"I don't know, I just do!" Molly yelled. She hadn't broken yet, this therapist wasn't going to get to her that easily, but this wasn't going the way she thought it would, not at all.

"So, what you're telling me is, you just moved, you just took on what you call 'questionable' side work because you're flat broke, and you've just spent three thousand dollars on an antique violin for him? And you don't even know why?"

Molly sighed heavily. What could she even say, here? That it really did it for her when he beat the shit out of morgue corpse with a riding crop? She loved Sherlock, she didn't know why. It wasn't mutual, and she knew this. She was here to find a way to deal with it, and this therapist was being a twat.

"He... might need another one, one day," she answered lamely.

"Another one? You mean he already has a Strativarius?"

"Yes, of course. He plays beautifully. He's also rather destructive, so I can give him this other one when he breaks the one he currently has." The therapist was staring at her as if she were the largest doormat ever woven. Weren't these people supposed to be non-judgmental? 

"Look, can you help me... cope... or not?"

"Well. Have you explored all avenues? Have you ever even asked him out?"

"Sort of? I mean, I did, I asked him if he wanted to have coffee."

"And?"

"He said yes."

"Fantastic! Now we're getting somewhere. What happened next?"

"He told me black, two sugars." The therapist blinked at this.

"He thought you were taking his order."

"Yes." The therapist un-crossed and re-crossed her legs, which she did a lot of. Molly assumed it was how the woman expressed frustration with her clients. A few more sessions with Molly, and she'd wear holes in those expensive stockings she seemed so fond of.

"Well, if a relationship is out of the question, perhaps it would be in your best interest to remove yourself from him."

"Remove...?"

"Yes. Move away, work elsewhere, eliminate contact."

"I can't do that."

"You can't, or you won't?"

"Yes." Uncross, re-cross.

"Why? Why further expose yourself to this heartache and pain?"

Why, indeed. Perhaps sociopaths were just her type. The chime sounded then, indicating their hour was up. Molly stood.

"What's next for you, Dear? What are you going to do now?

"I'm going to commit petty crimes, perhaps a felony or two, and then I'm going to fly to another district and sell a load of heroin."

Uncross, recross. "Not what I meant. About Sherlock?" Oh.

"I don't rightly know," she said, heading for the door, but stopping as her hand came to rest on the handle. "What I just said about committing all those crimes-"

"Confidentaiity."

"Very good," she said, leaving through the door and immediately beginning her search for a taxicab.