Molly spun around, startled, dropping the coffee mug in her fright, at the loud bang of a slammed door ricocheting through the lab. Moments later Sherlock stormed in, nearly upsetting a table full of beakers in the process. Like a furious hurricane, he whirled into the room, wrenching a chair away from a table and grabbing it when it too nearly toppled over, before finally pulling his chair up to the table with an ear-splitting squeal as the chair's legs dragged across the tiled floor.

Molly let out a nervous, high-pitched giggle, fidgeting with the cuff of her sleeve. Sherlock had already begun to look at slides under the microscope before Molly had the courage to speak.

"Bad day, was it?"

"You have no idea," Sherlock muttered, glaring at a sample of mold spores like it had personally offended him.

"Er, if you, uh, you know—"

Sherlock cut across her, not even looking up from his slide.

"Don't try to make conversation Molly, it's not your area."

With a dogged determination Sherlock had to admire, (or more likely roll his eyes at) she continued her sentence.

"What I was saying is, if—if you want to talk about it, I could probably help."

About to ignore her suggestion and tell her off for distracting him, Sherlock paused to consider the offer. Molly, while lacking in social skills and by no means a relationship expert, was regardless a neutral party. Well, mostly, at any rate—granted, she had an enormous crush on Sherlock that had gone unrequited for years, but all the same, he felt sure she would not play favorites. This game—the game of emotions—was much too important to be treated as one. It was Sherlock's least favorite game, owing to his woeful ineptitude in this one (and only!) field; this uncomfortable situation was worsened by the fact that Sherlock was accustomed, when playing a game, to be the one holding all the pieces.

Stupid useless distracting stuff.

All the same, John had somehow, in his longstanding campaign to turn the great Sherlock Holmes into a good man (one Sherlock rebelled against—he knew resistance was futile, but it was for the principle of the thing), he had managed to instill in Sherlock a respect, if nothing else, for the dangers inherent to this particular game.

"Sherlock?"

The man in question roused himself, blinking with a small furrow between his eyebrows, as if he couldn't quite remember what she was asking, much less fathom why on earth she was speaking to him. Abruptly, he caught his train of thought again.

Ah yes.

John.

With this reminder, the frown line etched itself even deeper, as Sherlock steepled his fingers, staring intently and contemplatively into space. For all Molly knew, he could be touring his mind palace, perhaps touching up a façade of information, or trailing his fingers across a trellis of data. His enigma, coupled with his strange charm and twisted kind of emotional innocence, was what drew people like Molly and John to him, despite his occasional bouts of extreme (if largely unintentional) cruelty. People they all, including Sherlock himself, knew he didn't deserve.

Speaking of John… Remembering Sherlock's foul mood, and how his and John's relationship was still in the early, tumultuous stages, Molly dared to make a deduction.

"Sherlock, you and John aren't… Fighting, are you?"

His head whipped around to stare at her so fast she was surprised he didn't break his neck. She received no response, save a stony faced silence, so she continued.

"Because, well… I know that John can think you're a bit…insensitive… sometimes, and, well, you were in a really bad mood this morning so I thought…" She trailed off, uncertain as to how to wrap up her sentence, before deciding to leave it as it was.

Slowly turning back to his microscope, Sherlock spoke.

"Your powers of deduction are astonishing."

He spoke silkily, sarcasm dripping from his every syllable. Molly could practically see it running down his chin. Of course, Sherlock would never look so undignified.

"You don't… get them, do you? Emotions, I mean. They're just useless sentiment to you, and when other people set store by them, you're confused."

When Sherlock once again swiveled his head around, this time it was to glare at her with a look of pure murder in his eyes. Molly wanted to disappear into a puddle, go make coffee, and trail off, though not necessarily in that order; still, she bravely plowed ahead. When she noticed him clenching his fists, probably unconsciously, a fresh realization dawned.

"And you don't like being confused because that means you don't know something, and you like to know everything."

Sherlock's nostrils flared, and a corner of his mouth lifted in a sneer.

"Remarkable. You've actually accomplished the completion of a sentence without stuttering."

Molly turned white, and her lips and chin began to tremble with the effort of restraining the tears that threatened to spill over onto her cheeks. This time, Sherlock must have realized that what he just said was far beyond his normal capacity for cruelty. Initially impassive, after some time he seemed to be fighting some sort of inner battle, because several times he opened his mouth, only to close it again. He apparently came to some sort of resolution, for suddenly he sighed, leaning forward to prop his chin on his steepled fingers. Molly had just about decided that it was useless to try and get Sherlock to talk, and was in the middle of absconding from this insofar fruitless conversation to get some coffee from the machine down the hall, when Sherlock spoke.

