Molly Hooper groaned into her pillow as the annoying drone of her alarm signified another day ahead. Not that she really wanted to get up. She was just digging herself into a hole, and no one seemed to be noticing. Her dad had just died, and it felt like a piece of her had been missing ever since. She was hopelessly in love with none other than Sherlock Holmes, who only considered her as a lab assistant. If that, even. And she spent more time with dead bodies than living people. Starting to see why she felt like she was spiraling downwards? No matter how she felt, she had to get up. Go to work. Get this day over with. She rolled over and turned off the alarm, her feet hitting the cold, wood floor. She trudged to the bathroom and got in the shower, letting the water drip down her back. Wishing she could wash her regrets away. But if such a thing were to exist, no one would ever learn. Just commit the same mistakes over and over, knowing they could erase the consequences. Shaking her head, she wondered why her thoughts had such a tendency to wander. Maybe that was part of her problem, she was always over thinking things. She hopped out of the shower and quickly got dressed, parting her hair to the side and applying a bright shade of lip gloss. Just how Sherlock liked it. It was the little things, sometimes. She decided she could skip breakfast, and just make do with some coffee. She got her travel mug, grabbed her bag, and bolted out the door. A few minutes later, she was sitting in a cab on her way to work. "It's just another day, Molly," she whispered to herself, "Just another day."

Molly sipped her coffee while walking, thoughts of Sherlock and the Morgue dancing through her head. She smiled politely at everyone she passed, even though it felt hollow to her. Fake. But no one noticed, they just smiled back. Fake, too? Who knows. Who cares? There was a better question. There she was, wandering again. She got to the lab and pursed her lips. There were some samples for her to identify, which she didn't mind. It was better than minimum wage, serving greasy food to greasy people. She smiled a bit to herself, a genuine smile, and it felt good. Like maybe everything would be okay. Until she heard the door open behind her open that is, followed by footsteps.
"Ah, Molly, good morning. Why haven't you eaten breakfast?" said the voice that left her speechless: Sherlock.
"Hello, Sherlock," she said smiling, "how did you know that?"
"Obvious," he said, cocking his head slightly to the side, "I just observed."
"Of course," she said, more to herself than to the consulting detective in front of her, "any particular reason that you've showed up this morning?"
"Oh. Yes, that. I need to examine something but didn't have the proper materials at home. Can I use the lab for a bit?"
"Sure, of course. Why wouldn't you be able to? It's all yours, please, take your time," Molly babbled, feeling herself blush.
"Right then. Okay."
A few minutes of silence passed, not awkward, just silence. Molly stuck to her business and Sherlock stuck to his, like it should've been. Why would he make small talk? He was Sherlock Holmes, only consulting detective in the world. There was no point in him associating with her. She was probably just another puppet to him in his game of life, where he always seemed in control and to know anything. She gripped the glass a little too tightly and it shattered, a few drops of blood appearing on her finger. She winced a little, not at the pain but more at the sight of her own blood pooling on her finger. Sherlock remained oblivious, not shockingly.
"I'll be right back," she said to Sherlock, but he was in another world.
She ran to the bathroom, although she wasn't sure why. It didn't hurt that bad, and it took her a minute to realize what she was trying to hide from herself. It hurt her more than any physical pain to be in the same room as Sherlock, knowing he didn't care about her any more than he had to. She sunk to the bathroom floor, tears pooling in her eyes. Her finger forgotten, she stared at herself in the mirror. Tried to smile, and although it seemed real she could also see how fake it was. How is it people can appear so happy no matter what they feel inside? The stupid mirror was made of glass, too. She wondered if breaking that mirror would hurt as much as Sherlock could without even trying. She punched it with everything inside her, tears streaming down her face. She punched for the anger she felt, the sadness, the desperation that no one seemed to acknowledge. Because they didn't want to be bothered by her. She stared back at her reflection, now distorted, and cried harder. What had she become? She needed to stop this. She was Molly Hooper, and no one could see her like this. She was the happy, carefree girl that was sweet to everyone and never had a bad day. But she could no longer see that girl. Blood now dripped onto the floor, but the pain was numb and didn't much matter to her at the moment. The broken glass was helping her to see better than she ever had.