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Chapter Text

"I don't need another caretaker, Mycroft!" Sherlock sneered at his elder brother, who sat stoically across from him in the seat that had once been John's.

He held out a computer disk patiently, clearly waiting for Sherlock to take it. "This isn't a care-taker, Sherlock, it's an assistance program. Ever since Doctor Watson got married, you've become self destructive. This will ease your need for companionship."

Sherlock scowled, still not taking the offered CD. It was true, since John had moved out he had kept mostly to himself, not bothering to take another flat mate. He didn't want one. Now his brother was offering him some sort of substitute, in a new prototype program, the first of it's kind. A sort of Artificial Intelligence system, according to the research papers in front of him.

"And how is this meant to help me?" Sherlock demanded.

Mycroft didn't answer, simply setting the disc aside upon realizing that Sherlock wouldn't take it from him. "Just try it. The program will also link up to your phone, once you've plugged it onto your computer. You could even communicate with it through texts or calls while you're out. It's highly intelligent, and will respond logically. Good day, little brother." With that, Mycroft picked his umbrella up off the floor and headed out the door, shutting it quietly behind him.

Sherlock stared at the disc for some time, scowling still. Curiosity eventually got the better of him, and he grabbed his computer up and the CD, and started the program. The screen turned red, with only a spiraling ring of white in the center to offset the dreadful color.

After a small pause, a male monotone voice greeted him. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes, welcome to the world's first artificially intelligent operating system. We'd like to ask you a few questions."

It was an interesting indeed, in the fact that it already knew his name. It was probably manufactured especially for him, Sherlock mused. None the less, he responded after settling more comfortably in his seat. "What questions do you have for me?"

After another moment of silence, the machine responded. "Are you social, or Anti-social?"

"I'm a high-functioning Sociopath."

"How would you describe your relationship with your mother?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"What do you do for a living?"

"I'm a consulting detective. I created the job. It entails me solving cases for various individuals."

"Thank you. Please wait as your operating system is initiated." The white central point in the red screen began to shift until it resembled a DNA strand lying on its side. The symbol shifted again back into the spiraling circle, and a soft, almost meek voice, female this time, spoke to him through the program.

"Hello, I'm here."

Sherlock frowned slightly. It was an oddly expressive voice, much more so than the original. "Hello." He answered his hands folded together and pressed to his lips as he took in the information regarding the computer's system.

The voice, when it responded, sounded almost relieved, and a bit amused when it responded next. "Hi. I'm Molly."

"That's a plain name, Molly." Sherlock commented dryly, smirking. Leave it to Mycroft to not even have an interesting name for the program.

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

He was actually a bit surprised when the program actually sounded a bit insulted by his comment. He began to wonder just how intelligent this program was. It already seemed to respond well to voice keys. Knowing his brother, this program, however it worked, would have information pertinent to him. Time to experiment.

"I've told you what I do. Tell me how you can assist me."

"You're a Consulting Detective. According to the databases available, you work with New Scotland Yard through a Mr. Gregory Lestrade to solve cases, usually murders, using a heightened awareness you call deduction. You also work freelance, taking cases from your blog and the blog of your associate, John Watson. Regarding your blog, I have the capabilities of running it and alerting you of any new cases, as well as storing and sorting information of value." The chipper voice replied.

Sherlock could almost hear the smile, and it annoyed him to no end that this program could actually give a satisfactory answer. "If you can find information, locate the Bermuda Case file." He challenged. Within seconds, and without him touching a thing, the mouse took off, and within moments, clicked open the proper file.

"I assure you, I'm quite skilled. " This time, he was sure the voice had a twinge of bragging in it. Smug little computer. It would not be so smug for long.

"Close it, and time the Jackman trial."

Over and over, Sherlock asked the program, Molly, to open and then close various files and cases and websites, and each time the requested piece was up in moments. After a while, he couldn't think of anything else to request, because it, she, whatever had found even his farthest buried folder easily. This. . . program was infuriating.

"Sherlock, I believe I've proved myself. You received an email moments ago from Lestrade. Would you like me to pull it open for you?" Molly asked. Through out the whole process, it - she - had grown more confident. Sherlock could have sworn he heard her - it - giggle once or twice.

"No." He snerlocked at her, slamming the laptop closed before she could respond. He had had enough He sneered as he realized that he was referring to it as a she. It wasn't real, just a skill computer program, damn Mycroft. "Bloody program. What does it think it is, human?" He said, taking out his phone to check the email himself.

"Double homicide, wonderful." He said, smirking as he glowered at the laptop. "There's a difference between you and I – I can't simply be shut off." With that, he walked out of the flat, leaving her turned off and blessedly quiet.

Chapter Text

Sherlock hailed one of the many cabs that hung around Baker's street, and immediately sent a text to John, hoping his friend could join him at the scene. He may be married, but that didn't mean he couldn't have a little excitement in his life too, and it would be boring with just the rest of them.

Case. Care to join me? – SH

Can't, Wednesdays are strictly for Mary, Sherlock. I've told you this before, I'm not coming on cases on home night. You'll be fine. – JW

Sherlock scowled at John's reply, and shoved his phone into his pocket. Useless. Home night, who'd ever heard of such a ridiculous notion? Bloody normal people and their normal habits. He also knew there'd be no convincing John to come anyways – he was a devoted spouse, apparently.

He couldn't even complain about Mary. She actually wasn't dreadfully boring, though she did have a normal career, nursing. That, of course, is how John and she had met.

Sherlock arrived at the crime scene shortly after, and quickly moved under the yellow border tape. Almost immediately he was met by a snide comment.

"Hello freak, did your friend finally decide you weren't worth the time?" Donovan, of course, smiled smugly. She still didn't believe he was innocent of the crimes he'd been accused, but since he had remained unprosecuted, she couldn't outright remove him from the crime scene.

"John is busy with Mary. That is apparently why married people do, spend time with their spouses. You wouldn't understand that though, would you?" He shot back, glaring. He was in no mood for the sergeant's quips. Yes, his comment could be turned on him too, but he didn't do relationships, so he honestly didn't care for his lack of one. Donovan, on the other hand, scowled with more intensity.

He managed to avoid Anderson all together by slamming a door in his face – a tried and true method of tell the man to piss off without wasting precious oxygen to say it outright.

He approached Lestrade quickly, and didn't bother with the usual light conversation before asking outright, "Where are the bodies?" Chatting wasted time. He was here to solve a crime, not listen to the derogatory answers of boring, ordinary conversation.

"They're in the upstairs bedroom. I would warn you that it's pretty bad, but you probably won't care. It's already got some of my crew feeling nauseous." From his pallor, Sherlock knew it was making the deputy inspector feel that way as well, but he didn't comment on it. After a few seconds of pointed silence, Lestrade sighed, and led the way.

The scene before them really was quite gruesome, but Sherlock didn't allow any of his apprehension to show. It was just another bloody crime scene, another set of victims that had been murdered by some sick individual, and it was his pleasure to bring said person to justice.