"I apologize. That was…unnecessary."

Molly paused, pivoting on her heels to face him again. She accepted his apology—after all, she wasn't likely to get any better, and an apology from Sherlock Holmes was rare enough in itself as to warrant appreciation. She might never get one again.

"John and I… Had a misunderstanding."

"On a case, I made my customary observation and analysis of a crime scene at the funeral, and deduced that the son had murdered the father."

Molly groaned.

"Sherlock! You can't do that!"

He turned his piercing, almost incredulous, slightly reproving look on her. Molly was impressed that any one face could hold s much expression whilst maintaining a largely impassive exterior. Then again, this was Sherlock. Anything was possible. If nothing else, his expression served one purpose: it successfully cowed her into holding her tongue. Molly swallowed, and he turned back to his mold spores, at length speaking to her over his shoulder.

"Why ever not? I informed the grieving family of the cause of death; was that not a kindness?"

Molly pointed at her closed mouth, and Sherlock inclined his head, indicating that she was permitted to speak.

"Sherlock… Could this, by any chance, be, er, the source f your "misunderstanding" with John?"

Abruptly Sherlock spun round in his chair to face her full-on. Molly gulped, afraid she had crossed a line. Instead, he tilted his head with an odd set to his jaw, as if evaluating her intentions. Apparently he found them satisfactory, for he began to relate to Molly what had happened earlier that night—or, more correctly, last night. Molly checked her watch: it was indeed far past midnight now.

"In conclusion, I have decided that the most prudent course of action at this moment in time will be to give John the space he requested. Perhaps then he may calm down and see his error in judgement."

Sherlock, is that really the most "prudent course of action", Molly thought, or is it just what's easiest for you to do right now?

Not bold enough to say that, she tentatively decided to put forth an opinion nonetheless.

"Sherlock… th-this time, I-I actually think… that John might be right."

Molly saw by the way Sherlock ground his teeth that he was incensed by her stutter and pauses, but what really shocked him was her opinion. Of course, who would ever choose John's judgement over Sherlock's—especially devoted Molly Hooper? Molly, who always did what Sherlock asked, always agreed with him (at least outwardly). Molly was surprised by the level of bitterness the voice in her head had acquired.

Not this time.

Sherlock stared at her as if she had just suggested that it was possible for him to be wrong; which, in a way, she supposed she had.

"He probably thought you were being… well, you know… you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Again.

"Curiously enough, that was precisely his objection to my behavior."

"How did I guess," Molly muttered.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. Goddamnit, he even did it gracefully. Everything he did, it seemed, was graceful, almost feline.

"Pardon?"

Molly knew full well he had heard her; all the same, she mumbled a contrite

"Nothing."

Molly continued: "And, er, well I'm just guessing here, but did he say anything about, you know, being more caring or grateful or whatever?"

Sherlock remained silent, but Molly took that as confirmation. He had begun evaluating dust motes, and comparing the composition of the ingredients to that of the mold spores. Molly couldn't fathom how it was useful, or how it could have any relation to a case, but apparently Sherlock (naturally) saw a connection. He did not deign to explain, however.

"In essence, John sustaining angry emotions directed towards me for this period of time is unprecendented, and mildly unpleasant."

Mildly. Riiiiiiiight. If his mood when he swept through the door that morning was anything to judge, his reaction to John's anger was anything but mild. Molly had been preparing to ask Sherlock if he wanted her advice, but quickly discarded the idea. Sherlock never took advice from anybody; he was always right, and so naturally nothing anybody else had to say held anything of relevance. The glaring exception to this rule, of course, was John.

"So…I'm going to tell you what I think. O-okay?"

Sherlock made no outward response, but presently he spoke.

"If you wish."

" Well… John complained of you being uncaring, right?"

Sherlock nodded slightly, validating her statement.

"So… M-maybe there's some stuff you could do to make him feel, like, like you cared about him a bit more?"

"What are you suggesting?"

"Er, I dunno, maybe—"

"Don't."

"What?"

"Don't know. Not 'dunno'. Use proper grammar, for God's sake."

"Right. Er… well, shall we start with what John said? What sort of stuff did he complain about?"

"He objected strongly to my tendency to play violin early in the morning, and mentioned that he always bought the milk."

