They'd never fought before, not really. Not more than the odd teasing argument now and again. Not until recently. Not until after they got engaged. Not until after Sherlock came back.
Suddenly now it seemed they argued and fought constantly. And it was her fault. Molly knew all the blame lay with her. Since Sherlock returned, nothing Tom did or said was quite right. Well, not nothing, if she was honest. The sex was still good. Very good. ...and they'd had a lot of it lately. Angry sex and making up sex. But it didn't change the fact that they fought so often now. That she picked him apart at every turn. That nothing seemed clear any more.
It had gotten even worse after the Watson's wedding. Tom might not be a genius, but he wasn't that big of an idiot either.
"I saw the way you looked at him." he wasn't yelling any more, they were past the yelling.
The sadness in his voice told her there wasn't going to be any sex this time. They were past that too, apparently. It was alright, she realized, once the heat of the fight began to fade. She was relieved, actually. It wasn't as hard as she'd expected to work the ring off her finger, leave it on the table and go home to her own flat.
She took a cab due to the late hour. Now, as the taxi pulled away and she approached her door, she caught sight of a dark figure slumped against the wall of her building's small courtyard garden. Molly wished she'd paid the cabbie extra to wait until she was safely inside her flat. It was a good neighborhood, but the warehouse district was near enough that sometimes unsavory things bled over. Once in a while the odd indigent or junkie wandered onto her street looking for warm shelter. Mostly they were harmless. She gripped her keys tighter, hoping that was just the case.
His head jerked up at the sound of her footsteps. She tensed, watching him wearily, knowing she should turn, retreat and ring the police. But even in the shadows, something in his posture told her he wasn't a threat. He made no move to rise, simply reached up and pulled back his hood to reveal a mass of dark curls. She exhaled with relief.
"Goodness, Sherlock," she said, approaching him, "you gave me a bit of a fright. What are you-"
The sight of him close-up stopped her mid-sentence. His standard suit and dark coat were missing. In their place, he wore a dirty polo shirt and a dingy oversized hooded jacket. But it wasn't his wardrobe that shocked her into momentary silence. It was his face, which was splotchy and very flushed.
He looked up at her through red, inflamed eyes, the left swollen completely shut. His nose was also red and raw, shiny with clear mucus that was smeared down over a puffy, bloodied lip and onto his chin. More snot was drying in a crusty mess down the front of his shirt.
"Oh my God!" she exclaimed voice pitching up with panic, "What's happened? Are you injured?"
"No." he coughed, but made no move to stand. "I was on the wrong end of a can of pepper spray."
"And a fist." he added with a smirk as she knelt down to get a better look at him.
"When?" she asked, trying to gauge whether she should call for an ambulance.
"An hour, approximately. I just need a bit of a wash. The key isn't under the mat." he inclined his head slowly in the direction of her door.
"Tom doesn't like me leaving a key out." she explained, abandoning the ambulance idea and standing to unlock the door.
Why, she wondered, had he sat there for so long when his own flat on Baker Street was only a short cab ride away? After all, she might not have come home tonight at all, save for the fight. Break-up, she corrected herself.
"Very security minded." he commented in a flat tone before pushing himself awkwardly up against the wall and taking a tentative step in her direction. She caught his arm and led him through the door, up the steps into her flat.