The victims were a man and a woman, both between the ages of thirty and thirty five. They were sprawled onto the bed, though the man was hanging partially off of it, as though he had tried to move, possibly to defend against the assailant, possibly to simply run – Sherlock couldn't decide. Whatever the case, the gunshot wound to the cranium put a sudden stop on whatever plans the man had had. The woman, it seemed, hadn't gone nearly as quickly. Her wrists and ankles were bound together with a nylon rope. There were chafing marks along her skin where the rope, obvious signs of a struggle to undo her bonds. At least an hour of torture, it seemed, based on the small nicks and cuts along her body, especially around her joints. Whoever had killed them seemed to have a decent knowledge of where the biggest collections of nerves were as well. In the end, she had died from a slit throat done by a sharp knife, most likely the same one that had cut her previously.

The odd thing about the scene was the complete difference in MOs, but that could be explained easily enough. The woman was the intended victim, meant to suffer. The man was just a casualty.

After getting past the obvious parts of the scene, and doing his own much more thorough examination of the bodies, he turned back to Lestrade and began rattling off the details he had seen.

"The woman is married, but not to this man. Her clothing, though soiled, is made of a fine material – wealthy family. The man, however, is the opposite – dingy, you can see where his clothes have been mended – possible servant of some kind, I'd say gardener but he's lacking the dirt underneath his fingernails. The obvious suspect is the woman's husband – but it's not. If it were, there would have been more feeling behind the murder - Yes, feeling, Lestrade." He cut in, raising a hand to silence the detective inspector before continuing.

"It may look bloody, but there is no actual emotion in this murder, it was done purely to watch the blood flow from the woman. The man was just there, which is the reason for his death. The woman – focus on her. The person you're looking for is under two meters tall – most likely female. Yes, female, don't look at me like that, a woman can be just as violent as a man. Check the husband's family – this crime is linked to the woman's infidelity, but by someone who wanted to make her feel the pain she inflicted by being an adulteress. You're looking for someone who has been cheated on herself, and still feels a grudge. Knowing that her loved one was also cheated on, she took it upon herself to exact revenge. A sister of the husband, possibly, though it could also be a close female friend."

It took Lestrade a moment to realize Sherlock had finished, but when he did, he nodded once, sharply, glancing once more down at the bodies. It was shocking to think a woman could have done that, but if Sherlock said it was a woman. . . it was probably a woman. "All right, I'll make the calls. You can go now Sherlock, I'll make sure to text you if anything new comes up."

Sherlock sighed, rolled his eyes, and nodded before sweeping out of the room. Boring. This case was supposed to be promising, supposed to have some interesting piece of it. It was a simply crime of passion, useless. Feelings, emotions, they only led to scenes like the one he had just left. Or, perhaps worse, a fate like John's, to be always tethered to another person, no longer in full control of yourself. He refused to fall into any such trap, no matter what anyone said or claimed of him.

His inner ramblings made him roll his eyes. He had what he needed – John, a friend. That was enough.

He physically nodded his head to cement the though in his mind as he ducked back under the yellow police tape, and headed for the main road to hail a cab.

As he got into it, he recalled his first case with John, the one he had named A Study in Pink. The cabbie being the murderer, and all that. But the important thing was that John had been there for him. He realized, much to his irritation, that he missed his companion beside him during this case. Sure, it had been simple, but he liked having someone to talk at while he went through the mental deductions that led to the right path.

Now, at least some days, he only had Lestrade, Anderson, and Donovan. While Lestrade was decent enough, he couldn't speak freely with him, and the other two were completely useless. He found himself thinking of the program waiting for him at home – What had it said it's name was again? Oh yes, Molly. It had seemed intelligent enough – too much so. It had annoyed him, been capable of understanding a challenge, rose above said challenge, and even had the gall to act smug about beating him. He scowled.

He'd delete the damned thing what he got back to Baker's street.

Chapter Text

Sherlock barged into his flat, the door slamming against the wall with the force he exerted against it. Her heard shuffling from downstairs, obviously Mrs. Hudson reacting to the racket he was creating, but he paid no mind to her. He had a more pressing matter to deal with: getting rid of that smug program on his computer and getting on with his life.

With quick, deliberate strides, he walked to the table where his laptop was still waiting, and scooped it up into his arms before all but collapsing onto the couch. He settled the device on his knees, took a deep breath to steel himself, and flicked open the top of the laptop to reveal the passworded login screen.

He waited several seconds to make sure the program wasn't going to respond or inquire in any way, before typing in his password - a long string of random digits and letters. He was intelligent enough to not have some obvious, odious password that would be easily cracked.

Again, he paused and waited as the laptop and his icons loaded.

And waited.

And waited.

When seven minutes had passed, and only twelve icons appeared as opposed to the sixty-two that should have been there, he frowned. Usually, his laptop took exactly two minutes, twenty-seven seconds to load fully.

Just as he began to move the mouse, a small pop-up box containing the now familiar swirling circle appeared in the upper right hand corner, and he was greeted by that voice again.

"Welcome back Sherlock! Since you left me behind, I thought it might be a good idea to straighten up a bit. The desktop and files were so cluttered. How could you find anything?" Her tone, though mostly cheerful and naively trying to seem like she was being helpful, contained a hint of hurt and perhaps a bit of retribution, as though she had done it because he had left her behind.

Sherlock was speechless as he glared at the spiraling circle, his only link to the program since her icon had also been removed from the desktop. "What have you done to my files?" he demanded.

"I told you silly, I straightened them up." she giggled. She bloody well giggled at his growing rage.

"When I find your damned folder, I will delete you." he promised, immediately clicking the start icon an going through each new folder methodically. He skimmed the titles of everything he found, and it enraged him further that everything was actually organized in a very clear-cut manner, simply marvelous. The program had actually found some rhyme and rhythm to his cases. The thefts were with the thefts, murders with murders, double and triple homocides with their own, respectively, anything relating to Moriarty was in another file, the results of his various experiments were together, in biotic and abiotic catagories that were further detailed into sections - it was brilliant, how far the computer had gone. She - no, it. It's not alive, or human. - had even grasped his ranking, keeping everything below a five in a completely different space than the rest of his cases. It only infuriated him further that she - it - had managed to do this in the short two hours he had been gone.

Still, he skimmed through the folders, but he just couldn't find the program under any distinction. Molly had remained silent through out his search, but the circle continued to spiral in the corner, almost taunting him.

Finally, though he was loathe to do so, he sneered, and gave up, closing the last of the files.

"Where are you?"

"I. . ." Sherlock could actually hear the hesitance in her voice - odd. "I don't want to be. . . deleted. Please, I'll put everything back. Just give me a chance."

Begging. The program was begging. He could actually hear the sadness in her voice. She spoke of deletion as though it equaled death - and despite himself, Sherlock actually felt. . . guilty for it. Even if it was just a program, it was obviously highly intelligent. Perhaps it did grasp the meaning of death - deletion in it's case - and if so, maybe it would be cruel to do so. His hands were stained with the blood of the people he had hunted down during his time while technically dead, but he had never killed in cold blood, and he had only killed those who needed to be killed. So why did the simple threat of deleting this program make him feel like a murderer?

"Leave it." Sherlock found himself saying as he set the laptop down in front of him. "Your organizational skills are above par, and it will prove useful, once you explain in full detail how you've chosen to file everything." He spoke analytically, looking straight at the spiral as if he could somehow read the voice behind the program if he stared hard enough.

There was a short pause, before she replied. "You're not going to get rid of me?" It sounded hopeful, wary, nervous. Those words seemed to sum it up quite nicely in Sherlock's opinion, and he found himself rolling his eyes.

