A/N: Thanks, everyone for the reviews and adds! As usual, insert your own pithy disclaimer...
...here.
"Friendship is certainly the finest balm for the pangs of disappointed love."
Jane Austen
II. 36 hours Post-Reichenbach
As Molly unlocked the door to her flat, she realized that Sherlock definitely wasn't alone. When he'd sent her out two hours ago, he had been sulking in his dressing gown. Now she could hear him half-shouting at some mumbling voice.
"Get out," he growled. "Just get out. Everywhere you go, you put my friends in danger."
Molly paused, hand still resting on the door knob.
Despite the circumstances, it was nice to hear him insinuate that she was, in fact, his friend. And two days ago, he'd seemed horrified to hear that she didn't think she even mattered to him.
Lost in thought, Molly squeaked as her door was roughly pulled open. Sherlock eyed her carefully; behind him, Mycroft was massaging his temple warily.
"Do come in, Molly. There's no need to lurk outside your own flat," the elder Holmes muttered.
"Yes, Molly," Sherlock added, "it's terribly conspicuous."
"Oh," she replied, stepping inside. "I got the things you asked for."
Sherlock pulled the shopping bags from her hands, then set off for his temporary bedroom.
"Good day, Mycroft," he called over his shoulder.
Mycroft rolled his eyes.
"And I suppose there's little point in asking you to talk some sense into him?"
"No, sir," she said carefully.
"Well, then. I'll be off."
Mycroft swept out of her flat dramatically; Molly locked the door behind him, then padded toward the kitchen.
It was really happening, then. Sherlock was leaving. She could hear him stuffing his few possessions into the new rucksack she had picked up for him. Molly busied herself with making him a parting cup of tea.
Just the sort of thing John would want me to do.
As the kettle bubbled, Molly rubbed her eyes and loosened her pony-tail. To call today difficult would be among the more notable understatements she'd made recently.
They'd had to tell John, today.
Early that morning, Molly had dropped Sherlock off at the morgue with a "relatively low-level" government employee who happened to hold a degree in biomedical sciences. The two had carefully dosed Sherlock with his preferred grayanotoxins. Yesterday, they had worked for hours to create post-mortem photos of his "fatal" injury; today the unnamed coroner would document the rest of Sherlock's body. Once he was sedated, Mycroft had arrived to discuss the particulars of Sherlock's estate.
Even Molly had been able to deduce that Mycroft was unusually irritated with his brother on the subject of his will. It seemed that Sherlock had rather upset Mycroft's expectations by having a very thorough and reasonable will written six months ago, naming DI Lestrade as executor and leaving most of his assets to one Dr. John Hamish Watson. This simply would not do. Mycroft had destroyed the will in a fit of pique and declared that his brother had died intestate.
Molly was quickly learning that there were few things that Mycroft Holmes couldn't make disappear.
All the remained of Sherlock's "in case of death" strong box was a beautifully handwritten letter requesting that his remains be cremated. Mycroft would present this to John as he arrived, at least twenty minutes too late to stop the procedure. Once Mycroft had explained this portion of the plan to Molly, she had excused herself to be violently sick in the ladies' toilet across the hall.
The rest of the day had not gone much better. After Sherlock had been roused from his toxic nap time, he had left to make his travel arrangements. Not half an hour later, John had arrived at the morgue. There had been the expected shouting as Mycroft informed him that, no, he could not view Sherlock's body. Molly had helped the coroner restrain John when he'd lunged for Mycroft's throat.
After that incident, Molly had taken John back to Baker Street to help him through the funeral preparations. When she had finally arrived back at her own flat, an irritable Sherlock clothed in only his dressing gown had forcibly shoved her back out the door, declaring that he needed a rucksack and a fresh set of clothes immediately.
And now she was home again, fixing Sherlock a cup of tea.
She poured the water carefully, adding one of her better tea bags. Setting the cup on her tea tray beside the milk and sugar, she carried it in to Sherlock.
He was dressed now and nearly done packing; the rucksack was slung over one shoulder and he was stuffing his new mobile phone into his trouser pocket.
"Tea?" Molly asked softly.
Wordlessly, Sherlock took the cup and added milk. He sipped for a moment, then slammed the cup back on the tray.
"What is this?" he demanded, knocking the tray from Molly's hands. The cup and sugar dish shattered unpleasantly, coating the rug with their contents.
"Tea! My mum's favorite blend. Look what you've done!"
"I was surprised by how horrid it tasted. John always makes Darjeeling from the little Indian shop."
Molly knelt and began collecting shard of her tea set on the tray. She stood again, eying Sherlock angrily.
"Or," she began, "'Thank you.' Thank you would also be an appropriate response."
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Thank you, Molly. I'm leaving now and I shan't be back for several weeks."
Molly nodded as he swept out of her flat.
"Prat" she would grumble as she mopped up the spilled tea.
