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"We should really stop meeting like this, Sherlock." Molly squinted as she stared down at the thermometer. "You're fever has gone up."

"Don't you like what you see, dear?" light blue eyes mocked her from the retreat of the covers. "An unprotected and vulnerable man. Who knows what my dear wife has done while I've been unconscious."

The joke emitted no reaction from the opposite gender, and it slowly died in the air. Sherlock obviously taking notice on how Molly seemed too far serious to be bothered with word play this fine morning.

Of course, the obvious crease in her brows took over the once smooth skin. Exhaustion mixed heavily with defeat found a home on her pretty forehead wrinkles. It wasn't a mere minute before Sherlock shrunk further into the bed. Realizing why his wife was so serious then. The distinct scent of alcohol, and the familiar dash of red color being poured into a little measuring cup made him queasy.

"You know I hate the taste of that." Sherlock finally spoke and pulled the covers further up to his face.

However, Molly paid little to no attention as she pried away the duvet from her husband's mouth, and placed her hand underneath his neck; lifting him to take the medication without argue. There was a slight struggle between man and wife. Molly ultimately winning by mere health over ill patient.

"It's not that bad, Sherlock. Just like eating a bunch of cherries, really. Drink up." Molly glared down at the male-child in her arms.

The small cup was anything but gentle as it smashed against his lips. Unprepared for the medicinal substance, Sherlock opened his mouth to protest only to swallow and choke. His neck muscles attempting to work and calm down from the sheer panic. The tingle going down his throat wasn't what was the worst part about this stuff. It was the bitterness met with a sickeningly sweet cover up. A cover up that would last hours on the poor male's palate.

Sherlock erupted into more coughs, before ultimately wiping at his mouth with a painful groan. His glare equally as defiant and evil as the wife above him.

"That was vile, darling." he spat quietly at Molly. "It tastes like dead dreams and decomposed wishes."

The strange description of the red fluid only made Molly smirk at him. Not realizing that the action made Sherlock question just what on earth happened since he had been out. It was if a whole other Molly had appeared and taken over. It wasn't a Molly he personally knew, now that he thought about it.

No, this one was imposing as she was very point blank. Not a joke could really tug at the corners of her mouth. Dare he say it, this Molly seemed far too serious for Sherlock's liking. The detective was not being smart enough to understand that his wife hadn't changed—merely, she came to a conclusion.

It was funny how Molly kept coming back to him. She had yet to mention the scenario at the hospital, previous nights before. Sherlock could just remember waking up to Molly talking, yet he couldn't talk back. He remembered hearing her cry and speak to herself—and to him—about how she never had a chance. A chance at what? Oh, this part he couldn't remember clearly. Being sick had it's pros and cons. Major con was the fact that he slipped from conscious to unconsciousness ever so frequently.

Sherlock had wanted to speak to his wife. However, the silence still intruded upon the couple. It's vice around their vocal chords stronger than the heavy atmosphere between them. Again, the male had wanted to joke with her. To tease that he would have to box John and Mary's ears for being cheeky, and hiding his wife in plain view. No, the look on her face was unnerving. It was best to be quiet.

In her own head, Molly reminisced on the time she had run into the arms of John and Mary. Their welcoming embraces, and sweet smiles made her heart warm with adoration for the couple. They were her security and comfort in this strange world. They were what awaited her when she needed the time to find peace and comfort without the intrusion.

An intrusion of unwanted company and emotions. Especially, from Sherlock.

It was almost like paradise. Hiding away at the Watson's home for a few days. A free space to roam and a cup of tea to calm the nerves. This space held meaning to the pathologist now. It spoke to her on what she would do after realizing her husband 'loved' her. Or so he said. Molly believed he did love her—just not in the way she did.

That night, when he had to break down more than walls, and his personal comfort zone... she had smiled. It wasn't meant to be cruel. No, it was meant to signal that she had made him feel something. Anything. Molly just doubted that what he felt was pure and unadulterated love.

Only two people knew how that felt; they sat right in front of her.

However, Molly wouldn't give her husband the satisfaction of knowing that she had heard him. No satisfaction for her clueless husband, but all the satisfaction in her acting, and his reaction to her possibly abandoning him. She knew that she could never fully escape Sherlock like she wanted to. He was so far integrated into her heart. Still, there was that little shard that throbbed quietly inside of her every time she saw blue.

She wasn't entirely dependent on him—or was she—Molly loved him far too much to give up so easily.