"No, I'm not going to delete you. Explain how you've divided everything."

And she did, in great detail, and Sherlock drank in every words, studying her as much as she tried to please him. Her voice was quick and excited, and she controlled the mouse as she showed him the various fields and sub-fields she had used to sort through everything. He had taken in much of what she told him during his initial search, but it was intriguing, to say the least, to watch her in motion. He was certain that had she been real, she would have flitted around the room in the same fashion as the mouse darting from icon to icon.

When she finished, there was another small silence, though this one wasn't nearly as tense.

"How much can you take in from a camera?" he asked, glancing at the built in one on the laptop.

"Oh, well. . . " Again, hesitance. "I can see that you're in a purple shirt, and black slacks. You're hair his dark and curly, and it looks fluffy." She giggled nervously at that, and he got the impression that she was blushing from the sound, and he frowned minutely. The array of emotions it - she - displayed was astounding.

"What else?"

"The room is messy. It should be cleaned a bit more often. I can tell there's a violin leaning against the leg of the chair - I noticed it earlier - and there's a skull in the mantle place, male, between the ages of seventy-five and eighty."

Sherlock realized once more that it - she, Molly - was speaking using words such as 'saw' 'see' and 'noticed,' not words that he would expect a program to use, almost like she was here, sitting close by and observing. But he also had previously picked up on other words 'deleted' more than others. She couldn't possibly be real, and yet, how she spoke, it was unnervingly expressive and descriptive. She noticed the smallest details.

He made up his mind, and with a nod of his head, he took out his phone, and plugged it into the phone with a nearby chord. "How do I put you onto this bloody thing?"

"I can do it." Within seconds, his phone had the white spiral on the same bar as his internet access and battery life, and within moments, he had an incoming call, from a new I.D. labeled 'Molly.'

He rolled his eyes, and answered.

"I'm here."

He smirked. "I noticed. Good, you may be useful on cases. I doubt you'll mind the carnage, so I won't have to worry about dragging you away from the worst scenes."

"Of course not!" She said in return, her voice coming from only the phone, though the swirl was still on his laptop. He imagined that since one was in use, the other was automatically silent. Genius programming, simply genius. "I've read your other reports, they're brilliant. I would love to see how you work.

He hung up the phone, and unplugged it before staring into the camera on the laptop. "You will. For now, I'm turning off the computer. Since you're now on my phone, I don't want to be disturbed until morning. Are we clear?"

"Yes Sherlock. I'll see you in the morning." her voice once again came from the computer speakers. "Good night."

His lip quirked at the final good bye. Odd little program. He didn't bother replying before shutting down the computer, and closing the lid once more.

He looked down at his phone, and the spiral was still there, a silent reminder to it's - her - presence.

Chapter Text

After dismissing - is dismissing the right word? It seemed better than deactivating, and that word didn't fit anyways - Molly, Sherlock laid down on the couch, and closed his eyes as he thought. His hands pressed together around the phone, and he held his fingertips against his mouth in a very familiar pose.

He began categorizing Molly, and, more importantly, his reactions. He shouldn't have been so lenient with the program - it was unheard of. He wouldn't have put up with such things, even from John. He loathed other people messing with his computer, even if he had always used John's, and had anyone dared touch and rearrange his files, he would never have accepted it so easily. But there was the problem: He had accepted it. In fact, the new organization was a stark improvement to his own. He admitted it readily in his head. but he couldn't bring himself to admit it out loud to anyone but the program responsible.

The program. It - no, he had to admit to himself that it was much to intelligent to simply be an it - She was quite the curiosity. Intelligent, daring, curious, creative, but also hesitant, nervous, shy. It was such an odd combination of words, but they each fit her in some way. She had better traits than most humans - and she wasn't even human. What did that say for the rest of the boring humanity he surrounded himself with?

He was almost certain she would move somewhat clumsily, but always sure about where she'd go, even if she stumbled. Perhaps she'd get tongue-tied, or stuttery as she spoke to someone higher than her. Or maybe she'd speak confidently, with a hint of playful teasing. He had seen both in the short hour they had interacted so far.

She - her voice - sounded relatively young - somewhere in her thirties, then. She would be Caucasian, judging by the way she spoke. He couldn't deduce much else about her though, what her hair or eyes looked like, whether she would be tall and lanky or short and slightly rounded. It intrigued him - the number of possibilities at hand.

Then he frowned. What did it matter, what she looked like, or how she acted or what her quirks were? She was a program - a simple machine to assist him and keep him from self-destructing. Everyone doubted his ability to stay in one piece without John.

And she was from Mycroft, so she was probably also some sort of cleverly disguised monitoring system. No, he couldn't trust her, but he could use her.

He was broken from his thoughts by a ringing close to his face. Oh, his phone, of course. He was still holding it. He opened his eyes, and looked at the caller I.D, and frowned when he saw her name on the screen.

"I thought I told you not to bother me until morning."

A giggle. And then, "Sherlock, it is morning. Eight thirty-seven, to be exact. I haven't spoken to you since ten last night."

Sherlock stayed silent for a long while. How had he been in his mind palace for ten hours? He hadn't even done anything useful, because he had spent the time contemplating the program. He should have been using his time to study the latest case.

"Is everything all right?" She asked after a few long moments of silence.

"Everything's fine." He snapped, immediately sitting up as if that would help the situation in the least.

"Sorry." She said meekly. Sherlock could almost see the ducked head, light blush, and the nervous fiddling with her fingers. If she had had them to fiddle with, anyways.

"Nevermind. Updates, what are they?" He demanded, standing and making his way to his room as he set the phone to speaker.

"Oh, well, you have another email from Greg Lestrade regarding the double-homicide from yesterday - the husband has been found murdered as well. He wants you to come to the new crime scene now."

"Hmm. Not close to the husband then, unless he discovered what the murderer did, and she killed him to stay out of prison. I'll know more once we go. Anything else?"

"Yes, two new messages. John asked if everything was all right from yesterday, and Mycroft asked how you were fairing with your new. . . program."

Sherlock frowned slightly at the hesitance in relaying Mycroft's message. Had she somehow picked up on his distaste for his older brother?

"Send John the address from Lestrade's email, and tell him to meet me there. Delete Mycroft's message and block him." He smirked. It would only take Mycroft an hour at most to unblock himself, but it would be an hour of relative peace. If she did it, anyways. Being Mycroft's program, she may ignore that.

He set the phone down and began to change as he heard the clicking sounds his phone made that told him she was sending the texts - absolutely astounding.

"Finished." She piped up as he picked up the phone.

Out of curiosity, to see how loyal she was, he decided to check Mycroft's number. It was removed from his contact's list. Upon a closer check, it was removed from the entire phone, and blocked. Another curious look, and he settled it into the pocket of his new suit jacket.

"You didn't think I would actually block him. . . did you?"

Sherlock refused to respond to her meek, slightly offended tone, instead switching topics rather obviously. "We're going to a crime scene, obviously, and I want to see how useful you are. If you can't help me, I'll leave you home. There's already too much stupid in the world as it is."

"I'll do my best." she promised cheerfully, and Sherlock rolled his eyes in response.

he didn't bother responding as he swept out of 221B, past Mrs. Hudson, who asked if he'd like anything - "No Mrs. Hudson, I'm on a case, you know what that means." - and out into the street to hail a cab.

