Notes: You guys are an amazing bunch! I really appreciated each and every one of your comments and I hope you enjoy this chapter too! Please keep in mind that this fic includes many flashbacks. Molly began working for Sherlock in 2011. Present time is 2015.

January 2012

Nine months into working with Holmes & Holmes Inc., Molly had not been gentle the first time she placed (slammed, more like it) the glass jar on the corner of Sherlock's desk. He stared at her astutely.

"Swear Jar," she had called it. "To control your foul mouth."

"And what is the purpose of this…Swear Jar?"

"Because your brother seems to have the impression that I am responsible for your company losing clients, as if my 'dysfunctional wardrobe'," she said with air quotes, "has repulsed everyone into not wanting to earn millions by partnering with your firm rather than the fact that you can't control that potty mouth of yours with your incessant need to insult everyone you meet.

"So, you are going to add five pounds in this jar every time you swear."

The man had rolled his eyes. "I don't carry money—"

"Start," Molly had snapped, which was a surprise for the CEO. It had been the first time his secretary had spoken in that tone of voice with him. It had not been the last.

"You risk my job at this firm every time you decide to be descriptive on someone's secret affair or preposterous gambling habits and picking arguments with them. I'm going to need a fund to ensure I can transition to another job the moment Mycroft—or worse, your mother—decides that I'm done here."

Sherlock had sighed. "Don't be ridiculous. My mother adores you. She complimented your holiday jumper the last time we met."

"Sherlock…"

"Assuming you aren't forced to leave the company—unlikely; Mycroft has no power over me or my associates, despite what his ego believes—what becomes of the money?"

Molly had formed an amused smirk. "I'd very much like to go to a spa for a day."

He had frowned. "So regardless, it goes to you."

"Maybe you should swear less then," she had said with a giggle.

Sherlock had tried to hide his own bemusement.

July 2015

Sherlock added fifty-five pounds to the Swear Jar the first day he had to work without Molly's assistance. He made note to find the person involved with hiring the cleaners, because chances were likely the one he just insulted would be handing in his resignation later this afternoon. But then again, hirings were usually Mycroft's job, cleaner or not, and Sherlock didn't feel like contributing any more than he should.

The hours went by slower, which made no sense to him seeing as there were still twenty-four hours –sunrise, sunset, mindless people doing useless things—in a day. Before he knew it, four days had past and frankly, he was still surprised he remembered to attend meetings at all.

"Where's Molly?" John asked, taking a bite out of his sandwich. Sherlock scrunched up his nose at the smell.

"Shanghai."

The doctor's eyes widened. "Shanghai? Why there? I thought she and Mycroft were meeting the Duke of Somerset."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, leaning back on the office chair that sat across from John Watson's desk. After several tedious hours of boring nonsense, he was about to blow off some steam by targeting employees over on Mycroft's side of the company. It wasn't until Molly's text message—

Remember to eat lunch! –MH

— that he had decided to pay an old friend a visit.

"How am I supposed to know why she and the Duke of Somerset are in China?" He asked rhetorically, eyes fixed on the phone in his hand. He placed the device down in favour of picking the chips off of his plate. He scowled soon after the first bite. The chip tasted bland; nothing like how it was when Molly ordered it for him.

"Do you think she's having fun being outside of the office for once?" John asked while chewing on his food. The immediate look on Sherlock's threatened face had John clear his throat and want to take back the question. He swallowed nervously. "Er, right. Probably not. Anyway, the construction done on the west wing of the hospital's finally finished. We'll be opening up a whole new sector in a few months, so I'm going to be a little occupied. Y'know, with managing the new staff. Got a batch of new interns too…" John's voice trailed off.

Sherlock paid no attention to John, but his tightened expression eased somewhat as he took another bite of his unhealthy lunch. John assumed Molly was scolding him on his bad eating habits seeing as he only ate whenever she reminded him. God bless that woman, he thought.

August 2015

The day Molly was supposed to have come back to work, Sherlock was already seated in his office. The fingers positioned over his laptop keys were stagnant. His eyes remained fixated on the sight of the elevator door, slightly obscured by the light refractions of so many glass walls in between them. He had been watching out for the return of his assistant for several hours now, despite Molly texting him less than forty minutes ago that her plane had just landed. But despite himself, his eyes couldn't focus. He had been unable to perform his tasks as of that day, constantly shifting from the files in front of him and the entrance to the top floor.

