Thank you to Syreene, Arcoiris, Einvine, miischall, lovebirds413, Chee2468642, keeptheotherone, Silkenslay, GirlatTheRockShow182, and mngirl for the reviews!

You all make me 'dancing around to cheesy 80s music, sliding down the hall in socks, first day over 50 degrees in months' happy.

Thank you also to the new followers/ favorite-ers and I hope you enjoy this new chapter. :)

I do not own Sherlock.

As for the title…have I been listening to the soundtrack to "Frozen" more than is possibly healthy? Why yes, indeed I have. Thank you for asking. I do not own that, either.

Chapter 21, In Which Love is an Open Door

Molly kept eyeing the doorway to the lab. She knew Sherlock was out there, frozen, somewhere in his mind palace. She'd walked to the counter to get a new pen when hers had run out of ink, and she'd seen him, from the corner of her eye, just outside the lab.

Play it cool, Molly. Deductions. Deductions – yeah.

Not that she could make out much from her position. Even off in his own thoughts somewhere, he'd probably notice if she stood gawking at him from the doorway. He was standing, back ramrod straight, against the opposite wall outside the door, perfectly still. Frowning.

Frowning – not good.

She was a bit nervous, she had to admit. When she saw him, her stomach suddenly felt light and queasy – whether from intense nerves or excitement she wasn't sure. She'd been anxious for their first encounter since their…since his…well, since whatever it was that had happened between them at the hospital. She wasn't really angry, or even very disappointed that he hadn't shown up until now. He was just…Sherlock. Still Sherlock. She knew that, and she didn't fault him for it (much).

There were so many possibilities, in this situation. Was he going to come tell her it was all a mistake? That he'd let the adrenaline from the case get the better of him? Would he pretend like nothing had ever happened? Would he smile at her, and attempt to be kinder? She wasn't really sure which scenario was more likely – although the 'pretending like nothing had ever happened' rated fairly high on the list. She still wasn't sure what type of love he felt for her…and she suspected that perhaps he wasn't entirely sure, either.

Not that she doubted his sincerity in the hospital – she just doubted his ability to continue portraying those feelings (whatever kind of feelings they were) in a way that was so…sweet, and decidedly un-Sherlock.

Although lately – the kiss on the cheek when he returned from his 'death', the touches, the looks, and the hand-holding, John's wedding – all that had occurred in the past few months was proving to her that he was capable of demonstrating emotion, when he wanted to.

She treasured each moment – each small token of his affection, collected and polished and reviewed regularly, carefully in her memory. She remembered reading somewhere that you should be the most thankful for the gifts that are the rarest, and Sherlock being kind and gentle and thoughtful was definitely rare. In fact, such Sherlock-occurrences should be put on some sort of an endangered species list. Well. If they had a list for that sort of thing.

Molly snorted nervously at the thought. She knew Sherlock's moods were anything but predictable, and she just wanted to get this first meeting out of the way.

She jumped every time a shadow passed the doorway or movement caught her eye, thinking it could be him, finally deciding to come in to the lab.

After a few moments that seemed like a mini-eternity of nerves, she sighed and unlocked the cabinets that contained the lab equipment Sherlock usually used, and the other supply cabinets, and sat back down on her usual stool to finish filling out her latest autopsy reports.

Sherlock was deep in though, just outside the doors. He knew Molly was inside the lab (if he hadn't already memorized her schedule, her telltale form moving every now and then would have alerted him to the fact).

Truth be told, he was a just bit anxious himself. John's little interrogation and speech the previous evening had put him off, again. He really had been surprised at the information that since conveying his regard for Molly, he should be spending time with her, too, if he wanted her to return that particular sentiment.

Not that he minded spending time with Molly. In fact, it was usually a pleasant enough experience. Sometimes, decidedly the most pleasant thing that would happen to him all day. And he wanted to test the physical effects of her presence on his own nervous system. Apparently, it was craving a dose of Molly Hooper, because the closer he got to her, the more the nerves in his fingertips, lips, and stomach began to hum.

But John had said she may not be as receptive, after ignoring her for a week. And angry or hurt or sad Molly was not the Molly he wanted to deal with, at the moment.

Hence the slight anxiety.

Anxiety made him angry.

And anger made him tend to be snappish and rude.

He didn't want to be snappish and rude with Molly.

And so, he was attempting to gain enough self-control to spend time with her without being a demanding, rude, ridiculous man.

His failure was making him even angrier.

Hell with it.

Molly looked up as Sherlock strode through the doors, not exactly quietly. "Molly," he greeted her sharply, then grimaced slightly, as if he'd made a mistake. "Molly," he tried again, softer, now – almost apologetic.

He stood where he was just inside the door, hands in his pockets, deducing her reaction.

Her eyebrows puckered together, and her expression was one of delicate surprise for a moment.

