And a Crappy New Year!

Molly was feeling rubbish. She wasn't scheduled to work on New Year's Eve and, frankly, it was just as well, because a bad cold would have meant calling in sick. It was one of those times that living alone, and having no close family in London, sucked. She struggled to get herself dressed and out to Boots. Lemsip, more tissues and a new hot water bottle acquired, Molly came home to find that Toby had pulled over the Christmas tree. Again. Worst of all, it meant skipping the one party she had been invited to this season. John had miraculously talked Sherlock into having another party. Molly had been determined that it would not be the fiasco that last year's Christmas party had been. All the previous day, she'd said "no, it'll be fine, I'll be ok for tomorrow night" and after she'd come home early from work, and fallen asleep on the couch, she'd admitted defeat and texted John to say she wasn't well and wouldn't be at the party. John's reply was gratifyingly doctor-like. He recommended exactly what she had prescribed for herself and wished her an early happy new year.

She had been planning just how the party would go for weeks now. Her outfit was all arranged. Not the out and out sexiness of last year's dress, yet not her usual comfy work clothes. It was a cute v-neck jumper dress, to be worn with leggings and nice knee high winter boots. There would be no presents this year for the gang. She would be smooth, cool, sparkly, entertaining and Sherlock would finally notice her for the woman she was and not just a competent pathologist. And when midnight finally arrived, he would put down that stupid violin, pick her up and kiss her.

Yeah. It was a lovely dream.

Molly dragged her duvet out to the couch before she remembered that her tv was on wheels and could be in her bedroom. Well, she was here now. Episodes of the West Wing would sustain her until it was time for Jules Holland's annual Hootenanny. Not that she'd be singing along this year: Molly could barely speak with her sore throat. Toby leaped up and tried to snuggle in.

"Get off, you're in my bad books. I don't even have the energy to re-erect the tree."

He meowed in response and head-butted the remote control.

When Molly awoke a couple of hours later, the room was quiet. A dvd symbol bounced around the screen: it had obviously come to the end and gone into standby mode. The clock on the mantelpiece showed 00:21.

"Crappy New Year, Molly".

She was debating the merits of going into her bed vs not moving when there was a noise. Opening her eyes, because it somehow made it easier to hear, she decided it was her lock being picked.

Molly hopped up, and immediately sat back down again. Dizzy. Ah yes, the cold. There was always a few moments of forgetting the illness when you woke up.

The door opened quietly and closed again.

"Molly?" called out Sherlock.

She stood up again, slowly this time. He walked into the living room. His clever eyes took in the balled up tissues, the duvet, her sleep tossed hair and dressing gown that obviously was never meant to be seen by humans.

"There you are."

Molly's voice, croaky from disuse and the cold, cracked as she spoke.

"Sh-Sherlock, what are you doing here?"

"You didn't come to the party."

"Yes, I'm sick. I texted John. Didn't he tell you?"

She sat back down and blew her nose vigorously.

"He did. I thought it might have been a ruse."

"A ruse? Why?"

"After our last attempt at a party, you might have thought better of another."

Despite her pounding head, Molly smiled. It almost sounded like an admission of continued guilt.

"I really am sick," was what Molly said but it came out like "I realdy dam thick".

Sherlock smiled at her. "Yes, I can see and hear that."

"Sherlock, I'd been looking forward to the party for weeks. I had my outfit all planned. I don't want to be here, dosed up on lemsip and keeping Kleenex in business, asleep on my own as my friends ring in the new year. Now what are you doing here?"

Sherlock actually looked surprised at her outburst, pathetic as it was.

"You weren't there."

"What?"

"You weren't at the party. At midnight, people were kissing and hugging. I had no one."

"What?"

"Honestly, Molly, this cold has made you remarkably stupid!"

"Well, I'm sorry if you think so but consider all my prior knowledge of you, review your statement, and then consider my confusion, because I think you just said you wanted to kiss me at midnight, but as previously stated, I have had a lot of lemsip."

Molly leaned her head back against the couch, closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. The couch dipped as Sherlock sat down beside her.

"That would be a correct assumption," he replied in a low voice.

"Why?" she opened her eyes and faced him.

"Well, last year I kissed you on the cheek. After careful consideration, I felt I required more data."

"So do you want to experiment on me or on social conventions?" Molly shook her head.

"Somewhat, but mostly I just wanted to kiss you."

"Oh."

"Shame about my cold then."

"Why?"

"Well, I've been waiting years for you to notice me, you finally do, and I'm an infectious snot factory!"

"I'll risk it."

"Really?"

Sherlock inclined his head towards her. Molly took a deep breath. And sneezed.

"Oh sorry, just gimme a minute." She blew her nose again and cleared her throat.

"Ok."

She stared into Sherlock's eyes and he scrutinised her in return. Molly's lips were chapped and covered in Vaseline. Her nose was an unattractive shade of red and her eyes were streaming. She looked lovely. After what seemed like an age, he kissed her. It was almost a question mark of a kiss: light and inquiring and just a tiny bit uncertain. Molly's eyes drifted closed for a second and she sighed contentedly against his lips. The sigh turned into a cough and she reluctantly pulled away.

"Happy New Year, Molly."

Molly smiled weakly.

"Can we try that kiss again in 36 hours?"

"I don't think so. I only kiss people once a year, unless there is extreme peril."

"I might die from this cold….does that count as "extreme peril"?"

"I'll think about it…" Sherlock threw his trademark grin at her.

And 36 hours later, when Sherlock was in the throes of a serious, serious manflu, Molly was there to administer lemsip, tissues and another kiss….