"One cannot be always laughing at a man without now and then stumbling on something witty."

Xxx

About two months passed, in which Sherlock and Molly's relationship returned to relatively normal. Sherlock and John went about cases, frequently using Molly's skillset. Every week or so would bring Sherlock back to St. Bart's, requesting a new body part to experiment on. And occasionally, somehow always on evenings that George was not around, Sherlock would show up at her flat, a tin of Fancy Feast and a carton of triple chocolate ice cream in his arms.

However, unlike before, a tension radiated in the air every time they were together. Between Sherlock's longing glances in her direction (even he could not camouflage those as well as he did in the past—in fact, John had only ever seen him look at cigarettes with the same longing) and Molly going out of her way to avoid even brushing sides with him, something was clearly amiss.

And everyone noticed, too. Although only John and Mycroft were privy to Sherlock's confession, it hadn't taken Sherlock-level deducing to discover the man's feelings. While Mrs. Hudson had been introduced to the possibility of Sherlock being in love with Molly, she hadn't believed it for herself until she witnessed him writing away in his chair, his violin in his arms, a determined look about him.

She knew that look.

It was the look of a man in love.

Upon glancing at the music sheet, and seeing the words "Molly's Waltz", she couldn't help but smile. She never needed confirmation. But oh, the moral dilemma! How could she choose between her dearest Sherlock and her favorite nephew Georgie?

Of course, along with Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade noticed the change as well. Whenever Molly stopped by the office (which she only recently began to do again), he couldn't believe Sherlock's change in tone and posture the minute the brunette strutted into the room. She could be discussing a bloody murdered mother of three and Sherlock would gaze at the woman like she created the world.

Lestrade was proud of Sherlock, but equally as concerned.

When Anderson noticed Sherlock's infatuation (it turns out he was still horrible at deducing—he only knew after overhearing John and Lestrade talking about it), he was now certain that his theory on Sherlock's "death" was entirely accurate.

Donovan found out from Anderson and proceeded to vomit into the closest bin. Turned out she was two months pregnant.

And lastly, it was largely accepted within their circle that George also knew of Sherlock's… affections, and preferred to ignore the situation, deciding that Sherlock was not a threat to his happiness.

John wondered if that was true as he sat at the dining table on Baker Street, Rosie sitting on his lap, scribbling away on a sheet of paper with crayons. Sherlock was doing some of his own scribblings, except on a giant map on the wall.

"Oh, that isn't bloody possible. As if a moron like Bill Tuttle could get from Surrey to Brighton in such little time. We're missing something." He turned to John, placing his index fingers together and balancing his chin on the digits, "What are we missing?"

John shrugged and ate a crisp, continuing to bounce Rosie up and down. "Beats me. Maybe the bloke can fly. Or has super speed."

Sherlock growled and turned around, giving John a dirty look. "Can you pretend to be interested?"

John sighed and nodded. "Right. Sorry. Just a bit distracted. That's all."

"Yes. I'm aware. You have a date tomorrow evening."

John blanched. "Sherlock, how could you possibly know that?"

Sherlock waved his hand with an eyeroll. "Would you like the short answer or the long answer?"

John just glared and shoved another crisp in his mouth.

"Lovely. Both. Well, for starters, you shaved for the first time in months. You're nervous eating. I had to sit with you as you tried clothes on at M&S. It's rather obvious."

He turned back to the map. "And of course, you leave your mobile around entirely too much. I saw your Tinder account. You should also know that I included mention of your lactose intolerance—while you have chosen to disregard it, considering your penchant for strawberry ice cream, I rather your dates not learn the hard way."

John growled and tossed a crisp at him. "Oh, fuck off you twit! Do you have any personal boundaries?"

"No. Anyhow, to ease some of your concerns, I graciously accept babysitting Rosie for the evening, as well as telling you the false narrative of 'you'll do great'."

John narrowed his eyes. "Wow, Sherlock, thank you. But no need. I will do just fine. Emma is a widow. She… She understands."

Sherlock momentarily frowned and looked over his shoulder, resting his eyes on his friend. He sighed. "I understand that this is hard for you. That you haven't dated anyone since... At any rate, I don't think you'll do great." Sherlock turned around and gave John a small smile, "I reckon you'll do wonderful."

John couldn't help but laugh. "Thanks for the sincerity, you dick. With your faith, surely we'll be fine."

Sherlock nodded. "Exactly. Now. When should I expect Rosie?" he asked, glancing at the happy blonde baby, still scribbling away.

"Oh," John bit his lip and looked at Rosie, before back at Sherlock, "Thanks for offering but Molly is actually going to babysit her. I figured she could use some time with another female."

Sherlock swallowed and gave a curt nod, before making up his mind. "Right. Then what time should I expect Molly and Rosie?"

John couldn't hide the grin that grew on his face. "I reckon 6:30 would do."

"Good."

Sherlock turned back to the map, his eyes darting between each of the spots circled. From behind him, John yawned and continued to munch away on crisps.