It was ridiculous; he chastised himself for doing so many times already. Molly and his brother had been travelling by private jet, but even so, with traffic along the way to the company, it would take Molly at least an hour and a half before she would arrive, assuming she didn't by her flat to pick up more comfortable heels. Sherlock shook his head and retracted said estimate. An hour and fifteen minutes; Molly had left a pair of emergency shoes here at the office. She was never particularly graceful, so even her day to day heels, as short as they were compared to most women's, suffered greatly.

But he stared. Sherlock Holmes stared at the silent doors and ultimately decided nothing could be done until his assistant physically handed him the spreadsheets and whatnot. The only thing that could possibly distract him would be John's invitation to the hospital to check out a body that recently had been put through an unfortunate accident, but unluckily for the CEO, his best friend had been much more occupied since their last meeting for reasons he couldn't recall.

He released a heavy exhale through his nostrils, eyes leering at the ticking clock on the wall. One hour since the plane's landing. Molly's arrival would range between nineteen and twenty-six more minutes.

Allowing his head to fall back, Sherlock stared at the ceiling, fingers idly twirling a pen. When the white squares gave him no sense of excitement, his eyes fell onto the sight of the Swear Jar, completely full and overflowing due to evolution's inability to filter out incessant people within a short period of time. There was a dull ache in the back of his neck, no doubt from the awful position he was in, but Sherlock kept still. Eyes closed, the only perpetuating source of annoyance was that damn clock on the wall that ticked louder than it should have.

Eight to thirteen minutes and his secretary would be fixing relations with all those clients he'd met in the past week, if only to keep Mycroft from ringing over to his division and scolding him for being an arse.

Seven to eleven minutes and his assistant would be back and he wouldn't have to deal with people any more than he would have to.

Five to eight minutes and the sound of his hefty breaths would dissipate into thin air like Mycroft's hair.

Two to three minutes and Molly would be standing at the door, eyes wide at the Swear Jar and a tease ready at the tip of her tongue.

Sherlock opened his eyes, sat up straight before tugging his sleeves away from his wrists. He placed his fingers back on the keyboard and faced the monitor in front of him. His eyes slowly inched their way back to the elevator door in the distance.

No one came.

His frown deepened and he looked at the irritating wall clock again; she was five minutes overdue. Despite having heard nothing in the past few hours, due to the sound proof walls that Mycroft made sure of ("You have a company to run, little brother. Detective superintendent Lestrade's office is not your playground, even if the sirens are loud and the crime scenes are at a walkable distance.") Sherlock checked his phone for any signs of delayed departure from the airport or heavy traffic: none.

Twelve minutes overdue.

Sherlock leaned forward to press his lips against his hands, laced together. There was an average flight time of merely twelve hours between Shanghai and London; surely Molly wouldn't opt to return to her flat? She had work to do. The man shook the thought out of his mind; it was an asinine and farfetched idea. There had to be another reason why she was late.

Within the next sixteen minutes, Sherlock covered every surface in his office, unable to keep still. He fidgeted, muttered to himself, and checked his phone more times than he had all week.

His brow lines were so far etched into his skin, even when he tried to relax his facial muscles, there was still the vague, pink marks that remained. His breathing hadn't slowed one bit and neither had the steps in his feet. Circling the office, he considered the idea of either throwing the Goddamn clock out the window from his 30th floor, or hiding it somewhere in his brother's office.

Sherlock ran his fingers through the curls of his hair and stared at the cabinet not too far from his desk. His cigarettes were in there, and despite having kicked the habit some time ago, he always kept a spare box for times when nicotine patches weren't enough.

His assistant hadn't been in the office for a week and was late; he hadn't enough patches for this.

With haste, he opened the drawer, only to find a yellow, square Post-It in place of where his pack of cigarettes should have been.

No smoking! – Mummy.

Sorry, Sherlock. Your mum was convincing. I had to tell her where it was. – MH.

Scrunching up the sticky, Sherlock felt a throbbing pain in the back of his head.

"Fuck," he said loudly.

"Sherlock!"

At the sound of the soft voice, Sherlock turned on the balls of his feet. Idly reaching into his pocket that contained the ball of cash he kept for events such as this, he reflexively dropped the bills into the jar nearby, all he while staring at the sight of Molly Hooper. Even if he had been forewarned that she would be coming back today, even if it was so very obvious that only Molly Hooper would be in his office, he couldn't help but be surprised that she was there.

"Molly!" Sherlock took note of how stunned he was, quickly clearing his throat and adjusting the tone of his voice. "Back from running Mycroft's errands?"

