Hi! This is my first time writing fan-fiction. I'm not sure how long this story will be, but I hope you enjoy the Sherlolly angst. Any feedback would be awesome :)

Molly glanced up in her mirror as she wiped a brush full of pink-gold blush on her left cheek. A fashion magazine had recommended it as being the best color on the market. As she applied to her other cheek, she couldn't help but feel like the editors had to have been right. It really did make her look "naturally flushed," as the not-so-candid name of the NARS product promised its users.

As she started to apply her eyeliner, she realized just how strange it was for her to get ready for something that she never felt that she could successfully. Something that she dreaded ever since he took the pleasure of pointing out how dreadful her dating life had been. Molly smirked as she drew a dark cat eye on her lid. She wondered how Mr. Sherlock Holmes would react if he saw her now: dressed up in chiffon LBD paired with gold heels and dramatic 60's eye makeup. He'd probably tell her that the gold-flecked lip-gloss that she just applied was "refracting light at an angle that makes her already small lips look even smaller."

Molly giggled as the daydream popped into her head. Thank god she was finally over Sherlock Holmes.

It hadn't been easy for her to let Sherlock out of her life. He had always known that he was her greatest weakness, which is why he had come to her with his greatest need: faking his death.

She complied with his request, now one year ago, being the dutiful, mousy Molly that she was at the time. She administered the serum that slowed his breathing and heartbeat to the point that medics would overlook their presence. She had taken his bruised body into the morgue, faked his autopsy, and told the police that he was dead. She even allowed him to stay with her for a few days to recover from the fall that nearly killed him—a stay that proved to be Molly's breaking point.

The night after the fall, she had let him lean his broken body on her shoulder as she shuffled him up to her flat. Upon entering, Sherlock fell on her couch and was out before Molly could turn on the lights.

"You were wrong, you know. You do count." Molly heard Sherlock's words reverberate around her head as she carried a blanket to cover the sleeping consulting detective. His bluntness had surprised her. Molly knew that Sherlock had been friendly with her (more or less to gain access to her morgue), but his revelation that she actually meant something to him—that he trusted her—had sent shockwaves through her body she had never felt before. She thought that maybe he held more feelings for her than she could have imagined, feelings that could be revealed during his recovery.

Her thoughts couldn't have been further from the truth.

Sherlock's stay at Molly's had been brief in all accounts. After a full 24 hours of sleeping, Sherlock took it upon himself to make Molly's living room into a Moriarty hack network, in which he "borrowed" her laptop and spent the majority of his stay researching the criminal. Whenever Molly approached him, Sherlock told her he was "too busy" to talk. The food she made for him went uneaten on the plates that she brought out for him, though he regularly drank she poured for him. The only time Sherlock would arise from the living room was the use the bathroom. It was during this brief moments that Molly would occasionally lock eyes with the detective, who would look at her as if she were some sort of stranger. Molly came and went from her flat without any acknowledge from Sherlock that she had gone or arrived home.

For three days, Sherlock slept, drank and stayed in her house, without mumbling much more than requests for coffee. On the morning of forth day of his arrival, Molly walked into her living room to find it completely clean and organized. On top of her laptop, there was a note addressed to her.

Thanks for your kindness and accommodation. I am forever indebted. -SH

Molly watched as her tears smeared the black ink on the note, as she slowly lowered herself onto the spot on the sofa in which Sherlock had inhabited less than a few hours ago. She had risked her job, her reputation, to save a man that had used her home as a motel. She had lied to the police for a man who hadn't even had the decency to thank her in person. And yet, she couldn't help but wonder if she'll ever see him again.

She crumpled the letter and threw it on the floor. If I counted he wouldn't have done this to me. He would have had the decency to treat me like a human, to say goodbye. Molly rose from the sofa and walked toward her room. A slow cooling started to numb the ache that permeated in her chest.