A/N: I know I say this every time, but I'm so sorry this took so long. There's been a lot going on in my life this summer and I had less time then I thought I would. I wish I could be one of the writers who updates weekly, but I've tried and I can't.

That said, thank you so much to everyone who read and reviewed, they always make my day and give me incentive to keep writing.

A massive thanks to my beta, Prisci. I could not do this without her.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock

Sherlock sat at the edge of Molly's bed, scarcely breathing. He had always had a firm control of his emotions, of the extent to which they impacted his actions. Never before in his life had he exerted so much self-control. But he did and he sat there, fingers clutching the soft, green sheets, and he listened as her words burned into his mind. All these things about her - these things that turned her into the nervous, loving, kind, and timid thing he saw her as - he never knew. He clutched her sheets tighter.

He missed things all the time, he knew that. There was always one little thing that he was slightly off on. But this, this was an entire lifetime that he never knew. But how could he? She was so kind, so loving, so absolutely trusting. How was he supposed to see something so awful in her past? He had always assumed that her life had been as quiet when she was younger as it was now. But he had been so, so wrong.

He put a hand over his face, trying to quiet his breathing. He had promised when he moved in that he would protect her, but how could he protect her from her own past? Would she still trust him if he failed and allowed her past to claim her once more? He had known Molly for years and he knew full well that she trusted with her whole heart. But this man, this man who Sherlock was so glad was dead, he had completely betrayed her trust. And, although he was not sure why, he fully understood the hurt, the pain, the rage and why it still caused Molly's voice to shrink and tremble.

He held his breath when she stopped talking. For a minute, silence flooded the apartment. Not even Toby dared to make a sound. Then Donovan spoke, her voice so soft that Sherlock could not make out what she said. He listened as the two women exchanged muffled words and as footsteps crossed the floor. He listened in silence as the door open and closed again, as it locked and as light footsteps, footsteps he knew without thought, crossed back. Again silence fell. He sat there, waiting for her. She had said to stay in her room until she got him. Although he knew that Sally had left, he waited. Slowly, minutes passed to hours and Toby pressed against his leg, purring. Quietly, he stood and, lifting the cat into his arms, left the bedroom.

Molly was sitting on the couch, staring blankly ahead of her. He walked over and stood directly before her, but she did not so much as blink. He placed the cat down beside her and watched as Toby dutifully climbed onto his mistress's lap, but still she did not move.

"Molly. Molly, look at me." He reached forward and placed a hand on her arm, hoping to draw her into reality. He was almost hurt when she flinched at his touch. He withdrew. He repeated her name, but she didn't so much as blink.

He knew he should comfort her. He hated seeing her so depressed, so unresponsive. She was all he had in the world and, with her current emotional state, she would prove horribly inconvenient.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw the glass on the coffee table, it's bottom rimmed with dark red. With a sigh, he turned towards the kitchen. The bottle of wine she had opened earlier was still sitting on the countertop. On the far side of the kitchen were the shards of the plate Molly had thrown earlier. He knew he should probably pick that up. She clearly had no intention of doing it tonight and shattered glass on the floor could pose a danger to Toby. With Molly so withdrawn, the cat was his only company and, should something happen, he had no way of getting him to the veterinarian. He stared at the shattered plate. He had asked her if it had helped, if it had made her feel any better. She hadn't responded.

Quietly, he pulled open the drawer next to the sink and grabbed a pencil. He walked over to the broken plate and examined the wall. Maybe five feet up was a small nick in the paint from where the plate had collided with the wall. On top of the nick, he drew a thick X with the pencil, going over the lines several times. Molly would forgive him later. Setting the pencil down, he walked over to the cabinet above the stove and removed a stack of plates – not her nicer set, but most certainly breakable. He would reimburse her, if she asked. He'd probably do it even if she didn't.

When he returned to her, Molly was still staring ahead, but, this time, she looked up as he approached. It almost scared him, the way he couldn't recognise the person in her eyes.

"I was going to get you a glass of wine. A small comfort." It felt strange, talking as if comforting her was something he did constantly, as if her emotions were something he could even try to understand. "I have something for you in the kitchen." He slowly extended his arm.

Molly didn't take it, but she still stood up and walked into the kitchen, as though some supernatural force drove her there instead of his words. She stood there, in the centre of the room, as though his plan was not obvious. Without speaking, Sherlock walked to the stack of plates and brought one back to Molly.

"Hit the target," he said. "You said it helps."

