"Have you seen a woman, five feet three inches tall, long chestnut brown hair, wearing a ruby necklace and a crimson ball gown?"

The desk clerk craned her neck to see around Sherlock's broad shoulders. "Yes, she's right over … well, she was standing by that brown chair a bit ago."

Sherlock spun and took in the lobby. Two older wingback chairs faced a brick fireplace. Molly was nowhere to be seen.

"Was she alone?" he demanded.

The clerk thought for a moment. "She inquired after one of our guests. Then she spoke to a man who was on his way out. He left, but I didn't see her go with him."

"Thank you."

Sherlock strode over to the brown chair and observed a damp patch on the carpet where Molly recently had stood for several minutes. Seeing something pink on the floor, he crouched down and picked up the rose she had dropped. He quickly scrolled through his contacts and texted John.

Not at hotel. Meet me at M's flat. -SH

~s~s~s~s~

Molly wished she hadn't left her coat at the ball. It was black wool with an elegant rouched shawl collar and a self-tie waist that she had found on sale at Debenhams. Perhaps it would still be there if she went back tomorrow.

But, honestly, what did it matter?

She also wished she had hailed a cab sooner than she did. After all she was a doctor; she knew the symptoms of hypothermia. But when she had left Todd's hotel, she wasn't thinking clearly. Still spinning from his admission, she had walked a distance in a white and misty world before realizing the insanity of thinking the weather and her new high heels would let her get home on foot. After she climbed in the cab, Molly kept her gaze averted from the questioning looks the driver not so subtly gave her in the rearview mirror.

With her head beginning to pound, Molly closed her eyes. The past couple of hours were bewildering. Sherlock had bid on and won her at the bachelorette auction, even though he wasn't her date and had no real reason for even being present. They shared a romantic waltz during which she thought she saw a flicker of something, but he said he had only bid on her to save her from embarrassment. She had accused him of driving off Todd, a man she believed was her friend. But that wasn't true; he was trying to rob her.

Molly's slender shoulders slumped. She had once again let a criminal get close to her. There really wasn't anything she could say in defense of that. She had humiliated herself in front of her friends, first by dating a thief and then by verbally attacking Sherlock, the man she loved, the man who had warned her about Todd from the start. He would surely hate her now, and she didn't blame him.

How can I ever face him again? Overwhelmed, she buried her face in her hands.

"You all right, miss?" the cabbie asked.

Slowly looking up, she tried to meet his well-meaning concern with a smile, but her chattering teeth prevented that.

"Got a bit chilled, that's all."

~s~s~s~s~

"Why do you have a key to Molly's?" John asked as he looked around her cheerful, bright living room.

When he and Sarah met up with Sherlock outside of Molly's building, John had assumed they would wait there for her to arrive. He was surprised when Sherlock let himself in as effortlessly as if it were Baker Street.

"I stayed here briefly after Reichenbach," Sherlock said absently, thumbing through Molly's mail.

"Shouldn't you have returned it?"

"Then we would not be able to wait for her here, could we? Think it through, John." Half of the envelopes slid to the floor as Sherlock tossed them toward the table. Steepling his fingers, he tapped his chin as he began to pace. "If she had taken a cab straight home, she would have beaten us here. Where else would she have gone? It makes no sense for her to go to St. Bart's. She would not have taken her work keys and ID badge in that small evening bag she carried tonight. No, everything points to her returning home."

"Of course she's on her way home," Sarah called from the kitchen, trying to push away her own worried thoughts. She busied herself putting the kettle on. No doubt Molly would need a good cup of tea. "Have you tried her mobile again?"

"She's still not picking up," John replied. "Sarah, you said she left without her coat. Maybe she left her mobile in her coat pocket?"

Sherlock grunted in agreement. "That is a good assumption."

"Maybe she stopped for a drink somewhere," John suggested, sitting down on the rocking chair.

Wearing a path on the carpet, Sherlock shook his head. "Molly is more likely to indulge in sweets than alcohol when she is upset."

He paused to look out the window. It had stopped raining; now tendrils of fog curled through the streets, obscuring everything in their path. Sherlock stood, lost in thought. There was no telling what Todd might have said to Molly about her grandfather or the necklace. He might have come up with a new set of lies, or he might have confessed everything. Without knowing this data, it was difficult to judge what her next actions would have been.

