Author's Note: Thank you so much to everyone who read and reviewed the first chapter of this story. It really means a lot, and I'm glad people didn't think Sherlock was too out of character; I'm finding it really hard to keep him in character while still making it seem like he's undergoing an emotional transformation. Anyway, here we are with the anticipated part two. Hope you enjoy the read!

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

Don't Overthink

Chapter 2

Molly forced a smile in the bathroom mirror. Aside from the puffy, dark-circled red eyes and tear streaks staring back at her, it looked convincing enough, but inside she still felt raw and abused.

Doctor Hooper, for your own good, don't… overthink anything Sherlock says. You know better than anyone what he's like.

Those had been Mycroft's parting words after he and an unexplained band of men in black turtlenecks had scoured her house; they removed the hidden cameras in her kitchen before deeming it safe and debugged. It all happened so fast that Molly didn't even have time to ask what was going on. Mycroft must've felt exceptionally sorry for her that day. He'd even offered her a small comforting smile and an awkward squeeze on the shoulder – but not much in the way of an explanation – before driving off and leaving her with her own muddled thoughts.

She should know from experience the kind of trouble that came from reading into anything Sherlock did. In the seven years she'd known him, it had never ended well for her. "Don't overthink it," she said aloud to her grimacing reflection.

But that was easier said than done.

The past four days had been, for lack of a better word, torturous. After getting the dial tone from Sherlock, Molly had silently placed her phone back on the kitchen counter – tea preparation long forgotten – and moved numbly to her sitting room, where she powered on the television and sat staring unfocused at the talking newscasters. A dull ringing in her ears muffled the voices from the broadcast as she tried to understand what had just happened.

But it wasn't until evening that the tears started to fall, when she had finally processed the implications of that disastrous phone call.

"I-I… I love you..."

Molly gave her head a little shake in a futile attempt to silence the incessant echoing of that simple sentence inside her mind. The memory of the words stung hours and days later, and that first night, in her sleepless restless state, Molly knew she had lost him. Whether Sherlock wanted to continue their working relationship, pretending the unfortunate conversation had never happened, or went to great uncharacteristic lengths to apologize and explain the undoubtedly chaotic back story of the call while stating yet again that he had no desire to dabble in romance (because, let's face it, those were the two most likely scenarios), Molly would not be able to face him professionally and maintain her composure. Everything was out in the open now, naked for all eyes to see. The damage to their friendship, which she had grown to accept and cherish, was irreparable, and Molly didn't see a way back. She knew forcing the false confession from him would hurt, but she underestimated just how much. If only she could make him un-say those words…

"I love you."

The next few days, still grief-stricken and hurt, Molly spent debating whether or not to contact Sherlock and at least get some closure. She tried to distract herself by cleaning her flat (it had never looked more spotless), watching telly, and going on long walks outdoors to clear her head. She even tried taking extra shifts at the morgue to focus on something else, but as soon as Mike Stamford saw how distressed and sleep-deprived she was after almost grabbing a contaminated scalpel by the pointy end, he sent her home with explicit directions to take whatever time she needed to sort out her personal life. However, well meaning as it was, Stamford's actions were probably counterproductive. Every minute alone brought her thoughts back to that phone conversation, catching her between a desire to reach out to Sherlock and a need to shut him out of her life completely before he had the chance to do anymore damage. Maybe she could forget about getting an explanation from him and convince herself to live with what little information she'd received over the past few days.

During his intrusion of her modest flat, Mycroft had explained in very vague terms the bare bones of the incident that had taken place at Sherrinford. Though still mostly in the dark and somewhat fearful of stumbling upon cameras in awkward places in her flat, Molly gathered that Sherlock had a forgotten genius of a sister who had made John and the Holmes brothers undergo a set of grueling psychological trials, one of which culminated in the phone call that had quickly upturned the pathologist's life. But the details… Molly had spent the days since Mycroft's unexpected visit creating hypothetical scenarios in her head, each more devastating than the last, in her attempts to justify what on Earth could have made Sherlock do something so cruel. And despite Mycroft's promise that Sherlock would explain everything and answer all her questions, she hadn't heard a peep from the consulting detective since he'd hung up.

