Author Note:

I was half a sleep when I wrote this and I didn't really beta read it very thoroughly. If the story is really badly in need of editing, just shoot me a comment about it and I'll go back and do so.

Thanks!

~Mpenguin

I hate to admit it, but sometimes I quite despise John Watson. I know, it is selfish of me to think so, but I simply cannot help it. John Watson means spending less time with the genius that is Sherlock Holmes. John Watson means less interacting with the fantastic Sherlock Holmes. And John Watson means having a barrier from having the one and only consulting detective to myself.

Though there are many days I dislike John, today was not one of them. In fact, today was one of those days that I was practically begging for him to come bursting through that swinging lab door.

"Molly, where are my specimens?" Sherlock's deep voice was the first think to meet me as entered my lab.

Upon hearing his fantastic voice, I froze midway through the task off putting on my lab coat. Looking at the source, I found him glaring into the fridge, his coat still on and his hair windswept. Normally, I would have nearly swooned at the sight, but not today. Today I felt myself stiffen enough to resemble my coat in the second grade when I had left it outside during the fridge below zero to see if it would still be puffy. I had known Sherlock just long enough to understand indicators of his moods and, by the slight twist of his cupid bow lips, I was pretty certain that he was in one of his darkest. No a good sign for a defenseless Molly.

"Um, I don't know Sherlock. It isn't where you left it?" I asked nervously.

"Of course not!" He growled, slamming the fridge door shut with such a force that I flinched, "Obviously I have already check and seen that it isn't, or do you think that I'm an idiot and wouldn't have thought to look there first?"

"N-n-n-no! Of course not! I'm sorry! It was a stupid question!" I stammered.

Sherlock gave a 'hmph' before drawling, "So where is it?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know?" Sherlock sneered, his sharp gaze suddenly latching onto me as a predator does its prey. "You don't know? What sort of pathologist isn't aware of the on goings of her own lab? Really Molly. Your awareness skills are vastly lacking. Perhaps you should take lessons. Actually, never mind that. I do not believe there is such a person who would be capable of teaching you correctly. All people are blundering idiots who simple don't have any idea at how to look at thinks, other than me of course. But I have neither the time or the inclinations to teach you or anyone else for that matter. And you being taught by anyone else would probably sorely decrease your already little awareness skills to begin with."

He finished with his typically jabbing flourish and I smiled weakly to shake off the pain. It would seem that that was the wrong choice and that running away would have been a much wiser option.

Like a crack of a whip, Sherlock suddenly snapped, "Well don't just stand there! You can at least be helpful and get me started again instead just standing there like a mindless idiot. Get me a liver."

I automatically did as he commanded, foolishly tripping over myself in the process. Holding out to him the nearest liver I could find (which I didn't even consider the thought that it may not be eligible for use! What sort of pathologist am I! Not a very responsible one, I'll grant you that...) I watched him as he swung off his coat and scarf. He does look so good when he does that, I thought in spite of myself. It was then that I notice the huge scowl on my face.

Before I had known it, I had said, "Sherlock, what's the matter?"

That was the worst possible thing to do.

"Nothing is, Molly. You really must stop pretending to think you know how to deduce people. And even if I had something wrong, I would not be sharing it with you. Now, do be useful and hand me the scalpel."

The comment naturally stung but I did as he asked anyway. I suppose that's what dad meant when he told me that I was born with my brain missing the 'no' trigger. Nothing made me wish more than that day that I had never made a bigger effort to amend that.

Needless to say, Sherlock kept barking out more commands, somehow getting harsher and harsher with each sentence, and I, the pathetic fool that I am, kept doing as he asked. By the time that eleven had rolled around, I had unwilling became his imprisoned assistant, I hated myself for not being able to say no to him, and my anxiety had reached an all time high.

Bloody hell! I had plenty of my own work to be doing! I thought with frustration and worry as I watched the large hand strike the 3, marking 11:15. I have eight whole cases! Eight! I'm going to get fired at this rate! Or, more realistically, a very large scolding...

Like the fantastic organ that my brain is, it just wouldn't let that thought go. Eight cases. Eight cases. No work done. Need to do the work. By the time five minutes had passed, I was nearly shaking with the anxiety.

Sherlock, bloody 'observer' that he is, didn't seem to notice a damn thing.

Handing a chemical to Sherlock, which he took without a glance, I wanted faithfully by his side for a new order. It, however, never seem to come. A minute passed. Two. Five. Then seven. I stood there in complete shock, wondering if this was a dismissal.

Well, I thought logically as I turned to go, I'll still be in the same lab. If he needs anything he can just shout...

