Sherlock sat in Molly's predictably dainty lounge. Comfortable murky green couches with pink flowers, creamy yellow wallpaper with even more flowers. How quaint.
He'd have to get used to it.
Molly had succeeded in assisting Sherlock in his most daring case of them all.
His very own death.

"What do you need?"
"You."
Molly stared at him, her mouth, that he had come to realise was not too small, was shaped in gobsmacked 'o'.
"Sh-Sherlock-"
"Molly. Don't stutter. You were doing so well."
"S-sorry, I can't help it," she swallowed, looking everywhere in the room, even taking much interest in her shoes rather than looking at Sherlock.
Sherlock stepped closer, Molly's head snapping up in shock.
"Sherlock. I don't understand..."
"Which is why I want to explain it to you. Sit."
Molly hesitantly nodded and dipped he head nervously, shuffling over to the stool by the desk, knotting her fingers together.
Sherlock strode over to the workspace and sat opposite her.
"Help me. I need you, Molly, to assist in faking my death."

And that had led him here.
To a horrible living room.
It could be worse.
"Sh-Sherlock!" He heard Molly stutter from the kitchen.
"What did you do to Toby?!"
Sherlock let out a small huff as he took his hands from his chin and sat up.
"Merely offered him some cat food."
"W-with paracetamol in it? Sherlock!" She complained, walking out into the lounge.
Sherlock sighed in annoyance, jumping over the pine table in the centre of the room and climbing over the horrid couch.
He paused beside her and turned his head to face her.
"It's just a cat, Molly. And a rather dumb one at that," he remarked before slamming himself in the guest bedroom.
Molly found her fists bunched by her sides.
No, it's fine. He'll be fine. The cat I mean. Of course you know what you mean, Molly!
She sighed in defeat, Sherlock victorious, once again. Sherlock always hacked into her thoughts and put her off.
Molly sighed. Nope, it was all fine. She will help him. After all, he had been cut off from his only friends. Friends. He wouldn't like to admit it but they were.
"Sherlock?" Molly asked, peeping her head through the door way.
Sherlock lay on the bed, his feet brushing the end of the bed because of his height.
His hands we held in a prayer-like manor up against his chin like always. Molly needed a name for that position. Shermonk?
"Mm?" He hummed in response, making it the only sign he'd acknowledged her presence.
"Are you going to eat?"
Sherlock didn't respond.
"S-Sherlock are you going to eat?" She asked again, her voice wavering.
"Transport."
There was silence.
"S-sorry...what?"
"No."
Molly stepped further in to the room, shutting the door quietly behind her.
"Sherlock, you need to eat," she insisted.
"I know you've been hurt-"
"Hurt?"
"Yes. You're hurt. In your heart."
"My heart is perfectly fine-"
"No. Sherlock you just died for your friends! And don't say that they aren't."
Sherlock finally opened his eyes.
"They are your friends. You miss them. It hurts in your heart because they're still there. Even though you can't see them for a long time."
"Molly, you've been watching and reading Pride and Prejudice far too many times lately."
Molly retreated, nodding awkwardly.
"S-sorry, Sherlock. I didn't mean to...it's personal...I understand."
"Molly," he warned.
"S-sorry."
Silence.
"Well done."
Molly's head whipped up, her pony tail hitting her back barely audibly.
"What?"
"You managed two sentences without stuttering."
Molly paused.
"Nevermind. You don't need me to tell you anything. You know it all," she mumbled before leaving.
Sherlock turned his head to the door as it shut with a creak, hearing Molly quickly scuttle away down the stairs.
He hauled himself up to a sitting position and tapped his lanky fingers on his knee.
Maybe she was right. Friends? Friends... In his mind, it didn't sound right.
It's just those silly romance novels stuck in her head, god forbid she doesn't watch Love Actually, again.
That sounded right in his head. His head was right. It always was. But then there was something that made him doubt.
Something, human.
Something beating.
Something in his chest.
Something burning.
But he didn't quite know.