Well here is Chapter 10 - after much deliberation I decided to split the update otherwise it would be HUGE. Thanks titebarnacle and rory'sfan04 for helping me make up my mind :)

Also, if i leave it here there's a bit of cliffhangerness - and we love that right? :P

Chapter Ten

Sherlock had expected to be greeted by John waiting in the flat, but instead found the rooms cold and empty, the lights out and air stale, all uncharacteristically quiet. He judged the doctor had been out all day - breakfast dishes left unwashed in the sink, laptop untouched from the previous night - which meant he was either working late at the clinic or else had somehow deduced what Sherlock had planned for the evening and chosen to stay away. Deciding that John was quite incapable of the latter, the detective turned to Molly and said briskly as he removed his coat and scarf, "I think we should retire to my room. John will be home soon and I'd rather we weren't interrupted."

He had said it with no questionable inflection of tone, no hidden agenda, but the pathologist remained standing in the doorway, stricken, her wet coat dripping dully down onto the carpet. The surge of confidence she had experienced on the street mere moments ago seemed to have fizzled out, and the mouse in her had returned stronger than ever.

Trying to concealed a wave of exasperation, Sherlock wondered briefly as he advanced towards her whether she likened him to a savage tomcat, avidly stalking its prey. She certainly seemed to as she shrank back a fraction when he reached for her hand, causing him to still mid-step. He knew implicitly that there was nothing present within him that would harm her - toy with her like a ball of string batted from paw to paw - but still, reassurance was key, clearly. All the frustration he may feel, all the impatience and dread, had to be pushed aside in favor of her.

It was all about her.

Make her safe. Make her feel wanted. Make her feel as though nothing bad will ever come of her confiding this secret in him. It didn't matter if the prospect of hearing the details of that night made his blood boil, his heart stutter and his stomach clench in horrible unfamiliarity, nothing - absolutely nothing - compared to the thoughts and feelings that must be running riot inside Molly's innocent, little head.

How could she stand it? Sherlock couldn't decipher half of the things jumbled up, screaming, within his brain at that moment. It made him want to sit still in the darkness for hours and crouch, rocking, to shoot madly at target after target, to go to the kitchen table and send his experiments crashing to the floor, to do anything to reorder the cluttered ruin of his mind palace - yet there she was, standing there so sweet and simple, containing it all like some monstrous pressure cooker. Was that what they all did? Could it really be that all the ordinary people he looked down upon had this amazing capacity to store and assimilate such strong complexities of emotion - all the time, every day, every single passing second? It seemed impossible.

"You don't have to do that, you know," Molly said, advancing with sudden fearlessness over the threshold of the flat and looking up at him with a keen yet surprisingly soft expression. There was something else there too, lingering behind her eyes - determination?

"Do what?" Sherlock asked haltingly, not liking that she seemed to know something he didn't.

Was it obvious? How had he missed it this time?

"All day, you..." she trailed off, sighing. Molly bit her lower lip and looked quickly away and then back again, stealing herself as she reached up, laying her palm against the flat of his cheek, her fingers tickling the shell of his ear. He blinked, astonished, but didn't pull back - her skin was chill, strangely and deliciously soothing, and the fact that she had initiated the contact made it all the more wonderful for its rarity. She shook her head slightly, as though disappointed in him, as she said, "You're clearly struggling with this, but you're trying to act brave. For me. I have... no idea what you're thinking."

"Isn't that the normal thing to do when you care about someone's feelings?" Sherlock replied uncertainly, confusion creasing his brow.

"Do you pretend you're not frightened around John, to spare him from it?" Molly prompted frankly, "Do you hide how happy you are from him? How sad?"

"No," Sherlock said blankly, still unclear what point she was clawing for.

"Then why do it with me?" Molly asked, fingers moving slowly down his neck to rest lightly on his shoulder, rubbing it consolingly.

"John is my best friend," Sherlock said slowly, loathe to elaborate on the topic but knowing that he must. "He makes me want to tell him, sometimes, but not always. It's different with you."