"Should we get some food? Pizza, maybe?" John asked, as usual, with a one-track mind.

Sherlock gasped and threw his hands in the air. "That's it! The pizza man who was cycling!"

John blinked and shook his head, deciding that asking for clarification wouldn't even be worth it. At least they could get some food and sleep now.

"Pizza it is."

Xxx

Please arrive at Baker Street at 6:30. Dinner will be provided. – SH

Bring an umbrella. It will rain. – SH

Please bring the cat along. – SH

Could you tell John not to wear a fedora on his date? He won't listen to me. – SH

Never mind. Solved the problem. – SH

Any idea why he's angry that I burned his hat in the sink? It was awful. – SH

Molly glanced at her mobile once more, overwhelmed to see Sherlock returning to his old texting habits. While he still texted her occasionally, he hadn't texted her at this frequency in at least five months. It was almost refreshing to have her Sherlock back.

She shivered and pulled her jacket closer, cautious of Toby's cage in her left arm.

He's not your Sherlock. He's just your friend, Sherlock Holmes. The famous detective. It doesn't matter if he's fit with big, blue eyes. He's a dick and you have a nice boyfriend.

Molly sighed and climbed the stairs in 221 Baker Street, her mind on overdrive. When she agreed to watch Rosie so John could go on his date, she was not informed that she would also be babysitting Sherlock. In fact, prior to Sherlock's first text message, the only indication she had received was a short, uninformative text from John.

I'm sorry in advance. – JW

She shook her head and entered the building, climbing the last of the stairs to face the front door of the flat. It would be a pleasant evening, she promised herself, as she knocked on the door.

What could go wrong?

Sherlock opened the door and gave her a small smile. She glanced from his face to his chest, where Rosie was currently strapped against, gnawing away on a teething toy. She squealed at the sight of Molly and threw her toy. Molly couldn't help but laugh.

"Hello, Molly. Hello, cat. Please enter."

Molly walked inside and set Toby's cage down, before quickly sliding out of her shoes and hanging her jacket up. She took Toby out and looked at Sherlock with a raised eyebrow.

"So. Why did I need to bring Toby?"

Sherlock grinned. "Well, I rather like the cat. Besides, I wanted to see Rosie interact with him." Sherlock pulled Rosie out of her carrier and sat in his seat, placing the young girl on the ground.

Molly raised an eyebrow but sat in John's chair, setting Toby down on the unfamiliar terrain. Rosie glanced at the cat, entranced, before crawling over to the animal. She gently pet his fur, earning a small purr from Toby.

Then, to Molly's surprise and Sherlock's delight, the cat dropped to Rosie's feet, snuggling into her tiny knees. Rosie squealed and sat down, holding the cat close to her.

Molly's mouth dropped open. "He…. He never is that friendly to anyone! Except me."

"And me," Sherlock added, delightfully. "But, it appears that animals, as do humans, have a soft spot for small children."

Molly smiled a bit and nodded. "I just think he likes being held. I've been so busy that I haven't paid him much attention recently," she told him, a sigh escaping her lips as she finished.

"Well, if it's any consolation, cats enjoy being left alone. Kind of like myself. So, don't feel too bad."

She nodded and sat on the ground as well, quickly snapping a few photos of Toby and Rosie. She looked over at Sherlock with a grin. "I'll have to print these. Give one to John. Maybe put one on my fridge."

Sherlock shifted in his seat and nodded. "That's kind of you. I'm sure he would like that."

Molly nodded and watched Toby and Rosie for a few moments, silence filling the room. She glanced over at Sherlock, who was now busily texting away on his mobile.

"So… John. A date. How is he doing?"

Sherlock shrugged and continued to text. "I believe he is doing fine. But. What do I know?"

"A lot, I hope. He is your best mate."

"Indeed. But, he lies on his Tinder profile, so there's little I can do to spare him."

Molly just laughed, practically snorting. "He lies? Define 'lie'."

Sherlock scowled. "Alright, perhaps lie was a bit extreme of a word choice. But he certainly wasn't open about a few things. Such as his height, or his lactose intolerance, or the fact that he spent 800 quid on tickets to see one of the Rolling Stones' many farewell concerts."

She giggled and moved closer to Rosie and Toby, joining Rosie's cautious petting of Toby's fur. She glanced back at Sherlock with an amused grin on her face.

"Well, Sherlock, you don't need to be that open with people when you start dating. Especially on a first date. If he likes this woman, he'll disclose all of that."

Sherlock scowled and crossed his arms. "I'm sure."

Molly frowned. "That's not what this is about."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Yes, Molly?"

She sighed and scooted to the bottom of Sherlock's chair, sitting so her torso lined up with his legs.

God, why is he so bloody fit?

Molly frowned and looked up at the detective. "You're worried about him. About his first time dating after Mary. It's okay to be concerned about him getting hurt."

Sherlock looked to the floor, watching Rosie and Toby play. "I wouldn't have to be worried about him if Mary were still here."

