AN: ALL THE ANGST. Seriously. Written for the '50 Reasons to have (Sherlolly) Sex' on tumblr! Thank you so much Mindy and SallyLoise for organizing it!

To the people waiting on updates I swear they're coming... Before the start of 2014. Most likely.

There was silence between them now. It stretched on, filling the rooms of 221B and suffocating them both. Finally Sherlock sighed, looking up from the fire in the grate to meet her eyes. "So that's it then?" he asked. His voice was rough, actually wobbling as he looked at her. "It's over?"

Wrapping her arms around her knees, Molly sniffled and nodded. "Yeah. I think so."

Silence fell between them again as he turned his gaze back to the fire. The flickering depths lit up his profile, his expression calm and detached as his fingers tapped against his chin. "You'll move out." Not a question, a statement. She nodded. There was no question about it. Baker Street was and always would be Sherlock's domain. There was no question that she would be the one to find a new flat and leave. "When?"

She shrugged. "I-I don't know. I'll need to find a new flat of course and move my stuff out. I can probably stay with a friend until I do." Turning her gaze to Sherlock she sighed and stood, turning to go. "I'll go pack a bag. I can go tonight."

Fingers touched her hand, a mere brush. It stopped her though, her gaze going down to the ground as tears sprung into her eyes. "You don't have to go," he rumbled. His fingers circled her wrist holding her more firmly.

"Don't have to go tonight or at all?" she asked. There wasn't anything to keep the bitterness out of her voice as she pulled her hand away.

There was a sigh and then the sound of fabric moving. Hands wrapped around her waist, a hard firm chest pressing against her back as lips descended to hover against her ear. "Molly-"

Tears dripped down her face. She was such a fool. Such an idiot. She'd known day one that their relationship would never last. While she'd managed to delude herself at first that she didn't need dates, public affection, or for him to remember her birthday it had turned out that she'd been wrong. Sherlock was mad, bad, and dangerous to know, a man who she'd loved and lusted over for years. Frankly, he wasn't normal - she didn't want him to be normal - but she couldn't shake the fact that sometimes she wanted normal things. She wanted to go out to Angelo's with him and have a candle put on their table. To hold hands with him as they strolled down the street. To go to the theater or the museum and have him put his arm around her as they gazed at the exhibits together.

God, she sniffled loudly trying not to sob as Sherlock pressed a kiss to her neck and his grip tightened on her, she wanted children. Was that too much to ask? She was on the wrong side of thirty-five and she wanted one, just one, child to cherish and pour all her love into. The one time she'd spoken to Sherlock on the subject he'd reacted horribly, acting as if she'd asked him what he thought about having his intestines removed via his nose rather than kids. For a while she thought that she could give up the idea of children, erase that silly fantasy of a little boy and girl, their dog, and the white picket fence, but that had been a lie too. She'd doodled pictures of baby faces on her lab reports and then felt silly and ashamed as she tossed them into the bin. She was just as female and hormone driven as Sherlock dismissively said. Yet, was that such a crime?

"Molly," Sherlock was murmuring between kisses. His hands were slowly traveling over her body and she arched into him, responding to his touch the same way she always had. Tears still dripped down her face and as he turned her to face him, he dipped his head to kiss them away. "Molly, you don't have to go."

"Tonight or at all?" she whispered again. He didn't respond and she wrapped her arms around him, pulling him down and raising herself up on her tip-toes to claim his lips. He tasted of cigarettes - bad boy he'd been sneaking - and the mint of his toothpaste. Eagerly his lips moved against hers as he slowly began backing her up. To the bedroom most likely. It would be a horrible mistake to sleep with him now, she thought to herself as she buried her hands in his hair and pulled in the way that always made him gasp and moan. A horrible, terrible mistake.

She knew it would be and yet she was going to make it anyway.

