him. He files her smiles in his mind palace, right next to the way he body writhes beneath his and the way he's able to tear gasp after gasp from her throat) and shrugs as if to say, everything is back to normal now (except, nothing is back to normal, is it?)

"Anderson, your incompetence is hurting my brain. Molly." Sherlock calls out. "Enough dawdling and come here."

She shares an embarrassed smile with John and nods her greetings to the police officers that she passes as she's let through. She's donning her protective gear (it's such a waste of time, but Molly is adamant about following the rules.)

"Is this their foreplay?" Lestrade asks John curiously. "Because really, that's freaky. Unsurprising but freaky."

Sherlock ignores them and he ignores Anderson's protests ("she's a pathologist. What the hell is she even doing here?"), instead his focus is on the dead body and Molly, as she leans down and studies the body. (It's not often she comes on cases with him, she prefers her morgue but sometimes, the rare times, she does.) "Tell me Doctor Hooper," Sherlock says, "What do you see?"

There is a twinkle in her eyes that is diluted from exhaustion but she smiles nonetheless and stares at him, brown eyes locking onto his blue ones and she explains in a clear voice what she knows from seeing the dead body. "I'll get a better look when she comes through the morgue." She tilts her head, "what do you see Sherlock Holmes?"

There's a slight challenge in her voice and he smirks (he vaguely hears John groan and barely registers Lestrade pretending to vomit) "everything. I see everything."

(I see you, is what he doesn't say. He doesn't have to, Molly already knows. Molly always knows.)

Eck. Some angst. Little bit fluff. Mostly just me humoring myself and humbly offering you guys this little one-shot of quite possibly nothing. Like seriously. I just had a huge hankering for writing something in Sherlock's voice, which is terrifying. Sherlock, why do you have to be so terrifying and intimidating to write? And Benedict, why oh why, must you inspire me to write you so? Like seriously. It's criminal.

Yeah…not going to lie…I luuurrrvvve it.

Just like I madly and deeply love you guys. Honestly, you all bring tears to my eyes. You're all magnificent. And awe-inspiring.

GAH! I could go on and on about how much I love and respect you guys but I'm pretty sure it's already starting to border-line weird so…I'll cut it off here.

Just know I love you guys.

Thank you so much for the constant support!

Much love,