A/N: It's one of those terrible, terrible days, which prompted me to write this.

Walk in, lock the door, slide to the floor and weep. It almost felt like a reunion - the familiar sight of her toilet and shower, or the splatter of toothpaste on the mirror. From the floor she couldn't see her face, the only relief she had, as sobs wrecked through her fiercely, still trying to be kept quiet (like they'd be less of a reality if subdued).

She'd always hide in the toilet at every disappointment, at every problem. There was something about that clinical cold room that comforted her. Safe, it just said safe. No one there to judge, but the echo that reflected back every subdued tear. She could sob loudly, quietly and horribly, while looking like a downright mess, nobody would judge. The bathroom tiles had no voices of the tears they'd seen spilt year after year, some of the tears pointless and some of the tears at old memories, but today – today they had every right to see them. Down they dripped, tear after tear, some of them dark cluttered with her makeup, until they slowly drew back, letting her breathe without shivering. Meena had shagged Tom, "It just happened," she said.

First Molly had laughed and said, "It's alright…I didn't really care for him like that anyway so it's fine."

"But – but-," her friend sobbed, " – you were engaged."

There was something different with being at St Bart's with that piece of information, something about the air, about not being able to let go. It was like it hadn't properly sunk in, until suddenly she started walking, her legs turning heavy with every step, her stomach empty, as she walked up the last steps to her flat, then she broke. Tears were brilliant in that way, fleeing her face desperately, while she clutched at herself, finding purchase in the fabric of her clothing, her brown eyes blinking up to the glaring light in the ceiling.

That's when the doorbell rang; she suspected it was him - Sherlock. She'd mentioned it to him, laughed about it in front of his face, and he'd stared at her.

"Don't do that," he'd said, his eyes slightly narrowed, like she was guilty of something. His mouth pursed, while she flung on her coat, trying to get out as quickly as possible. Of all things she didn't want to have a heart to heart with him, didn't want to bother him with her 'emotional' stuff, it wasn't like him to care about that, it wasn't his area.

"I'm fine," she said laughing.

"Molly," he said.

She promptly shook her head, escaping from the lab, "No, really – I am just – stop this – goodnight."

Molly barely wanted to lift herself from her perch on the floor, hunched over cradling her knees. Gradually she stood up, the doorbell still going off in the background, unlocking the bathroom door and stepping out. "I'm coming," she said sniffing, wiping at her eyes with the sleeve of her cardigan, and trying to look somewhat decent, despite knowing there was no use.

He'd figure out she'd been crying and somehow that only wanted to make her cry more. How many nights hadn't she wasted tears on him, on if he was dead or alive, or some idiotic comment he'd given without thought? So many nights, and now, it wasn't even him, but he had come here – to do what? She didn't know what he could do; not really, this was again not his area. Molly braced herself when she opened the door to her flat, looking up at him, blinking away the tears that wanted to escape. At once he looked utterly out of his element, his face mutedly softening an inch or two, "I'm okay," she said, trying to seem cross, but he ignored it. Instead of listening to her, he forced her to move aside, striding into her flat and removing his coat.

"It's customary to have ice cream, is it not?" he said hanging his coat and scarf away, making her blink at him stupidly.

"Sorry?" she said, closing the door, while he walked off to the kitchen opening her fridge, peering inside and taking out a box of Ben and Jerry. Of all the things she had ever expected, it was certainly not this, "Umm-,"

He brought out a bowl and a spoon, handing them over to her, letting her feel the cold box in her hand, while she gaped at the items, laughter building slowly in her chest, "Now – wine? Wine is good or is it bad?" She looked up at him, seeing his rather puzzled face over the concept if alcohol was a bad thing if your best friend slept with your ex-fiancé, "Obviously good."

Once more he escaped to the kitchen, scouring her cupboards and finding easily the glass, then the bottle of chilled white in her fridge, "But-," she started to protest, not knowing what to say.

"Sit," he said pointedly, gesturing towards her settee with the bottle. Slowly she wandered over, followed by him, as he settled the bottle and glass on the table, before removing the items from her hand placing them on the table as well.

For a few seconds, she stared, while he started to scoop and pour. It was definitely a foreign sight, almost making her wonder if she was going through some odd dream, "Good?" he said putting the glass of wine into her hands.

She took it still staring at the man, "I…okay…yeah…it's good. Sherlock, are you alright?"

Immediately he rolled his eyes, quickly scoffing, before he said rather sincerely, "Molly, your ex-fiancé just slept with your best friend – I think in this case – I should be asking that question."

"Right," she giggled, taking a long needed sip from her wine. No food in her stomach made her know it was a terrible idea, though right now, nothing was a terrible idea. In fact she couldn't exactly cock this up, since there was no way she could do wrong right now, despite the alcohol going to her head rather fast, but she still jerked in surprise when Sherlock's palm found place on her back, "Wha-," she squeaked.

"Physical con-," he cleared his throat promptly, dropping his hand, as he said, "That's what…I read -,"

"Youtube?" she prompted, trying not to grin, as she saw his cheeks turn faintly red. Mary had told her of all his mad acquired talents from the website, a thing she never thought he'd do at all, especially for her.

"Google," he said, pressing his palms together, averting his gaze.

She couldn't help but stare at the man. He'd been home apparently, since he wasn't wearing the same dress-shirt anymore. He was wearing his purple one, her personal favourite, which he obviously knew, and one of the buttons was undone, unintentionally she hoped. Hopefully the list he most likely read didn't involve – dress sexy for your best friend, but more ice cream and wine. Two things she did have, yet, didn't have the strength to bring out on her own, "Thank you," she said in a small voice.

"You're welcome – now – I think we are supposed to watch some romantic comedy of some kind?" he said, with the grimace so evident on his face another giggle escaped her lips.

"It's fine," she said shaking her head, emptying the glass, which he then refilled for her giving her a look.

"You've been crying," he said, his jaw evidently clenched, which made her reluctantly smile.

"I shouldn't even be cross…it's been ages-,"

He stopped her there with another look; his blue eyes hardening, "She is supposed to be your best friend. No friend does that, Molly."

"It's not like she meant to," she said and that's when the tears built up again, rolling down her hot cheeks, "It just…it just happened…"

The glass was suddenly out of her hands and she felt him wrap his arms around her, wordlessly stroking her back, while she cried on his shirt. She didn't want to cry like this, not in front of him – all of this was reserved for the bath.

This wasn't something he was supposed to see, to hear or feel through his shirt. But she couldn't stop herself, finding herself seeking comfort in him, allowing herself to feel it, hoping the feelings would piss off soon enough, so she could go to bed without having to think of the why.

His hand slid in circles on her back, steadying her breathing, as he said, "He's an idiot…meat dagger…" he snorted loudly, causing her to laugh against him, blinking furiously, before she slowly pulled herself from his arms.

She grinned, "Yeah…a bit-,"

Once more he turned serious, "Molly Hooper – you deserve better – now eat your ice cream and then we can watch whatever you want on that small television of yours."

Despite him not being exactly who she would ever think as comforting, there was something nice with the way he kept throwing snide comments at the screen every chance he got, allowing her to lean on him for support, until he hesitantly wrapped his arm around her.

She could feel in the way he held her that he was overly conscious about it, almost shy, but she didn't question it. Neither did she feel like saying anything when she woke up with him holding her, snoring on the settee. Molly just knew that it was exactly what she needed, that with him she felt safe.