Notes: Present day is 2015/2016. Molly began working for Sherlock in 2011.

November 2015

Sherlock could hear the faint footsteps entering his office, the monotonous tapping irritating him by the second. Without glancing up from his paperwork, he said, "Molly, someone's in my office. Why is there someone in my office?"

His response was a snort coming from the person standing across from him. He rolled his eyes, but was pleased nonetheless that it was his assistant rather than Mycroft again. He had seen that man far too many times this year in and out of his office to be healthy.

Even if it had been anyone else, Sherlock still would have insisted they leave him alone unless it was John or Mary or—well, Molly had the list. There was a reason why an appointment with the company co-founder was an absolute must; Sherlock needed the time to lower his expectations of people.

He tried not to frown at the sight of Molly. It had been weeks since she came back to do her job, after spending time away on Mycroft's trip. Almost a month really, but this Molly was different. She was…irritatingly different in every aspect but none that he could verbally describe. Except for her hair; she had parted her hair to the side. He complimented it at first—well, commented it, but according to Molly it was some vulgarian who insisted she do so while out of the country.

While unable to cover his obvious distaste for the new style, he luckily had a cover.

"You want something."

Molly, for all the years Sherlock had known her, had a habit of pressing her lips together, making thin lips appear thinner, whenever she was extremely pleased. And seeing as she was giving him the look that regrettably often had him succumbing to her wishes – there was a reason why she and Anthea worked on opposite sides of their very, very large corporate building – he knew he was right.

"Well?"

"Tomorrow off," she responded promptly.

"Mm, we've the conference with Andrew Galbraith."

"That has been re-scheduled for next week, Sherlock."

"Meeting with the head of the Prince Corporation?"

"Remind me to go over the notes before you sign anything, Mr. Holmes," Molly teased, "because as it is obviously clear that you never listen to anybody, that meeting was yesterday."

"Ah." Scrunching his brows, he attempted to replay his week's schedule in his head, though to no avail. "What do we have tomorrow?"

"We have nothing. You have to go over the delegations covering the company's recent decision to distribute supplies from section A-4 through to H-7 to the public. Here," she paused, placing her palm flat on the edge of his desk. When she removed it, there was a yellow sticky note in its place with her exact words written out. "As for me, I am getting tomorrow night off."

Sherlock tried not to let his exhale sound too much like a frustrating one.

"Already penciled into the schedule, I take it?" He asked.

"As of sixty-three hours ago and counting," Molly announced proudly, which was seven hours less than the last time she gave herself a holiday, indicating this was a last minute decision. Sherlock couldn't help but wonder why.

"Fine. Go have…a night of relaxing in a bubble bath with your favorite gossip magazine followed by your favourite drama on the telly?"

Molly giggled. "Close. That had been my original intention, but some of my girlfriends wanted to catch up."

"Whatever for? You text them on a daily basis—I see you from my office all the time when you're pretending to do work."

"You mean when you choose to read over old police case files instead of doing your work, Sherlock?" She smiled, and it took Sherlock up until that moment to realize she had been standing in front of his desk all this time. Often when she visited his office for extensive amounts of time to discuss something, she would have invited herself on the couches. Now the sight of her with a straightened back in tall heels bothered him just as much as the damned hairline.

"Sometimes chatting in person over drinks makes the night more…fun!"

"Fun…" he repeated slowly, the word lolling on his tongue like a newfound grape seed in his mouth.

"Yes, Sherlock. Fun. Compare it with shooting at the range or throwing darts in your office at your brother's photo."

"Ah, fun."

"Besides, it's quite annoying to discuss my trip over the phone. Too many things to describe, of course. Oh and Sarah wants to talk about her engagement, though there's a chance this might all go down the drain if Meena can't find a sitter for her kids and Tim's caught up at work. Mary's going to be there too!"

"Hmm," Sherlock hummed, just moments before droning Molly's voice out, too caught up on the fact that it had technically been a while, and yet she still thought of Mycroft and the trip they embarked on, as if his brother had replaced all her priorities and interests with something as feeble as his favourite bakery.

"Wait," he called out for her mid thought before she could leave the office.

"Yes?" Molly asked, looking over her shoulder with a soft smile.

"Could you…"

"Could I…" she played along, singing along to the last syllable.

He swallowed. "Stay."

Molly could have teased him. She could have said, "Feeling lonely, are we?" That's what Molly would have said before all this. That's what Sherlockknew she would have said. Rather, her face softened so much so that Sherlock feared the sharp angles of his office could nick her if she stayed here for too long. Sherlock could feel himself just grasping at the idea of what might be different about her.

"Okay, just let me get my work," Molly said sweetly and if Sherlock continued to compare past and present, then it wasn't rare for her to share his office space from time to time. It was something she did on her own accord whenever she desired company.

