[It does sound moronic. Molly's eyes raise, slowly, the long way up Sherlock's coat, past his muffler, and finally land upon his face. She stares directly at him, and further into him as well. Like this, she could look the way so many of Sherlock's opponents look, with the intent and desire to pick apart all that lies within him. All she lacks is the ability to do so.
Her eyes are red. Tender, too, which means they must look puffy. Standing before Sherlock, looking like this, Molly has only felt more unattractive in one instance: during the moments directly following Sherlock telling her he loves her. She isn't sure whether that unattractive feeling came more strongly from the fact she knew he didn't mean it, or the fact she forced him to say it at all. Those things combined created a truly remarkable ugliness. It outmatches even these current signs of having recently and lengthily been crying.
She can almost tell herself it's fair for him to follow up all that with something this stupid and ridiculous. She did bully him in her own ridiculous way, after all. But, she reminds herself, nobody has ever bullied her so badly as Sherlock Holmes has. And that's even after having dated Jim Moriarty.
It's humiliating to be seen this way—well, by Sherlock, specifically. But Molly refuses to let her grimness give way, even in the face of Sherlock's special brand of dramatic nonsense. She blinks up at him, and her eyes hurt. Her brow and mouth are both drawn. Then, at last, she steps back from the door.]
I'll make the tea. I don't want you in my cupboards.
[Molly spins away brusquely, and leaves Sherlock to shut the door behind himself. For the sake of the dregs of her pride, she won't acknowledge the state of her kitchen: mugs and teacups, practically an army's worth, dotting every counter. But instead of heading directly for more tea, she reaches a different cupboard. From it, she produces one slender glass vase. It's very decorative but not especially expensive, and it's one she's had for a while. There's the slightest chip at one edge of its mouth.
As she fills it from the tap, her back staunchly faces Sherlock. She doesn't look to him or say anything until she comes to set the vase on the countertop.]
no subject
Her eyes are red. Tender, too, which means they must look puffy. Standing before Sherlock, looking like this, Molly has only felt more unattractive in one instance: during the moments directly following Sherlock telling her he loves her. She isn't sure whether that unattractive feeling came more strongly from the fact she knew he didn't mean it, or the fact she forced him to say it at all. Those things combined created a truly remarkable ugliness. It outmatches even these current signs of having recently and lengthily been crying.
She can almost tell herself it's fair for him to follow up all that with something this stupid and ridiculous. She did bully him in her own ridiculous way, after all. But, she reminds herself, nobody has ever bullied her so badly as Sherlock Holmes has. And that's even after having dated Jim Moriarty.
It's humiliating to be seen this way—well, by Sherlock, specifically. But Molly refuses to let her grimness give way, even in the face of Sherlock's special brand of dramatic nonsense. She blinks up at him, and her eyes hurt. Her brow and mouth are both drawn. Then, at last, she steps back from the door.]
I'll make the tea. I don't want you in my cupboards.
[Molly spins away brusquely, and leaves Sherlock to shut the door behind himself. For the sake of the dregs of her pride, she won't acknowledge the state of her kitchen: mugs and teacups, practically an army's worth, dotting every counter. But instead of heading directly for more tea, she reaches a different cupboard. From it, she produces one slender glass vase. It's very decorative but not especially expensive, and it's one she's had for a while. There's the slightest chip at one edge of its mouth.
As she fills it from the tap, her back staunchly faces Sherlock. She doesn't look to him or say anything until she comes to set the vase on the countertop.]
Well, there you are.