Thank you for all the thoughtful reviews! I save them to my phone and read them when I'm feeling like being an adult (or a writer) is just a little too difficult. I love writing Molly and Sherlock, they are just so complicated and lovely. I'm planning for this story to be about half a dozen chapters long or so but I never know what the characters will do so we'll see. Thank you again for reading!

Chapter 2

Molly nudged the charred mystery object out from under Sherlock's chair with her toe. She poked at it nervously with a finger and grimaced. It was a hand—black and shriveled—but definitely a hand. Molly rolled her eyes. She sincerely hoped that the loose appendage was part of one of his experiments, but she could never be too sure with Sherlock Holmes. She wouldn't be at all surprised to find the body of someone who had irritated him shoved under his bed.

She shoved the singed hand in the trash bag and wondered exactly when her life had started to careen out of control. Probably when she had fallen in love with a lunatic.

It seemed like just yesterday that she had been a smart, confident honors student who had landed her dream job at Bart's straight out of uni—the youngest women to ever hold the job. And damn it, she had worked her ass off to get it. She had spent so many nights hunched over thick anatomy text books until her eyes burned, that she hadn't even blinked when they had offered her the evening shift at the morgue.

Molly bent to retrieve a soot covered pair of handcuffs from under the coffee table and seriously wondered if she should have spent more time dating in uni.

It wasn't as if she had fallen for Sherlock the first time he swept into the lab with Lestrade trailing behind. He had been so filled with vicious brilliance that she had been stunned. It was like being in the path of a beautiful tornado, dark and filled with noise and fury. He destroyed everything in his path with his barbed wire tongue—including her.

No, it had been months later—when the body of a little girl had shown up in her morgue. She had been dreading it; her first solo autopsy of a child. She wasn't sure how long she had stared down at the tiny body laying on the cold steel table, but it took her three tries to work her gloves on over her trembling hands.

She had been blinking back tears when Sherlock had burst into the lab. She had grit her teeth but part of her had been happy to see him. His presence filled up the room and chased away the horrible silence. She warned him that one inappropriate remark—just one—and she would happily stabbed him with her scalpel.

But instead of his usual calloused assessments of the body, Sherlock had just stood across from her quietly asking her questions for the whole autopsy. Molly had been so focused on the case that before she knew it the job was done, and her hands were steady once again.

Afterward she had tried to thank him, but he had just waved her off as he plunged into his deductions. She had listened with half an ear while washing up, not even noticing when his voice trailed off.

When she had turned back to the autopsy table, Sherlock's long fingers were curled around the little girl's foot.

Her breath left her as she stood watching him. He had stood that way for a long moment, his head bent so his dark curls obscuring his profile. When he had looked up at her, his striking eyes pinning her with such fury and despair that it a cracked open something inside of her.

"I'll find who did this," he promised, his voice low and dangerous. Molly had found herself unable to respond when he had turned on his heel and strode off, leaving her alone in the empty morgue with hot tears running down her cheeks and a fissure in her chest that had never really healed.

And she had been completely lost ever since.

Molly's heart ached at the memory. She kicked at a pile of ash that used to be books, uncovering the silver corner of John's laptop. She leaned down and pulled it out of the mess, wincing a little at the twinge in her back.

When she had brought Mrs. Hudson back to her Baker Street hours ago, Molly hadn't really been planning on cleaning up duty, but the minute she saw the state of the boy's flat she had rolled up her sleeves and gotten to work. It was her day off, but the idea of Sherlock and John coming back to this after all they had been through this year, well…

She brushed of the top of the computer, coughing at the black cloud of soot that swirled up around her head. The computer was dented and scorched, but she set it on the desk, thinking that perhaps something could be recovered.

She glanced at the clock, startled to see that it was getting late. Her hair was plastered to the back of her neck, but her hands were too filthy to be much help. She had painted her nails the night before, but they were caked in dirt now. She sighed. It would take forever to get the grime out of them. Annoyed, she swiped at the hair tickling her face with her forearm. Maybe Mrs Hudson would let her change downstairs—

"You look dreadful."

Molly jumped at the rumble of the familiar voice behind her, pleased that she managed to suppress a girly squeak of surprise as she spun around. John glared at the back of Sherlock's head as they stepped into what was left of the living room.

