Disclaimer: Not mine...unfortunately.

Author's Note: I know I know, I'm awesome for posting so quickly but I am a generous god...Please leave reviews and comments, it's so lovely to hear from you.


Four months passed by and Molly couldn't decide whether they passed quickly or not quickly enough. But whatever speed she attributed to them, she knew that they had passed at least, in a blur of doctor's visits, physical therapy, mental therapy, and learning how to live with a cat named Lucifer. She filled her time between those formal appointments by spending her days reading, had even gone to the country with her mother, enjoying the crisp, clean air. She also spent much of her time catching up with all the tv shows that she never had time for, rekindling friendships she'd neglected, and bonding with her goddaughter.

She was healing, she could say that. She could also say that she was making progress. She still refused to wear any article of clothing that showed any part of her chest, bitching and moaning about how hard it was to find t-shirts for women that weren't v-necks. She still slept with the lights on but she had recently started trusting herself enough to turn off the kitchen lights when she went to bed. Her ribs were almost completely healed, and the shortness of breath and high blood pressure were starting to even out.

The nightmares hadn't stopped of course, but they were becoming less frequent, less familiar somehow, as if the further she got away from it in terms of time, the easier it was for her to pretend they were dreams. And not reality.

She still hadn't returned to work of course, the toll the surgery had taken on her body made it impossible to return so quickly. She was perpetually exhausted and in pain, not to mention her inability to keep from jumping out of her skin every time something even slightly unexpected happened. Making toast had become a chore lately because it scared her to death, but she was getting better…and she was promised by the doctors that she would return to work. Soon. Within the next few weeks, they said. But she somehow didn't believe them…knew never to trust doctors.

So she walked around her flat now, a hot cup of tea warming her hands as she looked outside at the surprisingly blue sky. It was such a gorgeous day that she was tempted to go for a walk, or go sight-seeing around London, just to get out of the flat. "What do you think Lucifer?" she asked the big, fat gray and black cat, named after his counterpart in Cinderella for his coloring and temperament, "should we go out today, or stay inside again?" the cat meowed, rubbing himself against her leg and she nodded, "got you. Yah, too much hassle to go out, let's stay in and watch Parade's End."

Her phone began to ring in her pocket, she reached for it immediately, but rolled her eyes when she saw it was Sherlock, pressing the button that dumped him into her voicemail. He, of course, rang again and she again diverted the call to voicemail.

She sat on the sofa and laughed, thinking she would rather be blown to bits in her flat by his insane sister than answer his insane phone calls.

Molly hadn't seen Sherlock since that morning, and she didn't want to. She didn't even check outside her window to see if he was outside or not at night, keeping a watchful eye on her flat. He called her every day, sent her texts. John Watson assured her that he was trying to improve himself, trying to come to terms with what he felt for her, that he was trying to become a man worthy of her attention. Molly had nodded at his words, and changed the subject, asking about Rosie and John's work instead.

Sherlock hadn't gone beyond the phone calls and texts, although he never left a voicemail. He would usually call twice, followed by a text that said something innocuous like "hi, just wanted to ask how you're doing today. I love you," or "wanted to see if you wanted chips, I love you."

At first, they had freaked her out…the tone was too normal for Sherlock, too mundane, and always ended with "I love you". But after John had told her that he was on a quest to prove himself to her, she had chalked it up to another of his schemes, another plan that would succeed for a while but fail miserably in the end, leaving Molly gutted in more ways than one.

But today, he broke his pattern and called her a third time. She finally grabbed her phone, hanging up on him, and replied to Sherlock Holmes for the first time in four months. "What" was all that the first text said, second text was "wnt be back at Barts. Cnt help you."

She had barely sent the text when fists started pounding at her door, "Molly!" she heard his familiar voice, "Molly!" he called again.

Suddenly, she grew so angry that she looked at the mug in her hands and was tempted to throw it at the wall. That demanding, arrogant tone…that self-righteousness…the inability to comprehend his own failings as a human being…He exhausted her. He tried her patience.

He annoyed the ever-loving shit out of her.

In the weeks after his disappearance, she had cherished the memories of him that night he'd shown up. The way he'd made love to her, kissed her, held her as if she was everything, as if the words he spewed were the actual truth. She had spent those first few days longing for him to come back to her, for his warmth in her bed…Spent hours imagining the way he'd held himself inside her, his eyes luminous, almost glowing with the emotions he felt for her. She'd remembered how he'd changed her bandage, kissing her throat as he did so because he somehow had known how horrified she was by her marred skin.

But now rage filled her, and she wished she could trip across a Tardis-like time machine that would allow her to go back in time and slap some sense into the doe-eyed idiot she'd been.

She still felt like Molly Hooper. She was just Molly Hooper who no longer gave a flying fuck, and had learned the joys of cursing.

"WHAT," she yelled, throwing the door open to find him standing there, wearing his trademark overcoat over a blue suit that set his eyes off.

