Just to reiterate; this is a set of one-off ficlets based around The Full House by Emcee Frodis (#7895293) & Hooper House Rules by Amalia Kensington (#7973501). (Thankyou for letting people know my stupid little fics exist btw, it's a bloody honour!)

There are BIG SPOILERS for both the Sherlock series & The Full House/Hooper House Rules here, so go read & watch them first before you do anything else!

DISCLAIMER: I own none of these characters but if I owned a Sherlock he'd always be naked.

Bit less fluff, but more angst in this one. Sherlock can be such a twat. Hope you enjoy. ^^

Chapter Two. Green-Eyed. Set directly between Ch7 & Ch8 The Full House (during the few days described where Sherlock has not spoken to Molly for a few days).

Molly gave a little squeak as she carefully pushed the stud of the earring through her lobe. It had been a while since she'd bothered to wear anything in her pierced ears (work didn't allow it and it wasn't often that she got dressed up), so it seemed that the hole had begun to close. Securing the dangling silver hoop in place, she noticed that her lobe had turned a little red from the irritation. Fortunately she had decided to wear her long, mousey hair down tonight & it wouldn't be too obvious.

Taking a deep breath and standing back a few steps, Molly studied herself in the mirror. She was wearing her least worn-out pair of blue jeans; dressed up somewhat with a nicely cut, black camisole top. She was also wearing the only pair of heels that she owned - brown leather ankle boots. They were only three and a half inches high, but Molly still felt herself wobble a little bit on the spot. She was used to wearing plimsols all day.

Molly leant forward into the mirror and applied a little more mascara to her eyelashes. Again, she wasn't really used to any excessive amount of make-up. When the only people you interacted with all day was dead bodies and fellow forensics geeks it felt a little… Pointless. And it wasn't as if she was going anywhere special tonight either, to be honest. Mike Stamford was celebrating his 40th birthday at his local pub and most of St Barts had been invited out. Usually she wouldn't have bothered, but after losing her job she'd appreciated the offer to see some familiar faces again - especially as being cooped up with Sherlock for hours on end without him saying a word to her all day was beginning to give her cabin fever.

She felt a small jolt of something unpleasant in her stomach at the thought of Sherlock. It was ridiculous, she knew it was ridiculous. She was young and, as Sherlock himself had put it - "moderately attractive". Why shouldn't she get dressed up and go out like other, normal women of her age? It was a drunken snog. Just a bloody, stupid, glorious drunken snog. She hadn't even dared believe anymore would come of it - and even when Sherlock had kissed her again in order to "experiment", Molly was ashamed to admit to herself just how much she'd enjoyed it. She was surprised with just how little she cared that there clearly wasn't any emotional subtext with Sherlock; it had just been an experiment for him. But now it was over and he was barely speaking to her. She wasn't even sure if he was capable of registering the awkwardness that hung over the flat when they were both there, together, completely silent. Maybe that was just normal for him.

A few experimental kisses did not equal monogamy, no matter how much she may have wished it was so. She was going to go out, flutter her eyelashes, be bought drinks by men, talk, laugh and come home late. Just like everyone else.

Taking a deep breath, Molly grabbed her jacket and handbag and walked into the living room in order to wait for her cab. As always, Sherlock was lying cross-legged across her sofa; his head resting on a pile of pillows at one end. He was idly plucking at the strings of his violin and staring into space. He glanced briefly in her direction as she entered, looked away, then did a dramatic double take, cocking one eyebrow.

"Why are you dressed like that?"

Molly swung her handbag onto one shoulder and instinctively hunched, folding her arms down her front. It made her nervous when Sherlock's full attention was on her.

"Dressed like what?"

"Like that," Sherlock sprung up from the couch and stood in one fluid motion, "Where are you going?"

She opened her mouth to respond but the detective held up one finger and a look of recognition flooded his long, sharp features, "Ah. Mike Stamford's birthday party. Of course."

"Most of the St Barts staff are going," She squeaked. She hadn't actually expected Sherlock to pay her any attention - he hadn't said a single word to her since their last kiss over two days ago. Molly struggled to suppress the flush of blood that she knew was creeping up her cheeks.

He was stood a few steps away, eyeing her closely. She felt as if she might be getting smaller under the pressure of his gaze.

Sherlock cocked his head curiously, "You've made much more effort on your appearance than you usually do."

Molly nibbled at her bottom lip, confused. She tried not to linger on the fact that this clearly meant Sherlock only saw her as scruffy & plain. It stung her too much. "Well, we're going out."