Once, exhausted and angry for being treated so inconsiderately and being so underappreciated for one-sidedly maintaining the relationship for so many years, she typed out in a text, "I don't think we should see each other anymore," but she erased the message before sending it, losing her nerve once the ire had died down. Another time she typed out, "Can we talk?" Her finger hovered uncertainly over the "send" button before she finally decided to delete it. Half of her, the more hopeful and naïve half, waited optimistically for Sherlock to get in touch with her – a text, a call, a midnight visit as he was occasionally wont to do… anything – but the more rational side of her dreaded that with each passing day, the chances of him reaching out diminished exponentially.

Even worse was knowing that he probably didn't even consider how detrimental his actions were to their relationship, that he'd keep taking her for granted and not understand why she wouldn't want to work with him anymore. Knowing him, he'd stroll into the morgue sometime in the next couple weeks and be surprised to see her burst into tears.

And that sequence of mental events had led Molly to where she was now, in a perpetual state of not knowing what to do, parked on her sofa and wallowing, wearing a set of obscenely pink pajamas. She scoffed and tossed her phone, which seemed to be permanently open to a blank text, onto the cushion adjacent to the one on which she sat. She was tired. So tired. Physically, emotionally, spiritually, and in every other sense of the word. She'd cried so much that the tears refused to flow any longer. And when the tears dried out, so did her hope that she'd ever learn why she had been made to suffer the way she had.

An inpatient chirp jolted Molly out of her own mind, and she looked down to see Toby rubbing himself against her leg in a plea for food. "I'm sorry, honey, let's get you fed." Standing in the fluffy pink dressing gown and slippers she'd had donned for the last three days, she shuffled into the kitchen, followed happily by the ginger feline.

After filling Toby's bowl, Molly lingered in the kitchen for a minute or two, resting her elbows on the counter and listening to her cat purr and chomp noisily at his kibble. Again, her mind drifted off to those crucial three minutes from four days ago.

"Well if it's true, then just say it anyway."

She hated what he did to her, his ability to shatter her with so little effort. Perhaps it was a result of all the days she'd recently spent alone in her own head, but it was as though that catalyst of a phone call had finally convinced Molly to feel fully affected by all the heartache she'd endured over the last few years – her failed engagement to Tom, Mary's passing… Oh, Mary… How she missed Mary. How she wanted desperately to talk to Mary, her best friend and shoulder to cry on, one of only a few who understood Sherlock half as well as herself, and the only person who could possibly offer a logical explanation for his actions. She needed someone to help her hate him, to help her feel angry, indifferent, or unforgiving… anything but lonely. She was always the one holding together the friendship she had with Sherlock. She had no reason to believe he'd pursue her if she suddenly became absent from his life, and maybe that thought scared her enough to put up with the emotional abuse rather than lose him. If she could just force herself to stop putting forth any effort to maintain it… the relationship would crumble, and maybe Molly would finally be free from the hold he had on her.

But she knew she could never do it.

Molly sighed and let out a shuddering breath, a tear she didn't think she had left in her rolling slowly down her cheek. Despite being devastated and furious, she knew she could never hate Sherlock. She loved him deeply, and she suspected she always would. She had resigned herself to that fact years ago. He had opened her up, dragged her heart through the mud, and she still loved him. He'd left her feeling like a used rag, rung out and tossed aside to wrinkle and never fully regain its original shape, and as hard as she tried to convince herself otherwise, she still loved him. Molly had once heard Sherlock refer to sentiment as a "chemical defect found on the losing side," and she was finally beginning to believe it. She expected herself to be stronger, more logical, yet here she was at the mercy of a man who couldn't even comprehend the pain he'd caused her. She had lost, and he'd never even have the capacity to understand why.

And that was what hurt the most.

Sherlock, just… don't overthink it.

John's words rang in Sherlock's ears as he hailed a cab and climbed both into the back seat and back into his own head. The detective fought hard to resist diving into each of the many possible scenarios that could commence once he arrived at Molly's door. After entertaining a particularly nasty hypothetical encounter, ending in the pathologist brandishing a steak knife at him, he decided he'd better focus on something else before he lost his nerve entirely and had the cab bring him back to Baker Street.

