A/N: I'm currently overseas (again) and have not had any time to write. But I chanced upon the song 'The Good Kind' by The Wreckers while my iTunes was on shuffle the other day and I was just overwhelmed with sad, Sherlolly feels. Hence..

Knowledge

Molly had always been told she was a smart girl. Topping her classes with ease, winning scholarships to pursue what was clearly aptitude and excellence in medicine, Molly was where she was at Bart's because of her brilliant mind. So it was no question that the brilliance of Sherlock Holmes would find a natural kindred in her intellect. The tricky thing was that although her mind was what drew Sherlock to work with her constantly, badgering her incessantly at the morgue, her desire to be beside him was certainly not just that of mutual, intellectual admiration.

This was why, in front of the one man who truly respected her prowess, Molly felt like a right fool.

Constantly.

Daily.

For months.

Even years.

One evening, Molly had been nursing a bit of a headache and had decided to head home a little earlier. Normally, she stayed past her usual working hours, either in the cafeteria or in the lab, to work on her own private research. Medicine genuinely consumed her and she happily allowed it to. But this evening, it was medicine that she needed and possibly a good night's sleep.

Before she could flick the lights off, the familiar tall shadow of her favourite detective emerged at her door, pushing it open, just short of pushing her along with it.

"Oh, hello, I was just leaving…" she said, nervously adjusting her bag strap.
"No, you're looking at these reports with me," said Sherlock, waving a stack of blood work analyses that he had just completed.
"Well, you're on your own there…" she said with an awkward laugh, "I need to go home."
"Why?" he asked sharply.
"I've got a headache, and I'd like some rest," Molly answered.
"Just have one of those teas you normally have and nap on the bench like you normally do. You should be fine after sleeping for approximately…"
"Sherlock," she interrupted, with a sort of resigned quietness, "I would like to go home. Look at the reports yourself."

Before she could so much as lift her foot to take a step, his gloved hand reached for her, holding her firmly back. Each of his gloved fingers sank into the thick wool of her striped cardigan.

"You never say no to me," Sherlock said, his voice seemed hard and yet, Molly detected a strain of confusion.
"Sure I have," she said, though realising he was probably right.
"No." he repeated. "Never."
"Then tonight, I will, Sherlock," she said, her hand reached for his own gloved one and gently removed his grip on her.

Molly was shocked when his gloved hand returned as swiftly as she had removed it. This time, he reached for her and turned her to face him. Holding her firmly by the shoulders, he peered deep into Molly's tired, strained eyes.

"I can see that your eyes are strained, bloodshot. Some eyedrops would help. This is a hospital, I'm sure we can find some. The engorged veins in your left temple are clearly visible just beneath the wisps of your hair and are clear indicators of your pounding migraine. I do suggest loosening that tight braid at the back to assist with better blood flow to your head, reducing the headache. Perhaps your favourite herbal remedies that you take so often, those calming teas might…"

"Sherlock…enough." Molly whispered fiercely.
"I'm just solving a problem. And I know perfectly how…."
"Sherlock…" Molly interrupted.
"What?"
"I…don't care if you know…" she said, softly, "I just…want to know…if you care."

His hands slipped from his hold on her as he stepped back, remaining silent.

"And well," Molly continued, her voice barely a whisper, "I know you don't."

When she finally turned on her heels to leave, Sherlock let her.

As Molly headed home to nurse her headache, Sherlock was introduced, for the first time in a very long time, that it was also possible for the heart to ache.

End