"Hi," he sounded genuinely pleased to see her, his chest rising and falling as if he was overwhelmed by her presence.

"What do you want Sherlock," she sounded exasperated even to herself, not moving away from the door in case he thought of coming inside.

"Can…can we talk?" he asked her, sounding almost worried, as if suspecting that she would say no and slam the door in his face. Smart man, he put his shoulder against the jamb.

"About?" Molly actually started tapping her toe, Lucifer meowing angrily at the intruder.

"Is that Lucifer? Rosie tells me about him all the time," he grinned down at the cat then back at her, as if hoping her grim expression had softened.

"What do you want," she repeated, "'cause unless it's something important, I must get back inside, I can't stand up for too long."

Something shifted in his face then, a grimness settling on his carefully constructed features that it made her falter. He looked…devastated, as broken as he'd been the night he'd first sought her out, after Sherrinford. She almost reached for him, almost cupped his cheek to sooth away whatever demons had appeared before him.

Almost.

"I'm sorry," he breathed, "I don't mean to keep you but I really do want to talk to you."

"About what?" she ran a hand through her hair, "I told you, I haven't been to work yet, so I can't help you with whatever case or daft experiment you're working on."

"Well, first of all, you cut your hair," he commented, those pale eyes, now a remarkable shade of blue reflecting his shirt, traced her newly cut hair that came only to her chin, to her eyes, her lips, her throat, as if taking stock.

"Woopity doo," she said dryly, "good bye Sherlock."

She tried closing the door but ended up slamming it against his should and foot, making him grunt in pain. She growled in frustration, "ugh! Fine! Come in! Do whatever the fuck you want! Not like I can fuckin' keep you out!" she walked back inside, leaving the door open. She stormed off to the kitchen, trying not to cradle her midriff or wince because yelling hurt.

"Molly," he tried to sound reasonable, gently shutting her door before walking in, hands in front of him as if he were talking to a hostile. Which he was. "Let me explain—"

She cut him off, surprising him as she walked around the kitchen counter, her hands on her hips, looking at him with a defiance in her eyes that was usually followed by him getting slapped in the face. "Show me your arms."

"What?"

"Show me your arm," she repeated, looking up directly into his eyes without an ounce of warmth. And Sherlock's world crashed down around him, and he finally understood just how much he had failed, how horrendously he had fallen in the eyes of this woman he adored. He took off his overcoat and coat, throwing it on the sofa, making Lucifer yowl in anger as he was disturbed from his perch.

He unbuttoned the sleeve of his shirt, revealing his forearm and she yanked it straight out, looking down at the track marks that hadn't quite healed yet, "no fresh marks, how delightful," she was looking at his skin with a frown, trying to bend her head down as far as she could Sherlock wouldn't see the tears that threatened to overwhelm her. But her body betrayed her, as it always did, and she traced the track marks with her fingertip, "you damned idiot," she whispered and dropped his arm, turning her back on him as she marched back into the kitchen. "There's no point in you staying," she told him, "there's nothing to talk about, but I can't kick you out because you'll ghost back in here. And short of calling in a priest to exorcise you out…" she shook her head.

"You're just not going to talk to me," he realized after they spent ten minutes in complete silence. When she didn't answer, Sherlock felt himself getting riled up, a hint of indignation entering his tone, "really? Not one word? Fine then, I won't leave until you speak with me."

Molly pretended he wasn't there, that he didn't even exist. She walked past him to turn on her sound system, turning up the German industrial metal so loud that the glass around her flat vibrated with it. She busied herself making dinner for herself, making sure she only cooked enough for one person, pouring herself tea. She pretended she didn't notice him sit on the floor by the door, resting his head against the wall as if settling in for the long haul, but out of her way. As if he was considerate of her space or something.

If he was considerate of anything, then he should've been gone by now.

But he didn't leave, just watched her quietly as she sat down to eat dinner, watched her as she cleaned up the kitchen, sitting on the couch with her tea to watch TV. "What's this?" he finally asked as she put on Parade's End, but of course she didn't bother answering him. She curled on her side on the couch, rubbing her chest, then clasping them under her head.

But five hours of ignoring him, of pretending he wasn't there or seeming to make an effort was killing her. She wasn't strong enough to ignore him. She hated him but at the same time, oh how we she loved him.

So as tears welled up in her eyes again and she rubbed away on her forearm, pretending they were for Christopher Tiejens and not for her Sherlock, for their love. She closed her eyes as Christopher talked about how he'd been injured during an attack by the German's, listened to the actor describe the various bombs and the sounds they made.

"My love," suddenly his voice was near her, felt him put his cheek on her forearm where it rested under her head, "you're breaking my heart," he whispered, his face a sigh from hers, "just talk to me."

She smiled joylessly, tremulously as she touched his hair, "there's nothing to talk about, Sherlock. Nothing to say."

Molly put her hand down, forcing her eyes back to the TV screen, recalling her favorite quote by philosopher Ralph Waldo Emerson, "what you do speaks so loudly, that I cannot hear what you say."