The sign on the door of 221 instructed her to 'come right in', written in John's messy doctors scrawl. She lugged her bags up the stairs, feeling considerably warmer than she had outside. The air was so chilly she almost regretted wearing the dress.

"Having our Christmas drinkies then?" she asked, setting down her things.

Sherlock didn't even glance her way and her heart sunk a little.

"No stopping them apparently," he muttered under his breath and she felt her lips turn up in a smile.

Molly let her coat drop. From the corner of her eye she saw Greg's mouth drop. Even John stood admiring her. Sherlock ignored her completely. Molly made small talk with Mrs. Hudson and ignored him as well.

"How's the hip?" Molly asked Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh it's atrocious, thanks for asking," she replied.

"I've seen much worse. But then I do post-mortems," she said lightly. There was an awkward pause before Sherlock broke the silence.

"Don't make jokes Molly," Sherlock said over his shoulder, shooting her a small smile. He was amused even if no one else was, just like she always giggled at his deductions when most people got annoyed. They both had the same sense of humor like that, a little dark and twisted. Not surprising considering their occupations. Sometimes it felt like the only human thing they shared.

"No, sorry," she said softly and accepted a glass of wine from Greg.

Then there was more small talk until Molly could die from it. She only wanted to talk to one person and Sherlock was deliberately not meeting her eyes as he deduced everyone in the room. This was a far cry from his normal reaction around her. The only thing that was different was her dress and the care she'd put into her hair and makeup. Just because she didn't chose to make herself up every day didn't mean she was an amateur. So what was the problem?

"I see you've got a new boyfriend Molly, and you're serious about him," Sherlock said, finally looking at her, careful to keep his gaze fixed on a point just over her left shoulder.

"What? Sorry what?" she asked, and then it struck her. The way he avoided her, the tone of his voice - she couldn't be wrong. Sherlock was upset with her and he was upset because he thought she was seeing someone. This was the first time she'd ever seen him acting jealous.

"In fact, you're seeing him this very night and giving him a gift," he said, deliberately keeping his voice light. It still came off as an accusation, like something that had been boiling away from below his surface was breaking off and threatening to come to life.

"Take a day off!" John called from the couch.

Greg looked from Molly to Sherlock and tried to intervene.

"Sherlock have a drink," he said, but it was only a half hearted suggestion.

"Oh come on! Surely you've all seen the present at the top of the bag. Perfectly wrapped with a bow. All the others are slapdash at best. Must be someone special then. Shade of red echoes with the lipstick. Either a subconscious association or one that she's trying to encourage," he was busy deducing, avoiding her as he laid down the devastation. Molly barely heard him beyond the suddenly fast beating of her heart and the roaring in her ears. Everyone stared at her, not Sherlock, making it that much more humiliating.

"Either way, Molly Hooper has love on her mind. The fact that she's serious about him is clear from the fact that she's giving him a gift at all." He had grabbed the present and given it a little shake, as if he could deduce what was inside. "That all suggests long-term hopes, however forlorn. And that she's seeing him tonight is evident from the make-up and what she's wearing. Obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and… breasts."

At this last statement Molly's heart dropped to the floor. Jealous or not that was cruel and spiteful. It wasn't something that she deserved to hear from him, especially not in front of his only friends. They were all staring in shock but Molly managed to find her voice.

"You always say such horrible things. Every time. Always. Always…"

She clutched at the glass of wine and stared at the floor, willing herself not to cry. Of all the possible scenarios of this evening she had played in her mind, this was not one of them. She wanted to snatch the gift out of his hands and hurl it down below into the street. She wanted to melt like a puddle into the floor. How wrong she'd been, how wrong. He wasn't interested in her at all.

Sherlock was staring down at the package as if seeing it for the first time. He would know before he even opened it that it was picked special for him, that she had strong feelings for him. There was no end of her humiliation. Now she regretted her impulse to buy him something, to buy him a gift that might have some meaning to him, that he would appreicate all the more because it was from her.

Sherlock turned as if to go, to seek refuge away from the room and her big sad eyes and this ruined evening. Then he straightened his shoulders and turned back around, as if steeling himself for something difficult.

"I am sorry. Forgive me. Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper," he said quietly and he leaned in to kiss her cheek. It was a true apology she knew, because it had been so difficult a thing for him. So she accepted it as best she could.

"Thank you," he whispered quietly in her ear, mouth almost pressed to he cheek, where no one could hear. "You never opened your gift," he said softly.

"No," she said simply.

"Then I shan't open mine either."

It sounded like a promise and another apology. That was a step in the right direction, even if it had been a painful one.