Molly Hooper was far more observant than anybody—especially Sherlock—gave her credit for. She noticed things. She noticed the way Mrs. Hudson's eyes shone as she picked up after her favorite tenant, though she always claimed she was "not his housekeeper." She noticed John roll his eyes, secretly, but frequently, at Sherlock's behavior, though the inherent, brotherly affection he held for his flat mate never faded. She even noticed the almost undetectable softening of Mycroft's expression when he interacted with his brother, betraying the fact that he did actually care about him.

But most of all, and certainly unsurprisingly, she noticed Sherlock. She noticed the spark in his eyes as he embarked on a new case, the subtle smile he wore as he gathered clues, the quiet tune he probably didn't realize he was humming when he worked in his flat.

These, of course, were things anyone close to him would be able to observe. But she saw things no one else saw. The barely concealed loneliness, the constant craving for social interactions (even though he was rubbish at them), and the most shocking of all… his genuine concern for her.

She hadn't always been able to see these things. In fact, she'd been quite dim when it came to Sherlock, for the first few years of their acquaintance. Then came that horrible Christmas, when, to her horror, Sherlock had been able to identify a woman's corpse simply by looking at her naked body. She'd never been informed, nor even dared ask, about the circumstances, but after that point, she made a mental note to pay more attention to his reactions—more specifically, how he acted around her. She'd made the mistake in getting her hopes up far too often. It was high time she learned how to read Sherlock Holmes, and more importantly, understand him.

The task was not an easy one. Sherlock kept a tight lid on his emotions, always taking great care to keep them hidden, or nonexistent. But as she observed more and more, she saw him slip on occasion. It would be brief, nigh imperceptible, but it was always there. She noticed it most often with John, and her heart was touched by the camaraderie between the two unlikely friends. They behaved like brothers, jesting and teasing, but certainly not afraid to speak the truth, and fiercely protective of one another. It proved to her, and to the rest of the world, that Sherlock could feel, and could love.

However, unlike most of the world, Molly did not misinterpret his affections for John. While everyone assumed they were an item, Molly could clearly see the friendship for what it was. And she took delight in watching them together, listening to their banter.

This new skill in observation was normally easy to keep silent. No one noticed her—a life of being the resident wallflower had made her used to that—and as such she could watch, listen, and learn, without disturbing a single conversation or interrupting a single thought. This ability, however, became harder to maintain, as she, Sherlock, and John worked in the lab at Bart's, attempting to solve the fiendish Jim Moriarty's incessant puzzles. Sherlock, of course, was peering into the microscope at some sample or another, while John worked quietly opposite him.

Molly, herself, was immersed in her own work, and hadn't had much of an opportunity to talk with her friends, much less observe them, until Sherlock spoke—quietly, obviously to himself, not intending to be overheard. "I owe you," he said, not taking his eyes away from the microscope. He continued working, muttering to himself as he went. Molly felt her curiosity grow, and she could no longer remain silent.

"What did you mean, 'I owe you'?"

Sherlock didn't answer, didn't even acknowledge her. She almost believed he hadn't heard her, being so engrossed in whatever riddle Moriarty had given him. But then he glanced up at John as he walked by, taking his work into the corner on the far end of the lab. And in that quick glance, that one moment of thoughtlessness, a look of unmistakable vulnerability crossed his face. It was gone as swiftly as it came, but there was no denying it, though Sherlock would certainly endeavor to do just that. But, having seen that look for herself, Molly was all the more determined.

"You said, 'I owe you,'" she tried again. She looked back at her own project, hoping that might make it seem like she was only vaguely curious, making simple conversation. Sherlock wasn't wildly fond of being interrogated, after all. He was used to being the one conducting the interrogation. "You were muttering while you were working."

"Nothing," he said dismissively, looking into the microscope again. "Mental note."

You're not getting off that easy, she warned him in her head, then, to herself, Think of something to say. He needs to talk, or at least listen. Listen is probably easier.

