Love is a Battlefiled, chapter 10, by chibiness87
Rating: T
Spoilers: 2.01 A Scandal in Belgravia
Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to other, much more talented people than me

The 'Ice Man' and the 'Virgin'.

Strange that such an intelligent, confusing, confounding woman could get the descriptions of the two brothers so accurate and yet so completely wrong at the same time.

Because if anyone is the Ice Man, surely it is Sherlock Holmes. Mycroft can preach 'caring is not an advantage', and 'sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side' to his brother all he likes, but it is Sherlock who brings them into being. He shuts himself off from feelings, ever since he was a child and the death of his dog, who was there one day and gone the next, because it is safer. For him, for others, for everyone.

But then she will do something; something that makes his heart (or what he thinks might be his heart if he had one) stutter. It is annoying, and distracting, and she does it every single time. He needs to make it stop. Cease and desist at once, goddammit, because how is he supposed to focus when she goes and does something stupid like smile at him, for fuck's sake, despite being elbows deep in some poor schmuck's chest cavity?

(Doesn't she know by now he is a dangerous, cold-hearted sonofabitch and she needs to find a way to stay far, far away from him?)

The Christmas party John has forced him to host is in full swing (complete with Sherlock himself in the role of performing monkey) when Molly arrives, laden down with presents, and a smile on her face. She removes her coat, and the dress she is wearing is well, a dress. Sleek and strappy and hugs her curves (and since when did Molly Hooper have curves? No. Don't think about that!) He didn't think Molly, his kind, sweet, caring (stop it!) Molly would own something like that, let alone wear it. And then he notices the other things, so small he's not surprised no one else has missed them.

Her hair and her lipstick and the carefully wrapped present with the matching ribbon. It makes something in his chest wake up and growl, cry in despair at the sight of all that skin (what the fuck is she trying to do to him?!), all while he feels like he's been sucker punched in the stomach. (See, see what he means? How is he supposed to focus when she's being so… Distracting.)

So he lashes out. Because that's what caged beasts do when they are poked with a stick for too long. The words (harsh, biting, hurtful words, designed to tear even the strongest person to pieces) start coming and they just don't stop, and he rips Molly (his kind, sweet, caring Molly, his pathologist, his friend) to little shreds, right there in front of all his (John's) friends and acquaintances. But this time she gets the last laugh (if such a sudden hollowing pit of shame and guilt and holy-fuck-what-has-he-just-done can be called a laugh). Because it is for him. The hair and the lipstick and (Jesus, did he sneer love at her? Was he really so callous as to throw that in her face? Yes, apparently he was) the present.

He stops. Gapes. Does quite a good impression of a floundering man, even if he does say so himself. And Molly (his brave, strong, resilient Molly) calls him on his crap. He feels like he did all those years ago, high off his tits, showing off his brilliance to her, when she had given him such a look of resignation and walked out of his flat, and then hadn't spoken him for weeks on end until he had hauled his arse down to her lab and begged her for help.

The ice cracks, and he feels a sudden, desperate need to apologise. And this is new, because when he does something like this he normally does not give a shit about who ends up hurt because of his words. (He always has such a way with words, it seems. Always. Always.) But this is different. Because this is Molly.

"I am sorry. Forgive me." And then he stoops, and presses a kiss to the crest of her cheekbone. "Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper."

He can see in her eyes (still brimming with hurt and pain and tears) that it is not enough, but before he can do anything else, say anything else, his phone lets out that message tone, and everything proceeds to get a Bit Not Good.

He is waiting for her in the locker room, hiding in the shadow like a dark phantom. (It's not the first time he's startled her like this, and it won't be the last.) "I didn't sleep with her."

Molly stops walking, halfway between the door and her locker, but does not turn around, and he sees her pull the edges of her lab coat tighter around her body like armour. "I don't care."

The images does something to his insides again, and he swallows. "She saw clothes as an optional extra. You can check with John about that."

This time she makes it to her locker. Pulls the door open with more force than is normally justified. He winces. "It's really none of my business."

The ache and pain in her voice cuts at him, and it makes him ask, "D'you know why I do it?"

The non-sequitur finally makes her turn around, but she does not meet his eyes. "Do what?"

"Say such hurtful things to you?"

She chokes on a laugh. It is a hollow, brittle sound, and again slices a dagger through his skin. "Because you're a bastard?"

"Nope." He pops the 'p' like normal, but then pauses. Reconsiders. "Well, ok, yes, that too."

"Sherlock…" She sighs, turning back to her locker, unable (unwilling?) to look at him.

He carries on regardless. "It's because I… because you're the only one that lets me. The only one I know I can't chase away with words."

Molly sighs again, and he hears the hurt in her tone more clearly now. "Great."

He means it as a compliment (she stays. It is new and unusual, and it makes him… feel, makes him want to try to be a better person), but knows she has no knowledge of these thoughts, and so has not taken it in the way it was intended. He winces. "Not Good?"

But all he gets in return is a shake of her head, a chocked sob, and then her soft voice telling the shelf of her locker, "I can't do this."

"Molly?"

This time, she does manage to turn to give him a look. But it is filled with such… such emptiness, that it actually causes him to take a step forward towards her. Her voice, cold, dead, stops him in his tracks. "What do you want, Sherlock?"

His hand is reaching for her (and just when did he give his hand permission to move?!) "I…"

But Molly evades him, moving so swiftly it is almost like she moves through him, her eyes still focused on the floor, the wall, the door. (Anywhere, it seems, except him.) "Look," she finally says, "I know she, whoever she is," and she waves her hand to the door, (he assumes she means the body in the morgue,) "means something to you. But I've had about enough of you today that I can take, so just… go home, yeah?" And now she does meet his gaze, and he suddenly wishes she had stayed talking to the floor, the wall, the door. Anywhere but him. "Go home, Sherlock, and come back tomorrow. Or don't. Whichever. Whatever you want. Because that's how this works, right?" She looks down again, heading towards the door. He watches, as if glued to the spot by her words, as she pauses in the doorway. Not quite looking over her shoulder at him, she says quietly, "Bye, Sherlock."

He can only watch on in dawning horror as the door closes softly in her wake.

Dear god, what has he done?

TBC

Thoughts?