AN: Back with a new story! Everyone has been really supportive of my other stories. Hope you all like this one too!

Sadly I do not own Sherlock, that honor belongs to ACD and Mofftiss. Nor is this for profit, but let me tell you if it was... ooh I'd be one happy girl! :)

"GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!" Molly Hooper roared as she hurled a beaker against the wall, just barely missing Sherlock Holmes. They had been through this- the arguing, not the violence- many, many times before; much more frequently as of late. But this time, clearly he had gone too far.

The day before…

It all began when Sherlock was asked for help in finding and returning a stolen diamond bracelet to its rightful owner. Admittedly it was not one of his most exciting cases, however this case offered an obscene payoff, the opportunity to attend a masquerade ball, and a means to stay occupied. The prospect of going to this ball roused him (he did enjoy dancing), unfortunately this would require a date. His good friend and constant companion John Watson had outlined the parameters in which he would leave his family to go crime solving, and unfortunately for Sherlock, that list did not include ballroom dancing. Enter: Molly Hooper.

When he broached the subject to her, she was completely ecstatic; she threw her arms around his neck while whispering a litany of "yes-es" into his ear. The fact that he 'forgot' to mention that this was all for a case was telling. The fact that he chose to ignore the flutter in his chest while she was in his arms, was even more telling.

Later that evening he picked up the transformed pathologist. She wore a black ball gown with lace detail and subtle gold embellishments, a feathered head piece, and a lace mask that revealed a pair of smoky brown eyes. In a word, she looked stunning, and in an attempt to be a gracious date, he let her know.

"Molly, you look absolutely lovely."

Molly didn't respond, but the smile she offered instead said that she was pleased with his complement. When the two arrived, Sherlock wasted little time before escorting her to the dance floor. All eyes were on the pair as they twirled and swayed in perfect unison with the music. Several dances later, Sherlock and Molly retreated to a dark corner where they drank their champagne and busied themselves with intimate, flirtatious conversation. Just as he tucked a fallen strand of hair behind her ear, an elegant woman approached them. "Mr. Holmes, there you are!"

Sherlock turned to face the intruder of their private moment and found himself face to face with Melody Pritchard, the woman that hired him. "I have to say," she said haughtily, "I didn't think I'd find you enjoying yourself. I was led to believe that when you were on a case, you forsook everything else until it was solved." When Mrs. Pritchard said this, Sherlock could feel Molly stiffen underneath his palm, which was comfortably resting on her lower back.

"Mrs. Pritchard, I have solved you case. In fact I had my suspicions before I arrived, which were confirmed as soon as I saw you." Sherlock said, matching her haughtiness in return. "Me?" Mrs. Pritchard asked indignantly.

What followed next was a blur of deductions and embarrassing accusations, and by the end of it, a small crowd had gathered to hear the startling conclusion. Needless to say, the party ended shortly after. Caught up in the excitement of it all Sherlock failed to notice how upset Molly was, that is- until they were alone in the cab.

"Ha! Wasn't that brilliant Molly? I don't know why she believed she could get one over me… Perhaps she is stupid? Oh I do love the stupid ones! They are begging to be caught..." Molly "hmm-ed" in response, and continued to gaze out the window. The cab turned onto Molly's street and slowed down. When Sherlock made a move to follow her out of the taxi, she finally spoke up. "What are you doing?"

"Well it's late and I don't feel like trekking all the way back to Baker St. I thought I could stay here tonight. We can order take-out. Chinese?"

"No Sherlock, I don't think that's a good idea. You should go." Molly answered through gritted teeth.

Very little ever escaped him, but as to why Molly appeared to be mad, he did not know. "Are you upset? I thought we had a good time?" he asked innocently.

Lowering her voice to a whisper- a menacing whisper- she glared down at the man who was still in the cab. "Oh you thought we had a good time? You mean on the case, right?" Sherlock nodded his head in agreement. "No, I did not have a good time on the case," she spat the last word out. Before he could respond, the cab door slammed in his face. The silence was eventually broken by the cabbie, who made the awe-inspiring observation: "Looks like your lady is mad, mate."

Sherlock wisely decided to give Molly the night to cool off, and waited until beginning of her shift to talk to her. He found her in the lab and immediately went into deduction mode. "You're angry because you thought last night was a date." It was neither a question nor a guess, simply a statement. Without looking up from her work, Molly huffed. "You think?" she bit out sarcastically.

Sherlock ignored the tension. "What I don't understand is why you are mad at me. You were the one who misinterpreted the situation. Why you would think that I'd ask you on a date is completely ridiculous!"

This was roughly the moment when a glass beaker flew right by his face.

Molly was livid. He knew what he had to do, as this wasn't his first time setting her off. Sherlock would apologize, give her a kiss (she seemed to like it when he kissed her forehead), and then bring her coffee (although this time maybe he would bring her lunch instead). He was no stranger to this little dance; so what if he had to act a little sentimental? If it meant getting Molly to work with him again, it was all worth it.

