She was biting her nails as she sped along.

She felt nervous…and despite her attempts to quell those feelings, she couldn't. Her mind raced and her heart was simultaneously heavy and light.

Heavy, because he loved her.

Light, because he loved her.

"Molly?"

"Hm?" her hand fell, her eyes remained fixed on the road.

"What are you thinking?"

She glanced over. He was looking at her very intently. "Nothing, really."

"You're biting…no. Devouring your nails."

"It's a nervous habit," she smiled at him…

…he rolled his eyes. "Really?" it was sarcastic. "Never would have guessed. Why are you nervous?" he smiled. "It's just me. Just an outing."

"It isn't though," she swallowed.

"What do you mean? Of course it is."

"Well, no. Everything's changed, Sherlock. And I'm trying to understand it," she paused. "Maybe you should drive. I'm too distracted," she looked at him. "Ok?" His gaze fell and he nodded…she pulled over and they switched. Molly settled in, and looked out of the window. "You said there was a legend surrounding Coventry…?"

He cleared his throat. "Yes…ah…during World War Two there were plans intercepted by the allies. They knew that Germany was planning on bombing Coventry, but in order to keep the fact that plans were known and code was broken, they allowed it to happen. England believed that in allowing this attack, Germany would never suspect that they had broken the code."

"Wow," she was staring at him.

"Yes," he looked over and smiled. "What do you think of that, Molly?" he went back to the road. "It's an age old question, isn't it? Does one fight for the greater good, even if horrible things happen along the way?"

She shook her head and looked out of the window. "Morality…it's very sticky."

"Yes. It can be. Though most pretend it isn't."

"Why do you reckon?"

"Because most are vapid and would prefer not to dwell on such things."

"Do you think about those things, Sherlock?" she looked at him.

"I do…" he paused. "But I also recognize the futility in it, because answers to questions like those depend largely on the intelligence of others, and I've seen little evidence that that exists."

Molly smiled. "Smug," and she giggled.

"Funny?" he cocked a brow, glancing at her again.

"Are you always the smartest in the room?"

"Not at all. Mycroft is more intelligent. Euros…"

"Your family, then."

"…And you are somewhat on par, I think," he looked at her and winked. "Intelligence, I've learned," he focused on the road once more. "Isn't the essence of life. Difficult to learn, but true."

"What is?"

"Perhaps I'll save that for later," and he rounded a bend in the road.

Molly looked out of the window. "I think that they were likely right in allowing the bombing to take place…but they should have emptied the city as best they could beforehand. Covertly, if possible."

"They attempted to evacuate right before. Not many got out in time."

She closed her eyes. "Awful."

"Yes."

She opened them again. "How much further?"

"Mm…'bout half an hour."

She nodded and let her head fall back…enjoying the scene as it passed.

They arrived just past lunch. Sherlock parked the car and looked around…Molly was watching him. "Hungry?" she asked.

He nodded…

"No fish and chips, if you don't mind," she smiled, pulling her sweater on.

"Haven't eaten today, so something hearty would be preferred," and he began to walk.

Molly followed, then caught up. "You eat a lot more than John ever said. He claimed you hardly eat, and he was often worried about you…and I can't say that I ever saw you with much of an appetite."

"Here…" he was standing in front of a cafe. It appeared to be casual and unremarkable. "They have excellent stew and horrific fare otherwise," he opened the door for her.

"They do?" she whispered, looking around.

A lady came up to them. "Two?"

Sherlock nodded, and they were seated by the window. He folded his hands on the table, not taking his coat off, and looking around.

Molly took out a menu. There were a couple of stews, just as he said. And sandwiches, some salad…

"Get the stew," he smiled as she looked up.

"Which?"

"Doesn't matter. They're likely all good."

"How do you know?"

"It's an elderly couple who owns the place. They attempt to keep up with trends as best they can, but stew is something they always have made. Generations have used the recipes, and they survived due to their quality."

Her mouth hung agape. "You've never eaten here before, have you?"

"Never," and he took his coat off as the server handed them water.

They ordered their stew, beef and chicken, and Molly looked over. "Well?"

"Well what?" his brow furrowed. "Oh! I eat, Molly. Of course I do. John never knew every single thing about me," and he sat back.

