A/N: As promised, here is part 2. Possible Part 3 coming eventually.

Part 2: Six AM

Friendship. He'd been tentatively aiming for friendship. So what, exactly, had gone wrong?

First of all, Molly was yawning and not bothering to cover it up. Fine so far as it went; she'd been talking to him for an hour and a half. But then she had to go and lean back in her chair and stretch. That, later analysis of the early-morning events in his flat would reveal, was the precise moment: when Molly Hooper had leaned back in her chair and stretched.

Sherlock couldn't stop his eyes from tracking the arch of her back or the way her (braless) breasts strained against the thin fabric of her (faded and oversized Sex Pistols 'Anarchy in the UK') t-shirt. Like most small-breasted women he'd observed, she seemed to be under the mistaken impression that a baggy t-shirt was more than adequate camouflage to conceal her lack of a support garment.

Like most heterosexual males, he was more than happy to keep his observations about that misunderstanding strictly to himself.

Sex was distracting and messy and frankly a waste of time, but it was something he was currently rather interested in. And after an hour and a half of not-nearly-as-boring-as-he'd-expected tea and conversation with his new neighbor, he'd come to the conclusion that he hoped sex was something she was interested in as well.

He'd already determined before her arrival in his flat at half four that she wasn't currently in a romantic relationship and had no close female friends with whom she felt comfortable confiding her misery in the wee hours of the morning. She'd indirectly corroborated those deductions during the course of their rambling conversation, which also provided the information that: her father had been dead (cancer) for six months now (but she was still prone to fits of melancholy, as she termed it); that she wasn't very close to her mother (parents divorced when Molly was still a teen); that she missed her cat Toby who'd died when she was ten (mother refused to allow her a new pet); that she was an only child; and that she was in her third year of graduate studies - medical school to be exact.

Also she was exactly five feet two inches tall, had long, straight chestnut hair (currently kept in a sloppy pony-tail), big brown eyes, thin lips (the application of lipstick would go a long way toward improving their visual aesthetic), and would fit perfectly against his body if he pulled her close and started snogging her senseless.

Stop that, he inwardly chastised his overactive libido, which had apparently decided that the best comfort he could give his grieving neighbor was of the horizontal mambo sort.

Somehow he doubted she would be amenable. Certainly not after only two hours' acquaintance. And, of course, the whole 'crying over her father's recent death' thing.

"Tomorrow night," he said…oh crap, aloud. He'd just said that aloud and now Molly was looking at him inquisitively in mid-stretch. "We should, uh, do something. Together. Tomorrow night. Not tonight because obviously you won't be well rested after not sleeping last night and having classes today…we both have them, classes, I mean, and then tonight you'll want to actually sleep, maybe and I really need to because it'll have been 48 hours – not your fault, obviously, but still…"

"Sherlock, what are you…are you asking me on a date?"

He hesitated, running his recent verbal babblings through his mind. "Er, yes?"

Expecting the worst – his social skills were, to be honest, a bit not good – he was pleasantly surprised when she smiled at him. "Even though my eyes are red and I'm dressed in my crappiest clothes and with no make-up on?" She shook her head. "Even looking like this you and after I essentially snuffled on your shoulder for an hour…you want to go out with me?"

He nodded.

"Why? And no," she added, showing off her own (rather impressive) deductive skills, "I don't think it's because you're the type to hit on every woman you meet. Else you'd have sat us on your sofa and let me literally cry on your shoulder, just to have an excuse to put your arms around me."

"Because you're probably one of the least boring people I've met since I transferred to this school," he replied truthfully. "And fine, you're probably not at what you'd consider your best-looking right now, but neither am I, but I can tell you're still attracted to me and obviously you know I'm attracted to you and so we should do…something. Tomorrow night."

"Coffee."

He stared at her, and almost – almost – asked what she meant, when her meaning caught up to his sleep-deprived mind. "Coffee. Yes." He nodded, just in case she needed a visual to go along with his verbal agreement. "Tomorrow night?"

"Tomorrow night," she said with a smile as she stood up. He watched as she carried both empty mugs over to his already-full sink and sat them on the countertop. "That twenty-four hour place down the road…Angelo's, right?"

"Yeah." He stood up, knowing that he should have been the one to clear the table, but also knowing (but not sure how he knew) that having something so simple and domestic to do was helping her. Just like offering her the tea and a (grudgingly at first) sympathetic ear was the right thing to do. Oh yes, he definitely owed his mother an email.

Molly hesitated by the sink, then walked over to him, got up on her tip-toes, and laid a soft kiss on his cheek. "Thanks, Sherlock. For everything. See you tomorrow night…will sixish do you?"

"Sixish, yeah," he said blankly, still feeling the lingering press of her lips on his cheek. If he'd turned his head, the kiss would have landed on his lips instead…no, no, wrong. Not the right time for kissing, no matter what certain parts of his body were demanding of him.

He was determined not to ruin things. At least not until after tomorrow night.