Until We Meet Again

Molly Hooper’s trembling hands made it almost impossible to unlock her front door. Sherlock Holmes stood with his back against the brick exterior and watched her struggle with the lock. Looking bored, he started to raise his hand to help her out, but she waved him off. His hand returned to his coat pocket.

She entered her building first. She heard Sherlock close and lock the door behind him. She ascended the stairs to her flat, Sherlock wordlessly following her. Toby ran to her at the landing and frantically scratched at her trousers. She placed her keys and sling bag on the small table beside the coat rack and hung up her coat.

Sherlock flopped himself down on Molly’s burgundy couch. “Tea?” Molly offered, breaking the silence between them. She put her hands into her trouser pockets as she stood beside the couch.

Sherlock turned to her, his usual confident gaze gone. He looked lost and miserable. “Yes, that would be lovely.” He spoke with a raspy voice and a quiet tone that Molly found foreign and unsettling.

She nodded and then headed to her small kitchen. She poured cat food into Toby’s bowl and petted him as he dove into it. Then she put on the kettle. She stood with her back on the counter and stared at Sherlock. She had tended to his wounds and bruises in the morgue, but she could see that the greatest injury for him was leaving John, Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson behind. He might have faked his physical death, but she could see that he felt empty and numb. He hadn’t even taken off his Belstaff coat and blue scarf. He just sat on her couch, his hands steepled under his nose, unmoving, and staring at nothing. He misses John, she thought.

When the kettle boiled, she pulled out two mugs from her cupboard and prepared the tea. She brought the steaming mugs into the sitting area and handed one to Sherlock. He took it and slowly sipped. “Thank you, Molly.”

She smiled at him. “You’re welcome.” She sat on her favourite armchair and sipped from her mug. “So,” she started slowly. Sherlock turned to her with a questioning look in his blue-green eyes. Good, she mused. Questioning is better than nothing. “Let me hear your deductions.”

“What are you on about?” He looked genuinely confused.

“You’ve been inside my flat for over five minutes. You usually spout off your brilliant deductions within a minute.” Molly took a deep breath and smiled at him.

Sherlock stayed silent for nearly a minute, only staring at Molly. "Are you sure? You usually end up upset and crying when I do that."

Molly shrugged. "I'm bored. And since you don't like me trying to start conversations, I might as well let you do the talking."

He stared at her for a few more moments. Then he smiled, the one that he gave when an interesting case came up, and began to look around her flat. He placed his mug on the coffee table and stood up from the couch. He walked to a spot between the couch and the door and looked around. She watched as he took in her small kitchen, her sitting area, the closed doors of the guest bedroom and the bathroom, and the slightly open door of her bedroom. Then he took a deep breath, a smile on his lips.

"You moved into this flat the same day that you were hired at St. Bart's. You could afford a better flat but you chose this because your late father knew the landlord. You have filled the space with furniture and knickknacks that remind you of your father. In fact, most of your furniture is your father's. You inherited them when he died. Your flat is surprisingly tidy, considering that you own a cat. Must be the mild OCD. You haven't had a man - or anyone else, for that matter - here since Moriarty. You rarely ever go out. While you do have friends, they are mostly married or in a committed relationship. Some of them even have kids, so they barely have time to go out with single female friends such as yourself. So you stay home and watch telly or read a book with a glass of red wine. Judging by the many romantic comedies and period dramas in your DVD rack and by the fact that you still harbour romantic feelings for me, you are a hopeless but very optimistic romantic.” He paused and gave her a curious look as she laughed at this last bit. She nodded at him and he continued. “You like to keep yourself updated with advances in medicine, particularly in your field. This contributes to the fact that you are excellent at your job. While your bookshelves are mostly filled with medical journals and books, you also have classics and contemporary novels with female protagonists, as well as biographies and memoirs of powerful women in history. That suggests you are likely a feminist.” He paused and faced her small kitchen. “You like to cook and you’re moderately good at it. But you are usually too tired to cook so you prefer takeaways.” He narrowed his eyes at the closed guest bedroom door. “Your brother occasionally visits you, but you prefer to have him sleep on an actual bed rather than on the sofa-bed. This suggests you are close to him and it shows your caring nature.” He turned to her bedroom and looked at her with his left eyebrow raised. “May I?”

