Just something that's been rattling around in my head for a while. I've actually been working on this for a week now, and finally it's finished. It's AU and may be a little OOC at some points, especially Sherlock. Nonetheless I hope you like it and maybe leave a review or two? I'd love to know what you think.

Down This Road

"You're too good for this," they tell her. They laugh, offer the occasional smile. Carry on conversations as she refills their cups.

One, two, three times even.

Sometimes they slip a couple of extra bills across the table before they get up and leave. Out into the world. To be somebody. And she is left behind to be nothing.

"You've so much potential," they say. She doesn't see it.

She's a waitress, nineteen years old. Too young for such a boring life yet here she is. By now it's accepted, it pays the few bills she has and keeps her from going back home.

It's a draining job but she never admits it out loud. She fears the ridicule, those who say she's no idea what hard work is.

But sometimes there are those few who understand.

Greg comes in three times a week, always at eleven o'clock. After most people have left and her only company is the occasional drifter seeking the warmth from the outside world and the dark streets of the busy city.

It's his routine and when you're a detective inspector you need all the routine you can get. He always talks to her, and she never minds making conversation. He has kind eyes and a warm voice and she feels safe around him. He looks after her and she appreciates it.

"You're still here?" he always teases as he walks in. His coat is draped over the stool, he picks up the menu but she knows what he'll order. It never changes.

With a warm smile she says, "When am I not?" and pours him a steaming mug of the black liquid as she slides the packets of sugar across the wood counter. This is how it always goes.

It's boring. Dull.

She needs something different.

She craves it.

But she's never been much of a doer; more of a dreamer.

She takes a smoke break every night at eight, sitting against the brick wall of the building and watching the city. She hates cigarettes, the taste and the feel of one on her lips. But she loves the release. The euphoria of taking each steady drag and feeling her muscles relax.

It makes her hate herself a little bit more.

One night she comes out and sees someone in her spot. Tall, dark, (she can't say handsome for she can't see his face) partially hidden by the upturned collar of his coat. He's got an unlit cigarette between his lips and no lighter. His hands shake with the desperation. Something she understands.

She smooths her hands over the hideous yellow skirt of her uniform and her hand flashes into her pocket, pulling out the sleek metal object and approaching him almost silently. He hears the soft thud of her footsteps and looks up.

He's beautiful.

Green eyes swallow her whole and spit her back out while she tries to catch her breath.

"You look like you need this," she mumbles and holds out the lighter. He takes it, doesn't speak. Barely acknowledges her. Just lights the cigarette and hands it back. Their fingers brush and she pretends the chills that run down her back aren't real.

She sits like she always does. Pulls out the cigarette and lights it. The first drag is heavenly. She hears him shuffle beside her and suddenly he's sitting too; watches her with curiosity and blows a cloud of smoke into the night air.

He meets her eyes when she turns to him slightly and mutters, "Those things will kill you."

She manages a dry laugh and flicks the butt across the concrete. "So I've heard."

He stares, smirks, then takes another drag and holds out a hand.

"Sherlock Holmes," he tells her. She shakes it, ignoring the icy chill of his skin.

"Molly Hooper."

And that's how it all begins.

Sherlock Holmes is a writer. Aspiring writer are his words, they cover up a truth he doesn't want to admit. He's twenty three years old and fresh out of a college he had no interest in.

He tells her his parents are made of money; he's expected to do something with himself. Be more like his brother, the successful and independent one between the two.

It disgusts him, leading on a life that reminds him of a carousel that sings the same old song and spins in the same circle. He thrives off the unknown, the thrill that comes from one's ability to change course and head in another direction.

She envies his courage.

On a Tuesday he comes in and as an attempt at an actual conversation Molly asks him if he's written anything she's familiar with. He responds with a chuckle, obviously humored. But his face grows serious and he toys with the frayed sleeve of his midnight blue sweater and refuses to look at her.

He focuses on the plate of toast she has set in front of him.

"There's a difference between writing something people will read and writing something that will change their lives," he tells her. "I just haven't found out what it is yet."

"But you will," she says firmly. She believes it, feels it deep in her core. There's something about him she can't shake and she knows she's standing across from someone who isn't going to give up. She's learned to read people like that.

On a chilly day filled with icy rain and few customers Molly sits on one of the stools lining the counter, reads the medical journal she picked up at the newspaper stands just a few blocks away. She's deep in concentration. Blocks out the world for a few minutes of much earned peace so that when the bell on the door rings she has to drag her eyes away from the page, hand reaching into her apron to find her notepad. She turns to her customer and she feels her face drain of its color, drops the pad on the floor.

