Broken Illusions

Category: Hurt, Angst, Angel POV.
Rating: T
Spoilers: Series 2 Finale "The Reichenbach Fall"
Summary: Molly sees the truth because she finally realises she doesn't count.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognisable characters and places are the property of Arthur Conan Doyle, Mark Gatiss, Stephen Moffatt and the BBC . This piece of fan fiction was created for entertainment not monetary purposes and no infringement on copyrights or trademarks was intended. Previously unrecognised characters and places, and this story, are copyrighted to the author. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Author's Notes: I'm not sure whether this should become part of a longer story or a one piece. So it may or may not be completed :)

There's something wrong.

I can see it now. It's been building up for days, eating away at him, about to devour him.

I can see it.

And it is this more than anything else that makes me realise how stupid I've been. How naïve and foolishly I've behaved.

He's putting on an act for John. Pretending everything's fine when it's not. There's sadness, melancholy in his looks, his posture, his every movement. But only when John's not looking. He doesn't bother to hide it from me. It's not because he thinks I'm oblivious and won't notice, and it's not because he's comfortable enough around me not to pretend.

It's because he doesn't even see me. He doesn't even realise I'm here, standing in the same space as him, breathing the same air.

And that's what hurts, and what finally makes me see the truth. I could cry with embarrassment and humiliation. His Christmas party flashes before my mind's eye and I step back, further away from him, cringing as I remember what I wore, and the trouble I went to.

To Sherlock it must have seemed as if I was practically throwing myself at him. And I'm honest enough with myself to admit that while I was in the bathroom smearing that lipstick across my mouth, a corner of my mind whispered 'maybe now he'll notice.'

But now I know for sure. Sherlock Holmes will never notice me because he's already determined I am beneath him. My only purpose in his world is to give him access to the equipment and specimens he needs.

He doesn't even need to voice the words aloud. He's telling me now, with every slip of the mask he's been wearing in front of his friend all day. Even now, as I approach him, he doesn't see me. I'm insignificant. I don't matter. I don't count. Why waste energy pretending to something that doesn't matter?

My chest hurts at the revelation, and throbs even more when I realise that it doesn't matter. In the end, if Sherlock needs me, I will do whatever I can for him.

"Alkaline."

"Thank you, John."

"Molly," I correct him, not even able to meet his eyes.

"Yes," comes the non committal reply, probably not even realising he's spoken.

You can call it pathetic, pity me, but the truth is, I can't help it. I know he sees me as an annoyance, an inconvenience that must be borne to get at what he needs. But I will always be there for him, no matter what.

I know him better than he thinks I do. I know every eye roll, every forced smile, every finger tap and shake of the head. I see more than he thinks. I know when he's about to fluster me and confuse me to get what he wants. I know that he ignored my ridiculous attempts to flirt with him and ask him out. I know all that and still it doesn't stop me.

But this does.

Now.

Here.

Because nothing could have made it more clear that I mean nothing to him. Not all the personal insults and Irene Adler's in the world could be clearer than the fact that I am not worthy enough for him to protect me, like he protects John. Like the way my father protected me.

It hurts, and I close my eyes briefly, willing whatever moisture is building behind them to stay put and not dare make an appearance over the rims of my eyelashes.

I'm hurt, but, I also realise, I'm glad. If I'm the only one who can see the truth, who knows what's going on, then maybe I'm the only one who can help him.

"I.O.U," the quiet mutterings and tapping fingers betray his frustration. "Glycerol molecule," the sadness leaks out of him in the whispers of his sigh "what are you?"

I glance nervously at him, but he's already focused his attention back to the microscope, ignoring me. John's searching through crime photographs, lost in his own world, in a way as oblivious as his friend.

Sherlock's protecting him, caring for him in the only way he knows how. By not letting him in. He doesn't care about me in the same way. Maybe I should take advantage of that. For his own sake. Maybe it's time to show Sherlock that I can be useful to him other than as a procurer of body parts.