But there was this problem now. He had initiated that she stay. She had become something that so often distracted Sherlock from his work. By no means were these thoughts important but they rang in his mind whenever he sat in his chair and stared at her through glass walls, fixated by the mere sight of his assistant. She had been gone for only a month from his office, and since her coming back, he had been entranced by her small gestures, hypnotized by the sound of nothingness. His mind hallucinated the clicking of keystrokes coming from her slender fingers, the faint gasp coming from her lips when she spotted an error, and the slight giggle reverberating along with his eardrums. They were sounds he couldn't hear from where he sat, sounds that he couldn't pinpoint in his memory, but he swore that they'd become an integral part of his life and he knew—had experienced briefly—there would be a void in his life if it ever went away.

Molly came back promptly at the end of his thoughts, turning sharply and straight towards the couches in the corner, before placing her laptop onto the coffee table as well as her notes. And suddenly Sherlock understood.

It hadn't been her hair parted to the side. It hadn't been sudden need for holidays to chat up with friends. It was her face: her wide brown eyes with her pointed nose and thin lips that smiled so often at him. There was just one thing that was clearly different:

Molly Hooper was sad.

March 2012

Sherlock turned the knob, hearing a faint click before speaking into the speaker sitting on the corner of his desk, opposite to the newly placed Swear Jar.

"Stop that," he said.

Molly's response came a little over twenty seconds later, having had to figure out where the on switch was on the intercom first. Almost a year into work, and she was still quite slow in adapting to company policies—Sherlock's own fault, he admitted to himself, for telling her to forego said rules on the very first day.

"Stop what?" came her echoed, teasing voice.

"Stop making that face!" Sherlock reprimanded. Her smile only widened. "Shouldn't you be working?"

Molly briefly glanced at the cell phone in her hands before plopping it on top of scattered papers. "I'm two weeks ahead of schedule, unlike somepeople!"

"How did you know?"

Through glass dividers, Sherlock could see the same smirk that she wore the night Jim Moriarty went away. The face had become something he unappreciated over the course of a year. Molly leaned in towards the intercom, but her eyes remained wide while she stared back at him. "You just told me."

Sherlock scrunched up his face, feeling repugnant. Molly's trickery felt like something he would have had to feel had he and Mycroft been ordinary; he could feel an impending headache coming on.

"Don't you even think about getting a cigarette, Sherlock," Molly's shrill voice chastised.

"How…" He dropped his head to the side, squinting at the woman. Speaking with Molly outside of necessary times wasn't a common phenomenon. He suddenly felt regret having introduced conversations through intercoms now; it was clear that after today, Molly would abuse it to her advantage.

"You have a tell," she said as a matter-of-factly.

"I don't have a tell!"

"Your mother says you have a tell."

"You spoke with my moth—never mind." He shook his head. "What are you doing?"

Molly seemed to be pleased at the question, though Sherlock couldn't fathom why. There was absolutely nothing entertaining with talking about one's day; why Molly liked talking about hers, even when she had just done so through her phone with friends, he would never understand. John had the terrible habit too, of sharing his day, and Sherlock reminded him that's what he married Mary for. He still did it anyway.

"One of my girlfriends from school recently got the job she wanted. Some friends of ours and I were planning a congratulatory dinner for her."

Sherlock had nothing to say to that. He wasn't particularly good or fond of small talk. Luckily, his assistant seemed to be aware of that and he could feel her smile from meters away.

"I will go back to my work, Sherlock," she said calmly through the speaker. "But only if you do the same."

"You're in no position to tell me what to do, Molly Hooper." He could feel himself smirking at the idea of his assistant bossing him around like Anthea to Mycroft.

Neither of them had bothered turning the intercom off. In the end, Sherlock went back to work anyway, and for the next three years, Molly continued to tell him what to do.

January 2016

Sherlock closed his eyes, something of a half a groan grumbles in his throat as he let his forehead balance on the tips of his closed hands. He couldn't remember a time when his work had caused him this much stress before, at least not since Moriarty—though he had to admit, that was slightly fun. It wasn't even anything new, but no matter how hard he tried to focus on his screen or on his papers, Molly's expression from her desk simply infuriated him.

"Stop that," he demanded.

"Stop what?" Asked the echo from his intercom. There was no teasing involved and it took Sherlock a moment before he realized Molly really didn't know what she was doing to him.

"Stop making that face!"

His comment only made it worse. Molly's face contorted into a frown full of question, brows deepening as she asked, "What face?" It only proved to irritate Sherlock more.

"The one like your cat has just died and seeing as Toby is hissing in the corner of my office, I can assure you that your creature is very much alive."