Molly frowned and put her hand on his knee, causing him to quickly glance at her before back at Rosie. "You can't think like that. Right now, all we can do is support John. If he's happy, then we can be happy."

Sherlock frowned and nodded. "He's just… Done so much for me. Helped me through…" He stopped talking, his eyes still locked on Rosie's small form.

Molly swallowed, suddenly feeling her throat tighten, knowing exactly what Sherlock was referring to.

The room became quiet, sans the soft purrs of Toby and Rosie's periodic squeal or giggle. About ten minutes passed before Molly rose to her feet, looking over at Sherlock, who sat with his eyes shut.

She sighed. "Sherlock, you said dinner would be provided?"

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at Molly. "Yes. I assumed you would be providing it."

Molly groaned and shook her head, mumbling to herself about his nerve. "I assume the fridge has no food?"

"That would be an accurate assumption."

"Splendid. Takeaway it is."

Xxx

Molly and Sherlock sat in front of the telly, rain beating against the windows, as the final moments of Frozen played across the screen. He groaned and shifted, before looking over at Molly, who watched, completely entranced. He groaned.

Figures she'd enjoy a load of bollocks like this.

"Is there a reason we're still watching this film after Rosie was put the bed?"

Molly looked over at Sherlock and shook her head. The credits began to roll.

"Because. I'm not going to watch 75 percent of a film and then just to stop. I need to know what happens to Elsa, and if Anna and Kristoff get together, and if the adorable reindeer and snowman show back up."

Sherlock scowled. "I just lost two hours of my life."

Molly sighed and turned the film off. "Well, I'm sorry you didn't like it. I happened to think it was adorable."

"As I would expect. It was exactly your type of film."

"Oh. And how is that?"

"Princesses, magic, true love. That sort of thing."

Molly sighed and hugged her knees to her chest, wondering how much of that was true. "I don't know. Some great fictional characters have ruined the idea of true love for me."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

"Yes. Hans could finish Anna's sentences but was an evil dick. Ken broke up with Barbie. Derek dies in season 11. Don't even get me started on Matthew dying in season 3. And then there's…" she sighed and laughed, looking back over at Sherlock, who watched her with more interest than she expected, "Mr. Darcy, who managed to be the world's biggest prick and the epitome of a gentleman at the same bloody time."

She leaned back, letting her head rest against the top of the chair. She couldn't help but laugh again. "Some guys are just too perfect. They're out of reach. Not real. Then there are the average blokes, who we expect way too much from. Then we have the bloody arseholes who we obsess over,"

Sherlock flinched, seemingly accepting that definition as a knock at him.

"And then we have the good ones, who just die too soon. Or they just up and leave. But where's my Mickey Mouse? Where's my Mr. Bingley? Where's my Mr. Knightley?"

Her eyes welled up, forcing her to take a deep breath before continuing, "You'd think at my age I'd learn to accept that true love is a joke. That soul mates don't exist. Don't you remember questioning my belief in them? Well, you were right. They don't exist."

Sherlock stared at the blank telly, his mind on overdrive, his ears grasping onto every one of her words like it would be the last time he'd hear her voice.

Molly glanced over at Sherlock, suddenly feeling sick to her stomach. She covered her mouth and rose to her feet, disgusted with herself for discussing love, and expectations, and hurt, in front of a man who had confessed his feelings to her.

She wandered into the kitchen, scrambling for a glass of water. She took a gulp and held onto the counter, angry at herself for her words, her thoughts, her actions.

The what ifs.

Sherlock's voice pulled her from her thoughts. "And George?"

Molly froze, her gaze locked on the half-empty glass of water. "I haven't decided yet. But I reckon I can be happy without true love. I'm running out of time."

"Don't sacrifice your happiness for a societal timeline, Molly Hooper. I asked you if you'd be happy dying right here, right now. And you told me no. And at the top of your list of things you wanted to achieve before death?"

Sherlock sighed and shook his head, surprised by his own words. "You wanted to be with your soul mate. Don't abandon that dream because you think you have to do something. Don't settle for someone who doesn't deserve you. Someone you don't love."

Molly frowned and looked at Sherlock. He rose to his feet and looked at her one final time.

"I'll be heading to bed now. John should be here momentarily. Have a good evening, Molly."

Sherlock disappeared down the hallway, leaving Molly with eyes full of tears and angry rain attacking the windows.

I think I believe in soul mates now. I reckon you're mine.

Xxx

John never learned how the evening transpired. When he arrived at Baker Street, Molly was brief and polite, but clearly distant. Sherlock had disappeared to his room.

To be frank, John didn't really care. He met a beautiful woman, shared a kiss, and his daughter was sound asleep, ready to go home.

He considered speaking to Sherlock, but ultimately decided against it. He could tell that something happened.

At any rate, he was bloody tired.

And so, he and Rosie departed Baker Street, leaving Sherlock alone to wallow in his own thoughts.

Sherlock's like a cat. He enjoys the solitude.

But John was starting to believe that was no longer true.