Molly thought her heart had stopped.
She was standing in her lab at St. Bart's with her mouth hanging open staring at none other than Sherlock Holmes himself. Sherlock, who had face Moriarty, jumped off a building and whose funeral she had attended, sobbing with her heart broken. Yet here he was, striding around her lab like nothing had happened. He'd walked in with nothing more than a 'Hi, I'm alive. Long story. Can it wait?' then pushed past her and began looking around for equipment.
He looked up and saw that she hadn't moved.
"I faked my own death so that Moriarty wouldn't kill the people closest to me. It was simple really, a little sleight of hand, a little paid help. Brilliant when you think about it." He said, in his infuriating manner.
Molly felt nothing. She didn't know what to feel. It seemed to her as though she would pass out any minute; that was how it happened in the films. Yet she remained standing. It was only when Sherlock slammed a cupboard close particularly violently that she was jerked out of her shock and began to feel again.
She thought she ought to feel happy, overjoyed even, but all she felt was a slow bubbling of anger. It started in the pit of her stomach, where it was slowly growing. She walked towards where Sherlock was bustling about and when she reached the desk, she stopped. She stood right beside him, feet apart and placed firmly on the ground, fists clenched. It was a surprisingly strong stance for her, she thought absently; normally she wouldn't say boo to a goose.
She wasn't entirely secure in what she was doing though. It still felt as though she was looking at a ghost and she was not ashamed to admit to herself that she was scared. If it wasn't for the anger that was still mounting inside her, she thought that she would run away as far as she could.
"You…" she started, but faltered. He didn't look up from the microscope he was gazing down. Annoyed with herself she took a breath and started again.
"You died."
"Molly, your observational skills have failed you once again," he paused to turn around with a smug smirk, "I quite clearly, did not."
Molly's hand flung out and slapped him across the face. Sherlock's hand flew to his cheek and he looked stunned. Molly herself was gawping. She didn't know what had come over her. Her fury pushed back her surprise quickly and she started yelling.
"Do you have any idea what you've done?!" she shouted shrilly.
"I… I…" he tried to stammer out.
"We mourned you! All of us! John, Greg, Mrs Hudson, ME! You came in and took over all of our lives and then you just stroll out like it's nothing!"
Molly felt the tears begin to stream down her face, but she didn't care.
"We didn't blame you; we all knew it was Moriarty who had made you do it! But we'd all thought you had done it! We thought you were dead Sherlock! Does that mean ANYTHING to you?"
Sherlock's expression changed, and Molly read it like a book, just as she'd always done.
"Oh, of course it does," she wasn't yelling anymore, "You probably went to John and apologised and acted all caring and understanding. But when it comes to silly old Molly, you thought you could get away with acting all mysterious. Molly won't have a go at you. Molly will just fall into line and do everything you say! Molly. Doesn't. Deserve. An. Apology." Molly wasn't shouting, but her voice had grown steadily louder.
"I'm sorry," he said solemnly.
"It doesn't count now I've pointed it out," she huffed.
"No. Molly I am sorry. I just…" he wavered.
"Just what, Sherlock?" she asked stiffly.
"I find it difficult to talk to you," he admitted, looking as though he had to physically force the words out.
Molly laughed. It was a sarcastic, disbelieving laugh, but it was a laugh.
"You're not serious? You have trouble talking to me?" she said through chuckling, "Oh, that is the first time I've laughed in a year!"
Sherlock puffed up his chest slightly; it was obvious that his pride was hurt. Then his expression softened and he looked at the desk, unable to make eye contact with her.
"You're too nice, Molly Hooper," he said softly, "You don't get offended, you don't hate me, you don't try to talk back or compete. I must admit, I'm not sure how to react."
"John doesn't do any of that either," Molly pointed out, her anger sliding away.
"No, but he gets exasperated with me, tried to change how I talk to people," Sherlock's blue eyes darted up and bore into hers, with a slight frown as though he was trying to figure something out. "I've never met someone who just… accepts me."
Molly shuffled her feet and looked to the ground. She began to fiddle with her hands and blushed slightly. She didn't know how to deal with this side of Sherlock. He'd never been so soft and open with her before. It was now that she saw a change in him, how being away from his life had taken its toll. He was tired and worn down.
"You look tired, do you want a coffee?" she asked. She thought that getting back into an old routine might help. A small plastic cup filled with black coffee, brought to him by his invisible mortician, could be just what he needed to feel himself again.
"That would be wonderful," he replied, his voice regaining a small amount of its former energy. Molly was about to turn around when Sherlock stood up and picked his coat up off the back of the chair. Molly gave him a nervous smile, unsure as to where this was going.
"There's a lovely little place down the street," he smiled, offering to help her take off her lab coat. She accepted, wondering if she was dreaming.
He held the door open for her and she blushed a bright red.
"I know the owner."