Almonds, vanilla, and a hint of Freesia. Sherlock didn't even need to open his eyes to know to whom that smell belonged. He inhaled deeply once more.

"Molly," he murmured. "Come to slap me again?"

"I should," she returned quietly. "Lord knows, I should."

He blinked and opened his eyes when something hit his lap. He looked down. A tabloid. Damn.

"Is it true? 'Seven times a night'?" She asked.

He couldn't help flinching as he glanced up at her hovering over him and was confronted by her disenchantment. He had thoroughly disappointed her in every way imaginable. Her eyes were large, caramel orbs with a sheen that caused him to hold his breath until it hurt.

"No, of course not," he replied with a cough. "It was … five at most. Who has that kind of fortitude?"

"Oh!" Molly gasped. "Oh!"

She swatted him in the shoulder with the trashy magazine. Sherlock groaned, grabbed her wrist and pulled her down to the hospital bed so she sat facing him hip to hip. He plucked the magazine from her grasp and tossed it aside. He felt a spear of pain near his wound on his chest. He squeezed his eyes a moment to will it away.

"I'm kidding," he whispered as he opened his eyes slowly and inhaled. "Of course I am kidding."

Molly's lips were pressed in a thin line. Her nostrils flared as she labored to breath. Then her lip jutted out in a pout. He frowned as he found himself transfixed by that bit of flesh.

"Did y-you and Janine . . . did you, you know?" She asked with a tremor in her voice.

He shook his head slowly. "No, I feigned feelings for Janine for a case."

Sherlock grimaced as her eyes misted and she looked down to conceal her reaction. She sniffed and shifted next to him. He wasn't sure how it happened but he realized that he had intertwined his fingers with hers and held her hand against his abdomen. He wished he had more energy to sit up properly.

"Y-You kill me, Sherlock," her voice quivered. "The drugs, getting yourself shot, Janine, running away from the hospital … I was so scared."

"Then you are not actually mad?" He asked anxiously.

"I don't really have any right to be, do I?"

His brows flinched. "Look at me, Molly."

He held his breath until she met his gaze again. His heart skipped a beat.

"You are entitled to be upset with me."

"I am?"

He nodded. She stared at him a moment. Then as if coming to a realization, she started nodding as well.

"I am!" She exclaimed. "Four words and I threw away everything. 'You cannot marry Tom', you said. What was that phone call about? Were you high? Was it just some damn deduction you never cared to explain? You made it sound as if …"

Molly sniffled again and swallowed. "You made it sound as if it was something you wanted."

He tightened his hold on her hand.

"Mm, ah, you aren't allowed to be mad at me for that."

Her nose scrunched up and her lips parted.

Sherlock rushed to speak. "I did you a favor. Tom would have made you miserable."

"But you said-"

He dipped his head. "Yes, you are allowed to be livid for everything else you mentioned, but not for my demanding you break it off with that clod."

Molly tilted her head and leaned on her hand. "You speak in riddles, Sherlock Holmes. I don't understand you at all."

He took a deep breath.

"Then let me make it clear, Molly Hooper. You are entitled to have expectations of me and to be disappointed when I fall short of them. You are entitled because … I am . . . yours."