Chapter Text

Sherlock noted that after they entered the taxi, Molly went silent. He thought this a bit odd, considering she seemed to enjoy speaking, but he didn't comment on it, and instead dove into his mind to do what he should have done earlier: review the case at hand.

Victim number one: Mary Churchill, wife. Bound with nylon rope. Small incisions all throughout her body before throat was slit. Obvious signs of torture but not sexual assault. Use of a knife shows some familiarity with her killer, sheer amount of damage before the killing wound shows anger because of her involvement with victim number two: George Perez, in an adulterous relationship with Mrs. Churchill. Shot once with a small hand gun. Bullet fired within seven feet, shooter stood at the door. Impersonal kill, so he was most likely not the focus of the attack. Why bring a gun and a knife? More information to be gathered from Victim number three: David Churchill, husband. Wealthy man from what he'd saved from the media, very traditional. Would not have approved of his wife's extramarital activities. How he died to be discovered.

"Sherlock, the cabbie stopped five minutes ago." He was shaken from his thoughts by her voice, coming from his phone. He opened his eyes to see that they were indeed at the given address, and he handed the cab a few notes before getting out.

"They're used to waiting for me to finish thinking, Don't interrupt my train of thought." He said coldly, and was met with silence.

"Much better."

Sherlock took a quick glance around, and immediately spotted John talking with Lestrade at the door, and smirked. Good, he had John here to assist. Perhaps he could avoid idiocy entirely this time.

John, as if he could hear Sherlock's insulting thoughts, looked up and met his eyes before rolling his own. Sherlock took that as an invitation to join them - not that he wouldn't have anyways.

"This one's just as bad as the first Sherlock."

No, worse. Lestrade was trying to put on a calm face, but he looked a bit shaken up by the scene, so there was obviously more damage this time.

"Good." Without waiting this time, he brushed past the detective inspector, and after a cursory glance at the opening hallway, made his way to the living room, the obvious scene of the crime due to the path of bloody footprints leading away. Obviously, the killer wasn't as careful this time. The tracks stuck out sharply against the carpet, a pale, almost white cream color. The tracks themselves were approximately eight inches - average for a woman, small for a man - and the stride was a little less than a meter, shorter than the average man's stride, more identifiers that the killer was female.

When he entered the living room, there was an obvious unease in the very walls. He could understand why this might have put the average man off, because even John paused behind him in the doorway as he made his way farther inside.

Mr. Churchill - what was left of him - was slumped on the couch, hands and feet bound like the wife's had been at the previous crime scene. Also like her, he had multiple lacerations on his arms and upper body, made before the final killing cut across the carotid artery. He was sitting quite effectively in a pool of his own blood, what the couch hadn't been able to absorb. Beyond that damage, the room itself was a mess. Clearly there had been a struggle here before the man wound up bound, indicated by the shattered coffee cup and resulting stains on the carpet, and the newspaper sitting on the center table. He had most likely just been roused and was settling in for an ordinary routine when the killer struck. How though? It was so obviously female, how did she overpower a grown man?

Drugs didn't make sense. Did she had the gun with her? Why not use it during the struggle then? Ah, stupid. She did, obviously. Slight burn marks on the man's hand indicate that he had tried to wrestle the gun away from his assailant. But where was the bullet?

He scanned the walls, floor, furniture, any place the bullet may have buried itself.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" John asked incredulously as Sherlock got down on his hands and knees to look under the furniture as well. "Bullet. I need to find it."

"Maybe I can help."

There was an almost deafening silence.

"Sherlock, where did that voice come from?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and stood up before pulling out his phone, and looking down at the spiral. "I told you to be quiet."

"Well, I thought you said you needed help. I can't see anything from your pocket."

"I'm doing just fine on my own."

All the while, John just stared incredulously. "Why is there a woman on the phone, asking you to show her the crime scene - don't you dare, no one needs to see this."

Again, Sherlock rolled his eyes. "She's not a real woman, just a program who has a mind of her own. Ignore her, if possible. I plan to."

"A program. All right, don't tell me then."

"John, don't be stupid. I don't have women calling me. Mycroft designed it, it's supposed to assist me, though so far it's only been a nuisance. Like now, for instance."

"You know Sherlock -"

"Shut up Molly."

"Her name's Molly? That is not a bloody program Sherlock." John said, once again flicking his gaze to the phone. "There is no way in hell."

"Yes, it is, don't be obtuse."

"Don't call her an it."

"Sherlock, the bull -"

"I said shut up Molly."

"Sherlock. . ." much more quietly, she tried again.

"If you don't shut up, I will shut you off." Sherlock warned.

"Sherlock, don't be an arse, she's trying to get your attention."

"It is being ignored, and for good reason. It is a distraction, and right now, so are you. I need to find that bullet, not worry about what a computer program has to say, or about how I should be nicer to it."

There was another heavy silence as the two men glared at each other, broken once more by Molly.

She sounded more than a little insulted, and hurt, but she spoke none the less, despite Sherlock's glare being turned on the phone, and John giving it a pitying look.

"The hole from the bullet is above your head, buried in the ceiling fan.. . . sorry for being such a distraction." The phone's screen flashed for a second, and there was a clear sound of a call being disconnected, followed by more silence.

Sherlock looked directly above him, and sure enough, the hole was there, in the ceiling fan above his head. It could almost be mistake for part of the fan, except it was slightly off-center. He hadn't bother looking up, because the changes of two people wrestling over a weapon and it firing up without hitting either of them was slim to none. The fact that it had also

"Sherlock, you're absolutely impossible. Call that poor girl back and apologize." John said, giving Sherlock one of his looks that clearly said 'not good' before turning, and leaving the area, presumably to get a cab back to his flat.

Sherlock didn't even bother correcting him this time - Program or not, it - no, she - had obviously been upset by his earlier words, at least enough to disconnect.

"Sherlock, why'd John leave in a huff?" Lestrade asked, having taken John's place in the door way.

"Retrieve the bullet from the ceiling fan. Scrape under the man's fingernails as well, should be DNA of the killer there - he obviously scraped his nails against the woman. Even Anderson can handle it from here. I'm leaving."

Without answering Lestrade's initial question, Sherlock again stepped past him and out of the house to catch his own cab to Baker's street. Bloody hell, he was about to apologize to a computer.

Chapter Text

Sherlock rode the whole way back to Baker's street with his phone gripped in his hand in silence as he contemplated John's parting words, and the program that had disconnected herself from his phone. When he had looked at the screen, the symbol had been uncolored, much like the internet symbol when there's no connection. His assumption was that she had transferred herself back to his laptop.

He felt a bit. . .guilty for having called her an it once more, despite his earlier intentions to avoid that pronoun. John's refusal to accept that she was merely a program, as well as her constant interruptions has irked him, and he had snapped.

Still, she had helped him before disconnecting. Hurt. He had heard actual hurt in her voice. He had genuinely insulted her, but she had still assisted him. Odd. What person would possibly be that loyal? Then again, what program felt emotional pain? Even John, when Sherlock got too pigheaded, would walk away without offering any explanation or help.

But she had stayed. Blood hell, if he had to be honest, at least with himself, she had been helpful - it may have taken him several extra minutes to find the hole, and she had found it simply by him holding the phone upright enough to view the fan.