"How so?" Molly probed gently.

Sherlock considered this in silence. His recent foray into feeling had given him a lot of mixed messages, making it hard for him to know which impulses to listen to, which to entertain or down-right ignore. He had thought that being the stead-fast, more emotionally passive out of the two of them would make it easier for Molly, but it seemed not. How then did she want him to behave? He didn't know if he could tell her how this situation was affecting him, for he hardly knew himself. How could he unburden something which he did not properly understand? How could he tell her what he was thinking - when all he could salvage from the scattered mess were brutal images of pain, destruction and aggression?

Her pain. That man's destructive aggression.

Yes, he recognised that he felt angry, hurt, even passionate, but there were a thousand and one other sparks of something dancing between these rigidly defined emotional avenues that he simply could not label. It was like he was constantly floundering in open water, not quite drowning but not able to float, treading the fine line between suffocating darkness and bright, dazzling sun.

"I'm not sure what to do..." he said at last, truthfully. "You're new to me, Molly. This whole thing is entirely new."

Molly watched as the detective's face clouded over, becoming introspective and brooding in the dim light of the living room. The expression was akin to the glower he adopted when examining a fresh corpse - it was at once compelling, yet unnerving. It was clear to her that Sherlock would probably never know what it was she wanted from him, but instead of making her sad the realisation flooded her with a strong, nurturing warmth. She wanted to make him understand so many things, and hoped with all of her might that she would be allowed the time and the fortitude with which to teach him.

All along she had sensed Sherlock had been holding back from her - not maliciously, Molly didn't think him capable of that - but still, if this was going to work he would need to be as honest with her as he expected her to be with him. That halting confession of uncertainty was a step in the right direction, be it a rather small one, but it was at least a start. It showed that he was willing to try. She smiled up at him, slightly overwhelmed by the prospect of the task ahead of her, but the smile soon wavered.

Sherlock's hand slid up to grasp hers atop his shoulder, but rather than grip it he gave it a brief squeeze before returning it gently to her side, his fingers cool about her slim wrist. Molly made to ask what was wrong, struggling to conceal a stab of hurt from crossing her face - but the detective shook his head wordlessly and took a step away from her, out of the personal space he had so recently seemed to revel in.

"Sherlock?"

"John is coming," Sherlock said again, though his voice seemed suddenly quite queer and distant, giving Molly pause. "Go to my room and wait for me there? I won't be long."

"Why-"

"I need to think," Sherlock interrupted, not unkind but still firm, his tone deep and roughened in its insistence.

His eyes were downcast and sullen and he refused to answer her questioning stare, but when his hand settled upon her back to guide her from the room there was nothing in the touch to suggest that he felt angry or put-upon - it was still tender, though somehow detached. He directed her through the kitchen to an adjoining corridor, ushering her through the first door on the right. Closing it behind her with a decisive little nod, he returned to the living room and left her alone, in an awkward, baffled silence she felt she could hardly bear.

Not knowing what exactly she had said to produce such a peculiar reaction, Molly shrugged to herself sadly and began to remove her bedraggled coat, shuddering as the wet material fell from her shoulders. She told herself it was the effect of the rain that made her tremble, but the cold came from within, cutting like a sheet of ice through her belly. It was Sherlock's abrupt curtness that had chilled her, the raw, bitter feel of his retraction from her side.

She should have felt giddy, to at long last be privy to the consulting detective's flat, his bedroom, his things - those secret trappings of his personality that were so rarely seen by the outside world; the neatly made bed with its robust mahogany frame, the plush armchair by the curtained window, the shelves upon shelves of books and journals covering a bafflingly wide diversity of topics, the scientific equipment and case notes haphazardly littering the hardwood floor. She should have grinned to see the same periodic table on his wall that hung above her desk at work - not knowing the many times he had stared into it at night and seen only her face staring back at him amidst the blocks of colour. She should have felt honored to stand there, in the midst of pure, uninhibited Sherlock, happy that he felt easy enough with her to allow her access to 221b, but in his absence the privilege felt vaguely cheapened. He had thrust her away, unceremoniously closed the door, and now she waited for him to return like some cowed, silly little girl.