"You're a bit like my dad. He's dead." Once the words were out, she realized how terrible they sounded. Her face flamed as she attempted to retract. "No, sorry."

"Molly," he said, his eyes not moving from the microscope as he spoke. "Please don't feel the need to make conversation. It's really not your area."

A typical response from him; cool, cutting, and clearly trying to get her to shut up. She'd learned how to recognize this sort of reaction (finally), and had tried harder to acquiesce to his unspoken request. But this time, she pressed forward, despite her anxiety and embarrassment.

"When he was… dying," she began, "he was always cheerful. He was lovely—except when he thought no one could see." She took a moment to keep her emotions in check; memories of her dad tended to make her blubber like a baby. Now was not the time for blubbering. Swallowing hard, she went on, "I saw him once. He looked… sad."

"Molly," his voice was stern, a warning not to disturb him. Again, she ignored him.

"You look sad, when you think he can't see you."

Sherlock raised her head at this, and his eyes flitted to John, who appeared completely unaware of their conversation. After a moment, he turned his head, not to the microscope, but to face her, and look her right in the eye. Molly felt a jolt, as she always did when she met those striking, quicksilver eyes, but forced herself not to dwell on it. She needed to get this out, for Sherlock's sake as much as her own.

"Are you okay?" she asked. He opened his mouth, as if to answer, but she cut him off. "And don't just say you are, because I know what that means, looking sad when you think no one can see you." Even as she said this, Molly hoped she was wrong. Because if she was right, Sherlock's life was in danger. Worse, Sherlock knew his life was in danger, but didn't know how to change it. And though the thought scared her half to death, she knew, deep down, he must be even more frightened.

He frowned at her, clearly puzzled by her comment. "You can see me," he pointed out.

"I don't count." That much was obvious to her. Sherlock had never given her any real indication that her opinions, gestures, or feelings mattered to him in the slightest. But aside from that, she was not the person who needed to see how much he was hurting. John had become Sherlock's only true friend, and it was plain to see he cared very much for his flat mate, even if he wouldn't admit it. And John cared very much for Sherlock, too. But for some reason, Sherlock was refusing to be honest with John. And it worried her.

This train of thought was cut short as she observed, like she had trained herself to do, Sherlock's reaction to her words. He blinked once, his eyes widening in shock. She felt suddenly uncomfortable, as if she were being scrutinized. Perhaps she was. Perhaps, for the first time, Sherlock was actually seeing her, rather than deducing her.

Shaken by the idea, Molly resorted to babbling, her usual fallback. "What I'm trying to say is, if there's anything I can do, anything you need, anything at all, you can have me." Molly flinched; that didn't sound quite right, either. "No, I just mean… I mean, if there's anything you need…" This was going nowhere fast. Frustrated with herself, Molly shook her head. "It's fine."

Then, Sherlock did something absolutely shocking, something she'd never witnessed from him the whole time she'd known him: he stammered. "Wh-what, what could I need from you?"

His words were a blow to her heart, one with which she was all too familiar. Molly was beginning to feel a bit too emotional, and that was never a good idea around Sherlock. She needed to end this. "Nothing," she said firmly, knowing it was the truth. He never needed anything from her, did he? Except for lab time and dead bodies. "I don't know," she said, just mumbling to herself now. Then, a thought came to her mind. "You could probably say thank you, actually."

Sherlock's brow furrowed, and his eyes shifted away from her. "Thank you…?" he mumbled uncertainly.

This was not going well. Blushing, Molly decided then and there to end the conversation. "I'm just going to go and get some crisps. Do you want anything?" Why are you offering? she asked herself. Haven't you had this conversation? She gave an embarrassed smile. "It's okay, I know you don't."

Furious with herself, Molly turned. She vaguely heard Sherlock calling after her, but she just mumbled a half-hearted sentence—she might even have been repeating herself, she wasn't sure—and hurried from the lab as fast as her feet would carry her.

