The prompt for this rather long one-shot was from my first "Nonny" who asked for a Sherlolly where Molly decides to stop doing whatever Sherlock asks her to written from Sherlock's POV. I had a lot of fun writing it. Hope everyone enjoys reading it too. - CG

Disclaimer: The characters portrayed in this story are not mine, I have merely used them to tell a new story. No copyright infringement intended.

"Molly, I need you to run this analysis for me. It really cannot wait until tomorrow."

"No, Sherlock," Molly spoke plainly, "I'm going home, but Dr. Maines will be here in a bit and she'll help with whatever you need. Goodnight." She turned and walked out the door to the lab. There was no stutter to her voice and no hesitation in her movements. She just left him.

He was stunned. Frozen to the stool in front of his favored microscope, he was wearing the same shocked expression he'd had roughly 4 years ago when she'd said something just as remarkable. That was before he jumped from the roof of the building in which he now sat. Before he insisted that she did count and that he trusted her, perhaps more than he trusted anyone aside from John. How did she keep surprising him like this? Molly never said No. It just wasn't in her vocabulary, at least not when it came to him. Something was obviously wrong and he had missed it. Nothing chafed at his mind like the idea that he had missed something.

Back at Baker Street he sat in his chair absently plucking at his violin. He wasn't playing anything though. As much as he needed to think of a solution to the pathologist's rejection of him, and why it felt so uncomfortable that she had, there was no music stirring yet. First, he needed to sort through everything pertaining to his recent interactions with Molly Hooper. There would be no search for an answer until he knew for certain what the question was.

Their association had indeed changed when he fell, largely because of the invaluable role she played in the charade of his death. She had never refused to help him, never backed down from the challenge. He admired that about her. Molly had also kept John from falling apart during those years, something Sherlock knew he would never be able to fully thank her for. To that end, when he resumed work after his resurrection, he made an effort to treat her more respectfully. He no longer made any comments about her appearance or tried to use flattery to get his way. That did not mean that he didn't still snap at her on occasion or say unpleasant things. He treated her just like he did Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and John. She was his friend. He recognized that she was valuable to him and sought her out for her insight and expertise. She was his pathologist, he would work with no one else and saw no reason why he should.

Everything seemed to settle almost back to normal about three months after his life started over. His relationships with all of his friends were different, but comfortable again. Cases were still the only panacea for his racing mind. And Molly was still very accommodating in the lab and morgue at Barts. Sometimes he even invited her to 221B to discuss a case or keep him company when John was out with Mary. Only, as he continued to think about it, there had been some anomalous encounters with her over the past several months.

Reflecting back, Molly had not stuttered in any of her interactions with him in an entire four month time span. All of her answers to his questions had been clear and concise, delivered directly to him with confidence. Flashing through memories of her reporting autopsy findings in such a way made a warm feeling of satisfaction wash over him. It was nice to see her self-assurance. Although he did miss the colour that would rise to her cheeks. It had made her seem so warm, and that warmed him in turn. Her joke telling had also improved.

Ten weeks ago, she had gotten an electric kettle for her office and told him it was free for him to use to make tea or coffee whenever he liked. All of the supplies for coffee, including raw sugar packets, which she knew he preferred, were readily available in her top desk drawer. Again, he could help himself whenever he wanted coffee. This meant that she no longer ran up to the canteen to get coffee for him, but that also freed her to be available for the really important work in the lab. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement. He had gotten in the habit of switching the kettle on as he came in, sometimes he even made her a cup.

The biggest change, he decided, was when she had shown him the new cooler that had been installed. That had been a fortnight ago. Molly had explained that since he did so much at the lab, often needing organs or to store specimens and experiments for a time, she had asked for a cooler to be dedicated solely for his use. It locked and only Sherlock and Molly had keys. Inside she would place any organs or tissues she could spare, ones that were legally free for him to use (donated but not needed by the students), and he could do with them what he wished. He didn't need to beg her for parts or worry that an intern would be tampering with any of his ongoing projects. He remembered being giddy with the excitement of his own private research space. It certainly helped ease the periods of boredom that he could go there to browse any new additions. Part of him suspected that Molly had asked for Mycroft's assistance getting the cooler approved, but since he really did want it, he certainly wasn't going to confront his brother and risk losing it.

