A cold sweat hot-headed believer

Work keeps her busy the next day and she's able to keep Sherlock and her confusion off her mind. It's good that he doesn't show up for a case or an experiment, giving Molly time to cool off. When she makes it home, she's no longer as upset as she was the night before when she'd left Sherlock's flat. They still needed to talk and properly this time, but she knows she needs to calm herself. She's afraid that if she confronts him again like last night, they'll end up resolving it the same way. And she knows that's not a very good solution.

Even though she's itching to, she doesn't call, doesn't text. She tries keeping herself distracted enough that she doesn't give in and contact him. A perverse part of her wants him to get in touch first. The realistic part of her knows that it won't be the case. She makes it to three days and by then she feels ready to see him again.

She sends him a message, asking if they could meet. It shouldn't bother her that hours later he hasn't replied. She should be used to it by now but she can't ignore the tightening in her chest every time she checks and sees no answer. Yet she can't allow herself get too worked up by this, fearing the exact same thing will happen as the last time. She'd ranted and raved and he'd seduced her into submission.

::

"They're my friends, Sherlock!"

"They're boring."

"They're not boring to me!"

"Honestly, Molly, I don't know why you waste your time with them. You could be do so much more valuable work. Assisting me, for example."

"Assisting you? Wow. Yes, of course! You know, sometimes I think you're the one wasting my time."

"You don't mean that."

"Maybe I do."

With a snarl, he grabs her face and kisses her.

::

She should be ashamed how eagerly she'd kissed him back, how she'd allowed him to walk her into his bedroom, how promptly she'd spread her legs so he could use his fingers and tongue on her. Yes, the sex was good. Probably the best she ever had. But sometimes it felt like it was the only good thing about them and that worried her.

It's almost the end of her shift when Greg Lestrade arrives.

"Hey, what brings you here?" she greets him, happy to see a friendly face.

He gives her a tired grin, "You know, murder."

"How exciting! I mean, sorry. Uhm, you know."

"He rubs off on you, doesn't he?" he chuckles.

Grateful that Greg understands her unfortunate sense of humour, she asks, "Which one is it? Pearson's been doing all the autopsy work today but I saw the reports."

"Professor Lewis, stabbing case."

"Ah yes. The murderer must've been in a total rage going by the wounds. Do you have any suspects?"

"Yeah, a solid one. I hope to close this within the week."

"That's good."

He raises his eyebrow, "Sherlock likes to think he's indispensable but we manage fine without him. And I doubt he would've taken this one, anyway."

"Not enough mystery?" she says, surprised how scornful she sounds.

"That and he's in France, isn't he? How long is he there for?"

Caught unaware by this, she stammers, "I don't know."

He gives her a sympathetic smile, "One never does with him."

She returns his smile with a wan one of her own, "Sometimes I think I don't understand him at all."

Greg says his goodbyes, leaving Molly to her own thoughts. By the time she'd cleaned up and was getting into her coat, there's still no reply from Sherlock. She doesn't follow up with a question about France. There was no point. They'd been through this too often.

::

"I was worried."

"I'm fine. All in one piece, see?"

"That's not the point."

"Then what is? I don't like distractions when I'm on a case."

"I know you don't but you could text me beforehand. Let me know you'll be away."

"John texted you."

"Yes. John texted me, after I've sent you several messages, which you ignored, and I had to ask him."

"Then text John the next time."

"...you know what? Forget it."

"You're angry."

"Am I?"

"Molly...I'm here now and I'm fine. No need to worry."

"I had to endure two years of not knowing if you were still alive. So excuse me for asking this simple thing of you."

::

While he's away, she finds numerous things to occupy her time. Being in a relationship had never stopped her from being her own person.

She works on her research paper. She goes to see Mrs. Hudson for tea and a chat – and to retrieve some tongues from 221B. She has a fun afternoon with Mary and baby Emma. She calls her younger sister, Claire, who's expecting her first child any time soon. She goes out with her friends for dinner and dancing. She's definitely not sitting at home, waiting for a certain consulting detective to find the time to text her back.

So when he finally does, she doesn't see it until hours later, when she and her friends are coming out of a club, looking for cabs. She knows it's a bad idea – she's not drunk, but she's not entirely sober – but she gives the cabbie Sherlock's address anyway.

When she arrives, the door is already open and she runs upstairs. He's standing by the window, half in shadows, a small table lamp the only light in the room.

"Did you have fun with your friends?" he asks, his deep voice holding a trace of mockery.

It inflames her. Angry words are on the tip of her tongue but she holds them in. She should've followed his example and ignored his text but she's always so foolish when it comes to him.

He steps away from the window, saunters towards her and when he's close enough, takes a strand of her hair and rubs it between his fingers.

"But you're here now," he says, smiling with satisfaction.

This time, it's she who snaps. Who pulls him down for a bruising kiss. Who rips his shirt open and claws the hard planes of his body. Who orders him to strip and then pushes him down on the floor, hiking her skirts up to straddle him. Who rides his face and then his cock until they're both a juddering mess.

And when they're done, she gets up, straightens her clothing and leaves without a word.

.

.

The next chapters will be Molly doing some good old soul searching. Will update as soon as I can.