Did you ever have an argument with someone and the argument you're having isn't about the argument you're having? Does this make sense?

He said 'If you dare come a little closer'

Molly takes the expensive jewelry off when they get home. She carefully places them back in the box and hands it to him.

"Do you like them?" he asks her.

She shrugs, "They're gorgeous but completely out of my price range."

He holds out the box to her, "I'll gift them to you."

"Sherlock, that's ridiculous! They're worth a small fortune!"

He frowns, "I thought women liked these sort of things. You said you liked them."

"It doesn't mean I want them," she says.

"Even if I give them to you, as a present? You have a birthday, soon, don't you?" he insists.

"I have no use for them," she shakes her head.

"Fine," he sniffs, "I'll return them."

It's the way he says it that makes Molly suspicious.

"Sherlock…they weren't on loan, were they?"

He turns to leave, "It doesn't matter. You don't want them."

She can tell that he's hurt at her rejection of the gift but instead of feeling guilty, she's angry.

"You know I don't wear a lot of jewelry. And I would never have any other occasion to wear something as expensive as that," she says heatedly.

"You might," he counters.

"When, exactly? We never do anything that would give me reason to."

"You had reason tonight."

"Because you were on a case," she says, trying not to raise her voice.

"And there will be other cases," he counters.

She knows she sounds childish but she can't help shrieking, "I don't want them!"

"Fine," he growls and leaves, slamming the door.

How dare he be upset, she thinks furiously. And throws one of her shoes at the closed door.

::

"The flowers are lovely."

"My research indicates they're customary."

"Research? Do you mean the women's mags you read?"

"John's confirmed that the giving of flowers is a convention between two people who are …involved."

"Are we…involved?"

"After yesterday, I thought we were."

::

Once her anger subsides, Molly wonders if she's overreacted earlier. It seems such a petty argument but then acknowledges that it had not been the jewelry that had set her off.

She thinks about her feelings from earlier that night. The confession she's made to her sister comes back to her mind. She does love Sherlock but is their relationship what she wants?

What does she want?

She may be a romantic but she doesn't expect fancy dinners, flowers everyday, nor expensive jewelry or gifts. Neither does she expect her partner to be constantly at her beck and call or to forsake everyone else in favour of her. She has friends who expect their significant others to do all these things for them and its not something that has ever appealed to her.

She thinks of the couples she admires – John and Mary, Mike and his wife, her sister and her partner, her parents. There was romance in their relationships, but of the quiet, constant type.

Molly recalls the way her parents used to be with each other - affectionate, supportive, loving. Secret smiles across the dinner the table, holding hands during Sunday walks, conversations late at nights.

What her parents had - and the other couples have – is a partnership based on mutual understanding and reciprocated feelings.

She wants a partner. She wants someone to talk to about her dreams and worries, her plans and fears, someone who shares theirs with her. Someone who makes her feel secure in her love and who returns it.

But her relationship with Sherlock isn't that. She often feels more like a companion than a partner - sometimes even less than a companion, a mere assistant.

She knows that understanding feelings doesn't come easily to Sherlock and expressing them is even harder for him. She knows that he tries and she's touched when he does. But is that enough?

She would never ask him to do anything that makes him truly uncomfortable. She would likewise never ask him to change to someone he's not. Yet, there is room for compromise, isn't there?

Doesn't she deserve that?

Her insecurities whisper nasty things in her head – trying to convince her that she's asking too much, that it's a miracle that she and Sherlock have made it this far, that she's been waiting for the other shoe to drop ever since their first kiss.

Had she? Is that why, despite her annoyance at his disregard for her own wishes, shied away from having a very frank conversation with him? Because they had never actually talked, had they? They had simply fallen into this relationship and made a hash by trying to muddle through.

And it wasn't entirely Sherlock's fault.

::

"John called me your girlfriend."

"Did he?"

"It sounded weird."

"You don't approve?"

"It's not…I don't know, it just seems a bit strange."

"But you've not objected to the term in previous relationships."

"I know. I'm sorry, I'm not making sense. I'll shut-up now."

::

After a restless night, Molly comes to a decision. She texts Sherlock, asking him if she could come over. She's relieved when the reply comes almost instantly and positive.

She makes sure to have a good breakfast and loads of coffee. She takes a quick shower to look refreshed, then chooses her favourite pair of trousers and top. Some moisturiser and concealer for her face, a coat of mascara and a dab of lip balm and she feels ready to go to Baker Street.

