Lock

It didn't matter how many times she changed her lock, Sherlock always found a way in.

"Good evening, Molly." He greeted her pleasantly enough, after she came home from work at St. Bart's. His experiments were littered all over the table (Oh god, is that a foot? I-I think it's a foot), but Molly tried not to focus on that.

The fact of the matter was that if he was here, then he was alive, and that's what mattered most.

"Hello," She greeted, shrugging off her jacket and hanging it on the coat rack by the door. It felt oddly domestic how casual they were both being about this. Like they were married, and this was routine. Coming home to Sherlock in the kitchen (not cooking, but still, she could pretend), greeting him pleasantly, asking about each other's day, settling into the evening and enjoying the other's company, maybe snuggling on the couch while watching the telly…

"Molly? Please quit daydreaming, you've been standing there for over three minutes. Two of which I have been trying to gain your attention." Suddenly, Sherlock was standing in front of her, and that's all it took to make Molly flustered.

The reality was quite different from her daydream. Instead, she sometimes came home to a dead detective who had picked her lock and illegally entered her home to further his quest to destroy Moriarty's remaining network. Usually he'd stay a night, and then leave promptly in the morning, usually without a goodbye.

It wasn't perfect, but it was routine, and Molly knew how to handle routine.

"O-oh, um, what do you need?" She echoed the question she always seemed to be asking him.

Sherlock huffed irritably. "If you had listened the last two minutes, you would understand that while I am gone I need you to document these experiments. It's absolutely necessary to the case I am currently on." He explained again, walking towards the kitchen once he was sure he had her attention.

"Um, which ones?" The whole kitchen table was littered with different vials and plants and oozing substances (Oh god, did she really want to know?), sending a wave of irritation through her veins. She hated clutter, and that's exactly what Sherlock always seemed to do to her house. He said it was because her flat had 'insufficient space', but she honestly believed he would've made a mess of her place even if she had a mansion. It was in his nature.

"These, right here." He pointed at a couple of them, launching into an explanation of why they were important and how she needed to care for them and what specifically she should document about its growth.

It was all simple enough, and they weren't as gross as his other projects (she was going to make sure those were gone the moment he left her flat again), so she agreed.

"Ah," Sherlock checked his watch. "Seven o'clock. You should be settling down in front of the telly with a glass of red wine right now, as I can see your day at work wasn't exceedingly enjoyable today."

She wasn't even surprised he knew her routine, or that she had a bad day at work. "I'm going to take a shower first," She insisted, "I smell like morgue."

"Very well. Do as you like." He waved her off, scribbling down more notes as he observed one of his experiments.

With a small sigh, Molly left to take a shower. It was refreshing after a long day of work, the warm water washing away the scent of death from her skin and replacing it with a fruity shower gel's scent. She allowed her thoughts to drift back to her daydream earlier; being married to Sherlock, she knew now that wouldn't be as easy as she had once believed it to be. Just by rooming with him for a day, she knew exactly what kind of husband he would be. Things wouldn't change; he would still use her, abuse her, and cast her aside when it came to things he considered 'more important'. Sometimes she's okay with that, and sometimes the thought makes her want to punch him in the face. Not that she ever would.

So instead she settled for changing her locks every now and then; her silent protest against his treatment of her. It was probably as passive-aggressive as she could get, but at least it was something, instead of letting him walk all over her. It was also a protection; it almost made her believe that by changing the locks on the door, maybe she could keep him from infesting his way into her heart.

When she came out of the shower, she found a cup of steaming hot ramen noodles waiting for her, along with a glass of red wine. He wouldn't meet her eyes when she tried to meet his, so instead she settled on the couch with a thanks tossed in his general direction. After finishing her dinner and her glass of wine, Molly was feeling a bit sleepy; wine always had that effect on her.

"Molly," Sherlock started, coming out from the kitchen into the small living room. "I've noticed you've changed your lock at least three times these past three months." His eyes were narrowed, trying to deduce her. Not meeting his eyes, instead closing them, she let out a hum of acknowledgment.

"Are you trying to prevent me from using your flat?" He asked carefully, taking a few steps closer.

She shook her head, keeping her eyes closed. It wasn't necessary to open her eyes to know he was furrowing his brow, trying to understand her line of thought.