Molly chewed her lower lip. She wasn’t sure if she cleaned her bedroom before she left in the morning. She didn’t want him to see her knickers and bras! But she wanted him to deduce her apartment – asked for it, really – just to get him out of the unsettling funk that he was in. So she nodded and led the way.

“Don’t clean up!” Sherlock’s words stopped her before she could pick up several bras and knickers that littered the floor. Crap, she thought. What came over me this morning that I dragged my underwear onto the floor? She tried to remember, but she couldn’t think of the reason. She surveyed her underwear, her cheeks turning pink. She could only dread what Sherlock would say about her bedroom.

"As I surmised, no man has been in this bedroom since Moriarty. The dent of a man's body is absent from the right side of the bed. You keep a photo of your family on your bedside table. We've already established that you love and value your family, particularly your father. But you have your ratty baby quilt besides your duvet. Sentiment. Your mother made that when she was pregnant with you. You virtually have no contact with her because she now lives in Canada with her new husband. Only occasional phone calls and e-mails. You miss her but you have never visited her." He turned to her dressing table. "You are adequate at painting your face, and you are loyal to your favourite brands. Oh, by the way," he began as he picked up the lipstick she wore the day that he beat up a corpse with a riding crop, "this is the best colour for your lips." His gaze went to the floor, where her underwear was scattered. "You had a lunch date today that could have led to a dinner date. But you didn't want to wear your usual underwear. You wanted the sexier ones. It indicates that you like this guy enough and that you were looking forward to sleeping with him. But really, under the circumstances, I suggest that you don't enter into a romantic relationship until I've returned from the dead." He bent to pick up a particular pair of pants. Molly tried to snatch it out of his hands, but he raised the arm that held it to get it out of her reach. "Skull prints on your knickers? Really?" He rolled his eyes, but he smirked at her, clearly amused by her strange taste in pants. He surveyed her room again as he released the skull pants from his grip. He headed for the door, making Molly hope that he had finished his deductions. But he stopped and closed the door instead. He reached for her favourite green scarf, a gift from her father, which was hanging from the rack behind the door and fingered the material. "Hmmm... Cashmere. Did your father give this to you?"

Molly nodded. "He gave that to me on his last Christmas on earth. He said it would remind me of him whenever I wear it. He was right." A tear rolled off her cheek. All this talk of her father was making her miss him. She wiped it away with her forefinger and turned to Sherlock, who was now staring at her as if he couldn't fathom why she was crying. He was also feeling the material of her purple dressing gown that was draped over her small chocolate brown armchair by the door.

Molly wondered why Sherlock was touching her scarf and dressing gown. She had expected him to avoid touching her belongings. Well, it's Sherlock, she thought. "How did you even know my mum is now in Canada?"

"The T-shirt with the maple leaf in your closet. Plus I got that from my brother's intel and surveillance." He sat down on her unmade bed.

She was shocked. "Surveillance?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “My brother likes to know everything about my friends. And I mean everything.”

She smiled, despite the shock that she was being watched. He just referred to her as a friend. Well, she thought, it’s better than nothing. He rolled his eyes when he saw her smile. “Of course, you’re my friend.” She ignored his annoyed tone and the almost disgusted way he said the last word and rolled her own eyes.

“How did you know that my landlord knew my father?” She sat next to him.

“Your landlord told me. I told him I was your boyfriend when he caught me opening your door using my key. He mentioned that he would kick my arse for your father if I broke your heart.”

“What? Where did you get the key? I never gave you one!” Molly punched his arm.

He yelped in pain. “Ow! What was that for?” He looked surprised and annoyed at being punched by the small pathologist. Molly felt a little better.

She took a deep breath and tried to keep her voice level. “Sherlock, I never gave you a key to my flat. Why the hell do you have one?”

“Obviously, I had your key duplicated. Do keep up, Molly.” He looked bored. But she could see uncertainty and something else that she couldn't describe in his eyes.

“But why? Why do you need to get a key to my flat?” She couldn't believe it. Sherlock had invaded her privacy! He didn't answer. She punched him again. "SHERLOCK!"