Molly didn't return to the lab until late in the evening, at the end of her shift. She realized, in her haste to get away from Sherlock, she'd left her handbag and coat in there. She rubbed tired eyes as she entered, walking toward the office by muscle-memory. Her things were right where she'd left them, and she grabbed them quickly, more than ready to go home and sleep. With a quiet sigh, she turned off the office light, and headed for the door.

"You're wrong, you know."

Molly gasped and put a hand over her racing heart as she turned to the owner of the voice. It was Sherlock. Of course it was him. She blushed at the mere memory of earlier, but held her ground. Something was obviously wrong. That much was obvious, by the fact that he was here, first of all, and also by the barely-concealed fear in his voice. That alone gave her pause. Sherlock Holmes, afraid?

"You do count," he said. "You've always counted, and I've always trusted you."

Her mind raced; those words, those impossible words… did he really mean them? Or did he just need to use the lab, or look at a cadaver? No, she realized, this is different. When he needs something for a case, he flirts. Comments on my hair, my clothes, or tells me to cancel my lunch date because I'm 'having lunch with him.' There was no trace of flirtation, no compliments or invitations. His voice was raw and quiet, and, again, there was that subtle hint of fear.

"But you were right," he spoke again, finally turning to look at her, and she found that fear written all over his face. "I'm not okay."

I knew it. "Tell me what's wrong," she said firmly.

"Molly," he began, standing and walking slowly toward her. "I think I'm going to die."

Oh, God… why did I have to be right about that?

Molly couldn't recall a time when she'd had such a fierce desire and determination to help someone. She'd always been happy to lend a hand to those in need, but it had always been sort of obligatory. But now? Her very soul was bent on finding a way to help the man before her. And by God, she'd go to the ends of the earth for him, if she had to. Sherlock Holmes was not going to die. Not on her watch.

"What do you need?" she asked, ready for anything.

"If wasn't everything that you think I am," he said, still approaching her, "everything that I think I am, would you still want to help me?"

Did he truly doubt her? Molly thought her feelings for him had been obvious from the start. That was why he exploited them, after all, wasn't it? He knew he could get what he wanted if he made her heart flutter and her cheeks grow warm. He did it well, and he did it often. Surely he would know—he had to know—that she would stand by him, no matter what. But looking into his eyes, so wide and frightened, she supposed something must have happened to make him question her loyalty. Not her loyalty, she corrected. If it was her, specifically, whom he doubted, he wouldn't be here. And he wouldn't have said that he trusted her. This went deeper than that. Something had to have happened that would make him feel like he had nowhere else to go. And he was afraid even his last resort would fall through.

No bloody chance of that.

"What do you need?" she asked again, her voice softer this time, her eyes so wide they were starting to tear up a bit.

Sherlock took another step toward her, his eyes never straying from hers. He was quiet for several long moments, and she was uncertain if he would actually answer her question. Finally, though, he answered her, with just one word. One small, but powerful word that would change everything.

"You."

A/N: Yup, that's where I'm ending it! So, just a couple of things. First of all, a disclaimer. I do not own Sherlock. I desperately wish I could lay a claim on Benedict Cumberbatch, but alas, I do not have that luxury. He's taken. Cue the gut-wrenching sobs. The series, and the dialogue within this story, belong to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. I'm never quite sure whether I hate or love these men, but that's neither here nor there.

Second, I have had a terrible bout of writer's block lately, and I'm really struggling to come up with fun, creative plot ideas. Instead, I'm spinning off of already-written ideas, which is pretty much cheating. Ahem. So. If any of you have any Sherlolly-based prompts you're willing to share, and that you don't plan on using yourself (because no one likes a plot-thief), please leave them in a review, or send me a private message. Heck, it doesn't even have to be Sherlock. It could be Harry Potter, Doctor Who, Disney, anything! I just need inspiration. Seriously. I'm desperate.

That's all for now! Thanks for reading!

"In that quick glance, that one moment of thoughtlessness, a look of unmistakable vulnerability crossed his face."