When it looked like he had no intention of leaving, she reached out to get another beaker to throw. As she kept her eyes on the man who was slowly approaching her, she failed to notice the broken shards that surrounded the work bench and cut herself. "Shit!" Molly cursed as crimson stained her white, pristine lab coat. Looking at her wound that extended from her palm to her wrist, she decided her first action should be removing the debris that was embedded. She struggled for few moments (as the cut was on her dominant hand) while she gathered first-aid medical supplies.

Sherlock stood idly by and watched as she scurried around the lab, before the immense guilt struck him. He walked towards Molly with worry etched on his face, and took her injured hand in his. Molly stared at their joined hands, upset at the intimacy of his touch and even more upset that she needed his help. She sighed and turned her palm over to give him a better look. He gently tended to her, disinfected her cut, and bandaged it without saying a word. When he was finally done he continued to hold her hand, tenderly brushing his fingers on her wrist, and conveniently lingered over her pulse.

Molly was fully aware of what he was doing. He always did it this: took her pulse, smirk at her when it became elevated, and move in to kiss her cheek (sometimes the forehead, which she secretly loved). And though it always did get some sort of reaction from her, she hated him for doing so. It was yet another manipulative tactic. Well if things were to ever change, she would need to be much stronger.

She pulled her hand free from his grasp. "Stop it Sherlock. Stop manipulating me and abusing my feelings for you… You use me, all the time. And that is partly my fault, for letting you get away with it. But I can't do this anymore!"

Sherlock took a step back, completely aghast. "What do you mean I 'use' you?"

Molly shook her head. "You know exactly what I mean. You flirt with me to get access to the morgue, or to get body parts. You compliment me to get me to go out on a case with you. You kiss me, for God's sake! Don't you realize that if you would just ask me, that I'd do it for you? You don't need to go this far; don't insult my intelligence! Why didn't you tell me last night was all for a case? I still would have helped you. Was all the dancing, and whispering, and touching completely necessary?"

The consulting detective averted his eyes and refused to answer. No it wasn't necessary, but that wasn't to say that it was entirely unpleasant.

"Sherlock, you thwart my every attempt at happiness. I try to move on, find someone, and you ruin it with your deductions and your horrid behavior. You criticize me when my relationships don't work out, even though it's usually your fault. Then you do that thing where you act affectionate and kind. You tell me that you need me. That I count- that I 'matter most'- so I set my heart on you, again, and you treat me horrendously; reducing me to nothing but a pest that is in your way! Either let go and let me move on… or -" Molly didn't know how to finish that sentence. Actually she did know, but it was a ridiculous notion. Instead she rallied on.

"I don't expect you to ever return my feelings, I accepted that long ago. Truly that's not even the biggest problem… I have given you everything you have ever asked me for, and you can't show me the least bit of respect? Do I really mean so little to you?"

At a loss for words (which never happens), Sherlock stared at her soaking in every word she said. Soon it was clear that he had no response to her question, which only inflamed her further.

"Sherlock, we are friends- or so I thought. Is that the problem then? I'm not John Watson, so you won't respect me?"

He began to feel his own anger rise. It wouldn't do him any good to lash out at her, he knew this, but then again he was never one for self-control. "Listen Dr. Hooper," he said scathingly, "I know that I am not the kindest of people, but I have always made an effort to show you that we are friends-"

Molly grunted and gave him a sardonic smile. "You've always made an effort? Ha! That's hilarious," she growled. "That's your problem. You don't know how much you hurt people, how much you've hurt me! People pity me Sherlock! Did you know that? They think I am pathetic for choosing to be around you…" He raised his eyebrows at the declaration. "That's right, I choose to be around you. So maybe they're right, hmm? I'm an idiot for sticking around when you treat me that way? But I can't do this anymore! So stop stringing me along, stop getting my hopes up, and leave me alone!"

The pathologist stepped around him and headed towards the door. She took off her lab coat to hang it up (as was her routine) and caught sight of the blood on the sleeve. 'Great, now I've got to take it home and wash it!' she thought.

Quickly she gathered the rest of her belongings, avoiding the glare that Sherlock was sending her way. She felt slightly silly for her behavior. Nothing was going to change, because in the seven years of their acquaintance, it never had. In a few days she would begin to miss him again, accept whatever apology he offered, and they would continue working as if nothing had happened. Like always.

She stopped at the door and sadly sighed. "I am not going to apologize for the things I've said," she began delicately. "While it is entirely true, it was rude of me to throw everything at you all at once. Give me a few days to calm down, and we'll talk again." She opened the doors to the lab and gave him one last look. "Honestly Sherlock, I wish you could understand how I feel… understand just how much your words and behavior pain me."

AN: There we go... This is sort of an introduction, but stay tuned!

**Please take a second to leave a review, let me know how I'm doing!