Hello everyone!

So the last chapter was all kinds of messed up. Emotional turmoil and unresolved tension took the forefront. Our beloved characters are going through some tough sh*t. Things were said, that can't be unsaid. And it appears we still don't know what they are going to do about it. So let's delve right into this chapter. A quick warning, it is long and very intense. Molly and Sherlock have a lot to figure out, but neither of them would concede first. We will get there, but not before we see them struggle with their inner demons.

Thank you all for taking the time to read and comment. I love reading your messages and it really brightens my day. Keep those kudos and comments coming, because I literally thrive on them. LOL.

xx,

Tumbleweed_professor

MOLLY

8 WEEKS LATER

Molly squeezed her eyes shut and whimpered when a strong wave of heat licked her already slick skin in a lecherous manner. For a second, her sleep-addled brain fumbled to make the connection, and then slowly but surely she remembered. Last night she had drunk herself into a blind torpor and had forgotten to turn down the thermostat. But she felt she was being unreasonably bitchy towards herself when she had a valid reason for this oversight. She had been extremely distraught last night. And judging by the sweat that pooled between her breasts, she knew she was paying penance for that now. An unhappy groan escaped her lips.

Today should have been the day she went from Miss to Mrs. Had things gone the way she expected to have gone, she might have been getting ready to exchange vows this evening; she would have worn that beautiful white gown she bought in a hurry. But here she was, gloriously naked and covered in nothing but sweat and mild self-loathing.

Molly threw an arm over her eyes and kicked the offending blanket from her body. She rolled over to the other side of the bed where the sheets were slightly cool to the touch. She moaned quietly. This was the side Tom usually slept in, the man who would have become her husband today. She rubbed her hands back and forth on the crisp untouched side and idly wondered, if perhaps, she should feel a bit more upset, given that today was her wedding day. Albeit canceled wedding day.

Had she always been this way? Dangerously pragmatic, no matter what curveballs life had in store for her? Is that why her life was so unembellished ? Because she always found her footing, even when the storm ravaged her? Self-reliant, self-sufficient, practical Molly. The one who carried on, despite the crumbling foundation; despite the unsavory friendships. No matter the actions, no matter the consequences, she simply survived. Molly let out an exasperated sigh. She thought it was rather ironic that she was having an epiphany about herself today.

Sluggish and a little muddled, she pulled herself to an upright position and cussed out loud immediately. The wine and self-actualization from last night had manifested themselves in the form of an annoying and insistent headache that pounded on the base of her skull. For someone who knew all about alcohol and its many alarming side effects, she knew she certainly wasn't making the right choices. Squinting, she tried to adjust her vision to the dim bedroom light and blearily made her way into the ensuite bathroom. Half-blind from the headache, she fiddled with the showerhead and let the cool water soothe her burning skin. Tucking her chin into her chest, she allowed her mind to wander.

In the past several weeks, Molly had slowly but efficiently pieced her broken life back together. Fucking again. She had judiciously called the wedding venue to cancel her booking, listened patiently to the caterers while they raved about her deposit and their refund policy, canceled her order with the florist, and had studiously avoided making any direct contact with Tom. She had also tirelessly worked day and night to have her thesis published and had all but swelled in pride when Mike Stamford pulled her aside and congratulated her and hinted at a promotion. She had put in some real effort to be there for Rosie, she chatted up Greg anytime he visited the morgue, she met Mrs. Hudson every fortnight for a girls night out, she caught up with John over a cup of coffee on a regular basis, and, she never, not once ran into Sherlock Holmes. She didn't seek him out. She didn't let her repeatedly mended heart, ache for him. And apparently neither did he. And wasn't that the problem?

That he won't love her but won't let anyone else love her either?

She and John had come to a non-verbal agreement not to discuss him and if John hinted about him, Molly overlooked that tidbit of information blithely. Her heart had recuperated enough that when she had accidentally run into Tom at Tesco and saw another woman clinging to his arms, she didn't feel the hurt she expected to feel. Instead, all she had felt was relief. Sweet liberating relief. And wasn't that something? Knowing that she hadn't completely obliterated an unwitting human just because he fell in love with her? Twice?

