Nothing cleared the cobwebs from Molly's head like a brisk walk on the treadmill. And when she had Kelly Clarkson's "Stronger" cranked up, she felt as if she could take on the world, or at least feel better about the situation with Sherlock.

She had lain in bed mulling over what Sarah had said about him not being right for her, no matter how much she loved him. Perhaps her friend was right. The day after their first date had passed without word from him. Molly hadn't expected him to text, but maybe she secretly hoped he would. Now it was Saturday and still nothing. Deciding against feeling sorry for herself, she headed to the gym but kept an eye on her phone.

Molly made a game up of not checking her mobile until she had walked another mile. Now finishing her sixth mile, she felt a little pathetic, Kelly Clarkson or not. As she slowed her pace and removed her ear buds, the middle-aged woman on the treadmill next to her smiled in a friendly way.

"My first day at the gym," the woman panted. "I'm trying to work up to a mile."

Molly smiled. "Good for you."

Gesturing to Molly's mobile, the woman said, "Your young man. He hasn't called?"

The pathologist grimaced. "Is it that obvious?"

"Let's just say I've been there, done that," the woman laughed. "How long have you two been dating?"

"One week tomorrow." Molly took her pace down to a crawl. "We've known each other for years, though."

"Does he usually call you a lot?" the woman asked.

"No." Molly bristled a little. "I was just hoping… I don't know, that maybe since we're dating that he would start."

"May I offer a little advice, dear?"

Not seeing a way to avoid the well-intentioned woman, Molly nodded politely.

"When I married Frank, I hoped he would stop going to the pub after work. After I ate a lot of dinners alone, I realized he wasn't going to change. So, I either joined him for a pint or we ate later. All of this is to say, if this young man didn't call you before last week, don't expect him to change now." With a wave, the woman stopped her treadmill and walked off.

Molly frowned as she wiped down the equipment. The woman had been nosy, but what she said rang true. Sherlock sent her texts only when he wanted something or had important information to convey. He wasn't going to change his behavior because they went on one date. Feeling considerably more at peace, Molly headed home to change.

~s~s~s~s~

Around the time Molly was finishing mile number one, John opened the door of 221B Baker Street for their client.

"Ms. De Silva, please come in."

"The funeral is soon," she said shortly, taking off large sunglasses to reveal bloodshot eyes. "I can't be late."

"I will be brief then." Sherlock looked like a triumphant Cheshire cat. "The police have released the homeless man and arrested Grace Dunbar for your sister's murder."

Faltering as she lowered herself into John's chair, Luciana's eyes widened. "Grace?"

"Grace Dunbar, the young woman with whom Neil Gibson was having an affair, attacked Maria at Thor Bridge."

"It wasn't Neil?"

With a small smile, Sherlock shook his head. "I discovered circumstantial evidence that placed Grace at the crime scene. Once I presented those facts to Detective Inspector Lestrade, he began to consider her as a suspect."

Near tears, Luciana turned her liquid brown eyes to John. "I don't understand. Why would Grace kill Maria?"

John handed her a cup of tea. "It goes back to Gibson."

Clasping his hands behind his back, Sherlock walked slowly back and forth as he began to explain.

"Gibson no doubt said whatever it took to convince Grace to sleep with him. Maybe he even told her he would get a divorce. For him, she was a conquest, nothing special, one in a long line of meaningless one-night stands. What he did not know was that Grace is of a particular disturbed temperament. She took his promises at face value. Her so-called love for your brother-in-law grew into something dark and twisted.

"She believed that if Maria was out of the picture, she could be with Gibson," the detective continued. "She knew your sister's habit of running on Sunday mornings and waited for her beneath Thor Bridge. It was there that the unique combination of water, dirt, and certain plant life stained her white shoes pink, which you saw. As much as she tried to clean them, around the laces and near the tongues there are still distinctive pink stains, which I noticed when I pretended to drop my mobile at her feet. In addition, she had a large scratch on the back of her hand that she received from an angry mother cat that lives beneath the bridge."

"That seems very circumstantial," Luciana said dubiously.

"True," agreed John. "But because of Gibson's affair with Grace, Lestrade came to see that he needed to consider this angle. Sherlock challenged him to at least have the crime lab check out Grace's shoes."

"Although he resisted at first, Gibson allowed the police to search his home yesterday," Sherlock said. "Fortunately for us, Miss Dunbar had left her shoes in the laundry room. Because Gibson as owner of the house had given his permission for the police to search, she could have no expectation of privacy in a common area. Lestrade got the crime lab to test the stains quickly, which proved to be definitive as was the decorative gravel from the pond area that had become lodged into the grooves of the soles."

"It was enough to bring Grace in for questioning," John said. "After applying pressure in the interrogation room, Lestrade got her to confess. She is quite unbalanced."

Sherlock's pale face was drawn. "I do not think in any of my previous cases I have ever run across a stranger case of what perverted love can bring about."