"Gee, thanks for the update, Sherlock." There was a slight hint of venom in her voice, mixed with sarcasm and exhaustion. Molly had these moments occasionally, when she felt overworked and unappreciated. Sherlock allowed her to feel those emotions, and always refrained from doing any further harm on her productivity. He too, occasionally felt irritated by the world around him. But it seemed these days that it was much more difficult for Molly to fall out of her somber mood and back to her usual self, and for the first time in his life, Sherlock was at loss as to what to do. In his opinion, it was much easier when he didn't do anything and she fixed her negative thoughts herself.

Finally, with a roll of his eyes, merely at the sudden thought of Mary and John's routines to reconcile whenever they spat, he pulled himself up from his seat. With a stretch of his arm, he grabbed his coat from the rack, no doubt signaling alarm from Molly in her seat, and headed her way.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" She asked, slightly panicked. "You're not supposed to leave your office anytime soon. Go back to your seat." Sherlock could see memory flashes in her eyes, most likely from early on in her career when he went on a smoke break, only to skip work entirely to go pester Lestrade. There was a brief rumble echoing in his throat, when he recalled how distraught Molly had been at his disappearance, enough to call the police only to find out he had already been with them.

"I'm feeling lunch." There was a light bounce on the balls of his heels as he circled her desk and stood in front of her.

"What? But it's not even—"

"Let's go." And with that, he spun on his feet and headed straight for the elevators.

Molly quickly turned from her desk and the pile of papers to Sherlock, and back to her desk again. She was halfway getting up from her seat, albeit reluctantly, and reaching for the coat hanging from the back of her chair. Regardless, she still tried to stop, or at least slow, Sherlock down. "I haven't called the bistro!"

He waved it off without turning around.

By the time they reached the elevators, Molly had already reached for her phone, but Sherlock stopped her.

"No need for a car, Molly. I believe it's a decent enough day to walk, don't you?"

It wasn't. The typical London forecast shone its cloudy skies over them with signs of an impending rainstorm later on. The crisp air bit at Sherlock's cheekbones as he walked, slightly ahead of Molly who was trying to keep up.

When he looked at his peripheral, he felt a bit of guilt that Molly's coat was nowhere near warm enough to cover her from the chill. He should have realized that to go from her home to the office, she always took the cab. The bright blue heels she wore were darkening from the wet ground. Sherlock hadn't slowed down for her to change out of her shoes and Molly hated walking long distances in heels. He frowned at the thought.

They reached Angelo's luckily before it began to drizzle, though with few words having been exchanged between them. Mostly with Molly yelling at Sherlock to slow down because damn his long strides. Sherlock had tried not to grin when he slowed down exceedingly so that Molly was ahead of him. She had merely swatted his shoulder and demanded he walk at the pace of a normal individual, i.e. at her speed.

Naturally, without the phone call ahead of time, the staff at Angelo's had a minor panic attack, bringing the owner out himself to apologize sincerely to Sherlock and insist that his fish and chips would be out shortly.

"No, thank you," Sherlock said, to the surprise of everyone in the restaurant, including Molly. "Just a table and two menus, please."

Angelo, along with his staff froze, eyes darting between the CEO and his assistant, and then behind the pair as if expecting a client. They nodded and even Molly stared at her boss questionably.

It wasn't something they had done before, him inviting her to eat with him. Not really. The pair had eaten together at the same table before when the situation called for it, when they were stuck at a dinner they'd rather not be a part of. Usually Molly ate in the office at her own desk while he ate in his, or if he had a dinner planned with a client, she'd eat beforehand and not risk her stomach growling while she watched Sherlock and whoever was with him (that had happened the first day she met John Watson).

In retrospect, Sherlock wasn't quite sure why he thought inviting Molly out to lunch would change the atmosphere at the office. It was far more work than he'd expected, though the sight of Molly scanning the menu, deep in thought, seemed to contrast her mood from earlier.

Sherlock actually didn't take long to know what he's in the mood for, but for the sake of not rushing the woman across from him, he pretended to skim the menu a little longer until he's sure she had decided on her lunch item.

Once they'd handed their menus to the waiter, Sherlock felt Molly's stare on him, curious as a child, but sharp like a detective's—none that he knew, that is. She wanted to know why she was there, sitting across from him where only John, Mary, and occasionally some clients have sat before. She wanted to understand his sudden burst of irregularity, and was most likely preparing several contingency plans in preparation for what he may do. Sherlock couldn't help but smirk at the thought; yes, he'd trained her well.

They sat in peaceful silence while waiting for their food, though based on Molly's expression, she seemed to have found their quietness awkward. It must have irked her, to eat in silence. She had opened her mouth and closed it in several successions. Even in the office, she was often seen with her phone while munching away at whatever leftovers she had from home.

"You still have a lot of work to do, Sherlock," she chastised. "Just because we're out and about right now, doesn't excuse you from completing this week's report. You also have to make sure to discuss with Mycroft—"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Must we ruin my appetite by mentioning him?"