Molly stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself in a fluffy white towel. The shower to an extent had alleviated the pain she felt between her eyes. She squeezed the water out of her hair, brushed her teeth, and rubbed cream over her face. Listlessly, she wandered back into her bedroom and pulled on a simple black dressing gown from her wardrobe that she had bought one a whim one day to seduce Tom. It was not silk. It was not special. It was just a floor-length cotton dressing gown that she had never worn because she had completely forgotten about it. She smiled darkly. What does that even say about her? How could one forget something like this?

Deliberately, she pushed those vicious thoughts out of her mind and pulled the dressing gown tightly around her. Humming under her breath she slumped into the kitchen. She spotted the box of Weetabix that sat on top of the counter and listened to the angry rumble her stomach made. Too hungover to care about making a proper breakfast, she pulled out a large piece of Weetabix from the box and brought it to her mouth when-

"Really Molly, you start your day with that?"

Molly shrieked loudly and dropped the box to the floor. Her heart pounded and her head spun sickeningly when she whirled around to stare at the intruder. Sherlock was sitting in the armchair facing the kitchen looking like he just came back from posing for a posh magazine; all six feet of him lounging so casually on her rickety floral chair. From his perfectly styled hair to the gleaming shoes on his feet, he looked like he always belonged there. How the fuck did she not see him?

"What the hell are you doing here?" she screeched, and ignoring the stabbing pain in her temples, scooted down to pick up the box and the broken bits of Weetabix she scattered all across the floor.

Sherlock's eyes laughed at her and she felt a dull flush creeping up her chest. She threw him a disgusted look.

"How the hell did you get in?" she bit out, as she put the box back on the counter. "You gave me your keys back."

A faint smirk curved Sherlock's lips as he raised his eyebrows at her. She snarled.

"Of course." Molly threw her hands in the air indignantly. "You can't go around picking locks when you explicitly gave away your keys!" She stomped her foot like an ill-tempered teenager, but she was too furious to care.

"I had to talk to you."

Molly spared him a single glance as she dumped the broken biscuit into the bin.

"No."

"No?"

"I was having a rather nice morning, all things considered. Get out before you ruin it."

Sherlock paid no attention to her vindictive words as he stood up. He simply shrugged off his Belstaff and draped it over the back of the armchair and rolled up his shirt sleeves. Molly glared at him as he sauntered into the kitchen.

"What are you doing?"

Inadvertently Molly remembered the last time they'd seen each other and the memory clung to her like a second skin, making her feel quite ill. She hurried over to the other side of the kitchen and sulked in silence. Her damp hair clung to her back uncomfortably and she cursed herself for not taking the time to run a hairdryer through it. Her bare toes curled inwards and she suddenly felt extremely underdressed to entertain company, especially when said company looked like James fucking Bond, and especially since the memory from their last rendezvous beleaguered her.

"I need coffee," he said as he opened the refrigerator.

"Go to a cafe then!"

He ignored her while he pulled out a carton of milk and sniffed the coffee that she had left out on the counter yesterday morning. Molly blushed. Stupid berk. He didn't have to sniff so distastefully to let her know that the coffee had turned rancid.

Sherlock moved around with relaxed competence, as though he was in his own kitchen, and entirely disregarded her presence. He brewed a fresh pot of coffee as Molly continued to watch him through dour eyes. He worked with so much grace that she marveled quietly if he knew what it was to feel clumsy and awkward. All the same, she kept a wary eye on him. Now that her anger had abated to an ebbing tide, and the headache had mellowed to a dull throbbing, she suddenly had no defenses to put up around her. Dimly, she wondered why he only wore shirts that strained over his muscles to the point of discomfort. The crisp blue oxford shirt was on the verge of splitting and Molly had to forcefully tamp down on the mad urge to laugh. She swallowed a muffled sound which prompted him to give her a questioning look. She shrugged.

"Two sugars and a splash of cream, right?"

Molly turned away from him as she washed her hands gratuitously in the kitchen sink. Damn his memory. Once she made sure her face was composed and unreadable she turned back to face him again.

"I can make my own damn cup of coffee. Why the hell are you here?"

Sherlock walked over to her with the coffee mugs. He held one out to Molly and waited. She sighed aggravatedly as she took the mug from him. She didn't know if it was worth all the angry back and forth. Sherlock took a delicate sip and eyed her over the rim of his mug.

"I read your paper."

Surprised and a little pleased, she gave him a speculative look.

"What did you think?"

Sherlock came to stand beside her and leaned against the kitchen counter. His arms brushed her shoulder which caused her to accidentally inhale a rather large amount of coffee through her nose. Her eyes watered and she coughed into her mug while Sherlock thumped her back absently.