"He knows you better than anyone, doesn't he?"

"No."

"No?" she smiled.

"You do."

"Me…?" her hands fell into her lap.

"I told you things I never told John. I trusted you with one of the most important and dangerous things I ever did. I love John, and he understands me very well. But you know me," he sipped his water.

Molly looked out of the window. "What things did you tell me and not John?"

"Mostly my feelings about things. When he married Mary. Things around that time…though…" he cleared his threat and she looked at him.

"What?"

"Nothing," he smiled. "I told you that I had had sex with Irene Adler."

"Yes. I remember. That was uncomfortable," she played with her napkin.

"Sorry. I wanted to tell someone…someone who wouldn't judge me," he shrugged.

"Really? You were worried about that?" the stew came.

"I was where John was concerned. Can't explain it…I preferred to keep certain things from him," and he took a bite. He looked at her and nodded. "Good, no?"

She smiled and nodded. "Such as, yes. You eat and sleep?" she laughed.

"Well, I never hid those facts. He chose not to see them. And yes. It is true that I sleep and eat less when I have a case on, but I'm still human. I'd fall over if I didn't give my body sustenance and rest."

"Sometimes…sometimes John would text me or show up at Bart's, and he'd be so worried. Or annoyed. Angry, even. You caused him so much anguish."

"John is a good and dear friend."

"He stopped when you fell…"

Sherlock looked at her. "Altogether? He never sought you out again?"

"No…occasionally, after you returned. But he had Mary then."

He nodded. "I used to think that he was attracted to you," he smiled.

"Not really," Molly returned his smile.

"He might have been…but, perhaps he kept away because of my disappearance and subsequent heartache."

"Sherlock…" her eyes fell.

"Hm?" he took another bite.

"When did you…?"

He sat back. "You want to know when I started falling in love with you."

She blushed and nodded. "Silly, I guess. But it still doesn't make sense to me," she still wasn't looking at him directly.

He took a deep breath. "You know that I didn't discover any of this until that phone call."

She nodded, now looking at him.

"It's impossible, then, to gain a real timeline…but I think, somehow, I always knew. Which was why I attempted to sabotage nearly every romantic relationship you had."

Her eyes went wide. "What?"

He played with his stew, and took another bite. "Think, Molly. I was dismissive when I was being generous, and otherwise hostile to every boyfriend you ever had…almost from the very beginning of our friendship."

She looked out of the window, and then closed her eyes…and the Christmas party swam before her mind's eye…"That Christmas…"

"Yes, though I had hoped you had forgotten that."

She opened her eyes and looked at him. "Well, you both insulted me beyond the pale and you kissed me. Difficult to forget, Sherlock."

He nodded. "I was jealous."

She shook her head. "Unbelievable. And you didn't realize that was what was going on?"

"No. I was closed off where you were concerned," he sighed. "Molly…you recall what I told you last night? About people whom I cared for being in danger?"

Her brow furrowed and she nodded.

"Well, if you look at it that way, I was protecting you without realizing it."

Her mouth went dry.

"…I couldn't care about you knowingly…and my growing regard was something that I needed to ignore, for my love meant that you might die. I didn't know this consciously, of course."

"Oh."

"Oh?"

"That's a lot to process, Sherlock. That's all I've got right now."

He nodded. "Finished?"

"Yes. It was rather good."

"Never doubt me, Molly Hooper," and he stood.

"Oh, I learned that long ago…" she wiped her mouth and stood, going to the door as he paid. She thought that perhaps she should offer to pay for something, and then decided she'd pay for dinner that night.

"Well…there's a museum…" he said as he left the cafe. "Want to go there?"

"Ok."

"You like museums?" and he began to walk.

"Yes. Just…I don't get to go much."

"Well, here's your opportunity," he smiled, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"Don't you ever get hot?"

"Excuse me?"

"I don't think that I've ever seen you outside without that coat on," she laughed.

"It's my coat," he replied, as though that explanation was sufficient.

"It's also eighteen degrees. And we are walking. Surely you get overheated…"

"Not from my coat, Molly," he glanced, a wry smile on his face. His voice fell a touch. "It took much this morning for me not to kiss you as you stood by that window, the breeze in your hair…"

"What?" she replied, disbelief laced in her voice.

