"The more I see of the world, the more am I dissatisfied with it."

Xxx

Sherlock strolled towards Molly's office the following morning, fully expecting the pathologist to be in her typical Monday mood. The return to the office after the weekend and her 9am meeting every Monday always seemed to put the brunette in a bad mood. So, at approximately 10:07am, the moment she would be fully settled back at her desk after the tedious meeting, he entered, two cups of takeaway coffee in his hands.

However, Sherlock halted, surprised to see Molly smiling at her desk, flipping through her meeting notes as if she had no cares in the world. Her usual frumpy work attire of neutral colored trousers and a cardigan from the juniors' section was replaced with a fitted black dress and a pair of panty-hose, not completely covered underneath her lab coat.

Sherlock blinked and took in her appearance.

She has a date.

Molly felt his presence and looked up from her paperwork. She smiled softly.

"Good morning, Sherlock. You didn't say goodbye yesterday."

Sherlock set the cup down. "Yes, well, I had plans. Had to hurry off."

"Oh? What kind of plans?"

The detective shrugged. "Anything but being surrounded by idiots and eating rainbow colored ice lollies."

Molly sighed. "So, I take it that you didn't have a good time?"

Sherlock sipped his coffee and merely shrugged, his eyes focused on Molly. "It's nothing personal. I rarely have a good time outside of solving a case."

Molly smiled sadly and grabbed the cup Sherlock had sat down, taking a sip. "Right. That's unfortunate. Could we change that?"

"Unlikely."

"We won't know unless we try though, right?"

The detective sat down in front of his favorite microscope and again shrugged. "Do you have any suggestions for things that would allow me to have a good time?"

Molly sighed and tapped her fingertips against the cold material of her desk, her eyes watching Sherlock. "At the moment, no. You're not easy to suggest hobbies too. You like solving murders, running experiments on body parts, shooting bullets into the wall, stabbing things, playing the violin and… insulting people."

Sherlock nodded. "Wonderful observations, Molly."

"I can't exactly suggest that you try baking or, I don't know, go for a run."

At the suggestion, Sherlock tensed up. "A run? Why would I run?"

Molly just laughed. "I dunno. I've never exactly enjoyed it. But George was telling me how wonderful it can be. Allows him to clear his mind and all that."

Sherlock shook his head and lowered his face to the microscope, quickly placing a new slide in the instrument. "Clear his mind? And what exactly would a well-paid number cruncher need to clear his mind of?"

Molly frowned at the return of his rude tone. "I don't know, Sherlock. But you're not the only person with demons."

Sherlock merely laughed and continued to look at the specimen below him. "Well, if it works for the accountant, it must surely work for me."

Molly crossed her arms and rose to her feet. "Sherlock, must you be an arse? He's a nice guy. And he's Mrs. Hudson's nephew."

Sherlock finally looked up from the microscope and couldn't help but glare at Molly. "Oh? So, if someone is kin, that makes them trustworthy?"

Molly made a face. "Oh, get on with it Sherlock! If you want to throw a bunch of accusations my way about him committing tax fraud, or dying his hair, or having three wives on four continents, you might as well do it now!"

The detective rose to his feet and continued his intense gaze. "Is it really so wrong that I want to protect you? That I want you to know when there's potential for you to get hurt?"

Molly laughed and shook her head. She approached the detective and poked his chest. "No, Sherlock, that is not what that is! You like to be in control. You get to control me with all of this magical information you have. And sometimes, it's a load of bull!"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Jim was—"

Molly gave him a dangerous look. "Just because I went on a few dates with Moriarty does not mean I'm incapable of seeing what's wrong with someone!"

Molly began to pace, Sherlock watching her expectantly. She suddenly stopped and resumed her gaze on him.

"Sure, Tom had loads of problems. He snored a ton, spent way too much money on gambling, and his relationship with his mum was a lot to handle. But he was still a good guy! He cared about me."

Molly shook her head and grabbed her files, her back turned to Sherlock.

"Most people have no issue moving past whatever demons control them. Look at John. He's seen and experienced so much. But at his core, he's a genuinely nice bloke. But you, Sherlock? You let your demons and your bloody pride control every move you make and every emotion you feel."

Molly shook her head and moved towards the door. "I gotta go Sherlock. I have to get some work done if I'm ever going to leave at 6 for my date."

With those words, the petite pathologist disappeared out of her office, leaving Sherlock to absorb her meaning.

My pride?

Sherlock scoffed.

I'm the most genuine, humble man around.

Sherlock popped the collar of his jacket and stormed out of her office, unreasonably angry at a bloke called George and a certain aerobic exercise.

Xxx

Molly dug into her pasta, her cheeks a pleasant flush from her handsome company, and her eyes focused on the gentleman across from her. George just smiled.

