A/N: My first time writing a fanfic so reviews are greatly appreciated! Thanks! Any references taken from the series are completely intentional as I thought it would help develop their characters (please tell me if you think they act out of character!)

Disclaimer: None of the characters are mine (besides Ira, who I just randomly made up)

Dedicated to mayacakaia for suggesting the prompt! :)


6 years since Sherlock's been "dead." 3 years since he's been proclaimed alive again. And, much (still) to Molly Hooper's infinite shock, an entire year and a half since they've started going out.

Not as an experiment, as Sherlock was so prone to conducting, but for real. She had made sure of it (Mycroft had revealed Sherlock's method of evaluating the "chemical effects" of love, as he so wittingly called them).

She held her breath carefully, her eyelids slowly fluttering open as soft curls appeared before her eyes. Her hand tightly clenching the pillow, afraid to move, her eyes devoured the elegant face lying right next to her.

Unbelievable. Sherlock. In bed. With her. Sometimes, she still couldn't believe her luck.

"You have been staring at me for approximately 17 minutes and 30 seconds, give or take 5 seconds, now, and you're most definitely thinking of me. I can hear your brain whirring," a sleepy voice rumbled from the perfectly schooled features in front of her.

"Well, yes," she replied, blinking quite rapidly a few times.

Without opening his eyes, Sherlock continued.

"If I need provide further evidence of my actual existence, I am afraid we would be stuck in an infinitely regressive state where reason would fail to convince you otherwise. And don't look at me like that. It's obvious from your past behavior that's what you were thinking."

She opened her mouth.

"Don't bother to deny it. Just last Tuesday you clung onto my shirt as you made me watch that dreadful movie. The Notebook, was it? Obviously not a horror movie, so you couldn't have been scared. So why? Obviously because you wanted to reassure yourself of my presence.

"3 weeks ago at the restaurant, you stared at me when you thought I wasn't looking. A flicker of something passed through your eyes, and you smiled. Obvious. Must have been love, but you –"

Molly took in a shaky breath. Always. Always. What had she been hoping for? She had wished, dreamed that someday he might stop analyzing her and just take the time to love her, but it seemed that dream would never come true. Turning to face away from him, she sat up quickly, and put on her slippers.

Sherlock's eyes popped open, and he got up on one elbow.

"Where are you going?"

"John told me I might need frequent walks," she answered tersely, and shut the bedroom door behind her. Grabbing his long coat from the chair in the living room (just to spite him), she changed into her running shoes and walked out the door.

Sentiment. He knew she loved him, but he couldn't bring himself to tell her that back. Not yet. As much as he hated to admit that his heart (reliably informed to be nonexistent) traitorously beat faster whenever she was near, he couldn't. His mouth twitched, and he flopped back into bed, throwing the covers over his head.


"Careful with that cadaver, Molly," Ira warned her, "you seem off today. Is something wrong?"

"Nothing," Molly replied.

Ira just stared at her.

"Alright," Molly finally relented, "It's Sherlock."

"Aha! I knew it was him!"

"I know I shouldn't expect him to change, and I love him because he's the way he is, but sometimes I still get frustrated, you know? It's like he doesn't care. And I know I'm being greedy, but I can't help it."

"Maybe he's cheating on you with John," Ira smirked.

Molly glanced at her sideways, still working on the most recent death just wheeled in.

"Don't be ridiculous."

Ira just shrugged.

"He wouldn't, not with another woman either," Molly stated emphatically, "you don't know him like I do."

But even as she said that, she thought of the many secretive texts he'd received (57, she counted), the talking that would stop as soon as he heard her coming up the stairs (phone calls, even she could deduce that much as John was never in when she checked), and his frequent disappearances (he would never tell her where he went). She shook her head.

No. She believed in him. More than that, she loved him, so she trusted him with all her heart. But even as she convinced herself of that, she couldn't help but think of the Woman, the only one who had gotten into his heart. What if…

She couldn't bear to think further.