One of the Few

The door to the flat swings open violently, a tall man in a long black coat rushes inside followed by a mousy brunette who hurriedly bolts the door behind them.

Molly sighs and falls against the barrier.

"We made it." she says breathlessly, smiling to herself.

Sherlock says nothing as he skims her apartment. Plain. Some photographs here and there. The kitchen is off to his left, the only aspect separating it from the living room being the tiled floor versus the carpeted one and the slight arch in the wall between the coat rack and the hallway leading to Molly's bedroom. On the right wall of the living room, beyond the slightly tattered couch and flat-screen television, is a window; a scratching post for a cat with a small house on the top; and a keyboard. As in the musical instrument. This surprises Sherlock. He was unaware Molly could play. He looks down as Molly's white cat with gray stripes round his eyes, Toby by name, threads between his legs.

Sherlock takes a few more steps into his present living quarters.

Molly slowly rises from her position slumped against the entry way. She's not smiling anymore.

"Sherlock?" she asks, sensing his uncomfortable demeanour, "I...erm...I hope this is...okay. For now."

He nods silently. Then he turns and walks toward her. He stops in front of her, not looking at her but above her. He slowly takes off his coat and scarf. Molly finds it very hard to breathe. He's closer than he was in the morgue last night.

It had all started last night. The beginning of the end had started last night. And life as they had known it had ended only a few minutes ago.

Sherlock places his coat and scarf on the coat rack on Molly's left. She feels a sob catch in her throat.

And he looks down at her.

Their eyes meet and both seem very sad. How interesting.

We have no reasons to be sad. Sherlock thinks, Especially me. Why would I ever have a reason to be sad? I don't have any reason to feel troubled to any degree. I'm perfectly fine, thank you, no use in enquiring, so...

"Leave me alone." he whispers.

"Erm." Molly says, "Ok. Of course. Erm. Can I get through?"

He steps back and follows her down the hallway to her bedroom. There are two other doors in the hallway. One, Sherlock infers, is a bathroom, the other a closet. He catches a small glimpse of Molly's room from his peripheral vision as she opens the door. Cluttered. Clothes lightly strewn on the floor. Dresser jumbled with make-up that is hardly used, two jewellery boxes, and a vase with fake flowers. There is a circular mirror attached to her dresser in which Sherlock spies the small notebook just protruding from under her pillow. Molly re-enters the hallway and shuts her bedroom door behind her.

"Would you like some tea?" she asks.

"Tea would be lovely."

He trudges back to the living room after her and flumps himself on the couch.

After a few minutes of silence (except the gurgle of a tea kettle and the tinkling of spoons against mug rims), a blue and white striped mug is placed on the coffee table near Sherlock's ambiguous visage. Molly sits in her armchair, nervously clutching her cup of tea but not drinking it. It's far too hot right now anyways.

Sherlock's fingers, steepled beneath his chin, twitch. His face remains stoic.

But Molly knows him better. She can see past his charade. She can see things about him that he can't even see about himself.

She doesn't speak. She had been debating it. But now is not the time. Not immediately after everything that's happened.

So she remains silent. As does the man on her couch.

Molly stares at Sherlock for a while, taking a few sips from her tea. He hardly makes any movement. He seems exceptionally tense and troubled. What must he be going through? Even the great Sherlock Holmes had to have been affected by what he had just done.

In fact, she knew he had been. She had seen it. In the morgue.

I'm not okay.

And it's true. Even if he hadn't known exactly what Moriraty had been planning, it made him upset to know what his nemesis had had in mind. Sherlock hadn't wanted to die a failure or fraud to anyone, especially his friends and, even more especially, himself.

Molly bites her tongue. There will be time for talking, she knows. He plans on utilizing her abode for at least three months. So she can not bother him for the first few hours.

Molly takes another sip of her tea. And waits.

A/N So, yeah. I know it's been forever, but let me tell you, it will be worth it! Also, I don't know if I'll continue my other story (Unremembered), but I promise I will finish this one!