A/N: WARNING! There is one paragraph in here that's M. But I'm not changing the rating for one little paragraph, so... consider yourself warned. MizJoely, Librasmiles, Morbid by Default, Rocking the Redhead... omg... there are so many of you who have reviewed and given me so much support. I love you all and welcome your reviews and feedback. I'm also giving a shout out to the lovely person who PMed me and gave me some ideas and was so sweet about the story. Thank you so much, everyone!

Disclaimer: I own nothing but Gabriel..

"Ha ha, John!" Gabriel cackled. "Back to square one!" He took John's game piece and slid it down the snake's back to the lowest square.

"You get far too much pleasure out of that, Gabe," John grumbled, passing the dice back to him. It was too bad that Snakes and Ladders wasn't a professional sport. Gabriel had fiendish luck with it. Still, it was better than playing Cluedo with him. He was almost as good at it as Sherlock and played as fiercely. And was certainly not above making up his own rules as he went along. "Did you ever consider letting an old man win once in a while?"

Gabriel stared at him for a moment before shaking his head. "Nope." He rolled the dice and moved his piece. "Dad says you should never let people win. It insults their intelligence."

"And you picked today to do whatever he says, huh?"

"I always do. My dad knows everything," Gabe said matter of factly, rolling the dice again. "Why did Mary leave?"

"She had to take care of some things at her flat. She'll be back in the morning." The truth was that Mary had gone to her flat to feed and walk the newly acquired puppy. She had agreed to keep it there until Christmas. John had planned to tell Sherlock about it tonight, but given the mood he was in, it didn't seem like a good idea.

Gabriel sighed and stood up, going to Sherlock's armchair and flopping down with a sigh. "I'm tired of playing. And my arm hurts."

"Bad?"

"Pretty bad," Gabe sighed.

"On a scale of one to ten?"

"At least a seven." He cradled his arm closer.

"Well you can't take your medicine until you have something to eat. What should we have for lunch?" John went to the refrigerator and peered inside. "We have some leftover Chinese take away, some of Mrs. Hudson's chicken soup… any of that appeal?"

Gabriel sighed. "I don't care." John closed the fridge and turned back to where Gabriel sat, swinging his feet. He was very susceptible to Sherlock's moodiness. When Sherlock was upset, Gabriel got upset. Evidently something had happened while they were out earlier. Maybe they'd had a row in the cab. "John, is my dad mad at me?"

"I don't think so, mate. Why do you ask?"

"He snapped at me and then went into his room and he won't come out. But I didn't do anything wrong, I don't think."

"Nah… sometimes people seem to be mad when really they're kind of confused about something else. Especially people like your dad who have a hard time when they don't know what to do. He's not really mad at you, Gabe. He's mad at himself."

"I wonder if it's because of Doctor Molly."

"What about Molly?"

"Dad had this pretty necklace made for her for Christmas. I said he should have gotten her the ring. He got kind of growly after that." Gabriel shrugged and flipped the television on.

John put the leftover soup on the stove and turned it on before wandering down the hall to Sherlock's room. He knocked lightly on the door and receiving no response, pushed it open. Sherlock lay on his bed flat, fingertips steepled under his chin as he looked up at the ceiling. "You okay in here?"

No reply.

"Sherlock? Are you okay? You've been in here for hours."

"I'm fine."

"Are you really fine or are you just saying 'I'm fine' so that I'll leave you alone?"

"Please don't try to confuse me, John. I'm thinking."

"Well you might try thinking out here. Gabriel thinks you're mad at him and I'm heating some lunch."

"I'm not hungry."

"Call the papers!" John exclaimed sarcastically. "Look, I can appreciate that you want to have some weird pity party, but you've been hiding in here for a while now and you might want to consider your child. Your child with the broken arm who doesn't feel particularly good and is looking for you to comfort him." John stood in the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest. "People with children no longer have the luxury of pouting."

"I'm not pouting," Sherlock sighed. "I'm thinking." The way in which he rolled over, showing John his back did not suggest thinking. It suggested pouting.

John sighed, staring at his bratty friend in silence. Then it dawned on him what all of this was really about. "Oh for God's sake, Sherlock. If you love her, then why is it so hard to tell her?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he said in that breathless, aloof tone he had that drove John absolutely bonkers.

"Of course you don't," John sighed. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a deep red velvet box on the nightstand. It was too large for a ring, so it must be the necklace that Gabriel had mentioned. John strolled over and picked it up. "Mind if I take a look?" he asked.

"Do whatever you want," Sherlock grumbled with a dismissive wave.

John opened the box and inhaled sharply. "Wow…" He ran his fingers over the necklace, mentally counting the pearls. He didn't even want to think about how much it must have cost. A small fortune, at least. Every now and then John thought about why on earth someone like Sherlock would need a flatshare, but he tried not to think too hard. He feared it would only confuse and disturb him. "That's… that's making a statement, Sherlock."

