A/N: Again, thank you, Prisci.

And I still don't own Sherlock.

Her face felt stiff. Her hand rose to meet her cheek. It was wet. She was crying. Why was she crying? She opened her mouth to call out for someone, anyone, and realised there wasn't enough air left in her lungs to cry out. She had been crying for a very long time. She took a shuddering breath and wiped her eyes and nose on her sleeve.

The silence was deafening and the darkness was blinding. She reached out in front of her for something solid, something to give her an idea of where she was. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness as her hand found something hard. A table. Her examining table. In her morgue. She reached out for the paperwork beside the table. Name: Sherlock Holmes; Cause of Death: blunt force trauma to the head - suicide. It was all written in a foreign hand. As if she were trying to write while failing to control her own limbs.

She knew she had filled out that paperwork, certifying the death of Sherlock Holmes. But she knew it wasn't his body on the table. She raised her head to glance at the face of the corpse on the table.

He had promised her it wouldn't be him. He had promised her that, even if he jumped, he wouldn't die. It would all be an act. He would have to lie low for a while, while people gossiped about the suicide of Sherlock Holmes, but he'd live safely on her couch. He promised her it would be alright.

But she couldn't mistake that mess of curly black hair, not even when it was soaked in blood. She couldn't mistake that face, that perfect, cruel, loving face. She placed a tentative hand on his shoulder.

"Sherlock?"

She shook the body gently.

"Sherlock, you can wake up now."

She shook him harder.

"Sherlock, it's just me. Just Molly, Sherlock. You can wake up now. We can go home."

But the body on the table didn't move. The waxy skin suddenly felt cold to the touch. She withdrew her hand and clutched it to her chest as though it were on fire.

"Sherlock!" her voice cracked and the tears began to flow once more. "Sherlock, you promised me. You promised you wouldn't get hurt!"

A too-bright light began filling the room. She shut her eyes tightly, still crying. Somewhere, she could hear her cat purring.

"Molly."

But the dead don't talk.

"Molly!"

Molly Hooper opened her eyes to see a tall figure, perfectly alive, next to her bed. She groaned and rolled over to look at her alarm clock. 5:41. She didn't have to wake up for work until six. She pulled her pillow over her head to block out the light flooding in through her now-opened window and prayed that she could get back to sleep.

"MOLLY!" Her pillow was pulled harshly from her head.

"Sherlock! What… What did I say about coming in my room without knocking?" She blinked her eyes as she adjusted to the light, trying her best to look angrily at the sad skinny man now sitting at the foot of her bed. Six weeks. Six weeks Sherlock Holmes had lived in her apartment and he stilldidn't understand the concept of privacy.

"We're almost out of milk," he replied flatly.

Molly grunted and pulled the pillow back over her head. If she had known he'd be so incredibly frustrating, she probably would have never taken him in.

But, of course, that was a lie. She knew she always would take him in, no matter what. As long as he needed her, she would be there.

Her bed creaked as Sherlock stood up, Molly's cat meowing in his arms.

" Come along, Toby. Let's leave Molly alone. She obviously has no respect for our superior intelligence."

"You can't insult me to my cat. He's not even human! Sherlock!"

But the man and the cat had already left her room. She sighed. It was something Sherlock had taken to recently, talking to Toby. She knew it was his way of mocking her for talking to the cat and she knew that he did it to upset her, but there was something about it, something about the domesticity of Sherlock Holmes talking to a cat, that, well, that she found...endearing? She rolled over and stared at her open window. There was no going back to sleep now. She got out of bed and dragged herself into the shower. She closed her eyes and let the warm water wash over her as she hummed some new song she heard on the radio. She had always dreamt, always fantasised about living domestically with Sherlock Holmes. In these fantasies, they'd eat together every night. After dinner, they'd curl up together on the couch and watch a bit of telly. And, at night, rather than leaving him on the couch, Sherlock Holmes would join her in bed. And he'd love her.

Of course, life was nothing like her fantasy. Instead, she found living with Sherlock to be like living with a ghost. He was never communicative, never caring. He was just there, bothering her when she was needed. She breathed in the steamy air, thinking about the hell that was her life. But today was Friday. That meant that it was almost the weekend. She would finally have a break. God bless Friday.

Friday.

"Shit," she hissed. Friday meant going out. Friday meant going out with Greg Lestrade. It wasn't that she didn't like Greg, not in the slightest. It was just that, well, to be perfectly honest, she was still distracted by the supposedly dead detective who had been sleeping on her couch for over six weeks. But she had agreed to go. Something about Greg interested her. He was sweet and kind and noticed her - liked her even. And given her track record, well that was as good as she was going to get.