"My Aunt helped me pick a lovely flat up in Chelsea. I quite like it. You'll have to come by and see it," George remarked, following his words with a forkful of rigatoni.

Across from him, Molly beamed. "I'd love to. I wish I could give some design advice, but unfortunately I don't have the keenest eye for that sort of thing."

George laughed, his voice rich and earthy. "Not a problem. Once I'm settled in, I want to cook for you. Anything your stomach desires, I'll prepare. My treat."

Molly blushed and bit her lip. "I'd love that."

The hazel-eyed man grinned. "Sounds like another date then."

"I sure hope so."

The couple continued to feast on their over-priced pasta, Molly slowly being wooed by discussions of adventures all over the world and recipes gone awry, and her companion by beautiful chocolate eyes and the most genuine heart he had ever encountered.

Xxx

Approximately one tube change and six stops over, a different scene was transpiring at Baker Street. Sherlock sat at his desk, his laptop open, newspapers covering his desk, and his hands filled with bunches of his curly hair.

"This isn't possible!" He practically growled, his eyes glued to the LinkedIn profile of one George Wick.

John walked into the sitting room from the kitchen, Rosie strapped to his chest in a baby-carrying contraption. He looked at Sherlock and raised an eyebrow.

"Something amiss, Sherlock?"

The detective growled. "No, no, NO!"

John sighed and sat in his old chair, his hands gently combing Rosie's soft locks. "Sherlock."

"SHUT UP!"

John shut his eyes and counted to 10 (a wonderful trick he had taught himself when dealing with Sherlock) before opening his eyes and returning his gaze to the detective.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock hissed and finally turned to look at John, his curls askew from his hands pulling at the strands. "I can't find anything."

"You can't find anything on what? Did you get a new case and not tell me?"

The detective rolled his eyes. "Of course not, John. Don't be an idiot."

John sighed. "Clearly I'm missing something."

"Obviously."

John leaned his head back on the chair, suddenly questioning his own presence at Baker Street. He sat back up when he heard Sherlock rise to his feet.

"It's that bloody accountant. I can't find anything terrible on him."

John blinked. "The accountant?"

Sherlock growled. "Yes John, the accountant."

John moved his eyes to the somehow asleep Rosie and racked his brain for any accountants they knew. He thought back to the party the previous evening, and his five-minute conversation with Mrs. Hudson's nephew.

"You're referring to Mrs. Hudson's nephew. George."

"Obviously."

"Why are you looking for terrible—" John stopped speaking, his face slowly rising into a smirk. Sherlock noticed his expression and glared.

"What?"

"Molly is going on a date with him, isn't she?"

Sherlock crossed his arms. "Why do you ask?"

John laughed. "Well, he asked me about her. Seemed rather taken after their conversation. And after you left, they spent the remainder of the afternoon together."

The doctor kissed Rosie's head, his eyes still locked on Sherlock. "Oh, and of course the fact that you always stalk Molly's dates in desperate attempts to prevent them from occurring."

This time Sherlock just blinked. "I don't 'stalk' her dates. Don't be ridiculous."

"Oh, Sherlock, believe me, I'm not."

Sherlock scowled and began to pace the room, not bothering to pay any extra attention to John's words. "I've spent three hours scouring every one of my contacts and databases for something dirty on him and the worst thing I could bloody find was a parking ticket for four years ago in Manchester! No crazy ex-wives, no secret children, no tax evasion, nothing!"

John couldn't help but smirk. "That's a good thing, yeah? That means you can give Molly your seal of approval."

The detective narrowed his eyes at John and turned away, instead focusing his attention out the window and on the hustle and bustle of Baker Street. From behind him, John just continued to smirk.

"But you don't want to give her your seal of approval. You want to tell her she can't date him."

Sherlock growled. "I don't care who Molly dates, as long as they aren't intent on destroying the state or the bloody world."

John laughed, earning another glare from Sherlock. "Why won't you just admit what this is really about?"

"Which is?" Sherlock practically hissed.

John just smirked again. "Use those investigatory skills. Or better yet, ask Mycroft. He knows everything."

With that, John jumped to his feet and slid into his coat. He looked once more at Sherlock.

"You know, Sherlock, I reckon you've just walked head first into your biggest case of all."

John opened the door and gave Sherlock one last infuriating smirk.

"Good luck with that."

The doctor disappeared with his daughter, leaving Sherlock for the second time that day at a loss for words.

What bloody case? What in God's name is that idiot talking about?

Sherlock glanced around the room, before landing back on his open laptop. He immediately returned to his seat and began typing furiously away on the keys.

He had to find something.

He just… had to.