Sherlock wrapped his scarf around his neck. "Wait here," he ordered. "I will go look for her."

"Where are you going to start?" asked John, getting up to follow him.

Sherlock flung open the front door to come face to face with a shivering Molly. Beautifully curled earlier in the evening, her hair now hung in limp strands. The lovely gown that flowed so effortlessly when she waltzed now was wet and dotted with mud. Her flawless eye makeup ran in dark streaks down her pale cheeks.

She gave no indication that she was surprised to see Sherlock inside her flat. Instead her eyes brightly shone with new tears.

"Forgive me," she cried hoarsely and stumbled.

Sherlock gathered her up in his arms.

"No, I can walk," she weakly protested.

"Bring her in here," Sarah said, leading the way to Molly's bedroom. "We need to get her warm."

Gently placing Molly on top of the bed, Sherlock stepped back as Sarah quickly took off Molly's heels. As the young pathologist continued to tremble violently, Sarah rolled her on her side and began unzipping the sodden dress.

"I'm going to get these wet clothes off of her," Sarah calmly said. "John, could you look for a hot water bottle? Sherlock, go get the tea."

Not used to being the one relegated to the kitchen, Sherlock nonetheless made a strong cuppa, making sure to add extra sugar. He returned to Molly's room to see her lying under several layers of blankets. Sarah was drying Molly's hair with a thick bath towel. The lovely crimson gown lay in a discarded heap on the floor.

"So you thought walking in this weather without a coat was a good idea?" Sarah gently scolded her friend.

"Yes … no … I don't know." Molly's convulsive shivering had slowed, but Sherlock could hear her teeth chattering.

"I'll get your hair dryer. Keep this towel wrapped on top of your head, OK? Now, where did John get to?"

Sarah patted Sherlock reassuringly on the arm as she breezed out of the room. Molly watched as Sherlock set the cup on her nightstand next to the necklace and sat on the edge of the bed. Reaching under the blanket, he took her hand in his.

"You are still very cold," he observed.

"Can you find it in your heart to forgive me?" she asked anxiously, intertwining her fingers through his.

"I don't have a heart," he said lightly.

"That isn't true. You would never have lied to me if you didn't have a heart." Her voice was faint. "I am so sorry. Please forgive me."

Sherlock furrowed his brow. He wasn't used to anyone giving him a heartfelt apology. Usually when it became apparent to everyone that he had been right all along, he was told to sod off. John had explained that if he didn't act like such a condescending jerk, more people would be willing to listen when he explained how right he indeed was.

Shifting uncomfortably, he said, "You have now asked me three times to forgive you. Once was enough."

Upon hearing this, Molly relaxed back into her pillows. Her breathing became more regular as her convulsive shivering abated. John hadn't been able to find a hot water bottle, but he did locate a heating pad, which he placed at Molly's feet. After drying her friend's hair, Sarah sat at the head of Molly's bed and helped her take a few sips of hot tea.

"I'm fine," Molly said. "Really, I'm fine."

Her three friends noticed that she was avoiding looking at them directly.

"I agree that you're going to be fine, but I'd feel better if one of us stayed the night," said John. "Just in case."

"I will," Sherlock announced.

"You aren't a doctor," John argued.

"I am also not an imbecile! I know what to do!" Sherlock snapped.

"Boys, be quiet," Sarah whispered. "She's already fallen asleep."

~s~s~s~s~

Sherlock sat on the edge of Molly's bed and watched her for a while. In the timeless release of sleep, she wasn't burdened by the memories of Todd, Jim, or the many times he himself had hurt her.

It was very late. Taking off his suit coat, he pushed up the sleeves of his purple button up.

Stirring, Molly opened her eyes, taking a few seconds to adjust to the darkened room. "Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Why are you here?"

"We agreed it would be best if I stayed to keep watch over you tonight. Do you need anything? Are you ill?" he asked, sitting back down.

"No." She rolled onto her side to see him better. "Why don't you at least sit here and lean against my headboard? You'll be more comfortable."

Agreeing with her assessment, Sherlock settled next to her, stretching out his long legs.