Molly Hooper was always waiting for Sherlock Holmes.

Hadn't she waited long enough?

Hadn't she waited and waited that terrible night whilst being tortured by Moriarty?

Hadn't she waited for him to save her - hadn't she prayed - for him to be brilliant, for him to be brave.

The chill in her had grown acute. As the minutes stretched and she heard the distant sounds of John returning, she listened patiently to the ensuing rumble of masculine voices - they went on for so long she became convinced that Sherlock had forgotten her, again. Her body and heart had become overwhelmingly heavy with the waiting, and she sank down into the armchair and put her head in her hands, collapsing into a sour volley of thought in which she harangued herself for ever stepping over the threshold of this blasted flat.

Then she leant back against the cushions and Sherlock's smell enveloped her entirely, and she imagined him sitting where she sat during the nights he couldn't - or when he refused - to sleep, just reading, maybe drinking tea and gazing into the street, maybe lost in the pathways and avenues of his mind palace...

Thinking of that, it was hard not to feel just a little bit safer, just a little bit trusted. She just wished he would come back and chase away the cold he had left slowly growing apace inside her.

Sherlock had not meant to be unfeeling, but selfishness was a hard habit to break - almost as hard as the habit that brought him rushing to the fireplace, grabbing desperately for a lone persian slipper. Snatching it up from its home by the andirons, he tipped it over and shook vigorously until a pack of cigarettes fell from the toe into his outstretched palm. Unbeknownst to John, he had replenished his emergency supply since beginning this tryst with Molly. As he had already learned on that first, fateful day in her pokey little kitchen, she was a problem patches simply wouldn't cure. The conversation they had just had, the things brought to light by her reproachful words, required some solitary study before he could bring himself to discus anything else.

Mindful that his brusque treatment of Molly probably wouldn't bode well for long, Sherlock tore the pack open and placed a cigarette between his lips, lighting it using a box of matches he had hidden discreetly beneath his skull some weeks earlier. In his experiences of battling John over this, Sherlock had discovered that the safest hiding places were usually the most obvious, given John's weakness for believing Sherlock original and brilliant in every aspect - no matter how trivial or mundane the object. John would expect smoking to be treated with the same ingenuity and perseverance of mind he applied to everything else, and Sherlock let him think that not only because it stroked his vanity but because it proved useful at times such as this.

Unfortunately, this particular time was very short-lived.

"Sherlock?"

Turning from the fireplace, the detective exhaled a cloud of smoke pointedly towards the unwelcome voice, determined to be insolent rather than penitent. John Watson spluttered in the doorway, scowling at Sherlock who merely grinned thinly in return, giving a daring, boyish shrug - Still wearing his ghastly clinic garb, possible delay on the tube which would explain deep-seated expression of exasperation, carrying both rucksack and plastic bag so has been to the corner shop, length and obvious weight of item would suggest alcohol as the most likely purchase, probably whiskey. Ammunition acquired, Sherlock smirked to himself as he waited for John to erupt. At that moment, goading his flat mate was a much more appealing prospect than the one waiting for him in his bedroom. Instantly the smirk morphed into a frown as he took a hard drag on his cigarette, trying vainly to remove the swell of guilt which that thought had provoked.

"I thought we agreed?" the doctor said, raising an eyebrow in weary accusation. "You could at least use an ashtray, Mrs Hudson will kill you when she sees the state of the floor."

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock paced to the window and flung it wide before leaning heavily on the sill. Conceding to John this small victory, he gazed passively out into the London streets as he continued to smoke with brazen disregard. He heard the doctor sigh behind him and his lip quirked.

"So, are you going to tell me?" John asked dutifully, coming further into the room and collapsing onto the sofa with an exhausted groan. It had been an atrociously long day, and thanks to Mycroft's visit he had needed to stay later than usual in order to finish up his paperwork and now, to top it all off nicely, he had come home to find Sherlock brooding, snide and smoking - a true harbinger of woe.

