In that moment, that quiet moment before Sherlock's lips touched her cheek, he felt it. Her eyes were drowning in sorrow, just knowing that he was playing her again; those lips downward turned in the perpetual state of being let down by the man that she held up. He found himself smiling before leaning in to kiss her cheek and recognized that her eyelids had closed and she forgave him with the sigh on his cheek.

He wanted her to know. He had to let her know how he felt. He was consumed with gratefulness that only Molly Hooper could deduce. The esteem he now held for her was second only to John and he needed to convey that to her. No quips, no taunting, just a genuine sign from her detective. She had earned her place in his life and he owed his life to that mousy brown haired, ridiculous jumper wearing, newly engaged woman that counted even when she did not believe in herself.

And he would save her quiet response in the hidden room of his mind palace. "Maybe it's just my type."