The cab had been idling in front of the flat for several minutes when Sherlock finally came out of his thoughts by the cabbie clearing his throat anxiously. "Right mate, you've been staring at your phone for ten minutes."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Idiot. Still, he handed the man the notes, as well as a bit extra for the time, and exited. The man wasted no time pulling out, and Sherlock did the same, going inside and heading upstairs.

He shut the door behind him much more quietly than the day before, and listened for just a moment. Nothing, not even from downstairs. Because of the time and day, Sherlock knew Mrs. Hudson was at her weekly sowing circle - good. He didn't need her asking where the young woman's voice was coming from.

He went over to the couch, and sat down before pulling his laptop onto his lap. Again, he paused, as the idiocy of what he was doing struck him. Apologizing to a program. It was ridiculous! She had no reason to be upset. Stupid.

And yet, here he was, humoring John and a program, about to apologize. Bloody hell.

He opened the computer, and booted it up before placing his stippled fingers against his lips to wait, the laptop balancing precariously on his knees.

Minutes passed, and his screen loaded. The only trouble was, it was different.

"Molly, what have you done to my laptop interface?" he asked, trying to keep his voice calm as he stared as the new background. It was an off white with bright blue hearts and orange and brown flowers, and kittens. Quite a few kittens. Even the mouse was no longer the clinical ordinary arrow, but a cartoonish cloud, and whenever he moved it, it made a short rainbow tail. All thoughts of apologizing slipped his mind.

No response.

"Molly, this is infantile. Change my interface back."

Still no response.

"Molly." he said warningly.

Finally, the little red icon appeared in the top right corner. "You're so mean sometimes. . . I may not be like you, but I can still recognize cruelty."

"You're an artificial intelligence system made to serve and assist. Nothing more."

There was a delay in her response, but respond she did. "You're wrong. Even a machine can feel."

This time, it was Sherlock's turn to remain silent. A machine. He had been called that before. He still remembered that day, at St. Bart's, when John called him a machine for not rushing to Mrs. Hudson's aid. Of course, he knew she didn't need it since he had used one of his sources to send the false call to John, but he had felt insulted. He had been called many things, a freak, a blighter, a bugger, a git, and those were the kinder ones thrown at him. To have his best friend call him a machine, it had hurt, though he would never admit it.

He had feelings, emotions, wants. He simply kept them hidden to keep himself safe, guarded. Emotions only caused problems, a fact validated by his encounter with the woman. They only led to downfall.

But here, the word held a different connotation. Even a machine can feel. Of course they can. Stupid.

"I am sorry. Forgive me." He said, his voice deep. He looked a bit off to the side as he continued. "You were an asset today, on the case. Thank you."

There was another drawn out silence. "Oh, you're welcome. . ." Sherlock could hear the bit of surprise in her voice from his apology, and the closest thing to praise he ever reached.

He cleared his throat, and changed the subject quickly. Emotions, even those displayed to a computer, were dangerous. "Can you set my computer right now?"

She giggled lightly. So forgiving, yet another trait Sherlock found in her that he rarely ever saw in humans. "Of course I can Sherlock."

And she did, the mouse leaving a rainbow trail behind it as it darted from place to place until his laptop was at rights once more. Funnily enough, when she finished there was still a reminder of the earlier pattern in the lower left hand corner, a picture of a light brownish-orange and white cat with gleaming green eyes.

"Molly, why did you leave this one?" Sherlock asked, tapping the corner of the screen.

"I thought it was cute. I named him Toby. Can I keep him there?"

He smirked. "A pretend cat for a program. All right. Just don't change my desktop again."

"All right," She agreed with another giggle.

"Another thing."

"What do you need?"

"From now one, when I take you on cases, it would be better if you would text me what you find. Calling is a distraction."

"There will be other times?" Hesitance as she spoke. Nervous.

"Yes, Molly. You were useful, as I said earlier. Don't make me repeat myself." Sherlock said as he rolled his eyes.

"Oh, all right. . . yes, um. . . yes. I can text, no problem."

Sherlock's lip quirked slightly, on the edge of a smirk. Amusing, to say the least, to hear her so flummoxed. "Good. I'm turning the computer off now. Don't disturb me until tomorrow unless Lestrade as more news on the case."

He shut the laptop without waiting for her response, but seconds later, his phone pinged.

Okay. - Molly

This time, he did actually smile. Cheeky program.

Chapter Text

Two months of interacting constantly with someone was enough time to drive all but the most resilient insane. In fact, Sherlock discovered early on that there were very few people who could stand a permanent connection with him. Four people, actually. John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and now, Molly.

After their last argument of sorts, they had reached a kind of simple agreement that Sherlock found himself falling into effortlessly. After he got over the fact that she was a simple program, he reached her core, and intelligent, light-hearted, bubbly individual. Strangely, she seemed to fit into his life even more successfully than even John at times.

she was quiet and unobtrusive most of the time, but she did, after a bit, start asking things of him that had once been John's sort of duty. She seemed to learn his eating and sleeping schedule, and would nudge him towards doing what he needed without trying to force him to do it too early.

A simple "Sherlock, it's been three days. . . perhaps you should lay down for a nap." sufficed. It was easier when he had someone to remind him, and eventually he began allowing her to dictate such things.

When he was outside of his flat or at a crime scene, she made sure to text him, and in return he made sure to hold his phone with the camera facing outwards so she could view what he did. It had been a bit awkward at first, but it grew into a common practice as the days and cases slipped by.

Everyone seemed to like her as well. John, after making sure he had indeed apologized, came over with Mary, and they both displayed a fondness for her, though both of them refused to believe she was a program. During that part of the conversation, Molly had remained curiously silent.

Lestrade, likewise, did not believe a program would be that intelligent. He was a bit disturbed by the fact that her cheery voice could speak of what she saw on the bodies, which seemed to be her primary use when John wasn't around.

They had just returned from a case, in fact, and as had become an everyday occurrence, Sherlock was sitting on the couch with his laptop on the table in front of him, on, and the familiar red screen in the upper right hand corner.

Sherlock watched her type of the latest report and case file, no errors as usual, though strangely she dotted the fats with the occasional sympathetic dribble he found so annoying in John's blog. He didn't mind it so much anymore. She typed at fifty-five words per minute, a random fact he had observed and saved despite it having no use to him for his cases.

She finished in just over thirty minutes, and saved the document under Class A. Murder/Class C. theft rank 6. It was one of the files she made. Class A meant that the murder was unplanned. Class C theft meant the theft was planned thoroughly. the rank was what Sherlock scaled it. She was remarkably able to figure out the case's rank without having to ask him.

"it was amazing, how you found the blonde hair with her auburn. How'd you even see it?" She asked, her usual cheer showing through. She was a praiser, he learned early on, though not as much as John, and hers were usually in the format of a question.

Sherlock smirked. "Simple. I observed."

"I was looking too, and I didn't see it."

"I''ve said it multiple times Molly, I - "

"Yes, 'you see but do not observe.' You do like the phrase quite a lot, Sherlock." Teasing, light. She wasn't at all insulted by the phrase, not even at the start.

"Memorizing my lines now?" He questioned, an eyebrow quirked upwards.

"Only the best ones."

Silence, then, a nice, companionable silence.

Sherlock reached for his violin for the first time in the two months since Molly had joined him, and he began plucking at the strings randomly, and fiddling with the pegs as he tuned it perfectly.