Before I could lift my foot off the ground, however, Sherlock, with sudden intense volume, said, "Molly."

Alarmed, I jumped and swung around, accidently knocking my arm against something. Something in Sherlock's hands. Something that flew into the air. Something that then smashed itself into the floor, causing a high pitched shattering noise that could only belong to glass.

Coming to a rather good hypothesis as to what that something was, I very slowly and reluctantly looking up. Seeing the look in Sherlock's eyes ,I, quite literally, cowered from the sheer fury that glowed within them.

"Molly." His deep bass voice rung out in the tense still air, "You are, by far, the stupidest person I have ever met."

I have been called many hurtful things by him-unattractive, unorganized, and clueless if I were just to name a few- but this comment stabbed. It caused me to feel as if I had been shot. My intelligent. The one thing that I prize about myself, my Achilles heel, and like everything else in my life he took a great big dagger and tore at it.

Sherlock was completely unaware of this, of course, as he suddenly said, "Molly, go get me a coffee. Black, two sugars."

I should have told him no. I should have told him to go to hell. But, of course, he stupid pathetic always-have-to-do-as-someone-asks me did as he commanded.

It was strange but, as I numbly walked to go get his coffee, that was all I could think about. Black and two sugars. Just the way he likes it, his coffee.

I had learned, long ago, that you can always tell quite a bit about a person through the things that they like and Sherlock, though an exception to many laws of mankind, was not except from this. And his coffee, I think, tells quite a bit about him, more than anything else.

In the past, I had induced that black coffee usually meant that that person was a workaholic, don't like sleep, needed to constantly be doing something. All of this ended up being true with Sherlock. Today, though, I saw his coffee preference to mean something else too.

Black coffee for a black heart.

He was bitter, just like black coffee, and he leaves that bitter taste in your mouth. It was a harsh strong bitterness too; one that made you feel awful, disgusted. It made you wrinkle your nose and think god, what on earth did I just drink? It made you wonder why you were so dependent on it. Why you still kept drinking it even though it tasted so gross.

Perhaps I should quite it, for once and for all. It's not good for me, after all, it stunts my growth.

When I returned, I saw that Sherlock was back at his lab table with a new liver in front of him. Very timidly, I went over and gently placed the coffee softly besides him.

I could never be mean, not even in my anger. That's why I'm always such an easy target.

But I was tired of being ordered around. My max had been reached today. I have had enough, so I turned to go.

It was his voice calling out my name that caused me to halt in my tracks once again. Emotionlessly I turned around to look at him. He still had his eyes glued to the liver, but, thought it may simply have been my 'stupidity', it didn't seem as if he were truly looking at it. His face was stoic and his body was stiff as usual, but it was his voice that sounded slightly changed.

"Molly. You are not stupid. It was-" He hesitated a bit before finally choking out, "wrong of me to say so. In fact, I should not have treated you at all as I did today. As you have so rightly guessed, that something is wrong. John and I have, I guess you can say, a little spat about his newest so called 'girlfriend' Mary. That is none of your fault, however, and so my treatment of you has been...illogical. What I am trying to say is..."

He then stopped talking altogether. He seemed to be having trouble speaking at the moment, trying to choke out the right sentence. If I had been anyone else, I would have crossed my arms and waited. I would have demanded he get the words out. I should have done that. But, of course, I didn't. I am Molly Hooper, the biggest pathetic idiot after all.

"It's alright Sherlock." I said honestly, "I understand."

At this, he finally turned his head to look at me and he gave me a smile. A honest truthful happy smile. He then said:

"Thank you Molly."

Ah, there's the sugar.

In spite of myself, I then blushed completely red and began to stammer in a true Molly Hooper fashion.

The day went on pretty smoothly after that. I even finished all my work right on time, all due to Sherlock's help of course. Even though he claimed he did it because he knew the other lab assistant would mess it up if the work was left here for the next day, but I could tell it was his further way of apologizing.

Black, two sugars. That's the way Sherlock Holmes like his coffee. I thought sleepily as I rode the Tube home after the long day. Black and two sugars. Yes, he seems bitter and dark and without a heart, but there's a sweetness in him. A sweetness that makes him jealous that his best friend isn't spending as much time with him as before. A sweetness that makes him see the error of his ways and makes him even want to apologizes. A sweetness that makes him want to fix the error of his ways. Yes, like his coffee, Sherlock Holmes may seem black hearted on the outside but once you get a sip of him, you see just how sweet he is. Just how special. That's why I keep coming back. And honestly, I thought with a dreamy grin, I wouldn't have him take his coffee any other way.