"Because Sylar stole the medicine that cured him," Mohinder said, perhaps not sugar coating it as well as he should have. Molly turned to look at him, though her back remained firmly planted against Matt's chest. Mohinder could appreciate that. Matt was the protector. The brawn. He might like his hair stroked (speculation on Mohinder's part as Mohinder simply liked to stroke his hair) but that didn't make him any less formidable.

Mohinder thought that he ought to sit up but, alas, his head glued to the pillow and a yawn in the back of his throat, Mohinder stayed where he was. Perhaps it would give Molly the impression that he wasn't worried--

And honestly, Mohinder wasn't. Sylar had been disposed of. Peter took him somewhere that he could never hurt anyone again. Or, if not that, a place where it would take several life times to discover him again. Mohinder didn't mean to be a little morally gray in that area, but after he was gone, it wouldn't matter so much. He just wanted to protect his family.

"He found us again, back in New York," Mohinder started before Molly pulled up her knees and stared up at the cut on Matt's forehead. "It's all right. He's done. Dead for certain. We made one hundred percent sure of it this time," he promised.

The corner of his braised lips turned upwards as he reached for her.

"It's why it's safe for you to come home again. You should see our new apartment. No more Matt on the couch."