"Please sit down Molly", Lestrade said gently to her, motioning to the chair in fount of them.
"No", Molly said curtly, "Whatever it is, you can tell me when I'm standing up."
Sherlock threw his hands up in the air and turned away from her, clearly irritated.
"Molly", Lestrade started—it was decided that Lestrade would tell Molly that Alexander was dead. It had taken ten minutes for John and Lestrade to settle on that; Lestrade had volunteered John to do it, ("You're a doctor. You tell people every day that they or a relative is dying") and then John had countered by telling Lestrade that he should do it ("Well, you're a police officer, you deal with the homicide victim's families"), but it was unanimously voted that Sherlock would not tell her nor would he say anything during the conversation—"Molly", Lestrade said again.
"Yes, yes", Molly muttered, her brows knotted in interest, as she leaned on the chair.
"Alexander...your husband"—Molly held her breath, John hid his face from Molly with his hands, and Sherlock was closely studying the wallpaper—"he's...he's dead."
Molly's face dropped and she blindly touched the chair to sit in it, "How...how could that be?" she said slowly in a faltering, but monotone tone "I was just with him!" she angrily snapped at the men. "He was in the limo with me going to the airport, but then, how did we get here?" —her face cracked into a forced smile—"This is a joke, right?" she asked, crossing her legs. "Not a very funny one and it's in very bad taste and, oh, it's not nice to play tricks on me like that"—
"Molly...this isn't a joke", John said, his voice straining. Sherlock turned his head slightly to peek at Molly.
Molly sighed and sat back in the chair, staring at the coffee table, and said in a completely monotone voice, "Then he really is dead, isn't he." It wasn't a question, it was a stated fact. She glanced up at the men, her face void of any emotion or expression; even Sherlock didn't know what she was thinking. "Hm", she said, biting the inside of her cheek, nodding and staring back at the coffee table, "so this is what it feels like to be a widow", she looked at the men again, "I just didn't expect it this soon, y'know", she continued nodding and then she blinked a couple times.
At that moment, she changed completely. Her eyes became determined and sharp and her voice became silky and smooth. It was still light and feminine, but underneath the sweet tones, there was an edge: dull but deadly. Her posture even changed from slouchy like a hunchback to straight like an arrow. "I say"—she said in a formal, grand tone, looking at the curtains as she casually placed her chin on her hand—"those are very nice curtains", she glanced at John and asked with a small smirk, "Are they new?"
Both John's and Lestrade's mouths were open in shock. "Mo... Molly", John managed to stammer out, "Didn't you hear what we said? Your husband is dead."
"Oh yes, yes", Molly said offhandedly, waving her hand like she was pushing a bad smell away, "I heard you the first time."
"And... you're dead too", John told her, expecting her to become sad—or whatever. Just some kind of emotion.
"I am?" Molly gave a shocked look, "Oh"; she stopped to think, "So this is what it feels like to be dead", she said solemnly then asked in a somewhat contained and cheerful tone with a straight face, "How was my funeral? Was it lovely? Were the eulogies nice? I hope people had kind things to say."
"You don't seem to acting the way I thought you would", Sherlock said slowly, turning to fully face Molly.
"Upset?" Molly asked lightly, as she glanced down to smooth out her jeans. "Am I supposed to cry? Blubber until the end of time?"
"Yeah, that's the way you should be acting!" John yelled, standing up and pointing at Molly. "Eighty-five people died in that aeroplane crash! Don't you have any emotions? Any emotions at all?"
"Oh! Aeroplane crash? Wow, he really went all out to kill me, eh?" Molly said, energized, then asked in a calm voice, "By the way, have you caught 'im yet?" All of the three men stared at her, flabbergasted, "No? Well, then the only emotions I feel is disappointment, especially at you Sherlock—the world's only consulting detective can't catch a simple Irishman", she shook her head at him, "Tsk tsk."
"You're—you're not Molly!" John yelled again, then turned around and lightly muttered to Lestrade and Sherlock. "And you two scoffed at my 'clone' theory."
"How can you say something like that? Uh..." —she paused and then quickly added—"Dr. Watson! See I still don't remember your name."
"Of course, she's Molly", Sherlock sighed, bored, "her face has classical features"—Molly hid a smile—"her lips are too small, her ears stick out, and, her nose sticks up a bit."
"Thank you Sherlock", Molly yelled gladly at him for the first part, but then added sarcastically after the rest of it caught up with her brain, "I guess."
"I don't know", Lestrade, said slowly, coming out of his trance, "her reaction does seem very un-Molly like."
"What the hell is 'Molly like'?" Molly snapped at Lestrade.
"Well, you know", Sherlock answered coldly, "Stuttering, but quiet woman who needs to build up her confidence every time she speaks to living people"—
"That's it!" Molly yelled standing up, she was shaking again, but this time in anger, "What do you know what's Molly and un-Molly? You don't know anything about me! All you know is that I'm a little, mousy, forensic pathologist"—she then pointed to Sherlock—"with a crush on Sherlock"—she frowned a bit—"but none of that's true! The only bit that's true is the forensic pathologist part." She stomped towards the door, "Maybe this is how I grieve! And if you don't like that then...then"—'Going a bit overboard there, Molly'—go whatever yourself!" she yelled as she grabbed a black trench coat from a wall hook and ran down the stairs and out the door.
"That was my coat", Sherlock mumbled softly as John massaged the back of his neck.
"Charming", John muttered, "we did so well", he said to Lestrade. "Telling her how to act...how to mourn...how she was supposed to be feeling. We did a brilliant job."
"'Your reaction is very un-Molly like'", Lestrade garbled under his breath. "What the hell did I mean by that?" Lestrade harshly asked John.
"You two did a perfect job", Sherlock said mockingly, "a marvelous job", Sherlock smirked as he walked towards the kitchen, "And you thought I was going to mess it up by talking", he exclaimed, pointing to himself. "'Let's not have Sherlock talk because I'm a detective"—Sherlock flickered his eyes to Lestrade and then to John—"and I'm a doctor and we know how to talk to people and break bad news to them'", Sherlock paused, "How you two are a respected in your professions astonishes me."
"Sherlock", John groaned quietly as he sat down.
"No!" Sherlock yelled at John, "Molly just ran out that door"—he pointed in the general direction of the exit—"before we could interrogate her and I'm not even sure she'll come back...and when!" Sherlock sighed and then added, "And she took my damn coat!" he moved towards his bedroom door, "I love that coat...it's so warm and soft", still yelling, shaking his head and rubbing his arms. "I'm going to bed", he muttered darkly as he went into his bedroom and slammed the door.
I'm sorry if you don't like the New Molly, or Old Molly, or Great Taste Less Filling Molly, but I'll give you the explanation (not the full one, mind you) of why she acted like that in the next chapter.