With tears spilling over, Luciana hastily put on her sunglasses. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes. I'm grateful there is justice for my sister."

"Where is her service to be held?" John asked as the three walked to the door.

"Our Lady of Peace. That's also where she will be buried."

"You loved him very much," the detective stated unexpectedly.

"What?" Luciana whirled around. Her cool and sophisticated demeanor began to show cracks.

"There is a thin line between love and hate, or so I am told. You once loved Neil Gibson very much."

Luciana's lower lip trembled. "But he always preferred Maria."

~s~s~s~s~

After drumming his fingers relentlessly, Sherlock shocked John by announcing, "I want to go to the graveside service."

Normally Sherlock wouldn't have attended a victim's funeral, especially after he had solved the case. But as he told John on the way to the cemetery, he had his reasons for wanting to see Gibson one last time. By the time they arrived, mourners already had scattered like dark flower petals across the monument-strewn lawn. Gibson, decked out in a new black suit, waved those that remained away from him. He stood alone by the bier holding a single white rose.

"Your client has already left with the children," Gibson said as the pair approached.

"We are here to pay our respects," said John coldly.

"My children are without a mother because I set in motion a chain of events that led to her murder," Gibson said in uncommon self-reflection. "She would be alive if it weren't for me."

The detective rested his piercing blue eyes on the white coffin. "That is true."

The tycoon smirked. "You don't soften the blow any, do you, Holmes? You're like me in many ways."

Sherlock gave him a strange look.

"I did love her," Gibson said offhandedly.

"Then why did you cheat on her?" John asked in disgust.

The "Gold King" tossed the rose on the casket. "I never claimed to be a saint, Dr. Watson."

"I think I hate that man," John said to Sherlock as they returned to their waiting cab. "Why did you need to see him?"

When Sherlock didn't answer, John continued his rant. "Maria loved him, but he cheated on her. Luciana loved him, but he drove her to hate him. Grace loved him after he manipulated her into having sex with him. In the end, one is dead, one is in mourning, and one has been arrested for murder. What kind of charm did he have?"

"It was their youth and naïveté. Think about it, John. Luciana and Maria were just girls when they met him. Grace is rather young and sheltered."

"He's a bastard."

"I do not want to be like him," Sherlock said sharply.

John looked at him in surprise. "You aren't."

Raising his eyebrows, the detective stared at his best friend pointedly. "Gibson is cold, intelligent, manipulative, focused."

John sharply drew in a breath. "Oh! I see how you might think there are similarities, but Gibson is heartless. You care deeply. I know you do."

Chewing on his thumbnail, Sherlock stared out the cab window. "I may have been an arse with Molly the other night."

"That's putting it mildly."

Sherlock nodded slightly. "I would like your help in putting together a dinner at Baker Street to make it up to her."

John grinned. "There may be hope for you and her yet."

~s~s~s~s~

"Boys! What on earth are you doing?"

Alarmed at the sound of furniture being dragged across the floor, Mrs. Hudson hurried up the stairs to Sherlock's flat. She discovered John cleaning the kitchen within an inch of its life and Sherlock moving the smaller pieces of furniture out of the living room.

"Sherlock is having a romantic dinner with Molly tonight," John called over the banging of pots and pans.

"How nice," she exclaimed. "How are you going to decorate?"

"I thought we'd hang some of those little twinkly lights on the mantle," John said.

"We are moving the kitchen table in to the living room," Sherlock reported.

"Do you have china?" she asked.

"We have dishes."

"You want to set a nice table, don't you? Put out good china. That's important. And a nice tablecloth?"

Noticing the two men exchange a baffled look, Mrs. Hudson smiled understandingly. "What time is Molly coming over?"

"I did not ask her yet," Sherlock realized. "I will send her a text."

Like a general taking charge of her troops, Mrs. Hudson gave him a curt nod. "I'll just help a little, shall I? Let's start by sending her some roses."

~s~s~s~s~

Between Mrs. Hudson and John, the flat was spotless and, one might say, beautiful. The two had spent the afternoon planning every detail of the evening, running out to pick up something, and decorating. Feeling strangely out of place in his own rooms, Sherlock settled on picking out the music. He wanted to play some Sibelius, but Mrs. Hudson said it made her anxious, so he relented and put on Mozart.

When they had finished, strings of little lights intertwined with gossamer ribbon looped over the mantel and hung from the curtain rods. Covered by Mrs. Hudson's lovely a white damask tablecloth, Sherlock's kitchen table was centered on in the middle of the living area. A purple table runner stretched from one end of the table to the other and in the middle of it was a bouquet of mixed blossoms and several soft-burning white pillar candles. The table was set with Mrs. Hudson's understated white china rimmed in gold and crystal wine glasses. Warming in the oven was dinner from Angelo's.

"Thank you," Sherlock said, kissing Mrs. Hudson on the cheek as she was leaving.

"Have a wonderful evening, dear."