Then she blinked, and squinted a bit, concentrating. She was attempting to deduce him, as well.

He'd seemed…angry, when he first walked in. Angry?

Well.

She hadn't done anything worth getting angry over. Hadn't told anyone about his little confession, hadn't bothered him, had given him his space…

I was angry…no, not…angry, you were alive…but…concerned, that I had allowed you to become such an…important part of my life.

Well. Her lips quirked, just a bit, as his words from the hospital came back to her. He was still angry with himself?

Well, as long as he wasn't angry at her.

In fact, he seemed…uncertain?

Standing there with his hands in his pockets, rocking backing on his heels, not frowning anymore – not frowning – waiting. Calmly. Waiting for her reaction.

He wasn't very good at this. Whatever 'this' was – friendship, or romance, or…counting…or whatever it was.

She smiled a little more.

She had to give him credit for trying.

At first she had looked surprised, but now…she was…happy?

There was a small smile on her face. Not glowing – not – luminescent, in her love, like she'd been – at the hospital – but – smiling. Understanding.

It took Sherlock aback, a bit. He'd expected accusations, or tears, or glares, or awkwardness. Most women would respond in such a way. At least – according to past observation on the 'fairer' sex. He narrowed his gaze slightly, but not unkindly. Curious. Thinking. "Molly," he repeated again, and there was a slight question in it.

"Yes." She confirmed, still with that knowing half-smile on her face.

"I'd like to…perform an experiment." His annunciation was particularly precise.

Her smile widened. It's almost like he's asking permission. That's...new. "I've already unlocked the doors for you, Sherlock. Take - well, take what you need." Suddenly, the image of Sherlock taking all of her formaldehyde popped into her brain. "For - for today's experiment," she clarified seriously.

He tilted his head curiously. She'd already unlocked the doors.

He nodded once, a sharp movement. "Right then. I'll just – get started."

"Okay."

Sherlock and Molly had not always worked well together in the lab (their first few weeks were rough – the first few weeks anyone had ever spent with Sherlock were always rough), but Molly's competence and patience, coupled with her appreciation and eventual love for Sherlock, had tempered his outbursts until they could work in companionable silence with ease.

Over the years, Molly was often distracted by Sherlock's presence in the room. She'd often steal little glances at him, looking up from her work to watch him focus on a slide or delicately use a pipette to measure out fluids. He'd been fairly oblivious to her little glances before, he'd been so focused on the science in front of him.

Now, however, he was highly aware of her presence in the room, as well – and highly aware that she was stealing small, curious glances at him. He found his own eyes wandering to the right every few moments to catalog something about her – the way her mouth tugged down at the corners as she signed her third autopsy report – someone died either too young or in a particularly tragic manner, and it made her sad – the way she stretched her right shoulder – stiff from sleeping strangely on her right side, because of the cast on her left hand – if it was work, it'd be her left shoulder – and the way the corners of her mouth lifted when her eyes darted towards him. Invariably, he would sense it coming, and his own eyes would refocus on the experiment in front of him, concentrating intently on the effect of different household chemicals on the hemoglobin in human blood.

It was an odd sensation – being watched by Molly Hooper. In the two years tracking down Moriarty's network, he'd developed his skill at evading followers, and had a keen sense that allowed him to pick out, in a crowd, potential tails. The sensation of being watched and followed had always been one of heightened alert and danger. Being watched by Molly Hooper was similar – it seemed equally dangerous, now, to him, albeit in a different sort of way – but at the same time, it was also pleasant. There was light warmth in his torso that radiated outward whenever a draft blew the scent of tea and lemon disinfectant towards him or whenever she glanced his way.

The afternoon passed in a companionable silence.

Sherlock was content to keep his mind occupied with his hemoglobin experiment and with the effect Molly's presence had on his nervous system.

Molly was content to finish her reports with something much more interesting to observe than how quickly she could catch her pen after it rolled off the countertop.

A few hours later, Sherlock's phone dinged with a text from Lestrade. A body had turned up, stuffed in between layers of pressed cardboard at a recycling plant, and they were at a loss as to whom it was and how exactly she had died. Probably a 5 at best, but he did want to work his way back into the crime-solving spotlight, now that his brother had assured his pardon.

Besides – John could probably use a break from parenting a colicky Madeline.

A smug grin began to form on his face.

"Sherlock? Is it - a case, then?" Molly's voice broke through the theories he was already half-forming in his mind.

Oh. He looked up at her. "Yes. Body in cardboard at a recycling plant."

There was silence, for a beat, and then -

"Environmentally friendly murderers, now?" Molly giggled, lips suppressing a smile. "Someone thought a body would belong with the 'papers', eh?"