"Fine!" He growled and turned his body towards hers. He gripped her upper arms with his enormous hands. It hurt a bit, but she stayed silent. "I stole your key and had it duplicated after Moriarty almost blew up John and me. I wanted to make sure that he didn't have any bugs in here. I had to make sure you were safe from him. You did date him. I thought you'd be a target." He loosened his grip on her arms. He now spoke more gently. "But you weren't. And for that I am thankful.” He took a deep breath and gazed into her eyes. “He almost had John and me killed. I wanted to make sure he didn't do anything to you that night. He was psychotic. Who knew what he would have done to you if he thought you counted to me?" He sighed. "Molly, every person associated with me is not safe because of my work. I have a lot of enemies. Now that the world thinks I'm dead, John, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, and you are a lot safer." Her heart swelled at the emphasis on her.

She noticed that he didn’t mention Mycroft. "But what about your brother?"

"He's the British government. He's untouchable." Sherlock maintained his hold on Molly's upper arms. When he spoke again, he was even gentler. "I apologise for invading your privacy, but I just wanted to know that you were safe."

She nodded. It made sense. She was still annoyed that he invaded her privacy, but at least he had a good reason. "So did Ji- Moriarty, I mean, install bugs in my flat?"

"No. The only bugs I found were Mycroft's." Sherlock released his hold on her. He must have seen the concern on her face because he touched her shoulder. “Oh, relax. His bugs didn’t pick up anything bad.” He smirked. “Only the bad sex you’ve been having.”

Molly gasped. He had let go of her so she punched him on the arm. “You and your brother have been listening?” She was appalled.

Sherlock chuckled. “So you have been having bad sex?” That earned him another punch, which only made him chuckle more. “Was Moriarty one of them?”

She blushed, remembering the rather rough and unsatisfying time with Jim in bed, but quickly recovered. “He wasn’t the best, but he wasn’t the worst.” She smirked at him. “How would you even know how to differentiate between good and bad sex? John let it slip once that you’re a virgin!”

Molly saw a flash of sadness cross Sherlock’s face at the mention of his best friend. Shit, she cursed to herself. You are so insensitive! But he only shook his head as if to get the pain out. He grinned at her, his usual wall back up. "Yes, but I am an expert in chemistry and observing people. I'd know what you like by judging from your reactions to my touch. I may be inexperienced, but I theorize that I can give you the best sex you'll ever have."

She blushed at his answer. God, he's so smug, she thought. He could probably do it too. “Perhaps when you’re back for good, we can test that theory.” Sherlock frowned at her words. What have you done, Molly? You’re such an idiot, she chastised herself again. “Whoops, sorry!”

Sherlock surprised her by grinning widely. “You don’t need to apologise. It might even be an interesting experiment.” Both of them chuckled and glanced at each other before looking away. Molly hoped he was also trying to diffuse the awkwardness.

She made a mental note to use more scientific terms around him. Then she remembered that it could be months, years even, before she could see him again. Great, I made myself sad, she sighed to herself.

Sherlock stared at her. “Are you all right?”

She looked at her bedside clock. It was just after midnight. Sherlock had been officially dead for fourteen hours. She suddenly felt the exhaustion and the stress. She turned her attention back to him, who was gazing at her as if she were a puzzle. "Yeah, I'm fine. I'm just exhausted. I barely had any sleep last night."

Sherlock nodded. "It's all right. Go to bed. I have to sift through the evidence in my mind palace anyway."

It was Molly's turn to nod. John had mentioned Sherlock's mind palace once. It shed light on his periods of silence in her lab and in her morgue. Since then, she either left him alone in the lab or quietly worked whenever he was quiet for more than ten minutes.

After a moment of awkward silence, Sherlock rose from the bed. Molly followed suit, expecting him to leave her bedroom as soon as his athletic legs could. But he turned to her and gently put his hands on her shoulders. Then he moved his hands to her cheeks and brought his face closer to hers. She was certain he could hear – and feel – her heart pounding as he brought his lips to hers.

The kiss lasted a few seconds, but she could still feel his lips after they left hers. She looked up at him and was surprised to see so much emotion in his blue-green eyes. She could understand the sadness of leaving the people he cared about behind, the pain of knowing that his best friend was hurting, and the fear of taking down a global network of criminals. But she could see something else that she could not properly describe. Although his pupils were so blown that only a thin ring of blue-green was visible in each eye and she could tell that his heart was racing as well, ‘desire’ could not fully describe what she was seeing. That word wasn't enough to describe what she was seeing on his face. Not even close. 