Molly paused, and then to Sherlock's surprised, she smiled.

Finally, after a brief of silence, Molly said, "So I saw the girls a couple of weeks back," instead of whatever was on her mind. If anything, it stunned Sherlock she didn't scold him further, and he supposed it transpired on his face as Molly was prompted to continue. "Mary hadn't begun to show yet, but Meena insists her stomach will be replaced with a watermelon sooner or later. I…" Her voice trailed off just in time for their lunch to arrive.

She continued to talk about Susan or Sarah or whoever she was with on her last night off, frivolous matters that Sherlock half paid attention to. Occasionally, he'd peak up at the sound of Mary, but even then, it was nothing new to the comments John had made about her bouts of morning sickness.

By the time they had finished lunch, Sherlock had opted to call for the car, vaguely remembering Molly's shivers during their arrival. He would have to remember to mention buying a more versatile and thicker coat next time Molly insisted on spending her Swear Jar money on a senseless spa trip.

"Was there any particular reason you wanted to have lunch today?" Molly asked later on, when they were in the elevator ride up to the top floor of Holmes & Holmes Inc. It had only been a matter of time before she asked him that. Sherlock couldn't fathom why the woman was unable to let things go when she clearly enjoyed their afternoon.

"You were on the verge of another impending, unnecessary diet, what with your recent get together with friends—their lives moving forward, your love life being stagnant," Sherlock began to explain with a wave of his hand once he stepped out of the elevator, oblivious to Molly's deepening frown. "I was already planning a visit to Angelo's for this afternoon. You enjoying your high caloric meal was…a bonus, if you will, if only to remind you there are far more important things in life than cheap salads and being bloody miserable to me while you work." Sherlock forced the biggest grin he could muster, feeling his cheekbones rise and eyes squinting at Molly who looked like she was about to hogtie him up and throw him out of the windows. He didn't doubt that she could do that either, if she wanted to.

Eyes dark, Molly's glare never escaped him as she spat a, "Of course. Thanks, Sherlock" before making her way to her desk.

Sherlock meant to reach out for her, have her really look at his face and let her know that that was never the reason, that he just hoped a few hours out of the office would lighten up her mood, but he withheld himself. Instead, he marched back into his office where he spent the next twenty minutes fixated on Molly Hooper through glass walls, searching for any signs of depression on her. He eventually went back to work, concluding that Molly was no longer sad. Instead, she looked guilty.

Sherlock let out a huff, while his sinking shoulders rolled in their sockets in preparation for the long night he was going to have now with all of his work.

January 2016

It was late at night when Molly stepped into his office again. There were only two instances when she would speak to him directly, rather than through their intercom: when she wanted to stretch her legs, or when something grave has happened or will happen. When Sherlock looked away from his work and onto his assistant's face, he knew it was the latter.

Lips bound together, he waited for her to speak first. A series of thoughts rummaged in his mind, awful memories ranging between Mycroft wanting to take her away for weeks and months at a time to the night she received a phone call from her brothers and was told their father had died. Sherlock personally made sure she had gotten home safely that night, even going so far as hiding her bottle of wine in his coat when she hadn't been looking.

She looked frightful of what she was going to say, Sherlock assumed. He could see the slight quiver in her lips. Her steps had been light and hesitant, heels no longer clicking proudly and strongly into his office as they usually did. Her eyes were wide, as if while he was studying her, she was doing the same to him too. Sherlock didn't like it.

"Sherlock," she began, her voice airy and light, like a ferocious lion reverting back into a cub. Her pupils ran from side to side, and it was then that Sherlock realized Molly wasn't afraid of what she was going to say. She was afraid of him.

"Say it." His voice had taken her aback. He didn't know what was wrong, but he needed to know now. He despised that look on her.

"Sherlock," she repeats again, a little more vigor in her voice. She tried to smile. "I've worked for you for about five years now. And I…I've learned so much, even though there were times when you annoyed me so much, I thought I was working for a six year old and I—"

"Molly, you're rambling."

"R-Right. My point is, in spite of all that, I really do love everything here and you," she paused, eyes widening. "And you are a wonderful boss and I couldn't have wanted a better place to work at, but you know how sometimes you go to Angelo's for so long, you suddenly want me to look up a new restaurant in the city to have lunch or dinner at? It's—"

Sherlock furrowed his brows. He didn't understand what she was saying; he loathed not understanding. He pushed himself from his seat, circling around the desk. Molly's inability to speak properly was making him frustrated. He thought she had gotten over her stuttering years ago, some exceptions apply, but the mere idea of it coming back meant that something was not in his favour. Something Molly wanted to say was so far from his favour; she looked like she was about to burst into a waterfall and Sherlock hated it.

It wasn't until he was no less than a meter away from his assistant when she pushed all her strength into two words and shouted,

"I'm quitting!"