She was biting her nails.

She really didn't do that very much anymore, but there she was, standing wrapped in a soft bath towel, looking at her clothes on the bed.

It wasn't a date, but she couldn't help but feel as though she should wear something…better.

She didn't bring "better."

She settled on a pair of jeans and a grey blouse. Molly got dressed and pulled her hair back…applied some mascara and went downstairs.

There was Sherlock, sitting in the exact same spot he was in that morning.

He was looking out of the window as the sun set, and the soft hues silhouetted his profile.

He was wearing black trousers and a dark blue shirt, and even though she was trying very hard not to, she couldn't help but feel a pang. He looked very fine.

She walked over…and finally he looked at her.

"Hello, Molly," he smiled, standing, and he pulled the chair out for her. She was a bit confused, but sat as he pushed her chair in and lingered behind her a moment…she began to turn when he went to his seat and sat down. "I hope you like scallops."

"They're good," she folded her hands in her lap.

He nodded. "Tell me about your walk…did the Peaks live up to their reputation in your mind?"

"They were very lovely. It was windy…and I felt small," she added softly.

"Large things will do that," he poured her some wine.

"You ordered wine?"

"Is that ok?"

She looked at him crookedly. "This isn't a date, Sherlock."

"Of course it isn't. This is two friends enjoying one another's company…or, two people rekindling their friendship after a hardship," he paused. "Friends drink wine together, don't they?"

"Occasionally."

"Then consider this one of those occasions, if you don't mind," he sipped his own wine.

Molly shrugged. "What did you do all day?" and she took a sip from her glass.

"I walked."

"Where?"

He cleared his throat. "Around town, mostly."

She nodded. "It's a pleasant hamlet."

He smiled at her. "It is that, yes."

"And did you talk to anyone?"

"Not really…did you?"

"No…just the bar keep last evening," and salads came.

"Yes. I met him. Ed."

"Ed?"

"The bar keep in question," and he bit into his salad. "Not terribly fresh. Disappointing, considering the market today."

Molly smiled. "You went to the pub?"

"I did."

…and she thought that the keep must have some odd idea about what was going on, considering her visit the night previous. She wasn't too fussed, though. Bar keeps were rather like therapists. He would never tell her secrets. "And do you day drink?" she smiled.

"I went for lunch. The fish and chips were recommended, but I can't say that I enjoyed them."

"No. The chips were…"

"…underdone," they both said.

And they laughed.

Sherlock took another sip. "Tell me, Molly. You were very close with your dad…"

"Yes."

"When did he pass?"

"Ah…" she took another bite. "Almost nine years ago now."

"Is it difficult to talk about?"

"Not really. I loved him very much, but I have no regrets."

"And it isn't painful?"

"No. I have happy memories of him."

He nodded, a knowing look on his face.

"What?" she took another sip of wine.

"You're very practical about death."

"Everyone dies, Sherlock. It's only difficult if there's regret." She watched his expression change, and she couldn't read what it meant. "Are you all right?"

He looked out of the window. "Yes. I'm afraid that…" he cleared his throat and looked at her. "I think that John harbors regret where Mary is concerned."

"Oh. Yes. I think I see that."

"The only thing to do is for him to make it up through Rose. He can love his daughter, and perhaps in time, learn to feel differently about his wife," he finished his salad.

Molly shrugged. "Isn't the same, really. What will happen, more likely, is he will come to terms with his regret and he will change as a result."

"What do you mean, 'change'?"

"Only that events such as that change people, and I've learned that you need to change in order to move past your regret."

He looked at her blankly. "Have you regrets, Molly?"

Her face fell, her eyes with it. "Some."

…and their dinner came.

She bit into a scallop. "It's better than the salad," she smiled.

"Not saying much," and he took a bite. "What are some of your regrets?"

She swallowed. "Must we talk about this?"

"No. But you observed that we don't talk much about you, it's always about me…so, I'm attempting to talk about you."

"Oh."

He smiled. "Regret isn't something you'd care to discuss, then?"

"Is regret high on your list of desirable subjects?" she countered.

"Well, that depends."

"On?"

"On the more general topic, because for the most part, I haven't many regrets."

She looked at him open mouthed. "You're a drug addict, Sherlock. How is it that you don't have many regrets?"

"Being a drug addict doesn't necessitate regret, Molly."

"No, but I'd imagine it leads to them," and she sipped more wine.

…and he filled her glass. "Sometimes. My regret lies more in other things."

"Such as?" and she took another sip.

He looked at her very deliberately. "Well, my treatment of you, for one."

…and she nearly choked…she drank water…

"Are you ok?" he stood.

…and she waved him off. "Fine…" she croaked. She finally caught her breath and looked at him. "You regret your treatment toward me?"