Sherlock turned. "What do you mean?"

"It's the most… exquisite piece of jewelry I've ever seen."

"You don't like it?"

"No… no… I do. It's beautiful. But are you sure you wanted to… you know… I mean, its true that you and Molly have been friends for quite some time. But you've only been an item for a little more than a month. And something like this definitely says you're in for the long haul."

Sherlock groaned. "Uggh… your quaint vernacular makes me positively queasy." He sat up quickly, pushing his fingers through his hair. "So what you're saying, is that in my attempt not to buy Molly a ring and thus confuse the nature of our relationship, I've bought her something that is even more portentous?"

"Kind of… yeah."

"What should I do about it? Just not give it to her?" He raised his eyebrow at John, a glimmer of hope that he was about to be saved from his own folly by the clear and level head of his flatmate.

"Of course you should give it to her, ya dolt! It seems to me that your problem is that you're afraid to really tell her what you want."

"Oh? And what is it that I want, Dr. Phil? Do tell me."

"Obviously you want an exclusive, long term relationship with Molly."

"Obviously? OBviously?" He accented his words with venom.

"Well, yeah. Every time someone brings up, even in jest, the concept of the two of you being married, living together… whatever… you get very uncomfortable. Now, some people might think that indicates that you're content to keep your relationship casual, but I know you better than most. To take your relationship to this new level would be admitting that you have been wrong all along with your loathing of sentiment. Sherlock Holmes is in love, but he can't say that. Someone might think he was weak."

"Ridiculous…"

"Is it? Tell me, Sherlock. Are you more afraid that she'll reject you or that she'll say yes?"

OoOoOo

Molly was finishing up her last patient of the day when her phone buzzed. "Hold on just a moment, Mr. Phelps," she said to the corpse on the table in front of her.

Are you done working? –SH

She smiled, feeling goosebumps break out all over.

Finishing up right now. – M

Come to Baker Street. – SH

I have to go home first. –M

It wasn't a request. –SH

There was a thrum in Molly's chest that fluttered down into her belly and then to points farther south at seeing that simple sentence that glowed in bright white digital letters on her screen. He was Growly Sherlock tonight. Molly had a very primal lust for Growly Sherlock. Growly Sherlock made her heart beat faster and drew screams from her throat that he would silence with his mouth or the palm of his hand. Growly Sherlock left marks where no one could see that would remind her of him the next day when she sat at her desk or crossed her legs.

I have to feed Tobias and get some clothes. –M

Done. Come to Baker Street. –SH

How did you get in my flat? –M

Zip up the stiff and come home. –SH

Molly smiled, feeling the heat in her cheeks radiate all the way down her neck and across her chest. "All right, Mr. Phelps. Let's just get your heart back where it belongs." Molly picked up the organ and paused, staring at the delicate thing. It was strange, but she was morbidly fascinated by the intricacies of the human heart. As if she thought that perhaps someday she would see something, some tiny little feature that would help her to understand Sherlock. She'd awakened early this morning to an empty bed. Both Gabriel and Sherlock had gotten up and she could hear the latter in the shower. She'd briefly considered joining him, but Gabriel's barky, early morning cough stopped her. He'd obviously been in the shower with his father so he could get his hair washed without getting his cast wet. In any case, it was a good thing that she hadn't opened up the door and slipped behind the curtain. She'd gone into the kitchen to find that Mary was already there making tea and toast with jam for their breakfast. After several minutes, Sherlock and Gabriel had emerged, both of them looking sleepy and wearing stormy expressions. When she'd tried to peck his cheek, Sherlock had pulled away slightly and given her the strangest look. Perhaps he meant to apologize.

Or else he wanted her to come over so that he could break things off.

OoOoOo

When Molly arrived at 221B, it was very strangely quiet. The door was open and Mrs. Hudson's flat was empty. "Hello?" she called, but no answer came. It was dark and she ascended the stairs slowly so as not to trip. "Sherlock?" she called again and still no response. "Gabriel? John? Anybody?" When she got to the door, it was pushed closed, but not latched. She could hear music playing quietly as she opened the door. The flat was lit only by the fireplace and the lights on the Christmas tree. She could smell something rich and spicy and delicious cooking. As soon as she stepped over the threshold, Sherlock stepped from around the corner and pulled her against him.

"It took you long enough," he growled in her ear, pulling her purse off of her shoulder and tossing it aside.

