Just something short I came up with when I should have been studying (oops). Reviews would be lovely. All mistakes are mine and I own nothing.

Taming the Sea

She dreads taking the last few steps through the front door. The rain is icy, whips against her skin along with the wind and makes it harder to see. It masks her tears. She knows he's inside, pacing the floor in socked feet with his jaw set. He's so clueless.

Molly's just returned from his funeral, a place where she feels she had no right to be. Because she knows the truth but instead of staying home and knowing everything is ok she trades in the knowledge for the opportunity to mourn a man that lives and breathes and is so undead that it makes her ache. She lives a lie, and it isn't even one of her own.

She sucks in a breath; feels the cold air seep into her lungs and it makes her feel slightly alive, able to feel something. Molly's been numb for so long she wasn't sure if it would ever be a possibility. She unlocks the door and sees he's turned the lights off, wonders if he's even still there. Her coat is tossed aimlessly over the back of the couch and she goes straight to the kitchen, filling the kettle and putting it on her stove for later.

Each step she takes down the hall is heavy, weighted with guilt and confusion and so many other conflicting emotions that threaten to tear her in half. In her bedroom she finds a wet towel on the floor and a few of his shirts, strewn over the bed and on the dresser. She shakes her head and picks up a deep blue one, carries it to the bathroom where the air is still humid and stuffy. He hasn't been gone long.

She waits until the water is scalding, capable of washing away the remains of the day and the funeral. She stays under until her skin turns red, running her fingers through her dripping hair and pressing her forehead against the cool tile. Her breaths come in ragged gasps and the voices in her head won't stop. They can't.

It's a simple service, attended only by John, Greg, Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft Holmes. Every now and then she catches a glimpse of someone she's seen before, around the hospital and the station, people she wouldn't have noticed before. She wonders if they even really knew the man they were mourning.

The pastor's voice dances around her head, the words nothing more than a buzzing in her ears as she watches the people around her. Mrs. Hudson is to her right, sniffling into a tissue and squeezing her hand. Molly has the audacity to squeeze back.

She bites her lip, feels her eyes burning but she can't bring herself to let tears fall, not here. She looks across and catches John's eye. An impossible, dead stare she's sure she'll see in her dreams tonight. She closes her eyes and wishes she could disappear into thin air.

When it comes to an end, she's desperate to get away, and she stomps across the grass and listens to it slosh beneath her shoes. She's so close when she hears her name, hearing the crack in John's voice. She turns around because she doesn't know what else to do. She can't turn him away. Not now. He's coming closer to her. She can see the slightest limp coming back into his step and she remembers to tell Sherlock about it, let him know what she's had to see today while he hides in her house. Alive.

"John," she greets him with a simple nod, contemplates a hug but doesn't think she can handle it. Isn't sure if he'll tolerate it. She keeps her hands balled at her sides.

"I just uh, wanted to make sure you're alright. I know you had… feelings for him and I just want- need to know you're ok." She blinks, speechless. She feels her stomach doing flips and the nausea builds until it's almost unbearable.

She manages the most pitiful smile she can force and leans in to kiss his cheek, "Thank you. I'll be fine. I have to go now, take care of yourself alright?"

She doesn't stick around long enough to hear his response; she's too busy tearing across the grass where the mud splashes onto the hem of her dress but there's no time to care. The one man who should be falling apart right now is asking her if she's alright; giving her the sympathy she doesn't even deserve. She manages not to get sick until she's far from everyone's sight.

She steps out of the shower and rubs at her eyes, they're swollen and red and she feels like she can't keep them open any longer. She rakes her fingers through her long hair, ties it up on her head and slips into his shirt. It stops mid-thigh, makes her feel slightly exposed but it smells like him and she needs to be close to him right now.

It seems like her bed is calling for her and Molly slips in between the sheets, feeling her body relax. At the same time she feels like the weight (for now at least) has been lifted off her shoulders and the lump in her throat builds until she can't control it, her body shaking so hard she can't breathe.

It's a moment of weakness because she's supposed to be strong for him, anchoring him down while he saves them all. She owes him that much but right now all she feels is the pain of surrender. It's only intensified when she hears the footsteps that pad into her bedroom before the other side of the bed dips down and his scent surrounds her like a drug. She never thought cigarettes and coffee were so intoxicating.

The feel of his body next to hers only continues to break down her walls and he wraps an arm around her waist, drawing her closer until she's right against him and his breath ghosts across the back of her neck. She flips around in his arms and buries her face in his chest, a whimper escaping as she tries so very hard to stop the flow of tears.

He presses his lips to her hair, his voice like an echo in the almost silent room. "I know Molly. I'm sorry, so sorry."

For a fraction of a second, she's almost tempted to believe him.