Molly sat in silence for a long moment. Her sister stared down at her empty plate, as did her husband, steadfastly ignoring each other's eyes. Molly could feel her mother staring at her, could almost hear her open her mouth a few times as she tried to decide what to say, but then close it in indecision. It was a while before she was able to finally get a few words out, her voice hoarse and uncertain.

"Molly? Is that true?" she asked softly.

"What?" Molly murmured, "That I lied?"

"No, that's been pretty well established," her mother answered, although not with malice as Molly was expecting, "I mean is it true that you actually feel that way? Do you really think that I look down on you for not being . . . completely successful in relationships? That I don't approve of anyone you care about?"

Molly hesitated. The pained look in her mother's eyes caused a twinge of guilt, and she realized, suddenly that the hurt her mother had caused her had never been intentional. "I -"

"Actually, you don't have to answer that," Elizabeth continued with a sigh, "Of course it's true. It shouldn't have taken Sherlock Holmes to figure that out."

Molly looked up into her mother's eyes, saw the remorse that filled them. A lump formed in her throat. "I shouldn't have lied to you," she said softly, "and I certainly shouldn't have brought Sherlock here tonight. I should have known he'd do something like this . . ."

"No, I'm glad you did," she answered decisively, "It needed to be said, although perhaps you should have been the one to tell me. Perhaps I have been a bit too opinionated about your private life in the past. I just . . . I had just hoped . . ."

"That I'd be more like you? Like Evelyn?" Molly couldn't stop herself. It was time to stop hiding how she felt.

"That you'd be happy!" Her mother said forcefully.

"But I am happy!" Molly protested, "I'm happy with my challenging job and my cluttered flat and my little circle of friends, friends who actually care about who I am instead of what I have. I'd rather spend my money on some good books or music or DVDs than on clothing from pricey boutiques. I'm perfectly content with being single –" perhaps that wasn't completely true- "at least until I find someone who's . . . right. And when I do find someone who's right, I don't want to have to feel like you won't approve of my choice. Won't approve of me."

Her mother looked down at her hands thoughtfully, fingering her wedding ring, the one she had not taken off since her husband's death nearly two decades ago. "Did you ever realize," she said softly, "that my mother did not approve of your father either?"

Molly looked at her in surprise.

"It's true," Elizabeth continued, "He may have been from a wealthy family, but a very private one. No one knew much about them, and rumor was his father had some . . . legal troubles in the past. Or, if not legal, at least moral. But your father was a good man. I knew he was a good man. But my mother, well, she wasn't so sure. She was afraid that, if his father's reputation fell through (which it seemed likely to do), so would the reputation of his son and, by extension, me. She was strongly opposed to our marriage, much more strongly than I've ever been opposed to any of your relationships. But it worked, and I loved him." She looked up at Molly and smiled sadly. "And I was very, very happy. Oh, we had our share of hardships, as all couples do," she glanced over at Evelyn and Charles, grasping her younger daughter's hand, "but we worked through them together. Molly, all I want is for you to be happy, and if that means falling in love with someone I don't necessarily approve of, then so be it. I will respect your decisions, and try" – she smiled apologetically – "not to make you feel uncomfortable with your choice. You are a smart girl, I always knew you were. I just need to trust you to make your own decisions."

Molly choked back a sob. The tears in her eyes were no longer of sadness or anger, and she could find no words to respond. "I . . . I . . . Thank you." It was all she could think of to say.

"No need," her mother responded, "I apologize, actually. Now, don't you think you should go hunt down that inexhaustible young detective of yours?"

Molly looked at her, shocked. "Mom, I told you we're not a couple!"

"Oh, dear," Elizabeth smirked, "I saw the two of you dancing. I may not be the perfect judge of men, but I'm not blind!"

Almost an hour later, Molly stood at the doorstep of 221 Baker Street, still hovering indecisively. Upon leaving the ballroom, she had spent a quarter of an hour pacing up and down the nearby blocks, putting off making a decision for as long as she could. Glittering white flakes fell silently from the sky, but had not yet accumulated enough to blanket the grey slush that was left over from the snowfall earlier in the week. Soon Molly's feet, inadequately covered by her elegant shoes, were soaking wet. She only had a thin shawl covering her bare shoulders, and it wasn't long before the cold forced her to make a decision. She hailed a cab.