"Tell you what?" Sherlock mumbled petulantly, flinging the end of his cigarette into the night before immediately lighting another.

"Well if you're chaining it there has to be something wrong with you," John explained wryly, shirking off his rucksack and depositing the plastic bag on the coffee table with a tell-tale clink.

Sherlock snorted.

"And if you've bought whiskey there must be something wrong with you, John," Sherlock replied briskly, extending a long arm and snatching the bottle from the bag, holding it up to his eyes and examining the label with contempt. "Holidays Only, I seem to remember you saying last New Years Day. You know, when you woke up on the stoop covered in-"

"Yes, well," John cut him off with a cough and a glare, holding his hand out for the bottle. "I asked you first."

Letting the newly-lit cigarette dangle from his lower lip, Sherlock ignored John's outstretched hand and unscrewed the cap of the bottle with a satisfying crack of freshly-broken seal. Before the doctor could protest, the detective had taken a deep slug, only balking slightly at the bitter taste.

"If you're going to break your penance you could at least do it with a decent brand, John," Sherlock grimaced, tossing the whiskey to his flat mate who barely caught it due to his utter astonishment.

"You're drinking too?" John asked in disbelief, uneasy now as well as annoyed.

"I drink," Sherlock drawled, turning back to the window and the cool, calming breeze, trying to prevent a rising sense of panic from mingling with the hot curl of liquor now squirming in his gut. Molly had been waiting in his bedroom for quite some time now. He grimaced. He was making a mess of it. He was doing this so very, very badly, and they'd barely even begun the evening. There had to be something which would right him, which would set him back on track. Perhaps if he...

"In our entire friendship I have never seen you take more than a single glass of wine at Christmas-"

"Call it Dutch courage then," Sherlock said, his tone turning softly conciliatory. When John didn't reply, Sherlock rolled his eyes for a second time and scrubbed his free hand viciously through his curls. "If I were to tell you that Molly Hooper is in my bedroom right now, waiting for me to come to my senses would you leave off your pithy remarks about ash on the carpet and help me?"

"Jesus, Sherlock, what-"

"You have to fix me John, fix this," Sherlock blundered away from the window and began to do rounds of the coffee table, his long legs loosing their steadiness with each new pass of the sofa and the stunned doctor sitting upon it. "I thought I was doing everything perfectly, giving her what she wants, acting how she wants, but apparently not! I'm doing it wrong, John, and it's all your fault!"

"My fault? How is it my fault?" John's eyebrows rose to new heights on his forehead as he watched Sherlock careen by him for the eighth time in as many seconds, then he narrowed his eyes suspiciously, "What did you do?"

"I only did what you told me to do!" Sherlock snarled, "You told me to be understanding, to be patient, to respect her feelings and her choices and I did it all - even though it's killed me to do it. I've wanted to sweep her up a thousand times and show her so much, to- to-"

John was gazing at Sherlock with wide eyes, watching helplessly as the most composed and collected man he knew dissolved into a stuttering, inarticulate mess. He had lit a third cigarette by now and was heaving on it, the air about him a dense, acrid blue, whipped up into a smog by his constant pacing. His tailored suit, usually so crisp and clean, was creased and dotted with smudges of ash, his crumpled collar open and exposing his slowly reddening throat. John had only ever seen him like this a handful of times, when a case was proving near-impossible to solve or that one time, when he had shot a multitude of holes in the living room wall and slipped - not bored, not acting, not Sherlock - into a dead faint.

"I don't know what she wants me to do, John," Sherlock continued hoarsely, finally coming to a halt by the fireplace and turning a pleading stare the doctor's way. "She said that she doesn't want me to act brave for her, that hiding my feelings about that bastard Moriarty-"

"Sherlock, stop."

John put up a hand and caught Sherlock off-guard, causing him to halt his increasingly frantic diatribe.