"I never said that," she told him flatly, but he was glad to hear her speak. She took the plate in her hands and looked around the room, her eyes falling on the X. By the time it had shattered off the wall and onto the floor, he had a new plate held before her.

When he handed her the sixth plate, however, she stared at it, as though this plate held some deep dark secret, a panacea to her misfortunes. And suddenly, the plate was on the floor, thousands of pieces around her, upon her feet. For a moment, she looked as if she was about to collapse. Sherlock didn't waste the time to determine whether or not she would. He rushed forward, glad that he felt the need to always wear at least slippers, and lifted Molly into his arms. Without a word, he carried her into her room and laid her on the bed. A small droplet of blood ran down her foot. He walked to her bathroom and, a moment later, returned with a bandage. Molly held out her hand and Sherlock gave it to her. He sat on the edge of her bed and, for a long time, no one spoke.

"You know," she said quietly, "it's not even all that long ago that I started to…that I could…" She looked down at her lap, looking for the words. "It was getting easier to get out of bed in the morning and pretend that it wasn't real. Pretend that it was all a nightmare."

"I can understand why you might want him dead."

"I didn't kill him."

"No one is saying you did. Quite honestly, I don't think you're capable of killing anyone."

Molly snorted.

"Because I'm some weak little girl who can hardly talk to people?"

"Who told you that you were weak?" Molly shrugged. "You cut up dead people for a living. I don't think that's a job for…'weak little girls.' I don't think you could kill anyone because you're too kind. You always see the good in people, even when there's no good to be seen."

Molly brought her knees to her chest. "I'm not naïve. I know what type of men are out there. And don't you…don't you dare play the Jim card on me. Not now." She could feel the tears welling up in her eyes.

Sherlock reached forward and grabbed her hand. This time, she did not pull away. "He's not a card to be played, Molly. He played you. He played me."

Molly nodded, tears leaking from her eyes. "I am glad he's dead. Mitch, I mean."

"Rightfully so, I think."

"I was better before him."

"Oh?"

"I didn't…I didn't let people…No one could simply use me. No one could just take advantage of me. No one could treat me-"

"The way I treat you?"

Molly said nothing. Sherlock turned away. He had never meant to hurt her. He valued Molly's mind, Molly's opinion, over almost anyone else. The woman was remarkably intelligent, in spite of her big heart and cheery disposition. He knew that he had taken advantage of her more than once, taken advantage of her affection for him. When he looked back at her, he immediately wanted to hide from her eyes. They were hers, those big brown eyes, filled with hurt and betrayal and fear and, worst of all, utter love and devotion.

If I were a better man, he wanted to tell her, if I were a man at all, maybe I could love you back. But he stayed silent. With a deep breath, he got up to leave.

"Stay. Please." He turned back towards her, looking deep into her eyes.

Utter love and devotion.

He walked back to the bed and sat down beside her. He let her lean against his shoulder and, as her eyes shut, ran a finger through her hair.

Love is a silly, fleeting thing, he told himself. But he knew how much people craved it. And, one day, if there was any justice in the world, he prayed Molly would get all the love she deserved and more.

"Fancy seeing you here."

Donovan looked up from her desk. "Thought you went home half an hour ago. It's late."

Lestrade shrugged. "Yeah, well, I'm the idiot who gets halfway home before he realises he forgot his wallet."

His partner laughed. "And they made you detective inspector?"

Lestrade shrugged again before retrieving his wallet from his office. "What are you still doing here?"

"Mitchell Richards."

"Ah." He approached her desk and looked over her shoulder. The computer screen was blank and the file on the case lay closed before her. "This is…an interesting discovery. A definite lead."

Donovan chose to ignore him. "I trust you, right?"

"I hope so."

"And you're a good enough man to not let anyone get unnecessarily hurt? Even emotionally?" She hoped her voice sounded calmer than she felt.

"Does this have anything to do with your disappearance this afternoon?"

Donovan took a deep breath.

"Richards had a cousin living in London. A woman I happen to know personally. I wanted to talk to her unofficially."

"To find 'kitten?'"

Donovan closed her eyes. The last time she had mentioned a friend during an investigation, she had ruined the lives of countless people. But this is different, she told herself. With Sherlock, the evidence pointed to him. With Molly, she only has motive. And there could be others. This she had been telling herself all day. She had worked in the police force for years and knew full well that most rapists didn't only strike once.

