A/N: I was listing to Taylor Swift today and was inspired. Not entirely sure about how it turned out, but I hope you enjoy it anyway :)

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Ships In The Night

…
There I was again tonight
Forcing laughter, faking smiles
Same old tired lonely place
Walls of insincerity,
Shifting eyes and vacancy
Vanished when I saw your face
[...]
Your eyes whispered, "Have we met?"
Across the room your silhouette
Starts to make its way to me
-'Enchanted,' Taylor Swift
…

Molly took another sip of her drink as she pretended to be interested in a story a co-worker was telling. She wasn't entirely sure why she'd even bothered coming to the hospital Christmas party, it's not like she ever enjoyed them.

She always ended up leaving early and spending the rest of the evening watching a movie or reading a book.

It wasn't that she was anti-social, she'd just never been particularly good at large social occasions where she had to talk to people she didn't know very well and had little in common with. Besides, her chosen profession often made people uncomfortable and severely limited the conversation.

This year, though, had been different.

The disgrace and supposed suicide of the world's only consulting detective was still a hot topic among the staff at St. Bart's. Not only because most of them had met him, but because of the very public way in which he had thrown himself from the hospital roof.

Molly had the rather dubious honour of being the only one who could 'handle' him, which had made her rather popular with the gossip mongers. Hence why she had stationed herself in the relative safety of an innocuous conversation with a couple of morgue technicians.

Although the safety truly was only relative since she wasn't exactly part of the conversation and she could already see a couple of the nurses making their way towards her. They had grilled her earlier in the evening for details about Sherlock and she wasn't particularly keen to repeat the experience.

She was just starting to think about how she could get out of the situation, when someone materialised at her elbow.

"I hope you won't think I'm being forward," said a deep voice and Molly looked up to see a pleasant looking man, who looked rather nervous. "But I saw you from across the room and…" the man broke off, clearly embarrassed, "I thought you looked very attractive," he said in a rush.

A little embarrassed herself, Molly demurred the compliment and was surprised to see something like exasperation flicker across the man's face. Her brow furrowed as she regarded him and he smiled at her.

"Something the matter?" he asked.

Molly shook away the suspicion that had been forming in the back of her mind, she was just seeing things. "No," she assured him with a smile, "in fact, I should thank you. You saved me from being interrogated again," she explained at his confused look, inclining her head slightly in the direction of the nurses.

"Ah," he said with an understanding smile, "should I ask why you're being interrogated?"

Molly's face fell slightly and she looked down, "I'd rather you didn't."

"I'm sorry," he apologised and Molly forced a smile as she looked up at him.

"It's all right," she assured him, "I just…" she took a shuddering breath as she realised, with mounting alarm, that she was going to cry. "I just…they mean well but…" Molly shook her head slightly as she realised she was losing the battle against her tears. "I'm sorry," she said, pushing passed him, "excuse me."

Molly barely made it to the ladies' room before she broke down. She covered her mouth with her hand in an effort to muffle her sobs, silently berating herself for being so emotional.

It had been three months since Sherlock's suicide, a suicide that she'd helped him to fake; she knew he wasn't dead. At that very moment he was somewhere out in the world, alive and well, as he sought to bring down Moriarty's network. But that didn't change the fact that she missed him or how painful it was to listen to some of the things people had to say about him. Most of them uncharitable and completely unwarranted.

Her conversation with the nurses had been no exception and it had hurt. She wondered what the poor man she had left must have thought of her, but there was only so many allusions to Sherlock she could take.

The door to the ladies' room opened and Molly struggled to get a hold over her emotions, pretending to be occupied with her bag. She gasped when she looked up in the mirror and recognised the man she'd been speaking to.

"You can't come in here," she admonished him, whirling around, "this is the ladies' room."

The man rolled his eyes, "Don't be so dramatic, Molly," he told her, "there's no one else in here."

Molly gaped at him, "Sherlock?"

"Obviously," he huffed, "you're staring," he told her after a moment.

Molly blinked, "What are you doing here?"

"You were crying," he said as though it should have been obvious.

Molly shook her head, "No, what are you doing here at the party?"

Sherlock looked a little uncomfortable as he stuffed his hands in his pockets, "I had some spare time," he mumbled, looking down at the floor, "I thought I would see how you were doing. And the others, of course," he added hastily, almost as an afterthought as he looked back up at her.

Molly nodded, "Of course," she agreed absently, still trying to wrap her mind around the fact that he was in the same room with her.

"Why didn't you accept my compliment?" he asked finally.

"What?" she asked, confused by the turn the conversation had taken.

"I told you that you looked attractive and you brushed it aside, why do you do that?" he asked, looking puzzled.

Molly shrugged a shoulder, "You were making small talk, it doesn't mean anything."

"I always mean what I say," he retorted.

Molly stared at him as she thought back over all the times he'd complimented her in the past, "What?"

"You're not very articulate this evening, Molly," he commented, "how much alcohol have you consumed?"

"You just said that you always mean what you say," she reminded him, ignoring his question, "did you mean, I mean…do you?"

This time Sherlock almost looked amused by her verbal fumbling, "Yes, Molly, I always mean what I say," he shrugged a shoulder, "why else would I say it?"

"So…you don't just say things to get access to body parts or to the lab?" she clarified.

Sherlock looked a little taken aback by the question, "I'm afraid I do, occasionally, have an ulterior motive for complimenting you," he confessed after a moment. "But I have always been aware of your merits, Molly," he added, looking a little uncomfortable again, "perhaps I should just choose a better time to comment on them."

Molly couldn't decide whether she should be upset that he'd just admitted he manipulated her or pleased that he at least always meant the compliments, even if they were a means to an end.

Sherlock, however, felt that the conversation had strayed too far into the messy area of sentiment and abruptly changed the subject. Molly didn't really mind though as he stayed with her for the rest of the evening, providing protection from any more unwanted fishing expeditions masquerading as conversation.

It would be much later, and after his return, that he would confess that he'd never intended on speaking to her that evening and had certainly never meant to reveal his true identity. But seeing her accosted by questions had changed his mind and her tears had affected him far more than he cared to admit.

The evening had given him a lot to think about since it had opened his eyes to how protective he was of his pathologist and how very much she did count.

Fortunately for Molly, in true Sherlock fashion, once he had decided on what he wanted (her) he wasted no time in getting it.