Author's Note: For the Sherlolly Valentine's Fic-a-Thon, and my secret Valentine HeavenlyTook who requested fluff. I hope you enjoy it and that this satisfies the request!

The last time John had encountered Sherlock this stressed and this volatile, Moriarty had returned from the dead. Six months had passed since that time, Moriarty was well and truly dead—no-one, however clever they were, could fake their death twice—and now the three of them were truly able to settle into their new situations. That was why it was somewhat of a surprise to John Watson to receive a call from Mrs Hudson, who (with her words peppered by the sounds of distant gunshots) claimed that he was "doing it again".

John hadn't wasted time. Saying goodbye to Mary and his daughter, he rushed over to Baker Street to be met by Mrs Hudson, who gestured upstairs. Another distant gunshot echoed, making her flinch.

"Upstairs," she said with an irritated sigh before she disappeared back into her flat. John jogged up the stairs and opened the door, only to be greeted by the ear-splitting sound of another gunshot.

"Sherlock!" he admonished. Much to his surprise, Sherlock did not continue to merrily shoot at the wall but instead gave a heavy sigh, threw the gun onto the sofa and curled up on his chair, hugging his knees to his chest.

John sighed. "Something wrong?"

Sherlock gave a shrug. "Bored."

"Yeah, okay. Sure. Last time you shot the wall, Moriarty was alive."

"And now he's dead. Is there a point to all this?"

John shrugged. "I don't know." He settled into his old armchair to look straight at his friend. "I guess it depends if you want to tell me what's wrong or not."

Sherlock scoffed derisively. "There's nothing wrong with me."

"So you were shooting the wall for fun then?"

"Nothing else to do around here," Sherlock muttered, springing out of his chair and moving towards the wall he had abused with bullets just moments earlier. John turned his head to look at him.

"Maybe you should talk to her."

Sherlock scoffed again and moved into the kitchen to settle down in front of his microscope, even though his mind was clearly on something else that was nothing to do with chemical samples. John narrowed his eyes. He had never seen Sherlock this jumpy and twitchy, not even when Moriarty had been alive.

"It's okay to tell her your feelings you know," he said eventually. Sherlock grunted and continued in his petulant sulking as he wandered back into the living room and sat at the table, opening up his laptop.

"Don't be stupid John."

John let out a heavy sigh and leaned forward. He had seen Sherlock Holmes bring down killers, psychopaths and blackmailers with the potential to bring down governments yet it was one petite, cheerful pathologist who made him truly scared.

"You know you're an idiot."

Sherlock smiled falsely. "Of course."

With that, John departed from Baker Street, taking his phone from his pocket.

"Mary," he said when she answered. "He's shooting the wall."

"Wow. That bad? Alright, I'll talk to Molly."

With a petulant scowl locked onto her features, Molly ascended the steps to 221b. She'd have liked to say she didn't quite know why she was doing this, but the problem was that she knew exactly why she was doing what she was doing. It was partly to appease Mary (who could be irritatingly persuasive when she wished to be) and it was partly because she actually kind of wanted to. Although she didn't really believe Mary's insistence of Sherlock's apparent feelings for her, she wasn't just going to sit back and let Sherlock abuse both the wall and Mrs Hudson's hearing.

Sighing, she rapped on the door. When a grunt came in reply, she stepped through to find that Sherlock was in the living room, as ever sat at his desk and scrolling quickly through his laptop.

"Nice shot," she said, nodding towards the damaged wall but she was only treated with a reply of another heavy grunt.

"I hope you've apologised to Mrs Hudson about the wall."

"Of course not. Why should I?"

"Because she's your landlady, and a lovely woman too."

"She was an exotic dancer and used to run a drug cartel."

Molly smiled, but gave a shrug. "Everyone makes mistakes."

Sherlock continued to stare at his laptop screen, but the hidden smile at the corner of his lips was unmistakeable. For a good few minutes, neither of them said a word. It was him who broke the silence.

"Why are you here? Mary put you up to this, didn't she?"

"She's harboring the opinion that you..." She swallowed a little. "That you have feelings for me?"

His head snapped up. His eyes were crystal blue in their intensity. What he said next almost knocked her for six.

"She's right."

"Wait, sorry? Y-you have..."

"For quite a while now. Is there a problem with that?"

"No! No," Molly said with a slight laugh. "I guess I just... didn't expect you to be so upfront about it."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Ordinary people waste far too much time tiptoeing around one another in regards to feelings."

"And you're not ordinary."

"Well, neither are you."

Molly smiled and finally made to step towards him. He got to his feet, but Molly didn't allow him a chance to speak. She had waited far too long for this moment to do so. She grabbed onto his shoulders and drew herself onto her tiptoes. A smile crept onto her lips and she kissed him teasingly on the cheek, tracing her lips against his jawline. Sherlock however, was a little more impatient than herself and he cupped her face, pulling her close for a passionate, tender embrace. She sighed into his mouth and pressed herself closer to him, locking her arms around his neck. Sherlock responded by wrapping his arms around her waist, lifting her swiftly off the ground. Molly laughed softly.

They should've done this ages ago.

The next day, Molly awoke in the bedroom of London's only consulting detective to the sight of watery winter sunshine peeking through the closed curtains and the happy, blue-eyed gaze of Sherlock Holmes focused on her. With one of his hands at her waist, his other gently trailed against her shoulders and down her spine. She gave out a shiver of pleasure.

"That was nice," she murmured and she snuggled closer to him, her hair fanning gently over his bare chest. Sherlock chuckled.

"Overdue too."

Molly lifted her head to grin at him. He was right of course-just as he was right about everything. That was of course, partly why she had fallen in love with him all those years ago; that searing intelligence he wielded so effectively. Of course, that wasn't the only reason she had fallen so deeply for the man. Even when he was at his coldest and his sharpest, she always had the sense that there was a flicker of humanity within him. It was the little glances that told her; those moments he hid from others but she somehow always managed to catch.

Yet she had been wrong too. It wasn't a flicker of humanity that Sherlock Holmes possessed. It was a whole fire, always threatening to bubble over and put not just him in danger, but others too. John, Mycroft, Lestrade, Mary... her.

"Why now?" she found herself asking. "Why tell me now?"

When he looked to her, his expression was as open and as genuine the time he had come to her that night in the lab. A smile twitched at his lips. "Because I'm not alone anymore."

The statement was quick, and to the point. Much like Sherlock himself. She didn't mind that however, because she knew he meant it. It was true; he wasn't alone anymore. She reached up and traced at his jawline with her fingertip. She smiled.

"I love you."

He said nothing to this, but with his eyes still fixed on her, he reached up, took a hold of her hand and kissed tenderly at her palm.

Molly's smile widened. Just that small action was enough to tell her everything she needed to know.

After all - actions always spoke louder than words.