Buzz, Buzz/

She mumbles as rolls over to see that her mobile is glowing, the only source of light in her otherwise darkened bedroom and had she been fully asleep, she wouldn't have heard it, (she had forgotten to taken it off of silent.)

She reaches for it, glancing at the illuminated numbers of her alarm clock and blinks blearily at the late hour. She hasn't received a call this late since Sherlock had needed to examine the body of the woman whose face had been smashed in and she thinks as she sees his name on the caller ID that a conversation about boundaries and ideal times should probably be something she gets around to having with him.

"Hello?"

"Molly."

There's something about the way her name rolls through her end of the call, as if he's exhaled it in a breath.

"Sherlock?"

"I apologize for the lateness of the hour, however if I might beg an audience with you?"

She's suddenly very much awake and she sits up. Because Sherlock is being polite, something of a foreign concept for him and the memories of the last time she saw him are suddenly too bright against the backdrop of her eye lids. Her palm feels too warm and the glaze over the blue of his eyes is too sharp in her memory.

They've moved past the notion that he has to manipulate her for her help, of that she's certain. So whereas before she would questioned his motives for the pleasantries, now it only has her worried.

"What's wrong?" Her voice is terse, and if she can hear the stress in it, then she knows that he can as well. Therefore his soft chuckle is the last thing she expects.

"Nothing. In manner of speaking, May I come over?"

"Of course."

"I'll be there in ten minutes."

The line goes dead and she has just enough time to pull on her dressing gown over her pajamas, a tank top and sleep shorts, before he's true to his word, knocking at the ten minutes exactly.

When she opens the door to him, he enters her flat wordlessly and she follows as he heads into the sitting room, his back towards her. He's silent as he moves over to the window, his towering figure as graceful as its always been, but she thinks as she hugs her arms around herself that perhaps she can read a sort of tension in the set of his shoulders.

She doesn't speak, because he hasn't spoken and she knows that he'll speak when he's ready to. He has a purpose for being here, (because Sherlock doesn't do things without having a reason to) and she knows that he'll act in his own time.

She waits and watches him, reveling in the freedom to do so. This certainly isn't the first time, but where as before she would do so furtively, quick glances and telltale blushes, she now does so unreservedly and without shame. It is testament, she thinks, to the ways in which she's grown. Or even that of the way in which their relationship has matured past that of detective and pathologist. From the Great Sherlock Holmes and mousey Dr. Hooper.

Now, they're simply Sherlock and Molly.

Now, they're friends and she's more than earned the right to look upon him without embarrassment.

Even if her feelings for him haven't changed after all this time, their circumstances certainly have.

And she's strangely okay with the exchange.

Tom was… Well, she's not exactly sure what Tom had been.

She had never had to question things with Tom, she just simply had to go along with them and it had been a blessed distinction at the time from her previous circumstances. She never had to second guess, or question herself or her actions. Things with Tom were simple, cut and paste. She never worried about his intentions or his sincerity, and she was certain that he did in fact care about her.

She would have been content, she thinks, had she chosen to follow him into the life he had offered her.

Tom had been easy, uncomplicated and safe. He was kind, dependable and although he had his times of being a bit… thick, he wasn't unintelligent. He was the type of man her father would have wanted for her, she thinks. Someone to care for and love her unreservedly, someone who could provide for and be there for her. He had been ideal choice for a life partner.

But he was too safe, too uncomplicated and it taken Sherlock's presence back into her life all of twenty four hours to question it. Just one day to realize what Tom would not and had not and could not be for her.

A life with him would have been uncomplicated but it would have been dull.

He would have made her content, but she would never have been /happy/.

Above all, above everything that Tom had been for Molly, there was one thing he never could have been.

The one thing that it had only taken a single day for her to realize she needed above all else, above all of the contentment and security and certainty.

And that was Sherlock Holmes.

For all of the commitment Tom had offered her, a lifetime of it, she had come to realize that the uneven ground with which she now stood with Sherlock would always mean more.

He turns from the window then and the action shakes her from her thoughts. What greets her both comforts and frightens her.

The comfort she takes in all of his usual mannerisms-The collar of his Belstaff turned up, scarf knotted in his usual manner and hands clasps behind his back. All markers to indicate that he's in good physcial standing and that his health isn't something to be concerned about.

