Author's Note: This is basically the result of my anger about how Molly Hooper was treated this season, both by the characters and the writers. Contains spoilers for The Final Problem.

Whole

When there's a knock on her door on Tuesday morning, Molly Hooper very seriously considers pretending that she's not home.

She's tired. She's always tired, nowadays. It feels more like a permanent trait than a state of being. The bags under her eyes are getting harder to hide with make-up. She wants to curl up and sleep for at least a week, and even that might not be enough.

People don't realise how much she's had on her plate over the past few months. There's work, for starters. She works long hours, and late hours. She's always picked up whatever shifts she's asked to, because that's the sort of person she is. If Detective Inspector Lestrade and Sherlock want to examine a body, she's always willing to come in, even if it's her day off. She'll even come in on Christmas if they ask her to. The Detective Inspector never demands it, but she's always willing. She wants to help. She always wants to help.

Then, of course, there's the baby. The baby is like a second full-time job on top. She was honoured to be asked to be Rosie's godmother, and she doesn't regret it for a second, but that does not mean that she expected this to happen. No godparent expects to be called upon so soon after the baby's birth, if at all. She doesn't blame John, of course. She can't imagine what he went through, losing his wife so soon after Rosie's birth. Of course he was grieving, of course he couldn't take care of Rosie. She doesn't blame him for that. Still, it doesn't change the fact that she's been taking care of Rosie more often than not for the past few months, and she's hardly gotten any sleep, and she's just so tired.

The worst part is that nobody seems to care.

She's doing everything right, everything that's asked of her. John says, "I'm sorry, I can't... I can't look after her right now, I can't be her father, not like this," and Molly says of course Rosie can come live with her, says "If there's anything you need, anything at all, just ask". Mrs Hudson says, "I'm sorry, love, I know it's my turn, but it's Sherlock, you see. His in a state, he's made a right mess of himself and the flat's just no state for a baby right now," and Molly says of course she'll take Rosie home with her again, it doesn't matter that Rosie kept her up last night and she had been hoping to get some sleep this time round. Sherlock says, "Molly, in exactly two weeks I need you to go to this address. Bring an ambulance. No, don't ask questions" and Molly says of course she will, she'll find someone else to take care of the baby that morning and she'll find someone to take over her shift at work so that she can take an ambulance to the address of a therapist, to run drug tests on Sherlock Holmes, to tell Sherlock Holmes that he's killing himself and she's got enough stress taking care of the baby, she really, really doesn't need to be stressed about Sherlock bloody Holmes on top of it.

She's not asking for a reward. She's not asking for some sort of prize for being kind. But once, just once, she wants someone to say thank you, or to ask if she's all right, or maybe to just help her, just a little bit, because she's one person and she can't do everything by herself. She's running herself ragged, putting everyone else's needs before her own.

So when there's a knock on the door on Tuesday morning, Molly thinks that she would rather just curl up on her sofa and pretend she doesn't exist. It can't be that hard, because people don't seem to notice she exists half the time anyway.

She knows who it is standing on the other side of the door. She knows the moment they knock again, because there are only so many people in the world who won't take the hint and will keep trying when Molly doesn't immediately answer the door. He's the last person she wants to see right now. She doesn't want to look him in the eye, not after the phone call yesterday. She doesn't want to look at him after what he said to her, and after what he made her say to him. She doesn't want to see him.

"Molly, I know you're home," he says from behind the door, and Molly sinks lower on her sofa, burying her face into her cushion. "You left your window open. You only leave your window open when you're home." There's another pause, and Molly remains silent, hoping he will go away, but he doesn't. "Please, Molly," he says.

She needs to stop putting other people before herself. She knows that. She needs to stop putting him before herself. Yet, every time, every single time, she does whatever he says. It doesn't matter that she doesn't want to see him. He says 'please' and she can't help herself.

