A/N: Wasn't planning on writing a Sherlolly fic before finishing my Anna/Bates one in my Downton forum, but this little plot bunny found me and wouldn't let me rest until I wrote it down. Originally a one-shot, but found it to be too long, so will be a short mini-chapter. There will be angst in this one; don't let this cute beginning fool you – so prepare yourselves, enjoy and leave a kind word.

One

"Don't go."

Molly rolled her eyes as she zipped up her overnight bag. This was the fifty-third time that Sherlock had told her that since she had received the invitation two days ago. "Really, Sherlock? My cab will be here any minute, and you still think I'll obey an order without reason?"

"Molly, you know as well as I do that there are an abundance of reasons why you should not go."

Sherlock was leaning against her bedroom doorway, his arms crossed across his chest and pouting like a child. Molly knew this, though her back was to him as she checked to make sure she had everything she needed in her purse.

"Such as?" Molly said in resignation. They had already had this same conversation more than a few times, but because she knew that there was no stopping Sherlock when he wanted to make an argument, she decided to remain silent and wait for it to blow over like a rock in a hurricane.

"You barely had any friends in high school."

"Barely is not the same as didn't, Sherlock."

"You already talk to them enough on the phone and Skype more than enough."

"Not quite the same or nearly as much fun as seeing each other in person, though."

"Then have them come here to see you."

"Why would we miss the chance to look at our old classmates –"

"Tormenters, you mean."

" – and miss the chance to laugh at how every meatheaded jock is now gone to seed and how each snotty cheerleader has had so much plastic surgery they are clinically frightening?"

Hearing no response, she grinned to herself and turned around. Sherlock's pout had increased, making him look adorable rather than foreboding. My ten-year-old boyfriend, she thought, even though Sherlock despised that term. No wonder John hasn't stopped being baffled about this. Neither had she really stopped. Though Sherlock had been legally alive again for nearly six months, she and Sherlock had only decided to move beyond friendship a month ago. They were taking it slow, since Sherlock was about as familiar in this area as a hobbit was with the water. But that didn't mean that their courtship was traditional or normal. Thankfully, Molly knew Sherlock Holmes very well, and that nothing would ever be quote-on-quote "normal."

"My cab should be here by now," she said, slinging her overnight bag over one shoulder and her purse in the crook of her other elbow. But when she moved to pass Sherlock in the doorway, his arm shot out and blocked her way.

"Don't go," he repeated, his tone soft and pleading, just like his eyes.

Her huge and smug grin melted into a small and loving smile. "Why?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

Because I will miss you. "Because I need you at St. Bart's." Because I don't want to sleep alone for two nights in a row. "Lestrade just gave me a heisting case and the mud the thief left behind with his footprints will be the key to finding him."

"You have John, who is as much of a doctor as I am."

"He's not you."

Molly cupped his cheek, her expression getting a drop of sadness. Though Molly could always read between the lines with Sherlock, she wished she didn't always have to deduce him to know what he really wanted and meant to say to her from his heart. Knowing this was not the time or the place to try and change that, Molly went on her tiptoes and kissed his lips.

His ardent response was practically a shout that he would miss her desperately.

The pathologist pulled away and dropped her hand after one last caress of his prominent cheekbone with her thumb. "I'll see you Sunday morning."

He dropped his arm. "No later than ten-forty."

Molly's train came back to London at ten-fifteen, and it would be a twenty-five minute cab ride from the station to her flat.

She smiled again and walked past him. "Lock the door on your way out, and please don't rearrange the clothes in my drawers again."

"I was merely indexing them by color and use in order to make –"

"Goodbye, Mr. Busybody!" she laughed as she shut her apartment door.

Sherlock walked to the window to watch her exit the front of the building and put her bag into the trunk of the cab that was indeed waiting for her. But before slipping into the back seat, Molly turned towards the window and blew him a kiss.

The consulting detective was not the type who would ever embarrass himself with so sentimental and silly a gesture – but he would mime catching it and pressing it to his heart once the cab was out of sight.

A minute later, his phone buzzed with a text, which turned out to be from Lestrade, informing him of another heist that matched his case's M.O. Glad to have this distraction, Sherlock put on his signature Belstaff and scarf and exited Molly's apartment – but not before grabbing one of her pillows.

His logical reasoning was that her scent helped his mind to think more clearly and calmly while even sharpening in efficiency. His sentimental reasoning – which he never acknowledge to himself, let alone anybody else – was that he really would miss his pathologist.