A/N: This is the third story to a one-a-day challenge I'm giving myself. This will definitely be at least a two chapter story, but I'm thinking about making it a multi-chapter involving a case that really hits home for Sherlock and Molly. So let me know what you think and thanks for reading!—thefaultoflegend

"Molly, please. I don't think it's really too much to ask for."

"Sherlock! It is a lot to ask for and there's no way I'm letting it happen."

"But I need it for a case!"

"Well then you can waltz yourself down to the bloody morgue and use it there!"

John Watson climbed the steps to his old flat in great trepidation as he heard what was transpiring above him. He listened to the argument of his two friends with great amusement. It wasn't every day that someone fought back and wouldn't give Sherlock Holmes his way. But, the pathologist from St. Bart's was certainly up to the job. John smirked thinking that all it took to take down the world's only consulting detective was the once quiet, Molly Hooper. The yelling continued as John let himself into the flat, not bothering to knock. He walked in to find the flat in a state of shambles. There were dirty clothes and take out containers everywhere across the living room, and the kitchen, where he encountered Sherlock and Molly, had exploded with Sherlock's various experiments. Body parts were placed haphazardly across the countertops and chemicals lay about the room. In the middle of it all stood a pajama-clad Sherlock with goggles on top of his head that were causing his hair to stick out everywhere, and Molly, who stood with her hands on her hips, still lecturing away.

"How exactly do you expect me to get an entire body out of the morgue and into 221B?" asked Molly now as Sherlock popped his goggles back on and peered over some sort of concoction on the stove.

"You get the body. I'll have Mycroft take care of the rest," replied the detective, not even bothering to look at her.

"You can't get your brother to help you with everything! And the bottom line is I'm not getting you the body." John watching, trying to hold back laughter as Sherlock stood upright and ran his eyes up and down Molly's small form.

"You look very nice today," he said finally, with as much enthusiasm as he could muster up.

"That stuff doesn't work on me anymore," replied Molly without even flinching. John felt a swell of pride for the woman who had come so far when it came to dealing with Sherlock. Long gone were the days where she waited on him hand and foot every time he complimented her.

"You've been so impossible ever since you broke off that engagement with what's-his-face," stated Sherlock, now glaring heavily. "You won't get me any body parts anymore and are never at the lab when I tell you to be. Besides that you've lost weight, making you're already too-small body even smaller, you have bags under your eyes at all times which are never covered up since you seem to have completely forgotten how to use make-up, and you cry constantly. I can always tell. I honestly don't know why you left him if you were going to be so miserable all the time."

Molly Hooper did not even hesitate to promptly slap Sherlock Holmes across the face. John was still in the kitchen, leaning against a wall in the corner. The pair hadn't even noticed him come in and now he desperately tried to stifle his laughter as Sherlock stood there, his mouth hanging wide open and completely speechless. After a second of Sherlock looking surprised at Molly and Molly giving him a death-glare back, the detective closed his mouth and then opened it again as if to say something.

"Not a word, Sherlock Holmes," interrupted Molly. "You deserved that and you know it. Now you will quit this experimenting, clean up this horrid flat before you give Mrs. Hudson a heart attack, and never ask me about that damn body ever again." And with that Molly stormed out of the flat, slamming the door on her way out.

After a few moments, Sherlock took off his goggles, slammed them on the table, and began cleaning up the messy kitchen. Now it was John's turn to look shocked as he watched his best friend actually following Molly's demands and pulling cleaning products out of a cupboard.

John cleared his throat. "That was a bit not good, mate," he said to Sherlock's back.

"I know," he replied while turning off the burner he was working with and putting body parts back into the refrigerator. John was silent for a few minutes while he watched Sherlock. He actually looked a little bit sad, as if he was actually sorry for what he said to Molly. "John," he said after most of the counters were cleared off. "Can you get my phone for me? It's in my coat pocket."

John walked over to the couch and dug Sherlock's coat out from under a pile of button up shirts. He dug the phone out and handed it to Sherlock who was now sitting in his chair. John took the opposite one and watched his friend's eyes glaze over as he went to his mind palace, his phone pressed up against his mouth.

"What are you thinking about?" asked John, while Sherlock's consciousness searched frantically through a room titled "Molly Hooper."

"How to apologize to Molly." He then unlocked his phone, dialed and held the phone up to his ear. John watched in amazement as Sherlock actually took the time to call Molly. He didn't even do that with John, unless it was really important.

As Molly walked down the street, she felt the buzzing in her pocket that indicated an incoming call. She was surprised to see Sherlock's name pop up on the caller ID. He never called. She tried to pull herself together. She was so sick of dealing with Sherlock lately. He was becoming even harder to handle, and even Molly found herself battling to keep up with him. He was right about everything of course. She had been miserable ever since she broke the engagement off with Tom. She wasn't eating or sleeping. She cried all the time. And she even thought about going back to him more than once. But in the end, she stayed away. Molly had always been one for doing what was morally right and marrying a man when one is in love with someone else didn't hold up to her standards. If only Sherlock could get it through his daft brain that he was the reason she did it. He hassled her for weeks about it, frustrated that even he couldn't deduce the motives behind Molly's actions. But when it came to Molly, he always saw but he never observed.

She sighed while trying to decide whether or not to answer her still buzzing phone. She figured it was important if he called and not texted, so she took a deep breath, willing her voice not to break during their conversation and answered. "Hello?" she said quietly, suddenly losing all the conviction she had during their fight.

Sherlock was quiet for a few moments before speaking up. "You answered," he said but it came out more like a question. He didn't actually expect her to give him any sort of response after what he just said to her.

"Well, yes, Sherlock. You called. I figured it was important," she said, now sounding a bit more irritated. She started walking again back to her flat, ready to just sit on the couch and mindlessly watch television while escaping for a bit.

"It is important," he replied, able to find his voice again. "I request that you come back to 221B immediately."

Molly rolled her eyes. "And why should I do that?" She wasn't willing to have two tiffs with Sherlock Holmes in the same day.

"So…that…uh…" Back at the flat, John laughed as Sherlock was speechless for the second time that day, and all because of Molly.

"So that you can apologize," mouthed John to Sherlock.

"Right!" cried the detective. "So that you can apologize." John hit himself in the head with his palm before walking over and hitting Sherlock over the head with a rolled up newspaper.

"So that you, Sherlock, can apologize, you git," he said to his friend. Molly got to her flat and unlocked to door, only imagining what was happening over on Baker Street.

"That's what I meant," said Sherlock to John before turning his mouth back to the phone. "Molly, so that I can apologize."

"Save it, Sherlock. I don't need to hear it today," she replied and hung up, feeling quite proud of herself for standing up to him.

At 221B, Sherlock stared down at his phone, his mouth agape. "Right," he said, "new plan." He walked over to grab his coat and thread his scarf around his neck. "The game, John, is on."