CHAPTER DESCRIPTION: Sherlock recounts his missteps along the way after Molly shuts him out.

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Sherlock sat in his usual chair, bouncing a small ball to the ground, catching it when it popped back up. He was thinking.

Perhaps he was overthinking.

Either way he could not understand where he had went wrong. He had tried so very hard to show Molly affection, but it had blown up in his face earlier that morning.

"You are incapable of loving me the way I deserve to be loved. You said so yourself."

Incapable of loving her the way she needed to be loved. The moment she had said that it seemed like a knife had stabbed him deep in his heart. He wanted to prove her wrong, to show her just how much she meant to him, but it was too late. The door had been closed and he did not have a key. He laid his head back on the chair and sighed; She was right about one thing.

"This isn't some case for you to solve."

He mulled over her words, replaying them over and over, trying to see if there was any deeper meaning to what she had said - perhaps a twitch of the eye meant she was being dishonest, a shifting of weight betraying a need or want - but he came up short. Everything she had said she meant; she didn't want him to come back. She didn't want him. Molly didn't even know if she loved him anymore. At least that was what she said.

Sherlock knew something was going on with Molly a few months earlier. She had stopped talking to him as candidly as before and it puzzled him. At first he thought maybe it was her shyness, but this was something extraordinarily out of character. She had changed. Somehow, some way she had changed practically overnight.

"Sweet Molly," he murmured to himself.

He blinked a few tears out of his eyes and quickly wiped them away as he heard footsteps traveling up the stairs. By the rhythm of the footfalls, he could tell it was John Watson and his brother, Mycroft Holmes.

Just my luck, he thought, rolling his eyes and heading off to his bedroom. He needed a nap desperately.

He kicked his shoes off and looked into the mirror across from his bed; his face looked different - awkward, ill even. And his eyes told on him more than his mouth could do. He decided that hiding from John and Mycroft until this was all over was the best option. So Sherlock pulled the covers back and slid into his bed, still thinking about her.

That episode in the morgue still puzzled him, though he understood more now. He had said something to her, something genuine and it had been met with a certain hesitation from the recipient. It wasn't that he had expected her to pat him on the back for being nice (though that would have been appreciated), but he had, quite honestly, just wanted to see her smile at him. What he got was quite the opposite.

"Molly, thank you," he turned to face her, an earnest look on his face. The expression on Molly's face was that of surprise, which slightly amused him.

"F-For what?" she asked, stammering in response, her eyebrow raised.

He knew she was unsure on whether or not to trust his good mood. It was a survival mechanism she had had to develop earlier in their relationship, and so it was his mission now to calm that suspicion. He loved her, and he would tell her so, little by little.

"For being there, that's all." He flashed a smile at her, hoping it would ease the tension that had just developed. But it did the exact opposite. Instead of replying, she looked back at the corpse in front of them and began writing more notes down. Molly then sighed, barely noticeable if her chest had not moved up, then down.

He began to walk up to her, with deliberately slow steps in case her nerves got the better of her. "Molly?" he asked, very concerned. Something was amiss and he would get to the bottom of things one way or another.

"Mm?"

Mm? Not even an intelligible word. Very unlike her. "Is something wrong?" She finally looked up at him, still no appearance of a smile. As he got closer he realized she wasn't even looking at him, she was looking at the wall behind him.

"N-No. Jus' tired is all, heh."

He knew she was lying. It didn't take a genius to see it, despite his being one.

She must need space, he thought to himself.

If space was what she needed, space was what she would have. When she was ready, she would come back to him.

Only she never did come back. Instead she had stayed away, ignoring his calls and texts. Even an invitation out to tea with John, Mary, and Mycroft couldn't bring her out. He swallowed his frustrations and unhappiness - this wasn't about him, he knew. When Molly was ready, she would come back to him. At least that's what he told himself everyday.

Despite almost two months rolling past with no contact, he never stopped thinking about Molly. During cases, press conferences, ordinary conversations, her smile and voice would cross his mind and send him on edge. He was getting impatient - he needed answers. It had been too long since he had seen her and now he was desperate.

...

Around three in the morning, Sherlock woke up groggy and tired. The sleep he had had was not fulfilling, and he knew why; missing Molly was beginning to affect his sleep. The only way to fix it was to see her, to know the truth and help her with whatever problem she was going through. He got up and dressed in his usual outfit despite the hour, executed his morning hygiene routine, and headed out the door. No taxi would be running at - he checked his watch - four in the morning, at least not around 221B, so he started off down the street. This time his photographic memory came in handy, helping him to remember which way to turn, and, ultimately, just what her flat looked like.

