"A martini, please," Molly smiled pleasantly at the bartender.

Mary giggled and placed her request, then turned towards her, "How many times have you been in a bar? You don't need to be your usual polite self when talking to the bartender. Most people are quite rude, actually."
The man returned with their respective beverages and Molly gave a, "Thank you," while smirking at her friend with a look that can only be described as "teeming with sass".

"Sometimes, being mean is how you get ahead in life," Mary replied.

"It doesn't feel too good to be purposefully nasty to people. They're either hurt by my allegations or they become extremely defensive and irritating. Which would require further conversation. Which I do not like."

"Yes, and then there are people like Sherlock." Mary tilted her head.

Molly scowled.

"Do you want to talk about it? I think you would feel better if you talked about it."

Molly scowled even harder and downed her glass with a short "No". She then turned back to the bartender and asked for a refill and drank it all in one, quick gulp. Her cheeks became slightly flushed due to the alcohol rush, but she seemed more lighthearted. As per the usual results of drinking.

"Maybe you shouldn't drink so much. You'll get a hangover and you still have work in the morning. Dissecting corpses with a raging headache is not on my list of things to do."

"It's fine. I can call in sick or something," Molly waved it off without a second thought. "You now, a lot of people say I'm too prudent. And that can get annoying. Are you going to drink that?" The last sentence was directed to Mary's drink, which was just sitting on the counter, untouched.

"Take it, I'm not feeling particularly thirsty."

"So, how are you and John going?" She sipped the liquid. "I've heard things."

"People say ridiculous things, so don't listen to whatever people are gossiping about. And there isn't much to say, anyway. He asked me out, but I didn't really feel like we would be– compatible, you know? So I said I had plans with you and then made plans with you."

Molly laughed, knowing she said that in a non-offensive manner. "You see, that's the difference between you and me. You can afford to be choosy about who to hang out with and date in the outside world. Me, well, I'm not one to be too social with people because, let me tell you a secret, I secretly hate the human species," she took another drink. "As for relationships, they have been summarized by the case of Jim from IT."

"Alcohol is suppose to make you happier, not more misanthropic."

"Don't worry, I am happy right now. Well, if you could call an artificial dopamine rush 'happy'. I just don't feel as horrible as before. Oh, I like that song..."

The DJ was playing "Angel with a Shotgun" and it appeared to be a popular couples song. Well, it was appropriate considering the lyrics:

...If love's a fight,

then I shall die

with my heart on the trigger.

They say before you start a war,

you better know what you're fighting for.

But baby you were all that I adore.

If love is what you need,

a soldier I will be.

I'm an angel with a shotgun,

fighting 'till the war's done,

I don't care if heaven won't take me back.

I'll throw away my faith, babe,

just to keep us safe.

Don't you know you're everything I have?

The bartender appeared again and set a glass of champagne in front of Molly.

"I didn't order this."

"It's been paid for. Courtesy of that gentleman over there in the odd yellow shirt. He also said to tell you 'sorry'." The bartender pointed.

Sherlock walks into a bar.

That's it, that's the joke.

It was perhaps the most uncomfortable and out-of-place he has ever felt in his life. The people there are so contemptible and moronic. The alcohol aspect of the place is not too appealing, either. Beer and wine were not half as effective in stimulating his mind as, say, cocaine and cigarettes.

But he had moved past that now, the seeking an artificial rush from drugs and nicotine. Instead, he found that solving crimes gave him an euphoric high. And it was far less harmful for him, physical-wise.

That's all not important, not right now. His current goal is to find Molly in this club and somehow have her accept his apology.

She and Mary were not particularly hard to track. All he had to do was ask around in the Homeless Network.

The moment he walked into the building, Sherlock's nose was bombarded by a mosh pit of overwhelming aromas– beer (obviously), perfume, aftershave, deodorant, everything. Because his nose was more attuned to smells than a normal person's, and the concoction made him nauseous. He quickly found a seat and tried to calm his stomach when his phone buzzed.

A text from his father. The third one after he semi-stormed out of the restaurant.

Ignore. There are more pressing issues at hand.

Spotted straight away, at about 10 metres' distance, was Molly Hooper wearing her conspicuous red t-shirt. Her friend was right next to her, and she had been known to be fiercely protective, so it might not be the best idea for Sherlock to approach them. He needs them to come to where he is...

"Pardon me, but may I purchase a glass of your most expensive champagne for the lady in the red over there? And please tell her that I am sorry."

"Yeah, yeah, of course," the bartender replied.

Three minutes later, according to plan, Molly stalked over to him, but with Mary at her heels, and slammed the still-full glass on the counter.

"What do you want?" She snapped contemptuously.

