Notes: Present day is 2016. Molly began working for Sherlock in 2011.

January 2016

Sherlock had always prided himself in being able to read others just as well, if not better, than his brother. It was a trait so very few people had. While it set up a strict lifestyle for him growing up, it had also given him an upper hand in the business world. He could always dissect what others wanted out of him before they so much as shook hands. It led him to hire Molly Hooper five years ago.

And now, the string of words that usually floated around as he analyzed people was more of a mess than anything. He felt almost inebriated, unsure of his own thoughts as he watched Molly stare at him back. She was a standing contradiction: she was attempting to take on her dominant persona, but had chewed her chapped lips raw.

Of course, she was trying to calm herself. What she had said still lingered in his head, and that was nerve-wracking. He had clear explanations for everything about her right now, except for that.

"What?"

Molly stood a little straighter, with lips pressed together and her eyes wide in order to force her composure. Sherlock hadn't seen that false bravado since her first week of work and it drew an awful lump in his throat.

Quiet, she repeated again, "I'm quitting. This is my two weeks' notice."

Sherlock squinted and furrowed his brows, cocking his head to the side. "Molly, you're going to have to repeat yourself," he told her, "I seemed to have heard that you were quitting."

"You know what you heard, Sherlock."

He remained still and his eyes went blank. It was a classic expression for him whenever he needed to retreat to his Mind Palace. He had never anticipated this moment; it was… He wasn't sure what it was. He just knew he didn't like it—didn't accept it.

"I know you don't accept it, but you're going to have to."

It's after he entered every tower and dungeon in his Mind Palace that he responded with a prompt spin on his heels. Sherlock marched over to his cabinet, fingers eager to clutch on something and squeeze the life out of it. Instead, they managed to grasp onto every handle in the office, pulling out shelves and shelves. He could feel his heart thundering inside his chest, pulses echoing enough to drive him mad, matching the loud clanging of every desk drawer hitting the floor. He's reached the last drawer, fingers clutching around the handle while his eyes rapidly searched for—

"I threw out your cigarettes last week."

He turned back to her while his arm yanked onto the drawer, launching it to the other side of the room. It didn't escape him that Molly flinched and had become far more nervous than she had ever been before.

"Why?!"

"Because they'll give you cancer!"

"No, not that," he responded. The room has become quiet again except for his heavy breathing. "Why?"

Sherlock didn't think his reaction was uncalled for, but at his voice Molly stepped back, blinking tears away. When her sight finally fixed on him, Sherlock only became angrier. She was scared. She had the gall to suggest something so foolish and now she was terrified?

"I don't have to say," was her response.

"You're guilty. Why are you guilty?"

"Stop that. Sherlock, I can quit if I want to."

"No, you can't!" He argued. "You're mine."

Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped in disbelief. "No, I'm not!" She spat with harshness at the edges of her words. "You and Mycroft keep saying that: I'm yours, Sherlock's Molly, counterpart of Mycroft's Anthea! I'm not a possession, Sherlock! I'm not an object you can just take with you all the time and show off to all your friends. I'm a person, so sod off!"

Sherlock remained quiet briefly and watched the rise and fall of Molly's shaken body. She breathed heavily, and she continued to blink back the tears threatening to escape at the corner of her eyes. Her hands clenched, and there was so much hardness that outlined her features when she stared at him. She had always been a bit on the emotional side, but the sight of her so utterly angry at him made him feel lost.

He swallowed the lump in his throat away—it didn't budge. "You're not."

"What?"

"You're not a person. A person belongs in a group. A person is a fraction of people. You said so yourself, Molly Hooper, you are not people. You are far from ordinary—you are nothing like them."

"But I am…" Her voice fell back into its softness again. Like a gentle caress that won't last. "I want the same things they do. I want to explore the world. I want to marry and maybe get another cat and…And I want a job that I love."

It felt like a slap in the face.

"You want me," he decided.

She frowned, but the exhaustion was clear in her eyes: she didn't want to argue with him anymore. She was already done with him before this conversation was over. "Contrary to what you might think, not everything revolves around you, Sherlock."

Molly stepped forward, if only to center herself in the room as she always did when she needed his attention. She took a deep breath, and within a fraction of a second, Sherlock could hear the distant crumbling of the secret room in his Mind Palace where his memories of Molly lied.

"I'm moving on now, Sherlock. I'm people now."

"Molly—"

"Mr. Holmes…Please."

Sherlock could feel a shiver down his spine; it felt too wrong. Molly never called him Mr. Holmes unless someone else was there. They were the only ones in his office though and he hated the way she tightened her jaw, the way he could see the slight tremble of her lips, because it stole the voice lingering in his throat and he found himself unable to speak.

