Drained
"She's not responding." mutters the detective, his face still mostly neutral but a hint of a frown is shining through. He stares down at his mobile phone, as if his glare would magically make it buzz with the promise of a new message.
"Maybe she's busy, Sherlock."
"Why is she not responding? She always replies."
John rolls his eyes. Really, why the heck am I always relegated to babysitting duties? "Maybe because her life doesn't revolve around texting you?" he says sarcastically, not even looking up from his newspaper.
"It should…" comes the sulky reply.
"Thank God it doesn't." John mutters right back.
"She's still not answering my texts."
"Sherlock, she's at work. Why can't that fact pummel itself into the thick walls of your bloody mind palace?"
"She's supposed to always respond to me, regardless of where she is."
"For goodness' sake. Let's just go solve a case or something, before you blow up the wall again."
"There's nothing above 7."
John sighs. "Anything's better than sitting here listening to you whine like a teenaged girl."
"It's been three hours, John."
"Her work shift does span ten hours, Mr. Matter-of-Fact." John replies tiredly.
"She always replies to me!" Sherlock barks right back, slumping down onto the couch as they arrive back in 221B.
John is so bloody sick of this. He wants to torture himself? Fine. "Maybe she doesn't want to talk to you."
The detective man-child's ears perk up at this, but not in a good way. "Ridiculous."
"Well, you always say that once you eliminate the impossible, whatever is left, no matter how ridiculous, must be true."
"Stop being an idiot."
John narrows his eyes at his bestfriend before smirking. "I'm not. I'm just saying, maybe she's ignoring you on purpose. Maybe she's finally getting tired of you. Bored, you might even say."
The gloom practically emanates from the other man, and John could swear that smoke is starting to come out of Sherlock's nostrils. "Impossible."
"Is it really? Like you said, she never ever fails to reply to you. Unless she's being held hostage at the moment, what else could be the reason for this sudden change? Maybe she's finally sick of you…"
Sherlock's face is almost indescribable now, and he says nothing.
"Maybe she's on a coffee break with that surgeon person who fancies her. I've always thought there was some sort of—Hey, where are you going?"
Sherlock was already out the door.
"Sherlock, I said I was sorry."
All she gets is a frown that looks suspiciously like a pout, and a glare.
"Look, I didn't know, okay? I was working on autopsy reports all day, and I didn't hear my phone ring at all so I didn't check."
Still nothing.
"Oh for heaven's sake. Look at it!" she shoves her phone to the detective's face. "I lost battery. I forgot my charger at home. Seriously, look at it and tell me if I'm lying."
Of course she's not.
"Sherlock, the battery was drained. My phone's been off the whole time." When she still doesn't get a response, she throws her hands up in the air in frustration. "I give up. I don't even know why you're so mad about this. There wasn't even anything urgent with which you needed my help. You're just being a git."
"Don't you ever dare drink coffee with that idiot from upstairs. Or anyone. Just me. Understood?"
Molly stares at Sherlock. What, is he just spewing random nonsense now? Is this another one of his ridiculous trains of thought that somehow make sense to no one but him? "What the heck are you talking about?!"
There's not a doubt in her mind: I'm engaged to a complete nutter.
Note: Who doesn't like paranoid!possessive!Sherlock? Hopefully not the reader. ;)