Shame

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Molly just couldn't sleep right as of late. Especially, not after seeing her husband's flushed naked body so vividly bright and in plain view. At first, Molly hated herself for having such risque thoughts and fantasies in the daytime. However, when the night was free to run, and bring sleep to most people—Molly tossed and turned in bed. Her thoughts ablaze with Sherlock-fever.

In her dreams, Sherlock was kinder to her. Literally, her dream man.

Sherlock took care of her there. Always the one to smile with his eyes and never with his mouth. Because he was used to grinning and smirking—that's all his pretty lips knew how to form. In her dreams, Sherlock was every ounce of gentleman that she knew he was but only in her dreams. Only there.

In her dreams, he was all these things and more. He'd never utter a single word to her then. Always using his eyes and actions to bring forth his point or thought. He listened to Molly, and that was something that had won her over.

Such tenderness would she feel in his hands as they touched her arms whenever Molly dreamed of walking out the door. His blue eyes would beg her in the smallest of ways to not stray far. And in those slim lips, as they pressed a chaste kiss against her temple, held the feeling of trust and comfort.

There were nights when the dreams escalated. Nights where they made love in the quiet and still place of her mind. Whenever Molly would reach to touch Sherlock, he would not pull away. It felt so right to do this with him. It felt like actual love-making. The love between them was bare and naked in all sense. He would not run from the way she looked at him. Nor from the way she tenderly touched, and caressed his skin, more often than naught. Between Molly's mind and in the secret of the night—Sherlock loved her.

Truly.

It was the mornings that would break the pathologist's heart a little. Each morning was a realistic reminder that Sherlock did not need her. Did not love her. Did not count on her.

At first. it was easy to just make due with what she could all those past months. Easy to smile and linger on the sidelines and somewhat coexist with this man. But as of late, she wanted more. Molly Holmes wanted a husband. The desire burning within her was not wholly pure lust nor was it wanting the detective in the physical aspect. It was so simple. Molly just wanted to be a family with him. To be his family. Sherlock definitely needed it, and Molly was more than willing to offer it.

It may have been a horrible thing to say but... she was glad that Sherlock relied on her when he had gotten sick. Glad to finally be able to act like a married couple if anything else.

Unfortunately, it broke Molly's heart even more. Is this what she had turned into? A woman who found sick pleasure in the pitiful state of her husband only to find a sort of reassurance and place? By the end of the week, Molly was sick of herself. Of course she was. What from all the stress she had put on, and from making sure Sherlock would stay in one place—it was all too much.

Without the medications Sherlock would wonder half-consciously through-out the flat. He probably wouldn't recall doing so later on. Usually he sat and leaned against the couch or chair. His blue eyes had dark circles underneath them, and the way he looked at her was heartbreaking. Molly would try and talk to him. Try to get him to eat something, but it never lasted. That small peace. Eventually, Sherlock would throw up the food. Become irritated and somewhat aggressive that he would throw himself into a full stride to get away from her. As if she were the bad guy.

Looks that poked holes of doubt and sadness into Molly's heart.

Would he always look at her like that? Suspicious and filled with contempt? Would he ever try to see her as something much more? Even a little..?

Does he really... hate me?

Perhaps those emotions, mixed in with Molly's already matured love for him, and frustrations towards herself, sparked the restless nights. An unhealthy concoction of 'Go Screw Yourself' thrown right into her face.

In times of emotional need, Molly had then tried to turn to her friend Hamish, but he never answered.

It took approximately four unanswered phone calls to give Molly the hint that she—was bothering her own friend with such mundane things. It took less than four seconds for the guilt and shame to sink in.

The last straw was most definitely when Sherlock had cornered her in the bedroom. Gluing her to the bed and holding her with such warm, pale, and neatly defined muscled arms. He wasn't helping. He was just making everything worse. So much worse.

Molly believed in Sherlock. Honestly.

But... Molly didn't believe in Sherlock's honesty.

The day Molly was finally able to go back to work, and at least a bit happy to finally see Hamish—

There was a letter placed on her small desk that had her name scribbled on it. The simple yet elegant printed letters formed words that tore into her piece by piece.

'I'm sorry.' he had written. 'I have responsibilities that need attending to.' was the next line... With each word that Molly read further on, her reality crashed around her. 'Unfortunately, my wife is suffering from an illness and I need to be there for her. I need to take care of her.'

Hamish was gone. He had left and without a simple goodbye. Surely, this letter couldn't have been enough to say farewell to her or to their friendship entirely. It just couldn't be!

Molly never knew just how hard she had cried. Especially, over a man. Her friend.

The rest of the day went on as usual. No bodies but just a bunch of paper work. By the end of it all, Molly was finally back home in the small flat. Sherlock hadn't even arrived yet from the looks of it.

Molly just couldn't wait to fall back asleep and to meet her husband there in her dreams. Maybe the sadness would transfer, and he would be able to comfort her. Arms holding her tightly, cheek pressed against the side of her face, and as he whispered sweet nothings into her ear.

Maybe that would ease a bit of the sorrow. Maybe...

Molly hadn't even noticed that her body moved on automatic as it sat in front of the now roaring fireplace. Her tears dribbled down her face. Why was she always alone? Molly thought to herself. Why was she always the first to be picked in fate's jokes. Couldn't she get something nice once in awhile? Just why... why was she so in love with Sherlock that it just turned out that he despised her? Why was he making it a goal to constantly show how much he could care less about her existence? Everything was in disarray.

Why? Why? Why? Why?

"I just want a happy ending," Molly tried hugging herself to fight off that unbearable coldness. It didn't work. Molly felt even more alone in the space.

Molly supposed she would just accept the reality that was hers. She was awkward with no friends, and no husband. The most—if it would let her—was to get a pet, and pour whatever remaining love she had into it.

At a time like this—Molly would have been glad to not have noticed her husband as he watched her.

For the first time, he didn't lie to her.

Sherlock was going to take care of his wife.

A bit of angst for the up coming sweetness overload; with an added kick of sourness.

I wanted to personally say thank you, to the wonderful people who have kept up, and kept faith in the story :)

Please feel free to leave comments and C.C's