A/N: I still have no claim on BBC's Sherlock. Which is probably a good thing.

As promised, part 2 :) Rate and Review as always :)

Sherlock rapped his knuckles on the bathroom door. "Molly?"

No answer.

He sighed. Obviously, he'd done something to upset her. "Are you alright?"

A sniff told him she was not, though she told him to stop worrying.

"Molly," He pressed his forehead to the door. She was crying. Wonderful. "I wasn't trying to insult you."

"No," She blew her nose loudly. "I know you weren't. You don't ever mean too-"

"Can't you see I was trying to help you?" Attempting to reason with a door was foolish. "Molly, let me in."

"No."

The pout in her voice was interesting. "If you want to date Greg Lestrade, my opinion shouldn't matter."

Another little sniff. "It does, though."

He remembered Molly's frustration with him the night Moriarty had introduced himself as Jim.

"Gay."

Wasn't it kinder to save her time?

John's disapproval carried over the years and memories towards him. He knocked on the door again.

After a pause, she opened the door. Red eyed and stiff posture: she was still angry with him.

"I'm sorry." He said, putting on a sincere tone.

"No you're not," She gave him a quick glare, but blushed. "You don't even understand why I'm angry."

"I insulted you." He shrugged. "I'm sorry. I was trying to be a good friend."

"No," Molly sighed, her exhaustion showing through as she leaned her head on the door. "No, being a good friend is lying to them when they want to be lied too. Or pretending to approve of their date, or knowing when not to talk about things that they don't want to talk about. That's being a good friend."

Sherlock frowned. "I was under the impression that loyalty and protection were the signs of true friendship."

"Well, that's not what people do." She looked up to him. It had been months since they'd had a normal conversation like this. This is how it had used to be. After Christmas things had been awkward again, and try as she might, she was worried that the progress she'd made since the Moriarty incident had been for naught. Yet here he was, hiding in her home, and trying to understand everything-all of it- like he used to.

"It's not?" His eyes darted over her.

"No." Molly gave a sad smile. "That is, the stuff you said is true, too. It's pretty important. I guess, more than the stuff I was saying-"

"Molly?"

"Yes?" Her blood turned hot, and a wave of flame licked the pit of her stomach when she saw the focus he had suddenly trained on her.

"What did Moriarty do to you?"

He studied her reaction. The widening of her eyes. The struggling to maintain even breathing. "Did he hurt you?"

She avoided his gaze,"No." Her usual cheery tone disappeared.

He stepped back. Unsure of why her despair unsettled him. Something in his chest burned. It made him furious. The way her hands would shake sometimes, her intensified flighty-ness. He reached out a hand, she flinched. Pausing, he read the pleas and fear in her eyes that were still red rimmed with crying. "You're brave, Molly Hooper." He said, barely grazing her cheek bones as he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. When he looked back at her, she was staring at him with such depth and caring that he felt drawn in and also pushed out.

Sentiment.

Caring.

He stepped away from her, conjuring the anger he still held against Moriarty, whose memory was tainting everything in his living life. "Tell me what happened."

Molly blushed deeply. "It's fine. He's gone now."

He frowns and paces slowly. "Of course. But the ghosts, memories, they can wound as well." He notices her shiver, and sits her down at the table. "Should I discover what happened or let you tell me?"

Molly swallowed. The loneliness, the stuff that ate away at her longer days and nights, was familiar in his eyes. For all his protestations, all his attempting to shut his emotions off, he missed them. John, Mrs. Hudson, Greg. They were important. He needed them, they had always been more real than he had felt. Than he had tried to be. In a way she envied his success at shutting out the emotions attached with caring. "We dated."

"You and the character he played, yes, I know." He was unfazed.

"He," She swallowed looking at her hands. "That night, when, he kidnapped John. He'd been with me first."

Sherlock shrugged. "I'm sure."

"No," Molly breathed in. "He'd been with me."

"Did he hurt you?" Sherlock had frozen. "Abuse you?"

Molly shrugged, biting her lip.

"Molly," Sherlock leaned in, his voice low. "Did he hurt you?"

He didn't have to hear her answer because he saw it in her eyes. Her embarrassment, the memory of guilt and heartache she carried. Several images came to his mind. The way she'd behaved when they'd recounted the details of what her ex-lover had done. He and John had gone out of their way to be kind to her, and in time Molly Hooper had only flourished under their attention. But there was something he'd missed, once again.

He imagined her tied to a bed, beaten up enough to satisfy the manic nature of the Consulting Criminal, but not enough to warn her that the fun and games had only begun. He'd torment her with every moment they'd spent together. It would leave a lasting bruise that she'd carefully hide from those she worked with every day, and succeed.

Or perhaps his acting had been strong enough to stir her heart. Making her vulnerable mind believe he could love her. Scattering rose petals on her bed, whispering promises in her ears that he never intended to keep. Breaking her heart and will with lies that popped up every time she'd had a date.

Her soft brown eyes implored with him. Even her lips, usually glossed and colored but now plain and delicate, seemed to beg him not to ask her. The flame in his chest flickered, a new wave of gratitude causing him to care about her. It was the same fixating feeling he'd felt for John and Mrs. Hudson. A caring so meaningful to him that he had to put aside the overwhelming emotions of it aside in order to devote himself completely to their protection. "You don't have to worry anymore. You're safe now. I'll take care of it." Molly's surprised expression motivated him further. "Tea?"

"I'm fine." She managed to say past her stutter.

Sherlock put the kettle on. Then said, "The shattered glass says otherwise."

Molly's laugh lightened the mood for both of them. "I suppose I can be a bit neurotic sometimes."

Sherlock pulled out her tea cups. "You've had prolonged exposure to a high-functioning sociopath, Molly. If you weren't exhibiting signs of a breakdown I'd be more concerned."

Her laugh rang again, pleasing him.

They left the shattered wine glass that night, though in the morning Molly picked it up before work. The familiarity of it somehow calmed him. The whispers in the shadows of his Mind Palace that night weren't quite as threatening. The disappearing rooms didn't bother him. If they weren't there, perhaps they weren't important. He rested that night, comfortably uncomfortable on Molly's sofa. And when her bedroom light clicked on early the next morning, the gentle sounds of her movement lulled him back to sleep.

When he awoke, sometime around noon, he found a note with a promise to bring home the lab equipment he'd asked for.

Some songs to keep you company:

-Fix You, by Coldplay

-Demons, by Imagine Dragons

-Saturated, by Five Mile Town