The fourth time is after the anniversary.

"Shut up, Mousy, no one cares what you think!"

"Speak up, Mousy, no one can hear you!"

"God, you're so stupid, Mousy!"

"Stop being such a smart-arse, Mousy!"

"You know, Mousy, you'd look a lot better if you didn't eat like a pig."

"Fucking eat something, Mousy, you're nothing but skin and bones."

These are only some of the words that still swim through Molly's head when she thinks of her father. Even as an adult she still hears them.

He called her Mousy all the time because she was so shy, but he never knew that it was because of the way he talked to her that she had such trouble raising her voice. Her brother, Charlie, had a nickname too: Chubby, because he was overweight as a boy and even after he'd lost the weight in his teens, dad would still poke at his stomach and laugh. Her mother was the one who suffered the most from it, though. From what Molly can remember he was always telling mum that she wasn't doing her best or that her best was never good enough. The worst part about it was that he never seemed to think of anything he said as hurtful. He just saw it as his sense of humour.

Don't get her wrong, he was lovely when he wasn't saying such awful things for a laugh and sometimes she did actually love him, but sometimes she hated him too. That was the most confusing part of it to Molly: loving someone that she should hate and hating someone that she should love.

When Molly was fourteen and Charlie seventeen, mum declared that she'd had enough. She took her children one day, ran to her sister's place until she could find her own and filed for divorce.

He died of cancer and despite how awful he was to her and her family he was so nice to them when he was dying. Perhaps he only knew what he'd done to them at last minute and wanted to atone for it. One time, Molly went to the hospital to visit him and when he didn't know she was looking, she saw him looking sad and she thought for a while that it was because he knew that he was going to die, but looking back it might have been remorse for all the things he'd said and done to his wife and children. He died when Molly was seventeen.

Sometimes she still hears him. Even as an adult with her own place, job and money she can still hear him. She hears him when she's made a mistake or a poor decision or judgement. She hears him when she eats too much or too little in front of people. She hears him when she wears too much makeup or when her skirt is too short. Sometimes she hears him in Sherlock's voice. Perhaps that's what she's always seen in him: that sense of familiarity that she grew up with. She knows it doesn't make much sense to anyone else, but it does to her.

She and her brother have had different ways of coping through the years, Charlie with everything from wine to whiskey and Molly with enough therapists to fill an asylum. When she's anxious she'll often calm herself with a cup of herbal tea or distract herself with knitting, but sometimes the best way for her to let go is to sink into a bath so hot that it turns her skin red raw.

Today not even the hottest water can calm her down.

She got a phone call from Charlie the other day about the anniversary of dad's death. Fifteen years. She still can't believe it's been that long and every year she never really knows how to feel. She didn't know what to feel when she visited the gravesite yesterday.

She could confide in a friend, but at the moment Greg seems to be the closest friend she has and he's kind enough to offer room in his flat, as hers doesn't feel quite right at the moment. When she tells him about it he listens intently, which she's unbelievably grateful for. Most people would judge her, question her or try to make sense of things, but Greg does none of those things. He just sits by her side and listens.

"How do you feel, though?" Greg asks. "Really."

Molly sighs, lays down onto the sofa and takes a long sip of chamomile tea as Greg lays a comforting hand on her knee.

"I feel like he's haunting me," she admits. "Like I can't get rid of him."

"I could call an exorcist, if you want me to."

Molly chuckles lightly. Even in a moment like this he can make her laugh. He takes her hand in comfort and takes a long moment to take in everything he's told her. He understands now why she's always seemed so fragile and why everything cuts her so deep. He doesn't know who he wants to punch more: Sherlock or Mr. Hooper?

"Come here," he says and opens his arms to her. Molly smiles weakly and leans into him. He wraps his arms around her shoulders and kisses the top of her head. They stay like that for a long time. They don't say much, save for Greg's soft words of endearment, but Molly prefers it that way. She doesn't know how long he holds her, but it's long enough for the tea to cool in her hands. Even after she puts it down he still holds her as though he's protecting her.

She lifts her gaze up to his to thank him, but kisses him instead. It starts off as a kiss, at least. She moves to sit astride him before deepening the kiss. Already she can feel him swelling in his trousers. Her sensitivity increases when she feels his hot mouth on her neck and his firm hands on her arse.

"Greg."

They rush to strip each other, but don't even bother with all of them. Chances are they'll deal with that later, but for now Molly is content with Greg's open trousers and Greg with her open blouse. He fingers her before entering her, barely able to keep his mouth off her breasts. His eyes burn as he watches her play with herself as she rides him hard and fast.

"God, you are so beautiful!"

She isn't sure if he's saying it because of what she's told him or if he really means it, but she'll take it either way. All she wants is to feel him.

"Fuck me!"

He nods and lifts her up to settle her on the floor, not daring even for a moment to pull out. He's rough with her when they're on the floor and neither one of them shows any sign of mercy. His kisses leave bruises and bite marks on her body. In return, her fingernails dig into his skin and leave long red lines on his back. In the morning they'll both look like they've been attacked by animals.

"Jesus Christ, Molls!"

He fucks her. Deep. Hard. His thrusts become erratic when she feels her muscles clenching around him. She moans. He growls. She makes him bleed. He makes her come.

All it takes is another scratch on his back to make him come hard.

He collapses by her side, but doesn't dare let go of her. They don't bother to get into bed even when their legs do start working again. All they do is lay there on the floor, wrapped in each other's limbs, slick with sweat and sex and panting like dogs in summer. Greg can hear Molly's pulse echoing against the walls. When he's able to use his limbs again he peppers gentle kisses on her body, paying special attention to the marks he left on her.

It astounds Greg how much Molly takes him by surprise. Her ability to function day to day with her head held high after is a kind of strength that he could never have and he can't help but admire that about her. She's almost like the dome of an eggshell in the way she can take so much on such fragile shoulders.

"You're amazing, Molly Hooper."