"Thank you," she said without missing a beat. "I think you meant to say thank you."

"Did I?" Sherlock asked, spine straight and hands loosely cupped behind his back. He scanned her mildly before he turned and shrugged off his coat. Molly couldn't help but notice that the dark bruises under his eyes had eased. His black curls were still damp against the crisp collar of his shirt and there was a tightness around his mouth that she had never seen before, but he looked so normal standing in the doorway in his tailored suit—so Sherlock—that she felt the fingers of relief loosen the knot in her chest

Sherlock was here in 221B Baker Street, alive and insulting her—Molly felt her world right itself.

"Yes, you sod, you mean thank you," John insisted as he crossed to the desk. He picked up the battered laptop, shaking his head in disgust. "You really don't have to help clean up, Molly."

Molly tucked another loose hair behind her head, "It's okay. I don't have anywhere I need to be."

Sherlock bent to pick up the skull from the floor, barely sparing her a glance. "Wrong," he said flatly.

Molly shifted on her feet, glancing nervously at John. "Pardon?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow as he placed the skull back on the mantel. "You have a date in less then an hour. You really should go home and do something about your hair."

"Sherlock!" John hissed.

Molly blushed and willed herself not to glance in the mirror. Her hand clenched around the white trash bag as she watched Sherlock dust off his chair with a charred piece of cloth that appeared to be one of John's old jumpers. He settled down into the chair like some sort of posh prince and steepled his long fingers under his chin. Molly tried to glared at him, but was pretty sure she was failing miserably.

"How in the world—" she started.

"Molly, for the love of all that is holy—" John interrupted in exasperation.

But it was too late. Molly caught the whisper of a smile on Sherlock's lips before he launched into his deductions with a wave of his hand. "Despite your current state, your nails are recently painted. It's Friday night and the bag at the door has a pair of silver heels on the top so you were planning on going out this evening. It's getting late and your phone has buzzed three times in the past 5 minutes so you must be meeting someone. This meeting must be imminent or the person in question wouldn't be texting you…"

His eyes flickered over her dispassionately as he rattled off more facts. Only years of practice let her tune him out. Molly stood still under his assault, wondering idly if she had imagined the man in the doorway from two nights ago.

She wasn't sure what had possessed her to kiss him.

Maybe it was the hurt that festered just below the surface of her skin when his gaze skimmed over her. Maybe it was the sorrow she saw in every movement of his body as he helped her to the door, as if he were being crushed under an unavoidable weight. It seemed ridiculous really, for two people so lonely not to comfort each other in a time when they needed it so badly. They were friends after all, as he seemed so fond of reminding her.

So she had leaned in and let her lips brush his cheek, trying to ignore the embers that erupted in the pit of her stomach at his closeness. His smell, smoke and sweat, shouldn't have been appealing but it had made her dizzy just the same.

And maybe it had just been the late hour or his exhaustion, but she could have sworn she felt the air around them thicken and heat with anticipation when she had pulled back. They were so close that she could feel his breath on her lips, and she could have sworn she felt his heart stutter under her palm.

Startled, she had glanced up into his seawater eyes, and his gaze had flickered down to her lips. And for a moment—for just a fraction of a moment—she thought she felt him sway.

Not physically. She was quite sure that he had never moved, but there was something in the atmosphere. Something that spoke of deciding—of wanting.

Molly shook her head. No. It wasn't possible. He just wasn't interested in that sort of thing. And if he was, he certainly wouldn't choose someone ordinary like her. If Sherlock Holmes ever let himself get involved with a women it would be someone clever and gorgeous and fascinating. Someone like Irene Adler, she thought with a scowl.

Molly suddenly felt unbelievably tired.

She snapped back to the present just in time to hear the tail end of Sherlock's deduction "…could be a night out with the girls, but you are trying out a new perfume tonight, ergo—a date. Molly, you really shouldn't experiment with a new scent on a first date. The vanilla was really quite nice. This one makes you smell like an old women on her way to a friend's funeral. " Sherlock finished with a flourish, clearly pleased with himself.

Molly threw the trash bag at his smug face.

