It had just been one of those days.
Molly swiped her hair angrily, not caring that it made her ponytail pull and loosen off to the side. The tears threatened to choke her. She was just so angry. Breathing deeply she exited the train station and hurried home. She needed to get home, she needed to bite, scratch, claw, scream, until her limbs were stretched, until her nails were broken, until her throat was raw from exertion. It was one of those days.
Hurrying home she slammed the door. Toby meowed loudly from the kitchen. It calmed her slightly, but only just. Quickly she fed the feline, coaxing it to eat faster. The sooner Toby ate, the sooner she could let him out and keep him safe from her tantrums.
She would never hurt Toby, even on her worst days - no, it was not Molly's nature to hurt others for her own sick, mental gratification. She just felt that it would be safer for him to be out of the way, maybe even felt in a little corner of her mind that she didn't want her only friend to see her in this state.
She shut the door firmly and then let Toby out through the window that led to her balcony and fire escape. Finally, finally.
It was never some great act of injustice that set Molly off. It was always the little things, snowballing into each other until she couldn't bear it, until she felt nothing but pure, red, boiling anger. Today had been a long time coming. The excess work, the phone calls from home, about fiances and marriage, that she thought would stop when she broke things off with Tom, meeting the Watsons and little Elizabeth and feeling a terrible ache of loneliness after they left-
"Stupid, stupid, I hate-," she choked on her words, grinding her teeth together.
First, she found some magazines at threw them at the wall.
Smack. Smack. Smack.
She grabbed a pencil and put it to paper, a fresh notepad with soft, yellow pages. Pressing with all her might she scribbled. She scribbled even when the tip broke, until it ripped clean through all the pages, until there was nothing left of the pretty piece of stationary but a lead stained yellow book with an ugly gash cutting through its middle. It felt like a symbol of what she had become. Tainted. She flung that at the flowery wallpaper too and clenched her fists to control the urge to abuse the wall.
Unlike Sherlock, she couldn't do this with freedom; her landlord wasn't as forgiving as Mrs Hudson.
Sherlock.
Molly's lips curled into an angry snarl and several magazines hit the wall in quick succession. She swept everything off her writing desk, finding immense satisfaction in the way books and pens and knick-knacks hit the floor.
The stupid arrogant arse!
She hated him, she hated him!
She sobbed dryly and tore at her forearms, bemoaning her short nails. Efficient in the morgue they may be, but now they did nothing more than leave little pink marks on her skin that faded away too soon for her liking. No. She didn't want them to fade away, she wanted them to show. She wanted the satisfaction that she had hurt something and that a scar was there to prove it.
For the millionth time Molly considered grabbing her razor to do the job properly. But no, she kicked the wall in absolute frustration. She was too cowardly for that.
She flung herself at the wall, beating it with her tiny fists, imagining it to be all the things she hated in life. Paperwork, murderers that caused children to end up on her morgue table, Moriarty. With a final burst of anger, she hammered the wall soundly before sliding down it. Stuffing her knuckles in her mouth, she rocked back and forth, a low keening noise emitting from her mouth.
Picking up a magazine that lay beside her, she slowly and methodically began to rip it apart.
"If you're quite finished with your highly emotional display, perhaps you could make me a cup of coffee." Molly froze. No. It couldn't be.
"I'm still here, Molly."
God fucking dammit.
"H-How long have you been there?" she asked in a hushed tone.
Sherlock ambled forward from the kitchen door and dropped into the sofa.
"Quite a while," he said, waving his hand before narrowing his eyes at her. "Now. Coffee?"
Molly considered telling him to make his own sodding coffee, but in the end heaved herself off the floor because her tantrum had worn off, leaving her quite empty. She was thankful to have something to do to avoid Sherlock's scrutinizing gaze.
Silently she handed him a mug before setting to work cleaning up the mess she'd made. Several times throughout, Sherlock had opened and shut his mouth as if to say something but had thought better of it. Molly ignored him. When he usually came over, he more often drifted off into his mind palace than actually make small talk and Molly was not going to let today be the day that changed.
Methodically she placed everything back on the writing desk, chasing down the last paperclip from under the consulting detective's feet. Then, she stacked her magazines neatly, in their usual place. Finally, she dropped the tattered magazine and her now wasted notebook into the rubbish bin, feeling a rueful little twinge. That had been a nice notebook. She hadn't even used it once.
To stall Sherlock even further - she knew he wasn't going to sit quietly much longer - she disappeared into the bedroom, only reappearing after taking her time showering and changing.
Any hope she had had that he might have left disappeared when she came back to find him sitting there with his jacket, shoes and socks off, hands steepled together. His phone chimed merrily next to him.
"Aren't you going to get that?" she asked softly, padding into the kitchen to reheat her now cold coffee. Sherlock ignored her. Sighing, she changed her mind and emptied her coffee into the sink.
As she washed her mug, she examined her hands. Her knuckles were red, she saw with some satisfaction, and you could see little red half moons where she had bitten them.
Good, she thought viciously. She should suffer.
"Masochism," said a voice from the sofa. Molly dried her mug and put it away to find Sherlock staring at her. She crossed her arms, her stomach churning. Wonderful. Here comes deduction time.
Sherlock's eyes swiveled to the magazines.
"You're methodical about it," he stated, "you let Toby out, you make sure the door is locked..." He gestured the living room.
"I've always wondered why nothing in here is breakable. Even the photo frames are plastic. I put it down to your liking the tacky frames but no, you're smarter than that. I always miss something. You made a safe room." Molly stood, frozen in place, not daring to speak. Sherlock got up, walking around the room in a circle.