She opts for the tube. Sherlock hates the hustle and noise of the London Underground, preferring the privacy of cabs. But Molly, who usually works in the chilly silence of the morgue or the muted atmosphere of the lab, likes the diversion of other commuters.

Once she's outside the house on Baker Street, she rings the doorbell before letting herself in with her key. Halfway up the stairs, she can see that the door to the sitting room is half open. She knocks briefly and then enters.

Sherlock is sitting in his chair, in his thinking pose with hands steepled under his chin.

"Hi", she greets, walking over to sit in 'John's' chair. He doesn't return her greeting, but his eyes focus on her.

She gives him a smile, even though his detached manner bothers her. She won't be distracted from her purpose by his stoic stare. It is time that they had a discussion about their relationship and his demeanor will not deter her.

"You're unhappy," he announces and it has the effect of knocking the breath out of her.

Not understanding why she feels so thrown by his statement, it takes her a few seconds to regroup.

"No," she finally says, having examined the veracity of his words. "But I'm not happy either."

It may not be how she'd planned to open the discussion, but it was a good start as any, she decided. However, he continues before she can elaborate.

"I think you were right," he says, his hands now settled on the armrests.

There is an almost combative stance to his pose. Or maybe she's just imagining that, she thinks.

"About what?" she asks him. The absence of any emotion on his beautiful face almost scares her.

"That I can't give you what you want."

"And what do I want?" she hears herself dumbly ask. A cold dread slowly advances from the tip of her fingers and toes, travelling to settle heavily in her stomach.

"Things that I'm not capable of."

"No," she shakes her head, trying to shake off the awful feeling in her body. This is not how this was supposed to go but she doesn't seem capable of refuting his words.

There's that sharp, pitiless look on his face, "It is in my nature to be selfish. And I've always been selfish with you."

She shakes her head again, "You're not selfi…"

But he interrupts her harshly, "Did you not come to speak to me? About us?"

"I have but this isn't…"

"I was foolish in thinking that I was prepared for a relationship. I barely make an adequate friend. I fear my nature will never make me a suitable partner and, despite my selfishness and ego," here he gives her a sardonic smile, "I do not wish to inflict my shortcomings in that area on anyone. And as I do care about you, as much as I am capable of caring for anyone, you are the last person I would want to hurt."

Despite her placid nature, Molly has never been one to meekly accept a situation that she disagreed with. And what was happening now, the words he was saying, it was absolutely not anything she agreed with. She has come here to work it out, not to have it ended like this.

Yet, looking at his composed face and listening to his dispassionate voice, she can't formulate the thoughts swirling in her head. So she sits and stares at him, mutely, feeling the cold setting in even more.

And then a softness comes into his eyes, "Sooner or later, you would have tired of me, Molly. It is a wonder that you haven't already. I'd rather we end our liaison now and go back to who we were to each other before."

"And that was?" she manages to ask.

"Friends. We were friends, weren't we?"

"I thought we were, but I don't think things can go back to how they were before," she tells him.

'Oh god', she thinks, 'This is not what I want.' But the words to oppose him do not come.

He nods, "Perhaps you're right. But I hope that we can at least preserve our working relationship. "

The reality of what was happening finally hits her. She's just sat through Sherlock breaking up with her with almost no objection from her. And there are objections, loud ones, clanging around her head, waiting to be raised.

What comes out of her mouth is, "You've made up your mind."

"I should have never given in to my sentiments, my impulses. This is for the best. And I am truly sorry to have hurt you in any way."

His expression is resolute, the words sounding final. They sit there for a while, his face never betraying an inner turmoil, while hers probably broadcast all her conflicting emotions. From somewhere deep and old and wounded, she finds some words to say.

"Maybe you are right. Maybe we would have realized in a month or year from now that we're wasting our time. But I think you're a coward."

He starts, "Molly…"

"No. You've made up your mind, but you are a coward." She stands up and takes a step towards him, looking down at his face.

They'd made love in that chair, the memory of his hands gripping her waist as she'd ridden him almost tangible. That satisfied look on his flushed, sweaty face as they both came down from their peaks, snuggling into him as their skin cooled, they were all things of the past now.

"Maybe I'm a coward, too," she says. She digs out the key from her bag and gives it to him.

When he takes it from her, she swiftly leaves the flat.