"You could always just separate for a bit." Mary had commented, sipping tea as if a little lover's quarrel was nothing extrodinary. "Of course, the media would want an explanation and possibly even your families."

John patted his wife's hand gently when he noticed the way Molly's eyebrows knitted together. Doubt was something the pathologist could not hide. For John not only saw, but felt the anxiety just trickle off of her. It was a doubt he could familiarize with actually.

"What Mary is trying to say, Molly, is that we are here. We care for you and only want the best for you. Just you alone..." John's words consoled the depressed woman momentarily before she looked up at him with some timid strength.

"Thank you, really. Thank you." Molly smiled at them both, yet there was still something that held her back. "I'm sort of lost at the moment. In life. In this marriage. I guess, in a lot of things."

John couldn't seem to forgive himself for being a part of his friend's plans of disguise and beguile. Not quite so sure with himself at the thought that Sherlock had somehow screwed things up even more with his marriage. The sole thought of Sherlock ending up as a loveless and lonely spinster brought a sort of sick pleasure for John. But that was only momentarily. Sherlock could have gotten much, much worse in life. Molly wasn't worse nor was she perfect. There was no comparison for the woman. Molly was sufficient, and more than enough.

John never realized Sherlock would have taken Hamish far into fray of no return. Praying a little that the detective would just grow a 'tender' side of the brain. Possibly even refraining from crashing his life into a pillar of death. Of course, that isn't how Sherlock Holmes worked. Never.

No, if anything, Sherlock would have crashed into the pillar, and somehow manage to come out alive. Beyond all odds, Sherlock would possibly have slipped in a body double along the lines. Continuing on with life as if it were the normal rainfall of all London times.

Only Sherlock would do that. John grimaced to himself at the sordid thought.

"I've come to grips that I'm probably never going to be really loved by him. He doesn't see me."

Mary was quick to squeeze her husband's hand. A look of agony replaced that sweet calm she usually wore.

"Molly," Mary started gently and with her free hand made to touch the other woman's wrist. "We see you."

"And you don't deserve that twisted kind of love, Molly." John consoled his female friend, and squeezed back Mary's hand. "You deserve undiluted pure feelings and emotions."

Molly's pretty eyes began to twinkle as unshed tears coated them. The first tear sliding down her cheek as she gave Mary a sad smile. "I know," she whispered. "But it would have been nice. At least, a little."

They were right, Molly rolled the thought around her head. They were so right. Something about Sherlock would always be incomplete, and not worth the time or day. But Sherlock was hers to love and cherish. Her love may not have been big enough for the both of them, but it didn't have to be. Just like when they were younger, and back at her in-law's estate. His music was enough to sustain her. This time, Molly would be enough to sustain her husband. Even if he didn't want it. Sherlock may not have deserved her love, but Molly would give it because... she forgave him.

Because wasn't that true love? To not want back, to forgive, to give time and patience..? Wasn't forgiveness an act of love? Molly would forgive, but Molly would never forget.

What Sherlock had confessed that night at the hospital could have been his own understanding of the emotion. What he believed Molly would have taken to be his form of 'love'. Whatever he felt, it was real for Sherlock. That could be good enough. For now.

Molly was at a stand-still in her life. If she went back to Sherlock there had to be boundaries and fences. With Sherlock she had to be open minded but cautious. There was a constant walk on egg shells. One day he may like her, and that would be sweet; it would sing to the woman's heart and soul. Perhaps, the next day he would be rude and indifferent, surely whatever expectation she had for him would be crushed, and then the depression would come. A never ending cycle of bitterness, she was sure.

But to be honest, she loved it. He made her feel alive. His sadism gave her a sort of buzz. A wrong and perverted buzz that Molly could have sworn was not within her genetic code. But this sort of 'likeness' was not hers to own. It didn't belong to her. It was against her very core. His abuse was not acceptable, but the way he looked at her differently and saw her in his own way... well, it made Molly have just a spark of hope.

A spark of hope that she was different. That was where the confusion came from. He would disregard and ignore her. Then the next day he would look at her with this peculiar stare. Pinning her right where she stood. Feeling thousands of prickles constantly rush over her body. That adrenaline rush was addictive, but it wasn't for her. Not if she yearned for something healthy and sustainable.

Molly had abruptly bit the inside of her cheek at the dark thoughts rummaging around inside her. Oh, this wasn't good. Molly was settling. That wasn't something she did...

