A/N: I am back! Sorry I did not PM back / review… in August, but having a job where I have to be available 24/7 makes me a bit of a recluse in terms of social media when on vacation.

This is a short, fluffy cliché of a fic. I just needed a little break from the angsty crime story I'm currently working on. Enjoy! Hopefully...

Thank you to Pipsis for being brilliant and beta-ing this in record time!

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or the two lines I borrowed from The Hound of the Baskervilles with Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce.

"Don't worry, Molly, I won't make you late for your school reunion."
Molly stopped pretending to do some paperwork and looked into the direction where the world's only consulting detective sat at his favourite microscope, conducting an experiment about God knew what. Likely something equally "essential" as his study on tobacco ash.

The pathologist stared at him, a bit surprised at his ability to read her mind, but he kept looking into the microscope, ignoring her.

Molly had just been about to retrieve her bag from her office, when Sherlock Holmes had strode in and ruined her plans of leaving on time. She had changed back from her coat into her lab coat (buttoning it, because she did not want him so see what she was wearing underneath) and had sat down with a deep sigh and had started to do some paperwork. Well, she had not really concentrated on it, but had been annoyed at Sherlock's behaviour. She had feared she would be stuck here for quite some time. And then he had spoken for the first time since he had entered the lab.

Molly tried to get rid of the irritation by shaking her head.
"How do you know about my class reunion, Sherlock?"

He did not bother to look up, but only waved a dismissive hand in her direction when he answered, "You are wearing make-up and have done your hair. I can see the black dress poking out under you lab coat – which you have buttoned up, you never button it up. Additionally you are wearing heels. And since you know that neither the corpses nor I care what you look like, you obviously dressed up for a special occasion. Furthermore your yearbook lies over there between some medical reports. Conclusively tonight's your class reunion."

Only now did Sherlock look up from his task at hand and graced her with a forced smile, as if waiting for some applause for his deduction.

It took Molly a moment to take in his words – which had left his mouth in almost supernatural speed.
He was right, of course. Tonight was her school reunion. And she had mixed feelings about this event.

The pathologist cleared her throat, "Yes, you're right. And that's why... I would appreciate it if you'd continue your experiment tomorrow, for I don't want to be late."
Molly did not realize it, but she held her breath.

The consulting detective turned in his chair, so that he was facing her and looked closely at her. He squinted while taking in her posture and then stated, "You don't really want to go."

Molly released the breath she had been holding and retorted a tad too quick, "If course I want to go! I'm looking forward to it!"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows as if asking, "Are you kidding me?"
Molly shrugged her shoulders. "I do want to go. That's my chance to prove them wrong, to show them that I have achieved something." She tried to sound convinced, but even to her own ears she sounded stubborn, bordering on desperate.

Sherlock regarded her for a moment, got up and made a few steps towards her. Then he stopped and looked at her again, as if trying to make sense of something.
"Why?" he asked.
The concept of caring about people's opinion was new to him. But obviously it was relevant to Molly.

The petite woman shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other – the heels made it look even more awkward. Finally she confessed while staring at those shoes, "I was not very popular at school. They would tease me on a regular basis and call me mousy-Molly."

Sherlock scoffed, "That's stupid!"

His reaction irritated her, and she looked him fiercely in the eye, "I'm pretty sure you wouldn't have been nice to me either. You're not even nice nowadays."

If he was affected by her outburst, he did not show it.
"That's something entirely different. Additionally I wouldn't have given you a stupid nickname."

Molly, not knowing what to reply, shook her head in frustration.
"It's getting late, "she said as a way of telling him to let her be.

Sherlock watched her enter her office, only to exit again after a few moments, with her bag in hand and with her coat on again. He had not moved from where she had left him.

Molly was just about to gather up the courage to tell him to leave, when he stated, "You shouldn't go. It will only end in tears."

Molly crossed her arms in front of her chest, getting angrier. Maybe because part of her feared that he was right. Of course, she refused to let him see that.
Hence she snapped, "Even you can't know that. You're not a fortune-teller."
He loftily informed her, "Fortune-telling is not a science as opposed to deduction."
"A science invented by you," Molly snorted and sidestepped him. If he would not leave, fine. She would anyway and tell security to show him out.

"They won't be impressed."
In spite of herself, Molly stopped just before she reached the door. The way he had said it had been... if it had not been Sherlock Holmes, she would have said his words had held a trace of empathy and concern.

She stood there, her back towards him. And although she did not say anything, he took it as a silent permission to go on, "They won't acknowledge what you've achieved. Most people think the field of pathology is creepy and weird – especially for a woman. They are too dull and ignorant of its worth. Your private life will seem even more uninteresting for them: no husband, no kids, no boyfriend, just a tomcat – the epitome of a single woman in her mid-thirties. The only thing they might find interesting about you might be your acquaintance with me. Not because of you, of course, but because I'm kind of a celebrity. But then again, they probably won't believe you when you tell them you work with me, and you can't tell them how you've helped to fake my death, so..."

Molly stood frozen. For a moment she squeezed her eyes shut and willed herself not to cry. Her mascara was not waterproof. She would not let Sherlock Holmes ruin her make-up with his spiteful words. She took a deep breath and was careful to let her voice sound calm, "That was not nice, Sherlock!"

Sherlock expected her to turn around and look at him with glassy eyes. He knew she was having a hard time holding back the tears. But she did not turn around. She just stood there, his back towards him and he did not dare to admit it, but that was worse than looking at her sad face. Molly Hooper was not supposed to turn her back on him. And suddenly he felt like an arse. His stomach tied into knots. Was that guilt?

Fortunately his voice sounded as unaffected as ever, "What's not nice about telling the truth in order to keep you from getting hurt?"

"Because sometimes the truth hurts more than anything else."
With that Molly Hooper left the lab with her head bowed, and Sherlock Holmes felt... something.