Hai, thanks for giving my fic...story...fanfic...a try

I absolutely love Molly! I feel that Molly's one of the underestimated strong women we will ever know (not strong physically, but in spirit on helping people), and that makes her even more lovable because she is actually one of us plain girls, who has a crush on a handsome and brilliant man who doesn't even acknowledge her presence (admit it, we all went through this phase, obsessing over a cute guy or celebrity...), and because of that, we can relate to her. Anyways, I hope both weren't OOC. That would be the worst thing to ever happen... Whatever mistakes are, of course, mine (can't exactly put the blame on my hamster, can I?). This is set in Season 2. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Hai, sorry, no; I do not own Molly or Sherlock. Both belong to BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Molly sat at her desk, staring at the autopsy papers in front of her. She had just attended to one of Sherlock's ever strange requests, who seemed to come without his friend trailing behind. "Just a minor misunderstanding. He was keen on not talking to me, though," Sherlock replied when Molly asked him on John's absence.

She sighed and rested her head in her arms on the table. It was about 4 months after coming to know that the guy she liked, really liked, was, in fact, a consulting criminal who faked his feelings for her, just to get near Sherlock. She was horrified at that knowledge and profusely apologised to John and Sherlock, John repeatedly saying it was not her fault, Sherlock ignoring her apologies.

Just when she thought she could finally have someone to love her back, Fate decided to turn the tables.

"Gosh, I'm now, what? 32? And the only person -okay, cat- that loves me is Toby. Though he has not exactly verbalised his feelings for me, so for that I'm also not sure," Molly mumbled into her arms.

She was definitely not a sociable person, ever since attending school. Sure, she had a few friends then, and even now, but they were, unsurprisingly, of the female gender. Some of them were already married, and the rest were either engaged or had a boyfriend who would be proposing to them in a few weeks' time. And what about her?

A single early thirties woman with a cat which either loves her or treats her as a maid (Gosh, Toby seems to be eating a lot lately, Molly mentally added).

A woman who did not have a single boyfriend during her teen years, and has a girlish crush on a certain tall, dark, handsome (but also arrogant, vain and bloody clueless) guy who notices the chemicals in her lab rather than her.

She sighed again. A single tear drop fell onto her autopsy reports as she recalled the Christmas incident 2 months ago. Those things she heard coming out from his mouth... No matter how hard she tried to rationalise Sherlock's actions that night (frustrations on the festive happiness? Or not getting any presents due to his, uh, 'not nice' behaviour?), it still hurt and stung as it gave her a sign that maybe he was what people had said: cold. Then, the 'Jim from IT' fiasco had finally brought her to reality. A reality that she might just stay single forever.

"Unless I marry Toby, of course. I'm sure he wouldn't detest my proposal if I gave him more of his favourite biscuit."

Then Molly gave a bitter laugh. God, did I just thought of marrying a cat because I'mdesperate to change my 'single' status?, she thought to herself, as another fat tear rolled down her cheek.

She then took the time to remember why she still blush everytime Sherlock's in the room, why she would stammer an answer to him, why her attempts at laughing turned into a weird giggle when he was right in front of her. Why she still like him. Then she immediately got her answer: he cares.

Well, actually, he has the ability to care. She knew that he must care for John and Mrs Hudson to a degree where he could tolerate their presence, because, for one, he does not bother with people. Hell, he even comforted (or at least tried to) Sarah after the case John had titled 'The Blind Banker' on his blog. She guessed, to a certain degree again, he cared for her too, no matter how small that was, because after saying those horrible things at Christmas, he apologised (for the very first time, she soon found out) to her and even gave her a peck on her cheek. She blushed slightly at the feeling of Sherlock's lips on her cheek, albeit for a milisecond. These kind of emotions that the 'cold, calculating machine' experienced were rare, and Molly knew the number one reason why she continued to swoon over him: she wanted to see more of this 'feeling' side of the 'high-functioning sociopath'.

"Do you need a shoulder?" a low voice travelled across the morgue and Molly jumped out of her skin, her thoughts evaporating to be replaced with surprise. She stood and turned around to be greeted with the sight of the tall consulting detective draped in his customary scarf and coat.

"Oh, umm...," here she frowned, "do I need a shoulder? I, uh, think I have plenty of those here, especially ones that are still attached to their bodies..."

"No. Not that kind of shoulder."

Both stood there for 5 seconds before Molly asked, "What makes you think I would like a shoulder?"