"Thank you, Molly." His voice was low and raspy, full of emotions that he was trying to keep hidden. But she saw them anyway. Then he captured her mouth with his again. It lasted longer this time, although perhaps neither Molly nor Sherlock knew how much longer. She marvelled at how soft his lips were as she returned his kiss with equal passion. She found her hands in his curls, finally giving in to one of her fantasies concerning the man who was kissing her. She couldn’t help moaning when he opened his mouth to run his tongue across her lips. She granted him access and he deepened the kiss.

Molly was the first to pull away. Not that she wanted to, but she needed air. Sherlock's forehead gently rested on hers as they caught their breaths. 

"Goodnight, Molly," he whispered. He laid a gentle kiss on her forehead and turned to leave.

"Goodnight, Sherlock." He turned to her and smiled before leaving her bedroom.

Molly remained standing by her bed a few minutes after Sherlock left. She wiped the tears that suddenly rolled down her cheeks. She didn't even know that she was crying, let alone why. Perhaps she feared for Sherlock's safety. She knew he could be reckless and impulsive while on a case. She hoped he would keep John, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, and his brother in mind while he dismantled Moriarty's web. She doubted he would think about her while he was away. But he kissed you, didn't he, a voice she recognised as hers stated in her mind. Not once, but twice, the voice insisted. She shook her head, in very much the same way that Sherlock did earlier, to shut up the voice. And it did. 

She changed into her pyjamas and performed her nightly beauty regime. And then she lay in bed listening to any sound from the sitting room until she fell asleep. 

••••

Two hours later, Sherlock's new untraceable mobile phone, which Mycroft hastily procured for him, vibrated.

Car is en route to Dr Hooper's building. Be ready in 30 minutes. - MH

He took a deep breath. He thought of John, Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade, remembering that snipers had them on their sights sixteen hours ago. His resolve to dismantle James Moriarty's web strengthened. Then he turned to the direction of Molly's bedroom.

He was grateful for everything that she had done for him in the last thirty hours. He couldn't have faked his suicide without her intelligence, skills, and unwavering loyalty to him. She was the perfect missing link to his plans and he was glad that he saw that and Moriarty didn't. Opening up her flat for him, even for one night, was her idea. She reasoned that he needed medical attention and emotional support after his fake suicide, to which he agreed. He hoped to convey his gratitude through one simple chaste kiss.

But the second kiss was completely different. He wasn’t just grateful for her friendship. He wasn't even planning to kiss her again. But he could still feel her soft lips and he was eager to taste them again. Then it was like a dam broke within him. He felt desire rise, much stronger and from a much deeper well than what he felt for The Woman. He wanted to taste her lips until they needed to come up for air. He wanted to worship her small body. And he wanted to do those things and be with her for all eternity.

But he couldn't let his desires - and feelings? - distract him from his mission. So he let her pull away from him, even if he wanted to pull her close and never let go. 

He looked at his watch. The car would be here in fifteen minutes. He was ready, but he couldn’t leave without saying goodbye. Somehow, that didn’t feel right. So he would leave a note then. He picked up the notepad, as well as the pen beside it, from the coffee table. He brought them to the dining table, sat down on one of the two chairs, and thought of what he would say. 

He finished the note in ten minutes. He wasted a few sheets and he had to block out a couple of mistakes. But in the end, the note conveyed what he needed to say. He left it, as well as the notepad and pen, on the kitchen table with the small vase of lilacs serving as paperweight and threw the crumpled and unused sheets into the rubbish bin under the sink. Then he headed for Molly's bedroom. 

He gently closed the door as he gazed at her sleeping form. She looks so exhausted, he thought, his chest tightening. If it weren't for her affections for him, she would have been sleeping peacefully at her usual bedtime. And she wouldn't have risked her career and her life, a voice reminded him. He shook it off as he stepped closer to her bed. He had no time to be guilty.

He knelt beside her and lightly touched her cheek. "Thank you, Molly Hooper," he whispered. Then he laid a gentle kiss on her lips. To his surprise, she didn't stir. "Goodbye. For now."

