Despite the fact that she knows she shouldn't have listened to the man, Molly finds herself downstairs with a cup of coffee, black, two sugars, clenched tightly in her fist and her heart in her mouth. Cheeks still stinging from the comment about her lipgloss, she'd wiped it off as soon as soon as the opportunity had presented itself, using the steel surface of the kettle as a mirror to make sure she didn't smear it everywhere. Once that had been done, she'd made the coffee and was now carrying it down to the basement where all the files were kept – where the man had said he would be. She didn't know why she was going to see him again, really – he humiliated her and angered her in turns and she should really just have ignored his request (demand?) for coffee and left him to it. But the attraction was still there and she put down the earlier moments to pure misunderstanding. (Although she knew this was just a poor attempt at making herself feel better.)

Taking a deep breath for what feels like the hundredth time that day, Molly pushes open the doors and walks inside, feet scuffing across the floorboards.

'Er..Hi.' She stutters as she spots him, sat at a desk, flicking through papers. 'I've brought your coffee.'

He looks completely unsurprised to see her, as if he knew she would listen to him before he even made the request.

Am I really that obvious? She wonders.

'Thank you.' He rumbles, in his deep voice, and she walks over and sets down the mug before she can spill it all over herself.

Overcome by a sudden rush of boldness, she asks, 'What's your name?' She tries for a smile. 'I realised I didn't ask before.'

'Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.'

He looks up and focuses on her face for a split second before dropping his gaze.

'You've changed your lipgloss again.' He mutters conversationally. 'Taken it off, in fact.'

Molly gapes at him; blood rushes to her cheeks as she self-consciously brings a hand up to cover her mouth.

'It wasn't working for me.' She mutters, looking away.

'Really? I thought it was a big improvement.' He waves his hands around in vague gestures. 'Your mouth looks too...small, now.

Stung, Molly steps back, frowning. She debates whether or not to reply with a sharp retort but she knows she'll most likely just embarrass herself again and settles for changing the subject.

'Look, about earlier -'

'Yes?'

'When I asked you if you wanted coffee...I didn't mean, you know, fetch you coffee. I meant-'

'I know what you meant.'

She's taken aback.

'Sorry?'

'I know what you meant.'

'How could you possibly know that?'

'The same way as I instantly noticed that you'd changed your lipgloss-'

'That was rather creepy, if you ask me-' She's not sure why she feels so defensive but she's hurt at the way he treated her like a servant despite knowing her intentions. (no way to put it down as a misunderstanding, now.)

'What?'

'Creepy.'

'What do you mean, creepy?'

'Well, you were clearly staring at my mouth for a very long time if you were paying enough attention to actually notice the tiniest differences in the amount of makeup on my lips.' As she says it, Molly hears a slightly cocky tone to her voice that she's never heard before and doesn't really like.

Sherlock's eyes flash and he leans forwards. 'Oh, Molly. It took me only half a second to register the changes, and less than that to work out why. I've far better things to look at than you. No, I deduced that you wanted to go for coffee with me in the same way that I've deduced that you live alone, with a cat, haven't had a boyfriend for a while – we can see why quite clearly – and that you have a pathetic crush on me.' He spits the words spitefully, and Molly can feel each one sinking into her skin like a blow. She's struggling to hold back tears of utter humiliation when he tells her to 'get out, and take your perfectly cringe-worthy obsession with you.'

She turns and leaves the room, fast, not stopping until she's back up the stairs and sitting behind her microscope. Dropping her head onto her hands, she holds back tears and bites her lip, hard. She's not angry, not yet; fighting back the waves of embarrassment, she groans into her palms. Sherlock's words echo around her head.

I've far better things to look at than you.

Haven't had a boyfriend for a while – we can see why quite clearly.

She's never been particularly happy with the way she looks but she's never let it affect her too much. Now, however, she feels a crippling sense of self-consciousness and shame in her appearance setting in. Having it pointed out by someone so flawlessly beautiful doesn't help, either. She sighs, trying to push away the rising tide of melancholy, pulling a tray of slides towards her. She slips them under the microscope one by one, trying to distract herself from thinking about it.

It's only later that day, when she returns home, that she allows her mind to wander over the events of the day. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, she wonders if she really is that plain. She's never thought of herself as ugly; but she's never thought of herself as particularly pretty, either. She shakes her head and turns away from her reflection, not wanting to be bogged down by her own low self-esteem. It's when she goes to bed that she really feels angry; angry at the way he treated her like a slave and the way he insulted her when she hadn't done anything wrong. Resolving to forget about arrogant man, she turns out her lamp and pulls the covers up to her chin.

She feels lonely in her single bed for the first time in a while. She's never realised quite how long it's been empty for, before.

