Molly swiveled in her chair as she watched Sherlock hunched over the microscope. He hadn't spoken in over an hour. She knew he would say he was engrossed in his work, but she saw the way his brows furrowed and his eyes darted to the side toward where she was seated. He had something on his mind and was trying to figure out how to say it.

He had been particularly disagreeable that morning, bursting through the doors without so much as a "Hello, Molly. How are you?" No, he had just strutted in and begun demanding this and that of her.

"I need this sample under a microscope right away," he had told her as he pushed a vial of yellowish liquid into her hands and tossed his coat onto a table.

"Sherlock, I'm rather busy," she had tried to explain. It was true. She had her hands full that morning with a double drowning. "Besides," she had continued, "You're not even really supposed to be in here. If the department heads knew what I've been doing for you I could lose my job."

Sherlock hadn't answered, but looked at her intently. "You've changed your shampoo, haven't you?" he had asked, sniffing. "Vanilla and black current. Very nice. I like it."

Molly had sighed inwardly. He was doing the thing. The thing where he "flirted" with her in order to get what he wanted. It was bad enough when he openly degraded her, but his brand of flirting was worse. She hated being manipulated by him and how she felt about him. Worse, she hated that his tactics, more often than not, worked.

"Not today," she had told herself. She may be crazy about him, but Sherlock Holmes was not going to manipulate her today.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," she'd told him flatly. "I can't help you today. I am very busy."

She had set the vial on the table next to his coat and walked away before he could answer.

She hadn't been surprised when he'd followed her back to where one of the drowning victims lay stiff and grey on the cold metal slab.

"You're not going to help me?" he had asked as if she were refusing him a life-saving operation.

"No," Molly had replied as she put on her gloves and gathered her instruments. "You're welcome to use the lab, Sherlock, but you'll be on your own, so don't make a mess and don't let anyone see you. If you do, I'll tell them you broke in and you know they'll believe me over you."

Sherlock had frowned at her, his unruly brows furrowed and his jaw clenched. He was angry. Molly decided she didn't care. She had turned her back to him and set about working on drowning victim number one.

"Trouble in paradise?" he had asked her bitterly.

"What?" Molly questioned.

"Are you and the new boyfriend having problems?" Sherlock asked. "That would explain your rather uncharacteristic hostility toward me. Either that, or it's your time of the month."

Molly had slowly turned to face the detective. She felt her face growing warm and red with anger and embarrassment.

"Neither of those things are any of your business, Sherlock Holmes," she had hissed, waving her scalpel in his face. "Perhaps it's never occurred to you that I am just tired of you waltzing in here all the time and demanding things of me without ever offering so much as a thank you. I am your friend, Sherlock, but I'm not your doormat, so kindly stop walking all over me."

She had spun back around and slashed at the victim on the slab with the scalpel and Sherlock had jumped backward.

"Good," Molly had thought as he grunted and walked away. "Maybe he'll leave me alone for a bit."

He had left her alone for the rest of the morning. He didn't ask for anything, made no comments, unpleasant or otherwise, just sat at his microscope studying his specimen and occasionally making notes. Molly could see the wheels in his head turning though. He wasn't fully focused on what was in front of him. He was distracted and it was irritating him to no end. Finally, he looked up.

"I'm sorry," he said a bit reluctantly. When Molly made no reply he continued. "I'm always grateful for your help, Molly. Perhaps I just don't say it as often as I should."

"Perhaps," Molly replied, a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

Sherlock said nothing else, but went back to studying his specimen. He still looked distracted and bothered. Molly felt almost sorry for him. How could a mind so brilliant be so inept at human relations? His social skills were atrocious to near non-existent, yet he could deduce a person's life history from looking at their shoes. His heart seemed somehow squeezed out by his above-average mind. He could be so cold and unfeeling at times, almost heartless. Yet, there were brief moments when he seemed to be nothing more than a frightened boy hiding behind his massive intellect.

Molly watched him as he worked, studying him carefully. He kept a guard up most of the time. She could only imagine what had caused him to erect such a thick wall. What was it that he was so afraid of?

"My cat, Toby, is a rescue," she told him out of the blue. He looked up from his microscope and blinked, confused.

"What?" he asked.

"I rescued him," Molly went on. "He was quite banged up and in sorry shape. I think he'd been hurt by his previous owner." She paused and thought a moment about the little bleeding ball of fluff she'd found in the alley on her way home from work. He'd been nearly dead when she'd lifted him out of the pile of rubbish and wrapped him in a blanket and carried him to her flat.

"I nursed him back to health, but we had a rough time at first," Molly told Sherlock. "He wasn't very trusting of me and would hiss and claw and strike at me if I got too close. He didn't seem to understand that I was looking out for his own good. I ended up getting pretty scratched up, but in the end we became friends."

"Why are you telling me this?" asked Sherlock.

"No reason, really," Molly lied. "I'm just making conversation. Toby's a good cat and we've come a long way in our relationship, but there are still times when he lashes out at me. I'm not sure why. Maybe just bad memories…"

Sherlock sighed and returned his attention to his specimen. It was several moments before he spoke again.

"I'm not a cat, Molly," he said without looking up.

"I know that, Sherlock," Molly answered. "But I hope you know you can trust me. Not just here either or with cases or whatever. You can-"

"I do trust you," Sherlock interrupted, looking up at her. "I wouldn't be here if I didn't."

Molly wasn't sure if he meant that he wouldn't be in the lab if he didn't trust her, or if his meaning stretched into something more. She had been integral to his survival after his final confrontation with Moriarty, after all.

"I'm indebted to you, Molly Hooper," Sherlock told her. "But you know how I am. Don't expect me to eat from your hand."

"No, of course not," Molly replied. Sherlock gave her a small smile before bending back over the microscope.

"You know," Molly said thoughtfully. "I have the ears of that mutilation victim in the freezer."

Sherlock's head shot up immediately and he looked at her with expectation.

"Would you care to have a look?" she asked.

A wide grin spread across the detective's face, making him look like a child who had just been offered a box of sweets. He quickly abandoned his specimen and his notes and followed her in the direction of the freezer. Molly struggled to stifle the giggle that rose in her throat.

"No, Sherlock Holmes," she thought, amused. "You'll never eat from my hand."

The End

A/N:

Just a little Sherlolly fluff to stretch my brain muscles while I'm working on more Sherlock stories that I'll be sharing. I've ignored poor John so far, but that will be remedied soon. Please leave me a comment crumb in the box. I'm starving.

Fanny