Six months earlier..
A week later, after the miracle the two of them pulled off, Sherlock's 'favour' continued as he began cohabiting with Molly. He was little trouble.. He kept himself to himself. The discourse between them limiting to asking for a coffee, or the odd valediction of Molly's departure for work. The initial prospect of the idea of living will Sherlock excited Molly. She naively believed it would be the start of something. Something she had hungered for since she first met him. The picture of them sharing meals or watching TV merged with cuddling on the sofa, spooning late into the evening or even raging sex in the kitchen clouded her mind until the third month in.
She returned from work with a few bags of shopping, her optimism of him accepting any food never faltered. Throwing her keys onto the end table and edging down the narrow hallway to her pokey kitchen, she called his name happily. Dumping the shopping bags on the counter, she took off her jacket and walked into the adjoining room to find Sherlock still in his robe lying face up at the ceiling, eyes closed and hands joined under his chin.
"Sherlock? Uhm, are you ok?" She cheerily asked. Watching him barely move and fail to answer her, she turned and continued; "I brought pasta, thought you could try and eat something tonight?"
Again, nothing but a deep sigh left his nose. Molly felt increasingly impatient. She bit her lip and returned to the kitchen. Unpacking the items, she opened a bottle of Merlot and decided the pasta can wait. It was only early evening anyway.
He moved his legs to accommodate Molly to sit next to him, the sofa being the only means of seating in the small living room. She threw herself down and took a large gulp. The bitter wine sliding down her throat joyfully. She turned to face him, her stare must have registered in his mind as he shortly retorted at her; "Molly I can feel your eyes burning into me it is rather distracting." He opened his eyes and sat up, just in time to see Molly's cheeks flush a similar colour to that of the wine in her hand. He succeeded in repressing a grin at this reaction. Molly, mumbling an apology started to stand up and return to the kitchen. She felt angry. Believing, however childish it may seem, that Molly could form something of a relationship, be it plutonic or otherwise, with Sherlock, after all she had done for him was building up a storm inside her. A storm which at another comment, may just lapse into a full throw.
"Molly, I do hope you're returning to the kitchen to feed the cat, he is getting increasingly more tedious and becoming an attractive target for my gun." Hearing his words echo to her ears blew the short fuse that held back her pent up anger. Taking a deep breathe and downing the rest of her wine, Molly prepared herself to blow. Storming into the living room, a poisonous glare in her eyes, she let herself explode.
"Don't you dare even think about touching Toby. Don't you dare- don't even bother.. Forget it." Annoyed at her failed attempt to lash out at Sherlock riled her up even more. The confusion of her small, unsuccessful outburst was apparent in his questioning eyes. "Molly have I said something to offend you in some way?" He began. Pirouetting on the spot, Molly turned to face him; "have you said something to offend me? Oh no Sherlock, everything you say offends me. The things you do say are just as bad as the things you don't say! Not once have I heard a single thank-you for what I'm doing for you. I keep your secret unfalteringly, even when I stand at your grave with John's hand in mine as he weeps silently at the headstone." His face winced at the mention of John's name, and Molly knew exactly what chord she had struck, and my, did she continue to play. "Yes, Sherlock, make a face at his name. He is heartbroken at this. He lost his best friend Sherlock. He lost you. And I feel like I'm losing you now." Her voice began to soften, instantly regretting opening the wound of John and viciously rubbing in the salt. She turned away from his saddened eyes. Yet continued to get this anger off her chest. "Sherlock, I know we weren't the closest friends before The Fall, but I'd like to think I knew you. You slope around the flat barely eating, barely changing out of your bloody robe and playing that violin. You barely talk to me Sherlock. It's hurting me now, you ignore me and it hurts me. I care about you and your lack of care for yourself is painful to watch." Her voice was cracking now, but taking a deep breath and composing herself she struggled on. "Help me help yourself, Sherlock. I care. I know I don't count for much for you-" she was cut off when she felt him behind her.
Their breath became loud in the silence of the kitchen. "Molly.. I'm sorry." His deep baritone ricocheted off the hairs on the back of Molly's neck. She closed her eyes to the warm wind of his breath. Before she realised, he left her standing there looking somewhat helpless and defeated into his room. Throwing her hands to her face, Molly began preparing dinner.