The first time Sherlock had kissed her, the first time they'd had sex, it had been at John's wedding. She'd been dancing the night away with her then fiancé Tom and Sherlock had been smoldering in the shadows, watching the revelers with a look of disgust on his face. Yet when Tom had popped off for a minute to take a phone call there he'd been to ask her to dance. One dance had turned into two and the next thing Molly had known Sherlock had somehow managed to get her alone in the garden outside of the party.

The moon had been beautiful, full and bright. Even near the heart of London it brightly illuminated the small park as she and Sherlock had walked along a gravel path. When she'd shivered he'd removed his jacket and put it around her shoulders. When she'd realized she had vanished from the party without a word and said something about going back and finding Tom he'd kissed her. Gently at first, chastely, and then not-so-chaste when her mind had stopped enough for her to respond.

An hour later she'd come back to reality to find herself out of breath, ruffled, and her knickers nowhere to be found. Sherlock had looked more then a little pleased and smug as he'd adjusted his trousers and zipped her back into her dress. Completely ignoring her hysteria over cheating on Tom, he'd agreed when she'd said she wasn't that sort of girl and informed her that he expected her to break it off with her fiancé. "You're with me now," he'd said, practically preening in the dim light, and her heart had welled in awe. He'd been all she'd ever wanted and for so long. She'd practically fallen over herself to do what he said and break it off with Tom.

The poor man had been crushed when she returned his grandmother's wedding ring, his face falling. "Well," he said after a long moment, staring at the ground. "I hope that he'll make you happy."

That day she'd lied to both herself and him, telling him that she would be. Then she'd returned to Baker Street like Sherlock had requested - ordered - and let him erase all thoughts of Tom from her mind.

And that's what their relationship had become. A series of nights of bliss with Molly deluding herself that it was all she needed in between. The sex had been good. More than good, bloody freaking fantastic actually and that had held them together for a long time. The first two months she'd been on cloud nine, buoyed by orgasm induced endorphins and the knowledge that she'd finally - somehow - managed to snag Sherlock Holmes.

Yet he'd ignore her for weeks on end, haunting their flat with his moodiness and violin playing. For some time she'd told herself that this was just Sherlock being Sherlock, the brilliant man she'd always loved, but he could be so hurtful. At first she'd tried to draw him out of it - cheer him up - but after one incredibly misguided evening when she'd tried to entice him out of his funk with good food and sex he'd snapped at her. Shouting accusations and calling her a sex crazed moron he'd stormed out and not come back for three days.

It was the first proof that dating Sherlock would be unlike any of the other boyfriends she'd had.

From how hurt she'd been from his words it was also the first proof that she wouldn't be up to this relationship.

They were in bed now, Sherlock above her and kissing everywhere there was skin bared to him. His hands tugged at the belt of her - his technically - dressing gown, unwrapping her slowly. She moaned, legs wrapping and unwrapping around him as her hands pulled at his shirt until it came out from being tucked in his trousers. Her hands traveled along the plane of his back, nails digging into his flesh and he groaned, arching against her.

"Molly, Molly," he hissed, eyes dark and blown out. His lips met hers tenderly for a moment before hunger overtook them both and he was stripping off her knickers as she fumbled with the buttons of his shirt.

Their last fight mere hours ago hadn't been their worst. However, it had proved once and for all that they weren't suited. She'd always be asking things of Sherlock that he wouldn't be able to give and it wasn't fair to either of them. She wasn't asking him to change, she loved him just the way he was, but she still needed... more.

Sherlock had forgotten her birthday for the second time. Part of her had been expecting it but a larger part of her had been furious. How could he? Brain the size of a planet and he couldn't remember something as simple as her birthday! All she'd wanted was to go out to dinner with him. She'd made reservations at Angelo's, bought a new dress, texted him daily reminders for weeks reminding him that he was going to have dinner with her that night.

He'd been cross about her insistence but had agreed, right up to that morning when she'd sent him out the door with another reminder and a kiss on the cheek. Taking a day off from the morgue she'd spoiled herself with a day off, getting a massage and her hair and makeup done up for her before coming back to Baker Street. She'd been thrilled, almost giddy as she'd slid into the new lingerie and tall black heels before struggling with the zip to her new dress.