"Why do you keep changing it? I've assured you, both you and your flat are not currently in any danger, as nobody is aware of my making use of your space." Sherlock had finally sat down on the other end of the couch, carefully watching her as she relaxed into the couch cushions, trying not to fall asleep.

"I know." She murmured softly, fascinated that she could hear the sound of his breathing over the telly. "I know I'm safe."

"Then, why?"

Because it's not about the lock on her door, she answered in her mind. It's about the lock on her heart, and if he found the key for that, then she was ruined.

"The lock on your heart?" He repeated, baffled by her explanation.

Her eyes flew open, staring at him fearfully. Had she really said that aloud? Crap.

"I, uh, sorry, I was half-asleep. Don't mind me. Sorry." She quickly stood up and grabbed the wine glass to put away.

He watched her as she scurried into the kitchen to place her wine glass in the dirty dishes pile. "Molly," Trying to stop her was of no use, as she was too flustered to carry a conversation. She practically ran into her room the moment he stood up off of the couch.

Sentiment, no doubt. Sherlock knew that much. But he wondered exactly what changing the locks on her door had to do with 'the lock on her heart' she had mumbled about. It didn't make any logical sense; but then again, sentiment tended to stray towards the illogical anyways.

Particularly baffling was that he actually wanted to discuss this conversation with Molly once more – as quickly as possible, actually. (And conversation was definitely not Molly's area.) He wanted to understand her reasoning; attributing that to curiosity seemed harmless enough, but a low knot in the pit of his stomach told him that it was more than that. Not that he'd ever admit it.

"Molly," Sherlock knocked on the door a couple of times, taking her lack of response as an invitation to enter.

He opened the door to find her curled in her bed sheets, and even though he couldn't see her face, the flaming tips of her ears was clue enough for him to realize how embarrassed she was.

He sat on the other edge of the bed, turning so he could see her. "Why did you change your locks?" He asked once more, giving her another chance to respond.

She said nothing; Sherlock sighed.

"I am sorry that I have troubled you," He mumbled in a monotone, not trusting himself to portray any kind of emotion. Logic was safe, logic would never betray him. "Goodbye, Molly Hooper."

He went to stand up, but was mildly surprised when she caught him by the hand. "Don't go." She murmured, her hair covering her face so he couldn't see her expression. "Sherlock, you're always welcome to my flat. You know that."

"Do I?" He asked softly, his voice betraying the doubt that was beginning to fester.

"Yes, you do." She repeated more firmly. "I…" Trailing off, she sighed.

Letting go of his hand, she sat up in bed, casting him a sidelong glance. "I… I changed my locks so I could show you that sometimes you don't treat me right."

Sherlock's brow furrowed, but Molly wouldn't let him speak. "You need me, you need my help, but I'm not…" She took in a shaky breath, "I'm not that important. Not really. That's fine, honestly. But, I can't… I can't let myself care about you the way I have these last few years. N-not that I don't care about you, but I can't… I can't love you. I mean, I do, like a friend, b-but not in the way that men and women-"

"You try to lock me out of your apartment, because you're trying to lock me out of your heart." Sherlock quickly surmised, startling slightly when she saw tears drip down her cheeks. His discomfort reached a whole new level, and he quickly formulated a back-up plan in case the conversation took a turn for the worse and he needed to escape.

Molly nodded to his statement, "But you always- you always find a way back in." She let out a pathetic water-logged laugh, trying to clean her face up and gain control of her emotions, embarrassed at how emotional she was being. This was not part of the routine, so she wasn't sure how to respond to it. Or how Sherlock was responding to it; he had made it very clear that sentiment was not his area. He probably thought her a sniveling fool by now.

"Molly," His baritone voice made her look up and meet his eyes; he was staring at her very intensely, and Molly felt like he could see everything. "Thank you." He sat on the edge of the bed, gently grabbing her hand as he leaned in to press a kiss against her forehead.

And suddenly the lock in her heart broke with a snap, and Molly knew that she was done for.

A/N - Does anybody have any nachos? BECAUSE THIS IS SO FREAKIN CHEESY.

I'm planning on doing a daily writing prompt for the next while, I figured it would be a good way to keep myself writing even when I don't have much inspiration at the moment.

Anyway, besides the other fic I did on Molly's view of things, this is technically my first Sherlolly fic. SHALL I CONTINUE?

Reviews are appreciated and loved and cherished and eaten with a swirl of whipped cream. Yum.

-Zara Lavine