A/N: This is my response to the following tumblr prompt:

Sherlolly Prompt: In which Molly realizes that she doesn't love Sherlock as much as she used to so Sherlock starts to "be no longer a machine" when he realizes he loves her. Maybe it IS just as a friend, but loves her nonetheless. (Maybe this would happen over that dinner after solving crimes.) Thanks!

I twisted the prompt a little bit because after two rather tragic stories ["The Speech" and "Autopsy"], I did not want Sherlock to be without Molly again. So this is my take on the prompt with a more preferable outcome. x

The Blue Moon

Her own words rang in her head.

Maybe it's just my type.

Was she seriously going to just let him walk away like that?

Clutching her bag tightly, Molly ran out to the street, her heart rate unconsciously elevated. She looked left. Then right. And there he was.

"Sherlock!" she called out, running after him.

He stopped in his tracks, turning to face her. A half smile crept on his face as she walked towards him, biting her lip and half smiling at him too.

"Are they any good?" she said.
"The best." Sherlock answered, offering her his arm. "Crispy on the outside, fluffy on the inside."
"So what did you do for him, really?" Molly asked as they strolled down the pavement, arms linked.
"I genuinely put up some shelves," he said, turning to grin at her.
"No."
"Yes."
"You jest."
"I do," he said, unable to resist a laugh, "His wife had been sleeping with the waiter, who, incidentally, had been stealing from the till. I just made both deductions in one fell swoop and earned myself a lifetime of chips."
"Only you, Sherlock Holmes." Molly exclaimed with a laugh.
"If only…" he said, glancing at her again quickly before keeping his eyes back on the road before them.

Molly had caught his furtive glance, but chose to forget it, as they continued their walk in silence. The ring on her finger felt ominously heavy. Yet, she could not unhook her arm from his. There was a kind of nostalgic magnetism that kept her close to him, aligning her steps with his. Only now did she begin to notice her elevated heartbeat.

"You all right?" he asked quietly.

He's probably noticed too, she thought to herself.

"Yes. Just hungry." she replied, forcing a smile.
"Hmm," he replied, "We're almost there."

At the fish and chip shop, Molly witnessed, to her amusement, Sherlock being hugged to death by the jovial and burly owner. When the ruddy face turned to hers, he gave her the hugest smile and patted Sherlock so hard on the back that the poor detective jerked forward, choking slightly.

"You okay?" she asked Sherlock, suppressing a chuckle as they got seated.
"Fine…" he croaked, turning to his side to cough a little more.

They were soon presented with, quite literally, a mountain of chips and two bottles of fizzy lemonade, all on the house, of course.

"Eat." Sherlock said. "You said you were hungry."
"Starving," Molly half-lied as she began picking at the chips.

They ate in silence as both contemplated this social first for them both. Molly could not remember a time she saw Sherlock eating. Sherlock knew for a fact that he rarely ate. Asking for a dining companion, therefore, made the blue moon seem like a rather possible phenomenon.

He knew why this had happened. Even though he regretted letting slip what he felt was a vulnerable request, he could not help but feel a subtle elation that she was here with him. When they were finished, they stood up in perfect synchrony. Both having noticed it, they exchanged quiet smiles before stepping out of the shop.

"So…" Sherlock said, pausing to clear his throat.
"Mmm?" she turned to him, one eyebrow raised.
"I…hope you enjoyed that."
"I wasn't supposed to," Molly confessed softly, "but I did."

Sensing the emotional uncertainty in Molly, Sherlock chose to just walk away, not saying a word. He sensed a limit approaching, one he could not push. Again, Molly was faced with another silent crossroad. There was the weight of the ring again, almost yanking at her joints. Then there were her memories, tugging at her heart in the direction of the man whose back was now turned to her.

You don't love him, you don't love him, you don't love him.

The edges of his perfectly sharp coat began to blur as their distance on the pavement increased.

After all, not all the men you fall for can turn out to be sociopaths.

His gait became less articulate. She could no longer see his shoulders move when he walked. It was like he was turning into a blur shadow.

No.

No.

You don't love him, Molly Hooper.

He wants you to be happy.

So don't love him, Molly.

Don't.

As Molly made her way home, her internal monologue played over and over again in her head. The image of Sherlock fading from her line of vision etched itself deeper and deeper into her memory. By the time she reached the tube station, she thought she was going mad. Molly could feel her mind tear itself apart as it convinced itself that it would not love Sherlock. Yet, the mind could not reconcile the pain it felt every time it replayed the sight of him walking away. If one did not love someone, why would it hurt if they walked away?

Don't love him, Molly.

He's already walked away.

Let him walk away.

"No…" Molly whispered to herself, "I can't."

—

Sherlock was surprised when Mrs Hudson came up to him, asking him if Molly could come in.

"She seemed a bit shy and wasn't sure if you wanted to see her…" said the landlady.
"Why wouldn't I want to see her?" Sherlock remarked, his eyes brightening. "Tell her to come up."

As he settled himself in his armchair, he heard the soft but quick footsteps of Molly as she came up to see him.

When she appeared at his doorway, she seemed flushed and a little out of breath. Sherlock studied her and could tell right away that she had quite literally run to Baker Street.

"Molly, are you all—"
"Tell me what you said…" she interrupted. Her breath was still rushed, as she stood, steadfast, by his doorway.

Sherlock was perplexed at her request and got up from his seat. He walked cautiously over to her, where they stood less than arms' length apart. Her gaze fixed itself firmly on his face, and he did not shy away from it.

"Tell me what you said just now…" she repeated.
"About?" interrupted Sherlock.
"About…" she could not look at him now, "About…sociopaths. Tell me what you said…"
"Molly?" he said her name slowly, a tinge of caution in his voice. Though her eyes now looked away from his face, he could sense a growing wildness in her.

"What I said at Shilcott's?" he asked quietly.
"Yes," her voice had dropped to a whisper now. "Tell. Me. What. You. Said."

In spite of himself, Sherlock could not help but reach gently for her wrist, wrapping his fingers around it. He ran his thumb over the inside of her wrist, grazing over the veins beneath her skin that betrayed her erratic pulse. Slowly, he lowered his fingers from her wrist to meet her cool fingers, intertwining his warm ones in hers.

"I said to you, Molly…" he began, locking her fingers firmly between his, "That after all, not all the men you fall for can turn out to be sociopaths."

When she heard him say it again, she let out a laugh. It was a laugh that revealed the sob that longed to escape from her. Molly then slowly lifted her head, her eyes, now glistening, meeting his soft and understanding ones. Nothing escaped him. Molly knew, without a doubt, that the reason she had come to him, was no exception.

"Maybe…" she said, as a tear slid past a tender smile on her face, "Maybe it's just my type."

At her words, she had properly undone every defence the detective had built against a moment like this. It was as though the mechanical cogs of his heart came to a standstill as flesh and blood slowly crept back, pumping, beating and coursing through him.

"You jest," he whispered, reaching to wipe the tears from her face.
"I do not." she answered, her smile now radiant.
"Yes," he teased, drawing her gently towards him, "You do."
"You told me once not to make jokes…" she said, her eyes sparkling at him.
"I did, didn't I?" he replied, smiling warmly at her.

That night, the pathologist and her sociopath kissed. Though the moon never turned blue, the sociopath loved, and was loved in return.

END