Darkness can do many things. It can play tricks on the mind. It can frighten. And it can give people the intimacy and protection they need to speak candidly. Molly felt more at ease next to Sherlock in her dark bedroom than she had a thousand other times in the lab.

"The awful things I said … I'll make it up to you, if you'll let me."

Sherlock did not have the patience to keep reassuring Molly. "You do not owe me a debt. From what I understand, that is not how friendship works."

To his aggravation, she continued to feel badly. "You must think I'm the biggest fool. Of the last few men who have shown any interest in me, two were criminals, and I never saw it."

"I think two criminals recognized your trusting and generous nature and took advantage of it for their own purposes," Sherlock disagreed. "What did Todd tell you?"

"That he needed money and looked me up online. You know the rest," she said, feeling a rush of embarrassment.

"And your grandfather?" Sherlock asked.

"What about grandfather?" Molly scrunched her face, confused.

"I misspoke. I meant your grandmother. Your grandmother's necklace," Sherlock covered quickly.

"Oh, he had no remorse in telling me he planned to steal it." She snorted contemptuously at herself. "I had better lose this naïveté, because my track record speaks for itself."

"I would not want you to change anything about yourself." Sherlock stared up at the ceiling, also feeling the freedom the darkness gave. "What about him did you find so charming?"

Molly considered this for a minute. "He reminded me of when I had family. That made me feel like someone knew me, past and present. But the truth is, you were right. I was caught up in sentimental memories. My family is gone."

"I also am alone."

Molly rolled her eyes. "No, you have a family. You just don't like them. It's not the same thing."

"True," Sherlock agreed. "But you have me and John and Sarah and Mrs. Hudson."

"Do I? Do I really still have your friendship? I doubted you when you were the one who saw everything clearly." Molly worried her lower lip.

"That is not necessarily correct," Sherlock confessed.

"What do you mean?"

"On several occasions John pointed out that my behavior resulted from jealousy and it clouded my judgment. I did not like your affection for Todd."

Molly blushed. "It wasn't like I was crazy about him. He did things I didn't like."

"Such as?"

"He drank too much. He felt as if he were entitled to things. He was pushy."

Ever alert, Sherlock listened attentively. "About what?"

"He kissed me."

"Yes, I was in the lab when he first greeted you."

"No, when he spent the night out there on my couch, he kissed me and tried to do more."

Sherlock stiffened. "What?"

Molly grinned. "I put a stop to it before he got carried away."

The detective grew angry. "Then I was right to suspect the next morning that something had happened between you two!"

"No, you were wrong. You were acting jealous. I have a big problem with you making assumptions about … my sex life." Molly blushed at the words.

In the uncomfortable silence that followed, Molly knew this opportunity of truth telling might not come again. "Why did you bid on me?"

"To save you from embarrassment."

Molly rolled onto her back. "That isn't true. I had two men bidding on me before you stepped in. You easily could have let one of them win and told me about Todd afterward. You didn't have to bid on me or waltz with me. So why did you?"

Sherlock's rich baritone voice hesitated. "I do not like to lose. You are my pathologist."

Knowledge dawned on her like joy. "You bid on me because you like me? Me?" she asked incredulously.

Sherlock swallowed hard. He had outwitted criminals, faced death many times, stared down psychopathic murderers and not blinked. And yet what he felt for little Molly Hooper who was smart and strong and who loved with her whole heart perplexed and terrified him.

He was a smart man. He knew the inevitable. It might not happen now or next month, but there would come a time when he would hurt her too completely for her to stay with him. And if that happened, Sherlock knew he would be lost.

But what if John was right? What if caring wasn't a bad thing? The very idea went against everything Sherlock had ever known. But it was the biggest mystery of all.

Lowering onto the bed, he propped up on his elbow and stared into her eyes.

"We'll always be friends?"

"Yes."

"I won you at the bachelorette auction, which means for a certain period of time, you are mine, correct?"

"Yes," she said hesitantly.

"For how long?"

It was the first time she had ever heard the consulting detective express uncertainty. Her slim hand reached up to his face.

"Oh, Sherlock, don't you know? Forever."

~s~s~s~s~

The End

Inspired by "The Boscombe Valley Mystery" by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle