Around & Around Chapter 1, a sherlock fanfic

Part 1

I need a new liver.

There's an awful long waiting list for those.

For science.

Have you started drinking?

Of course not.

Can I pick it up in an hour?

No. I'm fresh out of livers.

You're lying.

How could you possibly deduce that over text?

Easily.

Please? Molly?

Fine. I'm at the morgue.

Molly knew that when it came to Sherlock and his constant demands, she was a complete and utter pushover. She knew she was pathetic, and that Sherlock used her obvious schoolgirl crush on him to his advantage whenever it suited him, and that just when she'd had enough of it, he'd reel her back in with a phony - but oh so handsome - smile and an offhanded compliment that he didn't mean. She was well aware of her dysfunctional, possibly damaging love for him, and yet she couldn't do anything. She was a slave to her ridiculous feelings, which would listen to no manner of reasoning.

And so, when Sherlock arrived forty-five minutes later, glancing expectantly up and down her person - he wanted the bloody liver - Molly blushed, hated herself, and handed him a package wrapped in brown paper.

"Thank you, Molly," said Sherlock, tucking the package into his depthy greatcoat and turning on his heel to go.

"Have a nice day, Sherlock," she called after him. He waved an absent hand over his shoulder in response.

Molly sighed and returned her attentions to dead Mr. Wellington. He had a wart on his nose.

Later that evening, Molly flopped onto her sofa and dejectedly picked up yesterday's paper. Her eyes scanned the pages without comprehending the headlines, not even one that read Great Detective Holmes to put Scotland Yard Out of Business? She listened to the grandfather clock in the hall tick until it drove her mad and she stormed out of the parlor to open its face and angrily unhinge the cogs inside. Then she went to bed, lying there regretting everything - Sherlock, the liver, the clock. The dead quiet in her empty flat was even more unbearable.

"You are a cold, heartless bastard and I'm ashamed of you," John said.

"And?" Sherlock deadpanned.

"You're beyond cruel to Molly Hooper," John went on despite Sherlock's uninterested tone. "She's fancied you for ages, and you don't ignore it, no! That'd be too kind. You deliberately, knowingly abuse her!"

"Abuse her?" Sherlock echoed, his drawl now tinted with sardonic amusement.

"Yes!"

"How?"

"Literally and emotionally. You know exactly what I'm talking about, Sherlock. You're disgusting. Getting her to steal bits of bodies from the morgue, toying with her emotions when she tells you no..."

"And what would the righteous doctor suggest I do? Beg forgiveness?"

"That'd be a start."

I need you.

I'm busy. No severed toes today.

I don't need toes, I need your help.

With what.

A little experiment. Come to Baker Street?

I told you, I'm busy.

Molly held out a text or two longer than usual, but in the end, she agreed to meet Sherlock at his flat at six o'clock, right after work. Part of her despised him for his vague demands, the way he had her wrapped around his finger, but the other part - a much, much stronger part - was giddy with excitement. She hadn't been to Baker Street in ages, not since she'd helped Sherlock on a case, taking John's place when John wasn't speaking to the detective. Molly inwardly wished she possessed John's stoney resolve. She could never stay mad at Sherlock for long. She never had it in her to punish him for mistreating her. She let him walk all over her like an old rug.

Sherlock opened the door to find Molly - bundled up in her green cashmere sweater and a blue stocking cap that almost clashed, but not quite - with her fist poised comically in a knocking position.

"Beat you," Sherlock said jokingly, smiling.

Molly didn't respond, her face such an obvious display of mixed emotions that Sherlock could've read it in his sleep. The angel on his shoulder (Fine, yes, the angel was John - to be fair, so was the devil) whispered angrily in his ear. You did this to her, you bastard. You're the reason Molly Hooper is such a mess right now. You're despicable. His smile faltering slightly, Sherlock stepped aside to let her into the apartment.

He'd cleaned up a bit, disposing of the week-old takeaway containers littering the coffee table and sweeping a few dust bunnies beneath the sofa. The flat still looked bad, by Ms. Hudson's standards, but Sherlock's couldn't bear something so dull as tidying for long.

"What do you want?" Molly asked pointedly, seating herself in John's chair without being invited. She'd had a long, stress-filled day at the morgue, and she wasn't up for Sherlock's games. If she didn't find his "experiment" worth her time, she wasn't staying. At least that's what she told herself.

"I… wanted to talk," Sherlock began, sinking into the sofa across from her and steepling his hands beneath his nose.

"You said this was an experiment," Molly countered. "Why'd you lie?"

"I didn't," Sherlock said, and Molly's sour expression indicated that he'd better cut to the chase. "This is an experiment. I've never tried… apologizing."

Molly didn't believe him, and understandably so. His apology was so stunted, gruff, and peppered with sardonicism. It felt too much like his usual manipulation. When he was through, Molly just shook her head, eyes raised to heaven, and got up to leave.

Sherlock, shell-shocked that his meticulously strategized apology had failed to deliver the expected results - Molly's instant forgiveness, perhaps a few joyfully shed tears, etc - didn't stop her.

Why didn't you believe me?

Molly?

I have to know what didn't work.

Leave Molly alone, Sherlock. Stop texting her.