AN: This was a prompt fill on tumblr for comebemyhusband who prompted "The day Sherlock finds out Molly uses a photo of them as her background at work. Estab. relationship, very fluffy. Slight angst?"

It really actually turned out slight fluffy, very angst, but I liked it anyway! Hope you do as well! And for the record, I wrote this with no idea on what caused Sherlock and Molly to get into a fight. Whatever it was though, you can be assured that it was most likely Sherlock's fault.

~Enjoy!

John tells him that a couple fighting is normal. That it happens to everyone. That they won't stay mad at each other long and that this will make them stronger as a couple. Just as soon as Sherlock apologizes to Molly everything will be fine.

Sherlock thinks John is an idiot. He thinks this in between insisting that he has done nothing wrong, loudly exclaiming that his romantic perusal of Doctor Molly Hooper has been a mistake, and yelling that they have to find a new pathologist and hospital now as he'll never be able to go to Barts again. Unless Molly decides to quit. And for a moment he finds himself wondering how he can make her quit.

"Oh, for god's sake Sherlock, just apologize already!" John shouts, throwing his hands up in the air.

Sherlock stops thinking it and tells his flatmate that he's an idiot. This is why he's currently sitting alone in 221B as John has decided that he'd rather the affections of Mary bloody Morstan than help his friend survive a breakup. Because as he clutches his violin in his hand, Sherlock realizes that he and Molly must have broken up. After all, Molly clearly told him that she never wanted to see him again.

For a long time he sits in his chair and methodically locks Molly Hooper away in his mind. He's allowed her to run rampant through his mind palace – messy, messy, it's usually so much more careful – so he rounds up the memories, the smells, and the feelings into a back room – back far beyond where his memories of Moriarty are kept – and firmly locks the door.

It doesn't make him feel any better.

Next he removes all traces of her from the flat. He finds her slippers and dressing gown, takes her toothbrush from the bathroom, removes her reading glasses from his bedside table, and collects all the books she's ever forgotten at Baker Street and places the lot in a box which he leaves in John's room. He can never see her again - he doesn't want Molly to see him again - so it's up to John to return her belongings.

Somehow it just makes the flat seem just that more empty.

He thinks of his own belongings left at her place – John will have to fetch those for him – and then his blood runs cold. His experiments. Years of meticulous research now abandoned at Barts, Molly's domain. Some of them he can leave, some he had done more to satisfy his own curiosity than to aid him in his work, but he has foolishly left some important experiments there. Samples that would be difficult to re-obtain. Experiments which have run for years, the results of which are still pending.

Stupid, he thinks to himself, fetching his coat and shrugging it on. Stupid, stupid. How had be not foreseen something like this happening? How had he not come up with a plan on what to do in the event of Molly Hooper going out of her damnable mind and forcing him out of her life? Well, there's no helping it now.

He calls a cab and goes to Barts. It's just past one in the morning and the lab is dark when he gets there. Molly won't be in for another six hours, plenty of time to retrieve his more precious experiments and leave. John is, unsurprisingly, no help. When Sherlock texts him to bring boxes and meet him at Barts he texts back with 'SOD OFF' and from his lack of replies after that he must have turned off his phone.

Fine, Sherlock thinks to himself as he carefully packs up his experiments. He's been abandoned on all fronts, but it's not like he hasn't been in this position before. He will cope. He will survive and come up on top again as he always does.

His experiments packed, Sherlock's attention turns to Molly's computer in the corner. Over the years he's turned over most of his documentation and data entry to her. Molly is observant and dedicated to research. Whenever he had found himself too busy with a case to tend to his experiments he had trusted her to maintain and document them. Turning on the computer, he realizes that he's going to have to find someone new to do these things for him. His throat tightens and he coughs to clear it.

Molly's password is childishly easy to hack. Four letters, only the first one capitalized. Toby. Really, Molly? Hadn't anyone ever taught her password safety? He can't complain too much though, he muses as the he gazes at her computer's loading screen. After all this means he can obtain the data he needs without-

Molly's grinning face stares back at him from the computer monitor and Sherlock feels his heart skip a beat. In the image, her arms are wrapped around him as he looks away from the camera and tries to hide a smile. They're standing in one of the observation capsules in the London Eye, the night scape of London stretched out below them.

