A/N: WOW, thank you for the absolutely enthusiastic reviews I got for the last chapter! It certainly makes a girl write much faster. You are all amazing for taking the time to review, really, and I wish I could thank you all personally, but I can't reply to everyone - I end up writing a new chapter instead. Know this - I am very grateful! Thank you to those who also subscribe and favourite!

John drank his coffee quietly, looking at his friend who was stretched out on the sofa palms pressed together and put under his chin, as he was in one of his lengthy thinking processes, but what about exactly? The man had returned the night before, in complete silence, spent hours fiddling with his violin, making general wretched mutterings under his breath, which sounded like "Fool," repeatedly over and over. He never got any reply on his texts, so he didn't know how it had gone, but Mary hadn't sent him any angry declarations so it had certainly not gone to the dogs.

"Stop it," barked Sherlock from the sofa, eyes directed towards John who was sitting in the middle of his thoughts.

"What?" said John in surprise.

"You're thinking it - I can hear your mind grinding over it. Why isn't Sherlock talking – why did Sherlock come home so late – did they have dinner – was it good. No, John," he snapped, sitting now in a fully upright position on the sofa, looking if not rather deranged there he sat rifling through his hair.

John grinned, "So - it wasn't good?"

Sherlock just gave a derisive snort, his phone soon in the palm of his hand, and his eyes fixed upon it with a maddened stare.

"She hasn't replied," he muttered clearly displeased.

John gawked at him, "She hasn't replied to your text. That's why you're like this, right – so it didn't go well?"

"If you mean ending up in her flat was bad," said Sherlock dropping the phone soundly on the coffee table in front of him, not considering the money the device cost.

"You - wait - what?" said John who was practically beaming there he sat, his cup of coffee quickly put aside, as he gave a great laugh, "You were in her flat - then – right – what happened?"

Sherlock didn't reply, soon laying down back onto the sofa looking even more frustrated than he had been.

"Right – ok – fine, you don't want to talk about it. Fine – that's all right – I get it – you're inexperienced. There's nothing wrong with not knowing what to do."

"No, I'm not," spat Sherlock from the sofa, more like a child than anything there he laid.

"I wasn't talking about-," at this John gave a great clearing of his throat, obviously uncomfortable to breach the subject at hand, yet there was great amusement in his eyes, "That's rather – depending on it – I suppose – that's well – I don't know your history, if there's any-," blurted John.

Sherlock sat upright again, pointedly glaring at his friend, "I have had my share of experiments," he said.

"Experiments? That's the phrase you're going for here – experiments? Right, well – what was the problem, then?"

Sherlock gestured silently with his hands, waving them about a bit wildly, as if he was grabbing for words, "I – yes," he said out of the blue, with John gaping at him.

"Say that again?"

"I wanted to, but I couldn't."

"Oh – oh – right, well, that's – you could work through that you know-," said John uneasily.

Sherlock looked at his friend disgusted, "No, John – no – that's not what I mean."

"Well, what the bloody hell do you mean, then? Since it'll be much easier if you just came out with it. We're grown men, we live together, and we can have a discussion about this – even if it's-," stopped John grimacing a bit.

"Give me blood - give me murder - John – even your idiotic blog. Even Anderson for a cup of tea - chatting about something as mind numbingly dull as the weather - but I do not want to have a conference about my feelings-," snarled Sherlock.

"You admit it, then – you do fancy her."

Sherlock glared as John grinned.

"Right, then - this is good. You're admitting it now, right? We don't need to beat around the bush about it anymore – it's out there – text her - ask her for dinner – it's that simple."

"We've had dinner," said Sherlock.

"Wait – what?" said John remembering quite easily Irene Adler and her infamous way of asking for things.

"Leave the woman out of this John. The woman is not near this subject whatsoever," said Sherlock waving his hand annoyed.

"Right, you mean – food – you ate - and it was nice."

"It was much more than I expected - yes."

"It was pleasant, right - got it-," said John with his lips pursed.

"I suggested we go to her flat."