She unfolds her legs from underneath her, stands up, and walks slowly to the door. She can see him through the peephole. He looks nervous, but maybe she's just seeing what she wants to see. She can't help the fantasies, can't help imagining that he's standing at her door because he wants to tell her that he meant what he said, that she was never an experiment, that he loves her. He won't, she knows he won't, but she can't help but dream.

She takes a deep breath, composing herself. If he thinks he can get away with what he did yesterday, he's got another thing coming. It doesn't matter how charming and how sweet he tries to be. She won't let herself be weak in front of him. She's angry, and she's hurt, and he's going to know about it.

She opens the door, leans against the doorframe, crosses her arms over her chest and gives him a hard look, wordlessly asking him what he is doing.

She hates that her heart still flutters when she sees him. She hates that, even when she's angry with him, he still makes her stomach twist. All the same, she's damn proud of herself for not letting it show on her face.

His bright eyes flicker between hers, and he opens his mouth, but then closes it again, apparently considering his words. "How are you feeling?" he asks after a pause. "You said you were having a bad day yesterday."

"You're not here to ask me how I'm feeling," she says. She gives herself points for keeping her tone steady.

Sherlock's gaze drops for a second before he looks up again. "No, I'm not," he says quietly, "but I am here to talk to you about that phone call. I owe you an explanation." A beat, and he adds, "And an apology."

Molly doesn't say anything, but just gives him an expectant look.

Sherlock glances over her shoulder, into her house. "May I come in?" he asks, and Molly considers saying no, insisting that he can apologise out here, but then he says, "Please," and she sighs and steps to the side.

She doesn't hold the door open for him. She just turns and walks into the house, knowing that he will follow.

"Did John send you?" she asks without looking over her shoulder. John probably sent Sherlock. John's always the one making sure Sherlock isn't rude. John is the one who tells Sherlock to apologise when he says something inappropriate, or the one to kick Sherlock under the table or give him a look to force Sherlock to consider his words.

Behind her, Sherlock says, "No, I came on my own."

When she reaches her living room, she turns to face him. She crosses her arms over her chest, because it makes her feel like there's some sort of barrier between them. It makes her feel more in control. "You don't have to tell me you didn't mean it. What you said," she says. "I know you didn't."

Sherlock drops his gaze to his feet again before he meets her eyes. "You are my friend, Molly," he says quietly. "I meant that."

Molly doesn't look at him. "You have some way of showing it," she mutters.

At least Sherlock has the decency to look guilty.

He goes to take a step closer to her, but she gives him a look, and he takes the hint and stays where he is. "You have every right to be angry with me," he starts, and she interrupts him.

"I didn't ask for your permission to be angry, Sherlock. I am angry." She pauses for a beat, but there is so much anger and so much hurt in her chest, and it's bubbling up out of her before she can stop it. "You don't get to do that to me. How could you do that? I'm not an experiment. I'm not your toy to play with. How could you..." She can hear her voice wavering, and she takes a moment to compose herself, swallowing thickly. "You know it's true. You know it. And you just – you made me say it, and then you hung up on me, and it's not fair, Sherlock, you can't possibly understand how it feels—"

"I know," Sherlock says, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. "If you'll just let me explain—"

Molly talks over him. "I do everything you ask. Do you even realise that? I've always done whatever you wanted me to, and you treat me like I'm nothing." She can feel tears welling up in her eyes, but she fights them back. "And I know I shouldn't feel that way about you, after the way you treat me, but I do, okay? And I hate myself for it, and I hate you for it, but you don't get to play with someone's heart like that. You hear me, Sherlock? You don't get to play with my heart like that."

"I know," Sherlock says softly. "I'm sorry. I am truly sorry, Molly."

She takes in a shaky breath and refuses to meet his eyes. She will not cry. She will not let herself cry, not in front of him.

After a moment, Sherlock asks, "Can I explain?"

Molly nods once. "Yeah," she says. "You better."

Sherlock nods, and then takes a deep breath. It takes him a moment to start. "I lied, on the phone," he begins.

Molly lets out a harsh, wry laugh.