It was strange to care about someone else the way he'd admitted to caring about Molly, earnestly and without ulterior motive or thrill seeking. It left him feeling exposed and terrified, and for the first time in his life, he didn't have any idea how the conflict would resolve, assuming it did at all. Objectively Sherlock had been subjected to a number of terrifying scenarios during his career as a consulting detective; it was ironic that something as mundane as a visit to someone else's flat could invoke such panic in him. To his newly awakened sensitive self, the looming conversation was just as high-stakes as any of his most horrifying cases. While he fought to keep his heart from pounding out of his chest, his brain pulled him back into the depths of his addled mind, undoubtedly trying to get the gears in his head to spin until they became rusty and nonfunctional when he actually needed to use them, and he had to yank back hard in the other direction.

As a means of distraction, he decided to busy himself by rehearsing his greeting in the back of the cab as it sped down the busy London street. "Molly," he began, unsure of where the sentence was heading. "You're looking well – no, obviously she won't be looking well," he berated. "Let's see… I assume you have questions – too impersonal." How had he overlooked asking John's advice on starting such a sensitive conversation? "I apologize for my extended absence, but I need to speak with you about what really happened at Sherrinford… Is that too formal?"

"What's that, mister?" The cabbie turned his head ninety degrees, thinking Sherlock had been addressing him.

Sherlock, on the other hand, hadn't realized he'd spoken out loud. "Oh, er," he replied awkwardly, embarrassed at having been caught rambling. "It's nothing." He flashed the rearview mirror a polite but false smile then proceeded to twiddle his thumbs impatiently, now unable to stop the different conversation outcomes from replaying in his head.

Factoring in a buffer for traffic, it was only a seven and a half minute cab ride from his flat to Molly's, leaving him only about four minutes left to figure out his opening sentence. He pulled out his phone and typed out a quick message to John.

Bad time? – SH

His phone pinged a minute later.

Not at all, just dealing with a screaming baby and an angry daycare manager. – JW

Completely missing the sarcasm in the message, Sherlock responded, Oh, good, because I need advice. – SH

The phone buzzed again. With what? And for the record, that was sarcasm, Sherlock. – JW

Sherlock hesitated, fingers poised and ready to type; perhaps he'd put John through enough for one day. He slipped the phone back into his pocket without replying. Maybe it'd be better if he handled it on his own… All he had to do was not mess up. The thought made him wince. When had a sensitive exchange ever ended well when he dealt with it alone?

As if able to read his mind, John sent a follow-up text, which Sherlock opened eagerly. Just be honest with her. – JW

Ping. And don't overdo it with the deductive show-boating either. – JW

Ok... so, be honest, but not invasive or insulting with the deductions. He had faked caring in the past, but showing that he cared for real…

"You all right back there?"

Sherlock didn't realize he'd been picking absentmindedly at a hole on the back of the driver's headrest and stopped immediately, returning his hands to a folded position in his lap. "Yes, my apologies, just… one of those days, you know how it is." He offered another fake smile. The words meant nothing, but he'd heard other people say something similar to a cab driver as a polite way of telling him or her to bugger off.

"It's a girl, innit?"

Sherlock's face must have betrayed him in that instant, because even though his response was a coolly calculated, "not at all," the driver chuckled as they made eye contact in the rearview mirror.

"Meanin' no offense. I just can always tell. You've got that look about ya." The driver's eyes swept briefly up and down Sherlock's seated form, and he grinned knowingly.

Normally Sherlock wouldn't have engaged in conversation any further, but if there was some obvious blunder he was making in his agitated state, he wasn't about to leave it unaddressed before knocking on Molly's door. "H-how do you mean?" The quaver in his voice made him want to hit something.

"Oh, I dunno…" The cabbie shrugged and made a sudden turn that caused his passenger to lurch to one side. "You bein' all dressed up, the fidgetin', the scratched up hands, the foot tapping – " Sherlock stilled the foot that had been hitting the back of the driver's seat – "… not to mention you've been mutterin' to yourself since ya climbed in. Sounds like you're recitin' a damn Shakespeare soliloquy back there."

Sherlock didn't bother arguing that the suit was his part of his normal attire. "So you deduced it?" Had he always been that easy to read?

