Chapter Two

Sometimes It's Bend or Break

Molly kept all her things inside a bag, making sure she wasn't forgetting anything. Not that she had a lot of knickknacks there; after all it was just her work's locker and the objects she kept inside it were always being changed according to her needs. When she was finished with emptying it only her lab coat remained. It was a clean one and she would be returning to it eventually. She closed the metallic door slowly, and then she left the hospital.

It was late and cold and she decided that the walk home would be good to clear her mind a bit. She was still unsure about all this. Her boss had insisted with her to take a vacation, a small break, more times than she could count, and honestly she had felt the strain of the work lately, for the first time in years. Focusing was becoming difficult and sleeping too. Before deciding to finally make good use of her available days for vacations she had spent a few weeks sleeping just a few hours each night. Sleeping during the day when she had night shifts was useless, as she had found out in good time. She didn't want to take medication, because she thought this problem could be solved with some rest, and after contemplating the idea for a few days she had finally approach her boss, who showed more enthusiasm over her vacations than she felt. It was a necessity, more than anything.

Molly saw her breath as it entered in contact with the evening air and she sighed. She had avoided the thought, but it always found ways to creep up into her mind. She would be lying to herself if she didn't admit that one of the reasons she wanted to get away was Sherlock. Then, of course, there was her lawyer's letter that she had received two weeks ago and kept coming back to her mind, like a spark of an idea every time. The content of the letter was clear enough: one of her aunts – not even a close one and probably one of the last relatives Molly had in the country – had passed and Molly was the only heir. Molly remembered her aunt: she had visited her about three times when her parents were still alive, all before the accident a few years before. Still, she couldn't remember anything in particular, any particular conversation, just the good feeling associated with the name. The fact that she was her aunt's heir had come as a complete surprise and Molly found herself unable to have any feelings towards her aunt's death; she didn't know her enough to feel sad even, and Molly wondered what sort of person that made of her.

The contents of the will, however, presented themselves as quite interesting. A bit of money, though not a fortune per se, and a cottage on the countryside. The lawyer had shown Molly some pictures of the cottage; it was almost perfectly kept in what concerned the floor, ceilings and walls, and the garden would only require a bit of work. Some of the furniture, especially in the living room and bedrooms, was old but Molly figured out that with a bit of paint and some varnish she would still be able to give it a nice look.

Molly still wondered at first the use the cottage might have. She worked and lived in London and she would not move out of the city; she loved it too much to move away and her job was there, so London was the place where she would stay. But if she left the cottage alone for too long the signs of time and lack of use would start to show. She could rent it, but that would take time and she wanted to take a good look at it as soon as possible. With all these questions, her boss' words stared to come to her mind more and more often. Then, it had happened.

Molly had had another sleepless night and she was tired. Tossing and turning just to hear with a mix of dismal and thankfulness the ring of the alarm clock was unnerving. It was difficult to focus when her mind screamed for a rest it wouldn't allow her to take. She worked and did her best, but she felt quite susceptible. Talking with her lab partner helped; autopsying bodies and disintegrating bones helped as well, but it didn't heal. She didn't like being grumpy, so avoiding showing it for the sake of her colleagues was an extra effort. Then, Sherlock had come along.

Sherlock was usually rude. He had gotten better, but not entirely, and he walked into the morgue late at night, right as she was about to finish her shift and was finally starting to feel the effects of two sleepless nights and not a single cup of coffee. Her efforts were working at last and all she could think of was to go home, curl up in bed next to her cat Toby and fall asleep, before her mind regretted giving her that pleasure. Sherlock, however, had other plans.

He stormed into the morgue and Molly could tell he was not in the best of moods.

"I need you to do something for me."

He was usually attentive in his approach, and Molly wondered to which extent had she let him take advantage of her with his carefully crafted charm, combined with his knowledge of her infatuation for him, that he now asked in his usual demanding tone for her help without even bothering being kind to manipulate her. She took a deep breath and then considered. No, she would not bend this time. Even if he had at least pretended to take some interest in her to get his way she wouldn't have fallen for it, but like this it only made her decision an easier one.

"No," she said simply.

Sherlock stopped on his tracks; he was not even considering that answer, so he wasn't exactly waiting for a reply, ready to spill all of his wishes. He tilted his head slightly.

"What do you mean, no?"

Molly rolled her eyes.

"There's only one meaning for that word, Sherlock, no matter how much you ignore it and twist it at your leisure," she had no idea where this speech was coming. Maybe being sleepy did make her grumpy to the point that she was incapable of dealing with disrespect. "I am not going to help you, not now. My shift is over and I want to go home."

Sherlock scoffed.

"Don't be ridiculous," he ignored her words completely, moving on to his fast-paced speech. "There's a body that came to St. Bart's yesterday. I know it is a shot in the dark, and it may give you trouble, but I need you to see if the papers can still be changed and…"

Molly, who was making a last round to be sure all was in place for her night shift colleagues, turned around, facing him.

"Haven't you heard me? I am not faking papers for you again."

"This is important. A man may be arrested because-"

"You know what Sherlock?" Sherlock was now looking at her as if she was an alien. "You say that as if you cared about the man who is about to be arrested. You don't," she took a pause. "Three days ago you came here, asked me for some body parts and then left with what I gave you, without even answering the sole question I made you. I left you a message, asking about the case and if you had solved it, you didn't even bother answering it. And now you show up here out of the blue asking me to fake papers again, something that may get me into trouble, as if we had spoken just two days ago, as if every time you get your way and you don't need me anymore you haven't blatantly ignored me. My answer is no."

Sherlock stared at her.

"You're exaggerating." he said.

Molly looked at him and then at the floor.

"Maybe. It wouldn't have hurt to at least answer my invitation for my birthday dinner, though. Even if it had been – as I am sure it would be – a no."

Molly's birthday had probably been one of her most miserable ones. Lestrade was working and couldn't go – although he did send her some flowers and a cardigan as gifts. John was away from the country on a medical conference and even Mrs. Hudson was out of town, at her sister's. The rest of the people she knew worked at the hospital and she didn't feel close enough to them to invite them to her birthday. Still, even absent, they had all answered her invitation. All except Sherlock and that, more than anything, had given her the certainty of how insignificant she was in his eyes.

"Ah," Sherlock said, hands on his side. He had at least the decency to look embarrassed, "I am sorry about that. I have been busy."

Molly chuckled.

"Sure," she accepted, "And I am tired and I am going home."

She felt a twinge of guilt take over her as she walked away from a dumbfounded Sherlock, but the fact that he didn't try to reach her the next days attenuated the feeling. That night – that had seemed promising before Sherlock had walked into the morgue – had ended up as a sleepless one again. Sometimes she didn't even know why she had convinced herself that she was in love with him, and why no matter how much she tried, she couldn't make herself stop.

Molly got home and sat on her bed, thinking about all this, and how much it had weighed on her decision to escape for a while, to get away from everything. She hated that Sherlock was the main reason for it, but she was tired of worrying with things she couldn't change for now. So she tried to look on the vacations with enthusiasm and she packed her bags. She picked one of the pictures – the one that showed the entrance of her new cottage – and she placed a magnet on it, hanging it on the fridge's door. It seemed like a nice place and she had all intentions to make her time there the best she could. It would clear up her mind, and hopefully her heart as well.