"Rapunzel Syndrome and its correlation to schizophrenia. Not something we come across often in the lab. But it was quite impressive and I am very intrigued."

Molly dabbed her streaming eyes with her shoulders and inched away from him in a very discreet manner.

Unable to stop herself from asking, she wheezed, "Intrigued, how?"

"Well for one, your sample size must have been very limited. So I wonder how accurate your paper is."

Molly's nose flared, but when she acknowledged the teasing glint in his eyes, she bit back the oath that was on the tip of her tongue.

"But I'm not here to just talk about your paper," he amended.

"No?"

Sherlock shook his head and the quiet challenge came back into his eyes. Molly instantly went on high alert.

"I actually came by to let you know I solved thirty-seven cases in the last two months. My personal best."

He watched her with interest as he let his words wash over her. Molly took another hasty gulp and let the coffee scald the roof of her mouth. So that's why he was here, to make his point. To prove that he was beyond the normal scope of human emotion. She felt the back of her throat sting. She didn't know if it was the hot coffee or her own humiliation.

"Good. That's good."

She tried to walk out of the kitchen but he blocked her path with little to no effort. Molly let out an infuriated sigh and glowered at him. He kept his eyes trained on her as he crowded her personal space. She felt her throat close up. The tantalizing smell of his cologne, all that woodsy leathery quality of it, made her feel light-headed.

"I also wanted to let you know that I don't take threats very well."

Molly immediately felt the ground shake beneath her feet. She wanted to drop dead. She simply wanted to dig a hole and crawl into it. He was here to punish her for all the swagger she threw him several weeks ago. She bit back a weak groan. With all the indifference she could muster, she put the coffee mug on the counter and said,

"I don't remember threatening you. I wanted to kill you. That was not a threat. That was a promise."

Sherlock's eyes twinkled with amusement and Molly was tempted to make a run for it. She felt like the walls were closing in on her. Quickly she ducked around him and hurried out into the living room, where she opened the balcony door with fumbling hands. She stepped out shakily. Clutching the railing with tense fingers, she lifted her face upwards. The sky was grey and heavily pregnant with an oncoming storm. The air she sucked in through her mouth tasted like damp earth and it felt cloyingly thick in her throat, but she took another shuddering breath anyway.

"Someday we can see if you can make good on your promise."

He had followed her out from the kitchen and now stood with his back propped against the railing and stared at her. Molly felt her cheeks bloom with color. He still held the coffee mug in his right hand and with the other, he pulled out a box of cigarettes from his trouser pocket. He raised his eyebrows quizzically at her and she shrugged in response. He lit one up and huffed out a swirl of smoke.

"How is it you are the only one who doesn't chide me on my infamous habit?"

"Compared to your other recreational experiments, I'd say this is not the worst," she clapped back.

Sherlock's lips quirked and he flicked the cigarette once. Molly watched the ashes crumble and float towards the floor. Her insides felt like she swallowed a can of worms and she tried not to shift.

"I don't have those urges these days."

"Well, color me impressed," she droned in a sardonic voice. Sherlock gave a quiet laugh around the cigarette that was clamped between his lips and the sound of it shimmered across her skin, warming her neck. She pointedly overlooked it. "Alright, now that we've cleared the air, can you leave?"

He once again ignored her request. He tilted his head and placed his elbows on the railing, exposing a long line of his neck. Molly felt her stomach jump at that sight and she mentally scolded herself for it. He sucked in another lungful of tar before he shot her another penetrating look.

"What?" she barked.

"I also didn't care for what you called me."

"I call you so many names these days, I honestly don't know which one you are actually referring to."

The lightest of humor crinkled his eyes but Molly didn't smile in return. She held her breath and gauged his face cautiously.

"Coward. I didn't like it when you called me a coward."

Molly felt her throat go dry. But she didn't back down.

"I'm not going to apologize for that."

"I know."

They held each other's gaze for a second longer before Sherlock bumped her shoulders with his in a friendly gesture and shot her a brilliant smile. Flummoxed by the sudden change in his attitude, she shook her head to clear the confusion.

"What do you want to do with your life, Molly? I've never really asked you this before, but what exactly do you want?"

Molly found herself gaping at him in an unattractive way. Her mind went blank and she wondered if she perhaps misheard him.

"What?"