The cabbie made eye contact in the rearview mirror and shrugged again. "Yeah, I guess you could say that. But don't worry, mate, we've all been there." He let out a hearty guffaw. "Women, eh? They cause us all kinds of grief, but we can't help but love 'em." He chortled again, giving his head a little shake.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, thoroughly unfamiliar with the customs of small talk. That cabbie was observant, but he'd gotten the situation completely backwards. Grief, thy name is Sherlock. He was an expert at giving other people grief, and Molly had put up with the brunt of it for years. How was he supposed to overcome that barrier… if she even opened the door to him? The clock was quickly running out, and Sherlock hadn't outlined his greeting beyond "hello." What was he thinking? "What am I doing?" Sherlock groaned mostly to himself, putting his face in his hands in exasperation.

But the cabbie responded, thinking he was being called upon for more deductions. "Guessin' you're trying to apologize to a girl. What'd you do? If you don't mind my asking." Clearly this was how cabbies entertained themselves on their eight hour shifts. "Fightin', was it?" The driver looked pointedly at Sherlock's cuts and bruises in the mirror.

Sherlock tucked his hands inside his pockets to avoid further scrutiny. That incident at Sherrinford must have broken something in him, because he found himself needing advice and validation pertaining to his newly accepted matters of the heart. He stemmed the flow of words, however, when he remembered he was with a stranger and settled on saying, "Does it matter? She won't forgive me for it." He peered warily up at the front of the cab, still uncomfortable with the driver's interest in his personal life.

"Don't be so sure," the cabbie replied knowingly. "I done all sorts of stuff – cheating, gambling, drinking – and the missus always forgives me. You just got to learn to navigate around those complicated female feelings. 'Course, I think she got so sick of it that she jus' turns a blind eye now." Cue the obnoxious laugh.

Sherlock pursed his lips, tempted to point out scathingly that the cabbie's wife was probably overlooking those character flaws because she was involved in her own love affair, and who could blame her when her husband was such a misogynistic fool? "Hm." Maybe the driver would get the hint and stop talking.

"Ya jus' gotta be upfront about it. Don't let it fester for too long, it'll just make it harder to win her back. I remember this one time when me and the wife went to – "

"Does it count as 'winning her back' if I never 'won' her in the first place?" The words had spilled out before Sherlock could stop them.

"Ahh," the cabbie responded, understanding and mildly amused. "So a declaration of love is what it'll be, eh?" He winked at his passenger.

Sherlock didn't respond, looking embarrassingly down at his lap, out the window, or anywhere else to avoid making eye contact with the driver again. He distinctly felt the back of his neck heat up in embarrassment. He felt foolish, emotions laid bare for everyone to see. His sister had brought out his vulnerable side, and Sherlock wasn't sure how to handle it; a week ago he would have hardly acknowledged the cabbie's presence, let alone let the man school him on romance.

The driver, on the other hand, seemed perfectly content to involve himself in someone else's life. "If you want my advice – "

I don't.

"Keep if short and simple. No point beatin' 'round the bush." He turned the cab onto Molly's street, and Sherlock ruefully realized he'd squandered his precious few minutes of mind palace time on listening to someone else's rabble just as the car slowed to a halt. "Oh! I'd throw a few rubbers in your pocket, you know, just in case it actually works out for ya." And it just kept getting better!

Sherlock suspected his face was a brilliant shade of red by the time he stepped out of the cab and onto the sidewalk outside of Molly's building. He paid the grinning cabbie, glad to be done with him, and strode nervously up the front steps, pausing before ringing the doorbell. Everything he wanted to say was jammed into his head unstructured and in no particular order, and the nervousness settling in was preventing him from categorizing his thoughts properly. He hadn't even considered what subtle social cues she may present to him!

After a few minutes of grappling and failing to organize his speech as he might normally do to manipulate a situation in his favor, he sighed and resigned himself to entering the conversation cold. Logic screamed at him to come back later after he'd given himself sufficient time to prepare, but being so close to Molly now, knowing she was just on the other side of the door, pushed the logic out of his mind. All he knew was that he wanted to see her, regardless of the consequences.

Pure emotion ruled Sherlock in that instant, and with a shaking hand he pushed the buzzer.

Author's Note: So… how was that? I know it's not exactly a satisfying story yet, but I needed to set the scene for the next chapter and give you all a peek at what's going on inside Molly's head too. Please leave me a review, and stay tuned for the next (and final) installment! I'm going to be on the road for awhile, so it may take longer for the next chapter to come out, but I'll post it as soon as I can!