"His cousin, she set him up with a friend. Back when they were in uni. And they dated for months. But he got controlling. Emotionally abusive, manipulative. Separated her from all her friends."

She turned to face Lestrade. "He tried to rape her. She got away, but he came close. And he told everyone she was lying. They all believed him."

"Shit." Lestrade ran his hand over his head. "Well, that's a pretty damn good motive."

"She had to leave school. None of her friends would even listen to her."

"And some people wonder why there's women who are scared of men." Lestrade sighed. "Could you give me the cousin's name at least? Or at least give me the file and I'll find it myself."

Donovan only hesitated for a moment. "Mary Morstan."

"Really?"

"You know her?"

Lestrade nodded. "I've met her once or twice. She sometimes goes down to the morgue to visit Molly Hooper. They've been friends since, since they were kids."

Donovan nodded, waiting for Lestrade to make the realisation, but her partner was proving a disappointment. Or maybe a relief.

"Molly lived with her," she supplied, "When she went back to uni."

"Yeah, I remember her saying she took a year off at one p-"

And then it all seemed to dawn on him. He looked at his partner with wide eyes.

"No." She nodded. "Shit."

"Listen, Greg. I don't think…I know you said it was a good motive, but this is Molly we're talking about."

"She's our kitten, Sal." His voice was solemn. "Not our murderer."

"I already talked to her. I think we should just let her be. As long as we can. She doesn't want to think about him and I can't say I blame her."

Lestrade sat down on the corner of her desk. "She could lead us to our killer. Whoever, he is, he clearly knows what happened."

"That narrows nothing down. She said that everyone knew about it. And they all hated her."

"Everyone?"

Donovan paused. "We talked, but it was off the record."

Lestrade sighed again. "Well, this is me, as a cop and as a friend: did Molly have any friends in uni? Besides Mary?"

Sally shook her head. "She had one, Micah. But Mary's mentioned him before. Moved to Chicago in '08 and only visited once in '10. Molly's been to see him a few times, but I wouldn't think he's involved."

"But they're close?"

Donovan nodded. "Molly's been to see him twice. Once for his wedding in '09 and when his daughter was born in '11."

Lestrade took a deep breath and ran both hands over his head. "Fuck. This is…this is not a good situation."

More than anything, Donovan wanted to keep this a secret, just between them. Molly didn't need to get dragged into this murder. She had motive, but if she was anyone in this case, she was the mysterious "kitten," not their killer. But it hadn't been so long ago that both she and Lestrade had learned the consequences of hiding the possible involvement of a friend during an investigation. Donovan looked up at Lestrade. She knew full well that they shouldn't keep Molly's past relationship a secret. Lestrade seemed to know exactly what she was thinking, however, and shook his head.

"It could just be a coincidence, Sally."

It was Donovan's turn to shake her head. "I saw her the day we got the call. I was out when the call came in and on my way back here to get you, I stopped at Bart's. I know sometimes she likes the option of seeing the body at the scene. Especially since…Well, anyway, she was…she was not herself, so I told her to go home and that we'd find someone else."

Lestrade pressed his fingers to his temple. "You're telling me that Molly was supposed to be doing the autopsy?"

Donovan nodded. "She's been working with us a lot more since Sherlock. I mean, she's much better than pretty much anyone we have here. I can't remember the last time we did a case without her."

"It's not hard for someone to get those records, see who's been performing autopsies for us."

They sat there in silence for several minutes, both realising that this case had much more depth than they had ever expected. Finally, Donovan broke the silence, her voice barely above a whisper when she said:

"She's the key, Greg."

Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose. "So what do we do now? Bring her in and fucking interrogate her? Jesus fucking…" He trailed off, taking a deep breath. "Why did you even go to Mary, anyway?"

Donovan was surprised by the anger in his voice. "Because if I didn't," she snapped, "someone else would. Someone who doesn't have Molly best interest in mind."

Lestrade's expression felt like a slap in the face. It wasn't right, being able to show so much on your face. Now you're looking out for your friends, even if it means to hell with protocol. Why couldn't you have done this last time?

For once in her life, Donovan just wanted to be able to throw her hands over her head and scream. It wasn't fair. She knew she had made mistakes in the past. But this…this situation, it didn't compare. All the evidence had pointed to Sherlock. Lives were at stake and no relationship would allow her to ignore her number one suspect and simply let him continue investigating the case.