"No, not about— I mean—" Sherlock pauses, taking a minute to compose himself, and he clears his throat. "That phone call wasn't for a case. It wasn't an experiment." Another beat, and he corrects, "Well, it was an experiment, but it wasn't my experiment."

Molly considers telling him that his explanation is awful, but instead she chooses to stay silent, and just gives him a hard look.

Sherlock continues, "You were—I was given reason to believe that you were in danger."

"What do you mean?"

"I was told that your house was rigged with explosives. If you didn't say... what you said, I thought you'd be killed."

Molly's lips part with a quiet intake of breath. It's certainly not the explanation she was expecting. She feels her heart skip a beat in her chest.

"You thought?" she repeats, and Sherlock drops his gaze.

"There were never any explosives," he says. "It was a trick. I didn't know that until the call had ended."

Molly can't bring herself to meet his eyes. She wraps her arms around herself and looks over his shoulder instead. "Who would do such a thing?" she asks quietly.

Sherlock answers, "Someone more dangerous than Moriarty."

"Who?"

Sherlock hesitates. "My sister."

Molly blinks. "Your sister."

"I didn't know she existed until recently. It's not that I've been keeping secrets from you."

"You're always keeping secrets from me."

Sherlock doesn't look at her. "The point is," he says, "that phone call wasn't intended to hurt you. That is, I didn't intend to you. If there had been another way, if it wasn't a matter of life or death—"

Molly shakes her head. "I know," she says quietly, and when Sherlock looks up at her, she continues, "That's not me saying it's okay, because it's not okay, but it's not... your fault."

"It is my fault," Sherlock says, "but thank you for understanding."

Molly nods her head, and then looks away.

Silence stretches between them. Sherlock is the one to break it. "I do care about you, Molly," he says. His tone is gentle. "I mean it when I say you're my friend. I'm sorry that it is not what you want, but I do care."

"Yeah," Molly murmurs. "I know."

Sherlock nods, and then glances over his shoulder. "I should go," he says.

Molly nods her head in agreement.

She walks him to the door, to see him out. She knows that she can't blame him, that she shouldn't really be angry at him, knowing now that what he did wasn't to make fun of her but was because he thought he was protecting her. It doesn't mean it doesn't hurt. It will always hurt. She's no stranger to unrequited love. Molly Hooper falls hard and falls fast, and of course, of course it hurts, when you're head over heels for someone who doesn't love you back.

But she will not let that define her. She is more than just a lovesick woman. She is a pathologist. She is a friend, a godmother. She is clever, and she is kind, and she is caring, and these are the traits that define her. Not her unrequited love, not her broken heart. She is far, far more than that.

They reach her front door, and Sherlock turns to face her. His gaze flickers between her eyes.

"Are you all right?" he asks.

She's not, of course she's not, but she will be. So, she nods her head. "Fine," she says. "I'm fine."

"Good. I'll see you later, then?"

"Yeah."

Sherlock nods, and then leans down to kiss her on the cheek, like he usually does when he says goodbye. She shakes her head, turning away. She doesn't want him to make her heart race today. He doesn't have that right. "Don't," she says quietly, and Sherlock immediately straightens up. She holds the door open for him. "Bye, Sherlock."

"Goodbye, Molly Hooper," Sherlock replies, and then he steps out the door, and she closes it behind him.

Alone in her house, she slumps back against the door, takes in a shaky breath, and then she lets herself cry. She doesn't fight it back. It's healthy to cry, and she's allowed to cry. She's allowed to be hurt, even if Sherlock didn't mean to hurt her. She's allowed to be heartbroken, and she's allowed to cry about it.

When her tears run dry, she straights herself up. She moves into her bathroom, washes her face, fixes her hair, and takes a deep breath. Her heartbreak does not define her. She does not need Sherlock Holmes, or anyone else to fix her heart and make her whole. She is whole.

Maybe one day, she'll fall in love with someone else, someone who loves her and deserves her more than Sherlock Holmes. But she doesn't need that. Her relationship status does not define her. She does.