The fear comes from the look on his face. Its not overtly expressive, and perhaps if she hadn't come to know this man as well as she had she might not have even noticed. But the thing about it was that she /did/ know him and she /saw/ him and right now his expression belied so many things.

It bore a resemblance to that of the expression he had worn the night he had sought her out in the morgue. Then, she had seen a ghost.

Now, he only looked haunted.

It was an expression that she wanted to wipe away and bury; pretend that he was incapable of feeling something that could result in such an expression.

Because the idea that he could feel like that hurt her somewhere deep in her gut.

For the first time since she has known this man, of the many times he had ignorantly insulted her, hurt her with words and actions, and made her question whether he was even human, tonight's the first time she's ever wished that he was anything but.

"Sherlock, what it is?" She tries to ignore the octave her voice pitches from the anxiety she couldn't swallow hard enough, and the fact she she's broken her own rule to let him speak first.

He doesn't answer at first, and the air between them shifts into something else, because he's staring at her in a way he only ever has once before and fear rises like bile at the back of her throat. He stands perfectly still, hands still clasp behind his back and his eyes are locked on to her.

'Sherlock-"

"You'll not hear about it in the news as I'd suspect my brother is doing everything he can to keep it quiet."

He looks away from her then, his eyes flickering away as if by their violation to the spot on the wall that's just above her head and there's a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach.

"Hear about what?"

He opens his mouth to respond, before closing it again, but his eyes remain on the point away from her.

Sherlock was not a shy man, nor was he ever one to be coy. And yet, it would seem he couldn't even look at her.

Something is very, very wrong.

She considers him for a moment, considers what she was considering before; that surely they've moved into a place where things she would never have considered doing before are now more than acceptable. That they're now /friends/ and surely that counts for something.

She then pushes off of the wall that she had been leaning back against, navigates herself around the coffee table until she is now standing in front of him; her movements must have captured his attention, because he's watching her. She pauses as she considers her next action and he's staring down at her and the air is suddenly hard to take in.

She swallows and lifts a hand and she hopes in vain that he will not notice the slight tremble as she does so, before she reaches up to touch his face, to cup his jaw as he once did to her and she can feel the way that his body tenses at the contact.

She doesn't push things though, simply rest it against his skin which is cool from the night and stares back into the blue-green of his eyes, such captivating eyes and tries to ignore the voice of the silly girl who is so madly in love with him, who crows in joy that he has not pulled away at the contact.

She pushes that silly girl away, stuffs her down into the deepest recesses of her brain, because this isn't about her, (as it never really is) and because something has happened, something that has affected the man before her in such a way that it's causing him to stray from character. The man who does not feel, who has discarded emotions and sentiment, is dealing with something that has left an impact enough to render him speechless.

Because he has come to her, which means he needs something from her, and she needs to be his friend right now.

(She almost expected him to flinch, she realizes)

"What ever it is, whatever happened, we'll get through it, okay? Tell me what you need."

Suddenly, she's the one that can't bring herself to look at him and her eyes drift to the vicinity of his chest; it feels as if that statement has been branded into her vocal chords. The last time she spoke it she hadn't fully understood what she had been saying, hadn't /really/ understood the extent that she would have taken those words.

But she understood now.

She had done what he had asked her to do all that time ago, or at the very least, she had tried to. Had tried to find someone to give her everything she had ever wanted and she had almost married him.

But what she wanted and what she /needed/ were separate things.

She would always need Sherlock, even if he could never need her in the same way.

"I killed someone."

The statement does something strange to her, something that tugs a memory free; the time when she was a child and stuck her finger in a light socket. It had been painful, she had jerked her hand away and the electric shock had moved through her body, concentrating on her heart for a moment, causing it to skip a beat. The sensation was frightening and sickening at the same time, resulting in a terrible headache that had lasted for hours.

His words cause a very similar reaction, only instead of the headache, a numbing sense of disbelief rises like a cloud to blink out all other thoughts. Her hand falls away, her arm suddenly boneless and she blinks up at him, because she can't quite register his words.

What she does register is the hard expression that has encased his features as he speaks. He's more guarded than she's ever seen him before, and it shouldn't be such a change from his usual lack of expression but some how it is and she dimly wonders in her shell-shocked state why this is any different.