All of this combined had resulted in Sherlock making fewer and fewer demands of Molly. She still assisted him but in an effortless and voluntary fashion. He didn't ask for anything, she just did her part and they worked together. Solving crimes and expanding the scope of knowledge available to him in his deductions. She had even published a paper with some of their findings on postmortem saliva coagulation. A flash of an idea presented itself to him. Tonight had been the first time in weeks that he had directly asked her for something beyond the scope of their new arrangement. And she had said No. That could only mean one thing. Could it be?

Molly Hooper was leaving.

She had been so subtle and unassuming. There had been no blatant confrontations, no outright statements of sentiment. Molly would know better than to use sentiment to convince Sherlock of anything. But it was all there. She had been weaning him off of her help, off of her presence. No more fawning over him, no more stutter, the coffee, the cooler. She was preparing him for tonight, when she would say No and then walk out of his life. For a reason he couldn't define, the thought made his blood run cold. This was not acceptable. He had to stop her from going.

Sherlock ran up the steps to Molly's flat and briskly knocked on the door. He knew it was late, actually already very early morning of the next day, but he needed to speak with her before things got any worse. There was rustling and he heard her muttering under her breath. She swore when she peered through the fisheye and saw him. The chain was undone and her deadbolt slid open.

"Sherlock! What are you doing here at three in the morning!" Molly was annoyed, but too tired to be really angry. He didn't answer, deciding it would be better to have the conversation he wanted to have in the privacy of her home, not the drafty hall outside the front door. He pushed past her, entering the sitting room.

"I won't let you leave," he told her bluntly.

Molly sighed as she closed the door and unconsciously threw the bolt. She didn't bother with the chain though, she would be able to throw him out easily and quickly if it came to that. He hoped it wouldn't.

"I knew you would figure it out eventually. I'm actually pretty impressed that I've kept it secret this long."

"So you are leaving?" Sherlock had wished, for the first time, that his conclusion had been wrong.

"Yes, I am. And you cannot stop me, Sherlock Holmes, it's already done," she asserted, "My last day is in next Friday."

The air was gone from the room. Sherlock sank heavily onto her sofa and stared ahead blankly. He couldn't imagine the lab and morgue without Molly in them. She was the only one on staff that would, could, should work with him. But it was more than that. Molly was part of the reason he went there when he was bored or stuck on a case. Now that John was sometimes unavailable, living with Mary, he invited her over to keep him company more often than to consult on casework. He liked talking to her, hearing her voice, seeing her face and her smile. He needed her and she was leaving him in one week- seven days- one-hundred-sixty-eight hours. It wasn't enough time. His vision started fading to black.

"Oh, Sherlock! Are you okay?!" Molly's voice was distressed and she rushed toward him. "Breathe. It'll be alright. Just breathe."

She had her hands to either side of his face and pulled his attention back to the present. Her eyes were the same warm brown they always were, there was fear and worry in them, but he could still see affection. That spark had been in her eyes since the moment she first saw him. No matter how angry she was about something he said, or how worried she was that he was going to die chasing Moriarty's ghost, she always looked at him with loving eyes.

"Goodness, you gave me a fright," she breathed as he blinked back at her and began normal respiration. "I knew you wouldn't be happy, but I never thought you'd actually go into shock." She dropped her hands into her lap and stared at them.

"I don't understand. Molly, why are you leaving? I won't be able to work without you." He knew he was treading in dangerous emotional territory, had already felt more emotions than he could name in the time since she said No, but at the moment he didn't care. He needed answers.

She giggled, "You'll be fine. That's what I've been doing for the past seven months, you blind genius. You already have everything you need to get along just fine. Coffee and an endless supply of body parts to keep you busy. I'll be giving my key to the cooler to Mike, he's agreed to make sure that Dr. Maines keeps it stocked for you. And you came very close to crossing the final hurdle tonight. I told you No, as I'm sure the other pathologists will occasionally have to, and you almost remained perfectly calm."

"You talk as if that's all you are to me, body parts and caffeine. The other pathologists don't have your insight. You're the best one there, I've told you this before and I mean it." He was trying to make her understand. She counted for so much more than what she did for him. He thought he'd made that clear to her by now.

"I'm not the only person who can do toxicology screens and run cultures, Sherlock. I made this decision, knowing it would be good for both of us."

"In what way is your leaving good?'" He thought they were getting along better than they ever had. She was one of his very few friends, had he not told her that plainly enough? Where had he gone wrong?

"I needed to do something to stop being such a pushover around you. I needed to grow-up a little. And you can stand some maturity too," she smiled teasingly at him. "It's nothing either of us did wrong, it was just time. We both need to move on a bit." Molly's eyes went back to her hands, now nervously clenched in her lap. The smile she wore faltered and he noted she was not happy, but she was determined.

