The next morning as Molly silently slipped out of bed to get ready for work, Sherlock felt like running. He'd never had a better night in his life and that was problematic. He had never let himself loose control like that before. And he was beginning to wonder if he really was under control. Living with Molly was changing him. He had to get his old life back. Molly was a distraction. Such an exquisite distraction. . .Sherlock shook himself from slipping into memories that were very fresh in his mind. When Sherlock heard the front door close, he resolved to leave today before Molly got home from work.
Sherlock spent the day searching Molly's flat, removing what was his and packing it. He was in the middle of this when Molly came home for lunch. And she looked devastating. Like she did at the Christmas party, but less made-up. She looked like everyday Molly but there were little changes. A touch of redder, yet still subtle lipstick, curled hair, and worst of all. . .she was smiling and humming "Somebody to Love".
Molly wasn't humming for long as she surveyed the wreck Sherlock made of her flat. Books strewn everywhere. Things on her shelves knocked over. Her laundry dumped out of its basket. She just stood there staring.
"Sherlock. . ." Molly turned to him, her face was flushed, her eyes on fire. For a moment, Sherlock was taken aback. He'd never seen Molly this livid. "What the hell did you do to my flat?"
"Please, Molly, I was going-" Sherlock began to explain calmly.
"What's wrong with you? I can believe that you've lived 30 years on this planet and you haven't learned how act like a human being yet!" She was yelling now. Sherlock was stunned into silence. Her words cut him like a broken piece of glass. He'd never heard an unkind word from Molly's mouth. And he wasn't going to let her get away with it.
"You flatter me Molly," Sherlock bit back a brief moment, "After seeing what stupidity humans are capable of, I am actually glad you do not consider myself one."
Molly scoffed, "That is so typical! You can't just reason this away. Don't you know how to take responsibility for anything?" She was up in his face now. From this close distance, Sherlock had the opportunity to better examine Molly's anger. Her face was pink, but her nose stood out in a bright rouge. Her pupils were dilated and He could hear the deep, heavy breaths she was taking. And she was meeting his eyes for once. Molly often avoided his gaze in a confrontation. Her eyes burned with anger and something else that Sherlock couldn't identify. He marveled at how attractive she was when she was angry.
Molly continued yelling in his face. Sherlock was only half-listening to what she said, he was too busy trying to figure out why she was angry. Then it hit him. She wasn't intimidated by him any more. It occurred to Sherlock that Molly had always regarded him with some degree of awe, of esteem. He had always been untouchable to her. But last night she had finally touched him. He couldn't believe how good that "touching" felt.
"One more night wouldn't hurt," Sherlock muttered to himself.
"What was that?" Molly inquired. She was answered with Sherlock's lips on hers.
Molly and Sherlock carried on like that for a couple of weeks. They hardly fought anymore. In fact, very little passed between them in the way of words. And always, Sherlock's bags waited by the door. Until finally Molly came home one day and found a note waiting for her instead of Sherlock. It read:
Sorry, had a lead I had to follow up.
It's time I stopped abusing your hospitality.
There's a lot of work to do. Don't know when I'll be back.
Goodbye Molly.
-SH
Molly crushed the note up and threw it in the trash as angry tears fell on her face.
"He was messing up my fridge anyway," she muttered to herself.