It was the fifth time today that Molly had to stop in the middle of her autopsy to walk calmly to her office, close the door, and lower herself slowly to the ground, trying to restrain her tears. She hadn't even gotten through one corpse today and her shift was almost done. Sherlock had been extra cruel this time. He degraded her within an inch of making her burst out in tears right in front of him. He had been having a bad day that was for certain; he hadn't had a case in an entire week and John was currently off on holiday with his new wife, Mary. He had even gotten angry at his own hair for falling down onto his forehead. When Molly had asked him if he was okay, he took no time at all to tell her just exactly how he was feeling.

Sherlock," Molly spoke to him quietly as Sherlock gazed into his microscope, "Are you alright? You look like you're not having a very good day," she had finished nervously.

He peeled his eyes from his work and looked over at her with them, the blue in his eyes adding to the cold glare that was digging into Molly and making her scared.

"Of course I'm all right, Molly. Why does that matter anyways when you yourself aren't as happy and mousy as you usually are?"

He looked at her up and down in a matter of seconds, "Your body language is all wrong. You aren't twiddling your fingers around nervously like you always do in my presence due to your ridiculous and idiotic affection towards me. You've been disappointed by a man not too many nights ago because he wanted to have sexual relations with you on the first date and you turned him down. The anniversary of your father's death was yesterday and your mother didn't even remember because she was too busy being a drunk. You've put on another two pounds. And you have finally come to the conclusion that I will never be with you nor have I ever thought about it or wanted it for that matter. Save yourself the pain and future rejection and just stop caring about me."

He turned back to his cultures leaving a gaping Molly to stare at him in shock. She tried to form a sentence but the vocabulary in her head scrambled into a whole lot of nothing.

"Don't say anything you'll just sound stupid," Sherlock cut Molly off just as she finally realized what she was going to say.

Molly was thankful that Sherlock was staring into his microscope and not a her; she doesn't want him to see the tears that had quickly formed at the corner of her eyes.

"I won't stop caring for you," Molly said under her breath.

"Speak up!" he demanded, looking at her now.

"I won't!" she shouted back at him, her bottom lip trembling, "As much as I want to and believe me I've tried, I can't. You better fucking get used to it, Sherlock. People care about you and you're just going to have to deal with it."

Sherlock stared at her, unmoving and remaining silent.

"I think you need to leave."

"Excuse me?" Sherlock asked, incredulous.

"I said you need to leave. You're disrupting my work and don't think for one minute that I don't know you secretly acquired a permit to work in here whenever you wish in case just this type of event occurred. I have every right to kick you out if you're disturbing me and you are. So get out. Now."

His face remained emotionless. He sat up from the chair, taking a step towards her. Molly's arms were crossed on her chest and she stood her ground. Sherlock was less than a foot away from her, studying her. His eyes seem to flick across her face carefully and methodically. In one quick movement, he was pulling on his coat that was hung on the back of his chair and wrapping his scarf round his neck. He hesitated by the chair, his back to her as if he was doing something without her knowledge. He strode to the door and paused, something on the tip of his tongue that threatened to spill its way past his lips and into Molly's ears. He left with a flourish of his coat.

It had been the biggest fight they ever had, Molly thought. Her legs were sprawled out in front of her, crossed at the ankles, and she let her back lay heavily on the door behind her. She wiped at her cheek with the back of her hand, it shook. As she stood she felt weak at the knees as if she could easily collapse back onto the ground and never get back up again. Molly had been feeling like this could happen more and more often with every passing minute. A sharp rap on the door broke her out of her revere and she wiped quickly at her face which was already dry and sighed slowly letting herself calm down. She opened the door of her office gingerly, fearing that Sherlock wasn't quite finished with his tirade.

"Ello, Molly."

Standing in the doorway with his hands in his pockets, Striker smiled sweetly at her. Striker is another young pathologist at Bart's and is one of Molly's best friends. She was happy to see him today because he always knew what was wrong and exactly how to cheer her up.

Striker sighed and leaned his shoulder up against the doorframe, crossing his long legs nonchalantly, "You have to stop letting that man treat you like that."

"I stood up to him today," She told him, hoping for some hint of approval.

His expression softened, "But you still let him see you cry."

He wiped a stray tear from Molly's face with the pad of his thumb.

"I didn't cry in front of him," she choked, "You should have heard the things he said, Striker, I…"

Striker hushed her soothingly and wrapped her in his arms. Molly reciprocated and buried her head in his shoulder. After a minute of rubbing her back slowly, Striker broke apart from Molly, letting his hands grip her upper arms reassuringly.

"Why can't Sherlock be as nice as you are?" Molly questioned, with a weak laugh.

"Because no one can be as amazing as I am duh," Striker smirked and walked with Molly back into the morgue.

"What have you been up to then?" Molly pulled on a pair of blue gloves; she had to get back to work anyways.

"Oh you wanna see what I've been up to?" he stood next to her a delightful gleam in his eyes as he flipped through the photos on his phone. He held the phone up in front of Molly's face, a large smile spreading onto his lips. On the phone was a picture of Striker with his arm around another man's shoulders, his hand placed on top of Striker's.

Molly gushed, "Is this the man you've been seeing?"

"Yeah isn't he handsome?"

The other man in the photo was blond and a bit shorter than the tall, brunette man standing next to her.

"He's pretty cute," Molly commented, sighing and sitting in the stool at the lab counter, defeated.

"Oh, my dear Molly, what are we going to do with you?" he asked, propping his elbows on the table so they were at eye level.

Just as Molly was about to say something she thought would be witty, Molly spotted Striker's gaze focused on something else.

"What is it?"

"Look," he proclaimed and pointed across the counter. Turning her head, she spotted a small piece of paper with messy handwriting sprawled across it in blue ink. Molly picked up the paper and took a better look at it.

I'm sorry.

-SH

Molly knew it was stupid of her, but she wasn't so mad at Sherlock anymore.

BOOM! I'm not sure about the summary; if any of you lovelies have a suggestion on what it should say than feel free to speak your mind. Okay I'm not sure how far I'll take this story but do hope for more chapters! This kind of just came to me the other day when I should have been finishing the new chapter on my other fic, Swan Dive, but I wrote it anyway. Thanks to FreeSpiritSeeker for beta-ing; love you dear!

~Mel