Sherlock is managing a small smile, ignores the blood trickling down the side of his face from the gash above his left eye. She stumbles towards him, reaches out a hand but isn't sure if she should touch him. She can see the bruises on his arms.

"What the bloody hell happened to you?" she shrieks, grabbing his sleeve and dragging him to the bathroom in the back of the tiny building.

"I was coming out of the grocery a few blocks away, got jumped by a few guys who wanted my wallet." He winces and tries to keep the pain out of his voice. He doesn't fool her; he's practically transparent right now.

She flips the lid down on the toilet and makes him sit, pretends not to notice his sharp intake of breath. She dashes out of the room and comes back with a small first aid kit that's kept in the back just in case. Opening it up Molly takes out a piece of gauze and dabs gently at the cut. Sherlock hisses in pain but doesn't protest or move, just breathes deeply as she works quickly.

Her hands move fluidly, gracing over his injuries with gentleness he's never encountered before and he watches her in awe as she works to clean him up. When she's finished she presses a bandage over his cut, smooths over it with her thumb and smiles at her handy work.

As she finishes packing up the kit he asks, "Where did you learn to do that?"

She shrugs one shoulder and keeps her eyes on the task in front of her, doesn't want to draw attention to herself. She's worked too hard for too long to be invisible.

"Just taught myself I guess. You learn to do a lot of things when you're on your own." he reaches out and covers her much smaller hand with his own.

"You're never alone Molly Hooper. Don't you know that?" she feels her cheeks burn, offers him a shy smile and stands up. As she walks out of the room she can't understand why her stomach is doing summersaults. She pushes it to the back of her mind just as the usual lunch crowd strolls in and she puts on her best smile and picks her notepad up off the floor.

Her mask slips into place once again.

By the time fall rolls around Sherlock has made the diner his second home. Stays tucked away in the booth in the corner as she scurries around, taking orders and refilling glasses. He keeps a pad of paper in his lap, a pen between his teeth.

She never asks what he's writing, afraid she'll shatter the concentration that is so obviously etched on his face. But curiosity is stubborn, hoards her mind and eggs her on. She has to know. She needs to.

She approaches him with a mug of tea one day and sets it down gently. She leans against the table and rests a hand on her hip, wondering. But without looking up he steals the words from her lips and the thoughts from her mind.

"I like writing mysteries," he says. "Something people will have to work out themselves. Make them think. There's no reward in being spoon fed."

She opens her mouth. Shuts it just as quick. She wonders where this knowledge has come from, it seems so much older than him and it piques her interest. She glances back at the counter, sees everyone is satisfied for now and she slide into the seat across from him and folds her hands in front of her.

"And what is it that you like, Miss Hooper?" the question takes her by surprise. She doesn't know what she likes. Her world revolves around pancakes and fake smiles.

"I like pathology," she blurts out of nowhere, taking herself by surprise. It's not a lie, but it's not entirely the truth. Once upon a time she had dreamt of being a pathologist but the daughter of a well-known and highly thought of businessman could never do something as morbid as work with the dead. It was frowned upon. So she left.

Sherlock it seems is intrigued and he leans across the table. "Pathology? Why pathology?"

She shrugs, bites her lip. It's a nervous habit.

"I want to know the reasons behind things. Give closure, help people…"

"Make a difference?" he supplies and she nods enthusiastically.

"Exactly. You know you're the only one that understands." he waves dismissively and picks up his pen.

"I think the same can be said about you."

In early December she comes down with the flu. She doesn't come into work for three days and on the fourth she finds Sherlock pacing by his normal booth when she walks in. The bell on the door jingles and he looks up.

"Oh thank god, I thought you'd left," he sighs, pulling her into a hug that makes her eyes as wide as saucers. Her instinct is to still wrap her arms around him. He smells of coffee and cigarettes and she finds it intoxicating.

"Nope, I just had the flu." She assures him with a smile much brighter than her usual one, pulling away and going behind the counter. He keeps an eye on her as she moves around, watching her carefully as if she'll slip away and disappear. She reassures him that she never would and if she did, he would be the first to know where she was going.

He finds some comfort in that.

She works on Christmas; not that she minds.

There's no reason to go home, she made herself into a leper the moment she refused business school and packed a bag, getting into her beat up car and driving as far as she could.

Still, she's OK with that.