"Remember, you always have something to fall back on." John gave Molly a knowing look followed by a slow nod.

"Just say when." Mary's voice took a deeper approach towards her friend. "And we'll be ready."

Molly left their home with a clearer mind the next morning. Realizing that the most she would suffer from separating from her husband was the wrath of the people. What were people against the happiness of one woman? She would work her way back up from the gossip and rumors.

Molly would leave Sherlock with a mess for him to specifically clean up. A mess that Molly was sure he would easily dispatch as child's play. Well, then, that wasn't too big of a mess if he could easily do just that.

On the note of the people's wrath; the Hooper parents wouldn't quite find the forthcoming headlines to be amusing. The great medicine practitioner, and his pediatric specialist wife, would greatly frown upon the fact that Molly had abandoned their great line. To walk away and not leave some offspring to carry on either Hooper or Holmes name. A disgrace in their eyes, Molly was sure.

Then there was the presumption that the Holmes family would deem her as a coward, if anything. From her understanding, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes were not bred to have an ounce of evil lurk behind their rationalizing of people. Perhaps, Molly would be spared such hateful comments by her in-laws, and they would deem her 'running away', as a form of not being able to take the pressure. If only that. Molly could see her plan being born easily if so. They would forgive her soon enough.

Oh, but the horrible feeling of anxiety tingled at her fingertips. The pathologist had to laugh in her head that she would probably die a virgin if she succeeded in running away before bedding her husband. In most cases their marriage really was a lie if not 'consummated'. Well, there was always exceptions. This could count as one, indeed.

Great plan. Molly mused to herself as she pushed past the crowd walking opposite from her. She'd go home, shag her husband silly, and leave the next morning like some shameful one night stand. Molly Holmes (nee Hooper) would make a name for herself at some other hospital. Poking at other dead bodies. Living a life that wouldn't be wasted. The plan became even more attractive and tempting with each passing minute.

Again, the heavens, and stars, and rainbows above her had other plans.

Molly would have had the flat as a bonfire if she could. Set it aflame in order to be reborn in a better form. A new beginning for an ugly duckling. Set it asunder if only Mrs. Hudson wouldn't charge her for damages. Good grief, Molly's fingers worked the stress from her temples as she walked up the stairs towards the flat door.

Her hands easily finding the doorknob, turning it till the slight resistance behind the door brought her back to reality. Once inside, the woman could only groan and roll her eyes somewhat. Sherlock had left the place in utter disarray and chaos. It wasn't the multitude of empty cups that had disgusted the Holmes woman.

No, it was the stacks, upon stacks of files, folders, and parchment left laying around without thought. One could barely see the floor, let alone ponder the secrets that were hid under the pure white. Best to tread carefully around such things, Molly told herself.

Her legs effortlessly guided her through the labyrinth of white paper and unmentionables. A body part in a jar here, a bear trap there, and another jar filled with someone's eyes there again. She had to question just how much time Sherlock had to bring all this in. What with Mrs. Hudson on the prowl, this much clutter seemed almost unlikely. But it materialized, nonetheless.

There wasn't any surprise at finding him passed out on the couch, however. The detective's arm draped awkwardly over his eyes, mumbling ever so often about playing, for a moment Molly swore he was awake. If only briefly.

There was a sort of interest piqued by Sherlock's sleep talking. Molly had never witnessed such a rare situation. Better yet, she didn't know Sherlock was capable of talking in his sleep.

"Molly," Sherlock painfully said, a layer of thick emotion filling his voice. "...hear at the hospital?"

His words were muffled and scattered. Perhaps he spoke full sentences in his dreams but not out here in the conscious world. What could have made sense in one's head came out in half words and broken syllables. Molly had to strain to understand what her husband went on about.

"I love you... hope you heard... wasn't... lying..." Sherlock jerked in his sleep suddenly. His long legs kicked a yarn shawl over the arm rest. The action surprising the female and she reeled back, patting at her chest, she hadn't expected him to be so violent when asleep.

Interesting how a simple touch could calm and soothe. To ease rough and ragged breathing, to calm skin that crawled and twitched, and to ease a soul that felt trapped in the skin that protected it.

"Shhh, I heard what mattered." her lips were inches from his face, her hands took to themselves to touch, and caress whatever exposed skin there was. Her husband was burning up. Ridiculous man, the woman sighed as she concluded that Sherlock had possibly gotten the flu.