He stood up and surveyed her bedroom. With one last look at Molly, Sherlock headed towards the door and grabbed her green scarf. He left the bedroom and went to the kitchen, where his note was waiting to be read. He uncoiled his signature blue scarf from his pale neck and placed it beside his note. He wrapped the green scarf around his neck and waited for his brother’s text. His mobile vibrated in his pocket a few moments later. 

The car is here. Let's go. - MH

Sherlock descended the stairs and strode towards the front door. "Goodbye, Molly," he whispered to the empty foyer. Then he left the building and entered the black car waiting at the curb. 

••••

Molly's eyes fluttered open at the sound of her alarm clock going off. She looked over at her bedside table. Six o’clock. She was on the afternoon shift that day so there was no hurry for her to get up. She could even take a personal day. Everyone who had seen her and Sherlock together knew what she felt for him. Her boss would understand if she took a few days off to grieve. Plus, she knew it would help sell the lie that he was dead. 

She turned towards the direction of the sitting room. She didn't expect to see him there when she left her bedroom. He agreed to spend only one night in her flat. She supposed he used that time in his mind palace instead of sleeping. Even so, she still couldn’t help the sadness that crept into her heart. I think I already miss him, she thought.

She sat up and brought her fingers to her lips. Strange, she thought. I could still feel his lips. She closed her eyes at the memory of their kiss. Kisses, the voice in her head reminded her. 

Of course, she understood why he kissed her the first time. Sherlock was a man who didn't waste actions, especially when they conveyed what he felt better than words could. She knew he was only grateful for her help. She knew it killed him to ask for it in the first place. It was probably equally difficult, if not more so, to verbalise his gratitude. So he kissed her. It was a quick, closed-mouthed kiss, which she was too shocked to return, but she couldn’t deny that it still set her insides on fire. She had been waiting for him to kiss her for years. She’d take what she could get, especially because she might not get another chance to kiss him.

Then he kissed her again. She blushed at the memory. That wasn’t a chaste kiss. It was everything she had hoped for in a kiss with Sherlock Holmes: passionate and full of deep-seated desire. She couldn't believe that he was capable of that kind of kiss, especially for a virgin. 

Then she recalled his teasing about the supposedly - ahem, actually - unsatisfying sex she had been having and their awkward and highly ill-timed challenge when he returned for good. God, what was I thinking? And what was he thinking? Wouldn't he need actual sexual experience to be able to give me the best sex I'd ever have? She dropped her face on her palms and shook her head.

She mentally hit herself for the way her thoughts went. Sherlock Holmes would never give in to his primal desires, not for her. And if he did, it would probably as clinical and scientific as he always appeared to be. He even referred to it as an experiment. So she had no reason to be excited at the prospect of how good it would be. 

She rose from the bed and walked into the bathroom. She washed her face and brushed her teeth. Just another ordinary day, she mused. She picked up the underwear that littered her floor and placed them back in her drawers. She flushed at the memory of Sherlock teasing her about her skull knickers. She dumped it in her drawer before walking out of her bedroom. 

She stood in the sitting room and felt the emptiness. She knew Sherlock would be gone in the morning. She didn't expect him to say goodbye. But it still hurt to realise her already low expectations. 

Then she saw his blue scarf on her kitchen table. Confused, she picked it up and hugged it to herself. It still smelled of that distinct Sherlock scent: masculine and clean despite the cigarettes and nicotine patches. She smiled when the scent of the eucalyptus aftershave that she gave him the previous Christmas wafted from the scarf. He opened it, she thought. Maybe out of guilt, she reminded herself. But he opened my Christmas gift. The heaviness in her heart slightly lifted at the thought.

Her gaze fell upon the loose sheets of paper on the table. She sat down and picked up the note. She recognised Sherlock's messy and barely legible handwriting. Her free hand flew to her chest as she started reading his note.

Molly Hooper,

First, I apologise for all the wrongs I've done you over the years. I realise now that you didn't deserve the humiliation and pain I caused you. I am sorry. When this is all over, I will try to be a better friend to you. If I hurt you again, you are welcome to punch me in the face. 

Second, thank you for everything that you have done for me. For letting me work in your lab and morgue. For your patience and understanding when I needed to venture into my mind palace. For your vast knowledge and unmatched skills in pathology and other branches of medicine. Speaking of which, I will always be indebted to you for your help in faking my death. You are the best pathologist at Barts and don’t you forget it.