"Plastic frames on your photos, no paperweight on a writing desk that has been placed near a window, a set of fashion magazines that have no purpose in your apartment," he glanced up sharply, "beyond flinging at walls of course. And you even use the same set of magazines, how efficient of you." Molly shut her eyes, shame washing over her.
"If you're done deducting me," she said sharply, "you can leave." Long fingers closed around her wrist and she jumped, her eyes flying open. Sherlock towered over her, turning her hand this way and that in his own. When he looked at her again, his eyes flickered briefly in anger.
"Again, something that screams of your MO. You wouldn't take it out on your cat or on the wall. You took it out on yourself." Molly pulled her hand from his grasp.
"As you can see," she said bitterly, "I'm fine. Now if you're done -"
"Have you ever thought of taking up the blade?" he interrupted, eyes boring into hers. Molly glared, feeling her eyes prick with tears.
"You tell me," she snapped. Sherlock eyed her coldly and Molly braced herself for the onslaught.
"You have but you don't want to deal with that mess. Being marked in that way is too obvious. Anybody could notice. But this-" he ran a finger over his own knuckles in explanation, "this is different. Nobody would think it's something akin to cutting yourself to you. Unique," he sneered. Molly felt the anger rushing through her again.
"How very typical, Molly Hooper."
How dare he. How dare he. Turning around, she stalked towards her bedroom, fully intending to slam the door and lock him out there.
"You could have just told someone," he said, his voice low. Molly spun around, having had enough.
"Who, Sherlock? Told who, exactly? What friends do I have to confide in and what friend would even understand?" Molly bit her lip, dashing away the tears angrily.
"I deal with it, alright? This is my way of dealing with it. Just let me deal with it."
"And then what will happen when I walk in here one day and find you with a broken arm or leg?" He was towering over her again. "We both know how violent an emotion anger is, Molly. You see the result of it end up in your morgue every week."
Molly laughed hollowly.
"Sherlock. I'm not going to kill a person just because I have bad anger management skills." Sherlock shook his head.
"Maybe not someone else. But you would kill yourself." She swallowed. He was right, of course. How many days, how many days had hurt turned into anger and anger back into hurt, making her feel small and cold and empty?
Tears pricked her eyes but she blinked them away. She was not going to cry in front of Sherlock Holmes.
"I'm going to bed," she said stiffly.
"Molly." He looked desperate, Molly suddenly realised and as usual she could understand exactly why.
"Sherlock," she laughed bitterly. "This is not your fault. You're not the cause of any of this. Go back home. I'm going to bed." She was exhausted, suddenly. The emptiness was back. Without looking back, she walked into her room and closed the door.
Falling into the pillows, she shut her eyes only to have them fly open as her bed creaked and another body slid in.
"I took off my shoes," came Sherlock's voice.
"You don't have to do this," said Molly, squeezing her eyes shut in agitation.
"Oh, but I do, and not because I owe you my life either." As he spoke, he slid an arm under her and pulled her to his chest. Molly squeaked, going rigid.
"Relax," he murmured. She spun around to narrow her eyes at him.
"I don't need your pity, Sherlock. I got on fine without you." Hurt flashed in his eyes and she waited for him to unwrap his arms from around her and to leave. Instead his face went blank, like he was gathering his thoughts. Molly rubbed her face tiredly and attempted to move away. His voice made her pause.
"I don't pity you Molly. You're not a small, weak, pathetic thing to be pitied. You're the complete opposite. You're strong. You were strong when I couldn't be." A small frown creased his forehead. "You see me. I may be a high functioning sociopath but I don't like to see you hurting. It doesn't feel... right. It makes me hurt." Molly realised her mouth was slightly agape after his little speech.
"S-so you mean," she started slowly, trying to wrap her head around what he was saying.
"Sentiment," he said impatiently, egging her sluggish brain on.
"I thought you said it was a weakness," she accused softly. Sherlock shrugged, looking displeased.
"I may have been wrong." And he ducked down and kissed her. She gave out a muffled 'oh!' before burying her hands in his soft curls and kissing him back passionately. One thing she now knew about Sherlock, she thought hazily was that he was definitely not a virgin. Not with the way his hands roamed her body and his tongue delved into her mouth. They both broke off for air, gasping.
"What - was- that?" she gasped. Sherlock gave her a don't be stupid Molly look.
"It was exactly what it looked like and if you hadn't stopped, which by the way I highly disapprove of, it would have been a whole lot more."
"S-So what does that mean about us - is there even an us?" she demanded, eyes wide. "Is this for a case? I swear to God, Sherlock, if this is for a case-"
"Of course it's not for a case, Molly," he said looking offended at the thought. His eyes softened as he tried to phrase the words properly. Molly could almost see the cogs working in his brain as he stumbled through what he had to say.
"I… may not be the cause of your hurt, well, not all of it," he corrected, "but I - I want – I would like to be there to make you... not hurt anyway. Because when you hurt, it - it hurts me. Do you follow me?" He narrowed his eyes, looking like he knew exactly how much of a child he sounded like.
Molly nodded dumbly, a small smile hovering above her mouth. She understood perfectly.
"Good," he said satisfied, pulling her closer. "Now. Can we kiss some more?"
Flinging her arms around him, she kissed him soundly. Sherlock Holmes may be a git but it was nice to know he was her git now.
And oh, she didn't feel empty anymore.
A/N: Just a little skit that ran through my brain on a bad day. Writing through Molly was very therapeutic because I don't have a Sherlock to make me not hurt :) Anywayy, hope you enjoyed, and do leave a review if you did!
Apologies for any grammar mistakes. It's fully unbeta'd and I'm uploading this after writing it out in one go. Until next time :)
Much love,
xo