"You suggested? That's quite upfront-," said John gobsmacked.

Sherlock gave him a look.

"Sorry, just - I'm surprised that's all, you know – it's you – you're quite – OK, I'll shut up."

"She was having a reaction to me certainly. Very pronounced as it were - her pulse - and everything. However-," said Sherlock.

"Oh – here it comes-," interrupted John.

Sherlock frowned, "I couldn't," he said sheepishly giving to lying back down again, narrowing his eyes at the phone on the table, which did not give any life signs whatsoever.

John stared at his friend, "Sherlock – I am surprised to inform you that this emotion, which you are having is – I think you might be a bit familiar with it – even if you are so - it's guilt, Sherlock. You're guilty."

"Guilty?" repeated Sherlock grimacing.

"Of course you're bloody guilty, you've been flirting with her for ages as another man – tell her the truth, and you might actually feel properly - peckish."

Sherlock groaned, "No, John – as usual you are quite off the mark," and now he sat himself confidently up in the sofa.

John looked at him aggravated, taking a sip of his coffee waiting for his friend's tirade.

"Confusion, John - that was her face. I might have broken off her previous relationship, but that clearly unintentional, as she now seems rather angry with her last consort. You are not wrong about the guilt, but I was not guilty – she was," and with certain strides, he went into his bedroom, soon brandishing the nokia in his palm, taking to wield it once against.

"If she answers this – she still has feelings for Ben-," he said starting to type on the keyboard.

"Or she could just be Molly who's being nice and answering a text? Asking her about what she feels might be a better idea, perhaps even actually telling her your feelings – even how confusing they are to – well – both of us," said John with knitted brows.

Sherlock was in a completely different mind-set already, giving to smirking pleasantly at the phone, as he sent off the text.

I am sorry for disappearing off. I met Emily in London with a new boyfriend. It threw me into a loop. I am so sorry. I hope we can still have contact? - B

"You never seem to listen to me, I might as well be talking to air here," mumbled John, as Sherlock looked up at him in surprise.

"What?"

John took to drinking his coffee.

Three hours had gone, there was no reply on either phone, despite his own phone being rather quiet Sherlock was decidedly pleased and if not rather smug. He'd been sitting with a self-satisfied look on his face, while John tried to read his book – a book that Sherlock had already spoilt of course, by blatantly pointing out the murderer by a quick reading of the storyline, but John was determined nonetheless.

It was better than having half-conversations about a subject that Sherlock clearly didn't want to admit his weakness in. John was of course baffled that it indeed ended up being the besotted pathologist of Bart's of all people who ensnared his friend.

"She's certainly not keen on Ben, then," John said with a sigh.

"Obviously," said Sherlock, as John pressed his mouth together avoiding looking at his friend who was now striding around the living room.

It was then amidst Sherlock's triumph that the nokia vibrated on the table. John looked up, and Sherlock stopped abruptly, utter bewilderment on his face, as he soon picked up the phone with bated breath. John forgot his book, as he eyed his friend's face –

It's all right, have been bothered with Peter myself. I'm going to meet him for lunch today actually. Don't know how that'll turn out though – M

His face was unreadable, but within minutes Sherlock was dressed – coat and scarf slipped on. "John, we have a case."

John kept his eyes on the pages of his book, "No, we don't."

"John," said Sherlock in a more agreeable tone.

"I'm not going to be dragged into your insanity. If you're going to see Molly, you should go alone, not try to use anyone as an excuse."

"Fine," snapped Sherlock slamming the doors of Baker Street as he departed.

Lestrade was staggered to find how overly helpful Sherlock was being with a simple case. Well, in his books that was – a domestic, but he was personally grateful, because he'd be finished with the case at a quicker rate at least. They entered the morgue at Bart's where Molly was already working with the corpse at hand, who she was sewing up, but she didn't look up at the pair of them. Sherlock had been adamant that he needed to see the victim properly.

"Hello," said Lestrade cheerily, "That's Andrew Jackson, right?"