"Sor…" He cut her off with an aggressive kiss that forced her mouth open and stole her breath. It served to distract as he pushed the heavy coat to the floor behind her. As she wrapped her arms around his neck, she noticed that he was shirtless and she burrowed closer, wanting to feel his skin. It was warm and smooth and pale in the flickering light from the fire. And his smell was like nothing else. So earthy and spicy, tempered with the crisp, cool scent of his shampoo. So utterly masculine. So Sherlock. Molly had always had this idea of romance that was so sweet and sterile. So Disney princesss. But this was much better. This lusty need that Sherlock incited in her.

He kicked the door to the flat closed behind them and backed Molly against it, one arm wound firmly around her waist and the other tangled in her hair. She slid her hands to the neck of her blouse, fumbling with the top button, but he grabbed both of her wrists, pressing them behind her firmly and holding them in place until she understood that she was to keep her hands off. He had her trapped between his body and the door as he slipped his hand down her back, over the curve of her bottom and down to her thigh. His long, sinuous fingers sought the hem of her skirt, pulling it higher until he could feel the cool flesh of her thigh and the thin, lacy trim of her virginal underwear.

There was no kissing, no whispered words as their bodies crashed together over and over. The only sound was their heavy breathing, the hollow thud of the door as it rattled in the frame behind them and then a single, long growl as Sherlock climaxed. He shuddered against her, breathing against her throat as he slowly released his hold on her. "Sorry…" he panted.

"No problem," Molly sighed, feeling him slip away from her, but not wanting him to. She wound her arms around him, tucking her head under his chin. He walked them into the lounge where he'd made a palate on the floor in front of the fireplace with a bottle of wine and two glasses. She sat down, watching with a hungry smirk as he rearranged his clothing. He was wearing those jeans she liked, and left the button undone so that they fell dangerously low on his hips. A single drop of perspiration slid down the middle of his chest and he swiped it away with the heel of his hand. She had to stifle a giggle, looking at his hair. His curls were wild and he was desperately trying to tame them with his fingers. He looked nervous, and exhausted, for obvious reasons. "Are you ok, Sherlock?" she asked.

"Uhm… yeah. No. I'm not sure."

She narrowed her eyes. "Well… given what just happened… there's something going on." She looked up at him as he paced back and forth. "What is it?"

Sherlock took a deep breath and stared at her with ice cold eyes. "I am… so… angry with you, Molly Hooper!" he said finally.

"Uhm… what?"

"You heard me! I'm mad at you! I had everything figured out. My whole life set out in front of me like a map. I knew every turn and every street. I am… a machine. I am a brain, Molly. Just a brain. I don't crowd up my head with all sorts of rubbish like sentiment and sexuality. I can do what other people can't because I never have to think of consequences or…" His speech trailed off in an angry growl.

"Okay… I'm not sure I'm following…"

"Don't you see? You've ruined my life! And I am so… angry. I hate you!"

"Sherlock—"

"No… just… shut up and let me finish." Molly's mouth snapped shut. "I was sitting at my desk the other night, staring into the microscope and I found that I couldn't concentrate. I had no idea what I was even looking at. All I could think of was the curve of your mouth when you smile. Or that breathy little sigh you do when you're falling asleep. Or how when you get into bed you roll from one side to the other precisely three times before you can relax. I was at a crime scene with Lestrade yesterday and I was supposed to be examining the body, but all I could think about was how happy I was to sit on the couch with your head tucked into my shoulder and Gabriel curled up in our laps. I can't work without thinking about you. And the really infuriating part is… I don't care. What I always thought was so important before doesn't mean… anything. I have no idea who I am anymore, Molly and I hate you for it. But…"

"Please tell me there's a but coming, Sherlock," she sighed.

"But… I… love you, Molly. There. I said it. I love you. I, me, Sherlock Holmes, love you, Molly Hooper. I cannot imagine spending one more day of my life without you. I love you so much more than I could ever hate. And I cannot promise that I won't be an absolute horror to live with, but I can tell you now, with all certainty and absolutely no hope or expectation of reciprocity, that I will love you, Molly Hooper, until I stop drawing breath."

Molly's eyes were enormous. For several moments she stared at him, dumbfounded. She had absolutely no words to respond to his little speech. "That was… probably the worst I love you speech ever, Sherlock."

"I know. I'm not very good at this…"

"And the best." She stood up and threw herself into his arms and he actually seemed surprised. He hugged her tightly, holding on as long as possible. "I have nothing to say that would compare with that, I'm afraid. Just that… I love you back. I always have, you idiot."

She felt him smile as his lips rested against the curve of her throat. "Oh… I uhm… I'm going to give you this now. It didn't seem right to give it to you in front of everyone. And I've been informed that it is totally the wrong thing, but… I had to find something that was as beautiful as you are… and well… I'm afraid I've come up terribly short. Again." He took the dark red velvet box from the coffeetable and handed it to her. "Happy Christmas, Molly."