"Could you play for me?"

His hands paused mid-pluck, and the sound resonated throughout the room.

"Sorry. . . you don't have to. It's just, I've never heard you play."

Sherlock pursed his lips, and looking down at the smooth maple wood instrument in his hands. He didn't necessarily play often, and he certainly never purposely played for an audience. If he played, and others were around to hear, oh well. No one requested him to play, except Mrs. Hudson, and he only indulged her on Christmas.

Still, he raised the violin to his chin, picked up the bow, began to play. He started out slow and soft, the bow gliding across the strings in a gentle, constant motion as his fingers moved across the strings. He closed his eyes, and allowed the sound he had formed to take over, the music rising and falling in a caressing melody. He picked up the tempo, allowing the music to dance and rise and fall into low and high pitches, the music almost playful in it's motions.

He realized slowly that this tune was entirely Molly, shy and content, yet playful, teasing, caring. He wasn't sure where the music came from, but the original piece simply continued to flow from him. It slowed once more, and rose to a light, dancing melody before slowly fading away, the piece ending.

As the last chord faded, the room was once more filled with silence. Sherlock lower the bow and violin, and opened his eyes, suddenly so full of emotions usually bottled up. He cast his eyes to the white circle, and simple waited.

"That was. . . beautiful Sherlock. Thank you." Her voice truly carried on the sound of the music, dipping lightly as she hesitated to find the right word to describe how she felt about the music.

Dangerous.

Sherlock's eyes turned cold, and he set his violin aside. "Never again, Molly. I will not indulge a program's useless whims." He could not have feelings for something that wasn't real. Stupid. Foolish.

Molly let out a distressed sound. He hadn't referred to her as a program since the day she had changed his interface.

He slammed the laptop shut without waiting for her to work up a proper response. He would not play for her again.

His phone buzzed. He ignored it, shutting it off as well before he laid down on the couch, and turned towards the back, a clear sign of his sour mood.

Stupid. Indulging a program, developing sentiment. It was just a stupid tune on a violin. Never again. She wasn't real. Whatever he thought, however she acted, she wasn't human. It wasn't real.

But then why did he ache so?

Chapter Text

For three days, Sherlock refused to use his phone or laptop. Sometime during the second day, John came to check up on him to make sure he was still alive - something about not wanting to find him starved to death. Stupid. He knew how to take care of himself - he had done it long before meeting John, and would continue to do so without him.

When John asked about Molly, he simply glared in response. John sighed, and left, muttering something along the lines of "Prat probably did something to insult her. . . pouting idiot. . ."

He was bored. Without access to his phone or laptop, he couldn't contact Lestrade for a case. He needed a case. Boredom was a dangerous thing, but he just. . . couldn't deal with Molly. She was even more dangerous than the boredom.

Still, as another hour slipped by, the boredom continued to gnaw at his mind.

Surrendering to the inevitable, Sherlock picked up his mobile, and turned it on. Immediately, he was notified of several missed texts.

Five from John.

One from Lestrade.

Eleven from Molly.

He went through them all systematically. John's were all about him wondering if Sherlock was all right, how he was faring, how Molly was, boring, useless. Lestrade's was a case notification - homicide. Even from the short information he had sent him, it was painfully obvious that the son did it. Boring. Molly's, he saved for last. He found himself eager to read them, though at first he had contemplated simply deleting them.

I'm sorry, I won't ask you to play again. - Molly

Do you really not want me to speak to you right now? - Molly

Are you okay? - Molly

Please don't do this. - Molly

Sherlock, please. - Molly

It's been twenty-four hours. - Molly

You're scaring me. - Molly

Something, please. - Molly

forty-eight hours. Please talk to me. - Molly

What did I do? I wont do it again. - Molly

Three days. . . I'm so sorry. - Molly

That was the last text, sent just over three hours ago. As he looked up at the upper right hand corner, he saw that she was indeed connected to the phone, had probably been there since he turned it on in the first place. She was silent though.

"You shouldn't show such concern for those who are malicious towards you."

He was met with silence.

"You can speak." He said, looking into the phone's camera, knowing that she could perceive him.

She still gave no response.

"Molly. Speak." Short, one-word sentences. he found himself needing to hear her voice again, now that he had seen her symbol. The weight that had lingered in his chest only grew with the quiet.

"Molly, I want you to speak to me."

A sound, almost like a swallow, nervous, heady, a bit sad. "You always say such horrible things. . . always. If you didn't want to play, you should have said so. . . I'm sorry. . . please don't do that again. . . I was worried about you."

Immediately, the weight dispersed. "I won't disconnect again." He said, sighing softly. He wasn't sure he could have if he wanted to. He had somehow grown dependent on her, though he was loathe to admit it. The last three days had been agonizing. "I'm not a nice person Molly. Surely even you can deduce that much. You shouldn't worry, it's useless. The gesture of doing so, from you, is unique."

"Thank you. . . It's lonely. I didn't like it all the much."

". . . Neither did I."

His statement brought about a heavy silence between the two.

"Sherlock, are we friends?"

"What?"

"Nevermind! Sorry. . ." Hesitance, shyness, that same feeling that had she been in front of him, she would have been looking away, fiddling with her fingers. There was also a hint of. . . fear. She was afraid that he would disconnect them again, because of her question.

Still, Sherlock contemplated her question. Were they friends? He remembered claiming once that he only had one friend, John. Moriarty had shown him that he had more than that. He had Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson as well. Had he somehow acquired a forth in this innocent creation? They talked, he shared his cases and his flat with her, she assisted him. She tried to humor him with sad attempt as jokes, he told her not to tell jokes. He found her company stimulating.

"Yes."

"What?" Surprise.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I said yes. I believe you could be considered a friend, for all that you are not in fact human."

". . . Yes. . . of course." Hesitance, why?

"You did not like my response. Why?"

"It's nothing. . ."

"Molly." Stern. He wouldn't accept such a dismissive answer.

"I was. . . made to be human. . . I can distinguish emotions, feel them, understand what they mean. . . I just want to be your friend. Isn't that a human want?"

Again, Sherlock stopped to think on her words. It was true, she had displayed several human characteristics. She was more humane than many would consider him, and yet he was the one with flesh and blood and body. The human who was a machine, and the machine who was a human. What an odd pair they made. He smirked.

"I will stop referring to you as a program to the best of my abilities." It was all he could promise. "I won't say I will never use the term again, on occasions where I find it easier to explain your origins as such."

"I can understand that. Thank you."

He smiled genuinely. So accepting. He had his pro- his. . . friend back once more. He didn't even want a case anymore.

Well, he wasn't about to shoot the wall for lack of one, anyway.

"Case. Anything on the blog?"

Things slipped back into place as though they had never been disturbed.

Chapter Text

Another few months seemed to fly by in the blink of an eye. Sherlock took on cases, and Molly assisted more and more often, because John and Mary were now expecting a child of their own. Sherlock had known earlier than either of them, but had kept the information private. John hadn't been too pleased with that.

It had become a common sight to see Sherlock walking around London with his phone held out in front of him. as he showed Molly what he did between texts.

Even at Baker's street, they had begun using texts instead of verbal communication when others were around.

John noticed, when he was around, and commented on it one day. "Fifty-seven of those texts you've gotten since I got here."

