A/N: I apologise btw because the page break never works on this site.
The cab was almost at Bart's and Molly felt relieved. She just wanted to sink into her work to try and forget about everything. Moving on, like she told herself; she didn't want to break.
Lestrade had convinced her to see the psychologist at Scotland Yard and they had given her a referral to a psychologist she could see full time. She shoved it into the bottom of her purse for now. She would keep it, just in case, but right now it wasn't what she wanted to think about.
Lestrade had also tried to convince her not to go into work. For some people, they could handle it, and they would feel better doing so to keep their mind away from things. But Molly worked in a morgue, with dead people. Some of who were murdered, sometimes shot, and it would resurface memories. Molly did this for a living though, blood and bodies didn't have an effect on her anymore. Or so she thought.
She went through her day as normal- well, as normally as she could. It wasn't difficult unless she found similarities in bodies to Andrew- Moran, or similar bullet wounds. But she did it; she went through her day and made it through her whole shift. She was proud of herself. It was a good step in the right direction.
When she had gone home though, she was expecting she would have to deal with the mess and she didn't know if she could handle it. But it was immaculate. It looked as though nothing had happened, the rug had been removed, everything looked normal. It relaxed her; the investigation crew must have come in to do the clean-up, but how did they get into her flat? And Lestrade told her it wouldn't be until the next day that someone was coming to clean it up.
When the cleaners came the next day, she was utterly confused. John knew who had the mess taken care of, but Molly didn't.
The next month went by as normal, but internally Molly battled with herself. She was jumpy around people and she really didn't want to leave her flat. She didn't want to be at home as much as she was in it though. It was a constant reminder.
Her brother called her a lot to check up on her, but she didn't really want to talk. She never should have told her mother what had happened, because she went and told everyone else. The last thing Molly wanted to do was bother everyone else with her problems. They were hers to deal with and the burden shouldn't fall on anyone else.
While John tried to make more conversation with her on the morgue and check up on her, Sherlock pretended nothing had happened. If anything, he talked to her less. She appreciated, in a way, that he was the only one letting her try to deal with it, not mentioning anything. It wasn't out of choice that Sherlock didn't bring it up, though; he didn't know what to say, so he assumed it was the better option. He thought it was better than everyone else rehashing her memories. All Sherlock ever thought about was the look on her face every time John would ask "how have you been?" or when Lestrade would be with Sherlock on a case and asked if she was "finally seeing the psychologist she was referred to." How didn't anyone see the way she cringed inwardly and her voice trembled whenever they mentioned it?
She thought she was doing really well, until something happened at work while Sherlock and John were there. They had gone on lockdown because of a patient that had come to the ER armed; one of the emergency response nurses had been shot.
Molly had trembled the entire time and as much as she felt the need to seek comfort, she tried to stay as calm as she could manage. Sherlock observed her as she tried to keep her cool, not understanding. Weren't people hysterical, especially in a situation like this? Especially if they had been through a traumatic experience not too long ago. He didn't understand why she was so different.
When the lockdown was finally cleared and the building was safe, the non-essential staff were allowed to leave if they wished. Mike Stamford knew especially Molly would probably want to leave, so he gave her clearance to go.
"Mary is supposed to see me tonight and after all of this, I would really like to see her," he began. "But I don't think Sherlock," he said, looking to him, "would mind taking you home," John offered. He figured that Sherlock would probably protest right away, but he thought he would give it a try. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, but said nothing, looking to Molly in response.
"Uhm- well, if you're sure it isn't a bother... I mean… I'll probably be fine on my own," she was a mess though, her nerves were all shot. Not even Sherlock wanted her to go home by herself. She would have been fine though. He didn't worry about people, so why was he worrying now?
On their way back, they were both quiet, but Molly fidgeted all the way home and it distracted Sherlock. He couldn't help but look to her, watching her stare down at her wringing hands. She sniffed a few times, still uneasy from the night's events, but she was trying her best not to show it. Sherlock wanted to put his hand over hers, soothe her, but he couldn't manage to do it.