"Remember to apologize," John cautioned as he put on his jacket.

Sherlock sneered. "You may not believe me, but I do want my understanding with Molly to get back on the right track."

John snorted derisively, causing Sherlock to look over sharply. "What is so funny?"

"When are you going to just call this what it is?" John said. "It's not an 'understanding'; it's love."

"I do not know how to love anyone." Sherlock's voice was flat.

"I know that's what you think. But that doesn't mean you don't love," John said simply. "Try not to mess it up, yeah?"

~s~s~s~s~

Molly had just gotten ready to head out for the afternoon when the red roses arrived. Tucked in the tissue paper was a card that read, "Dinner tonight at eight. 221B Baker Street. SH." She had spent the rest of the day in bubbly anticipation.

She lighted out of the cab and practically danced up the stairs to Sherlock's flat. The door stood wide open so she walked in and stood in awe at the effort he had obviously put into the evening.

"This is lovely! Oh, these are fairy lights!" Molly cried in delight.

"You came," Sherlock observed as he crossed the room. "I am glad you like it. That blouse is a very good choice for your coloring."

As Molly looked down at the green silk, Sherlock added awkwardly, "I like it."

Blushing, she looked around the apartment. "I can't believe you did all of this. The roses, the table, everything is beautiful."

As he pulled out her chair, Sherlock asked stiffly, "Would you like some wine?"

"That sounds wonderful." Molly watched the detective carefully. He was behaving properly, but his body language was wrong. He looked as if he was ready to jump out of his skin. "Is something wrong?"

"Why do you ask?" Sherlock filled her glass.

"You aren't acting like yourself."

"I want to make amends for the other night." Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. "Would you like to eat now? The food is in the oven. It is from Angelo's. It should be satisfactory."

Molly wasn't fooled by his fake pleasant smile. "Sherlock, please tell me what's wrong."

With a sigh, Sherlock dropped into his chair.

"I didn't do this," he admitted quietly.

"Do what?"

"This dinner. John and Mrs. Hudson arranged it all." He punched every sentence. "Romance is not my area."

"It's OK." Molly reached for his hand, but he pushed away from the table.

Standing by the window, the silver moonlight hit the high planes of his angular face. "I am not like most men."

Molly smiled and took a sip of wine. "And you think I don't know that? The man who beats corpses in my morgue with a riding crop? Who keeps thumbs in a Mason jar? No, you aren't like most men. You're Sherlock Holmes."

He looked at her darkly. "I recently met someone who served as a mirror for some of my worst qualities."

"How so?"

Sherlock only shook his head. "Perhaps it would be best if we stopped our understanding now."

To his surprise, Molly didn't become upset. Instead she daintily wiped her mouth and returned the cloth napkin to the table. "Oh, no you don't. You aren't getting out of this that easily."

Sherlock locked eyes with her as she stood. "You do not seem to perceive what I am like."

"I told you I needed to learn something from my time with Todd. And before him Moriarty." She paused as Sherlock sneered at the names. "I didn't see them for who they really were. I saw only what I wanted to see. With you, however, I know exactly what I'm in for. And I'm all in."

"Then you are a fool," he muttered indistinctly.

Molly came a few steps closer. "We can do our understanding any way we want to. How about this? I'll let you know what I want to do, like go to an exhibit. You let me know something you would like to do. If we don't agree, we'll work on a compromise, but we'll work on it together."

"Your friendship is one of the two most important of my life." He sounded almost tentative.

"We won't lose what we already have," she reassured him gently. "After dinner, what would you like to do?"

Sherlock breathed in her light, clean perfume. "I have an experiment on blood coagulation in the refrigerator with which I could use your assistance."

Molly deliberately closed the distance between them. "I can help you with that in a little while."

As she reached up and smoothed down the lapels of his suit coat, Sherlock realized much to his surprise that he didn't feel any trepidation standing so close to her. He couldn't quite put his finger on how she made him feel, but he knew he was safe. "What would you like to do, Molly?"

His pathologist took a deep breath. "Kiss."

"Kiss?" Sherlock's rich, baritone voice caught.

"And not a peck on the cheek," Molly said firmly. "I want you to kiss me."

Sherlock took note of her increased respirations and the firm set of her jaw. A picture of determined vulnerability, Molly was resolved to show him that she wasn't going anywhere. She wasn't going to leave him. She was all in.

As the twinkling lights created a shower of stars to fall across her flushed cheeks, he finally realized what it was she made him feel.

Loved.

Overwhelmed by unnamed emotions, Sherlock took her hands in his. Slowly he brought them to his lips and kissed each one as he looked deeply into her warm brown eyes.

"Molly Hooper, I can help you with that right now."

~s~s~s~s~

The End

The Problem of Thor Bridge was the first Sherlock Holmes mystery I saw dramatized on PBS's Mystery! starring Jeremy Brett. I always felt sorry for Mrs. Gibson.