She closed her eyes, trying to block out reality. How could her life end up like this? What did she do to get all she desired and all she feared living on her couch? She let the hot water run over her until it her skin was red from the heat. Reluctantly, she got out of the shower, dressed, and walked into her flat's small kitchen.

She didn't know why, but she was trembling as she poured the coffee into two mugs (splash of milk, one sugar for her; black, two sugars for Sherlock). He'd ask questions if she didn't come home from work straight away. And he'd probably forget to feed Toby. He'd probably forget to feed himself, too.

"I- I'll be late tonight," she called out as she scooped some food into Toby's bowl. She wasn't prepared for the slight stutter that made its way out with her words.

Dammit, why did he always have to make her so nervous? She thought she had gotten past the stuttering. But ever since Sherlock had moved in, it was constantly there, unless, of course, she was yelling at him. Her voice always flowed smoothly then.

"There's, uh, there's leftover Chinese in the fridge." She paused, debating whether or not to clue him in. She had tried the whole "make him jealous" thing before. But her relationship with "Jim from IT" hadn't worked out too well.

"...I've got a ...uh, date."

There was a meow as Sherlock came skidding around the corner, Toby hot on his heels.

"A date? You? With who?"

Molly was taken aback by his sudden interest. Maybe this would work. Or maybe he was bored. That's it. That was the safer thought. Sherlock was bored. He needed new information. He wanted something he could think about.

"Greg, Greg Lestrade." Something passed through Sherlock's eyes, something she didn't understand. It was quick - any form of emotion with Sherlock always was - but something changed when she said Greg's name. Maybe it was just surprise.

And then, of course, Sherlock snorted.

"Lestrade? Boring."

That was the last reaction Molly had expected. It wasn't that she wanted him to jump for joy or anything of that sort, but Greg was a good man and Sherlock knew that. But he was Sherlock and she was Molly. He always had to bring her down.

"I - But, you… You like him plenty."

"Yes, Molly, but that doesn't mean you should date him." He looked annoyed, as though Greg's interest in Molly was a personal insult to him. He stared at her, as though he was trying to read her. "Why did he ask you anyway?"

"Maybe, Sherlock, maybe he fancies me." Sherlock rolled his eyes. Why did this bother him so much? Who was he to have a say in who she dated? It was infuriating. A part of her understood - the last guy she had dated was Jim (had it really been so long?) and Sherlock was clearly not going to forget that.

"For the sake of law and order, I suggest you avoid all future attempts at a relationship, Molly."

"He's Greg, Sherlock. I don't think he's going to try to kill you."

Sherlock snorted. "But what would he want with you?"

"Maybe, Sherlock, just maybe there exist men who want me for reasons other than getting to you!"

Sherlock took a step back. He looked...guilty? No, it was insulted. Or angry. He picked up Toby and walked over to the couch.

"Doubt it. I hope you and Greg have a lovely time together. Don't forget to buy the milk."

But Molly had left, slamming the door behind her.

She couldn't stop think about that conversation with Sherlock all day. Even now, as she sat across from Greg at some Italian joint, she couldn't stop wondering why he was so bothered by her having a date, why he seemed to think her undesirable to all.

"Molly?" he paused, waiting for a reaction, "Molly?"

"Hmm?"

"I asked if you've talked with John lately… Are you okay?"

"I-" she paused. "I guess I'm just, um, just tired. We got coffee last Wednesday."

They talked about John for a short while before things turned to Sherlock. Like things always did. They sat in silence for a moment, unsure of what to say. Molly stared at her lap, aware of Greg's eyes on her. People always did that, every time Sherlock came up. She would always be that poor girl who spent all that time trying to make him love her back. The poor pathologist still hung up on a dead, disgraced detective. And she hated that. Because, in many ways, they were right. She would never stop loving him and was quite sure of that. She wanted to cry in frustration. What was she doing there, with Greg? What was she doing keeping Sherlock at home?

Yes, he had ruined her life, just not in the way some people seemed to think he did.

"You're angry."

That was not what she was expecting.

"Hm?"

"You're angry, Mols." Why did he do that? Why Mols? Only her granddad did that anymore. It was too kind, too foreign, and, at the same time, too familiar. Why did Greg have to keep reminding her that he was sweet? Or that he cared?

"Every time we talk about him, you look angry," he continued. "I - that's okay, Molly. He meant a lot to all of us. And he left us behind. This, this feeling angry with him, it's normal. You don't need to hold it in."

How? How was she supposed to respond to that? How was she supposed to say, Well, no, Greg. I'm actually mad at him because he's been moping around on my couch for the past few months complaining about every little thing I do. Oh, and now he's angry at me for being here with you.