He stopped and looked at her. "I felt compelled…but stopped myself since you were in a bit of a state."

"To kiss me?"

"Bit more, then…"

Her mouth fell. This was Sherlock…Sherlock Holmes… talking about being sexually attracted to her. To her. "Thank you for…for…controlling yourself?" she ended very deliberately and slowly.

"You are lovely, Molly. It wasn't easy."

And her gaze fell, she was intensely uncomfortable…she wrapped her arms around herself…

"Are you ok?" he touched her elbow.

"No," and she turned away from him and continued to walk toward the museum.

"What did I say?"

"You're talking about…sex…" she hissed.

"Yes? Don't people do that? You did…with Tom…" she noticed his wince.

"But you're talking about it…with me, Sherlock…"

He stopped. "Molly. When one is in love with someone, one desires their physical self as well," he paused. "At least, that's how I'm experiencing it. Never been before."

"You've never been in love?" she knew this, but desired to hear it nonetheless.

"Nooo…you're the first."

She smiled and nodded, she shrugged. "Maybe it's just odd for me to hear."

"Well," he stepped toward her. "Perhaps we should practice more…" and he lifted her chin and kissed her mouth very softly.

She pulled away, unsure what to do. "You're making fun."

"I would never," he dropped his hand, smiling.

Molly rolled her eyes. "Let's go," and she turned and continued to walk.

They walked up to the museum…wasn't a terribly big place…and went inside and paid the admission. Sherlock took a pamphlet and skimmed through. "There's art upstairs. Historical things down here."

"Let's go upstairs," Molly said, approaching the staircase.

He followed and she ascended, her hand on the bannister.

Sherlock walked over to a far corner where a painting stood, dark and solitary in a corner, while Molly made her way toward some sculptures. She was fairly impressed, it was a fine collection for a smallish place. She meandered through, not bothering to examine much, but taking time to look at each piece, until she made her way back to Sherlock.

He was still standing in front of that painting.

"It's haunting, in a way," he said.

Molly looked at it. It was a scene in the forest, soft light descending from the sky…green, brown, and black were the prominent colors.

"It's lonely," Molly observed.

"Perhaps that's why I'm drawn."

"You're lonesome?"

"In a way."

"Which is that?"

He looked at her. "Recall in the car I said that life isn't defined by intelligence?"

She nodded.

"Well," he looked back at the painting. "I discovered it's defined by love."

And now she looked at it. "And you haven't enough?"

"I haven't that which I desire most."

She looked at him, and he was looking at her…his gaze equal parts sad and desperate. Molly was taken aback by the intensity of it. She cleared her throat…she looked away. "You've always had it, Sherlock," she said softly.

"Forgive me, Molly…I hurt you…me…both of us…and I never knew…"

"S'okay."

"It's not."

She turned to him again. "Well, now it is. And we can…" she took a deep breath. "Now we can move on."

"What do you mean?" his eyes narrowed.

"I mean…we needn't dwell on it. Once I get accustomed…"

"You mean, you forgive me?"

She looked at him crookedly. "Well, almost," she smiled. "It's not that easy, after all these years."

He nodded. "Let's go downstairs," and he turned and led her down to the historical collection.

They walked together now, reading some of the stories and looking at artifacts. They spent another hour there, and by the time they left, it was well on four in the afternoon.

"I'll buy dinner," Molly said as they left. "Should we stay here or go back to Derbyshire?"

"Let's go back. That road winds and I'd rather not navigate it after wine in the dark," he said, hitting a stride to the car.

"Ok…" she fell into step. "Do you like wine?"

"Not especially. It's fine enough."

"You prefer something harder."

He cleared his throat. "Well, yes. Though getting drunk is something I've done enough of, it isn't my preferred mode of escape."

"I should escape more," she got into the passenger side of the car.

Sherlock turned the car on…"Some use intercourse for that purpose."

"What?" she laughed.

"Fuck to forget, or some such thing."

"Oh my god," she blushed.

"We're practicing, Molly," and he pulled out of the lot, into the street.

"That is something I may never get used to."

"What's that?"

"Hearing you say 'fuck', and speaking about sex so glibly."

"Oh, I think that you will," and he winked at her.