He doesn't want to talk to her. He sees her, of course, he's not blind. And he knows that she sees him. But the last thing John Watson wants to do is have a casual chat with Molly Hooper in a cafe. Not now, not after- He stops himself. He's been doing that a lot lately. But he can't think about that. He just can't. He's sort of blocked it out of his head; let the part of his brain that can't help but think of it pretend that Sherlock isn't gone, that he's just off on some crime-solving trip, that he'll be back soon. And as for the greater part of his brain that knows better - well, that part can just shut up. It's not that Molly's not a sweet girl. She is. But she reminds him too much of Before. And anyway, it was never him that she wanted to talk to. It was Sherlock. He stares down at his tea with a sort of focused determination. He knew it was a mistake to leave the flat today, but Mrs. Hudson had insisted, and he couldn't stand the heartbreaking look in her eyes when she looked at him another minute. He can still see Molly in his periphery. Don't let her come over here, he silently begs the universe. Not now, please.