Sherlock narrowed those blue-grey eyes. Molly knew what was coming, but before she could open her mouth to speak a torrent of words suddenly came spilling from the detective's lips;

"You're wearing the only jeans you own that aren't splattered with blood or luminol or any other chemical agent so clearly these are a pair saved away as not for work. That top is evidently new - you've pulled the label out of the back a little hastily & the plastic from the tag is still attached…" His pale eyes grazed over her face and Molly could do nothing but look toward the floor. She hated it when he did this. How was he able to see through absolutely everything she did so clearly? Sometimes it felt as if he could read minds. The mere idea that Sherlock had any way of knowing some of the extraordinarily private thoughts that she had - particularly about him - made her blush even harder. He continued with his deduction of her, oblivious or otherwise unconcerned with her reaction.

"You hardly ever bother with jewellery - your earlobes are obviously sore from where you've forced those earrings through… The leather on your shoes is still hardened; clearly shoes you don't wear too often. For special occasions, then?"

Molly's cheeks were awash with humiliation and fury; hot tears were pricking the corners of her eyes. She wanted to just storm out of the apartment, though something kept her feet rooted to the spot.

"We're just going out," She managed hoarsely.

"Yes, with the staff you saw everyday at work for years. They all know what you look like. Why bother trying to impress any of them…?"

Daring herself to glance upward, Molly saw another dawning of realisation creep onto Sherlock's face again, only this time she noticed it was accompanied with a furrowed brow & a slight frown.

"Ah,"

He took a step backward. The expression of smugness was diminished like the flame from a candle. Instead, Sherlock actually looked as if he were pouting.

"You're hoping to attract men."

That was it. She tried to stifle the sob that came unbidden, though there was not much that could be done to disguise it. Feeling her mascara run down her cheeks, Molly quickly turned and fled to the bathroom. How did she ever let that man have such control over her? He was truly brilliant & wonderful, but sometimes he was also the biggest tosser she'd ever met.

Molly looked at the reflection of herself in the mirror over the sink and gasped when she realised Sherlock was stood behind her. He was watching silently over her shoulder. His brow was knitted together in thought, and he offered her a tissue.

She took one and angrily blew her nose before attempting to dab at the black streaks the makeup had left trailing down her face. Molly wished he'd just sod off and leave her to it, but somehow she couldn't find the words. Maybe she could just pretend he wasn't there. God, she looked a mess.

Sherlock watched for a moment before stepping closer and, reaching forward, wiped a few of the stained tears from her cheek with one slender thumb, holding her gaze in the reflection from the mirror. Molly froze. She hated herself - and him - for the effect that his touch had on her. Even though she was crying because of him, the gesture was so uncharacteristic of Sherlock she couldn't help but feel a little flutter in the pits of her stomach.

"I am sorry, Molly Hooper." He purred softly as his hand lingered by her face.

Despite herself, Molly found herself wanting to lean into him, wanting that palm to cradle her cheek properly. Maybe Sherlock read her thoughts again, as he quickly brought his hand back down to his side. She inwardly scolded herself.

"I…" His mouth twitched as if he wasn't certain of the words he was looking for, "I… Do not deal with crying people well. But, please know that I did not mean to upset you."

Molly turned so she could face him without having to look through the mirror. It startled her just how close he was stood - her nose was just inches from his chin.

"I just wish you wouldn't-"

"I know," He nodded, before she could finish. The merest hint of a smile flickered on his face before disappearing again. Suddenly, he looked uncomfortable,

"I understand your need to leave the flat for short periods of time; I am well aware I am not an easy person to live with."

Molly studied his expression closely. He looked conflicted.

"I am sure it will be good for both of us; you will be able to fulfil your human desire to socialise with others and I will have complete silence to myself for an entire evening."

It was unusual to hear Sherlock talk with such clear uncertainty in his tone but Molly remained silent. She feared that if he pushed him, she would never get to hear him say the words that were so obviously plaguing him.

"However, I should very much appreciate your cooperation in abstaining from bringing any previously unknown males back to the apartment with you." Sherlock coughed awkwardly and looked past her; quite obviously embarrassed, "Erm. If you don't mind."

Molly couldn't help herself. A wide grin split across her tear-streaked face.

"By that you mean, 'don't bring home any guys tonight', yes?"

Sherlock looked back at her and gave a formal nod, though the sincerity that shone from those indisputably gorgeous grey eyes betrayed him. In this light, they almost looked green.

Molly reached up and planted a small kiss on his left cheek, "Deal."