A/N: SO many nice reviews on the last one – I was blown away, you are the best! Thank you!
To Ash (Guest): Cheers! I really appreciate your lovely words. I totally agree: Molly slap him! Or throw something at him! Maybe I should write that… ;-)

Molly did not know how she had ended up in her hotel room. She figured she must have taken a cab from the Banks' house to the hotel – doing it all on autopilot, since she could not remember any of it. The last thing she remembered were the horrible things Sherlock had said to her, again. Why did she always think this would be the last time that he would say such hurtful things? Why did she give him chance after chance? She knew the answer, but she did not like it. She was done with fooling herself! She was done with Sherlock Holmes! She always ended up feeling miserable. It did not make a difference to him if she was there or not. If she cared or not. She did not matter. She was just convenient. Easy to persuade to help him, to smuggle body parts and easy to manipulate. Because that was all what feelings of other people were for Sherlock Holmes: a weak spot he could use to his advantage.

But she would not be his punching ball anymore. She would go. Leave. Forever.

She was crying while she stuffed her clothes into her small suitcase, so that she repeatedly wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and sniffled.

She felt so stupid for ever thinking things would change – that his feelings for her would change. That one day he would come to the realization that she really was the one person that mattered the most, that he could trust her, because she would never betray and always be there for him, like she had been all along – his constant.

But he would never see that. He would always look through her, giving her an occasional gentle word or touch, if the situation required it so that she would let him use her time and time again. He would always take her for granted, only thinking about himself in his narcissistic attitude. There was no Sherlock and Molly and there never would be. She had to come to terms with this.

She drew a deep breath. She knew Sherlock had a heart – a big one even, but he was just not ready to let anyone in. And she could not wait forever for him to be ready to open himself up – if it would happen at all. She did not ask for much. She did not even want him to change – she loved him the odd way he was – only to show her occasionally his real self and put the same trust in her that she put in him. But obviously even that was too much to ask for.

She felt herself cool down a bit. She had stopped crying and went into the bathroom to retrieve her toiletries. She blew her nose and splashed some water into her face. She did not want the clerk at the front desk see right away that she had been crying her eyes out.

When she came back into the bedroom, Sherlock was standing there, the connecting door ajar. She mentally kicked herself for not locking it, but to be honest she had not expected him to follow her back to the hotel. He had a case to finish, and in his world there was nothing more important than a case.

"What are you doing?" His voice clearly showed the irritation that his blank face did not.
"Well, what does it look like?" She surprised herself how harsh she sounded.
"Like you're packing."
"Brilliant deduction."
His piercing gaze was directed at her; his eyes were flickering over her face, clearly trying to make sense of the scene in front of him.

She tried to pass him with her suitcase in hand, but he stopped her by catching her wrist.
She stared down where his hand was gripping her wrist. It was fierce and desperate.
"You can't just leave," he said with absolute conviction.
"Sure I can. And I will. Let me go." She tried to free her hand from his, but he didn't loosen his grip.
"I'm sorry." His grip became even harder.
"You're hurting me." She didn't know if she meant physically or emotionally, but she decided it didn't matter, because both was applicable.
The moment the words had left her mouth, he snatched his hand away from her wrist as if he had been burnt.
"I'm sorry," he mumbled again and took a step back.

His chest was rising and falling visibly, and she could only speculate that his heart beat fast – he had obviously been in a rush to come here. He raked a hand though his hair, and Molly recognized it as a gesture of frustration.

He had no idea what to say or what to do – and he hated it. He usually had a smug answer to everything, and he was never at a loss – only when it came to Molly Hooper. When she was concerned he always said the wrong thing. Always.

He had to say something that would make her see. He did not know what exactly, but he knew that he could not stand it if she would leave him like that – angry and hurt. He told himself that he just did not like the fact that she would leave more or less in the middle of a case. She had to stay until the end – finish it. She had told him she would help him, and he would make her see that he expected her to keep her word. A voice in his head told him that something was not right about his reasoning, but he tried to ignore it.

