Day six! WOOT! Okay, this one caused me some issues, but here you have it. For good or ill, this is my 'first I Love You'. All the thanks to the wonderful MizJoley for betaing and coming up with the title. It's rated T because of a naughty word.

I own nothing. Enjoy ~Lil~

-He Always Means It-

"This was really… nice, Sherlock," Molly says as they pause in front of her building.

He takes her hand, slowly bringing it to his lips. Just before he touches his mouth to her knuckles he looks into her eyes and says, "I love you."

"Yes, I know," she replies flatly. "You've told me everyday for the last three weeks."

Warning lights start to flash in Sherlock's mind. Danger! Danger! He aborts the hand kissing for the moment and takes a step back. "Is something the matter?" he asks tentatively.

Molly sighs and motions to the steps, then takes a seat. Sherlock follows, sitting next to her. "I'm just…" she starts, staring at the office building across the street. Then her head drops, she runs her fingers through her loose hair. "How do I put this?"

"You can be honest with me, Molly, if something's wrong…"

"This feels unreal," she interrupts.

"What?"

"The dinners, the romance, the constant 'I love yous'. I'm not sure what to make of it all."

He is stunned and, if he's honest, he's also hurt.

Molly is looking at him, big brown eyes searching for… something, but he has no idea what. He was certain that he'd gotten it right. Pamper her, take her out, shower her with affection...love her. Damn…

"Say something, Sherlock! Are you faking any of this this?" she demands.

"NO!" is all he can manage.

"I didn't actually think you were, but…" She looks away, shaking her head. "It's just not like I imagined. Us." She motions between the two of them. "This. I thought we'd hang out at your flat, playing with cancerous livers and fooling around. I thought you'd want to keep us secret, not parade me all around London. I never expected you to tell me that you love me every single day."

It hasn't been every single day. He'd gotten caught on a case eight days ago, and forgotten to tell her. He told her twice the next day to make up for it. "This isn't what you want?" he asks in a voice he almost doesn't recognise.

Molly turns and cups his face. "I love you. But you know that, don't you?"

He nods.

"And I know you love me. You don't have to constantly tell me, unless you really want to."

I do, he thinks.

"I believed it the first time you said it, though I don't think you had a clue you were saying it," she says with a knowing smile.

Wait, what? That doesn't make any…

"And all the romance is sweet, but unnecessary."

This time he turns, pulling her hands away from his face. "I wanted to make up for how you found out. That awful phone call…"

"That wasn't the first time you said it, Sherlock."

"Of course it was."

She laughs, shaking her head and biting her lip. "You really don't remember, do you?"

No, no he didn't.

"Twice. You said it twice before that."

Bloody hell.

"I had a very interesting voice mail the morning after John's stag night." She looks around as if trying to remember something, a wicked smile on her face. "Ah, yes: 'Molly, Molly Hooper. My Molly. My pathologist. I love you more than a locked room triple murder.' Then you said something about ash and disconnected."

He was speechless. But he took a moment to enjoy the fact that she seemed to have memorised the voicemail.

"I chalked it up to drunkenness." She pauses, studying him. "I didn't believe it. People say a lot of things when they're drunk. Doesn't mean it's true."

Unless it is and I've loved you for years, he thinks. The realisation had hit him after Sherrinford. After returning to Baker Street he had taken a moment and let himself think about the ramifications of those words. Then he'd realised that he had meant them. He loved her. He hadn't spent a great deal of time trying to figure out how long he'd loved Molly Hooper, just that he did. The next day he was at her door with a dozen roses, an explanation and what he thought was his first not forced I love you.

"Then there was the hospital…"

That could mean anything. Please don't let it be when I was high. "What about the hospital, Molly?"

"It was after you were shot. Well, when they rushed you back after you pulled a runner. I was working and John phoned me. I met him in Trauma and he asked me to sit with you after you stabilised. He needed to talk to Mary about something. You'd lost a lot of blood, plus they'd pumped you full of pain meds. You were in and out of consciousness."

"I have no memory of this."

"Of course you don't."

"What did I say?"

"You thought John was still in the room, you were talking to him," she explains.

"Yes?"

"And you said: 'Promise me, John.'" Molly's voice breaks just a little and she clears her throat before continuing. "'Promise me, John. If I die, tell Molly that I love her. Tell her that…"

"What?!"

"You said that you locked me away for safekeeping. That you put me into a room to watch over your heart. Can you imagine?" she says with glistening eyes and a sweet smile. "I tried not to think about those words, Sherlock. All this time I told myself that you were just high on narcotics and very, very near death. That it meant nothing. Then that phone call..."

"Molly…"

"I know. Maybe I shouldn't have made you say…"

"No," he stops her. "I'm glad that you did. I don't remember the others, but I remember that one. The one that made me think. The one that brought us here." He wonders how he's become this sappy, romantic fool in such a short amount of time, then he thinks about what Molly just told him. He considers the idea that he'd locked her away in a room in his mind palace, abstract as that may be, and realises that perhaps it's just another thing he's pushed away, like his feelings for this woman.

Molly's hand on his brings him out of his thoughts; he squeezes it and looks at her. "So you want me to tone down the hearts and flowers?"

Her whole face brightens. "A bit. I'd love to just stay in and talk about… well anything or," Her cheeks turn pink, so pink she's practically glowing in the street lights. "Or nothing. We could not talk if you like."

Ah, not talking means snogging or probably, most likely, shagging. "I could be talked into not talking, if you twisted my arm," he says with what he hopes is a boyish grin. Then he stands, holding out his hand and helps Molly to her feet. They walk toward her door and he's hoping she plans on inviting him in for a bit of not talking right now. But there's one more thing. "Molly?"

She's looking for her keys at the bottom of her large bag. He'll pull his out in a minute to stop the fruitless search. She looks up and says, "Yes?"

"I'm still allowed to say I love you, right?"

"Of course you are. Just don't say it because you think you have to."

That's fine with him. He'd never once said it because he had to.

Thanks for reading. ~Lil~