This time, she had no doubt in her mind that Molly was not even a suspect. No, Molly was a victim in this. Trying to keep her from getting too wound up in this case would hurt no one. Donovan stood up and crossed her arms across her chest.

"If someone besides me found out about this first, she'd be in here and interrogated without a second thought. I'm just doing my research first."

Lestrade stared at her for a moment before speaking. "You're damn sure that she's not involved."

Donovan nodded. "She didn't kill him. She didn't know about it. I don't even think she knew he was in London."

Lestrade nodded several times, rocking back and forth.

"Well," he said, sitting on the desk behind him. "This is your case, sergeant. What do we do next?"

"Honestly?" She crossed her arms across her chest. "I think bringing Molly too far into this is a bad idea. I think we try to get as much as we can elsewhere and try to save her from having to talk about it."

"That seems a little…unfair. Beat around the bush because she's your friend?"

Donovan's brow furrowed. "Because she's a victim. And we never blame the victim."

Lestrade snorted. "Well, I hate to break it to you, but our victims tend to be dead."

"Something I picked up when I worked mostly sex crimes."

Lestrade sucked in his lower lip and looked down. Donovan sighed and uncrossed her arms.

"Look, based on what I've gotten from Molly, we have the names of people who would know about their relationship. Technically, she had roommates."

Lestrade smiled. "Sasha and Amy?"

"Sasha and Amy."

The two women were waiting for them when they arrived at the office the next morning.

"What ungodly hour did you finally go to sleep at?" Greg asked his partner, handing her a coffee.

Sally let out a low laugh. "I'll let you know tomorrow."

"Shit." And then he was a detective once more. "Mrs Allen? Mrs Greenberg?"

The smaller of the two women – a pale brunette with beady eyes and a pointy nose – stood up and extended her hand to Lestrade.

"Amy Allen. And that's Sasha Greenberg."

"Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. And my partner, Sergeant Sally Donovan."

Amy barely glanced at Donovan. "Pleasure. Will this take very long?"

Donovan shook her head. "Hopefully not. We know you both have busy schedules and we're grateful that you came in on such short notice."

Amy continued to stare at Lestrade. "Are you talking to us together or separately?"

"Separately," he responded. "Mrs Allen, if you could come with me. Mrs Greenberg, you'll go with Sergeant Donovan."

Without fully raising her head, the other woman stood and silently followed Donovan. However, as soon as the door shut behind them, she spoke.

"Is this about Molly?"

Donovan sat down, placing a folder on the table and gesturing to the seat across form her.

"Why would you think it's about Molly?"

Still looking down, Sasha smiled. "So it is."

"I never said that."

"No," Sasha said softly. "But you know about her – otherwise you'd have asked 'Molly who?' or something of the like. And you know about Molly, so it has to be about her."

"Why?"

"Because she was the only out of place thing in Mitch's life."

"Because they broke up?"

"Because of what he did to her."

Donovan leaned forward. That wasn't what she expected. "What he did?"

Sasha nodded and stared back at her lap, cheeks darkening. "I didn't believe at first. I didn't necessarily not believe it – if that makes sense – but I didn't believe it. Amy said she was lying and…well, no one knew other people's business the way Amy did."

"But you doubt it now?"

Sasha began to pick nervously at her cuticles. "He started dating Eileen – his wife - a few months after…Molly left. Have you met her?"

"Which?"

She shrugged, still picking at her cuticles. "Either. Both."

"Yes."

The other woman didn't even complain at the vagueness of the answer.

"They look the same. I almost thought it was Molly the first time I saw her – fun, happy. Clever, but a goof when it was appropriate. But we never really got to know her. Not directly at least. He didn't bring her around a lot, but he talked about her all the time. Complaining."

"About what?"

Sasha looked up. "The same things he complained about with Molly. That she was unappreciative or lazy or didn't know what was best for her. And, for the most part, he only brought her to mine and Amy's place. Never out with the others."

"Why?"

She shrugged again. "Shay, probably. He never liked him."

"Did he have a reason?"

Sasha shook her head. "Shay was the sweetest. But, towards the end, things got weird." She trailed off, preoccupied with her fingers.

"Between him and Molly?" Donovan asked her.

Sasha looked at her, surprised. "She started getting defensive. I overheard her saying once that he tried to control her."

"But he didn't?"

"No. Not at all. Shay loved her. She was like his sister."

Donovan nodded, but she was still stuck on the mention of Eileen. True, Mrs Richards had been devastated when Donovan had met her, but even so, she couldn't imagine the woman being "a goof."