He prepared to make a "friendly" face and keep his voice low and deep (just the way she liked it) and was just about to make a step towards her and begin his little persuasion, when she started to speak, "You know, I'll see you through. I know what you're doing. You rub people off the wrong way to keep your distance. It's kind of a defence mechanism. This way nobody will get close to you. You try to keep people at arm's length. Above all you're afraid that somebody might reach you and discover that you're just as human and fragile as the rest of us. You think that nobody would admire you for your humanity, because you see it as a weakness. But it's not a weakness and it's not a human error. It's what makes the difference between you and Moriarty. Deep inside you care whereas he was just hollow. And now tell me: Who has won? The person who cared or the person who only knew resentment?"
He did not answer, and she had not expected him to. Therefore she went on, "People think I'm pathetic for still keeping up with you, for still caring about you. Maybe I am. And maybe they're right and I should make a clear cut and never see you again. Because even though I know that's just the way you are and that you have a good heart, it still hurts like hell. And I don't know for how long I can take it anymore. Maybe it's time to develop some kind of defence mechanism of my own and try to resent you for the way you treated me today. Maybe hating you is easier than loving you. " His eyes widened.
"Molly…"
She held up a hand to stop him. "No, Sherlock, I don't want to hear it."
He closed his mouth and looked at her up held hand. Both realized at the same time that it was shaking. Molly hastened to put it behind her back. She was proud of herself for not falling apart in front of him, and she did not want to ruin it.
She was about to bend down to reach for her suitcase again, when she heard him say, "I need your help."
She stood back up.
"You need a therapist's help!"
He decided to leave that uncommented. He knew she was hurting and said things in anger she did not mean. At least he hoped she did not mean them.
"The case will be solved by the evening. It's only a few more hours. And you know that I'm not supposed to work on a missing children's case alone," he tried to reason with her.
"Since I'm only an annoying nanny, I'm sure you can find someone else for the job. Get John."
"You know I did not tell him about this case." It was not a question.
"How do you...?"
"I've read your text feed."
"You... you... Does the word 'privacy' mean anything at all to you?!" She threw her hands up in exasperation.
"When I asked you what it was that was bothering you in the taxi, you said it was nothing. You were clearly hiding something from me. I had to find out what it was."
In his world his actions were totally justified; but not in Molly's.
"That gives you no right to sneak around in my phone!"
"I do that with John all the time."
"And how does he feel about it?"
"He thinks choosing longer passwords will make it more complicated for me."
"So does he approve of it?" It did not pass her attention that he had not answered her question.
He remained silent and stared hard at her. That was answer enough for her.
"I thought so." She reached down to pick up her suitcase again. He grabbed her wrist again and the desperate hold he had on her stood in stark contrast to the softness in his voice.
"Stay. Please."
She stared down on the floor, not daring to meet his eyes, afraid of what she might find there.
"I don't see a reason why." She had never sounded so bitter.
Sherlock was quite at a loss with his reasoning so he tried another approach, "The children should know who helped finding them. They should be able to meet you in person once they've come back." Sherlock felt her posture change, and he dared to loosen the grip on her hand. Something was telling him she would not run away.

She drew a deep breath, before she raised her head high, trying to stand tall. He could not blame her. How often had he made her look small – sometimes intentionally, sometimes not.
Her expression was hard when she looked at him.
"Fine." The warmth in her brown eyes with which she normally looked at him was gone, and he hated it; because he had made it disappear, it was his own fault.
"I'll see you then." She looked pointedly at the connecting door.
He understood, nodded and went to retreat in his room. He paused the moment he entered his room and turned around. There was something he wanted to say to her, to make her understand. But just as he was about to open his mouth, the connecting door was slammed into his face, and for the first time since they had shared adjoining rooms, he heard the connecting door being locked. No sound had ever made him feel so lonesome.

On her side of the door, Molly finally gave into her desire to cry once more and let her tears fall freely. She hated herself for ever thinking something good might come from this weird trip. She wiped her face with the back of her hand. He had hurt her so many times, and she had wasted so many tears on him. She had to move on. She did not know how, but she knew she needed to. Otherwise she would break, sooner or later. She had to face the facts: It was an illusion that Sherlock would ever reciprocate her feelings. He would always take her for granted. Still, she was determined to stay until this case was over, so she would have the feeling that she had made a difference for once: She had helped to find the missing children.

Although she did not want to admit it, but there had even been moments during this case when she actually had fun with him and when he was being kind and showing her something of the man that was Sherlock Holmes.

She felt exhausted. She closed her eyes and leaned against the door.

Illusions may shatter, but memories stay.

She bit her lower lip to muffle a cry that threatened to escape her lips as the tears began to fall again. Little did she know that on the other side of the locked connecting door a certain consulting detective was leaning heavily against the door as well.

A/N: Please don't kill me! But you know: moment of final suspense before the fluff. Have faith: There will be fluff. ;-)
I'm planning on 3 more chapters and an epilogue – just though you know.