Third, I have programmed your mobile number in my new phone. I will text you once it is safe. Do not mention any names. If you need to, use first initials. It is best to be cautious even if this mobile is supposedly state-of-the-art and secure. One can never fully trust Mycroft.

Finally, I will try to sleep and eat whenever I can. This will be the biggest case of my career, but I will try to take care of myself. I will try my damnedest to stay alive and come back to my old life. To Baker Street. To John, Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade. To you.

And I will come back. I don’t know when, but I will. Look after John, Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade while I’m away. Also let them look after you. Take care of yourself. I need you alive and well when I return...

I will text you soon. But until we meet again, I bid you adieu.

Yours,

Sherlock Holmes

Molly was sobbing, her chest heaving, by the time she finished reading Sherlock’s goodbye note. She could barely see the words and she had to wipe away the tears several times before she reached the end. Then she put the note back on the table and cried some more, covering her wet face with her hands. 

When her tears finally stopped, she wiped her face with the hem of her pyjama top. She rose from the chair and made herself tea and toast. Then she called Dr Carlton and told him that she would like to take a personal day. As expected, he said OK and extended his condolences. She thanked him and hung up. 

What am I going to do now? She didn't want to lounge around and weep all day. Also Sherlock asked her to look after his other friends. I will go to Baker Street then, she decided. If she were going to cry again today, then she would cry with Mrs Hudson and John. 

She placed Sherlock’s blue scarf on her bed on the way to the bathroom. Then she took a relaxing bath and stayed in the tub until her skin started to prune. She smiled as she stepped into her skull pants and pulled on the matching skull bra. Then she dressed in a black blouse and a pair of black skinny jeans. She phoned Mrs Hudson while filling Toby’s food and water bowls. Sherlock’s landlady told her that it would be all right to visit, although John locked himself in his room. “Are you sure it’s OK to come by?” she asked again. “I know you and John are mourning. I don’t want to impose.” The elderly lady assured her that she would rather mourn with Molly than by herself. She knew that Mrs Hudson treated Sherlock like a son and his death hurt her probably as much as it hurt his own mother. Molly thanked her before hanging up the phone. 

Her phone beeped. It was a text message from an unknown number. 

Take care of my scarf, and I will take care of yours. - S

Molly was confused about the last part of Sherlock's message.

My scarf? - xM

His reply arrived almost immediately.

Your green scarf. - S

Molly ran into her bedroom and discovered that, yes, the green cashmere scarf that her father gave her was gone.

Why did you take it? And why did you leave yours? - xM

Two reasons. One, I'll be less recognisable without the blue scarf. - S

And the other reason? - xM

It took a few more moments before Sherlock replied.

It's part of my promise to come back. When this is all over and I can resurface, I'll return your scarf and you'll return mine. - S

Molly smiled, although she was a little miffed that it had to be her father's gift. She had other scarves!

Well, don't lose it and don’t ruin it. That's my favourite! - xM

Obvious. It's easily accessible and clearly worn out. And, yes, I'll do my best not to lose or ruin it. Unless I get decapitated. - S

No, don't even think about that kind of stuff. You will come back, alive and in one piece. We will wait for you. - xM

'We'? You're the only one who knows the truth. You're not planning on telling them, are you? - S

No, of course not! I only meant that I'll wait for you on their behalf. - xM

Just for them? - S

Molly blushed. This was not that Sherlock Holmes that she knew.

For my own sake too. Just promise me you'll take care of yourself. - xM

It's on the note. But, yes, I'll try my best to stay alive. For you. - S

Molly couldn't help the grin that spread across her face.

Sorry, but I've gotta go. M is waiting for me. - xM

Fine. I'll text you again later. Bye. - S

Molly picked up his scarf from her bed and hugged it to herself as she texted him goodbye. She contemplated telling him that she already missed him, but she knew he'd ignore it. She inhaled his scent from the scarf and reluctantly dropped it back on her bed. Then she left her flat for 221B Baker Street. On the cab ride to Baker Street, her phone beeped again. She gawked at it in shock.

I am looking forward to starting our experiment when I come back. Yes, that experiment. - S

****

This work was originally published on 20 March 2013 on fanfiction.net/s/9119903/1/ and archiveofourown.org/works/737461.