The argument started out trivial—just a bickering match about the washing up. Trivial, domestic stuff.
But these things can so easily escalate, can’t they? That’s what happens with humans.
Perhaps it’s something to do with primeval urges—an incessant need for someone to defend themselves against an incoming attack. A fight for survival.
Sherlock stayed curled up on the sofa. He grabbed for his robe, but immediately remembered that it was hanging on the back of his bedroom door.
And it was in his bedroom that a very cross Molly was, having shut herself inside when it all got too much.
He wasn’t surprised. The things he’d said had been particularly awful, even for him.
What he was surprised at was how horrible he felt, knowing that Molly was wrapped in his duvet, upset and hurt.
Unlike his arguments with either Mycroft or Lestrade, there was no feeling of pride within him; no sense of triumph.
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