A/N: I love the idea of 'shipping Sherlolly, but I wanted to keep everyone in character throughout. This twisted tale is what I came up with.

Chapter One: Surprises

"I am sorry. Forgive me. Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper."

Soon after Sherlock holed himself up in his room with another red-wrapped present, leaving hers unopened, Molly said her goodbyes and went outside to wait for a taxi.

"I hate to say he can't help it-" said John, who had followed her out.

"But he sort of can't," she replied sadly. "My life would be so much easier if I could just hate him."

John put a brotherly arm around her shoulder and grinned. "But you can't."

Tears welled in her eyes, but she covered it with a rueful smile. "I suppose that makes me the biggest moron on the planet."

John shook his head. "Ah, no, that would be me—I live with the insufferable prick by choice, don't I? If it means anything, that's the first time I've ever heard him spontaneously apologize to anyone—a Christmas miracle if there ever was one."

Molly laughed and hugged him. "Happy Christmas, John."

John kissed her on the cheek—the other cheek—before he helped her into the taxi. "Happy Christmas Molly, and don't mind what he says, you look gorgeous tonight."

Molly nodded and looked away as John closed the taxi door. She wished more than anything to not mind what Sherlock Holmes said, but his words were like knives being twisted deep into her heart. One time she had a nightmare in which Sherlock reached inside her and pulled her heart right out of her chest. Laughing demonically he punted it like a football across the pathology lab—Bent it like Beckham, he did, before telling her to clean up the mess on his way out.

And that was one of the more romantic dreams she had had about him.

Molly knew that an apology and a kiss on the cheek was very likely going to be the highlight of their relationship. Best to quit while you're ahead, she thought to herself.

"You're wrong, you know. You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you."

"What do you need?"

"You."

His words had made her shiver with excitement and fear. The great Sherlock Holmes was asking little Molly Hooper for help! She had put her career on the line for him when she helped him fake his death, but she would have gladly laid down her life for him if it had kept him safe.

That had been three months ago and she hadn't heard from Sherlock since—not that she had expected to. He said he trusted her and perhaps she did matter to him in some small way, but the cold reality was that he had been in deep trouble and needed her unique position to help him get out of it.

Why had she fallen in love with him of all people? Her feelings for him refused to abate. She feared it was hopeless—not the possibility of a relationship with Sherlock, she had known that idea was doomed from the start. Her falling out of love with him was hopeless; she feared she would carry this dull ache of unrequited love to her grave.

"What a colossal prat you are, Molly Hooper," she said aloud as she entered her kitchen.

"What have you done this time?"

Molly screamed and jumped half a meter off the floor at the sight of Sherlock putting the kettle on to boil. She put her hands over her rapidly beating heart. "I—what…?" She sighed with exasperation, but it was useless to resist. "What do you need?"

"A sofa to sleep on. Yours is surprisingly comfortable." He smiled as he grabbed the tea tin out of the cupboard. "You don't mind if I stay a while, do you?"

"Uh, no, of course not."

That Sherlock Holmes was the world's worst houseguest was hardly a shock, but after a week even the ever-patient pathologist had had enough. Her normally tidy flat was a mess of books, newspapers, lab equipment, and body parts he had manipulated her into 'borrowing' from St. Bart's. When he wasn't conducting gruesome experiments, Sherlock was terrorizing her poor cat Toby with the Nerf dart gun she had bought him (Molly had confiscated the real gun he'd brought with him and fit with a silencer so he wouldn't bother the neighbors when he shot holes in her walls). Worst of all were his constant complaints of boredom.

"I think my head is about to implode I'm so bored," he whined as she made him tea one morning.

"You could clean the flat while I'm at work," Molly suggested.

"Booooring!" he replied as he shot a Nerf dart in her general direction. Molly had to restrain herself from dumping the mug of hot tea in his lap. It was like babysitting a three-year old! Too bad she couldn't buy him a Cornetto and a coloring book to keep him occupied.

"Well, I'm off," Molly announced.

Silence.

"Okay. Try not to kill my cat."

Sherlock grunted noncommittally.

Molly sighed as she opened door and walked down the stairs. Waiting outside for her was her old, supposedly dead 'boyfriend' Jim Moriarty, leaning against an old black Bentley. "H-hey, Jim. W-what are you doing here?" she said, trying to sound casual. "Still gay, are you?"

"Good Golly, Miss Molly! Long time no see," he replied, grinning widely. Then his smile slowly faded. "Call for him and tell him to come outside."

She shrugged nervously. "C-call who?"

Moriarty rolled his eyes. "Don't play dumb, Moll, it's redundant. Call him or the sniper perched across the street will shoot Sherlock in the head for realsies."

"Sherlock, come quickly! Help me, please!" Molly screamed as tears began to trickle down her cheeks.

To be continued…