"You always know," he said slowly. Sherlock slowly leaned away from the microscope eyepiece and looked at Molly. "Know what?" "You always know..." he looked down and tapped his foot on the floor of the morgue lab. "...when something is wrong." "I do." Sherlock gave her a quizzical look. "Well what do you want me to say?" "Never mind." He leaned back towards the lens. "You don't have to hide it, you know." He didn't respond, eye still to the microscope. "When you're... sad." He humphed. "I'm not sad." "But I can tell you are." "Sadness is a weakness. Sign of emotional instability," Sherlock scoffed. "Everybody feels sad about things sometimes." "I'm a sociopath. I don't tend to feel... emotional attachment." "Who told you you're a sociopath?" "Where did you put that skin sample from yesterday?" He asked, holding out his hand. "You're changing the subject." "Sample." He looked up from the eyepiece and nodded towards his open hand expectantly. "Answer me. Who told you you're a sociopath?" Sherlock stood up and adjusted his collar. "Mycroft," he said, scanning the room, presumably for the sample. "Your brother?" "Yes. Did your parents get a new cat?" "What?" "Your shoelaces." Molly shook her head. "Never mind. You honestly believe you're a sociopath just because your brother told you so?" "He's always right about such things." "How old are you, six?" "Oh, for pete's sake, Molly." "Well?" They stood there for a moment, looking at each other, Molly full of frustration and Sherlock with his brows drawn tight and determined. "Well," Molly finally said meekly. "I say you're not a sociopath. I think you're just... frightened." "Don't be ridiculous." "-of being normal," she added quickly, stepping forward, next to him. "You don't want to be...average." "Average is boring." "So that's it then." "My brother told me stories of an east wind," Sherlock walked around the counter, quickly picking up and shuffling beakers and sample cases across its surface, until he found the sample. "It flew along the surface of the land-" he sat back down placed the sample under a light and began to test its PH level. "-plucking every unworthy person-" he picked up the test strip and held it to the light, "-right off the earth. That usually meant me." "Did your brother always tell you such horrible things?" "Often, yes." "Didn't it ever bother you?" He tilted a bottle of liquid in his hand, unanswering. "Oh, I see. You don't want to talk to me now, is that it?" "Yes." "You don't want to talk to me?" "Yes it did bother me." Sherlock stopped spinning the bottle and looked at Molly, who saw what she read as pain in his eyes, just two or so feet from hers. "I-I'm sorry, I really shouldn't pry," she glanced away, defeated. Sherlock set down the bottle and looked back into the microscope. "What I meant to say was," Molly tried, nervously rubbed her hands together. "If you ever want to talk... I'm single. Here. I'm here, I mean. Available. To...talk to. Um-" "Thank you." She was still confused, and now felt nervous. She fixed a piece of hair that had fallen out of her messy bun. "You're... welcome. Are you... are you hungry?" "I don't eat when I'm working. Digesting slows me down." "Oh." "Later, then," he said, looking up from the microscope. "What?" "Lunch later." "You want to go to lunch?" "Well that's what you were suggesting." "I was..." "Great. Lunch then. One. I know a cafe." Sherlock flashed a half-second closed-mouth smile and then looked back at the microscope. Molly beamed. "That's it! Pulsatilla vulgaris!" Sherlock jumped from the chair and yanked on his coat. "What did you find?" "Assassination, Molly Hooper!" He tied his scarf and ran towards the door, pulling out his phone. "It was right there all along! Right in front of our noses!" Molly wanted to question but the door slammed shut and she was left alone in the lab. She hoped that didn't mean lunch was cancelled. Later that evening, Molly slipped her coat on and hung her purse over her shoulder before clocking out of the hospital. Walking down the sidewalk, she checked her watch again- 6 o'clock, and tried to put away thoughts about Sherlock. He doesn't like you, Molly. Stop fussing about it. He's probably busy. When she reached her street, her phone buzzed. She reached into her coat pocket and read the text. 7228 Hartston St SH Molly stopped and breathed a smile. Then she stepped up to the street and held out her arm to hail a cab. "Taxi!" "A bit late for lunch?" Molly said, sitting in the chair across from Sherlock. It was a fine little restaurant, not too simple but not fancy either. She smoothed her skirt. "Ah. Yes. Sorry about that. I was needed urgently elsewhere." "Did you solve your case?" "The police are satisfied." "But you're not?" "Well in my opinion you can never close any case until you know all the details." "Oh." Molly shifted in her seat. Sherlock clasped his hands together, smiled awkwardly at Molly, then quickly picked up the menu in front of him. "Well, five and a half hours has certainly increased my appetite." "You haven't eaten?" Molly asked, surprised. "Hmm... it seems not, what do you recommend?" "Um..." Molly picked up her menu and read through the options. "Well the soups certainly seem nice." Sherlock glanced up. "Oh. Yes, soups." "You're not very good at making conversation, are you?" "Not... normally." The waitress came around and they both ordered a soup. She took their menus, and walked away. A minute passed before any words were exchanged between them. Finally Molly broke the silence. "What was it like for you, growing up?" Sherlock folded his hands. "Prosaic. Unexciting." "Really?" "Mmhm," he looked out the window. "What were your friends like?" "I didn't have... friends." "Not a single one?" "No one understood me. I