A/N: This just sort of popped into my head while listening to the song "You" by The pretty reckless. It just has that unrequited feel and spoke to my Sherlolly muse, so I wrote this down.

I wanted to try something different than my previous Sherlock fics – which are on the fluffy side. This one is fluff-free.

Please R&R

Oh, right, disclaimer: Not mine, blah, blah, blah…as if you didn't know that already.

Molly stood in middle of the kitchenette of her small flat; she was anxiously wringing her hands and gnawing on her lower lip. She had absolutely no clue what to do with herself. She'd never been in this situation before – but, then again, she can't imagine many people have. She doubted there was a specific rule for how one should conduct themselves under such circumstances. So, Molly just did what any good English person would do in any given situation; she made tea.

She put the kettle on and took two cups and saucers from the cupboard along with the sugar and got some milk from the fridge. She placed the items on a server and waited.

She cast a glance over her shoulder to the deadman on her sofa; she could just glimpse the back of his curly head and nape of his neck from her angle.

She closed her eyes and tried to take deep-calming breaths as she reminded herself why she was in this situation.

What do you need?

You.

Her heart lurched in her chest at the memory of that single syllable; she had been waiting years to hear him say something like that.

Of course it didn't end up how she had envisioned; what Sherlock had needed her for wasn't what she was hoping. But, it didn't matter much, because for whatever reason, he did need her.

He needed her.

That's all that counted.

Well... not all that counted.

Molly counted.

He'd said that too.

You've always counted...

Oh what beautiful words.

The shrieking of the kettle rent the air and ripped Molly from her reverie.

She jumped and gasped, her eyes flying open.

She quickly crossed to the stove and snatched the kettle off the hob, wanting to shut it up; she knew how much Sherlock hated noise – unless he was making it.

Her heart thudded in her chest as she looked back, breath bated as she waited for the man to scold her for interrupting his thinking.

He didn't say a word; Molly didn't know if she should be relieved or concerned.

With one last steadying breath, she picked up the cups and carried them to the sitting room.

She gingerly set the server downon the coffee table, then poured steaming liquid into both in both cups and added two sugars to one.

"Here you are, Sherlock," she said in a quiet voice, offering up the cup and saucer to him.

His long-fingered hand reached up to except the cup, his face remaining straight ahead, no expression in his eyes.

"Yes, thank you," he said out of practised politeness. Molly wasn't sure he even knew who he was thanking or where he was. The man looked dazed; she'd never seen Sherlock look so out of sorts. It was disconcerting to her – Sherlock Holmes wasn't supposed to be thrown for loops. He had seen so much, done so much, it would take an awful lot to phase a man like him.

Well, Molly supposed, jumping off the roof of a building is a fairly big deal.

Molly saw Sherlock's hand tremble as he raised his teacup to his lips; she quickly flicked her eyes down and tended to her own cup, added a splash of milk and sugar to it – pretending not to notice. She doubted he'd want a witness to him doing something so human as shaking after a trauma.

Molly worked her tongue in her mouth as she considered saying something – she didn't know what, just anything to relieve this dreaded silence they were in – but she thought better of it; Sherlock had always hated her attempts at conversation, she doubted he'd appreciate her making one now.

She clamped her teeth together and let out a breath through her nose. She was just about to settle herself in the chair by the sofa(the only other piece of sitting furniture in the room) when Toby leapt up and curled himself in the seat.

"All right, Toby," Molly cajoled, "shift." She gave the cat a nudge. It didn't move. "Come on, Toby, make room, will you?"

"Why don't you just sit on the sofa, Molly," Sherlock suggested blandly. The sound of his voice took Molly by surprise, she let out a small gasp and whirled round to look at him. "There's plenty of room." Finally those cool eyes of his raised to meet her. "I promise I won't bite."

Molly gave him a wavering smile. "Right, course," she muttered, letting the cat alone and moving over to the sofa. She sat at the end opposite Sherlock as close to the edge as she could manage and sipped her tea silently.