"Tear tracks visible on your cheeks," Molly quickly wiped her cheeks, "eyes slightly rimmed with red, and droplets of water on your papers, presumably tears coming from you, judging from the fact you laid your head on that table not moments ago. Ergo, you're upset."

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath before continuing, "I am not one to be in touch with my feelings, but I do know that when a female is upset –eventhough the subject that's considered upsetting is too trivial, why even bother?- she would like a shoulder. Or somewhere along those lines."

Molly looked at him, puzzled. "She needs a shoulder? Why would she...oh. Oh! You must be talking about 'a shoulder to cry on'."

"Ah, yes. I must be talking about...that."

"Well, no thank you anyway. I don't need to cry on a shoulder, live or dead otherwise."

"Oh," Sherlock said, thinking for a moment before continuing, "Do you need a hug instead?"

Molly's eyes grew as big as saucers as she spluttered, "Wha-what? A-a hug? Wh-why would I need a hug?" She then gave a nervous giggle.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at her stammering and shrugged. "Besides coming to know that females would like a 'shoulder to cry on', as you have just mentioned, some of them would rather prefer a hug, although I could not comprehend the benefit it has or gives."

"Oh..."

There was an awkward silence for a while until Molly spoke up. "Do you mind if I accept your offer?" she asked shyly, looking at the floor and not daring to look into those cool grey eyes of Sherlock's, but eventually she did, only because he had not said anything for quite some time. She was worried, and very scared, that he would say no.

Sherlck was wearing an unreadable expression, then stretched out his arms, hands palm-up. "No, I do not mind, since I was, in fact, the one who offered."

Molly bit her lower lip before carefully approaching him, as if she was walking towards a terrified animal which would flee at any fast movement it saw. When she got right in front of him after what seemed a mile of walking, she slowly brought her arms around his waist, feeling him tense up at the movement before slowly relaxing, then she felt his arms circle her small frame, hands resting on the small of her back. She turned her head and rested her cheek on the right side of his chest. She could hear his heartbeat thumping strongly beneath the black shirt he was wearing. Strange, she thought, it seems...faster than what I imagined his normal heart rate would be like.

Molly Hooper felt nice, warm, comforted in the muscular arms of Sherlock Holmes and she felt the stress of her (love) life ebbed away, leaving her in a state of peace, for once. Don't worry, Molly, she comforted herself, you'll find a guy eventually. Seems God does not want to pair you with anyone else before and now, because He's going to give you someone you truly deserve, and who deserves you, in the future. He just wants you to be patient for now. Yup, I'll be patient, Molly mentally added, a small smile forming on her lips.

They stayed like that for a full minute until Molly made to move out of the embrace, feeling much better. She felt the arms around her tighten and, realising she could not get out easily right then, looked up to Sherlock, who was looking straight ahead. "Umm..."

Sherlock looked down into her brown eyes and expressed what seemed to be surprise before letting go. Both stood opposite each other, Molly, looking down to the floor, slowly feeling her cheeks heating up, Sherlock putting his hands into his coat pocket, looking at a point above her head. He cleared his throat before breaking the silence. "So...feeling any better?"

Molly shyly whispered, not looking up. "Umm...yes," before adding, "thank you."

He gave a curt nod before moving away. "I better be off now."

Before he could open the door, Molly turned around to face Sherlock. "Uh, you said you couldn't comprehend the benefit a hug gives."

Sherlock, one hand poised on the door handle, looked towards her, drawing out the word 'yes'.

"Well, it sort of gives the...female the impression that the hugger...actually cares...for her...," Molly quietly said before looking up to see Sherlock staring back.

"Oh, uh, bye!" she said, quickly giving a small wave in goodbye and hurriedly turned to her desk with her autopsy reports (that still needed to be completed).

She heard the morgue doors open and close, and allowed a small smile to again form upon her blushing face. At the same time, she wondered why Sherlock's cheeks seemed a little...pinker than usual.

And there I feel that Sherlock does have the ability to care; he just does it in his own unconventional way. If he could somewhat care for John, Mrs Hudson, and even Sarah, why wouldn't he do the same for Molly? John (ever the gentleman) would have scolded him for not doing anything to make Molly better if he were there in the story, since Sherlock is somone who has known Molly for quite a long time, longer than John. So not wanting to hear the continued nagging voice of John in his head, Sherlock took upon himself to, at least, imitate comforting. Well, after that, did Sherlock felt something? Who knows ;)

Thanks for taking the time to read. Hope you enjoyed this :DDD