Calling a cab - there was no way she was going to risk the tube in those heels - she'd arrived at Angelo's a few minutes early and took her seat. They'd been dating over a year and yet this would be the first time they'd been out to an actual restaurant together. Angelo hadn't even known who she was, though he'd recognized Sherlock's name and offered her a candle for their table. She'd eagerly accepted and then began to wait. And wait. And wait.

Their seven o'clock reservation turned to eight and then to nine. The candle burned down and drowned in a pool of its own wax. At last Angelo stood before her table, ignoring the tears that swam in her eyes, his voice soft and low. "I'm sorry ma'am. Perhaps he thought that he was to meet you tomorrow night?"

Sniffling she'd nodded, left twenty quid on the table for her glass of wine, and trudged out the door. She'd taken the tube home, biting her lip the entire way. Baker Street was quiet, Mrs. Hudson gone or asleep, so she'd stoked herself a fire and waited, waited, waited for Sherlock to come home.

He'd arrived just before midnight. Bursting upstairs with a pleased look on his face, he'd taken one look at her, blinked, and confusedly asked why she looked like a whore.

God he was beautiful, she thought to herself as she reached up to touch Sherlock's face. The dim streetlights of the world outside backlit him, his face exquisite in the dim yellow light. There was so much more she wanted to tell him, more that she wanted to say, and now she wasn't going to get the chance. Tears filled her eyes as he lowered his face to her breasts, lips taking a nipple between them and sucking hard as his hand made sure the other one didn't feel left out. She cried out, burying her hands in his hair and holding him close. Eyes snapping shut she willed the tears away. She couldn't ruin it. Not now.

He was hot and heavy against her, cock leaking a trail of pre-cum along her thigh as he worshiped her breasts. Gasping his name as he nipped and sucked them into hard nubs, her hands running down his back, she groaned as his hand traveled down her body to her slick folds, testing her.

"You're wet," he hissed, coming up for air and to press a kiss against her neck. His teeth nipped against her pulse point, probably feeling it race beneath his lips. "God, you're wet. I'm going to fuck you, Molly. Please let me fuck you."

She shivered, moaning a little at his words and wiggling beneath him. Sherlock didn't like to swear, thought it demeaning and lazy to use crass language when there were so many other suitable words. She'd never told him that she had a bit of a filthy language kink, too ashamed and worried he'd think less of her. It was too bad he was only discovering it now.

"Yes," she moaned, pulling him down to her. Lips met and tongues battled together as she spread her thighs for him, his length sliding between her folds but not yet inside her. "Yes, Sherlock. Yes, please."

Accusations had flown after he'd come home. He'd accused her of wanting to tame him, of making him as domestic as a pussy cat and she'd been enraged. When she'd moved in he'd made her get rid of Toby. He'd always hated the cat and had complained about the fur everywhere and the sand box until she'd found a nice family to love him and had given him away.

Looking back she should have ended it there. Sherlock had sympathetically held her as she cried over giving up her cat, but had been so pleased that their flat was now animal free. She should have known that hurt wouldn't go away, should have known that if they couldn't compromise over a cat they wouldn't be able to agree on anything. One of them would always be demanding more and it killed her to know that while she'd always give into Sherlock he would never compromise for her.

Yet wasn't that one of the reasons she loved him? She'd told herself it was. God, she was such an idiot.

She'd yelled the most hateful things at them. Told him that he was heartless, that no one could love a bastard like him, that she didn't love him anymore. It was a lie, but it had shocked Sherlock into silence anyway. She told him that he was always going to be alone and that it was fine, that he deserved it and he'd stood there and taken it. Eyes dropping to the ground he'd gone to sit in his chair, turning it to stare at the fire and she'd followed his example.

The silence had hollowed her out, the first strings of regret and despair welling up within her before he spoke. "So that's it then?" he'd asked and she'd never heard him sound so uncertain. "It's over?"