It arched across the living room in slow motion. He caught it in one hand but it broke open, spilling soot over his white shirt and dumping the contents right into his lap. Molly put her hand to her mouth as Sherlock stared down at himself.

Ok, maybe she wasn't completely over the phone call. But did he really have to be such an insufferable ass all the time?

Molly cringed as Sherlock cooly brushed a used tea bag off his shoulder. John snorted and she couldn't help the giggle that burst out of her. Sherlock did not look amused.

"I do believe you deserved that, my friend," John said.

Ignoring him, Sherlock plucked something out of his lap and held it up. "Is this my hand?"

John squinted at it. "That does appear to be a hand, yes. Unfortunately."

Sherlock glared at her. "Why did you throw it away?" he asked indignantly.

"Um, because it was all burnt up?" Molly replied, wondering if she had fallen into some sort of warped dimension. Which was pretty much how she always felt when talking to Sherlock.

He stood up, all the trash she had picked up falling to the floor at his feet. "Well, of course it was. I was testing how different accelerants effect how charred flesh holds up to decay." He said this slowly, as if he were talking to someone very stupid.

Molly stared at him for three beats. "Right," she said before turning on her heel and headed for the door. "So sorry to inconvenience you with all my helpfulness. Must be dreadful having so many people who care about you." She hitched her bag onto her shoulder, and fled down the stairs without looking back.

She had a date in 30 minutes after all. And there was only so much verbal abuse a person could take in one day, even if that person was unbelievable glad to see a certain consulting detective.

"Brilliant, mate," she heard John say before she slammed the door behind her.

"She threw away my hand," Sherlock replied. "Why would she throw away a perfectly good hand?"

xxx

Molly thanked Mrs. Hudson for letting her get ready in her flat, sending the woman a little wave as she rushed out the door. She wobbled a little on her silver heels as she hurried down the hall cursing herself. She was late.

It had taken her quite a bit longer to get ready for her date then she anticipated, and she was afraid the smell of smoke still lingered in her hair despite her best efforts. She smoothed a hand over the wrinkles in her new shirt. It would just have to do, she thought as she reached for her coat.

"I apologize."

Molly couldn't help but jump at Sherlock's voice, spinning around. "Don't DO that," she shrieked.

He was sitting on the stairs, his hand folded loosely above his bent knees. He had rolled up his sleeves and undone another button at his collar exposing the hollow at the base of his throat and the sharp line of his collarbone. Despite the dark stain on the front of his shirt he looked annoyingly appetizing. It really would be easier if she could hate him.

"I apologize," he repeated.

Molly shrugged on her coat. "John told you to come down then?"

Sherlock stood up. The foyer was small, and she took a small step back to give him room. She didn't feel like being near him right now. "John doesn't tell me what to do," he replied, a slight note of petulance in his voice.

She rolled her eyes. "Really?" she teased.

He was silent and she looked up, her breath catching a little when she realized how close they were. The shadows of the dark hallway cut across his face as he pinned her with those green eyes. "I am sorry, Molly Hooper," his voice a low rumbled that sent sparks skittering down her spine.

She stilled, suddenly aware that this wasn't an apology for the snarky comments upstairs. This was an apology for the phone call. If it's true then just say it anyway…

It should have made her feel better. He should be down on his knees begging for her forgiveness, damn it.

But instead, his apology just stole more-his long fingers scraping the last trace of hope from the bottom of the empty barrel of her heart.

Whatever secret schoolgirl illusions she had about that moment...whatever trace of wonder if maybe...maybe he had meant it. He was taking those too. Tainting the memory of those quietly stammered words that had drifted down to her through the bad phone connection and turned them into something cold and brittle.

Molly ducked her head, furious at the hot tears that threatened to ruin her freshly applied mascara. She swallowed around the tightness in her throat.

She felt him step closer, as if he sensed her distress, and suddenly she couldn't breath. Couldn't be here anymore. Couldn't look into his beautiful face and lie.

"I've got to go, Sherlock," she said, backing away quickly, more grateful then she could remember being to find her voice steady.

She grappled frantically behind her for the doorknob, shooting him what she hoped was a convincing smile. He stepped forward again but stopped at the sound of his phone chiming.