"Two weeks," she whispered softly, her voice cracking like the walls around Sherlock's comfortable existence. "Two weeks and then I'm gone."

August 2011

Contrary to popular belief, Molly Hooper did not become an instantaneous legend after Moriarty's shameful defeat.

She had scurried into Sherlock's office the next day, in her lucky jumper and she had a notepad tucked away in her pockets. Her face was flushed even before she laid eyes on the man behind the desk, mumbling something about the office finally recognizing her since the trial. Sherlock hadn't really paid attention.

In the two weeks following, Molly had taken a drastic turn, fashion wise. She had stepped into her boss's office wearing a similar ensemble to what Mycroft's Anthea had been wearing: a white blouse with the top two buttons undone, but no more, underneath a tight fit, black blazer. The pencil skirt she had worn to her interview had recently been ironed, and the pointed shoes had added four inches to Molly's height. Her knees were bent awkwardly as she attempted to walk up to Sherlock. Judging by the time, she had trouble walking that entire morning and her feet were already on the verge of forming blisters.

Sherlock had pressed his lips together in annoyance when he had first seen her appearance.

"What are you wearing?"

Molly had known she was going to be interrogated, but had acted innocent, almost flattered, that he paid any notice so soon.

"Oh, this? Just something I picked up—"

"Why?"

"Er, I…." she had stuttered. "I thought it would be nice, y'know, if I started wearing clothes like this."

He had narrowed his eyes at her. "If I had wanted to hire Anthea, I would have stolen her from under Mycroft's bulging nose."

She had appeared to be offended. "I didn't dress like this to copy her!"

"Then why? It can't be to appear professional; you've already worked here for three—four—months. If you wanted to look professional, you would have changed your appearance the first week you started working here. You had been satisfied when I told you to wear your usual outfits—Mycroft gets incredibly upset and it brings me great joy seeing him flustered. No, you wore this because of something else. Tell me."

Molly had gulped, ducking her chin down and avoiding his harsh stare. Her fingers had pinched at the corners of the files in her hands. "I…I guess with all the attention lately…People have been talking, Mr. Holmes."

"Yes, that's what people do."

Molly had shaken her head. "No, I mean…When I dressed the way I did, no one particularly understood why or how I was working with you. They all thought I was—that we were…you know."

Sherlock's face had scrunched up, confused. "We were what?"

If possible, Molly's face had reddened even more. "Having relations," she squeaked. When Sherlock hadn't said anything, she said, louder, "Having sex. That I was giving you sexual favours in order to keep my job here."

Finally, he had understood. "I see…Fire them."

"What?!"

"After me, you hold the most powerful position at this firm." Sherlock had blatantly ignored the existence of his brother. "If someone displeases you, get rid of them. Clearly they're already wasting time frivolously spreading rumours than contributing to anything important."

Molly's face had whitened immensely and she could feel a dizzy spell coming along. "I-I'm not used to being in a position of power, sir. I don't think…"

She had kept her head down, refusing to look at Sherlock in the eye now that she could hear how loud her heartbeats were drumming.

"Molly, look at me."

Hesitantly, she had untucked her chin from its position on her chest. Sherlock was staring straight at her without a foul look on his face.

"Be honest."

"I'm always honest with you, Mr. Holmes," she had admitted.

There had been the barest hint of a smile. "Did you believe the accusations that myself and my brother were stealing from the company and the government?"

Her eyes had widened at the question. "No! Of course not! I trust you."

"Good," he had replied, getting up from his seat. He had walked over to the nervous girl who despite having worn the outfit for several hours was just as uncomfortable as she had been when she put it on that morning. He stood directly in front of her, facing down and keeping his face close enough to make her even far more nervous and self-conscious than she had been moments before.

"So tell me," he had said, his low voice reverberating, "why would you care about what people have to say about us when not for a second did you believe what they had to say about mine and Mycroft's business affairs?"

"It's different when the rumours are about me, Mr. Holmes," Molly had admitted in an almost whisper. "I'm not used to the attention."

"Sherlock," was his response, escaping Molly's personal bubble. He had taken three strides back and leaned his back against the desk.

"What?"

"I don't like being called Mr. Holmes—it reminds me too much of my brother and not even the mindless, bumbling idiots that Lestrade works with deserve that sort of thought on a daily basis. Do so whenever those people that you keep on rambling about are near, but in my quarters, I prefer to be called by my name."

Molly had nodded frantically, still adjusting to the fact that the wall of tall, dark, and handsome wasn't blocking her field of vision anymore. "O-Okay, Sherlock."

"Good. Now listen closely, Molly; I don't want to repeat myself."

