It has been a rough year.

It started off great with a promotion but quickly fell apart when Dad got sick. Then I had to get involved with "Jim from IT". I know he is a criminal mastermind and used me to get to Sherlock. But he was funny. He listened to me and held me when I cried. Plus he is a great snog. Much better than Phillip and his sloppy kissing. Which isn't why me and Phillip broke up. I was willing to put up with his drowning-in-spit technique. Lets be honest I put up with just about anything from guys. But Phillip thought that my devotion and kindness meant he could sleep with Lucy in Radiology. What a wanker. The worst of it is that even after I found out I was still willing to forgive him. I am such a door mat.

Then Dad got worse. He was so brave and he tried so hard to stay positive. Such a kind and loving man. It has only been three months since I buried him. It is no wonder that I spend almost every night crying my eyes out and self-medicating with bad telly and ice cream. I have become an expert at hiding my red eyes. The few people that I talk to at work haven't seemed to notice.

"Hey Molls. What pulls you up from Siberia?" Grant, the lab tech, smiles over his microscope as I enter. He loves to call the morgue Siberia because it is cold and no one wants to go there. Which used to make me feel like an outcast but these days being alone suits me just fine.

"Just collecting that lab work I sent up yesterday." I smile weakly.

"Oh ya. I will just grab it for you. Is this for one of your autopsies or…" He trailed off, clearly fishing for information.

"Its for a missing persons case Sherlock Holmes is working on." I try to sound nonchalant when I say his name. I know people are curious about Sherlock and his cases. His family connections and money allow him to use the hospital for his detective work but he rarely ventures beyond the morgue. I used to think that was because he enjoyed my company but I realize now he just likes the quiet.

"Hmm." Grant nods knowingly "Guess he can't pick up his own labs?"

"Well not when Dr. Brown is working." We both giggle a little over the thought of our burly, six-foot-three, hospital administrator coming face to face with the man that destroyed his Sherlock, so engrossed with being the smartest person in the room, he didn't realize that he had revealed Dr. Brown's wife as a cheater-in front of the entire staff. Needless to say Sherlock is forced to keep a low profile these days. A situation I think he prefers. He gets to have me fetch everything for him and has no need to deal with anyone but plain, quiet, door mat, Molly.

I haven't seen Sherlock in weeks and in my present mood I don't know if I even care. I still have a huge school girl crush on him, I don't think that will ever change. But lately when he comes to the lab I feel nothing but a sense of loss. We are never going to be a couple. I will never get to find out if those perfect bow lips are better than Jim's. I used to fancy that he cared for me. That claiming that Jim was gay was his jealousy talking. I thought that there might be some small part of him that preferred my company to other people. But my Dad's death, and Sherlock's complete ignorance of such a life changing event made me admit the hard truth. That I am nothing more than his lab tech. Sherlock only comes around when he needs something. His notice of me extends only as far as his need for me. It is a hard truth but he doesn't think of me he thinks only of himself or his case. Which is why I have decided to be indifferent and to move on. Hopefully my lunch date with Rupert will help with that.

I enter the elevator and distract myself from brooding by looking at the lab results. Sherlock won't care to hear my analysis but I like to know what he is talking about when he gets excited. My face is still buried in the file when I arrive at the morgue. Through the door I can hear the low rumble of voices. Probably John and Sherlock arguing, again. I push open the door and look across the room at the two men. One tall and dark, the other short and fair; an unlikely pair. John is a good man and a good influence on Sherlock. Like me he is one of the few people that doesn't seem to mind the rougher aspects of Sherlocks personality. Like what he is does as I cross the room.

Sherlock's dark eyes are wide and darting all over my body. He is "deducing" me, looking for clues in my clothes, hair, make-up, walk and who knows what else. It is a bit like being under a laser, a devastatingly handsome laser. The first time Sherlock "deduced" me I thought he was hitting on me. I was at a coffee shop on a rare break. He came up to me and stood there-looking. I just stared back at this gorgeous man and thought that I had fallen into a romantic comedy. Love at first sight and all that. Then he opened his mouth.

"I see that you spend a lot of time with dead bodies." I was too caught up in my fairy tale and the wonderful rich tones of his voice to register what he had said. When I did understand I was confused.

"Er, um, yes."

"At St. Barts." It wasn't a question.

"Well yes. I work in the morgue." He cut me off.

"Yes, Molly we already established that. May I sit?" He seemed irritated and sat before I could form a sentence.

"How did you?"

"Know your name? It's on your coffee cup. Now I would like to propose a working arrangement." And before I even knew his name I was a little in love with him. He was brilliant and handsome and I was flattered that he had picked me. At first whenever he would stare at me like that I would fancy he was in love with me. But I long figured out that Sherlock's "deducing" look is done almost subconsciously and usually results in unflattering or rude remarks.