She gasped as he filled her, head crashing back onto the pillows as she moaned. His breath short, almost coming in gasps, Sherlock paused against her and bit his lip. He was so big and she was small, it drove him to always be so careful of her when they made love. There was always that edge, that slight burn to their lovemaking that let her know she was being stretched and filled by him.

She loved it. Loved him. Loved that he was the only one who was able to fill her so completely and that it troubled him so greatly. Any other man would have preened about having a cock large enough to hurt but he treated it as if it were a failing. As if he was somehow built incorrectly and always treated her exceedingly gently as a result.

Not tonight though. She didn't want that tonight.

Sherlock was still above her, legs trembling as he waited for her to adjust and she moaned. Usually it took him two or three strokes before he was deep within her but tonight she spread her legs wide, grabbed his perfectly sculpted arse, and pulled them flush. They gasped together as he filled her, the sweet burn of him racing through her as she locked her legs around her.

Her arms wrapped around him as she pulled him close. "Please, Sherlock. Please. Let me feel it."

He was hesitant at first, still trying to be gentle, but she begged him to go harder and faster until sweat was dripping down his face and he had lost all control. Her fingernails dragged along his back, she knew she was leaving a mark, but she didn't care. All that mattered was Sherlock above her, pounding into her with a strength she'd always craved but was always too timid to ask for. He hoisted her leg up over her shoulder, striving for even deeper and she gasped loudly, almost screamed his name as they moved together.

The pain and pleasure of their coupling merged together until her every nerve sang. Broken and loving every minute of it she gasped his name, begging him for more and more and he gave her everything she'd ever wanted and then some. His mouth was filthy as it rumbled in her ear, Sherlock asking her if she liked it, if she wanted more. He called her a dirty slut, asked her if she liked her cunt pounded so and all she could do was hold him against her and gasp and moan "Yes, yes, yes."

It seemed to last for ages, teetering on the edge with him.

It didn't last nearly enough.

His lips had searched out hers, kissing her fiercely as his hands had gone to her clit. Pausing just long enough to find that sweet spot he'd whispered hoarsely for her to come, "Come for me Molly," until she broke apart with a scream. Tightening around him, nails drawing blood, she wailed his name as he groaned.

He thrust inside her hard twice, three times more with a grunt and stilled above her. Gasping loudly, her name a prayer on his lips, he tensed as he came. Both of them panting, he collapsed on the bed next to her, flopping onto his back as he stared up at the ceiling.

Their breath eventually slowed, the sweat cooling them as Sherlock ran a hand through his soaked hair. "I didn't... I didn't hurt you, did I?"

Rubbing her thighs together, the mess of her wetness and his release making her slick she shook her head. It was a lie. It hurt gloriously, aching in a way she'd know she'd feel in the morning. To be honest she liked the idea, liked knowing that all day tomorrow she'd move and be reminded of the feeling of Sherlock above her. His broken cries. The way he'd moved inside of her and the way he'd made her feel.

"No," she whispered. "I'm fine."

"Good," he muttered and rolled over. Capturing her with an arm he pulled her close, pressing a kiss to the back of her neck and snuggling against her.

Resting her arm over his she felt her heart jump into her throat. She always loved the time after they had sex. When Sherlock was sated and lazy and content to act, just for a moment, like a normal lazy boyfriend. Sniffling, she dashed the tears from her eyes and removed his arm from around her, sliding from the bed.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked, sitting up as she rummaged around in the dark for clean knickers and clothes. Even in the dim yellow light she could tell that his expression was guarded, weary. He was holding the sheet to him tightly and that was odd. He'd never been one to be uncomfortable about his nudity.

She shook her head, knowing that if she tried to speak she'd burst into tears. If she cried she wouldn't be able to leave. If she didn't leave now who knew when she'd get the strength to do it again? All the hurt and disappointment. She couldn't let it go on any longer. Her heart wouldn't be able to stand it.