Molly started listing things off the top of her head.

"So, for starters, maybe you could try buying the groceries for the pair of you. And… stop playing your violin after he's gone to sleep?"

Sherlock shot her such an incredulous look she began to regret opening her mouth.

"Okay, maybe just once in a while, then. But it's a start!"

Sherlock merely rolled his eyes. Molly sighed.

"Look, we both know that John…"

"I am quite aware he is the better of the pair of us."

"You don't deserve him. Maybe nobody does."

"Sherlock remained silent, but nonetheless failed to refute her statement.

"I-I'm sure you don't need but, I'm sure it couldn't your relationship—"

Sherlock's lip curled.

"Relationships. Idle sentiment, a distraction furnished for those bereft of the benefit of a functioning mind."

Despite how intimidated she regularly was by Sherlock, that cutting comment made her want to scream with frustration. John had a point: Sherlock knew everything about everybody, but still managed to be spectacularly ignorant about key facets of daily human interaction, as well as the give-and-take expectation. There were many things Molly could have said at that moment, but out of kindness (and not a small, if regrettable, measure of cowardice) she chose the gentlest that would allow her to leave the mortuary with her conscience intact.

"So… Is that what John is? …A distraction?"

Molly saw Sherlock pause, his head turn a fraction: he had heard her. His shoulders tensed underneath the thin fabric of his shirt, as once again his body betrayed his emotions. Nevertheless, he succeeded in keeping his voice level.

"We are both quite aware that is not the case."

Molly had to bite her tongue, pressing the tips of her fingers to her temples.

"You are, I presume, preparing to restrain yourself on comments regarding my lack of "tact" and dubious humanity. Feel free to proceed."

Molly sighed again, for what felt like the tenth time in the past twenty minutes.

"As I was saying, as unappealing as it may seem, if you really want to fix your relationship—"

Molly put deliberate stress upon that word; Sherlock made a production of rolling his eyes at it, but for once in his life, he let it go.

"—you're going to have to put a little more effort into it. I-I mean—"

At this point, Molly began losing steam. Thus far, she had been riding a wave of courage born of anger and frustration (the former out of sheer amazement at just how much a man could not deserve another, yet still keep the other; the latter because, well really, bad coffee out of the machines down the hall wasn't cheap, you know!).

Now, though, she began to feel the first stirrings of mortification in her stomach, tying it into knots. Thinking back, she was shocked at some of the things she'd said. Even so, she had come this far, might as well see it through all the way.

She started to speak again, but Sherlock abruptly put his hand up before her face, a clear signal for Shut Up Now, I'm Going To My Mind Palace.

Which, apparently, was exactly what he did. It was definitely a first, Molly thought, to see that incredible brain at work picking apart a problem unrelated to forensics, his hands flicking at the air, shifting images only he could see. Granted, for all she knew, he could approach both types of probem the same way. Abruptly, he snapped out of his trance, looking at her with those pale eyes, and oh god, those cheekbones, his face lit up with excitement, a wordless exclamation arrested at his lips; no matter how happy, Sherlock was not the type to be given to wordless exclamations of delight, no matter how appropriate, or how much the situation warrants them. He simply stood.

Sherlock leant forward, a glow of passion in his eyes for the realization of the solution to his problem—whatever that might be—and a slow smile spreading across his face, as for the second time in her life, Sherlock Holmes kissed her on the cheek, murmuring a

"Thank you, Molly Hooper."

Somehow, though, it was turned inwards, and though Molly basked in its glow, she knew the rare smile wasn't meant for her. Still, that was all right: that was how it was meant to be. Still reeling from the kiss (for God's sake, Molly, it's a kiss on the cheek! Get a hold of yourself!) she hardly noticed it when Sherlock paused, flashing one last smile, before sweeping out of the room.

Leaning back against the lab table, one hand gripped the edge for support, the other touching her cheek wonderingly. Smiling to herself, she replayed the last few seconds in her head: his happy air (if Sherlock could see himself, he would probably be disgusted), his brilliant smile lighting up the room, precursor to the dramatic swirl of coattails trailing behind Sherlock as he exited the lab.

Thanks for reading!

Please review. Obviously, if you favorite it it's positive, but I'd like to know what exactly you like about my work. More fluff? More angst?

More OC? Less?

Tell me, so I can be better!

I hope Sherlock, John and Molly weren't OOC…

P.S. I don't mind constructive criticism, or just plain criticism minus praise and whatnot. Try not to be too nasty, though. :P