So this is a very short one shot inspired by the song Say Something, cause it's beautiful and haunting and I just can't get enough of sad beautiful melodies at the minute. Seriously, just youtube it, by A Great Big World. It's lovely.

"Sherlock, please, I can't do anything to help you if you won't talk to me!"

Molly stood dejectedly in the doorway to 221B, am old jumper hanging off one shoulder and old leggings sitting just above her ankles. Her hair was tied up in a messy bun, strands falling haphazardly into her eyes. Her cheeks were flushed as her chest heaved, anger making her breath come uneven and ragged.

Sherlock lounged idly at the fireplace, emotionless and stoic in the face of her anger, appearing to an outsider bored. Molly could see the hurt in his eyes, despite his best efforts to hide it.

"Say something. Please. I... I'm giving up on you. On us." Her eyes filled with tears as he remained as cold, as beautiful and as unreachable as the distant stars that shone above London on that clear, icy evening.

She turned from the room, straightening her shoulders as she descended the stairs.

Sherlock pushed off from the mantle piece and lingered by the window as the door slammed shut behind her. He watched her slight form huddle in from the cold, stalking swiftly down the icy road until she was out of sight.

He huffed out a sigh, weary from their fight.

He thought of their first few nights together, blissfully happy on her part, whilst he had basked in her love and attention, content for the first time in years. They had been stranded at an office party, Molly looking as eager to escape as he had felt and for once he had talked to her.

She had made him laugh, not at her, but with her.

She had been relaxed, and in her pretty yellow dress had appeared to be as radiant as an angel, sent to deliver him from his self destructive and ill considered paths.

He had told her, and she had laughed, blushed, and kissed him. To his eternal surprise, his instinct had taken over and they had stumbled back to Baker Street in a tangle of limbs, tongues and caught clothes as adrenaline caught up with them.

They'd collapsed giddily after, and he'd told her that he'd be the one, if she wanted him to be.

She had told him that she'd follow him any where. She had been sincere, painfully so. He had tried to tell her, to warn her that he was not good man, and that he would hurt her.

He had.

He was going to lose her.

Again.

Her words echoed in his ears, the way she had looked as she begged him to "Say something. Anything." was burned into his memory, her beautiful eyes beseeching him though he didn't understand what she wanted.

He couldn't tell her what she wanted to be told.

Love was not a defect found in him.

"I'm giving up on you"

His bottom lip quivered slightly. He may feel incapable of love, but he appreciated her companionship, her beauty, her unusual taste in music and the way her eyes would dance when he played for her.

The way she sighed his name as he filled her, and her mewling cries as she neared each orgasm. The way she made him feel alive in ways he could never explain to her.

He felt so small. So very small, young and innocent. Relationships had always gone over his head.

He, who thought - knew - that he knew so much, knew nothing. He knew nothing at all.

He was fumbling through the dark, searching for the light to make this unknown familiar when he had pushed her away.

He was stumbling, falling and he needed her, just as he was learning to love, he had fallen so deeply into depths though he was barely able to crawl.

He knew that he would follow her anywhere.

"I'm giving up on you." He ran out of the flat, calling a cab and directing it to her flat. He needed her, he loved her, and he needed to tell her.

He had to say something.

The thought of losing her had become abhorrent in the short time she had been out of his flat.

He loved her.

He needed her.

He'd be damned if he'd live without her again, he couldn't let himself ruin what they had by not saying anything.

Not telling her would be the worst mistake he could make.

He saw her shaking shoulders in the pavement in front of him, so called for the cab to stop, throwing some money in the driver's general direction.

"Molly. Wait... Please."

He waited, breathless with anticipation as she stopped, back to him, before turning slowly to face him.

"Say something, I'm giving up on you."

Her face was blotchy, eyes red rimmed and her nose was almost glowing as she raised her chin to meet his gaze.

He flinched at the guarded expression there; her eyes were the most expressive he had ever seen, and to see them radiate fear, hurt, anger and betrayal cut his heart to ribbons.

"I love you, Molly. Please, come home." He opened his arms, letting his guard down enough to show his sincerity without leaving him feeling exposed.