His eyes are trained on her, his mouth a hard, flat line and he reaches a hand up to mimic her actions of cupping her cheek. "I pulled out a gun, aimed it at a man who was completely unarmed and pulled the trigger. The bullet hit with perfect accuracy, right here," He strokes a finger over the most center spot of her forehead, "it cut through skin and bone, where it lodged itself into his brain. He fell back with the force of it and died almost instantly on his own front porch. That was three days ago."

The things he's saying are horrible, but she's not sure why he's telling her them. She cannot understand why he's even here in the first place, why he chose to pay her a visit so late to tell her this.

But when he speaks again, its like light had been turned on: the pieces fall into place and she understands.

"Tell me, Molly, can you still bring yourself care about what I need?"

He looks different, because its not that just he's not feeling emotions which would result in them not showing; He looks different because he's trying to hide them.

She steels herself then, shaking herself out of her stupor that had been slowly twisting itself into horror, and she pulls herself as tall as she can muster. The attempt is ridiculous compared to his stature.

"Yes."

His nostrils flare, his eyes widen and his hand drops to grasp her throat. She gasp at the unexpected move; his grip is tight and uncomfortable but not painful and its only a kneejerk reaction to grab at his wrist. He's holding her like this, his grip is unforgiving and her moment of astute clarity is swallowed by a sudden flash of fear.

"What about now, Molly? Do you care what I need now? I could murder you tonight, right here in your own apartment and no one would find your body for days."

Her breathing is suddenly ragged, and she can feel the scrape of each exhale against the pressure of his fingers around her neck. Because she knows he's telling the truth.

She's afraid, there's no way to deny that, as any normal person would be; she's alone with him, its late and he could squeeze the breath from her until she stopped. There would be no way for her to fight him off.

Yes, she's afraid, her sense of self preservation doesn't give her a choice in the matter; but despite that, she realizes she trust him.

She's always trusted him, just as he told her that he's always trusted her and despite the choking fear, she forces herself to let go of his wrist, forces herself to relax as she tries to take in as much air as he'll allow her to and she winces at the pressure, (She'll have bruises, no doubt.)

"Y-yes." She answers without hesitation and his brow furrows. There's a beat of silence, before he /snarls/ (its the only word that comes to mind at the sound) and suddenly, he's wild, his eyes are twin flames and he's turns, dragging her along with him as he commands her body up against a wall by the grip his has on her throat. She cries out at the way he shoves her, at the pain that laces up her spine at the impact and it seems to be exactly the response he's waiting for. His face has convoluted into something she doesn't recognize, a person she doesn't know and she's almost captivated by the angry, savageness of one whose always so composed.

"And now? Do you still care about me, Molly?"

Its a whisper this time, and out of everything that's happened so far, this seems to be the most dangerous.

Two years ago, she would have been in tears by now and although she can feel them burning the back of her throat and although this is a side of Sherlock she's never seen before, she's not the same person she used to be. She won't cry and she won't back down.

If there's anything about the time that she's been apart of the consulting detectives life that she's learned about herself, its that she has to stand up for herself. And not only that she has to, but that she /can/.

"Always."

A moment passes between them before anything happens. Time seems to stand still and she wonders what he's going to do next. What she'll allow him to do next. Because she's asked him what he needed and she's made peace with the fact that she'll give it to him, no matter the cost.

He begins to crack like glass, and she watches as piece by piece he's the one to break. His expression slowly changes. The last few moments she's been faced with someone she did not recognize , someone she didn't know and feared. But Sherlock was slowly resurfacing, as inch by inch the mask of rage and /loathing/ slips away and his grasp on her neck slowly loosens.

"You shouldn't. You should be disgusted with me right now. Not only have I just manhandled you in a way no should ever be allowed to, but I've just admitted to you that I've taken someones life, someone who was defenseless."

His fingers skim the side of neck and she winces at the contact, the area is sore and she can only imagine what its going to look like in the morning. His eyes are riveted on her neck and his fingers are trailing lazily over the tender flesh in a way that would have been intimate if it were not so apologetic.

"D-defenseless doesn't equate innocence." She murmurs as she watches him, watches his eyes flicker across her skin before his gaze jumps to her face and he looks genuinely surprised for three seconds, before a rueful grin tugs at the corner of his lips.

"I keep underestimating you."

And then those lips are on her own, and the world tilts on its axis.