The only sound in the room for the next few minutes—that seemed to stretch out forever—was the low rumbling coming from the now sleeping cat. Molly made a concentrated effort to keep her eyes trained on anything but Sherlock; he'd always been so annoyed at her staring before and she didn't want to do anything to upset him more than he was already.

She was startled when she heard the crash from his side of the sofa and her head snapped in his direction.

Sherlock had been trying to place his cup and saucer on the coffee table and missed – they slipped off the edge and onto the floor.

"Shit!" Sherlock hissed, more upset than Molly deemed necessary for a simple spill. But, it wasn't really the mess that maddened Sherlock, but the fact that he could have been clumsy enough to cause it. "Bloody hell."

"It's all right," Molly assured jumping up from her seat and rushing to the kitchen to grab a tea towel. "I've got it," she said, coming back into the sitting room and dropping to her knees to daub up the spill.

She raised her head to look at Sherlock and gave him a bright smile. "See!" she said. "It's good as new." She braced her hand on the coffee table to push herself up. Sherlock grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her down on the sofa next to him.

Molly looked into his cold eyes, perplexed. He stared at her face, eyes darting from side to side as he studied her. His thumb was pressing down hard on the inside of her wrist.

"Sh-Sherlock?" Molly asked, licking her lips nervously. "Are you okay?"

Sherlock tugged Molly's wrist, urging her closer to him. She didn't protest; she was too dumbstruck by the pain she saw deep in his eyes – he still looked so sad. The difference now was that he new she could see. He needed her to see him.

Sherlock leaned in, closing the gap between them; his lips crashed into hers clumsily, their teeth clanking together. His arms wrapped tightly about her, his hands curling into the fabric of her shirt. He clung to her like she was his life-preserver – and, in a way, she was.

She was the only link he had left in the world. The only thing holding him down and keeping him from drifting away. He wasn't alive to anyone else.

He needed her.

Molly needed Sherlock too; always had, always would, ever since he came crashing through the door of her morgue—and into her life-a few years ago.

But, where his need was fleeting, something borne out of desperation and circumstance, Molly's was more deep-seated and constant – it was an indelible part of her.

As much as her romantic imagination wanted to run away with her at this moment, Molly knew Sherlock wasn't kissing her out of some suddenly surfaced affection toward her. No, she understood what this was; Right now Sherlock was a man roaming the desert and Molly was the only body of water in sight.

But, she didn't care.

All that mattered to Molly was that he needed her. She was going to allow him to slake that need despite the detriment it would no doubt cause her heart in the offing.

She tried to push all thoughts of the future away and allow herself to get lost in this; the sensation of Sherlock's fingers peeling away her blouse and grazing down her flesh, the heat of his mouth pressing against hers, the delicious feel of his weight on top of her.

Molly gripped on the the back of the sofa as Sherlock filled her, ridding himself of the burden inside him and emptying it into her.

She thought she might burst by the time it was over; it was almost too much for her to bear. Tears escaped from the corners of her eyes, uncontainable. She bit down hard on the inside of her cheek to keep the sobs in.

Sherlock fell limp on top of her, now spent and barren. He covered her body like a blanket.

Molly wept silently for a while before falling asleep beneath him.

When she woke, she was cold. Her body now exposed, nothing covering it anymore.

Molly had served her purpose for Sherlock; he no longer needed her.

He was gone.

The only sign that he was ever there was the tipped over teacup on the floor and the stain it's contents had left – Sherlock never was one for tidying up after himself; he always seemed to leave Molly to pick up the messes he made.

Molly's eyes stung as that ever-present ache burned within her. She wished her need could be so easily extinguished as his, or at least dull a bit after drinking from its source. But, if anything, it only left her craving more.

The end.

Just like Sherlock and Molly, I'm needy too. So please, feed my need and leave me a review!

Thanks for reading.