Thanks for reading and reviewing! On a side note, I'm approved on Ao3 under the same username, if you were wondering. I'll probably post some fanart there if I fancy improving my art skills. :)

chapter two;

you know what i'd do for you

Sherlock sat alone in the flat, eyes closed, hands steepled at his lips in his familiar manner. The differences, however, was that he was not in 221B and he was not thinking about the latest crime mystery.

He was thinking about Molly Hooper.

And although she may not have been the cause of a murder or a break in, she was still rather a mystery.

His blue eyes blinked open, pressing his hands into the armrest and hoisting himself up. His eyes traveled across the room habitually for his violin, which was, of course, not there. He sighed, collapsing back down on the chair with a huff.

How was Molly Hooper, the quiet, socially-awkward lab mouse still so enigmatic? He had thought he'd had her all figured out since the first day that he'd burst into Bart's. She obviously had deep feelings for Sherlock, and often he'd taken advantage of this. An unfamiliar pang of guilt hit in his stomach, and with that he turned his attentions towards himself.

How could someone so…insignificant set afire such…emotions? He had decided long ago that feelings were just something that would hinder his way. He saw many people come to their demise for the fault of sentiments. Love was boring, dangerous, pointless, and that was that.

And yet. He closed his eyes again, drawing her face up in his mind for the hundredth time. Chestnut brown hair, parted to the left (Almost always, ever since he'd told her he liked it. And honestly, he really did), tall button-nose, nervous smile. Wide, deep brown eyes.

He grumbled irritably at himself. Foolish, foolish!

"Sherlock!"

Well, speak of the devil. Though honestly he shouldn't have been so surprised. He was sitting in Molly's flat after all.

She came up the stairs, arms loaded down, he got to his feet and offered help with the groceries. She smiled thankfully and she hobbled after him to the kitchen.

"I heard from John that you never bother to help out with bags," she prodded lightly. He regarded her, a bit surprised. How much had she really heard about him? Did John really blab that much about him?

"Well, change is good, isn't it?" he responded in what he hoped was a similar tone. She beamed widely, putting the milk and perishables in the refrigerator.

"You're happy today."

"I am?"

He was honestly confused now.

"Well, you smile." she said, cheeks pinking. "Not that you never smiled before or anything…I just…" She trailed off, eyes widened as he seemed to draw closer. He returned her stare levelly, and she took a quick breath, looking away, the moment broken as soon as it had started. A dull pain echoed in his chest but he didn't pursue the matter further. He helped with the rest of the items, remembering where things went before retreating to his room and shutting the door.

He flopped down onto the bed chest-first and stifled a loud groan into his pillow. Bloody hell, what this woman did to him.

Meanwhile, Molly Hooper was similarly feeling like a soggy blanket.

She watched him leave suddenly, heard him land on the bed. And if she wasn't mistaken, heard him growl something to himself. She sighed forlornly, shuffling into the living room and reclining on the sofa.

She had taken leave from work, but now it really felt like there was nothing to do in the world. She wished she was cutting up cadavers. Oh, how delightful. How oddly, exclusively delightful.

Toby wandered in again, amber eyes glowing in the mid-morning light. The cat had rubbed up to Sherlock's ankles once in a while, but otherwise, quickly learned to leave the detective-out-of-work alone. He gave a soft mew and she patted her lap. The feline curled up and she stroked him absentmindedly, thinking about her current situation.

After the rather talkative breakfast, which she had loved beyond words, she had left him in her flat and went to Tesco. She had to restrain herself from dancing in the isles, but kept a small, perpetual smile on her face.

She'd come back to a contemplative Holmes who had helped her with the groceries, drew up close to her until their noses nearly touched, then promptly stormed into his room.

Damn him. Damn him and his ice blue eyes, his dark, curly hair, his crazy, brilliant mind—

Oh, Molly was doomed.

She shook her head sharply, forcing thoughts of a particular consulting detective out of it. She tried to focus on the plan instead.

Molly wondered how long Sherlock would have to stay. The evening before, of planning, all he had said after the 'fall' was that he'd have to get preparations with his brother straight in London before going off and extinguishing the web of Moriarty's. She had agreed and not asked anything else because, frankly, she still had quite a bit of preparations herself for the faking of his corpse.

But now, her heart sank at the thought of him leaving.

Her fingers clenched involuntarily into fur and Toby writhed out from under her hand with a yowl. She gasped, whispering apologies to the sullen cat as he stalked away, ignoring her pleas. He'd been replaced, as far as the tomcat was concerned, and obviously not the apple of Molly's eye anymore. She sighed, throwing her head back onto the armrest of the settee.

This plan of his was even more complicated than originally thought.

"Molly Hooper."

She opened her eyes blearily, realizing that she had fallen asleep on the settee. Sherlock loomed over her, and she groaned as she sat up and stretched.

"Would it hurt to call me Molly?" she mumbled sleepily. He shrugged.

"Molly," he said, humoring her. "Mycroft's car should be coming any minute now. And I…" He cocked his head to the site, gazing at her curiously.

"What?" she narrowed her own eyes.

"You look very…aesthetic in sleep, Molly."

"You don't need to compliment me for a favor," she said tiredly, rubbing her eyes and getting to her feet, ignoring his strange choice of words and chalking it up to his social-inadequacy. "You know what I'd do for you." His eyebrows drew together confusedly but she only met his gaze.

"What do you need?" her words echoed the fateful night before, but this time her eyes were clear of tears and she stood with a new sense of assurance. He frowned slightly, intrigued.

"Come with me," he said simply. And though Molly knew that he merely meant for her to accompany him to Mycroft's place, a strange thought that he somehow meant more crossed her mind. She nodded silently, grabbing her coat and purse and following his quick strides out the door. They stepped out onto the street just as the black car pulled up. He opened the door for her first, and as she stooped to sit down into the leather bucketseat he said something that made her blink and blush.

"I wasn't looking for a favor."

Aesthetic. Something I thought Sherlock would say anyways, haha.

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