"You are right. We are not the same people we were four years ago," he confessed, "Our relationship has changed, but I don't want it to go in the direction you are taking it. I don't want you to leave. I want something more with you, Molly Hooper. I regret that it has taken me so long to see that. Perhaps too long." He looked at her and felt an overwhelming sense of loss. He had been blind.

It was Molly's turn to stare blankly in shock. She was clearly trying to work out what he had just revealed to her. How much he valued her and wanted to explore a new, deeper relationship with her. He reviewed his words. They could have been more poetic, but that would not have made them any more clear. He wanted her, as more than his pathologist, and he was saddened that he was losing her.

He reached out and took her hands in his. Not looking in her eyes he asked with a low voice, "Will I ever see you again or are you cutting all ties with me? I understand if you are, if you need a clean slate somewhere else. I swear to not follow you, if that's what you want."

There was a long silence in the room as Sherlock looked down at their joined hands. He did not want to look up and see the tears that surely were building in her eyes. He refused to admit that his own eyes were stinging. Looking at her would be too much to bear.

Molly's musical laughter finally broke the stillness and his head sprung up in surprise. She was clutching at her sides, practically doubled over. Tears of mirth, not sadness, trickled from her eyes. How could she laugh?! Was she mocking him?! Did she think he was insincere?!

"Never in all my life," she gasped, still laughing uncontrollably, "You silly, wonderful, brilliant idiot!"

He felt stung by her laughter and her words. He had come here, bared his soul to her, practically begged her to stay, and Sherlock Holmes did not beg anyone for anything. There she sat with the audacity to laugh at him. Anger rapidly swept over him. This was an emotion he was very familiar with, and knew how to use expertly.

"Please feel free to let me in on the joke," he said coldly, "I'm not an expert, but I'm fairly certain laughter is not considered appropriate. In fact, I'm sure I was once harshly criticized for a similar dashing of one's feelings." He gave her a very pointed look.

Still breathing heavily, Molly regained control of herself enough to speak.

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock, I just never anticipated this from you." She looked up at him with the brightest smile. He had to admit, it was hard to be as furious as he wanted to be, when he had just minutes ago thought he would not get to see that smile again. "I thought you had it all figured out. But like you have said so many times before, there's always something you miss."

Ah, so she was going to tease him after all. He supposed he deserved it for all he had put her through, but he felt now was hardly the time. Wasn't her leaving him punishment enough, especially now that he realized how much he would miss her.

"You talk as if I'm dying or moving to another country. I'm not." Sherlock snapped out of his reverie and really looked at her. A swell of confused hope filled his chest. He did not want to miss or mistake a single word that was coming from her mouth. Molly continued, "I'm taking a sabbatical from Barts to work at Imperial College. I'll be part of a multi-author research project there. I'm only going to be a half-hour tube ride from the lab. I just won't be in every day. I need to get away from casework and focus on the research for a bit. It's only going to be for six months." She beamed at him.

He couldn't believe what in immense idiot he had just made of himself. He had practically professed undying admiration, love, for his pathologist. In her flat, sitting like a besotted schoolboy on her sofa. His skin flushed and he lept up, rushing to put some distance between them. He knew it was too late to take back what he had said, but he could certainly do some damage control. Without looking at her he made a move for the door. He grabbed the handle, but in his haste, forgot that she had thrown the bolt. He pulled at the door, meaning to to fling it open and storm off into the dawn, but only succeeded in throwing himself off balance. He spun around and fell backward against the door, sliding to the floor.

For her part, Molly sat with her hand over her mouth watching him from her place on the other side of the room. He knew she was restraining herself from bursting into another giggling fit. She calmly rose and walked over to stand above him. She reached out both her hands to him to help him up off the floor. Thoroughly embarrassed by his outburst he accepted her assistance. She took both of his hands in hers and tugged him gently to his feet.

With glittering eyes, full of all the love he now knew he wanted, Molly looked at him and asked, "So, about what you said, about wanting something more for us?"

"Uhhh, yes. I suppose I should have been more clear...what I meant was...I mean, I was trying…" Sherlock was at a rare loss for words.

"If I had known all along," Molly interrupted, "that it would take telling you No to get you to admit you have feelings, you never would have gotten your first kidney."

"Yes, well, you won't have to utter that syllable again. I've learned my lesson." He smirked at her, "So I will just be leaving now."

She shook her head and pulled him in for a kiss, "No."