A/N: Long time, no see. Please don't shoot me. I had lost my muse for a little while, but I hope to get back in the game and finish this one very soon. Yes, this is the shortest chapter yet, but it was a good stopping place before John comes back. I must say, writing a romantic Sherlock is super difficult - maybe because it's not very likely to happen. But hey, that's what fanfiction is for! Enjoy and much love!

Disclaimer: I do not own BBC's Sherlock or ABC's Castle.

Just One Wrong Step

Chapter 7

"I admit that I have taken advantage of you, and you do not deserve that… your earlier question? About what you do deserve? You deserve the world. You deserve someone who always notices the way your eyes forever smile even if your lips don't. Someone who wishes the first thing they noticed when they wake up in the morning and the last thing they notice when they go to sleep at night is the sugary and satisfying scent of your hair – even if it is only your strawberry shampoo. You deserve to be told that your awkward attempts at conversation are endearing. You deserve affection, appreciation, and encouragement. You deserve normal." Sherlock's soliloquy paralyzed Molly into a state somewhere between a heart attack, a sob session, and a sudden desperate need to smell her hair and figure out what Sherlock was talking about. She could have used a violent pinch in there, too to make sure that this really was happening and she wouldn't suddenly roll over with her slobbery night guard dangling from her lips.

Sherlock continued to stare at her while she stared back, her mind drawing a blank. After a few deep breaths and the inability to translate anything floating through her gray cells into the human language, she began to pace. Sherlock watched on, a curious puppy waiting to see if his owner was going to feed him or lock him in his kennel. He wasn't sure which response he preferred. All he was really aware of was that he was utterly spent. He could not longer feel his legs – couldn't for awhile now – and now his mind ached. Or was that his heart? Ah, who the hell knows? Instead of trying to place the origin of this peculiar sensation, he watched Molly pace and vicariously paced through her.

When Molly reached one end of the sitting room, she caught a glimpse of a roll of tape, giving her an idea. She grabbed the tape, went to the countertop to retrieve the pack of nicotine patches she had been sent to fetch earlier that evening, and went to the kitchen with them while careful to avoid the yellow circle marked on the floor surrounding Sherlock.

From his angle, Sherlock couldn't see what Molly was doing in the kitchen, but he heard some rummaging around just before she emerged with a broomstick. She had taped a nicotine patch to the end of it.

"Here," she said, reaching the broomstick toward Sherlock. He stared at the patch for a moment, then attempted to give Molly a smile, but she wasn't looking at him. She had averted her gaze and completed operation nicotine patch using her peripheral vision. This was one thing Sherlock hated about emotion – the change, the confusion, and the unpredictability. Sherlock carefully plucked the patch from the end of the broomstick and cautiously removed the wrapper. He placed the new patch on his forearm and released a sigh of relief.

"Thank you, Molly."

"Sherlock?" Molly inquired as she tossed the broomstick toward the loveseat, far enough away from Sherlock's radius so as not to disturb the bomb.

"Yes?" he responded, searching for her eyes. He was desperate to find them again.

"What if I don't want… normal?" she asked, granting him his wish and landing her gaze upon his. Between the new nicotine and Molly's magnetism, Sherlock felt as though his insides had ignited. He glimpsed downward just to make sure fire had not just engulfed him. Realizing he was still alive and well, he tried to find a reply.

"Molly," he tried, shaking his head sluggishly. Sentences wouldn't form. If he was being honest with himself, he loved her, too. But not in the way that she wanted… "You're right," he finally decided.

"I… what?"

"You're right," he repeated. "I'm too in love with my illness to love anyone or anything else." A couple different emotions crossed Molly's face at that moment: satisfaction from being right, gratitude for his honesty, and distress from the semblant rejection.

Molly gave a single nod, unable to give anything else at that moment.

"But Molly," Sherlock began again, interrupting the chaos escalating inside her. "You need to know that there is absolutely nothing in this world that I wouldn't do for you… should you need me – ever – know that I'll be there."

That was all she needed to hear. To her, that was his way of saying 'if I ever change my mind about love, relationships, and human nature, you're the first – and with any luck, only – person I would ever consider.' Little did she know that that was exactly what he had meant.