Tall, angular features, pale blue eyes, brown hair.

The man Molly was standing next to held some resemblance to himself, but not much. And it was in that instance that Sherlock Holmes realized he might no longer hold her heart.

His eyes scoured the other man's body, searching for flaws. Penchant for dancing. Actor. Laugh lines around his eyes. Romantic. Nothing. Nothing nothing nothing wrong with the man standing in front of him. No flaws he could pick. Except perhaps the actor bit. Would Molly mind? Perhaps.

"Oh my god, Tom Hiddleston." John's eyes were wide as saucers as he nearly stumbled over himself to try and shake hands with the actor. "It's such a pleasure." He grinned broadly, shaking his head slightly as if not believing his luck. He was unaware of the glare Sherlock was leveling his way.

"Met him at a cafe, actually. Didn't realize he was so popular then. I accidentally spilled coffee on him and he gave me his number." Molly looked up at him, her fingers twining in his. He grinned down at her.

"Thought she was a fan at first, but she just stuttered an apology and didn't ask for my autograph from start to finish. She was absolutely charming." He looped an arm around her, pulling her close.

Sherlock felt a strange humming sensations in his ears.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" Molly's voice pierced through the haze.

He blinked several times. The Tom guy was still there. His heart thumped against his chest, and his entire body felt strangely warm.

"Nice to meet you." Tom stuck out his hand. His grin was almost blinding, and entirely too real for Sherlock's tastes.

"Um, yes." He ignored the other man's proffered hand (as well as Molly's frown) and stared pointedly at the space between them. "I have…things to do. I must get going."

Tom looked back at the doorway, then separated from Molly, gesturing to the door.

"Yeah, I'm sure you're very busy. I'm a big fan, by the way. See you around!"

Sherlock felt a surge of what he might have described as joy upon seeing the space between them. His smile just barely reached his eyes.

"Catch. You. Later."

No one but John caught the reference, who almost jumped and stared at Sherlock strangely. But the former was already striding out the door.

"Sorry, but we have to go," John apologized for his friend, "I'll have to get your autograph next time!"

"Yes, of course." Tom grinned at him, once again taking his spot next to Molly. She stared at the door, her eyes slightly unfocused.

"You alright?" He tilted her chin up to look at him, noticing her strange silence.

She gave a little smile, but it was strained. "Yeah, everything's fine." He was wonderful. She would just have to keep on reminding herself of that fact.

Outside the closed door, Sherlock tugged at his scarf, vehemently wrestling with it. It. Just. Wouldn't. Tie.

John stared at him, his expression conflicted.

"She's happy, you know."

"I know." His reply was low. Terse.

"And you haven't found anything wrong with him, have you?"

"I haven't," he gritted through his teeth. He just wanted this awful conversation to end. He wanted to tell John to shut up because he knew where this was going.

"He's really kind. He'll treat her like she deserves."

He finally snapped.

"Don't you think I know that? Some fool of an actor can give her everything she needs and wants. Some actor is better than me, and he probably doesn't even have a mind palace! She's doting all over him when she used to be like that over ME!" His breathing ragged, Sherlock stood there, his fists tightly clenched, unable to feel the blood dripping down from the force of nails digging into skin.

There was only white-hot, blinding rage. Not at anyone else, but himself. Because he had been stupid, utterly stupid. Just as bad as those idiots in love he complained about on the telly because he hadn't realized -

But it was too late now. He gave a bitter laugh, his entire body shaking. There was anger, but there was also fear. Fear like he had never known, even more intense than the kind he had felt during the H.O.U.N.D time, he couldn't trust his mind. But this time, he couldn't trust his heart.

(The one he had been so reliably informed he didn't have.)

John looked at him, his expression pained.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm so sorr-"

"Just drop it. Drop it." He set his attention back on his damn, stupid scarf. But his hands were shaking too hard. Growling in frustration, he jerked it off his neck and slammed it onto the ground, little smears of blood from his hands blackening his signature wear.

His eyes tightly shut, he took in one shaky breath after the other, visibly retreating more and more into himself right in front of John's eyes. But John couldn't realize what composing himself meant.

Shutting and locking all the doors to his mind palace she occupied. Until there was one small room left, right on the fringes of his consciousness, the only room her existence hadn't permeated into. He clung to it desperately. When his eyes snapped open, he was simply the consulting detective once again. No emotions. No feelings.

No heart.

Sherlock calmly plucked the deerstalker from his pocket, taking long strides down the stairs. He didn't wait for John to keep up.

Pulling the ridiculous hat far down, making sure no one could see his eyes, he opened the door to the outside, facing the onslaught of paparazzi and camera flashes right up in his face.

Preferable to facing the lost battle of sentiment.

To facing Molly Hooper
The woman who made him feel