"Well, it certainly fits better than with 'plastics.' Biodegradable." Sherlock began quickly and concisely cleaning up his equipment, and suppressed a smile of his own. "And don't make jokes, Molly. They're all horribly morbid."

"Right," she mumbled, "Well - then they should suit you perfectly."

He looked sharply at her, but she was still smiling to herself, amused by her own joke.

He finished cleaning up the petri dishes with samples of blood and cleaner, and stopped at the door to pull on his coat and scarf. When he reached for the handle, Molly spoke.

"Sherlock?"

His shoulders visibly tensed.

He'd done so well – it had been such an – enjoyable – afternoon. He didn't want to address feelings – and of course, she'd want to talk about it – the hospital, he should have known better than to think she'd let him go at his own pace, with this feelings thing -

"The case – with Moriarty – is it – is it over? Are we – safe?"

Oh.

He turned back to look at her, and she was standing, good hand clasping her broken one, expression earnest and eyes searching. She trusted him, completely.

His heart did something in his chest that felt very much like escaping. He half-smiled at her. "You are safe, Molly Hooper."

"Okay. Thank you. For making sure we're all safe." And she looked satisfied, but he found himself wanting to reassure her.

"Jim's dead – for certain this time, Molly. DNA testing proved his body was the one we recovered from the Thames. Janine is in custody – very heavy lockdown, and their criminal network was still in its infancy. Your safety – and – everyone's – is assured. As much as it can be."

"Thank you."

He turned to leave.

"And Sherlock?"

His hand froze on the knob.

"Anytime I'm here…in the lab – I'll…leave the doors unlocked, for you. Not that that's ever stopped you before – locked doors. But - " And she was flushed, and a bit flustered, at trying to tell him without being overly sentimental that he was welcome to visit her, anytime.

"Thank you," he interrupted. It was curt, but genuine. "I'll – I'll come tomorrow," he said, uncertainly.

"Unless there's a case." Molly asked – but her voice wasn't hurt or accusing. It was matter-of-fact.

"Yes." He confirmed. "Unless there's a case." And he couldn't help the bewildered expression that flitted across his face as he left the lab and texted John about the case.

As he left, Molly couldn't help but sigh. It wasn't a sad or happy or angry or disappointed sigh – it was simply a release of the nerves she'd been holding onto for the past week.

Her 'reunion' with Sherlock hadn't been particularly romantic or even exceedingly friendly. But she knew for a fact that he had all the materials he needed to do that particular hemoglobin experiment at Baker Street, and so – why else would he have come to St. Bart's, except to be with her while he worked?

Although she still wasn't sure of the exact nature of the feelings of Sherlock Holmes, she decided that whatever it was that he was trying – almost asking permission to experiment in her lab, and him smiling at her morbid jokes – was good enough for her, for the time being.

It became a routine – Sherlock arriving while Molly was working on paperwork or lab tests (being consigned to the lab a side effect of her broken thumb), and performing experiments as she completed her own work.

For three weeks, he spent an average of four days a week at the lab, for at least a few hours at a time.

Some days, they worked in that comfortable silence they were so familiar with.

Other days, she would ask him about cases, or John or Mary or Madeline, and he would talk with enthusiasm and relish about the former and give short, factual answers to the latter. Sometimes, he would ask her about particular corpses, and they would discuss deductions about the dead person's life based on the wear of bones or flesh on the body.

Sherlock became as accustomed to her feedback and comments as he was to John's. Not that she could ever replace John – they were separate entities in his mind palace, but he still valued her insights and company as much as John's.

One night, after a particularly frustrating case involving the pinky finger of a clarinetist missing from the orchestra, he realized he hadn't seen her in approximately three days. He found himself hailing a cab before he'd even completed the thought that he wanted to see Molly.

What a curious thing, love was.

Molly rubbed her left shoulder awkwardly as she shrugged out of her lab coat and hung it in her locker. As she pulled on her coat and closed the locker door, the mirror caught a glimpse of Sherlock, and she started a bit, just as she had after his return – over a year ago, now.

He smirked, just a bit, as she turned to face him.

"Hullo, Sherlock," she smiled. "D'you need something?"

"There are several pairs of eyeballs at my flat and I've been planning on testing the effects of different colour-changing contact lenses and solutions on irises of different colours."

She smiled, lopsided, at him. "Oh. That sounds – nice."

They looked at each other in silent expectation for a moment.

"Would you like to – assist?" He asked, face straight.

Molly's smile straightened itself out. "Um, yeah. Okay. Eyeball experimentation. Lovely." And she wasn't being sarcastic.

"Excellent." He turned on his heel, and Molly had to half-run to catch up with him.

"Sherlock, d'you mind if we stop and get something to eat? I'm starving."

"I seriously doubt that. You've obviously eaten in the past twelve hours, so you could not physically be starving."