"C'mon Molly. You know more words than that."

She threw him a sullen look.

"Why are you being incredibly weird, Sherlock?" she snapped, at last.

"Since when taking an interest was labeled as being weird?" he countered, crushing the cigarette on the railing. He placed the mug on the small outside table and shuffled closer to her.

Molly wanted to scream. Her mind was too warped with his sudden appearance and her heart kept leaping into her throat. She crossed her arms over her chest and stared morosely at the parking lot below where two kids were playing a game of football.

"I can't deal with you right now. For fuck's sake, leave me alone."

"You've certainly started to swear a lot."

Molly deigned to reply. She didn't feel like entertaining his ridiculous games nor did she want to stand here and watch him deduce her.

"You are working hard to get a PH.D. A laudable aspiration by the way. Expanding your knowledge . Now that's at least something I can appreciate. You also prefer the country, where you can slow down and just live life on your terms. Your flat suggests that you are not emotionally invested in any of the furniture, meaning that you are waiting to buy a house before you buy anything permanent. Again, you are practical. You've always been. This brings me to your love life. You want to settle down. And quickly too. You want to be with someone who shares the same value as you. You are most definitely thinking about having children given that you bought a couple of books regarding that. You are thinking one, but a part of you wants to have two so they have someone to play and grow with. You want to move closer to your brother since you miss him and he needs you, despite his unwillingness to let you back into his life. I presume he was the one who called you before I did, a couple of years back? Which explains why you were upset already. You sometimes wonder if you choose the right career, since it gives you little to no opportunity to have a social life, but you are an optimist. You don't let that deter you. Tell me, how am I doing so far, Doctor?"

Molly went very still as she continued to watch the kids tussle and laugh as they chased the ball around. Fat drops of water hit the black gravelly surface, but that didn't deter them. They simply let the rain soak them as they yelled in delight. She took in the scene without actually observing it, because a distant but tangible part of her felt the fragile edges of her carefully sewn heart rip and bleed. His brutal analysis burrowed itself into her head like a poisonous bug and she belatedly realized that her eyes had started to leak. The barely concealed contempt behind his deduction cut through her and destroyed what little dignity she had been left with.

"And you just happen to know me so well, don't you?" she murmured. One of the kids tripped and fell down but he didn't whine. He stood up and shot his friend a wicked grin before he stole the ball from him.

"I do, Molly. Which is why I also know I can never be the man you want me to be."

She gave a harsh laugh and surreptitiously wiped her wet cheeks. The hint of sadness in his voice nauseated her.

"And what kind of man do you think I want?" she asked scornfully.

"The kind I'm not."

She clenched her jaws and peeled her eyes away from the drama that was occurring on the street below.

"I work in a morgue. Not because someone forced me to, but because I genuinely enjoy cutting dead people open. I know it is morbid. I know what I signed up for. But I love it all the same. Here's something else. I befriended you. Worst of all, I fell in love with you. You. A sociopath with no moral conundrums. I even dated a cold-blooded psychopath. He was a total nutcase, but I actually liked hanging out with him. My dead friend, who was the closest thing that I had to a sister, was a trained assassin. She put a bullet in you. Oh, which by the way, I fucking knew and I still chose to love her. My other friend is a different kind of junkie who is not plagued by the war but misses it so much that he voluntarily sought out to be with you, just so he can get his adrenaline fix. My brother happens to be a gambling addict, who keeps throwing his life away. A part of me wishes he would simply vanish one day, that way I wouldn't have to carry all this guilt and burden with me. But then I realize I'm an arsehole for even having that thought, so I try to mend our relationship. But I don't do it often enough and I feel as though I don't try enough. And that sickens me. I got engaged, twice, to the same man I thought I wanted to marry. Instead, I broke his heart and his trust and I still feel nothing. I don't feel remorse. I don't feel guilty. If anything, I feel relieved. Relieved that I don't have to spend the rest of my life wondering why I couldn't ever fully fall in love with him. I love Rosie, but children, in general, scare the shit out of me. Every time John calls, a part of me wishes that he wouldn't ask me to babysit my goddaughter. That's how awful I am. So yeah, your deductions are all buggered up, detective. The person you just deduced, doesn't exist anymore. In fact, she hasn't existed in a really long time. What I am, is a broken mess, so I suggest you take your inaccurate deductions and shove them up your arse!"