Once he arrived, he walked through the lobby door and up three flights of stairs to find her. He stood by the front door for three minutes, preparing for what he might say. Just as he was about to knock on the door, he remembered the hour and thought it would be better to send her a text as a warning. The first message was sent, and then another..

He leaned up to the door, pressing his ear against the cool wood and sighed. She was awake - there were different kinds of sounds, like those similar to news coverage. He knew Molly never slept with the telly on, which meant either she had misplaced her phone, or she was ignoring him. Again.

Sherlock typed away on his phone, sending message after message, a frantic anxiety building in the pit of his stomach. He was here now, but why was she staying away?

His dispair had, by this time, turned to full blown agony. Text messages weren't getting her attention, but one thing would, he was certain. He began hitting the door loudly with the side of his fist - neighbors be damned. Over and over he pummeled.

"Molly!" he called, his voice hoarse. "God damn it! Molly!"

He didn't let up until he could hear the security latches being switched around. She was unlocking the door! Finally!

When he saw her he almost sighed with relief. It had been so long since he had seen her sweet face. It took everything in Sherlock's power not to reach through the door and hold her to his chest.

"Sherlock, it is four in the morning! What is wrong with you?!"

His daydream was quickly thrown to the side as he realized she was not pleased with his presence.

He couldn't bring himself to answer, and brushed past her into her flat. His nerves were on end, this time out of shock. He had not expected her to greet him with melancholy. She closed the door behind him and he started to pace, trying to put his thoughts in alignment with one another. Something was definitely amiss.

Sherlock stopped pacing after God knows how long in silence, and looked at his lover with sadness. "Molly, you have been avoiding me."

"Yes."

Yes? That was it? A simple yes?

"I do not understand. Have I...Hurt your feelings? I am sincerely sorry, Molly. Let the error be known so that I may amend-"

He cut himself off when she began to shake her head. A knawing feeling of impending gloom were coloring his feelings.

"Sherlock, for someone so smart, you sure are thick."

His eyes almost bulged out of their sockets - she was being blunt, which was very unlike her. "Molly I.." but words failed him. Nothing made much sense anymore, and he wasn't sure what to do or say to her to make things right. He stared at her and realized a part of her was enjoying his anguish. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

"You are right Sherlock," she said, nodding her head, "I have been avoiding you, and for very good reason."

Suddenly the room got colder than before. Molly had been avoiding Sherlock on purpose. The understanding hit him somewhere in the gut and made him want to sit down. Such a heavy blow from someone so sweet.

"I have no reason to speak to you again Sherlock, and it is for the simple fact that I love you. Or I did. I'm not so sure anymore. Staying away from you is for my own health."

Here she walked to the door and reopened it, clearly expecting him to leave. But he couldn't. His feet were planted to the ground and his mind was focused on managing the shock. It was a lot to take in. His lover did not....Did not what?

No, don't think it..

"For God's sake, Sherlock! This isn't some case for you to solve. There aren't any answers except the one I have chosen for the both of us. Please leave, and don't come back."

She wanted him to leave because...Because...

He walked to the doorway, his jaw clenched to give some feeling to his numb body. He stopped just in front of her, one thing on his mind. He needed to know..

"Molly, why did you not tell me?"

"Because you are incapable of loving me the way I deserve to be loved. You said so yourself when we visited that tube fanatic."

Because you are incapable...the way she deserved to be loved.

It was true that he had said so himself, long ago when she was still engaged to that lookalike fiance. He had said it so she would be happy, so she wouldn't look over her shoulder at the altar and reach out to him instead of that boy..

Tears began to sting his eyes. He had, perhaps, made the worst error of his life and these were the repercussions.

"I see..." he said simply. It was all he could manage to say.

There was another silence, the air seemed like it was trying to choke Sherlock to a real premature death. He wanted to grab her and hold her, to tell her he didn't mean it and that he would do better, but she had made up her mind. What was done was done.

He bit the inside of his cheek to keep the tears at bay before saying:

"You will always have a friend in me, dear Molly. And I will always love you, please know that." Sherlock 's voice was barely audible. He couldn't muster up the strength to speak above a whisper.

He didn't wait for a reply. He simply left, down the three flights of stairs before his body turned to putty. Once outside and out of view of her flat, he leaned against the brick wall of an alley and cried harder than he ever had before over someone. He had lost Molly forever, there was no turning back.

...

There was a quiet rap at the door, and then it creaked open slowly, John Watson's head peeking through. When Sherlock turned under the covers to see who it was, both John and Mycroft stepped into the room, concerned looks on their faces.

"Brother mine, something is wrong. You have been avoiding us all, and we will not leave until you give a most convincing answer."