After a hard day of working in the morgue, Molly Hooper liked nothing more than to go home and cuddle with her cat, grab a romance novel, and sink into a warm tub filled with bubbles. That is of course unless Sherlock Holmes needed her.
"Miss Hooper, are you leaving?" Sherlock said in his sultry voice.
"Oh, uh, Sherlock… I was, but… if you needed me then I can stay for a bit," Molly Hooper smiled nervously and dropped her handbag, unwrapping her scarf from around her neck.
"No of course not, I just thought I might escort you home," he replied nonchalantly.
"What?!" Molly asked a little too startled, but Sherlock didn't react, as usual.
"Shall we get going? It's already getting dark." He turned up his collar and briskly walked out.
Knowing that if she waited too long she'd miss him and lose her chance forever. Gathering up her bag and scarf, reattaching it to around her neck she scurried after him like the mouse she was always compared to.
Halfway to Molly's flat she decided to speak up. "So not that I'm ungrateful or anything," she swallowed nervously, "but why are you escorting me home?"
Sherlock was startled at the sound of her voice, almost forgetting that she was there. "I just thought I would walk you home. That is all."
Truth was that Sherlock had feelings for Molly Hooper. Not the head over heels, or even "I might like to go out with this person" feelings, but still feelings. He felt like he should protect her, and had even told John that. John suggested asking her out; but that wasn't Sherlock's style. He obviously denied and went for a more practical approach- ignoring her until he forgot about her.
Two weeks prior to the walk, Sherlock sat on his bed at 221B and did everything in his power to not think about the adorable brunette. When he first met her he described her as incompetent and pathetic but he had grown on her. Whenever he had a problem she was the first he thought of besides John. And if he needed help with something scientific (or even academic at all) Molly was the obvious choice.
John had been on his case of course. "Sherloooooock you have to express your feeeeeeelings," John constantly whined; or at least that's how it went in Sherlock's mind. He didn't really know, as he was mostly tucked away in his Mind Palace and only tuned in for a minute or two at a time to hear John's badgering.
"Look, I know this is hard for you," John sighed on the opposite side of his flat mate's door, "But I know she cares about you, and you seem to care about her, so-"
That was when he blanked out once again, resisting the urge to throw something at his door to quiet the judgmental Mr. Watson.
Sherlock was pulled from his thoughts when a biker shot out of an alleyway, almost hitting his Molly- he meant just Molly, with his speeding bicycle. On instinct Sherlock's hand shot out to grab hers, pulling her from harms way.
Molly was too stunned to say or do anything, and Sherlock just pulled her along as if nothing had happened. Truth was, she hadn't realized they were still holding hands until they reached her flat and Sherlock released her.
He turned away and she began unlocking her door. Just before she stepped inside, Sherlock turned to her.
"Thank you for letting me walk you," he swallowed, "and for letting me take you to dinner."
Molly's eyebrows furrowed and was about to say something when she got a text.
7 pm, 221B. Tomorrow night. SH
And when she looked up he was gone.