"You're inebriated." It was true– her breath was tainted with the scent of alcohol of various kinds (a martini, perhaps?), her gait was slightly off-kilter, and her cheeks were more pink than usual, without makeup.

"No shit, Sherlock, we're in a fucking bar. I'm not going to be drinking juice boxes, am I?"

"And you're usually not this belligerent." Definitely due to the drinks. He has never seen her this cross before.

"What do you want, Sherlock?" Mary stepped in, stern and slightly exasperated.

"I have reflected upon what I've said back in the restaurant, and I realized that it could've been taken to be a very offensive statement. So I am here to apologise," he said, unfazed.

"Go on..." Molly crossed her arms.

"I'm sorry for saying that I only associated with you because you provide me with body parts from the morgue. Sure, that certainly is a plus–"

Mary cleared her throat in warning.

Sherlock picked up her cue and diverted his original statement, "So, what I want to say: I wish for you to accept my apology."

"No," Molly stated bluntly and Mary chuckled.

"No?"

"No," she repeated, but what ruined the moment of assertiveness was a small yawn that escaped from her mouth.

"Why not?" Sherlock asked with honest confusion. "I had done everything correctly in my apology. According to what John said. I don't see what the problem is."

With her eyes glistening, Molly launched into a long tirade, voice dripping with conjured-up anger that she never held before, "The problem? The fucking problem? You were the problem. I was tired of all the shit you put me through for two years! You knew how I feel, and you exploited it. All the manipulative, fake compliments, the rudeness, and the lack of respect. And also your rudeness to everybody else. I've listened to Anderson and Donovan complain about you, and they have a right to. So cut the crap!"

His phone rang.

"Shit," Sherlock muttered under his breath, cursing the awful timing. But maybe he could play it to his advantage. He pressed the ignore button with a disdained, audible, "Mycroft", indicating the caller.

"You're not answering?" Mary raised an eyebrow. From what she had heard about him from Molly, he was very attentive to his calls and texts, as they were usually about his work and work was what he lived for.

"This is more imperative," he answered with a solemn expression, with slightly more ingenuity than he felt, but he felt a bit regretful, all the same.

Molly's hard expression from before softened, and after a moment of gazing at him, picked up the glass of champagne from before and walked off to her original seat 10 metres away.

Mary, however, remained.

"Don't do this. I've seen her like this before. She's angry for a while, but then it wears off and she goes back to doting after you. You're giving her a false notion that you are capable of returning the feelings that she has for you."

"And may you elaborate on what kind of feelings you are referring to?"

"I've seen your blog. you know perfectly well what I am talking about. So unless you have the intention of reciprocating those feelings, stay away from her," she pursed her lips.

"If I do intend to reciprocate those feelings?"

"Then I will help and keep track of you, I suppose. I want her to be happy, and since she seems to want you, despite your awfulness."

"I do not require your assistance," he said. "Or your surveillance, for that matter."

"What? Yes you do."

"You, Miss Morstan, are very... direct and stringent. Our personalities would clash if we are to work together, making any of my plans futile. I do not want to be burdened with that."

"Which is to say, you don't like me very much."

"Very intuitive, I see."

"Fine, then," Mary retorted. "You can make your own 'plans' or something, but whatever you do, I am going to be monitoring your every move. You're not very trustworthy, you know."

"Molly is perfectly capable of fending for herself, I am sure."

"Yes, but her defenses fall short with you."

"Well, if you do want lessons on spying on me, my brother would be certainly glad to instruct you on it." Sherlock's phone rang again. Speak of the devil, it was Mycroft.

"You should answer that," she said with some antipathy. "Don't want this to be disrupting your work, and that sounds urgent." She then strolled vehemently away, back to her friend.

"Mycroft, what do you want?"

His brother spoke, in a dead, monotonous voice, "Check your texts," then hanged up without another word. Odd.

Out of curiosity, he unlocked his phone (which was the first 25 digits of pi), and went into his messages app. There were three unread ones from his father, the earliest ones at the top.

Pick up, we need to talk about this.

-Siger Holmes

Sherlock, I'm telling Mycroft to call you if you don't reply.

-Siger Holmes

I have Huntington's Disease. You should probably get tested.

-Siger Holmes

A/N: The lyrics belong to The Cab, from "Angel with a Shotgun", which I happened to be listening to as I wrote the chapter. None of the lyrics belong to me, so yeah, copyrights and all that good stuff.

Also thanks to Rocking the Redhead, magicstrikes, Crimson and Chrome 42, ENTWolf, SammyKatz, Renaissancebooklover108, Corinne (Guest), Kristina (Guest), and Danny-Bella-Gubler-Reid for reviewing!