A/N: there's a LOT of dialogue in this one, so I hope it doesn't get too tedious to read. Same—please tell me if there are places where they're out of character or if I'm just writing horridly and could use a lot of constructive criticism.
Thanks!
Just as Molly was about to insert the key into the lock, the door swung open.
"Welcome back."
She shoved past him, flinging his coat onto the sofa.
"You're frustrated with me."
This again.
"Yes, Sherlock."
"Well, why are you frustrated with me?"
"Take a wild, wild guess."
"Guessing is never an option. I would say it was my observations this morning, but they were completely accurate and –"
She could feel a strangled scream forcing its way up her throat.
Just then, his phone sighed. That made 58. Molly watched as Sherlock whipped his phone from his pocket, watched as a flicker of joy passed over his face before it disappeared.
She felt her heart stop. No.
"Who was that?" she blurted out, unable to stop herself.
She knew him so well that she almost wished she didn't. The sudden, slight tension in his mouth region. The twitch of his left hand's pinkie, a habit still left despite the fact he was clean now. An imperceptibly longer moment of silence as he formulated his thoughts.
Don't.
"No one," Sherlock smiled a bit too brightly and swept past her. "I'm going out for a second, wait here."
Liar.
"Was that the Woman?" she couldn't help it.
He paused in front of the doorway, not turning back around to face her. A moment later, his form disappeared down the stairs.
With great hiccupping sobs, Molly collapsed on the couch, wetting the coat that she still hadn't had the chance to take off with her tears. She had been so dumb, believing poor Molly Hooper, the pathologist who didn't even spend most of her time with live humans, could grab the great Sherlock Holmes' heart.
He may have been married to his work, but one woman got through. He may care for her, but she couldn't deceive herself into thinking he would ever love her. No. He was too rational for that. That Christmas, perhaps she should have just told him, yes, the present was for her boyfriend she planned on meeting later that night. Should have grabbed it, not let him seen, not given her heart away further. He wouldn't have kissed her; she wouldn't have had hope.
It would have saved her a lot of heartache.
Ouch. Molly woke up with drums pounding her head. As she slowly sat up, (how did she get here? Hadn't she been in the club?), she reached out a hand for the glass of water set on the bedside table.
"Here." The glass got shoved into her hand.
She gasped, nearly dropping the water. A steady hand reached out and steadied it before it could spill.
"Sherlock, please go. Just leave me alone." Tears threatened again.
"Talk to me. That's what people do—talk, right?"
"I don't think there's anything left to say."
"Do you trust me?"
"Do you trust me?" Molly fired back.
"Yes. Quite. With my life—quite literally—because I asked you to help me fake my death. Why? Because I trust you."
She groaned.
"So do you trust me?"
"Yes," she finally whispered.
"Then you know the Woman doesn't matter. She never did."
Molly was silent for a moment. Sherlock never explained himself. That just wasn't who he was.
"Thank you, Sherlock," she finally whispered, and looked at him for the first time. His crystal blue eyes were focused entirely on her, unnerving her. They were always the reason she stuttered. So clear, piercing your soul in a second, able to see through everything and everyone. And they still haven't lost their charm.
"Good." Sherlock finally said, and started to get up from the chair he had placed next to the bed.
"Sherlock."
"Yes?"
"I trust you."
He stood still, waiting for more.
"Because I love you."
He nodded jerkily.
"Yes. I know that. You've made it obvious enough." But still not the answer she wanted.
She hesitated.
"Do you love me?" she finally asked.
She saw him freeze. And her own heart froze along with him. It will never happen. Just reconcile yourself with that. She knew he wouldn't have an answer.
"Sherlock…" she began again.
He looked at her.
"I – I think…perhaps it's better…for us to just – just stop this now,"
"What do you mean?" his voice deepened.
"I mean, you don't want to waste time, right? And I still want to have kids, and I really hope to have them soon because I'm not getting any younger, and it's always been a dream of mine, you know, to have kids and live in a cozy little house somewhere peaceful –"
She felt a hand suddenly grab and tighten around her wrist, and she raised her head to look into crystal blue ones.
"Even if they're not mine? Even if they're someone else's? Do you want kids that much?" His hands shook as his breathing became labored, his eyes stormy. But why would he have a reason to be mad?
"Get dressed," he said tersely, grabbing a jacket and tossing it at her, "we're going out to dinner."