summary: I'm not worth a minute of your time.

notes: so many people I love are sad and I ain't gonna have any of that. i fucking love you, you perfect creatures. smile for me, yeah?

dedications: to anyone who's having a fucked up day, or fucked up week, or a fucked up life. talk to me lovies, I got yo back. seriously.

disclaimer: BBC Sherlock is the property of Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat and the BBC. No infringement of copyright is intended. Inspired by the Blink 182 song, First Date. I don't own that either.

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chasing perfection

God, he was pathetic.

The youngest Holmes stared himself down through the mirror, scrutinising every minute detail.

He's a detective. That's what he does.

He saw everything.

Everything that was wrong.

He only had half an hour before he was supposed to meet her.

Molly Hooper

The perfect Molly Hooper. That was what her friends at university called her, right? Little Miss Perfect. And they were right, she was perfect, absolutely everything about her was flawless and Sherlock felt breathless in her presence.

And tonight was supposed to be their first date.

He couldn't do it. How was a gangly, bushy-haired, horse-faced freak ever supposed to compare to her? That's what they had called him in university.

Freak.

They still called him that, he supposed. And once again, they were right. No one could argue that Sherlock Holmes was intelligent. In fact some would say that he was too intelligent. Freakishly so. And then there was his looks. He was always far too tall for someone his age, and he never had the muscular physique of the other rugby playing boys at his school.

Even after spending hours sorting through his wardrobe, the purple shirt and black slacks he had eventually chosen didn't seem to sit on his frame properly. His hair was unruly as ever, stinking out everywhere, even after he'd had a shower and meticulously combed through it.

And of course there was his incapability of holding a civil conversation for more than two minutes. Nobody liked having their entire life deduced with a matter of seconds. Sherlock's little trick, as the boys at school had called it. He had been alone, the friendless freak. They had all hated him.

He hated himself.

Sherlock turned away from the mirror irately, disgusted with himself. No, he had to call it off. He'd say that Lestrade had called and needed him for a case, Molly would understand. She always understood.

She deserves so much better than him.

Scowling as he searched for his phone, Sherlock cursed when he realised he had left it in the living room. He threw open his bedroom door to go looking for it.

"Well it's about time you came out of there."

Sitting in his usual chair was John Watson, peering over his newspaper at the detective. "You'd better hurry up or you might be late."

"I'm not going." Sherlock muttered as he raided through the living room. Where the hell was that blasted phone?

"I'm sorry, what was that?" John said, putting down his paper abruptly. His flatmate seemed to have not heard him as he carried on upturning cushions. "Right. Mrs Hudson!" the ex-army doctor called down stairs.

In a matter of seconds the charming landlady appeared in the door way. "Hello boys. Oh Sherlock, don't you look handsome!"

The detective gave her a withering look and scoffed.

"Oh. What's the matter with him?" she asked John.

"Say's he's not going on his date with Molly."

"What! Why not?!"

"Because I can't!" Sherlock interrupted their conversation heatedly. He picked up his phone, which had been hidden under a stack of papers. He turned it over in his hand thoughtfully. His posture wasn't that of the proud detective that he was. Rather it was slumped and dejected and his eyes reflected a sadness that the two had never seen before. "Why should she go out with a freak?" he muttered.

Mrs Hudson gasped, her hand covering her mouth. A flash of white hot anger shot through John as his fists clenched. He made a mental note to punch Anderson the next time he saw that slime-ball. How fucking dare that rat say that to his best friend. How fucking dare he.

The detective fiddled with his phone, oblivious to the reactions of the two. "She deserves better than me." he murmured in utter anguish.

John scowled. No. No. FUCK no. John didn't know everything about his best friends past, but he realised that some fuckwit or a bunch of fuckwits had been telling him that he was a freak and that he was pathetic for a very long time. Sherlock must have heard it over and over again to have it so engraved into his mind and John didn't think he had ever been so angry before.

"Right, you listen here, you bloody git. You are NOT a freak." Sherlock's eyes widened at John's sudden change of tone. Good, the bastard better listen up. "You are the best man I have ever known, and no one will ever convince me otherwise. So you need to stop this all this fucking nonsense. I don't know which dickhead managed to convince you, but he was fucking wrong! You are a brilliant, brilliant man. I don't know how many times I have to tell you that."

"John's right, dear." Mrs Hudson piped in, ignoring the harsh language "You are a wonderful man, and Molly absolutely adores you. We all love you silly, beautiful boy. And I don't want you to ever doubt that again."

Sherlock stared at the pair in complete astonishment.

"Look, I'm not saying you're faultless," John continued, "You've got you're flaws, but so does everyone else. And that's the brilliant thing about Molly Hooper. She doesn't love you despite your flaws. She loves you because of them. So enough of this 'sentiment is weakness' crap, Molly deserves to be happy. And so do you. So just give yourself a chance, alright? Stop selling yourself short."

The three occupants in the room stood in silence for a few moments, but they all noticed the tiny quirk of the corner of Sherlock's lips and the glow that seemed to return to his eyes.

John cleared his throat, "So, are you going on your date or not."

Sherlock slipped his phone into his pocket, a small smile now evident on his face "Yes. Yes I suppose I am." Now there was the Sherlock they knew and love.

"Good. That's good." the shorter man nodded, now also smiling, "Get her some flowers before you pick her up, roses perhaps."

"Don't be ridiculous John. Molly hates roses, she thinks they're too cliché. Her favourite flower is purple cosmos. She says that they symbolise peacefulness, love and…" Sherlock trailed off when he noticed the growing grin on John's face. "What?"

The ex-army doctor shook his head and chuckled, "I don't know what you were worried about Sherlock. You're going to do great."

Sherlock stared at his friend for a few seconds longer before he nodded his head rather sheepishly, "Right. Yes. Thanks." And with that, Sherlock Holmes bounded down the stairs and disappeared out the front door of 221B.

"Oh, Mrs Hudson," John said, wrapping his arm around the old lady's shoulder as they watched form the window as their friend hailed a cab, "it looks like our little Sherlock's growing up."

Mrs Hudson laughed fondly and squeezed John around the waist.

When Molly Hooper answered her door at exactly seven o'clock, her excitement had overtaken her nervousness.

Standing in her doorway, with a bouquet of purple cosmos in hand was a tall, lean man wearing the most scrumptious deep violet dress shirt, which accentuated his broad shoulders wonderfully, and perfectly fitted black slacks. His exquisite ebony curls were effortlessly swept across his forehead and emphasised his striking cheekbones and strong jawline. He beamed at her with his stunning galaxy eyes and his impeccable cupid's bow lips.

Molly's heart skipped a beat.

Sherlock Holmes.

God, he was perfect.