Molly looked up greeting him with a soft smile, her eyes soon darting to Sherlock who was walking slowly behind him, but they landed quite quickly on the body.

"Yes, that's him. Internal haemorrhaging, obviously it was quite a fall," she said sewing at quite a rapid pace on the man's chest, seeming if not a bit furious. "I didn't know you took these easy cases."

Lestrade peered at Sherlock curiously; as he knew it wasn't him that question was put upon.

"I thought I would be helpful," Sherlock said eyebrows drawn in, as he took in her appearance.

"Did you now?" she repeated with a frown, snapping off her gloves, before taking to bring up the paperwork. "He's 27 years old, non-smoker, and seems to have been pushed by his brother down some steps. Quarrelling over a woman, I heard, that's – err - symbolic."

Molly looked at the two men rather angrily for a moment, before taking a breath, "Sorry – I just – it's been a hard day. Loads to think about just," she said shaking her head apologetically, grinning self-consciously at the two men.

Sherlock could see that she was certainly dressed up, but not in an overstated way mirroring her style at Christmas. No, it was purely simple and elegant. Sufficient enough for her shape, and pleasant enough to keep his eyes flickering over to her legs with a pair of ballerina flats. His eyes darted up to her tired looking face; apparently she wasn't excited for her rendezvous with Peter. It was then he was aware that both Molly and Lestrade were looking at him strangely.

"Sherlock?" said Lestrade slightly astonished, "Err – that's it, then – his brother is the man?"

Sherlock looked away from Molly, seeming to fix his eye on something on the ceiling, "Obviously, simple deduction. Two brothers living in close quarters. One has a girlfriend, the other not, and then the girlfriend convinces the other brother to kill his brother for money. In other words frightfully dull. I could of course go in length over the details, but some simple texting between the brother and the girlfriend is enough evidence I suppose."

Lestrade stared at him blankly for a moment, returning his gaze to Molly who was now wheeling the corpse inside one of the body lockers, "Right – I'll call it in then," he said uneasily, before leaving the pair.

Sherlock's eyes returned to Molly, who in turn seemed to be thinking through something. He saw a slight stain on her shoe; she'd been drinking coffee with someone earlier. Her makeup had been added after she'd come to work, so she was doing it specifically to impress, and the way she now looked at him said that she was more confused than ever.

"Sherlock – what exactly are you here for?" she asked.

"Lunch?" he enquired.

"Sorry - Peter is taking me for lunch," she said if not rather touchily, "But you probably already knew that, didn't you? Which is why you asked in the first place," she said clinging to her papers, before walking out of the morgue.

"Yes, Peter – how is that working out for you? I thought you didn't want contact with him," said Sherlock trailing behind her.

"It's just lunch Sherlock, as that was only dinner," said Molly.

"Are you angry with me?" he asked, at this she wheeled around at him.

"Of course not – err – why would I be mad about you racing out of my flat in the middle of the night? Now that would just be silly," she said with a small nod, before disappearing off leaving him perplexed in the hallway.

Molly sat with him, her hands folded on the table, as she tried to concentrate on what he was saying; yet her attention kept slipping. At least he was forming coherent and full sentences for once, and not half-arsed attempts in the middle of the night. This wasn't just one of the - I'll text her when I'm drunk situations - luckily, despite the fact that she felt less inclined to stay every second he opened his gob. Everything about him had turned so abysmally dull and beige, but all she had to do was persevere.

Her mobile phone went off of course, as Peter went on a long outburst trying in his own words to recount their entire relationship and the pitfalls they'd made. Molly just gave him a nod, as her hand gently nudged on her phone, so she could see the text -

I thought you said he was dark - SH

Molly snorted causing Peter to abruptly stop talking, "Molly – are you listening to me?"

Her eyes widened, "Yes – oh – of course Peter, I am absolutely listening to what you've got to say," she said with a sweetened smile.

"Who's that texting you, then?" he asked calmly with his brown eyes narrowed.

"Ben," said Molly hurriedly.

"Ben?" he probed.