He sat back down. "Yes," he replied in low tones. "I know I haven't been the best of friends. But I hope to change that."

She was staring at him. "Really?"

"Yes. Really."

"Oh," and she was suddenly very uncomfortable…she wanted to leave…

"Molly?"

She wiped her palms on her jeans, as they suddenly had begun to perspire. "I should go."

"Why? You haven't finished…"

"I need to…" she stood. "I need to go," and she smiled. "Thanks for the dinner," and she went upstairs.

Her heart was beating very fast…she was swallowing…she opened the door to her room and closed it, leaned against it, her hands on her mouth. Why did she have that reaction?

…because he…Sherlock…just admitted that he cared about her. He regretted that he treated her poorly.

That was something, indeed.

There was a soft knock on the door, and she squeaked, jumping from it.

"Molly?"

She swallowed and rubbed her face. "Yes?"

"Can I…can you open this door?"

Oh god…"Ok…" and she did…

…and there he was, a concerned look on his face. "I needed to know if you were all right. You left quite suddenly."

"Yes. I know…" she dropped her gaze. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize. But…are you? Ok?"

She shook her head. "Not really. I haven't been in a while…"

"Can I do something?" he sounded sincere.

And Molly Hooper looked at him. There were so many things going through her mind at that moment, with Sherlock Holmes standing there in the dim, a look of deep concern on his face…looking the way he looked…"Get pissed with me at the pub."

"Excuse me?" he smirked.

"I want to get drunk," and she took a sweater from the dresser. "And it's pathetic to get drunk by yourself. So…come with me," she put her sweater on.

"Ah…" he looked at her. "I'll be there in five minutes. Head over without me."

"Ok," she thought it odd, but dismissed her concern. She was getting ripped, and she didn't care. She felt as though the only way she wouldn't feel absolutely uncomfortable was if she had some alcohol.

…and he was trying.

…and there was so many things she wanted to say.

…and she had had a time of it…

So Molly headed over and got a table in the corner.

He was there in five minutes, just as he said, and walked directly to the corner.

"You didn't look around the bar," Molly said.

"I knew you'd be sitting here."

"How?"

He gave a look.

"Oh all right. Never mind," and Ed took their order.

"Tell me why you aren't ok," Sherlock began.

She shrugged. "Well, I work in a basement. Live in a basement. I have only a few friends….should I go on?"

"Your flat is excellent."

"Yes. But it's still a basement," and their drinks came.

Molly took a long draught of beer.

He was watching her when she set it down. "You're an incredible pathologist."

"Thanks," she smiled. "But…respect isn't something I care that much about. At least not in my field. I'm a female scientist. Not much in terms of respect."

"I respect your intellect."

"Thank you. That means a lot, actually."

"Then what is the problem?" he took a long sip.

"I dunno…maybe I…" she played with her napkin…she knew what the problem was…it was simply very difficult to put into words in front of him. Which was why she needed the drink. "I'm afraid I rather missed my chance."

"For?"

Molly sighed. "Look. I don't know what you want me to say. I broke off my engagement because I wasn't in love with my fiancee, and when I did that, I lost a good bit of my friends. And things just haven't been the same since."

He nodded. "Because of me," and he drank the rest of his beer.

She was horrified. "Not just you, Sherlock," she looked at him. "Can we talk about something else?"

The keep came over with tow more drinks. "What would you care to discuss?"

Molly swallowed. "Did you have sex with that woman?"

His eyes snapped to hers. "What woman?"

"That Christmas. That woman with the bashed in face."

"Oh…not that woman, no. The woman who she was supposed to be, yes."

"You did?" she whispered.

"Yess….I have had sex, Molly," he smiled.

"Oh."

"Did you think that I didn't?"

"I thought it was possible."

He shook his head. "Did you honestly believe that as a forty year old man I had never engaged in intercourse?"

"Well…"

"Unbelievable."

"It's not. You were never interested. I asked John…"

"This was a discussion," he stated.

"Yes. Once," she paused. "Hang on…three times."

"Three times you discussed with John Watson whether or not I was a virgin?"

"Maybe four," she sipped again.

He sat back. "And what did John say?"

"He said that you were odd when it came to Irene Adler, but other than that…he had no idea. And you really didn't talk about it with me, presumably because you were aware of…" she paused. She was treading dangerously close to the subject she had deemed taboo. "Aware of…how I…"

"Yes," he supplied. "I merely don't find that sort of thing terribly interesting."

"What? Love?"

"Mm…sex. And the who's of the matter."

"But…you like sex?"

"Sometimes."

She smiled…and then laughed.

"What?" but he was smiling, too.

"Sometimes?" she giggled. "You were probably not doing something right."

"I understand the mechanics, Molly…"

"But…"

"Have you always enjoyed it?"