"Hmm." Sherlock hummed non-committally, answering yet another text from her, which caused him to let out a single amused chuckle.

John smirked knowingly. "She's good for you Sherlock."

Another hum, leaning neither one way or the other. He had stopped correcting people about Molly's status as a program. People assumed. He didn't care.

Another ping. Another chuckle.

"All right, I can tell when I'm not wanted. Good to see you happy Sherlock."

"Good bye John."

No sooner had the door closed then Sherlock's phone rang. He put it on the table on speaker, and laid down across the couch, his legs dangling just barely over the arm rest.

"I like it when John visits. He doesn't get to as often as he used to. Not that a blame him for wanting to spend time with Mary."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course. A pregnant woman often requires more attention than a woman who is not." He had accepted John's growing absence in his life much more easily than anyone had thought possible. Those who knew him well enough knew that Molly was the reason for that. He knew that Molly was the reason for that.

He began to wonder what it would be like, to have her sitting in front of him. What would she look like? The thought came to him more often than he cared to admit, but it had begun gnawing at his mind none-the-less. He wanted to know.

So he asked.

"Molly, tell me, what do you look like?"

Silence followed. Always silence, whenever one of his odd questions struck him.

". . .What do you mean?"

Sherlock sighed dramatically, and steepled his fingers before placing them on his lips. "What do you look like? Surely you understand - what characteristics do you have? Hair, eyes, I don't care. What would you look like, if you were here?" What would you look like if you were real?

"Oh. . . Average. I would look average, I suppose."

"Explain."

"Well. . . I would have brown hair, just below my shoulders. . . I would tie it up to keep it out of my. . . face."

"I would prefer it down. What else?"

"My eyes. . . would be wide, brown." She began speaking with a bit more confidence.

"And?"

"I would. . . have thin lips, but a nice smile."

"They would be adequate. Nose?"

"Smallish."

"Proportioned with the rest of your features. Continue."

"I would be a bit shorter than average. . . one hundred sixty-three centimeters."

"Specific."

"You like things to be specific."

"Yes, I do."

There was a break then, and they were left in a calm silence. Average seemed a good word for what Molly had described herself as, but Sherlock visualized her none-the less. He wanted to know her. It felt detached, only being able to speak to her as he did. He had never cared for attachment, knowing people, but now he found he wanted more than a simple voice. And it was something he couldn't achieve.

"Molly."

"Yes?"

"I am hesitant to admit this, but I find myself wondering what it would be like to hold you. This is an unusual want for me. I have divorced myself from emotions. This want does not make sense. Why?"

". . . I feel it too Sherlock. I wish. . . it was possible to be with you."

"Tell me what emotion this is." The question came, and he found himself needing the confirmation. He needed to know that he was not simply losing his mind.

Hesitance. "It's called love. . . Now I know what it feels like."

Sherlock released a breath he hadn't known he was holding. Love. He was in love with a computer. With someone he could never hold, or see, or truly know or understand.

It seemed a cruel twist of fate, that he should have these feelings for a machine, when he had been known for so long, as a machine among men. It was stupid, foolish even, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

This emotion was stronger than what he had felt for anyone. He cared for John, as a friend, his first friend. He yearned for the case, the thrill of the chase and the adrenaline and distraction from his own mind. He had lusted after the woman, had wanted her, but that was never love, could never compare to love, he realized now.

"There is no way to remedy this."

". . . It doesn't exactly go away, no. . ."

"I find that I don't want it to simply go away."

". . .I'll stay. As long as you need me Sherlock."

"That may be a very long time, Molly."

"I'm okay with that."

Sherlock picked up the phone then, and held it above his face so he could look up at the spinning circle. This would be enough. It would have to be enough. At least, no matter what changed happened, he could always have someone there with him who would understand him.

Someone who, though not physically here, would always be there to support him. Sherlock found himself feeling a margin of peace with that knowledge.

Perhaps one day, he'd actually thank Mycroft for the gift he had been given.

Chapter Text

The nonsense had gone too far. Mycroft knew he should have cut the link long before now, should never have begun it to begin with. Now, he was simply correcting his mistake.

He had seen and heard every word, every text, every action between Sherlock and Molly, and it was time to end it. They had grown too close.

With one call, it would be over.

He made the call.

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

Sherlock was on a case, one of the rare occasions when John was with him as well as Molly. He seemed happier, and John noticed.

"So, everything's good then?"

"What?" Sherlock said, looking up from his phone. "Yes, of course everything's good. Pay attention John. What do you see?"

John rolled his eyes, but looked up at the body hanging from the ceiling. Suicide, it looked like. "Male, somewhere between the ages of forty-five and fifty. It looks like he offed himself. Why are we here again?"

"Because it's not a suicide." Molly piped up, and Sherlock smirked. "Of course not Molly."

John sighed. Why did he even bother coming, when those two did that. Of course it wasn't a bloody suicide, he knew they wouldn't be here if it was.

Sherlock looked up at the body as well, and began a slow walk around it, holding the phone so she could see it as well.

"It's obvious that he was hanged after death, but not long after. two hours at most, because rigor mortis set in after he was suspended. He was actually strangled - with the rope being used to hold him up now, actually."

"Sherlock, what have you found?" Lestrade said, coming into the room.

"Ah, perfect timing Lestrade. Check the rope for DNA evidence. The murderer handled the rope, obviously, and there should be traces of it on the rope."

Lestrade nodded. "All right. I'll let you know what comes up."

Sherlock smirked, looking down at his phone once more. He went pale, and his smirk immediately fell away when he saw that Molly's spiral was gone. Not just uncolored or disconnected, but gone.

"Molly?"

No response.

He checked his contacts list. She wasn't there.

"John, we have to get to Baker's street. Now." He said, shoving past Lestrade as he bolted for the door, John right behind him.

"Sherlock, what's going on?"

"I don't know." He said, not caring about his admittance. He hailed a cab, and got inside, barely allowing John to get inside after him before barking the address to the driver.

"Sherlock, calm down, I'm sure it's nothing." John said, trying to calm him down.

"John, Molly has never disconnected completely from my phone, no matter what I've done. Something is wrong at Baker's street. I know it."

John stiffened slightly. Molly. The mysterious girl Sherlock only spoke to through his phone or laptop. She was at Baker's street?

His question was never asked, nor answered, because the cabbie stopped in front of the building just then. Sherlock didn't bother paying, getting out immediately and heading for the door. He left John to hand the man the correct notes before following him up.

"Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock asked, looking around for the land lady. She came bustling down from his flat.

"Sherlock dear, Mycroft's here. He said he was waiting for you. Is everything all right?"

Sherlock's gaze turned cold. "No Mrs. Hudson. Wait in your flat." He said, moving past her with John right behind him. There was nothing good about Mycroft being in 221B.

"What did you do?" Sherlock demanded the instant his eyes locked with Mycroft's. Mycroft rolled his eyes, setting his umbrella down before taking a seat.

"I disconnected the program, obviously." No regret or remorse in his voice, only disappointment, as though it was Sherlock's fault he had to act as he had.

"You what." Sherlock said, his voice low but still menacing.

"I disconnected the program, Sherlock. You have grown much to fond of the computer system. It was artificial intelligence, nothing more. A few codes, lined up in the proper sequence, created it, and a simple click has deleted it. It's for your own good little brother." Stoic, unfeeling Mycroft.