"Yes, Ben – he's – err – a friend, just," she smiled scrutinizing the phone as another text reeled in.

He and Anderson would make wonderful friends - SH

"Oh – right – were you really on a dinner with Sherlock Holmes last night then?" he asked clearly baffled over the sheer idea.

Molly took a sip of her white wine, "I was - actually," she said putting the glass down on the table, her eyes going to her phone.

You seem bored - SH

Her head swirled around in the restaurant, trying to catch a slight glimpse of the man, but wherever he was – she couldn't spot him for her life.

"It was friendly?" asked Peter who moped at her behaviour.

"Yes, Peter it was unquestionably friendly," said Molly reassuringly. "How's Jane, then – she good?" Jane was the woman who Peter had been indelicate with, terminating their relationship fully.

Peter looked agitated at this question, while Molly just gingerly ate on her salad seeing the desired effect on his face.

They left the restaurant with Molly more or less nodding, as Peter kept speaking, while she stared the streets down for a taxi, "I just think that we should have a proper conversation about this, you know," he said standing at her side uncomfortably.

"I don't know if there's anything left to be said, Peter – really," said Molly doubtfully, as a taxi came to halt.

"Will you agree to have dinner with me? Tomorrow night, I promise I'll try to be – less – just, Molly please?" he pleaded.

She gave a sigh at this, "Ok," and soon enough he gave her an awkward hug, which she did not return, before she got into the taxi without missing a beat slamming the door behind her.

Peter leaned down to the window grinning at her, but suddenly his eyes widened staring at her horrified. Molly looked at him curiously; it was then a voice calmly said, "Drive," from the seat besides her.

The taxi went off, and Molly gaped at Sherlock who looked at her with an entertained expression, "Peter was hoping he'd be bringing you home. However, I think Jane wouldn't be so pleased with this interaction, as he took to phone her when you went to the ladies," he said effortlessly in the car seat.

"What?" she squeaked in surprise, looking at him, then the driver who seemed to be chortling at the exchange.

Molly shut her mouth, trying to collect herself, as she sat clasping on her bag – her heart drumming in her ears.

"I suggest you refrain from dating him entirely," Sherlock added in her silence.

"I'm sorry – I," she said quickly, turning her head towards the window buildings whizzing past as they drove.

"It would be rather beneficial if you were not to date anyone in fact," Sherlock said pointedly, with a smile.

"Oh," she said, "Right – right – what's going on then?"

Sherlock didn't say anything, neither were his eyes on her, as the taxi took to stop, and he gave the driver quietly some money, before exiting the car. Molly followed suit, clumsily shifting out of her seat, finding that the door was swiftly opened for her.

He softly took her hand, steadying her out of the car, his other hand placed on the back of her coat, as she half-gaped at him, promptly shutting her mouth when he released her. They were standing in front of a rather posh restaurant, "You weren't eating properly - I suppose you must be somewhat hungry."

"I – I – right, yes – wait – what is this?"

"Dinner," he replied smoothly going ahead of her holding up the door in a gentleman-like manner.

"I'm not hungry," she retorted, "Besides, this is probably a bit too early to eat dinner anyways?"

"Well, we can't all be up to indecent hours every night can we Molly? It would make things a bit tiring in the length of the day. I must say you are a bit more rattled, than yesterday," he said letting go of the door taking to stand in front of her.

"Ben finally texted," she spluttered, looking if not a little bit lost now, her eyes cast downwards. "Now I've just had dinner with Peter of all people, Peter who I do not at all want to see, and now I just – I just want to go home."

Sherlock who's mood had been calm, looked if not absolutely indecipherable there he stood, soon ushering another taxi wordlessly besides Molly who gloomily got in, but he did not let her leave without him.

"What did he say?" he said, as he took his seat besides her.

"He wants to keep contact," she said with a sigh, looking out of the window of the taxi. "I don't know, I - most – it's a bit – I haven't heard from him in days."

He just gave a brief nod; "You want to keep contact with him, then?"

"Yes, I suppose I do – Sherlock – what's wrong with him?" asked Molly looking at Sherlock properly now.