She settled on staring at her lap. Good god, Molly, she thought to herself. Could you honestly be any more socially inept? Greg sat there for another moment, looking sad, before waving the waiter over for the bill. He paid, because of course he was a perfect gentleman and of course he did everything any girl's dream man would do.

Including insisting on walking her back to her building in the rain. She cursed living on the first floor, where Greg so easily could walk her to apartment.

That could not end well.

When they got to her door, she paused. She couldn't let him in, that would be very bad indeed.

"Um, yeah. So, Goodnight, Greg. Uh, thank you." She turned the key, hoping to slip quickly inside, hoping he would get his perfectness back outside, to be washed away by the rain.

"Molly?"

She turned to see what Greg wanted and quickly found his lips on hers. Not ending well, indeed.

She tried for a moment to kiss him back, to feel something. She really did. But all she could do was wish that he hadn't eaten such a garlic-filled meal.

Then, of course, Toby meowed. Much louder than he normally meowed. It was that meow, the one he'd make when she would accidentally trip over him walking around in the dark.

"Shit! I, um, I have to go. See you around."

She hurriedly stepped inside, shutting the door in Greg's confused face.

"What the bloody Hell was that?!" She shrieked the second she saw Sherlock's face, forgetting that Greg could still be outside her door.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Molly. Please keep your voice down."

Molly was furious. How dare he upset her night? After all she had done for him: risking her reputation, hell, her life, to fake his own death, allowing him to live in her flat, everything.

"You stepped on my cat!"

"Don't be ridiculous. I have no grudges against your cat."

"Don't fuck with me!" She was furious; she normally tried so hard to keep her anger in control, never swearing, never shouting. But she couldn't do it anymore. Her chest heaved with rage. "You've been such a fucking arse all day. What the fuck did I do to so offend you?"

"I didn't like the way he was kissing you," Sherlock replied, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"I- I- " she stammered. That was the absolute last thing she had expected him to say. What did it matter how he had been kissing her? He hadn't been kissing Sherlock. In fact, Sherlock had probably never even been kissed. Who'd want to kiss him, anyway? Except, well... No, she wasn't going to think about that now.

"Yeah, well, like you know anything about kissing, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock kept his lips tight but something changed in his eyes as he took a step closer to her, completely closing the gap between them. If Molly's heart hadn't been racing before, it most certainly was now. He bent down, close enough that she could feel his breath on her cheeks. She shut her eyes, wondering what it was like to be yelled at by the great Sherlock Holmes. But when he spoke, his voice was soft and cold, almost, one could say, frightening.

"I know you didn't kiss him back. I know that you could barely breathe until you got inside because you were so relieved at your success in not. inviting. him. in." He punctuated the last phrase, pausing deeply between each word, letting her know that he knew. "I know you only went on that date out of courtesy. I -"

He was cut off by the sharp pressure of Molly's hand against his cheek. He blinked his eyes furiously before opening his mouth to speak again. But Molly was already slamming her bedroom door.

Toby pressed against Sherlock's ankle, meowing until he was picked up.

"Well, Toby," Sherlock sighed, loud enough for Molly to hear, "Seems you've gone and spoiled Molly's night."

He set the cat back down and walked into Molly's room, not even bothering to knock. She was lying in bed, eyes closed, cover pulled tightly around her. But Sherlock knew she wasn't really sleeping. He couldn't really explain it, but something about her lying there, trying so hard not to look sad or helpless, made him feel something, something he couldn't place a finger on. He wanted to kill whoever had upset her like this. Of course, legally, he was already dead. He cleared his throat even though he knew that she was already aware of his presence.

"Toby apologizes for upsetting you, Molly. He didn't put his tail under my foot on purpose." That should appease her. Molly did seem to have it in her head that the cat had the mind of a human. But Molly didn't respond. Sherlock sighed. It is the good people who are always hurt so easily. They see only goodness in the world and the cruelty of reality breaks them. He brushed a strand of hair from her forehead and hesitantly pressed his lips right above her eyebrow.

"I'm sorry, Molly Hooper. Sleep well."

He stood and walked somberly to the door. He was just about to latch it behind him when he heard a soft, tired voice.

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

Sherlock made his way back to the couch, crossing his legs and staring at the blank screen. He had had friends before, well, acquaintances - people who mattered. John, Mrs Hudson, Greg. And he had, especially with John, seen him upset - hell, upset him himself - without second thought. But this wasn't John. This was Molly. And he couldn't bear seeing her upset. Her smile, her odd, almost forced optimism, they should have been a constant annoyance. With anyone else, they would be. But he didn't mind them with Molly. He just enjoyed being with her. She was easy, she was simple. She kept his suddenly lifeless life interesting.