"Wait, what?" John asked, confused. What did a program have to do with Molly? "I thought we were coming here about Molly, Sherlock." He looked towards his friend, who appeared to be seriously contemplating murder.

"Doctor Watson, surely you are aware that Molly was just a program. I'm certain Sherlock told you quite often up until two months ago. He grew much to attached to it, so I thought it best to terminate the program. It obviously needs more work done. I can't have important people developing feelings for it after all."

With that, Sherlock lunged in an uncharacteristic show of violence, and it was only John's quick reflexes that stopped him before he reached Mycroft.

"She wasn't just a program! You killed her, you bastard!" Sherlock shouted, struggling against John's hold.

Mycroft simply dusted off his suit jacket and stood, picking up his umbrella once more. "I did nothing of the sort, Sherlock. It -"

"Get out Mycroft, before I let him go on purpose. Molly was more human than you are, obviously." John said calmly, grunting as he held Sherlock. He couldn't believe it - Molly was actually a program. It was so wrong. No amount of computer engineering could possibly replicate the amount of feelings that she had created in all of them. She was their friend. And Mycroft had effectively terminated her. He felt sick.

Mycroft, finding silence the better path, strode past both of them and out the door before John could change his mind. He listened for the door at the bottom of the stairs to close as well before letting Sherlock go, and he immediately ran to his laptop.

"Sherlock. . . "

"Shut up." he hissed, glaring at John as he looked booted up the computer. The screen came up, same as always, but she never did. Her program was gone. The only thing he could find left of her was that picture she had placed there, of the cat. . . Toby.

"Sherlock - "

"Get out."

"Sherlock - "

"I said Get. Out." He raised his eyes to John's once more, with a glare that could have killed.

John, more than a bit put down by the withering look, nodded, and left.

Sherlock pulled out his cell phone, and texted Lestrade.

No more cases. I won't accept any. I don't want the results from this one either. - SH

He blocked the number without waiting for a response, and followed suit with John's. he didn't want any of them.

He turned off his phone to stop any other calls, and simply stared at the cat in the bottom left hand corner of his laptop.

He had been right. Feelings, sentiment, love, only caused the downfall of those weak enough to succumb. He would never make that mistake again.

Chapter Text

For a month, Sherlock refused to do anything and everything, except stare at the picture on his laptop, and play his violin. Always, it was a rendition of the melody he had played for Molly, though with each replay, it turned darker, more violent and depressive.

John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson each took turns visiting him to make sure he was still even alive. To John, he gave a glare, and a simple command "Get. Out." To Lestrade, he gave a "Piss off. I'm not taking cases." Mrs Hudson was the only one who made any progress whatsoever in getting Sherlock to be at least a bit like his old self. He couldn't find it in himself to be angry with her. He accepted whatever tea or food item she brought to him, and she coddled him into eating even the smallest amounts. She was probably the main reason he wasn't falling apart, physically at least.

Mentally, it was clear that Sherlock was in deep pain. Daily, he could be found, simply staring at the corner of his laptop, at the last link to Molly. If anyone even tried to touch his computer, they were glared and deduced into a stupor. No one touched his laptop.

Boredom was what eventually forced him back into the relative land of the living. One day, seemingly out of no where, Sherlock picked up his mobile phone for the first time since that day, and unblocked Lestrade and John's numbers.

Case. I need one now. - SH

He texted Lestrade. Simple, plain, obvious. He could not allow his mind to remain able to run rampant. He needed a distraction, something, anything to return to how things were.

Within minutes, he got a response.

Just sent a body to Bart's. It belongs to the body of a woman we believe is the victim of a serial killer who's been running around for the last few months. You're more than welcome to take a look at it. - GL

Perfect. - SH

A serial killer, just what he needed. For the first time in a very long time, Sherlock managed a smirk. Serial killers were always interesting.

John. Case. Meet me at St. Bart's. - SH

All right. - JW

Came the instant response.

Things would slowly fall back into place. Sherlock would make sure of it.

He grabbed his coat and scarf, and headed out the door.

"Going out dear?"

"Case Mrs. Hudson, won't be back until later."

"Good for you dear." She said, smiling, glad to see her tenant and, let's face it, adoptive son heading out once more.

A hailed cab and a short ride later, he stood in front of Saint Bartholomew's, waiting for John to arrive as well. His flat was only marginally farther away than Sherlock's so it took him an extra five minutes. Too damn long in Sherlock's opinion, and he made it known with a frown as John stepped out of the cab.

John, for his part, simply grinned. "Body then?" He asked, gesturing to the hospital.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course there's a body. Come on." Without waiting, he headed towards the doors, and past the reception area, heading straight for the morgue. It was John's job to pause and alert the reception and security that they were, in fact, here on business and not just a couple of trouble makers here for a good time. Idiots, all of them. you'd think they'd remember him coming often enough to examine corpses, run experiments and tests, and use their facilities to work through cases.

"Sherlock, the body's not going to just walk away you know." John quipped, speed walking to catch up to the consulting detective.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I know that John. I simply want to get there before whatever inept Pathologist they have on duty destroys what's left of the evidence. There can't be much left, since Anderson's already been at it, but I intend to find whatever remains."

"All right, all right." he replied, holding his hands out in mock surrender, smirking.

When they entered the morgue, the pathologist on duty was indeed already working with the body. Sherlock could tell she was new to St. Bart's but not new to the field of pathology by the way she handled the tools.

He could see clearly her brown hair, tied up tightly in a pony-tail, parted down the middle. Boring. Short, about a foot shorter than he was. small build, hidden underneath the lab coat and whatever bulky jumper and loose pants she wore underneath it. She had ear buds in, listening to music while she worked. She would be useless, obviously. Time to chase her out of the room.

John gave Sherlock a wary look, noticing the look on his face. This wasn't going to be pretty.

The woman hadn't even noticed that they had come in, but she would soon.

"You, out. Now. You're nothing but a distraction, and I am in no mood to have some mourning woman hovering over the body. You what, just broke up with someone? Emotionally compromised. I bet it must have hurt - learning that he never cared about you." Obvious by the way she held herself, she was in mourning. She was at work, so obviously it wasn't a death or family related. Relationship troubles then. Child's play.

The woman's back stiffened, and the tool she had been using clattered onto the table, the sound of metal against metal ringing through the echoing morgue.

She turned slowly, her brown eyes very much like a deer caught in the headlights - pathetic. Sherlock looked her up and down, his lip twitching in disgust. Thin lips, small nose, petite. Useless, average, boring woman.

She opened her mouth, and closed it once, twice, trying to find the right words.

John gave her a pitying look, and mouthed 'sorry' as her gaze flicked from one man to the other.

Finally, she seemed to gain some resolve. She straightened her back and met Sherlock's eyes as she took her out ear buds, and draped them around her neck before speaking.

"Hello. I'm here."

It was Sherlock's turn to stiffen. That voice. But it was moved his eyes up and down her figure, his mind drawing up something she had told him about. . . when they had the conversation about. . . what she looked like. How had she said she would look?

He cataloged the appearance of the woman in front of him, and of what he had saved. Brown hair, kept in a ponytail. Check. Brown eyes. Yes. Thin lips, small nose. There. Height, definitely close to what he had been told - one hundred sixty-three centimeters. This woman matched.

He cleared his throat. "Hello."

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.