"Baker Street, please."

As Mrs. Hudson ushered her in, fussing over her lack of protection against the cold, Molly heard the melancholy notes of Sherlock's violin floating down the stairs.

"He's been playing that since he got back earlier this evening," Mrs. Hudson said, pursing her lips as they made the way up the stairs, "You might as well just walk in. He never answers the door when he's playing the violin. Or when he's correcting the telly. Or thinking about a case. Never, really."

Molly followed her advice hesitantly, peeking silently around the door as she eased it open. Sherlock was standing in the dimly lit flat, the only lights the streetlights glowing through the windows, his eyes closed as he concentrated on the music. He had tossed his black dress jacket over the back of his chair, but had not yet bothered to change out of the rest of his ballroom attire. She wondered if he knew she was there, and was tempted to give in to her desire to simply watch him play for a while, his eyes closed in contentment, swaying gracefully to the tempo. She felt like she was intruding, however, so she cleared her throat awkwardly.

Sherlock opened his eyes and turned his gaze on her, but he continued playing, and did not so much as change his expression. Such behavior would have made Molly extremely uncomfortable in the past, but so many unexpected things had happened that evening, so many bridges crossed, that she returned his piercing gaze unflinchingly. He did not speak a word or drop his gaze, playing flawlessly and unhurriedly until the last slow, poignant notes of the song died away in the air. For a moment, the flat was completely silent, and Molly could feel her heart pounding in her chest. For once, it was not nervousness causing this reaction.

"What was tonight about?" she asked softly.

Sherlock ran one long finger thoughtfully along a string of his violin, before slowly setting it beside the fireplace. He sauntered a couple of steps closer to where Molly stood, taking a deep breath as he lifted his gaze to meet Molly's eyes once more.

"I thought that was obvious."

"No, not so much," Molly admitted, "At first I thought you were just being nice. Probably to get on my good side, maybe cheer me up a bit to make me more agreeable. Then I thought maybe you were genuinely trying to be a friend, get me out of a tough situation. For a while tonight I even wondered . . . I wondered if you were even enjoying yourself. And then, when you said those horrible things about my mother and sister – for god's sake, Sherlock, you caused quite a scene with that divorce comment and all –"

"They'll be fine," Sherlock interrupted, "I was correct to say they were having troubles, but I could tell they'll be fine. I –"

"Of course they'll be fine," Molly cut him off, "I already know that, so there's no need to explain yourself. That's not my point. My point is, when you started in on that, I thought you were trying to be cruel, trying to humiliate me for no apparent reason. Getting back at me for, well, I can't imagine what. Or perhaps just showing off again, regardless of whom it might hurt. But then, what you said after that . . . . I guess I just don't understand. I only asked you to pretend to be my date for one night. This seems to have gone beyond that. Do you have some inexplicable reason you want me to set things right with my family? Make me feel a little better about myself? I just don't –" She fell into silence, not completely sure how to continue, and honestly unable to come up with any further explanation for his behavior.

"It's simply true," Sherlock said, shrugging, "Why do you think I make my deductions? Showing off, yes, that's what I do, but there's nothing wrong with occasionally reasoning through the causes of an individual's behavior. I think I was quite accurate with you, was I not?"

"Well, maybe I am just awkward," Molly shrugged, blushing a bit.

"Hmm, maybe," Sherlock answered, "But I don't think so. And, quite frankly, I'm rarely wrong."

Molly scoffed. "Oh, I've seen you make mistakes plenty of times!"

"Well, not this time," he answered simply, "Besides, it was getting plainly tedious listening to your mother prattle on about how unsatisfactory every living member of the male species in London is. Even if she may be correct. I do regret making you feel uncomfortable though."

"You don't owe me an apology," Molly said softly, "I think your kind comments about me make up for anything you might have done that embarrassed me."

"Kind?" Sherlock looked mystified, "I don't say anything to be kind. I just told you, I was simply telling the truth. Something you could pick up on, perhaps."

Molly saw the good-natured glimmer in his eye and laughed. "Oh, I think you did that for me quite well."

"It won't happen again."

"That's fine. Besides, I would like to try to live up to the high opinion you have of my supposed self-confidence."

