Sherlock sat in his chair at 221B Baker Street. He was still stunned, he barely realized the taxi had reached 221B Baker Street until the cabbie shook him, alerting him that they had arrived and he couldn't wait there forever.

Sherlock couldn't remember ever having to make such an effort to hold his emotions back. If Sherlock anyone but himself, he would have given up entirely and let them flood him. But Sherlock was Sherlock and being the stubborn person he was, he wouldn't have given in anyways. Then again, if he were a regular everyday man, he wouldn't be in that predicament. He wouldn't have said those words and he wouldn't be trying to clean up a dried bloody nose. Those were strong hits. He was lucky that it wasn't broken.

He now sat staring at the wall, a yellow face smiling at him. But even that face seemed to be scorning him, disappointed and disgusted with actions in the morgue. Truth be it, Sherlock couldn't believe he had said those filthy words himself.

Never had he wished he could go back in time, but now, he did. There was one feeling that he couldn't help from leaking through: remorse. And it wasn't just this time. He felt a twinge of remorse that Christmas when he spewed those dirty words to Molly but now he was feeling that an infinite amount of times more.

He ventured through his mind palace, seeking Molly's room. It seemed that whenever he was a few steps away, it would vanish and reappear somewhere else, fleeing from his presence. Frankly, he couldn't blame it.

When he finally did come across it, he found it locked, something that had never happened in his mind palace before. The harder he tried to open it, the tighter it locked. Eventually he faced the fact that it was futile. Molly's room, normally so welcoming to him, was rejecting him.

It was several hours until he distantly heard the front door open. He left his mind palace and opened his eyes to see John, the front of his shirt damp with what he presumed was tears. That increased his guilt even more.

John looked at his best friend, still incredibly filled with anger, but more controlled. He knew his eyes were flaring and he made sure that Sherlock could see it too. He wanted him to know exactly how his inconsiderate affected those around him.

"How is she?" Sherlock's voice was hoarse from not using it for those hours. It was as if his body was shutting down on him.

John softened. Sherlock seemed generally upset and distraught about how his actions had hurt Molly. He looked at least ten years older.

"Not good. She's just spent the past three hours crying her eyes out. I want you to go say something to her, but I'm terrified your going to hurt her even more. You should apologize to her though..." John trailed off as if he were trying to decide the best course of action in a war was. Well, that must have been the effect of the army on him.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Could you at least tell me what was wrong?" John looked up as if he had finally decided the best approach was.

"Go ask her yourself. You hurt her and you need to apologize." John was softening up towards Sherlock, but he was still much more than peeved and was staring at him coldly.

Sherlock practically jumped out of the chair, bursting at the opportunity to fix his wrong. He was already out the door when he timidly stuck his head back inside the flat.

"John..." John turned around.

"Yes?"

"Sorry."

"What for?"

"For ever saying anything that hurt you like how it hurts Molly now."

And with that he was gone.