She's busy rushing plates back and forth (apparently there were lots of people with no reason to return home and it's not just her). She doesn't even hear the door chime and she nearly crashes into Sherlock while trying to take Greg his usual order. He catches her around the waist and quirks an eyebrow.

"You do know it's a holiday, don't you?" he asks, letting her stand up and following her to the table. Greg thanks her and she hurries back to the counter with Sherlock on her heels.

"Yes I do. But then again even if I didn't I'd still be here." She looks at him, curious. "And what are you doing here? Shouldn't you be at your mothers?" she remembers the stories of the family dinners he tells her about.

He grimaces and plops into a stool. "There's a reason I despise going back home. Petty arguments don't make for a very Christmassy mood."

She laughs because she understands. And then she sees the sadness that lies beneath that truth and she takes a moment to pity the both of them.

"I have something for you," he announces, digging in the pocket of his trousers and producing a few pieces of glossy paper. He slides them across the table and smiles.

Carefully she grabs one, unfolding it and reading the inside contents before she looks at him incredulously.

"These are brochures," she tells him and it earns her an eye roll.

"Of course they are." he tells her. "I picked them up while I was out yesterday. I thought you could start reading them." He shoves another one towards her.

"This one's the best if you're seriously considering pathology." She reads the cover. The thick block letter spelling out the name to a university she's sure she's heard of once or twice. She glances up at Sherlock and shrugs her shoulders.

"Why?"

He frowns, eyes becoming murky. She can't even read the expression anymore. "Because I want you to be happy."

Taken aback she throws out a quick, "I am happy."

Sherlock shakes his head. "No you're not. How can you be happy when you're stuck in here and all you want it to be out there?" he points toward the door and she gives a deep sigh. Wonders how much longer she can lie to herself.

"I'll look through them," she says smiling. She knows it's a lie. She'll bury them in the bottom of the drawer of her desk at home.

He doesn't seem to sense the faultiness in her words and he smiles, turning back to his work. She pretends it doesn't hurt that she can lie to him so easily.

As spring begins to make its presence and the air warms ever so slightly Sherlock shows up at her tiny rundown apartment, soaked to the bone from the rain outside. She tries to hide her shock. She's never told him where she lived.

But there's something about having him here that makes her smile inside. She blames it on not having many guests.

"Get inside," she tells him, yanks him in by the arm and shuts the door behind them. He makes himself comfortable on the couch, pulls out his notebook and pats the seat beside him.

"I've got it," he says, emerald eyes gleaming in the dim lighting. "I think I've got the idea."

He launches into a story she finds herself mesmerized by, hearing and feeling the emotions in the words as they pour out of him. She feels something like pride well inside of her, wonders if her parents had ever felt the same for her but isn't surprised that the possibility is unlikely. She's sure the same goes for Sherlock too.

"So," he says, pulls her back into reality, "what do you think?" he stands up and starts pacing back and forth, excitement coursing through him and making it hard to sit still. Finally he comes back and sits beside her.

She smiles and runs a hand through her hair. "I think it sounds great. Have you written any of it yet?"

He shakes his head quickly, his curls becoming displaced and falling over his eyes. She gently pushes them away, ignores her breath hitching in her throat. She's heard that all it takes is a moment of weakness.

Maybe that's how she found herself kissing him.

He tastes like cigarettes mixed with coffee.

She doesn't mind at all.

The next morning they wake up as a tangled pile of limbs, her hair cascading over the pillow in waves. Molly keeps her eyes shut, tries to keep her breathing even but he already knows she's awake. She feels an unknown sense of guilt and panic welling inside of her that makes it harder to breathe.

She decides to get up first, finds the white t-shirt he wore under his purple dress shirt and slips it over her head, disappearing into the kitchen. She turns the coffee pot on, runs her hands through her hair and groans. She doesn't regret last night, but something about it feels wrong. He's got too much to live for and he doesn't need to be weighed down by the girl who can't seem to fight for what she wants.

Sherlock slinks into the kitchen behind her, disheveled and somehow still as gorgeous as the night she first met him. He presses against her, kisses the back of her neck. She can't hold back the moan; it's something feral that tears from her throat.

Only he can do that to her.

They go for round two before the coffee is even finished brewing.

The following months are spent between writing, work and sex.

Sherlock doesn't come around the diner much anymore. He stays cooped up in his flat and writes his story, calls occasionally and asks for her opinion. She's always honest and he's always grateful.