Sherlock arrives back in the apartment he shares with John in a strange mood. He's not sure why he reacted so strongly to Molly; why he lashed out so viciously. Thinking about it, he wonders if it was the way she sounded so assured of her own intelligence when she'd said he'd "obviously" been staring at her lips. He'd been insulted by the tone of her voice which, to him, seemed to suggest a higher mental prowess than him.

Sherlock doesn't have much to be proud of; that's the problem. He's never done anything of note besides his deductions. He isn't special in any other way – no, he concludes, my intelligence is all that makes me worthy of attention. To have it challenged, intentionally or not, makes him feel...insecure? With a shudder, he pushes the thought away instantly, recoiling with disgust. No. Sherlock Holmes does not feel insecure. He knows there might be more than one reason, too; although his brain is capable of much higher functions than almost anyone, there are some memories that are hard to drag out. He remembers Mycroft's dig at the palace; Sherlock had told him, indignantly, 'I'm not afraid of sex.' He remembered Mycroft's soft reply, accompanied with the trademark government sneer; 'How would you know?'

Although he doesn't want to admit it, Sherlock knows that maybe that's why he reacted so strongly to Molly. It's true; he has little, close to no, experience with sexual or emotional relationships. The way Molly told him he must have been staring at her lips; the sexual intent assumed to be behind that gesture threw him off balance and he'd had no idea how to react. Instead, he'd lashed out in terror of the unknown. He often finds it funny how although he can know so much about one person just from looking at their shoes or their hair, he always fails to understand matters of the heart or anything resembling relationships. The only person he lets himself care about is John, and to a slightly smaller extent, Mrs Hudson and Greg Lestrade. He's not entirely sure how that last person made it onto the list; maybe it's the way he's always shown Sherlock respect, and they way he treats him like a friend rather than a freak. As much as Sherlock likes to boast about his capabilities, and although he would never admit it, sometimes he needs someone to insult him good-heartedly and make him feel normal.

His thoughts make him feel unsettled; it's been a long time since he's given any real, deep thought to the matter of friendships, and, more specifically, his own. He doesn't like to over-analyse the way he cares for some people; he knows it will only make him turn in on himself and begin an inner conflict he wishes to avoid. A war with himself can never be won and he prefers his mind (his heart?) not to be a raging battlefield, thank you very much.

It's as he's trying to banish these thoughts when he realises he's made a mistakewith Molly, and he'd be dammed if he said he often did such a thing.

She's useful to him; quite indispensable, in fact. Being on bad terms with her will only cause problems to his work – he needs her to be pliant and obedient. He won't deny that he often sees people as objects, because he does, especially so with Molly; she's a tool to him and as much as he wishes he won't have to put up with her annoying infatuation he knows she's a useful component in his cases. He refuses to feel guilty. He can imagine exactly what John would say; something about him being a heartless bastard. He'd probably go and tell Molly and ruin, it, too; better not to tell him about his manipulations at all. Returning his thoughts to Molly, he thinks about getting her fired and having a replacement brought in; but he thinks the effort it would take to analyse their mindset and adjust his approach appropriately to build up a whole new relationship would be more effort than it's worth. No, he'll just have to arrive at the hospital (he'll find an excuse; he always does.) and try to get back on her good side. Not that it will be hard; after only spending a matter of hours with her, he knows he can play her like a fiddle. She's a finely-tuned instrument in his hands, playing each note as he wills it, hands on the bow like a puppeteer's on the strings. He's never felt guilty about such manipulation, as long as the cause is clean. And really, what better cause could you have than to help solve murders? In theory, what he's doing is good. A typical for-the-greater-good situation you'd see in a novel or a film. In reality, the lines are more blurred. He knows that most people would count it as being the wrong choice. Sherlock counts it as the necessary one.

He doesn't realise how long he's been lost in thought (very slack of him) until John's voice breaks into his reverie. He must have returned to the flat at some point without Sherlock noticing. (Doubly slack.)

'What's wrong?' John's voice is full of a concern that suddenly fills Sherlock with a feeling he can't quite place. It feels like something a little between revulsion and fear. (He's not sure why he's reacting in this way.) He can almost see the cord connecting them; the intricately woven braid of care and camaraderie. He can see the shining thread of platonic love stretching from John's half towards his; halfway across, the thread is frayed and broken. Sherlock knows that all John is waiting for is for him to return the care John shows to him and although he tries, there's a subtle fear in letting go and letting himself care so strongly about someone. As long as he can deny it, he thinks, he'll be okay. He knows all too well that anybody you care about can be ripped away without a moment's notice. He's lost in thought again, until John's voice breaks through the fog of his thoughts once more.

'Sherlock. What's the matter?'

'Nothing.'