Sherlock continued to make small noises. He swallowed frequently as if he wasn't getting enough oxygen. The occasional petting Molly did somehow managed to dull whatever pain he was feeling at the moment.

"And I forgive you." She forgave him for being so indifferent. Forgave him for being so selfish. Forgave him for being himself. Forgave him for his way of thinking. Forgave him for being the way he was. Forgave Sherlock for being so difficult.

'Can you ever see yourself... not forgiving him? At least once?' that voice haunted her.

"I... know... you... will... Molly." Sherlock began to shake and twitch. The sheen of perspiration seemed to have doubled over his flesh and he looked as if he were melting. The detective's skin felt even warmer to the touch; this sent the Holmes wife into a sort of motherly frenzy. From what she could tell, her husband was experiencing a nightmare. His head unsettlingly twisted from side to side, and his hands grasped at his clothes.

Molly panicked a little now, she pushed past the mess surrounding them, working fast to obtain a cold cloth and ice press. The rest of the evening was spent in the same turn of events of Sherlock's previous sick days. Molly had cleaned up around the flat, making it somewhat habitable. Mrs. Hudson fortunately knocked on the door and went into a shrill of cries once she saw the ginger haired pathologist. The older woman having been worried, not seeing the familiar ginger haired wife about for days now.

All words and due greetings were exchanged between the two effortlessly. Mrs. Hudson could have cared less at seeing Sherlock's predicament. Almost telling his wife that he deserved what came to him. Whatever form it may have been in. Sick or otherwise dangerous.

"Could you... help me carry him into the bedroom?" Molly shrugged her shoulders sheepishly as the landlady blinked at her.

"Couldn't you just leave the silly boy here?" Mrs. Hudson gave a disapproving look towards the detective and a tender one at Molly.

"I'd like to agree but the way he keeps thrashing about... I'm kind of worried he might kick the lamp over. Or worse, put a rather large hole in your wall." prior evidence of the tiny bullet holes were one to remind the landlady that the detective was capable of almost anything awake. Heaven only knew what he could do while asleep and dreaming. A series of books began to topple off at the end of the couch as the man's leg kicked about.

"Oh dear, what sort of beast is he?" Mrs. Hudson furrowed her eyebrows together, ears prickling at the soft giggle.

The disdainful remark was amusing as it was harmless. Molly had found herself in a decent mood to suddenly giggle at Mrs. Hudson's speech. Bless her soul, Mrs. Hudson was a strange yet wondrous being in her own right. Sometimes soft and sweet, but always a sort of sour after taste.

"Come dear," the elderly woman made a hand gesture to lift at Sherlock's torso as she took his feet. "Best to hurry while he's harmless as a kitten."

The action took quite some straining and huffing from both women. Sherlock was a board of lean, heavy muscle. Every ripple Molly had seen prior obviously wasn't for show! The man was indeed a living statue; his weight proved it!

"Now, if ever you need me, I'll be right downstairs, dear." the elderly woman patted Molly on the shoulder, and gave her a gentle smile, before whisking herself away through the door and down the stairs.

It was a shame that Mrs. Hudson couldn't have stayed any longer. Molly somewhat missed her warm brewed teas in the evening. If anything to keep the thoughts prior to entering the flat at bay. Those ridiculous things that spawned inside her head roared. Coursing through every nerve ending, making the woman nervous and jittery. Voices of doubt and truth painfully knocking at her skull. Everything had just hit her at once. And it hurt to contemplate life at such a time.

Looking down at her husband's sleeping face gave Molly an epiphany.

Sherlock would always take from her, and Molly would always be his caretaker. Molly would never be John and maintain a friendly relationship they had years ago. Molly understood that she truly was an outcast in this place. Always pushed back and examined as the last resort. The last experiment. Maybe she was disregarded twice as much, unlike when Sherlock and her were younger.

Since she embodied and coexisted within a small space. Molly needed to be twice removed. She could not exist until he needed her to. That was what she realized. After all those months of changing how she dressed, how she wore perfume and makeup, and how she gained confidence—they were all to exist. For him and only him.

Not anymore.

Sherlock Holmes wanted everything, but yet nothing. Even now he took something from her. Precious moments. The time they could have spent communicating with each other. The emotional connection they could have created. These were all precious moments, they could have had together. He took the smallest things from her; even when unconscious.

There was that mental and imaginary wall between them once again. That feeling of distance even though she sat right next to his sleeping form. Molly was miles away from him. This was her form of unrequited love.

