I'm so sad about series 4! As I said about my other story, though, (which you can read here: ) I will be disregarding the events of the new series, since I began this fic before it came out.

I apologized that I have never actually done this, but I want to thank all of my reviewers: discountdiamond, applejacks0808, Sherlocked2003, Phantom's Angel 1987, colormecumberbatched221, nutmuff, and the two guests.

And for anyone wondering: Yes, I will eventually make my way back to the case Sherlock was hired for in the first place :)

There had been, in fact, only one solution to Sherlock's problem. There was only one way that he could reconcile his...sentiments...towards Molly. His case; he needed to solve it with her. He needed to prove to himself that he was still capable of being not only the world's only consulting detective, but also a...lover, to Miss Hooper. His plan seemed utterly flawless when worked out in his mind palace. He would proposition Miss Hooper, she would, of course, accept, and then he would solve the case. Simple.

Then he had walked in to see Molly; he should've realized something had been going on by the traces of hastily applied lipstick around her mouth, he should have noticed the slight coffee stain on her blouse, and he should have noticed the faint blush that still tinged her cheeks before she had even been aware of his presence. His brain had been too flooded with dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin, vasopressin, and testosterone to notice anything that quickly. That was precisely why he needed Molly: to help prove to himself that he still had the mental acuity to solve a case.

Tom. Blasted Tom. He had been the ruination of an otherwise impeccable plan.

This is why Sherlock was once again on his way to see John. He had already texted him several times to prepare John for his arrival, but, Sherlock suspected, his number had been temporarily blocked after the last texting incident. God forbid Sherlock ever send him ninety-three consecutive texts (in less than three minutes!) again.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

John had been having what he would consider an uneventful day. And he liked it that way...sometimes. He had just examined and treated his fourth patient of the day when his intercom buzzed.

"Another one for you, Doctor Watson," John missed hearing his wife's voice announcing his patients to him when he was greeted with the voice of the new receptionist, "Stomach bug."

John leaned forward from the chair in which he was seated to press the button on the intercom, "Alright, send 'em right in."

"John!" Came a dreadful shouting from the hallway.

"Oh, no," he mumbled, putting his head down into his hands.

He didn't need to look up to know who his patient was; he did not want to look up to see who his patient was.

"Why did you block my phone number?" he still was not looking up, "I needed you!"

Maybe if I never look at him, he'll just disappear.

John heard the steps move closer to him, and felt two strong arms grasp his hands and pull them away from his face.

"John..." Sherlock started, crouched down so that he was at eye level with the doctor, "I said I needed you."

John yanked his hands away in protest, "I heard you the first time, Sherlock!"

Sherlock blinked once or twice before answering him, "Then it follows that you should have replied to my statement."

John sighed, and rubbed his face.

"Alright...What do you want this time?"

Sherlock was silent.

John was prompted to sigh again.

"Oh, for goodness' sake, Sherlock, if it's about Molly Hooper again, you could just say so instead of acting like a three-year-old!"

"No," Sherlock replied cooly, never missing a beat, "On the contrary, I am acting at least like a five-year-old."

John promised himself that he would do everything he could right this moment to help Sherlock get that pathologist. If he had to endure one more of these ridiculous intrusions on his work day, he was going to do much worse than block Sherlock's mobile number.

Wait...If he got together with Molly...would he not just do this more? Every time they had a fight?

And...

Oh, Lord, what if they got married, what if Sherlock had to ask me about sex? Has he ever even done it before? Is his nickname "The Virgin" really true?

John fidgeted in his chair, making himself uncomfortable by his own thought processes. He cleared his throat in an attempt to have Sherlock break the silence. He failed to notice the prompt, and was still crouched over John, staring at him helplessly.

"Ok..." John started, "First of all, back up about three steps," Sherlock complied immediately, "Now tell me what it is you want my help with."

Sherlock pursed his lips for a second before blurting out, "Tom."

John raised his eyebrows, "Tom? As in Molly's ex-fiance Tom?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Yes, that would be the Tom to which I'm referring."

"Oh-Kay," John replied slowly, "What about Tom?"

Sherlock made a grumbling noise and muttered something under his breath, which John knew must have been a derogatory remark against his powers of observation.

"Sherlock..."

"Fine, if you must know-" John interrupted him here.

"Sherlock! You're the one who came to me in the first place!"

Sherlock seemed to ponder this momentarily before answering his friend, "You're right-"

"Woah!" John exclaimed, "I am? That's certainly a first."

Sherlock squinted at John.

"Alright, alright," John put up his hands in a resigning gesture, "I apologize for interrupting you..."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"Again..." John added, "Now what is it about Tom?"

"Molly is seeing him again."

John was slightly taken aback by the look in Sherlock's eyes. It was easily the most vulnerable he had ever seen him. John could not help but ask,

"Why are you doing all of this, Sherlock? Why now? I thought..." John paused, "I thought you didn't care about that sort of thing."

Sherlock creased his brows together in confusion.

Why on earth am I doing this? It makes no sense.

Sherlock knew it might be possible to reconcile his ever increasing libido to his professional life, but was it really necessary? Would it not just be easier to push all thoughts of the timid little pathologist into the most hidden recesses of his mind where he could never find them again?

Was it really possible that he...

No. Not one bit. I do not do that sort of thing.

"Sherlock?" John called, "Are you in there?"

He took in a rather sharp breath of air, and looked John straight in the eyes.

"All I need to know, John, is how to redirect Molly's attention back to me long enough for me to enact my brilliant scheme."

"Yeah, alright," John replied, purposefully ignoring what Sherlock had just said. He knew he was dying to tell him all about the "brilliant scheme," but frankly, John did not want to know. "I'll help you 'redirect her attention.' How utterly romantic.'"

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Sherlock was extremely skeptical, to say the least, to execute John's instructions. How he could ever be purposefully attempting to cultivate a romance between himself and Molly, was beyond him. Perhaps it was only to satisfy the desires that has risen up years ago at her flat.

If that was all it was, you could have taken care of it a long time ago.

Every course of thought lead inevitably back one question, the single question he had been trying to avoid the entirety of his adult life:

Was Sherlock Holmes capable of romantic love?

He did not know. But, what he did know was that he was currently headed over to Molly Hooper's flat with the equipment John had described, and an urgent need to make some sense of the unconventional thoughts swirling around inside his head.