"Tell me more about his wife, Eileen," she said, leaning forward. "You said she was a lot like Molly?"

Sasha nodded, but didn't make eye contact. "Yeah. At first. I even said something about it once, but Amy freaked out."

"She didn't agree."

"Maybe. But she just didn't like bringing Molly up. Micah, too, actually. But mostly Molly."

"Ah." Donovan leaned back in her seat, examining the woman before her. "You said that Eileen was only like Molly at first. What changed?"

It was several long moments before Sasha responded. "It was like she changed overnight – no, please don't look like that!"

Donovan straightened up, unaware that her face had betrayed anything. But she had been a cop for years. She knew that "changed overnight" almost always came from oblivion. Still, she gave the woman an apologetic nod.

"Please. Continue."

Sasha toyed with her skirt before complying.

"I know how that sounds, Sergeant Donovan, and honestly, it probably wasn't 'overnight.' Like I said, we didn't see her all that often. One day she was happy and witty. The next time we saw her, she was…sullen, melancholy."

"Melancholy?"

"I know. It makes me sound like a literature teacher. But it's the best word I can think of. And she was so passive and so submissive. Not just to Mitch, but to everyone. She seemed like…like a fifties housewife or something. And then…"

Sasha looked suddenly uncomfortable, much more so than she had before. As she trailed off, her eyes began to wander the room, looking anywhere but at Donovan, as though ignoring her would make her disappear.

"And then what, Mrs Greenberg?"

Sasha closed her eyes and took in a deep breath. "And then she asked me about Molly. I mean, not directly, but she did."

"What did she say?"

"She wanted to know about Mitch's last girlfriend. He never talked about her, but…she said he called her 'Molly' once. When they were fighting."

"And that changed your mind?"

"That made me open up to other possibilities."

By the time they had finished, Amy had long since left and Lestrade was across the room, chatting with a rookie as he poured himself a cup of coffee. After saying goodbye to Sasha and promising to keep her informed of anything new, Donovan sat down at her desk and immediately began pouring over her notes.

"Gimme something new." Lestrade set a mug of coffee down on her desk, but Donovan didn't look up. "C'mon, I know you've got something. Can't hide this stuff from me."

"I don't think we should rule out the wife just yet."

Lestrade was quite for a long time, still staring at his partner's back. But, when he finally spoke, his voice was calm and lacking the surprise he had felt only moments before.

"Why?"

Donovan spun around in her chair. "Sasha kept telling me how much Eileen was like Molly. How she was fun and funny and happy. Not like the woman we met."

Lestrade crossed his arms. "Her husband just died."

Donovan stared at him in frustration. "I know that. But Sasha said that the way she is now, the way we saw her, she's been that way for a while. She said it happened very quickly."

Lestrade sighed. "Please tell me this isn't a 'she changed overnight' thing. Please."

Donovan didn't break her gaze. "She said that one time she saw Eileen and she was happy and fun. The next time she was quiet and sullen. She asked about Molly."

This seemed to perk Lestrade's interest. "She knew about her? Eileen knew about Molly?"

Donovan nodded. "She wanted to know about Mitch's last girlfriend. According to Sasha, he called her Molly once when they were fighting."

"Shit."

"I need to learn everything I can about this guy."

"Sounds reasonable."

"And about Molly."

Lestrade sucked in a breath. "But not from her."

"No."

"You have someone in mind."

Donovan nodded.

"I can't get clearance for a consultant on this case."

"Make it unofficial."

"Donovan."

"Mary Morstan is Molly's best friend and Mitch Richard's cousin."

"She's too involved."

"I trust her."

"Too involved."

"You said this was my case." She folded her arms across her chest.

Lestrade was about to respond when a voice called to them across the room. A younger officer was staring at them, phone in hand. Lestrade turned to his partner. "This conversation isn't over."

Donovan ignored him and called across the room, "This better be important."

The boy – he really was no more than a boy – nodded. "Blonde teenager found in an alley."

"Fuck." Donovan slammed her hands onto her desk with such force that the mug of coffee tumbled off the side. It had stopped months ago – three girls and then he vanished. They searched for ages, but had no luck in finding him. Sometimes, when things slowed down, she would open the case file, but it was over. He had stopped.

"Sergeant!" The officer's voice stirred her from her thoughts. "Someone heard this one scream."

Part of Donovan wanted to curl up in her chair and cry. Another part felt excitement at the notion of a possible lead. She listed to the second. "There's a witness?"