When she gets off every night she finds him at her doorstep and her heart pounds. Faster and faster, as if it's about to burst from her chest. The following hours are spent with few words, mostly just touches and the soft feeling of lips on skin.

When it's over she lies with her head on his chest, listens to him read aloud from his favorite books or counts each steady beat of his heart. Sometimes he doesn't talk at all and she wonders what goes on in his mind.

And one morning after she wakes and blinks the sleep from her eyes she finds his side of the bed is empty, wonders if he's left without saying goodbye. She may not be one for sentiments but the thought makes her heart ache just slightly.

With her silk, knee length robe wrapped around her she saunters to the tiny living room, finds him on the couch fully dressed and looking at something in front of him. She walks up behind him and swallows the panic when she sees the pamphlets he had gotten her resting on the splintered wood coffee table. He turns and looks at her slowly, eyes full of questions she doesn't want to answer.

"I found them in your wastebasket," he says and she clearly remembers the other night when she had found them in her desk and aimlessly tossed them in without looking back. She swallows thickly, folds her arms across her chest.

"I thought you were going to look at them?" he accuses and she feels her defensive side rising. Her arms fall to her sides and her hands curl into fists.

"I did look at them. I'm not sure what the problem is here Sherlock?" He barks out a cold laugh and stands up, suddenly seeming so much bigger than her.

"There's no problem, I just want you to be happy, to make something of yourself but all you seem to want is a life full of rude customers and minimum wage." He spits at her, tossing the papers aside. Her jaw is set tight and her heart is racing. She feels the moisture burning her eyes and she's not even sure why she's crying.

"Can't you see that I am happy? I like where I am and I like the friends I've made. I left home to avoid things like this, and I honestly thought you were different. You said I understood you but it's clear you don't understand me." She yells, her cheeks flaming red and her nails digging into her palms.

"Oh come off it, you know this isn't what you want out of life!" he yells, arms flying out in protest. Molly fumes, walks until she's standing so close their breath mingles together and she has to look up just to see his face.

"And who are you to tell me what I want out of my life huh? You're nobody Sherlock Holmes, I was fine before you came along and I'll be fine now." she swallows thickly and wipes furiously at her eyes as she turns away.

"Get out," she tells him quietly. When she looks back and sees the anger and the want to understand reflecting in his eyes she feels like her heart is being squeezed, each breathe a battle of his own.

And when she hears the front door close she cries for the first time since she left home. The only other time she felt completely alone.

Two weeks after their fight Sherlock still hasn't shown up at the diner.

Molly tries to ignore the ache in her heart and she's long since run out of tears to cry, finding she seems to have gotten rid of them all the morning he walked out the door. In some ways she assumes this is what she was should have expected, pushing away the one person who knew her almost as well as she knew herself.

She was lying full force when she said she was happy here, maybe because she's afraid of the truth. Or maybe it's the idea that she could go out into the world and something could happen and she'd end up at square one again. The fear of failing and falling with no one waiting at the bottom to catch her.

And two weeks after their fight is the day Molly Hooper takes off her apron and walks out of the tiny café for good.

The October air is biting and the wind is relentless against her hair as she clutches her books close to her chest, boots clicking against the sidewalk. Molly feels the exhaustion creeping through her body and the relief of finally getting out of class for the day is more than welcome. It's been more than a year since she walked out of the diner and she's fast approaching her second year at university.

The day she walked out she went to her parents, cried in her mother's arms and told her about the man who opened her eyes and how she tore him to pieces when all he wanted was what's best for her. She talked to her father, told him of her love for studying medicine and how nothing in this world would make her happier than studying pathology. He only wants his little girl back.

After that she takes the first chance she gets and enrolls in university, butterflies twisting and tickling her stomach on the first day. She finds that she falls into place quickly, wonders why it took her so long to see this is what she needed. What she wanted.

She's halfway to her knew apartment that sits just a few blocks from the bus stop when something in the bookshop's window catches her eye. A display of books neatly stacked, glossy covers and an illustration that draws her closer.

She reads over the cover, notices the name at the bottom and has to remind herself to breathe. Sherlock Holmes. From their she seems to lose control of her feet and finds herself inside, the happy chiming of the bell echoing in her ears as she approaches the display and plucks a book off the top.

She feels tears well in her eyes at the sight of it, knowing he found his way just as she found hers. She holds her breath and opens the cover, finds the writing on the first page takes her breath away and makes the tears flow even faster. She holds it close and reads it over and over.

For Molly, the only one who's ever understood.

The End