Finding her shoes in the dark proved to be the most difficult part but she managed it, slipping them on and not bothering with the laces. Grabbing up a shopping tote she tipped out the box that had held her new dress and scooped up some clothes. It didn't matter what they were so long as they were hers.

Sherlock watched her from the bed, his hands fisting in the sheet. For a moment it looked like he was trembling, but his face was so calm. "Molly," he said, then cleared his throat to remove the wobble. "Molly, I already said you didn't have to leave."

Not saying anything, she simply took up her handbag, pocketed her mobile and headed towards the door. Pausing in the kitchen, she struggled to breathe as she worked the flat key off her ring.

There was a thump behind her and suddenly Sherlock was following her, struggling into a dressing gown as he hurried. His hair was a wreck, his face pale and his eyes wide as he stopped inches from her. "Molly-"

She set the key on the kitchen table. It clicked loudly and swam in her vision as tears threatened to fall. Turning to go she was hauled back, spun around as his hands dug into her upper arms.

Face desperate, an expression she'd never seen on him before, Sherlock towered over her. Shaking her, his fingers dug into her flesh so hard she knew there would be bruises in the morning. "Molly, say something!" he'd demanded and in the light she could see his eyes were shining too. "You can't- I don't want- You have to say something! Tell me what you need. I'll do it. For you I can do it, Molly."

Pleading was never something she expected to hear from him and for a moment her resolve wavered. Her hands came up to cup his face and his lips eagerly crashed down to meet hers as she raised herself up again. His arms were crushing as they wrapped around her body, her own around his neck as they pulled each other as close as they could. Her face was wet as he tugged her back towards the bedroom.

They could do this now. Make love again. It would be rougher this time, even more desperate as Sherlock tried to convince her to stay. She'd absolutely love it. They could have a lie in, making love all day tomorrow. Work could be put off claiming a sick day and she could beg Sherlock to leave his mobile off as he had sometimes done in the early days in their relationship. A lazy day spent talking, napping, and having sex.

Deluding themselves that they could make this work.

Pulling back, she pressed a final kiss to his lips. His gaze was broken, the tears no longer an illusion as he gazed down at her. "I can change," he whispered, voice trembling.

Cupping his cheek, she smiled at him. Tried to make it seem loving when all she was doing was breaking both of their hearts. "I don't want you to," she said. Picking up her things she turned to go.


She was out the door, heading down the stairs. Hopefully Mrs. Hudson was still soundly asleep due to her soothers. She didn't want to be the cause of the older woman waking at this time in the morning. Clattering as quietly as she could down the stairs she paused long enough to put on her coat, Sherlock watching her every move.

"You'll never find a cab at this hour," he said as she opened the door, voice nearly a whisper.

Turning back to her she only smiled weakly. "Goodbye Sherlock," she said and stepped out, shutting the door behind her.

Collapsing against it, she sobbed loudly, burying her face in her hands. Through the wood she could hear a series of thumps, what sounded like a curse, and then a crash that rattled the door. For a moment she thought it was going to be wrenched open, that Sherlock would try to follow her, force her back upstairs, and she would be lost, but he didn't. Instead the Baker Street house went silent as she cried, rubbing tears away with the base of her palm as she tried to get ahold of herself.

It was for the best, she told herself as she gathered her things and herself together. They never would have lasted. She would always want more from Sherlock then he was able to give and the hurt would just keep building up until they exploded even worse than they just had. It was better to end it now. To stop when there were still happy moments to be found instead of them both hating each other.

Glancing down the street in each direction, Molly considered her options. Sherlock was right that she wouldn't be able to catch a cab. The tube was shut down as well and dawn was still a hazy thought a few hours away. It didn't matter though. If she went back up now she'd never be able to leave.

Pushing away from the door, breath hitching as she heard the groan of pain that sounded as she moved away from it, Molly picked a direction and started to walk. This was all for the best. It was better this way.

That was a lie too.