She shrugged. "For the most part."

"Come now. Meat dagger couldn't possibly…"

"He wasn't bad…" she replied with a laugh.

"Mm…now that is a glowing recommendation. 'My fiancee isn't bad in bed'…" he drank the rest of his beer. "No doubt he limited the venue to the bed," and he lifted a finger to the keep.

"And you are an expert, I take it," as the beer arrived.

Sherlock leaned in. "Not exactly, but a practical demonstration can be arranged…"

She blanched. "I…"

He sat back. "But to the point. I am no virgin, and I am heterosexual, if that was ever in question. Though I did have one rendezvous with a man. High as a kite at the time, but I suppose that should be counted."

"Wow."

"What?" he sipped.

"You're very…forthright."

"Well, I am attempting to right some wrongs here, so there's that," and he sipped.

…and so did she. "I'm sorry that I was so…mean, earlier."

"You had every right to be."

Molly shrugged. "I can't promise that I won't still be…salty…but the alcohol has a way of softening me up a bit…"

"Ed! More beer, please! And two shots of Jameson's!"

"Sherlock!" she admonished.

"What? You said you wanted to get pissed."

"Yes…but…"

"I'm helping. Isn't that what friends do?" he smiled.

"You just don't want me to be cross with you anymore."

"Well, yes. There is that," and the drinks came.

"It's gonna take more than just getting me pissed…"

"I'm aware of that. But the alcohol can't hurt."

She nodded. "You hurt me."

…and he looked at her. "Are we talking about this now?"

Molly quickly shook her head. "I can't…"

He sighed. "All right," and he downed the shot. "Here," he handed her hers.

She took it and drank…and the world seemed warm.

They were laughing at the table. Molly's eyes were streaming…and her face hurt from laughing so hard…"He did not!"

"He did!" Sherlock laughed. He rested his head on the table…"Oh this feels good."

"What does?"

"This isn't moving. And it's cool…and it isn't moving."

Molly laughed. "You already said that."

"I must mean it, then."

Her smile fell a touch. Her head fell back. "No one ever looks at ceilings."

"I do."

"Yes but you're you," and she looked at him.

His brow was furrowed. "Of course I'm me."

"How do you know, though?" she giggled.

"Who would you have me be?" he hiccoughed.

"No one," she swallowed. "I'm glad you're here."

He pointed at her. "Ha! See? You were not glad before. You wanted me to go. You told me to piss off. Not feeling the same way now…" he dropped his hand.

"Did I tell you to piss off?"

"Didn't you?"

"Well, if I did, I was right…" and Molly tried to curl up in the chair.

"You shouldn't sleep here, Holly…" he rested his head in his palm, looking at her.

"Who's Holly?"

"You. Holly Mooper."

"I don't think that's right…" and she let her feet fall to the floor.

"Come on. We need to get you back."

"We?" she looked at the ceiling again.

"You and me…I…us…"

"No us, Sher-lock…"

"Well…" he stood, unsteady on his feet. "Not yet," he held his hand out to her.

She took it, and he pulled her to standing. "What does that mean?"

"No idea," and he led her from the pub.

They walked back to the B&B, a touch unsteadily. "Don't," she said, giggling as they entered.

"Don't what?"

"Wake that man. He's scary."

"What man?" Sherlock replied with some heat.

"The clerk here. He's a miserable sod."

"He's got halitosis and a heart condition. His wife left him because he's homosexual. He is an internet porn addict and was likely annoyed that you interrupted his watching it, which is why he was short with you."

Molly stared at him as they reached the stairs, his hand firmly wrapped around her elbow. "Wow."

"Please don't," and he began to lead her up. "I'm too drunk to respond to your exclamations, and I won't remember them if you do…and they are something I think I'd actually like to remember…"

Molly shook her head and they reached her door…he was holding her hand…"Large things make other things appear small," she muttered.

"What?"

"Your hand…"

He dropped it. "Sorry…"

"Don't apologize…" she swallowed. "You said that. About the Peaks…and I…I guess I…I always just feel so…" she dropped her gaze. "Small, next to you."

She felt the tips of his fingers on her chin, and he was nudging her head up to meet his gaze. "Don't, Molly. You aren't small."

"I'm not?"

"Not even a bit. You are magnificent…"

She smiled, "I'm not."

…and he was leaning toward her…her eyes followed his mouth…and she closed them as she felt the warm press of his lips against hers…she opened her mouth slightly….and he didn't deepen it, but took her lower lip, licked it a touch, then pulled away. "You are," he dropped his hand. "Good night, Molly."

"Night, Sherlock…" and she opened her door, and backed into her room. She closed the door, and fell on her bed.

…and thought that what had just happened was worth the headache she would have in the morning.