"You have wine?" he asked avoiding her gaze.

"Always," she said with a saddened smile.

Molly was sniffling an appropriate amount, soon pouring wine into a glass, questioningly holding the bottle over another empty wine glass.

"I don't derive pleasure from it," Sherlock said, "My mind becomes cluttered."

"I think your mind could handle a bit of a beating, though what do you derive pleasure from, then?" she quipped glass in her hand, which she quickly drank filling another glass rapidly. "I can't be the only one drinking wine, though," she said handing him a glass.

Sherlock stood in the middle of her living room, not sitting, and especially not being in close proximity of her. He held the wine glass in his hand, not tasting it, but humouring her, "Molly – there's something you need to know about Ben."

"Could you sit? You're making me nervous," she said biting her lip, and so he sat down on the sofa.

She soon settled down besides him, throwing off her shoes, as she sat more comfortably, her one arm leaning on the back of the sofa. "Could we not talk about it yet? Since you've managed to not to tell me what's wrong with him – up to this point," she said with a giggle.

He didn't say anything, taking a sip from his wine, this time, as she kept looking at him. "It was a bit of a odd moment last night, wouldn't you say?"

She was touching her hair, her cheeks were flushed, and she did not take her eyes off him whatsoever. He just examined her from the side, not turning his body towards her, as her body was directed towards him. Sherlock took to sniff the wine for a moment, trying to understand her behaviour. Her clothes said nothing different, yet her smile did not belong a conflicted woman.

"I wouldn't call it strange," he murmured, finally turning around to face her.

"What would you call it? Don't say fascinating," she said taking to drink her wine, but he could see that she was concealing a smile with this.

"What do you know?" he asked.

"What don't I know?" she said baffled in return.

They looked at each other for a minute, in complete silence. Her dress had hitched up, because of her position in the sofa, showing much more thigh than needed, he felt it almost necessary to pull it down, but he did not move his hand.

His eyes had already given away his focus, for soon he found she was only some inches away from his face, her breath smelled of sweet wine, and her eyes darted down to his lips.

He took to stare at her lips in turn, wanting to trace her bottom lip - "Ben isn't real," he said breaking the spell.

Molly blinked several times, looking the very imagery of confusion, as she opened her mouth and closed it again – taking to lean entirely back in the sofa away from him.

He quickly stood up putting the glass of wine on her coffee table, "You weren't co-operating nicely - I needed my lab - my time to work, and you were being a nuisance. I thought it would be a perfect plan to create a man - a man to help you feel better, and improved you did indeed. The man you met, his name is James, and he is an actor, who I knew wouldn't take advantage due to his background. It was quite easy really - though we did almost have some mishaps. Now you are fine, even very close to a full-recovery I'd say – Peter is back in your life, and will drop this Jane in a heartbeat if you want to," he said very fast, his eyes fixed on hers soon bringing out the nokia, which he then gave to her.

Molly took the phone in her hand, staring at the various text blankly, "You – you texted me?" she stammered.

"Yes, every word was written by me. I was a bit bored at times - I have to say," he said with a quick smile.

"You're - Ben?" she said not looking at him.

He took to put on his coat now, putting on his scarf, as Molly was still seated. "John was right, I do feel better," he remarked.

"John knew?" said Molly looking properly dismayed now.

"I'll let my self out, shall I?" he said raising his brows at her befuddled state. He had his hand on the doorknob, when he felt her hand on his shoulder, except he did not turn around. She did not say anything yet, her hand softly placed on his shoulder, and for a moment he shut his eyes marvelling over the feeling.

"That's your way of apologising, then?" she said with an edge to her voice causing his eyes to open.

"I was just trying to help," he said quietly.

Her hand dropped from his shoulder, "Get out," she returned. Sherlock didn't turn around, but he could imagine her face with the silent hot tears trailing down her cheeks. He left without another word.

A/N: Oh you hate me, probably, yeah, OR maybe you've caught on (?) I promise that it won't be long till next at least!