Hello one and all. Also Happy New Year. And sorry. I haven't updated this in I don't know how long, and while there was not much I could do about that with all my other writing and general commitments I still feel bad. So here is a new chapter, only a few months too late. I've dug out the old notebook with the plans in and bought them to life (hopefully) for you to read and maybe enjoy.

This is written for my good friend WhoNeedsTheLimelight because she is a bit Mollycentric at the moment and I thought I might just aid the obsession that I unintentionally started. Good, so now that we got that out of the way, on with the show.

Disclaimer: I do not own any aspect of Sherlock, including characters, scenes and possible plot lines. I only own my imagination and the plot lines that have derived from it.

Molly Hooper awoke a month later to the smell of roses. The distinctive if not pungent scent of her mother's perfume would have made the young woman sneeze under normal circumstances but seeing as there appeared to be tubes inserted into her nostrils therefore making sneezing impossible, Molly coughed lightly instead.

For a good few minutes Molly concentrated on breathing while waiting for the rushing sound to clear from her ears. This took considerably longer than expected, which gave the pathologist time to think. And thinking meant remembering. Molly groaned.

She could hear her mother fussing around her, and combined the agitated noises and the jingling of bangles; Molly was tempted to keep her eyes closed and pretend to be asleep. Unfortunately, her sweet temperament forbade this, and so tired eyes were blinked open and then blinked rapidly again against the bright sterile light of the hospital room.

In an instant her mother was all over her, showering her in hugs and kisses while crying and laughing and thanking everything and anything. Molly waited for the torrents of emotion to pause momentarily before speaking up with a rusting voice.

"Mum, what's the date?"

Instead of an answer, Molly's somewhat pathetic question was met by yet more tears and a thorough smothering in her mother's perfume accompanied by an unbelievably itchy jumper. In an astonishing epiphany, Miss Molly Hooper suddenly realised where Sherlock was coming from in terms of emotions.

Molly's recovery was slow and in Molly's eyes, tedious. For the first week after she woke up she was confined to her bed while numerous tests and procedures were carried out; the next week was spent pacing, or rather shuffling with the aid of the IV frame. The week after that was much the same, although occasionally her day would be broken up with consolations with physiotherapists, psychiatrists , radiologists and her private doctor, Paul; as well as long and varied chats with Julie- the sprightly young nurse assigned to care for her after the grumpy, pompous triage before her left suddenly. Molly had hated her anyway, as it was all too easy to bare grudges to snappy nurses who treated you like a child and infrequently apologised for using you like a pincushions for the numerous needles needed for medication and blood and goodness knows what else. No, Molly much preferred Julie.

Together, in between the numerous sessions with the hospital's medical specialists, Molly and Julie had been trawling through the 'sympathy mail' as the nurse had nicknamed it. Most of it went straight over Molly's head, and not just because of her medication. The pathologist was receiving letters from people she had never met, or at least didn't know enough to warrant sending a rabbit plush with a flower stating 'I hop you get better soon'. Most of the soft toys, as well as the numerous balloons went directly to the children's wards; while the flower bouquets made their way to all the staff rooms in the building, courtesy of Julie and her army of young doctors with dragging lunch breaks.

Most of the gaudy, well-wishing cards were not of any interest to the two woman production line extracting them from their envelopes, filing the return addresses and then laughing at the stereotypical messages. The heaps of folded cardboard with tacky images and poems emblazoned on them were left in boxes while generic letters of thanks back were created with the use of the hospital reprographics room- something that molly herself didn't agree with but had no choice in the matter anyway. Julie was nothing if not persistent, which left Molly with limited mobility and four boxes of carnations to suffer the scent of.

It was on one of these mind numbingly dull afternoons following a morning of scans that molly found the scarf underneath a rather squashed box of chocolates.

The 'Deluxe Cocoa Edition' was quickly pushed aside as nimble fingers met with soft fabric. Molly hasped unintentionally as memories flooded back to her. Bleak winter mornings in cold morgue lighting with a spectre sitting at her desk prodding something vigorously. Meeting him for the first time with a mug full of tea that then ended up on his shoes. His smile when he wanted something to dissect or experiment with. The dreaded Christmas party. The apology. The revelation that someone in the world still needed her. The disaster of as flatmate.

"Molly?" A voice interrupted the thoughts of falling rushing through the pathologists' head. Julie.

"Sorry," Molly looked round meekly, still fondling the fabric between her fingers.

"It's OK," Julie smiled as she dumped a pile of papers on the bedside table. "What's that?"

She gestured to the scarf. Molly looked down unnecessarily and tried to formulate a reply.

"It's a scarf."

"Yes," Julie sat down besides Molly with a grin, "I'd sort of got that. Who's it from."

The pathologist tried to think of a simple way to describe the marvellous man that is Sherlock Holmes, and failed.

"Is it a guy?" Julie pressed. Molly nodded.

"So Molly Hooper has a secret admirer."

"Something like that," Molly looked at her knees. "He left."

Julie put an arm around the young woman comfortingly. "Well then he must be a jerk. Leaving you, he must have a heart of stone."

Molly smiled. Maybe not stone, but definitely ice. She was certain of that, because for a few short weeks, she'd watch it begin to melt and soften. Sherlock Holmes, man of ice. That seemed about right.

So there it is. I hope it lived up to expectations, or if you have just joined this rollercoaster of nothing much in particular then I hope so far you are happy. I can't promise anything on posting, and I didn't really like the ending of this chapter, but at least it's out there now. Finally.

Reviews are welcome as always, as are PMs, twitter thingummies ( GracieinanNovel) or semaphore messages.