She opened the front door but paused when he frowned down at his mobile. "Lestrade. He's got a case."

Molly nodded, "Yes. Well, good luck. I'll see you at the morgue, I suppose? Probably over a corpse? Maybe-" she cut herself off. God, stop babbling like an idiot Molly. It's just Sherlock.

Just Sherlock. Those were ridiculous words even for her.

He was watching her again, his expression unreadable in the dark hallway. She nodded to herself. Right. This was tied up now wasn't it? They could just go back to normal. Just go back to pretending that he hadn't ripped her heart out of her chest with his bare hands.

She turned to go.

"I've never said those words before," he said quietly. Her heart stopped beating.

I love you...

It's always been true...

Her hand tightened on the doorknob. "You must have," she said, turning back slowly.

He slipped his hands into his trouser pockets and leaned a shoulder against the wall. Molly frowned at him. "But surely your mum-" He shook his head, "or even Mycroft for god's sake..."

"No," he replied, his gaze fixed on something over her head. "Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side."

That was Mycroft talking, she was sure of it. She studied him, suddenly aware that despite his light tone and casual posture, that this moment was important. That something had happened on that island with Eurus that had shaken him. Changed him.

It sounded as if he was telling her something, but it felt more like asking.

God, she loved him. Her heart ached with it. She would give anything to reach the broken man underneath the genius. To coax out the kind man who wouldn't hesitate to protect those he cared about with a ferociousness that stunned her sometimes.

She supposed they all felt the same. Why else would John forgive him for faking his death for two years? Why would Mrs. Hudson let him blow up her building and keep body parts in the icebox with barely a complaint? Why would Lestrade put up with his constant verbal abuse?

They all loved him. But it was like loving the moon-beautiful but untouchable.

Molly Hooper sighed. "How would you know? she asked gently.

"Hmm?" he murmured, his gaze drifted back to meet hers.

"You claim that sentiment is a weakness. But you have never been in love. How could you possibly claim to be an expert?" Her phone buzzed in her pocket but she ignored it. She was definitely going to miss her date.

"I can see what it is like to be a pathologist, but I have never been one. Is it really any different?"

Molly stifled an exasperated huff of laughter. "Not even remotely the same thing, Sherlock."

His brow furrowed the way it always did when he was trying to work out the details of a case. She could practically see the gears in his head spinning into action. He straightened, and she was afraid he would move closer, but he just stood waiting for her to continue.

She shook her head slowly. How could you possibly explain the value of love to someone who had only been hurt by it? She sighed. "You are trying to assess a crime scene without a microscope, Sherlock. Without experiencing love...well, you don't have all the data do you? You have made a false deduction based on only half of the information."

He narrowed his eyes at her. "Are you insinuating that I am wrong, Molly Hooper? I am rarely wrong. Time and again I have seen the devastation that sentiment leaves in its wake. Frankly, the evidence is irrefutable. Love is a dangerous disadvantage." He lowered his voice, glancing briefly up the stairs. "Look at John. Losing Mary...it almost broke him."

Molly crossed her arms, hugging her elbows. "You see but you do not observe," she said with a sad smile. "John would never give up the time he had with Mary. It's illogical to want something that you know will hurt you in the end and yet people have been seeking it out since the beginning of time. Therefore, the value of love must supersede the disadvantage. It's the only logical explanation."

He frowned at her, his eyes flickering as he tried to process what she had said. She watched him for a long moment but he didn't look at her again. He was gone. Descending into his mind palace to try to catalog love.

She wanted to step closer and see those eyes focus on her. Wanted to drag his lips down to hers and show him. Wanted to push him back on the stairs and touch him until the frantic pace of his mind slowed to only her fingers on his skin and her mouth blazing a trail down his neck. She had never wanted something so much in all her life.

"Goodnight, Sherlock," she murmured.

Molly didn't bother waiting for a reply as she closed the door quietly behind her.

The harsh light of the moon was bright as she walked away from the man who did not love her. Molly pulled her coat tighter around her neck with one hand and hailed a cab with the other. The black car pulled up to the curb smoothly. She didn't glance at her phone as she slipped into the seat and gave the cabbie her home address. Molly leaned back against the leather seat and silently watched Baker Street slide away.