She knew immediately who was knocking loudly at her door at 3 am. Nearly sixteen hours had passed since "the three words" and then the telephone line abruptly disconnecting. She sighed and slowly made her way to the front door. She took a deep breath to steady herself.

"Sherlock," she spoke loudly through the door, "please go away. I don't want to see you now."

"Molly, please let me in. Please." The urgency of the "please" brought back his tone from the phone call. She tried to will the memory from her mind.

"Not now, Sherlock, please. Go away." No response came from the other side of the door. She waited a minute and then turned wearily back toward bed. Just then she heard the key turn in the lock. "Oh Jesus Christ." And, in the next instance, there he stood, looking absolutely knackered. But right now she was in no mood to be sympathetic to whatever horrors he had doubtless undergone to make him look this bedraggled. "Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock, I'd take away your goddamn key if I knew you wouldn't just break in some other way. Why can't you just this once respect my wishes and go away?"

"Molly," he pleaded, extending his bandaged hand toward her, attempting to touch her arm, "I need to explain."

She angrily withdrew backwards from his touch and, through clenched teeth, said, "Um, I think I got the gist of it from the bomb-sniffing dogs set loose and the multiple hidden cameras removed from my flat by Mycroft's men. Thanks."

"Molly, I never meant . . . "

"Of course, you never 'mean' to, Sherlock," she spit out. "It's all a part of the Sherlock Holmes experience, right? A psychotic criminal mastermind dates you only to get to Sherlock? Check. Have to help fake someone's death and then lie about it for two years to a dear, trusted friend? Check. Be the object of some sick game from one of Sherlock's many enemies? Check. Have your apartment bugged with video devices? Humiliate yourself over and over again while looking like some pathetic, lovesick puppy? Check and check. So now how much would you pay for the complete Sherlock Holmes experience? Hmmmm?"

Sherlock could only croak out a weak "Molly, I . . . "

"I'm sure there's a perfectly wonderful explanation as to why I had to undergo this latest round of utter humiliation and I'm sure that that explanation totally exculpates you in some way and makes me sound like an hysterical shrew. But, right now, Sherlock, I don't want to hear it and I want you to fucking leave."

He turned glumly toward the door, only uttering one last "as you wish," before leaving the poor woman alone. When the door finally closed, Molly slumped down onto her sofa and hugged a pillow to her chest.

At no time, thought Sherlock, making his way toward his temporary lodgings with John, had he wanted the sweet release of a narcotic as much as he did at this precise moment. The shock and awe of dealing with his discovery of Euros and the twisted labyrinth of mental tortures his sister had put him through—and now Molly . . . his mind coursed with her cutting words—"all a part of the Sherlock Holmes experience." She was right, of course. His friendship—no, his love (as he had made a vow to be more honest, more conscious of his emotions, aware of the "emotional context," as Euros called it)—demanded too much of Molly and gave nothing in recompense.

Not for the first time when it came to Molly, Sherlock castigated himself: "You're such a fucking prick, Sherlock Holmes." He had come prepared to explain himself fully to Molly, to beg her forgiveness. And, what's more, being the self-centered, entitled bastard he was, he fully expected to get that forgiveness. That's how daft you are, he thought: you thought you could just explain everything and she'd forgive you as she's done for time out of mind. And then, in his imagination, the scene had instead played out with them embracing, him whispering in her ear "I meant it, I love you." The bedroom seemed a logical place for the scene to conclude, he had thought on the helicopter ride back to London earlier. He had imagined quite vividly the frenetic kissing, the mutual needs, finally fulfilled. He had had to hide his budding erection with his coat over his lap as he imagined slowly undressing her and what it would be like to see her naked and ready for him. Her legs spread . . .

"Stop it," he yelled to his own mind now, as he thought again about his naïve and unreal expectations versus the horrible reality of what actually played out in Molly's flat minutes ago and wondered how stupid he could have been to think it could have played out any other way. So, yes, narcotics would be a welcome release indeed. And then, as if sense memory could come alive and replicate a moment exactly, he felt again the sting of Molly's slaps on his cheeks not so very long ago and her "how dare you." Did he dare now?