"Alright…"

"Each day, between my flat and my work, I see approximately one hundred and thirty-three people on average. That includes my day-to-day meetings and my trip to the coffee shop at lunch. I run the half of the company that my brother does not oversee, meaning I have far too little time, or energy, or even desire to learn who these people are, or what they do with their lives. Frankly, they don't interest me.

"People don't matter to me, just as they shouldn't matter to you. When Jim Moriarty accused our company of stealing, he attacked us with every pressure point we had, because he knew that the ones who mattered are the only ones whose names I remembered: John…Mary…Lestrade.

"It had been difficult to counter against him when so much was at risk for our friends. As a result, we deliberately allowed ourselves to be hurt so long as the ones who mattered strayed from the damage.

"We are already at so much risk dealing with the ones who matter to us, Molly. Why create further damage to ourselves with the people who don't matter?"

January 2016

Mycroft remained quiet, even as his brother huffed and puffed his way to the chair across from him. He managed a smug smile. "To what do I owe this pleasure?" It didn't matter what Sherlock answered; Mycroft already knew.

"You pushed her away," Sherlock accused.

"I'm afraid you're going to have to be more specific than that, Sherlock. I've pushed many people away—almost as much as you have."

"Everything was perfect until you came and pushed her away!"

Mycroft didn't respond.

"Has the fat reached your ears?! Molly. Molly. My Molly. She was perfectly content working with me until you had your way and forced her out. Now I'm short an assistant, and it's all. Your. Fault!"

The older brother remained silent, mouth forming a line as he calmly watched Sherlock's heavy exhales through his flared nostrils. The staring match between the two continued, with Mycroft leaving a watchful eye, studying Sherlock just as he had always done – waiting for the detonation. If Mycroft was the calm before the storm, then Sherlock would be the ship that fought stubbornly against Hell's waves.

Fitting for one who once wanted to be a pirate, Mycroft thought.

Finally, when he was sure Sherlock would not explode once more, he spoke: "The day we released news that our company was searching for an assistant, do you know what the job was described as?"

Sherlock's scowl never faltered, but all it took was a flicker in his eyes to let Mycroft know Sherlock hadn't paid any attention to the hiring process.

The elder Holmes sighed. "It was described as temporary."

The muscles around his jaw relaxed, his blinking slowed. Sherlock was beginning to get it, Mycroft noted, but it would take more than just a word, even for men as extraordinary as them—for men as torn as him.

"The position was listed as a temporary job, because by that point, you had scared off every susceptible male and female associate that had entered your corridors within weeks of their arrival. Why waste precious resources looking for just one extraordinary person to fill your schedules for you, when we can have an endless supply of ordinary people at our disposal?"

"Molly is far from ordinary, Mycroft," Sherlock said his name like it was an insult. He had only ever done so whenever he was incredibly crossed, but never to this extent. Not even when Mycroft left him at home to go to university was Sherlock this angry.

Sentiment: his brother steered clear from it all his life and now, he was drowning in it.

Rolling the chair back, Mycroft reached for the file drawer on his right, picking up the top folder he knew he would have to reveal soon, and placed it on the glass table between them. Molly Hooper's name and identification number stamped on its front; Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the sight.

"Ms. Hooper was never supposed to have stayed longer than six months with our firm. Her current position was not what she had agreed to," Mycroft continued to explain. "A girl like her—" He paused to flip the folder open, revealing a photo of a young, recluse girl in a rather large lab coat. "—fresh out of school…She only wanted to remove herself of student loans and explore the world before starting her career."

Mycroft flipped the photo over and Sherlock hastily read the company's contract in front of him. His eyes focused steadily on Molly's signature at the bottom where she agreed to only work for a limited time for the Holmes brothers.

"She accomplished the first task working with you all these years. It's only proper we allow her to fulfill her other endeavours after all she has done for us. Or rather, after all the years she's had to put up with you."

Sherlock ignored the last jab at him, but the emotions transfixed on his face never faltered from their natural state of pure anger. "If she had wanted to do any of that, she would have done it a long time ago! She would not have left unless you coerced her!"

"Did I?" Mycroft's brows furrowed at his brother's foolish claims and denial. "She never wanted to be a secretary, Sherlock. Have you ever asked her what she wanted?"

Sherlock didn't respond.

"She wanted to be a doctor. She had just finished medical school when we hired her and had planned on filling in the days with temporary tasks at her temporary job until she found a proper placement at the hospital.

"Of course, that never happened, did it? She was so overwhelmed by her new career and awe-stricken by her employer that she put aside all her dreams and desires for you. Now that she is back to thinking about herself, her dreams, passions and so forth have finally restarted."

Mycroft got up from his chair, stepping forward until he was almost pressed against Sherlock's side. He bent down and with a turn of his head, he spoke directly into Sherlock's ear.

"Tell me, dear brother: why would she want to go back to you?"