She stopped abruptly. "Well, then – I'm hungry. Very hungry. So – if – if you're going to – to-" but she stopped talking when she saw his teasing smirk.

"Chips, or Thai?"

She shook her head and bit her lip, thinking. "Do they both 'owe' you?" When he nodded his confirmation, she asked, "Whose story is more interesting?"

He thought for a moment, face serious. "Thai. Definitely the Thai place. The woman who owns it had a son who she believed was caught up in 'witchcraft', of all the ridiculous things…"

And it was nearly an hour later, after traveling to the Thai place and listening to Sherlock's proud recitation of that particular case, as well as two others, that the two friends arrived at Baker Street.

They each carried a bag of food up the stairs, and Molly was trying unsuccessfully not to snort too loudly at his insistence that in one of his more mundane cases, the perpetrator was literally a cooked goose, when Sherlock froze at the door to his flat.

Molly froze too, suddenly frightened by the look of rage and irritation on his face. He glared so ferociously at the door she thought it might spontaneously combust. She looked for signs of forced entry, or some sort of marker that something had happened within the flat, but could find none. When she looked back at Sherlock, his jaw was tense and the fingers of his free hand twitched, seemingly uncontrollably. The sound of Mrs. Hudson's laughter, and the laughter of two other people – one male, one female – came from inside. Clients, maybe?

When he made no move, she whispered, "Sherlock?"

Her voice served to shake him from his dark thoughts. He quickly handed her his bag of food. "Here, take this," he commanded. "I apologize. We will have to reschedule the eyeball experiment. You can keep the food. I find I have suddenly lost my appetite." He began to herd her gently towards the stairs.

"Wha – okay - Sherlock? Is – what's going on? Mrs. Hudson-"

Speak of the devil, and she shall appear, tea tray and all. As soon as Molly spoke her name, the door to 221B swung open, and Mrs. Hudson filled the doorframe, balancing the aformentioned tray.

"Oh, dear! Violet – Siger – here he is! About at all hours, he is, isn't he – but – oh! And with Molly – hello, dear. Come in, come in!" She retreated enough to allow them to enter.

Sherlock hesitated, still glaring, and then closed his eyes, seemingly in pain, as an older woman appeared in the doorway. "Well, Sherlock, you really shouldn't have to be invited into your own home. Come in, come in! And – Molly Hooper? Oh, we've heard quite a bit about you from Mikey and Martha. Very pleased to meet you, we are. Aren't we, Siggy?" She called to someone hidden in the room.

Mikey? thought Molly, thoroughly confused. Whoever these people were – they didn't seem dangerous – but Sherlock certainly seemed angered by their presence. She looked at him, concerned. "Sherlock?" she asked again, timidly.

And he sighed, head held stiffly in resignation, and held the door open for her. She made her way awkwardly into the room, hampered by her messenger bag and the two rather large bags of Thai food.

She struggled to set everything down on the kitchen table. When she finally turned to the rest of the people in the room, she found Mrs. Hudson shutting the door to the flat, on her way out, Sherlock scowling in his chair, and an older couple beaming at her from the sofa.

The older gentleman greeted her warmly. "Dr. Hooper, it is a pleasure to meet you."

Molly smiled nervously at him, eyes darting between the couple and Sherlock. "Um…yes – thanks. It's a pleasure to meet you, too…Mr. -?"

She waited expectantly for him to provide a name.

The woman clucked disapprovingly at Sherlock. "Really, you've never even mentioned us to her? After - "

Sherlock stood abruptly. "Molly, Mr. and Mrs. Siger and Violet Holmes." He gestured between them. "This is Dr. Molly Hooper."

He sat back down immediately, expression indiscernible.

Molly's eyes widened at the introduction. "Ho-holmes?" She stuttered, and looked sharply between Violet and Siger and Sherlock. Nasal ridge – brow – ears – hairline – underlying bone structure – she paled. "Are they – are you – are - "

Violet darted one last disapproving gaze at her son before she smiled knowingly at Molly, a familiar intelligence shining brightly in her eyes as she looked over the young woman standing frozen at the kitchen table. "Yes, Dr. Hooper. We're his parents."

Hahaha! The next chapter should be very entertaining.

So...I feel that this chapter was not necessarily super exciting but it was necessary. I also feel like Molly is very understanding and non-confrontational (well, except in the case of drugged-up Sherlock, of course), so she would tend to be forgiving about something like him ignoring her for a week if she wasn't absolutely certain of his intentions - and well, she's not certain of his intentions yet, right? ;)

Also, in case you haven't noticed, I like sweet, slow Sherlolly. :)

I also wanted Sherlock to be a bit more in character than he was at the hospital. I think he his, here. He's spending time with Molly, but it's still on his own terms. He is a selfish one, isn't he? But he's trying. So he's got that going for him.

Please let me know your thoughts on this chapter. Thank you! :)