Once, just to see how ordinary people worked, he had gone through dinner trying not to think about anything, not to study her, not to figure out what she wanted to talk about beforehand. To his surprise, his confusion, and - to an extent - his fear, he found no difference. The conversation flowed normally. He smiled slightly when she said something funny, she laughed as he complained about reality television. It was so normal. It almost frightened him.

He was Sherlock Holmes. He didn't do normal. Sitting down, with a woman who loved him, eating three meals a day (a few days a week, at least), falling asleep with the cat in front of the television, it was so domestic. His eyes glanced towards Molly's shut door.

He was Sherlock Holmes. He didn't do caring. He didn't do affection. They just meant trust. And trust meant getting hurt. Always. Constantly.

Sherlock Holmes didn't trust. Not the type of trust to discover why Molly's anger was making him so miserable. Not the type of trust in himself to even think of the possible answers. If he couldn't even trust himself with his own feelings and curiosities, how could he trust another?

He looked back at the door.

He didn't need to trust her. He couldn't let himself trust her. He couldn't let himself care. She was just Molly, after all.

Just Molly. He sighed. Well, he thought to himself, at least she'll probably still be angry in the morning. Why would he trust an angry person? Especially one who was angry with him. He grabbed the blanket from the back of the couch and wrapped it around himself. Toby climbed onto his stomach. The first few nights, he had pushed the cat to the floor. But now he was used to him. He could talk to him without the cat talking back. More efficient than a human, more acceptable than a skull.

"Goodnight, Toby."

* * *

Sherlock awoke the following morning to the sound of slamming cabinets in the kitchen. He had been right. Molly was most certainly still bitter in the morning. He made his way towards her and stared as she scooped some food into Toby's bowl. As she scrambled some eggs on the stove, she didn't even acknowledge his presence. It wasn't unusual for there to be silence between the two, but even he could feel the tension between them, another thing he wasn't used to.

"Did you buy milk?" because something needed to be said.

Molly froze. She had half a mind to kick him out on the street. After all he had put her through the previous night, he had the nerve to ask if she remembered to buy milk. She didn't bother to turn to face him.

"It's in the fridge."

Some days, she truly hated Sherlock Holmes.

She heard the refrigerator open and shut again. She continued to ignore him.

"You're still angry at me." It was an observation, not a question. She said nothing. "Well?"

"You made a statement, Sherlock, it was not a question and therefore did not warrant a response."

Sherlock sat down at the table. He was used to people being angry with him. Back on Baker Street, John was angry all the time. But this was different. He had seen Molly frustrated with him before, but never this angry. He didn't like it.

"I stopped you from kissing a man you have little interest in. I don't see how this could sill be upsetting you."

Molly scooped some eggs onto a plate and promptly set them in front of him.

"Eat."

"I'm not hungry."

"Eat."

He raised an eyebrow at her. "I'm not hungry."

"Dammit, Sherlock! Just eat the damn eggs!"

She cringed at the shrillness of her own voice, turning around and leaning on the counter for support. Nobody got to her the way he did. It wasn't fair, how easily he could upset her.

"That wasn't about the eggs."

She took a deep breath. "Well, it's not about Greg, or the milk either."

She could hear Toby's soft purring as Sherlock lifted him onto his lap. She was glad she was still facing away from him. The picture of him holding Toby like any normal human being never failed to make her smile.

"Then tell me, Molly. What is upsetting you so much?"

You.

"Why don't you tell me?"

He stared at her back for several long moments. He used to be able to read her so easily. She was an open book, lying there, almost waiting for Sherlock to learn everything about her, with or without her explicit permission. But now he saw nothing. She was angry, of course, and it was directed at him. He could see that she had had a rough week at work. On Tuesday the look on her face had clearly shown that a child had been brought to her morgue. Molly hated dead children. So she had been upset all week. But why was she angry with him? It was something big, more than the crush she had on him. It had never been a problem before, her having liked him, so why would it be now?

"I don't know."

Molly spun around. What the hell was he talking about?

"What do you mean 'you don't know?' You always know. Everything about everyone. Whether we want you to or not."

Sherlock normally didn't have a problem admitting not knowing something to people he trusted. People like John. Of course, he seldom needed to, but it didn't normally bother him as much as people assumed it would. But he felt weak admitting not knowing something to Molly. Molly who was so impressed by his genius. She looked up at the clock. It read half past seven.

"You should go. You don't want to be late for work. Who else will perform all the autopsies?"

Something was wrong. Molly was no idiot.

"There are other attendants. Sherlo-"

"Well, they're all incompetent. So I recommend you leave." They made eye contact and he held her gaze for longer than he normally found comfortable. "Have a good day, Molly."

Molly bit her lip, torn between listening to him and forcing him to continue this conversation. She sighed and grabbed her bag from the counter.

She hated Sherlock Holmes. But, mostly, she hated loving him.