Molly fisted her hands to stop them from shaking when her litany ended. Incensed beyond words, she gave him one last fulminating look before she dashed towards her bedroom. She would have made it if Sherlock hadn't caught her elbow and spun her into his arms.

Enraged, she writhed like an angry snake against him. Her hair clung to her heated face and Sherlock reached out to brush it aside, all the while maintaining a steady grip on her. Molly growled threateningly.

"What's this new technique? Is this how you handle criminals as well? Pin them to you until they die from asphyxiation?" she demanded.

"You know that's not how asphyxiation works," he scoffed gruffly.

"Don't discuss the semantics of asphyxiation with me now!"

Her futile efforts to break free caused her dressing gown to part and slope down one shoulder, revealing way too much skin. Horrified, Molly could only stare. She was not wearing any undergarments, and she realized now was not the time to literally stand naked in front of the bastard. So she tried to talk to him in a calm, reasonable tone.

"Let go of me, Sherlock. I promise I won't leave."

Sherlock loosened his grip and Molly stumbled back. She fixed her dressing gown hurriedly, but not before she caught a flash of something in Sherlock's eyes. Chills ran down her spine but she kept her cloak of disinterest intact, although maintaining eye contact with him proved to be difficult. She folded her arms and saw him mirror her action. He leaned his shoulder against the wall.

"Okay. Stop beating around the bush. Why are you even here?" The narrow hallway that led to her bedroom felt way too intimate to have a conversation with him and she tried not to squirm.

Sherlock's seagrass eyes never left her face and she would have been unnerved, had she not been under his scrutiny before. But she was so used to this kind of behavior from him that she only returned a dull look of puzzlement.

"I'm a broken mess too," he said after a lengthy pause. Molly felt her lips twitch involuntarily.

"I think we are all aware of that," she offered, her tone as dry as Sahara.

"Then why do you still love me?" Molly felt her heart drop to her stomach.

"Who says I am?" she retaliated even as her heart stumbled and took a fresh hit. When Sherlock only gave a disparaging snort as a form of reply, she bristled.

"You are so full of yourself, Sherlock Holmes!" she blustered, chagrined.

"Am I though?" He didn't sneer, didn't mock. If anything, his soft whisper sounded vulnerable. Hesitant. Paralyzing fear gripped Molly's insides and she looked away from him. No. She was not going to get sucked into whatever fresh hell Sherlock wanted to unlock. She was not amused that he had chosen this particular day to torment her. She also didn't like the way he was looking at her, as though scanning her thoughts and feelings. It made her feel exposed. Unprotected. So she mentally prepared herself to do the unthinkable.

"Look, you are one of my dearest friends. And whatever silly notion I had of you, it's in the past. While I'm not exactly thrilled with how things ended with Tom, I cannot help but think you did me a favor. I know it sounds terrible and it certainly doesn't excuse what you did. And make no mistake, I'm still pissed off about that. But in the end, it is what it is."

She gave him a half shrug but Sherlock only frowned. Molly had to clamp her hands tightly to avoid smoothing out the crease between his eyebrows.

"This would be a whole lot easier if you could just hate me."

Molly laughed softly. Oh god, how she wished that too...

"I could, but where would I find another sociopath with uncanny detective abilities?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and pressed his back to the wall. He tilted his head up and it made a dull thud when it connected with the wall.

"So what you said all those weeks back, was that all because you were angry? Just a moment of madness?"

Molly wrung her hands uselessly as her pulsed spiked again. She wasn't able to keep up with him; she was unable to keep up with his unpredictable words. Goosebumps erupted on the back of her neck and she shuddered reflexively. A siren of a warning danced over her skin and she quelled the need to scamper.

"Yes." Her voice came out all breathy and wrong. She grimaced.

"Good. Because you and I won't work." His response was immediate and brusque and Molly let the words sink in, let the keen edges of his terse words deliver the final blow. The dull ache spread through her like a slow but steady river and her eyes smarted again. Set in stone...

"I uh… Okay," her voice wavered. Molly took a deep breath and tried again. "Okay. That's fair. But in case you haven't noticed, today was supposed to be my wedding day and I'm not in the mood to discuss this, can we just call it even and move on?"

Was it long? Was it winding? Was it driving you mad? Let me know! There are only two more chapters left and I'm almost done writing them. Depending on how well this is received I will update you guys on the next chapter!

Sending lots of love and hugs your way.

xx