"Girl's not dead."

Lestrade let out a bark of laughter. "Fucking shit. You could have prefaced it with that or something." He turned back to his partner, but Donovan had already grabbed both their jackets and was walking briskly towards the door.

The girl's name was Lucy Winston, she was nineteen years old, and she had not uttered a word since her arrival at the hospital. She now lay in the too stiff hospital bed, alone in the room with the female detective who kept asking her questions. Donovan had just asked, for what may have been the fifth time, how she got away when the door open on a young woman in a lab coat slipped in.

"Miss Winston," Donovan said softly. "Lucy, this is Doctor Molly Hooper."

Lucy narrowed her eyes and examined the newcomer, who stood quietly beside the door. Finally, turning her attention back to Donovan, she spoke. "I've already seen a doctor, thanks. Don't see why I need another."

"Doctor Hooper's been on this case since the beginning. She knows as much about it as anyone."

Lucy turned again to Molly. "Why weren't you here before?"

To Donovan's surprise, Molly simply shrugged and then spoke quickly and without any emotion. "I wasn't expecting a living person. You're the first victim who isn't dead."

Donovan stared at her, surprised at the lack of tact. Molly caught her eye and seemed to sense Donovan's surprise. Immediately, the pathologist's eyes widened, as though she was realising something, and immediately turned away, hiding her face.

"Sorry," she said softly, her voice trying to beat down any and all emotions. "That was very…" She let out a short laugh and then finished in barely a whisper: "It was almost Sherlock of me." And then she sat down next to Lucy and was silent save for simple requests for her patient. When she was done, she turned back to Donovan and folded her arms across herself.

"I'm going to run all the tests myself. I'll call you."

With that, she hurried out. With a soft sigh, Donovan sat down in the chair besides the girl, who had gone back to her silence, and waited for her mother to arrive.

Doctor Ryan was impatiently tapping his fingers, waiting for his results to process, when he heard an excited squeal from across the lab. He glanced at the computer. 5 minutes remaining. With a sigh, he turned and made his way to the source of the noise. Molly Hooper was bouncing on her toes, grinning at her mobile.

"Someone die in a new way?"

Molly looked up surprised, but shockingly unembarrassed. Max grinned – he had assumed her to be the bashful type.

"I found a rapist!" She clapped her hand quickly over her mouth, realising her giddiness was probably inappropriate. "I mean, not me exactly, but –"

"You helped."

Molly nodded, still smiling. "Yes, yes I did."

Max smiled and leaned back on the counter. "Tell me about it."

"Oh, well, there was finally a survivor."

"A survivor?" For an instant, Max was confused. "Wait, wait. Is this the case you've been on for months now? The serial killer?"

Molly nodded again. "One paper called him 'a 21st century Jack the Ripper.' I mean, none of these girls were prostitutes, but still."

"And you got him."

Molly could kick herself for the blush creeping into her cheeks. "I helped." She glanced down at her feet. Max watched her, still smiling.

"You know," he said, deciding it was worth one last try. "We could celebrate."

Molly shook her head. "I mean, we don't have him in custody yet. We just know who he is – I mean," she bounced back on her heels, her giddiness leaking through once more. "He was in the system. He volunteered his DNA, three years ago. Proved his innocence in another case. That's why he's so immaculate. But he messed up! He made a mistake."

"So your work's done, then?"

"Well, yeah. I guess so."

"So get a drink with me."

Molly shook her head, glancing at her watch. "I shouldn't. I've got to get home."

"Of course." He had expected this. Max wasn't dumb. She had rejected him before and he knew the right thing was to let it go. Smiling and nodding his head, he turned to go. "I'll see you around, Molly. And, again, congratulations."

Molly smiled at his retreating back. In truth, she didn't really want to go home. She had woken up that morning as Sherlock was detangling himself from her and, although she had no plans to come into work, the two ignored each other all morning. When Sally had called, telling her they needed her at Bart's, Sherlock had stayed silent as Molly hurriedly got dressed and said an awkward goodbye. No, she desperately didn't want to go home right now.

"Max!" She called, relieved that he stopped so quickly. He turned to her, his face unreadable. "I – I probably have time for maybe one drink."

Max grinned.

A/N: So, this might be the last chapter for a little while (hey – I'm being honest this time!). My study abroad starts in two weeks and I have no idea what my schedule will be like, but I'll do my best. xx Em