"I can't do that, not if you're going to be like this every time! You need to be more understanding, Sherlock. I have been patient, and god knows that I have put with a lot. I need to be appreciated!" Her tears spilled over, coursing down her rosy cheeks, leaving twin trails of glittering crystals as her tears froze in the Baltic air.

"I appreciate you. I do, I swear it. I cannot live with out you. Please, come home?"

She sighed, unsure as he opened his arms to her.

"Please?"

She nodded and went into his warm embrace.

The second time they fought, he had started it.

Her hair had contaminated some samples of a hard to acquire mould and he had all but accused her of deliberately tampering with them to make him spend time with her.

He knew she hadn't.

He knew she wouldn't.

She had been calm, and he had pushed her to the limit, past the limit, goading her, insulting her, treating her like worse than nothing.

Like he used to.

She had dropped her cup. The china lay in a delicate layer over his floor, shattered into millions of beautiful but destroyed pieces.

He refused to acknowledge the symbolism.

Hey eyes had reproached him, as he had stood as cold, as distant and as ethereally beautiful as the stars shining so far above them.

So close to her, yet a thousand miles apart.

Say something, her eyes had seemed to say.

His throat had constricted; he couldn't say anything if he wanted to.

He wanted to.

She had screamed, cried and ranted, but had left silently.

She didn't realise how much she meant to him. She meant so, so much.

The one person who mattered to him the most, was giving up on him. Again.

They would never fix the broken china.

He hoped that they could still fix them.

He hoped there would never be a next time.

Four more fights occurred. Each time, he was the instigator.

Each time, she left him.

She came back too.

This time was different, though.

She had started it. Had asked him to talk, and he had listened. Silently.

He had pushed her too far with his silence. She had risen gracefully, hair around her shoulders as she stalked deliberately towards him, and slapped him soundly.

He hadn't even flinched.

He had sat there and taken the slap like nothing had happened. Searched his mind for some clue as to her anger.

She stood in front of him, quiet too.

Her dark, beautiful eyes glowed in the half light, unshed tears making them shine with repressed misery. They met his, weary and done.

She was done.

Giving up on him.

"I can't take this any more, Sherlock. I... I will swallow my pride. I'll go. You're the one that I love, and I'm saying goodbye." She stayed dangerously still, barely breathing, cheeks flushed as she observed him. He blinked.

Say something, she's giving up on you. His internal voice, eerily like Mycroft's, taunted him.

It was true.

"I would have followed you. Anywhere, forever, if you'd wanted me to. But you... you don't care, do you?" She swallowed thickly.

Raised her chin.

Whispered, "I'm sorry."

Left him. Again.

For the last time.

She slipped out of the flat, as his icy façade shattered around him, leaving him broken by the door. Pain engulfed him as she left.

Gone.

No.

No!

He ran down the stairs, slamming the door to 221 Baker Street as he went. The stars shone brightly down on the nearly empty street, the full moon smiling its mellow rays and bathing everything in a soothing, mystical light. She, hunched against the frigid night air, looked radiant, as though some goddess had bestowed some incredible magic upon her, drawing his eye like a moth to a flame, ensuring he saw nothing but her.

He couldn't look away.

He didn't want to look away.

He loved her.

He grasped her shoulder and crashed his lips to hers, savouring the taste of her against his lips.

Relishing the little squeak of surprise that morphed into a moan.

He pulled away.

Say something.

"I love you."

She laughed bitterly.

"You expect me to believe you? You say nothing to me - nothing!-an now you expect me to believe that you love me?" Tears slid free of her eyes' confines, trickling unabated down her face.

"I love you, Molly. I. Love. You. It doesn't make up for my failings. Or my treatment of you. I love you, Molly! I love the way you are clueless and brilliant and hideous first thing in the morning after a long night, but still the most beautiful person I have ever had the fortune of knowing. I even love your horrible dress sense, and the fact that you can't drive, your eyes give away what you think and the way your nose scrunches up when you're angry. I love everything about you, Molly Hooper, and I REFUSE to live without you. I can't. I can't go back to how I was. Please, don't make me return to the man I was."

He raised his eyes to the heavens, expecting a slap.

He didn't get one.

"I love you too, Sherlock. But you have to talk to me. Don't be... silent."

"I won't."

Wow that came from nowhere.