When they finally got to do the door, she expected Sherlock to leave, but he followed her inside instead. She just wanted to go to bed and let everything out, but that was not going to happen yet. She hadn't cried in a while. She was letting this take over her life, always trying to focus on pushing it out of her mind. But it made her think of it more. Maybe she should call the therapist that had been recommended to her.
She was stirred out of her thought as Sherlock brushed her arm when he went to hang up his coat. He stopped in front of her, analysing her face. He wasn't hiding the deductions anymore as he lifted her chin up with his finger. Her eyes were glossy as she waited for him to say something.
"You were startled earlier."
"Anyone would be …" she replied, she wasn't sure how else to.
"For more reasons than anyone else in there - most people would be hysterical. Why aren't you?"
"Because," Molly began, shaking her head as he released her chin and she started to cry. "Because I've been trying to move on. I'm tired of being… this mousy, weak Molly. I keep letting this happen to me."
"You didn't know-"
"I should've," she interrupted. "I let it happen with Jim, and then again…" she hesitated, a lump forming in her throat, her voice very quiet now. "I just wanted to move on from you, that's all I wanted, and I can't even have that."
She covered her mouth with her hand, trying to stop herself from crying. He felt a constriction in his chest and felt the need to say something. He didn't want her to try and move on, yet he couldn't find the right words to refute it.
"Molly…"
"No-" she said, waving her hand. "I'm sorry, I know you don't like talking about… this… stuff," she said as she began wiping her eyes. "You don't have to stay."
But before she knew it, his arms were wrapped around her and she sank into his chest, beginning to cry harder. She wanted to stop, but she couldn't. She kept apologising to him as she fell apart, and every once in a while he would carefully tell her that it was alright. He was patient and soothing with her as he had been the night that the incident with Moran happened.
As she began to relax, she felt his lips touch the top of her head. She froze for a second, but then pulled her hands up to wipe her eyes again. She felt ridiculous - Sherlock probably thought she was pathetic. The last two times that she had allowed herself to cry were in front of him. He probably thought that was all that she did.
Sherlock let one arm fall to his side as he looked at her, assuring himself that she was better. Molly was trying to push herself away from embarrassment. There was no sense feeling like that now that he had seen her turn into a crying mess, but she did anyway. When she attempted to pull away from his embrace, she found her face close to his.
He stared at her with a soft expression as she took in his scent. He smelled wonderful and it made her head spin. The last time she was this close to him, his eyes kept falling to stare at her lips, but his mouth told her that he didn't want her.
Sherlock waited to see what she would do. As much as his scent was enveloping her, hers was doing the same to him. Her perfume wasn't too strong, and under it he could smell Molly. The comforting scent of mint and vanilla gave him a feeling in the pit of his stomach. She wanted to move her mouth closer - her dilated pupils and body language gave that away. Her expression told a different story; she looked confused, hesitant.
Molly seemed paralyzed in her spot and wasn't shaken out of it until Sherlock laced his fingers with her hand that had been loosely grasping his this entire time. Her hand had felt warm on his and he had no desire to pull away from her touch.
Molly wanted nothing more than to capture his lips; she wished to run her hands through her hair. Let her fingers and lips explore every inch of his skin. She would be lying if she had said that she didn't think about it all of the time. But he told her he had no interest in her and she wasn't going to violate that; it would be wrong. Unless he told her that he didn't feel that way, but it would never happen.
She was fighting off the same urges she was completely unaware that Sherlock was feeling. His pulse was high, his eyes dilated; he had a feeling of need for her. She had gone through so much; he couldn't even understand why she didn't hate him. By now anyone else who had gone through something like that for Sherlock - except John - would have told him to piss off and try not to see him again if they could help it.
It sickened him to think that he wanted desperately to make her pain go away, to soothe her until she was better and kiss her forehead. He wanted to tell her in some sort of way that he shouldn't have let any of that happen to her and he would be damned if any other harm came to her, but words like that - anything related to sentiment - were far beyond his reach.
But before he knew it, Molly broke their gaze by letting her eyes flutter closed. A disappointed, breathy sigh escaped her lips before she pulled her head back and pulled her fingers out of his grasp. "I have work in the morning - I should probably sleep."
A blush flooded her cheeks, exasperated by the close contact as she tried to make a greater distance between them, her eyes looking to the floor. "Thank you though."