Hi people =) This is my first fanfic. Hope you enjoy this!

~Xx

Molly loved Sherlock Holmes. She always had, from the moment he'd walked into the morgue on her first day of work and said, "Do you have a cadaver I could borrow?"

She knew why she'd fallen for him, too. It wasn't his personality, even though that was pretty much perfect. Molly remembered that first day of work: he'd been so polite and excited as he'd run through the morgue, looking for the perfect corpse to experiment on. He'd even let her help him choose the body.

It wasn't his thoughtfulness, either. Molly loved his thoughtfulness, when he remembered it. When he wasn't busy deducing all her deepest thoughts, he'd bring her a cuppa when he visited the morgue, and sometimes even a bag of crisps. And sometimes he would compliment her hair or lipstick. But she hadn't fallen in love with his thoughtfulness, especially as it came so periodically.

And no, she hadn't fallen for his brain, either. Although, she'd be the first to admit that he was the most brilliant man alive. One day, Sherlock had taught Molly some of his methods of deduction and had her try them out on him. It had been so hard - in the end, the only thing she'd gotten right was that, based on his tan and new pair of shoes, he'd recently solved a case in Kent. He'd been so proud of her that she didn't have the heart to tell him she'd been reading John's blog. But it made her appreciate how he was able to deduce all sorts of things about a person with no help at all. Although, it did hurt when he deduced her private life out loud - like the time he'd told her that her new boyfriend Jim was gay, or told all her friends at a Christmas party that she fancied him. Of course, Sherlock had apologized when he realized he'd upset her, and had even kissed her cheek. But under the circumstances, it had been more awkward than anything else. So although it was wonderful and incredible and an essential part of his existence, it wasn't Sherlock's brain that had caused Molly to fancy him.

It wasn't even his looks. Still, Molly had to admit that he was incredibly hot: Sherlock with his tall figure, deep voice, amazing cheekbones and hair that was quite positively the most beautiful head of hair on any man in England. Molly always felt dizzy when he smiled at her. She remembered the first time it had happened. It was the first time she'd seen him, the time he'd wanted to borrow a corpse. She'd hesitantly agreed because she couldn't think of a good reason to tell him no, and the smile he'd given her was so bright that it lightened even the morgue. "Molly Hooper," he'd said excitedly, "you are the most wonderful, most helpful human being on earth!" Then he'd skipped away down the aisles of dead bodies, as happy as a child that has just woken to a stack of gifts on Christmas Day.

So no - it wasn't his personality or thoughtfulness, his mind or his physical attraction which had caused Molly to fall in love with Sherlock.

It was his eyes.

Peaceful, but a storm lurked beneath the surface.

Kind, wise, thoughtful.

Promising of adventure and excitement.

Alive.

Molly had been unnerved by the lifelessness in the eyes of the corpses in the morgue. They had been alive once; so full of life. They'd been people who'd had names and ideas and words and people who loved them. Now they were dead, some leaving lives half-finished, barely begun. Their eyes were closed forever.

But not Sherlock's. His were so alive. And when they had searched hers that day in the morgue, she knew that here was a person she could travel to the ends of the earth with. To grow old with. Molly could have looked into those eyes forever and only fallen deeper and deeper into love with him with every moment. That's what she'd wanted to do. She would have followed him anywhere. But his eyes had closed too. He'd become another corpse like the ones at the morgue. That horrible, horrible day at Reichenbach, they'd closed forever.

"You do matter." He'd told her. She'd mattered to him.

But not enough.