Leaning her shoulder wearily against the wood of the door, searching frantically for the keys to her small flat, Molly sighed. She could hear Toby's mournful mewing, punctuated by periodic soft little thumps of his head against the wood. Finally retrieving her keys, she rammed the one to her flat into the key hole and thrust the door open, relieved to be home at last. The strain of keeping quiet about Sherlock being really quite alive was finally, after two years, getting too much. She hugged Toby close, allowing a few tears to fall, hoping that Tom was out and wouldn't catch her crying over Sherlock.
"Toby? Do you need feeding? You've been here, all alone all day. Or has Tom been home?" As she sniffled, he mewed, then fled as Tom entered the room. Tom leaned in for a kiss, surprising her.
"How was work today, sweetie? I hope there weren't too many dead people. Really, you should think about changing profession, especially since you had to autopsy your friend. Sheldon? Sherman? Ah whoever."
"Sherlock, Tom. His-his name is…was Sherlock." And I'm in love with him, she thought.
"I'll go get you a cup of tea. Had a rough day, huh?" Tom left her side abruptly, his face taking on a sickly smile that made her insides churn uneasily. She'd noticed him becoming more protective recently, asking if she was alright, placing his hand on her whenever he could, and never letting her go places alone. She'd thought it cute, at first, but now… It had gotten to the stage where he wouldn't let her cook, or go out with her friends, even making herself tea was out of the question. Possessive was probably a better way to describe it, but she was certain he didn't mean to be so imposing.. He just worried about her.
"Sweetheart, we've run out of milk. Are you alright here for a little while alone? Just don't touch the kettle, it's still boiling." She nodded absently, caught up in her thoughts. Maybe he had a reason to worry. She was clumsy, and was definitely losing a lot of weight. She had less energy, and as a result her autopsies were taking twice as long as usual. It had been happening for a while. Since Sherlock… Left. She was probably just worrying too much about him, missing him. Nothing to worry about.
Toby slunk back into the room, purring as he jumped onto her lap. She stoked him, glad for the comfort. Tom was lovely, really, he was, he just fussed about her, and tried to be everywhere at once, without giving her some time to be alone. He'd moved in within a week of them going out regularly. She got the distinct impression that Tom didn't like Toby, and that the feeling was more than mutual. Toby was particular as to who he liked, but the only person he had reacted to so strongly had been Jim, but Tom couldn't be like Jim. He couldn't. She'd know. This time, she'd know.
Still. Perhaps Toby's instincts were better than hers, after all. She didn't see Jim for what he was, and she did seem to have a preference for dark socio/psychopaths. She resolved to break up with him as soon as possible.
