A/N: Just a little one-shot based on the premise that Sherlock didn't go straight home after identifying Irene's body in 'A Scandal In Belgravia' and (because it's Sherlolly) on the idea that it was the Christmas party/Molly that put him out of sorts. Loosely based on a scene in Mona Lisa Smile and the song 'Christmas Blues' by Dean Martin.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Christmas Blues

...
May all your days be merry
Your seasons full of cheer
But 'til it's January
I'll just go and disappear
Oh Santa may have brought you some stars for your shoes
But Santa only brought me the blues
Those brightly packaged tinsel covered Christmas blues
-'Christmas Blues,' Dean Martin
...

It was, by far, the worst Christmas of her life.

Sherlock's deductions the night before had been bad enough, but his brother's pitying look when she asked how Sherlock had been able to identify the body was the icing on the cake.

Apparently he was interested in women; he just wasn't interested in her.

She sighed heavily as she adjusted the bag on her shoulder. Unfortunately the distraction caused her to slip in the slush and in the next moment she found herself on her back, staring up at the night sky.

Perfect.

You should know better than to do two things at once, Molly, drawled a voice in her head. A voice that sounded suspiciously like Sherlock Holmes; she told it to shut up.

She assessed her motivation to stand up and decided that it wasn't enough to make her move; it's not like she had anywhere to go.

"I thought you might have gotten up by now, are you injured?" came a voice from nearby.

"I'm sorry, do I know you?" Molly asked, looking up at Sherlock.

He frowned, "Molly-" he began in a warning tone, but she cut him off.

"Sorry," she apologised, looking away, "I just wanted to see what it would be like if I didn't know you," she continued, staring resolutely at the sky and missing the brief flash of hurt across his face.

He surprised her by sitting down on the steps next to her, "Why?" he asked, reasonably enough but Molly caught…something in his tone.

She shrugged, "Why not?"

She knew she was being difficult, but she had a hard time believing he was actually interested in her answer.

"You're upset," he stated after a long moment.

"You should be a detective."

"Sarcasm doesn't suit you, Molly," he said quietly.

Damn, Molly thought, closing her eyes as something in his tone reminded her that he was probably hurting too. As she had done so many times before with so many others, she pushed her own hurt aside and opened her eyes to look at him.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly, "I know you're not having the best Christmas either," he looked down at her, "and I know you don't want to talk about it…not with me…but…" she trailed off mid-ramble with a small sigh, trying to convey her meaning with her eyes.

Sherlock regarded her thoughtfully for a long moment and she flushed, looking away.

"It didn't ruin my Christmas," he said finally, staring off into the distance.

She looked back up at him in surprise, "What?"

"Her death," he clarified, "it didn't ruin my Christmas."

"Oh," she said softly, not quite believing.

Sherlock glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, wanting to explain that she was the one who had ruined his Christmas. That she was still ruining his Christmas.

He didn't deserve her compassion at the best of times, but knowing that she was putting his feelings before her own was too much; especially when it was misplaced.

Irene's death hadn't ruined his Christmas; but, somehow, hurting Molly had.

He glanced at her again, trying to find a way to articulate everything he was feeling without wounding her further by saying something stupid.

"This is really uncomfortable," Molly commented, breaking him from his thoughts.

It took Sherlock a few moments to realise she meant the stairs rather than their conversation.

"I doubt comfort was what the architects had in mind," he replied with a trace of sarcasm as she sat up, he steadied her with a hand on her arm as she swayed a little.

Molly shot him a nervous smile, suddenly unsure of herself now that they were both on the same level.

"Your speech doesn't seem impaired, I don't think you have a concussion," he offered as they stood up.

"I'll be fine," she assured him, "um…good night."

Sherlock felt an unfamiliar twinge of protectiveness as he watched her walk away, "Will you-?"

"I'll be fine," she repeated with forced cheerfulness, looking back over her shoulder, "you should get back to John, he'll be worried," she added.

Sherlock frowned as he watched her go, unable to find the words to make her stay.

As she disappeared around the corner Sherlock considered the possibility that one day she might disappear from his life altogether.

And he didn't like it.

He was well aware that most people thought he only tolerated Molly because she provided him with access to the lab, but that was just a convenient foil. A foil he'd been hiding behind for so long now that he found he was no longer entirely sure how he felt about her anymore.

He just knew that she counted, more than she knew.