She nodded with a bright smile. "Hullo to you too, Sherlock," she said cheerfully, unaware that it scratched an unwelcomed itch in Sherlock's lungs; he felt his breathing level, finally.

Sherlock suddenly became lost, unsure of what to do what with him standing in the middle of his office—too far from his computer to use as a distraction. It should have been easy, he knew. He's turned his back on Molly countless of times before to go back to whatever he had been doing. But this time, he couldn't.

It wasn't until he realized that the grin was still plastered on her face, and that she carried with her several bags whose scent wafted straight to his stomach.

Realizing his observation, Molly lifted the plastic bags up.

"I figured you hadn't eaten yet," she said, "so I took a detour on my way here to get you some lunch."

Sherlock nodded, accepting the lunch bag from her. She had bought a lot, by the looks of it, most likely to cover for his dinner later that night as well. He could ask her to join, he thought, but the question lingered in his throat. Instead, he said:

"Right. I'll get through this soon, thank you. I have to finish with some work Mycroft was too lazy to look over before the trip…"

Molly accepted it. "Of course, Sherlock. I'll be at my desk if you need me." She smiled. "I really missed you by the way," she added, leaving Sherlock to stare at the woman, his breathing irregular again.

He studied her as she walked away, no different from how she was before the weeklong trip. Her hair was still in that poorly tied ponytail, wool cardigan overtop a loose fitting dress shirt, and straight, black pants that were older than her position at this firm. And yet he couldn't help but stare at her, taking in the sight of her familiar smile directed at him before he himself was smiling.

He would have to suppose that he missed her too, if only a little bit.

August 2015

Much to Sherlock's contentment, Molly's week long departure hadn't had a significant effect on her work ethics nor did Mycroft make a dent on their regular routines. She had spent all morning at her desk, occasionally stepping into his office without forewarning as per usual. Likewise, Sherlock would situate at his own desk, demonstrating more concentration to his work than he had been during the two weeks his assistant had been gone.

"Be honest with me, Molly," he said after turning on his intercom. He could feel her eyes on him through glass walls.

"I always honest with you, Sherlock," replied the speaker.

"What are you thinking?"

"Well…"

Sherlock finished signing a document with one hand all the while minimizing the intercom volume with the other; he knew what was coming.

"I think the Swear Jar was just a big mistake. You obviously don't mind losing money, and really, it's just encouraging you to swear at more opportune times—and more viciously too!" Molly's voice rang, each successive thought increasing in volume than the last.

"The money goes to your fund, Molly. I don't see why you insist on complaining."

He refrained from showing too much emotion. If Molly had any indication he was gloating, she wouldn't hesitate to actually step into his office and scold him in person. Instead, he continued to divide his attention equally between the file in front of him and the person listening to his every move.

"He was eighty-six years old, Sherlock!"

"Doesn't matter. Mrs. Hudson never liked him."

"Mrs. Hudson sold her company to him thirty-five years ago for an early retirement. It's not hers anymore; it was guaranteed to change over time."

He rolled his eyes, pushing back on his chair and angling himself in order to cross his ankles on top of his desk. Frustrated with the amount of work he had been subjected to, he turned off his computer monitor. He dipped his neck back and toyed with the pen in his hands while studying the ceiling.

"And look at its downfall since her departure."

"You can't just keep it the same way as it was," Molly continued to chide through the speaker. "You weren't even born then!"

"Trust me, Molly."

"Sadly, I always do."

"Then believe me when I say it was all for the best."

Molly didn't respond; peculiar as she always had some sort of retort for him whenever they chatted through the intercom. Sherlock waited, but patience was never his forte and he found himself levelling his eyes, searching for her face through glass walls. There, he found widened lips on her mousey face, which while appreciative, was incredibly uncalled for.

"What—why are you smiling?"

He saw Molly glance up from her phone. As if speaking to him in person, she turned from her spot to face him. "Mr. Jones will be recovering nicely from his heart attack," he heard her say. "It'll be a lot easier for me now that I know we won't be sued for agitating an old man to his death – just sued for causing the heart attack in the first place."

Sherlock frowned, pushing his legs back and causing the office chair below him to wheel a distance farther from his desk. He could practically hear Molly's triumphant smirk while he groaned into his hands.

"I have no idea what you mean by easier, Molly. He's alive. Now I'll have to see him again."

Molly laughed echoed through the speakers; behind his hands, Sherlock smiled with her.