avoided my peers in general." "That's terrible." "Is it?" "Yes! You never even tried to talk to people?" "Of course I did. I often attempted conversation but my intellect was of a higher capacity, and we didn't...mix. Like I said, they didn't understand me." "I understand you." Sherlock looked Molly in the eye, reading her. The waitress came around with two glasses of red wine. When she left, Molly looked at Sherlock, questioning. He only smiled softly. "Sherlock... what is this?" "W- what do you mean?" he asked, suddenly concerned. "You've never... done anything like this... I mean, for me, before... so, why..." She shifted in her seat uncomfortably and toyed with a bit of the black tablecloth that hung from the table. "I... um... I... I wanted to... say thank you- to you, that is..." he stammered. "Sherlock..." "I, um, never told you how much I am... glad, you... are my friend... and I, I'm... sorry." He bit his lip and glanced up at Molly hesitantly. "And I'm glad you're my... friend, Sherlock." He shook his head. "I know you wish we were more, but..." "But?" "I don't know if I... can love... you... the way... that way... I'm... sorry..." "It's okay," Molly reached out and took Sherlock's hand. "I don't... I don't know. I just, um..." "You don't feel... anything?" "I do... I just, can't explain..." "What?" He took a breath and with sad golden-green-blue eyes looked deep into Molly's. "Who... why, would anyone love... a freak?" Molly's eyes swelled and she squeezed Sherlock's hand firmly. "You," she pressed, wiping her eye quickly. "Are not a freak. And I love you." Two days later, Molly was working on the lab when John and Sherlock came in. "Oh, hello, did you need me?" Sherlock nodded. "We need to inspect the late Elizabeth Martin's knees." "I'm examining her right now... let me find her for you." Molly took off her protective goggles and pulled on new gloves before beckoning them out of the lab. As they stood around the body of the late widow Sherlock examined the knees and asked Molly what tests she had done. She gladly answered all his questions, her right hand resting on the table. John walked around to the opposite side of the table and took notes on the woman's appearance. Molly was in the middle of explaining when Sherlock's hand suddenly landed gently on top of hers on the table. She paused and just looked at it, then him. "Go on." "Uh... um... well, like I was saying... the... uh..." John's phone beeped. "Sherlock, I hate to interrupt bu-" John looked up and saw them holding hands. His eyes widened and he looked them both over inquisitively, but didn't comment. "It's your brother. We need to go." Sherlock glanced back at Molly. "Yes, I think we've got all we need." John started towards the door and just when Sherlock was sure John wasn't looking, he leaned down and whispered "Thank you, Molly Hooper," before kissing her forehead. He turned and left quickly, leaving Molly smiling. Later that afternoon, after Sherlock and John's visit to the morgue, John sat in his old comfy chair at 221B reading the news. Sherlock laid on the couch staring into space with his hands folded on his chin, and all would have been silent except for the crinkle of John's newspaper and the banging sound of cabinets made by Mary in the kitchen. John closed his paper, set it on the floor, folded his hands and looked at Sherlock. "You haven't said much since leaving St. Bart's." "Hhmm." "So, uh, got any idea how the widow was murdered?" "I'm thinking," Sherlock said flatly. John nodded, took an awkward look away, wrinkled his nose and looked back. "So... what were you doing with Molly today?" "What?" "You were holding her hand? When we were, er, examining that corpse?" "That was nothing." John tilted his head a bit. "Do you fancy her?" Sherlock jolted his hands from his chin to his chest and twisted his head to the side to look at John. John was surprised by his expression- a face of confusion, annoyance, and... was that fear? John furrowed his brows and smirked. "You do!" "Oh, shut up." At that moment Mary entered with a tray of tea. "What's going on here?" John looked up at the face of his wife and pointed at Sherlock sulking on the couch. "Sherlock fancies Molly Hooper!" "Oh, that girl at St. Bart's morgue? She's delightful." John shook his head, a half-smiling and half-disgusted look on his face, and looked at Sherlock. "How can you be so d**n rude to that woman, when you like her?" "Shut up John." "All she ever does is deal with your crap and help you with cases despite your constant, rude obsession with ruining her relationships. She was happily engaged to that man until you put your nose into it." "What am I supposed to do? Maybe I just like to point out to my friends when their partner is a serial killer. No offense, Mary." Mary shifted uncomfortably. "He has a point, though, John. So Sherlock," she added, smiling. "When are you going to ask out Molly?" Sherlock sat up, picked up a pillow, and collapsed back into his curled-up position on the couch with it covering his ear. Mary stomped forward and yanked away the pillow. "Sherlock quit acting like a two-year-old!" "I'm not asking her to dinner again." "Again!?" John and Mary exclaimed, almost in unison. "We went to dinner on Tuesday . I asked her. Kind of. We ate soup and drank wine and she probably forgot about it." "My goodness, you don't know a thing about women, do you?" Mary said softly. "It's probably all she can think about! Did you kiss her?" "No!" "Mary!" "oh John, be quiet, Sherlock's love life is at stake." "WHAT love life?!" "WILL YOU ALL SHUT UP AND LEAVE ME ALONE!" Sherlock turned so his face was buried into the sofa and grabbed another pillow, adjusting it to cover his head accordingly. John and Mary exchanged a look.