I look at his furrowed eyebrows and realize that Sherlock is puzzled. Something about me has caused him to pause and actually think. I quickly push down the jumping of my heart and can't help but laugh inside at my own silliness. So much for being indifferent and moving on!

"Here are your results." I switch in to work mode and describe the elevated sodium levels. As expected, Sherlock takes the file and wanders away. He won't notice anything until he has figured out his puzzle. My eyes follow him involuntarily before I give myself a shake and turn to John.

"Guess he will be awhile. How are you?" I ask John knowing he will quickly launch into a long story about his latest girl troubles. Whenever we talk it is mostly about his relationships or his sister. John is a great guy but not the best listener.

My Dad was a great listener. Every Sunday he would ring me up and we would talk for hours. Mostly he just listened to my stories of work and love. Then he would offer sage advice or just commiserate with me. I loved those talks. They got fewer and fewer as he grew sicker. I felt bad unloading my problems when he was in the middle of a struggle with death. But even then he would listen. Pat his bed and make me sit down and talk until we were both exhausted.

God I miss him.

What I wouldn't give to be able to tell him about Phillip. To hear him tell me "You are so much better than him Molly. He doesn't deserve such a wonderful and kind person." Tears spring to my eyes and I try to focus back on John to avoid collapsing into a puddle.

John hasn't noticed my lapse in attention. He is yammering about his latest school teacher girlfriend. He certainly has a lot of girlfriends.

"I don't know Molly. Am I being too picky? It just doesn't feel right with Jeanette." He looks at me expectantly for advice.

"Look I don't know much but I do know that if you aren't in love with her then you need to break it off. There is no point being with someone that makes you unhappy. Life is too short. Trust me I know." John nods and I hope that the conversation is over so I can go have a good cry. Suddenly a stool scrapes the floor.

"Finished John. We can stop inflicting Molly with our company." Sherlock speaks imperiously and for once I don't mind his bossiness. Still John would feel bad if he thought I wasn't interested.

"I don't mind. I…" Sherlock cuts me off before I can make a proper protest.

"Nonsense Molly I am sure John was boring you to tears." Sherlock emphasizes tears and for a split second I wonder if he has noticed. If he knows after all about my Dad and Phillip and my ice cream binges. He is a great detective after all. But I brush the thought away. Sherlock doesn't care about people, only about puzzles. John is talking

"I bet Molly would jump at a chance to attend a Christmas party." I can't help it. I practically squeal in delight

"Oh I love Christmas parties!" I have been dreading the holidays and at a loss what to do with my free time. So a party, any party would be grand. Something to look forward too. Something to buy a dress for and an excuse to buy some Christmas presents.

But Sherlock is obviously not thrilled about the idea of a party. Scowling at John while throwing him an insult about normal people. He turns to me.

"Molly. John is attempting to coerce me into throwing a Christmas party at our flat." It suddenly makes sense. I have never been to 221B Baker Street but I doubt it is a place where Sherlock does a lot of entertaining. He is not the type of man to suffer fools and a party is, after all, a fools gathering.

"Oh. I see. That is too bad. A party would have been fun." My holiday is once again empty and desolate. Then Sherlock is stepping nearer and leaning close to me. I shiver involuntarily.

"Molly. If we had a party would it make you happy?" His voice is low and seems to thrum through my bones. I flush, unsure how to respond.

"Well, um, ya. I love Christmas and…It would be fun." I take a deep breath trying to clear my senses. Why is he so close? Why does it matter if the party would make me happy? Is he mocking me? Pretending to flirt in order to get something from me (he has done it before)? He obviously doesn't want a party. Maybe he wants me to refuse a party so he can use it in his argument with John. Either way I suddenly don't want to be at a party with the unknowable Sherlock Holmes.

"But don't have one on my account. I mean I am not worth planning a whole party over. If you don't want…" He cuts me off. Typical.

"Molly I always do exactly what I want. You know that." He says with an adorable smile. My knees buckle slightly. And I want to laugh because I should have known that my happiness would never factor in to that funny head of his. He isn't cruel, he is a man, caught up in himself; like John, like Phillip.

"Oh yes I am well aware." I contain my laughter. I want to say more, to be witty and clever for him. But I don't play with words and so I just smile.

Sherlock's mood shifts, his eyes darken, and suddenly he is out the door. Leaving John mumbling a goodbye.

I expect to cry when they leave but instead I laugh at myself and the impossible Sherlock Holmes. It is my first real laugh in 4 months and it feels great.