"You never could see me." Molly whispered into the still air. "You couldn't marry me for me. You never wanted me."

How silly. Talking to a dreaming man. If ever a chance he was listening to her then so be it. Let him listen, and listen well he should.

"I did everything for you. I changed the way I dressed for you. The way I held myself. Everything." it didn't surprise her when her voice changed in tone. The heaviness of her heart vocalizing clearly through her mouth. "I never had a chance did I, Sherlock? I didn't have a chance to grow up as a woman. Finding my own confidence. Understanding my own heart."

The pain that started from her chest up to her throat was unexpected. The sobbing however wasn't. Molly had never fully heard herself sob so painfully. Never had she heard the emotions just transcend the phase of 'feeling them' but actually acting them out physically. Molly began to drench her sweater sleeves with tears. A page in some journal that was written with every secret she would take to the grave. An invisible page that had screams and echoes explaining how she felt abandoned and used.

Most young women were able to grow into adulthood by their decisions.

Not Molly.

Everything was decided for her. Everything.

She never accepted herself as a woman. Even in her own eyes, she was a mere child still. Not understanding how she felt about something, and it being alright if whether or not she accepted it. There were no 'dreams' for the woman. Molly could not dream unless it was previously decided by an outside party. Molly could not control her life as she felt to be right. Even when she believed with every fiber in her being to have made a 'decision'... it all came back to being fed lies and half-truths.

This marriage was a lie.

She was a lie to herself.

It wasn't like Molly to dress up for a man. It wasn't like Molly to fake self-confidence. It wasn't like Molly to just listen and not doubt or question without some arduous fight... Molly didn't feel like Molly anymore. She felt fake and deprived of life.

This wasn't the life anyone wanted. This wasn't the sort of situation she expected to grow and watch 'love' bloom in. How could anything grow in this claustrophobic and selfish flat? Molly questioned everything now. She had her doubts, finally. Realization was a bright and painful light.

Honestly, disgust had reared its ugly head when she had felt that sick joy in Sherlock's twisted attention towards her. The way he treated her was messing with her mind and it was manipulating her outlook. This flat had become poisonous... a miasma of double meanings and never being enough for a single man. When Molly should have been more than enough!

It was final. Molly had to get away. Molly had to leave... or else she wouldn't be enough even for herself.

No... she wouldn't leave like this. The female wouldn't leave frayed edges or torn seams to the open. With what was left of her own originality... Molly would mend the wounds, she would cure the ill, and then she would slowly walk away without another word. Molly would become the ghost everyone had treated her as.

Molly would leave her mark on Sherlock. A mark that was left resonating within him until it tore at his very soul. Molly would do what Sherlock had always done... but Molly would do it with kindness.

Molly Holmes would kill her husband with kindness.

Unlike Sherlock's indifference; kindness left a deeper scar. That was exactly what needed to be done.

You guys don't realize how long it took me to write this so many times over and not feel like I was undermining Molly. Every time I would re-write this, Molly seemed very Stockholm Syndrome-ish. Safe to say, I wasn't pleased by that. At all. Oh, and a big surprise that this story is GOOGLE searchable and it's also on TUMBLR floating around in links! Awesome!

In a way to summarize this chapter: Molly gets that Sherlock is unstable and that she's just waiting for him to explode like dynamite. Finally, she decides to do something with her life. Even if that means she may be criticized and ostracized for her choice. But that's a whole lot better than just walking on a thin sheet of ice, only to be met with frigid water (Sherlock) that would end up drowning her. In a way, Molly realizes that she isn't John (well, duh, right?) and that whatever fantasy relationship she had hoped for isn't gonna come to her any time soon. And yeah. Sherlock does love her but he's been too much of a poop to get a happy ending ;) Because folks can only take what they can get and what they can handle before crap hits the fan.

Thank you everyone for reading and sticking with the story. I am seriously almost done writing this, but I want to end it on the right foot! Oh, and if I have any Hannibalfans that are reading this. I have a story that I've co-written with a friend titled, COMPULSION. If you dig slowly built up sexual frustration, cannibal vs. an artist who likes to freeze human bodies in memory of her deceased sister, and all that twisted goodness. Definitely check it out and leave us a review/comment! I always check that story for feedback, as well!

Good day, folks! See you in the next update!

Anything ya wanna leave below in the review box? Any unanswered questions? Or confusion still lurking around? If so, drop me something either review/comment/PM and I will personally reply back to you!