So I got a review saying that Sherlock was very OOC in the last chapter. I can almost see where you're coming from, "guest", since when does Sherlock ever cry? Oh yes. At the end of S3. We don't know what he went through when he was away, and for the purposes of this little story, he was almost blown up, and a number of children (and adults) died directly because of him. Thanks to S3, we see more emotion from him, unlike in the other two seasons, so I'm taking this as an excuse to manipulate him slightly to be a little more human than even in S3, though his slamming away from the table? That was in character. He does that in both the two earlier seasons, and randomly shouts, and gets frustrated.

Hope that's clarified his OOC-ness. Besides! It's Sherlolly! He's always going to be a little OOC.

Rant over. Enjoy this next chapter :)

Stopping outside of 221 Baker Street, Molly brushed her hand sharply across her cheeks, swiping the tears gathered there away.

She had to stop him doing this to himself.

She'd seen the frantic nervousness in his step every time they stepped out into the open, the subtle flinching at unexpected noises or the sound of a child's laughter cut short.

She'd seen pain in his eyes when John wasn't observing, though he tried to hide it, even from her.

He was a stubborn fool and she adored him for it.

And she had told him.

Fool!

The demon that lived in her head, that had constantly put her down all her life, raised its ugly little head, chastising her for her idiocy.

What did you expect, Molly-Molly-Dreamer? Your precious Sher-lock to say he lo-ves you? Neither of you know what love means, stupid girl.

She shook her head vehemently, thrusting the irritating voice from her mind.

All her life she had let it rule her, making her back down when all she had wanted was to have a voice.

She refused to return to the scared teenager she had been stuck as for so long.

She glanced up at the window, a faint light illuminating the street surrounding her. Nothing stirred within the flat.

Sighing, she pulled her coat more firmly around herself, checking her phone for messages.

John hadn't replied yet.

She hated leaving him, especially when he was in the state he was in, but she hadn't known what to do. She had half an idea about getting John, or Mycroft, someone who knew him better... But who knew him better than her? John knew less about what he had gone through in his time away than she did, and Mycroft, though he knew, he didn't empathise. Sentiment is a chemical defect. Caring is not an advantage.

Mycroft was a dick bag, and she could not trust him to take care of Sherlock.

She was the girl who counted. Maybe not "The Woman", or his "Live in Doctor", but she was his Pathologist.

She mattered to him, and by leaving him now, she might have ruined that.

Turning back to face the imposing black door, with the wonky knocker that Mycroft insisted upon straightening, she breathed a deep, steadying breath, and reached for the door handle, pulling back her had as the door flew open.

"Sherlock...?"

His eyes were glazed, panicky, flitting around restlessly as he searched for something unseen.

"Children... Get out OF MY HEAD!" He roared down the street, pulling frantically at his hair as he pushed into her.

"Sherlock! Focus! There's no-one there, it's all in your head. Please, calm... Calm down..." She pulled his head to her chest, talking to him softly, running one of her hands through his hair and rubbing his back with the other.

"Please, Sherlock, come back inside..."

"Can't..." His voice, usually so deep and authoritative, was soft, childlike, muffled though it was by her coat.

"Shhhh... Sherlock, it's alright... It's just, we're so.. exposed out here...what... What if Moriarty finds out where I am? Please... And people will talk, look how they were with you and John!" She attempted a smile as she felt him chuckle slightly.

"Okay."

She heaved a sigh of relief, drawing his face out of her coat and taking firm hold of his hand, pulling him ever so gently up the stairs to their flat.

"I'm sorry for leaving you. I didn't.. I just didn't know what to do for the best. I thought I should get John-"

"No. Can't let John see me like this. He wouldn't understand.." She studied his face, taking in the desperation, fear and longing there.

"You want this to end? Can't you.. Compartmentalise it? Put the memory of the..."

"Little girl."

"Of the little girl in a room, and lock it?"

His already deathly pale face grew paler.

"No, no. They were, they were locked in the building. I would have been, but I was late, so they set the building on fire, with this little girl still inside, crying for her mother. Her mother was outside, too. I listened to her scream from the heat, and then the silence. Like nothing else. They set the building on fire, and then, as it seemed to be going out, as the survivors were getting hopeful that the might not die, lungs weakened by the smoke and their screams, they blew the bloody building up.

"It was as though Death was a physical thing that had snatched their voices, leaving nothing but despair and misery behind.

"Molly, it crushed us, all of us. God knows how that little girl's mother feels. If a self-confessed sociopath feels such intense emotions, what must she be going through?"

Molly sat, frozen in horror, tears welling in her eyes as he physically fell apart in front of her.

"Oh, my god, Sherlock..." She threw herself at him, wrapping her arms tightly around his broad shoulders.

"Now you know why I can't be alone, not any more. Silence... Silence brings that little girl's death back, her laughter, and her screams and then the crushing, torturous silence."

She kissed his cheeks, uncaring of her tears and his mingling, promising to never leave him alone again.

Curling into him, she listened to his voice gradually become smoother, his breathing revert back to a regular rhythm, listening to him blurt out random facts from his mind palace, occasionally adding some interesting cases from her time as Pathologist at Barts from before she had met him.

She fell asleep on his lap, Toby curled into her.

She woke up within the warm cocoon of his arms in the room she had been sleeping in - alone - for the past few weeks.

"I knew it was his room..." Mumbling to herself, she turned to face him, smoothing her fingers over his high, prominent cheekbones and marvelling over the difference between his waking form and the innocent, sweet expression his sleeping form took.

He mumbled something indiscernible, shifting slightly as he drew her closer in his sleep.

He looked so vulnerable.

She treasured the fact that he felt comfortable enough with her to allow her to see him so exposed.

She loved him. The realisation that is was real, true, This man is the one for me, and always will be love hit her suddenly, making her want to both cry and laugh. Even though she knew he didn't, and wouldn't ever feel the same, she knew now that she loved him, not what he stood for, or his looks, or his intellect.

She loved him, and nothing could change that.

She sighed. Crap.

However, she also knew that she could always uphold her promise.

She would never leave him.

She couldn't.

Thanks for reading! Again! I actually don't have a concrete plot in mind for this, it's just a fantastic distraction from my very important history coursework, and i like writing about Sherlock and Molly sleeping together without, you know, sleeping together. ;)