"What Molly is asking is very simple," John said carefully, leaning forwards and resting his elbows on his knees. Sherlock's frenzied stare had become fixed and attentive, and he trod the end of his cigarette into the carpet in order to give John his full focus. John winced, mentally apologizing to Mrs Hudson. He clasped his hands behind his neck and looked up at Sherlock, saying meekly, "She is merely asking you to be yourself. You're the master of disguise, could it be that you've been wearing a mask for her?"

"I thought she wanted me to be-"

"She just wants you, you preposterous idiot." John interrupted again, trying not to crow in frustration. He ignored how Sherlock huffed in annoyance - it was a reassuring sign of the detective's old self and made the doctor chuckle. "How can you expect her to share everything she has with you, if you're not willing to do the same?"

"I am willing," Sherlock said resolutely, sinking down on his haunches by the grate, arms crossed. "I just thought, to show her how much I- To tell her even, would frighten her."

"It might," John conceded seriously, nodding.

"I don't know how I feel about it all, John," Sherlock admitted quietly, averting his eyes awkwardly to the side. "How do I tell her something I don't even know?"

"You'll have to figure that out, mate," John shrugged, leaning back into the sofa and sighing, his head beginning to pound from all this deep conversation. Much to his chagrin, John had to admit that playing the detective's relationship guru was beginning to wear thin. "She'll help you."

"I'm the one who's supposed to be helping her," Sherlock countered hotly, "I can't just unload all this on her, she'll-"

"You're doing it with me," John reasoned, "Why is it so different with her?"

Sherlock stilled, his body stiffly crouched in sudden thought.

That's exactly what Molly had been trying to say - wasn't it? If he could confide in John like this, why not with her? At first the answer had seemed simple. John - honest, resourceful, reliable John - was his best friend. He had felt an affinity with him from the moment they'd met, he had been able to open up to him in a way he had to no one else before, not even his own brother. The connection had been so immediate, so natural, Sherlock had never questioned it. Molly, on the other hand - sweet, open, trusting Molly - had not been so easy. Their relationship had been full of false starts and obstacles, right from the beginning, before the Moriarty business had even started. Being so naturally candid with her had never felt quite right, not in the way it had with John, but over time he had begun to want to tell her things, to describe his emotions - but by that point it had seemed too late. He had trapped himself in a role, and he hadn't been able to free himself from it. He had slipped into the pitfall of convincing himself that Molly preferred him this way - the protector - when really it was quite the opposite. It was he who had preferred it. He had liked playing the part of the strong one, he had enjoyed the surety of it - but that wasn't enough anymore.

As John had said, it wasn't him.

Also, it made a mockery of all the promises he'd made to himself that first day in Molly's apartment, when he had sat in her smokey kitchen and swore to be open, swore to be vulnerable. All lies now, it seemed, all deception. It wasn't good enough - and if Sherlock Holmes was anything at all, he was most definitely a perfectionist at heart. He could do better. He would do better.

"Thank you, John," he muttered, standing and straightening his suit. "You've given me a lot to think about."

Before the doctor could reply Sherlock had exited the living room, his stride unmistakably purposeful. John watched him leave, noting the rigidity of his back and shoulders, the high angle of his chin and confident set of his jaw. He smiled approvingly, recognising the significance of his friend's deliberate posture. The detective was sure of something, had come to a decision and would follow through on it no matter what - like a theory that required investigating or a message that needed delivering personally to Scotland Yard, Sherlock was on a mission and nothing would get in his way.

The thought made John reevaluate his decision to tell Sherlock of Mycroft's inappropriate visit and dire warnings - the whole reason for the whiskey on the table, a detail John was amazed the detective had managed to forget in the face of his own problems. That in itself decided John; now was not the time, it would keep for another day. If Mycroft was right and Moriarty really was planning to harm Molly again, he was convinced Sherlock would already know about it.

It would take far more than a woman's charms to cloud his friend's deductive prowess - wouldn't it?

So, CH11... Will Molly's waiting finally be over? What will transpire regarding the infamous CONVERSATION? Will John keep his sanity as relationship guru to Sherlock Holmes? Stay tuned ;)