The dust motes hang thickly in the air in John's old room as Molly unloads boxes of her books. Sherlock's shelves are chock full, so she hired a car for the day and went to IKEA and bought two cheap bookshelves that will probably make Sherlock cringe. She assembled them by herself despite the warning on the instruction showing a very unhappy person who tried to go it alone. Alphabetizing by author (subject for biographies, editor for anthologies and textbooks) is good enough for her, even if it means mixing genres. Sherlock will balk but not everyone has the Dewey Decimal System memorized and can shelve their books by its guidelines without even labeling them.

John and Sherlock have been gone for two days. The case turned out to be a ten. An epic ten of international scope. He couldn't estimate how long he would be gone, but she's heard from him, a single text asking about the state of her love bites.

She turns down her music when the landline rings downstairs. The landline never rings. Fear races through her gut. She checks her cell for missed calls. None.

"Hello?"

"Molly Hooper?" Male voice, thin yet gravelly.

"Who is this?"

"Bryan Candless, The Mirror. Wanted to see what you had to say about your boyfriend Sherlock Holmes having been spotted two days ago outside a café chatting with his ex-girlfriend Violet Hunter."

Molly laughs.

"What's so funny, Miss?" the reporter asks.

"Just the fact that whoever your source is, they're so unobservant that they failed to notice that I was inside the café settling the bill. They also failed to notice the rock the size of Jupiter on Violet's left ring finger. She's engaged. She ran into us getting takeout. Sherlock chatted with her while he smoked a cigarette. So really the only salacious part of your story is that Sherlock's fallen off the tobacco wagon again. I don't suppose he'd mind if you printed that."

Molly hangs up as the man on the other end of the line sputters. She continues laughing as she heads back up the stairs.

Sherlock had shown back up at the hotel as she was getting ready to check out. Their flight had been delayed, so he had three and a half hours before he had to be at the airport. He'd divested her of her clothes, made love to her again, then taken her for a proper meal before he left.

Admittedly, seeing Violet Hunter hadn't been the most pleasant event, so soon after having argued about her, and Sherlock's impending departure hadn't helped matters. But when Molly examined what made it so unpleasant, it had nothing to do with the girl or the way Sherlock interacted with her. Molly had looked at her and had been mortified that she'd let her occupy so much of her thoughts, and that she'd let it nearly derail her relationship.

She was still gorgeous and clever, but Molly saw her now for what she also was: an insecure woman trying desperately to divorce herself from caring too much. She reminded Molly of Sherlock when they'd first met, years ago. In another life, one in which Violet hadn't been her boyfriend's rebound relationship, the two women may have been able to be friends.

They'd been pleasant to each other, and Violet seemed genuinely happy, though she tried to play it cool regarding her relationship. She didn't gloat about her ring. She didn't even bring it up. Sherlock had noticed and deduced most of the fiance's history from it. Violet had laughed and Sherlock had held Molly's hand all the while.

"So, that was, erm, interesting," Sherlock said as he walked Molly home.

"The awkward run in with the ex? I seem to remember that happening before. Except I was the ex."

"Yes, but when Violet came into the lab that day, I wanted to get out of there quickly because I didn't want you to be any more upset. Just now I wanted to get away because I had no interest in talking to her."

"Well, she was pretty happy. She's moved on. I definitely hadn't that day. It was too soon."

"It's more than that, though," he said, pulling her aside, out of the flow of traffic on the pavement. "Seeing you, and seeing her in the same room, how eager she was to—I don't know, affect you, it made me feel like the biggest prick in existence, and I think I'd have felt that way even if you'd moved on."

Molly cupped his cheek with her hand, running her thumb along his lip. "Okay, so let's promise this right now. From now on, we're going to stop feeling badly about anything that has to do with Violet Hunter. It's not even about her, it's about what she represents, and I'm not going to let it fuck us up anymore, okay?"

"Okay," he nodded. He kissed her very quickly on the nose and then straightened up. "Let's get you home. I do have a plane to catch."

Back upstairs, before settling back to her task, Molly chooses a new record from the crate sitting next to the player, more items that she'd retrieved from storage. She gently places the needle and gets back to work as the familiar scratch of the needle in the groove gives way to trumpet and piano, singing along when the vocals kick in.

"If I was the sun way up there, I'd go with love most everywhere. I'll be the moon when the sun goes down. Just to let you know that I'm still around. That's how strong my love is…"

She works until the light fades and the record ends, shelving the last few books to the gentle pop hiss of the needle hitting the label. She hums as she skips down the stairs, as she puts on her pajamas, and as she get into her bed—their bed—and turns out the light.

A/N: the song Molly listens to is Otis Redding's version of "That's How Strong My Love Is," written by Roosevelt Jamison. And by happy circumstance, it does happen to be the first track on The Great Otis Redding Sings Soul Ballads.