He remembers taking this photo. Molly had been so excited, laughing that she had finally managed to drag Sherlock out on their first "proper date" as she kept calling it. Which had been ridiculous. By Sherlock's count they had been on dozens of dates already. After all, they had shared experiments and autopsies and lunch in the canteen. However, Molly had been so happy he had hardly corrected her. He wasn't sure on how the topic came up, but after hearing that Sherlock had never been on the Eye, she had insisted they go. Her hand had been so small in his as she'd dragged him across town and up the stairs to the capsule. Her smile had been so bright as they'd stood together and watched London below them. She'd been so happy as she'd begged a pair of American tourists to take their picture together.

Despite his appearances in the picture, Sherlock had been happy too. Her hand in his. Her arms being so tight around him. He always had claimed to detest physical contact but he always found himself craving hers. He'd longed for an excuse for her to wrap her arms around him again. He'd made an art of determining ways to inspire her to press a kiss to his cheek or lips.

They're broken up now. Molly will never hold him again, never kiss him again, never look up at him and smile with wide-eyed wonder and love as he dazzled her with his brilliance again. The thought of it is worse than falling.

He can't seem to tear his gaze away from the photo that serves as her background. While he can see the folder titled 'Sherlock's Experiments' he can't seem to muster the strength to move the mouse to click on it. Molly's face is like a beacon to him and he is spellbound by it.

A door opens in his mind. Sherlock doesn't think as he gathers up his coat and leaves the dark lab, his experiments still in boxes on the counter. His fingers text for a cab automatically against his will. Finding himself outside of Molly's building he lets himself in and ascends the stairs to her flat. He knocks on her door, while he has her spare key somehow he knows that just letting himself in would be not good, and waits.

It's nearly three in the morning. He has to knock twice more before he hears Molly start to stir and make her way to the door. One hand bracing himself against her doorframe he waits as she unbolts her door and unlatches the chain for him. She's dressed in her rattiest pajamas and a dressing gown that's seen better days and she blinks sleep on her eyes as she frowns up at him.

"Sherlock," she says, biting back a yawn. "What do you want? It's three in the morning."

His head feels slightly light and his heart is pounding hard in his chest as he stares down at her. Careful, he reminds himself. Tread carefully. "About our fight-"

Molly draws back from him slightly, her brow creasing. "I don't want to fight anymore," she says quietly. "Not tonight, Sherlock."

"I've been a fool. I'm sorry."

She hesitates then looks up at him, drawing her dressing gown tighter around her. "You're what?"

"Sorry," he says again, quicker and louder in the event she hadn't heard him in the first place. "I'm very sorry. Forgive me, Molly. Please."

Her eyes are wide pools of surprise and innocence as she stares into his own eyes. He wills her to see that his words are sincere. That she means everything to him. That he wouldn't know what to do with himself if she had meant it when she told him to keep away from her. He tenses when her mouth opens to speak, the moment turning to agony when she says nothing.

"Please," he says to fill the silence. As much as he wants her to speak he's afraid of the answer. "Please, Molly."

"Of course I forgive you Sherlock," Molly sighs. She looks away and bites her lip. "If you can forgive me for the things I said to you."

There's nothing for him to forgive. He doesn't tell her that though, simply swoops in and kisses her firmly before she can take back her forgiveness or change her mind. Her arms wrap around him and he sags in relief, forehead resting against hers as their lips come apart. Not knowing what to do next, he does nothing, too afraid that whatever he can think of to do is wrong and he doesn't want to ruin this moment.

"Sherlock," Molly says, yawning again. "I need to go back to bed."

"Can I join you?" he asks.

It's the wrong thing to say as Molly starts to pull back from him, frowning slightly. "I need to be up in two hours," she says and Sherlock curses himself at always saying the wrong thing.

"I just want to hold you," he tells her and it is true. He doesn't want sex, not tonight when he feels like his chest has been ripped open and his heart is exposed for the world to see. He feels too weak, too needy for that. He just wants her to be in his arms, to be in her arms, as he rebuilds his armor.

That must be the right thing to say as Molly lets him into her flat. He hangs up his coat next to hers on the peg and removes his shoes. He strips off his trousers, but leaves his shirt and pants on and joins Molly under the covers after she drops her dressing gown to the floor. She's soft, as soft as he had remembered, and she smells faintly of her strawberry shampoo. Laying her head on his chest, wrapping her arms around him, she sighs in contentment as his arms go around her as well.

"I'm sorry," he tells her again, feeling the warmth of her body and the emotional nature of the day start to get to him.

"Don't worry," Molly says, and squeezes him slightly. She yawns against his neck and snuggles in tighter. "I'll always forgive you."