Sherlock nodded matter-of-factly. "Good. So it's settled then." He stepped over to his music stand and turned the page on his sheet music, then bent down to pick up his violin, obviously dismissing his unannounced guest.

"One more thing," Molly said hesitantly, feeling unusually bold after their conversation, "Did you really mean it when you said I would make a good partner? For someone I find . . . appropriate, I mean?"

Sherlock pulled up his sleeves a bit and settled the violin into position to play, and seemed to become distracted by his music sheet for a moment. Just as Molly wondered if he was going to answer at all (perhaps she had gone a step too far, and he regretted going so far in his defense of her? Perhaps he had said more than he actually believed, just to make a point?), he broke the silence.

"As I said, I was just telling the truth. I have seen nothing that would make you an undesirable choice for someone interested in finding such a person."

Molly's heart skipped a beat, but she knew no expression of gratitude for his statement was necessary; for Sherlock, this was nothing more than stating a fact. Which, in Molly's opinion, made it just that much more meaningful.

As Sherlock turned towards the window once more, Molly turned to leave, but she hesitated as she settled her hand on the doorknob. There was something else she wanted to say. Something that had been stirring in the back of her mind, nagging at her thoughts, since Sherlock's declaration that evening. Actually, that wasn't quite true; she had sensed it long before. It was probably silly, probably useless, and she was fairly certain that she should not say it at all. But would she regret it if she didn't? Probably. She was unlikely to ever face a better chance to admit it. Still, her hand trembled slightly on the knob, and she had to take several deep breaths to steady her voice.

"You were wrong about one thing, you know," she said, so softly that she was not sure Sherlock could hear her, "You were wrong that I have yet to find anyone worthy of my affections."

No sound came from the other side of the room. She remained perfectly still, listening desperately for some response, although she was not sure exactly what she was wanting anyway. She imagined Sherlock's still form silhouetted against the faint light of the windows, his mind far away, spinning fast than she could imagine as he blocked out all of the sounds and presences around him. She studied the wood pattern of the door in front of her, pockmarked in places from some eccentric activity or another, trying desolately to distract herself from the suffocating silence, to hide her disappointment at the crushing lack of response. How foolish she had been. She willed herself to turn the knob, to leave Baker Street and turn up in the lab the next morning as if this Valentine's Day had never happened . . .

She felt a warm hand gently close around her arm and spun around in surprise, having failed to sense Sherlock's presence behind her. Before she could let out even a gasp of astonishment, his lips closed over hers.

The kiss was warm and soft and slow, everything and nothing that she had hoped for and dreamt about. His lips were gentle and undemanding, and yet somehow more passionate than she could have imagined, and for some reason she imagined him pausing the storm in his mind, the impossibly fast-paced rhythm of his extraordinary life for her alone. She felt their breath merge into one, felt a heartbeat flutter against her chest and distantly wondered whether it was her own or not, felt the heat of his body envelop her, and then her mind went curiously blank. She could barely feel Sherlock's hands burying themselves into her hair, gently cupping the back of her head to pull her closer, deepening the kiss. She almost missed her own sharp intake of breath as his teeth gently grazed her bottom lip, just for a moment, before he again captured her lips in his own.

And then it was over, and Molly was left feeling slightly disoriented as she gazed blurrily up into Sherlock's face. His own dark locks of hair were curiously disarrayed; Molly could only assume it was from her own hands, but already the details of the kiss were fading away like the vestiges of an intangible and nonsensical dream. She longed to capture his lips again to remind herself of the specifics.

The dreamy sheen over Sherlock's own eyes cleared so quickly Molly almost missed it, and before she knew it his bright, clear eyes were boring into hers again. He gave her a practical nod, stepping back decisively, and turned back to his violin.

"The lab, tomorrow," he stated matter-of-factly, certainly not a question at all.

"Tomorrow," her voice came out more hoarsely than she had heard it before, but it was all Molly could manage as she stumbled, bewildered and disheveled, out of the flat.

Molly's mind was spinning so quickly that she was halfway down the street before she noticed the radiant grin spread across her face. She knew the conversation in the lab tomorrow would be very interesting, but Sherlock was right: she was Molly Hooper, and she would be perfectly capable of achieving whatever she set her mind to.